Christmas Excerpt from 'Just J' .

We used to make a big deal out of Christmas. Ours was always the largest tree on the block and on Christmas Eve we’d invite the whole neighborhood over. The outside of the house would be covered in lights and the inside with tinsel and fresh cut cedar boughs.

We live near a golf course and Mom would go there at night with Billy, me, a toboggan and a pair of clippers. She’d cut branches off the cedars that line the course and I’d pile them on and around Billy, who stayed on the toboggan. He’d do his best to hold onto them. Mom loved the smell; she’d sniff the end of each one after she cut it. Dad used to play the course, so he pretended that he didn’t approve, but he’d always tell Mom which trees needed trimming if she insisted on cutting them.

Everyone was at our Christmas parties. Not just people from the neighborhood but people from my parents’ work and my school friends too—back when I had friends. Mom would play the piano and sing Gordon Lightfoot’s ‘Song for a Winter’s Night.’ I’d tell her she was awful and that it was embarrassing. She’d tell me not to take things so seriously and to stop worrying about what other people thought.

 Then she’d convince Dad to sing a duet of ‘Baby It’s Cold Outside.’  I’d always make it clear to my friends just how mortifying I found it.

Mom loved to laugh and have a good time. Entertaining was her thing. She and my dad would do a dramatic reading of  ‘Twas the night before Christmas,’ acting out the different parts—complete with wardrobe and props—grabbing some unsuspecting person out of the crowd to spin around with at the ‘turned with a jerk’ part.            

It was the very definition of corny, but all the younger kids and the adults—with the help of a little rum and eggnog—loved it. My friends and I would watch from the sidelines, making sure always to be laughing at, and never with, them.

On Christmas morning, Mom would be up before any of us, even Billy. Dean Martin’s ‘Silver Bells’ blasting from the stereo would awaken the rest of us. She’d spray fake snow everywhere as we came down the stairs and then we’d rip open the mound of presents. At least, I think that was us. I remember it all right, but not to touch, not to feel, just to watch like an old film. Last Christmas—now that I can still feel with painful clarity.

There was no party, there were no lights outside or cedar inside—only a touch of tinsel and a sad little tree for a sorry little Christmas. We all had to wait for Mom to wake up and for Dad to help her down the stairs to the chair by the fire. He wrapped her in a blanket, put a scarf around her neck and turned up the gas fireplace. He then straightened the knitted, pale yellow toque she’d been wearing since she lost her hair. After that he went into the kitchen, made her a cup of tea and handed it to her gingerly.

“Are you comfortable?” he asked her for the thousandth time.

“Yes, I’m fine. Just open your presents.”

“You’re sure?” he asked again.

“She’s fine! Now can we get on with it?” I answered for her. Dad gave me a dirty look but he didn’t say anything. 

I vividly remember Mom’s frailty and how not even the fire’s reflection could give her face any colour. I remember Dad’s patience and gentleness, Billy’s enthusiasm, my anger. I watched all of it with a great fury and I let that fury be known for the rest of the day. Why shouldn’t I have been angry? I had lost my Christmas.

I got to be in the school’s Christmas pageant, but I was the only one there without a parent. Dad arranged for me to get a ride with the neighbours and their kid, Martha.

Martha stuck to me all night like a bad smell—literally—and in doing so ensured the complete destruction of what remained of my social standing.

The thing about Martha, besides her “top student” marks, and her random, loud, snorting laugh, is that she will occasionally stick her hand down the back of her skirt, pull it out and sniff it. She did it that night, on stage!

 My perfect evening was complete when, on the way to the car, Martha grabbed my hand with the hand—Merry Christmas!

All I wanted was one morning—Christmas morning—just a couple of hours of normality. But Mom couldn’t even give us that. How hard would it have been? One hundred and twenty minutes of pretending everything was all right. That was it. That was all I wanted.

The Cassette.

Early November. We were supposed to have been in Toronto by November first. Things always take longer than you think they're going to, especially when you're moving. 

It's difficult for Mom to leave the house, even if it's just for the winter. But last winter was so hard and she will be turning 87 this year, she needs to be where she can keep active. Nonetheless, it's the only home she's known in Canada; her mother lived here for a time, also, when she first arrived and later when age made it too difficult for her to keep her apartment in Picton. Dad's mom, who he cared for, died in this house. Grandfather Frizzell died out by the barn, I believe. Dad wanted to die here, too, but had to go to the hospital in the end. Though his spirit does linger.  

I decided to give the grass one last cut. I wasn't going to, but Dad always gave it that one last low cut in the fall after letting it grow long. It was supposed to help keep the weeds down in the spring and make the first cut easier. The extra mulch was also good for the lawn. 

The headphone jack on my iphone had been damaged in September and my ipod was no longer holding a charge so I had resorted to using my Walkman (which I hadn't used in years and had only recently found one that worked) a few cuts ago. 

I grabbed three cassettes: Tony Apler, A Taste for Wine, a Fuji recordable tape without a label, and a cassette with a home-made label with Irish comedy written on it in green. I had found the Irish comedy tape in my office when I was packing the office up the day before; I didn't recognize it and I don't know where it come from. 

While cutting I listened to the wine tape, first. It gave pointers on tasting and cooking with wine and the joy of sharing it with friends etc.. I had always enjoyed drinking wine (since developing a taste for it, through necessity, as a teen. The necessity being that I was at a party and there was nothing else to drink.) After my native home, Prince Edward County, became a wine region, and I went to work at Rosehall Run and then Devil's Wishbone winery, my interest grew.

When Tony Aper had finished I put on the Fuji tape. It turned out to be Toad to Wet Sprocket, recorded back when I was in college. 

I finished the lawn quickly. Some parts, that were shaded by trees, hadn’t grown much since last time I cut it; not having to cut close to the trees sped things up considerably. 

“Dad would be happy,” I said, as came into the house. He was very proud of his well-kept lawn.

I had a cup of coffee. I checked my facebook and took a call. I went to go back out and put the lawnmower away for the winter.

I was on my way out the door when I turned back. It wouldn't take me long to put the lawnmower away, so it wasn't really worth getting wired for sound. Nonetheless, I picked up the Walkman, again. I felt I should check to see what was on the Irish Comedy cassette before it went into the back of a drawer and was again forgotten about.

I inserted the cassette into the yellow player. I pressed play. Nothing. I fast forwarded it a little bit. Nothing. I fast forwarded it a little bit more. Nothing. I was about to turn it off when I heard a crackle. I didn’t recognize that crackled, it’s been so long since I heard it, but it was the sound of someone pressing the record button.

I heard her start to sing, ‘The Mountains of Mourne’, and then I heard his voice. I can’t really describe in this moment what that moment was like. I needed to be sure I was hearing what I thought I was hearing. I walked into the room and held an ear bud to Mom’s ear.

She smiled slightly, tears came to her eyes.

“Is that you and Dad singing?” I asked.

She nodded.

I put the cassette into the stereo so we could hear it properly.

It was the first time hearing him in 11 years. Their singing filled the room, once more.

There was just the one song and then the tape went into an Irish Comedy routine that it was labelled for.

The cassette in is a protective case now. Dad’s name added to the label. It won’t be going into the back of a drawer. For a back-up I recorded it with my camera and am sharing it here, with you. It's only a minute, but it's a minute that crossed time, and the great divide, and it means so much. 

Being Human

There was something that Pope Francis said a while ago, something like, “You can’t be human alone. You need others to be human with you.” That stuck with me. Isn’t that what many seek, someone to be human with? Isn’t that why we read stories? In the pages we find people who aren’t too frightened to love. Who aren’t afraid to be human.

The world often seems filled with cruel manipulations, thoughtless, uncaring people so removed from the human condition that you have to attempt to explain to them what it’s like to feel.  You can’t. You can’t break down what being human is. What it’s like to see someone you care about sick, ageing or dying and feel their pain and the ache inside you that demands you do something, or at least be there for them in whatever way you can.

You can’t explain to someone what loyalty is, or the pain of betrayal, or how much a broken heart hurts. You can’t quantify and qualify mercy or compassion or what it’s like to be alive on an emotional level. You simply can’t. If you get angry or upset when watching the news because of all the pain and needless suffering that people inflict on people; if all the indifference makes you feel a little ill and someone doesn’t get it because, hey, it doesn’t affect you directly so who cares? Or that sometimes you need to find a way to laugh at it all, because if you don't laugh it will break you, only to be condemned for being inappropriate. You can’t explain what it’s like to be human. 

I heard once that Jesus (who was Jewish, btw) didn’t come to teach us how to be gods; he came to show us how to be human. That so many misuse his teachings to remove themselves from their own humanity, and sit in the seat of judgement, is a discussion for another day. But, maybe, Jesus let himself be tortured and brutalised so horrendously in hopes to shock us into caring, to touch our heart and make us appalled by our own brutality, disturbed that people could do this to someone who did nothing but preach love and kindness, give out free health care, feed the poor and demand a more equal sharing of wealth; and say that we should treat each other with the same respect we want for ourselves. 

As the story goes, God so loved the world that he gave his only son. If we were a little more human, we never would have killed him—or so many others since. The sacrifice would have been unnecessary. He died for our sins and our sins were fear and indifference.

I’m rambling now, getting away from my original point. Life is an emotional journey and what I think most people want is someone to share that journey with, someone who allows them to feel, allows them to care and who doesn't belittle them for it. A person who won’t take advantage of our trust or kindness; who will give us the strength and courage to be vulnerable. Someone to be human with.

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

Memories of Daisy Bell

My newsfeed brought me videos, yesterday, of contemporary artists (Nick Cave, Danny Elfman, Katy Perry) covering the song ‘Daisy Bell’.

I clicked, I listened and, as music often does, it brought back memories.

My grandma, Lily, taught me ‘Daisy Bell’, or, 'Bicycle Built for Two' as it's sometimes called. 

I remember her singing it in the kitchen while making her French toast, which was the best French toast, in the world, EVER.

Daisy remained in Grandma’s mind when the Alzheimer’s progressed into it like an invading army killing her loved ones by erasing them one by one. 

I remember the day when my grandma no longer recognized me. 

Mom and I went into the nursing home, after school (Mom was a teacher).

Grandma was sitting alone in the front common area.

She was staring straight ahead.

Mom crossed in front of her and Grandma watched Mom as she sat down.

Mom put left hand on Grandma's right hand and turned to face her.

Grandma hadn’t recognized her daughter in some time, but the personal contact didn't bother Grandma, her expression was warm and welcoming.

Perhaps the touch felt familiar.

“Colin’s here,” I think I remember Mom saying.

Grandma looked up and then turned to me, I was now seated on her left hand side.

Her face didn’t light up the way it normally did.

Her lips curved into a smile showing her false teeth, and her Irish eyes sparkled, but it was a ‘Nice to meet you’ smile not a 'So glad to see you' glow.

There was none of the excitement of recognition behind it.

I was the last to go.

She had forgotten everyone else before me.

I should have known my day would come, but I was young, naïve or maybe just hopeful. 

Strange looking back at it now, it was like she knew she didn’t know and had accepted that everyday she’d be in a strange place surrounded by strangers.

But she kept smiling.

I don’t remember her talking, but I do recall her singing.

For years to come—Alzheimer’s is neither quick nor merciful—if Mom started to sing Daisy Bell, Grandma would sing it with her.

Daisy Bell wasn’t the only song Grandma still sang, there was also, 

             ‘Oh dear, what can the matter be,

             dear, dear, what can the matter be,

             Oh dear, what can the matter be,

             Johnny’s so long at the fair.’

I’m almost certain she sang Molly Malone and Black Velvet Band.

When she couldn’t sing, anymore, she would hum. 

I can’t recall if I sang along.

I’d like to think I did, but I don’t know.

I wish I could remember.

It hurts not to remember.

I can’t imagine what it must have been like for her.

But music stayed with her, it comforted her.

I am grateful to it for that. 

When all that we think of as being us is gone, when all we were is erased, something remains and that something responds to music, love and touch.  

Those things endure and they bring pleasure and peace; they allow us to communicate when words lose their meaning; enable us to stay connected to each other.

Even as I write this I can’t trust that my memory is giving me all the correct information but there’s a feeling that stays steady, like a boat’s keel unseen below the surface but helping us deal with the stormy seas. 

Like love, this feeling can’t be explained but it can sometimes be relayed in a touch and found in music; a frequency, energy, just beyond the reach of our five senses or even the tools we use to heighten them.

If we let our self be sensitive toward it, it can be felt. It’s the . . . something more. In that something more Grandma is there and she’s still singing. Maybe in the notes themselves or in the silence between them, but in that place, beyond our senses, beyond mind and memory, somewhere in the mystery, she remains. And all it took was a song on my newsfeed to remind me that those who I miss are never far from me. 

                        

How To Live With Yourself (a free 10 point psychiatric evaluation)

When I was a kid, I think about twelve, I heard my parents and neighbours laughing in the kitten. I entered to discover that they were listening to a cassette tape of a comedian telling jokes—as comedians tend to do. After the neighbours left I got my hands on the tape and played it for some of my friends. We listened to it several times. I don’t think any of us, as kids, fully realized that through, and between, those jokes we were learning some basics in psychology from psychologist Dr. Murray Banks.

I still have that tape and have listened to it many times since. I even played it for some of my students during my first year as a writer-in-residence with Now Hear This!’s magnificent S.W.A.T. (Students, Writers, And Teachers) program. 

I have no idea how much this recording has influenced me or my writing but trying but understanding the psychology of your character, the reason they do what they do, is important in understanding them as it is important in understanding yourself.

The other day I decided to do a search for Dr. Murray Banks on-line and was pleased to discover that someone had posted his recordings on Youtube. 

Here’s a clip from, How To Live With Yourself, where Dr. Banks begins to give the listener a free 10 point psychiatric evaluation.

Writing and Money

After a presentation I did in front of a large 80+ group of elementary school students, for the Toronto Public Library, one of the students ran up to me afterwards with a small group in tow. They looked so excited I couldn't help but feel like a bit of a celebrity.
"So," she said, "are you, like, rich?" 
"No," I said.
"Oh," she said. 
Her and her friends turned their backs on me and walked away.

I was reminded of that autobiographical story this morning after reading an article in The Guardian about how little writers get paid. And we do, most of us. I'm going to save my tirade on the subject since it would be set off by the comments section and not the article. Anyway, read and enjoy. If you are thinking of becoming a writer, consider. If you are driven to write then nothing is going to stop you so read and prepare. 

Most writers earn less than £600 a year, survey reveals.

Top Six 2013

My attempt at a top six favourites list. 

Album: ‘Push the Sky Away’, Nick Cave and The Bad Seeds

Single:  ‘Daring to Love',  Ane Brun 

Book:  'The Testament of Mary', by Colm Tóibín

Film: 'Django Unchained', Quentin Tarantino, or 'Gravity', Alfonso Cuarón, Jonás Cuarón
Television Show: 'Breaking Bad', Vince Gilligan

Favourite Recipe: One-pan Mexican Chicken. I love things that only use one dish. 

Snobbery and Young Adult and Children's Literature

I share this only to address the too commonly held snobbery, which this article perpetuates, that says a book written for adults is superior to one written for children, or young adults, simply because it was written for adults. By that reasoning, Fifty Shades of Grey is superior to The Diary of Anne Frank, To Kill a Mockingbird or Hunger Games. Dan Brown is superior to Robert Cormier, E.B. White, J.R.R. Tolkien, C.S. Lewis or Roald Dahl. Lord of the Flies is a YA novel, so is The Catcher in the Rye; should they be dismissed as inferior to Hunt for Red October or Carrie? I don’t know why this snobbery exists, maybe it’s because children’s and YA books, similar to sci-fi, fantasy and horror, tend to address issues in a more subversive way (Hans Christian Anderson’s The Emperor's New Clothes, The Ugly Duckling) and some adults don’t see it because they aren’t looking. Or, perhaps, it’s because some adults see themselves as being more important than children and therefore anything made for them is by extension more worthy. If that is case they would do well to remember the wise words of Dr. Seuss, “Adults are just obsolete children and the hell with them.” 

Getting Naked

It has been said, and I wish I could remember who said it, that writing is going into a room, getting yourself as naked as possible, and then walking out into the world and saying, "So, what do you think?"

I know it was Neil Gaiman that said in his address to the University of Arts class of 2012 that, "The moment that you feel that, just possibly, you're walking down the street naked, exposing too much of your heart and your mind and what exists on the inside, showing too much of yourself. That's the moment you may be starting to get it right."

I never really thought too much about it when I wrote Just J. It was after my dad died. I worked through my grief as J was working through hers. I always thought how much worse it was for her since she was younger and at an age when she really needed her mom. Though, to a certain extent, I think we always feel we need our parents and we become children again when they die as we long to be with them again, held by them again, guided through life hand in hand, while, at the same time, having to assume new responsibilities and no longer being able to turn to them for advice. 

With Chill, when I was asked to write it, it was for a very specific audience of reluctant reader teens. I used to be one. So, I asked myself, if I could go back and talk to me, what would I tell me? The answer was to believe in yourself, and don't let others, specifically bullies, discourage you from doing what you love. In the book the bully happens to be a teacher. The return to high school, and all its horrors, was much more intense than I thought it would be.  

My characters are often based on people I know or that I've read about. A little bit from one a little bit from another possibly little bit of me. We share in an emotional experience. Sometimes they share in mine, sometimes me in theirs. Sometimes it's something from my life, sometimes from something I've read or listened to. It's done with empathy and imagination, the same as reading. 

When I was at a Canadian Writers' Union meeting one of the writers said how in order to write fiction you need to feel safe, you can't enter another world until you feel safe in your own. And you certainly can't get naked and go for a stroll if you don't feel safe. Sometimes you are in a situation that makes feeling safe difficult. Sometimes it's a situation you feel trapped in. That's where faith comes in. Even if it's an illusion, you can accomplish much more under the illusion of protection and purpose than under the reality of fragility and fear. Who's to say which is the true reality when our perspective is so limited. Most of the world we live in is imagination made real. Someone had to dream a house before someone else could build it. Its up to us to live in the dream until we have the strength to make it real, or prove it always was. Whether that be a house, a Higgs particle or a dream of becoming a writer. Without faith, progress becomes impossible. We need to trust before we can willingly shed our clothes, bare our souls and ask,  "What do you think?"