Five Years a Writer

Amanda and Val: enjoying each other in our pre-relationship days. I did not realize what was happening... 33 years together 💝 adventures hikes in the woods ice chips from the frozen lake in our martinis cycling, roller blading, cross-country skiing, boating  growing things, making meals, renovating homes and cottages talking  laughing  loving We were introduced by a mutual friend, probably in 1991. I was immediately struck by Val's red hair and, over time, became enamoured of many things about her, including her intellectual heft. But I was entrenched in a long-term relationship, so the time I spent with Val was just innocent fun — bowling with a group for my birthday (Dykes for Strikes, I called the event) or canoe-camping with friends in beautiful Lake of the Woods (Ontario). And then it wasn't.  Innocence gave way to wonder that a relationship could be so rich with potential for me, so grounded in respect of each other, and equality between us. And so lively...

Our tomatoes, last week How to grow a tomato How not to be a world-class jerk How to grow a tomato Plan in winter Plant in spring Tend in summer Eat in autumn Of course, it doesn’t actually ever go like that, it goes more like this: The planning in winter is ideal, the mind-image perfection. The planting in spring gets delayed because of climate-change-odd weather. The tending in summer is complicated by other commitments, more enticing than watering, pruning, weeding. The eating — well, that happens, regardless;  the culmination of bounty or scarcity, whatever the fruit on the vine.  Whether  red and sun-ripe or green and brown-paperbag-prayers,  the tomatoes find their way to my enjoyment, alimentation, appreciation... inspiring the seeds, already, of next year’s crop. *** How not to be a world-class jerk It’s simple:  Be kind.  Be nice.  Be polite.   Don’t be mean; it’s nasty.  Don’t tell us who to trade with; that’s our decision, alw...

The Woman who Swallowed West Hawk Lake by Deborah Schnitzer London, ON: Ardith Publishing 2026 available through Amazon Review by Amanda Le Rougetel This highly original and creative novel, presented in multiple layers of memory and textual artifacts, challenged me to think beyond what I expect to see on the pages of a book, and to hand myself and my reading experience over to the unfolding storylines within its cover. Two young children, a girl and a boy, suffer a sense of isolation from their extended family members when their mother is taken ill and taken away from them. When they visit her, they sense she is no longer the mother they thought she was to them. Meanwhile, the man they call ‘nazi’ — spelled lower case when referenced by the children but upper case when the adults discuss him — is hanging around, apparently taking photographs. Why? Who is he? And what has really happened to their mother? The children’s deepening sense of unease is coupled with a growing understanding o...

  January 1985: Hecate's Players performing in Fort McMurray,  Alberta, at the invitation of  Women of the North.  From left, Amanda Le Rougetel, Kathryn Ivany, Lisa Walter.  Look at at those serious faces (and bad hair) from more than four decades ago. Oh my goodness. I want to believe we didn't take ourselves as seriously as these pics suggest, but in 1985 we had so many things to say about the plight of women in this world, and say them we did. To each other, the general public and to politicians, at meetings, around tables and from stages. I have always enjoyed performing on a stage (ever since I played the shoemaker’s wife in Grade 2), so establishing a feminist theatre collective in the early 1980s with a bunch of university friends was not a stretch for me. Indeed, it was a natural outlet for my burgeoning politics. We named ourselves Hecate’s Players, after the goddess in ancient Greek religion and mythology “variously associated with crossroads, night,...

The apartment block was one of those red-brick walk-ups, with the wooden fire escape steps and landings up the back outside wall. Units facing front looked out over the street, those facing back had the view of the alley. Neither position was particularly favourable — noise was ever-present, though the front view did include patches of scrappy grass and a couple of flowerbeds that persisted even in the face of neglect, the hostas and bleeding hearts unimaginative but reliable. In unit 4-A lived Hope. She had been there a long time, ever present like the noise but quieter, more elusive than the traffic and the stray cats. Nonetheless, she was the anchor of the block, older than most other residents, “seasoned” is how she described herself, and easily identifiable by her perennial purple boots and red sweater. “Make a statement — or make me a better offer,” she liked to joke with a wink to anyone who commented on her style. Knocking people off their rock-solid assumptions was, maybe, Hop...

In our house, the day is done once we have watched the news, Val has prepared the cat’s overnight food, and I have closed up the big windows, always finishing with the kitchen window. In the height of the summer months, the screen on this window, which has an overhead light, used to be a manic bug circus: moths, mosquitoes and other winged and buzzing insects dancing at the screen, trying to get to the light on the other side. To avoid trapping these creatures between the screen and the glass, I would shut off the light to encourage the insects to fly away. Then I would close and lock the window. But a few weeks ago, I noticed there were no bugs — no bugs at all dancing at the screen when I went to close the kitchen window. The silence and the empty screen shocked me. Where have all the bugs gone? Wait. No need to tell me. I know; we have brought this on ourselves. Enough said. Well, maybe fifty words more: I wrote a micro piece about that bug-less window-closing experience; it was pub...