writing

“Kaleidoscope” More Bite-size Memoir

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Women’s Words writing week has been like looking through a kaleidoscope.

I look in and see so many different pieces of color.

Emerald green, cobalt blue, “yellow like the sun” as my toddler son used to say, scarlet red, a dark purple hue like the shadow of a prairie sunset, the true orange color of a sun ripened mandarin fruit. I do not see black or white, nor any shades of grey in any space, just total vibrant color.

Tiny shards and specks tumble. Chunks of color; blending, falling, rising, moving, changing places. Different permutations and combinations, all coming together in turn after turn of enchanting energy. Gorgeous, vibrant, ever changing patterns.

Captivated by the strong yet gentle, courageous women surrounding me, I am entranced.

I am fascinated by the power in their spoken words, their passionate voices.

I am grateful to be here, to be present, to have heard.

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Note:

Women’s Words was a week long writing workshop initiated by Eunice Scarfe. It was held at the University of Alberta Faculty of Extension in Edmonton for 20 years.

Last year was the 20th anniversary. I was honored to have a piece of writing selected last year for the 20th anniversary anthology published to celebrate women’s writing.

There will be no Women’s Words held this June. I do not know why.

Today, I was thinking about the week I spent there several years ago.

Looking through my old notebook from the workshop, I came across a few sentences I had written in response to a prompt Eunice had given us at the very end of the week – “This week has been…”

This week’s prompt for Bite-size Memoir at Lisa Reiter’s blog was “Magic and Fairies”:

http://sharingthestoryblog.wordpress.com/2014/05/16/bite-size-memoir-no-3-magic-and-fairy-tales/

It inspired me to write about that week as a 150 word (no more, no less) bite-sized memoir.

Women’s Words was pure magic, no fairies required.

 

 

Bite-size Memoir Yum, yum!

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A fellow blogger, Lisa Reiter, started a project called “Bite-sized Memoir”. The challenge is to write a 150 word piece of memoir on the topic she provides each week. Thought I’d give it a go. If you’d like to learn more, or participate (even if you are not a blogger you may do the challenge and post in the comments section of her blog on the page for each week’s particular topic). Here is the link for more information / guidelines:

http://sharingthestoryblog.wordpress.com/2014/05/02/bite-size-memoir-no-1-school-at-seven/comment-page-2/#comment-239

This week’s topic was “School at Seven”. I missed her deadline for compilation but decided to do it anyway to warm-up for next week’s topic which she will publish tomorrow.

I am curious to see if I will find this writing just as delicious as those bite-size muffins I was woofing down from the market all summer!

 

School at Seven

I entered the grade two class of Miss Dari at St. Paul Elementary School in 1968. Her classroom was on the east side of the “old grey school”, the single story wing attached to a brand new two story wing for the older kids. The “older kids” were grade four and five. My Mom was up there too, teaching grade five.
I have few memories of particular activities and lessons in the classroom. However, strangely enough, I have a very vivid recollection of the very first word list lesson in the little hardcover Macmillan spelling text book. The first words we had to know how to spell that year were: the, is, not, cat, cow, car. And they were in that exact order. I would challenge any psychotherapist or neuro-psychologist to explain to me why that spelling list remains embedded in my memory to this very day.

On a pot hole & a prayer!

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Being an only child, my mother tended to be rather protective of me.

I grew up in an era when people did not wear seatbelts because most vehicles did not even have them. My mother’s rule to keep me safe in a vehicle was that I must always sit in the backseat, even if there was only the driver and myself in the vehicle. I respected the rule. Even if I was going two blocks down the dusty main street with my Grandpa in his Volkswagen Beetle to the Co-op grocery store in our small prairie town, I still had to sit in the backseat as though I had my own personal taxi driver or chauffeur.

So, it came as no surprise to me that the night before, and again on the morning of my departure on an out of town car trip with my piano teacher, my Mom reminded me: “Don’t forget to sit in the backseat.” I assured her I would, as my Dad pulled our car up to the side door of the convent to drop me off at 8:30 a.m.

I was going to the music festival in Lac la Biche, with my piano teacher, a Catholic nun, as well as another nun from the convent and three other girls. We were all from the same school, all in within a grade of each other, and we all took piano lessons once a week from Sister Komery, or Sister Canary as I called her behind her back.

I think as long as I assured my Mom I would sit in the back seat, she had no other worries, being that we were travelling in a bulky, four-door dark blue Buick sedan with a nun at the wheel. How much safer could one possibly be?

All four of us girls, the two German Michelles – Meirer and Schmitt, and the French farm girl Agnes Flaubert, and I were wearing summer dresses, and white knee socks for our debut playing piano solos on the music festival stage. Neither of the nuns wore habits anymore. They were dressed in conservative wool skirts, blazers, polyester blouses with plain, but prominent crosses on chains around their necks. Both Sisters wore wigs on their heads, necessary my mom had told me, after wearing habits for so many years and not having good hair anymore.

Being experts in efficiency, the sisters quickly had us getting in to the car. Immediately I said I was willing to sit in the middle of the backseat, no one disagreed, so in I climbed to my spot. Being a large backseat of a sedan, with just three eleven year old girls in it there was plenty of room for each of us.

The back seat fabric was irritating; scratchy on the back of my legs and knees. I had a sudden longing for the soft fuzzy grey seat covers in my Dad’s car. I guess the nuns felt no need for seat protection since they rarely had children in their vehicle. They did not need to worry about some kid dropping popcorn or pop on it at the drive-in as my Dad seemed to be obsessed with.

The smallest girl, my best friend Michelle M. had been directed to sit in the front between the Sisters. She was short enough that I still had a view out the windshield over the top of her blonde head.
I could also see a small metal statue of Saint Christopher stuck on to the dashboard of the car. Saint Christopher is the saint to keep travellers safe on their journey. Dangling from the rear-view mirror was a blue-grey rosary.

Sister Komery started the motor of the car, but she did not put it in gear.

Before I could even begin to wonder what was possibly wrong, she said: “I will say a prayer for a safe trip.” Quickly but quietly, she mumbled out about a three sentence prayer in ten seconds, the only words I really caught being “Jesus. Please. Safe. Trip. Amen.”

No sooner was the “Amen” out of her mouth, Sister Komery slapped the car into gear, jammed her foot on the gas, the tires spun briefly on the gravel, then as they grabbed hold sent us flying forward in our seats and down the convent driveway towards the highway.

With the car set so quickly into motion, then the thump of it off the driveway curb onto the highway below, the rosary on the rear-view mirror was set swinging. There went the crucified Christ back and forth, back and forth, back and forth.

Sister Komery was a very fast aggressive driver, with no apparent reason for being so. We were in no danger of being late, leaving in plenty of time for the hour and half drive on the highway, which started out on pavement then turned to gravel for over half of the trip.

Once we hit the gravel road she steered back and forth attempting to dodge deep pot holes, keeping the same speed up as on the paved road.

Even though all the windows were up in the car, the vents must have been open as the dry smell of dust penetrated the interior of the car, overpowering the scent of the lavender talcum powder I had smelled on the nuns as we got in the car. I could taste dirt on my tongue, my throat was parched.
The lack of fresh air along with the constant rattle and pelt of large stones hitting the undercarriage of the car beneath me were slightly sedating.

When we would hit a pot hole directly I was jolted back to the moment. The crucified Christ dangling in front of me jumped up and down, and then He went back to swinging back and forth until the next unavoidable pot hole.

I sneaked a quick look through the rear window behind me. All I could see was dust. No road, no sky, no scenery whatsoever, just thick brown dust.

This was not how I expected a nun to drive.

In what was probably record time, we arrived at our destination. The ride back home began exactly as we began that morning, and again I watched Jesus bounce and swing all the way.

I never knew a nun could drive like a bat out of Hell. I realized I now knew where my uncle got the expression “Jumpin’ Jesus”. He must have taken piano lessons at the convent too. Amen.

Book Club Tonight!

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I don’t get out much. People often use that expression in a cliché sort of way, but for me, it is a reality. Unless you call wandering around my yard, looking up at the sky daydreaming and occasionally having poetic inspiration hit me between the eyes “getting out”, I don’t get out much. So it is with much anticipation I look forward to the monthly book club gathering at our local public library.

Library book club is perfect for people like me who have limited energy to be hosting guests at home, yet enjoy socializing. It combines two of my greatest loves – reading and socializing – into one enjoyable evening. I highly recommend it.

“Top 10” list of why I love book club:

  1. I read books that I never otherwise would choose to read on my own. Each year members submit a list of books they recommend, then the library programmer / book club facilitator selects one per month for the upcoming year. The list is always an eclectic collection across all genres.
  2. Just as I read books I would not have ever read, I have met interesting people I surely would never have run in to otherwise; our paths just never would have crossed.
  3. We are a diverse group ranging in age from about 25 to 75, from all types of backgrounds culturally, socio-economically, educationally, and so on, which makes for interesting and enlightening discussion.
  4. Every person brings a unique perspective to the reading of the story, so it often amazes me what another individual gleans from a story / character that I may have missed entirely.
  5. Whomever has their book chosen for that particular month brings a snack, so everyone takes a turn being “hostess”, without having anyone in to their home. No fuss, no muss.
  6. It is affordable to anyone; all you need is a library card. Once a member, the books are ordered for you automatically. You receive an e-mail when your book for the month is ready for pick-up.
  7. As a dabbling writer, I consider book club professional development. Not just the reading of another writer’s work, but also the varied reader’s responses to those words.
  8. I love discussion, even a good argument on occasion within respectful limits. The structure of the evening allows for every reader to express their opinions. I appreciate the honesty of the members.
  9. I enjoy watching people come to book club as “reluctant” or “retired” readers get excited about books again, and develop a sense of belonging to their new “tribe”. It’s fun to be shopping and have someone wave from across the store at me and holler “Hi!”, then I hear them tell their shopping partner excitedly, “I know her from book club!”
  10.  Last, but definitely not least….author visits! Need I say more; nothing like hearing about a book directly from the person that wrote it. We have had local authors visit, Skype visit with a New York Times Bestselling author, award winning Canadian authors, even an author who has sold millions of books world-wide has visited our little library. Most, if not all, have complimented our group on the level of interest and questions about their work.Author Photo for back cover008Photo above from Shannon Raelynn author visit. Visit: http://www.shannonraelynn.com

 

“Home”

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I have the urge to collect the sparkling crystals in a clear container. However, I know from having collected butterflies, bees, frogs, and dandelions in jars as a child, I cannot capture nature for a later time, it has to be revered in the moment. A moment like now; a morning when diamond crystals hang from every branch, every stem. Every individual needle and twig sparkling in the late morning sun against the perfect winter sky painted solid blue.

Ice formed on the lake overnight for the first time this season. Not all across but for several hundred feet out from shore, white solid stillness, with ripples of dark water beyond. The last of the geese float by silently.  All the birds and animals are silent. No chickadee calls, no blue jay squawks, even the squirrel is without chatter. All that can be heard from them is the cracking of the sunflower seeds that have been left for them to enjoy, followed by the sound of the shell dropping softly onto the glistening frosty snow below.

A trail of tracks goes across the snow covered grass to the bird feeder. Deer tracks. The same tracks go to beneath the Mountain Ash tree. Yesterday a flock of over a hundred cedar waxwings descended in the afternoon, a flutter of activity enveloped the tree as they attempted but were unsuccessful in eating all of the berries. A bumper crop this year, allowed for some to remain for some other creature to feast upon. The lower limbs of the tree are naked now. All the bright scarlet ornaments are gone, devoured by the two deer that came before I woke.

I think of clichés. How lucky I am to live here, how blessed. I take a deep breath. Let the cold air fill me; let my body make it warm to flow back out. I am calm. I am quiet. I am home.002

You Might Be Canadian If…

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Let’s enjoy  the beautiful Fall weather while it lasts. I just came back from running around town doing errands in my flip-flop sandals when the radio announcer said ” it is time to put the flip-flops away”.

NO! I refuse! Too soon we will be back to Winter. Beside which, we have not even had a flake of snow yet. I will take that as my cue and only that – snow that accumulates, staying put on the ground.

On that note, here are a few “You might be Canadian if…” sayings I wrote:

You might be Canadian if you wear flip-flops after the first snowfall.

You might be Canadian if you have ever backed out of your driveway with your neon orange extension cord still plugged into your vehicle.

You might be Canadian if you take your kids out to DQ for ice cream cones after their school Christmas concert.

You might be Canadian if you can jump right into your yoga pants / top that have been sitting in minus 25 degree Celsius vehicle all day.

BRRRRR! Let’s not even go there yet!

Thoughts from 5314th trip to the grocery store…

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As I pushed my cart down the aisle in a near Zombie trance, I noticed a young, recently engaged couple, friends of my children, who have recently moved in together.  They did not see me as I was quite far down an aisle.  They were looking at items in a feature area away from the main aisles. I could see them smiling, touching, talking, laughing, in love.

Seeing their obvious pleasure in each others company even while doing the tedious task of grocery shopping gave me momentary delight. To be young, in love, learning about what your partner likes, maybe deciding on gourmet meals to cook together, it appeared they were enjoying every minute of it.

Their joy had jolted me out of my trance to a place of cognitive thought. When did I stop loving visits to the grocery store? Did I ever love it?

Maybe I thought it was exciting when I first moved out on my own to attend university, living in an apartment with a friend. Finally independent, having the choice of what to buy and cook might have been fun, though I don’t recall it being so.

We had to take the bus to the Safeway store several blocks away because neither of us had a vehicle. No, I don’t think I loved it even then. We were on a budget, so bought lots of tuna, wieners, ground beef, pasta, and cheaper produce. Plus we had to juggle our full bags on and off the bus, always hoping they would not split open allowing our apples to roll down the aisle, or the sidewalk.

Grocery shopping was definitely not the highlight of my life back then, it isn’t now. I paused to realize I had been shopping for groceries for over thirty years. No wonder it felt like such drudgery. With an average of three visits per week being a conservative estimate (admittedly I have never been a seven day meal planner) I had been grocery shopping well over 5000 times!

About the time I finished that thought, I was next to the young couple. Spotting me, we exchanged greetings. I blurted out, “Looks like you two are having fun shopping together. Enjoy it. After you have been buying groceries for thirty years it is not so much fun anymore.”

They simply smiled in response, romantic love blinding them to my cynicism. I was grateful for that. Let them have their ignorant bliss. Time goes too quickly, before they know it they will be on their 5314th trip to the grocery store too.

(Coming soon…..more thoughts from the grocery store, including “If I was Oprah….”)

First 15 Minutes in Day Surgery

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(What follows below is the first draft of a  writing assignment I completed for writing group. The exercise was to show “setting” of our choice, fact or fiction. )

Celeste leaned back on the narrow bed that was covered by a thin white cotton sheet smelling slightly of chlorine bleach stretched over the thick rubbery plastic mattress pad. Feeling the soft rubbery surface underneath her reminded her of sleeping on an air mattress that was only half inflated. Some might be bothered by the faint bleach odor but to her it brought back memories of the neighbourhood swimming pool. Good memories. The flat as a pancake pillow underneath her head was also plastic, covered by a well bleached, highly sanitized, vellum thin pillowcase. Though the bed was bound to be hot and uncomfortable for someone with a fever, it was fine for someone chilled with fear, someone like Celeste.

She wiggled and adjusted her body to get more comfortable, finding just the right position to support her aching spine and hips. Breathing a lengthy drawn out sigh, she felt her body momentarily relax in spite of her racing mind. She tugged on the slightly rough but thick blanket on the end of the bed, pulling it up over her entire body. She had the thought: “what if this was a magic blanket, that pulling it up over your body could make you disappear Chris Angel style?” If only.

Having been temporarily left alone with her thoughts, she stared up at the stark white ceiling. Her eyes then slowly drifted downwards to the barren white walls decorated only with medical paraphernalia such as oxygen outlets, suction vessels, and call button cords. Her eyes went down to the recently polished white linoleum tile floor, then up to the printed plaid wedgewood blue with tangerine orange curtain separating the beds. Thankfully someone at some point had made the decision to provide a touch of color and cheeriness to the otherwise plain bleak room. She hoped they at least got a high five for that decision.

Resting her right arm alongside her body, she kept it still and straight so as not to disturb the IV that had been inserted. She had not been prepared for the chemical medicinal smell that invaded her nostrils, so strong that she tasted it on her tongue for a few seconds before it dispersed into the air as the nurse swabbed her arm then plunged the tiny needle into her blue-green vein.

All was quiet at the moment except for country music being played softly. She recognized Johnny Reid crooning a ballad. Possibly it was slowing her pulse. Yes, it seemed it was. Research said music could do that; she believed it to be true. Johnny Reid was probably a wise choice. His mellow voice probably would not be overly offensive to any of the people in the room, no head bangers or gang bangers here today.

As Celeste had entered the day surgery ward with the chubby, slightly limping, pleasant demeanor but all business nurse leading the way to her bed, she had checked out the other patients, none of which had their bedside curtains completely drawn. One older middle aged Native woman with glasses on, eyes closed, possibly sleeping or perhaps just pretending. One older middle aged Caucasian woman with long brown hair pulled back in a ponytail reading an Oprah Pick book. Celeste could recognize the large white sticker signifying it being an Oprah book from across the room. One older man beginning to rouse, momentarily trying to talk to the woman on the chair beside him, sounding like a soft-spoken Darth Vader, since he had an oxygen mask covering his mouth and nose. One very elderly lady, with two middle aged men standing at her bedside wearing ball caps, blue jeans, one a white t-shirt, the other a denim work shirt, quietly discussing a concrete pouring project, while the woman lay completely still, eyes staring straight ahead.

Just as the nurse showed Celeste the bed that was to be hers for the day, next to the sliver of an oak paneled closet that would store her clothes while she was wearing her baby blue, always revealing, opening in the back hospital gown, another nurse wheeled in a patient on a gurney. She delivered the older woman to the bed directly across from Celeste’s, and announced “V___25 P___ 150” to the only other nurse in the room, the one preparing to take Celeste’s medical history once she was changed.

Celeste remembered those were the drugs she had the last time she had been here for tests. She also remembered those were some of the drugs MJ had in his bloodstream at the time of his death. They were extremely fast acting, caused amnesia too. When you woke up you felt like you had been out for only two seconds, and nothing had happened at all. It was the only thing about today she was looking forward to – the chance to think and feel nothing at all for half an hour. She realized at that moment how someone became addicted to drugs. How she could become addicted to something that made her think and feel nothing at all.

 

Stolen Moments

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I often hear friends and family say they would love to paint, write, or engage in other artistic pursuits if they had the time. I must admit I felt the same way for most of my life.

About a year ago I realized that if I did not start engaging in the artistic endeavors I desired to be part of my life, I might not ever get the chance. It occurred to me if I was waiting for a big chunk of time to begin writing or painting, that day could be long in coming, if ever. The perfect time was never going to arrive.

I decided to steal moments here and there as I could to jot tiny snippets of memoir down, start or finish poems, even paint small paintings, sometimes while making dinner in between stirring a pot of sauce and pasta.

Finally giving myself permission to engage in these activities (even for 15 minutes at a time) provided a sense of well-being. The pleasure of allowing myself the chance to express myself and actually do something I longed for was immensely gratifying.

If you want to dabble with some art in quick stolen moments…try getting some 4×6 or 5×7 little canvases and acrylic paints, or some paper and watercolors and make 5 minute paintings…..or buy yourself a beautiful journal to write 15 minute little poems, snippets of stories, moments of memoir…you may surprise yourself!

Remember even a novel can be written ten minutes at a time. 😉

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(One of my 5 minute paintings.)