Love Letters Cross the Ocean Once More

Mom and Dad's love letters cross the ocean once more with, 'Such Little Time: A Collection of Love Letters', getting written up in both hometown papers: The Picton Gazette and the Newtownabbey Times. To read the full article from the Times click here. To read the full Gazette article click on accompanying photo.

Such Little Time: A Collection of Love Letters

This is a personal project that has gone through many stages to get to this point. As a writer, as with many jobs in the arts, only the most fortunate (and funded) get to do it full time. Since I discovered and began working with the original love letters I've worked as an usher/bartender at the St. Lawrence Centre for the Arts, an office PA on Resident Evil: Apocalypse; I became a member of the Directors Guild of Canada (after getting the necessary signatures and completing their training course), and worked as a director's/producer's assistant on Confessions of an American Bride.

I received a grant, for Just J, from the Toronto Arts Council; was accepted, as a writer, into Ontario's Self-Employment Benefits Program, which gave me both business training and the time to complete and submit two novels, (Chill and Just J) which were published by Orca Book Publishers. With the books being published I was then able to join the Irish Writers' Union and the Writers' Union of Canada (allowing me the opportunity to do manuscript evaluations). I've had a screenplay optioned by friend and filmmaker Ed Gass-Donnelly; an audio play produced by Festival Players; worked as a writer-in-residence for six semesters with Now Hear This!'s S.W.A.T. (Students, Writer's And Teachers) program; completed Second City's improvisation program (which has been helpful for both writing and presenting); was named poet laureate for Small Pond Arts annual Stick Festival, and worked for Rosehall Run winery (if you'd like to see, and even try, some recipes I wrote for their blog click here.)

While doing that (there's more, and I'm still working at multiple places, but I think that's enough to give you a sense of the time that has past), I was always creating and being a part of other people's creative endeavors. But, these letters were never far from my mind and always in my heart.  All things in their own time, they say, and the ebook version of these love letters couldn't have come into being at a more perfect time—what would have been Mom and Dad's 50th wedding anniversary.

The books journey began 11 years ago after my dad died. I knew that Mom and Dad got engaged after only knowing each other for 4 days. I think I even knew that they had written each other during their engagement. What I didn't know was that my dad had kept all of Mom's letters and that Mom still had a few of Dad's. I didn't find that out until after his passing.

I read them all. I missed my dad and these letters help keep him close and allowed me to get to know more about him.

There's a bitter sweetness in trying to get to know more about your father after he died; on the one hand you're grateful for the chance, on the other you're filled with regret of not taking more time to do it when he was still alive. You're left with more questions than answers, left in longing.

I knew these letters were a treasure, something that could be handed down through the generations, for the grandchildren that were too young when he passed, and the ones that were yet to be born. Maybe even for great-grandchildren, great-great grandchildren, and so on. I took on the task of typing them all out.

Then I thought that they might interest others, too. In a world where love seems robbed of its devotion, loyalty, friendship and strength, reduced to a fleeting and meaningless emotion that flees when difficulties arises—and if you expect more you're a hopeless romantic, a dreamer—I thought some people might like to see that a lasting love can be very real, and to share in the journey. I talked to my mom, she was okay with it. However, publishers, although taken by the story, didn't feel the letters would draw enough interest. They might be right.

So, I took the letters and turned them into a book for the immediate family and gave it to them on Christmas in 2008. It might have ended there but the letters wouldn't leave me alone.

Loving another human being is a courageous act, it makes you vulnerable and holds in it the possibility of being hurt with a pain that runs so deep few can honestly talk about it outside of music, fiction and verse; to stay the course, through thick and thin, is nothing short of heroic. When anyone manages to make that commonly held, and so rarely realized, dream come true through their efforts, courage and devotion, I feel, it's a story worth sharing. Though, I'm aware that my opinion isn't, exactly, unbiased. It's my mom and dad, after-all, without their love I wouldn't have life. That's a big debt to pay. 

The audience might not be wide enough to interest a traditional publisher, but that doesn't matter. The letter's could still mean something to a few feeling hearts. 

So, I posted them on my blog and got some very positive feed back. Then the idea of an ebook came up. I pondered the notion, thought about making it available to a wider readership and how Mom, now 86, would get to see them published. Also, whenever I work on the letters I feel Dad closer to me, as I often do when I work in the barnyard.

Dad died less than a month after Mom and his 39th wedding anniversary. Today, June 6th, 2014 would have been their 50th. To mark the occasion the letters are being released as an ebook.

Mom found out on Mother's Day that her and Dad are now authors. There were tears shed. She has now pressed the button to make it official, making their letter's available to the world. Below you'll find the synopsis, forward and a letter from Peggy and one from Art. You can purchase the full book through Amazon. If there is interest it will be coming available in other formats. If not, well, some stories just need to be told. Love stories especially, because the world needs more of them.

 Such Little Time:

A Collection of Love Letters

 “The beginning of love is the will to let those we love be perfectly themselves.”

— Thomas Merton

“Love consists of this: two solitudes that meet, protect and greet each other. ”

— Rainer Maria Rilke

FOREWORD

When I set out to write the introduction to these letters I went to the library to research 1963: the civil rights movement in the United States, the election of a new Liberal government in Canada after a non-confidence vote against Diefenbaker’s Conservatives over nuclear weapons, the Provisional Irish Republican Army (IRA) had yet to form in Northern Ireland, but the FLQ (Front de libération du Québec) were active in Quebec.

I was going to talk about how people had faith in being able to change the world and hope for a better future. Kennedy was in the White House, the Beatles had released their first album (Please, Please Me), Lawrence of Arabia was at the Oscars, Bond was at the box office, television was sending its first images by satellite and Martin Luther King made his I have a dream speech.

But, this story isn’t about that. This story is about a simpler dream. A dream which is shared by everyone and that, it seems, you have to give up on in order to find; once you find it, you have to take a leap of blind faith to have it and give it everything you’ve got to keep it.          

It began, as I’m sure you’ve surmised, in 1963—August to be exact. Peggy Strain was a 35 year-old Irish schoolteacher who had been single for the ten years since her first marriage was annulled—her faith in men had been dissolved with her vows.

She was on vacation with her mother, Elizabeth (Lily). After having visited Lily’s brother, Bill, his wife, Florrie, and their family, in Milwaukee, Wisconsin, they went to Prince Edward Country, Ontario, to visit Lily’s cousin, Martha, or Mrs. Jarvis as she is referred to with proper respect in the letters.

While in Canada they were staying with Mrs. Jarvis’s son, Jack, his wife Grace, and daughters, Jeanne and Janice. Peggy had been over for visits before and those visits were greatly welcomed, especially by Janice who just loved her “Aunt” Peggy. Janice also very much loved her Uncle Art, her mother’s brother.

Art was a bit of a rogue and, at 40 years old, a confirmed bachelor. The youngest in a family of four, he had stayed on the farm to look after his mom, but he did so more out of obligation than a love of the land. His real love was people and he surrounded himself with them constantly and enjoyed the odd drink, for it helped keep the party and conversation flowing. 

Art was foot-loose and fancy free, as the saying goes, and he was quite happy to be that way. So, when his niece got her mother, Art’s sister, Grace, involved in setting him up with some strange Irishwoman that he’d never met, well, he wasn’t too keen. And Peggy, she went along with it as much to be a gracious guest as anything.         

There was to be a dance at the Lake-on-the-Mountain hall, which was owned and operated by Art’s older brother Hugh, and his wife Bernice. Art’s oldest brother, George, and his wife, Betty, were also going to be there. Grace would bring Peggy. Art would come with his brothers. But Art, having never meet Peggy, decided that she wouldn’t be his “type” and went into town to have a few drinks with, “the boys”.

After a few hours, Peggy was none too amused with this Canadian hospitality. Meanwhile, Art was getting pretty bored with town and decided to head home. Since Lake-on-the-Mountain was on his way he saw no harm in stopping by—this was when the small town country boy first learned of an Irish temper. He was instantly captivated and, though she didn’t show it, so was she.

Four days later they got engaged.

The catch was that Peggy had to go back to Ireland and stay there for eight months before she could return. The extra little wrinkle was that Peggy didn’t own a phone so the only way they could communicate was through letters. They wrote each other faithfully and often. Their obstacles became our treasures.

This is the story of Art and Peggy. It’s a tale of what all stories worth telling are about: love. Not just any kind of love, but a love which blooms in almost the first moment your eyes meet and lasts until your last breath and beyond. I grew up knowing this story but never appreciating its wonder, its rarity, and the courage that they both had in order to bring it to life.

Despite knowing the story, while reading the letters I still found myself wondering what the outcome would be, if they’d get together, if it would last, what was going to happen? Even though there are only seven of the seventy odd letters Art wrote—because of a pact that they both made and that Art, fortunately, broke and Peggy only partially held—the story still comes across. It not only shows the love and the longing that they had for each other at the time, but it echoes the longing that would return nearly four decades later when they were once again torn apart.

The letters didn’t just keep my attention; they also kept me calling my fiancée—who was 200 kilometres away at the time—and telling her how much I loved her.

My own marriage not working out has only made me appreciate this love story all the more. I understand, now, just how much care, work, and mutual devotion a loving marriage takes to survive—and how rare that truly is. 

I hope that you not only enjoy these letters as much as I do, but that you get as much from them—and more. That you squeeze your loved one’s hand just a little harder or give them an extra goodnight kiss. Most of all I hope you find the courage to do what is the bravest thing anyone one can do: give yourself, fully, to another, without losing who you are, while letting them be, fully, who they are—as Dad demanded in one of his letters.

A lasting love isn’t for the fickle or the faint of heart.

     1d Bracken Way

Rushpark

Newtownabbey

Co.Antrim

N. Ireland

21 August 1963

Dear Art,

I find it hard to believe that so many miles are separating us when it is such a short time since we were together. How I would just love to be able to call up and hear your voice—you see I miss you already. Yesterday morning in Picton I moved into mother’s bed as I felt cold (thermostat not working again) and when I woke up I felt something touching my back. For one wonderful moment I thought that we were married and that you were there beside me. Art, I do love you so. Ireland doesn’t seem home to me any more because you are not here. It is true when they say home is where the heart is.

We had a very pleasant flight back and other than waking up to eat supper and breakfast I slept most of the way. We were only 8 3/4hours in the air but when we landed at Belfast airport we had to remain on the plane for another hour as Customs and Immigration lounges were so busy. However, even so, we were back at the flat before 8 a.m.  We’ve had breakfast and Mother has gone to lie down as she did not sleep last night at all and very little the previous night.

I can’t remember if I thanked your mother for giving us such a wonderful engagement party. If not will you give her my thanks now.  I will treasure the memories of that important day all my life, together with the happiness I feel. I hope that you feel the same way, too. I wonder when we will be together again? I hope it is soon as I feel I will be impatient with any delay for moments we are apart seem wasted.

I have so many thoughts in my head, but I am finding difficulty in putting them down on paper, so I hope that you understand all that I am trying to say.

The weather here is cool and breezy just as I thought it would be. The sky is overcast and I wouldn’t be surprised if there was some rain. What a change from the beautiful weather we left in Canada.

I will write again at the beginning of next week when I find out the details about how long I’ll have to work. Of course, this doesn’t mean that you are not to write until after you receive my next letter. I am waiting eagerly to hearing from you, so please write very soon. By the way I’m still known here as Mrs. Peggy Strain—but not for long I hope.

All my love forever

Peggy.

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Sunday Aug. 25/63

RR#4

Picton

Ont.

My Darling Peggy,

I received your wonderful letter yesterday morning. I can’t tell you how happy I am to know that nothing has changed. I sometimes think it must have been just a wonderful dream. I guess I’ll not really believe it’s true until I hold you in my arms again. I love you very much and think of you constantly. If you feel as strongly as I do I am wondering how you can concentrate on your school work. My work on the farm requires very little concentration, it’s work I have done so much I can just do it more or less automatically.

Well honey I’m late again as usual. It is 12 o’clock Sunday night. I went church to-night and after church Betty and George and the boys came over. We had a lunch and have been visiting. They just left so I thought I had better write you to-night so I could send it by to-morrow’s mail. I only hope this letter means as much to you as your letter meant to me. I took quite a razzing at church to-night, but I find I rather enjoyed it. Cressy is still recovering from the shock of its No.1 bachelor getting engaged. However, I am sure when they meet you they will understand.

There has been very little going on around here since you left. How I wished last night that you could be here to go to the dance with me, but since you were not I had no desire to go, so I watched television. My darling I am so anxious to know how soon you will be able to come back to me, I miss you so much. I do hope it will be soon. The Cressy people are all very anxious for you to get back too. I don’t know whether they are thinking of our happiness or just want to have a party. There has been no marriage in Cressy for a couple of years and the natives are bubbling with anticipation. Betty got your address from me to-night. She wants to be able to inform you if I misbehave, but you know she doesn’t have to worry about that. Maybe she doesn’t realize the effect a love like ours can have on a wayward bachelor.

Like you Peggy there were many things I wanted to say, but since starting to write I can’t seem to bring them out. However since we both feel the same I guess it’s not necessary because we both know without saying. I do love you very much and Long for your safe return.

I have been trying to make some plans for our future, but I can do nothing without you. Sometimes things work out better if there are not too many plans made in advance, so I am just waiting until you are with me again. The weather has been very nice here lately and I wish you could be here to share it. To-morrow I will be picking tomatoes. I am sure then I will think of a thousand things that I wanted to tell you but right now it is like when we were together, I can only think of how much I love you. When I put the ring on your finger I would love, liked very much to have made a pretty speech and told you what was in my heart but the lump in my throat wouldn’t let me have said much even if I could have thought of it. I am sure you understand Peggy Darling. Well Peggy I guess this will have to do for now. I will try to do better next time.

Write soon. I love you.

Art.

P.S. I suppose I’ll have to address this as you instructed but I hate to think of you as Mrs. anybody. Except Mrs. Art Frizzell.

Love and Kisses

Art

To read more on Kindle please go to

Sham-A-Ling-Dong-Ding

One of my favourite all-time songs. Whenever the world seems cruel and unkind, this is where I go to be reminded of gentle souls. Today the world lost one of them. R.I.P. Jesse Winchester. Thank you.

Bill Gates/CBC Radio, As it Happens

I heard Bill Gates in an interview last night on CBC radio, As it Happens, talking about 3 myths that are blocking progress for the poor.  

I found it interesting and thought I'd share. 

Burning 100

Friend and artist Milé Murtanovski is painting 100 portraits in 100 hours. He's currently in hour 38. Watch him work, live, here.

It's Official!

Top Photo: John Lennon and Yoko Ono visit with Canada's new prime minister, Pierre Elliott Trudeau. After talking with Trudeau for 50 minutes, John Lennon said that Trudeau was "a beautiful person" and that "If all politicians were like Pierre Trudeau, there would be world peace." (1969)

Bottom Photo: Prime Minister Stephen Harper presents Justin Bieber with Diamond Jubilee Medal. (2012)

How the Internet is Making Me Less Cynical

Quiet a while ago there was a picture that I saw on facebook of a boy holding a pup, and then the same boy, all grown up, holding the pub, all grown up, in the same spot. It was a great picture. I wish I could find it to share. The boy turned man was wearing the same shirt in both pictures, though it looked well worn, and didn't really fit, in the second. Despite knowing that by reading comments on the net you risk lowering your IQ, raising your blood pressure, and seriously reducing your faith in humanity, I read them—they can sometimes give you a bit of insight. This time the comments helped me see that overly cynical people are often, well, idiots. Some of the comments were scoffing at, and trying to disprove the picture since, apparently, it is unbelievable that kids and pups grow up.
The evidence presented:

Puppets Without Borders

"You might be poor, your shoes might be broken, but your mind is a palace."
― Frank McCourt

Puppets Without Borders is a new program providing access to the arts for children in need. The arts and the imagination can be powerful tools in keeping the spirit strong through times of great adversity and poverty. Like Krista talks about in the video, I too have seen and experienced the difference that creativity, and a healthy form of self expression, can make in the lives of young people—from all different cultural backgrounds. Please take a moment to follow the link and watch the video. Here's an excerpt:

"In November 2012 Krista Dalby and Tanis De Sa Pereira will be travelling to Ghana, Africa, as volunteers. They’ll be working in small rural villages in the Volta Region where there is limited schooling, medicine, housing and other basic needs. Over the course of 2 weeks they will be teaching puppetry to up to 200 children; working together to tell traditional Ghanaian stories through shadow puppetry, culminating in a community performance . . . "

Farewell Little Mosque on the Prairie, and Thank You.

Little Mosque on the Prairie is having its final episode tonight, on CBC. To be absolutely honest I’ve only been getting into it recently but I’ve enjoyed much of what I’ve seen. It reminds me of the Canada I used to know: good humour, tolerance and understanding.
A Canada, which when the world goes going crazy steps back and says,

Just Stories . . . of Abortion.

Abortion is a hot button issue. That makes it difficult to talk about. Talk about, not fight about, which is all people seem to do these days as everyone wants to defeat their perceived enemy rather than talk to fellow human beings. I think of what George Bernard Shaw said, "The single biggest problem in communication is the illusion that it has taken place."

Iranians Love Israel/Israelis Love Iran

I just read about this campaign in The New Yorker: Iranians Love Israel/Israelis Love Iran. It's citizens of one country reaching out to the citizens of another.

“Our main aim is introducing the Iranians to the Israelis and the Israelis to the Iranians,” Majid (who asked not to be identified by his last name because he fears for his safety) wrote me by e-mail. Asked what propelled him to respond to the Israeli initiative, he replied, “While the leaders threaten war and they want to bomb our countries, we (Israeli and Iranian citizens) are already bombarding each other—with love and peace.”

As it was in the Beginning . . .

I was struck by the similarity of the two images. On the left is Samuel Aranda’s World Press Photo of the Year. On the right, PIETA, by Michelangelo.

My thoughts and prayers remain with the people of Norway as they deal with the tragedy of the shootings, bombing and callous things said by some who see this more as a political act to be used for gain, rather than an act against humanity that is a loss for us all. But most of all for those directly affected: brothers, sisters, grandparents, mothers, daughters, fathers, sons, husbands, wives, lovers, friends and cousins.
I am sorry for your loss.

I think of my great uncle Bill, whom I never meet but heard so much about. A minute to remember for how many lifetimes lost?

In the Globe and Mail there was an article, inspired by the case of Col. Russell Williams', called, "How a psychopath is made." It said how a psychopath finds no real meaning in love or horror or humour, as if "colour blind" to human feeling. When you look at the world today, and the growing apathy and desensitization, it gives you reason to pause, and then to shudder.

Terry Jones, Richard Dawkins, Mel and Forrest

Terry Jones threatened to burn the Quran; Richard Dawkins blames the Catholics for, well, everything; Mel Gibson says it's the Jews fault; Forrest Gump says, “Stupid is as stupid does.” I agree with Forrest.

Copyright © Colin Frizzell 2010. All rights reserved.

23rd International Festival of the Stick (Small Pond Arts)

On the weekend I had the pleasure of taking part in the 23rd annual, International Festival of the Stick at Small Pond Arts (www.smallpondarts.ca) in Prince Edward County. The hosts of the festival, and owners of Small Pond Arts, Milé Murtanovski and Krista Dalby, did a great job of organizing the event. Price of admission was one stick that you placed in the "River Styx" (second down on right) that ran from a bush to a tree in front of the house. There were even stepping stones so that the more daring could try and cross.
The main highlight of the event was the Museum of the Stick.
Some of the things you'll find in the museum (as it's still open) are drawings that Milé had done with lipstick (bottom right), Fun Dip with the Lik-a-Stik, a brief history of the stick, the history of the sticky bun (with samples), chop sticks, glue stick, chap stick, memory stick, Hickory Sticks (with samples), a talking stick (beautifully sculpted by Peter Paylor), rainmakers, a didgeridoo, hockey stick. . . you get the picture. For the kids (and some adults) they had paints set out so you could paint your own souvenir stick. You could even pick up a complimentary stick cozy to protect it.
Some kids had already done some drawings of the festival's mascot, Hickory Stick (seen top right), originally drawn and designed by Niall Eccles.
Later in the afternoon people were walking on sticks as Milé and Krista brought out the stilts and gave lessons to anyone brave enough. Shamefully I was not, though one of my nephews, Mitchell, was. He enjoyed walking on stilts, but found it odd; especially when he got down off them. He did a great job and wants to give it another go.
Special thanks to Milé Murtanovski and Krista Dalby for being such great hosts and putting so much work into it.
Not to take anything away from the glorious stick, which has earned all its honours, but the festival was creativity for creativity's sake; and what is greater than creation?
I can't wait until next year!

Milé, Krista and I all did readings in honour of the stick; below is the piece I wrote and performed.


The Glory of the Stick.

Initially when Milé and Krista asked me to do something for the festival of the stick, I thought I would just get up, grab a stick and try to improv my shtick; but I was struck with a fear of getting stuck. So I grabbed a stick, that someone was kind enough to put some lead in, and jotted some thing’s down.
As I scribbled I was reminded of our ancestors who would have used a stick for drawing in the dirt, the earth as their scroll, by the light of the sticks burning in the fire, torches creating a protective circle, audience sitting on logs; I wondered what pictures they drew?
Using stick figures to create the first graphic novel as they added pictures to their words. The dancing flames may have made the images look like they were moving, planting the seed of an idea that would be passed down to later become television and film.
All of civilization owes itself to the mighty and humble stick.
The sticks used to tell stories in the sand and record them on cave walls so fellow travellers and future generations could learn from the adventures, triumphs and mishaps of their ancestors and fellow human beings.
We harnessed the power of fire, thanks to the stick. And the wheel, the wheel is a wonderful thing but to find it you only need to look at the end of the stick. And where would that wheel be without an axle and what is an axle but a stick? A big stick, I grant you, but that is yet another glory of the stick; it comes in all sizes to suit our needs, to shore us up when we walk or put a roof over our heads when we stop and need shelter.
Look at what the written word has done for us and what are our letters but images of sticks, crossed, dotted and bent to represent different sounds so we can communicate learn and grow.
Small but mighty, humble and inspirational, these sticks that we walk on without a thought are holding us up.
Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil: for thou art with me; thy rod and thy staff, yes, two sticks, they comfort me. And if all shall fall to pieces I’ll gather the herd and rub those sticks together over a pile of other sticks and create fire. Then we’ll sharpen other sticks into arrows and fashion others into a bows and we’ll hunt for our supper to cook it over that fire, and use other sticks to dig out and hoe a garden.
And with the humble stick, that has given itself for us in so many ways, we will rebuild civilization.
Thank you, dear stick; we owe our lives to you. And you will always be, my dog’s favourite toy.

Copyright © Colin Frizzell 2010. All rights reserved.

Happy Canada Day

"I am a Canadian, free to speak without fear, free to worship in my own way, free to stand for what I think right, free to oppose what I believe wrong, or free to choose those who shall govern my country. This heritage of freedom I pledge to uphold for myself and all mankind." - John Diefenbaker

I only hope these rights and freedoms are never forgotten or surrendered. Not even for a better economy.

"There is no longer any family here but the human family. It matters not the language people speak, or the altars at which they kneel.” – Sir Wilfrid Laurier

G20 in Toronto

democracy |diˈmäkrəsē|
noun ( pl. -cies)
a system of government by the whole population or all the eligible members of a state, typically through elected representatives.
• a state governed in such a way : a multiparty democracy.
• the practice or principles of social equality : demands for greater democracy.

fascism |ˈfa sh ˌizəm| (also Fascism)
noun
an authoritarian and nationalistic right-wing system of government and social organization.
• (in general use) extreme right-wing, authoritarian, or intolerant views or practice.

As it was pointed out the news, “they [violent protesters] weren’t protesters they were vandals. Dr. King’s people protested, Gandhi’s people protested.” Without protests injustices grow as more and more freedoms are taken away. Rights have never been given. I understand the frustration and fear but remember what Benjamin Franklin said, “People willing to trade their freedom for temporary security deserve neither and will lose both.”

I don’t know what frightened me more, seeing Toronto turned into a police state, or seeing how many people welcomed it. Democracy, social equality, humanity, it would seem, has been traded for the sake of economy; as people were pulled of the streets and put in cages (including members of the press). It's not the first time in history that this has happen. Neither is it the first time people welcomed it.

It's not about siding with the protesters, or the police, it's about human rights. Anyone, one either side, that violated them needs to be held accountable. In a democracy we all need to use our individual voices to speak out against those violations.

Rudely Interrupted

Rudely Interrupted is an Aussie band that came out of a music theory program. Five of the six members have a physical or mental disability. In 2008 they made history by becoming the first band to play at the UN headquarters. Rudely Interrupted is currently touring in Canada. The title to this entry will link you to their site. They have several videos available on Youtube.
Please enjoy and support. They're bloody good.