The Un-resolution of New Years

If you have a flighty brain as I do, thoughts fly back and forth randomly like a pinball machine. They may start out in one guided direction but soon head wherever they wish. My walk today illustrates this.

It's a gray day but I didn't feel gray; I felt happy as I walked. The weather instantly took me back to a similar wintry day when, as a child,  we were getting into the car to drive to my father's company childrens' Christmas party. 

The anticipation we felt each year for this extravagant party was intense. Held in a large ballroom filled with popcorn making machines; unlimited hot dogs, ice cream and soft drinks; the party was every child's dream. The day included singers and magicians to keep our attention but, as the day wore on, we lined up expectantly and watched beautiful women dressed in velvet elf costumes (it was the 60's) help Santa give each of us our gift and stocking before heading wearily home for another year.

Just like the pinball shoots in other directions, my thoughts soon turned to another wintry walk memory.  

A friend and I were walking to a boy's house after dinner one very cold night. The time it took to walk to his house stands out because I was not allowed in boy's homes (I don't trust boys! said my father of daughters only). The evening had required a certain amount of stealth and I felt like the cat who had swallowed the canary for pulling it off. I well remember my excitement in doing what was forbidden. Everything about it was wrong: these boys were seniors (we were in Grade 9); I was desperately in love with one of them (he never noticed); the house was outside my neighbourhood. The irony about this rebellion was how innocent it turned out to be. These two boys, my friend and I watched "White Christmas" together!

From that living room, my thoughts on this gray day moved to the intensity of that first love.

If, like me, your first love was unrequited, you'll understand when I say that didn't diminish the feelings at the time or the memory it has left. His name rolls off my tongue even today while the names of other boyfriends are long forgotten.

But honestly, what has all of this to do with the price of tea in China (did you have an elderly relative who used this phrase, too?)

Nothing except to point out how undisciplined my thoughts have become throughout these past months. If I am ever to get back to writing my book, I will need to practice self discipline and bring some structure back to my days.

While I don't make New Year's resolutions as a rule, this unusual year presents a compelling time to do so. I'd like to soundly kick 2020 in the ass as it heads out the door and make new plans for the coming year. 

So my un-resolution for 2021 will include structure and self discipline.

I'll keep you posted on how it goes. 

Happy New Year everyone!

The Kindness of Soup

I suspect I'm like many people right now who spend countless hours thinking about, planning and cooking meals during these months at home. I will be forever grateful that I:

(a) learned to cook; and 

(b) enjoy doing so. 

If there is any one category of food that stands out in my life, it would hands down be soup. Oh, sure, some would say I'm pretty fascinated by bread-making but really bread is just a side dish to go with soup so I accept the double love.

I'm drawn to the soup section of every cookbook I encounter and the Pinterest soup posts get my full attention. I'm a lover of the classics (ie Julia Child's Onion Soup) but during this past year I've started looking at new untried options. Two of the new soups which make hearty meals in themselves; tortilla soup and lasagna soup, now join my favourites.

Anyone who knows me knows that soup represents more than just food. 

It is the comfort I welcome when I'm not feeling at all well. During an outbreak of Shingles a few years ago, I remained in my bed because it hurt too much to do otherwise. Each day my husband brought a tray of food in to me - always including soup. It's important to note that, other than cleaning up after me, the kitchen is foreign territory to him. It didn't matter that I knew he had just opened a tin and heated the soup; I appreciated his efforts to care for me. The love they represented likely accelerated my recovery.

When my store was still open, a good friend would sometimes drop in with an elegant tray of homemade goodness. Soup was always included. She is an excellent cook and included me as a taste tester when making something new. This represented the kind of friendship we had; one that valued each other's opinions and included kind gestures.

While I was still working, my mother lived nearby. She would sometimes arrive on my doorstep with a container of soup for our dinner. As a working woman most of her life, my mother was well aware of the pressure of planning dinner after a workday. Since I rarely thought about dinner when leaving the house in the morning, her kindness meant I didn't have to put much thought into it for that evening. When my mother did this, I was reminded of the nurturing she has given me throughout my life. It didn't matter that I was over 50. Making soup for me was her way to nurture me once again.

During COVID, another friend has been delivering 'secret' meals including soups to women she knows are working and who have young families. The additional expectations placed on these families make every kindness we can share increasingly important.

My husband and soup are intertwined in another way. Like most couples married for decades, our relationship doesn't include grand declarations of our feelings. They have been replaced by the many thoughtful things we do that we know will bring the other pleasure.

One of these thoughtful things is the simple act of sliding his soup bowl toward me when we are in a restaurant. This small gesture says "I'm enjoying this soup and would like you to share my enjoyment". Such a simple act and yet it expresses the generosity and intimacy that only two people who have lived through much together share. He can even laugh when, on occasion, I've enjoyed the soup so much that the bowl is nearly empty when it gets back to him.

How often in my younger years did I let the kind gestures of others go by without recognizing what they represent. Thankfully, the busy middle years of life are behind me and I now see how easy it is to touch someone else with the smallest of actions on our part.

Feeling Joy vs Experiencing Joy

As I glance around at Christmas lights and decorated trees; listen to Christmas music; bake cookies to give away; and write my cards, it is possible to still feel joyful during this, the un-Christmas Christmas season.

I'm calling it that for all of the things it isn't. There will be no grandchildren in our home this year. We won't be hosting friends and neighbours for appetizers or brunches. Our town did host a Santa Claus Parade yesterday (thankfully, for the kids) but it was a reverse one; the floats remained stationary and families drove slowly by them. I continue to be amazed by the ingenuity COVID has unleashed, but, still, another example of how different this Christmas is.

While my Christmas joy is present despite our situation this year, my mind has been working to differentiate the joy we associate with this season from true joy. 

I think the joy we experience at Christmas encompasses much. It's the pleasure of doing for others while surrounded by colourful lights and music we've known forever. The small traditions that we carry on year after year bring joy (although a little bedraggled, Santa has been with us for forty plus years and is brought out happily each year). 

The happiness we see on faces around us lightens our hearts and brings a smile to our own. Christmas joy can be spread. I would describe it more as 'feeling' than 'experience': a softening of the hard edges of our usual days.

For me, the experience of true joy is indescribable. It has washed over me at unexpected moments, filling my body and mind with an undefinable radiance, leaving before I fully grasp that it happened. It's ethereal; indistinct and yet the memory of its beauty undeniable. These joyful experiences may have been fleeting and rare but will nonetheless remain with me throughout my life.

To say they happened during a moment is inaccurate. A moment denotes a specific time that is identifiable. I remember the experience of true joy but not the date or time it came over me.

Unlike our Christmas joy, C.S. Lewis wrote that we cannot create (true) joy. It just happens. He describes it in his book "Surprised by Joy":

"Everywhere he looked for Joy he couldn’t find it, though at times when he wasn’t looking for it, Joy would make an appearance and then vanish."

Is this type of joy a message from beyond or an opening within ourselves?

It doesn't matter that words don't exist to help me define true joy. The experience of it has given me a glimpse of what I know I will never understand but which tells me I'm a part of something much larger and greater than my everyday.

Even the everyday of un-Christmas. 

Especially the everyday of un-Christmas.

Polish Change

My walks are often filled with memories. Depending on my mood of the day, I might find myself teary-eyed; grinning stupidly; or even laughing out loud, surprising other walkers around me.

The latter happened this week when something I saw along my walk brought a strong memory of my father into my head. 

Mom and Dad had just moved into a retirement home. Dad was doing his best to accept the situation and making an effort to take advantage of new opportunities the residence provided. Despite his failing eyesight, he found another man to play pool with; used the treadmill daily and was generally up for anything on offer (except singing).

The first activity newsletter arrived at their door and Dad found "Polish Change" scheduled on one day. He had no idea what to expect but the subject led to his memories of world travel during his merchant navy days. Although he'd never been to Poland, he looked forward to meeting other like-minded world travelers or hearing from some Polish Son or Daughter.

He arrived at the appointed room early (I credit him with the early-arriving gene I inherited) and waited patiently. 

He was soon joined by a woman carrying a basket. Although, as mentioned, his eyesight was slim, he watched in wonder as she emptied the basket's contents onto the table. Rather than the coins he'd imagined, the woman was spreading out bottles of nail polish. 

Dad stood up, excused himself and made a hasty retreat but shared the story with each of us, bringing us all to tears of laughter.

Thank you Dad for keeping me laughing, even after you've left this world.

Goldilocks Got it Right

Yesterday was a surprising day.

The forecast for this week was for cooler temps and rain every day. I was surprised to wake to warmth and sunshine so took the route down to our waterfront for my walk. I do this as often as possible during good weather but had resigned myself to the idea of in-town walking as winter approaches.

Our town's harbour was an industrial hub during the late 19th and into the 20th century. Lumber mills made way for ship building which shared shoreline with coal yards .... I would say the town once thrived equally in employment and pollution.

Just one industry remains; a grain elevator operation that still brings Great Lake size tanker ships in carrying grain. The ugliness of this operation is softened by a full size mural on the water-side of the undulating silos that hold the grain. This mural tells one of the stories from the town's history . The fact that it is now the only industrial employer remaining in the harbour also brings out a beauty of sorts (to my eyes anyway). 

Our waterfront is lined with a paved trail which carries on for miles but begins at the northern end of our harbour. As you walk north, away from the grain elevators, the path turns back into nature; water on one side and woods on the other. This wasn't always the case as three remaining piers along the trail attest to. Ships waiting for their time at any one of the waterside operations would tie up to these piers but they've long since gone, along with the industries they serviced. The piers now stand as reminders of the vibrancy the town once knew.

My favourite place to end my walk before turning for home is the first pier. I stand or sit on the pier for five or ten minutes, saying my daily intention and enjoying the play of sunshine on the water and the sound of the water as it approaches the pier.  The fact that woods are at my back makes it a perfect retreat space even for those few moments in the day.

Yesterday, a man sat on the pier speaking on his cell phone. I wanted to give him privacy so kept walking. I've often opted for the second pier when people fishing stand on the first.

Something yesterday, though, pulled me to the third. I hadn't visited this pier previously because the land to walk out to it looked narrow (from a distance) and I wasn't entirely sure it was approachable without getting wet. 

But yesterday, I walked past the second pier to the third. I saw that the thin strip of land had, at some point, been covered with gravel so it was about three feet wide and perfectly safe. The visibility of the sea life on each side of this isthmus is unique to this pier. (forgive 'isthmus'; I know as a writer not to use words or phrases that will cause a hiccup to the reader and I have difficulty pronouncing this myself but it is such a perfect word in this case)

Walking this short path bordered with the water, rocks and plant growth reaching right up to it was delightful. Zebra mussels attached to an old running shoe someone had plucked from the lake bottom made even the shoe fit the scene. 

As I made my way to the pier itself, I was reminded that many times in life I've taken the easy or closest route: settled for what came my way first: thought to myself 'good enough' when better was possible. I think, as women, we often adopt this practice. 

Was this the message Goldilocks was trying to give us? Until this moment I never questioned the reason the story has a girl pushing through until she gets what she knows is the best. Was the writer of this old fairy tale an early feminist perhaps, trying to tell we women not to settle for second best in a world of men (and bears)? We can debate the ethics of breaking into someone's cabin and stealing their food another time.

For myself, I think an image of the third pier will now be in my head whenever I know I should keep going. Don't stop. Better is out there and I can reach for it!

Practice Makes Perfect?

Perfect? Not so much. But it does makes things better; easier; stronger; more enjoyable. 

Writing, I've discovered, is all about practice. The more I do it, the more my words and sentences coalesce into something that makes sense (at least to me). 

Practice for writing requires a great deal of reading - I seem to choose hobbies that involve things I love to do. 

Writing letters to friends and family is practice. My journals give me space to practice. This blog allows me to practice.

I also recognize the value of practice in other areas of my life.

I recently started an on-line watercolour class. I'd like to say I'm making progress ... a recent seascape effort looks pretty good (when I remove my glasses and stand across the room). I will admit to a little discouragement and negative talk: Art isn't my thing! I'm frustrating myself by working at something I'm not good at! But then I remember practice! Practice in this is crucial if you want to understand the nuances of colour, shapes, shadow, brushes and light. 

My at-home fitness practice is making me stronger and able to handle the arduous gardening tasks I take on. I am getting stronger by practicing regularly.

I remember Dr. Christiane Northrup (in one of her wonderful books about menopause and aging) suggesting that we stand in yoga's Tree pose on each leg with our eyes closed for however many seconds we can manage. As we get older, our balance begins to diminish and becomes problematic. This simple exercise, practiced regularly, can help mitigate this loss of balance.

What we have to realize, though, is that, while practice will improve whatever we do, we likely won't become proficient at everything.

Some researchers dispute Malcolm Gladwell's belief (from his book 'Outliers') that the basis of success is 10,000 hours of practice. These researchers believe that all of us can't be Rembrandts or Olympic atheletes. Even after that much practice, some individuals will remain mediocre. 

I do believe strongly in the merits of practice but I think these researchers are on to something.

After what feels like 20,000 hours of housework in my lifetime, I continue to be mediocre at best.

A Tilt of the Head

Whether we do it deliberately or instinctively, our bodies communicate so much without a word escaping our mouths. Arms crossed in different manners can send many messages, depending on the stance we adopt when doing it. Our eyes mirror our souls (or so it is said). We can generally tell when someone we meet on the path of life is in a hurry or willing to linger a bit just by the direction they face as we speak.

My morning routine today, brought thoughts about all of the ways we give unspoken messages simply through the tilt of our head.

An ever-so-slight tilt forward might say to someone "Tell me more. I'm interested."

A sudden, sharp tilt back can express surprise or even shock.

A younger me, with a coquettish smile on my lips, once tilted my head slightly to the side hoping to be flirtatious. 

These thoughts came to me, as I said, during my morning routine.  I tilted my head back for my eye drops; to the side for ear drops and, quickly, to the front when my low blood pressure made me dizzy. 

Thank goodness the vanity mirror doesn't misconstrue my intentions as interest, surprise or flirtation!

Oh, life has changed.

The Secret Garden

I love to garden. The ever-changing nature of it is my muse, allowing my creative brain to express itself in a manner that rewards us for months. Gardening also challenges my physical self; a good thing after an idle winter.

New surprises arrive every day in Spring. Each day's walk around the yard is a revelation of new leaves and blooms in the perennial beds. The empty beds for seasonal plants require hard work every day to bring to life winter's plans and dreams. Spring requires faith that what you put into the ground (seed or transplant) will produce weeks ahead.

Summer is a time for minimal maintenance; culling a few weeds, dead-heading flowers. Mostly summer is a time of sitting back to appreciate and enjoy the early vegetables that are available every day for our table. A healthy garlic crop picked in July is a delight to the senses. August, though, is the height of summer to a gardener. Lush tomatoes and cucumbers are added to the varieties of lettuce, chard, carrots, beets and green beans to create colourful meals with minimum effort.

September brings a modicum of sadness; pulling out plants that have finished producing reminds me that, other than what I have captured in the freezer, the grocery store will be my food source for the months ahead. Did I remember to thank each plant for its bounty as it came out of the ground? 

But this ending is joined by the elegant blooming of Fall flowering plants. They take longer to bloom than spring blossoms; sometimes the smallest bud can take weeks before blooming into a glorious flower. The wait is worth it, as I look around our yard.

I've divided our yard into different gardens to indulge each thing I love. 

The house came with some well-established perennial beds of iris, hostas, seedums and lilies. This foundation allows me to fill in with new and different perennial plants, creating blooms from spring through fall.

I've created a large vegetable plot which provides hours of pleasant planning through the winter months.

An English garden indulges my love of roses, asters, mock orange, peonies ... The only requirement to get a spot in this garden is beauty.

The unknown garden of our yard, I call The Secret Garden (the picture): secret because even I didn't have a vision for this space. 

This fenced in area was just full of leaves when we first moved in. Early experiments in the soil proved it to be full of tree roots and shade. I began with a few types of ground cover and then transplanted hostas and shrubs to create interest. Free patio stones created a path and our own field stone provided steps around the garden. Our grandchildren painted pictures on the fence and on rocks, adding their own creativity. I bought an old red iron gate to keep the secret garden secret.

And so, when winter is upon us and life takes place indoors, I will remember this year's efforts and rewards through my memory and pictures taken, meals eaten with the garlic and frozen tomato sauce. Until I can order seeds again in February, when my thoughts and plans return to the gardens!

Potter, Lewis, Milne and White

No, today's post is not about a law firm but, rather, those wonderful early 20th century writers who changed all of our lives just by giving human voices to creatures. The simplicity of their characters and the messages and values they conveyed through those voices continue to keep readers engaged generations later.

Did you know that Winnie The Pooh was wise? This slightly ditzy, endearing teddy bear is hailed on the 21st century internet as a purveyor of life's wisdom:

"Sometimes the smallest things take the most room in your heart."

 “You’re braver than you believe, stronger than you seem, and smarter than you think.”

“I am short, fat, and proud of that.”

In fact, each of these writers created attention-holding stories embedded with life's lessons as relevant for today's children as for those of their time.

And yet, the lives they lived as children were far simpler than those of children today. Some were supervised primarily by nannies with only occasional appearances from parents. They spent much of their time outdoors, randomly exploring, and indoors reading and involved in imaginative play. Their days were filled with the wonder of discovery and make-believe. In essence, they were left to just be. The natural curiosity of childhood took over from there.

It turns out that being, rather than doing feeds imagination.

We are lucky that Beatrix, C.S., A.A. and E.B. used the exploration and imagination of their childhoods to create the stories we love so much. They drew on the inventive play they had once experienced to re-create magic and whimsy in their stories.

I would think their imaginations, fueled in childhood, also helped them to triumph over the many challenges, tragedies and disappointments they faced as adults. 

But how is it that children today, surrounded as they are by screens and mod con's (modern conveniences), organized activities and scheduled play dates, still discover the joy in these stories written by authors born in the 19th century?

Erica Bauermeister in House Lessons (a delightful little book about renovating a heritage home) has a reasonable explanation for this:

"A suggestion of beauty needs time to unravel and imagination to wander in. Our lives may have less time for such ramblings, but I still believe the desire for them remains."

Much has been written about these authors and I enjoy discovering each new book, movie and documentary I discover. One of my favourites about Beatrix Potter's life is available on YouTube: 

Beatrix Potter with Patricia Routledge

 If you are a fan, I encourage you to look it up. Meanwhile, I will be busy looking for a magical wardrobe to climb into.

The Everyday-ness of Life

One can't write these days without reflecting on how our lives have all changed and why.

COVID-19 has restricted our freedom and yet it also gives. To me, it has given time and a desire to write again. 

During the early months of enforced confinement, I tried to understand what I was feeling and writing became an outlet for those feelings.

My life changed to one of 'being' rather than 'doing'. I began paying more attention to my immediate world. The bird feeder outside my writing window captured my attention for more hours than I'd care to admit to. One of my first COVID essays follows.

The bird feeder outside my window is aquiver with activity. Sunny yellow Finches may be tiny but they hold their own against the bullying Blue Jays. But I forgive their bullying as they rush to protect something from squirrels in the hedge across the yard; their nest no doubt.

Nest building is happening everywhere. Small branches are carried in beaks until they can be woven into the flotsam already gathered. Even the doves, whose mousy appearance draws no attention, are busy nesting. I've become fond of their chubby bodies. Hope someone will say the same about me when this virus ends.

I am grateful to see and hear the Robins, knowing their welcome calls allow me to put away the CD of nature sounds that I resort to during winter months.

The Chickadees come and go, never staying long. They remind me of the Hare from Alice in Wonderland; somewhere else to be but just enough time for a quick snack before going.

Beneath it all, the squirrels and chipmunks forage for the scraps dropped. I get a little smarter each year and finally have birdfeeders they can't breach. That doesn't stop them from trying. But their attempts to climb up to the feeders are also frustrated after I've rubbed the poles with oil. Watching their tiny bodies slowly slide down the poles like mini firefighters, I can't help but giggle.

The giggle feels like a release. Watching this interplay amongst the species emphasizes that we, humans, are not playing amongst ourselves. We are not quite two months into an enforced isolation brought about by an out of control virus. 

The world hasn't come to a screeching halt but our movements are much restricted. Groceries, drugs and liquor ... our needs have been distilled down to just these. In truth, I've discovered I don't need for other things.

But the limit to stuff is not what has taken the colour from my life. It is the small social interactions that I now crave; dropping by a friend's for tea; random conversations with strangers in the grocery lineup (have you noticed that no one chats now?); friends over for dinner; hugs. Without these encounters, my life feels like a shadow of its former self.

The life I'm living today is not dramatically different and yet it's worlds away from just weeks ago. I still do the same things around the house I always did but my days feel flat compared to the 3D experience they once were. I feel as though I'm losing tiny bits of myself with each passing week.

So, until we reach the conclusion of this Orwellian novel we've become characters in, here I sit; watching the birds and creatures sociably going about their business. I hope the day will arrive soon when I'll be able to do the same.

We're now six months into this new world order and I believe (hope) we're all getting the hang of it. In addition to writing, I'm reading like never before. The book 'Becoming Mrs. Lewis' gave me a quote that simplified life during COVID:

"Why did the everyday-ness of my life sometimes feel constricting when the everyday-ness was everything?"

Until we can physically hug again, I will try to be content with embracing the every day.

Family Stories

So, how did Olive's story come about? you ask.

When I moved to Newcastle Ontario in 2006, I joined the Newcastle Village & District Historic Society. Their first newsletter (delivered to my home in person - joys of a small community) featured an article about the death of Olive Wilmot in 1903 at her home in Newcastle. I was intrigued.

But normal life took precedence; I had a business plan to implement; a store to open and run and years of single-minded purpose.

It was only after closing the store that I suddenly faced endless empty days ahead of me.

A membership to Ancestry.com; online research and personal visits with Olive's great-niece kept me occupied for months which turned into years.

When I began the eight year journey of Olive Wilmot's story, I had no intention of publishing a book. I simply wanted to discover as much as I could about her life and, for her family and mine, present an alternate view to the gossip told about her in her home village of Newcastle Ontario. As I said in the summary of the story; her life turned out to be far more interesting than the gossip about her death that  I had heard. 

I wrote and re-wrote more times than I can count, eventually coming to a linear tale of her life as I had come to know and imagine it. A personal goal was achieved. 

It was a neighbour who, after reading the draft, said it was a compelling story and suggested I hire a ghost writer to turn it into a novel. 

A ghost writer? Really? After eight years of living Olive's story, surely I was more than capable of writing it as a novel. Had They but Known Her was born. 

With great hesitation, I decided to self-publish the novel and send it out to the universe. The response I've received, and continue to receive, is rewarding and carries me along as I work on my next project.

In the immortal words of Nike, I encourage everyone who has ever thought they'd like to write a book, "Just Do It". 

Look to your own family for ideas. Olive's fell into my lap (literally) but I've learned from readers that most have an interesting character or situation within their own family. Some I've been told about are almost unbelievable and yet true. Others are the history of a family's journeys and growth. All are worth reading.

I sincerely regret not capturing my own grandmother's story. She was born in 1889; had seen most of the changes of the 20th century and yet still cooked on a wood stove and had an outhouse (by her own choice) when she died in 1972. Although her life was standard for her time, her story would be unimaginable to the young women of today. 

Even if you just document it for your own family, as I originally intended, do it. 

Middle Age = Middle Sight

Yesterday morning, as I exercised on the floor, our dog, Molly, lost her ball under a dresser near me. I could clearly see the ball no more than 3" under the dresser. Molly, however, couldn't.

Molly is an extremely healthy eleven year old Airedale (yes, the same pup I introduced in an earlier post). Our Vet said to consider her a Cougar with plaque on her teeth. But despite her good health, I can see aging creeping up on her.

I could tell she knew the ball had gone under the dresser; she nosed around it for a while. But, at no time, did she get down on all fours to actually look under. I pointed and said "It's there" but she just pranced around the room checking other corners to see if it might just appear.

After a few minutes of this, she finally laid down in front of the dresser, reached a paw in and pulled the ball out triumphantly!

Now, I'm not one to go on about the antics of our pets but this one reminded me of my husband looking for something in the fridge. If the object of his desire is not at the front of the shelf at eye level, it doesn't exist. He wouldn't consider bending down (or moving things around) to search.

This is not a comment against his gender since I am just as guilty of losing things in the fridge (funny how we rarely notice our own lapses though).

I believe, rather, that this is an age thing. The older we get, the less we're willing to bend down or stand on tippy toes in search of things. Eye level rocks when you pass 60!

I see an upside down fridge coming this year! 

For poor Molly, I see more balls around the house to replace those that she can no longer see. 

Oops - now I see a tripping hazard waiting to happen.

Hello Again

Hello again. 

OK, I know it's been a while and 'Hello again' seems a tad inadequate. To be truthful, I'm returning to the blog at the request of readers of my book. Yes - I said My Book!

In the intervening years since last I wrote here, life has ticked along as it does for everyone. Marriages have taken place, grandchildren have been born, a job and then retirement filled those years.

But through it all I wrote. Researching Olive Wilmot's short but remarkable life was initiated after I closed The Village Linen Cupboard in Newcastle. At that point, it was more of an occupation to fill time than anything but I quickly became determined to present an alternative view to the salacious stories told about her in Newcastle. 

Had They But Known Her is the outcome. Self published in 2018, the book has enjoyed a level of success I never dreamt possible. 

Oh, it's never hit the Best Seller lists but I am continuously surprised and delighted by the interest and enjoyment readers express. Thank you. You have invited me to speak at your Book Clubs (leading to a guided tour of Newcastle 'Olive' sites for one eager club) and to give a talk at St. George's Church in Newcastle. Each individual or group I hear from is a new surprise. All of the attention so far has been by word of mouth; one reader to another; one book club to another.

There is nothing more flattering than to have your book make its way around by personal recommendation. But, apparently, I'm not easy to find for those who would like to know more about me. I thank Linda at the last Book Club I spent time with for letting me know this. 

That's where this blog comes in. Since I am an amalgam of all of my life experiences, I thought it might be interesting for readers to catch a bit of my history so decided to continue on here rather than beginning new.

For those of you who are wondering, I continue to write. Although my first novel (and current one underway) explore historic fiction, my writing style is generally narrative, a touch philosophical, and reaches into the many corners of my life as a women of a certain age. While I'd like this blog to be all about Olive, my thoughts here will be more expansive I think, although it's early days. 

So, que sera sera. What will be will be. 

BTW - for those who stumble on this blog and haven't yet read the book, Had They But Known Her is available from Amazon.ca and .com 

If you'd like to reach out to me, I'd love to hear from you, the all important Reader.