Old love letters

I've been cleaning out old drawers, boxes and rubbermaid containers. There's too much paperwork breeding in my house. I don't really need the old gas receipt with the outline of Heaven Coming Down written on it. I have the actual book.

We've moved a lot so things do tend to get weeded out but the other day I found copies of two old love letters I'd written, one when I was 15, the other 20 years later. Setting aside the maturity factor and life experience of said love, I found the writing differences astounding. Back when I was 15 and in love with my best friend, I poured every romantic cliche onto the paper. While the affection was mutual the intensity wasn't but we remained close even after his dad was transferred to Nova Scotia. If I remember correctly it was our move to Ontario that finally ended things. Reading my interpretation of that youthful yearning was entertaining;not for the sentiment so much as the way I expressed it.

I used phrases like "trifle nervous" and "heart hammered beneath your hand". Silly juvenile words full of youthful anticipation. I had forgotten how innocent that love was, even if it was sweet enough to induce a diabetic coma. I put that notebook back into the box.

The other love letter was full of passion, smart phrases and brilliant analogies. I'm pretty sure I kept it because I liked how well written it was; funny, playful, cute and light. It really was well-written but, there was no passion, no yearning and most of the sentiment, while brilliantly crafted, was a lie. Maybe not a lie, but a definite misdirection. My emotions for that person ran far deeper than suggested by all the splashing the letter did across of the surface of that pond. I shredded the second letter.

Sometimes, I think too much, try too hard for the right phrase, look too hard for analogies. All the clear, true emotion gets lost in the clutter of expression. It's something to remember as I input all the revisions in Hell to Pay. It's something to keep in mind when I start the next project, and all the projects to come.

Hockey is our game

I'm writing this on the eve of the Olympic Gold Medal match-up between Canada and the United States. This is a big deal for us. It's a big deal for them too. Hockey is a great sport played, and highly valued, in many countries around the world.

For Canadians it's our national sport. We play it all across the country and every province has it's own championship. Entire states in the US haven't a clue what the fuss is all about. To be fair, not every single Canadian is a champion of the sport either.

It's a lot more personal for me. Growing up in the military and moving from community to community; hockey was a constant. In Germany, we'd go to the arena and watch my dad play teams from all over Europe. At Christmas, Santa brought us hockey sticks so that we could play in the lane with Dad. We were young kids living in a foreign land staying connected to home through a game my father grew up playing with his father and three brothers.

In Kingston, we were old hands at road hockey. Glenn Holland made me play in net because I scored more than he did. If only I'd known then that some day women would play hockey in the Olympics. I was a fairly sharp goaltender, as much for self-preservation as through skill. As a family, we'd go to OHL (Ontario Hockey League) games and watch young stars of the future.

In Summerside, PEI, I only dated hockey players. That wasn't saying much. I think every young man in our community played that sport. We drove all over the province with the Away team. My favourite rink was the one that had live trees as the corner posts of the building. On our way home we'd stop at the one and only McDonald's on the Island for a milkshake. To this day, I can't believe the machine never once worked. We'd laugh and sing all the way home. Because the military was such a small world, one of the forwards was a young man I'd played road hockey with in one of our German postings. I loved hockey so much I tried out to be a referee. I cannot tell you how many hours Dana and Gerald Walker spent trying to teach me to skate as fast as the boys so that I could keep up. I never mastered that stop without toe picks. Who knew then that balance was so far out of my control? But I aced the written part of the referee test.

We moved to a small Northern Ontario town when my dad retired from the military to become a teacher. I was a teenager and had no point of reference with these new kids. Most of them had grown up together. But they had an arena. The entire town supported that team and I made friends through a sport I knew as well as I knew my own name. The articles I wrote for the local paper helped me get into college.

I studied Broadcast Journalism at Niagara College and fought hard to be one of the first years lucky enough to cover the local hockey games. Arenas were my comfort zone. I grew up on the sport. I'd watched Tony McKegney play as a junior in Kingston, long before he hit the NHL and Buffalo. While I wasn't a stats junkie, I still knew my stuff. I convinced the teachers to give one of the cameramen and I the same hockey test. Whoever passed could do camera for the next game. I won - by a huge margin. In my second year, I was doing colour commentary for the local cable channel and getting credit in school. Two years later, crew was being determined by knowledge of the game, not gender, as it should have been all along.

I'm not sure where that passion for hockey went. Over the last few years, other things have taken precedence. I haven't been to the arena in far too long. Thanks to the Olympics all the memories of hockey in all those towns has come rushing back. This is OUR game, in large part because of geography. We play it on ponds, on roads, in lanes, arenas and television. We connect over this sport. No matter how far from home,or where our travels take us, strangers become friends and we bond over this game.

While I know the following is merely a commercial selling a product, the music at the 48 second mark perfectly illustrates how I feel where hockey is concerned. Enjoy. And no matter who wins the Olympic Gold Medal, hockey will remain Our Game. It's a lot more fun now that the rest of the world plays with us.

Casey heals

Last week, as declared, I finished editing Hell to Pay. Some of those pages have layers of ink, and arrows to other pages but it's done. I'll input it next week and send it out.

Because I always travel with manuscript pages in my purse, I was able to get a lot of work done on Heal, Casey this week. You never know when there will be time to kill in a line, or while waiting for an appointment. I tend to do a lot of editing on my lunch and work breaks. I used to have days in which to write without distraction. Now my schedule is much busier and I take every opportunity I can to work on Casey's book.

I have a very strong vision, not only of the book's format, but also of its marketing. It helps that he continues to improve with every swim. Last week, he was running around the house without his brace on - four feet on the floor. Then my dad, Casey's entire reason for being, moved. The dog spun his head, then pivoted on his left foreleg. The bad leg. The one he uses for balance but doesn't trust. That's the leg he shifted all his weight onto and used to turn his body to watch His Boy's movement through the house. That was a Big Moment in the evolution of his healing.

When we went for his hydrotherapy treatment at Canine Wellness on Thursday, the book came up in conversation. They were curious about my motivation for writing it.

Not only his therapist was there but also the wonderful Janice who created his brace. I think if we'd found Pawsability when Casey first came to us, his progress would have been a lot quicker and less traumatic. He owes his improvement primarily to the women at those two facilities.

There are a lot of injured pets out there who can benefit from our experience. There are also a lot of physically challenged people like my mom who can benefit from having a pet with demanding needs. They heal each other.

Celebrate love

I'm not a big fan of Valentine's Day. It's another one of those commercial holidays designed to put pressure on people to spend obscene amounts of money. Nor can "they" make up their minds to whom the holiday is aimed. If it's for lovers then why are there all those cards for Grandma, cousins and co-workers? I doubt the dog cares if he gets a card or heart shaped bed, though I suspect he'd be thrilled with more treats and a belly rub.

What I can get behind is a holiday celebrating love - as long as there aren't a bunch of requirements to prove said love. Today I'm helping homeless pets find love in new homes. In years past, I've invited all my friends to drop by for a bowl of pasta, glass of wine and tons of laughter so that we could celebrate the love we feel for each other. Last night, I went out for dinner with a friend and my niece.

Tonight, I will finish writing the love story between a demon and an injured adventurer. Finally.

Enjoy your day, however you choose to spend it.

Heroes

The Olympics are coming. You're going to hear the word Hero a lot. I suspect what they really mean is role model. Someone to look up to and admire. Though there are times when Olympic athletes not only inspire their fellow countrymen but also change the way the world views them.

I've been thinking about heroes. About the strong Alpha males who grace the fronts of pocketbooks. Tough guys who lead nations to greatness, save the world, get the girl. They entertain me in the realm of fiction but I suspect life with one of those heroes would be annoying in the extreme. Extreme being the operative word.

How come accountants, garbage men and busboys rarely appear as the main character? They manage crises and get the girl. Their lives may even involve the occasional high drama. Who says their lives aren't interesting?

Basically heroes are protagonists but the word hero has come to mean so much. Our expectations of such men are high. They are well nigh on perfect. And while that's hard to take in real life, for some reason we desire it in fiction.

I wonder how many of our real-life heroes would translate onto the written page. When I think of the men I admire who have changed the world, few of them did it through sword play or intrigue. Many of them quietly and steadfastly stood their ground for what they believed in.

Hero. What does it mean to you?

Day to day

There's an Inglis sign along the Gardiner Expressway that's been there as long as I can remember. There's always some profound,amusing - or both - statement running along the bottom. I was look forward to reading that sign when I go to Toronto. It's also a good marker for me as it usually means I've almost reached my destination. The other day it said something along the lines of Anyone can handle a crisis, it's how we handle the day-to-day living that shows our strength.

That struck a chord with me. I'm in hard edits right now. It's the day-to-day of living with his injuries that drives my hero insane in Hell to Pay. It's the day-to-day therapy with Casey that will determine his long-term recovery.

With the right resources and skills anyone can swoop down and save people from a situation. But the day-to-day stuff of living is hard. Particularly when you're so involved you can't see the challenges inherent in daily wear-and tear.

I've been exhausted, miserable and unproductive because I felt overwhelmed by all that needs to be done on a daily basis. I started making lists. Each day has a fresh list. Some things get carried over but crossing things off helps me get a handle on the day-to-day stuff so that I live instead of perform tasks. Every day I write. Might not be much, given all else, but it's quantifiable. It charts my progress but doesn't put pressure on me.

The list isn't a must-do thing. It's a reminder. LAUGH is there in capital letters. Because sometimes I'm immersed in "things" and lose sight of how funny life can be. Casey helps with that. Everything, including his therapy, is a source of joy for him.He's an attention hound. Loves it. Seeks it. Demands it. Good or bad he doesn't care. His joy reminds me that chores can be fun.

As I continue to write every day, it occurs to me I had it all wrong. I thought I wasn't writing because I was miserable. As my mood improves, I suspect I was miserable because I wasn't writing.

Or laughing as I lived day-to-day.

Pressure

It's a cold wet miserable day here and I'd like nothing more than to emulate Ky. He's lying on the bed, occasionally turning his head to stare out the window. The rest of the time he drifts in and out of sleep. Not a bad way to spend the day.

Instead I'm trying to knock a bunch of stuff off my list before I head into work. Phone calls to return,emails to answer, chapter to revise, squares to knit, laundry to do. I got both of my assignments done last night and sent out.

I didn't write my blog because I felt all this pressure from things that are not getting finished. I was afraid I'd spew little toxic clouds all over the place and they're hell to get out of the carpet. Not to mention, no one wants to hear me whine about my life. Really, it's not that bad. It's just too crowded. And before you suggest I remove something, let me assure you I've done that. Remember how I failed to write for three months? That didn't help. The tick of the clock reverberated in my belly all that time. Not pleasant.

So I took a quick trip to Toronto yesterday. I verbally erupted all over Stashaholic then settled in for a lovely afternoon at The Purple Purl . Look at these walls.

I fondled yarn, even picked some out for a sweater I've been wanting to make for some time. I watched the owners, Jennifer and Mikko move through the shop ensuring everyone had what they wanted or needed, engaging in conversation, directing students downstairs to class and refilling coffee mugs. As the crowd slowly dissipated, the circle shrank to a handful and the political discussion was neatly deflected, I felt the pressure ease.

I pulled out the project I'm working on that needs to be handed off to the organizer by Friday. When I was asked what I was doing for the Olympic Challenge, I opted for WIP wrestling. My whole life seems to be about works-in-progress these days. It feels like nothing ever gets finished.

Mikko invited me to join the year long challenge. Starting February 1st, one has to knit all the projects in one book. Stashaholic is doing a book of lace patterns. I think she's nuts. But I could feel the words bubbling up out of my throat to accept that challenge. You all know how well I work with deadlines and challenges. But as the pressure in my belly mounted with those words, I managed to decline. I said I would finish all the projects - knitting,spinning, and writing - that I currently have on the go in the next year.

Driving home, I thought of so many places to go with the Sweater Book. Names, scenarios, plot points. But none of that starts until Hell to Pay and Heal, Casey are revised and out the door.

2010 is the year of finishing. It's the only way to siphon off some of the pressure so that I enjoy all that I'm doing.

What happened?

It wasn't all that long ago that I used to jump out of bed every morning and head straight to the computer so that I could write. No matter how long I had worked the previous day or how tired I was from the night before, I wrote every single day. And loved it.

Lately, not so much. In fact, hardly at all. Not loving it. Not writing. I'm not sure why that is. I've been busier, less focused and more frustrated and still written. My excuse tends to be along the lines of catching up, other commitments and even industry disappointments.

I went to a writer's conference a few years ago with a reader friend who is an accountant. After three days of industry talks, of listening to writers discuss their craft and their business, she thought we were nuts. There was no financial incentive for us to continue writing. I won't tell you what she thought of how publishing works as a business. She was appalled; as much as my easy acceptance as at the entire industry. Believe me when I say it was a long and interesting car ride back to Canada.

NYT bestselling author Jennifer Crusie often says that the only control you have over this business is your writing. Once you send it in, it is literally out of your hands what happens next. Focus on the writing, make it the best damn thing you've ever written each and every time.

For whatever reason, my focus is shot. Maybe it's a combination of factors. Fear of success? Fear of failure? Both? Neither? Mental breakdown?

All I know is that either I get back to it or shut up about it.

I've always worked best when I'm accountable so I'm going to use twitter for the rest of the month for daily posts on my writing productivity. By this time next week I'll either have a substantial offering in revisions or a really fantastic excuse. 'cause my imagination still works. It's just my discipline that's missing.

A cautionary tale

Casey is running around in his brace, pouncing through the snow and generally living like any normal dog. His therapies continue and despite an overlong break due to kennel cough(him) and my usual insane schedule, he's improving again.

So last night we went off to celebrate a traditional Christmas Eve dinner with wonderful friends(postponed like everything else was this past holiday season). We gave each of the dogs a marrow bone and while it did run through my mind that we shouldn't leave them unsupervised with the bones we did so anyway.

A few hours later we came home and proceeded to let the dogs out into the -22C yard. Casey was flipping his bone in his mouth. Except that it didn't hit the floor. The bone had slipped over his lower canine teeth and was wedged on his lower jaw.



Given the amount of swelling and his anxiety, it hadn't been there very long. We moved his tongue out from beneath the bone but it didn't give us enough room to move it back up and over his teeth.



A trip to the emergency vet clinic was necessary. They put him under anesthetic for 10 minutes and sawed off the bone. Casey came home an hour later. According to the vet this is not all that uncommon. The hollowed out ring slips over the lower canines but can't come back. Swelling of tongue and mouth is the most dangerous part of the whole trauma.

Be very careful when giving your dog a marrow bone. Make sure it's too long for a tongue or teeth to get stuck inside. Monitor the dog in case the bone splinters and gets caught in teeth or jaw. Know the phone number for the emergency vet clinic off by heart like I do.

Casey's mouth is still swollen and tender today. He's eating soft food and lots of snow. All marrow bones have been removed from the premises.

It always comes back to -

Perspective, of course.

While most people were relaxing over the holidays, I worked. It's the busiest season for retail - and this year was one of the busiest. I've never been run off my feet the way I was the last two weeks. I don't know about your economy but ours is booming. People are spending again.

All that spending gave me the impression that the recession is on its way out. It could be a false impression which brings me to my point. It's all a matter of perspective, gained on personal experience.

I needed that reminder about perspective.

Last week I read a jacket cover that was the synopsis for one of my books. The one-of-a-kind-no-one-has-ever-thought-of-this-angle book. Apparently I was wrong. And that was hard to take. Why finish up and submit something that isn't unique after-all?

I'll tell you why. Because my voice and my way of telling a story is like no one else's in the world. My perspective, if not my idea, is unique. It's based on my life experiences, my world-view and the angle at which I figuratively and literally stand upon this earth.

That sense of perspective is why some writers and stories resonate with some people and not others. Some of us are drawn to perspectives wildly divergent from our own while others prefer the more familiar. Regardless of perspective we all have a unique one.

Put ten people at the scene of an accident and they will all vary slightly in their witness accounts. We are programmed to see what we expect to see for one thing. But if two people are standing in roughly the same spot, their range of vision is still not exactly the same. Those millimeters apart can mean a world of difference.

I'm going to submit the one-of-a-kind-no-one-has-ever-thought-of-this-angle book. There are thousands of successful versions of Romeo and Juliet. While I'm not suggesting my story is on par with Shakespeare, I do think it deserves the same chance to be heard.

Happy Holidays - and what they all mean

Santa Claus
The dhredel
Christmas trees
Pomegranites
The Nativity

All of them are symbols of the holiday season. Hanukkah, Yule, Christmas, Kwanza - December is a sacred month for several belief systems. Understanding why some thing are relevant, and to which belief system can be a challenge for any child, even more so for an autistic child who has trouble making connections.

My friend asked me to search for one book that explained all of the season's stories in simple easy to understand language. She wanted a book that not only dealt with the belief systems but also discussed the numerous stories that are told at this time of year - Father Christmas, Black Pete, and Frosty just to name the first three that popped into my head.

I couldn't find such a book. So my challenge to you, and myself, is to share a holiday story or tradition. I'm going to spend the year gathering them all together(a task I suspect could actually take much longer) as a gift for my friend's son next year. Different cultures celebrate in a multitude of ways. This young man, is questioning all of them. I'd like to give him some answers.

Have a wonderful holiday season!

Need to know

Lani Diane Rich is a wonderful time sink for me. Her books and blogs always make me think, and laugh. Or laugh and think. It doesn't matter in which order but there's insight mixed in with the amusing bits.

The other day she wrote this about a self published book that is brilliant. It's called Need to Know by Christine Merrill. And I got sucked into the excerpt on Christine's website. So deeply entranced was I that I was almost late for work.

Need to know is a self published book by a published author. Apparently the book defies marketing's ability to slot it into genres. It's a little bit of several things. It's unfortunate that publishing has those parameters because they're losing a great story. It's fast-paced, descriptive and I was hooked right away. It is a good read. But don't believe me, or Lani. Go check it out for yourself. Then go tell Christine.

John Grisham started out self-published and selling books out of his car trunk. It's a lot faster, and less suspicious, to use the Internet these days to help Christine sell copies.

Creativity

I've been crazy busy trying to get all of my holiday gifts made. Playing with lots of fibre and yarn has fed my creativity quite a bit in the last few weeks. Something about all of that colour and texture just makes me happy.

On Sunday I went to the Fiber Garden - and didn't buy a thing.

The guys had some beautiful fibre - bison, Icelandic and targhee. There were several skeins of merino hand dye that I adored but they were laceweight. I'm not proficient in lace yet.

One of the other things that stopped me was the realization that I have two writing projects that desperately need my attention. My spinning wheel inspires a great deal of material for the sweater book but even she's been silent the last couple of weeks. Until all of the holiday gifts are complete I have to manage my time very carefully.

One thing I've been sure to do is spend a few minutes every day with my writing. I've alternated between Heal Casey and Hell to Pay. Not much gets done by this method but progress, no matter how minor, is a step forward instead of standing still.

Right now my creativity is racing in many different directions. I'll let you know where it all leads.

Reasons I haven't written this week

I've knit four scarves, two hats and one shawl.

Casey just did a head stand in order to fit the entire earth in his mouth. He used his brace slightly for leverage. Ky has the world now.

Gene Kelly in a sport coat wandering the fields of Scotland. (Brigadoon)

Cary Grant striding up the gangplank in a full suit and tie, complete with hat (Houseboat)

Fred and Ginger. Forget Dancing with the Stars - these two set the standard over seventy years ago.

All that romance, gentlemanliness and grace have made it difficult to look at my crude demon with any enthusiasm. Truth be told, those movies were great research. I need to get away from the hard core erotic word choices in some of my scenes. They give the wrong flavour for the book. These three classic movie stars may be old-fashioned but their wit and style are full of taste.

I'll get back to Hell to Pay shortly. Right after I watch North by Northwest

Computer vacation

I've taken a serious vacation from my computer the past week. I've been editing on hard copy. There's something about all the handwritten words scribbled in purple all over the neatly typed pages. It's a visual cue that the story is gaining substance. While I still haven't settled onto one project, progress is being made on both fronts.

I don't know about you but when so much is going on inside my head, I get quieter. I can chitchat with the best of them but once it's time to get down to work, I do it. Less time is spent in my own conversations when I'm listening to my characters. I used to process out loud. The sound of my own voice often led me to some interesting insights.

I'm not sure what changed but lately I need silence. I need the peace that comes from the hearing pen scrape across the page. The crisp Autumn air fills my lungs, the rain splashes against the leaves and my brain gets to work. Perhaps it's the continued mild weather. Perhaps it's the noise in the rest of my life. Whatever caused this new working method, I have no real desire to examine it too closely. It's working. I'll switch it up if this stops.

In the meantime, don't expect much in the way of profound thoughts. I'm distracted with the work in front of me.

Platitudes

"Confidence - fake it til you feel it."
"If you don't believe in yourself, no one else will." Which is usually followed by "It's not rocket science. Anybody can write a book."

It's amazing to me that we even continue to write. Through life dramas, illness, jobs, and day-to-day living, authors still carve out enough time in their day,whether it's pre-dawn or past the witching hour, to create little worlds in which the rest of us can escape.

I'm sure you could sense my growing despondence with the lack of progress in my own writing career. A lot of it was generated by unrelated issues that crept into all aspects of my life. While most people were encouraging about the writing, one friend was about two sentences away from sharing the idea of monkeys producing Shakespeare, aka the 10,000 monkey theorem.

That's when I took a good hard look at why I write; at the sense of accomplishment I feel when the story is told; how powerful it is to create worlds and manipulate characters; how satisfying it is to have total control over that one aspect of my life, whether it comes to my attitude, commitment, dedication or schedule.

What drives me back to the computer time and again is not the platitudes plastered all over office walls and self-help books, but rather the need to know where my imaginary friends are going and how they're going to get there.

Both my curiosity and imagination must be appeased.

Remembrance Day

Regardless of politics we pay tribute to these people's lives today - and every day

Dilemma

I spent the afternoon at The Purple Purl with great friends. On the car ride up, a passionate conversation ensued about the sweater book. Book or film? What serves the story better? How best should it be told? Think of all the colours. They are so rich and visual.

Once there, other conversations quickly took precedence while I gave Stashaholic the opportunity to convert more wondering souls to the beauty of spinning. She had a few new drop spindles that made their way into my bag. Sadly, she made me give them back.

I pulled out my Icelandic wool and own heartier drop spindle to show my film buddy. She's always argued for the film version of the sweater book and today was no exception. How could mere words capture the textures and vibrancy of the fleece, yarn and community in which we were immersed?

I'm truly torn. There are compelling arguments for both mediums. Pen and paper are readily available; not to mention self-reliant. It's just me and my thoughts to consider. The film requires a crew and budget to accommodate a trip to Iceland for all of us.

The thing is I have the entire synopsis broken down into scenes, turning points, and character arcs which can be tweaked for either/or. Finally my friend turned to me and spewed the very words I fed her back in May at HotDocs "Write a proposal." Maybe that will help clarify the dilemma. I hope so.

Contemplating

When something doesn't work it's madness to continue. That's not to say one should shift goals but rather the method by which one hopes to obtain those goals. Our local's writer's group did a wonderful experiment several years ago to increase one's productivity. We each made a list of our writing limitations (ie. I can only write on the computer as the click of the keys triggers a creative response) After examining the list our challenge was to write in as many different venues, with as many different tools(pen, paper,sand, branch,pencil, etc.) as possible. Productivity for the group overall increased and mine was shot from a cannon now that I didn't need the laptop.

I feel that I'm standing at another crossroads. For the past year I've been writing something completely different - Casey's non-fiction story. It's hard work, no two ways about it. In one sense I'm merely recording the healing process but in another I'm analyzing our interaction, studying what works and what doesn't then evaluating our roles in all of it. I can't hide behind fiction but have to stare the bald truth in the face and acknowledge the ways in which I've failed as well how I've helped triumph. Honesty is painful.

At the same time, it helps people connect to the subject matter immediately. As soon as you read first person, you're immersed in the story. As a reader and a writer, my preference is for third person. I like omniscience. I'm the person, who not only wants to know everything, often thinks she does.

In the last year as I've worked on Casey's story, while playing with another paranormal and a women's fiction, I've noticed my reading habits have undergone a huge transformation. One of my favourite books in that time frame was The Host. I was shocked at how quickly, and deeply, I identified with the main character given that it was written in first person by an alien. One of my other favourite series was Outlander, also first person. And let's not forget The Art of Racing in the Rain" - another first person point-of-view, even if it is a dog's.

All of which leads me to the conclusion that if readers aren't connecting with my third person protagonists, perhaps it's time to consider first person. That's a daunting task for someone who likes to be omniscient.

Nomads

Everyone knows the old adage, "write what you know". My characters are nomads. Most of them haven't lived in a place longer than five years, and most view homes are transitory places of abode. One is just the same as the next. Their attachments are to people not houses. Nea takes that to the next level by not residing anywhere.

I'm not quite that bad but I did grow up on the move. Military families are like that. One never knows when marching orders will come in or where they are sending you. Apart from family and prized possessions, it's a new life every few years.

I'm not only third generation Canadian but my great-grandparents weren't exactly stationary back in Scotland either. My paternal great-grandmother moved every few years as well. The only two siblings who were born in the same village as each other were the twins. Given that great great Grandpa Campbell married a MacDonald may account for some of that moving. But for the most part, I think I just came from people with a low boredom threshold. Both maternal and paternal grandparents changed residences several times in their lifetimes.

As much as I love this area of Niagara, as much as I consider it home and always have (most of my paternal family settled in and around here) we're not exactly well known in the community. We can't trace our lineage back to the founding of the town.

My Dad's cousin's family settled here a little more solidly than our branch. They owned and operated a butcher shop on the main street that it seems like half the town worked for at one point or another in their life. They were support beams, not pillars, for the church. The minister went so far as to call my Aunt Marg a saint the other day at her funeral. Their roots were firmly settled into the ground here. When someone expressed surprise the other day that I was related to them, that they were my people, I felt this clutch in my belly. I was able to see my context in the web of this small town. It was both unfamiliar and welcome.

In that moment, I truly understood what is missing from Nea's life. What few tenuous connections she does have to people and places have all been torn from her. I'm not writing what I know but rather what I thought I knew. What a relief. Who wants to live like a rejected demon?