Happy Halloween

Happy Halloween means something different now, at least to me. When we were young, today would have been so exciting, arguably the most exciting day of the year. Halloween night was all about the treats. This was simply because we weren't accustomed to such luxury, other than mostly at Christmas and Easter. Even then, the treats would be limited in the house to the budget of that year, but not on Halloween. Halloween was the epitome of working hard and being rewarded generously.

Today there are houses and yards done up to the nines, and masks and costumes that cost a week’s salary or more. But then, there was no such a thing. Any haunting was natural… And there was haunting…

I would never be able to tell you a costume that I wore because there was no such thing. We got a little more creative as teenagers but as youngsters, we’d change coats or something as if that would fool the treat giver. The traditional fare of Halloween was some sort of plastic face mask with big eye holes and two tiny nostrils and a slit for the mouth that Mom would have purchased at the shop. It would be fastened by a tiny elastic string and two staples. If one of us broke that we were screwed and would have to put them away until Halloween night. But they did break in the days leading up to Halloween when we’d try them on and look at ourselves in the mirror or just practice for the big night. So often we’d have it stapled on one side and a hole drove in the other with the top of the scissors and the elastic tied on. Then to really cement it, there’d be a big nob of tape over that.

 

The front was painted with some sort of character (probably in lead paint), but not a character that we would recognize out of anything other than a book - they didn't have Mr. Dressup or Sesame Street ones, it was always a white ghost, a green witch, a beige mummy, a wolf, or Dracula himself in various shades of black and grey. From time to time we could get a girl face or boy face in a kaleidoscope of bright colours with worms or spiders on them, but mostly it was the standard Halloween print.

 

On nights when it was really cold, little hailstones would get through the eye holes and sting us, we’d blink our way down the road. But it wasn't a night that you'd turn back. No siree. We walked the length of North Harbour - Carmel's to Ben Bonia's - in order to get every candy and visit every house. The pillowcase or plastic bag would be full, and every single item treasured.

 

It was one night. If we were sick, somebody took an extra bag, but it wasn't often that anyone was sick. The leg would have to be severed or something to keep any of us from going out. Households generally knew who was there and who needed spares for a sick one at home. It was like a knowing although we never really understood how everyone knew.

There was no such thing as a Halloween Party or fancy costumes costing a fortune or week-long celebrations either. Even in school, there was little decoration, but a scattered ghost story would be read. It was grade six before I touched a real pumpkin in class.

 

Paper pumpkins, scribbled with orange and black Crayola’s, or the most genuine thing if we were lucky enough to have a package of construction paper, graced the glass on any of the road-facing windows and doors at our house. I believe it was the same for any place that had children. One year, I remember us using the orange and black construction paper to cut out the words "Happy Halloween" and “Trick or Treat” in block letters. We taped them on the cupboard doors and wall. We added in a few paper bats and spiders for good measure. Mom was very proud of them and allowed us to hang them any time in October.

 

Waiting for dark was the hardest when Halloween fell on a weekend. I miss the days of skipping down the dirt road with a bag full of candy weighing heavily on my arm and sleet pelting and tinging off the plastic mask and sometimes mixing with the brow sweat in my eyes. Hot breath steaming the inside of the plastic mixing with the cold air and making everything hazy and ghostly. We were all there as a family until we were teenagers and could go out with friends.

 

The anticipation of spilling the contents on the living room floor, rosy, red cheeks and eyes as big as saucers looking at the bounty. Picking the first delicious treat was a ritual in itself, seeming to take hours but. in fact. only a few seconds. Mine was always the chewy orange and brown candy corn so I don't know why it was a decision in the first place. But it wasn’t about the decision, it was the delight in delaying the best night ever. We traded with each other to make the most out of what we had.

 

Ah, the good old days, when school lunches were Halloween treats for as long as they lasted. Now, that’s not to say other Halloweens weren’t great. I have terrific memories of taking the girls and the grandkids out for Halloween. I also had a wonderful time over the years working in haunted houses and laughing so much it hurt. But none hold the witch’s lantern to the years of innocence trudging four miles over dirt roads (uphill each way – not) to have candy for a few weeks that I had worked hard to get.

 

I wish you an eye of newt, hobgoblin scary, best tasting witches brew candy, wolf howling, pre-walking dead kind of Halloween of days of old. At least for those from my girlhood generation who remember them. I’m happy to recall those simpler times.

 

 

What Colour are You?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Invincible me...

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Scored!

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

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

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

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

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

Do you remember when you were invincible?

 

The Time John Denver Saved Me…

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Picking Out My Super Power

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Thank you for reading.

 

 

When Life Hands you Miley

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

So there you have it. Or do you?

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

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

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

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

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

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