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!