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.