hyacinthemillerbooks

Let Passion Be Your Plot Twist

Wed, 22 Apr 2026 18:00:25 GMT

Passion is defined as a powerful emotion or intense feeling about some one or some thing . It can be positive, like joy or romantic attraction or negative, like anger or avarice.

We often talk about passion as though it's a luxury, something to pursue once the practical business of living is settled. Or if someone is passionate about music or art, the environment or, yes, writing, that passion is somehow over the top or not quite proper. But passion has a way of refusing to wait politely in the corner. Plus, passionate people usually are interesting. Write passion into your stories with energy. Don't censor yourself or hold back - you're creating characters with a range of emotions, wants and needs. When you edit your work, make sure you've seasoned the story with elements of passion. That's what readers want to see on the page.

Stop for a moment and think about what kind of passion would make you sit up and pay attention. It might be a hobby you set aside years ago but still think about, or a person or project you wish you had not abandoned. Who was that special person who influenced how you see the world? Books that opened your mind in ways you could not have expected? A work of art that made you stop in the middle of a museum and catch your breath? A piece of music that brought you to tears?

Passion is all around us, if we simply take the time to stop and hear or see it. It doesn't have to be explosive or shocking, either. Let's be curious about the world around us. It's never too late to let passion be the plot twist in your life story, the unexpected turn that reframes everything that came before it.

For me, writing fiction has been exactly that — a thread I kept returning to, no matter how many other obligations filled my days. The first story I wrote was called Whiffy the Skunk. I remember reading it to my younger brothers, and how satisfying it was for my ten year old self to hear their laughter. When they asked for more stories with bigger adventures, I knew that I'd found my calling. I was a writer.

Creative possibilities don't announce themselves with fanfare. They appear quietly, as a pull toward something you can't quite stop thinking about. Pay attention to that pull. It knows where your story is going.

Stop Waiting to Be Ready

Fri, 17 Apr 2026 17:30:01 GMT

Every writer I know is waiting for something. The right moment. A longer stretch of time. The fully formed idea. The confidence that what they write will be good enough.

Here's the truth: writing confidence doesn't arrive before you start. It builds because you started. Sure, it's daunting to be faced with a blank page in your notebook. Or to have to watch that blinking cursor on the vast expanse of unfilled space on your computer screen. The thing is, that inspiration you're holding on to won't suddenly appear. You have to sit down and do the work!

You don't need to write a novel today.

You need to write 300 to 500 words — a scene, a moment, a fragment of something that interests you — and call it done for now.

Lower the bar until it's easy to step over. Then step over it every day.

Progress beats perfection every single time. The finished page, however imperfect, is infinitely more useful than the perfect page that exists only in your head.

Yes, you are a writer. You can do this, one word, one sentence, one paragraph at a time. Short stories, scenes, small fragments of writing all count. Start with confidence, because confidence is a decision, not a feeling.

And don't forget to give that writing a title, and include the date when you save it, especially on your hard drive. As those pieces of work add up, you'll have a visual marker of your progress.

Write Characters With Lived Experience

Tue, 14 Apr 2026 20:00:04 GMT

A Not-So-Quiet Revolution

My novel series is called: Kenora & Jake: Investigations, Mystery and Seasoned Romance . Seasoned romance is a sub-genre of standard romance, except that in this case, it's mature couples (m/m, f/f, m/f) who are the protagonists lead characters in a story.

There's a quiet revolution happening in fiction. It has nothing to do with dystopias, billionaires or supernatural creatures. It's the growing appetite for stories featuring characters older than thirty-five.

Early in my novel-writing career, when I was seeking an agent, I spoke with one who suggested I'd get more traction with a younger protagonist (around twenty -five years old) who was edgy and more urban. I spent a year trying to rewrite the original manuscript but I couldn't do it. I was then in my mid-fifties and honestly, couldn't remember much about being half my age. So I went back to the drawing board and started rewriting my novel with characters--Kenora and Jake--who are over forty. In Book 1 of the series, Jake was over fifty.

Maturity has become fertile ground for storylines. There are many books, television series and movies featuring mature and even senior characters travelling the world, social crimes and establishing new relationships.

Here's a snippet from Chapter 40 of Kenora Reinvented :

Some 'thing' shimmered through the three feet of granite and dimly lit air separating us. He leaned against the refrigerator door and folded his arms.

"As you noted, I haven't had much luck with women."

"There aren't many of us like your ex-wife and Margie, you know."

"My left brain knows that but I don't want to mess up again."

"Who does? It hurts like hell." I snorted. "Been there, done that, cried me a river. You said you've learned from past experiences. Could be time for things to change."

"A guy my age has baggage."

"Some folks have hatboxes; some have hockey bags. I've got scars too, Jake."

"Haven't we all?"

Characters who carry real history like complicated relationships, professional setbacks, reinventions, losses and wins, bring a layered density to fiction that younger protagonists simply haven't had time to accumulate. In other words, they 'know stuff' and have learned difficult lessons over decades of life.

When I created Kenora Tedesco, I wanted a woman who had lived fully and was still very much in motion. Her past isn't backstory filler. It's the engine of every plot decision she makes. At age 42, her mother dies suddenly and she's thrown into deep grief. That grief is a theme throughout the first two books. It's what leads her to reassess her life in ways she couldn't have imagined five years before.

If you're a writer, consider moving your protagonist's age up by a decade or two. You'll find the story opens up in ways you didn't anticipate. Readers who are tired of being invisible on the page will find you — and they will be grateful to see themselves well represented in your writing. Be aware though, that not every older person is wise or kind. Don't fall into that trap. Include the good, the bad and the ugly elements of human personalities. Keep your characters authentic!

Kenora Reinvented is a fast-paced, emotionally resonant novel about reinvention, resilience, and second-chance romance. Perfect for readers who love character-driven mystery, snappy dialogue, and stories that blend crime, wit, and heart. Get your copy at Amazon, Chapters Indigo, Kobo and other online retailers.

Wound-Want-Need Triangle

Sat, 11 Apr 2026 17:00:02 GMT

Your character’s Wound-Want-Need Triangle is the story engine that drives everything.

The Dating Life Nobody Writes About

Thu, 09 Apr 2026 22:00:01 GMT

Here’s a snippet from a conversation early on in Kenora’s interactions with Jake...

"It's worse for females. A couple of gents I met for coffee dates gave tongue instead of shaking hands when we were introduced. There were balding studs who flashed pictures of their dogs/trucks/mothers/bass boats and thought I was a snooty bitch because I didn't treat them like the answer to a spinster's prayer. It’s not funny."

"You get any beef-whistle photos?"

"No, no rampant schlongs. Stop laughing. Jake, this is the life of a middle-aged single woman. A couple of married dudes thought I'd be thrilled to be their fuck-buddy in between sales calls. Then there's the poor soul who didn't know whether he was gay or not but thought dating an older woman might help him decide. You?"

"No. There's been no one special," he murmured. "I wasn't laughing at you."

Kenora Tedesco is a woman who doesn't mince words. At 42, she's been married for decades. Newly divorced, she's navigating the rocky shores of dating again, unsure whether it's worth the effort.

When she describes her re-entry into dating to her new partner Jake, she's funny, rueful, and absolutely clear-eyed about the absurdity of it all — married men looking for a convenient side arrangement, a man using her as a sexuality compass, the parade of phone photos featuring dogs, trucks, and bass boats.

It's a scene from Kenora Reinvented that readers recognize immediately, because it's true. Not just for Kenora, but for millions of women navigating love after fifty.

Mature love is like a fine wine — spicy and full-bodied. It also comes with history, complications, and hard-won self-knowledge. Kenora knows what she won't settle for. That's not snobbery. That's wisdom.

The best fiction about older characters doesn't soften the edges. It tells the truth with a laugh and a wince, sometimes in the same breath.

Kenora Reinvented is available on Amazon and through major retailers.

Breaking Morning #3

Thu, 19 Mar 2026 19:15:00 GMT

The Lake Decision - 3

This was to be my last day of being un-wived, divorced by a stranger with whom I’d shared a bed for twenty-eight years, until he exchanged me for a younger, more pliant model with wide eyes, a belly unstretched by childbirth and an inheritance. My blood fired at the thought. I’d shredded the court documents into confetti and soaked them in a pail of water. My business. Finished business. No one needed to know the details, especially after today. I didn’t want to remember the details myself. Would he think anything of me when he found out what I’d done, how I’d tardily asserted myself without requesting permission? I tilt my hand. The bone-deep indentation where my wedding band used to sit glows pale in the warming July sun.

Suddenly, my nose is dripping, although I’m starting to sweat. Not tears. No more crying. I reach into the kangaroo pocket of grey fleece, rooting out crumpled wrappers and a linty tissue with a chunk of chewed watermelon-flavoured gum stuck in one corner. A page of lined yellow notepad drops to the deck. I gingerly crouch to pick it up.

I flip open a creased origami paper fortune-teller and read the quartet of wonky penciled printed messages: “Dear Grandma your fun. Thanks for teeching me two fish. I lov you verrry much. Cen we ro for icescreem today.”

My breath catches in my throat. My heart lurches painfully.

Like the prongs of a plug jammed into a socket, the words are conduits to a door I’d hope to keep closed. I’d half-hoped ‘it’ would be over, that I could have finished things my way this time. But now, my pulse fizzes with warmth. Another morning has dawned. Another day of promise and choices. I’m no coward, but being brave is so very hard. I refold the note and tuck it under the lace at my left breast.

As I organize my stiff fingers to untie the nylon rope chafing my ankle, it dawns on me the cacophony inhabiting the spaces in my mind has stilled. The busy silence of awakenings crowds out the randomness of thought. I stretch the kinks from my spine. The breeze rustles the hair inside my ears as I slowly shift my head from right to left. What is it I’m supposed to hear?

Above the crest at the end of the lake where the day began, a red-tailed hawk coasts the thermals then plunges into the bush. There’s a scream that isn’t mine. I murmur a fragment of prayer. Somewhere behind the lee of the island, a trolling motor coughs to life. The hesitant ricochet of bird calls ripples from the far end of the bush, where the deeps are warming to navy serge by the rising fires of daybreak. A chorus of croaking from scattered throats rumbles from wet holes in the cedar swamp. The restless marsh bristles with the catcalls of red-winged blackbirds. A brace of crows tussles in the gulley across the way, discordantly arguing over the soggy carcass of a crab. By now the sun is fully incandescent. All the dark edges have burned back to clear air. The lake is alive. As am I.

I turn towards the rustle at my back. A hare leaps into the trees. A couple of skunks pause on the cobbled track from the cottage. The breeze riffles their pelts. We hold still. A door bangs in the distance, then a toilet flushes. They waddle into the brush behind the boathouse. There’s a yipping sound followed by a red flash of coyote through the bleached boughs of fallen hardwoods.

My intentions have shifted from ending to waiting.

With a sigh, I coil the yellow line in a neat figure eight around the brass dock cleat. I shift from one foot to the other and realize that my sense of balance has returned: the vertigo of doubt that plagued my days and nights for months has dissipated. I strip off the hoodie and my sweatshirt, fold the clothing into a neat square and tuck it under one arm.

As I back away from the lake, my footfalls on the warming planks send shivers across the skin of the placid lake. At the hump where the deck and the path meet, I stop. Something mottled and sinuous slides from beneath an untidy stack of firewood off to the right. There are the smells that brings back memories, neutral now instead of bad – rotting leaves starting to bake and of the earth giving up its cool under the brightening canopy of wind-shoved branches. I fill my lungs with the scents of damp mint, the lemon balm gone wild, the wet pine wood chips.

Screen doors slam. The sharp, high morning chatter of children planting bed-warmed toes onto night-cold floors shatters the silence. I catch the fragrant fumes of perking coffee and sizzling bacon. A small, insistent voice calls my name.

Breaking Morning #2

Mon, 16 Mar 2026 19:15:00 GMT

The Lake Decision - 2

I’d risen from my empty bed an hour before dawn and crept outside to quiet my pain, in a manner of my choosing, in the place where we’d once been happy. The Internet had been no help, except for the few dark moments of hilarity when I’d perused the selection of options from a Wiki list of how to do myself in: wrist cutting (too messy), suffocation (unseemly, prolonged), electrocution (too abrupt), jumping from height (acrophobic), carbon monoxide (too polluting), hanging (no to bulging eyes/purple tongue), poison or pesticide (banned), immolation (too painful), or volcano (who’d know). Drowning would do, though.

Although I’d never been good at holding-breath games, I loved being underwater. They’d search and eventually find me anchored and the old rowboat adrift, oars neatly stowed, one signature red silk rose tied to the cleat on the bow, trailing white ribbons torn from the bridal gown I’d worn with such anticipation so many years before. For months I’d been daydreaming a gentle closure, of my eyes drifting shut in the soupy green ribbons of light that quivered on the bed of the lake, of my body floating undamaged and peaceful, so tastefully gone without fuss, just as I lived my life.

Yesterday, when everyone had traipsed to the park for a picnic, I measured out a length of stout line one meter short of the depth at the middle of the lake. I knew the distance I’d need. We’d been diving from the warped floating dock for decades, chasing water-logged teddy bears and deflated beach balls to the bottom and bobbing back to the surface, sputtering and shrieking with joy. I’d misplaced my joy long before the rusty moorings had snapped in a forgotten ice-jam, releasing the splintered arms of ancient wood to wash ashore. No one had bothered to replace either.

Attached to one end of the rope is a cement block I’d heaved onto a stack of burlap in the bottom of the boat one night and hidden under a mildewed tarp. I’d stacked the life jackets on the stern and greased the oarlocks, too, to thwart the nosey-parker early-risers down the lake. I had no need of lifesaving. No point in anyone wondering if I could have been rescued, either. Certainly not now, by foam and nylon. A long while ago, perhaps, it might have been possible, but too much time and so many acts of omission and commission had mortared any chance of restoration. Enough. I double-tack my note – a manifesto, actually, written and re-written on pale pink stationery then sealed in a zip-top bag – to the flag pole just steps from the shoreline.

A marshmallow crème haze coats the far banks of the lake, shredding into untidy veils beyond the shallows over the mouths of feeding fish. To my left, round bales of fog tumble down the gravel wash and unravel into pale light over cairns of stones roughed up by ancient glaciers. Mist swirling from the edge of the island coats my legs like tulle as I shuffle in a tight circle like a cautious dancer, taking one last look around. Will I miss this? Will I be missed? Water spiders skitter under the drifting shadow of a gray phoebe. No loons cry out. Is it because I’ve done enough?

Words Carry Weighty Meaning

Sat, 14 Mar 2026 21:00:01 GMT

...About the word 'Black'

I attended a writing workshop years ago and the speaker talked about ‘black moments’, alluding to the despair and hopeless experienced by a character. To tell you the truth, that pissed me off.

Such a lazy, unimaginative descriptor. Why is ‘black’ or the concept of ‘not white’, a stand-in for bad/evil/sad/danger?

There is the term, ‘black sheep’ – meaning someone who is an outcast or undesirable. Black cats and crows are seen as sneaky and/or evil creatures. The scientific term ‘black hole’ means bottomless or unknowable. ‘Black-hearted’ means evil and sinister. Witches, sorcerers and mad scientists all wear black. ‘Black-balled’ means excluded or targetted for exclusion. ‘Black’ also refers to hats, knights, mail – all negatives.

In the 90s, when our collective consciousnesses were being raised, I recall reading an article about how word and word association can ‘colour’ our perceptions. That resonated strongly with me. I raise the matter today because the concept is still valid.

Yes, before electricity, there were wild animals and other fearsome creatures that had to be killed before they killed you. You were safer in the daytime, when the sun shone and you might be able to spot your predators before you became dinner. Fire brought not just heat, but light. But darkness – real or imagined – still made people afraid.

When we’re in a strange light-less environment, we still shiver with the same primitive fear that had cavemen and women barricaded in caves behind a fire. Why stupid adults punished children by stuffing them in small dark spaces. But that fear is of the DARK and the unknown. It shouldn’t be about another human being.

Talk about negative stereotypes! In colonial days, black or dark-skinned people were thought of as less than human. Certainly not equal to the rapists and pillagers who destroyed the ancient societies in North and South America, the Middle East, Africa, Asia and Australia. They were different, not less. We still may look different, but we are not less.

Ironic, isn’t it, that through the centuries hordes of missionaries travelled (and died) in foreign lands trying to convert the 'savages' to Christianity. How many Americans and Africans owe their many shades of the chocolate rainbow complexions to conquerors and slave-owners who weren’t so scrupulous that they did not lie with the ‘darky’ women they did not regard as people with the same hopes and fears? Unfortunately, there are still folks who have not evolved beyond those ignorant prejudices about people who are different, whether of gender, race, ability or orientation.

In the early part of the century, darker-skinned people were defined as being ‘coloured’, which is nuts because everyone has a colour. My dear mother, born in 1920, usually used the term ‘coloured people’ to describe non-Caucasians, even after substituting ‘Negro’ (which translates as black in many languages) became the norm.

I remember as a child, hearing the phrase: “If you’re white, you’re all right. If you’re brown, stick around. If you’re black, stay back.”

Talk about pernicious indoctrination.

Dark-skinned people practice the same corrosive approach to sub-defining tone and dehumanizing other people within the same race: red man, yellow man, high yaller, brown sugar. Makes you cringe, doesn’t it? The expression ‘beat me with me own stick’ comes to mind!

We laughed when the word ‘black’ replaced the word ‘Negro’. We laughed even harder when ‘black’ was replaced by ‘African-‘, as if linking the concept of skin colour to a continent made a difference in how we were perceived. African-Canadian. It just sounds so contrived and…well, goofy. We are citizens of a country, with differently-coloured skin. The closest I’ve been to Africa is Rome, Italy.

My grandchildren, who are wise beyond their years, remarked that no one in our family is ‘black’ like a Crayola pencil or ink. We are all shades from dark to light, from brown to pink. Stay too long in the sun and we tan as our flesh absorbs the warmth.

Just because ‘white’ is commonly associated with purity doesn’t mean that people and things that are not white fall outside the spectrum of goodness. Why can’t we embrace differences and just dance with joy at being alive?

Breaking Morning #1

Sat, 14 Mar 2026 21:00:01 GMT

The Lake Decision - 1

Here I am, as day commences to alleviate the night, my greying hair pulled back in a fuchsia scarf. Despite the grip of a hot flash, I’m shivering, hands pressed to my thighs, a teetering, chicken-shanked isolate transfixed like a bug on a pin of the knowledge of what I was about to do. Until today, I’d always been leery of the darkness, of the limitless outside, the wilting chill of day-to-day, of unpredictabilities surrounding me like critical spectators. They’ll be silenced, soon enough. And perhaps the flames of hell will thaw my withered heart.

The sky pales from indigo to rosy mauve then to a shimmer of wet pewter streaked with yellow. Suspended over the plate glass of Gull Lake is a long tongue of dock that juts away from the looming tumble of shadowed break wall. A cloak of condensation dusts the long strips of worn cedar with damp glitter in the glancing shafts of sunrise. Spider webs jeweled with dew shiver with each bump of the scarred wooden rowboat trussed at the bow to a rusted wharf ring. A bleached cocktail-cherry sun crowns through a jagged cleft of the Canadian Shield then breaks free. Arching against the Muskoka hills, the pale trunks of birch trees remind me of the three-day beard I’ll never caress again.

I ease my stiff neck and turn my eyes to the west, where stands of shadowy conifers mat the cheeks of the rustling forest. Like a desiccated sponge in an uncertain hand, I’m poised to absorb all of these last times, halfway between here and there, not quite sure where or what ‘there’ is anymore. What is certain is my conviction, stoked by recollections that weigh like thick fists on my shoulders.

My bare feet are cold. My flesh trembles beneath layers of old sweat pants, hoodies and t-shirts. ‘Dead weight when wet’, I’d read when I did my research. I scratch my hip where the lace trim on my expensive new panties – bought with hope that someone would want to tear them off, except that no one did – is irritating my flesh. Stop dithering.

Silence muffles my ears like headphones. Nothingness has replaced the mess that last forever winter was me, being left …alone. Not for much longer.

...read on for part 2

Bernice's Stuffing Recipe

Wed, 11 Mar 2026 17:00:16 GMT

Bernice was my mother's name. It's still difficult for me to say that out loud. She's been gone for years, but I have so many happy memories..

Thanksgiving and Christmas were always busy, happy times for our family - music, laughter, food, company, drinks and desserts aplenty. As the only and firstborn girl, I spent a lot of time in the kitchen learning from my mom. The purpose wasn't only cooking, though. In the warm, scented confines between the countertop, the stove and the fridge, we'd chat about almost everything. She'd listen to my adolescent tales of woe or triumph and I'd hear snippets of her life story before and after children.

My three younger brothers learned the basic culinary skills when they got older, but their main objective was to taste whatever savoury or sweet item we were preparing.

There's always a reason for homemade stuffing

Ingredients:

1 loaf of unsliced firm sourdough or Italian bread (for a large turkey),

3 medium white or yellow fresh onions,

1 head of garlic,

4 stalks celery including the leaves,

Small handful of assorted fresh or bottled herbs (sage, thyme, oregano, savory, marjoram)

1 tablespoon salt and/or vegeta seasoning and bouillon powder or paste,

1 teaspoon fresh cracked black pepper,

1 teaspoon smoked paprika,

I tablespoon Worcestershire sauce,

1/4 cup butter and/or neutral oil

Optional - sautéed chopped mushrooms, chopped jalapeno or 1/2 teaspoon chilli pepper flakes

You’ll need a large/deep pot, bread knife, cutting knife, large spoon, food safe plastic gloves.

Use Italian bread or genuine sourdough - basically, any other type with some substance, lots of brown crust and firm consistency Soft processed bread doesn't work. Day old bread is fine, as is whole grain. Don’t bother with gluten free slices - they do not hold the texture or flavours well.

Chop or tear bread into nickel-sized pieces - if the bread is more like crumbs, the stuffing texture gets mushy from the bird juices (unless you like it that way). I get a good texture using the pulse feature on my food processor, but you can slice the loaf lengthwise then tear or cut into rough cubes using a sharp bread knife.

Dice 1-2 onions and half a dozen garlic cloves.

If using fresh herbs, chop them finely.

Turn a large stove burner to medium and let pot heat for 2-3 minutes (makes it more non-stick).

Add butter and oil.

When butter starts to bubble, add chopped onion and sauté for a few minutes until translucent.

Add celery. Stir occasionally.

Add garlic - if you add it too soon, it tends to get burnt.

Season with whatever herbs you want but don’t overdo it. Sage is the most forward flavour, followed by thyme.

Taste the mixture again to see if you like the flavour. Remember, if you season the skin and the inside of the bird, additional flavour will come from there.

Add a bit of salt and pepper. Let the aromatics get nice and brown - that builds deep flavour.

Add the prepared bread bits. You may need to add more butter or oil.

Raise the heat to medium high and stir, scraping up the bits that get crusty on the bottom.

Cook for another 5 minutes or until the mixture appears dry-ish and you can taste the deliciousness.

If you like a moister stuffing or it appears too dry, add a bit of vegetable of chicken broth.

Let cool. Use food-save plastic gloves and stuff the cavity by hand. If there is leftover stuffing, you can put it under the skin beside the thighs.

If you want to stuff the neck cavity, you can always make a slightly different flavour stuffing but remember, if it is spicy or highly seasoned, it will affect the taste of the drippings.

Note: I've used this recipe, in smaller quantities and with various flavour ingredients, to stuff roast chickens, Cornish hens and thick-cut loin pork chops. Cooking times will vary.

Worth the Struggle

Wed, 04 Mar 2026 17:30:00 GMT

Build tension

Mon, 02 Mar 2026 17:30:01 GMT

Reasons for Writing

Fri, 27 Feb 2026 19:30:03 GMT

Master Class Notes #3

Wed, 25 Feb 2026 16:30:06 GMT

Chris Vogler, Toronto 2017

Part 3

Joseph Campbell , mythologist, writer and lecturer ( https://www.jcf.org/learn/joseph-campbell-heros-journey )

He first discovered the Hero's Journey theory based on monomyth over 40 years ago but he revisited the mythological concepts of his book, Hero with a Thousand Faces . For him, it was almost hypnotic – the code and magic of symbolism of a universal structure and similar stories told in diverse cultures since the beginning of time. In each story This structure typically involves an archetypal hero or protagonist who embarks on an adventure or quest, willingly or due to external forces. They face challenges, sole problems and overcome difficulties, achieve some type of victory, and return to their regular life transformed.

He believed that images in myth act not on the brain, but directly on organs of the body – EMOTIONS

Vogler's Rule – "if two or more organs of the body are not squirting fluids, the story is no good". Linking survival with sex, for example, makes for an interesting story – organic cinema. The bottom line is that good stories have a visceral or gut impact.

Be wary of trying to throw in too many tools and tricks – your story gets unfocused and the reader will spot the artifice. Think of the films you've seen with car chase after car chase, or characters are constantly under attack - the emotional reaction to that kind of peril cannot be sustained for long.

What is your story about? Identify the key theme. When the protagonist achieves their wish, then what next? How to create adjustment resulting from self-evaluation and realization – cut out everything that is not about the theme and does not serve the main purpose.

Don’t be afraid of editing and losing something – there is only so much energy in a film or novel – a fixed amount. When you edit a piece, that energy stays in the design and goes somewhere else. The hole that was made is filled by ‘other stuff’. Enhance the next line of dialogue, make the next scene brighter, etc. You may be fearful of taking out something you’ve worked hard to create – learn to expand your view to a bigger picture.

It’s about a State of Mastery when you stop creating obstacles and go directly to your goals.

Stay in alignment with the grid. Imagine that there is a string coming from the top of your head anchored above and grounded in the earth. Using that concept keeps you buoyant and gliding forward!

How Stories Work

Identify Want vs. Need within the main characters.

There are certain things that are firm – you should know what the hero wants before you can properly plug into the story. You must want it, too. Save the Cat moment – making the connection between hero and audience. Plugs the reader into the story.

Make the characters flawed and broken in some way (we are automatically sympathetic because we are flawed too. Take something away from them, e.g., becoming an orphan in a fairy tale, missing out on a dream job.

Have them doing something they don’t have to, but they are altruistic, and care about the other person more than themselves.

BUT…the hero must learn what he or she really needs. Desire at first is usually physical and external – winning the game, getting the car, freeing the people.

The other dimension is what the character needs emotionally – requires different kind of writing. Where did they make a wrong turn, how did they get wounded in the past, what will it take to ‘fix’ the problem or guide them in the right direction.

How will you express this conflict of needs and wants ? That conflict is what creates suspense.

Audience comes in for the thrill …but they stay for the LESSON. Not moralistic or preachy – they watch with close attention for acts of comparison – clues relating to how to live their life in a different way.
Could be body language, playing a role (fake it til you make it – take from fictional work an inventory of survival skills), e.g., Rumpelstiltskin – when the girl cries, it triggers his appearance, they make a deal. She wants to spin straw to gold and get out of the locked room. NEED – she should have thought about the consequences of promising him her first born child. When he comes to collect, she has a last chance to save her child and best the villain.
Fairy tales – all true and not fantasies. They are journalism and mysteries based on real events - puzzles to be solved.

Want + Need

Creates suspense with external and internal questions – Inner & Outer Journeys

Will the hero get what he wants?

What will they learn on a spiritual level?

Price or Cost always has to be an issue - what are you willing to pay to get what you want/need?

Often a tick-tock back and forth between wants and needs. At the climax, you can create one scene where all the questions are answered OR they are all back on the table.

..see Part 4

Create Tension

Mon, 23 Feb 2026 16:30:14 GMT

Master Class Notes #2

Sun, 22 Feb 2026 16:30:07 GMT

CHRIS VOGLER, TORONTO 2017

Vogler’s intention during the May workshop in Toronto was to completely transform us and send us out to transform the rest of the world through what we do. And he succeeded!

Part 2

Alfred Hitchcock – the master of intent. Storyboarded – considered every single dot on the screen in terms of its impact, what it said about character and plot. He uses positions, shadows, etc. To mean something – another language in his films – a shadow across someone’s face means they are in trouble, doubtful, deceiving, their soul is lost – depends on where it falls, e.g., on chin, forehead, eyes, etc.

What he’s trying to do is make the invisible things, visible to the audience – feelings, moods, inner realities, etc. Objects transmit the inner workings of characters.

Cinematic technique : Use objects to describe something. Giving a gift is usually symbolic – represents a desire to make a connection with another person, e.g., win loyalty, confirm friendship, build power – an externalizer proof when something passes from hand to hand. Audience will wonder what happens to it – becomes the centre of collecting emotional feelings.

Transformation: helpful to know what your story is about – THEME…boil it down too one word. Force yourself to discover what it is – as you write, it may change over time – ensure that every scene in the structure says something about that quality – REINVENTION – how does each scene relate?

IS THERE ONE WORD THAT KEEPS COMING UP, e.g., trust, confidence, etc. You can use different angles in different scenes – how does x regard trust, how does y regard trust – everybody has a viewpoint or set of experiences with that quality

Example, ‘regret’ – most people have an inventory of references – can be motivating for the audience because it is familiar but your skill is to present it in a fresh way…

Premise : an expanded theme. Sentence about the THEME or human quality. What is your point of view about a human quality? Becomes your hypothesis, e.g., you can’t expect others to trust you until you trust yourself.

Do a word search to see how often your theme word appears.

Change : Yin & Yang - whatever you are, the seeds of the opposite are in you. The movement from one side of emotion or action creates TRANSFORMATION – it goes on all the time.

Transition : from one state of existence or from one world to another – sunrise to sunset. We automatically select a point in someone’s story when they are in a state of change – why do we look at them unless they are about to transform? A ‘crossing the log’ moment – transitioning from childlike innocence to a more mature approach to the world – stand jump for yourself, take your rightful place.

This kind of examination should clarify things for the reader – clear away the film of life – gets the reader to resonate – either they have experienced it or it’s missing from their life

“It’s all about the vibes, man.” Everything you see and hear around you is vibrating fast. Your book is charged with your vibrations – everything you’ve learned, some X factor you tap into that’s beyond your experience. Should cause the reader to go through a little bit of a shift or transformation – could be entertaining, informative, etc.

Most people come into a book jangled, distracted, bored, tired – the writers takes the reins of their mental and perhaps physical processes for a brief period of time – you interfere with their vibrations in a positive way – tune them like a staticky radio. Take them from fatigue and cast a spell to get them to a new state. There is a possibility in our work to get people centred again for a brief time, as they turn from one page to the next – e.g., answer a question, take them to another level of understanding.

As they get involved with your characters, you take them on a wave-like journey – the characters have good days, bad days, really worse days, best days – builds in intensity to the point where it shatters expectations – so exciting or cathartic that it attacks the whole framework of their previous existence and sends them off in another direction or to a new adventure – make the character sympathetic, interestingly flawed with lots of problems – but there has to be a progression that leads the reader to follow.

How the character enters the story is important – sets the tone, catches interest. Principle: contrast should be used more. Use element of surprise. What is the emotional load in each scene?

How can you better externalize what is happening internally? Can you give the reader shivers because of how you portray the truth of the moment? Insert some mystery – hold something back. Props can be used as visualization of deeper meanings, e.g., wrestler doll on dashboard, source music that reflects what’s going on emotionally.

Details are filled with possibilities, even seemingly insignificant ones. Play around with the readers’s expectations – lead them to believe X but deliver W that reveals something about a character’s nature.

CHAKRAS: the subtle body relating to internal organs. Invisible, thought forms – there is a progression from the low-level stuff – survival, sex, power on the lower or animal world levels. Most people toil on those basic levels. Stories can get into the system and either open up or close down those chakra centres up and down the spine. For example, when you are helpless, powerless – Root chakra: you feel that in your gut.

Good movies lift us from the Root and Sacral or solar plexus chakra and stimulate them to the heart chakra (love), throat (musicals, overcoming fear and telling your truth – could have a shocking effect but it necessary to character development.

Third eye – we see characters experiencing the unknown or spiritual; side of life or having intuition), e.g., in crime stories, the hero is knocked unconscious somewhere in the middle of the story. Reorganizes their thinking. When he comes to, he has an insight – I’ve got a hunch. [after Kenora falls over the ladder and is assaulted]

Crown chakra – very rare in life or movies. About someone’s whole picture of life opening up – enlightenment when they see the vision of their entire life.

Chakra examples tend to occur in pairs that create circuits, e.g., open in power chakra (want control) and throat chakra (strong ability to express ideas and convey power). Common theme in stories – people who cannot express themselves or tell the truth until an event happens to open them up. Open people – smile, ready to connect with others. Closed – solitary, confine themselves to situations they can control, do not engage.

Sound vibrations can affect chakras . We’ve all experienced music that ‘touches you where you live’.

RELATES TO MASLOW’S HIERARCHY OF NEED – EVERYONE HAS NEEDS AND DRIVES and varying desires to express them – everybody in your story must know what their Prime Directive is, e.g., the default is not to upset anyone or have them angry at you, urge toplease (may be unconscious but is important to know). For some, it is being first, being in the background, being considered competent, etc.

WHAT ARE YOUR MAIN CHARACTERS’ PRIME DIRECTIVES? Are they extremes or middle of the road? ME first; me last or me too? What is at the top of their list? What might serve them better?

... check out Part 3

Master Class Notes #1

Fri, 20 Feb 2026 17:26:40 GMT

Chris Vogler, Toronto 2017

Arriving at the downtown hotel that morning was an adventure in navigating Toronto’s insane rush hour traffic, trying to figure out if a side trip down a side street would get me around the slowdowns of construction and finding out that no, school busses and dump trucks do not make for a speedy commute. The rush of relief when I arrived with ten minutes to spare, even after fumbling at the parking machine to input my licence number – Writer2 – ironically, since this is a workshop I’ve anticipated for a year.

The session was long and there was a constant stream of wisdom, tips and tricks. I've broken the Masterclass into segments, so as not to overwhelm.

Part 1.

Chris Vogler is know as a ‘structure guy’ – he can look at a story and see through to the bones – almost like a chiropractor who can see what’s out of alignment in your body. That skill gets him right to thetrue potential of the story.

A map is not the journey – it gives a sense of direction. BUT, it is in the digressions and side trips that the magic happens.

Chris talked about science fiction movies and how the sweeping music reflects the cinematic energy.

Ray Bradbury – one of the techniques he uses is to get all five sense on every page.

Using sensory detail - my example

The grey ribbon of 4-lane highway is alive with mostly lone commuters hunched behind their steering wheels, trapped in the sludge that is morning rush-hour. I crack open my window but instead of the smell of spring, I get wafts of diesel from the line of dump trucks jockeying in and out around me. Gears grind, brakes squeal and horns honk as we crawl to walking speed, as if the noise will clear a path through the auto-clutter. I sip my warming smoothie – thank goodness the slice of ginger I threw in masks the taste of the powdered greens the saleswoman at Natures Emporium assured would cleanse my blood.

Check out Writer Duet collaborative software – several writers can input simultaneously.
Writing with music – select a piece that is consistent with what you are writing. There should be no vocals – they interfere with the flow of inspiration.

Try to add some cinematic quality to your writing! Not ‘Motion Pictures’ but EMOTION pictures – the ability of the story to transmit emotion and move us. If it doesn’t bring about change in the audience and characters, why bother? Readers begin with an expectation that there will be growth and change.

Maya Angelou wrote: “I've learned that people will forget what you said, people will forget what you did, but people will never forget how you made them feel.”

It's important to use not just 3 or 4 emotions but ALL the known emotions. Ambitious, certainly, but not always necessary or possible.

Make a list of emotions – HOW WILL YOU EVOKE THEM? What's are the possibilities? What language do you have to express them? What sensory elements will help evoke emotion – smell, sounds, touch…

Writer's Reference : Writers Helping Writers - The Emotion Thesaurus

INTENTION – any work of writing really needs to begin with a strong intention.

Libraries, bookstores and the Internet are friends of creators. Learn useful tips and tools from recognized writing experts and regain the energy to enjoy creating good fiction again.

Whatever you’re doing when you write, don't forget that it's okay to be the ‘fool’ or different. Be wise and open to the new. What form should your next work take? Can you apply fiction techniques to add emotion to creative non-fiction writing?

...check out Part 2

Chambered Nautilus

Sun, 08 Feb 2026 19:00:03 GMT

Cool crescent of proportional perfection, the nautilus shell gleams in a slash of sunlight.

A lustrous comma contradiction of itself, its form pale punctuation.

I palm the sensuous pearly curve, wondering from which languid reef it came.

I sense the sacred geometry, the swirl of luminosity deep within, the hypnotic tumble into slippery darkening shadow.

There is a flawless symmetry in these nacred walls, these ordered wavelets of calcified ooze from long forgotten mantle tissues.

I cup the slim shell to my ear - the sea-sound is a muted hush.

No thing resides within its burnished cavernosities.

I stroke the stiff ridges of past lives, the vacant tidal chambers of translucent armour, protecting naught.

What's My Story?

Thu, 05 Feb 2026 17:30:00 GMT

You can shape your true story like fiction and incorporate the emotion that brings it to life.

WHATS YOUR STORY?

What are the basics of the story you remember from an earlier time in your life?
What emotions were involved when it happened?
What is your because statement -- this is your guidepost.

Learning to white water kayak is one of my stories.

Why did I spend two weeks bunking with 12 other adults in the bush? Because I wanted to do something completely out of character that I would not have been able to do while still married and 'responsible'.

Of course I could swim. And I had all of the equipment, including a made-for-female-shape life vest with an emergency whistle and rescue light. After a day or orientation to the small lake we'd be spending our days on, we learned to apply the neoprene kayak skirts so the craft wouldn't fill with water. One brave soul asked what should we do if we needed a bathroom break? The instructor's response was, pee in your boat. After a moment's silence, we figured that he knew what he was talking about and yes, we followed his advice. I mean, we were wet most of the time anyhow!

I loved paddling with speed and learning to swing the small fibreglass boat around using my legs and hips. We learned to fill our lungs then hold our breath for increasingly long counts. That was the easy part.

By day three, we were learning to do barrel rolls, where you lean far to one side and deliberately overturn your kayak. Basically, you're hanging upside down in the water, watching fish and unidentified critters swim by. The point of the exercise is control and losing your fears - by powering your weary self back upright with your paddle and arm strength.

On the last day, we could choose to navigate a course down Class 3 rapids (for intermediate paddlers. Unpredictable waves and strong currents can cause difficulties) to become certified. Naturally, I would not say no. The course was not elegant like you see at the Olympics. The river twisted and rushed around boulders and half-submerged tree stumps. There were staff posted at the most dangerous spots which was comforting and frightening at the same time. I had never worked so hard at any other sport I'd tried. It took less than ten minutes to complete the test but by the end, my whole body ached from the effort.

These were tests that had nothing to do with emotion. I was 54 years old - every else was at least a decade younger. I was still physically fit because I'd always been an athlete. Scared but excited about being able to prove myself to myself and perhaps to other people who knew nothing about me.

How was my thinking about myself altered? I felt powerful. I was confident I could do it. After many failed attempts (I swallowed a lot of lake water), I completed the roll with proper form. I made it down the river and through those rapids, well enough to earn my whitewater certificate.

I wasn’t afraid of failing because there was no one who would judge me – we were all novices, doing our best. It was an amazing endurance experience and journey of self-discovery.

What did I try next? Stay tuned.

The Heroine's Journey of Discovery

Mon, 02 Feb 2026 18:30:00 GMT

Be authentic. Listen to your inner writer's voice!

I was doing some computer hard drive tidying-up last week. Not that I need the space but it does keep me from doing chores like cobweb-hunting and folding laundry. And I never mind the trip down memory lane of some of the tens of thousands of words I've written.

I revisited the notes I'd taken during a wonderful online writing workshop led by instructor, Laurie Schnebly Campbell. I'd struggled for years trying to shoehorn my novels about Kenora and Jake into the Hero's Journey formula but the writing and I resisted mightily. It wasn't until I heard Diana Cranstoun ( https://dianacranstoun.com ) speak about Kim Hudson's The Virgin's Promise ( https://kimhudsonauthor.com/the-virgins-promise ) at the When Words Collide reading and writing festival that it became clear I had to rethink my writing path.

Laurie said in the course introduction:

“What happens when a character’s journey is more about relationships, with others and with herself, than about daredevil action? Joseph Campbell and Christopher Vogler have identified 12 popular steps for a hero who explores the outside world and returns with the elixir.”

But what about a character whose journey leads to flowering change instead of physical adventure? Her challenges, as described in Kim Hudson’s 13 steps, will sometimes contradict, sometimes parallel and sometimes compliment the traditional hero’s journey…and for writers whose heroine faces her own less-traveled road to discovery, this class offers a fascinating map.

Kim was SO RIGHT! Now that I'm nearing the final chapters of the second book in the Kenora & Jake series - The Fifth Man - this refresher was so timely.

My writing journey has certainly NOT been linear. On the advice of an agent, I switched to telling the story in third person omniscient point of view so that I could reflect Jake's inner journey as well as Kenora's as they embarked on deepening their relationship and she worked hard to make her mark as a private detective. That epic creative struggle took me away from being creative. It did not work. The writing felt forced and inauthentic.The unique personalities of my main characters got lost. But I persevered. What, did I think there'd be some sort of prize for me setting aside my vision for Kenora Reinvented ?

After 18 months, I tossed the too-long wandering draft into the electronic trash heap of my For Later file directory and started over, this time with a clearer vision of Kenora as a person and the challenges she'd face. This was her story, not Jake's. He may have to wait until book three to have his say.

The tidbits below are from the panel presentation that jump-started my stalled creativity.

Heroines

(Panel - Lori Whyte, Jessica L. Jackson, Victoria Curran, Melanie Stanford)

In contemporary novels, there is no Snidely Whiplash and Dudley Do-Right saving little Nell. Today’s characters (male and female) have evolved from the past to become more independent and complete in their own right.

Writing creates characters who are competent but not irrational – there is no long drawn out unsolved misery repeated over time.

Readers want to fall in love with the hero (or at least like them) but have to be able to relate to the heroine. There are heroines today that were not popular in the past – they do not fit stereotypes (body, temperament) – there are now BBW (Big Beautiful Women as heroines), diverse cultures and races – people want to be able to relate with a character more like them

Have to be intelligent and make decisions, take an active role in their outcomes (readers may be much harsher on a heroine than a hero – too stupid to live, naive)

As long as the heroine is not single-dimensional, e.g., snarky. Readers want to see their vulnerabilities, active and not just reactive and going with the flow even if they are shy and not outgoing – we want to be able to root for them whether they do something dumb or brave

Persuasion – second chance romance, he’s a jerk but she is so meek, a pushover. (Her journey is shifting from not making decisions to learning to make her own decisions and learn from her mistakes)

Make sure her characteristics work in the book’s settings – time, culture, etc. GMC.

Both characters have to be motivated. Every scene has to show that. Don’t just focus on beautiful writing and their attraction – focus on the motives that dictate who they were before they met the love interest. Stay away from clichés and don’t lose the energy of the story.

How long before the First Meet should happen? There should be some introduction to one of the characters before the meeting – establish some of their motives. Also depends on the length of the book – if it is longer, the author can build up to a collision between them.

Not every reaction or decision has to be over the top – depends on the character’s personality. Small decisions can have a huge impact.

If the heroine is strong, the male has to be equally strong, but prepared to accept her. Each has to stand on their own. This is a key part of authorial voice – even when there is a wide range of characters, a series will be distinctive. Intrigue is built by some of the content of what writers present as situations – there is usually ‘something there’ from the author’s psyche.

Allow yourself the flexibility to write the character as she wants to be written – don’t try to limit yourself. You are manipulating your characters – make them distinctive with idiosyncrasies. There are trends – what is it your readers expect? Will there be a common thread if you write more than 1 book?

Open with a bang, but you don’t have to keep up the pace – do keep in mind the goals of the hero and heroine before they met. The love relationship should interfere with that goal – raises the stakes. Don’t lose the urgency of their original motives.

NOT WISE TO BUILD TIME AWAY FROM THE STORY – drags the tension down. But build up – when they go through the dark moment, they have to understand what’s at risk

Getting to know each other scenes can’t just be about that – there has to be subtext and something to gain and something to be lost. Aside from the event, they have to be growing in awareness about each other through the interaction – keeps the story and relationships moving forward…

Is there space for the heroine to rescue the hero – YES. Editors may enjoy flipping the tropes…Depends on how you develop your characters – are they saving one another, but in different ways? The male has to express his vulnerability – this allows the heroine to save him emotionally. Saving is more than that instant moment of danger.

Has to be believable…. readers are modern – heroines have to work within their time frame.

There are so many workshops and experts out there but finding the right ones, the voices that resonate with your writing vision, isn't easy. But thanks to this fresh perspective, my writing mojo returned and I jumped into regularly again with renewed energy and purpose.

Night (A poem)

Fri, 30 Jan 2026 21:40:12 GMT

Night

The vast silent weight

of limitless indigo sky

weighs on my ears
like relentless waves
on a broken furrowed field.

The grass, seared
to sisal by the blasts of July,
crackles under my feet.

I am but dust in the cosmos

under a bulbous pearl of moon.

Book 1 Cover Stories

Fri, 30 Jan 2026 21:32:57 GMT

Book 1 Cover Stories

Getting my debut novel, Kenora Reinvented , from out of my head to the keyboard then to publication was a journey with many twists, turns and decision crossroads. Not a labour of love by any definition. Although I’ve come to love my characters most of the time (sometimes, they nag at me to write what’s happening in their lives even though I’m not in the mood), my mind tends to wander.

I originally started with free photos I found on sites like Unsplash.com and Pixabay.com. Why? Well, I had some vague ideas about the look and feel I wanted but it didn’t make sense to purchase stock photos so early in the idea-development process. I played with text and layouts in Canva, which bills itself as a tool for people who want to “Design anything. Publish Anywhere.” Maybe so, but changing details like skin tone and hair type can’t be done without professional photo editing software.

Moving the cover from vision to reality was less painful when I began working with a professional artist/cover designer. Writing fiction is one thing but translating what the book is about into a visual form almost stopped me in my tracks. Too much choice!

I discovered Melanie Moor in June 2018 on a Facebook page featuring Adam Dreece, an author I’d met at a conference in Calgary. Like all writers I’ve met, Adam was generous. He kindly gave me Melli’s contact information, I messaged her and that was the beginning of our working relationship.

Just so you know, Melli lives in Australia. When it’s 4 o’clock in the afternoon here, it’s 8 o’clock in the morning (tomorrow) in Canberra, 7:30 in Adelaide (GMT+10:30) and 5 o’clock in Perth (GMT+8). It’s through the wonders of technololgy that we can literally be on opposite sides of the world and still get things done.

She’s on Facebook, where her page includes book covers and promotional art work – https://www.facebook.com/MelliMDesigns/ .

Thank goodness Melli is patient because we went through many iterations of covers for almost a year. I’d find an image that sort of fit the bill and she’d do a mockup. Meh, it didn’t feel right so I’d try again with another image. Change the hair, please. Make the colours warmer, swap out the flowers for dynamite and a heart on a stick. Then just a heart with little lights around it.

Do you have any idea how difficult it is to find photos of women who aren’t pale and thin, overly made up, laughing their heads off or huddling against a man? I eventually found another potential model, but her look just didn’t fit the feisty Kenora person who’s been living in my mind for so many years.

Then I discovered that using a free photo with a recognizable person’s image could be a problem, unless I had a guarantee that the photographer had obtained a model release. I wrote to Pixabay and Unsplash – the sites where I sourced the photos I wanted to use. No answer. As I did more research, I uncovered horror stories about privacy concerns, take-down notices and infringement. I went to Plan B.

I’m the kind of writer who needs visual inspiration – I need to see the characters and places they inhabit so when I start writing, the words flow easier. When BigStockPhoto had a sale five years ago, I’d purchased a few dozen images to use to spark my creativity. They all had model releases. It struck me that if I was using the faces to double-check whether the situations and words fit my characters, why wouldn’t I use one of them for cover art?

I liked Kenora’s photo the first time I saw it. She portrayed the combination of likability, determination, strength and mischief I was aiming for. Kenora Tedesco was not a conventional protagonist so why should she look like 97% of the women usually featured on book covers? Was I taking a risk using a non-Caucasian woman as the ‘face’ of my novel? Perhaps, but that’s who Kenora is – she’s mixed race, attractive with attitude and forty-two years old but looks younger. She’s experienced joy, sorrow, love, loss – and like the majority of her contemporaries in similar situations, she still keeps going. She puts on a brave face but she’s still unsure if she’s good enough.

Through all of my months of dithering about design and book titles, Melli was there, waiting for me to make up my mind.

We tossed around ideas for the additional elements that give clues to what the story is about – the shadowy man walking away, the magnifying glass, the unfurling leaf on the letter ‘K’ to symbolize regrowth, the red heart on Kenora’s blouse and on the spine of the book. We found a time that worked for us both and did a video conference call so I could watch Melli work as we considered options. We tried out walls of white bricks, red bricks and the final choice – the mixed coloured one that allowed for shading.

My genius designer put them all together. Thank you, Melli, for creating a book cover that does it all. We went through a similar process when I decided to update Kenora Reinvented with fresh edits and a new cover that aligned more closely to the ideas I had for the next two books. I wonder how much of a break she’ll need before she’s ready to start designing the cover for Book 2, The Fifth Man ?

Young Kenora - False Starts

Fri, 30 Jan 2026 21:12:42 GMT

The first 'who am I' defining moment that I remember occurred in grade four, when Sandy Padano took a swing at my head with her Sunshine Family mom doll in the junior girl’s washroom. Sandy – whose dad was Spanish and had a complexion as dark as mine - screamed “spot-face, spot-face, you’re a dirty brownie, you’re a dirty brownie” until the gym teacher dragged her away and stashed her in the first aid room for a time out.

I knew what I looked like – sort of what you get in a cup of cocoa mixed with cream – half of my mom’s colouring, with a sprinkling of freckles, and half of my dad’s, with lots of curly hair thrown in.

Sandy knew she was in trouble, but it was me who barricaded herself in the girl's bathroom. I cried so hard I was at the gasping, damp-faced stage where I didn't care what happened next. No one had ever called me names before, but I knew it was wrong. I had no idea why, to Sandy, I was somehow less than what I had been the day before. That made my stomach hurt.

They’d had to interrupt the janitor’s smoke break so he could unscrew the hinges from the bathroom stall door. I remember he smelled of stale beer and all-purpose cleaner. My homeroom teacher finally coaxed me from my perch crouched on the toilet seat. The principal had whispered that Sandy ‘had issues’, but at nine, what the hell did that mean to me? For the rest of the afternoon, I was a mini-celebrity because my class got a spare while the teacher dealt with the parental aftermath with Sandy's harried mother. For a couple of days afterwards, though, the side-eye looks and grimaces from my classmates re-opened the word-wounds. After some brief commiseration, my parents told me to stop sulking and grow a thicker skin.

My brothers sometimes looked at me like I was from somewhere else. They were younger, and being boys, just didn't understand what it meant to be me. At the start of grade five, I got better at pretending to be oblivious to the hurts flung by folks I downgraded to unimportant or stupid. I convinced myself that I liked being ‘different’, and saved my tears for the darkness of my bedroom. On a more positive note, Sandy’s spittle-fuelled tirade fueled my determination to be the best at everything I could – school work, crafts, sports. What that got me was more names like ‘browner’ and ‘keener’.

"No one promised you a rose garden," my mother said one day as I was wallowing in my latest drama.

I’ve always been skittish about how other people saw me, what they thought of me, how I sounded when I spoke. I wanted to be the 'good girl', the 'smart girl' who could be counted on to help out an adult. Hence my transformation was to focus on what my teachers thought, rather than care about my classmates. But that came at a cost, because it was hard to keep track of which face I was wearing on a particular day.

I didn’t keep many friends for long, because I enjoyed winning too much, and I hadn't learned that letting someone else come out on top was a positive thing to do for maintaining relationships. I became what my dad called a ‘shapeshifting pleaser’, except when I deployed competitiveness and a smart mouth as a force field. Let’s just say I haven’t always been well defended. Which is a roundabout story about how the ‘me’ – Kenora Tedesco – began to be shaped by events I couldn’t control.

In grade six, I had stopped believing in the Easter Bunny and the Tooth Fairy. My younger brothers still bought the hype our parents dished out, but I refused to look under my pillow for cash when I lost a tooth, or write to Santa asking for stuff that I'd find on the top shelf of my parents' walk-in closet. I had no interest in a Lite-Bright or a can of Silly String, although if I could have wheedled an old book of magic spells, a short-wave radio setup or a $500 gift card for books out of mom and dad, I might have written out the best begging letter ever, on toilet paper.

Without me asking, though, my parents gifted me a Magic 8 Ball when I was ten. All I wanted to know was if Jimmy Tudhope, the star hockey player in grade seven liked me. The answer was, ‘Outlook hazy’, which in retrospect made sense, because he was in a different orbit than me. I should have been more curious and asked what would happen to me at 20, 30 and onwards. Why? Because the older I got, the more I took refuge in working harder at being the best I could be, even after that became a catchy recruiting slogan.

Did my life turn out peachy-keen better? Better than Sandy’s. A couple years ago, I discovered via a Facebook post from one of her cousins, that she’d spent half her life making clay pots and needlepoint lampshades in a secure facility up north. And Jimmy Tudhope had a brief career with an American minor league hockey team before flaming out in a sex-and-drugs scandal.

Some days, not having to adult, keep a budget and make any decisions seemed like not such a bad deal. The thing is, after I turned 40, and I began to be whip-sawed by events I could never have imagined, I realized that I had another chance to discover who I really was.

Walt Whitman said...

Fri, 30 Jan 2026 21:08:44 GMT

Interview with Francis Xavier (Jake) Barclay

Tue, 02 Dec 2025 14:47:52 GMT

“Saddle up, Pard. We’re going for a ride.” Bosco Poon, my partner in work and business for thirty-some years, sauntered into my office and dropped a pile of winter gear on my visitor’s chair.

“Don’t you look a sight?” I wanted to laugh but knew he’d kick my butt in one way or another if I did. He was sporting a camo tuque, a dark down parka, a red turtleneck and heavy bib overalls tucked into lace-up winter hiking boots.

“I gotta do some surveillance in the west end. “

“So?”

“Kenora’s off doing an interview and I need a second chair.” He headed for the door.

I was just about done for the day, anyway, and I needed a break. My mind was as nimble as cottage cheese. I shucked off my loafers and office clothes, put on a turtleneck and a pair of lined jeans and suited up. I let Seta, our office manager aka ‘she who must be obeyed’ know that we’d both be out for a while.

By the time I was done, Bosco was already in the parking lot with the motor running. His favourite 12-year old crap-brown van with the strategically placed rust spots and dents looked like a thousand other low-budget delivery trucks, but the interior was completely tricked out with ergonomic captain’s chairs, an electric motor that would keep us and our coffee warm even though the engine was turned off, front-rear-side mounted cameras feeding into a video system under the dash and fooler window coverings that made the vehicle look empty from the outside.

“What’s going down?”

He fiddled with his Bluetooth gizmo and peeled out of the driveway. “Check to see if the camera feed’s working.” Which I did. “Supplies.”

We had our mobile radios, cell phones and flashlights under the seats. I checked the insulated box between the front seats. It was stocked with a pair of steel thermoses, bottled water, a padded box containing sandwiches and brownies wrapped in cellophane. I knew from the smiley face sticker across the fold that Kenora, one of my private investigators, had baked them. I flipped through the papers on the clipboard hanging from a magnet on the coin tray. By the time I finished my inventory, he was wheeling onto the Gardiner Expressway westbound.

“Looks fine to me. What’s this about?”

“I’m looking for a Rumanian dude I used to know. Worked auto accident injury insurance scams.”

“You needed me for this?”

“Seems he’s graduated to defrauding banks. I got a tip about a location in the Junction. Plus, it’s been a while since we had a chat, Bud.”

“Chat? Sounds like you’re been in therapy.”

“Nope. Working at being married again. Figuring that out.”

“Okay, I’ll play. Whaddya want to ‘chat’ about, child-rearing?”

“No.”

“What? “

“You, Chum.”

“Why?”

“I’ve been picking up some weird vibes lately.”

“Like what?”

“You’re preoccupied. Pulled in. I’m not the only one to notice, by the way.”

“Who else’s noticed?

“Never mind. Your PSA up or something?”

“No.”

“Business problems?”

“No. This last year’s been the best ever. More clients, more investigations completed.”

“Uh huh.” Bosco waited until a southbound dump truck passed then pulled a left from Keele Street onto Glenlake Avenue. “So what’s been chapping your ass lately?” He got occupied searching for a parking spot on Oakmount Avenue.

“Nothing.” He positioned the van in halfway down a line of rehabbed row houses, tight between a dark Mercury Marquis and a rusted Ford Taurus. “You hear about…”

“Don’t care. What’s wrong with your life right now?”

“Geez. What’s with the Q&A?”

Instead of answering, he fired up the electric generator then took his time arranging his parka behind his head. He flipped open the storage box, pulled out one thermos for himself and handed one to me. I knew his would be one quarter Eagle brand condensed milk, his stakeout staple. Mine would be black, extra strong. I jammed the thermos back into the box. For some reason, I felt jacked up enough already not to need more caffeine.

He wasn’t going to let go. “You lost the ability to form rational thought?”

“This place brings back memories.”

He grunted. And waited. He was good at that.

The area he’d chosen used to be part of our patrol zone when we were teamed up in 12 Division. Lots of B&Es, thefts from parked cars, fence line disputes, some ethnic sports grudge stuff. We were on the west side of the park and I knew it was a long cold walk to Keele Street and a bus stop. Did they still run after midnight? I hunkered down, figuring I’d outwait the stubborn bastard. Half an hour passed. Bosco mainly stared out the window. Hungry, I fished out a sandwich, then had a brownie and a cup of java.

“You put this together?”

“Yeah, with some help.”

“It’s good. Remember those clapped-out surveillance vans we spent so much time in?”

“Uh huh.”

“Did I tell you the one about…”

“You forget I asked you a question?” He was getting testy. I couldn’t figure out why. I thought things had been going okay overall.

“What the… you gonna talk about paradigm shifts next?”

“Don’t demean our friendship with that crap, Bro.”

He turned his body towards me, propping his knee against the gear shift. He folded his arms tight across his chest and leaned against the car door. In the light reflected from the street lamp, his face looked more like an axe blade than usual.

“Tell me what’s going on. You’ll feel better.” Bosco was going all Reid Interrogation Technique on me. I could keep trying to fake him out, but that had about as much chance of success as me getting him to do a line of blow or an Aqua Velva shooter. If I really pushed back, he’d punch me in the mouth and make me walk back to the office without my coat. “Just say it.”

“Fine,” I said. “Hanging around with Audrey and Kenora has made you soft.”

“And whatever’s got your globes all shrunk up’s got you so confused you don’t know whether to crap or wind your watch.”

“I wish I still smoked.”

“Audrey’s the best thing that ever happened to me. Kenora’s the best thing that’s ever happened to you. Admit it.”

“Ok.” I turned my head to stare out the side window. Bosco’s relentlessness was beginning to give me the heebie-jeebies.

“I know you better than your mama ever did, Jake Barclay. Quit fuckin’ around. What gives?”

I blew out a breath, fogging the window. “It’s real simple, Bos. I’m losing my edge.”

“What do you mean, ‘edge’?”

“When I played high school all and varsity hockey, they used to call me the ‘Cleaver’, because I could cut through anything that got in my way. Lately, it’s like I’m getting soft. Soggy. Maybe it’s an age thing.”

“Pecker dysfunction?” Now that made me laugh out loud. He said it all serious and leaned in with a Sigmund Freud stare, all thoughtful and frowning.

“Hell, no. You?”

“My wife just had a kid who looks exactly like me. So, no. Backatcha.”

“I’m…You know what my life used to be like? How I caught Sara-Jane in bed with Lloyd Schomberg after I helped put him away for that boiler-room operation in Woodbridge? Her showing up in the office brought all that shit back, but worse.”

“WGAF? She’s been gone for what? Eight, nine years? Why the rebound jim-jams now?”

“Kenora’s determined to find that little shit of a brother-in-law of hers.”

“So?”

“I don’t want her contaminated by anything having to do with my ex-wife.”

“Why would she be?”

“She’s so bloody-minded. And naïve. Thinks she can solve shit with research and a smile.”

“She’s doing okay so far. You getting all Sir Lancelot for her?”

“Yeah. That’s what’s wrong,” I said, turning to face him. “She told me you guys had the ‘partner talk’. I never had a relationship with anyone I worked with before.”

“Me either. You envious or something?”

“I don’t know, Bos.”

He poured himself more coffee. Even with the heater on, the air was cold enough so that the hot brew steamed up the windows on the inside.

“Is it kind of funky weird or does it make you horny all the time?” Before I could answer, he held up his hand. “Let me tell you what I see. When there’s more than three or four people around, no one who didn’t know you as well as I do or her, for that matter – they wouldn’t be able to tell something’s been going on. She’s deferential, you’re respectful. Most of the time, there’s not much direct eye contact beyond what’s necessary. But when it’s just the three of us, I’ll tell you, every once in a while, it’s like the two of you are connecting with some laser-rope-thing and the room feels real small and I get invisible. Then it’s gone.”

“I know. I’ve never had that experience before. No demands, no crazy, either.”

“When I told Audrey about it, she got all mooshy and had to blow her nose and then she started kissing me like my face was candy. I’ll be honest. I got wood.”

“Kenora does that to me. Watching her mouth when she talks… I mean, I want to hear what she says…”

“Most of the time, eh? Bet I know what you’re thinking about the rest of the time.”

“True. I guess what freaks me out is that it’s so…undramatic. She’s such a pleasure to be around. I feel comfortable. But she’s not, you know, doing anything to make that happen. When that Mitch guy was stalking her, some of the shit that went down was making me crazy. But I had to let her find her way. She made me promise not to intervene.”

“And you left it alone.”

“Yes. Then I found out you were pulling some strings in the background. Thanks for that, by the way.”

“Nothing to it, Partner. I got your back: I got her back. You guys have mine. It is what it is. You remember the last time you were happy? Not sloppy, Oprah-happy. Deep in your guts.”

I bought some time by fussing with the thermos then refilling my coffee cup. “It was after Kenora’s dad’s funeral, when she found out a big piece of information about the mystery man. Then at her house, after her ex had sent back all the cards and family pictures with her face cut out of them.”

“Why then?”

“I could be there for her, even though she didn’t expect me to do anything. She wants nothing from me.”

“And?”

“And I want to give her everything. She’s so good for me. To me. I’m scared shitless that I’ll mess it up.”

Bosco wiped his mouth with a napkin, tidied up the centre console then stared into my eyes. “You won’t.” He started the engine. “When we were on the Job, you were the steadiest dude I knew. Seldom put a foot wrong. Always reliable.” He did a quick shoulder check then wheeled the van into a U-turn. “Learn to trust yourself again. That’s all any of us want my friend.”

What To Do With Book 2?

Tue, 02 Dec 2025 14:35:25 GMT

Note: I seriously started writing The Fifth Man (Book 2 in the Kenora & Jake series) while I was in Ajijic, Mexico in 2019. This post was written in April 2020, when we were still in the thick of pandemic restrictions.

I’ve read many articles about how we, as writers, should approach stories where Covid-19 is part of the setting. To include or not to include the pandemic in my novels, that’s the question?

Twelve months ago, who could have predicted (and been believed) that life around the globe would sputter to a slowdown such as we’ve never seen. Investment portfolios are in ruins, travel is done for now, holidays and special celebrations are being held via video link and grocery shopping is an exercise in managing personal safety. Thousands of sewists around the world are making cloth pandemic masks and surgical caps because local supplies have run short. Of course, if you write dystopian, fantasy or sci-fi genres, then our current situation may make your world-building easier. For me, not so much.

Kenora Tedesco, the female protagonist in my novels, is a private investigator. The house she bought after her divorce is on a small lake north of Toronto. That means she either drives south or takes the commuter train to get to work. She works for a company located in mid-town Toronto – Barclay, Benford & Friday. The firm specializes in industrial risk mitigation. Her love interest, Jake, a retired Metro Police Superintendent, is CEO of the company. The people he employs include lawyers, former police officers, accountants and forensics specialists.

Because she’s still considered a rookie, her mentor Bosco Poon, who worked with Jake at Metro and is his business partner, sends Kenora out and about various locations in Toronto to hone her skills at going undercover, interviewing informants or collecting information. Learning to interpret body language and determine deception requires face-to-face interactions.

Private investigation is not a desk job. Kenora’s in constant contact with her co-workers, folks on the street, clients, etc. She hangs out at courthouses, restaurants and malls where people she needs to track, investigate or talk to might congregate. There are social events she attends with Jake to schmooze existing and potential clients. She works out, goes to the market and the public library. And she has friends and family, too.

I considered whether to have Kenora and Jake isolated due to the virus. Separately, not together. In fact, I started writing a piece where they conducted business from a distance. But it just didn’t work. It felt fake. They have to be out and about to carry on their budding romance. BB&F staff have to investigate people, places and things. Bad stuff has to happen so that she can get herself out of scrapes. Wearing a mask and social distancing as plot devices or sources of conflict? No.

I unearthed an old draft where I had her racing home due to a family emergency. Old, as in August 2010. Can you believe it – that’s how long it has taken for me to get to this point! But that was before I realized I’d crammed two books into one. To get one book into a manageable, marketable size, I had to spend a few years surgically separating Book 1 and Book 2. Originally, the plot device/tension-builder was the interruption of her travels by the eruption of the Eyjafjallajökull volcano in Iceland. I would have had to set the story in 2010, which would have required too much research and rewriting. I abandoned that idea.

After months of cogitation and false starts, I’m back to my original story line that takes place starting in 2018. There was enough going on in the world to keep things interesting, plot-wise. But freedom to meet and travel are important enough that volcanoes and pandemics just won’t work for me.

Kenora doesn’t need a pandemic. She can generate enough action on her own while she tries to be the best PI she can be! So it’s back to the keyboard – not excuses.

Improper Parts

Tue, 25 Nov 2025 18:09:38 GMT

The old man thrills to read the dirty bits

where they’re most unexpected.

Book shop displays,

pale pages splayed wanton behind glass

for all to see those slight sweet smuts;

words that sound like what they mean -

the awe of throb; the thrust of pearly breast,

an itch to ‘b’, the hush of saucy whispers

simply nothing – not even sweet unless

she’s fifteen and fresh, her ink unsmudged.

Cookbooks are better than prose,

he finds, exposed riots of flushed cooks

and rosier fruits – tumbling cherries

burst with scarlet sap,

the candied apples ooze,

caramel toffee drapes a spoon;

apricots slump over-ripe on a steamy counter

in a drizzled honey bun kitchen -

salacious orgies of what ifs, could be.

A lap of pooled untempered chocolate,

gauchely dark in its shadowy bowl; culturing yogurt

teased from tepid milk, turned swollen and bulbous

in bellied jars like the softened shape of virgins.

After the slather of soft veiny cheese, the smack of cocktails

and the seep of fruit juice on diner’s chin, then tussles at the table.

Seduced by sweat peas bathed in butter,

with lobster tails and a melt of cheddar spuds, the climax

a shameless tart of passionfruit and mangoes,

An errant breeze - the pages whorl meaty invitations

to eat, slurp, stroke berry nipples stemmed by fingers, nails dirty

from the dumpster. The words keep coming.

A breathy stain of ‘O’ on the window, a blotch of forehead grease

- the old man hitches up the cord

that holds his pants and turns away,

packing an appetite uncontained by empty pockets.

Just When You Think Things Are Really Bad…

Tue, 25 Nov 2025 18:03:57 GMT

There’s something about the longer days warming the last snows of winter…poring over seed catalogues and getting ready for spring…considering stowing away the heavier sweaters and testing out some cotton shirts again. All of these mundane activities remind me of how, after 13 years, I still miss my mother so much.

This is part one of a letter I’d written to a woman I used to know, who’d told me that when a parent dies, it frees you to become a more complete adult. I’d loathed her with a passion for a long time, but like the intensity of sorrow you feel when someone you love leaves this earth, rage passes too.

Hello, Leslie. I’m at home for a couple of days, trying to get my bearings. I sent off the revised copy to the Lazy Writer some time ago but have not heard anything back. I guess that ‘Lazy’ was well chosen. We’ll have to wait and see, I guess.

You know, life is very odd. I have been wallowing in misery for years and more recently, obsessing about the decay of my decades-old marriage. I had just got past the stage where I was boringly woeful and had reached the point of feeling some measure of control (isn’t that what the playwrights call hubris?) or at least a state of acceptance about what has been happening. Until last Friday, that is.

I received the dreaded middle of the night telephone call from my cousin, who said that my mother had collapsed in her bathroom and had been taken to hospital. I was lying in bed in the dark, trying to absorb the news and praying like a mad fiend that, above all, she would not have any pain, when my cousin phoned back to say that Mom had died. It was like… I was frozen – minimal body functions, slow thought processes, general . Then the emergency room nurse called. He described for me what had happened – they thought it was a massive coronary. She was probably gone by the time the paramedics reached her little house (only 3 or 4 minutes elapsed) and although they tried for 45 minutes to resuscitate her, they were unsuccessful. My aunt (her sister) was with her at home and in the hospital, too, and Mom was surrounded by close friends to the end. They say she looked very peaceful and that her body stayed warm for a long time after her heart finally stopped and they pronounced her. She did not struggle to stay. I’d hoped she’d never leave us, but she was always a strong-willed woman.

When my brothers and I arrived on Sunday afternoon (the day after), her place settings for breakfast and lunch were on the dining room table, beside her prayer book. Her address books were sitting there as well, where we could see them right away. The house was neat and there was no sign that this was unexpected, which made us feel abysmally sad but somehow comforted. She was incredibly organized in terms of her will and lists of who was to do what and get what. There was a bit of a kerfuffle because the medical examiner was concerned there may have been some malpractice. Mom had been to her family physician on the Tuesday. He’d found a heart murmur and ordered an emergency EKG but because it was Canada Day and the Stampede was on (hold your horses, folks – everything grinds to a halt for the ‘chucks’!) the test results did not get read. Ok, we said, so what’s the point now anyway – she can’t be helped. Her instructions were specific – no autopsy, no embalming. But the ME was making noises about ‘going in’ to find out what really happened. Uh, no.

Now picture this – three adult Type AAs with the suspicion that there definitely was some miscue because of health care funding cuts and a damned cowboy festival. We tracked down the doctor – at a christening, ironically – who was understandably anxious: we spoke at length with the hospital, the medical examiner’s investigator. We were on the edge of a revolt because they did not want to release her body and the thought of her lying in the cold (her arthritis – I know, not rational) was too awful to contemplate (before they took her to the morgue, one of her friends asked if she could put socks on Mom, but was told no, no one else but the ME could authorize anything to be done with/to the body). And of course, we are grieving but unrelenting and articulate, as only Torontonians bent on doing what Mom wanted could be, and on the edge of outrage that we were being stymied, can be. Once we mentioned the L word (litigation) and indicated that we would sue if her wishes were not complied with, the assembled bureaucratic multitudes had the insight to sign off very quickly (with user fees, of course!!!).

Thank goodness for the diversion, though. Just cleaning up her house and organizing her possessions was so very very difficult – she had little sticky tags on stuff and had left lots of lists. But it was the ordinary things that we all remembered – a cast iron fry pan from the farm, cutlery, my baby clothes from 52 years ago, clothing. And the pictures – dating back to when she was a child in 1926. Her maternal grandparents’ marriage certificate from 1892. She kept every card, drawing and letter we ever sent her. And I mean every one! The only thing we didn’t locate were the letters that she and my father must have written when he was away during WWII, because we’d found out by accident that she’d known him for four years before they’d married, and they were both scribblers extraordinaire. She also left some journals and notebooks recording her daily activities, so I’ll go through them when I am up to it.

I guess the point of this long introduction, is that once again, Mom showed me that just when you think you have reached a stage of being able to bear it all, when you feel, in your arrogance, that you know what pain really is, and you ask how could God burden you with anything worse, there is, in fact, something worse. I loved my mother with all my heart. She was the focal point of my life. Whatever I and my brothers and our children are, we owe to her.

My father, who was a lovely man somewhere deep in his chilly poetic soul, left her with four small children in the early 60s, in a small, very Caucasian Ontario farming town, far from her family and friends in Quebec. She didn’t drive and had no skills (farmer’s wife, mother and penny-pincher didn’t count for much), she was black and she was alone without the cachet of being a widow. I remember as a teenager thinking that at least he could have done that for her – died, so that she would have the dignity of being pitied because of something more noble than him having too much emotional sensibility and being too weak to be a proper husband and father, through better and worse. For my Mom, there was never any ‘richer’ back then but there certainly was ‘poorer’, for a long time. She went back to school to become a certified nursing assistant. This woman, whom I remember him calling stupid when his own inadequacy was in full flight, came first in her class and was valedictorian. She won all sorts of awards. Ah, Mom.

But what good did that do her? She worked nights for many years so that she could still be home with us during the day, when we needed her. The toll that took on her was tremendous…. to be continued.

Senses

Tue, 25 Nov 2025 17:58:51 GMT

Sound:

The misshapen amber ooze inside the stained tissue paper crackles to the counter top in a spray of needles and dried gum. It’s as if the clock has struck three and it’s July 1998 again. The crusty shoulders of Canmore’s hulking Three Sisters mountains are cloaked in rustling pine scrub, alive with the rude exuberance of birdsong. The slow footfalls of our procession are muffled to sad silence by thick leaf-mold on the winding down-sloped path. Brilliant sunshine clatters hot and wrong through creaking pines. Our eyes are buffeted by reflecting heavy shards of copper from the urn. The Bow River – merely a singing stream here – chuckles through mossy gaps in whispering shadows, absorbing the murmurs tumbling from our stiffly praying lips. The last handfuls of my mother’s ashes eddy past a clot of torn red rose petals, swirling over the chattering pebbles and away. Far away. The world will never resonate for me, the way it did before.

Taste:

The gritty brew frothing in the worn clay cup smelled confusing. At first, the lukewarm liquid tasted of stale root beer with a poke of powdered ginger. Then, for a second, the ‘ow!’ of pulverized hot pepper seeds clawed at the back of the throat, preceding the solace of bitter chocolate coating smoldering taste buds with sensually dark first aid. Competing with the biting oily tang of Seville orange peel, the musty sweetness of ground cinnamon teased the edges of the tongue and disappeared in a salty flourish.

Smell:

My love is always with me. The steaming iron planes wrinkles from the grey-striped work shirt. Fresh fumes of detergent, fabric softener and baked cloth gust from the ironing board with each hot pass over sleeves, then collar and yoke. Ah! There it is again! Beneath the fragrant tangle of clothes-scents hides the layered secret smell from my beloved’s body. Another swipe of the iron, this time with a shot of steam. The fragrant billowing haze transports that faint exquisite whiff of pheromones to my nose. They stealthily signal-trigger receptors deep inside my prehistoric brain. The fuse ignites, then sizzles through bone from head to groin and back again, in a shock of fiery recollection.

Touch:

The pads of his thick fingers burnish the knobs of my spine, imprinting heated ovals from nape of neck to swelling curve of waist. A heated slide of palms hovers over shoulders, feather light blows teasing a rush of pulse to the surface of trembling flesh. The vibrato of insistent stroking erases the contours of collar bones. He grounds the prongs of his electric fingers in the fold between my ribs and breast and sparks a breathy hymn from parted lips. His probing humid tongue maps moist paths across my earlobes, then trails from cheeks to cleft of chin downwards, ever downwards. Finally, finally, he captures my melting lips in the taut tasteful prison of a kiss.

Sight:

Ten days ago, the Christmas pine glowed in the living room window. Pretty parcels tumbled in precious disarray under branches cosseted with garlands, heavy with lights and baubles. Now tossed into the sulk of a January afternoon, half buried with green garbage bags of wrapping paper, the stripped brittle branches poke out of the soiled plowed mounds at the end of the driveway. A spill of spiky twisted needles fills the paper boy’s boot prints on a couple of crushed cones. Random tags of forgotten silver flutter in the sharp breeze. Sap congeals where the bark of the trunk was broken by the teeth of the tree stand. Only a muddle of rabbit tracks circles the forest flotsam.

Let Me Count the Ways I Motivate My Protagonist

Tue, 25 Nov 2025 17:51:14 GMT

I’ve been using the reference texts produced by Angela Ackerman and Becca Puglise for longer than I can remember. Once they introduced One Stop for Writers , there was no going back to gazing out the window searching for inspiration. I may have the ‘writing gene’, like other members in my family, but inspiration does not always come easily. Or it’s stale and unimaginative. This double whammy of writer resources has solved almost all of my technical/craft-type problems. Unfortunately, they can’t get me into my seat with my fingers pressed to the keyboard, laying down pages of attention-grabbing words.

Instead, I sneak a chunk of time here and there and frantically try to capture a new scene, plot point or character study in between other things. But here’s where it gets even more interesting. Tools, tools and more tools!

Proving Someone Wrong, Pursuing Mastery and Surviving Loss are all related. Kenora is motivated to prove herself to herself, and to all the naysayers from her past who’d not believe her capable. Sticking with that motivation was difficult because at first, she failed as much as she succeeded. Standing up for what she wanted made her stronger, though. Kenora stopped being so fearful nd discovered she could make her own success, small step by small step.

The too-well-dressed owner of the industrial waste collection company she temped at made overtures, but when she shared how renovations for her newly purchased lakefront fixer-upper would drive her to the poorhouse, he overlooked her rejection and gave her a list of off-the-books contractors who owed him favours. Were his motives pure? Were the workers who only took cash legit? Getting her draughty windows and sagging roof replaced wasn’t the moral issue it might once have been, when Kenora had other choices.

Wanting to succeed and having to succeed to survive are great motivators. During her third interview for a job as a trainee private investigator, Kenora doesn’t just pour on the charm, she markets her skills, experience and maturity. Why? She wants that job. And her skeptical future boss isn’t hard to look at, either. Yes, he hires her. And another cycle of challenges begins. But more on that in another post.

At the end of the novel, Kenora rescues herself ( read the book to find out how ). Sure, I wrote the story, but I relied on knowing my character well, in part because of the resources Angela and Becca have created. The depth of support available from One Stop for Writers helped keep me on track!

The annual subscription has been a hugely valuable investment in my writing.

 By the way, you can sign up for a free two-week trial. Go do that right now!

My ‘Own Voice’ Protagonist – Kenora Tedesco

Tue, 25 Nov 2025 16:23:53 GMT

Edited article, originally published in Crime Scene Magazine, A Sisters in Crime Toronto Chapter Publication

I’ve read many series featuring female sleuths like Kinsey Milhone, Mary Russell, Stephanie Plum, Precious Ramotswe and Frankie Drake. None of them resembled the character who’d been inhabiting my creative brain. Wrong age, race, background, values, locale, timeframe.

Toni Morrison said, “If there’s a book that you want to read but it hasn’t been written yet, then you must write it.” For me, that ‘it’ was Kenora Reinvented.

The adage says, “Write what you know”. Hence, Kenora Tedesco is mixed race, black-identifying and middle-aged. Why? Simple. I didn’t have the knowledge or motivation to convincingly write her as a white woman. And despite the urging of an agent who read several early drafts, I couldn’t create an angsty female under thirty who preferred takeout to a well-cooked meal she made herself (or had someone handsome and sexy to cook for her). I’ve been writing Kenora stories since 2008. We’ve grown older together.

At forty-two, Kenora Tedesco is the kind of woman you’d notice at an event. Attractive, tall, tastefully dressed, she’s standing off to one side holding a glass of wine, attentive to the ebb and flow of people around her. To all appearances, she’s got it together.

Turn back the clock two years, when her tidy suburban existence imploded. Her mother died, her husband dumped her for someone he’d met while Kenora was playing recreational hockey, she got fired and became houseless. Challenged? You bet. Her score on the Life Stress Inventory was off the charts.

While some of the details of Kenora’s heroine’s journey into investigations, mystery and second-chance romance may be unique, the major mid-life events she experienced were not. People are exposed to change all the time. They make choices: some are easier, others are gut-wrenching. I wanted her to struggle through setbacks and ‘fish out of water’ scenarios so readers could resonate with her personal and professional growth.

Because I’ve worked in the Canadian policing sector for decades, I’m familiar with the frameworks officers operate in. I needed Kenora to have leeway to get into and out of scrapes using her unique talents. Her former job as a middle manager at a Toronto university was boring but paid well. What better career-swerve for a bookish former soccer-mom than starting over in an unfamiliar field, taking on cases law enforcement wouldn’t necessarily investigate? Free-wheeling action, escapades, learning new stuff, glamour! Yes and no. Private investigators must abide by a Code of Conduct and follow procedures. Craft detailed plans. Remain unobtrusive. Take copious notes. All that rule following chafed.

Kenora’s mentor Ingraham (Bosco) Poon and her new boss (Francis Xavier (Jake) Barclay) are former senior police officers. They had high expectations. ‘Winging it’—one of her go-to strategies—was no longer an option. When rookie mistakes put her safety, job and a second-chance romance at risk, did she cave? No. A problem-solver, she’s smart, competent and resourceful. She’s also stubborn, skittish and insecure. We all know women like that. Good at what they do. Imperfect but determined. That’s why writing about her was so satisfying.

Kenora Reinvented features a feisty, ‘seasoned’ protagonist with scars and plenty of life skills. She starts out thinking she can go it alone, but after several potentially disastrous missteps, she learns to trust her colleagues. With their help and her own creativity and competence, she saves herself. A true heroine in her own sphere, she earns the nickname, Ms. Intrepid.

That’s the book I wanted to read and ended up writing.

Viola – About Me

Tue, 25 Nov 2025 03:50:59 GMT

In 2000, once we realized that the new century wasn’t going to destroy all of our technology, I decided that I wanted to learn to play a musical instrument. I had an old violin my dad had acquired somewhere, and it had always struck me as exotic and special to be able to make lovely music with a bow and a small wooden box with strings.

I was living in a small town before the days of Google. I asked my local librarians if they knew anyone who taught music. They eagerly referred me to a woman who lived in a town twenty minutes away.

Was I a successful student? Well, let’s say that I was keen. My instructor was accomplished at piano, violin and viola. I was her only adult pupil. She was also incredibly patient as I sawed my bow every week through rudimentary nursery tunes. Never discouraged, I did learn a few tunes. I switched to a viola, a larger instrument, because holding that dainty violin under my chin made me feel clumsy. I loved the deep sound and the way the vibrations of the chords resonated through my body.

My biggest impediment was that I could not read music fast enough to keep time with the rhythm of the songs I weas trying to learn. I can speed read literature like a champ, but those black and white notes on the page were truly a foreign language to me. I resorted to memorization. That worked for a while but whenever a new song was introduced, I felt like I was back in kindergarten.

What I found out later is that my instructor had a class of musical prodigies. Most were under twelve years old. They could decode the notes of the most complex piece like they were reading a comic book. We had a common task though – preparing for an outdoor concert at a park by the Barrie waterfront.

On a glorious summer afternoon, the rest of the class and I played a mini concert. It had taken me all summer to memorize Pachelbel’s Canon in D Minor but once I got carried away by the beauty of the music, I could get through playing it without stumbling too badly. Our audience was an assortment of parents and random visitors who applauded loudly after we were done.

Whenever I look at that photo and remember how I stood out from my young music-mates, I smile with pride that I didn’t embarrass myself at my first—and last—viola recital.

Unquiet

Tue, 18 Nov 2025 15:50:30 GMT

Suspended over Gull Lake is a long cedar dock that juts away from the moss-filmed rocky shoulders of the shore. A scarred wooden rowboat is trussed at the bow to a rusted wharf ring. Dew-damp spider webs across the gunwales shiver in the breath of breeze. A bloated, cocktail-cherry sun pushes through a jagged cleft between the mountains. Shadowy evergreens matt the hilly cheeks of the Muskoka Forest like a weekend beard. My footfalls on the warming planks, though light and tentative, send shivers across the skin of the placid lake. Scent from the shady edge of the dock swirls over me – cedar, mud, the lavender I planted years ago. When I still myself and shut my eyes, the busy silence resonates against my eardrums. It’s five thirty in the morning in the middle of July and I’m all alone.

I turn my head towards a rustling sound at my back. There’s something under the red currant bush. I stand quietly, foggy breath swirling out of my mouth, wishing I’d worn my glasses. Finally, a pair of skunks waddles across the path leading from the cottage. They smell something and stop to look at me poised in the middle of the dock, then – perhaps because they, too, sense that I’ve lost track of my own importance - they amble, tails down, into the brush behind the boathouse.

The sun is that much higher when I turn back with a crick in my neck from motionlessness. The marshmallow haze coating the far shore is breaking up beyond the shallows, disturbed by the crowds of mouths of feeding fish. Further up the hill, round bales of fog tumble down the gravel wash, unraveling to nothing over the felled logs by the beaver dam. As I shake off the last clogs of sleep and give up on keeping my feet dry, I catch sight of the deeps beyond the diving platform warming to navy serge under the sunlight. Someone told me long ago – was it Frankie or Pa – that if you tilt your head to one side and half-way squint, the first ripples of the day look like fractures on the plate-glass water. It’s true; they do. Why can’t I remember who said that? It probably doesn’t matter.

The misty bits and all the hard edges of dark have burned off to golden air. A toilet flushes in the cabin. Up by the ridge at the end of the lake where the days begin, a red-tailed hawk coasts the thermals then plunges into the trees. There’s a scream, a momentary hush, then the marsh-quiet starts to crack under the catcalls of other wild things in the morning.

Amidst that smell of rotting leaves the earth is giving up its cool. Something mottled and sinuous glides around my right ankle and disappears under the dock before I can focus my eyes; a hare bolts for the trees from yesterday’s fire pit.

Screen doors slam. The sharp, high morning chatter of kids skittering across the night-cold kitchen floor cuts what’s left of the silence and I smell the fumes of perked coffee. A trio of crows argues over the broken carcass of a crab behind the old boathouse. The lake is alive with endless rags of glittering waves. I, too, will have another day.

Getting Organized to Write

Mon, 17 Nov 2025 22:47:15 GMT

I’ve been writing short and long fiction for decades, but I never was much of a planner. I have boxes of dollar store notebooks and steno pads crammed with notes and story starter paragraphs that went nowhere. Others were incorporated into my completed novels or they are part of works in progress (and I have dozens!).

My go-to software was Microsoft Word on a Windows computer. However, the longer my documents got, the more unruly Word behaved. My default was to pound out a few thousand words, give the file a name and date then save it. The end result was a messy directory with multiple folders. I didn’t like that disorganized flea market vibe. Using Explorer to search for word strings was maddening.

Arranging my ideas into a logical flow before starting a project was time-consuming and took the joy out of writing. I struggled with Excel spreadsheets, spending more hours configuring columns and cells than creating stories. Then I tried Pages. While it was less frustrating, I was impatient with the learning curve. I went back to Word. Easier? Not really. The original outline for the first draft of my novel ended up as an eighteen-page table. Large tables are manageable as eels – the content boxes change shape as you add text. Besides, the final draft of Kenora Reinvented didn’t end up conforming to the outline.

Here’s what I did to get organized.

I switched from Windows computers to an Apple iMac desktop and MacBook Pro laptop. I won’t go into rhapsodies about how seamless the Apple ecosystem is compared to what I was using previously, but for someone like me with an undisciplined mind, streamlining my writing process made life easier.

Collecting ideas. Apple Notes, Drafts app. Both can be installed on handheld devices, laptops and desktops and sync data automatically. Drafts has an excellent dictation app and a browser widget that lets you save URLs and web copy. I can also Airdrop items between devices, take a screenshot, bookmark websites, save into the apps or as a PDF in Books.

Planning. Story Planner ($10 USD). Works on iPhone, iPad and Mac. You can access your project outlines from any of your devices. You can also choose where you want your files saved – on your computer, in the cloud, etc. I downloaded Plottr ($25 USD), a tool featuring drag & drop visual timelines, index cards, character/place tracking, outline builder and templates (12 Chapter mystery, Hero’s Journey, etc.)

Writing. Scrivener ($67 CAD – regular deals for Black Friday). Windows, IOS and Mac versions and plenty of free templates. Clean interface. Composing is a breeze. You can drag and drop scenes, collect research, links, photos and maps. Don’t get discouraged by the learning curve – there’s a 30-day trial period.

Storage. Dropbox ($144 USD a year for 2T) I save, share and access files from my phone, iPad and computers. I use Selective Sync and only save the Dropbox files I use regularly to my devices. I also use the Sync software (Canadian) because I’m afraid of losing a single document, iCloud for short pieces and photos, Google and Amazon photos (free but not always user friendly).

Formatting. Vellum ($339 CAD – to produce unlimited print and eBooks). Only available for Mac OS. Easy to import a text document, format then upload for ebooks. And print books of various sizes. The software gets better all the time. Yes, it’s a big investment but it can also save time and money. There’s a free trial available.

Writing materials. Dollarama is an under-appreciated resource for ‘old school’ writing supplies like notebooks and pens.

My Grandmother’s Shoes 1

Sun, 09 Nov 2025 03:02:26 GMT

I remember 1956. I remember 1956 because I was young, growing fast and usually hungry.

My youngest brother – a chubby, happy guy – had been born in February. Those were the days when pregnant women were put to sleep to give birth, and children weren’t allowed inside the hospital, except as patients. My dad held my hand as we stood in the thick snow outside the nursery window and a matron in a long-sleeved starched uniform held up the blue-swaddled bundle as if he was a ham on display. I remember that I wore a dark brown hand-me-down coat with a fake black Persian lamb collar. My rubber over-the-shoe boots zipped up from the toes halfway up my skinny calves. I remember that my fingers and toes always felt thick and stiff in winter, no matter how many pairs of hand-knitted mittens or socks I wore.

We were living in an old farmhouse in Ontario Wine Country. My father – always the dreamer – had spied the ‘for sale’ advertisement in a weekend newspaper in Montreal, and had decided that if he couldn’t be a coffee farmer in Liberia (thank you, Mom, for saying no to that insanity), he could be a fruit farmer in the Niagara Peninsula. Back then, the Queen Elizabeth highway was more like a two-lane suburban road, but he set out after his machinist job on a Friday night, drove the old Studebaker half the night, walked the 16 acres and decided to buy it. Without consulting my mother, of course, because she undoubtedly would have said that the idea was madness.

We left behind all of the family we’d ever had – uncles, aunts, cousins, and our community – to start over in rural Ontario. We were dirt poor but stone rich on that blighted piece of property. There was a house – barely. It was poorly insulated, with a leviathan furnace in the basement complete with a coal bin. Thin concrete floors over dirt. No running water – unless you’d call an indoor pump in the cellar, ‘running’. No indoor toilet, no central heating. An attic that turned into a sauna in the summer and grew icicles in the winter.

My mother was a city girl, convent school educated. She didn’t have a driver’s licence and was stuck at the farmhouse with four children under twelve. I was the eldest, but oblivious as only a bookworm on the cusp of puberty could be. She died before I could gather the courage to ask her what it was really like back then, and push for her to tell me the unvarnished truth.

With a family of six and no indoor plumbing, my mother was seldom still. Sometimes though, after school, when the baby was asleep, Mom would stop what she was doing for a moment and sit at the kitchen table with her hands in her lap, staring into the air. I’d ask what was wrong. She’d smile a tiny smile and wrap me in a mother-fragrant hug. Her hair was soft against my cheek. Mom would give me that special raised eyebrow.

“I have something to show you,” she’d say, as if it were the first time ever. “Go wash your hands and face.”

She’d flip up the kitchen curtain to make sure my younger brothers were within earshot and hadn’t impaled themselves on a farm implement. Then she’d turn off the stove and climb slowly up the narrow wooden stairs to the attic, wiping her fingers on her apron, her shoes squeaking on the rubber risers. The narrow stairway smelled of soup. She would stop about four steps from the top and wait for a minute, head bowed, her breath loud in the shadowy passage.

Beside her right shoulder was a door sunk into the dark wood paneling. There was a small brass handle in the middle, with pointy edges like a small bird’s beak. She’d turn the handle, then fold the door back so that it wouldn’t bang. I’d push by to stand a step higher up so I could see inside. She’d stretch her arm in – it was as if her fingers had eyes – and she’d tug the rusty chain that dangled from the rafters. The lemony light would cast her smooth brown features into sharp shadows. Dust swirled around the bare bulb, disappearing deep into the shadowy attic and reappearing in the beams of light from random gaps in the shingles. Our breath fluttered the cobwebs like pale sails. I remember shivering, wondering if we were disturbing someone who hid there and who’d only come out when the door wasn’t open.

My Grandmother’s Shoes 2

Sat, 08 Nov 2025 20:22:57 GMT

One hip pressed against the wall, her palm warm on my shoulder to steady herself, she’d ease out a square leather case with silver fittings glittering at the corners. It had one of those swing-down catches with a little crooked tooth. The tooth snugged into a metal loop on the front. We’d sit down on the stairs, knees touching, the box between us. She’d nod and gesture ‘go ahead’ with two fingers. I’d wipe my hands on the lap of my brick-patterned skirt then gently brush time’s dust off the top with the hem of my blouse, swing up the silver hook and lift the lid.

She’d usually turn away for a while to stare over my head at something I couldn’t see. I’d guessed perhaps she was seeing ghosts, but when I looked up the stairs, there was nothing there.

“My mother was a dainty woman,” Mom would say softly, wiping her eyes with the corner of her apron, not looking at me.

Somehow, my self-absorbed self understood that I should be reverent, that I shouldn’t rush. So we’d sit in the dusty quiet and stare into the shadows of the box, waiting. I shivered when I touched the flimsy wrappings, held loosely with thin faded ribbons or plain parcel string, knowing they held her memories. The rustling papers stirred up a confusion of scent – lavender, lemon, rose and then leather.

I lifted out the treasures, one by one. A thin Blessed Virgin Mary cradling baby Jesus between her ivory arms. Packs of brittle greeting cards with stained edges, red-striped airmail letters cramped with Dad’s blue-black writing, over-stamped with ‘Allied Forces Overseas’. A carved wooden Sphinx the size of my hand, branded ‘made in Egypt’. Three faded roses bound with lace to a slim silvery wrist-band. A dark brown baby shoe worn down at the heels.

I picked up a photograph tucked against a corner. The date in the pinked margin read February 1938. The camera had caught her dark oval face and her unblinking gaze under a solemn brow. Grandmother’s thick wavy hair was pinned up under a fancy hat. Her fingers gripped the back of a velvet chair. Less than 12 months later, she would sit in a dentist’s chair for a wisdom tooth extraction and not awaken from the anesthetic. My mother was 19 years old, guardian three young siblings to keep safe from the social service authorities who wanted them sent to an orphanage. She bore the weight of that death all of her life. I know that now.

In comparison, the box that lay in my damp hands was feather-light.

I’d peel back the layers of tissue and there they were – my grandmother’s shoes. They were tiny – size 4, I think – black, with 18 shiny leather buttons marching from the arch to the ankle. They were creased but hardly worn, just enough to give off that comforting used smell. The heels were the width of three of my fingers, about two inches high. I traced the seams and fancy threading along the tongues. I gleaned the cobbler’s name on the instep with my fingers, as if the words were Braille: Savage Shoes. There was no question of me putting them on. At age eleven I was almost as tall as my mother. Already my feet were bigger than hers.

Mom would sometimes pick up a packet of letters and fan through them like they were leaves, only with writing. I remember asking her what they were. She’d said, “Your father wrote such beautiful poetry to me when we first met,” with a sad profundity even I could comprehend. And I would look from her beautiful chapped hands that were almost never still, to the mute epistles in her lap, wishing I could know what she was thinking, what she was wishing. My eyes would feel hot and full and my ears would throb.

We would rest there on the steps until my brothers banged through the screen door or the milkman came or the telephone rang – two long, two short. Too short. Then she would motion for me to put everything away. She’d push the box back into the shadows, snap off the light and close the door with a sigh. I would sigh too, my skinny shoulders rising and falling in time with hers. Leaning against the step, she would fold me to her chest, the sweet powdery smell of her body filling my nose, displacing the scent of our pasts.

Back then I thought it odd that she never wanted to hold my Grandmother’s ‘good’ shoes. But when my mother died too soon, I began to understand the power of possessions so personal.

Even today, when I venture to our storeroom to go through the things that I’ve stored since her passing, they hold a resonance that brings back that pulsing throb, the thickness in my throat, the tremor of longing in my fingers. Oh, Mom.

I tuck them back into their boxes and seal the lids with fresh tape. Perhaps next year I’ll try again.

Oink, Oink – I love bacon

Wed, 05 Nov 2025 02:51:26 GMT

I love bacon. Not the pale, store-bought, watery then brittle-when-cooked nitrate stuffed strips, but the old-fashioned kind that smells like meat when you fry it in a pan and that lingers in your mouth, with a subtle, sensual pork taste. Sure, you can get it at the larger farmers’ markets, but who wants to drive for half an hour and queue for 15 minutes to buy half a kilo of tasty smoked goodness?

BB&F surprised me with a bonus at the end of my first year of employment. Instead of setting it aside for a rainy day, I decided to take my friend Maggie’s advice and buy something for myself to a Kamado Joe Classic III charcoal grill with all the accessories. Their tagline is: “A Kamado Isn't Just A Grill. It’s A Lifestyle.”

Of course, I jumped in with both feet. Why bother with something as prosaic as grilled chicken when I could go big? I ventured online to sites like Amazingribs.com and Reddit and watched countless Smoking Dad BBQ YouTube videos. I read the spirited discussions about the merits of home-curing and different varieties of charcoal. I read countless blogs penned by adventurous women and men who were curing their own meats and making sausage. Yowza. And who is the inspiration for all this innovative grinding of meats into chilled bowls?

I confess that I’m wild about Michael Ruhlman. Not MR himself, but his approach to food preparation. I learned that the guru of goodness is a man from New York, who graduated from Duke University with a degree in literature. He’s a prolific author, but that’s not why I’d do his laundry. How can you not admire someone who said: “he best things in life happen when you get carried away.” After drooling over the blogs regaling us with Charcutepalooza tales, I decided to buy his book, Charcuterie .

I sourced a pork belly from Vinces’ Market in Sharon. The thing weighed almost 7 kilos and came complete with a thick skin that took me a while to surgically remove while not slicing off my fingers in the process. The tiny nipples on the belly were a bit of a turnoff, but I persevered. I divided the belly into three chunks, that fit easily into large Ziploc bags.

Post-cure, the bellies were firm and well streaked with fat, but what was best of all were the thick layers of meat in between. I used a mixture of Insta-Cure, brown sugar, salt and fresh-toasted ground red/black/white peppers, cardamom and juniper berries. I double-bagged everything and tucked them onto a shelf in the downstairs fridge, weighed down by a case of pink grapefruit cups for 8 days.

I turned the packages every day and watched the meat transforming from soft and flabby to firm and muscular-looking. Sounds like a workout regimen! Cold smoked for 8 hours over pecan wood and – wow. The only issue for me is getting the slices thin enough. I splurged on a slicer so now I’m cranking out gourmet bacon slices.

The Food Network lists 50 ways to add bacon to recipes – here’s the link . Bacon guacamole, maple bacon donuts, bacon ice cream, bacon popcorn, chocolate dipped bacon, bacon wrapped dates, bacon wrapped tater tots, dips and bread – oh goodness, I’m in love.

Then again, I’ve been surfing for salted caramel and chocolate recipes. Dieting be damned. The flavour punch of salty sweet, meaty, crunchy would be amazing.

Mondays

Mon, 03 Nov 2025 14:39:48 GMT

Before they invented big-screen televisions and botulism was something you never wanted to find in your food, never mind inject into your wrinkles, Mondays were washdays.

As the eldest, I got to feed the corners of the bed sheets into the finger-mangling rollers of the wringer, every shove forward an audacious flirt with danger. Would it be painful if my hand got dragged in? I can vouch for the relentless undertow of the spinning rubber cylinders, but they actually didn’t hurt that much.

Once the soiled water had been squished from the load, they were dropped into a huge tub filled either with a dilute blend of Reckitt’s fabric blue or bunch of herbs like lavender (remember, this was way before bottled fabric softener). It was time to empty the tub and refill it with clean water. Since we had no indoor plumbing, that meant a couple of trips to the pump in the corner of the cellar to fill up the galvanized tin pail. We were eco-friendly before it because the in-thing to do – we always washed in cold water! I’m not sure of the formulation of the Sunlight soap bars we used to scrub stains, but they were strong enough to strip off the epidermis if you left your hands un-rinsed for long.

The scent of sun-dried laundry was glorious. Winters, though, were a chore. Baskets of damp clothing had to be manhandled to the back porch and hung quickly on the plastic-coated line before fingers grew stiff with cold. At the end of the day, everything was frozen into cardboard cutouts of their thawed shapes, sharp enough to wound the unwary. Of course they couldn’t be folded. Instead, we took turns wrestling them into the house. Sometimes, depending on how cool and dry it was inside, they’d hang for days on lines of cord criss-crossed under the basement ceiling.

Vignettes of Greece V

Sun, 02 Nov 2025 21:24:17 GMT

On the boat from Aegina town, an earnest looking dyke with middle-aged ankles and feet shod in Soft-Mocs flips through a guidebook for Gay Athens, trying to keep the sides of her unzipped turquoise windbreaker closed with her elbows pressed tight to her sides. Her eyes slide over me for an instant, then they’re gone. I’m wearing sensible shoes and my Tilley hat and snapping photos of the shoreline. How does she know that I’m not? One of the sisterhood, I mean. Perhaps I could be?

We disembark from the ferry to Piraeus in front of a heavily laden yellow transport truck, a window frame delivery van and a fleet of stinking motorbikes. We lurch towards the intersection. I think of grade eleven history and having to read The Iliad . What would Odysseus the Cunning, son of Laërtes and Anticlea, husband of Penelope, and father of Telemachus, Acusilaus, and Telegonus, think of this twenty-first century chaos?

The grimy squares of sidewalk are so cracked and disarranged it’s like a moonscape. Getting from the port to the Metro station, it’s more like wrangling dead cows along the narrow walkway rather than our suitcases with big wheels. The noise is tremendous—honking, shouting, klaxons, music. At eleven in the morning, the air is thick with traffic haze and the clinging veil of ferry smoke, but it’s surprisingly odorless.

At the next corner, the traffic light turns green. The walk signal flickers a vague yellow. Navigating six lanes of traffic should be a breeze, we think. After all, there are four policemen standing at the crosswalk; however, they’re smoking and talking to one another.

We draft in the wake of an old lady with a bundle buggy and finally get across. Our pace is slow and we hear the impatient clucking of pedestrian tongues behind us before they trot out into the street and brush by. We navigate around the vendor booths on every corner, tripping up on street cart flotsam and cigarette butts. There are curb cuts, sometimes, where they’ve been broken down by decades of car tires. Even the curbs in the old port are marble – crumbling and filthy, but marble, nevertheless. Whose were the hands that made these thousands of years ago? In Greece, marble is as ubiquitous as concrete is in North America.

Like the ancient traveller, we’re left to our own devices.

Vignettes of Greece IV

Sun, 02 Nov 2025 21:19:57 GMT

Another 40 degree day under denim blue skies on the island of Aegina, pistachio capital of Greece. We’re kitted up with our brimmed Tilley sunhats, sensible shoes and a slather of SPF-40. Hub’s toting a day bag packed with energy bars and frozen water bottles that are sweating through to his back. Why are we doing this? I’m a student of ancient history and Greece has always been ‘the’ place to see for me. Hub isn’t wild about museums and doesn’t care that much for history, but we’ve trekked side-by-side through the Louvre, Gamla Stan in Stockholm, over cobbled bridges in Bruges and up the dizzying pyramid spines in Tulum and Thai temples, and he’s never said “no, I won’t go with you”. Love of my life for so many reasons…

We’d been hiking for an hour on our way up to the Temple of Aphaia Athena. It seemed like a tidy jaunt when we looked for it on the map, but although the guidebooks described it as being only 4 kilometers from the centre of town and remarkably well preserved, they failed to take into account that our state of middle-aged fitness was not equally remarkable or that the rutted, rocky cart path twisted up the mountain on a 35 degree incline and had not a stick of shade. Every set-back house along the way was guarded by large, irritated dogs attached with frail-looking chains to concrete blocks in the scruffy yards we stroll by.

I think about the legions of ill-fed slave construction workers who walked this road two thousand years ago, clad in rough sandals and thin cloth, beset by mounted overseers with whips. They strained against the pull of the hill, not to take pictures of dusty debris, but to toil until death over those carved stone columns I’m so eager to see. There are mounds of stones piled everywhere under the trees – hasty graves, perhaps? But it’s hard to contemplate in these surroundings, with the resinous scent of sun-baked pine in our nostrils.

We pause now and then to lean against a light post. I’m tired and I can see that Hub is too, but I cajole him to continue ‘just up to that bent-over tree’. He smiles, reaching for my sweaty hand, and when our fingers fold together, I feel that familiar meaty throb deep in my bones. Again, I realize how lucky I am, that this amazing man who has been more places in the world than I can imagine, is hiking up this pebbly hill under the blazing sun with me, and that sometime that evening, when we’re cool and rested, we’ll laugh about our seniors’ moments of inspired silliness. Fifteen minutes later, though, hotter still and covered in a fine layer of sand stirred up by our feet, we stop (halfway up, we think) at a relatively flat stone outcrop – some sort of firebreak bulldozed between the dusty trees and endless stone fences – and he shrugs off the backpack. We drink some more water, feeling the muscles in our calves start to twitch, chatting about how the sun is crisping the skin on our bare arms and how much farther we’ll ascend before making the go-no go decision.

The view over the brightly-painted rooftops to the white yachts bobbing at anchor on the sparkling waters of Marathon Bay is dazzling and we snap off a dozen photos, fiddling with F-stops, trying to adjust our digital light-meters to the harsh glare. I finish first and stand behind Hub, watching him frame his shots. He stops and stares towards the shimmering horizon for a few moments. I take a step forward and lean my front against his broad shoulders, pressing my chin into the soft curve between his ear and his shoulder, wrapping my arms around his chest, inhaling the aroma of his heated body until I feel light-headed and reckless. He leans back a bit, stretching his arms back around my hips to pull me closer and I think that this is another one of those best times that we’re accumulating, heated and juicy with the unexpectedness of it. He murmurs an endearment in Swedish as I spread the collar of his shirt and drop kisses on the flesh beside his throat.

Behind the rustle of the trees, we hear the scrape of footsteps down the road and a rangy, hatless blondish woman strides around the corner. She carries no water or backpack. She’s not wearing sunglasses or breathing hard, either. Up close, she looks to be about 70 years old. Her tanned face is corrugated from exposure to the elements, but she has a lovely wide smile below bright blue eyes.

“Are you going to the Temple,” I ask as Hub and I step apart.

“Jå, jå. About 2.5 kilometers more.” She points with a swirling motion to beyond the tops of trees bending under the wind on the crest of the hill. “Not far.” Then she says, “I do this every year for 9 years. Good walk.”

I reply, “It’s too hot. We need cold beer.” Hub pipes up, “ice cream, ice cream”, so we smile goodbye and she continues her trek up the hill.

If anything, retracing our steps is more punishing than the ascent. The so-called road is slippery with gravel the size of marbles and we step downwards and sideways, like mountain climbers descending the flank of a glacier. The ice in our water bottles has melted to body temperature and the dust of the ancients that I’d wanted so badly to experience is clogging our throats. Have we been eating enough salty olives and feta to ward off sun-stroke? The yard dogs are hotter and angrier than an hour before, snarling and lunging at the iron fences as we trudge by.

At the coffee shop, I stare at the menu, trying to decipher the alien alphabet, then find a tiny picture – ice cream. Euro 6 for a cone, the owner says from the shade inside the bar. Hub shrugs his shoulders and sits down under the awning but I shake my head and make an impolite noise with my mouth, then say out loud- episis akribos – too expensive – and drag out a chair. The man had gone back to buffing the zinc counter but when he hears me, he hustles over and stands too close to my arm. “I give you a cup – no cone. Three Euro only, okay?”

“Okay. Efharisto .”

We lounge under the shade as we dip the plastic spoons into the creamy chill, saying um, um, smiling with our faces pressed close together and feeding each other the smallest of tastes of each explosive flavor. After a while, watching the parade of spray-painted scooters and crapped-out Ladas puttering up and down the street becomes tiresome so Hub pulls out a day-old Svenska Dagbladet and I flip open my spiral-bound pad and begin to make notes about our morning.

A suety dame of about 60 arranges herself loudly at the table next to ours. The place is empty except for us, but it seems that’s ‘her’ table. She stares through dark glasses with frames like the front end of a Maserati – all golden and sleekly sweeping out to the sides. Her jeweled fingers hover over her helmet of immovable hair and her mouth has the pinwale corduroy above-the-lip wrinkles of a woman much put-out. I’ve seen that appraising look of hers before – who are these people, she’s thinking – the substantial black woman sporting a plump orange flower pinned to the band of her hat, the sleeves of her blouse rolled above her elbows, sitting knee-to-knee with that more substantial toasty-skinned blonde man wearing pants-of-many-pockets and a shirt that matches his deep blue eyes. I suspect she’s asking herself why we’re there in that little café and perplexed that we dare to enjoy each other so much, in public. Or maybe not. As Hub would say if I mentioned it, who cares ? He’s right, of course – all that matters right then is us. Sure, she notices me stop writing and gaze in her direction, but she doesn’t give a damn. Well, I’ve grown accustomed to her kind of scrutiny so although I take note, I shrug and don’t give a damn, either.

I fiddle with my camera so I can take a few pictures of Hub and I with the auto-timer, then he takes a couple of us with his movie camera. We laugh at the playback because we’ve got ice cream on the corners of our mouths – peach on mine and chocolate on his – then we kiss and it’s gone. Later, I sneak a glance at her from under my brows, but she’s lost interest.

Vignettes of Greece III

Sun, 02 Nov 2025 21:14:15 GMT

We order Greek salad from Stella every day for lunch, and it’s glorious. Ruby chunks of tomatoes juicy with sunlight, cucumbers thick with the flavor of growing on vines in the ground under the relentless Peloponnesian sun, fat slices of red onion – sometimes marinated, sometimes not – topped off with a slab of feta cheese, the smoothest, creamiest feta cheese (no smell of goat or wet wool here) that turns out to Bulgarian rather than Greek (who knew?), a sprinkle of oregano plucked from the garden and a healthy douse of olive oil. No lettuce. Never lettuce, Stella says with horror.

We sop up what’s left in the bottom like desert-island survivors, using the heels of our bread and scouring the bowls clean. It feels like eating a party, it’s so exuberantly delicious.

The taxi driver skids to a stop in a spray of gravel. He’s right on time. He heaves Leif’s bag into the trunk of the Mercedes, then my backpack, but my Samsonite is this side of too wide and too tall, but he jams it in on its side and straps the trunk lid shut with an arm’s length of tired bungee cord.

He opens our doors, then hops behind the wheel, tossing the buckle end of his seatbelt into the centre console. “Safety,” he says with a grin and guns the sedan north past our favourite gyros restaurant, in a direction we’ve not explored yet. The car picks up speed as he ascends into the dusty hills. It seems the ‘slow’ sign – blue circle rimmed with red – is a mere suggestion, and he tugs the steering wheel from left to right, not bothering to downshift, his thumb working the buttons on one of his cell phones. At 70 km an hour, he’s muttering a lot, wrenching around scooters going the speed limit.

The olive trees lining the side of the scantily paved goat track-road begin to blur. Just before each hairpin curve is a cluster of tidy houses tucked back from the road. The foreheads of the hills are creased into frowns. Up close we see they are miles and miles of neat dry fences made with fist-sized rocks – the Greek are obviously skilled masons with lots of time on their hands. Of course there are ruins everywhere you look, with new dwellings constructed on the foundations of old. To dig a foundation and unearth a clay shard or scrap of ancient bronze compels a full archeological survey, so ancient walls jut from the sides of modern houses like stony cowlicks. On the sides of the road, small shrines sit atop posts, miniature houses painted white and blue or rusting away; inside, faded photos of the departed behind grimy glass, huddle alongside a pair of little oil lamps, a handful of dusty plastic flowers and a pile of rosary beads.

Dear Lord, he’s careening into an S-turn, uphill, passing a woman in a business suit driving a red scooter at 80 clicks, even though it’s a double-yellow line and there’s a sheer drop on the left hand side and a grainy unforgiving-looking shoulder of stone on the right. He jerks back into his lane as a blaring rattletrap loaded with brown plastic barrels of olives roars by in a blur of stinking dust. I now understand the need for the prayer beads swinging wildly from the rear-view mirror, the rabbit’s foot suction-cupped to the dashboard.

There’s a school bus in front so he has to slow to 60 and I can actually see the scenery again. To the right, high up on a rocky hill spotted with clumps of scrub oleander, right near the top, no trails in sight, is an impossible handful of tiny stone dwellings, roofless. Who lived there, when and why? Surely even sheep would have had more sense than to scramble up that ochre-coloured scree or graze cant-legged with a spectacular view of Aegina Town.

We’ve passed the bus but our driver jams on the brakes as he exits the next long curve. The picto-sign attached to the white stone fence says ‘dead end’. How appropriate, as it fronts a field of urns full of olive branches and fresh flowers and white stone crosses in tight formation. A quick left through a small neighbourhood, then a procession of grocery stores and warehouses – we must be close to town. Ah, it’s market day. Old men with cigarettes drooping from indentations on the sides of their mouths perch on plastic chairs by bins of onions and braided garlic; matrons with shopping bags hanging from their scooter handles curve through the crowds to get a closer look at those red-orange carrots, the fresh-dug potatoes. A trim woman in a green sweater piles up figs on a counter by the dock, offering slivers of samples. She sips from a tall plastic cup of frappe. Farther along the street in the quay-side tavernas hang lines of glistening octopus drying like pulpy laundry. Our driver wheels past boats loaded with boxes of just-caught silvery fish curved into commas of rigor. He curses sotto voce in Greek – the language may be foreign but the cadence is universally familiar (something rude about someone’s mother or maybe their heritage, I think).

It’s only eight o’clock in the morning but the banks and kafenions are open. Men (and a handful of women tolerated at separate tables) sit in groups facing the street, like it’s a stage (and with that cacophony of colour and noise, it is theatre!), prolonging their carafaki ouzo with unfiltered cigarettes and arguments about politics or last night’s football.

It feels like I’ve awakened in some hideous land of harpies. Okay, so it’s only 41 Euros a night plus breakfast – but this? I crawl out from under the thin sheets and peek out through the drapes. There’s a squad of weary-eyed black-clad women with tied-back graying buns and flat shoes milling about the courtyard of our hotel calling back and forth, laughing, gesturing as they get ready to pile into a shiny clunker and drive to the church on the hill. Their voices are at a frequency better suited to being heard by dogs and children. The cacophony is worse than a schoolyard – more like a barnyard. What do they find to talk about all the time? I know they’re all related because they’re always around the hotel, berating their desk-clerk relative when they’re not watching dubbed American soaps at high volume. They see each other every hour of every day. They don’t read the newspaper or books. When they sit, their hands are idle in their laps. Damn it, you’d think they’d be more contemplative on the Sabbath, keep fucking quiet on a Sunday morning, with the sun just barely up.

I put on my bathrobe and wander out onto our balcony. One spies me and starts shrieking a question in Greek. I press a finger to my lips and say Anglika – then katalaveno – Anglika . English – I don’t understand you – English, but the old bitch is so loud my ears vibrate. The others are laughing at our exchange like it’s high comedy. The witches of MacBeth had nothing on these shrews. Even the younger ones, distinguished by their upswept still-dark hair, seem hard-faced, as if they’re preparing to be angry and disappointed. Shouldn’t they all be in church already praying for something? If it was late afternoon, I’d think they were all drunk. I slam the wooden door shut and crawl back into bed thinking, I’m beginning to understand why the men stayed away at war. No wonder so many ancient Greeks killed their mothers and exiled their sisters.

There’s an ebb in the noise, a few giggles. Ah, there must be a man around. The women’s voices soften and then there’s an explosion of laughter. A second male voice rises from under the awning. I recognize that it’s Costas, the smooth-talking baker from down the street. Now the two men are talking/yelling and I catch the word ‘Manchester’ – ah, it’s about last night’s football. Aside from some sharp-faced Apollonia with Cleopatra eyes rattling off the news on the CNN feed from Turkey, and the quartet of fat talking heads on Greek TV, that’s all the men watch, channel-surfing from match to match with the fervor of junkies trying to find a usable vein. I’d be soccer-mad too, if life was so uneventful, so much the same from hour to hour every day. I smell cigarette smoke, harsh and dry in the soft morning air and recognize the brand smoked by Stavros, the old man whose daughter owns the hotel. Second hand smoke – more like 242ndhand smoke – is ubiquitous, except in church and nursery schools. The Marlborough man may have cashed in his own chips, but those red and white boxes are everywhere.

Where are the rest of the men, anyway? Haven’t seen any pretty Greek boys. Or ugly ones, for that matter. We’ve seen only a few between the ages of 20 and 50 and they look broken-down in some way. They can’t all be fishermen or travelling salesmen. Of course, there are the priests with scraggly grey ponytails. They stride down the street in their black flowerpot hats and swirling robes, wives dutifully following behind lugging the bags of groceries, but they don’t pay attention even when the street curs nip at their heels. Women run the bakeries, the jewellery stores, the restaurants, the bars.

There’s an old man with a tanned ball of a head who sits on a stool outside Helen’s Shop for most of the day, grinning at passersby, waving at the racks of discounted postcards and offering ‘bus teekets’. He looks to be about 80, but he’s sharp and has a wicked grin. He lives in a big house on the hill overlooking the bay, so business must be good during tourist season. One day we succumbed and stopped to pick up some cards to send back to the kids. The sale rack offered mainly faded, curled-up touristy scenes but the price was right so we bought half a dozen. Leif went off to pay (the old man wrote the total down on his hand with a ball-point pen and did the math to make change) and I moved on to the higher-value merchandise. For only .30 more, I could have selected from some of the vilest photos I’ve ever seen outside of a police evidence locker.

In one, a young woman smiles from under a bouffant brown hairdo, tanned legs spread wide, a silver padlock dangling from her labia below a neatly trimmed landing strip; an older gent with tired eyes busies himself between the thighs of a faceless woman, her dark bush arranged so that it looked like he was wearing her as a mustache; badly rendered copies of amphora depict grinning athletes, their oversized phalluses curved like scimitars, romping with equally naked horse-hung mates, some of whom were being mouthed by sinewy young men balanced like tripods on knees and massive organs. Is this what Euripides and Socrates did in their ‘down’ time? What was it called before the term ‘daisy-chain’ was invented? On another rack, pouty hairless men and breasty, red-lipped women, their eyes as energized as pistachio shells, stare into the cameraman’s lens from under Donnie and Marie hairdos, captured in positions I’d not have thought humanly possible except in Cirque de Soleil . But then again, they were young and doing it for money and, perhaps, a ‘career’.

If I turn to my right, there’s a rack of icon reproductions, glass hyperthyroidic blue and white eyes on strings that are good luck symbols and prayer beads. This is truly a country of contradictions!

Vignettes of Greece II

Sun, 02 Nov 2025 21:05:21 GMT

It’s nearly noon but the Athens subway is surprisingly crowded with people of all ages and shades of the human rainbow, most either carrying something, thumbing their cell phones or listening to music or videos through their earbuds.

The heavy-lidded dude perched on the edge of the seat diagonal to mine is wearing cheap Chinese fabric shoes. His face is creased into a permanent frown as he fingers his prayer beads. It’s as if he smells something foul. He’s giving me the once-over – I’m wearing shades, man, but I’m not blind! A red and green striped awning of a shirt stretches over his belly like an apron. His haunches are spread over a seat and a half but his inadequate junk doesn’t make more than a suggestion of bulge. A young woman sits across from me. Under caterpillar brows, those bloodshot eyes probe her body like fingers.

A tanned older man in blue worker’s overalls sways by the Metro doors to the rhythm of an internal melody. When he turns his head and glances out the window at the blurring scenery, I see a most magnificent fleshy parrot-beak nose jutting from his muscular face. He’s sporting a forest green wool sweater tied nattily around his neck. He juggles a bright blue plaid plastic shoulder bag in his hand as he stares into the middle distance, a smile tugging at his lips.

A dumpy woman dressed in black, her handbag strapped across her chest, has planted herself at the front of the subway carriage, declaiming loudly in a harsh voice. The morning commuters around her wince as they edge away, leaving her in a narrow DMZ. They poke at their cell phones, dialing someone, anyone, trying to look busy, shaking the pages of their Metro newspapers and darting glances everywhere but at her. Ah, she’s begging – I recognize parakalos , please. A path opens as she sways down the length of the car, muttering her useless mantra in the faces of anyone she can confront – parakalos, parakalos, parakalos .

Outside the Syntagma Square stop on the grimy marble-curbed sidewalk, a rough-skinned woman in a faded flowered dress positions a plastic crate in front of the sliver of a hardware storefront. There’s a bundle under her other arm. She sits down in the morning sun, modestly spreading out her skirts over splayed knees. She arranges the bundle—a limp, dark-haired child of about four—and droops against the store window with the child lolling in her arms. She’s perfected pitiable, murmuring to passersby for change, shaking a handful of bait-coins around the bottom of a brown paper cup that says Coffee Time on the side. In the afternoon, a dark-skinned man takes her place after a brief conversation. In his arms is another flaccid child that he drapes against his shoulder. His voice is more strident; the cup he waves remains empty.

The Marlborough Man may be dead as the dust at the Acropolis, but his legacy lives on strong in Greece. In almost every jacket pocket or handbag is a red and white deck of the iconic American brand of smokes. The men saunter down Athlion Street thumbing their stone komboloi with one hand and their lighters with the other as they check out the female real estate. Women yak on the phone, holding their purses to their shoulders with a pinkie, turning their heads to snatch a drag from the cigarette held between two fingers.

Vignettes of Greece I

Sun, 02 Nov 2025 21:04:58 GMT

The 15 meter sailboat (small by Greek standards) tugs quietly on the rope lines, rocking slowly against fat bumpers on the jetty. Its hull gleams brilliant white under an early Sunday sky cobalt blue as only a Greek sky can be blue. There’s no clinking or creaking – everything is tied fast, lines taut, the thick stainless steel mast barely swaying, the navy foresail snugged tight in its wrapper.

Out of the shadows behind the cabin, a man’s voice murmurs something in American-accented French as a thin dark-haired woman wearing tight navy shorts and a striped sailor’s t-shirt steps from the deck onto the concrete dock in Aghia Marina. She lands gracefully on her bare feet and laughs, seemingly for no reason. She scans the harbor and the dock, whistles, then bends forward at the waist, her hands behind her back.

A low-slung black stray with pointed ears emerges from behind a wrecked rowboat and stops about three meters away with his nose in the air. The woman extends her right hand. The long nails on her fingers and toes flash crimson under the punishing sun. She’s holding some torn croissants and tosses morsels in his direction. He inhales them one after another. Each lands closer to where she stands. All the while, she’s smiling and mouthing sweet words in French, calling him pet and darling, inquiring about his health as she inches backwards towards the yacht. She hunkers down and reaches back with her left hand as she calls out softly to the man lounging on deck to pass her more food. Inducement , she said. Jack, as she called him, picks up a fat sausage from a plate on the table by his elbow, leans forward and presses it into her palm. Tearing the meat into pieces, she coaxes and teases until the animal is tonguing fragments from the concrete half a meter away.

Hands empty again, she straightens and wipes the grease from her fingers onto the side of her calf, stroking her leg and calling out softly. The cur creeps forward on his belly, craning his wedge-shaped snout upwards, snaking out his broad pink tongue to lap at her flesh. The woman squeezes her eyes shut and clenches her fists, lips open to the sea breeze. When the licking stops she opens her eyes, reaches back her arm and snaps her fingers. The dog cringes at the sound but Jack moves slowly, this time handing her a piece of ham. She holds onto it and the dog nibbles around the borders of her nails. She begins to scratch behind his ears, talking as if to a child.

“Do you want to come with me, Precious? Do you want to play?”

He dips his chest onto his forepaws but doesn’t wag his tail. She scruffs her fingers through his fur.

A crewman sticks his head out of the hatch and begins to climb onto the deck, whistling. Jack snaps a command and the man backs down the stairs. “Esme!” Jack’s whisper is harsh. The woman kneels down beside the dog now, her arm around his neck.

“Quoi?” She speaks without turning her head, her carmine mouth close to the dog’s.

“Stop screwing around with that mutt,” Jack says roughly in French, gesturing with the back of his hand. “He’s filthy.”

“Pah. I can bathe him.” Esme hugs the dog around the neck, stroking his back and down his legs, but he angles his hindquarters away. Still speaking softly, she takes his face in her hands and draws his snout along her inner thigh, pressing her other leg against his side. The dog whines and pushes against her as she murmurs in French, then opens her legs and playfully pulls him in. He pushes too, tongue lolling. “Good boy. Good boy,” she says, stroking his chest.

Jack calls out “Esme!” and presses a button beside the wheel. The sailboat’s motor turns over with a muted grumble. The crewman reappears and begins to untie the mainsail. “It’s time to go.”

Esme has the dog on his back, tickling and stroking along his belly as he keens and curls under her hands, his paws clawing empty air. She stands abruptly and brushes her palms hard along the side seams of her shorts.

“ Pas assez ,” she says aloud, backing away as the dog twists to his feet in a rush and dances in a confused circle around the dock, panting. Without taking her eyes from the dog, she reaches for Jack’s hand and he guides her onto the deck. Jack and the crewman work the lines free of the mooring and the boat draws away from the pier. Esme is on her knees by the railing, fastening the rope to its clips. That done, she stands and begins to wave her arms above her head from side to side calling, “Au revoir, mon petit. Au revoir .”

Celebrating a long-dead Queen

Sun, 02 Nov 2025 20:54:19 GMT

The waiter at Bibi’s Brunch & Lunch was clad in regulation white shirt, black pants and Doc Martens. A spotless white cook’s apron was wrapped around a waist smaller than one of my thighs. The artfully messed hair and the wispy flavor-saver under his disapproving mouth had been bleached to a rusty blond. My guess was, he had a BA in Representational Art and was waiting for his first big break exhibiting cast iron fetish pieces at a local gallery.

Alicia smiled as she pointed towards the front of the restaurant. He shook his head, no, but when we didn’t follow him to the spot he had picked for us by the open kitchen, he grudgingly came back and sat us at a table for six with a great view of the sidewalk action.

“While we wait for our friend Julie to arrive, may we have some water?” Darla batted her eyes but it was a wasted effort.

He sniffed, “Your server will be with you in a few moments” and huffed off.

“Snobby little shit.” Patrice draped her faux-pashmina over one of the empty chairs.

While we waited, we critiqued the comings and goings of the beautiful people, the people who thought they were beautiful and the downright scary as they paraded by on Queen Street. There’s something about being on the inside looking through a double-glazed window that lends a special sharpness to being bitchy after Sunday mass. A squadron of fashionably attired smokers puffed in the noon glare on the outdoor patio, lounging at dinner plate sized plastic tables, unencumbered by umbrellas, sunscreen or too much common sense.

“Ladies!” He looked just like that Rodriguez character from Queer Eye for the Straight Guy, but with styled chest hair and lots more makeup. An excess of silver jewellery made music when he moved, which was almost constantly. His name tag said Alain. Darla kicked my ankle. I kicked her back. “I’m Alain.” He pronounced it ‘Ellen’ which, if his MAC Moody Blue manicure was any indication, had a loud ring of truth. “How may I serve you lovely women today?” Patrice snickered at his offer of service, her mind on other things.

Alicia tapped the chunky silver bracelets on his right wrist. “Alain.” She pronounced it the way he did, but in her deep, mistress-is-speaking voice. “Darling boy.” He leaned over, gazing into her eyes. “Could you please bring us something soothing, with lots of liquor and a blush of pomegranate juice?”

He arched one hip and both eyebrows, grinning widely, with his palm pressed against his chin. “Why, of course, Madame!”

“And we’ll have the quiche of the day with salad,” I added, looking at my brunch buddies for confirmation. They all nodded. Bibi’s was notorious for negligence. Rumour had it some waiters slipped off to auditions or sewed up dance costumes after dropping customer ‘requests’ for food off at the service counter (orders were not permitted). If Cook was in a funk, you were liable to get grilled sheep liver and sweet potato poutine frites, even if you had asked for a poached egg with vegan hollandaise on whole wheat brioche.

“And some bread,” Darla added. “The hell with Dr. Atkins! I’m starving for something warm enough to melt butter into.”

“I hear you, Girlfriend!” Alain rolled his eyes, pressed a shapely index finger against her shoulder and swanned off. He returned right away with a heaping basket of assorted fresh breads and four small pots of flavoured butters. After a minute, he was back with a quartet of tall sunset-coloured drinks onto the table.

Ah, booze and bread. Once the brain freeze wore off the hit of pungent gin and sweet fruit juice warmed the tongue. We sipped and chewed for a while, easing away the day-after Saturday-night edge.

“How was your workshop yesterday?” Julie – our missing companion – had badgered me into joining her at the library for a lecture on Animal Symbolism in Whitman’s Poetry, given by a local literary guru who’d twice been published in the Globe and Mail. Now old Walt was one of my favorite poets, so as much as I loathed fusty almost-famous don’t-move-your-lips literary poseurs, I went.

“Bruce Worthington-Finney was eminently forgettable,” I said. “Although he did present an interesting analysis of wolf imagery and the relationship between the physical and the spiritual in Song of Myself. He had a thing for words like ‘hard’ and ‘climax’ and ‘ultimately coming’.” Patrice snickered – she had a low booze threshold and I think she was on her way to being loaded. “There were about twenty people there, mainly older women in funky outfits, a few earnest college kids and a hairy newspaper reporter named Elise. But let me tell you about the librarian.” Alain dropped off another round of drinks and more bread, giving us the ‘it’ll be a while’ head shake and sham smile. “Her name is Lola. Not a bad looking woman. Great hair – shiny brown, good cut. Not enough makeup. About five foot ten – but she’s a size twenty and she was wearing a size sixteen blue flowered outfit with a long red scarf and comfortable brown shoes.” I took a big sip of water. “I think she’s in love with Bruce.”

“What?” Darla handed me a piece of rosemary cornbread. “How could you tell?”

“She simpered.”

“No!”

“Yes! Bruce is about five foot eight and he was wearing a cravat, for God’s sake, and a brown tweed jacket with suede patches on the elbows. And black leather pants – I haven’t seen those on a sixty year old man since university! Lola stood real close to him while she read his introduction and made some suckhole comments about his genius and his craft. But it was so yearning, so heartfelt — I felt like suggesting she get them a room. And he lapped it up like it was his due and he rested his hand on her shoulder. Jesus, he bites his nails to the quick – what does that tell you? Anyway, when she was finished he gave her one of those tipped-head, crinkly-eyed little liar smiles.” I shivered. “I swear she was glowing. Her face was sort of hidden behind the wings of her page-boy but she had that smile, like she was thinking of some hidden meaning in his talk about ‘wet glistening beards’ and ‘bay mares’ and ‘voluptuous nights’.

“Wasn’t Walt Whitman gay?”

Just then, Alain bustled up with his steel service tray. “Did you say Walt Whitman? My hero? He was queer as a three dollar bill and his wife had a beard!” He laughed a dirty laugh and, with a flourish, arranged our cutlery and plates of pretty food on the table. “There! All set.” It seems Cook didn’t have PMS or man-o-pause today.

Just as we started to eat, Julie tapped up to our table in her too-high Winners’ Sunday-best shoes and slipped into the empty chair beside Darla. We did the smiley, hand-touching, happy eyebrow-raising thing because no one wanted to get up and do the cheek-kiss thing and risk getting stray bits of clothing into our food.

Alain appeared immediately. “I’ll be right back with yours,” he said, making it sound suggestive. That was a scary thought – four middle-aged hetero women and a gay waiter with nicer nails than ours.

I continued with my story. “She brought him a bottle of water during the break and some sliced oranges and asked him if he’d like a warm muffin.”

“Warm muff…in,” Julie snorted. “Right.”

Having your way with words

Wed, 29 Oct 2025 22:41:57 GMT

Types of Writing

“After nourishment, shelter and companionship, stories are the things we need most in the world.”

Philip Pullman

Let’s start with an official definition of ‘story’. According to the Merriam Webster dictionary, a story is “an account of incidents or events”. Letters, diaries, emails, blog posts, reports, notes to self – they are all stories.

My job is to help you create better stories.

Writing is like art. We know what we like when we see it, because it makes us feel, hear, taste and touch. Open up your notebook to a blank page. Get ready to make notes.

Think about writing that moves you, affects how you think or what you believe or sweeps you away to worlds you’ve never imagined? Make a short list. Who are your favourite authors? What is it that draws you to their stories? What do you want to write? Who do you want to read your creations?

My first objective is to share with you helpful tips and links about the art and craft of writing for pleasure, for school or for business. My second objective is to inspire you to write regularly and improve the quality of your writing.

Anyone can recount an event. Remember Sergeant Joe Friday from the 1950s television series, Dragnet? He’d always say, “Just the facts, Ma’am’ when investigating a case. That’s a memorable catch-phrase but not a sound foundation for good holding an audience’s attention. Let’s talk about two kinds of writing.

Narrative – telling a story (usually about a personal experience) so that the reader learns a lesson or gains insight.

What’s your topic?
What do you know that the reader doesn’t know?
Are you sharing information about an experience that we can all resonate with, that evokes a memory or that will touch our emotions?
What is the lesson or insight behind your narrative?

Descriptive – describing a person, object or event so that the reader shares the sensory experience of it.

Setting. Where did the event occur? Was it crowded, dark, lonely, hot, smelly, raining, alien, loud, etc.?
Character. Who was involved? What was unusual/memorable about them?
Action or Plot. The rise and fall of what happened.
Conclusion. The end. Get to the point.

Whether you’re talking about what you saw at the mall, telling a joke, repeating a conversation you overheard (all writers should become eavesdroppers), creating a bedtime story or crafting fiction, you must include details that make a reader or listener care.

Look outside your window. Pick an object. Write half a page about it. Create a VIVID descriptive piece.

Writerly Alchemy

Wed, 29 Oct 2025 22:34:28 GMT

Be Courageous!

“And by the way, everything in life is writable about if you have the outgoing guts to do it, and

the imagination to improvise. The worst enemy to creativity is self-doubt.” Sylvia Plath.

Strong words, but don’t shrink from the notion that you are truly a writer. Let’s take a closer

look at what Plath said.

“Everything is life is writable”.

Do you jot notes to friends or relatives? Do you compose orderly shopping lists? Have you typed

a letter to complain to a company or ask for something? Ever commented on a blog post or

media article? Written an essay, a eulogy, a thank-you note or letter to the editor? If the answer

is ‘yes’ then you, my friend, are a writer.

The very first time you picked up a pencil and copied what the teacher printed on the board that

took ‘guts’. That’s when you began your journey to becoming a writer. It was scary, but do-able.

“The imagination to improvise”...Remember writing ‘compositions’? You shared stories about

your summer vacation or your new puppy. Did you critique your ideas or the words you wrote? I

doubt it.

You sat for a while before that blank lined notebook paper, thought for a while as you nibbled

the end of your pencil, then began to scribble one line followed by another. You left a blank line

and started the second paragraph. Another blank line and the third paragraph unspooled.

Shifting ideas from brain to fingers to paper wasn’t so difficult, was it? You’ve got the skill. The

challenge is to apply it.

Sylvia hit the nail on the head when she said: “The worst enemy to creativity is self-doubt.”

When you write an email or a Facebook post, do you second-guess yourself (beyond making sure

that the spelling and grammar are correct)? Probably not. You’re being creative without

struggling, stringing words together so they make sense to whoever reads them. In other words,

you’re a writer. You are putting yourself ‘out there’ without over-thinking. That’s the key – start

with an idea and pile words like bricks to build the walls of your unique story. Just as

constructing a strong building takes practice, building a good story can be learned.

As children, we were more fearless, imaginative and open-minded. As we grew older we got

busier, less inspired, more critical and less willing to put ourselves ‘out there’. You have a ‘voice’.

Writing is one means of having your voice heard.

Can you imagine going through life without communicating? No words, no sounds, no facial

expression, no hand movements? Writing – no matter what the form - is communication. It’s a

conversation with a reader, a form of expression.

Get yourself a new notebook. Find a pen that feels comfortable between your fingers. Flip to

page 8 of today’s newspaper and select a sentence. Using that sentence, write a poem or a fifty

word story. Read it slowly. Revise. Admire.

Avoiding Stereotypes

Wed, 29 Oct 2025 22:08:29 GMT

I was thrilled that Becca, of Writers Helping Writers asked me to be a guest contributor for this important and sensitive topic. I’m not an expert, however, even though I am a Person of Colour, so make sure to do your own research. Everyone has a unique lived experience – talk to people from those groups you wish to write about to learn some of their perspectives. No matter what, keep practicing so that your writing stays authentic, lively and true to your plot and cast of characters.

June 30, 2022

Readers have spoken: they want more diversity in fiction. And writers are stepping up, but it can be hard to write about someone who’s different than you. Careful research is the key to avoiding misrepresentation, which causes harm to the very identities being portrayed and creates fallout for well-meaning writers when they’re called out by readers.

For this reason, we’re running a series of posts on avoiding stereotypes in fiction. Written by a diverse cast of talented authors, each post highlights a different people group—the common stereotypes to avoid and how to write those characters realistically. We hope this series arms you with the knowledge and tools to write characters you may have been reluctant to write before—ones that will take your story to the next level.

Where to begin a conversation about stereotypes of People of Color (POC)? This is a fraught topic. For clarity, let’s start with a definition for this term:

People of Color: Applying to non-White racial or ethnic groups; generally used as an alternative to the term ‘visible minority.’

Be aware, though, that some members of ethnic and racial groups take issue with being lumped together as POCs rather than being treated as unique. Others, however, embrace Racialized or POC as terms of solidarity and empowerment.

As writers, we have a role to play in ensuring that the worlds we create are representative of the broad spectrum of personalities, identities, traits, cultures and races in our communities. Whether we’re talking protagonists, villains, or supporting characters, let’s keep them entertaining, fully formed and authentic. What do I mean by ‘authentic’? Believable, realistic, genuine individuals. Mind you, that’s a best practice for any character you create, isn’t it?

Let’s talk about some of the common stereotypes that have been used in portrayals of Racialized People.

Angry/Hysterical/Powerless Women

There are numerous examples in print and visual media, where women are portrayed as aggressive, outspoken, shrill, helpless or downright cranky. In real life, we experience a variety of emotions – let your characters show them as well.

Angry Men

These male counterparts careen through life ignoring social norms, raging at ‘the Man’ or unspecified targets, taking personal risks, committing crimes, or abusing those who get in their way. Male and female stereotypes use similar gestures and language to convey a limited range of emotions – the steely-eyed stare, a swaggering insolence, or a know-it-all attitude that invariably lands them in trouble.

Silent Sufferers

The opposite is the submissive, ‘seen but not heard’ person of color of any gender who invariably is struggling against adversity but who is a noble role model because they carry on. Maids, doormen, taxi drivers, teachers, nurses and restaurant workers are common occupations.

Sex Objects

Portraying racialized women as attractive but tough (using their wiles and weaponry to fight injustice) devalues them. A male protagonist like Black private detective John Shaft, described as a ‘sex machine’, harks back to the trope of Black men being randy and predatory.

The Phoenix from the Ashes

Performers, athletes, or professionals are often portrayed as rising up from poverty to fame or as promiscuous, hard-edged rule-breakers. This ignores the reality that most people of color are also soccer moms, bankers, and emergency service providers working hard and living ordinary lives.

Straw Character Caricatures

These cartoonish depictions of gangbangers, career criminals, barbers and hairdressers who always have the last word, the whore with the heart of gold, the struggling single mom, the sharp-tongued taxi driver, the weary, hard-working racialized father or the deadbeat dad, the wise-cracking sidekick, flamboyant roommate, spunky girlfriend, or plucky survivor are stale tropes. The common denominator of each is lack of nuance.

What To Do

Rest assured, it is acceptable to write about racialized characters. Wouldn’t your fictional world be monochromatic and boring if you didn’t? Yes, complexion, ethnicity, physique and hairdo help define an individual, but if you take away those external identifiers and still have a realistic human being, you’ve done your job. Applying your skills to build worlds that include a range of well-crafted characters enriches the final product. We’re unique individuals trying to live our best lives.

What about, ‘write what you know’? Research and learn about the diversity of cultures, religions, and races. Leave assumptions at the curb. Join inclusive organizations. Ask respectful questions. Read the works of authors of color. Dig beyond the obvious to show your character’s true identity.

What Not to Do

Don’t avoid describing someone’s race, but make sure you’re accurate, e.g., a broad nose, small ears and full lips could describe a person of Asian or African heritage. Say, ‘Amir, a young man from Bangalore’, or ‘Tasha, a tall Black woman from Manchester’. Use names that identify their ethnic origin. Keep in mind, though, that with the globalization of relationships, someone called Sue-Lin Mackenzie could be a mixed-race woman of Korean/Scottish descent.

Don’t describe us using food terms. Instead of chocolate, almond or coffee, say, ‘light brown’ or ‘dark brown complexion’. Be aware that the word ‘Brown’ is often used by people of Southeast Asian heritage (Russell Peters).

Don’t focus on externals Iike hair styles, complexion, or physical appearance. As with any other character, include descriptors that are relevant.

Don’t be patronizing. Unless it’s relevant, describing a Black person or person of color as ‘articulate’ implies there was no expectation that they had mastered the English language.

Remember…

Everyone has biases, whether about cars, food, or music.

Words can wound. They have history and power. Choose carefully.

Clothing as costume, artifacts and symbols can contribute to a rich, scenic world or they can stigmatize, e.g., tattoos and piercings, head coverings, jewelry, behavior, and speech.

Competent sensitivity readers serve a role but remember, you are getting a single perspective that may not align with the lived experiences of all your diverse characters.

Writing multi-dimensional characters requires an open mind, accuracy, and kindness. Diverse cultural perspectives can literally bring color to your writing via family events or celebrations. Whether your characters are funny or sad, strong or weak, forgettable or memorable, your readers will resonate with their authenticity.

Resources

Writing With Color: Posts on Describing People of Color Ten Tips on Writing Race in Novels The Do’s of Writing People of Color: Describe Your Characters Writing Characters of Different Races and Ethnicities

Angela on July 20, 2022 at 12:41 pm

You did such a great job on this article – thank you so much, Hyacinthe. I learn more every day, and it helps me shed biases, and in writing I think we have a special responsibility to not pass forward hurtful stereotypes and representations to readers. Articles like this one are so very helpful.

For the love of Kale

Wed, 29 Oct 2025 16:02:18 GMT

Fall is upon us so I’ve been preserving corn relish and canning black currant jelly made from the berries I picked from the garden in July.

Today, I thought I’d try something different. I picked up two huge bunches of kale, crinkly and firm, from the Otterton Farmers’ Market. I usually add it to smoothies so I can feel virtuous, but I wanted a main dish or an appetizer to motivate me to eat more of this incredibly healthy leafy green.

I searched for ‘kale’ and found a recipe for Roasted Kale Chips. Simple, fast and oh, so addictive!

Heat your oven to 350 degrees.
Wash and spin dry the kale.
Tear large pieces off the tough middle stem then toss in a large metal bowl with a couple of teaspoons of olive oil (Kirkland brand is quite good) and a sprinkle of salt and pepper.
Spread a piece of parchment paper on a large baking pan then arrange the kale in a single layer.
Pop into the oven on the top shelf and bake for about 10 minutes, checking after 7 minutes to test how crispy the chips are.
When they’re done to your liking, take them out and let the pan cool on the stove, then pile them on a plate and dig in.

You’ll be surprised at how complex the flavours become after roasting. I think the chips would make a great garnish, too, because of the crinkly edges and bright colour.

I found that you can use less salt to start, because the drying process concentrates the flavour. I think they’d be amazing with another taste favourite – crushed fresh garlic swirled into the olive oil in the bowl before you add the kale. You’d have to watch the temperature, though, because garlic burns quickly and when it does, it gets very bitter. No one likes bitter garlic or a bitter companion!

A big plus – if you carefully slip the kale chips into Ziploc bags, you can freeze them. They make a bright green garnish for bland-coloured foods or when sprinkled over or curried carrot sweet potato soup.

Hooked on marinated salmon

Wed, 29 Oct 2025 15:41:39 GMT

The last few months, I’ve been perfecting my recipe for gravlax, that tasty, cool, marinated salmon half that is buttery-rich on the tongue. Until I knew better, I thought some of the product you can buy in the stores were fine, but once I got up the courage to start curing my own, I was shocked at how tasty it can be.

I’ve tried wild salmon and farmed salmon as a base and my unsophisticated taste buds can’t tell the difference. Skin on, skin off. No difference. So I buy a slab of salmon (farmed, I know, maybe not good for the ocean ecosystem, I know) from Costco, trim the thin pointy end (it’s good grilled for supper), rinse the fish, blot it on paper towels and leave to air-dry in the fridge while I assemble the cure mixture.

Buy (or cut from your garden) a large bunch of fresh dill. Dill seeds won’t work – you need the fresh stuff, clipped with your kitchen shears into 1/4-to-1/2-inch lengths. The dill from our garden has already started to blossom, so I threw those in as well. Equal parts of kosher salt and white sugar – about ½ cup of each. Add a few tablespoons of brown sugar, for a more complex sweetness. Toast about a tablespoon each of white peppercorns and black peppercorns and a teaspoon of coriander seeds in a heavy frying pan until they start to pop. Turn off the heat and let them sit for a while fuming under a lid, then grind/pound into a mixture of fine and coarse bits. The fragrance is intoxicating! Toss into the bowl of mixed sugar and salt and blend well.

Spread two long sheets of clear wrap on the counter, overlapping the edges. If it looks like you’ve made too much cure, then you don’t have to use it all – it will keep in a lidded jar until the next time you need it. Make sure you label it so folks don’t mistakenly add it to their coffee.

Sprinkle a thick layer of the cure mixture over the wrap then scatter on lots of the chopped dill. Lay the salmon on the bed of cure/dill and sprinkle the rest of the cure/dill on top, making sure the edges will be coated. Wrap tightly and insert into a large zipper bag. Place on the bottom shelf of the fridge. You can put a weight on top or not – again, I don’t notice any difference either way. Flip the bag over once a day for 3-5 days.

When the gravlax has cured sufficiently, the texture will be firm instead of raw-flabby. Peel off the messy wrappings and, if you like, remove some of the coating for a less-green product. But remember, that’s where the intense flavour comes from! Then it’s ready to slice thinly on the diagonal and serve on a slice of fresh dark rye with a skim of butter. You can create pretty open-faced sandwiches with sliced boiled egg, red onions or whatever strikes your fancy. Layer the ingredients on Swedish crispbread. If you like the mustardy gravlax sauce (Ikea’s is not bad), add a dollop of that. It’s easy to make from scratch, too.

Gravlax can be frozen, unsliced, then thawed in the fridge overnight. There’ll be no change in texture. Use immediately. It’s okay to ooooh and ahhhh and smack your lips. It’s that good. And your guests will think you’re a genius. Which you are. It’s that simple – and that good.

Mondays

Wed, 29 Oct 2025 15:39:11 GMT

Before they invented big-screen televisions and botulism was something you never wanted to find in your food, never mind inject into your wrinkles, Mondays were washdays.

In the damp concrete-floored, low-ceilinged cave that was our basement, my mother had an Easy brand wringer washing machine with an agitator the size of an outboard boat motor. The machine’s electrical cord was the size of my ten-year-old wrist and when you plugged it in, the whole contraption made the most wonderfully frightening grinding roar as it mashed up the dirty clothes into a sudsy pudding. As the eldest, I got to feed the corners of the bed sheets into the finger-mangling rollers of the wringer, every shove forward an audacious flirt with danger. Would it be painful if my hand got dragged in? I can vouch for the relentless undertow of the spinning rubber cylinders, but they actually didn’t hurt that much.

Once the soiled water had been squished from the load, they were dropped into a huge tub filled either with a dilute blend of Reckitt’s fabric blue or bunch of herbs like lavender (remember, this was way before bottled fabric softener). It was time to empty the tub and refill it with clean water. Since we had no indoor plumbing, that meant a couple of trips to the pump in the corner to fill up the galvanized tin pail. We were eco-friendly before it because the in-thing to do – we always washed in cold water! I’m not sure of the formulation of the Sunlight soap bars we used to scrub stains, but they were strong enough to strip off the epidermis if you left your hands un-rinsed for long.

As I sit under the pergola on the deck, out of the afternoon sun, the air is filled not with birdsong, but with layers of annoying buzz from multiple lawn tractors and gas trimmers. Tomorrow morning around 7 a.m., the landscape crew that keeps the vacant lot across the street trimmed will be out doing manuevers with a squadron of those zero-turn machines that jolt me out of a sound sleep. At least the folks driving them wear ear protection. Maybe that’s the only way I can get another hour of sleep.

The Covenant - Part 2

Wed, 29 Oct 2025 15:32:38 GMT

On a rainy Friday evening the following June, Anthony announced he was going away for a few days. “Don’t worry. I’ll be back with a surprise. I promise.”

He returned on Sunday evening flourishing a thick Manila envelope, travel-weary but jubilant. He kissed his wife on the cheek, not something he usually did outside their bedroom.

“Here.”

Beatrice wiped her hands on her apron, relocated the cat from her chair to the floor, then sat and peered at the pages filled with legal jargon and map coordinates. Anthony shoved a photo into her hand. Indeed, he’d been too modest. The ‘surprise’ was cataclysmic.

At least this time, the house was already built. Red insulbrick again, but it looked sturdy, with two storeys covered by a shingled barn roof. Windows on each side of a door with no stairs looked like empty eyes. There were apple trees in the front yard. A tractor was parked on the gravel driveway.

“Sixteen acres of orchards. Sour cherries, peaches, pears. Grape vines. A cistern. All the farm equipment. Our own creek.” His brown eyes crinkled with delight.

‘Our’. Beatrice hadn’t seen him so happy in years. He kept saying, ‘our’. She knew she should try to share his joy, but with every word he spoke, her heart shriveled.

Glancing at the picture again, she said, “Where?”

Nothing changed. Except that everything had changed. He unfolded a worn map. Province of Ontario. He jabbed his finger beneath a speck of letters: Beamsville.

“Our future. It will be good.”

That was a lie.

***

Beatrice gazed at the relentless green of forest and fields, wondering at the resolve of this man beside her who was more of a stranger to her than before. She shivered. Every place she’d ever known, everyone she’d loved except for her children, was out of reach. Even the cat had run off before the last box of books was packed in the Studebaker’s trunk. Anthony wheeled the car from a tarred country road past a battered aluminum mailbox on a post by the ditch and up a narrow lane to their new home.

Six months before, he’d read an advertisement offering ‘productive farmland for sale’. He’d driven eight hours each way from Montreal—four hundred miles—to buy his dream with the last of their savings. During the intervening months, he’d been so sweet. Tried out intermittent little gestures, as if he’d been practicing. Promised to teach her to drive. Told her they wouldn’t be pinching pennies forever. She’d wept in private, begged her friends to come visit, and stopped going to Mass. Why bother? God had forsaken her. They’d arrived in rural nowhere as night was falling, exhausted and numb. They had groceries to tide them over for a few days and as many personal goods as they could cram in.

While the children slept in the back seat, Anthony grabbed Beatrice’s hand and tugged her up the six worn planks at the side entrance. She looked askance at the sagging clothes line attached to the wall and the path leading to a narrow shed at the edge of the orchard. The entrance door opened with a shriek. Inside smelled of old dog and stale heat. Their footfalls echoed on the red and yellow linoleum. There was no other sound but the buzz of flies trapped between the screen and panes of glass in the double windows. He flicked the light switch.

“Guess they forgot to turn on the power,” he said, taking a flashlight from his pocket. She slid her hand from his and fingered a gingham curtain the colour of old blood.

They toured the house. It was so much less than Beatrice had hoped, but just about what she’d come to expect. There was a green Formica table and four chairs in the kitchen, an electric stove and refrigerator. But instead of a faucet and taps by the cast iron sink, there was a hand pump. She blinked back tears as she climbed a flight of wooden stairs to the bedrooms. When she looked up at the uninsulated ceiling, she saw slivers of moon through the wooden slats.

“I’ll go get the children,” she said, and trudged into the blur of her future.

***

The day school started, sun blazed in the autumn sky. Beatrice’s morning sickness was over. She’d learned how to operate the wringer washer in the dirt-floored cellar without mangling her arms. And in the heat of summer, hanging load upon load of damp laundry hadn’t been so bad.

‘For richer, for poorer, in sickness and in health’.

Weary of housework and picking rocks from the cherry orchard, she decided to repaint their name on the mailbox. The red flag was up; fresh mail. Tucking the paintbrush into her hair and the bottle of India ink into the crook of her elbow, Beatrice flipped open the box and pulled out some utility bills, a postcard from her just-married sister in New York and a blue airmail envelope. Curious, she flipped it over.

The return address was Mosely, Birmingham, England, written in a school-marmish hand. A woman’s hand. A black cat had been drawn across the envelope flap. Underneath the tail was printed a tiny number XXVI. She’d seen that handwriting before. Years before, actually, when she’d been searching in a desk drawer for their cheque book. A stack of crisp envelopes secured with a rubber band. Underneath a studio portrait of a curly-haired blond cuddling a little dog under her chin.

Beatrice gasped. The bottle of ink tumbled down her side, leaving a wet gash of black along her flowered house dress and staining the outside of her calf. Her gaze shifted to the patch of devil’s paintbrush growing in the culvert at her feet as she sifted through her memory. That had been months after she’d refused to move the family to Liberia. She kicked the empty bottle into the ditch, raced back to the house and turned the heat on under the kettle, praying that Anthony’s correspondent had used permanent ink.

“Dearest Tony,” she read. He’d always insisted she call him Anthony. “Thank you for the pretty hankies. Mam and Sis appreciated the thoughtful gifts. I bought a lovely new blouse with the five pounds you sent. Eddie and the blokes from the pub were asking after you. The printing plant and metalworks factory are running adverts in the paper for maintenance men. They’re giving preferences to vets still, so think about that. Our Alice and I went dancing at the Palais last weekend. It’s not the same without you, though.”

Beatrice clutched her belly and sank into a chair. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d worn something lovely and new. Tears ran down her cheeks. No, she did remember. Her wedding day.

‘Forsaking all others.’ She’d never had an ‘other’ to forsake.

It was the shouts of the children in the yard that brought her out of her stupor. Leaping to her feet, she scrubbed the ink from her skin with a dishrag then grabbed a bottle of mucilage, pressed a thin line of adhesive to the letter flap and pressed it shut with the flat of her wedding band. She made a bundle of the fresh mail and some opened envelopes, crumpling it between her fingers before tossing everything down and dragging it across the tiles with the toe of her shoe. She picked the papers from the floor and organized them into a tidy pile. If Anthony asked what happened, she’d make something up. She’d dropped them in the yard and had to grab them before the wind blew everything away. But he didn’t ask.

Beatrice stopped keeping track of the numbered letters. The children were always hungry. As darkness came earlier and earlier, being housebound made them even more rambunctious. Except for the walleyed egg man and the milkman who still drove a horse and buggy, she had no visitors. The Ukrainian and Polish farmers’ wives in the vicinity had twice as many children. Even if they’d understood English, there was no time or energy for socializing. Never-ending mending. Air leaked through chinks in the walls and shovels of coal had to be fed into the furnace around the clock.

Anthony worked overtime, read three books a week and wrote poetry and letters every day. The nightmares returned; he’d escape to sleep on the couch. Conversation was infrequent, but the children’s chatter and his melancholy filled the spaces where marital congeniality had been. On New Year’s Day, she slipped carrying a pail from the indoor privy to the outhouse. He found her on the ground half an hour later, big belly-up, spattered with frozen shit, tears pooled beneath her shuttered eyes like icy commas.

Their last child was delivered in hospital, in the midst of a blizzard. Beatrice was glad for the week of enforced rest. The cards from her family and the tug of that sweet fat boy at her breast reminded her of love. She’d been faithful. The Lord would provide. She pressed the heads of the flowers her husband brought her between the pages of her Sunday Missal and got on with it.

Anthony never got around to teaching his wife to drive. It was lonely for her on the farm. That was one of the reasons he gave when, during Easter dinner two years later, he announced he was selling the farm. They were moving into an apartment above the pharmacy in town. The children balked at leaving school and friends and the freedom of roaming the countryside. Their father sent them to their rooms without dessert. Beatrice looked forward to starting afresh with hot and cold running water, flush toilets and steam heat. No more pre-teen daughter driving the tractor while Anthony wielded the sprayer of poison. No more packing fruit in frilly purple cups for hours on end, itching from the fuzz and getting stung by wasps. No more bathing last in a tin tub of lukewarm soap-scummed water.

For a time, the family rubbed along in the small apartment, lulled by town comforts like a laundromat, a public library, parks and sweets from the Italian bakery. Anthony got a second job; Beatrice joined the Catholic Women’s League, won accolades for her beautifully decorated cakes and knit socks for prisoners of war in Korea. He bought a newer used car and more books. She got a sewing machine. The ties that should have bound them frayed, but she had no experience with couple-hood and feared whatever she did or said would be wrong. He didn’t beat her or booze it up. There was no knock-down, drag-out fighting in front of the children. Even so, his tormented rage soured their smiles. Still, they’d manage.

And they did, until she discovered the dark suitcase—half-packed with his things—under their bed. He’d hung his head and paced the room like it was a cage. She wrung her hands and begged him to think of the children.

“It’s all too much,” he’d moaned, waving his arms. “The noise, the demands. I can’t take it.”

Dry-eyed, she closed the door and leaned against the jamb. “What will we do?”

“I have a bus ticket. For the day after tomorrow. Don’t worry, it will just be for a while.”

‘Until death do us part’? Their story ended with a lie, too.

Hyacinthe Miller - 1st prize, OBOA Writing Contest - 2018

The Covenant - Part 1

Tue, 28 Oct 2025 03:02:27 GMT

This story begins with a lie. In Latin, mostly. With a bit of English and some franglais thrown in for the pew-fillers seeking refuge from the frigid bluster of a Montreal winter.

On January 19th, 1946, a pair of twenty-five-year-old orphans slipped into the vestibule of St. Anthony's Parish church on rue Saint-Antoine. They stamped snow from their feet, hung their heavy coats in the cloakroom then milled about in the incense-scented dimness.

She wore white, of course. White pumps and silk stockings gifted from her Girl Guide troupe, a simple lace gown that cost a month's wages and a filmy chapel veil tatted by Ma Wheattle, president of the Catholic Women's League. Rail-thin, her work-chapped fingers scented and gloved, the bride clutched a posy of pale flowers and recited a silent prayer to her Guardian Angel. Clad in a natty, double-breasted suit, her silent companion adjusted his trouser creases and stared straight ahead.

The altar boys elbowed each other as they lit candles in the sanctuary. With a frowning shush, the elderly priest motioned to the groom. Spine soldier-straight, he strode to the altar rail. In the choir loft, the organ wheezed to life. An old family friend, an honorary uncle, proudly stood in for the bride's long-dead parents. He hushed her three younger siblings, waved them toward their pews, then solemnly walked the bride up the long stone aisle to give her away.

Ah yes, the sacrament of holy matrimony. The "covenant by which a man and a woman establish between themselves a partnership of the whole of life and which is ordered by its nature to the good of the spouses and the procreation and education of offspring". In which man and woman were intended to cleave one to the other for a lifetime. Beatrice pledged to ‘forsake all others’, to be faithful and bear his children.

She stared at his handsome face and with a tremulous smile, murmured, “I give you my all.”

She meant it. Those monthly novenas to Saint Joseph, the lonely prayers to St. Raphael, the scores of candles lit during those years scarred by grief and the Great Depression had been worth each hard-earned coin and calloused knee.

Beatrice had kept her small family together since the age of nineteen. While she worked three jobs, the ‘uncles’ and ‘aunties’ of the Negro Community Centre fended off inquisitive social workers with orphanages on their agenda. She’d smile as she asked the butcher for ‘bones for the dog’ they did not have, then carefully eke soup or hash or a pot pie from the meat scraps. When the cupboards were nearly bare, the children were fed first; she was sustained by the rightness of what she was doing. And now she was getting married. In the house of her God. No matter that they hardly knew one another. They’d been brought together for a reason. Her faith had seen her through so far. Would see her through. No matter what, she believed.

Holding her hand in his calloused palm, Anthony took a deep breath then repeated Beatrice’s words. He slipped a gold circlet on her finger and said, without meeting his bride’s hopeful gaze, “I take thee for my lawful wife, to have and to hold from this day forward, for better, for worse, for richer, for poorer, in sickness and in health, until death do us part.”

If only. If only we could hit 'rewind'. He lied. He had no all to give.

His vow was broken as the phrase left his lips. The lie was one of omission, but mendacious nevertheless. Beneath that tailored navy blue wool, the crisp white shirt and spit-shined brogues, Anthony was a ghost with a captivating smile. He had form. He had substance, too; just not enough.

What kind of person could he have been if his father’s legs hadn’t been cut off by a cane-hauling train in Cuba? If he hadn't languished in a hard chair for three days at his sickly mother’s bedside, not leaving except to urinate behind their neat wooden house? Three days—forever for a ten-year-old boy—spent stroking her arm and begging her to awaken. But she’d already given up and died. What if he hadn't been fostered by relatives who treated him like a human donkey? They’d threatened that sensitive, love-starved boy with the Bible and tried to thrash his artistry away. When they caught him reading the Classics, they starved him of food. Would there have been more of him to share if he hadn't lied about his age and joined the Corps of Royal Engineers as a sapper? He’d trained in Chatham, Kent in England, where he wrote poetry on the backs of old envelopes. A curly-haired Land Girl in mufti taught him to dance. He learned that Satan didn’t care about him. And in the shadow of the Sphinx, what remained of his youth was blighted with sand flies and spattered with the blood of his falling comrades.

Who knew that only most of him would return from overseas to be demobbed in Montreal? Those two orphans were so hopeful. They tried. Dear God, how they tried.

A scant nine months after the wedding, their daughter was born. Anthony had taken ship from Southampton, England, two weeks before. He had a trade and found work as a machinist. Master of his own house, he overflowed their bookshelves with leather Reader's Digest volumes. Beatrice, a proud young matron, kept house in the old family apartment on St. James Street.

Out of habit, she ‘made do’, using every part of a chicken except the squawk. She sewed and knit for the children and taught herself to make preserves to keep the larder filled. They hosted potluck parties. Family and friends, music and food, debates and laughter. Three years later, a son arrived. Another boy—one whose background was shaded with mystery—was ‘adopted’. There were five around the table. For a time, it seemed like equilibrium had been restored.

Then Anthony bought a plot of land on the South Shore. Located in the middle of an empty field, the settlement of Mackayville would eventually grow into a suburb populated by rough-and-tumble labourers who favoured driveway auto repair and large dogs. He drafted plans for a modest wood-framed house with a concrete block foundation, red Insulbrick siding and asbestos roof shingles.

Most weekends, he slept in a tent with his tools beside piles of two-by-fours. His buddies from work or from the nearby Caughnawaga Reserve would drop by to help. Even though he was more of a handyman than a builder, he couldn’t abide the sloppiness of well-meaning helpers fueled by Carling Black Label beer.

When the house was ‘finished’, it resembled a sharecropper’s cottage more than anything else. There was a well in the back and a hand pump in the kitchen. An ice box sat in the lean-to pantry. Meals were prepared on a wood-burning cast iron cook stove. It was months before the electricity worked reliably. The place was drafty and the oil furnace smoked. Nothing but weeds grew in the yard: they were literally dirt poor. Something always wanted fixing or they needed another cord of wood. Everything was more expensive. In 1953, with three youngsters underfoot, Beatrice was a pioneer wife not thirty miles from her network of family and friends and the largest city in Canada.

She adjusted. Hadn’t she said, ‘for better or worse’? Being taunted for being coloured cut deep. The loneliness she kept at bay by keeping busy. Eighteen months’ later, ‘better’ returned. Her husband grew tired of commuting over the Jacques Cartier bridge, sold the do-it-yourselfer and moved them into a bright walk-up on Lusignan Street. Beatrice was back in her element. They had modern conveniences. No one called them names. The children were healthy and exuberant. Life became more stable year-by-year, but Anthony chafed. He’d never known a ‘normal’ that lasted so long.

He swept into the apartment after work one Saturday afternoon in 1954 and handed his wife a box of Cadbury’s Assorted Milk Chocolates.

“Thank you. But why?” It wasn’t her birthday or their anniversary. And Anthony wasn’t a spontaneous man.

With a shy smile, he announced that he wanted to start a coffee plantation. Or perhaps harvest rubber. The whole family could work their acreage. Where? The Republic of Liberia.

“Liberia? In Africa?” Beatrice said.

“Yes. The Motherland. Think of the opportunity. We’d be among our own people.”

She glanced around their neat apartment, at their children colouring at the kitchen table. At the handful of spring flowers in a jar by the new RCA Victor radio. She bowed her head for a moment then looked at the earnest face of her husband of seven years.

“We’d die there, so far away from everyone. From my family. Our people are here. No.”

He stared into her eyes then said, “I’m going to write some letters,” and left the room.

Beatrice was a good wife. She asked no questions. He talked about re-enlisting to fight in the Korean War. She reminded him of his family obligations. He buried himself in his papers. The familiar rhythms of life resumed. A few months later, the first of the pale blue aerogramme envelopes arrived.

Asia Afterlogue: The Demilitarized Zone

Mon, 27 Oct 2025 00:53:53 GMT

The most sobering part of our trip was the day-long tour to the Joint Security Area separating the Republic of Korea from North Korea along the 38th parallel – the Demilitarized Zone or DMZ. Ironically, it’s the most heavily militarized border in the world.

The army base is huge and the soldiers are not for show – they are in a state of constant readiness to repel an attack from the North. Miles and miles of razor wire and freshly-painted spiked equipment glint in the sun.

Two hundred and fifty kilometers long, and about 4 kilometers wide, the DMZ is both a testament to hope and an example of blight and discord. All vegetation that could conceal escapees has been cut. The mountain sides are dry wastelands.

The Korean War is the first major event I remember from my childhood, because the grownups would talk about it over dinner. In June 1950, 75,000 North Korean soldiers from the People’s Army, supported by the USSR, poured over the border and kicked off the Cold War.

The Korean War officially ‘ended’ in July 1953 with a brokered truce, after more than five million civilians and soldiers died. The wounds are still fresh.

The TV series, M.A.S.H, was set in Korea but from the museum photos we saw, there was nothing light-hearted about the widespread destruction and cold-blooded assaults on civilians as far south as Seoul. The toll was appalling.

The two countries are still at war. On the outskirts of Seoul, the scenery changed from commerce to conflict. Razor-wire and chain link fences line the muddy river banks and a four-lane strip of highway. Camouflage-painted pillboxes stick up every 250 meters.

Until recently, there were soldiers stationed there; now, they have digital surveillance cameras with night-vision lenses. The far shore isn’t that far away. Thousands have drowned or been shot trying to swim to freedom in the South.

At the entrance to the DMZ, soldiers boarded the bus and checked our passports. This was not a cursory glance, but an intense scrutiny of faces and documents. Polite, but intimidating. Two of the passengers didn’t have the proper papers, and were escorted off to wait for our return.

Despite the one-hour wait, the parking lot was crammed with tour buses.We were reminded to pay attention to signage and not to stray from the marked paths. As in Cambodia, the remnants of conflict make exploring deadly.

During the war, so many landmines were planted it’s estimated it would take an army 200 years to clear the land. Instead, much of the DMZ is a nature preserve. Soldiers still patrol the area. Watch towers on the river are manned 24/7.

A few feet away from the warning wires, a tour of school children ate their lunch.I n the land between the main highway and the road leading to the Security Area, farmers cultivate rice. A strange juxtaposition, but life must go on and arable land is scarce.

I’d wanted to visit the invasion tunnels but changed my mind when I heard them described as dark, damp and cramped rock tubes that, due to their steepness, are hard to navigate. There are four Tunnels if Aggression, totalling thirty kilometers in length, dug from North Korea up to forty-eight kilometers from Seoul.

If the network had been completed as planned and not outed by a defector in 1978, up to 10,000 North Korean soldiers could have infiltrated the south.

I satisfied myself by examining the mock-up and watching a film.

Skirmishes continue – remember the USS Pueblo being taken hostage by the North Koreans? North Korean soldiers regularly take pot-shots across the border and often hit their mark – soldiers, farmers, tourists – doesn’t matter. As we stood on the observation tower taking photos, our guide casually remarked that a Hong Kong tourist had been picked off the previous year.

People in the Republic of Korea live in hope that the Ministry of Unification will make Korea whole again.

A beautiful station – used only by tourist trains – was built at the border in anticipation of reunification. It sits shiny and empty, on the edge of no man’s land, a few hundred meters from a gigantic peace bell.

Beyond that is a strip of asphalt road leading North, travelled by the occasional truck bringing industrial supplies to South Korean factories locating in the cities hugging the border. Business is good because labour is so cheap and of course, there are no unions or labour laws to hamper prosperity.

Yes, there is an elite that lives well in NK, but while millions of dollars are spent on armaments and armies, tens of thousands of citizens have perished due to starvation and cold.

Going to the DMZ was something I felt I had to do. Every time I look a the photos, though, and remember the bleak expanse of scrub land and the millions who died, my heart is chilled.

Sweet Thang

Sun, 26 Oct 2025 23:48:59 GMT

During my undergraduate years, I commuted from St. Catharines to York University in Toronto. Travelling from the bus station on Academy Street to downtown Toronto and then on to the northern reaches of the pre-Greater Toronto Area at Steeles Avenue was an adventure. That was back in the days when the Queen Elizabeth Highway was mostly two lanes wide, there was no such thing as gridlock and the end of the line for the Keele Street TTC bus was at Finch Avenue, an actual farmer’s field. Tomatoes I think. And sheep. Hard by the rusting squats of the gasoline “tank farm” on the east side of the street. A 45 minute walk from residence if the weather was good.

During first year, I went home every weekend. I was homesick and I missed my mother and younger brothers. By second year, the visits had stretched to every other week, partly because I discovered that dancing and hanging out with my dorm-mates were much more fun that hitting the books like a good wanna-stay A student. On one of my return trips – bright and early on a crisp, sparkly-bright April Monday morning so I wouldn’t miss a home-cooked meal (cafeteria food being what it was even then), I was meandering from the Bay Street bus station on my way to catch the subway north to the end of the line at Eglinton Avenue. From there, I’d wait twenty minutes for the Keele Street bus. My faux-alligator green suitcase was bumping against my leg and, still a bit of a hick at heart, I stared into all of the store windows as I strolled along.

As I meandered east on Dundas Street to descend into the subway north to Eglinton, I noticed two men in the distance. They wore tattered plaid work shirts over grey t-shirts, scuffed blue jeans and grimy high-top shoes with the laces undone. One sported a dirty blond crew cut, the other had long dark hair in two untidy braids secured with shoelaces. They were in their late twenties and they looked like they hadn’t washed for a while. They staggered against the storefronts, laughing and sharing what looked like a bent cigarette as they kibitzed along, pitching and yawing, bending over when they spied something on the ground. Each toted a tightly rolled sleeping bags slung across his shoulders in a fireman’s carry hold. The sidewalk by the entrance to the subway was narrow. They were directly in my path, about 10 feet away. I was the only other pedestrian on this side of the street. Traffic was sporadic. When they saw me they stopped, bobbing their heads and nudging each other.

Blondie said in a loud, gravelly voice, ‘Hey, sweet thang.” He took a long hit from the butt, loosening his hips into a swagger. Polite convent-girl that I was, I averted my eyes and ducked my chin down a little. I kept walking, but my shoes grew heavier with each step. Five feet and closing. They turned to one another. I clutched my suitcase tighter. Their eyebrows and gesturing hands were alive with conversation. They flapped a fluttery wave at me.

Braid-guy said to his buddy, “Isn’t she just sooo fresh?” He dropped the sleeping bag and thrust his arms out to the sides, wiggling his ass as he spoke. “A yummy chocolate treat.” They opened up a path for me on the sidewalk. I tried on a small smile and stepped exactly between them, face forward.

“Dayum, Bill.” His voice grated in my ears. He leaned in closer as I passed. I caught a whiff of fresh sweat, stale hair, piss and pickles. He took a noisy inhale through his mouth. He smacked his lips together as if he’d taken a huge bite of something. “Sweet AND fresh. Um, um, um.” I slowed at the top of the stairs, in the clear, ready to bolt if I had to and yell for help.

“Hey Rufe?” My foot was on the third gum-spotted concrete step. From the sound of their voices at my back, I could tell they’d began moving away.

“Yeah, man.” They were almost shouting, putting on a show for my benefit.

“Isn’t that some lovely brown pussy?”

“Right on, man. I’d like me some of that.” My heart pounded. I jumped down two steps, the bag banging against my right calf. I cold swing it hard if I had to.

“Doesn’t she have a mouth just made for sucking cock?”

His voice reverberated against the dirty green tile walls. I whirled around. They were three paces away and bent over at the waist, leaning against one another for support, smacking their knees with the flats of their palms and laughing so hard with their mouths open so wide, that they were blowing spit-bubbles. I didn’t actually know what the words meant, but from the tone, I knew it wasn’t something Sister Mary Frances would have taught us. They started making exaggerated kissy-sucking sounds with their lips, pumping their closed fists in front of bared teeth and jerking their hips in my direction. Braid-guy grabbed the front of his pants, jerking the bunched fabric away from his groin.

“C’mon, honey. You’d like this.” Then I understood. Face flaming, heart pounding, I turned away.

“Stuck up bitch,” Blondie said. I looked back over my shoulder. Legs spread wide, he grabbed his crotch and gave himself a tug as he panted with his tongue lolling from his mouth.

A gust of air pushed out of the station by an approaching train ironed my clothes tight against my body. I pressed my billowing skirt against my thighs and ran the rest of the way. Their hoots of laughter followed me, bouncing hollow down the cavern of the dirty stairwell.

Things Women Talk About – Delia

Sun, 26 Oct 2025 23:43:38 GMT

How can I leave him? Let me count the ways. It is perhaps ironic that I would bastardize a love poem when thinking about a leave poem, but what else can you do when love is, if not gone, then buried under decades of composting sameness and inattention? What once was hot and vibrant now chilled by cold shoulders and colder words. What happened to the intimacy, the passion that we swore, so long ago, would never diminish?

Right now I am tired. Tired of washing laundry and folding towels, searching for those elusive socks that disappear and seem to mean so much to him. I’m tired of tv sports and armchair coaches. Tired of being the “other”, rather than a significant other in someone’s life because now I am a convenience, a utility, a service provider.

Sounds hard? No, what is hard is that insistent Saturday morning poke in the small of my back at 6 a.m. as I am trying to burrow deeper into the covers so that I can sleep in past the crack of dawn because I don’t have to get up to go to the gym before getting to my desk. Hard as those fingers that press and pry my crossed arms away from my breasts, so that he can rub my nipples into firmness because he knows me that way so well. His touch still arouses, like I’m some primitive creature, and ensures that my automatic (but now unwanted) physical response signals my wakefulness, instead of my unwillingness. I want to scream – leave me alone! I am not your toy lying there for your convenience when there is nothing on the idiot box and you had a pee hard-on and can’t get back to sleep. But I’m a good-wife. Well trained to compliance…on the outside.

Why don’t I leave? Why don’t I tell him no? Two words. Two syllables. No guts.

Where would I go? I’m a nursery school assistant. I have the gross income to support myself, according to the too-cheery spinster financial adviser at our union office. But what does she know of life, this manicured ‘working girl’ with the latest hairdo and photos of her cats on her desk? Gross is the operative word. I get to keep less than half. And even if he didn’t get custody of the children, they’d have to do without, live hand-to-mouth with a mother who might be happy and free, but poor and afraid of impending ruin.

I don’t have anywhere in particular to go. I’d have to avoid going to church for a while. I’d miss that. My grandmother would probably shun me, disapproving because I didn’t stick it out like she did. She’d remind me he didn’t beat me, like grandpa did her. My false girlfriends would smile sympathetically with their lips but wouldn’t lift a hand to help. Their lives are as rich with prevarications as my own. I certainly would never move in with another man, just to have a roof over my head. Why leave something where, at least, I have some measure of control during my waking hours after all this time? Do I want to start over with tightening up my middle-aged child-bearing body, making nice-nice, sashaying into the mating dance and getting used to someone else’s habits? No, not now; perhaps maybe never.

I’m beginning to understand that men are at their best when they’re your friends. They can be sexual friends, too – because isn’t recreational sex with someone you are fond of and safe with just another expression of affection? The ultimate/intimate handshake, as it were. Men make terrific friends because if that is the basis of your relationship, you can be yourself, speak your mind, pass gas and excuse yourself with a chuckle, eat brownies in bed at noon and read books all night, because if your friend decides that he doesn’t like it and attempts that married trickery – emotional or psychological blackmail – you can take out your diaphragm, put on your tights, tell him to make up the bed himself and go home.

What would the kids think if we split? They are adults, with relationships of their own to navigate. I don’t think they’d be particularly surprised, because I think they have always seen me as something of an oddball – the combination of Earth Mother, sports nut, artist and free spirit is a volatile mix.

What would my mother really think, if I could ever pressure her to tell me the truth instead of aphorisms? Ah, now we are getting to the nub of the issue.

South America Diary

Sun, 26 Oct 2025 18:04:49 GMT

As our flight to Santiago was coming in for a landing the flight attendant told us about the items we were not allowed to bring into Chile: edible products of animal origin, flowers, fruits and vegetables, no dried fruit, trail mix or nuts, honey, home baked goods, unpackaged candies, etc. If you’re caught ‘smuggling’, the fine is $240 US and you’ll have to languish at the airport until a magistrate arrives to process the infraction. Yikes. As usual, we travel with healthy snacks, granola bars, salted almonds, etc. in ziptop bags. They all went into the barf bag. Being a good recycler, I folded up the plastic bags and tucked them into my rolling backpack. No biggie.

Wrong-o. As Hub and I watched the luggage coughed out on the belt, a cute little pooch wearing a fluorescent vest wandered around. I thought, Ah, drug-sniffing dog . Wrong again. I’m not paying attention, because I’m trying to figure out here my big suitcase is and if I have any contraband tucked in with my socks and t-shirt. Poochie sits down beside my roll-on. A young woman in a matching vest asks me if I have any of the long list of items. I say, No, I emptied them out on the aircraft . She smiles as she hands me an official form with a bright pink tag attached and directs me to the secondary inspection x-ray, where a group of bored looking officials are leaning against their machines.

One guy points to the conveyor belt. He grins as I heave my bags over. Let’s just say that after 12 hours in transit, I was docile. I mean, I was a tourist in Chile and my Spanish was Grade 12 rusty, so who was I to argue? She searched my hand luggage and unearthed the plastic bags, took a sniff then zipped everything up and sent me on my way. Luckily, she didn’t search my shoulder bag, where I had a small bag of preserved ginger and a half-eaten granola bar that I’d forgotten. Visions of being fingerprinted then languishing in a South American prison cell flashed through my mind. We hot-footed it out of the Customs Hall to our waiting taxi driver.

The Andes were bathed in the sulfurous haze that blankets Santiago for most of the year. Traffic was light, the driver didn’t speak any English and we arrived at our hotel in about 30 minutes. What a welcome relief.

Our room wasn’t ready, but we hung out in the gloriously bright breakfast room and had our first taste of homemade raspberry juice. Check in was a breeze – the front desk staff all spoke English, which made our life a lot easier. Unpack, shower, then off to explore.

South America Diary

Thu, 23 Oct 2025 19:24:56 GMT

A long time coming, this trip to Chile and Argentina. Of course, Hub had visited in the 70s on business, when the political situation was chaotic and dangerous, but he was selling sawmills and mining equipment and it was before the days of instant communications, so if you had work to do, you went and hoped for the best.

Our trip this time was for vacation and for me, also, research for my novels. In The Fifth Man, one of the protagonists – Markus – is seriously injured when his mineral exploration plane goes down near the Atacama Desert, in the north of Chile close to the border with Peru. Later, he visits the Swedish consulate in Santiago to renew his passport. I wanted to experience first-hand what that might have been like and I needed to know more about the situation ‘on the ground’ at the time. Did I luck out! More about that later.

When we arrived at Pearson 3 hours early to check in, a cheery Delta airlines staffer told us – as we lined up – that the flight was delayed. No problem. We had almost 4 hours to wait in Atlanta for our connection, so we weren’t worried. After 90 minutes, though, with no arriving aircraft in sight, we weren’t so sanguine. Mechanical difficulties. Aircraft is still in Detroit. Not to worry. Easy for you to say, Sister! In 2010, we missed our connection to Bangkok in Minneapolis by 10 minutes because the connector flight idled on the tarmac at Pearson for 45 minutes, then there were strong headwinds, plus the gates were miles apart when we got there, huffing and puffing and severely pissed off.

In any event, this time, there was another scheduled flight which did arrive from Detroit and depart on time. We got our reservations switched and arrived at the cavernous Atlanta airport in plenty of time, hopeful that our luggage was with us.The departure lounge was filled with folks chatting in Spanish. Hola! I flipped through my Spanish-English dictionary, trying to pick up on conversations and remember words buried deep since I’d studied the language in high school. No housework or worrying about the grubs destroying the lawn.

I find long-distance travel soothing most of the time. The nine-hour (and nine minutes) flight to Santiago was uneventful. We’d sprung the extra coin for upgraded economy seats – two side-by-side at the window, with more legroom. Drinks, read a bit, dinner (ugh, chicken again), wine, bathroom break, knee bends, read some more (Donna Leon’s latest), then sleep. Half-wake, drink some water, snooze.

I awoke just as the sky was beginning to take on a light glaze over the curve of horizon. I love sunrise at 33,000 feet. It’s so primal, always brilliant, always life-affirming. Metaphysical. I just know that some ‘thing’, whatever you call that much-greater-than-humanity Being, had a hand in this. By comparison, we creatures are so puny and powerless. Puts things into context, doesn’t it?

Like a kid, I spent the entire time until we landed with my nose pressed against the window, snapping pictures, holding my breath, filled with as much sense of wonder at the glory of what was emerging before me as the light of the rising sun was burnishing the skies. But it was -57 degrees out there. The clouds beneath us glowed like rippled sand on a beach, looking substantial enough to walk across. As the light strengthened, they faded to pale and the magnificent Andes mountains rose out of the darkness.