A Valentine Gift of Memories

 It was February 14^th, and I was waking up in Niagara Falls. Not that I was surprised, it’s where I fell asleep. Just saying. Hubby and I went away for a change of scene, but mostly to re-connect with friends we don’t see nearly often enough. We had a good first evening of food, libation, and catchup conversation. Yes, getaways with long-time friends are always heartwarming.

There’s something else I look forward to on these retreats. And I can’t remember a time when I didn’t feel this way. It sounds odd because most people don’t sleep well when they’re away, but I LOVE sleeping in a hotel. I always get a great night’s sleep. I know, right? But that’s the way it is with me. I’ve never truly duplicated the experience at home. No matter how high the thread count is, or the number of pillows on the bed, or the quality of the mattress, it doesn’t feel the same. Maybe it’s the duvet. I’ve had comforters, bedspreads – I love chenille – but I wonder if I should …. Never mind, I digress, as usual.

So, I woke up feeling good (naturally) and after stretching, squirming, and positioning my three pillows, I reached for my iPad. What’s new, I wondered. Just then an email came through. I frowned when I saw it was from my son. Strange for him to email me. This can’t be good, I thought. But I was very wrong because when I realized what it was, it made my entire day. That’s pretty great considering it wasn’t even 8:30 AM yet.

A few months back he’d mentioned an old cassette tape he’d come across. Had he found it in his childhood memory box? Most likely he rescued it from a junk box filled with once-favoured collectibles. I’m not sure. Anyway, I did recall making tape recordings with him when he was a toddler. The first one we made together was when he was two years old and a little chatter box.

The email he sent to me on Valentine’s Day was an audio file of one such recording. Now, every parent out there can imagine how precious it is to hear a recording of your child from over forty years ago. I mean, time just stops.

I texted him immediately. I’m not crying, you’re crying, I joked. I won’t deny how emotional I felt listening to it. Memory overload. I’m sure he felt the same way. Part of the recording was a conversation – as only a saucy four-year-old can converse – with his dad (now deceased). When he told his dad we’d gone roller skating that day, I cracked up laughing. Oh, I remember that day. A day I hadn’t thought of in…well, forever.

I loved listening to our duet of a song I’d made up for him when he was a couple of years old. We sang that song umpteen times on the drive home from his daycare centre. It eventually disappeared from my repertoire only to leap back to life when my granddaughters were toddlers, and I shared the song about their daddy with them.

Our memory is a funny thing. We couldn’t have every event of our lifetime constantly active in our minds. Some hide in the shadows until one spark brings them to light. Hearing that little rascal’s voice brought it all back. The bedtime stories, bathtime struggles, pets, and discarded apple cores. The journey of one precocious little boy.

And we’re still making memories.

 

Road Trip

 

Suspecting it might be our last topless (the car, that is) tour this year, we took advantage of the warm temperatures last week and escaped to the Southampton area for a couple of days. Nothing puts me in a better frame of mind than to head north on Highway 21 through Grand Bend to Bayfield and Goderich. It’s my attitude-adjustment area. So I guess that would make Southampton my feel-good zone, and I looked forward to the brief but rejuvenating road trip.

I loved travelling along the water and stopping at our favourite beaches along the way. THAT, my friends, was the best part of the trip. My husband snapped this pic in Point Clark.

There’s something so comforting about being near the water. I spent a few moments on ‘my rock’ at Bayfield, a beach I frequented often for many summers. And in just those few moments of taking in the sights and sounds, I felt the urge to write something…anything. Nature has always inspired me. Especially bodies of water. It doesn’t seem to matter if it’s a river, lake, or creek. To be honest, even a bathtub of water has cleared minor writer’s block for me.

We’ve always enjoyed visiting Meaford and were delighted to see the town celebrating a scarecrow festival. Scarecrows everywhere! Even hanging from lightposts.

An all out effort throughout the town. Even in the residential areas. 

We stopped downtown to admire the displays and then headed to the rocky shore of Georgian Bay where I basked once again in the restorative setting. I believe I left my bum imprint on the rocks of at least five beaches. So, yes, it was the most relaxing of tours and the weather couldn’t have been better.

The evening temperatures were still favourable for a stroll along the beach. We walked down to the benches at the end of the main street in Southampton to catch the sunset. Words don’t do it justice and, alas, no pictures. I guess we were too absorbed in the magnificent view. That experience was more satisfying than the chicken alfredo I ordered for dinner. And everyone knows how much I LOVE fettucine alfredo.

Here and there were splashes of red along the road during our travels but it was too early for the trees to have changed colour. We’ll wait a a couple more weeks for that treat. 

I’ll share more pictures and memories of some of those beaches later. Maybe when the snow drifts turn to mind drifts and I remember standing at the shorelines of Lake Huron, gulping in the lake air, cool and refreshing, as receding waves suck the sand from beneath my bare toes. Yes, that’s when I’ll dig up those photos, slap them on Facebook and say, ‘back in October we ….’

My Summer Timeout From Writing

 

I enjoyed a refreshing respite from the office this summer. When hubby and I weren't motoring around Southwestern Ontario on fair weather days, we spent time together at home. Mostly he worked in the yard while I watched. I think he prefers it that way. He loves trimming, cutting, and planting, so I leave him to his pleasure without thought of ‘helping’. He has an incredible green thumb and I LOVE his garden of robust, colourful flowers, not to mention the picture-perfect vegetables he leaves on the kitchen counter for me to oooh over. His offering of green peppers and tomatoes became stuffed peppers for last night’s dinner and it appears I’ll have to dust off my squash recipes soon.

With no writing schedules or deadlines to worry about, we welcomed long afternoon visits with family, friends, and neighbours.  And I especially enjoyed a fun shopping trip with my teenaged granddaughters. We had a great time together as they spent their summer wages on the 'must have' apparel for the new school year. We even took in a movie while we were in London. You guessed it...Barbie!

And, of course, I occupied many pleasurable hours reading. I should say re-reading. Yes, I plucked some old favourites from my bookshelves. That's a comfort thing, right? Reading your favourite books again? It's like eating mac and cheese or drinking tea with milk and sugar. Anyway, it makes me feel good. It had been forever since I read a Stephen King novel. Noticing that The Green Mile had been added to the Netflix movies list urged me to select that particular book first. I admit that after I’d finished the book, I watched the movie again. They couldn’t possibly include everything in the movie, but I was satisfied.

Then I reached for To Kill a Mockingbird. Loved it – again. And I'm not sure how many times I've read Margaret Laurence's classic, The Stone Angel, but it was my next choice after Harper Lee. Then I moved on to Nina George's first book in the Death Trilogy, The Little French Bistro and, of course, I then re-read the other two books in the series.

I'm currently captivated by the first book in Diana Gabaldon's Outlander series. As happened with King’s The Green Mile, I turned to the film for comparison. I’d only read a hundred pages or so when I spent an evening with Netflix watching some episodes from Season One. What a love story! When I’m finished reading The Outlander, I'll return to recently released publications in search of more favourites to add to the collection that I'll reach for again in years to come.

My idyllic summer was made even better by an invitation to a book club meeting. There’s nothing more exciting than meeting readers and answering their questions, and it’s especially interesting to hear their perspective on the storyline and characters in Old Broad Road and On The Rock. To make the evening even more perfect, the members also requested copies of my memoir Hazards of the Trade. What’s not to love about book clubs? A shoutout of appreciation (and a warm hug) to the welcoming members of all the book clubs who have invited me to spend an afternoon or evening with them.

It's been a relaxing summer, but now my leisurely timeout has drawn to a close and I’m back at the desk. And that's okay. I'm looking forward to the business of writing, deleting, writing, and deleting some more. Because from all that writing and deleting, I'm hoping a new story will emerge.

Hoping you had some sublimely memorable hours this summer, too, whether it was reading, travelling, or spending precious time with family. 🥰

Halloween 2022

 

I always fuss over what to buy for handouts. I’ll never forget the year I bought juice boxes, and what my granddaughters said about my handout choice. Juice boxes? Nana, you actually bought juice boxes for Halloween? I thought it was a great idea. I still do. But I didn’t buy them again. If any of you know of a healthy snack that’s an appreciated treat, let me know.

When we lived in the country we didn’t have many children come to the door trick-or-treating. At a discount store I purchased colouring books, crayons, little crafts, and fun toy thingies. I invited the children in to pick out what they’d like. It really didn’t go over as well as I’d expected. Back to the sugary treats.

This year when I bought cans of pop I wondered if kids still drank cream soda, orange crush, and root beer (they do! Root beer is the favourite), bags of candies (next year I won’t get any licorice), wee boxes of smarties, those little chocolate bars – which  I had to re-stock before the 31^st  (eyeroll) – and  boxes of potato chips. I second-guessed myself as I put them all out on folding tables in the foyer. I’ll give the smarties and little bars to the toddlers, pop or chips to the older ones. Then I considered giving out a few candies with a can of pop, some chocolate bars with the chips… And so it went.

That night it took only a couple of trips to the door for me to change my mind about everything. This is

My Imaginary Friends

 I miss the people from the pages. Do other authors feel the same about their characters? They must. We get inside their heads, and that’s as close as you can get to anyone. Someone questioned this point, though. Do we get inside the heads of our characters, or do characters live inside our heads? I firmly believe in the former. There were days when I needed to write but, uh uh, their voices were silent. But then my characters were always very much in control. Of everything. It was all I could do to keep up. To a non-writer that probably sounds crazy. Think what you will.

At a book club meeting to discuss the Newfoundland series, one of the members thought it was hilarious the way I pondered – in the same manner they did – how a character might react in a different situation. You talk like you don’t know these people any better than we do. You made them up! I prefer to think of it as giving them life. Whatever. Okay, maybe I do give my ‘creations’ too much lead and that’s why I never know what will happen next. I’m definitely a pantser, not a plotter.

Yes, I miss the gang from Old Broad Road and On The Rock. Who wouldn’t? Sylvia Kramer, especially. It was the whole lifestyle that she’d built for herself in Newfoundland that I admired. We became quite close over the time it took me to write these novels. I might have connected more solidly with Sylvia

Fireside Collections Review: Old Broad Road/On The Rock by Phyllis L Humby

 

A Fireside Collections book review

When 63 year old Sylvia Kramer showed up in Chapel's Cove, Newfoundland she was far from ready to embark upon another love affair. That, however, is exactly what happened. Still in shock over her recent divorce from husband Paul, after what was perceived to be a marriage rooted in love and respect, and estranged from her adult children and grandchildren, Sylvia was broken and in need of an escape. A one way ticket to an east coast destination is what Sylvia seems to need; a place where she would be embraced by warmth and friendliness, eclectic people and unknown dialects, new delicacies waiting to be explored. A healthy dose of the North Atlantic is indeed the tonic that brings new life to Sylvia but evil lurks in all corners of the world and Sylvia is certainly forced to endure her share of the worst, plunging her into a tailspin of depression and doubt and experimentation with unorthodox coping strategies. Old Broad Road and On The Rock by author Phyllis L. Humby is the two part, two novel story of one woman’s will to survive and to make sense of her seemingly senseless world. 

On Route 60, I pulled the truck over and walked to a bench at the shoreline. My breath quickened at the natural beauty of Conception Bay as I gazed across the horizon. The drizzle had ended and the sun was remarkably warm. I removed my jacket to soak up the rays and then stretched my legs out in front of me until I settled into a relaxed position. My eyes grew heavy.   

I could see myself, arms outstretched, walk to the water's edge. Cautiously hop from rock to boulder. The blue sea lapped around my feet. The water crept up my legs past my knees. It stretched up my thighs and circled my hips, the silky surface luring me to its depths. My feet drifted off the rocks. My body submerged into the mysterious wet underworld. The icy water warmed me as I succumbed to the zenith of serenity. 

 (Old Broad Road)

In this two part series, Humby crafts a beautiful story that is masterfully written in the first person. In many respects,

the story has an “Eat, Pray, Love” feel with the main character Sylvia embarking upon a voyage of self discovery and new beginnings.  Though there are some heartbreaking incidents throughout both books that test Sylvia’s resolve,  this amazing piece of Canadiana is more about how love and friendship can conquer all. It is very much a feel good story that the reader just won’t want to put down and the tragic events are just part of that story. Humby also pens beautiful descriptions of an outport lifestyle that would be the envy of any writer. Her descriptions are factually accurate and truly invite the reader to become part of the story. Likewise, the author creates a wonderfully diverse cast of authentic characters that are as colourful as the jelly bean row houses located in old St. John’s. Instrumental to the development of the story and to Sylvia’s own personal development, the characters are funny and joyous, humble and adventurous. They are a wholesome mix of hearty Newfoundlanders (and some “Come From Aways”), a group I secretly wished to be a part of especially when they got together for celebrations and dinner parties.

Old Broad Road and On The Rock by Phyllis L. Humby is the story of one woman’s love affair with a place and with people who are just good for the soul. This book will leave you laughing, smiling, and crying and definitely booking your next adventure to Newfoundland. Phyllis L. Humby lives in the municipality of Lambton Shores, Ontario. She is the author of Hazards of The Tree, Old Broad Road and On The Rock published by Crossfield Publishing.

Book Reviews shared from firesidecollections.blogspot.com

Cathy Marie Buchanan marks anniversary

Cathy Marie Buchanan’s Facebook post this week celebrating the thirteenth anniversary of becoming a published author brought back warm memories for me.

It was during her book signing tour for The Day the Falls Stood Still when she popped into a small local library on an escorted trek around the city. During the author’s impromptu visit, the librarian mentioned my manuscript!

I was at the stage of giving up. Discouraged by query rejections, I was ready to burn the manuscript, convinced I’d never find an agent or publisher. This librarian, who had generously agreed to read my manuscript, felt moved by my novel and must have still been under its spell. Whatever she told the New York Best Selling Author prompted Cathy Buchanan to hand over her phone number with instructions for me to call her. Can you believe it??

Of course I phoned, but not before rushing out to purchase her book. I read it thoroughly and appreciatively, gulped, and dialled her number. During our thirty minute conversation, she offered

Old Broad Road and On The Rock – Inside Scoop

The novels Old Broad Road and On The Rock are written in First Person Point of View. This might account for why some readers associate the protagonist Sylvia Kramer with me, being the author, and her life with mine. But this series is fiction and not based on any drama or characters in my own personal world.

Here are my answers to some of the most frequently asked questions: 

Q: Why was it important for your main character to share your love of cooking?

(throat clearing) I love eating, but cooking…not so much. It’s true that in both Old Broad Road and On The Rock, Sylvia Kramer effortlessly throws together spectacularly delicious meals. One reviewer even warned people not to read these books on an empty stomach. I love it! If you were salivating reading about the meals, imagine how it felt doing the research. Of course, I’d sampled many of the Newfoundland and Labrador delicacies during my vacation there.

Q: How long did you live in Newfoundland?

I’ve never lived in Newfoundland. It was through my several pleasurable vacations in the province that I was inspired to write Old Broad Road and subsequently On The Rock. As a sidenote, I'd never visited Chapel's Cove, NL, which is the setting of these books, until after I'd written them. I'll always remember how I felt standing on Sylvia's beach for the first time. It was a profound and magical moment.

Q: Do you have tattoos?

You're Only an Oddball Until You Find Your Tribe

 Nine years ago I wrote my first blog post. Reading it now reminds me how it felt to be without a tribe. My tribe. The storytellers. It also brings back the rush of realizing my passion for writing fiction.

Here is an excerpt of the post I wrote as I began my journey as a writer. 

 All my life I have been the oddball.  Not quite fitting.  Different from the rest−the rest of the family, the rest of the class, the rest of the co-workers.

I was the one staring off into space−lost in thought. 

It was not that I wasn’t focused.  I was too focused.  Not on what was happening around me, but what was going on in my mind....a whole other world.

I am not sure at what age I started recording some of my daydreams.  I suppose the first stories found their way to paper when I was a child living in Sarnia, Ontario and later as a teen, in Cambridge.  Even

'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.

Tis the Season

So the big holiday is almost here. I laid the xmas presents out on the table for wrapping. That’s where they are now. Not wrapped, but they are ready to be wrapped. I have paper somewhere. It’s leftover from last year. There should be a bin downstairs with gift bags and wrap. I’ll check tomorrow. Or maybe I’ll just wrap some tissue paper around them. I’m sure I have ribbon somewhere. 

We need to make a grocery list I told my husband. And we have to make a trip to the bank. It’s a bloody nuisance not having a bank within a thirty-minute drive. That’s just one-way. So considering the wait time in the bank, we’re looking at an hour and a half to pick up some cash. There’s a grocery store next door to the bank I reminded my husband. We’ll get it all done in one trip. He agreed and suggested I might like to take a drive over the next couple of days. We need a plan, I said, as I returned to my nest with a fresh coffee. He agreed and went back to his renovation job in the basement. 

We’re skipping the big xmas meal for a relaxing afternoon with appetizers. I jumped all over that idea. I’d be happy to bring some delectables. There are so many great recipes now, I crowed. Bacon wrapped brussel sprouts. Even the kids love brussel sprouts in this family. Everyone agreed that they sounded good. I poured over the online sites showcasing party hors d'oeuvres and spent a couple hours reading recipes from Turkish figs and walnuts to mini corn dogs with cranberry mustard…  

Worn out from the exertion, I decided to put some frozen meatballs into the slow cooker and mix up chili sauce and grape jelly. If it was good thirty years ago, it’ll be good now. Right? Let’s not experiment. And who doesn’t love meatballs? 

Hubby and I mentioned our recipe for chicken sliders. Really tasty and simple to make. We could assemble them at home and rather than take up a lot of room in their fridge, keep them in the car until we pop them into the oven. It would certainly be cold enough outside. They wouldn’t get soggy, right? Oh, maybe we’ll just stop on the way and pick up a cheese ball. A box of crackers. Who doesn’t love a cheese ball?

Get Away to Write

If I were to plan the perfect writing getaway, it would include rain. You can’t plan the rainy weather but I take advantage of it whenever possible. I’m more prolific listening to a downpour or even a steady drizzle. Not a pluviophile? Maybe warm breezes on a sunny day would work its magic for you.

 The next most important consideration when planning a retreat is nourishment. I like to eat. Especially when I’m writing. Not so much when my fingers are pounding the keyboard, but during that time when they’re suspended above the keyboard and I’m thinking through a plotline. Food really helps with that process. You too?

I’m not a junk food eater. No thanks to potato chips and dips, and those sour peach slice chewy things. Okay, but only one. I prefer to have readymade salads on hand. And ciabatta bread! If I forgot everything else and just had ciabatta bread, cheese, and wine, I would survive. Flourish, actually. Going over the contents of my fridge in my mind, I see fresh fruit and veggies washed and ready to eat as I research gunshot wounds, or cafes in Paris...oh, to see my browser history.

Coffee, too, is a priority. Water is another, and that’s usually my go to in the afternoon. But not late afternoon. No, in the late afternoon, I take a meaningful break. Time for a plate of crackers and hummus or cheese – extra old cheddar or goat cheese, heck even peanut butter in a pinch, and a glass of red wine. No wine for you? I’m sure you can come up with a substitute. 

Then I like to sit outside and listen to the rain – if it’s still raining – and you can lie on the grass and look up at the clear skies or better yet, rolling clouds – those fluffly white ones, not the dark rain clouds. Ruminate on the plots, character, and dialogue until you’re ready to get back to the keyboard.

For me, a retreat produces more words than I could accomplish at home. Think about it. No distractions. No rules. If you’re planning a getaway, remember to eat when you’re hungry, whatever food you want – don’t look at the clock. I had greek pasta salad one morning before ten and toast near midnight. Keep in mind, there are no calories when you’re writing. I know. At first, I found that hard to believe, too.

Sleep when you’re tired, and when you wake up, start writing. You’re still in the zone. It doesn’t matter if you’ve slept for two hours or six hours. Again, don’t look at the clock. And don’t worry about getting ready for bed. You’re writing in pj’s anyway.

You’re always ready. That’s the other great thing. You don’t worry about appearances on these solitary retreats. No one is going to ‘drop by’. And if you’re away, it doesn’t matter who sees you traipsing around in your flannels. They shouldn’t be looking in the windows anyway.

Think of what it would take to open the door of imagination for you and stir the creative juices. Three or four days are usually the max for me to be holed up writing and still come out fairly civilized in the end.

If you’re able to hide away from people and schedules for any period of time to focus on writing, I highly recommend it.

Mother's Day Suggestions from Mom

Every newspaper ad, radio commercial, and Facebook post is focused on Mother's Day. I thought I'd jump on the bandwagon. Here's an abridged version of a column I wrote for First Monday a few years back. In case you're still floundering about what to do, these are some heart melting ideas for Mom.

If the gift you had in mind for Mother’s Day has to be watered or dusted, think again.  That might not be Mom’s preference.  When asked to think back on their most memorable Mother’s Day, the mom’s I surveyed insisted the day did not involve flowers, jewellery, or candy!  As Debbie so aptly phrased in her response, ‘material goods are just clutter that distracts us from what’s really important’.

If your last one-on-one dinner with Mom was The Dairy Queen in 1981, it is time to book a reservation for two.  Discuss current movies, your favourite books, new hobbies... 

As for a meaningful gift, a framed picture of you with your siblings would be a winner.  Trust me on this.  It’s in the survey.  Also, Barbara mentioned personal artwork.  Exert yourself.  It will leave a lasting impression.  

Remember when you were a kid?  A piece of paper with waxed crayon scribbles hung on the fridge for a month.  Hearts melted over a few dandelions clutched in a grubby little fist. 

What?  You’re not a kid anymore?  Well, your Mom is still your Mom.  A handwritten letter or card would mean more to her than a Hallmark.  Memory boxes around the world embrace handwritten poems and homemade cards.  Susan attests to that. 

Before you ask your secretary to call the florist, think about picking Mom up at lunchtime and heading to the fry truck under the bridge.  Time is our most precious commodity.  Go for a walk together along the river.  Tell her how much those outings meant to you as a kid.  Stop at the florist on the way back and present her with a fragrant bouquet.  She will love you for it.

If your mother has passed on, perhaps a spray of white carnations on your table or desk would be a lovely tribute in her memory. 

Another suggestion from my survey involved a tour of the old neighbourhood.  Recollections flood back with a stop at the corner store for a cold drink and ice cream.  A nice way to say thank you for a great childhood.

An idea that sounds great to me is hosting a dinner party or luncheon for Mom and her friends.  I don’t think she would mind if you hosted the meal at her house.  Be sure to set an attractive table–it’s all in the presentation−and do the cleanup.  Not a cook?  Order Chinese and break out the chopsticks.  Now, that is a memory maker.  It’s the thought, the time, and the sincerity that counts.  Be original.  Mothers like to feel special and coddled.

If it is impossible to be together to celebrate Mother’s Day, make time for an unhurried phone call or skyped visit. 

However you honour your mother on her special day, please do not hang up the phone, do not disconnect skype, and do not drive away from the house, without telling her what she already knows but never tires of hearing... I love you, Mom.