Five Years a Writer

This is a staged photo: We own more mugs than shown here! Back in August 1986, when my then partner and I packed up our life in Edmonton, Alberta and drove ourselves and the few possessions we could fit into our Toyota Tercel across the country to Halifax, Nova Scotia, it was a big adventure. Once arrived, we slept on the floor — literally, not even a futon mattress until several weeks into our new life; we ate off a Pepsi crate; and we made do without a desk. Of course, over time, we accumulated possessions and ended up moving first to Fredericton, New Brunswick, and then to Winnipeg, Manitoba with a moving-truck full of stuff. Earlier this month, when I was packing up my late mother’s suite as the first act of dealing with her estate, I realized I was reversing the process — sorting through, packing up, giving away and, finally, making do* with just a glass, a mug, a plate and one small frying pan in which to scramble eggs: I no longer had a spatula, so flipping an egg for an ‘over e...

One day, way back in 1995, a crowd of people was marching down the street and, normally, I would have been supportive. But that day, I was watching from my downtown office window and I scoffed to my colleague, “Good grief. Marching in protest of the local hockey team leaving town  — really? Who cares?”  Well. That colleague cared and told me so in no uncertain words, saying, “Amanda, if the Winnipeg Symphony Orchestra was leaving town due to lack of funding, wouldn’t you be marching in the streets? Not everyone cares about music and not everyone cares about hockey, but both music and sports are essential parts of our city’s cultural capital.” Well. That shut me up. Because, of course, my colleague was right. Culture comes in all shapes and sizes and, while the finer points of public funding for a professional hockey team* versus public funding for a professional orchestra could be debated, the truth is that Winnipeg is a city big enough that it can — and should — support a bro...

Circa 1959: Anne with Tozz (the cat) and Katy (my older sister at about 18 months) My previous three posts relating to my mother (who died on April 26th) can be read  here ,  here  and  here . ✍ Dear Mum: I miss you and I am also glad you are no longer suffering the pain you experienced in the last few months of living. So many times every day since you have died I have wanted to tell you something — something you would have laughed at, commented on, wanted to know more about. Now, I think those thoughts and make up the conversation we would have had. Whether you were near me or far from me, you were always right there with me wanting to know about my latest workshop or newest piece of writing or Holly the cat’s current antics. You were interested in my life, a good listener, a constant support. I have been grateful for the words of condolence and comfort sent and said by family and friends, some of whom knew you first hand, some only through my words and storie...

1. Feel the relief that comes with the peaceful end of my mother’s life. She was so ready, so grateful to have my sister and me here, so present during the close of her days. 2. Receive the messages that arrive as emails, phone calls, texts, FB comments, and in-person conversations. The reaching out by others is welcome, appreciated, invaluable. 3. Plan the celebration of her life. With chocolate cake and heartfelt words. 4. Enjoy the warmth and love present for Mum among those who attended the Celebration in person and in spirit. This ritual coming together to mourn and to celebrate our splendid mother is a marker on the way into the next months — important to organize, comforting to experience. 5. Speak freely of Mum every chance I have. She lives on in the stories I tell and the stories I hear. 6. Dive into packing up the things that surrounded her. They are just things without our splendid mother to animate them through her use of them. Even her clothes just hang, lifeless, m...

April 2024: Anne and Amanda -- mother & daughter with but one nose between us (as it were) Formal notice Anne Le Rougetel died peacefully at home on Friday, April 26, 2024, with her daughters at her side. Born in 1928, Anne was a remarkable woman; a talented writer; an eclectic reader; well versed in world affairs; loving beyond measure to her children; kind and generous to friends; compassionate to those in need. She enjoyed reading a good book and engaging in interesting conversation. Due to failed vision and failing hearing, both these pursuits disappeared from her life in the final year or so. Please remember Anne by taking a friend to coffee and enjoying a delicious pastry. Anne was predeceased by her husband Colin. She is survived by her three children and their families: Katy (Guy). Amanda (Val). Charles (Lisa, Max and Sam). Special mention must be made of Barbara Chan, who was a generous friend and caring companion to Anne, and of Edna Abel, who was a loving friend and inte...

Grief is not a land in which I have travelled much, though I routinely explore it via others’ experience. I am drawn to do this as a student is drawn to the masters: To observe, to sit with, to wonder if those others’ experiences might help prepare me for my own when I find myself in that place. Will it? Sara Paretsky, author of the V.I. Warshawski mystery series, says that the grief over her long-time husband’s death hit her like a grand piano falling out of the sky onto her head. There is no pre-mourning, she says. Nonetheless, I persist in my studies: Memoirs of loss. Stories of grief. Tales of survival. I sit with those experiences. The words, the feelings, the anguish wash over me. And I ask myself: Will the sun rise tomorrow? Will I see it when it does?  Should I worry about this? Should I just expect, presume that what has always been will always be? Absurd. It will not always be. The loves of my life are all older, are all old. 95, my mother. Almost 80, my p...

I have just finished a five-week 'Spark your Writing' session with a terrific group of writers who produce creative work 'sparked' each week by a word quote and image (painting or photo). It consistently amazes me what different stories we write from the same words or picture -- a personal essay, a prose poem, a creative nonfiction piece, a fictional story -- the options are limited only by the writer's imagination and desire to create. That is the beauty and power of creative response to what is in front of us.  In response to last week's sparks, I wrote a short fictional story that I share below. Its style is unusual for me and I had fun experimenting in this genre. I hope you enjoy it, and I'd love to hear what you think of it.   THE SPARK …I thought how private we have all become. How self-sufficient. Of course, we are all members of the community we live in. While in the past, they would have been cogs, wheels, brackets, levers, pulleys, each making the...