Rethinking My Pace and Space

I've been trying to pace myself a bit better this summer, dividing large chores into smaller ones and allowing myself to take a few days to do something that I used to push myself to do in one day. The heat is extreme in the late afternoon (the glue in our front door actually melted, and one of the highways buckled), so I've given myself permission to siesta. To swim. To go sit in the massage chairs at the gym. To eat salad and sandwiches instead of cooking, so I don't heat up the kitchen with the oven. I even bought yogurt this week instead of making it as I've done for years, because the idea of warming up the kitchen with the crockpot was off-putting.

As a result, I've given myself more writing time, which has been nice. But my husband and I have also been visiting more with neighbours, just sitting in the shade in the backyard and chatting. It's the first time we've really let ourselves take the time to do that, which is a shame. They're wonderful people, and we've been missing out.

I'm letting this heat-driven attitude spill over into other aspects of my life, too. Maybe things don't need 100% of my effort. Maybe it's okay to drop some activities and put less-important things aside. Maybe it's okay to just sit sometimes. I've come to this realization now and then throughout my life, but this heat is just reinforcing it now. The heat just sucks away all motivation and energy. 

It's also carried over into my stuff. We had to move the furniture to install new windows and doors this week, trying to weather-proof the house a bit better, and right now the rooms are bright and light and empty. And I like it. Maybe we won't move the furniture back in. Maybe the time has come to put it all on the curb and create more room to breathe. Less to clean. Room to stretch. I could see throwing out the couch and sitting on pillows on the floor. Using the coffee table as the dining table and getting rid of the massive square table (the whole family is only here a few times a year anyway -- we could improvise with folding tables for those times). Son #2 is heading to Korea for a year, and Son #1 will be in school downtown starting in the fall. We will have fewer people in the house. We're minus my beloved dog now, too. Maybe it's okay to live in an entirely empty house...

Except for the books, of course. There will always be books. Oh, and yarn and fabric. And, um, the guitar and banjo and bagpipes are non-negotiable. And my recipe boxes (yes, plural). And...

Okay so maybe not entirely empty. But more spacious. More bright. More open to possibility. I could use this heat wave as an opportunity to re-evaluate life more generally and make bigger changes.

A while ago, I wrote a book that talked about taking a closer look at our lived space and pace. Paring down to the essentials. Maybe now is the right time to dig that out and reread it and remember.

A Little Burst of Patriotism

I came across these words on Facebook this morning, and I believe they can apply to Canada as well as the U.S.

"Frederick Douglass spent his life insisting that loving America meant telling the truth about its past. He believed our founding principles were strong enough to withstand honesty. In fact, he believed they demanded it.

"That is real patriotism. Not pretending our country has never failed, nor erasing people from our history. And certainly not threatening exile against those who disagree. Patriotism is loving this country enough to insist it become what it has always promised to be." - Heather Delaney Reese

I came to Canada almost 37 years ago, having married a Canadian. I love my adopted home. It feels optimistic and friendly here, where you can rely on neighbours to dig you out in a snowstorm. The expansive beauty of nature is celebrated. We don't take ourselves or our politicians too seriously. My local members of parliament are accessible. I have the resources and safety nets I need to live my life in relative convenience and security. I fully acknowledge I live a privileged life I haven't earned and don't deserve, and I am still grateful for it.

I know we're not perfect. At times we're misguided or messy. We argue amongst ourselves, and it isn't comfortable to own the darker side of our history. But in general, I think we're trying to look it in the eye and fix what we can. We're grounded on a bedrock of moral principles we're (mostly) trying to safeguard. We believe in compassion and equality, inclusion and kindness. I'm recommitting to those principles myself in my own conduct. It's easy to sail along my own path and forget that not everyone around me has what they need, and I shouldn't be comfortable while they aren't.

To me, patriotism isn't flag-waving or grand-standing. It's not marching bands and military parades. It's picking up litter. Letting my neighbour merge into my lane. Voting. Reaching out to try to make life a little better for those around me.

A Sort of Hilarious Goof -- or -- The Best of Intentions Backfires

On Tuesday, my husband cleaned out the garage, and we put two unwanted doors out on the boulevard to see if anyone else could use them. We had purchased them years ago, but they ended up being the wrong size for what we had in mind, and we haven't found another place for them. We can't fit them in the car to go donate them anywhere, but often when we set items on the curb, people snatch them up, and it feels good knowing they found a new home.

The doors lay on the grass by the curb for two days. It was extremely hot and sunny, but I didn't think anything of it. Forgetting, of course, that the panels are made of glass. Remember as a kid starting fires or burning designs into wood with a magnifying glass? Well, when we finally brought the unclaimed doors back into the garage last night, I realized we had toasted the grass.

Son #3 suggested we repeat the process all over the lawn and turn it into an art installation.

The Story of Ned the Head

When I was 19, I did a summer WLPAN course in Wales (Welsh immersion). It was held in Lampeter at St. David's University, and I was placed in the intermediate group because I'd had a few years of Welsh already. We had students from everywhere, including Japan and New Zealand. Now and then they loaded us on buses and took us on field trips, including Ystrad y Fflur (Strataflorida) to see the grave of Dafydd ap Gwilym and the Eisteddfod in Abergwaun.

One of our trips was to the Dolaucothi Roman gold mine (dating from the late 3rd century, briefly revived in the 1800s, and closed by 1938). I remember there was a large sign in Welsh at the front, and one of the workers seemed skeptical of all these "foreign" kids being able to learn Welsh. I don't know why, but he focused on me (blonde braids, braces, looking terribly American), and he challenged me---in front of the whole group---to read the sign aloud. All eyes were on me. I stuck my chin in the air and confidently read the sign to the best of my ability, and the man backed off, looking a bit humbled. The other students (many of whom were much more fluent than I) gathered and patted me on the shoulders and said I'd done well. But you see, there's a trick to it -- Welsh is a very phonetic language. If you know the sounds the letters make, you can read anything aloud and sound fluent. Meanwhile, I was silently thanking my lucky stars that the man hadn't asked me to actually translate the sign, because I hadn't understood a single word of it!

The tour guide led us through dimly-lit tunnels (I remember one area was called "Fat Man's Misery"). At one point, he told us the story of Ned. My memory may be faulty, because this was forty years ago, but I believe the story went like this: Ned was a miner who broke the cardinal rule of not working in pairs. He sat and ate his lunch one day but somehow his lamp or candle went out. He tried to fumble his way along the passage in the dark and must have fallen down a shaft and thence to the rock crusher, because all they found of him was his boots (the gorier version of the story is that his boots still contained his feet). The ghost of Ned still wanders the mine shafts, looking for his lamp.

Years later, my husband and kids gave me a ceramic head to put in my garden. Of course there was only one name to give a disembodied body part... Ned the Head. He sits on a flower pot set over the electrical outlet for my fountain, to protect it from rain. He needs a coat of paint now, but he reminds me of Wales and my tiny moment of triumph over the grumpy man at the mine.

Lavender Harvest!

Today I started cutting the lavender in the backyard. I have five or six "spots" where lavender has either been panted or has spread itself, and it's a bumper crop this year. I cut it back to the tops of the leaves, to keep it from getting too leggy, when the buds are just opening, and I spread it on cookie sheets all over the dining room table to dry.

Once dry, the flowers are crumbled by hand off the stems and put in mason jars for use in baking or drawer sachets. Did you know that if your lavender sachet has stopped smelling, all you have to do is crush it around a little with your fingers, and the scent will be revived? They can last for years, if kept dry.

I like to add crushed flowers to sugar cookies, a very Victorian kind of flavour, but my husband thinks they taste like soap. That's fine -- all the more for me!

Be sure to leave a lot of the flowers for the bees. I've seen very few bees this year, mostly bumblebees, but hopefully as the lavender blooms, it will attract more to the garden. I planted three whole beds of various flowers, but very little germinated (weird cold spring followed by blistering heat followed by torrential rain followed by cool temps again), and so far all I've gotten is one very tiny pink zinnia. A for effort, little flower.

In the Right Place at the Right Time

Yesterday I got ready for church and had about fifteen minutes before I needed to leave, so I went out and puttered in my garden (yes, in my nice dress). And came inside. And saw the tiny paintbrush I use for assisting with squash pollination. And decided I had just enough time to dash out and pollinate my spaghetti squash. So I slipped on my clogs and went out for just a minute.

And heard the quiet voice of my elderly neighbour calling for help. She didn't sound loud or distressed, but I heard her saying, "Help! I can't get up!" I called over the fence to ask if she was okay, and she called back, "No." I told her to hang on, I was coming.

Ran around the corner to her house (our backyard adjoin) and let myself through her gate, and found her. She'd been sitting on a white plastic chair to do some weeding, and the leg had broken and tipped her into the hedge, and she couldn't get her feet under her to right herself. I got her into a hug and managed to lift her up onto her feet and help her to her back door. She was fine, and I gave her another hug to wish her good morning, chatted about gardening for a moment (her tomatoes are producing already, and mine are just starting to flower), and then ran back home to leave for church. 

Feeling grateful that I followed that urge to go back to the garden, because there's no way I would have heard her from indoors. Grateful she was found right away and not left in the hot sun. Grateful I've been going to the gym and could lift her. Grateful I could be of some small service to someone else.

Hoping the pollination with the paintbrush worked. My spaghetti squash and cucumbers are blooming just fine, but my Delicata squash and zucchini haven't produced a single flower yet.

Update on the Vegetable Garden and My Personal Philosophy Around Gardening

It occurs to me that I usually just blog about the beginning of the gardening season, when I'm planning what to plant, and the end of the season, when I'm bottling tomatoes and drowning in green beans. But there's a very long middle part that deserves some attention too.

I've heard people talk about fertilizing and fussing during the summer, but I tend to take a hands-off simplified approach. If something needs pampering, I don't want it in my garden. If you give your plants treats at the beginning, they're going to keep expecting it, and there's simply no time or room for divas in my yard. They must pull their own weight or perish. I plunk the seedlings in, stab in a tomato cage where they're needed, set up the sprinkler, and wish them all luck. The only special attention anything gets is when the tomatoes and cucumbers start to blossom and I dose them with calcium. If there's a lack of bees, I might hand pollinate things with a tiny paintbrush. Now and then I yank out the worst of the weeds and drop them on the soil to return their nutrients to the earth. And that's it. This year I did add some mulch to several of the beds, to try to retain water, because they're predicting a harsh, hot summer. But so far this year, it's unseasonably cool and rainy and it hasn't been much of an issue.

A vegetable garden can consume all your time if you let it, and weeding is never done. There are strawberries and beans to pick every day all summer, and a glut at harvest time at the end. But I've been consciously trying to set aside time to go on long walks, to swim, to go to the gym, to read and write. To allow myself to slow down and just sit sometimes. The garden, like a pestering puppy, must learn boundaries. It must develop patience and wait its turn. As must we all.

The New Oven has Arrived

Had to rearrange furniture to get the thing through the front door, but the new range is here. As they were hauling the old one out, I reached out and patted it and murmured, "Thank you for 26 years of good service." The delivery guy paused and asked quietly, "Do you want a moment?" 

"No, thank you, I've said my goodbyes."

So now I'm reading the manual for the new range, and it provides helpful tips such as not letting your toddler open the door and crawl in. It also says some models have a Jewish Sabbath mode, so you can preprogram it to function at certain times without having to press a button.

The manual also says the warranty doesn't cover fire, flood, or acts of God. Presuming God might strike the oven dead if you press its buttons on the Sabbath. 

Working on the Next Manuscript

I had all sorts of plans to work in the yard today, but it's raining steadily, so I'm pivoting and having a writing day. I'm working on a sequel to Monk With the Steel-Toed Boots. They're both murder mysteries, the first being set in a Buddhist meditation retreat in the Ontario woods, modelled after the Huong Hai Zen Forest, where I attended a 3-day retreat (the last day done in complete silence. I highly recommend it to anyone!). That book can be found here:

Monk with the Steel-Toed Boots

I enjoyed working with the main character, Gor Manookian, an Armenian-Canadian Detective Inspector, so I'm bringing him back in the sequel, Tiny Little Murder. This one is set in a Tiny House community, and I'm drawing on a friend's experience, since I don't have any direct experience living in a Tiny House. She built her own little house on wheels and has lived in it on a farm with her two kids for 3-4 years, so I turn to her when I have questions. There is something very satisfying about curling up with the laptop (by the fireplace in winter or on the backyard picnic table in summer) and documenting what my imagination comes up with. With coconut cookies on hand, of course.

Once I wrote the same book three times, keeping the same characters but swapping around who was the murderer and who was the victim, with, of course, different motives. It was a great exercise, and I kept the last version as it turned out best. I have heard other writers describe how they outline and plot beforehand, and I should probably try it sometime, but usually I just get a "movie" in my head and just take dictation. I don't know in advance how it will end any more than the reader does! I'll research stuff as it arises during the process, but there isn't much work before the actual writing begins.

Because my writing is indeed kind of like watching a movie in my head, there does tend to be a lot of dialogue. I think sometimes my plots are moved forward too much by dialogue. I am practising advancing the plot through action as much as talk. We'll see how Tiny Little Murder turns out.

I'm Officially a Dinosaur

Our oven/stove has been having trouble after trouble lately (fair enough, it's about 25 years old), so today we decided to bite the bullet and go buy a new one. We went to three different places looking for an electric range. The thing is, we didn't want the glass-top flat-top kind, because we like to use heavy cast iron pots and skillets, and those will scratch up the glass. Also, I do a lot of bottling, which involves boiling a large pot for several hours at a time, and the glass ones just won't hold up to that kind of use.

However, we discovered that each place we visited only had one coil-burner oven on display. Fine, we'll take that one---except every element now has a sensor on it that will turn off the heat if the burner reaches boiling temperature. 

Wait, let me get this straight. You can't boil anything on the stove? No, it's a safety feature, in case Granny is forgetful, so it turns it off for you when it reaches a high heat. So how do you boil an egg or a pot of soup or make mashed potatoes? You don't. No one cooks anymore. Or else you'll have to replace the sensor burners with regular burners. Except those only come in one size, apparently, which don't fit GE ranges (which of course is the only one we could buy). 

Someone (probably a man, let me bet) has designed a range that can't cook. I suppose any self-respecting Italian nonna uses a gas stove, but we are trying to get off of fossil fuels, and it would cost a lot to have natural gas installed into our kitchen anyway. So it has to be electric. So the new range arrives on Tuesday, and I don't know if I can boil anything on it. And I don't know whether my special, expensive canning coil burner will fit it at all. (Canning is so intense it melts regular burners. Canning burners sit higher so air can get under them.)

We also tried to buy muriatic acid for the pool today and were told that they no longer carry it because Health & Safety told them it's too dangerous. So demented Granny can't cook an egg and we can't treat the pool because someone is looking out for our safety. Thanks a lot.

Garden Centre Field Trip

Hubby and I had a spare hour this morning and decided to pay a visit to a favourite garden centre -- Bulow Garden Centre and Landscaping at 2667 Lakeshore Rd W, which is just east of Winston Churchill in Mississauga. This place has been in business for years and has a lot of unusual things I haven't seen for sale anywhere else. On previous trips, we've purchased a bench, a gong, and a garden sculpture from them. I didn't think to take a camera, and we had to dash between rain showers, but it was such a fun, interesting, and uplifting jaunt.

The owner came out to greet us and show us the water plants and bamboo we asked about. A pleasant chat, and then we were free to wander at will through swaths of antique-looking roses, quirky sculptures, lacy Japanese maples, unusual clay pots, banks of colourful angelonia, and lovely older trees. A dog snored gently in a big bed under a circular trellis. There were flowers I've never heard of, a range of succulents to choose from, and a peaceful, shady pergola with such a lush array of bushes and trees that I wanted to sit down on a bench and never leave. This woman is living the life I want to live.

Favourite things seen today: a bronze-coloured Buddha statue unlike any other I've seen, a pale peach climbing rose that made me want to go buy an English cottage just so I could grow it up around the door, a Gothic-shaped metal archway that would look great at the church, and a fantastic pink flowering dogwood that tempted me to rip out my vegetable garden to make room for it. It would be such an amazing addition to my Japanese garden.

Then the rain started pelting down and we ran for the car without buying anything. But it remains my favourite garden centre I've ever been to, and I highly recommend it if you're looking for something unique for your yard. I came away feeling refreshed, as if I'd taken a deep nourishing nap. There's nothing better than getting outdoors, surrounded by beauty, and meeting a person who has a passion for her business. 

The Best Kind of Day

Slept in until 6:00 yesterday, which is practically unheard of

Did my scripture reading and daily catch-up-on-messages

Updated my financial books

Walked down to the gym for a quick workout and a delicious session in the massage chair

Made banana muffins

Had breakfast

Worked in the garden and pruned bushes

Went grocery shopping for just a few items

Had lunch

Wrote for 3-4 hours

Mowed the lawn

Made supper

Worked on a puzzle

Met son's new friend and had Korean barbecue, then did puzzles and yacked all together

No one ate the supper I made, so it's ready for tomorrow instead -- no cooking on Tuesday!

Went to bed with a novel

Pretty much a perfect day.

Georgetown Highland Games

We're into piping competition season once again, preparing to make the rounds of Highland Games throughout Ontario. I made the rounds myself for 30+ years, hauling kids and dogs and cases and water jugs and tents and... well, let's just say it's a major undertaking. And the thrill of it is standing in front of a judge, trying to remember what tune you're supposed to be playing and worrying that the beating sun will shut off your drones or make the sticky tape on your chanter slide around.

I gave up piping six or seven years ago, partly due to health reasons and partly because I'd finally gotten fed up with dealing with 8 yards of wool in a port-o-potty. Now when I go to the games, I can park myself in the shade under a tree and only venture out when I want to hear a particular person or band play, or to browse through the vendors' booths.

I do have to say, the vendors' booths can be quite fun. People sell everything from certificates printed with clan heraldry, handcrafted knives, intricate Celtic-themed pottery, British candy and baked goods, t-shirts, and...well...yesterday someone had a booth displaying rain gutter systems. There are also Clan booths set up to teach about their heritage, and there was a weaving and spinning demonstration. There are also piping and drumming supply houses, where you can grab last-minute bits of uniform you may have forgotten, explore the latest water traps for your pipes, or get new reeds. 

I spent a lot of the day hiding from the heat, even sitting and reading a Pilcher novel while eating Edinburgh Rock (for the uninitiated, it's a candy that most resembles sidewalk chalk). But I did venture out to watch friends and hubby compete and to buy peameal bacon on a bun. The highlight of the day, though, had to be the sheep dog show. The same woman is there every year, showcasing her amazing and highly-trained border collies driving a small group of sheep around the field. She explains what her commands and whistles mean, and it's always a fun event. Yesterday, though, it became quite exciting, as the sheep panicked and leaped over the fence like deer and bounded off into the street outside the venue. But the woman sent her most experienced dog after them, and within a few breathless minutes, the sheep were brought back to the field and duly put in their pen.

It's been fun to watch my husband's students mature and develop in their musical and leadership skills over the years. Two have gone on to become pipe majors themselves. I've seen their confidence grow. One of them always greets everyone with a huge hug, as if he's just so amazed to discover you're still alive and he couldn't be happier to see you. Even though I'm kind of an adjunct and wasn't directly involved in his instruction, my husband was, and this student always bounds over like a joyful puppy to greet me when he sees me. At one point, his father leaned over to me and whispered, "He's everyone's son." And you know what? He feels like mine sometimes. Just because I've seen him grow up in the piping world over the past 15 or so years, and know that my husband was a big part of his journey.

World Food Program

While I'm still figuring out how to add a donation button to my blog page, things are dire in Somalia, and the UN World Food Program can use some urgent help. Please consider contributing if you're able. Thank you!

Donation page:

UN World Food Programme (WFP) | Donate now

Hearing Aid Miracle

My husband got hearing aids not long ago. It took a while to learn how to drive them, but they've made a huge difference in both our lives.

Yesterday, he went out to cut some volunteer maple trees out of our privet hedge, and I went out to assist. As often happens when my husband gets stuck into something, it turned into a five-hour project. It was extremely hot, I could feel the sun baking my skin, and the work involved a lot of scratches and punctures as we tried to remove an astonishing amount of weed trees and dead wood out of this massive hedge. Also a couple of spider bites. A lot of the job involved lying on my back, shoulder deep, trying to reach shoots right at the back. My husband got out a stool so he could attack from the top, reaching down into the hedge with an assortment of clippers and secaturs and pruning snips.

Anyway, we finally finished, cleaned up, set the bins at the side of the house, and went inside two hours past lunchtime, exhausted. All I could think about was jumping into the cold pool and having something to eat. And then my husband realized, to his horror, that one of his hearing aids was missing.

A) These things are not cheap. B) He had a bagpipe competition the next morning (this morning, as I write this), which required he be able to hear. C) He had no idea when he lost it, so it could be anywhere in the house or yard or in one of the many tall bins crammed with yard waste.

We called the cavalry (sons) out of the basement, went back out into the furnace, and started crawling and poking gingerly around the yard, hoping not to step on the hearing aid, wondering if we had any hope, and then my husband remembered his phone had an app to help locate lost hearing aids. It proved to be a difficult thing to use, giving very vague readouts. It was a bit like playing that game we played as children, where one kid tries to find a hidden object while his friends shout "You're getting colder!" "You're getting warmer!" It would have been more helpful if the app worked like Marco Polo, with the hearing aid giving feedback, but no. It gave us a general location, though, at least enough to let us know we didn't have to dig through all the bins.

An hour later, after raking under the hedge, gingerly sifting through everything, standing on the stool and peering down into the foliage, Son #3 had the idea of sticking his head under the hedge and looking up instead of in or down. And there it was! This tiny little comma-shaped electronic device, spluttering and annoyed, hanging from a twig deep inside the hedge.

You have to understand, my yard is big, the hedge is a monster, and my husband had been all over it for five hours. That thing could have been anywhere. It was literally like looking for the proverbial needle in the haystack. And we found it. We're bitten and bleeding and burnt red, our backs may never be the same, I ripped my best pants, but we found it. I hugged my son and told him he was a hero.

Prayer works, folks.

Where to Find My Books

I've consolidated all of my new releases in one "bookstore" page on Lulu.com. Here you can find my latest novels (more on the way!), my gardening e-book, and the workbook that accompanies the workshops I offer on simple living. Please give it a look, and if you've enjoyed any of my books, please consider leaving a review on Goodreads. Thanks!

Kristen's Bookstore on Lulu

For my older novels:

Deseret Book offers the audio or ebooks. In the near future, Desperate Measures, The Governess, and The Song of Copper Creek will be available in paperback on their website as print-on-demand. You can also find secondhand copies of all my books online. 

For my novel All My Loved Ones, please see Cedar Fort.

Enjoy!

Just Some Pretty Things Seen on My Morning Walk

Raising Money for Charity

I'm looking at how many people are reading this blog each month, and people have told me I should monetize it or add a "Buy Me a Coffee" kind of button. But I'd feel much better about raising money for a charity instead. Readers would be given the option of voluntarily supporting the chosen cause through a link, and I'd never know who donated or how much money was being raised. The donations would be handled entirely by the charity. 

The question is, which charity? There are so many good organizations, and so many people in need. I thought I'd ask for some feedback from you. My personal inclination is to address food insecurity (after all, I'm a vegetable gardener). With all the mess going on in the Middle East, on top of weather and climatic conditions, they're predicting a global famine. While that may not impact Canada as much as many other places, it will still mean raised prices, and over a million people in Ontario alone already access the food bank. Humans can get along without a lot of things, but food isn't one of them.

I don't want to choose an organization so local that readers from around the world will feel less attached to it and therefore less inclined to donate. At the same time, I don't want to choose an organization so vast that it feels like our small contributions won't make a difference.

So...any suggestions? 

Service in a Small Town -- a Shoutout to Brooketel

Did I ever tell you about our experience with our Brooketel internet service? No no, stay with me, this is interesting, I promise. Heartwarming, even.

As you may know, we lost our minds and bought an old church during the pandemic. This was partly to satisfy a long-held dream of renovating an old church, partly to add to our property portfolio, and partly to create a peaceful space where we could retreat (or quarantine) when things felt too crowded at home. Possibly even live in upon retirement, though so far that hasn't panned out. 

In addition to needing an almost complete rebuild, it is located in a small village half an hour from a large town, in farm country. No pizza delivery. No grocery store within walking distance. No anything within walking distance except a gas station, a fire hall, and a little conservation area with a lake. We struggled to find an internet provider for our area. Back in the city, we have Rogers, which I have a love/hate relationship with. Their service is generally okay, but not always reliable, cutting out frequently, and it takes forever to get them to come out to do anything. I think it took over a year to get them to come bury a cable. Regardless, Rogers didn't cover the area where the church is. We needed good service, because at the time I was working remotely, with lots of video calls.

Almost by accident, we landed on Brooketel, a local co-op based in Watford. The service has been reliable, FAST, and unlimited, and the monthly price has even dropped over the years. But above all, the customer service is the best I've encountered. They don't just respond, they initiate!

Example: one day when we were back in the city, Brooketel called us to report that their system showed our internet service was off at the church. They offered to go figure out what was wrong. I gave them the lockbox code. Fifteen minutes later, they called me to report they'd gone to the church, found a loose plug, fixed it, and internet was restored. No cost, no fuss, and I felt instantly reassured I was in good hands. At a time when I was drowning in electricians, plumbers, drywallers, painters, and engineers, it was nice not having to worry about one thing.

We Were Supposed to Go to Norway

Today is what should have been the 59th birthday of my friend Sheri. We met at age 5, had chicken pox together, were in school together right up through high school, went to the same church, were baptized on the same day. We had sleepovers and illicit cookouts on makeshift stoves in the backyard (I still have bacon-grease scars on my shoulder from that one). We made up plays, hiked, read Archie comics, and threw balls for her poodle. She served at my wedding reception and helped me conquer the ivy at my parents' house.

We remained close even after I moved to Canada. Sheri would come up to visit almost every year, her aim to see Canada in every month of the year. When she came, she would always want to help with a project of some sort---digging up rocks, helping host a book-signing table, whatever---she was always up for an adventure. I took her to Highland Games and Mennonite markets, a cement bunker, and our crazy old church. She took me on adventures to New York City, to Park City. She liked to walk and explore, and we'd pick out which house we'd each buy so we could stay neighbours forever. She was always content to do puzzles or watch old movies or just sit and read, which is a lovely trait in a guest. You never felt you had to entertain her, but could just be yourself. When someone is that low-maintenance, they become an integral part of the mesh of your life. They become a sister more than a friend.

Last April, Sheri came to visit and we stayed at the church, taking long walks along the lake and throwing the ball for my dog Brio. She spent a lot of the week feeding me, teaching me to eat healthier. I'd envisioned going grocery shopping with her, but she arrived with her rental car already stocked with food (so that I couldn't insist on paying for it). She was a night owl and I get up at ridiculous hours before dawn, so she slept in the upstairs vestry, and we could each keep our own hours as we liked. The perfect person, in other words, to hang out with.

Our birthdays are close together, and we were cooking up ideas for a grand adventure for our 60th birthdays next year. We'd landed on the plan of going to Norway. But shortly after she returned home, Sheri was diagnosed with cancer and passed away just a few weeks later. Knowing that her 60th birthday wasn't going to happen, I whipped out a PowerPoint "documenting" our trip to Norway as if we'd gone, with pictures off the internet and stick-figures of me and Sheri drawn into them with Adobe. She reported that she and her husband went through the slides and laughed, especially over the picture of the two of us running amok through the streets of Stavanger. My personal favourite was the one of us doing swan dives off a lookout point into a fjord.

Sheri had the ability to make people feel loved, remembered, and seen. She had the uncanny ability to remember things (whereas I struggle to remember my own name on occasion). She could recall everyone she ever met and what they liked and the names of their grandchildren, and she was generous with the gifts that perfectly matched the recipient. She devoted her life to service, throwing herself into her church callings, taking care of the people around her, making me realize how narrow and self-centred my life sometimes is. Even in her last days, she made sure the quilt she'd started making for her daughter was finished by a friend. She doted on her family, turning every occasion into something memorable and special, and making each person feel treasured.

Sheri has gone on her next great adventure without me, but wherever she is, I'm sure she's serving and laughing (and talking) and putting together fishponds for angels and planting lemongrass and coaxing God into trying kelp in His pancakes. And likely throwing balls for Brio. Happy birthday, my friend. Miss you.

Introducing Detective Inspector Gor Manookian

Well, I'm on a roll now, cleaning up my filing cabinet of manuscripts. I've decided to publish one of my novellas, a Manookian Mystery: Monk with the Steel-Toed Boots, which you can find at the link below.

When a guest is murdered at a meditation retreat in the Canadian forest, Detective Inspector Gor Manookian is on the case.

As if a homicide isn't enough to deal with, he also has to juggle a critical captain, a troublesome brother, a cast of quirky characters, a fat cat named Benzo, and his own growing suspicion that he's in the wrong line of work.

What does the Buddhist monk who runs the retreat know about the murder? Who may be the next victim? And can Manookian hold it all together long enough to catch a killer?

Watch for the next upcoming Manookian Mystery, Tiny Little Murder, out soon!

Monk with the Steel-Toed Boots

Getting Grumpy in My Old Age

So...after shooting off that last post about brotherly love, I spent this morning grumpily writing to my Member of Parliament and a certain Premier to express dissatisfaction with some particular actions and practices. I won't get into the specifics, because this blog isn't meant to be political, but it makes me ponder the dichotomy and the dilemma--- How do you stand for principle and live according to your values in the face of opposition, without becoming, er, oppositional? How do you deal with unpleasantness without becoming unpleasant yourself?

I try to express myself politely. I try to be informed before making statements. I try to be reasonable and find solutions. And yet at some point, I just want to pull my hair out and demand that other people get off my planet. You know? Sometimes things seem like obvious common sense to me, and I struggle to understand how other people can't see my viewpoint (and agree with it). I'm so sure I'm right... And in some instances, I think there's such a thing as absolute truth, and yet I see other people denying it. Ignoring it. Actively stating falsehood. Condoning inarguable evil.

I know evil's a strong word, but I believe it exists, and it's our job to call it out when we see it. To step in when we see people purposely being harmed or cast aside. To speak up and amplify the voice that's being squashed. To use our privilege to invite the forgotten or excluded ones to the table.

Which I guess circles round to brotherly love again.

You know, some days peopling is too hard. I'm going to go work in my garden. I get along better with plants, and if any of them irritate me, I can yank them out.

Love Your Neighbour: Possibility or Pipe Dream?

My thought for the day: Christians say they believe in the commandment to "love thy neighbour as thyself." People tend to interpret that as "love your neighbour as much as you love yourself" and that leads, of course, to the urge to "love yourself."

I interpret it differently. To me, it's saying "love your neighbour because he/she IS yourself." They are not "other." They are you. We are to see us as one. We are to BE one. If we truly did that, there wouldn't be contention, violence, poverty, or apathy. We'd finally learn to be kind.

Imagine what a different society that would create, if we actually saw no boundary between "us" and "them." Do I hold out any hope that we'll do it? No. But a girl can dream.

(I'm the solemn one on the left.)

Photos, as Promised Last Week

Some snapshots from my walk around the Credit River and Riverwood Conservancy. A lovely start to my morning.

Hawaii - Travels and Observations

This morning's post is a snippet about the cover photo on my latest book, Before You Go. My mother-in-law was a warm, cheerful, energetic, and kind of zany person, always up for a new adventure. She loved having our boys up to her trailer, and they have fond memories of epic summers spent with her. She was more friend than "mother-in-law" and had a knack for making you feel welcomed and loved. She genuinely enjoyed people.

Sadly, she passed much too soon, and she left my husband and his brother her Hawaiian timeshare. We have been there many times, and even though we were never there with her, it invokes good memories of her. The timeshare is in Makaha, on Oahu, right on a beautiful, quiet beach. The kids come out after school to surf, but otherwise the beach is fairly empty. It's a residential area, not touristy, and I enjoy walking around the neighbourhood, appreciating the azaleas and palm trees and listening to the crowing of the ubiquitous roosters. One such walk inspired the setting for Before You Go.

The photo on the cover was snapped from the timeshare's lanai, looking north and showing the neighbourhood I was walking through when the book's plot began to come to me.

With the travel situation with the U.S. right now (not to mention the cost of flying), we won't be returning to Hawaii anytime soon, if ever. I miss that luscious feeling of walking out of the airport (usually in the middle of the night) into warm, humid air. The constant background sound of the waves thundering onto the sand. The bone-deep heat of the hot tub easing my aching joints. The BBQ pork manapua served hot, like little doughy melt-in-your-mouth marshmallows, at the local 7-11. The kind friends we've made there. The delicious feeling of waking up knowing you have nothing to do all day but slather yourself in coconut-scented sunscreen and sit with a book on the balcony. Bliss.

On the other hand, the last time I was there, there was considerably more tension in the air between tourists, natives, and the unhoused population, and I left feeling very much like an unwanted colonial. It made me ponder in ways I hadn't before the role I play and the position I have inadvertently landed in in life. Some uncomfortable consideration of privileges I haven't earned and haven't been properly appreciative of. This new awareness is not necessarily a bad thing.

It was a Busy Friday at the McKendry House

Twenty-five containers and counting...

Our waste collection guys are going to hate us.

Riverwood Conservancy and Erindale Park - a Walk Along the Credit River

I'm tired of being sick in bed, so yesterday I headed out for a long walk. I ended up heading east along Burnhamthorpe Road, admiring the swaths of tulips in the centre islands, noticing Eastern Redbud trees in bloom, until I got to the overpass over the Credit River. There are a couple of lookout points where you can rest your arms on the railing and look down at the gorge. The sound of the river has to compete with the sound of traffic at that height, but if you take the steps down to river level, it's like entering a different world. Stone, soil, filtered sunlight, green growing things---and the hum of traffic is subsumed under the rush of water.

If you turn north, you enter the paths of the Riverwood Conservancy, where you can choose easy or more difficult routes. All lead eventually back up the hill to formal gardens and the art centre. Or, as I did yesterday, you can turn south and walk along the Credit River.

I met a handful of people walking the trail, but for the most part I was by myself. Nothing but peace and beauty and the satisfying feeling of walking on something other than pavement. There are occasional footbridges over branching rills, and they've placed handy benches here and there if you need a pause. I was taking a moment to remove pebbles from my shoes when I looked up and saw two deer placidly walking along the bank directly opposite me. Deer. Smack in the middle of a city of over 700,000. So I sat on the bench a while and watched them. One of the deer was so unthreatened by my presence that she stopped to poop, which I confess I took as a compliment. A few other walkers paused to watch for a while too.

When the deer finally moved on, we all wished each other a nice day, and I resumed my stroll (the path is level and easy enough that it can't be called a hike) and emerged in Erindale Park on Dundas Street, where---happily---there are public washrooms. I'd already been walking for 2 hours, so I caught a handy bus back to South Common, via the University, and then walked home from there. About 2.5 hours in all. 

One of the disadvantages of not having a phone is that I also don't have a lightweight camera. My digital camera weighs too much to want to carry it with me on my walks. But one day I'll see if I can capture some views from the overpass, looking down at the river. 

I'm excited to know that all this loveliness is within walking distance of my house, and I regret that I didn't realize it sooner. I feel like I've wasted the past 25 years, missing out on this beautiful scenery when I could have been walking here every day. But then I remind myself that no, until relatively recently, I was running for the bus to get to work, and I wouldn't have had time to take a leisurely two and a half hour stroll in the morning. Instead of marching along under picturesque white pines, I would have been hunched in a cubicle, wrangling numbers into their little slots in Excel sheets. What a waste of life! How glad I am to be free of it, even if only for a while.

Thankful for Friends

A warm thank you to all my friends and family who have reposted the link to buy my latest book Before You Go For an introvert who's more comfortable with books than with people, I really appreciate the help promoting it!

This week was actually very social for me. Tuesday I had choir practice. Hubby, sons, and I went to see the movie Project Hail Mary on Wednesday. Thursday Son #2 and I helped throw a dinner at the church with the missionaries. Friday I went to The Devil Wore Prada 2 with four women I know (two movies in one week! I know, right??). And Saturday was a Relief Society women's conference in Brampton, with wonderful food and workshops and conversation. I met a new friend and fellow writer there, too.

And then today I stayed in bed with a chest cold and a book and kinda missed Mothers' Day, but that's okay. I had a good people-filled week, and the sun is streaming in the window, and I'm content. This coming week will be filled with restorative activities -- gardening and long walks to the river and a new book called The Reluctant Tuscan: How I discovered my Inner Italian by Phil Doran, which looks promising.

Peace, Sunshine, and Wornout Shoes

For the last two or three weeks, I've been taking long walks every day, sometimes as long as 2-2 1/2 hours. I've discovered that it only takes me 45 minutes to reach the Riverwood Conservancy on the Credit River, which is a wonderful thing. The route takes me across the bridge overlooking the river, where there's a jutting lookout point. It's become my new favourite thing to do, resting my arms on the railing and just drinking in the glorious view. The pointillism of newly-leafing-out trees, the rush of the water down the gorge, the deep layer of old leaves under the trees, lush greenery on the island in the middle of the river, the sun warming my back... it's a perfect boost to my mood and mental health. As I gaze, I can almost block out the sound of the traffic behind me.

Sometimes I turn around and go back home, but a couple of times I've continued on to wander the paths at the Conservancy. There are some small, pretty gardens by the art centre, and a cattail-filled pond with redwing blackbirds and herons. The eastern redbuds are just beginning to turn pink. There's something soul-satisfying about walking through dappled light on a soft path deep with old pine needles. The smell of damp earth. The sound of flowing water and birdsong. Peace.

If you haven't been outside yet today, put down your screen and go out this minute. Breathe the air and move your limbs and feel whatever the weather is doing on your face. Nothing can beat it.

The Contrast is Jarring

 My Facebook feed this morning:

followed immediately by:

and a little further down:

A wee reminder to myself not to take my own home for granted. Not to overlook the beauty and blessings that surround me. I have electricity, running clean water, heat and light, a flushing toilet, an oven. Most importantly, I have community. I never want to lose sight of that.

My Latest Novel is Now Available

After working with traditional publishers for my first eleven books, I've decided to try self-publishing my latest novel. Please give it a look! Thanks!

Plot: The last thing Etta Purcell thought she'd be doing at age eight-seven was writing a food blog. And she never expected the project to connect her with her great-grandson Matt, who finds her online. Before she knows it, Etta is jetting off to Hawaii to visit him...and his grandmother, Etta's daughter Linda, from whom she has been estranged for many years.

Linda already has enough to deal with, having been remarried, relocated, and unexpectedly landed with a teenaged grandson to raise. She no longer feels she fits in her own life, and the last thing she needs is her mother turning up uninvited. For Matt's sake, mother and daughter must establish a truce. But can they find a way to move beyond the pain and misunderstandings that tore their family apart so long ago?

"Before You Go" is the story of reconciliation and forgiveness. Perhaps---even at age eighty-seven---it's never too late to heal.

Link to purchase:

Before You Go

Crazy Weather and Lots to Do

On Monday we had snow on the ground. A few days later, I was mowing the lawn and walking around the backyard in bare feet. The tulips opened. Yesterday I was back to wearing a winter hat and gloves for my daily walk. Nutso weather that's hard to predict. The next three days are supposed to be rainy.

We've been tackling a lot of yardwork that has been neglected over the past year. Cut down two mugo pine trees that were dying from rust, pruned the taller pine that was with them to cut away diseased branches (hoping to save it), and put down mulch. Tore out other damaged bushes and hopeless plants and put down more mulch. Got the two fountains going. Spread some rocks. Hacked the front hedge down to a manageable height. Raked a jillion bags worth of last year's leaves that I'd been using as mulch in the vegetable garden. Started pulling out a jillion baby maple trees, offspring of the maple that gave me all the leaves. Started my tomato seedlings. Mowed said lawn and spread topsoil over some sparse spots. Weed-whacked the perimeter. The yard waste collection truck actually came to our place twice this week to empty our bins -- it was a ridiculous amount of material that took up most of our boulevard.

Also took time, of course, to play games and soccer and go for walks with the grandkids, who both have birthdays this month. Read a book. Went to the dentist. Watched entirely too much Person of Interest. Went to church on Sunday. Did some grocery shopping. Drove to Brampton to pick my son up from a friend's. Finished crocheting a teddy bear for a neighbour's coming baby. Trips to Home Depot and Canadian Tire. Dealt with a broken water heater and had a guy come measure for some new windows we need to install. Took a two-hour walk yesterday just to enjoy the briefly nice weather and blue sky, and to revel in not having to join the traffic inching by. It's a lovely feeling, walking past stuck cars with a smirk on my face.

So it's been a good week, all in all. Still lots to do, but we're getting on top of it. When I look at the list of what we did in one week, I don't feel tired, I feel energized. I'll take long hours in the garden over sitting at a desk any day.

A Poem for Spring

I coddle my seedling diligently

but I can't keep it alive.

I behead a weed a hundred times

and it thrives and thrives and thrives.

Some Honest Musings about Self-Publishing

I've had eleven books published by two different publishers over the past 19 years. My main publisher was recently subsumed under a larger company, and my book that was to be published in January 2026 (already typeset and ready to go) was cancelled. My 21-year contract with them was also terminated, though it only had a short while left to go, and that doesn't bother me.

The trick now is to find another publisher for the three manuscripts I've already completed. Two are novels and one is a non-fiction about simple living. I've shopped them around to various places, but so far I haven't found a home for them. I've also approached several literary agents without success. It's time-consuming and disheartening and makes me question this whole process.

I've been considering self-publishing these three, just to get them out of my hair so I can focus on something new. It seems a shame to give up on them, since I've put so much work into them and they're edited and polished and ready to go. I admit to a bit of bias---somehow self-publishing feels like cheating, you know? After dealing with traditional publishers for so many years, I feel like I'm sneaking around the end post.

At the same time, the publishing world is changing, traditional publishers are moving more toward a preference for e-books (igg), and old-timey practices must adapt or die. So...do I get over my prejudices and take the plunge? Goodness knows I'd stand to earn more per each sale (royalties from traditional publishers are frankly paltry), and the idea of having total control appeals to me. I'm confident in my editing skills. But on the other hand, my old publisher consistently sold 4000-5000 copies of each of my books, and I know if the marketing is left entirely up to me, I won't sell nearly that many. My interest lies in the writing, not the selling. 

I've reached the point in my life where I just want to tell stories, and I'm not overly concerned about how many people read them. The glitz is off seeing my name in print. Money would be handy, but it's not my motivation. But are self-published books legitimate? How is their quality perceived in comparison to traditionally-published ones? I guess that's the question I'm asking. What do you think?

So much going on in the world, and yet this is what has snagged me

Two months yesterday since I lost Brio. It still catches me off guard from time to time. I expect to see him waiting when I come into the room, and the spot on the kitchen floor where his dishes used to be seems stupidly empty. I am going about my normal day and feeling completely fine and then suddenly I'm in tears again without any warning. When people see me walking down the road, do they realize half of me is missing?

I fluctuate between being sad and being irritated with myself. There are so many people hurting in the world. Even as I go through this, I know my sorrows are small compared to many people's. I have lost pets and people before. So why is this one so much more difficult? At some point I will lose patience with myself, but until then, I'm trying to grant myself some grace. It will just have to work itself out in its own time, I guess. 

For all those who have lost loved ones, including pets, those who have lost hopes or dreams, those who have lost opportunities or the future they thought they were going to have, those who may have lost faith in themselves, those who don't even know why they are down, those who feel lost themselves...I see you.

Thunderstorm and Great Minds Thinking Alike

I've been going on 2-3 hour walks every day as spring has approached, enjoying farmfield views and the crunch of gravel under my feet, the cool breeze and much-appreciated sunshine, shaking off the doldrums of winter and depression. But this morning I woke up to thunder and lightning and knew my daily walk likely wouldn't happen.

I was thinking of going upstairs, turning on some music, and dancing for exercise today, but I felt a little silly doing it by myself. Not sure why that is. But anyway, I thought about inviting a friend of mine over with her two girls. They live in a Tiny House and don't have a lot of room for doing cartwheels or dancing or even stretching on days when they have to remain indoors.

I went onto the computer to invite them, and behold, there was a message from my friend, asking if they could come over to play today. So ta da! we're on the same wavelength. A nice way to spend a soggy Tuesday.

Still need some more walking

 

"Your grief has expired.

There is a timeline for loss,

then you must move on."

They say to let go.

I’d be happy to oblige,

but it clings to me.

 

I say I’ll try to

shake it off, but it persists,

melded with my bones.

 

I confess I fear

if I release this sorrow,

you’ll truly be gone.

Walking My Feelings

This month I'm staying up at the church we're renovating, where I'm trying to establish better habits around eating and exercising. Part of the new routine is going on epic walks for 2-2 1/2 hours each morning, and shorter walks in the afternoon. It gives me a chance to explore gravel roads that I couldn't walk before with Brio, whose feet would have suffered on the stones. It's practice for me, getting used to walking without my faithful little dog, who accompanied me on almost every walk for the past 13 years. It's also a useful thing when my sorrow starts to get the better of me, because everything feels better when you're striding out in the fresh air.

My travels have taken me through beautiful farmland, just waking up from winter, with widely-spaced lovely yellow-brick homes with enticing porches that must be lovely shady spots to sit in summer. Yesterday I saw a pickup truck slowly driving down the road with three or four sheepdogs running before it, just a guy out exercising his dogs. On Easter Sunday, I saw a house with eleven cars parked in front of it, six of which were almost identical pickup trucks, plus one jeep and the rest were crossovers. The genes run strong in that family.

Yesterday, as I walked, I noticed gray clouds gathering on the sunny blue horizon, and a storm swiftly swept toward me. I figured a little rain was no big deal -- I could throw everything in the dryer when I got home -- but then it dawned on me that I was the tallest thing out there, surrounded by flat fields. Not a good scenario if there was lightning. I'd need to get low to the ground... I started eyeing the shallow ditches on each side of the road, wondering whether lying in a wet ditch was any smarter than standing up in a lightning storm. And we've had flooding lately... Was there an open barn within running distance?

But then the storm hit, and it was snow, not rain, and immediately I felt better about the situation. You rarely get lightning with snowstorms. So with hard little pellets pinging my face, I strode along, enjoying myself, and got home half an hour later with no harm done.

Refreshing, invigorating, lovely.

Hyperbole and a Half by Allie Brosh

I just reread this book, which is a zany but perceptive commentary on life, and the section on "Thoughts and Feelings" hit me particularly hard. I don't often laugh aloud over a book, but it was hilarious because it's so true. I especially liked these comments: 

"...a majority of the feelings I feel are simply a reaction to reality not complying with my arbitrary set of rules"; 

"I am incensed that reality has the audacity to do some of the things when I CLEARLY don't want those things to happen"; 

"It feels unfair when the other things in the world refuse to be governed by my justice system"; 

"I don't like when I can't control what reality is doing."

That just about nails it.

Holy Week

I try not to get political in this blog, but at some point, you just have to call out evil for what it is.  As we approach Easter, the time when we celebrate the Atonement of Christ, Hegseth is directing there to be no quarter shown, which is a war crime. He is publicly praying for U.S. troops to be violent against those who "don't deserve" mercy...in the name of Jesus Christ. The One who taught "blessed are the merciful." The U.S. has threatened to target desalination stations in Iran, actually considering attacking a country's drinking water. This would also be a war crime. They're intentionally cutting Cuba off from vital resources, knowing full well that innocent civilians will die. I have heard it called a genocide. The only oil tanker that has been allowed through was Russian.

Those who "just follow orders" to carry out illegal acts are not immune to prosecution. They will be held just as accountable as their leaders. That is because we expect them to know the law and abide by it, to discern when an order is illegal. I am bewildered, dismayed, horrified by what is being allowed to happen. I would remind elected officials that, in the face of obvious crime, inaction can be considered just as culpable as action.

The Ad for Tai Chi Walking Made Me Laugh

My Facebook feed has lately included several ads for Tai Chi walking for people of a "certain age," and one of the phrases they keep repeating is that I'll be unrecognizable by next month. As if I have a need to go incognito or something.

Do you think if it really works, I could slip out the back door and make a run for it without anyone noticing?

Rising Storm

The wind woke me at three a.m.,

squeezing the house until its joints creaked,

stripping the yard of last year's leaves, scraping it clean.

I wanted to run out into it, stand with face upturned and arms out,

to let its buffeting scour me too, blast away my melancholy, anxiety,

to remind me how puny the world's worries are, compared to its glorious might.

I yearned for the wind to strip away all but hope, leave me fresh and clean, empowered.

But it was dark and cold, and everyone else slept, so I retreated

back under the blanket, curled, clenched like a fist,

and just listened to its roar.

Another successful concert with the Burlington Welsh Ladies Chorus

On the weekend, I performed with the Welsh choir I joined, as guests of the Burlington Welsh Male Chorus. It was held in a beautiful United Church with amazing stained glass windows. We took turns singing (shuffling on and off the stage), and did three songs with both choirs together. 

It's a wonderful thing to sing with the men, those wonderful Welsh tenors, plus the sternum-shaking organ and the multi-coloured light streaming in the windows. So satisfying to be able to use the language again and to sing the Welsh national anthem at full volume with other people.

I'd been practising diligently since Christmas to get ready, since we have to sing "off book" (no sheet music to cheat from). I'm pleased to say I remembered everything, it all went well, and we got a standing ovation at the end.

Tonight is our next practice, and I have 8 new songs to learn, in addition to a handful of familiar warm-ups. Whee! This choir will be a test of my memory skills, I see.