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The fall is not the thing...

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... a true story, but it may hold within it a metaphor for our times The fall is not the thing it’s the getting up that counts and even more it is the next-day moving that matters that tells the tale of deep-inside reverberations of the fall. The other day I fell off the curb while carrying in groceries from the car one minute upright the next, a slip unintended a tumble,  then laying on the ground  dignity disappeared. Expletive. Arise. Assess. No breaks!  Carry on. But the next morning the evidence is felt the soreness of hip the catch in the shoulder the strain in the wrist that took the brunt. Expletive No breaks! Get moving. My father fell many times and, once, in front of me. At the airport a curb felled him. He, too, got up, though with the help of a kind and strong — and young — stranger who heaved him upright as if featherweight. Dad suffered no ill effects. Remarkable. Tough as nails. Resilience personified. For me, this first fall came unexpected was most startling a sharp
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This is how we make the world good and beautiful and kind

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A poem by Langston Hughes was the 'spark' in a recent writing group session; in response, I wrote the story below. Its essence speaks loudly to me in the wake of last week's US election results: Each of us must do what we can to move this world in the right direction.  I am so tired of waiting, Aren’t you, For the world to become good And beautiful and kind. excerpt from TIRED by Langston Hughes When is a table a door?   Yasmina took her seat on the makeshift bleachers, as she had dozens of times before. But today felt different. Today was different. Today, she was here to watch her son defend his championship title. His first ever title, won so brilliantly last year. He had overcome the great odds of his early childhood to find his feet in this cold northern land and to make a place for himself in this challenging community of newcomers and refugees. Downtown had never been what she had imagined when she had been told that’s where her apartment was waiting for her and her
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MOTHER COURAGE: a micro memoir with footnotes

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Note to readers -- This post includes mention of medically assisted death (MAiD),  a procedure that has been  legal  in Canada since 2016.  ------------------------- November 4 is my mother's birthday.  2024 is the first year she is not alive on earth to celebrate it.  But I celebrate her every day and, today  on my blog,  I celebrate her with a special tribute.  Anne Le Rougetel was a splendid woman and an exceptional mother.  ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------- MOTHER COURAGE a micro memoir with footnotes My mother helped me live, I helped her die. She taught me courage: “I’ve only regretted the things I didn’t do,” she told me ( 1 ) . So at 17, I wandered the streets of Paris on my own ( 2 ) ; at 33, I survived a disastrous business venture ( 3 ) ; at 53, I married my girlfriend ( 4 ) . So when Mum asked me to set in motion her medically assisted death, I did — writing emails and making appointments all new to me ( 5 ) . I have no
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When a place is more than a structure, it gets in your bones

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My cottage attire met the standards of need paired with availability; style was optional -- and unique.   Dear Clifftop Cottage: I wish I weren’t writing this letter, but the time has come. The choice is made, the deal done, the door closed. For good. For real. For us. For a new family, that same door is now wide open, and I bid them welcome and wish them the same times we had there. Years of hard work and good fun (often one and the same), of peace and quiet (except when it was noisy with people and power tools and vehicles), of that spectacular view (no matter the season or the weather, that view held our gaze and our heart), and of sighting the local wildlife (deer, bears, coyotes, foxes, otters, martens, birds, dragonflies, butterflies…). Looking back, every moment was worth it. Because, of course, memory fades of those moments when the cat caught a mouse behind the sofa (eek!); of when the toilet got plugged (argh!); of when the cottage was so cold when I arrived one early Decembe
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A gardener’s story about growing a writing community

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I didn’t know what I was doing or where I was going when I started to dig in the ground of my new front yard. I just knew that I didn’t want all that grass or that huge tree or the boring junipers around the house foundation. I was younger then, full of energy, so I just started. Deborah and I didn’t know what we were doing or where we would end up when we started to talk about our lives as women and as writers needing to embrace the changes that life had either thrust upon us or that we were calling into our lives. We just knew that our conversations were necessary and revealing and, ultimately, healing. We were not so young then, yet full of curiosity, so we just started. It was hard work ridding the front yard of what was probably decades of grass, but with the help of a good friend and the encouragement of my partner, it slowly disappeared into wheelbarrows and then down the riverbank at the end of my street. A little while into this method, I learned that the riverbank was private
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A vow at a wedding is better than a promise on the campaign trail

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Snowdrops are symbols of the promise that winter will end and spring will begin. On the Canadian prairie, every year, we desperately want to believe the promise of this tiny flower. The news is full of the US election. So many words, so much hot air, so many calls for Kamala Harris to get specific on policy. But I am fine with her focus on being “a joyful warrior for the people”, on generating “an opportunity economy”, and on her commitment to “not going back”. I am fine with this so-called soft approach, because I don’t put much stock in hard promises made on the campaign trail. A lot can happen between a promise made on the trail and that promise becoming law in office — wars can break out, pandemics can arise, economics can take a dive. And, regardless of any chaos that might arise, we expect our leaders to pivot on their platform and to keep our lives and our livelihoods on track. So, promises will, inevitably, get broken, though not always with good reason. Here in Canada, many of
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As a girl, my ambition was to smoke

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I blame Katharine Hepburn . Maybe Lauren Bacall . Possibly Audrey Hepburn . But mostly Katharine Hepburn. With her glamorous looks, chic sense of style (those flowing, high-waisted trousers!), and her fierce independent spirit, I loved her on screen. I wanted what she had. Phooey — I wanted to be her. The closest I came was to smoke. Back in the 1960s, when I was not yet 10 years old, a woman smoking represented a woman independent, a woman of her own mind, a woman doing her own thing. That was the woman I wanted to be. So I smoked. To be sure, not real actual cigarettes. I ‘smoked’ short pencils or tightly rolled up paper, glued together and coloured at one end to represent the burning part. As you can see in the top photo, my siblings got in on the act and I was my most suave and sophisticated 8- or 9-year-old self lighting my sister’s ‘cigarette’. In high school, my best friend taught me how to inhale. Menthol cigarettes, pilfered from her mother’s supply as I recall. No wonder th
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