Five Years a Writer

MONTREAL, Canada, Fall 1967: I remember the feel of the cool fall air on my bare knees, as I walked to school in my pinafore-dress-white-blouse uniform. The nip of the wind against my skin got me moving fast towards the warmth of the building and my classroom that held a desk of my very own. BANBURY, England, Fall 1973: I remember the creamy custard poured by the school-lunch ladies, out of white enamel jugs — large, the ladies (from my perspective, as a short 13-year-old) and the jugs (never holding enough). The custard, sweet, warm, the flavour of comfort to make the pudding (think Bake-Off sponge) taste delicious. And I remember the fact of learning, the fun of my friends, and the frantic pace of the field hockey games that left my fingers so cold I could barely unbutton my skirt-and-Airtex-blouse Phys Ed uniform. I want to remember that I loved those games. I shall remember that I did. What I cannot remember is any fear, any frights, any famine. My childhood and young adulthood w...

Amanda and Anne, June 2006, celebrating the completion of my Master's degree I am learning that the second year after a loved one dies is, in many ways, more challenging than the first. People have told me it might be, and it is proving so. There are no more 'firsts' to experience, only 'forevers' now. So, I am paying attention and I am writing...  Today, November 4th, would have been my mother's 97th birthday. Wherever she is now, I am certain she is happy not to be marking it on earth. She died last year on April 26th, ready to shuck her mortal coil with dignity and in peace. She was a role model for me in many ways, so, today, I celebrate my mother with three stories that illustrate her generosity, kindness and ingenuity.  Story One: The bucket of chicken We were having take-out for supper; I don’t remember the occasion, but I remember very clearly being in the car with my sister and brother, and Mum ordering our meal in the drive-through at our local Kentuck...

Lines and dots: drawing them, connecting them. That is life. I have wondered recently about where the line is between X and Y, between this and that. How do we know when we have reached that line? Truth is, it’s often only when we have crossed it that we realize we should have stayed much more safely on that other side. I have also recently suggested that connecting the dots that represent actions and decisions — large and small, ours and others’ — can help shape our understanding of how to live well in this world of ours. Today’s post invites you into my life this past week, when I experienced some pain (a dot) that I connected to the pain of others (a line drawn). I didn’t cross any lines this time round, though I did as a young adult (see "Powered Luck" below); happily, I lived to tell that tale and that good fortune came flooding back to me these past seven days. Sunday : I watched an interview with Gordon Lownds , who had recently published the story of his drug addic...

Instructions for living a life:  Pay attention.  Be astonished.  Tell about it. This was the prompt for last Sunday afternoon's writing session; it is verse 4 of Mary Oliver’s poem  Sometimes .  The piece I wrote speaks to the core notion of attention but questions just what to be astonished by... Yes, Mary, but there is so much to pay attention to.  How to choose?  How to know what is truly important? Oh It is all important That little bird This morning’s sunrise The zillion specks of dust The car parked next door The kitten purring on the sofa The man in the oval-shaped office No Surely not How could it be — all important To be astonished by it that is easier There is much to be astonished by The audacity of men The stupidity of humans The lack of basic decency The unconditional love of animals The beauty of the natural world But it is the audacity of so many men that leaves me breathless So I turn to Jane Choose to listen to her instructions for l...

The Unlikely Hero Book 1 of the IGGY'S VOYAGE trilogy science taught Iggy to ask questions -- magic taught her to believe a novel for  middle-grade-age readers by Ani Birch Publisher: Resource Publications, an imprint of Wipf and Stock (Oregon) Release date: September 15, 2025 Review by Amanda Le Rougetel ----------------------- Iggy is a friend I would have loved to have had as a young girl trying to find my way in the world. Iggy is smart, curious and loving — and oh so curious. Always asking questions and always wondering how science can answer them. She is bold and courageous. There is lots to love about Iggy, but her life is not easy. Her mum seems to have an odd illness not easily explained and her father left the family when Iggy was very young. When a mirror quite literally opens a whole new magical realm to Iggy, she digs deep for the courage to pursue the path she is set on and to find answers to some of her many questions. Can she really be the answer that the magic rea...

The raised bed / Autumn season / Rooted with hope Where is the line?  Putting the garden to bed for the winter season means making choices. Some are easy. Toss the colourful annuals that have not even slim hope of surviving a Zone 3 winter. Pull out the tomato plants that have done their job, given us jars and jars of beautifully red fruit for our winter enjoyment and put the vegetative waste into bags and bins for compost. Good riddance, in the best sense. But other plants prove more challenging. Two of them, they bloom still. Osteospermums — one white, one yellow. Still perky, colourful, alive. How can I toss them? I know that, ultimately, they must go. But not yet. Not yet. That line is not yet here. Frost has not yet crept into our nights; it will come and when it does, the line will be obvious. No guessing, no wondering required. The blooms will droop and it will be easy to toss the plants, clean the pots, store them away til spring. Frost is the line. But, several years ago, ...

Young chimpanzees from Jane Goodall Sanctuary of Tchimpounga (Congo Brazzaville). Picture taken  by Delphine Bruyere on Dec ember 9, 2006 * * *  On Friday, I was at the first stop on my round of errands when I realized I had left home without my wallet. Not a big deal, as I carry my debit card separately, but my wallet holds my driver’s licence and other ID. Oh well, I thought. I do have a licence so if I’m stopped, I’ll just explain my situation to the police officer. And then I thought. Hmmm, I wonder if the officer will understand and give me leniency. I wondered this, because earlier that morning I had read American historian Heather Cox Richardson ’s column written the day before, on October 2nd. HCR detailed the raid on an apartment building in Chicago early Tuesday by federal agents who arrived by helicopter and in large vehicles; were dressed in military fatigues; and who used flashbang grenades. The short story is that people were marched outside, some naked, their ha...