“Dream No Little Dreams”

On June 15, 1944 the people of Saskatchewan made history by electing the first socialist government in North America – the CCF (Cooperative Commonwealth Federation). The CCF won 47 of the 52 seats in the legislature. Winds of change had begun to blow.

The day before the election the Regina Leader Post newspaper stated: “It is just plain stupid to say it does not matter who wins this election where the answer to the question will affect vitally the way of living of every individual, will affect the right to own and use property, will enthrone a stultifying dictatorial system; and may start Canada on the road to strife and devastation that has been followed by European countries which faced the same issue and failed to settle it decisively on the first vote.”

The above quote and most of the information in this blog comes from the book “Dream No Little Dreams:  A Biography of the Douglas Government of Saskatchewan, 1944 - 1961” by A.W. Johnson. He wrote it as his Ph.D. dissertation at Harvard in 1963 and it was later rewritten and published as a book. And by the way, the world did not end after that election, Saskatchewan did not become a dictatorship, and we didn't lose the right to own property.

George Santayana said, “Those who do not remember the past are condemned to repeat it.” Many now, I think, have forgotten the past, forgotten some of the roots of this province, the cooperation that took it out of the dark ages of poverty and difficulty and began to bring it to brighter days.

The Regina Manifesto (1933) of the CCF stated in part, “The present order is marked by glaring inequalities of wealth and opportunity, by chaotic waste and instability; and in an age of plenty it condemns the great mass of people to poverty and insecurity. Power has become more and more concentrated into the hands of a small irresponsible minority of financiers and industrialists.” Sound familiar? Sound current?

Johnson was uniquely qualified to write this book because he spent many years in Saskatchewan government working in various capacities. He was able to provide an insider’s view of how government can work.

“Dream No Little Dreams” gives us the roots of the CCF, the social issues that led to its founding, its values and policies, and the people who made it successful. Johnson takes us into the first months of the new government and beyond. The average age of cabinet ministers was forty-six. Of Tommy Douglas, Premier, Johnson writes, “My sense of him – formed from the time I first met him in the late 1930’s as an annual guest preacher in my father’s church, through my sixteen years as an official in his government – was that the essence of Douglas lay in his idealism and in his capacity to inspire others with his sense of mission.”

I've barely started this book and I highly recommend it. It’s not a quick or an easy read, but it’s full of fascinating details of this province’s history. The book is in the public library system, and also available on Amazon if you want to buy it.

Walls

A little over 25 years ago the Berlin wall opened to free travel. My father spent his childhood and youth in Berlin, though he left long before the wall went up. Anyway, I felt more than slightly interested in this event, and the spring after the opening of the borders, my son, my parents and I spent some time in Berlin. There were portions of the wall still standing, though people were chipping away at it.

When my father lived there, Berlin was the capital of Germany. and the country and the city were still whole. At the end of World War II (1945), Germany and Berlin were divided, originally into 4 occupation zones (the United States, Great Britain, France, and the Soviet Union).  Eventually these were amalgamated into East and West Germany and East and West Berlin. It should be noted that Berlin was located in East Germany. The Soviet Union opposed the other allies’ plans to create a West German republic so on the 26 of June, 1948, they blockaded all ground travel into Berlin. This began the Berlin Air Lift, which brought needed supplies (food, coal, etc.) to West Berlin. My father's mother was living in East Berlin at the time. We were living in West Germany and I'd been born earlier that year. My grandmother had wanted my father to move the family to Berlin; instead, he and my mother started talking about emigrating to Canada. The airlift lasted until May 11, 1949 when the Soviet Union again allowed ground traffic.

The wall wasn’t built until 1961, overnight with no warning. It was a response by the Soviet Union to massive numbers of East Germans fleeing to the west, though they called it protection against western fascists.

Walls can keep people out or in. They are necessary to build houses that protect and shelter us from weather. Walls may enclose gardens or fields. They can be beautiful or ugly. People may build psychological or other walls to protect themselves or to keep out others.

The Berlin wall became a symbol of a divided people, of oppression, of the Cold War. For many Berliners it was a constant stark reminder of tyranny. I heard of a writer in West Germany who deliberately chose an apartment where he saw the wall every day from his windows. We've all heard the stories of those who died trying and those who succeeded in crossing the wall and the “death strip.”

There are many different kinds of walls – walls of prejudice and hate, “glass ceilings” preventing promotions, walls of poverty, lack of education, walls of ignorance and a refusal to see the issues before us.

It’s early to be making new year’s wishes, but it seems appropriate: I wish we’d all spend as much time and money tearing down walls as we spend on armament and war.

Living Alone

Recently someone said, “Living alone is hard.” I don’t find that at all. In fact, for me living alone is peaceful, satisfying, renewing.

I’m at a time in my life when I’m dealing with very elderly parents. Ellis Peters in Dead Man’s Ransom writes, “And sometimes it went the opposite way, kept the good and let all the malice and spite be washed away. And why one old man should be visited by such grace, and another by so heavy a curse, Cadfael could not fathom.” She’s talking about old monks, one of whom remembers only the bad that everyone has done to him. It’s exhausting when my mother phones me nearly every day to complain about something, or to get me to explain once again what I’ve already explained several times before. Is she truly losing her memory, or is she just not paying attention, or does she just want attention? I could go on and on, but my point in this piece is that when things get too much with my parents (or in other areas of my life), my refuge is my house, my peaceful life and my own routine.

I live in a city that is wonderful for walking, which I do as much as I can. My home is in a neighbourhood close to many amenities – shops, the library, restaurants, and the riverbank. My yard is small, but I've planted it with perennials, a few annuals, and I also have a small vegetable garden. At this time of year, the yard and garden are mostly done, though with the wonderful weather we've had this year, there are still sweet peas blooming, the odd rose and a few other things.

There are books in my house, music CD’s, and movie and TV DVD’s, so I have quiet entertainment if I want it. I’m part of a book club that meets regularly, wonderful women who read widely and we have many fascinating discussions. Often some of us will go to a movie or a play together as well.  I’m also part of a writing group, and of course I need solitude to work on my own writing. I have other friends that I meet for coffee or walking.My parents don’t seem to have that kind of network, and I’m not sure they ever did, though they did take part in church and community affairs for many years. Perhaps, since they've always had each other, they didn't feel the need to reach out as much. Anyway, I enjoy spending time with friends and at the same time, I like my own company.

Of course, it’s not easy sometimes when things need to be done to my house. I’m the one who has to take care of everything; there’s no one else to delegate to if something goes wrong or when the eaves troughs need to be cleaned (though I could pay someone to do that). But I've lived alone for so many years (I believe in making ithe best of whatever situation I find myself in.) that I've grown used to coping with things. There’s a sense of accomplishment about sorting out my own problems.

I guess for me it’s partly about balance. I need solitude and I also need people. Finding the right combination is wonderful.

Here’s a quote from a little book I love, Words on Solitude and Silence: “Loneliness is the poverty of the self, solitude is the richness of the self.” – May Sarton.

The Old Man Coming Home from the Forest

Gordon Lightfoot has a song called “Home from the Forest.” Some of the lines in that song seem apropos at this time in my life. My father, who is 92, is probably going to go into long term care. It’s a long time for someone to live, particularly to live independently.

I’ve gone through various stages with my parents in their aging process. These last couple of weeks have taken me to a whole new level. I keep thinking of a quote from Kalil Gibran’s The Prophet – “The deeper that sorrow carves into your being, the more joy you can contain.” It’s not exactly sorrow that’s carving deep into me now, but understanding, empathy and perhaps a kind of acceptance of this mysterious thing we call life (particularly the old age part) that takes us on so many different paths.

I’ve seen one or the other of my parents grapple with the aging process for many years. The body doesn’t work as well as it used to, there are more aches and pains, hearing goes, perhaps sight. How do you find quality of life or joy when this happens? For some years my mother used to say to me, “Don’t get old.” It always bothered me. I thought that she wasn’t really thinking about what she was saying, and I believed that if she had a better attitude she would have a better aging. Finally, one day I got so annoyed that I responded, “So you want me to die young?” After that she didn’t say those words as often and for a few years now I’ve rarely heard her say it.

I don’t recall my father saying much about what he couldn’t do. Even after he lost a lot of his hearing, had to have an artificial eye and lost most of the sight in the other, he still walked nearly every day – to get the mail or around the town where he lives. People said to me that they saw him walking. Sometimes someone would ask him if he wanted a ride, but he’d always refuse, though he liked to stop and chat with people. That’s the kind of attitude I want to have.

In the last few years I’ve seen my father become more crotchety at times, particularly with my mother. This however, didn’t surprise me because I find her constant talking, and at times nagging, annoying myself. She doesn’t realize that since he can’t hear very well, even with his hearing aids, long rambling monologues are pretty much incomprehensible. He doesn’t know when she’s saying something that he has to pay attention to or when she’s just rambling.

I’ve always had a more difficult relationship with my mother and aging has made it even harder. However, these last couple of weeks with my father first being in hospital for a week and a half, and then going into temporary respite to get assessed, have made me at least try to see my mother differently, and to try to have more patience with her. I can see her as an elderly woman who needs my help through a difficult time. Her behaviours may annoy me, but I can put that annoyance aside most of the time and just do what needs to be done. I can sometimes smile at habits that drove me up a wall in the past. This is not to say that I still don’t get weary or annoyed. Silence (mine) is a key coping mechanism.

My parents chose to keep living in the small town where we moved when I was in grade eight. I and at least one of my siblings suggested they move to the city when they retired, but they resisted. As they grew older and needed more medical attention – doctor, dentist, optometrist, ophthalmologist – I thought that they had definitely made the wrong decision to stay there. They had stopped being able to drive and had about a two hour bus ride into the city for many of their medical appointments. Of course, I ended up picking them up at the bus station and driving them to their appointments. One of my brothers was able to do this for a time, but he didn’t always live in the city. Though I could have let them look after their own affairs in this respect, because after all they had made this choice to live where they did, and the difficulties were logical consequences of that choice, I couldn’t bring myself to do it. No matter what issues I had with them, they were and are still my parents and I feel a duty or a responsibility to help make things a little easier.

I think I’ve at least begun to move beyond resentment and my own negative feelings. I do what I do for them out of choice. And I do what I can; I won’t go to the point of exhausting myself. It’s a balance. I also have seen how much that small town takes care of its seniors. Someone will bring my mother her mail once a week. People have given her rides to visit my father when I couldn’t be there. The grocery store delivers. The pharmacy will, too. It’s not the sort of situation I would choose to live in now or in older age, but it seems to have worked and still works for my parents.

Through all this, as I’m attempting to do what I can for them, I’m also conscious that I must take care of myself (get enough sleep, exercise, eat well, do things I love). And I’m learning about the aging process, seeing different attitudes toward it, different ways of behaving. I’m hoping that will stand me in good stead as I move through my sixth decade, into my seventh and beyond.

What Makes Me Finish a Book?

I used to finish books no matter what, whether I liked them or not. I no longer do this, though I have recently finished books I disliked (most recently Gone Girl).

So, I started thinking, what is it about a book that makes me keep reading?

For one thing, there’s got to be at least one character that I like. In Gone Girl there weren’t any. Nor were there in The Dinner. I finished reading Gone Girl anyway because I was reading it on a 6-hour Greyhound bus ride and it was the only reading material I had. By the time I reached my destination I was far enough in that the plot started to interest me a little, so I decided to go on to the end. My verdict: it wasn’t worth finishing. I hated the characters and couldn’t imagine that everyone around the female character was so stupid they couldn’t stop her insane behaviour.

In regards to The Dinner, I kept reading initially because I sort of liked one of the characters. When I discovered that I no longer liked the character, I finished the book partly because it was for my book club, and partly because the writing was good enough to keep me going. I also wanted to see what would happen, how the characters would resolve things or not.

Good writing isn’t enough for me to start or finish a book. I admire Margaret Atwood’s writing and ideas, but I don’t read many of her books. They are full of interesting ideas and characters, but for me they are too much in the head and not enough in the heart. Margaret Laurence’s books, on the other hand, I consider to be full of heart, poetic language, and characters I can love, with plots that keep me engaged.

So plot is quite important to me: how the characters interact, what happens that’s new or keeps me guessing. And it’s got to be believable, with characters that feel real, in any genre, including fantasy or SF. Though I can read and enjoy books that aren’t necessarily plot driven, if they’re well written and the imagery captures me, for example,  Anil’s Ghost.

The writing has to be reasonably good for me to continue reading, though if the characters and plot grab me, I can continue a book that isn’t the most literary. The Millennium Trilogy is one set of books like this. The Girl With the Dragon Tatoo I could not put down because I loved the two main characters, the plot kept me guessing, and the background and culture was new to me and intriguing (I like learning new things from fiction and following it up with my own research). I feel the same way about the other two books in the series. I can put up with flaws in the writing for these reasons.

So with books I really enjoy and go back to time after time, there’s got to be a number of elements: a story that intrigues and absorbs me, a character or characters I like (I prefer books with several characters that interest me), reasonably good writing, heart or emotion that reaches me, believability, and new information or a new way of looking at the world and life.

Queen of Fire Excerpt

My fantasy novel, Queen of Fire, was published in the spring of this year (2014). It’s Book One in The Leather Book Tales, a series that will be at least 4 volumes. In this excerpt from Queen of Fire, we meet fifteen year old Rowan, a girl who lives with her mother in a northern forest. The two women are herbalists and healers.

Although this series is fantasy, I chose to make the geography very similar to that of western Canada. In volume one, we travel through a land of northern forests, grasslands, dry badlands, and mountains (similar to Saskatchewan and Alberta).

I also decided to include some cultural elements from present day Canada, as well as those of other countries. So there are people who speak French, nomadic grasslands people, and wild cattle similar to bison. There is also a trading city with language based on ancient Rome, architecture similar to parts of Spain, and elements of the Arabian peninsula.

 

Queen of Fire is available from Amazon and on Kindle, as well as available at McNally Robinson Booksellers in Saskatoon, Saskatchewan.

 

I am currently working on Book Two, and have completed a first draft of Child of Dragons.

 

 

Queen of Fire

Chapter I

Rowan

I’M KNEELING in dirt, grubbing around the strawberries, weeding between herbs, and whispering encouragement to make our garden grow. Mother always says that plants do better if you talk to them, and she must be right because we produce some of the best food around. Of course, she has traded for seeds from far away, and has plants that no one else in the area has seen before, like lettuce. She’s also been able to transplant wild things such as onions and make them grow bigger.

These are probably some of the reasons why people mutter about Mother and me – a woman in the village turns away as we pass, or talks behind her hands to a neighbour. A couple of children might follow us, then run when I swivel to look at them. I’ve never heard the word ‘witch’ uttered; though I’m sure they gossip out of our hearing. Still, even the ones who look at us askance don’t hesitate to buy our vegetables or to take advantage of Mother’s herbal lore.

I yank at a weed which refuses to budge. A weed is any plant that grows where you don’t want it. Like me stuck here in this clearing in the woods. I wonder what it would take to release our roots, propel us out of this place where I’ve lived all my life. These days I find our three-room cottage nestled into a low hill too cramped, though I used to love it.

 “Rowan! Rowan!”

Mother’s voice carries over the sound of leaves rustling in the aspens nearby, bird song and a faint rush of water. She is using tones of persuasion, but I manage to ignore her for the moment. She knows where I am and could easily take the few steps from the house to the garden. As I finish and stand up, her call comes again.

This time there is an undercurrent of temptation, like a lure to a hungry fish in the river. I want to resist that coaxing tone, be like the girl I saw the other day in the village who stamped her foot, turned her back on her mother and ran away down the street. I’m too old for tantrums, but can make a small rebellion by staying here.

“Rowan!” Her voice commands me now. I’ve heard her use that tone on a trader who tried to cheat her and know it’s not to be resisted.

I throw a last weed on the pile, brush dirt off my hands and skirt. “Yes, Mother?”

She sits on a stool by the door of our cottage as she often does, finger weaving grass and twigs with lengths of spun wool. In this pose she appears gentle and innocuous, one of the many guises she uses. Various shapes and sizes of her creations hang from roof, rafters and trees – triangles, star shapes and hexagons, the shades of tree, leaf, earth, sky and cloud. Their intricate interlacing and knots capture and hold the eye, are meant to snare evil intentions and keep them imprisoned, but I wonder if that’s just superstition. Mother taught me to make them when I was small; I liked them because they were pretty. Now and then the wind blows a few away, but even with that we have a surfeit of them, and I wish she’d stop.

“Have you seen Thea?” Mother asks, tilting her head in the way that is so familiar and as irritating as a pebble in my shoe. Many things about her annoy me these days, and I swallow a sigh.

“The goat is gone again?” I brush at the strand of black hair tickling my nose, then notice that there’s mud on the back of my hand, probably transferred to my face now. “No, I haven’t seen her.”

“I don’t know what’s the matter with her the last few days. She’s continually wandering off.” Mother shoos at the chickens pecking the ground around her feet.

I rest my back against a tree, not ready to give her reasons why the goat may have disappeared. It could tell her too much about my own thoughts, though Mother probably knows that I’m increasingly discontent. My friend Lynx and his family passed through a few weeks ago heading north as they always do at the beginning of summer.  They left us some of last years’ wild grain, which grows in shallow lakes. It’s delicious with meat and vegetables or with milk. I suggested to Mother that we travel with Lynx’s family for a couple of days. We could have harvested herbs and other plants as we went. Mother didn’t agree. I considered running away then, but this year they were fourteen with the new baby and on thinking it over, I wasn’t sure I could stand the crowd. When Lynx and I first met, he couldn’t believe that my mother and I lived alone.

“Only two of you?” he said. “Where’s the rest of your family?”

A good question, but I changed the subject by asking him about the land to the north of us. Where the trees stop is beautiful in a different way than the forest, Lynx told me – you can see all the way to the place where earth meets sky. I try to imagine long stretches of flat land where a person can see nearly to forever and wonder where animals find places to hide. Lynx says there are vast herds of a kind of huge deer, myriads of birds and small creatures. He spoke of a sky crammed with stars at night, and circular sunsets, as well as a time when the sun barely dips to the horizon at all.

“Thea may have gone looking for excitement,” I say.

“Hmm?” Mother glances at me and puts down her weaving. “I’m going after that goat.”

Purplish-grey clouds are massing over the trees to the west. “Storm coming,” I say.

Mother gathers her white-streaked red hair in both hands, twists it into a knot at her neck. I wonder whether my father had black hair and that’s where I got mine from. Mother never talks about him anymore, though when I was small she used to say that he’d gone on a long journey. I remember nagging her to describe him and asking what games he played with me; she would start talking about something else or snap at me to stop pestering her. I think he must be dead, must have been dead all this time and Mother didn’t know how to tell a child that he wasn’t coming back.

 “I’m going to find that stupid goat before she falls in the river and is swept away,” Mother snaps. “You shut her kids into the shed with the donkey, and close the chickens in there, too.” She frowns. “Pay close attention to what needs to be done. You’ve been abstracted lately.”

I feel a sudden lurch of guilt, my stomach roils. “Wait,” I say and dash into the cottage. Mother’s green-dyed leather cloak hangs on a hook beside mine just inside the door. I bring it to her. “In case you’re caught in the rain.”

A smile lights her grey eyes and she touches my cheek in thanks, then briefly the necklace of leather, wooden beads and a sapphire at my throat. She made it for my fifteenth birthday, just a fortnight ago, and I love it. I have a sudden impulse to hug her, but she has already stepped away.

“Are you sure you don’t want me to come along?” I call as she starts off.

She turns. “No. Keep the stew warm and stir it once in a while so it doesn’t burn.”
 

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Greece a Year Ago

At this time last year I was in Greece. I flew from Saskatoon on May 31, nearly missing my plane because Air Canada had changed to flight to an earlier time and hadn’t done a good job of letting me know. Thanks to my friend, Barb, who gave me a ride, I made it!


Spent three nights at a lovely little hotel near the Acropolis and Agora. It was in a residential area, so I got to experience people walking around in the day time and evening, dogs barking, garbage trucks clanking in the early morning or late at night. At any rate, I didn’t get much sleep, but I didn’t care. I discovered local shops – a bakery, green grocer, confectionary, souvenir shop, and  actually ate only one restaurant meal. Got breakfast at the hotel and ate from the local shops otherwise.

Of course, I visited the Acropolis and Agora, as well as a museum. One day I took the Metro down to the tourist shopping area.

My last morning, I was lying awake about 5 am when my bed shook and hit the wall. Yes, there had been an earthquake, but it was north of the airport, some distance away. I flew off to Chania, on the north shore of Crete, later that day.

Spent that night in Chania and the next day met up with two writing instructors and another student to take a taxi along windy mountain roads to the south shore, then a boat to the village of Loutro. Six nights there for a writing course. Fabulous food, great company, turquoise water, interesting scenery to explore, and inspiring writing.

Back to Chania for a night and part of a day, giving me time to explore. I loved how the old and new were combined.

 

Then off on a Mercedes Benz bus along the north shore to Heraklion, the capital city. More exploration of this seaport and good food again. Then a day at Knossos, which I would love to have spent more time at, but holidays must end.

I tried to add more photos to this, but Google kept screwing up.

Of Cabbages and Kings – A Meditation on The Walrus and The Carpenter

I’ve done a little meditation in my time and even taken a class or two in it. I’m not as diligent about practising it as I am about doing yoga most every day and going for walks at least three times a week. But I do recognize the usefulness of being able to put certain thoughts out of your head, especially when they’re negative and keep going round and round like a needle stuck on a vinyl record.

I’ve always loved learning to recite poetry ever since we had to do it in school around grades five and six. Do they still make kids do that? I’m not in favour of rote learning, more the experiential kind of learner and I like speculation and creative thinking, but I do think there is a use for learning to recite poetry. Simply, it trains memory, and it can be fun. It can also be a kind of meditative practice.

Recently I decided to learn “The Walrus and the Carpenter” by Lewis Carroll. It’s in Through the Looking Glass (And What Alice Found There). I wanted something to distract me when those less than useful negative thoughts intrude, and when annoying people are nattering on. So I learned a few verses a day and can more or less recite the whole thing now.

Then I began to think, besides being a silly, just for fun poem, perhaps it’s telling us something deeper. First of all the sun is shining in the night which made the moon sulky – the sun “Had got no business to be there After the day was done –“ There are often people who will spoil your fun, but who’s to say things have to be done the way they always have been done? Why not make room for change and innovation. And perhaps the sun is trying to shine a light on something dark that should be illuminated.

The Walrus and the Carpenter (lovely illustrations by John Tenniel in my copy) are rather narrow minded. They don’t much seem to enjoy the sand on the beach. “If this were only cleared away, They said, “it would be grand!” Never mind the usefulness of the sand. Does this sound familiar? Do you know politicians who act like this?

The Walrus calls on oysters to come and walk with them. The eldest Oyster is much too wise to be taken in, but some of the younger ones are up for the adventure, and to their cost they follow. Hmm, voters who keep voting for politicians who don’t have their best interests at heart? Lots of lovely nonsense. The oysters get all dolled up for the adventure including shoes that are “clean and neat –“ even though, “They hadn’t any feet.”

The Walrus makes a fancy sounding speech, “To talk of many things;” but it’s really all nonsense, and perhaps it works to lull the foolish oysters. The latter, though do finally realize what might be about to happen when the Walrus says, “We can begin to feed.” “But not on us!” they protest, in vain as it turns out.

“O Oysters,” said the Carpenter,
                “You’ve had a pleasant run!
Shall we be trotting home again?”
                But answer came there none –
And this was scarcely odd, because
                They’d eaten every one.

The Other Place – A Collection of Stories

In 2012 I published a collection of linked fictional short stories about German immigrants in Saskatchewan in the 1950’s. The following is an excerpt from that book, the beginning of the story “Braids.”

Mutti had several family photographs on her dresser. She had grouped three of them into one of those hinged frames with three parts. A picture of her mother on her wedding day, Mutti herself on the first day of school, and one of me before we left Germany. All three of us with braids.

In the picture, Grandmother’s were wrapped in a coronet around her head (I remember Opa saying that when she took them down she could sit on the ends); Mutti’s were thick and hung to her waist, mine were looped and tied just above my ears. Each picture had a bit of hair tucked under the glass at the bottom. Grey in Grandmother’s, brown in Mutti’s and mine. But Mutti doesn’t have braids any more.

I remember when I was five, looking at that picture of Grandmother and wondering how long it would take for my hair to be long enough to sit on. Opa said that he would give me her tortoise shell combs when I got old enough to wear my hair up. He let me look at them sometimes in their cardboard box lined with a scrap of red cloth. I couldn’t remember Grandmother at all; she had died of cancer when I was two, but I looked at her picture a lot.

When I came to Canada I noticed that very few girls had braids. That first year it was just one of the other things about me that was different, tht made me feel a stranger.

If you’re interested in reading more of the book, it’s available at Sask. Made Market Place in Saskatoon, 1621 8th St E.

I will be at that location on Saturday, May 24 (along with other producers) for their open house. So drop by to chat, get a book signed, browse the store, or buy a book.

http://www.saskmade.ca/events/may-days-open-house

 

 

Random Thoughts

So it's Mother's Day and my son came over for a visit, brought me a couple of books for a present, and then took me out for lunch. Very unusual to be able to spent this much time with him on Mother's Day because usually he's in another city and province. So a special treat. I've noticed that there have been some anti-Mother's Day posts on FB. Didn't realize there were people really upset by that fact that mothers were being recognized. Not everyone is a mother, but we've all had mothers or nurturers, so I'm not sure what the big deal is. Of course, not everyone has had good mothering experiences, either, but it seems odd to get so upset over a day.

I've been busy also getting ready for my book lauch of "Queen of Fire," which is in two days at McNally Robinson here in Saskatoon. Have written and rewritten my remarks, chosen and read and reread the excerpts from my book that I'm planning to read. Timing everything several times and trying to allow for spaces between talking. I'm pretty excited. First book launch, though second book. I've done a fair few of readings before - short stories in libraries and schools, so am not really very nervous, just a little fluttery.

Lots of other things to do also, but I'm putting them off until after the launch. Gardening work, house cleaning, odds and ends.

And I have to get back to work on the sequel to "Queen of Fire." Am really close, I think, to finishing a first draft.

Cooperative Very Short Story

On May 3, I sat at the Sask. Writers’ Guild table for a couple of hours with Danica and Cheryl for the Broadway Arts Fest in Saskatoon. I provided the opportunity for people walking by to add to a cooperative story. The following is what we ended up with (bilingual, too):

Late one evening Geraldine walked out of the Broadway Theatre after the last show and noticed someone lurking in a doorway down the street.

            “Gerry! Gerry!” she heard the man whisper. Her heart and memory started racing. Could it be???

            “Dans la province prairie

            J’ai fumé du riz!

            Demain je vais boire un arbre et

            Sans doute je finirais dans les étoiles!”

            These lines of poetry raced back to her, along with flashes, memories of summers spent with Gerry.

            This is the type of thing that happens in the city. You meet all kinds, but for me I’m headed back up  north to the still and quiet!

Understanding Isn’t the Same to Everyone

The above is a quotation from Steven Brust’s book, Brokedown Palace, which is a wonderful fantasy novel about a young prince and his older brothers, a talking horse (sometimes bull), a palace that is slowly crumbling, and a land near a Faerie realm.

The horse speaks to the young prince, trying to explain to him the differences between him and his eldest brother, the king. The passage continues. “You are a scholar by nature. You see a thing, and you think of the general thing; the group of things to which it belongs. You see a swallow, and think bird, flying animal, then animal. You try to understand it and the rules by which it functions. Others don’t. Others see a thing and act upon it instinctively. In you this is a weakness and a strength. In others, the same. But you must try to understand that merely pointing something out to someone such as your brother will not move him. He will not take it as you intend – he is too firmly committed.”

It seems to me that if we take the above to heart we might be more charitable when others act in ways we don’t, can’t or won’t understand. It’s not always easy to hold back hurtful or critical words or actions, but worth striving for. Being able to recognize and appreciate differences, it seems to me, is a strength.

Also, it’s an important attribute of a writer to be able to create characters who are different from us, different from each other, perhaps lack understanding of each other, and thus conflicted. Conflict is a necessary element of certain kinds of writing.

I’m almost half way through the book, and loving it.

The discovery in reading and writing can be magical. In the best of a writer’s work, we may see ourselves and find illumination.

Reading the Classics

Somewhere around my early teens I decided to read all of the “classic” books. I knew at the time that people were still writing books, but had it in my mind that it would be possible to read all those considered really good. Now, I know that I’m not even aware of some of the great books being written, much less have the time to read them all in one lifetime. Still, I thought it might be interesting to review what I read and see if others have suggestions for their “classic” or favourite books.

Among the “children’s” (I don’t really like classifying books by age) books I would include Black Beauty, Alice in Wonderland, Anne of Green Gables, Huckleberry Finn, Heidi, Treasure Island, The Three Musketeers, Around the World in Eighty Days, The Water Babies, A Girl of the Limberlost, and I could go on. Often when I found a book I liked, I’d read others by the same author: Dickens, Louisa May Alcott, Mark Twain, Robert Louis Stevenson, L. M. Montgomery and so on. I didn’t read books intended “just for girls” but anything that was called a “classic” such as Two Years before the Mast, and Gulliver’s Travels. If in a book I was reading, another book was mentioned, I often sought out the latter. For example, I read Pilgrim’s Progress as a result of reading Little Women.

One year in elementary school (in those days there wasn’t a main school library, but each classroom had a few shelves of books in the back) I decided to start with the first book on the classroom library shelves and read all the way through to the end. A few, such as some of Shakespeare’s stories, gave me a rather hard time, but I persisted. Also, in those years our “readers” often contained excerpts of books or a short story by an author I liked. I’d try to search those out and read more by that writer (Albert Payson Terhune, The Heart of a Dog).

In a few years I realized there was no way I’d be able to read all the “classics” but I kept searching them out. And I know now that not everyone likes the same books. A few more of my favourites are A Tree Grows in Brooklyn, To Kill a Mockingbird, Buddenbrooks, a lot of Herman Hesse, much of Colette. I read and tried to read others that were considered good literature – The Man with the Golden Arm by Nelson Algren because Simone de Beauvoir had an affair with him (I still have the book but haven’t managed to finish it), Manhattan Transfer by John Dos Passos because of the name of the band. At university I took a “European Novels in Translation” class and read Stendhal, Balzac, and Goethe. My father brought a complete set of Goethe from Germany, which I now have, but I don’t think my German is good enough to read all of them.

Goodreads lists some of the popular 20^th century books. From their list I’ve read: The Great Gatsby (never one of my favourites), Lord of the Flies (searing; I thought Ender’s Game was a kind of modern LOTF), The Grapes of Wrath, Catcher in the Rye (also not a favourite), Silent Spring, The Sun Also Rises, Of Mice and Men, One Hundred Years of Solitude, Mrs. Dalloway (worth seeing the movie before reading the book), The Metamorphosis and Other Stories, The Heart is a Lonely Hunter (just read it recently; interesting to compare with To Kill a Mockingbird), The Good Earth, The Secret Garden, Brave New World, Tortilla Flat and so on.

So much reading to do, not enough time!

My First Experiences in Self-Publishing

In 2007 the University of Alberta Bookstore installed an Espresso Book Machine^® (EBM). This is a Print on Demand (POD) machine that can print a small book in minutes. I read about the Venture in a newspaper a few years later, and wondered if it might be worth a try.

I’d had short fiction and nonfiction published in magazines and a couple of anthologies, as well as broadcast on radio. I had enough stories for at least two collections, I thought, but had little luck in getting a publisher interested beyond a willingness to read the manuscript and comment that they liked some of the stories. Short stories are not the easiest form to market at the best of times, and it didn’t seem to me the best of times in the Canadian publishing industry. I tried, at the suggestion of one writer/publisher to turn some of my stories into a novel, but this just wasn’t working for me. I wasn’t willing to spend the rest of my life or even several more years on one book, when I had other books in my head and on the page in various drafts.

So when my son and his partner moved to Edmonton to attend the University of Alberta, I thought the time was right for me to try POD for my first book. On one of my visits, I talked to staff who ran the Espresso Machine at the Bookstore, and found them friendly and willing. Once home again, I organized my book according to the on-line guidelines and e-mailed off a PDF. They offered extra services such as editing and cover design. Because my stories had gone through various readings in workshops by other writers as well as being published in other formats, I didn’t use the editing services. However, I did ask for help with the cover design and they came up with a graphic that suited me. The process took several weeks (I’d had visions of walking in with my content and walking out the same day with a book in my hands, but that wasn’t realistic). I was able to pick up a hard cover proof the next time I visited Edmonton, and then sent in my changes. Because this was my first time, I ended up getting a total of 100 copies (paid for by me, of course) printed at two different times.

The first printing resulted in the books done in good time and shipped to me. The second printing was delayed several months because the Espresso Machine developed problems and they had to wait for parts. This was not so pleasant. However, in the end I was happy with my book and, of course, I had to do promotion, marketing and selling on my own. I didn’t expect to make pots of money on this and didn’t. I still have copies of that book available, and it is in a couple of local stores as well as the local library. I recently found out that the U of A Bookstore shut down its Espresso Machine in late 2013, though I don’t know the reasons.

My second venture into self-publishing was a fantasy novel. I decided I wanted to try a bigger publisher for print copies, as well as publishing an e-book. By this time, I’d heard about other opportunities, and decided to try Create Space, which is an Amazon company. They are very large, have done this a lot and have the process down, with many services offered (e.g. editing, interior and cover design, etc.) at various prices. I’m not a graphic artist, so had thought I might use several of their services. Parts of my manuscript had gone through critiques by my writing group. The whole thing was read also by a writer/editor through the Saskatchewan Writers’ Guild Manuscript Reading Service, and a close to final draft went through another editing by my son, who is studying for his doctorate in English. My son also has expertise, experience and software for graphic design and offered to do the interior design of the book as well as the cover (with a photograph I had taken). This worked out extremely well and probably saved me a lot of headaches.

 

The process with Create Space was relatively pain free, all done on-line. A couple of times when I had problems, I contacted their help staff and received a reply within 24 hours. I chose to have a hard copy proof mailed to me (at a price) rather than proof on line, and I’m glad I did. Potentially (if I had chosen to proof on line) this would have cost me nothing up to the point of actually ordering hard copies of my books to sell. Because Create Space is affiliated with Amazon, I could have chosen not to order hard copies at all, and let all sales go through them (Amazon companies all over the world). The process of getting the book onto Kindle (e-book) was actually easier than I’d expected, and I can see why some authors have chosen to publish this way only.

I like the control that a writer has through self-publishing. You decide exactly how your book is going to look. This is not usually the case when your book is accepted by a mainstream publisher. Of course, you have to do any marketing and promotion yourself, but with smaller publishers this is often the case anyway.

I do think it’s important to use editorial services of some kind; having your book read by professional writer or editor is important to creating a quality product.

If anyone has questions about the process I used to publish two books now (I plan to use self-publishing again), I’d be happy to answer them.

Inspiration

As I mentioned in other blogs, I’ve been writing since elementary school, but there are events that I specifically remember as turning points in my writing.

It’s hard to remember the order of things when you’ve lived a long time, and also when official dates don’t seem to agree with each other. Maybe the dates don’t matter, just the fact that the events happened and that they changed my life.

Andreas Schroeder’s novella or micro-novel, Toccata in “D” was, according to the front of my copy of the book, published by Oolichan Books in 1985. According to Wikipedia it was published in 1984. However, Andreas must have been reading from it quite a while before that, because I attended a reading he did at the AKA Gallery or Artist Run Centre (formerly the Shoe String Gallery). I don’t know the date, but I think it had to have been before or during 1980. At that time AKA was in a basement on 20^th Street in Saskatoon. I know they moved to the Fairbanks Morse Building in 1985. I don’t remember how I heard about the reading, but it knocked my socks off. Not only was it beautifully written and read, the book was by a young man who had immigrated to Canada from Germany in the 1950’s – as my family had. Andreas wrote about people in Germany dealing with war, love and music (and much more of course). I was hit that evening with a sudden flash: I could write about my family’s experiences as immigrants to Canada. I bought the book at some time, and still have it, signed by Andreas.

I must have started writing my own German stories soon after that because when I attended The Summer School of the Arts at the old Fort San in the Qu’appelle Valley for the first time in 1980, I was working on a story called “The Umbrella” as well as one called “Pine Trees and Snow.” The latter was not a German story, but it was subsequently published (February 1981) in Grain Magazine, I’m certain as a direct result of the critiques and work done on it in Lorna Crozier’s and Lois Simmie’s class “Introduction to Creative Writing.” It was amazing to meet other writers, to be called a writer. Then in 1981 I received the W. O. Mitchell Bursary Award to attend The School again, this time for the whole summer. I acted as a gopher (e.g. photo copying, running errands etc.) for teachers and administrators, and attended a creative writing course taught by Andreas Schroeder. I wrote a whole bunch of German immigrant stories that summer.

As a result of attending The Summer School of the Arts, I started calling myself a writer, rather than saying I was trying to write.

First Writings

I wrote my first short story in grade four. I no longer have a copy and don’t remember the title, but it was about a child of giants. The child was playing with a golden ball, throwing it up and catching it, when once it went so high that it stuck in the sky, and that’s how the moon came to be.

My school held public speaking events, and if you won in your class you went on to compete with others in the school and then in the district. For grade six and seven you were supposed to pick a story you liked and retell it in your own words. I made up my story. The teacher asked me about a particular expression I’d used (can’t remember what it was) and suggested I might have copied it verbatim from the original story. I said that no, I hadn’t – didn’t mention that I’d created the whole story myself.

In grade seven I organized a poetry club. Two or three other girls and I wrote and shared poetry at recess and noon hour. I think that all of the poetry rhymed. We hadn’t yet learned about free verse.

In high school we had a couple of good English teachers, one particularly who encouraged creative writing. I did a lot of writing then, though I haven’t kept any of it. I also had my first publication of a short piece about why I liked books published in a national church magazine for teens.

I thought that I would go to university and study to be a journalist. Since there was no journalism school in Saskatchewan at that time, I planned to get a degree in English and then go to Carleton University in Ottawa (though I would have loved to attend Columbia, in New York City). For various reasons, none of that happened, but I kept writing, mostly in journals. I ended up teaching school for several years.

Self Publishing or Vanity Press?

When I came of age as a writer in the 1980’s, attended the Summer School of the Arts at Fort San, Saskatchewan, met other writers, took more workshops, and met a publisher or two, I and other beginning writers were told, “Don’t send your manuscript to a Vanity Press.” These were the people who would take any manuscript and publish it as long as you paid all the costs (sometimes exorbitant and inflated). They were not considered “legitimate” publishers, because they didn’t have the peer review (writers and editors who looked over and chose manuscripts) that legitimate publishers did, and they usually charged a lot of money to publish your book, did little or no marketing, selling or distribution. So, for a long time, I followed that advice (more in an upcoming blog about why I decided to try self-publishing).

Benjamin Franklin and William Blake set up presses to publish their own work. Jane Austen paid a publisher to privately print Sense and Sensibility. Virgina Woolf and her husband Leonard founded the Hogarth Press (1917) to publish her books and those of others such as T.S. Eliot and Christopher Isherwood. Anais Nin established her own press in 1942, after she had moved back to New York from Paris, and found her work not accepted in America.

Small presses appeared in Canada in the 1930’s and 1940’s to publish literary magazines and small chapbooks. The formation of the Canada Council in 1957 was beneficial because of their program of support for Canadian publishers.

According to the Canadian Encyclopedia on line, “And so, a whole generation of writers, university professors, journalists, former employees of major houses, members of the CBC and Radio-Canada, and neophyte book designers set up as small publishers. Many of these aspiring publishers began their operations in a home or basement or garage, and turned their kitchen tables into editorial offices. They were assisted by part-timers and volunteers, and sometimes even their authors helped with the printing and binding.” Writers such as Irving Layton, Leonard Cohen, Margaret Attwood, and Michael Ondaatje were first published by small presses and went on to international acclaim.

In Saskatchewan, two small presses were founded in the 1970’s. Coteau Books, based in Regina, was formed by four writers from Moose Jaw – Robert Currie, Gary Hyland, Geoffrey Ursell, and Barbara Sapergia. Thistledown Press was founded by poet, teacher and editor, Glen Sorestad, and Neil Wagner, a teacher and artist. It is based in Saskatoon. More small presses sprang up afterwards.

The internet, the World Wide Web, and related technologies, profoundly changed the face of publishing. In the 1997, Lightening Source, one of the largest print-on-demand (POD) companies was founded. (Many exist now). In 2000 Stephen King became the first major author to self-publish a book.
 
In 2008 more books were self-published than published by traditional presses – for the first time in history (source Wikepedia).

Beginnings of a Writer - Libraries

My father made up short bedtime stories for me before I went to school or could read. I’d resist going to sleep, and in order to be allowed to stay awake longer, I’d ask him a question, such as, “How did people learn to swim?” And he’d oblige and create a scenario to answer me.

He also took me to the library with him, though the German library in Kiel, where we lived was different from the libraries I use now. It was more the way I remember requesting books at university from the reserved book section. You went to a desk and asked for the book, and the librarian would bring it to you. There were no aisles or shelves to browse. And though I had a few books of my own that one or another relative or friend had bought me, I don’t remember that we ever got a children’s book from that library. I don’t know whether they didn’t stock them or my father simply didn’t think of it. We also had an “American” Library in Kiel, which looked more like the libraries I’m used to today. (I believe that after World War II, the United States set up some libraries throughout Germany, but I haven’t been able to find information about this). Again, we never got any children’s books from there. For me, the most interesting thing about this library was that the woman at the check-out counter had long red fingernails! I’d never seen that before (I was about 5 at the time).

When my family came to Canada in the 1950’s my father worked on farms and the only libraries I had access to where school libraries, but I loved using them. Then, a woman in the town of Elrose (my CGIT group had a sort of “Secret Santa” program, though I don’t think we called it that) who I was a “Secret Santa” to introduced me to the Saskatchewan Regional Library system, which at that time would mail books out to you and provide a label so that you could mail the book back free of charge. I also discovered the Elrose Community Library, which had been established in 1947 by the Elrose Homemakers Club. Later, I volunteered to work there. That was wonderful, to be in a room with the smell of old books. I first read Ben Hur (which is much better than the movie) there.

I’ve used many libraries since, at universities, and in various cities across Canada, and in a few other parts of the world. I love libraries and the Saskatoon Public Library in particular – the staff there are great!

How does all this relate to becoming a writer? Read, read, read!

Self-Publishing

In 2012 I undertook my first self-publishing venture with my book, The Other Place. I’ve just published my second book – Queen of Fire – the same way (though with a different company).

In the next few blogs, I intent to write about my self-publishing experience: why I did it, why I like it, advantages and disadvantages.

I’ll also write about my process as a writer: how I began, my influences, my supports, how I get started on a new work, how and why I write.

For more information about the two books, to ‘Follow’ me or to ‘Like’ my page, go to Regine Haensel writer on Facebook (or if you’re not on Facebook, just put the works into your search engine (e.g. Google), and you’ll find the page.

https://www.facebook.com/RegineHaenselwriter?ref=hl

Change

I intended to spend all of 2014 writing about the ABC’s of Saskatoon, but I’ve gotten involved in a project (publishing my second book) that interests me more, so I’m going to change my focus for this blog. If you are still interested in the ABC’s of Saskatoon, some suggestions to search out follow. Obviously these are only a few of the (mostly) wonderful things about Saskatoon.
Doors Open Saskatoon – An event to showcase a number of interesting and heritage buildings in the city. The event is free (tours are available) and they have a web site.

Emma Lake – Not specifically in or near Saskatoon, but many artists from Saskatoon (Kenderdine, Lindner, Rogers, Mulcaster, Forsyth) and all over the world have worked here over the years, and many workshops have been given. Began in 1936, and has been put on hold for now by the University of Saskatchewan.

Folkfest – A fabulous event with great food, entertainment and exhibits. Held in August each year.

Fringe Festival – Indoor theatre, buskers, street vendors, and more held in the Broadway District end of July into August.

Gustin House – A heritage house commemorating musician Lyell Gustin. They hold music and art events and have a web site.

Huskie Athletics – The University of Saskatchewan athletic teams (15) that compete in Canada West Universities Athletic Association.

Indoor pools – Leisure Centres that have indoor pools are Harry Bailey Aquatic Centre, Lakewood Civic Centre, Lawson Civic Centre, and the Shaw Centre.

Jazz – Has been popular in Saskatoon for a long time, and various organizations (The Jazz Society), venues (The Bassment), and events (The Jazz Festival) provide opportunities to enjoy it.

Knox United Church – Only one of many architecturally interesting churches in Saskatoon. Check out http://www.saskatoonheritage.ca/protect/churches.html

Kinsmen Park and Play Village – A great place for kids, birthday parties, picnics, gatherings, with a carousel, miniature train to ride, play area, paddling pool and large grassy areas.

Library – Established in 1913 in the basement of the Independent Order of Oddfellows Hall, the library has grown to one main building and seven branches. Great staff, lots of books, movies, tv shows, musical CDs, and much more.

Marr Residence – The oldest house in Saskatoon still standing on its original site (built in 1884). The house has exhibits, and it and the garden are open for tours, workshops and other programs throughout the year. It supposedly has a resident ghost.

Nutana neighbourhood – Established in 1883 as the first permanent settlement of the Temperance Colonization Society. Encompasses the Broadway shopping area, as well as a large residential area.

Open Door Society – Has welcomed, and provided services to refugees and immigrants since 1981.

Persephone Theatre – Founded in 1974, and providing a rich and varied theatre experience. Now located at a beautiful site at River Landing (though parking in the area leaves something to be desired, not Persephone’s fault.)

Quilters Guild – They meet regularly, have a newsletter, and every two years they put on an amazing quilting show, well worth seeing. Check their web site.

Restaurants – As in every city, restaurants come and go. A few of my favourites are Szechuan Kitchen, The Rook and Raven, Las Palapas, Amigos Cantina, Broadway Cafe, D’lish, Calories.

Symphony – Founded in 1927, gives a variety of different concerts each year (e.g. main series, Music for a Sunday Afternoon, Great Music for Kids, etc.)

Trounce House – Built in 1883, the city’s oldest building, but no longer on its original site. And very small.

Ukrainian Museum – Overlooking the South Saskatchewan River, founded in 1936, Canada’s first Ukrainian Museum. Displays of clothing, tools, books, photographs, etc. With a gift shop, and a variety of programs.

Victoria Park – One of Saskatoon’s wonderful riverbank parks, in one of the oldest neighbourhoods. Has an outdoor skateboard facility, walking paths, an outdoor swimming pool, playground, and lots of grass.

Western Development Museum – So much to see and do, from Boom Town to tractors and farm machinery, and of course the gift shop, and Boom Town Cafe.

Xerosis – Is a medical term for abnormally dry skin (which is what we get on the prairies in the winter time). I mean, what word can you find that starts with ‘X’?

Yevshan Ukrainian Folk Ballet Ensemble  - Started in 1960, has performed throughout the world.

Zoo – Located at the Forestry Farm. Animals from the Saskatchewan area, and other places. Lots of programs for all ages, places to picnic.

C

City Hall Fountain

The current Saskatoon City Hall was officially opened in 1956, and by 1959 City Council decided that they should have a fountain in front of their new building. Robert Murray, who was primarily a painter at the time, was commissioned. Mayor Sid Buckwold liked the design, but not everyone on Council did. The Saskatoon Star Phoenix reported extensively on the process and the controversy. Even the North Battleford News Optimist got into the act, stating, “Beautiful Saskatoon unveiled a hideous modernistic sculpture to adorn its City Hall Park.”

However, the sculpture (called “Rainmaker”) and the fountain were finally accepted and have become one of the well known landmarks of the city.

Murray left Saskatoon in 1960 for New York. His work is well represented in various cities throughout Canada and the United States. “Rainmaker” has become one of the most valuable pieces of sculpture owned by the City of Saskatoon.