Cracking the Code :-)

I've had hundreds and hundreds of people :-) tell me that they cannot reply to my blog and since I would enjoy hearing from you, Brad Grigor of Turning Point Arts has suggested the following:

The simplest way to read your blog is to go directly to your blog site
www.barleywick.blogspot.ca with a web browser. From there, one can read all
the posts and leave comments. NOTE: To leave a comment, the reader must open
the post first (not just be looking at the summary of the post on your home
page). In other words, CLICK THE TITLE of the post and it opens with a
comment form. Beyond that, the details depend a lot on each person's setup
(PC, Mac, tablet, smartphone, etc.) and sophistication.

I REALLY hope this is successful














Robyn
My blog  www.barleywick.blogspot.ca
By The Beach B&B
www.bythebeachbb.com

From there, one can read all the posts and leave comments. NOTE: To leave a comment, the reader must open the post first (not just be looking at the summary of the post on your home page). In other words, CLICK THE TITLE of the post and it opens with a comment form. Beyond that, the details depend a lot on each person’s setup (PC, Mac, tablet, smartphone, etc.) and sophistication.

 

Back To My Book

I’m back to dealing with my book of short stories.  My publisher, Turning Point Arts, has been excellent and extremely patient.  I had no idea how long this would take and if I write another book – I must confess that I am underway but that the last few Christmas weeks have got in the way- I will plan a way to streamline things on my own part.

At present, I have just finished re-reading and tweaking the manuscript for about the tenth or twelfth time - no exaggeration.  I have one other person re-reading for a final time and someone else going over my tweaks and being sure that my instructions to the publisher are clear and accurate.

As I decided on changes, I gave him the story, page, paragraph and line, and then the change.  We are now ensuring that the line numbers, etc. are an accurate match with the manuscript line numbers.  I found that my most common slip was a word worm where I used a word and then it got caught in my consciousness.  For example: My brother tossed me the ball but the toss was way off.  My dog retrieved it but then we knew that the game of toss was over.

Obviously, it would not have been that blatant but…

I’m being told that I am being too fussy and that nobody else would notice but as with anything else, I would, and that is really what it’s all about.

Great Christmas

Great Christmas.  All the kids were here and then two friends joined us for dinner.  4 dogs and ten people!It's time to shake my head and square my shoulders and get back to the last part of publishing my book of short stories.

Wishing a Merry Christmas to All and to All a Good Year

SO...Santa is on his own and...


“Right!  I said, again.  But now you’re on your own.”

All of this, of course, was being broadcast to the growing crowd outside of the window.

My mother told me later that a man standing beside her in the crowd told her that he came to watch and listen every day on his lunch break.  “And this is absolutely the best one I’ve heard, yet.”  She never said if she acknowledged our relationship.

“A Bride Doll?  A cash register savings bank?  A real life sewing machine?” suggested Santa.

“No,” I said. “No.”  And, then again “Nope!”

Both of us were despairing.

“Oh, for Heaven’s sake,” I finally said.  “This is no good.  Handkerchiefs!”

The candy cane elf moved forward but Santa shook his head, almost imperceptibly  at her. 

“No, you’re right.  This is no good.  I’m doing a terrible job, “he said to me.

Santa’s eyes, under his bushy white eyebrows, looked so very  sad and worried.  He was such a nice man.  

 “Oh, it’s alright, Santa,” I comforted him, and gently patted his red suited shoulder, but if you could just make a note, a term used frequently by my family, of the Bubble Car, that’s all I really need.  And I slipped off his knee, took my shiny gift and my candy cane and saw myself out.

Copyright © 2013, Robyn Gerland

SAnta Is On His Own

So...Amy, now you know the little girl's name, is in line to see Santa.

                                                       It’s Alright, Santa

“You just stand, here,” she said.  “They’ll tell you when it’s your turn.”

continued...

There were no second thoughts or trepidation as a third real elf indicated that I should enter the window and follow the winding , tinseled path to Santa’s throne.

“Ho! Ho! Ho! Hello little girl,” he repeated, lifting me onto his knee, “and what is your name?”

Grandma had been right. He had needed me to write my name on the letter.

“I’m Amy” I said, proudly. “I wrote the letter.”

“Ah, yes, of course.  You’re the little girl who wrote me that lovely letter.”

I beamed.

He adjusted me slightly, turning so that the photographer elf could get the perfect Christmas picture.

“Click,” went the camera and Santa, looking me squarely in the eye, said, “and what would you like for Christmas, Amy?”

Aghast, I said, “you know what I want.  I wrote you the letter.”

‘Oh yes, so you did – the letter.  I think it was a Toni Doll”.

“No!” I wrinkled my brow.  My grandma often talked about her failing memory and so, compassionately I suggested, “Let me give you hint.  You can build things with it.”

“Ah, yes.” He thought carefully. “It was the Junior Lineman’s Toolbelt.  But for a little girl?” he added. 

The selection of toys in post war, 1946, was very limited and, like today, certain things were the undeniable favourites.

“Right!  The belt like my Dad’s.”

He nodded. “There was something else?”

I am sure that he hoped that there was not but knew, for certain, that there would be. “Can you give me another hint?”

Hmm, I assessed the situation.  This is not going the way I thought it would.

“Well, something with wheels to push on the floor,” I said aloud.

“Push on the floor, hmm.  Oh, I remember, a Bubble Car.”  This was another 1946 toy of choice.

“Right!  I said, again.  But now you’re on your own.”

Stay tuned as Amy and Santa entertain the crowd outside of Woodward's department store....  

Copyright © 2013, Robyn Gerland

Off The Bus and Into Line...

                                                       It’s Alright, Santa

continued:

So, in my black market white rabbit fur trimmed bonnet, my white rabbit fur muff, my pale yellow snowsuit and my very clean, very white shoes I rode the bus... 

At Eaton’s, on the corner  of Vancouver’s Hastings and Grandville Streets, my mother let me pull the cord to tell the driver that we wished to alight.  The streetcar came to a crunching, crackling stop and off we stepped.

Between the adults, holding their hands, I bounced across the street.  Crossing roads at random - anywhere that you happened to be, was a way of life in the Vancouver of the 1940s.  Crosswalks were few and largely unheeded. 

A huge crowd craned and teetered trying to see the spectacle in Eaton’s large front window.

“Ho! Ho! Ho! Hello little girl,” came a voice from nowhere.

A thrill of disbelief replaced the anticipation that had been bubbling in me ever since it had been announced that we were going to town to see Santa.

“Is that him?” I whispered.

“Yes,” said my Mom.  “He’s in the window.  If I lift you, you can take a quick look and then we have to go inside and get in line so that you can talk to him.”

She hoisted me over her shoulders and there he was – exactly as I knew he would be: a large man with a curly white beard and wearing a red suit, trimmed, I thought, in the very same fur that I had on my jacket and bonnet.  He was sitting on a king’s throne, surrounded by white puffy clouds and silver stars and two real elves stood beside him handing out candy canes and little parcels wrapped in shiny paper.  Mounds of brilliantly wrapped gifts, dolls of all descriptions sat on silvery shelves and snowy ledges and a whistling little train set scooted around the window.

As my Mother put me back on the sidewalk, I could still hear his booming voice. Santa’s conversations were being broadcast to the delighted audience on the street outside of Eaton’s window.

Into the store we went.  My mother removed my bonnet and coat and placed me in the cue, waiting to see Santa Claus.

“You just stand, here,” she said.  “They’ll tell you when it’s your turn.”

Stay tuned...                                                                                               

Copyright © 2013, Robyn Gerland

Oops!

Oops! ...forgot to say that It's Alright Santa is to be continued...

It's Alright Santa

                                                       It’s Alright, Santa

The year that I turned four years old, 1946,  was the year that we wrote our first letter to Santa Claus.  I deliberated long and hard.

“I’m ready,” I told my Grandmother.

Together, we composed a letter requesting three items and then, copying ever so carefully, I printed my name in capital letters.

“Letters are always signed,” my Grandmother had explained, “and, of course, Santa needs to know who’s writing to him.”

She addressed an envelope and I put the precious letter inside and licked and attached a one cent stamp.

Together, we walked up the incline to the corner of Dunbar Street and Thirty First Avenue. She lifted me just high enough and I dropped my letter into the postbox.

The following week, my mother and grandmother shared the news that we were going to see Santa Claus!

“Will Mary be there, too?” Such excitement!

“Mary?  Do you mean Jesus’ mother?”

“No.  His friend.”

My grandmother cocked her head and looked at my mom, who was clearly puzzling with who Mary might be.

Will she be there, too?”  I asked again. I had often heard Santa Claus and Merry Christmas used together and it was clear to me that they were very good friends and seldom apart.

“There’s only one Mary,” explained my grandma, “and she was Jesus’ mother.”

“Not Baby Jesus,” I sighed. My mom and grandma were being very silly.  “Santa Claus. Will Mary Christmas be with him?”  

“Oh, no, no.” My mother and grandmother now seemed to enjoy my question.

Proudly, they dressed me in my two piece snowsuit: a pale yellow, woolen affair with a matching bonnet trimmed in rabbit fur, a white fur muff and very clean white shoes. 

My Mother had made the suit and as we prepared for the journey, they discussed how she had managed to get the fur from the Black Market which was, somehow, connected with Under the Counter

Here I was, trimmed in my very white black market rabbit fur and on my first visit, ever, to see Santa Claus.

At Eaton’s, on the corner  of Vancouver’s Hastings and Grandville Streets, my Mother let me pull the cord to tell the driver that we wished to alight.  The streetcar came to a crunching, crackling stop and off we stepped.

 

Just Being Pro-active

 On this particular Christmas, my husband, being the oldest, went first but instead of the regulation howls of delight, his shocked voice called, “Jeth!  What are you doing there?!”

Continued:

Ever the traditionalist, I assured the kids that it was best to stay in the hall awaiting their entry and I hurried into the room – it was my turn, anyway.

There was Jeth, arms and legs firmly crossed, sitting in the fireplace among the ashes and debris left-over from the previous night.  He was a tad cold, it is a bit chilly in an open, empty fireplace, and he was very dirty.

 “Well,” he answered my husband, as he looked at the two of us.  He clearly had no intention of moving.  “You took a long time and I’m just being sure.”

“Of what?” we asked.

“He could check the list and come back.”

We looked at each other, “What list?  Who?

“Santa,” Jeth said, “The good list.”

It seems that given the time that he had been required to wait, Jeth, who was very energetic,  today he would have been called hyperactive,  had slipped into the livingroom and taken  a quick peek.  Impressed with the array of gifts, he had suddenly been stricken with the words from a popular Christmas song.  He realized that he had not been entirely nice all year and, in fact, was guilty of many naughty incidents.  Consequently he had placed himself on guard to fend off Santa should he check his list twice and find that a grave error had occurred in the delivery of multiple gifts to Jethro Brogan.

 

Copyright © 2013, Robyn Gerland

What Are You Doing There?

So...Gene and the plastic Santa suit are a thing of the past - Thank God!

A few years later, my cousin’s two boys were staying with us for Christmas.  Jeth was five and his younger brother, Chad, was almost four.

Now, when I was growing-up, we had this horrific tradition of having to stay in bed until our parents arose and then having to have a sit-down breakfast before we could go into the livingroom to see what Santa had left.

This agony was then mollified by a tradition which I truly loved.  The oldest member of the family went into the room first and was expected to make the appropriate oohs and ahs, get comfortably seated and then call for the next in line – according to age.

Having endured the agony of creeping Christmas waiting, I must admit that I now did a bit of adult tradition tampering. I maintained but modified the convention. Our kids were expected to wash and brush their teeth, while we prepared toast, coffee and juice and then, of course in the traditional order, each of us could take our breakfast into the tree – a minimum of torturous waiting.

On this particular Christmas, my husband, being the oldest, went first but instead of the regulation howls of delight, his shocked voice called, “Jeth!  What are you doing there?!”

...to be continued...

Copyright © 2013, Robyn Gerland

Santa in Plastic

When my children were growing-up, our family had the tradition of sitting around the fireplace.  My husband would play guitar and the five of us would sing Christmas songs and carols and sip warm drinks.  It all sounds a bit hokey now but it was wonderful then.

One year, when my second child, Gene, was about four, I decided to add an exciting element to the proceedings.  I purchased a plastic Santa suit and convinced my husband to wear it and make an exciting entrance into the room and then we would continue with our evening as always.

I got the three children settled by the fire.  Gene was on my knee.  In burst my husband, HO, HO, HOING.

There was a horrified scream from Gene. It continued all the way up the stairs and into his room.  We could hear the door slam.

I had clearly forgotten that Santa would not bring the gifts until everyone was quietly tucked in bed.  Gene was doomed!  His Christmas was obviously scuppered!

Well, needless to say, Ed proved his identity and Gene was finally calmed but our evening was not quite as Hallmark as it had been in previous years.

So, what’s my point?  Probably nothing or maybe “don’t mess with tradition” or “don’t wear plastic Santa suits”.  I have no idea.  Or maybe, just, hey! it's been fun. 

Penance Paid

Home again, home again,
Jiggedy jig.
As usual I was scoping other people's conversations.  I just can't help myself.  So...on the homeward trip.
Two men were engaging in a passing the time of day - a getting to know you kind of conversation - during the BC Ferry ride from Vancouver to Nanaimo. 

It gets down to 30 below in the Hazletons.
Ya, wicked weather, out there.
Oh, you've been up there?
Oh ya.  I worked on the railway.  Freezing work in winter.
My dad was with the railway.  He lost his leg. Under a train.  Cut right off!
Boy! that must have hurt!  

"Really?"  I restrained myself from saying.  "Do you think so?"
 I guess that's the penance paid for eavesdropping.

 

A Pause That Refreshes

Off  to Vancouver to ride the Christmas Train in  Stanley Park, have dinner in Gas Town with friends and check out shoes (and marshmallow and nut filled chocolate) on Robson Street.
Micah is Farlie sitting.
It's Alright Santa is awaiting publication when we return later in the week.

Where and When

So... matted Molly was shaved down to a sliver of her former self.  She refused to eat or drink and she looked ready to place a painful hex upon our heads.  She was not a happy cat.  Seriously, she was probably suffering from a bout of severe shock.  Finally, just as we phoned the dreaded vet, she gathered herself and:

     Molly recovered.  She continued to garden with me – supervising each shovelful of earth that I turned and inspecting each bulb that I planted.  She grew back her wonderful long-haired coat, delivered a live rat to me in my bedroom, attacked a raccoon and received only a tattered ear for her trouble, and decided, as she aged, that it was her absolute right to sun herself in the middle of our fortunately short and dead-end road. 

As a result of this latter eccentricity, we provided all the neighbours with water guns.  “Someone, who doesn’t know that she’ll refuse to move, may hit her.”  But still, none had the heart to use the water on her.

    Eventually, the black fur turned to grey. She would only eat if we fed her by hand and only drink if we dribbled water from the garden hose.  Her back legs and hips pained her and she seemed to have lost interest in her gardens.

    “It’s probably time,” we said. Tentatively, we explored the possibilities. “We’ll have the doctor visit Molly at home - she was never going there, again.”

    But, once more we dithered – knowing what was right but unable to act until, “She’s gone!”  We waited all day and all the next but, yes, Molly was truly gone.

     And then, “Come with me,” said my partner and she took me to the back garden.  There on her tummy with her head on her paws and snuggled against our very first Skyrocket Juniper tree was Molly the Gardening Cat. As always, she had decided for herself – where and when.  Where we had started and when it was time.

Poor, Poor Molly

...So poor Molly was found under the back steps.  Granted, dead is dead, but still we hurried to the site.  Even in death, it is nice to have recognition and dignity.  We carried her limp body into the garage...

     As we entered the garage, however, one eye slowly opened, and then the other. 

     “She’s had a stroke!  That must be it.” I said.  My partner agreed.                       

     “Keep her warm,” Amy said.  Should we call the vet?”

     As we dithered, I cobbled together a soft nest for the cat.  She lay lax and immobile.

     “There,” I encouraged her as I cuddled her into her new bed.

     “Meow,” she replied, stretched, shook herself and began to explore her new home.

     Again we dithered but, this time, as to whether or not we should adopt her.  “No” we agreed.  “She belongs to somebody else.”  But, “Yes,” we added, “they’re really not taking care of her.  Her coat’s practically a solid lump.  It’s got to be painful.”  We had noticed that she was unable to lie in any position other than on her stomach.

     “We’ll split the difference,” we decided.  “We’ll get her groomed.”

     The next day, we delivered her to the salon in our previous cat’s carrying case and headed back home. The phone rang as we were pulling into the driveway.  “Come and get this cat!” said a very upset voice. “She’s bitten me and she’s clawed my husband and now she’s in the back of the cage huffing and puffing and hissing.”

     We collected Molly, who quite docilely high stepped out of the basket, blinked at both of us and marched out of the room.

     The weather remained balmy and she began sleeping on our doorstep – but always on her stomach. Finally we decided, “We can’t leave this poor cat in this terrible condition.  She’s got to be groomed.”

     A visit to the vet, however, assured us that grooming would not be possible.  Molly needed to be shaved - she needed to start afresh.  But, of course, that would necessitate an anesthetic.  We consulted and decided and over three hundred dollars later, the now nearly naked cat returned home.  They had removed all but four furry cuffs around her paws but had managed, somehow, to salvage her full, busy tail.    

     Almost immediately, the weather turned cold.  Molly needed to stay inside and so she did – shivering and shaking, shunning a hot water bottle and refusing to eat or drink.                                      

     “We’ve killed the cat,” we wailed at each other.  The next day, we phoned the vet.

     “Give Molly another twenty-four hours and then call us,” she said.

     As I dialed, the next afternoon, “She’s drinking!  She must have heard you – she’s decided - she’s never going back there, again,” called my partner

...... continued ......

Molly the Gardening Cat

Molly the Gardening Cat

     Late February on Vancouver Island is often mild and sunny and my fingers were itchy for the feeling of soil and shovels. I had purchased a Skyrocket Juniper tree from the local nursery, gathered my gardening gear and headed out to the back yard.  I dug through the moist earth and hoisted stubborn stones.  The hole that I had managed to create was about two feet wide but only a scant foot deep.  Still, I needed a quick rest. I straightened up and stretched and then, “Well, hello there,” I said to the black and white cat that had joined me at the edge of my digging.

     She was not the smallest bit interested in me but was totally engaged - leaning into the hole and surveying its depths from a variety of angles as she move slowly around its periphery.

     I have to assume that she was satisfied with my workmanship because she stayed at the site for the remainder of the time that I continued to dig and to plant the tree.  We chatted, “So.  Now we have a new tree.  I hope it takes.  It should look really nice in the summer and give us shade, at least, when it’s a bigger.  What do you think?” I asked her.

     The next day, as I watered the fledgling tree and began transferring bulbs, my new friend returned.  She stood at my side and as I planted, she inspected each hole and she moved with me as I worked my way down the path.

     “I see you have a helper,” said my partner as she joined me in the garden. “She’s in rough shape.  She really needs a good grooming.”

     “And she smells,” I added.  “She obviously lives with someone who smokes.”

     Molly was a long haired cat, whose fur was a petrified mass standing out from her body in a tangle of angles and knots. 

     For several days she returned, checked my work and then disappeared back to wherever she was living.

     The following week, as I looked out the widow, I saw the cat lying dead under the back steps. 
    “That cat!” I said and we both rushed outside – to what purpose, I am not sure, but out we went. Molly was lying on her stomach.  Her eyes were closed.  “I’ll get a towel to wrap her in,” I said, “and bring her inside.”

     Molly lay limp.

                                                           ..... stay  tuned.....

The very unexpected...

I need to share this one and it's absolutely true:

Last week some friends and I were discussing humor - what makes something funny.  We decided that a major element was the unexpected.  So...I was reading Luanne Rice's 'What Matters Most'.  It's a smarmy thing about a nun and romance and visions.  There is a long story as to why I was persevering with it.
I got to the part where one of the protagonists is pregnant and hiding in a freezing cold attic.  She begins to pray:
"Help me," she wept. "Mother of God, please help me..."
Holy Crap if help didn't come.
 
And then, without missing a beat, she collects the narrative and carries on.

Okay.  It really was the unexpected and it did make me laugh.

Of Course

...I immediately found a mistake as soon as I sent the manuscript.  Apparently we took powered milk to the cottage.  No wonder we had so much energy!

Manuscript is on its way...

The manuscript for All Those Long Years Ago has finally gone to the publisher.  I was beginning to think that it might have to go in my pine box with me.  Revising can become addictive.

Kit Gets His Answer

Copyright © 2013, Robyn Gerland

So, the passengers are all deeply involved in ignoring my precocious son and his incredibly uncomfortable mother...

     The bus’ buzzer sounded and we pulled over to the curb.  I had a moment of relief as I saw us escaping but then imagined the embarrassment of disembarking amid Kit’s protests and questions and the others passenger’s sighs of relief.  A woman four rows up the bus was leaving her seat.  We could move.  I would be facing forward and I could answer Kit’s questions calmly and quietly; but just then the young man sitting next to me sprang forward into the vacant seat – escaping.

     Almost immediately, however, the man from across the aisle moved next to us.  Kit looked surprised and pleased.  I felt only shocked.

     “Well Kit,” he said, “I think that’s your name.  Am I right?” As he spoke to my son he glanced at me - a request for permission.  I nodded.

     “Well mostly,” said Kit.  “I have a real name but it’s too long.  I can’t say it properly, yet.”

     “Oh,” said the man.  “Would that be Christopher?”

     Kit’s eyes blinked and danced. “How did you know?”

     “I guessed,” said the man.  “And I think I was right.  I also think that you would like to know about my hat.”

     “See,” said Kit, turning back to me.  “I was right.  It is a hat.”

     “Well, sort of,” said the man. “I have very long hair and I use it to tuck the hair up under but it’s also a religious symbol – just like your mom said.”

     “A simple?”

     “No, symbol,” the man said slowly and carefully. “Did you wear a poppy on Armistice Day?  On Poppy Day?” he continued.

     Kit nodded.

     “Well that poppy was a symbol.  I t showed that you remembered the soldiers who died.  And you cared about them.  Do you know the word respect? 

     Kit nodded again.

     The readers, pickers and sleepers were now alert.

     “Well, that poppy showed that you respected those soldiers.”

     “But your hat…it’s not a poppy...not a red one.

     No my hat is called a dastaar but most people call it a turban.  It’s a symbol because it shows respect for the god that I believe in and for myself.  Does that make sense, Mr. Christopher?” he asked as he stood and pressed the buzzer.

     “Yes. You wear your hat so that I can know that you’re respectful,” said my son.

     The bus trip had indeed been an educational experience.  The tutelage of Christopher Moody had definitely, but from a totally unexpected source, been enhanced - his growing awareness of the world truly expanded.  And I?  I was suddenly aware that I had not suffered one moment of the sideseat queasies. 

                  

  

HAPPY BIRTHDAY, MICAH!

                  

 

CONTINUED...What happened Next

 So, we are on a bus in the big city.....

Copyright © 2013, Robyn Gerland

Of course, buses existed on Vancouver Island and, of course Kit had seen them time and again.  But he had never ridden in one.  Due to the expansive distances between destinations, the long waits and circuitous routes of the buses between Chemainus and other island towns and villages, almost everyone drove a car.  Small vehicles and hybrids were very popular.

     So, here we were in the big city and I was about to expand my son’s education – one more experience upon which to build his growing awareness of the world.

     I was holding Kit’s hand. “Oh dear,” I said, “I don’t see any seats.”

     The bus was full and the lady with the many parcels seemed to have taken the last available place to sit.

     “There’s one,” Kit tugged my arm. “On the long seat.”

     There was another reason that I sometimes avoided buses. This was because the stopping and starting and generally lurching quality of the ride often made me feel nauseous.  This feeling was compounded if I had to ride on the side facing seats - watching the scenery slide by, tugging at my eyes and stomach  to follow its swish.  Closing my eyes was even worse as then the unexpected stops and starts and curbward swoops played extra havoc with my queasiness.  Consequently, if I was forced to ride in one of the unfortunate side facing benches, I tried to keep my eyes open and look toward the front of the bus.  It was absolutely the safest position. I sat and pulled Kit onto my knee.

     “Good,” I thought.  His head is blocking my vision.  I’ll just focus on his neck.”  I really hoped that the education of Christopher Moody would be worth my discomfort and personal anxiety. 

     On my lap, Kit wriggled to get comfortable and then sat rigidly still. “Does that man have a headache?” 

No Title Yet...still thinking

Copyright © 2013, Robyn Gerland

 

      “Now, when the bus comes, you get on first and wait for me.  I have to pay the driver and then we’ll get a seat.”

     “Can I?”

     “Pay the driver?  I better do it this time.  It’s been a long while since I’ve been on a bus and I’m not sure how it works, anymore.  You can pay on the way back if it’s not too busy. Okay?”

     People from all over the world vacationed on Vancouver Island – ocean and tall timber, rivers and lakes, villages and cities, and a famously friendly population.  However, the one thing that our wonderful island did not have was diversity of culture. 

Living in Chemainus, one of the picturesque villages on the east side of the island, we knew many first nations people.  The recently renamed island of Penelakut with its sad, sad residential school history was directly across the Stuart Strait from our back yard.  Other than the friends and acquaintances from the Halalt band, who regularly crossed the short distance from their home to ours, via the British Columbia Ferry service, we saw very little difference in culture or complexion.

     “Here it comes.  We’ll let this other lady go first.  She’s got a lot of parcels.”

     Where so much of the rest of the world came to visit us, we had decided to take a short vacation in the city.  We had arrived in Vancouver the day before and today I had decided to take my four year old son for an adventure.  We were going to ride on a bus!

Of course, buses existed on Vancouver Island and, of course Kit had seen them time and again.  But he had never ridden in one.  Due to the expansive distances between destinations, the long waits and circuitous routes of the buses between Chemainus and other island towns and villages, almost everyone drove a car.  Small vehicles and hybrids were very popular.

     So, here we were in the big city and I was about to expand my son’s education – one more experience upon which to build his growing awareness of the world.

                                                                                            stay tuned...

All of the proofs came back today so I am doing a marathon read. 
I changed the title It Was All Too Much to Bambi Ablaze...seems to fit better with the rest of the titles.
A friend, Jean, has explained how to set up for people to respond - next mountain to climb.

A Bed and Breakfast in Chemainus

                                             

For ten years now, we have operated a Bed and Breakfast in the village of Chemainus.  

People are sometimes friendly and gregarious, sometimes timid and reclusive.  Sometimes they are textbook predictable and sometimes they are, well, let’s just say unusual.  And these latter are usually the ones who are most enlightening, frustrating and entertaining.

This spring, we hosted an elderly lady who, upon arrival, requested that I help carry-in her luggage: one overnight bag and three six packs.  She was alone.  She then wanted to borrow my spectacles and a large magnifying glass so that she could read her book.

Another guest complained at the breakfast table that she was unable to sit comfortably because our wooden toilet seat had attacked her – pinching her chop firmly until her husband had been able to fight it off.  These were not exactly the words she used.  In fact, I thought for a moment that she might be gearing-up to sue us.  Either way, and as much as it surely would have stung, had my chop been chomped, I probably would have chosen a more private place than the breakfast table to announce it.

A late evening knock on the door, well past the nine o’clock closing time of our grocery stores, offered-up a cyclist, who was desperate for accommodation and who, smiling, as if to reassure us, announced that he did not eat dairy, wheat, eggs or red meat but anything else would do for breakfast.

There was, also, the couple who requested half their money back because double beds in Canada were much smaller than they were in the United States.

And then there was the tearful lady, who arrived unexpectedly with a small dog and absolutely no other place to go.  She assured us that the dog would be caged and in her room at all times.  That was until she announced that she was going out to get his cage and her cases, and left the dog, unbeknownst to us, in the front hall.  We heard her car pull away, shrugged our shoulder and then moments later looked down to find the not quite caged little dog with his leg lifted against our kitchen chair.  The car, the lady, and the cage returned about an hour later.

Of course, there were, also, the lady who dyed our sink the exact same color as her newly colored hair, the lady who thought that her pet, wing clipped duck might be able to have a dip in our swimming pool, the couple who put bubble bath in the hot tub and, better still, the woman who poured oatmeal scrub in the bathtub and then proceeded to turn the on the jets before they were under the waterline – good grief. 

And lastly, and absolutely my favourite, was the very dapper middle-aged gentleman whose entire moustache dropped-off into his breakfast.   Where to look?  What to say?

Tourists in our tourist town. 

Our bread and butter. 

Our sustenance. 

And our source of some pretty remarkable memories.

Stay tuned

The manuscript has gone to the reviewers and now I'm waiting and hoping for good things to happen.  Once I have these in hand, we will be able to get the initial proof of 'Who Would Have Thought?' in print.
The 6 stories, on which I am awaiting reviews, are centered around Marcie Wyllie who is growing up in 1950s Vancouver, and are historically accurate and  based on actual, personal experience but with a generous helping of creative invention as to who jumped out of the rowboat, who was chased by the rooster and who lost their sock at Frog Pound.

Who Would Have Thought?

I am in the process of writing a book of short stories and my publisher tells me that there is a whole world out there ready and willing to give opinions and advice.
The idea began some time ago.  There was one story burning to be told, The Bow Wow Wonder Workers.
Then, purely by chance, I found that Lord Kitchener School in Vancouver B.C. was being demolished to create a new earthquake resistant building.  There was considerable upset as the original school was a landmark and a heritage piece.  It was well loved by many of the local residents.
And as it was that once upon a time, long ago, I  had attended the school, starting with The Bow Wow Wonder Workers, I began thinking about other incidents from my childhood.  Most of them were centered around the Lord Kitchener School.
Eventually, I wrote 3 stories but they were all fairly short; and then I realized that if I wrote 3 more, and there was certainly no lack of material, I could have 1 story per grade for my 6 years at Lord Kitchener School.
Overall, it would be called Welcome to Our School, from a plaque over one of the building's entrances; and  each of the stories from grades1 to 6, would have  a separate title: Herbert West and That Girl, Herbert West and the Bent Umbrella, Mrs. Frisby and the Very Scary Ruler, The Scandal, the Bicycle and the Frog Pond, Little Grey Bats and a Cow With Horns, and If Only Wendy Hadn't Bunted.
I took the manuscript to a publisher who liked it but suggested that I continue writing until I had several more stories.
So here I am, really close, very excited and, quite honestly, very nervous.  I have written a total of 6 stories, two of which are in sections as is Welcome to Our School and the remaining  4 in  more traditional formats.
I see the publisher again, tomorrow!