A long road behind us,
rounding a bend
on our unasked for journey,
the sun edges to the horizon,
only time and distance ahead.
We will keep on walking and living.
“Time is the longest distance between two places.”
~ Tennessee Williams, The Glass Menagerie
Review, Revision, Edit and Update:
These letters to the Storyteller, have given me an opportunity to write more character development for secondary characters like Tanya.
The few revisions I made were minor wording changes. Otherwise it seemed a fairly easy read.
Tanya's Career Path
Seventeen year old Tanya Meadows had read her last book. Throughout the pandemic restrictions she had tried to get books from the library and was successful for the most part until winter set in. Winter on the Island was not like East coast winters where her cousins lived. Apparently, those winters were horrible; great mounds of wet snow, winds that whipped off the Atlantic Ocean that kept everyone indoors even before the pandemic. Here, it was just rain. There had been white Christmas’ most years, but they only lasted for a few days. She was not sure she cared for snow. Tanya had been in some good snow ball fights. One year when the snow lasted longer she had seen some beautiful snow sculptures in the park across from her school. Isolated from her friends, Tanya couldn’t even babysit because she was not in the right bubbles as recommended by Public Health. She especially missed the Richardson children, Ben and Abby. Mrs. Richardson worked from home most days. Her mother did the child care when she had to work at the school. Looking after the Richardson children was a favourite for Tanya. But stewing over it wasn’t making her feel any better.
She closed the cover of Mystery at the Blue Lagoon and sighed. What was she to do now? Her chores were all done. Her homework was all caught up. It was raining and cold. It was supposed to rain heavily all day. The library was closed through the Christmas holidays, so she couldn’t get any new books. She was going stir crazy. The letter. She had an email from Martha out at the Beaufort Estate asking if she would write something about her life for the Storyteller. She had almost deleted the email, not sure she had anything to contribute. That’s what she could do. Picking up her stack of books, she put them on her mother’s old credenza in the hallway. She ran lightly up the stairs to her room. Clearing off her desk except for one of her notebooks, she selected one of her favourite coloured pens - mauve. It always made her smile.
~~~~~
Hello, Miss Storyteller. We have never met but I’ve heard so much about you from Mrs. Haverstock-Digby. I understand that even her grandchildren Ben and Abby Richardson have written their little stories. They are my favourite children to babysit. (Don’t tell Ben I used the ‘baby’ word - he does get quite offended.) I think they are really my only connection to the Beaufort Estate. I think I’ve been the Richardson babysitter since Abby was born, so that would be about five years. Mrs. Richardson was on maternity leave for quite a while, so didn’t have to return to work right away. Mr. Richardson had not yet taken the job off island. About twice a week, Mrs.Richardson needed some help with housework so I would go out after school for two hours. Of course, Mr. and Mrs. Richardson would have a date night every two weeks. They planned it for evenings when I was there anyway, so I would give the children their supper and get them to bed. Mr. Richardson gave me a ride home when they returned from their outing. Looking after them really has given me some ideas about what I want to do with my life. I’ve always wanted to be a teacher, but didn’t know what grades I would like to teach. I couldn’t see myself teaching high school. Too close to my own age. But working with Ben, Abby and all the other children I had worked with suggested an elementary school grade. Oh, I just about forgot. I also looked after Mr. Thornton’s four boys occasionally. Mr. Thornton is the Beaufort chauffeur. Those children are a bit old but still in the elementary school ages. My experiences with them all has been so enlightening. Children are so creative and love to learn. Sometimes in very interesting ways. Like the sign that Ben and I made for Mrs. Richardson’s mother. At the time, Mrs. Richardson lived in the other side of the duplex that her mother owned. The sign was on the gate between the two yards. The children were running back and forth to visit with their grandmother without any warning or permission. In short, the sign was teaching about the need of privacy for their grandmother, as well good manners. Asking permission was the other part of the lesson. The children’s mother still lives there, but Mrs. Haverstock-Digby, has married Mr. Digby the butler. They moved to their own cottage. When the new person moved in, we had to modify the sign - lesson number two. I enjoy listening to the children, their suggestions and their solutions. I suppose that is how they have helped me to outline my career path. I do hope that doesn’t sound too odd. During the pandemic restrictions, I do miss the children. A whole classroom of children? I do hope I can manage that but that is my objective. To be honest, I really was searching for something interesting to fill some time. This turned out to be more interesting than I expected/
Thank you for this opportunity.
~~~~~
Tanya read over her essay. She wasn’t sure what kind of mark she’d get for it. She had never been very good at essay writing. “I’ll take this over to the Estate tomorrow - that’s if it stops raining - but at least I won't be tromping through snow.” She slipped the folded page into an envelope and propped it up against her bust of William Shakespeare. Just then her mother called out that supper was ready. “Be right there mom!”
“The discipline of writing something down
is the first step toward making it happen.”
~ Lee Iacocca
Cattails ~
stately in green summer robes
with deep brown seed heads ~
their cigar-shapes puff out in fall
Cattails ~
in winter dry and ragged
seed heads untidy, unkempt
ravaged by winds and birds.
Cattails ~
Invasive yet
shelter, food and sanctuary
for birds and water life.
“tattered cattail tufts
sway in a chilly breeze~
we fish for supper…”
~ Patricia Sawyer
How the wind in the trees
shapes branches and twigs
where snow rests
and blankets the frozen lake,
nestles around trees and brush,
settles in notches and crevices;
tracks sliced in the snow
by skiers, hikers and rabbits;
a lone city sign warns of
danger beneath the lake's soft blanket
a mitten atop the lone sign
warns of cold little fingers.
“Signs may be but the sympathies of nature with man.”
~ Charlotte Bronté, Jane Eyre
In the crisp cold,
snow flaked in a light wind
lifting children’s laughter and shouts while they tobogganed
down a gentle rise.
The whoosh whoosh of a skier striding and sliding 'round
a copse of leaf-barren trees and bush cut long chevrons in the snow.
A quiet gentle day
filled with life.
Bundled against the cold,
I continued my walk home.
“Winter is a wonderland of snow and excitement.”
~ Anthony T. Hincks, quotes - Goodreads
cold of winter has not frozen
the warmth of love for him.
I know not this man
or those that loved him,
only the honour paid to him
nine years after his passing.
“like a drop of ink in a glass of milk.”
~ Thrity Umrigar, The Space Between Us
Christmas morning came early
The sun barely risen
In homes ‘cross the country
Children awoke……………………..
This is silly! I can’t write a great rhyming poem. But I did have a great first Christmas in snowy Regina since returning to my home province! All usual early morning routines were thrown out. Well, except for feeding the cat. On my way, trudging the few steps to my son's home, I had a sort of a flashback way back to when I was a kid. In a busy, noisy family on Christmas mornings, after all the Santa presents were examined in great detail, cleaned up - sort of - and breakfast was being prepared, dad picked up our grandparents for a Christmas breakfast. That was my flashback - now I was the grandparent walking the few steps to my son and his girlfriend's home for breakfast. Wow! How time does fly!
There is more story to tell in each family about Christmas mornings. So many differences and as many similarities. But mainly, aside from any sacred traditions that some families practice, Christmas and other winter holidays, celebrate family togetherness. 2020 has not been a great year for family togetherness. Yes, it’s been a struggle, it’s been scary but on balance humanity’s creativity in this age of technology has kept us all connected. We Zoom and Skype and Facetime and send ecards and message and text and when all else fails, we send messages into the Universe and up to the heavens. We’re tougher than any old virus just by staying apart and believing in our own strengths, the strength of family and of friends.
Merry Christmas everyone!
“Isn’t everyone a part of everyone else?”
~ Budd Schulberg, screenwriter, novelist, journalist
(1914 - 2009)
Christmas Eve ~ In my childhood and childhood of so many others, Christmas Eve is a day filled with expectation and anticipation for kids. For parents, getting ready to fulfill all those expectations, as well as the last minute races and final touches can seem like being inside a pressure cooker. Along with pandemic restrictions, cautions and the expectations of vaccinations in the offing, it can feel like the heat has been turned up! We can’t move forward and and we can’t move sideways, backwards or up and down. At least that is what it feels like until I pay attention to where my feet are.
Christmas is not always the happiest of holidays for far too many. Since March of this year the pressure has really been on. One whose Christmas’ past have been a mix of highs and lows, the Christmas spirit has all but vanished from time to time. This lack has become a source of curiosity. Does one person or body decide what it is? Is it only the spirit of giving or is it can we each decide for ourselves. (That giving part can get a little crazy.)
I have chosen gratitude as my personal Christmas spirit. Not the gratitude of saying thank you - voicing it as a rote, but usually genuine response. Gratitude a belief in deep appreciation for everyone and everything in life. Gratitude for all the joys and sorrows, not just at Christmas but throughout the year. I definitely do not have a halo, nor do I skip whining and complaining about some real or perceived slight. Long ago, a friend gave me a great gift. This friend told me that feeling sorry for myself should only be given short shrift - very short shrift - and then move on. Not an easy lesson to learn; one that does need refreshing from time to time. A gift that comes unwrapped and with out glitter, bows or ribbons. Like a child blowing a kiss, a cheerful wave from a passerby or a genuine smile of greeting. A gift that settled deep in my heart and has provided me with a quiet Christmas from year to year.
Thank you to everyone and have a very Merry Christmas!
“Gratitude makes sense of our past, brings peace for today,
and creates a vision for tomorrow.”
~ Melody Beattie
Review, Revision, Edit and Update
"Who has something at stake here?" This quote from the book Writing Tools by Roy Peter Clark. Like Joanie, I haven't felt my stories really merited such consideration until this morning. My stories - too simple, not sensational. However looking in more depth, Joanie had a lot at stake - belief in the importance of her story and her family. To put it down in her words was difficult for her, but brought up the reality of her past and her own story.
As far as any copy editing, my updates were wording, spelling and the addition of detail to Joanie's jump from 'forgetting about him' to accepting his (Andrew's) marriage proposal.
Threads
Joanie really didn’t want to speak up. Talking with her mother, Martha Digby, she quietly suggested that she may have a story to tell. “Mom, I’m not that attuned to the Estate, you know. Although you do work there, I’m too involved raising the children and my library career. I did pay attention while they wrote their stories. They so often don’t think I am paying attention. But you always tell me what they've been doing when over at the estate. They are always so excited to see Elizabeth. She is so good to them.” Joanie hesitated, took a sip of her tea. “What do you think, mom?”
Martha poured herself another cup of tea. “Well, dear. You’ve always said that everyone has a story and that each person’s story is important. This is a chance to tell your own story, even if it’s a tiny piece of it.”
“All right then, mom. I’ll do it. It will be refreshing to do something besides working on the computer.” Joanie stood and took their lunch things to the sink. “I’ll get right to work.”
“I have to go now anyway, dear. James and I have plans with Elizabeth and Samuel. Just a short ride into town to the one restaurant that’s still open.”
~~~~~
My story seems so small to me. But it is my story and, as mother reminded me, I do believe that everyone’s story is important. In short, most of my growing up was here in this half of the duplex mother purchased when I was about Ben’s age. I took the bus to school until I was old enough to drive, Then mother let me take the car to school. I loved school, loved learning, but mostly I wanted to be like the school librarian, Mrs. Sanders. She knew all the books and all the students. She seemed to know absolutely everything. When I reached high school, I had forgotten my wish to be like Mrs. Sanders until I heard some of the other girls talking about their applications to universities or colleges. It wasn’t until we had a paper to write about ‘Aspirations of Adulthood’. I thought it was a rather dull title but I wrote about that childhood wish and got a fairly good grade. My 'Aspiration'? Becoming a librarian.
I had been off the Island once with my mom when we took a train trip from Victoria all the way to Niagara Falls the year I graduated from high school. It was my graduation present and a very expensive one. But mom told me ‘I'm so proud of you! Graduating with honours. Your old mom barely made it through high school.’ She was beaming. The train trip was an experience I’ll always remember. We took a trip that showed me a Canada that I had only read about in history books, travel books or seen on television. Mountains much bigger and grander than anything on the Island, prairies covered in wheat fields and fields of grains I didn’t even know existed. I turned to my mother on one of our days “Mom, I want to go to a university off island.” Poor dear, she was horrified. “But, Joanie. You can go to the University of Victoria and you don’t even have to leave home. You’d be so far away. You do mean in Vancouver?”
“No, mom. Somewhere farther away. I don’t know. Calgary, Edmonton or maybe the University of New Brunswick.” Mom started to cry, “You don’t mean all the way across Canada. I’d never see you. You’d never come home!” I remember laughing and hugging her. “Of course I'll come home! Maybe I'll choose Calgary or Edmonton.”
Going that far away was a real first for me. It was exciting and scary, fulfilling and well…..scary. I was incredibly homesick. There was so much more than just learning about becoming a librarian. When university life got too overwhelming I resorted to reading a good book. Alberta’s winter was much different than Vancouver Island’s winter. I learned how to snowshoe and ski. Hiking had been one of my favourite pastimes growing up, the Alberta hiking trails took me out under the big skies. Even though I missed the ocean, I will always remember the night one winter when it was particularly cold and clear. That night I saw the northern lights. What a spectacular display. It was on that night that I met my future husband, Andrew Richardson. Handsome, blonde, eyes as blue as the Alberta skies and a year ahead of me and working toward his Master’s of Education. A shy girl, I had never dated in high school or even my first years out on my own. It was not love at first sight. As a matter of fact , I really didn’t like him at all. Yes, he was handsome, but so full of himself! Over the next year, he kept talking to me about the silliest inconsequential things. I kept being polite, but just not interested. One day, I finally gave up and said “Andrew, what do you want? I’ve been polite, I’ve ignored you, and still you won’t go away. Now I’ll just be blunt. ‘Go Away.” He just laughed, turned and said. ‘I’ll be back’ mimicking a silly Arnold Schwartzenager voice. I went back to my books and forgot all about him.
He stayed away for a month, but began sending me roses every day.. First it was just one, then two until it reached a dozen. Despite my best effort, with that first rose, I remembered every detail about him - his smile, the way a little curl always brushed his forehead... so many things. We met for coffee and then dinner. It was at one of our most romantic dinners that he proposed. As soon as I got home that evening, I called mom. She was so happy for us and at the same time crying. Happy because she loved Andrew and welcomed him into the family. Upset because our careers would be in Alberta. Our fledgling careers and married life began in a tiny town. Me, in a small foothills library and museum; Andrew, in the highschool. We were so very happy. Family had not been in our plans right away, but Ben came along a bit early. He and Abby were both born in Alberta. We moved back to the Island to be closer to my mother now that we had children. My dad had left us when I was a child and we had lost contact with him. Andrew’s family lived on the mainland, but came to Victoria often for vacations. Life had been good for many years. On our days off, we took the children hiking, into Victoria to the sights in that city, to Vancouver to the Science Center and gave them something I hadn’t had until that train trip: a strong sense that the world is a big, exciting place.
And then this pandemic struck. Andrew had taken a lucrative job teaching off island. Because we would miss each other and our little family so very much, we had made plans for trips with the children to visit each other. Restrictions that were imposed changed all of those plans. Our visits are now all screen time. As the vaccines are now reaching us, we are making plans. Andrew will be returning to the Island as soon as possible. My story is intertwined with Andrew’s and with our children. Until he is home, my story will seem a little threadbare.
~~~~~
Joanie wiped a tear away. She folded her story gently and whispered “Andrew, I miss you.”
“Invisible threads are the strongest ties.”
~ Friedrich Nietzsche
A cold wind blew all day
while snowflakes floated ~
pushed around by the wind
night fell
clots of snow
clung to window screens
rounding in corners of window ledges
mounded on porch railings
carpeting the porch floor
disguised wooden steps
blending them with snow dunes that spread across the yard.
“In the depth of winter, I finally learned
that there was in me an invincible summer.”
~ Albert Camus
Missing the most critical piece of my annual Christmas tree puzzle, I was stymied. I had the green garland, the lights and all the little decorations. But every tree needs a trunk.
I left my last ‘tree trunk’ in Victoria. Now, I had to dig deep on my creativity to come up with one. In almost the centre of my little ‘tree’, just below the golden ball, you may be able to see the reflection of a red glimmer. It's my brass vase. It was just the right height for my little Christmas tree.
“Start where you are.
Use what you have.
Do what you can.”
~ Arthur Ashe
The sun ~
angling for photo-ops ~
settled to the horizon and
let golden paths ribbon and spread through leafless trees
to play second fiddle to its glory.
“Call for the grandest of all earthly spectacles, what is that?
It is the sun going to his rest.”
~ Thomas de Quincey
