Five Years a Writer

Amanda wearing various hats: a toque in winter; my city hat for a January 2017 protest march; my pink pussyhat for a climate day action; and my cottage Tilley hat for outdoor chores. Cottage living is not country living but on our way to the cottage we pass through the country and, over the years, I have definitely adopted some country ways. I wave at every car I pass on the gravel road heading towards the cottage. I call HELLO loudly as I walk down a cottage driveway to alert the owners to my presence. I made friends with the most forthcoming of the various men who have managed the ‘transfer station’, aka, the dump, in our cottage development. And I have learned to wear a hat. It’s a particular hat, bought especially as my cottage hat. It’s a Tilley hat , broad brimmed, white canvas, indestructible. It doesn’t do much for my looks, but it does wonders for my sense of self as a cottage person. No matter what the outdoor chore or activity is, I reach first for my hat. Once donned, I am ...

When I was in my mid-20s, I moved from Alberta to Nova Scotia. A job was waiting for my partner, but I was heading into a void. I knew no one where we were going; it was old fashioned methods of connection that saved me from isolation and loneliness. I found that connection first through CBC Radio. I knew that the Peter Gzowski morning show that I was listening to in Bedford would soon be on in my mother’s kitchen in Edmonton, and later in our afternoons we would both have the pleasure and enjoyment of Vicky Gabereau’s wit and charm on air. Though I was thousands of miles away, I felt connected to my mother through the radio. The other connection came via a letter that a friend in Edmonton had sent to an acquaintance of hers in Bedford. We all three were involved in the abortion rights movement and that letter from Sheila in Edmonton to Kathy in Bedford opened the door for me to a vibrant community of feminist women in Halifax and Nova Scotia among whom I made many good friendships, so...

Amanda and Val: many years ago and today.  Man, look how young we were. Sheesh. Thirty-one years and counting certainly shows. But who in their right mind would care about wrinkles or grey hair when it is a good and generous love that has propelled us through the years together.  Every good story is told through both summary and scenes. Val & Amanda’s story: The summary A generous love that has withstood the challenges of two bouts of cancer and multiple joint replacements, of job changes and career disappointments, of cats found and cats lost, of parents living and parents dying. Two women, together, building a good life. Amanda: Three scenes April 1997: Val and I are driving from Winnipeg  down through the Dakotas and Wyoming and Utah to Arizona, camping in a tent along the way and marvelling at what we can do together, still, after Val’s cancer diagnosis earlier that year. At a roadside cafe somewhere in Utah, a woman asks me if we are sisters. Without skipping a b...

Posy bright and sweet Quiet presence hidden scent Pleasing memory The other day, a friend brought me a posy of sweet peas from her sister’s garden. The scent emanating from those small, beautiful flowers almost knocked me over: sweet, rich, unmistakable. I placed the posy in a small vase and put it on the kitchen windowsill. That evening, while I was making supper, that scent wafted its way to me and, for a moment, I felt pure pleasure at the beauty and the bounty of nature represented by that small posy. Pleasure. Smaller than happiness, bigger than fine, just right for this moment that came to me on the air.  The root of the word goes back to Middle English (plesir) and Old French (plaisir) meaning ‘please’ — as in, to please someone. Usually someone else, but sometimes ourself (in any way, in every way). The feeling of pleasure is maybe fleeting but the memory of that pleasure can linger long past the moment itself. May your days be marked by sweet, rich, unmistakable...

Disappointment is not something any of us aim for, I’m sure. The very last thing I ever want to be told by someone is that they are disappointed in me. But this week, I have been very disappointed in others. Life goes on, but that niggling thread of “if only” and “why could it not have been different” lingers in the corners of my mind. Last week’s lightening-quick sale of our cottage ended in disappointment all round when the deal fell through at the final hurdle. The details are not what matter here; what matters is that age-old life lesson about counting your chickens before they’re hatched and sharing good news before it is fully rooted and secured. But who among us has not jumped the gun? Presumed that all would go as promised, as planned? Believed in the goodness of people and trusted that the story would unfold as it had begun — smoothly, seamlessly, successfully? Ah, well. Sometimes it just doesn’t. So we find ourselves at a new beginning, with a different round of showings and...

More than anything, I wanted to tell my mother. Earlier, I had told her that we were planning to sell the cottage. She was surprised that we were moving ahead with this because she knew how much we loved the place as, indeed, she, herself, loved it, but she also understood that time moves along and one’s capacity to keep doing everything changes along with it. But Mum died in April, so I can longer tell her anything. And I am realizing more and more how her absence means I am on my own in this world of ours. Not literally. I am not alone in my daily life. I have my family and friends and community. But in the larger sense, there is now no generation above me, no older generation to be the buffer between me in the here-and-now and whatever comes next out there in the universe for me. For so many years, I had parents and grand-parents, aunts and uncles, great-aunts and great-uncles. Now they are all gone and I am the aunt. My sister and brother and I form the buffer for the two young fam...

The sparks from a writing session: o ne image, one quote   I shared the piece below in a writing group, having written it specifically to be read aloud; the tone and cadence is conversational, and its rhythm fits that of the summer months...meandering, musing, contemplative. Its  origin is in the two sparks shown above — an Edward Hopper painting and a quote by Maya Angelou.  As I began the writing process, I didn't know what to write and then, once I started, I didn't know where I was going, but I did, eventually, arrive at a point that surprised, and also pleased, me. So often, this is how writing (and life ** ) goes.  Written early morning Saturday / Shared   Sunday afternoon My train of thought My train of thought this week has been like a train I took from Grenoble, France to Florence, Italy back in April 1978: It had a departure point and a destination and it left on time, but, somehow, it arrived late without ever encountering anything on the tr...