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Book review: The Woman Who Swallowed West Hawk Lake by Deborah Schnitzer

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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...
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Even a terrible picture is worth a thousand words -- and a million memories: My feminist theatre collective from 1985

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  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,...
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Hope and Joy: colourful neighbours with boots and trucks, but could there be more?

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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...
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Where is the biffy on Little House on the Prairie -- and, also, where are all the insects?

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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...
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Hearing my words spoken (and sung!) had me grinning like the Cheshire Cat

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Hearing my words spoken by a stranger was an unexpected delight. When she burst into song — well, that took the experience to the next level for me. It all began about a year ago when I read a piece of my writing on a local early-morning CBC radio show. Morris Bay, self-declared Poet Laureate for Seniors and founder of Company of Poets, heard me, contacted me, and subsequently invited me to read that piece at a local event he puts on monthly at various seniors residences. I went, enjoyed reading to a new and appreciative audience, and have stayed in touch with Morris. About a month ago, he emailed me. He and his poet-friend James were putting together an anthology of poems by those who had read at one of his events in the past year or so. Was I interested in submitting something? My knee jerk response was, Ha, too bad I don’t write poetry. But my more considered response was, Hang on a minute. Of course, I do. Some of my writings include poetic compositions and, sometimes, I quite del...
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Remember: Hold dear the memory and WRITE IT DOWN!

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Back in the spring, when my friend Jane asked me if I wanted to share stories about our mutual friend Kathy who is facing health issues, I said YES! immediately. I didn’t first wonder if I had any stories from our time together four decades ago or if they might be worth sharing, I simply committed to remembering and to sending along what I came up with. I sat down that same day and spent some time thinking about my years in Nova Scotia, and my friendship and community activism with Kathy in that province. The memories came trickling, then flooding in  — meetings, rallies, gin & tonics, boat rides, meals.. . I wrote them up, simply, unadorned, and sent them to Jane, as others did, too, and now a booklet of memories is in the final stages of production for sharing with Kathy’s family. I come from a family of memoirists, so writing about one’s life seems normal to me, and I certainly know the value of doing so — I have plain photocopies of writings that go back to my grandparents ...
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How can we know we are making the right decision when we say NO to an opportunity?

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“You will never reach your destination if you stop and throw stones at every dog that barks.” attributed to Winston Churchill (see note below) Making decisions is one of the most challenging things we do as humans in this world. Make a good one, and life unfolds “as it should”. Make a questionable one, and it might all go sideways. Which decision will take us down which path? How to know? Decision-making is, at least in part, about our tolerance for risk and our sense of trust: How willing are we to take a risk on whatever the circumstances are that the decision will take us into? How much do we trust ourself and any others involved to make good of those circumstances? These questions are ever present in my mind and were given new life recently when I listened to Tricia Rose Burt’s TEDxPortsmouth Talk “How I redeemed 35 years of regret” — because regret is a close relation to risk and trust. Get the risk and the trust right, and regret doesn’t show up. But get either wrong and, wham, ...
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