'Feel Good' Birthdays

 In past years, I indulged in the ‘feel good’ things on my birthday. Lingering over a coffee downtown Sarnia always brought memories of when I was a kid waiting in line at The Odeon with my friend Barb. We’d pay a quarter for a movie and then stay to watch it over and over. Good times.

And at the end of one summer I spent all my babysitting money on clothes at Pacesetters. Wow, that was a lot of babysitting. My special day usually included a visit to the library for a couple of hours to luxuriate in the smell of books and the pleasure of having literature of every kind at my fingertips. There would be shopping, too. I’d drift in and out of stores looking for nothing in particular and being delighted to find some small thing that I couldn’t live
without. My day normally included lunch with friends and… well, the list of things that pleased me about my birthday could go on forever.
But this year, ye gads! What to do? Not to worry, my friends. I tossed my scarf, gloves, and hat in my

Tis the Season to Try to be Jolly

 These last few years decorating for Christmas has become less important to me. We generally go to our son’s for a dinner celebration and, since we don’t often entertain, it’s a thankless chore hauling the bins of decorations upstairs to sort and allocate. And then there’s the cleanup process to eradicate the sparkle and glitter off floors and carpets. Only to reverse the whole process a few weeks later. To be honest, I’ve become resentful of this ritual.

Two or three years ago, I gave away our gorgeous large tree. Yes, an artificial tree, but it had beautiful drooping branches and at first glance it looked ‘real’. It was pre-lit so there was no fussing with strings of lights…don’t even get me started. But the tree was extremely heavy and although it was in three pieces, it was an effort to assemble. It was glorious, but for the short time it was up it hardly seemed worth it.

Besides, I also had three tall, skinny trees that I decorated each year. They’re gone, too. I decided that

My Journal, My Confidant

 It’s tough to resign this book of inked confidences to the shelf. More than five years of my most intimate musings are contained within the bindings of this journal. I remember the day I bought it; it was my birthday and I was treating myself to all the things I loved. Naturally, that included a visit to the library and a meandering through the bookstore.

I’d paused at the display of journals. A polished stone or jewel, and fancy tooling, decorated the front of most. They were beautiful. The textured pages, rough to the touch, were laced to the spine. A new journal was the most perfect treat for my birthday. Some might indulge in a piece of jewellery or a spa

package, but nothing pleased me more than purchasing this book.

Over the years, I never left home without packing it in my overnight case, or tucking it inside my tote for a trip to the beach or park. It most definitely accompanied me on all people-watching excursions. It often went untouched, but it was there for me if I felt the urge.

Months might go by without a single note, and then I’d write

When Your MC Comes Knocking...

One of the writers from the #writingcommunity that I follow on Twitter, posed a most interesting question: If the MC of your book knocked at your door, what would you do?

Immediately my mind went to Sylvia Kramer, the main character of Old Broad Road – my gritty novel set in Newfoundland that’s due for release this summer. Actually I’m working on the fourth draft of the sequel at this very moment…well, I’m writing this blog right now, but you know what I mean. Where was I? Oh, right.

This was my response to the Twitter question about a visit from the MC of my book: I would invite her in. Normally, I would hug her too, but with Covid... Then I'd pour each of us a brandy. Thought I don't often imbibe, this is Sylvia's drink of choice for those special and reflective moments and since she's the perfect host, I want to do my best to accommodate her.

 We'd settle in for an evening of candid conversation. I'd commiserate the tragedy/of her life and

My Publishing Journey

A writer’s life is indeed a journey and despite the potholes and detours, the scenery makes the trip worthwhile. Years later, though I hadn’t attracted a traditional publisher enroute, my efforts had fulfilled me in ways I hadn’t anticipated. Only a seasoned writer can make that statement with conviction.

Let me explain.

I was eager to do whatever it took to get my novel noticed. I started blogging, opened a Facebook page, and most importantly, I joined a local writers’ group.

They convinced me to submit short stories, which for me were more challenging to write than novels. I was fortunate to find homes for most of them in anthologies and journals. The contest wins encouraged me to continue.

Then I penned some exposes of my long ago career as a small-town lingerie boutique owner to share at weekly writers’ meetings. The members urged me to keep writing these stories, insisting I was onto something. Each memory led to another until I was re-living the 80s and 90s fashion trade, a different

Life Doesn't Have to be Perfect

It was prophetic that I changed my profile Facebook Banner when I did. It reads ‘Life doesn’t have to be perfect to be wonderful’ or something close to that. I was surprised at the number of positive reactions to this picture because we were, and still are, in the middle of COVID-19, a deadly and highly contagious virus that is keeping us apart from our loved ones. Our children and grandchildren aren’t within hugging reach. But Facebook posts and pictures prove that most families are finding alternate ways of showing love. It is touching and deliberate. I like that. Not perfect but still wonderful.

Aside from my own restrictions to family, I no longer had a book launch to anticipate. Social distancing… But then my publisher came up with a scheme. A midway-point gravel parking lot where we could meet. An open hatchback with champagne (nice surprise) and boxes of books. And she made a phone video for YouTube of me seeing my book for the very first time. A monumental moment. Come on, I’d waited years for this day. I was excited. It didn’t matter that there were only the two of us present. I was there for the big reveal and it couldn’t have been more gratifying than if I’d been in a bookstore filled with supporters.

Life doesn’t have to be perfect to be wonderful.

We are finding that out, each in our own way…

Hazards of the Trade is a personal disclosure of nearly twenty years of humorous and sad reflections from the naïve start up of a small-town lingerie boutique to the ultimate farewell. 

The era began with retailers in impossibly high heels and designer suits attending the Ontario Fashion Exhibitors market at the prestigious King Edward Hotel in downtown Toronto and ended with buyers in rubber-soled shoes and sweatpants at the Congress Centre near the airport. While high-end fashion shows and buying trips might seem glamorous, evading a stalker and trying to evict a rabid squirrel from the shop might not. But it was all part of being in the Trade. That, and so much more.

Available at your local indie bookstore

and also Amazon

Better than the Write Shoes

Maybe you can relate to my latest First Monday column.

Have you ever had the week from hell and it’s only Monday? That’s how I felt. I needed something to ease my nerves. My usual approach to restoring my equilibrium wasn’t an option. I’d already had so many baths that my fingers were permanently pruney. The next best calming tactic was cooking. There’s something about chopping, dicing, and simmering. But my husband headed me off. Please, not another pot of soup, he said. That only leaves shoe shopping, I told him. He tossed my purse over to me. I was surprised he preferred another pair of shoes in the closet to another pot of soup on the stove, but who was I to question it.

Truthfully, I needed to get out of the house. On the nicer weather days, I’d been holed up in my office, more commonly referred to as my nest. My work was now finished but I was nursing a headache that refused to stay away. And I’d been in pyjamas for days.

I dressed and climbed behind the wheel for the hour’s drive. It would clear my head, give me some fresh air, and a brand new pair of shoes.

I was already in a better frame of mind when I pulled up to the curb in front of my favourite store. It didn’t have the outcome I’d expected. The shoes I liked didn’t fit, and the ones that fit I didn’t like. Determined to stay upbeat, I remembered the chocolate shop just up the street. It’s fact that chocolate is

A Magical Phenomenon

I was lounging in an attitude adjustment bubble bath when I focused on the picture at the end of the tub. I love how it makes me feel. How it’s always made me feel. A shady verandah with tall plant stands, greenery, and a wooden swing bench. A blonde toddler, her chubby bare feet peeking beneath her nightdress, sits with her teddy bears.

This picture has hung in every room, nook, and cranny of my home for the past thirty years. It has adorned the family room, the landing of the stairs, a front entrance, and for a few years it graced the laundry room. Actually, it was hanging over the washer and dryer when I posed the question to my granddaughter. Who is that in the picture? She didn’t hesitate to name her younger sister. I smiled. That’s what I think, too, I told her.

I went on to explain that her daddy had bought me that picture for Mother’s Day. He was maybe thirteen at the time, I said. Aside from the fact that it was a gift from my kid, for some reason I never could part with it. It was twenty years later that the image in the picture made my eyes widen. How could that be, I wondered. I couldn’t stop staring at that sweet child. She was indeed the image of my son’s youngest daughter.

Hearing her older sister confirm the likeness gave me goosebumps. So it’s not just me, I thought.

At the end of my mood-altering, fingertip pruning soak, I smiled as I tapped my heel against the tub stopper to release the now tepid water. My cantankerous mood was gone. Sometimes when I’m feeling irritable or grumpy all I need are warm suds. Today, I’m not sure if I should credit the bath, or the picture. Of course, you realize the good vibes are from more than a pleasing toddler pic. It’s mostly the wonder of how my young son bought a picture the likeness of his future child.

Serendipity. Coincidence. Fluke. I prefer Magic. Yes, I believe in magical moments.