St. Valintine Day, a Story – When They Leave The Nest

Daughter (2)The house is suddenly silent, even a pin drop echoes. A parent sits alone for the first time in years. What can one do but absorb the change. The heart aches for a time until one adjusts to the sudden silence that once was filled with cries, chatter, and laughter. Those were the days, now a mother’s cry. She sits on the rocking chair she once rocked her little one to sleep. Some days, she sits by the phone waiting for the child to call.

The father sits with his paper in hand like nothing changed. What must he be thinking? The child, settling in the new dwelling – not doorsteps away, but miles – is excited to be on ones own.

Oh, where has time gone? The gift of having a family; the sharing and the love that also comes with many changes when they leave the nest. How precious it is to have the love of family, to watch your children grow, to see them excited with every step they take. It is that time when they leave the nest that one will reminisce.

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The Travelling Preacher

It is 1972. The big, white tent sits on a large field in a remote settlement of slightly over 200 people, big and small. In the tent, the podium stands alone at the back, in the centre of the aisle. Rows of benches are set on each side facing it. The people flutter in. I walk behind the crowd and take a seat near the back. I could hardly see the front with the tall, dark-haired man in front of me.

I choose to go alone to pray: looking to find God, to let him know how things are going, to ask him to always be with me. I stay until I have my blessing from the travelling preacher. He extends his hand over my head. When others start falling and speaking in tongues, I leave. I fear for I don’t understand. My thought is they are having seizures. My heart pounds. My legs are quivering. I hurry out, leaving the travelling preacher and the big, white tent. The last words I hear are “God is here.”

A fragment of a memory so long ago. When I was young.

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When We Were Young

When we were young time seemed to stand still: nothing mattered and we played for hours. Remember those days? What stood out the most for you? One thing that stands out for me was when I learned to skate on a creek hardly big enough for anyone to play hockey on. I learned to skate like a boy because I copied the boys who dominated the creek. I couldn’t keep the skates straight because I had weak ankles. My skates were also too big but no matter what, I got to skate and that was a wonderful thing.

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Writing From The Heart

When I created the story of Ivy: The Stem of a Rose the biggest critics were people close to me; one suggesting that it was not good to start with this book. However, the more I thought about it the more I realized that I had started in the right direction. We may have come a long way as people with regard to tolerance and differences but it proves just how important it is to do this if just one person could think or say it. It also shows there is a stigma that is affecting the way people think and is influencing them. Writing from a perspective of a Metis should not matter. They say follow the heart and this is where my heart took me. It chose me as hard as that might be to believe. Furthermore, the more I fought it the harder it was for me to work on something else until I gave in and this was the outcome.

It can be called a calling, fate, or God’s will but whatever it is I did it by gut instinct. Anything that I succeeded in, I always felt good about and I still feel good about this, even when I receive discouraging comments. Thankfully, I also receive positive encouragement some of whom are educators and they love the story. Not to say that the ones who worried about the story thought it was bad but it is the insinuation of the story that proves existence of stigma. There are many types of stories out there that are about life situations and an aboriginal or Metis story should be just as desired as any other read. I want an awareness. I want to believe that we are beyond race and have readers truly interested in understanding someone elses type of walk. I don’t want us to go back to what I grew up experiencing (People not wanting to live by you because of your race). A sense of being limited in opportunity not just because one can’t afford it but because of stigma. Searching to fit in but never really feeling that true belonging. Crying in secret and pretending that it doesn’t hurt.

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Ivy: The Stem of a Rose and Ivy: The Blossoming of a Rose

These are my first and second books I ever published. The story tells about a Metis family living off a settlement and the tough challenges that face Ivy growing up with a single mother and two sisters. The story is in the era of the 70′s. With the first book, she is 9. She and her sisters find a pond and begin to swim in it until Ivy’s sisters become ill and one thing leads to another. The second book of Ivy is about her at 17 but fills in some crucial gaps from the first book. I hope you enjoy the story as much as I enjoyed creating it. Ivcover (1000) (722x401)

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