Five Years a Writer

My mother and I were talking about the astonishing number of people who were queuing up to pay their final respects to Queen Elizabeth II, lying in state. During our conversation, Mum dropped the heretofore unknown to me fact that she had done the same thing when King George VI died. Below, she tells the story.  Witness to history  by Anne Le Rougetel Last week we were saying, “The Queen is dead! Long live the King!” In 1952 we said, “The King is dead! Long live the Queen!” Seventy years later,  from my current home in Canada, here is how I remember that time when I was living in England. My mother, stylish in the mid-50s. My father, equally so. In 1952, I was living in northern England, in a small town close to Liverpool. The morning of February 6th, I was standing in my kitchen. It was chilly and I was keeping count of the sacks of coal being delivered to our outside coal cellar. Suddenly the wireless program, which had been runni...

From my corner of the world this past week or so, I have witnessed raw grief, quiet sorrow, and naked ambition, and it has me contemplating the place of dignity in our life these days. The horrific mass stabbing on the James Smith Cree Nation in Saskatchewan brought raw grief to a whole community and those of us beyond. The death of Queen Elizabeth II brought quiet sorrow to her family, obviously, and to those in the world beyond who feel some connection to her as queen or as woman. The election of Pierre Poilievre as the newest leader of the Conservative Party of Canada brought joy to his supporters and trepidation to those of us leery of populist politicians. In his words and on his face during his acceptance speech, I heard and saw a naked ambition that will fuel his run to be Canada’s next Prime Minister. I know that colonialism seeded the violence on the James Smith Cree Nation. I know that the role of the monarchy in 21st century Canada needs to be considered and discussed. I kno...

It’s a steep climb down to the water, but it’s safe via the steps and the ramp, the grade notwithstanding. Much safer than the original staircase had been, rickety and rotten in places. It had been a brilliant idea to get rid of that contraption and replace it with the short staircase and longer ramp — an altogether easier engineering feat down the 20-or-so-foot cliff face to the lake. Once at the bottom, one arrives on the enormous rock that supports the swim ladder. Though it doesn’t sit true against the rock, it has not moved one inch in the decade-plus that we’ve been using it to get into the lake for swimming. That ladder is as if part of the rock: timeless, solid, reliable. Last summer, the lake was low (see photo) but this summer, the lake is high — so high, the top rung of the swim ladder is often under water, while last summer the very bottom rung was clear. Last summer, the swimming was not appealing, but this summer the dips into the lake for a refreshing cool-off have been...

Beginnings are exciting, though we don’t always know that that ‘first’ of whatever it is — that start — will evolve into something more: the beginning of…well, the beginning of whatever it is that continues on. So it was with my relationship with Val. Introduced by our mutual friend, Randa, I was immediately drawn to Val’s energy and spirit of adventure (she had been leading women on wilderness canoe trips for several years) — and her fiercely Scandinavian-red hair (see photo, from 1997). Among other things, I also liked her politics and her sense of humour. We were both encumbered by existing primary relationships, but that fact did not dampen the sparks that flew between us. Over the next few months, the realization dawned on me that the very unknown properties of a relationship with Val were more appealing to me than the very known parameters of my existing situation. But how to move? How to change? Then Val wrote me a letter professing her love and commitment, and I saw the future ...

As I remember it, it was a Sunday morning. Early summer, easy breezy weather, and the time to enjoy it. Whatever happened was welcome, a total change from the hard school year that had recently ended. I was out of province, staying with friends, in serious holiday mode. Delightful. That Sunday morning, a bunch of friends came over for breakfast. My hostess and I decided to serve eggs Benedict with homemade hollandaise sauce — not in my repertoire, but a specialty of hers. The friends were pleased to be invited, as my hostess, **Esmé, was well known for the good food and fun times she produced out of her kitchen and around her table. I was looking forward to being part of a large gathering, happy to be together, and enjoying the conviviality of a shared home-cooked meal. Esmé and I worked well together in the kitchen, she taking the Chef role and I the line cook’s. English muffins sliced, ready for toasting. The butter and egg yolks measured for the hollandaise. More eggs counted out fo...

The yellow chairs had captured her imagination, but it was the bridge across the little meadow that caught her heart. That bridge lead over and away into the horizon that the view promised. On a sunny day, that view stretched out into endless possibilities. Possibilities of doing and seeing and being in ways that had long since escaped her reach. The journey that brought her to the bridge over the meadow and to those yellow chairs, set so appealingly as if for a conversation among friends over tea, had been unplanned and, in so being, its impact entirely unexpected. When asked if she wanted to pack a bag and come along for a trip into the country, she had, without much thought, said yes. Why not? Nothing much to keep her here, in the hot city, at the height of summer. The turn down the driveway showed the reason for making the effort of the trip — that view, the bridge, those chairs. Together, they represented everything the friends in the vehicle had left behind or, rather, had tra...

For me, there is nothing quite so good as diving into a book from which I don't want to come up for air. To be in the pages of a story, created by a writer with command not only of that story but of the words used to tell it — their selection, rhythm and structure — is a wonder and a delight. All the more so, because it doesn’t always happen, despite what the reviews might promise. So when it does, it’s an experience I want to share. But, please, not in a book club. I am not drawn to a formal discussion of a specific book. I prefer the more ad hoc “I loved this book; maybe you will, too” approach to sharing with other readers. Recently, I wondered about taking a sort of guerrilla approach to book recommendations and reviews: The other day, I finished reading Lessons in Chemistry by Bonnie Garmus. I absolutely loved it. The protagonist, Elizabeth Zott, is a bit zany and a lot bright. She takes on patriarchy via the chemistry lab, and raises a daughter along the way. It’s a wonderful...