Catherine Astolfo's Blog, page 7

To All The Girls I've Loved Before

  Maybe it’s because I grew up in a family of girls, but I have always had lots of girlfriends. I know Julio and Willie weren’t really singing about the friend kind of love, but I think the line is still appropriate.
All my friends are no longer girls. They’re women. Not ladies, either, because none of us would conjure up high heels, crossed ankles, delicate laughs, or formal clothes. We can do that, but we’d rather not. We run around in sneakers, sit crossed-legged, laugh so loudly we get kicked out of restaurants, and are more comfy in track pants or jeans. 
My women pals are large (not necessarily in size, but in life), smart, loving, and unique. We talk about everything, from food to sex to other pleasures and pains. We discuss our husbands, or man friends, or other women, or television and movies. We read or recommend the latest books we’re reading and we love to read a book and then see the movie.
Some of my friends are blood related. They're my sisters. I remember writing a poem a long time ago stating that the highest compliment I can give to one of my friends is that they are like a sister to me. Because for me, sister means joy, love, and hope.
I love being with them. They’re funny and often wild and always interesting. Conversation never lulls. In fact, it’s surprising we can hear each other because we all talk at once. Our family get-togethers are absolutely nuts. We do recognize that it’s difficult for some of the significant others to take, but if they hang around long enough, they are loved so fiercely that, even if the relationship doesn’t last, the family connection often does. We have the hugest laughs you’ve ever heard and we indulge in laughing every few minutes. One of my sisters died eleven years ago, but her laughter still rings in our ears, and we still see her mooning us from the car as we caravan down the highway. We still watch her dance on the deck or sit on the balcony watching a seagull float by.
One of my closest friends is my cousin. We’ve known each other since birth, just like a sister, and have that flow of shared genes between us.
 Some sisters are related by marriage. Some have grown up with me. We met in high school or in our first year of teaching. We have literally gone through every twist and turn in the road that can be imagined. We’ve watched each other change and grow and learn.

Others were met later along the path, but have no less a place in my heart and in my life.

They’ve helped me through divorce, child rearing, loss of loved ones, difficult times. They’ve been there at the celebrations, successes and crossroads. Happily, I’ve been there for them, too, or at least I’ve tried.
We support one another, praise or critique when deserved or needed, raise a glass or two or more in tears or laughter. We can bitch and complain without feeling censored or misunderstood. We can disagree without losing each other’s respect. In fact, sometimes it only heightens our esteem. We can be annoyed with another, because we can be real. It doesn’t shake that deep abiding love.
Nowadays I add my daughter to this group. She is my best friend, my inspiration, my heart. She’s grown up and though I will always struggle not to see my baby in her eyes, I have been able to appreciate her as a dynamic woman whose presence in my life cannot be properly put into words. It’s too deep for an alphabet.
I’m fortunate enough to be able to add some daughters by choice, through marriage, through love and admiration, or all of those. These days, nieces and daughters of my friends are grown and have evolved into women I adore, admire, and whose company I seek as often as I can.
I realize and never take for granted that I am especially lucky. I have lots of women in my life. I adore them. They help me laugh, cry, think, learn, and grow. They demand that I be honest and true, not just to them, but to myself as well. As the saying goes, they insist that I be the best I can be. 
To all the girls I’ve loved before, I love you now and always. 

    

A Poem

Oh, the hair on my head is whitening
Which I'm finding kind of frightening

I decided hair color must go
Let it grow, let it grow, let it grow.

Man I had to begin with cropping.
Stylist showed no signs of stopping.
Coloured hair flew out the window!
Let it grow, let it grow, let it grow.

White underneath and sides I know that
Brown on top looks like a monk's hat.
But I've decided that white I'll go
Let it grow, let it grow, let it grow.


How long 'til I know if it's all right
To sport a head that's white white?
I guess a few weeks til I know!
Let it grow, let it grow, let grow.


  

Florida 2015: Part 3

We depart in the sunshine from Valdosta after a great hot breakfast. Monkey is pissed off this morning. She curls up in her carrier and sleeps, mumbling, "Aren't we there yet?"

When we pass the Suwannee River (with the music printed underneath its name on the sign),


I think about the many parks, roads, rivers and signs that give tribute to American artists.

Do we Canadians do that? Is there a sign in Neepawa that says, "Margaret Laurence called this Manawaka"? A sign in Merrickville that says, "Catherine Astolfo called this Burchill"?

If not, I think we should.

Now that we're across the Florida line, there are tons of small lakes and ponds and rivers. Lots of water in this state!

The Eagles sing "Peaceful, Easy Feeling" and Vince and I join in, harmony and all.

A billboard screams, "We Bare All: Couples Welcome".

We keep singing to the radio as the palm trees grow more numerous.


At the real Florida Welcome Stop, we have our orange juice and pile up with tourist books.



Finally we are here at our home away from home! It's a nice little three bedroom bungalow with a lanai and a pool.
                                                              
How lucky am I? When I look back from the great heights of a few days away from becoming a senior citizen, I am astonished at my life.

Of course there have been times of anguish, mistakes made, loss and grief, and there are bound to be other low points. That's real life. 









But oh, what heights I've hit! Love, friendship, success, joy.

And as Bugs would say, on with the show, this is it.


This year, 2015, will bring lean, screen and zine. Which to me translates as: get in better physical condition; write another script and have the first one go to the movies; publish novella, YA novel, non-fiction inspirational book, short stories...do you think that's enough ambition for this year?

Some of these may turn out to be wishful thinking, but it's like spending your lottery ticket in your imagination. You sure have fun while it lasts.





www.catherineastolfo.com

GUEST POST! Author Alison Bruce: Take Off First, Plot Course Later

If I flew an aircraft like I write a book, Transport Canada would be revoking my pilot’s license. When I sit down and start a new story, it’s strictly seat-of-the-pants. Some idea, or scene, or opening line will strike me and I take off from there.  Later, I start plotting my course. (I think they have a rule about making flight plans first.)

For me, it’s important to get that first creative surge going so I can get a sense of whether or not the story is worth the hours of research, writing and rewriting necessary to produce a novel. Some ideas just don’t fly. I have notebooks full of openings, with maybe a brief outline, and nothing else. Sometimes I go back to them, looking for an idea that might have found its time.

A Bodyguard to Remember was a little unusual in that I wrote almost the entire first draft by the seat of my pants. I don’t usually get further than the first couple of chapters before I go into planning mode. Partly this was because I had a most of the basic law enforcement research at my fingertips after working on Deadly Legacy. I also had a good background in military protocols because of personal and family experience and academic research.

Okay, let’s be honest. I had to update my military research and make some significant changes in the story details. Most of my previous research was circa WWII except my own experience which was circa 1980. Can we say a bit out of date?

A lot of the military parts ended up being jettisoned. They weighed down the story and had to go. If I had planned things earlier in the story, they might not have been there at all. One set of characters, that I was very fond of, didn’t make it into the book at all. I didn’t just dump them, though. They’ll take flight in another story.

A BODYGUARD TO REMEMBER
Book 1 Men in Uniform
By Alison Bruce
Lachesis Publishing Inc
 “Classic romantic suspense spiced with warmth and humour”

Prudence Hartley has the same problems of every other single mom: getting her kids to school on time; juggling a gazillion errands while trying to get a full day's work done; oh, don't forget about dinner. But everything is about to change for Pru when she finds a dead man in her house. Or a dead spy to be exact.

Suddenly Pru's problems become a tad more complicated and a lot more dangerous. When a federal agent named David Merrick shows up and whisks her and her kids into protective custody, Pru has so many questions running through her brain she doesn't know where to begin.

How is she going to keep her kids safe? What was the dead spy looking for in her house? Why are they after her now? Oh and there's one more question . . . just a pesky, minor thing. Why does Merrick have to be so damn sexy and protective?

Available at:
Amazon US 
Lachesis Publishing Inc
Chapters/Indigo Online

Author Bio:
Alison Bruce has had many careers and writing has always been one of them. Copywriter, editor and graphic designer since 1992, Alison has also been a comic book store manager, small press publisher, webmaster and arithmetically challenged bookkeeper. She is the author of mystery, suspense and historical western romance novels. 

Monkey on the Road - Florida 2015 Part 2

My friend and fellow author, Alison E. Bruce (http://alisonebruce.blogspot.com/) suggested I call this blog "Monkey on the Road" since our cat, whose real name Raven is just too boring, is on this trip with us. My mind immediately went to "there's a killer on the road, his brain is jumpin' like a toad" from Riders on the Storm by The Doors. You see, there is a reason I write crime. (www.catherineastolfo.com)

The Comfort Inn lives up to its name and we have a VERY comfortable sleep. The bed is so high we have to take an elevator to get on, but it's worth the climb. Nice breakfast too! The place has been refurbished and it's quite nice. (http://www.comfortinn.com/hotel-chatt...)

When we reach the parking lot, we're astounded to see the car covered with ice. We shouldn't have been surprised, given the weather yesterday and the predictions for this morning, but we still shiver at the sight. Chipping and swiping do the trick - well, Vince does the trick while I sit in the warm car with Monkey. She's in a bad mood this morning. Though it simply sounds like meowing and chirping, she's really saying, "The f*%# car again? When the f(#!$ do we get there?"


We stop for gas. Vince fills and Monkey and I sit in the warm car (are you liking this sharing of duties so far?). I stare at the Dixieland Fireworks next door. It's huge. Across the street is another fireworks place, just as enormous, that also sells ice. And sparklers for weddings. Georgians must like sound and light. A lot.

A couple of minutes after we hit the I75, we're in Georgia. The sign says, "Welcome! We're glad you have Georgia on your mind." Personally, my friend Tanya is on my mind. Here we are in the same state, so near yet so far. I miss her! Haven't seen her for months.


When I'm driving, each patch of highway is a little story.
Chevy slips over 3 lanes without signaling; Chevy's driver is on the phone and just floating.
Ford speeds up, then slows, then speeds, then slows.
A truck with huge tires and a light load spins along the left lane, races past everyone else.
The pavement sings in one spot, grumbles in another.
Some of the trucks carry oversize loads (I know this because the lights blink OVERSIZE LOAD!). Their cargo often appear to be great hulking monsters, the Hulk stuck in plastic, a giant Han Solo frozen in amber. You can see their shapes but have no idea what purpose they might fulfill.

Monkey continues to bitch and complain.

When I'm the passenger, I read the signs. Georgia has a lot of religious billboards.
Has the Truth set you free? (Not yet, I answer.)
After you die, you will meet God. (I take this as a warning. Your comeuppance will happen some day, so watch out.)
YOU are wanted! (On the back of a truck. I assume they mean as a driver. Or have they not seen my new hair cut?)
In despair? JESUS is your HOPE. (This billboard is planted over a gouged landscape, ruined trees and excavated bushes, the ground left neglected and empty.)

I love some of the exotic (translate: first land owners' language) names: Oostanaula River, Chicamauga, Allatoona (lotsa Allatoona stuff like lakes and rivers, gotta be Italian?), Dahlonega, Cattahoochee. The sun fingers Allatoona Lake and lights it up.
I make up words and phrases from the license plates. I even have rules for this game, which I may share another time.

Everywhere are directions to various Civil War memorials or sites. The "trail of tears". I think of Gone With The Wind's depiction of the bodies laid out across field upon field. People suck!

The Yonah Railway: site of the Great Locomotive Chase during the Civil War. The train was stolen to attempt to derail the delivery of weapons and soldiers. "It was unsuccessful" is the succinct conclusion.

Another truck on the road has this # on its side: 078910. What are the odds of that?

The Interstate is scraped through the mountains, forests and hills. On all sides, there are lovely evergreens and red shrubs. Here in Georgia the soil is deep red too. There is still ice on the bog. 

There are plain names, too, for places and things. Red Top or Pine Mountain. Cobb County. Green Rd. Flippen. (I'm flippin' from Flippen.) Butts. How about Vienna and Pitts? They're side by side. I'm from Vienna. I'm from...Pitts.

What do you do on a long drive?
We talk, swear at bad drivers, note scenic spots, sing, listen and retort to talk shows, read to each other from Dave Hunter's book, talk about family and friends.

Monkey is asleep.

We take the HOV lane through Atlanta and suddenly we have gone from ice to nice. The sun heats up the windshield so much that we have to put on the air conditioning!

Another billboard shouts, STRIPPERS! NEED WE SAY MORE? (wink, wink, nudge, nudge, I presume, but I do want them to say more: MALE OR FEMALE?) The non-religious Georgia side.


Now the topography changes quite a lot. Kudzu climbs up the trees and covers old stumps. Kudzu is an invasive species from Asia that's in the pea family. It's a vine that curls and coils and hangs like limp green hair from everything.

There's a small sign on the roadside. "Jesus is coming SOON". Peeling, letters dripping or missing, that sign looks pretty old to me. When is soon?


In the washroom at a rest stop, there are more signs. You're beautiful! You're in Georgia! Hello, fellow poopers! (accompanied by a very accurate picture)


We're in a Drury Inn again tonight.  Valdosta. Yipee.

Even Monkey is pleased.

Vince is relaxed, as you can see.

Florida 2015

Last year we were excited and couldn't wait to get on the road to warmer climes, but this year we're a bit more reluctant. Probably because the winter hasn't been quite as bad, not as much snow, not as many days of severe cold.

Or maybe it's our new house and town: we love them. We could happily burrow in and not leave.





Perhaps it's the fact that the Canadian dollar against the American is absolutely awful (for us).





 The other reason could be California:

I'd much prefer to be heading there for the warmth because of our gorgeous new granddaughter.

Once we're on the road, though, we're happy, anticipating the backyard pool, the laid-back lifestyle. Everything is great until we hit Windsor, where one wrong turn leads to several circles that use up a good hour of time. And inject a great deal of frustration. Though I do a little walk through memory lane when we hit La Salle, where I spent a few summers with my friend Connie Meloche. Of course, we pass a business owned by a Meloche, but that's like O'Sullivan in Bantry, Ireland.

Over the border, we let Monkey out of her carrier and she's content as can be. Hardly a peep!

After Michigan, we're into the State of my Cousins, Ohio. We have fun reading bits of information from "Along Interstate 75" by Dave Hunter. For instance, the Black Swamp just south of Toledo, along the Maumee River, was once a bog filled with black muck that could only sustain snakes and mosquitoes. Once it was drained, a rich fertile cropland was revealed and became productive farms.
 
Cincinnati reminds us of the old TV show, WKRP. Another walk down memory lane!
 
We hit Middletown a little earlier than we thought, but that's all right with us, because we're at a Drury Inn & Suites. We have an extra large room, which gives Monkey lots to sniff. After we're settled, we proceed downstairs and have pasta and salad and wine. That's enough to put us, contented and tired, right to sleep.

The next morning, the roads are gorgeous. Lovely rolling hills, sans the potholes of Michigan and Ohio. Great names like Tuskegee Memorial Trail, Man-O-War, Athens, Paris, London...huh?

One thing the Americans do well is honor their "fallen soldiers". I'm just always sad there are so many of them and for such a variety of reasons. 

When we reach the Tennessee border and enter the Pine Mountains, a magnificent sight greets us. The trees, which grow straight up from the sheer cliffs, are tipped with frost. At first it looks like a tidal wave heads our way. We're bummed that we don't have our camera out: the effect is astonishing. The pines etch the sky with white and silver. Breathtaking.

This is the closest picture I could find to compare to the sight. But since there's no peak above them in the Pine Mountains, the trees appear to be a wave of white across the horizon.

Knoxville gives us the most trouble. Traffic is backed up along the interstate where it splits toward the city of Chattanooga.  Not only that, the few drops of rain turn into a swirl of snow.
We check into the Comfort Inn under a laden sky and patches of snow at our feet.

After dinner, we hunker down and pray for clear skies tomorrow. Monkey snuggles in beside me.

The Yin and the Yang of 2014: A Personal Reflection

This morning’s paper summed up 2014 for me. Below a column about all the courageous, kindly acts people had performed this year were short articles listing shootings, stabbings and a hit-and-run. 2014 started exactly that way. On New Year’s Eve one year ago, we attended the funeral of our dear friends’ little granddaughter, taken senselessly at 7 years old, a bright, gorgeous, huge personality of a child, with enormous potential and the gift of loving and being loved. On the glad side, my beloved cousin had returned from the brink of death from a heart attack.
In February we went to Florida for our first long stay. We had our brother and sister-in-law with us, we had a lovely rental and a pool, we had our cats. Two weeks later, Sahara succumbed to her lymphoma. Anyone who loves a pet knows the grief is real and deep. 
Our brother and sister, who wept with us, who propped us up and showed that our tears were understood, were our saviors. My daughter and her family visited a week later and kept us laughing, loving, swimming, having fun. It was glorious.





Two weeks after Sahara, we received another shock. Our beloved Rosie, my husband’s mom, was dead. Although death at 95 cannot be unexpected, it was still wrenching. It’s the end of an era, the end of being able to put your head on your mom’s shoulder. And it had only been six months, to the day, since I lost my own mother. Once again we were supported by family and friends, who were there by our sides with hugs and words and whatever else we needed.
Back in Florida, my sister and brother-in-law and cousins kept us enjoying the sunshine, the laid-back life, the treats of a different landscape. Next my husband’s son and his family arrived and once again we had the absolute joy of children’s laughter and energy and we thoroughly loved their company. The house didn’t stay empty very long. Our Very Best Friends arrived and surrounded us, enlivened us, once again.
Although we miss our sojourns to Mexico, we eventually decided that Florida is a good choice for us. We loved bringing our (now solitary) cat with us. We loved having visitors. We also decided to sell our house in Brampton and move to a smaller town. Brantford here we come.
We found the process of moving very stressful, despite the fact that my daughter is a real estate agent and took us by the hands through every step. Death of a loved one and moving are in the top 5 stressors according to one website, so I’m not surprised that we found it difficult. We’re happy, though – no, thrilled – with the house that we bought and we’re enamored with the little city and its history. The very best part: my daughter lives here. I see her every day, miss her if I don’t. She is my friend, confidante, daughter, along with her brother, the love of my life.
In the fall, a tsunami of joy and grief hit me on exactly the same day. Our adored niece married a wonderful young man. That morning, my best friend Merci died from a stroke. All day I rode the rollercoaster. Tears of happiness, tears of loss, sometimes I couldn’t tell the difference, except that the emotion was more tidal than normal.Later at the funeral and afterward, I was consumed by the yin and yang, dark and light, grief and joy. I had - have - a propensity for tears.

 On November 24, our new granddaughter was in Los Angeles. Once again I was consumed with a barrage of opposites. When we visited, I was smitten, love her instantly, unconditionally, want her to be in my arms every day. When we left, I was devastated. I am not used to having a grandchild this far away.
So many tears! Embarrassing tears in public. A year after the event I weep for my friend’s grandbaby again, feeling an infinitesimal bit of that good-bye.




In my writing career, I was up and down too. Still disappointed that Sweet Karoline, after eighteen months, is not Gone Girl. I am too hybrid in my writing. I hop from evil to a young adult novel to a sexy silly script. None of my books fit a genre or even a sub-sub-genre. But the yang, oh the yang. My publisher still believes in me. I have fans! Readers who write to me, who ask me to appear at their book clubs. Oh what a feeling!  

Now I approach 2015 with bits and pieces of that rollercoaster year still stuck to me. I am normally bent toward the optimistic side, a smidge of a Pollyanna, part dreamer and upbeat old hippy. Currently I cry over everything, happy or sad, as though I have stored the opposites and can’t decide how to react. 
As I finish my short novel, I find it ironic that it’s a cozy, a light and (I hope) funny book unlike the darker fare I’ve produced so far.
Maybe that’s a sign. Maybe 2015 is going to leave the yin behind and focus on the yang. Although Chinese philosophers tell me the two are intertwined, I’m hoping for a bit more light this year, a lot less dark. My Pollyanna side wants food and homes for everyone, a cessation of violence and war, in all parts of the world. My more realistic, self-centred self wants a lot less, but still spectacular things to accomplish.
Whatever is in store, I know one thing for certain. I am very very lucky. More than lucky. I have the best husband, two incredible children and three step-children, along with their partners and children, a loving family, amazing friends, a beautiful home, our lovely Miss Monk (who sits in the sun as I write this), and a writing obsession that keeps me – well, obsessed.
Now, pulling on that yang, I’m going to have a ball with my friends tonight and maybe even finish that funny novella.Pollyanna wants everything to be perfect for all of you, too, throughout 2015. Thanks for riding the rollercoaster with me.

How To Be An Author

So you want to write a book. Not simply write it, though. You want to get it published for all the world to read.

Here's how to do that.

1. Sit down in your desk chair and open your laptop.

2. Write.

3. Do this every day for several hours for several months or even a year or two.

4. Write "The End" when you finish the book.

5. Take back everything you just wrote and boil it down to a one-pager, a paragraph, and a one-liner.

6. Write a clever, witty, unique query letter relating your skills and the strengths of your book, but make it SHORT.

7. Spend hours searching for someone who wants your book (e.g. your genre/your subject) or you (self-starter, enthusiastic promoter, great writer).

8. Read in detail the requirements for sending the query letter and email or mail your clever, witty, unique one to the agent/publisher.

9. Repeat #'s 5-8 as many times as it takes to get an agent/publisher.

10. Self publish.

Not everything I just wrote is a lie or an exaggeration. Tinged with sarcasm, perhaps, but that's only because I am currently struggling with a multitude of projects, a dearth of promo budget, a touch of writer's block, and a sagging Amazon rank. For now, the joy has gone out of Mudville.

Sometimes I think John Steinbeck was correct when he wrote, "The profession of book writing makes horse racing seem like a solid, stable business." Mind you, my uncle made quite a lot of money on horses. But he had to have money in order to make it - he bought a horse, paid for its training and upkeep, and hired a jockey. Same with book selling, it seems. In order to sell a lot, you need to buy a lot of market space. 


There are definitely those who get lucky. I don't happen to be one of those. Yet. 

There it is...that little word...yet. The lure of the slot machine. The sound of winning. 

What would winning look like for me? A top Amazon rank. Huge sales for me and my publisher. Fan recognition. Invitations to read, sign and speak. And yet...

The true joy lies in #1 and 2 above. Sitting down. Writing. The flow of the letters and words and ideas straight from the sub-conscious through the fingers, onto the page. The thrill of a plot twist that seems to arrive from space. The companionship of characters you've grown to love. Spending time in a location that's idyllic in some way.

Maybe that's how to be an author. Allow the writing to be front and center. Don't forget about the promotional aspects, but put them in perspective. You can always self publish. 

Top Amazon ranks and huge sales might not follow, but who said fan recognition and invitations to read, sign or speak had to be quantified? Even a dozen fans and a couple of book club appearances can make you feel like a somebody. Or like an author.



Catherine Astolfo has five published novels from Imajin books (www.imajinbooks.com) and several short stories published in anthologies. Check them out here: www.catherineastolfo.com.

There is No I in Team

You know that saying, "There is no I in team", right?

Well this morning (LA time) I had a thought that there is, actually, a lot of "I" in team.

This contradictory view was actually started by my publisher, Cheryl Tardif, of Imajin Books.
www.imajinbooks.com 





   Not that she was advocating against the concept of playing as a    team.
As a matter of fact she encourages it. Her authors have a team chat line. 
We work as a team on Facebook and Twitter.

We share and support and encourage whenever we can.

This is the first time, however, that I have been involved in team marketing through an ebook bundle with Imajin. That's where the "I" comes in.

I get to be included with a whole bunch of other talented writers.

I get the benefit of their networks, expertise, a shared (and therefore much larger) budget, combined effort, coordinated marketing, and tons of encouragement.

I get to be part of a magnificent promotion. Naturally we have high hopes for our sale.

But regardless, we will have fun.

We'll send each other encouraging words.

We'll share our hopes, dreams, and moments of success.

That's the "I"! I am happy! I am thrilled.


Here's your "I": you get 12 entire novels for $1.99. You don't even have to choose between food and books. Repeat after me: "I can have both!"

DEADLY DOZEN HOLIDAY SALE

I Remember Lesley

Every Remembrance Day, I am reminded of my mom’s first husband who literally gave me life through his sacrifice. His death led to my mother and father's marriage three years later.
When I was ten, my sixteen-year-old cousin told me that my father was not my dad. Of course at ten, a girl’s daddy is her hero, so I was wounded to the core. Pat showed me proof: a small, faded black-and-white photograph that featured a woman in a wedding dress with a man in a uniform. The only thing clear was my mother’s smiling face. Proof indeed. That night, I flung myself onto my mother’s lap, sobbing, and through my tears managed to ask her if Dad was my real father. A trace of anger flashed in her eyes; she had to have figured out who the tattler was. But she reassured me that the timing was wrong: I would have to be sixteen, not ten, to be her first husband’s child. He had died in “the war”, she explained, and they’d had no children.
The only thing I knew about “the war” was that we got Remembrance Day off and my father and his brothers always paraded. Dad told us that, when Hitler found out he was coming, the dictator gave up and ended the battle. I even believed this tale when I was really young. So my real father was never sent overseas, unlike some of my uncles. 
For many years, I forgot about the man my mother first loved. It was only when my sisters and I were packing her belongings for a move to a retirement residence that I rediscovered the photograph. This one was much larger than the copy Pat had shown me. It's sepia colored, but very clear. This time, I could see that the man my mother had married was black.
In the 2000’s interracial marriage is not a big deal. In 1944, it probably was. I know this because I, a white Canadian, married a black Canadian in 1973 and it was a big deal then. In Canada we like to pretend we’re not prejudiced, but I could disabuse you of that notion by telling you my story – however, that’s not the point here. There’s also the issue of whether or not mom’s husband was in a segregated unit or not. He may have been “allowed” to fight alongside the whites by that time because enlistments were low.
The point is, my mother never told me. She never shared a thing about her first marriage, other than that they weren’t together very long before he was shipped overseas. However, the reality of his death had finally hit me, just as my mother’s memory was fractured by dementia. 
I sent for the marriage certificate. His name was Lesley Darby. Now I could do some online research. Their union began on April 22, 1944, and poor Lesley Darby was dead by February 8, 1945. That was about all I knew. A young, handsome man, by the look of his picture, he lost his life on a nameless foreign shore.
I began to pay a bit more attention to Remembrance Day celebrations. It feels odd to give thanks to a man for dying, not only for my freedom but also for my very existence.
A few years later, the Director of the retirement residence (Mom had moved on to long term care), contacted me and said my mother had left a package behind, one that gave the history of a Lesley Darby. She’d been sent the pictures of the cemetery because Mom was a sponsor in the past. Another thing she hadn't told me.
Lesley died in the “battles of the Rhineland”, his body left cold and alone until moved to the Groesbeek cemetery in March of 1945, when all the dead were moved and buried in “friendly territory”. He was a member of the Calgary Highlanders, who held the front line at the beginning of December 1944.  When I looked up the places on the map, the fighting must have been along the border between The Netherlands and Germany. The strip where they fought and patrolled, mostly at night, was referred to as no-man’s-land. There’s a black-and-white, grainy picture of The Calgary Highlanders patrolling on December 4, 1944. The area looks bleak and bitter. “Accounts tell of mine fields and booby traps, mud and rain, frost and snow, dead and wounded.”
Did my mother write him letters to keep him warm? I guess I’ll never know. Nor will we know exactly where he died, though the articles I have seem to imply that he was killed inside the German border and was brought back to Groesbeek (The Netherlands) for burial. I have a colored picture of his burial plot & the directions to find it. Perhaps some day I’ll go there and visit. I’ll tell Lesley Darby how odd it feels to be thanking him for his sacrifice, since I am not only grateful for freedom, but for life.