Home is Where Our Story Continues

 The first day of Winter, a new season, a new home and the ongoing story. On this day I think of all that. Christmas is such a nostalgic time and we tend to long for days gone by. We pull out the decorations and hang the old ornaments on the tree and we remember. This year we are in a new house. Now I realize for many people changing houses is no big deal. Some have made several moves and find the packing and purging a fairly simple task. I am not one of those people. On December 17th , 1988 Burton and I moved into our not quite finished home. We had been building it for four years and finished or not we were spending Christmas there with our three kids. We'd been living with my parents for five months, the kids sharing a bedroom and Burton and I sleeping next door at my grandparents. The fall had been a challenge and I know I felt it then but when looking back  I remember taking it in my stride just fine. We do tend to remember certain things with rose colored glasses. That fact gives me the assurance that I will look back at the challenges we have faced this fall with the same perspective. Now even with the challenges, I have felt a huge amount of gratitude and joy. But along with those emotions I have felt stress, exhaustion and sadness. A huge change has occurred and a much different chapter in our story is being written. Change is hard and requires a  lot of positive self talk and kindness. The job is not done even though I wake up every day loving our new surroundings. There is still packing and  purging and letting go to do and I find myself a bit envious of those who have done that regularly instead of accumulating thirty four years of stuff. But along with the stuff are the wonderful memories of raising our four children and welcoming our five grandchildren under that roof. We now get to see our youngest son and his fiancé write their own story in the house we built. The rest is just stuff and clutter and  in the end the story will be a victorious one of love and fortitude and those  stories are the best kind!

Still Weary and a Bit Weepy

 I am catching my breath this morning as I sit in gratitude and exhaustion. There is still much to do but much has been done. Lists and motivation seem too much to process today so I will allow some refreshing and rest instead. Yesterday I did my last sale and was pleased to meet return readers and new ones. I have edits coming for my spring book and look forward to January's return to the book I started while in the city. I will wait for it to take shape and find the words to fill the pages when the time is right. I feel overwhelmed with thoughts of Christmas but will give myself permission to let it be whatever is will be this year. Last night  the wind blew and the rain pelted down but today the sun is streaming through my office window. A good cry seems to be waiting as I approach Zac's 44th birthday tomorrow. Yesterday a woman walked by my table and casually mentioned The Year Mrs Montague Cried to her friend. " I taught Zachary White" she said. I let her keep walking. It is not for her to understand the loss I carry every day. The tears are coming now and maybe a good deluge will prevent them from coming later. I remember the first birthday I faced my friends  Marilyn, Alice and Alexandra brought me a cake. The woman at Sobeys had got the wording wrong and we laughed at her mistake. I think it said 'Happy Birthday That' instead of Happy Birthday Zac. Laughter tears, joy and sorrow, memory and  forgetting. Days turning to years and life going on. Dark days becoming light and pain accompanied by hope. Seasons changing and gifts surfacing when we least expect them. I will receive this day as the gift it is and do my best to truly appreciate it. My mind and heart will face tomorrow as well and I will claim happy birthday to that!

When Weary is Wonderful

November is upon us and we are already midway through. I have often proclaimed my love of this deary, chilly and dark month. I see it as a respite , a pause and a preparation month. The vibrant colors of October have vanished leaving naked deciduous trees , green softwoods and dull Tamarac with just a hint of color in our landscapes. Debate swirls over when to turn on Christmas lights, when to put up Christmas tress and when to decorate our homes and storefronts. That of course is a personal choice. Today's entry title came to me as I brought up my new post page. I am indeed weary . Since the end of March we have been caught up in the huge undertaking of passing the torch, downsizing, moving on to our next stage, selling our home to our son and his fiancé and  establishing a new home up the road. It has indeed been a huge task but we are almost done with the main part of it. My journal pages hold the details of each challenge, each hurtle and each victory. The saying" If  only I knew then what I know now..." comes to mind. This journey has not been for the weak or faint of heart. Patience has been tried and  tested  but on all counts I think we have done our best to be positive, kind and hopeful. On this quiet November day I sit with my weariness and take the gifts it offers. Things will ramp up in a few days and the next frenzied lap of this marathon will begin. I am so anxious to settle in to our new home and make it our own. I am also anxious to watch Caleb and Jenna make the house we are leaving, their very own. This will unfold as it will, in time to  celebrate Christmas which will be the icing on the cake. We knew this transition would not be an easy or painless one but oh the blessings it has delivered along the way. This has been a November and a season in our lives that we will remember and treasure. My weary heart, muddled mind and tired body rejoices in the recovery, rest and renewal we have been blessed with. Let the Christmas lights sparkle!

We Travel in Time

 One of my all time favorite movies is About Time.

I have watched it many times and expect to watch it many more times. It has a richness and depth that speaks to me every time I view it. I cry at the same scenes over and over and sometimes I watch it just to do that. It is a delightful ,quirky little movie about time travel and has multiple layers which is why I never tire of loosing myself in it. I love the dad, the mom, the wild little sister, the odd uncle, the love story, the heartbreak and the deep connections it celebrates. We travel in time every day as we like the characters in this movie go back and forth to the times that have shaped us. Each time I watch the father and little boy skipping stones and walking hand in hand back up the hill I remember all those magical moments I had with my kids. I cry and smile at the same time. I try to live one day at a time and stay grounded and grateful for the here and now but my mind and heart go back in time  and leap ahead just as often. The main message of this beautiful little movie is to appreciate it all. I will soon move out of this house we built and have lived in for almost thirty five years. So many memories, so many changes but here we are on this day. We look ahead with hope but can not alter the course of either the past or the future. We must just live it. Twenty three and a half years ago I placed a photograph of Zac that was taken in the pantry on one of the pantry cupboards vowing to never remove it. Now I am removing myself from the pantry and Caleb and Jenna will eventually renovate and remove the cupboard. I am fine with that and with whatever choices they make. Zac goes with me to our new home  even though he will have never stood in the spots we will stand. I can always return to moments when he was with us. That is the beauty of time travel. Perhaps this photograph will be the one Caleb will find a place for in his new kitchen. Either way his big brother held him while stirring  oatmeal and making him breakfast. And those are the times that matter!

I Need a Pep Talk

 Today's blog entry is just for me! Feeling overwhelmed this morning  a memory popped into my head. I am standing in a woodworking shop in Nashwaaksis  holding my nine month old baby waiting to talk to John Brewer about renting his empty farmhouse in Burtt's Corner. I have spent the morning combing the countryside in my father's truck with my easy going Zachary in the car seat, looking for a house to rent. The criteria  of the search has two conditions; we need to be able  burn wood and it has to have a barn for our ten cows. Amid the loud drone of saws and machinery I ask Mr. Brewer if I can rent his house explaining my mission. He is resistant having had bad tenants in the past. I plead and  Zac lays on his charms  until he finally gives in, but says the barn is not safe to use. I can bring in a wood stove though so I agree to rent it. He says $125 a month. I get him down to $100. A week later we use Dad's truck to move in to a house a half an hour away from St. Thomas University where I will  earn my Bachelor of Education. It is Friday and I still have no vehicle  and I start school on Monday. Burton arrives with the  brand new truck he sold the ten cows to buy. I have the weekend to learn how to drive a standard and have no babysitter. My friend Giselle agrees to keep Zac until I find someone and I proceed to learn how to shift gears without stalling. Fast forward to today. I can do this next thing! We can do this next thing!

Happy Book Anniversary!

 Copies of the 10th Anniversary Edition of The Year Mrs. Montague Cried arrived today. My debut novel is seeing a second life, a re-issuing, an anniversary edition. How amazing is that! I think back to the moments in a quiet classroom while my grade four students were busy writing a provincial assessment, when there wasn't  much required of their  teacher except to be present, when I jotted down the seeds of an idea that had been simmering since the first nights of sleeplessness after my son's death the year before . I remember sitting in the quiet stillness of the night after tumultuous days of grieving and preparing for my oldest son's funeral; an act too unimaginable to truly process but unavoidable. My husband and our other three kids slept while I filled page after page attempting to make some sense of the  nightmare we were living through. I knew in those moments a book honoring Zac would someday surface.  So on that day a year later  in that  testing silence I scribbled the framework of how that book would take shape. I knew the title early on and I knew the ending but at that point I knew very little. The most important thing I knew was that I needed to write it. I made a plan which was attainable but not immediate. I would apply for a 4/5 deferred leave and on the fifth year I would write The Year Mrs. Montague Cried. From that first jotting until the moment I held a copy of the book in my hand  there are  more stories than this one blog entry can hold but I remember the journey in detail. It was a journey toward publication of course but more than that it was a journey toward finding a way to live with the ever present sorrow of burying  my first born child. Tonight I celebrate the 10th anniversary of the publication of my first book ( a year late), I acknowledge  twenty-three and a half years of living without Zac, twenty-two and a half years since getting the idea  for the book to honor my son,  sixteen years since taking the year off to write it,  twelve years since the manuscript  won first place in the Atlantic Writing Competition, eleven  years since  Acorn Press published it, ten years since it won the Ann Connor Brimer Excellence in Children's Literature Award. This little debut novel  has now been returned to stores and bookshelves and to reader's hands. I can again offer it up with the eleven books I wrote and saw published after making sure I told the story I needed to tell first.  Happy Book Anniversary !

All Good Things...God Save the King

 ...must come to an end. We know the truth of that saying but that doesn't make it any easier. Endings, changes, saying goodbye and letting go are all hard. This morning I tried to take in every minute, every sound, the slant of the sun , the breathing of our old dog, every breath I took and the feel of the September breeze during what is likely to be my last veranda morning time. I have always been sentimental over last time experiences. As a child I would stand in my classroom on the last day of school and mourn the passing of another year. I always approach  my last lake swim with ceremony and reverence. I tear up thinking of the last time I saw my oldest son alive, the last time I sat by my  mother and father's bedsides, the last time I visited my dear friend Paul. Life is full of last times. News coverage yesterday showed the Queen in her feeble, fragile state extending her hand to the new Prime Minister for the last time. I have no words of wisdom or comfort to offer except this; Enjoy each moment as if it were the last. I did that this morning and now I move on to the rest of my day anticipating my last lake swim later this afternoon. 

 

Labour Day

 All good works...The fruits of our labor. If you love what you do it won't feel like work. I am searching my mind for wisdom about work. All in a day's work. A woman's work is never done. Labour  day used to be such a big day for me. It was the last day of summer, the day before returning to a busy frantic September school schedule at work and at home. The day feels nothing like it used to but still holds the exhilaration of change, of possibility, of challenge and adventure along with the sadness of loosing the freedom and scope of summer. The air is crisper, the sky clearer and the breeze cooler. The day heralds the fall even though the calendar still professes summer. This labour day is different yet again. The house I find myself in is no longer mine. I am making the slow transition toward a new home. We will treasure the days of July and August and the days of September and October still ahead before the big move. What a gift they have been to this recovering soul . A new season of life, new chapters written in the ongoing story two kids began writing forty five years ago. The fruits of our labor are many, the lessons, challenges , joys and sorrows bountiful and rich. Harvest after planting and nurturing, dreams and disappointments. Our labour is not done and for that I am truly thankful. Our tasks change and our pace slows. We place our regrets aside and find confidence  and hope in a new vision. 

In The Thick of IT

 I just read back  an entry in which I was reflecting on the relaxing days of July and then went on to read about the challenge of facing August. Right on schedule I would say but in a mess never the less. This purging is hard. It is laborious, time consuming and fraught with emotional snares. I expected this but like some other challenges we expect, while in the thick of it, it feels overwhelming. I am trying my best to keep the end game in mind. I visualize my smaller space every day and attempt to take each task separately trying hard not to let the magnitude of it weigh me down. I spent a whole day just culling pictures , birthday, sympathy, retirement cards, my kids report cards, etc. At the same time I've emptied kitchen cupboards filling the kitchen table with excess glasses, mugs and dishes. I am packing boxes and shoving them in corners out of the way. The chaos and disarray is a mix of us moving out and Caleb and Jenna moving in. It is a transition and those are not easy. Last night as I was running out of steam I got caught up on what might seem like a simple decision to some, but a loaded one to me. Two papier mache rodents. Two dusty, crumbling well worn fixtures which have been a part of my office décor since giving up my classroom and becoming a full time author. A book project from many years ago brought proudly to school by an artistic little girl . She and her mom had crafted  a rat and a shrew(if I remember correctly) to depict characters from the book Mrs. Frisby and the Rats of NIMH . I could not just toss them in the garbage bag without some thought, some ceremony, some tears and reflection. They are still sitting waiting for my final declaration and I will let them go but not without some struggle. I am thankful that each glass, mug, and slip of paper does not hold as much emotion or require such attention. I must remind myself I am doing OK . I am moving forward. The transition will happen. In sharing this struggle last night I received lots of great advice. I will take it but in the end this process is mine to get through. So what if I get hung up a bit  in letting go of two faded rodents with missing eyes and brittle parts.

Double Digits Of August

 Twelve years ago yesterday I got a call from the president of the Writer's Federation of Nova Scotia to inform me of the results of my efforts  entering the  Young Adult category of  what was then called the Atlantic Writing Competition. I remember the date distinctly because minutes before answering the phone I had realized it was now the double digits of August and for the second time in thirty one years I wasn't concerning myself with the waning of summer days as I got myself geared up to go back to the classroom. I was retired and now a full time author ready to start my third book when the teachers went back in a couple of weeks. Upon reflecting on the date I also thought of what I'd been told when entering the Atlantic Writing Competition nine months ago. Winners would be announced in mid August. As I filled waterers and feeders for the chickens I thought of how I would be hearing about the results soon. I had spent a lot of my swimming time in July filling up on positive self talk and convincing myself that the book I'd taken a year off to write three years before would place somewhere in the top. I believed in the power of the book I'd written and the truth of the story it told. What joyous news to hear The Year Mrs. Montague Cried had won first place and the added comment that it had been a unanimous decision by the judges. I hadn't been wrong about the impact of Taylor's account of her year in grade Four with her teacher who was dealing with the profound grief of loosing her oldest son. My eyes tear up as I recall that year and all the years that have followed. And here I am  twelve years later waiting for copies of the tenth anniversary edition to be printed and for the story to be sent back out into the world. Through the open window I hear noises of an excavator beginning a driveway and the ground preparation for our new home. I spent the morning  tackling  another room of the house we built and raised our four children in which now belongs to Caleb and Jenna. I anticipate a writing retreat in Scotland and a much needed trip with my husband and many dear friends. Challenges, new beginnings, new adventures, change , growth and connection. This August is different than the one before and different than next  August will be but it holds promise and excitement and for this I am so grateful. I welcome the gifts the double digits of August bring.

My inventory of  my other eleven books as I wait for my first one to be re-released.

When August Comes

 It is an absolutely gorgeous morning. July has passed and I am truly grateful for each day it held and all the gifts it offered. Part of me wishes a finger could be snapped to bring everything in to place instantly but that is not the reality of any of this. This huge change is a process of acceptance and adaptation. July provided sunshine , lots of lake swims, head and heart preparation and time to absorb the blessings this home has given us over the years. I returned from a year in the city and have loved every day of being back  by stepping back and just taking in the beauty of each day. I have sat on the front veranda every morning and the back veranda later in the day soaking up the sights and sounds. The green hills, blue sky, cows, pigs, chickens , our beloved Disco, birdsong, and conversation. What a contrast from my solitary summer in the city last year. I had envisioned a more productive July filled with purging and disposing of years of living in this house but instead found myself just relaxing and reflecting. I know all the practical stuff will get done but I needed July to be exactly what it turned out to be. So now on to August. As a teacher August always meant getting ready to go back to school. Even though technically you were still on summer holidays your head was thinking school and there were things to attend to to make that transition. That is how this first day of August feels to me. We hope to ramp up the work of preparing the ground so that in October our new home can be delivered. The sale of the house is almost over the finish line and soon tackling the huge job of removing our belongings will happen. Caleb and Jenna will slowly make this house their home and we will move up the road. Patience, faith, determination, stamina, generosity, acceptance, courage, humor, communication and perseverance  are required as we face the days and weeks ahead. I look behind and see how far we have come and have confidence we can keep moving forward. Life comes in stages and increments and each brings challenges, doubts  and confusion. But beyond that each brings such joys and blessings. I am ready for August!

What This Day Gave Me

 The sun is setting. The cross breeze I feel through the two open windows has only a slight coolness but thankfully this is the least stifling room upstairs. After my evening swim I sat awhile on the front veranda and reflected on this day. It was a hot one. Many places are dealing with heat waves and our temperatures are high as well. I am so thankful for my lake and after a long hot day jumping in felt amazing. It was market day and despite my early morning reluctance to leave my bed I was blessed yet again with both return readers and new ones. I saw a woman approach my table and knew she looked familiar . This often happens and I quickly search my mind  for a name or memory of a previous interaction. When this lady spoke I knew the connection right away. Her Irish accent and the name she spoke took me right back to another day  years ago when I met her friend Georgie who was visiting from Ireland. I don't exactly remember which book Georgie bought but I remember I took one or two more to the Kingston store and met her a few days later as she was returning to Ireland and wanted more books. Several times since her friend has come and bought her my latest and sent them over to her. How amazing is that! I had one woman come up to my table today with all my books listed and the years they were published looking for two she was missing. I stood and caught up with several friends one of which was visiting Saint John for her 51st High School reunion. She found her way to the market to see me and get some books. We talked a long time but it did not feel long enough. I stood and talked to another dear friend about the huge task she has ahead of her as she prepares for her son's wedding. We too needed more chatting time. While talking I glimpsed a woman  I knew I should know , nodded hello and then spent the next while racking my brain to recall who she was and how I knew her. Overstimulated I call it and sometimes I feel like my brain freezes up. It can be somewhat exhausting especially in the heat. I do apologize to the people I forget or the mistakes I make in my muddled brain. Then instead of heading home to the lake and an afternoon nap Burton and I went with friends on a bit of a road trip to celebrate the life of a dear friend with her husband , her son and daughter, their partners and  Cindy and Terry's two beautiful granddaughters. Cindy lost her life a year ago March  and in this  Covid altered world we had never gathered with the loved ones she left behind. What a blessing it was to do that today. What a blessing and what a reminder of what really matters in this life. Take each day, show up and love the life you are blessed to be living. Love your people and give back the best you can. Jump in the lake and gaze at the open sky. Be thankful for the gifts of each day and close the day with a joyful heart even if tears are streaming down your cheeks. 

Time, Seasons , Passages

Time, seasons, passages. I have just come from a beautiful hilltop garden overlooking the river. A Flower service they call it and it takes me back to my childhood when we gathered in Grey's Mills. Tiny Daisy Parks and her tall husband Joe would arrive as would many others for the annual service to remember those who had gone before. As a child I did not grasp the depth of the day or the scope of the emotion and reverence. I thought Daisy and Joe to be ancient and I was a bit puzzled by whole concept of the Flower Service. I saw tears , heard laughter and stories and felt connection while at the same time feeling puzzled and bothered by having to spend a summer's afternoon at church. Why was this such a big deal to everyone? Time , seasons, passages. The familiar words of Ecclesiastes read this morning  resonated deeply as did the words of Kate's message. I was exactly where God meant for me to be and my soul received comfort.  I feel overwhelmed by it all but feel a deep peace, awe and reverence. I took myself to today's flower service and was gifted an hour in a stunningly beautiful place , the vast sky above me , words and music and beating hearts gathered near granite headstones and the wide ribbon of dark blue water in the distance. I gazed at the white steeple and looked around at my contemporaries, my elders,  children and teens and felt connection and belonging. I got in line to take a blossom from the bucket to place in the Bouquet of Remembrance. I silently spoke the names on my mother , my father , my oldest son and whispered the names  Devin and Dylan. I remembered and gave witness to those who have gone on before and to my own mortality. I sat and broke bread , laughed , told stories and  recalled what I witnessed  when Daisy and Joe and many others gathered together on those July days of my childhood. Time , Seasons , Passages, and our place in it all. I do believe I understand it better now.

This is The Day

 It is a gorgeous July day. The sky a vibrant blue , the clouds fluffy white , the air warm with a perfect breeze. I am where I am on this beautiful day and for that I am grateful. Be in this day I remind myself, be present and allow the gifts of this one day to be enough. That is the philosophy I am attempting to embrace. In the recovery of my last year I have finally taken to heart truths I had been aware of and possibly even gave lip service too but never fully implemented. Many times a day I find myself reminding my brain to focus on this day only. The past I can not change, the future I can not control. It is this present day and my choice as to how I receive it that is all I have right now. Worry and guilt have been my constant companions and I am working hard to shed them both. In packing up my small space on Princess St and returning to the farm I have left many boxes unopened looking ahead to another move down the road (literally and figuratively)One of the boxes contains my journals and I have had to work through a bit of separation anxiety from them. I so often on a date spend time opening past journals and reading the entry from other years. A couple of times I have been tempted to search through the mess of packed boxes and containers I have stored in the bunkbed room so that I could have easy access to my many journals. I have stopped myself and this morning as I considered the topic of my blog entry it occurred to me that keeping them out of reach is a good exercise for staying in the present day. At this stage in my life there is a lot of water under the bridge. Seasons have come and gone with so many changes and adaptations. I am not opposed to looking back but sometimes the weight of it seems too much to carry into the present day. A lighter load seems better at this stage and while I treasure the past and anticipate the future, it is this day I celebrate. Now for a swim in my beautiful lake!

Country Ditches and City Sidewalks

 The lupine; a vibrant flower welcoming summer in its bountiful waving splendor, an invasive plant with a bad rep. This purple or pink blossom is both. The lupine fills the country ditches, gets invited into flower beds and pops up along city sidewalks. Today I look out my ground level window and the purple blossoms speak to me. 

They wave to me beside the concrete column  as if to say, 'You made it'. I moved in to this city space almost a year ago with the intention to see the four seasons as I worked to refresh and recover. These purple blossoms with their strong stems and green leaves have done the same. They had their blossoms fade and fall, had their green turn brown and become weighed down by frost and snow cover. They poked up in early spring and reached toward the sun. They now flutter in the warm breezes and add color to their surroundings. I will leave this city space and return to the plethora of lupines in the country ditches and will even see some that have survived chickens, pigs and cows in  the garden I once called Zac's garden because he had built a rail fence behind the newly dug ground in which I planted my first flower garden ( post sheep on the farm) Oh so many days and seasons have passed since that act of hope but hope and vision remain and  that fills my heart with gratitude this morning.  The Lupine, maybe a weed, a nuisance, an unwanted plant but a blur of beauty this morning and a reminder to be the best we can be ,wherever we find ourselves. 

Thank-you Grade Four

 A community circle their teacher calls it and I certainly felt like I was welcomed warmly into the community of Mrs. Johnston's Grade Four class at Sussex Elementary School this morning. I quickly tried to put their names to memory and before it fades I will go around the circle and name each student. My apologies if I get any spellings wrong , mix any kids up or leave anyone out. Rayah, Cam T, Travis, Owen, Rhys, Brianna, Dakota, Dominick, Yanna, Paige, Tyler, Maddie, Jacob, Jack, Jaden, Levi, Jade, Cam F, Tessa, Alexis, Rayan. Gabby and Ava  were absent but their friends made sure I signed bookmarks for them. The class read The Year Mrs. Montague Cried and invited me in for a visit so they could ask me some questions. Jacob and Travis met me at the office and escorted me upstairs to their classroom. The kids were waiting in their circle and gave me their undivided attention. My teacher mode quickly accompanied my author mode. My first task was to learn their names. Then the questions began. The students had worked on preparing them and the teacher had chosen the best ones. The kids with questions waited their turn to ask them and I did my best to answer. I can be a bit wordy at times but I tried to stay on track. Then I read them one of my favorite journal entries in the book. 

On my way to Sussex I thought of an observation challenge which would earn the observant student a free book of their choosing. I will not say what they had to notice so I can use it again but I was so pleased when Rayan made the observation. She was given the choice of Ten Thousand Truths, The Sewing Basket or a copy of The Year Mrs. Montague Cried. She chose The Year Mrs. Montague Cried. In response to Brianna's question; so I could enjoy the best of both on June 9th , 2022 in Mrs. Johnston's Grade Four class. Thank you!

I Was There!

 I expect the next few weeks and probably months to be emotional and lots of tears will be shed. Actually I might cry all the way through the writing of this entry. But whatever ! I am no stranger to crying and firmly believe letting the tears flow is a good thing. I was in Fredericton on the weekend and drove by 619 Regent St. several times. Now the truth of it is, I didn't actually drive by 619 Regent St, because it is no longer there. The house, the driveway, the shed and the playground across the street are no longer there. Not a trace that I could see but for me I see it all and I see the little girl who lived there. As kids every time we went to Moncton, Mom would tell us when we were driving by her old school. It was an empty field and we used to laugh and tease her. I so get it now. Places of my past are not there anymore and even if they are, they are no longer my places. I drive by my old school and it is no longer my school. The Mrs. White within its walls is not me. The Grade Four teacher is not me. Soon the person within these thick walls of brick and pine wainscotting, below the ground, with windows looking out to the sidewalks of Princess and Sydney Streets, will not be me. I am attempting to concentrate on the days I  have left in this small, sweet space. I am ready to leave and not one bit ready at the same time. I signed a year's lease with a very deliberate goal in mind and I am so grateful that all that has taken place exceeds my greatest expectations. This year on Princess St flew by . I wanted each season to firmly encase my healing and recovery. I wanted simplicity, solitude and sanctuary to give me the rest and respite I needed so badly when I drove down my driveway last June. This beautiful small space gave me all that in abundance. I had lonely times, lots  of doubt , guilt ridden thoughts and struggle. I had nights of troubling dreams and shaking sobs. I finished a book here and started another. I watched the leaves turn and fall from the trees. I saw the snowbanks pile up to almost cover my windows. I heard the night traffic and it's stillness. I woke to the morning bustle of  school buses. I saw sunrises and sunsets from my vantage point looking down Princess St. toward the harbor. This is a year I'll not soon forget. I was a 65 year old woman running away to the city and I felt like the seventeen year old girl who once did the same. I will pack my things. Caleb, Cody and Jenna will come and move me out just as they moved me in. I will leave and say goodbye to this place but I will take it with me. I will someday drive by and see my ground level turquoise windows and say to myself or to whoever is with me, "I lived there." I lived here for a year, a wonderful gift of a year. I will leave a part of me in this space and because of my time here I will return more whole, more complete and more prepared for the next place.

Open For Business

The title of today's entry means two things to me. I will begin with a quote I put at the front of my first book The Year Mrs. Montague Cried. "Teaching is a daily exercise in vulnerability" Parker Palmer. Yesterday I returned to the classroom; four classrooms actually and at least three of them were former classrooms I'd inhabited for a year or more during my 29 year teaching career. After thirteen years of retirement it felt in some ways as if I'd never left and in other ways like I'd never been there. I returned as an author for the first in person author visit I'd done since February 2020. I was concerned I'd forgotten how to do it. I hadn't forgotten. I began my day with Mrs. Thorpe's Grade Four class. That was delightful on many levels. My grandson Skyler greeted me with a big hug and a wide smile. I knew several kids and  realized I taught several of their parents. Mrs. Thorpe herself was once a student of mine and she did her student teaching with me. The kids were engaged and generous . They had excellent questions and I enjoyed my short visit with them. Next I went to the Grade 7/8 class; a tougher crowd but overall attentive and courteous. Another grandchild greeted me there but not with as   much obvious enthusiasm. Grade seven is a whole different ballgame. Next I had lunch in the staff room and it felt like old times. Some of the staff I left behind are still here but many of the people around the tables I did not know. The atmosphere felt exactly the same and I felt the  demands I  remember  so well. I must applaud these people as they have endured two very difficult and demanding years and still show up every day for their students. I was not sure I had the stamina to do the afternoon but rallied and made my way to the 6/7 class. They were great. They have begun reading Skyward and they had lots of thoughtful questions. I finished the day with a short visit to the Grade Five class and again had the pleasure of another grandchild . She had hugged me in the hall  earlier  so she tried to blend in and not draw too much attention to herself. I am very tired today and again am reminded just how taxing teaching is and how I was smart to leave when I did. But as an author and especially in my home school greeted by friends, grand kids and familiar faces yesterday's visit was everything a successful author visit should be. I  am grateful for the opportunity and the privilege to share my work and my love of  story. Thank you MCS!

Now to the second meaning. The hardest  or the most draining  part of my author visits is the opening up I do. I tell a personal story of love and loss and it is never easy. I am open and honest and hopefully show my true self. It is the only way I know how to be but it takes a lot out of me. I spend lots of time talking about the process of writing , the challenges of getting published and all the other  aspects of being a writer. But interspersed I hope are aspects of being human and living life to the best of my ability. I am always rewarded when I open up. Kids are  struggling with the same challenges we are and I have always found them to be caring , sensitive and honest in their responses. In my opinion if we are not open to being exactly who we are there is no point showing up. As the school year winds down I have one more school visit and will meet with a grade four class who have been reading The Year Mrs. Montague Cried. I look forward to everything that will bring. Maybe next year I will find the time and energy to book a few more school visits and I will again make the effort to be 'open for business'.

Words are Not Enough

 How can I write about this? How can I not write about this? As a mother, a grandmother, a retired Grade 4 teacher, as a mother who has lost a child and as a human being I am shaken to the core. We all are. The very depth of this evil horrific thing is too much for anyone to grasp. Eva,Xavier,Jose,Irma,Nevaeh,Ellie,Tess,Lexi,Jacklyn,Jailah,Jayce,Miranda,Amerie,Makenna,Layla,Maite,Annabell,Eliahana,Rojelio,Alithia,Uziyah.

We will remember them for a few days. Their loss will be referred to and calculated in the terrible statistics surrounding school shootings. Words of  sadness , condolence, regrets, anger , blame and dismissal will be uttered. But for the loved ones and those left behind with the deep wounds of  May 24th, 2022 words will never be enough .

When a House is a Home

 Today I feel led to give tribute to a house that was built  on a hill, on a dirt road by two young people who had no idea what they were doing. The couple walked up the long driveway past an old foundation of a house that had burned down many years before on property the young man's father had gifted him, believing his young son was a farmer at heart. A few years before the two  had dreamed of a life together while on the property, which is another story for another day but a memory that still makes them laugh. Their first  undertaking settling  on that land was to build a small shed with a loft and  move in with their two year old son while the man traveled a lot with the military and the woman began her first teaching job. The little shed had very little in the way of amenities but they moved in with as much excitement as some would into a mansion. They bought sheep and began a farm with faulty fences and half finished outbuildings. The woman became great with their second child and still climbed the ladder to the loft believing a second child would fit into this small space and she would be fine with no running water. A story of an unfinished  macrame crib designed to hang over the older brothers' corner bed is a good one too. A mobile home was bought while the husband was away and the four settled into that, welcoming a third child three years later. The big house was always the dream and one evening the woman saw a piece on the CBC news about a cordwood house and the seed was sown. This was definitely a case of not having a clue what they were doing but they did it anyway. Hole dug one year, footing the next, foundation the next  and cordwood walls constructed laboriously  one full way round at a time,  beginning on July first and laying the last run on November 17th. The next year the top floor and roof were put on and they moved in on December 15th with very little of the interior finished. I am tearing up now as I remember them  standing with  their  three kids in front of  the  Christmas tree with the bare cordwood walls still showing, holding a cake celebrating their house-warming. The house was not that warm the first winter! Eventually the walls were  covered with drywall, crack-filled and painted, flooring and finishing touches were added. A couple of years later  they welcomed their fourth child and improvements were made as they could afford them. Lots of changes, improvements and living  have brought the house on the hill to where it is today. This house has always been a home, as the small shed had been and the mobile home was. For that man and woman the property they walked and dreamed of building a home and a family on has been the only place they have known.  But a next  chapter is being written for this couple. The home they lovingly built  will welcome the next  generation , a new farmer and  the woman he loves and  shares  his vision.  A new family will reside in it's thick, strong walls and the former couple will take their dreams across the road, follow a  new vision and make a new structure into a home. I am really tearing up now , but I am filled with pride, hope , joy and excitement. 

And You Call Yourself a Blogger?

 I call myself many things and others call me lots of things as well. I will start with my list; wife, mother , grandmother, sister, niece, sister in law, friend, author for a few. Burton calls me Mrs. White. My kids call me Mom. Two of my grandkids call me Monkey and three of them call me Grammie. I am called Sue more than Susan. "And you call yourself a blogger" my daughter said today when she asked if I was going to write a blog  this afternoon. Earlier she told me I looked old so maybe I look as tired as I feel today. I just sat down at my desk and made a list of the tasks I hope to tackle. I put blog on the top of the list. Why? Not because I call myself a blogger or because my blog coach told me to. I am writing this entry to process and evaluate who I am on this day and why I do what I do. I could nap instead. Today I held my twelfth book in my hands. Being able to do so does not come without a lot of hard work and concentration. I love being an author and I am thrilled to hold another book but the effort and success of doing

so is just a small part of everything else I do at this stage in my life. It used to be teaching that took up so much energy and space in my every days. I used to juggle raising four kids , keeping a house and farm, maintaining a marriage and friendships, being a daughter to aging parents and so on and so on. Today I had planned on driving to Moncton to see my dear Aunt Ruth but a mis-communication changed my plans. Perhaps things happen for a reason as I believe they often do. Maybe I will have more reserves and be better prepared the next time and I will get to sit and visit with my beloved namesake aunt. I do not call myself a blogger but I call myself a pretty darn resourceful, caring and  resilient woman. An old woman perhaps but I venture to say I pretty tough old cookie never the less. Call me whatever you like but I will keep showing up and doing my best for the people I love. I will also keep counting my blessings, take my rest when I can get it and sometimes I'll even blog about it.

Charging my Battery

 I have been busy and as my blog coach( my daughter) has repeatedly  told  me I have not blogged for awhile. Truth is I have not written many new words in the last couple of weeks either. I do however feel confident that I will return to my work in progress and  the current characters I've imagined in to being will wait  for me to tell their stories. That is the fun part. I have spent time working on the last minute details of the cover and interior of Jasper's Road and I believe it will go to print very soon. I am looking forward to holding the third book in my Walton Lake series in my hands and offering it up to readers . I return to the Kingston Farmer's market on May 7th and am excited to be with my fellow vendors again and to meet new and loyal readers. I hope to be able to have Jasper's Road on the table by June. The anticipation of that does charge my battery. Spending time with friends and family does too and I have enjoyed both in the last while. The 82 Moms had a two night Road Trip  and it was wonderful. We talked , laughed, walked , played games and ate. We ate a lot making up for the  two years  we didn't meet monthly.  We pretty much brought two years of food to one trip and did our best to savor it all. Coming back afterwards to where I'd left my vehicle I found that my battery was dead.  My Rav has been very dependable and I did not like the feeling of not being able to just jump in and drive away. I was given a boost and on Monday was able to get it to the dealer and get a new battery put in which was an easy fix and not deserving of  all the fretting  and worrying  I did over it. Afterwards I gave myself a firm talking to and maybe little by little I am learning to not get so bothered by such things. My battery needs full charge to take on the months ahead that are presenting huge changes. One day at a time and one foot in front of the other. As I look ahead I look back as well and feel such gratitude for where I find myself.  I am not exactly sure what lies around the bend but I know the sun will rise and shine and set and I will be given the  energy and strength I need.

What April Is

It is a beautiful April day. The sun is shining and I feel optimism and hope. Today I am filled with contentment , happiness and gratitude. I look to the future with confidence as exciting changes and plans are being  thought through and worked out offering vison and hope for us all. April is often that kind of month despite it being the life changing month it was for our family twenty three years ago. It is with so much gratitude I face another April and look forward to the blessings ahead. There has been nothing easy about the road we've been on but on it we still are. Final details are being attended to before my twelfth book as well as the tenth anniversary edition of my first one goes to print. Burton and I approach our 45th wedding anniversary stronger and wiser and more determined to keep carrying on as best we can with all we've been given. My heart swells with joy as it resides beside the sorrow. As one early review said of the Year Mrs. Montague Cried , despite the sorrow there is indeed a bright yellow sun behind the clouds.

My Oxygen Mask

 Who forgets to breathe? No-one. We live so therefore, we breathe. The breath of life is something we take for granted unless of course something impedes our breathing. We think about our breathing the most if for some reason we are having trouble breathing. My chain of thought this morning is about breathing, self care and making choices to help us breathe better.  Put your own oxygen mask on first comes to mind. I have often thought of that saying and use it when talking about my self care. I realized yesterday that my 'Everyone's Ok' has taken a bit of a back seat to the mantra ' I'm OK ' lately. Is that selfish? Not  if you follow the oxygen mask instruction. The  key to truly benefiting from putting your own oxygen mask on first is leaving it on long enough for it to do any good.
I intend to do just that. I will of course continue to care about my people and my work but my goal is to put my needs first. Radical and life changing but something we all should do so that we are well enough to be there for those who need us to be. Tomorrow my granddaughter turns thirteen. How quickly she has grown into a young woman. She has so much to learn and so much to discover. I hope in all that discovery she keeps her  own well being at the forefront. 

Spring is Upon Us

 I feel the tug of Spring. Ice flows in the river, depleting snowbanks, muddy driveways and yards, longer days and warm rays of sunshine are but a few. We look behind and ahead. Memories of deep snow and bitter cold make way for thoughts of crocuses and forsythia blossoms. Again I will launch a new book and I look forward to returning to the Farmer's market on Saturdays. And here it is Monday again and I have a day and week ahead of me that holds promise and potential. I have time to write new words and do not take that for granted. So I will get to work on this first day of Spring. 

A Monday in March

 I am happy to be sitting at my desk on another Monday in March. We are all mindful of the two year mark and recalling what came in March 2020. Two years have flown by one day, one Covid challenge at a time and here we are. Do we know any more than we did on the days we knew nothing? Today mask mandates and gathering restrictions are lifted.  Vaccination passports  have been done away with and daily case number announcements  have ceased. Many of us have had positive tests and experienced symptoms and isolation. Serious world events and human suffering have taken the forefront of our attention. We certainly know no better in that regard either. Two world wars and many regional wars  have  done nothing to prevent the same forces of greed and power mongering  that have existed since time began. The burden of it all seems too heavy for any of us to carry.  Constant newsfeed and social media manipulation bombard us and we juggle it all with our own personal challenges and heartaches. We trust and distrust at the same time. We feel hope and complete desperation simultaneously. We are weak and strong, laughing and crying , forgiving and angry, compassionate and vengeful , up and down, exhausted and refreshed, clear and confused and only human. We are where we are  in this moment of history. Ours is no more challenging than what our parents and grandparents faced before us  and what our children and grandchildren will endure. We have this day and only the tools available to us  as we know them today. The tools of love , gratitude, resilience,  and courage are ours. What more can we ask for?

On These Dark Days

 And suddenly mask mandates, trucker convoys and vaccine passports seem so trivial against the backdrop of Russian invasion and a country under attack. In these dark days of winter our attention has shifted to the terrifying reality of suffering and violence being perpetrated on the sovereign nation of  Ukraine.  For weeks  the news was filled with accounts of the siege on Ottawa, cries for freedom and swelling opposition to government over reach. The Russian invasion is what real government over reach looks like and it is truly worth our outrage and protest. I sit in the comfort of my home and feel the threat of it.  I have no words for this attack. I just know in the core of my soul how barbaric and heartless it all is.

Walking Against the Wind

 I just returned from a brisk ,windy walk. I have been in  my small city space for almost eight months. I came with the deliberate intention of staying for all four seasons. I came  to find  rest, recovery and healing . I walked these city blocks in the summer heat, the autumn coolness and color, the Christmas lights and wonder and now the winter snow and wind. Today a strong wind accompanied warmer temperatures. Ice, dirty snow and running streams of water made the path underfoot. On  part of the walk the wind was at my back pushing me along, not forcefully but enough to make me aware of its presence. I walked back through King Square behind a group of boys; young men, bursting with youthful energy. I kept up for a few steps before their sure and steady gait put them far ahead. I looked around and not another soul was in the square, A few pigeons peppered the bare sidewalks . The grassy areas were covered in ice. It was a much different sight  than the square I'd seen  on other walks during other seasons. Quiet, reflective, waiting. Crossing the street  I noticed the gaggle of young men enter their high school and the teacher in me felt the tug of possibility each day offers when students and dedicated educators meet up.  Along the final block I felt the challenge of walking against the wind. I held a grocery bag and it seemed it was going to fly out of my grasp so I clutched it tighter. I put my attention and energy into the short walk and felt again the gift of being here.  Acknowledging  the gift of being here is what  really matters along this walk and through all the seasons of our lives. 

 

Be Where You Are

 I thought of using Love the One You're With for today's title but settled on Be Where You Are. Both titles fit with my thoughts today. In this pandemic worry filled sea (with many waves) I've finally been hit. A positive test reinforced what my body was already telling me. So here I am where I've worried about being since the first spiral of news, case counts and death tallies. Mark Twain said" I've had lots of worries in my life most of which have never happened." My husband and son often accuse me of going to the 'worst case scenario' and they could have a point. But here I am on this day in February feeling a bit under the weather, trying to rest and recover and trying my best to be truly content with where I am. Where I am  is a tangled , jumbled ball of string and I'm not going to attempt any unravelling. I am sick but I am well . I am alone but I am among  a loving circle of caring friends and family. I am perfectly fine being right where I am today and will hold on to that thought and truly love the one I'm with. Today I will turn away from negativity, fear and doubt and celebrate life instead. I will take the simple joys, the basic gifts of heat and nourishment and shelter, the pleasures of books and movies, and  communicating  through texting and telephone. Alone but not alone. I will take this forced isolation and sit at my keyboard and continue to craft the story of another novel and see where that takes me. I will make use of the precious gift of imagination using that imagination for good not to cause panic and despair. And thank you  Becky for the  early morning drop off of  milk , chips and a chocolate bar.

Where the Sidewalk Is

 After Saturday's storm the sidewalk in front of my small city space disappeared. Boot tracks pocked the deep snow and the snowbank at the corner had to be climbed over with great care. I had a young man offer me his hand the other day to assist me but I declined thinking myself still agile enough to make it over on my own. About an hour ago the sidewalk snow blower plow apparatus came by creating  it's flurry of snow and loud aggressive attack on the snow packed sidewalk. So we have a sidewalk again until the next storm. The snowbanks are now so high out my front windows I can't see the street or the first floor of the building across the street. This morning I read back my January journal entries for 2015 which was another heavy snowfall winter. I remember it well and recall the challenges that winter brought. But we got through it. I laid awake last night listening to the big trucks removing snow from the street. I wondered if our sidewalk would be cleaned during the night. I finally fell asleep and looking out first thing realized it was still plugged solid. Sitting with my morning coffee I saw some snow flying and heard the noise of the machine coming closer and knew this was the day this particular block would have it's sidewalk cleared. Not sure exactly what the wisdom this observation holds except to realize that each problem brings it's challenges, it's victories, it's lessons in patience and fortitude , it's time to be tackled and it's degree of success. Each problem has it's blessings too but sometimes we don't see those until long after the problem has been forgotten or we've moved on to fret about something else. I hope to get outside later and walk the cleared sidewalks of the city blocks around me. But right now I will get to work enjoying the pedestrian traffic  which can again walk by my window on the rediscovered sidewalk. 

More Chores, More Food

 Reviews are a funny thing. As authors we want them and we don't want them. We love the five star, lovely, generous ones but no matter how many of those we get the 1 star, critical ones shake our confidence a bit. I read one such review yesterday and it got me thinking. Why do we crave reviews? Why do we sometimes purposefully search them out as if we need a boost , a pat on the back, a 'way to go' type of  motivation for doing what we do. When I consider this I see it as more than just what author's do but see it as what we all do as human beings. We crave approval, validation and  encouragement and it is so nice when we receive it. But when the review isn't all good or even when it is  all bad the positive stuff  fades and we allow the negative to take over. Now I certainly know that none of us deserve accolades and approval for everything we do. I used to get frustrated with my mother when she would load on the compliments and I felt they weren't genuine or deserved. I would tell her she was just saying that because I was her daughter. The realistic fact is we all mess up, we have shortcomings. We are not perfect. So suck it up ,move on and keep trying to do the best you can. Back to the review I stumbled on that started this thread of thought. The review was for Ten Thousand Truths. Ten Thousand Truths is near and dear to my heart right now since I just spent the last two weeks with the characters while working on edits for Jasper's Road, a follow-up novel. The writer of the review said it was page after page of more chores and more food. In giving that more thought I decided I would take that as a compliment instead of a criticism. Amelia's whole approach to caring for kids was to give them purpose and belonging(chores) and to nurture them with love and caring (food) Now to say Ten Thousand Truths was just chores and food dismisses the depth of a moonlit night when staring at the vast array of stars  Rachel is overwhelmed with   a  memory of her  lost brother, a heartfelt account of a man impacted by his mother's murder, a trip across Canada by a reclusive woman who has not left home for thirty years, a reuniting of a daughter and her recovering father, an amazing woman who dedicated her life to caring for neglected and troubled kids, tea at the Empress Hotel. Now I could go on but what I'm getting to is I believe very strongly that a good story can contain the mundane everyday stuff of life with the sorrows, joys, triumphs and challenges thrown in. I don't think you need a buried treasure, a space  creature invasion, zombies or some other major drama to make a good story. Or make a well lived life for that matter. I think it is the day to day stuff , the human interaction, the effort and caring that matter. All this being said , bad reviews are very helpful. They make us pay closer attention and not rest on our laurels. They make us try harder. Today let's cling to the good reviews and be generous with our own reviews. Let's do our chores and prepare the meals lovingly and with deep purpose. Let's be thankful and kind!

Winter Worry

 Remember winter when it was fun. I love to snowshoe. I love watching the snow fall while sitting inside a warm house. I love watching my grandkids building snowmen ,sliding down hills or being forced to snowshoe. I love a winter  cook-out in the woods. I always loved the thrill of waking up to a snow day as a student, then as a teacher and a mother. I love the look of a winter landscape. What I really hate about winter is the worry. It seems when I was younger driving in the snow was not the stressor it is now. Burton was always undaunted by winter driving and would venture out in anything. I had my share of trudging though snow when the car was stuck at the end of the driveway. I remember being seven months pregnant wading through waste deep snow to reach the top of our driveway, then dragging a bale of hay over to our flock of sheep before getting inside out of the storm. Winter used to not frighten me. But these days a flake of snow is enough to keep me home and freezing rain a definite plan changer. And the ice that covers everything after snow turns to rain, is a nightmare. So these days winter makes me worry. I stay home myself and then proceed to worry about any of my people who are out and about. I start the inventory and wait for each to check in and tell me they've arrived safely. I know my worry changes nothing. I know that but it doesn't  keep me from doing it. I also know that my people must drive in the winter. They must go to work and do not have the luxury of staying home whenever winter weather occurs. But still I say 'text me when you get there'. One day , one winter storm at a time. Each safe trip a blessing and a step closer to spring. 

  

No Time to Blog

No time to blog but yet here I am. I have edits to get to and I do love that stage. I get to have a close look at my own work through someone else's eyes. I love working with my editor and have worked with her on seven books before this one. I trust her and value her input. I remember the editing process being quite daunting when I worked on The Year Mrs. Montague Cried which was my first published book. It was difficult at first to not take every observation or criticism personally. I know  now that it is a good editor that brings a book to life and makes the writing stand strong and ready for the reader. Actively participating in the editing makes me a better writer the next time and even though I am anxious to get back to my WIP I am happy to be giving my best efforts to Jasper's Road  right now. Life gives us daily lessons and some of those lessons take awhile to learn. On this winter day I am thankful for the lessons and the people in our lives that teach us , that shape us and make us better. Editing , revising to do better is the gift we have as long as our hearts beat and we draw breath. How wonderful is that!