Snow fell
softly
gently
Silencing dark blemishes
softening sharpness
disguising icy slides
Snow fell
glittering
ghostly
Graceful trees
branches outlined
rough bark crevices filled
Snow fell
artful
coldly beautiful
“When snow falls, nature listens.”
~ Antoinette Van Kleep
Always a Light
Outside the cabin, the wind howled through the trees, while inside, the old woman’s fire was nearly out. But what she held in her gnarled old hands would see her through this night and many more. Walking into the night winter wind, she had traveled miles through heavy snows, pulling her ragged cloak tightly around her. The hood, rimmed with remnants of fur, covered her head, tied with an old leather thong. Keeping her precious cargo safely in the pouch around her neck, her faith was strong that the old cabin was still in the copse of trees just inside the glittering snowy forest.
There was only kindling and a few logs by the cold fireplace. Keeping her cloak and hood on, she gently set her precious cargo in the broken crockery in the middle of the old wooden table, where it glowed dimly in the cold room. As the fire warmed the room, the glow shone more brightly. Even as the fire died down, licking at the last of the wood, leaving only embers and ash, the glow from inside the crockery became stronger. A bright light that had absorbed the fire’s warmth kept the room both warm and bright.
As the light became brighter, corners of the room were illuminated. The old woman was drawn to the farthest corner where an ancient bed rested, made up with pillows and heavy quilts. Her exhaustion was great. The fire had burned out. Warmth had not yet reached the bed in the corner of the room, but the invitation to rest was too great to resist. She took off her old leather shoes, placing them neatly under the bed. Keeping her cloak around her, she tucked herself under the dusty quilt and fell into a deep sleep. The light on the old table dimmed it’s brightness but kept the room warm. The old woman dreamed and in her dream she met all of her ancestors. Her parents, her grandparents and all that had passed before them.
~~~~~
“May it be a light to you in dark places, when all other lights go out.”
J.R.R.Tolkein, The Fellowship of the Ring
**Authors note: the first sentence is a random sentence chosen from writingexercises.co.uk
It was a pleasure to meet Suzy Krause, author of Sorry I Missed You, at our book club meeting over Zoom this evening. The first half of our gathering was listening to Suzy Krause answer our questions. She discussed her writing practice, the development of Sorry I Missed You and the character development for her novel.
Sorry I Missed You, set in Regina, is the development of the sometimes tumultuous, or just hilarious, relationships between three women - Maude in her 70’s and a Regina native, 19 year old Mackenzie from small town Saskatchewan and Sunna, who had just been transferred from Toronto. Each of the women had secrets that were slowly revealed throughout the book. They had each moved into separate and newly renovated apartments in an old house rumoured to have ghosts in the attic. Owned by Larry, a punk music aficionado of days gone by, had inherited the house from his aunt and was bound by convoluted terms in her will that prevented him from living in it. A torn and unaddressed letter is the hook that draws out the women’s secrets, accompanied by ghosts in the attic, a bomb threat downtown and odd characters that seemed out of place, were woven skillfully in this quirky sto.ry. A twist at the end reveals the deepest secret of all.
“The ghost isn’t the person; it’s the feelings attached to the person.”
~ Suzy Krause Sorry I Missed You
Author: Suzy Krause
Copyright: 2020
Publisher: Lake Union Publishing, Seattle
Type: Novel
Format: Fiction
ISBN - 13:9781542010207
ISBN - 10:1542010209
Review, Revision, Edit and Update
Reviewing any written work, whether my own or someone else's, shows up any errors, omissions or just plain wordiness. In the first paragraph, the sentence structure needed a lot of revision. I had wondered about this exact revision at the time of the initial posting. The fact that I remembered them, breaking up what had been a long second sentence, suggested to me that it helped the mood of poor Joanie's frustration.
Any other revisions were minor; some sentence restructuring, punctuation fixes were completed.
Abby’s Letter to Santa
Joanie Richardson was crying. Schools had been closed again. It was close to Christmas. She didn’t have any shopping or baking done because of all the online teaching she had to do and homeschooling her own two children. Abby was only five, so that was almost a break, but Ben was ten and needed more structure. No Christmas decorations were up and her mother had been caring for her new husband. She couldn’t call her for any help. James and Martha had only been married a few months and James had been sick in the past week, keeping both of them at home. They did talk over video chatting, but she really needed her mom.
She felt a tug on her sweater just as she was reaching for another tissue to blow her nose. “Mommy, why are you crying?” It was Abby, her five year old daughter. “Oh, it’s nothing, sweetie. I’m just tired.” She dried her eyes and smiled. “You know what? I think that you and I need a cookie and a nap. What do you think?” Abby hugged her mother right where she sat and looked up at her with her big green eyes. “That’s a good idea mommy, and I can reach the cookies now!”
Joanie hadn’t wanted either of her kids to see her cry. She took Abby by the hand and they went to the kitchen. The cookie jar was almost empty. Tears threatened to come flooding out again. “And after our nap, we’ll make more cookies.” Abby obediently took her cookie and went with her mother into her pretty pink and white bedroom. Joanie had barely put her head on the pillow, Abby snuggled up to her, when she fell fast asleep. Abby held real still to make sure her mom was asleep before she slid out from under her mother’s protective arm. She wiggled down to the floor and made sure her mom was covered with the pink coverlet with white clouds on it. Abby crept to the door. Only five years old, she was wise in the ways of slipping away from her nap. But today she had something more important to do. Her big brother Ben had just come in the house. If he wasn’t quiet, he’s wake up their mom. “Ben……shhhh!” Ten year old Ben had his mouth full of the last cookie so just nodded at Abby. She whispered. “Ben. Can you help me write a letter to Santa?” Ben swallowed the last bite of cookie with a big drink of milk. “Sure, Abby, but you already wrote a letter to Santa.” Ben loved his little sister and would help her with anything. They had been together more often since the restrictions and sometimes he just wanted to go see friends his own age. But he could never refuse Abby. “OK, so why do you want to write to Santa again? What did you forget?” Stubbornly, Abby said “I didn’t forget anything. I just have a new thing that I want. I want my mom to be happy so she doesn’t get tired. She says she’s ‘just tired’ but I don’t think so.” Ben slid down from his high kitchen stool. “Come on then, Abby. Let’s go in my room to my desk in there.” The children tiptoed past Abby’s room where their mother slept.
Dear Santa,
I know I already wrote you a letter - my mother helped me write that one. But I have another thing that I want that I don’t want my mother to know until Christmas. But I don’t know how you can fix this. It’s not a present for me. It’s just that I want my mom to not be tired and for her to be happy. She has to work a whole lot and take care of me and Ben. So please can you help my mom?
Thank you Santa
“That's pretty good Abby. I’ll take this to the Santa box, but do you want the Storyteller to get it too? She got all the other Santa letters - mine, your first one and Mr. Thornton’s four kids.” Abby’s face got serious. “Hmm. Yes, please.” Ben took it to the Santa drop box that Cook kept in the kitchen. “Ben, is this for Santa again or for the Storyteller?” “Abby said both, please. Mr. Digby has a copier in his office, doesn’t he?” Cook took the letter from Ben. “I’ll take care of it, Ben.” She smiled at Ben, tapping the letter on the palm of her hand, and watched him as he went out the door. “Martha’s daughter has such nice kids.”
“Santa Claus is anyone who loves another and seeks to makes them happy;
who gives himself by thought or word or deed in every gift that he bestows;
who shares his joys with those who are sad;………”
~ Edwin Osgood Grover,
in a 1912 statement, as quoted in The Book of Santa Claus
Catalogued Memories
“Every year…every year and I miss it.” Ed shook his head. “And now look at us. There’s just no spirit in it this year.”
“Ed, dear, what are you talking about? And shaking your head like that? You told me you had a wonderful day. Now you look like you lost your best friend. Supper’s ready, come sit down and eat.” Emily set the dish of mashed potatoes by the roast she had prepared for supper. “Now tell me what’s troubling you, dear.”
“Oh, it’s really nothing, Just an old man lost in the olden days. But tell me this, Em, when was the last time you saw a Sears Catalogue or an Eaton’s Catalogue? Here we are, stuck in the house with each other - that didn’t come out right - I love being ‘stuck’ with you. We’ve been at each other’s side for, what is it? 61 years?” Ed helped himself to a little of everything, adding an extra spoon of mashed potatoes and Emily’s delicious gravy.
Emily folded her napkin on her lap. “Well, let me see. We always got the Sears Catalogue. My girlfriend on the other side of town got the Eaton’s Catalogue. We’d sneak them out of the house and meet at the skating rink. We did take our skates with us, but it was just for show. We’d get some hot chocolate on the curling rink side, sit at one of the corner tables and make our Christmas lists. She was my best friend and, I’m ashamed to say, we lost track of each other. But I remember those times at the skating rink. Now, we just go online and order whatever we like. We can send it, with out even seeing it, wherever we like.”
“You’d better eat your supper, Em. It’ll be getting cold” Ed chuckled as he swiped up the last strips of gravy on his plate with his bread. “It didn’t take you long to get lost in the olden days. You and your friend probably looked at all the pretty dresses and shoes…..”
“And the jewellery. Diamonds and emeralds and rubies that our parents never could afford. Too fancy for small town wear!” Emily returned to her plate, a smile on her face.
~~~~~
Supper over and the dishwasher washing, Ed and Emily had retired to the living room with their coffee. They pulled out old family photo albums of Christmas’s past ~ old black and white photos their youth, coloured pictures of their children growing up. If anyone was listening, they would have heard laughter and crying, whispers and shouts of joy. “Do you remember that, Ed?" “Oh my, my - look at you, Em. The year you were Mrs. Santa Claus because Santa Claus was down with the flu.” Ed smiled and kissed his wife. “And here we are still waiting for a delivery man to come bringing Christmas presents to be wrapped. Even without our old paper catalogues - but they were so much more fun.” Emily nestled her head on his shoulder, one arm around her as they kept paging through an album. “We may be stuck here together, Edward, but we’ve seen a lot of life.”
“The past beats inside me like a second heart.”
~ John Banville, The Sea
Cherishing each other
once we are separated ~
keeping our distance,
the glow of togetherness dims
and yet
we are told
to cherish each other
protect each other
not everyone feels
the dimming but
feels the angst and pull
of being unable to touch
and waiting
but no one is waiting
because
Breath keeps on breathing
Love keeps on loving
Life keeps on living
while we cherish each other
from the distance of
outstretched arms until
our arms become an embrace.
“The wait is long, my dream of you does not end.”
~ Nuala O’Faolain, My Dream of You
Never-ending imbalance: the feeling of the day for too many of us. When will we get back to normal? As if normal was ever a balanced state. Today, for example, it is 31 years since the tragic murder of six women at Montreal’s École Polytechnique. How normal are the lives of those families, and still for many women, since that dreadful time?
Is normal being free to walk up to someone and greet them with a handshake or a hug? Is normal being able to just drop in on someone without wearing a mask? Is normal leaving your home, with or without your children, just to escape daily abuse?
So many questions with one simple answer - stay where your feet are, given the situation that surrounds the world, has the world in its grip. But if your world involves abuse, take your feet to a shelter, a safe home……oh, I forgot - restrictions have compromised the availability and accessibility of these places of safety.
I paraphrase an Edmonton physician, who related this morning, on CBC's Rosemary Barton Live: It is not the legislators that are curtailing our rights. It is the virus. This pandemic, and the resultant restrictions to protect us all, sent us all into the safety of our homes, our bubbles - except for those in abusive relationships.
It is the Covid19 virus that has us in our homes: either creatively managing our homes with jigsaw puzzles, baking bread or cookies, painting or writing, doing a lot of walking on our own or with one another, juggling kids and work at home, taking a nap whenever and wherever, or, more dangerously, being trapped, scared and lonely.
Normalize your day if you possibly can, don’t wait for ‘it’ to become normal again. An old normal may not be a good thing.
“She’d worn anxiety like a thick robe for
so long that it was hard for her to take it off.”
~ Pernell Plath Meier, In Our Bones
**Authors note: Go to The Sunday Magazine for the December 06, 2020 episode on CBC Radio, to hear Piya Chattopadhyaya’s excellent interview with Pamela Cross, a feminist lawyer and legal director of Oshawa, Ontario family law support centre Luke’s Place regarding this issue.
