Family Lines

stories for you

Tag: corporate legacy writing (page 10 of 18)

Making friends

Thursday and Lisa.

Thursday and her friend Lisa.

I’m missing a family member today. Thursday, our cat, died last week. I wrote about how I met her a few weeks ago but I hadn’t had a chance to post her story. Here is it now.

She’s orange and white. Yes, a female and that’s unusual for an orange cat. Her name is Thursday and she’s 19 years old. And yes, that’s old for a cat found on the street several years ago.

Thursday has a beige bump on her nose that’s a different colour then the rest of her pink nose. She wears a shiny gold collar that’s a bit bold for a senior. When I first met Thursday five years ago, she was just the guy who I was dating’s cat.

Back then, she was plump and her fur was shiny. She ran here and there and jumped up and down. In the summer, she hung out on the balcony and watched the birds. She never tried to leap into the air and catch any of them. She’s too dignified for that. She’s not too elegant to beg for cheese though. She gets a piece every morning and evening and chows down on it quickly and then looks for more.

Five years ago, she didn’t really have much to do with me. She would glare at me from her spot on her favourite chair and then close her eyes again. Blocking me from her world.

When I moved in with my boyfriend Thursday would move away from me whenever I sat next to her on the chesterfield. She didn’t like me being in her space. She especially didn’t like me sitting beside her dad. That space was reserved for her and not me.

Getting treats on Christmas '14.

Getting treats on Christmas ’14.

Gradually as the months passed, she began to sit near me. Then next to me. Then on me. But only when her dad was not around. We spend many of our days together as I work from home a lot. She likes to supervise my writing and keeps me on deadline. Okay, her deadline. When it’s 6 p.m. she makes sure I know it’s time to give her treats and cheese.

Now she is having trouble springing onto the couch and is losing weight. Her fur no longer catches the light but is dull and coarse. When my husband and I sit on the couch Thursday wants cuddles from me. Even though her dad is right there. She loves me and I love her and I couldn’t imagine a day without her.

Please excuse me

note.

Run away runway

Me landing at the Waterville Airport, NS.

Me and my Cessna landing at the Waterville Airport, NS.

In my writing workshops, I talk about emotional writing and how to convey sentiment without using words like angry or happy. The best way to express feelings in writing is to actually describe what these emotions bring to you or your character’s face, body laanguage and voice.

Next, my participants do a writing exercise where we take an emotion word and write about the feeling without using the word. We write for 10 minutes and then share our stories. We then have to guess which emotion we each wrote about. Can you guess mine?

High up in my airplane, I can see the landing strip. But I can’t land. Every time I try to make it back to earth, the wind pushes me off course. Off to the side of the runway. I’ve tried three times to touch down.

One, two, three.

Sweat beads on my forehead. I’m getting hotter and hotter as the gusts use me as their toy. Their plaything to be thrown into the air and kept captive until they’re bored of me.

How am I going to put this plane back on the ground? Stupid wind. You’re going to be the death of me.

Love at first sight

cat.

Tomas

I saw him from across the room. A handsome guy with an intense stare. I decided to go over and say hello. That’s when he head-butted me.

It was my introduction to Tomas, a cat at the Fort Smith Animal Shelter. He knew he was going to be mine the moment he laid eyes on me. And he wasn’t about to let me go.

I was trying to pat the other kitties in the shelter’s cat room. There were a lot of them and everyone needed at least a couple of hugs. Tommy didn’t think so. He wiggled his way into my arms and told the others to scram.

This was my first visit to the shelter since I had moved to the Northwest Territories a couple of months before. Dixie Penner, who runs the shelter, also worked with me at the paper I had come to be the editor of: the then Slave River Journal. She suggested I volunteer at the animal sanctuary and so I was there looking around.

Tom followed me around, hissed at the other kitties, and mooed at me to pay attention to him only. (Tomas doesn’t meow, he makes cow noises but since he’s from the north we say he’s making bison noises.) After that day I started coming back to visit him and play with the other cats, well, if I could get near any of them. I walked the dogs too.

A few weeks after helping out, Dixie asked me if I wanted to foster Tom, a squat boy with several shades of grey granite on his white fur body. He wasn’t getting along with the other cats and needed to be on his own. I asked my landlords if I could bring him home and they said OK so I said OK to hosting Tomas for a while.

dog.

One of the dogs I used to walk. She was eventually adopted.

He moved in one November afternoon. When there was snow on the subarctic ground and the sun was beginning to hide for most of the day. I thought he’d be a regular guy, hang out with me, eat some food and then go to sleep at night. But oh no, he turned into a bad guy.

Tomas would run full-tilt at me and then attack whatever part of my body he arrived at first. Usually my legs. He was vicious and for the first two weeks I walked around with giant pillows so he could assault them and not me. One night I got a nasty surprise in the dark just as I turned out the light. Tommy leapt up and grabbed my arm, scratching and tearing until I managed to pull him off.

Even my friends were afraid of him. When one buddy came over Tom would hop into his lap, waiting for pats. He wouldn’t get many as my friend was frozen solid, afraid to move a muscle in case Tom sank his fangs into his flesh.

Family_Lines_Tomas_oneOver a few months Tommy became a sort-of nice boy. He stopped the attacks and bit only when I left him on his own for a while. He’s a very social cat. After a year I decided to adopt him because even though his poster was all over the territory, even in Yellowknife, no one has asked about him. (I’ve never told him this though.) He’s a great guy now after mellowing for 11 years. Just don’t whistle around him. He’ll bite you.

Target, Zellers and Grade 7

bus.

Here comes the bus!

I walked past some Calgary seniors last Thursday lamenting the loss of Target. It sounded like they were truly upset. However, one woman asked, “What was wrong with Zellers? I miss that place.” I have to agree with her. While Target and Zellers are only two of the many retailers fading away, the Mom and Pop clothing stores that used to be open on our main streets are almost all gone. But not from some of our memories. Target’s closing caused a very buried story to resurface.

Living in rural Nova Scotia meant my two younger sisters and I had to take the bus to and from school. We waited for the bus to pick us up in all types of weather: wind, rain, sleet or snow and had to be prepared to fight these elements. Therefore, from November to March, we were dressed in snow gear.

In the fall of Grade 7 my mom took us shopping in Windsor, Nova Scotia. It was in a family-run clothing store that I met and fell in love with a matching ski jacket and pants: bright yellow and puffy with a faux-leather finish. The coat had a big late 80s asymmetrical collar and a large and shiny brass belt – that buckled in the front. Fabulous! My middle sister got the same suit in blue.

These were expensive purchases at the time and my mother told me the yellow wasn’t a “practical colour.” I guess that meant it wasn’t flattering. There was nothing she could say to turn my head from the sunshine suit. It was mine.

“Looking good!” I thought to myself when I got home and tried on my new winter gear again. The trousers were slightly flared at the bottom to fit over my boots and the jacket cinched nicely at the waist so I did not appear all one shape: blobish. I wished I didn’t have to take my snow and ice clothing off – ever. I wanted everyone to admire my spiffy duds.

Soon after getting my new gear, I was outside Wolfville Junior High School waiting for the bus to take me home. There was a crowd of country kids in the parking lot and I was the only one in a gorgeous and swanky ski suit. I was standing with my friend Angela talking about, what do you think? Boys. Then the guy I had a crush on, a townie, walked by.

Wolfville High.

Scene of the teenage humiliation.

I certainly remember his name because Angela began yelling it at the top of her lungs.

“Steve! Steve! The girl in the yellow ski suit likes you!”

When he turned around she pointed at me. Which she didn’t have to do, as I was the only one in a bright yellow, top to bottom, snowsuit. My face was bright red.

The snowbanks around the school were piled high and I wanted to dive into one and bury myself. But shame still would have found me, as my yellow snowsuit would have been a beacon to light the way. I wanted to rip off the garish trousers and throw the stupid jacket to the wind to be carried far, far, far away from me. Oh the teenage humiliation!

Angela finally shut up and Steve kept walking away. But I was left with hatred for my previously glamourous outfit. From then on I dreaded wearing it and being identified as “The girl in the yellow ski suit with the crush on Steve.”

Of course my parents weren’t going to let me buy something else and I was too big to trade suits with my sister. I just made sure every time I came and left school Steve was nowhere in sight. Even though you could see me coming from a mile away.

A simple resolution

Fireworks.Happy 2015!

I usually don’t make resolutions but I’m making an exception this year. It is: in 2015 I will notice the small stuff. Those little and small things that don’t really matter but in the scheme of things, really do. Things that make up the big things like the pink floating in the red and orange of a sunset. Or sunrise. Those lines of pigment that blend together and colour the start, and end, of a day.

I resolve to feel the wind on my skin and through my hair. To taste the food I eat. To savour each morsel on my tongue and not just chow down. I promise to listen to each word spoken to me. To speak with words thought out. To see the ants on the pavement and wonder where they’re going. To watch flowers open. To follow birds until they disappear into the clouds. To remember the small things are part of a bigger picture and give us a better description of life as a whole.

How I wrote my book

Slave River.

Flight flying over the Slave River in Fort Smith, N.W.T.

Yes, I’m touting my book again. As an indie writer and publisher, I have too. No one else is going to promote me except me. So give me a moment to toot my own horn.

The Raven named Flight and How She Learned to Fly centres on a raven from Fort Smith, N.T., a small town that I lived in for about three years. The big birds of the North are everywhere and while they scare some people, I like them. While walking to work through the snow on dark mornings the ravens would fly just above my head. I could hear their wings go swish, swish, swish, almost like a velvet skirt rustling, as the birds rose to the sky. I wondered where they were going and what they saw when they flew around the wilderness.

Ravens are also smart and stole food from the sled dogs chained up behind various homes. I’d watch as one raven distracted a dog and then a second raven snuck behind the canine and took kibble from its bowl. The dog was none the wiser.

I came up with the idea for my book sitting in a downtown Calgary lounge while on a work assignment. I wanted to create something that everybody could read, not just adults. So I started with the idea of a little raven not wanting to learn to fly. (As a private pilot, I had to learn how to fly once but my experience is much different than my raven’s.)

At first I was photoshopping my own images and cutting and pasting ravens in the photos.

Slave River.

The photo of the Slave River used for the last illustration.

But I didn’t like the way it looked. I found illustrator Helen Monwuba and provided her with pictures from around Fort Smith. (She’s in Nigeria.) She did an excellent job bringing my Canadian ravens to life in her art from Africa.

When the story and illustrations were complete I published my book. Now comes the hard part: selling it. The ebook is the cheapest option at $4.99 and the softcover is nice too but a bit more pricy at $32. That’s because each book needs to be printed and then shipped. Don’t let that stop you though. Go get a copy!

The Raven named Flight and How She Learned to Fly

Flight is a young raven born in Fort Smith in the Northwest Territories, Canada. She loves her family and hanging out in their comfy, cozy nest. When it comes time for Flight to spread her wings, she first has to overcome her fear of flying. Thanks to her parents, she finally leaves the nest.

Print book

Blurb: http://blur.by/1zZpZdi / $32.99 CAD without shipping

Amazon: http://www.amazon.com/gp/product/1320278310 / $28.58 US without shipping

Ebook: 4.99 CAD

Blurb: http://store.blurb.ca/ebooks/p43a9f931da2cda4398e5

Apple iBookstore: http://itunes.apple.com/ca/book/id950045042

 

Cooking up dreams

Marché Mövenpick in Toronto.

Marché Mövenpick in Toronto.

Walking past a downtown Calgary restaurant the other day I smelled something good. What wafted through a restaurant door, hitting my nostrils on the cool winter day, was a mixture of inviting and warm comfort food: tomatoes, fresh bread and a hint of cinnamon. Maybe not something you might think of together but for me it combined into a memory of the Marché Mövenpick in Toronto.

The Marché was just off Yonge Street and near Front Street, close to Lake Ontario. The restaurant was where my friends and I would go on chilly December Saturdays or freezing February evenings after dancing the night away in the late nineties. We were young and going to Ryerson University, taking demanding second degrees in fields like journalism and landscape architecture. We had the world by the throat. Ready to go once the gates of academia opened, letting us out to pursue anything and everything like ravenous monsters with wide-open jaws.

We were hungry. Hungry for life and hungry for a good, hearty (and cheap) meal. That’s what we would get at the Mövenpick. It was cafeteria-type place with lots of food stations so we could each get our fix of whatever we wanted to eat. From bruschetta to steak to waffles, it was there for the feasting. The three of us – me, Mo and R – would stash our mittens and heavy winter coats at a hard-to-get table and then go our separate ways in search of what would make us smile.

I truly can’t remember what I ate. Just that it was delicious. It was the atmosphere of the place I recall best. It was always a bit dark in the restaurant, dim, and with the low lighting it was dream-like for me. We were hovering in a different world, one that helped us escape the realities of school life for an hour or two.

It was always warm and cozy in the Marché. We abandoned our scarves and extra sweaters and toques in the tropical, lively restaurant, almost floating around we were so light. Unused to being weightless without all our winter gear holding us down to earth.

apartment.

Saying “hello” to a former apartment in Toronto. I lived here for a time during my Ryerson years.

Once back at our table, each with a different meal, our conversation would continue from 20 minutes before. Picking up from where we had left off before we sat down. We talked about boys, our classes, boys in our classes and eventually, our future careers. For me I would be a newspaper reporter, hopefully a foreign correspondent. Little did I know then that journalism would eventually seize up and stall. Forcing me to find another future. But at the time, the time at the Marché, everything was wide open. There were no limits. Everything was blue sky ahead.

The Mövenpick was where life was fresh and dreams were cooked along with the tomatoes and bread. When I smelled that familiar Marché smell the other day, many years and restaurants later, it sent me back to that time. I thought about how some of my dreams from then had come true, while others hadn’t. But life has turned out just the way I wanted.

Calgary sprawl

Family_Lines_aspensCold night. Black night. A bright moon. Its light slants between skinny, stark trees. Pale and naked. Bare of leaves. These are aspens. We speed past them in our car and the trees become barcodes found on packages you buy in the store.

The trees are up for sale too. To anyone who can afford to buy them. But they won’t be showcased or their beauty shared. Left in place for everyone to see. No. The aspens will be cut down. Razed to their roots. And big, ugly, soulless houses put in the once living green space.

Dressing like a “gangsta”

pen.For the past four weeks I’ve been spending some time at the Calgary Drop-In and Rehab Centre teaching a memoir writing workshop. Every Wednesday morning for about an hour a few people write around a table in the midst of a busy room buzzing with conversation and movement and a movie blaring on the TV in the corner. It’s not hard to block out the distractions: my participants are keen on learning how to craft their stories and ask a lot of questions.

The workshop is offered through This is My City (TMC). TMC is a non-profit society that brings art and people together no matter their income bracket or social status. As a TMC volunteer I’ve been offering my four-week memoir session to homeless and detox shelters for about two years now. Last week was my last trip to the Drop-In this fall.

We talked about using description, show: don’t tell, in our stories. For example: Janice was very angry. That’s telling. Janice was waving her fists in the air and her face was very red. That’s showing. Description paints the scene for the reader by proving details that appeal to the senses using the senses. What do you see? What do you smell? What do you hear? How do you feel? These bring a world to life in your story instead of just telling a reader what he or she should be experiencing.

I asked my Drop-In participants to describe something. One man decided to illustrate himself with words. Here is his piece:

I am a large teddy bear on steroids with long curly hair, a weathered looking face with an unwanted belly that travels in front, defying my efforts at reduction. This belly laughs at me, “Hah, hah!” it says. “Try and lose me, my friend.”

“I will lose you,” I retort, “one day.”

When I am in decent shape I dress “gangsta.” I dress in Ray-Ban, True Religion, FUBU. I look good, sexy. I’ve been taught to do that. I like the look.

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