Acknowledgements
More than one futurist has said that there will be jobs abundant in fifty years that have yet to be defined in the here and now. That makes a lot of sense. The guy driving the horse cart never thought about the helicopter, even if Leonardo did. It’s the same with people: many of us don’t know what we really are until life cues us.
At various times, I’ve worked as a shoe clerk, bank teller, lobby receptionist, legislative assistant in an august house of parliament, executive assistant to an auto lobbyist and, finally, funeral director in a family run establishment operating, at the time, for close to seventy years. This last position, my vocation, my calling, was to be my last—I thought. Little did I know that two people—sadly no longer with us—would inspire a few words in pencil (remember cursive?) in a loose leaf notebook. These words sounded nice, and shyly, I shared them with a writer friend who declared them “fiction” and something to “run with.”
I like to think that a cool HBO show running from 2000 to 2005 inspired the funeral director in me. In fact, it awakened a long dormant fascination that began with my first trip to a funeral parlor in 1976 when I was eleven. My grandmother had passed away after years of illness, and my parents, both of Eastern European descent, thought nothing of taking the kids. My brother at five years old was even younger. What kind of kid admires furniture and fixtures and cross questions the guys in morning suits about their jobs and how they got them? Me. But I had to wait. Life intervened as it always does, and set me on a very different path. HBO brought me back. And with the generous support of my dear spouse John, I began a new career at forty-one. John made the funeral director; my late friends made the writer.
Working with death and bereaved persons on a daily basis was bound to inform the written word. But losing people I know brought it home. I so wish I could name them, for inspiring me, for driving this compulsion to write down what I was thinking; but they’re not here to ask, so I will only say that a day hasn’t gone by these last five years that I haven’t thought of them, and in the language of our forebears I want to say: Eines Tages, hoffe ich, Sie wieder in den guten Platz zu sehen.
Enter the B7 and the Writer People
I blame my sister Cryssa Bazos for pulling me out of my comfortable existence. The year before all of this started, she began her own journey into the 17th Century, culminating in a fabulous manuscript THAT SOMEONE NEEDS TO BUY. Through her, I joined the Writer’s Community of Durham Region (WCDR) which opened the door to mentors, teachers, muses, and open mic reading, which I really enjoy. Of that group, I single out Ruth Walker and Gwynn Scheltema, for calling my voice “strong and unusual.” I also thank the good people who put on those short story contests for providing amazing feedback like “superb imagery.” It was a major clue that I should keep going.
Then there is the Brooklin 7, the writer’s group to which I belong. Once described by yours truly as an eclectic group of guerilla writers that know no boundaries, I wish to add that they are indispensible to me and more than friends, they’re family. In alphabetical order, they are: Marissa Campbell, Susan Croft, Connie Di Pietro-Sparacino, Ann Dulhanty, Yvonne Hess, and Rachael Stapleton. They made the writer too.
The Beta’s and the Cheerleaders
Every artist needs a cheering section. Why else make art? To the crew at Metro and the Wine Rack: Rosa E. Gauthier, Kate Korgemagi, Jan Weitmann, Elena Novakovic, Gina Clements, and Craig Belanger; the car guys at Canadian Poncho, especially Carl C2 Hicks; the Florida Crew: Suzanne DeCesare, Pat Head; the undertakers: Scott C. Hughes, M. Wayne Hamilton, Thomas Joseph Pearce, and Fatima Newbigging; and, my oldest, most endearing stalwart friends: Gilda Heinrich Rousseau and Suzanne Stacey, THANK YOU.
My Publisher, Summer Solstice
Summer Solstice is a mid-size Missouri-based publisher that has been growing steadily since its founding back in 2008. From Editor In Chief K.C. Sprayberry, C.E.O. Melissa Miller, and editor Judi Mobley, I got the validation every first time writer seeks. Their “yes” will keep me going for years.
And Finally
My family: John, Adam, Melina; and the mom’s: Eleanor and Despina—I did it!
Pickering, Ontario
April 2015
At various times, I’ve worked as a shoe clerk, bank teller, lobby receptionist, legislative assistant in an august house of parliament, executive assistant to an auto lobbyist and, finally, funeral director in a family run establishment operating, at the time, for close to seventy years. This last position, my vocation, my calling, was to be my last—I thought. Little did I know that two people—sadly no longer with us—would inspire a few words in pencil (remember cursive?) in a loose leaf notebook. These words sounded nice, and shyly, I shared them with a writer friend who declared them “fiction” and something to “run with.”
I like to think that a cool HBO show running from 2000 to 2005 inspired the funeral director in me. In fact, it awakened a long dormant fascination that began with my first trip to a funeral parlor in 1976 when I was eleven. My grandmother had passed away after years of illness, and my parents, both of Eastern European descent, thought nothing of taking the kids. My brother at five years old was even younger. What kind of kid admires furniture and fixtures and cross questions the guys in morning suits about their jobs and how they got them? Me. But I had to wait. Life intervened as it always does, and set me on a very different path. HBO brought me back. And with the generous support of my dear spouse John, I began a new career at forty-one. John made the funeral director; my late friends made the writer.
Working with death and bereaved persons on a daily basis was bound to inform the written word. But losing people I know brought it home. I so wish I could name them, for inspiring me, for driving this compulsion to write down what I was thinking; but they’re not here to ask, so I will only say that a day hasn’t gone by these last five years that I haven’t thought of them, and in the language of our forebears I want to say: Eines Tages, hoffe ich, Sie wieder in den guten Platz zu sehen.
Enter the B7 and the Writer People
I blame my sister Cryssa Bazos for pulling me out of my comfortable existence. The year before all of this started, she began her own journey into the 17th Century, culminating in a fabulous manuscript THAT SOMEONE NEEDS TO BUY. Through her, I joined the Writer’s Community of Durham Region (WCDR) which opened the door to mentors, teachers, muses, and open mic reading, which I really enjoy. Of that group, I single out Ruth Walker and Gwynn Scheltema, for calling my voice “strong and unusual.” I also thank the good people who put on those short story contests for providing amazing feedback like “superb imagery.” It was a major clue that I should keep going.
Then there is the Brooklin 7, the writer’s group to which I belong. Once described by yours truly as an eclectic group of guerilla writers that know no boundaries, I wish to add that they are indispensible to me and more than friends, they’re family. In alphabetical order, they are: Marissa Campbell, Susan Croft, Connie Di Pietro-Sparacino, Ann Dulhanty, Yvonne Hess, and Rachael Stapleton. They made the writer too.
The Beta’s and the Cheerleaders
Every artist needs a cheering section. Why else make art? To the crew at Metro and the Wine Rack: Rosa E. Gauthier, Kate Korgemagi, Jan Weitmann, Elena Novakovic, Gina Clements, and Craig Belanger; the car guys at Canadian Poncho, especially Carl C2 Hicks; the Florida Crew: Suzanne DeCesare, Pat Head; the undertakers: Scott C. Hughes, M. Wayne Hamilton, Thomas Joseph Pearce, and Fatima Newbigging; and, my oldest, most endearing stalwart friends: Gilda Heinrich Rousseau and Suzanne Stacey, THANK YOU.
My Publisher, Summer Solstice
Summer Solstice is a mid-size Missouri-based publisher that has been growing steadily since its founding back in 2008. From Editor In Chief K.C. Sprayberry, C.E.O. Melissa Miller, and editor Judi Mobley, I got the validation every first time writer seeks. Their “yes” will keep me going for years.
And Finally
My family: John, Adam, Melina; and the mom’s: Eleanor and Despina—I did it!
Pickering, Ontario
April 2015
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