Rose Brandon– Little Immigrants

A fellow writer, Rose Brandon, has begun a blog with stories of Little Immigrants. These young immigrants were the Home Children from England, a story dear to her, since her grandmother was one of those children.

Rose asked of The Word Guild writers if anyone had a story to add to her site. My story about Little Joe is posted there. Go and read my story and others and contact Rose if you have a story to share.

Blogging today at Canadian Authors Who Are Christian

 

As a published author with The Word Guild, I posted today on the blog, Canadian Authors Who Are Christian. Go there to read my post. When you arrive there, you just might want to stay around and read postings by some of the other authors as well. Enjoy!

Author of Once Upon a Sandbox                                        

www.carolynwilker.ca

Upcoming events:

Storyteller at Steckle Heritage Homestead Farm, 811 Bleams Road, Kitchener, ON, Winter Fun Day, 11-12am

Book signing, March 10 at Waterloo Chapters store, Waterloo ON, 1-3pm

 

Countdown to Christmas– Getting Ready

We’ve been doing some decorating at home, ripping up old carpet and laying new flooring—laminate that’s easier to keep clean. Then came the choice of paint colour, something a little more modern that goes with our flooring in the kitchen, and the cupboards too. We’ve been planning ahead for further painting in the New Year.

Then came more—painting, that is. It always happens. Once a wall has been painted, it looks fresh and renewed, then the next one looks dull and lackluster. And so we decided to paint another wall. To do that, we’d need to rearrange some furniture, lay out cloths or plastic to protect the floor. Oh, and the sanding, to smooth out some imperfections, patch up nail and screw holes where a cupboard was once bolted on, one we relocated on moving here.  Dust everywhere. And we’re supposed to be getting ready for Christmas. Shouldn’t take long, I thought; but things come up and the job takes longer.

The tree is up and decorated, in the rec room, and the wall that has one coat of paint needs another. Then we can rearrange the furniture again. My middle daughter is hosting Christmas dinner, and so I guess it’s okay that we’re at this stage, but I want to get ready for Christmas too. Today, I will apply that last coat of paint. Today, we will put away the paint gear and get ready in earnest. Tomorrow will be the day for making cranberry relish and cookies, even if it’s only one batch of each.

I didn’t mention that the shopping’s mostly done, with packages wrapped and tucked away. I’m not so far from ready in that respect. It’s not just my house, you know. It’s my heart and soul that constantly need renewal.  It’s Advent, time to prepare, and Christmas will soon be here.

Am I ready, really ready  to celebrate this special birthday? I keep reminding myself that it’s not just about the shopping and decorating, though I like to do the latter, and I do love to choose the right gift for someone I love and care about. And I like to entertain too.

It’s a reminder to keep “Christ” in Christmas. It’s a reminder that we  humans can’t do it all, no matter how hard we try.  And the imperfections in our bodies and souls—we can’t patch those by ourselves either.

There’s one who loves us and cares  us whom we can count on. Traditions we keep around Christmas are just our ways of celebrating and how we get carried away with it all. There’s One we need to remember and welcome. I need that reminder regularly, how about you?

Memoir writing

I’ve been reading Country Roads: Memoirs from Rural Canada by such writers as Luanne Armstrong. Laura Best, Pamela Wallin, Ruth Latta, Gordon Tootootsis, Kay Parley, Wayne Johnston, Pamela Banting,  Keith Collier, Rudy Wiebe and many others. Accomplished writers all, with a gift of words that can take you to a place and show you around.

They write from across Canada, stories of longing for the country, stories of challenge and returning to the place of birth, if only for a visit. The authors reflect on the lens one develops from having lived in a place, whether of freedom, poverty or satisfaction.

Read it, whether you’ve come from rural Canada or always lived in a city. Read it, and discover the stories within.

Editor Pam Chamberlain, published in 2010 by Nimbus Publishing.

Awesome Author Challenge- Jodi Picoult

I’ve been reading, but not reporting. Life is rather full. I’ve read quite a few books since replying initially to the Awesome Author Challenge by at home with books.

One of those books was My Sister’s Keeper, by Jodi Picoult.  A friend told me about the book, said I must read it, then I found that my mother had  the book, so I borrowed it from her and read it in a week. I had never read books by this author, but I certainly will look up more. Picoult writes well with strong characterization, believable characters, and well developed subplots, all without overwhelming the reader.

The book is about Anna, a thirteen-year-old girl, and her efforts to be released from her apparent responsibility as tissue donor for her sister Kate who has a rare form of leukemia. Anna goes to a lawyer with her carefully saved up cash from her paper route.  The book is suspenseful with strong characters and scenes. I wanted Anna to succeed, but I also didn’t want Kate to die. I won’t tell you more that it’s a book worth reading.

 

 

A summer visit– Part 2

Rachel invited us into her home.  We stepped over the threshold of the front door,  into a sitting room, with another room to the right. The front room held a stove at one end that I guessed might be used to heat the room in winter. A number of wooden chairs and rocking chairs stood around the room in a sort of circular fashion, some with cushions. Fine wooden cabinets lined the wall and what looked like a treadle sewing machine cabinet sat under one window. A tall cabinet occupied the end wall by another window. Bright sunlight spilled through the tall windows on which a  rectangle of dark blue cloth was tacked at the top corners of each one, with the cloth pulled to one side  over a hook or nail to let the light in.

The floor appeared to be hardwood, finely crafted and very clean. The other girls were seated, and I was about to sit on a bench, but Rachel said to sit on one of the chairs. I found the remaining rocking chair and asked if that’s where she wanted to sit.

“It’s my husband’s chair,” she answered, but said that it was okay to sit there.

A wooden rack on the wall held decorated cards that perhaps were a gift, along with a few papers, decorated with minimal artwork rather than photographs, all arranged as neatly as the furniture. Every piece of furniture seemed to have its place and was aesthetically pleasing in a plain sort of way.

Conversation began a bit slowly, but Rachel asked about what we do, about our families, and also about other classmates. It was then that I discovered she had gone to several different schools as the school districts changed and the one-room school houses that were full were emptied into other schools with a smaller population. Rachel had gone to Tavistock school, Facey’s school and eventually Hickson school, so the friends gathered there that day represented three different schools.

At one point, Rachel excused herself to check on the cheese she was making. When she returned, she said she didn’t know if it would turn out. We learned she used rennet in milk that she was heating, and that she was making havarti cheese. Diane, making conversation, said that kind was her favourite cheese.

We had visited for perhaps an hour when her three grandchildren appeared at the windows. Shy of the strangers at their grandmother’s house, they peeked in and finally, overcome by curiosity, they opened the door and hovered nearby. They were coming for a cookie, as they often did. They were all barefoot.  Rachel asked them something in German, and they answered with a nod of the head or a few words. They disappeared out the door for a short time and ate their cookies. Rachel said they didn’t speak English, but they would learn it in school.

Eventually, they came in the door one at a time, headed for their grandmother, one sitting on her lap, the other two stading on either side of her but very close.

The little girl, tall for a five-year-old, is slim like her mother, Rachel said. The girl wore her black bonnet, covering her blonde hair, making her fair complexion look even paler. Her plain dark purple dress was long and straight without the apron that the adult women wear. The three year old boy wore his dark brown hair in the typical Amish style, his bangs  cut straight across with longer hair around his head, but cut neatly around the back, with his ears covered. He wore the Amish style black pants and coloured shirt while the youngest boy wore a long dress like his sister.  The smallest one, another boy, wore the same hairstyle, but his light brown hair looked like he’d just gotten up from his nap and hadn’t had his hair combed, or perhaps his fine hair refused to be tamed, like the fair hair of one of my children. The children’s mother had a bad headache that day, as Rachel said, and perhaps little energy to tame his hair that day.

Unlike the clothing Rachel wore as a young girl and even now, with straight pins for fasteners, the children had buttons on the back of their clothing. Some things change, in spite of their spartan living.

The children soon were a little more relaxed, going out the door, coming back in, shutting one another out, as other kids do.  When Rachel served tea and  a dessert, the children tasted some too, but from her dish, with her spoon, this after having a cookie when they had first arrived. The small one ate most.  His grandmother said he had a big appetite, and we guessed  he was getting ready for a growth spurt.

The dessert, a strawberry filling with whipped cream over pieces of chocolate cake, was delicious. I asked how she made it. “I just used my strawberry pie recipe,” she answered.   One of the girls asked what she used for thickening. “Cornstarch,” she answered. The little one wanted more, so he came to the dish sitting on a small table Rachel had set the dessert on. Rachel brought the plate and I served him a small amount, as I would to any other young child. He ate it like he had a hollow leg.

Come back again for a continuation…

Meeting on the Bridge at Camp Edgewood

This spring, I along with twenty some other women enjoyed a weekend retreat at Camp Edgewood, one of the several camps operated by the Eastern Synod of the Evangelical Lutheran Church in Canada.  This year was the 25th  anniversary of the women’s retreat, originally begun by a pastor of Mount Zion Evangelical Lutheran Church in Waterloo, Ontario, for its women’s group, the ELW.  Now the retreat is a separately organized event, with invitations extended to  members of other Lutheran churches.

We enjoyed early morning walks up to the cliffs and a look around up there.  Our Bible Study leader,  Pastor Tanya from Mount Zion, led us to consider nature and how wind, water, and spirit are conveyed in the Bible. Our weekend included worship, study, social time— including the Saturday evening game of Pictionary— a craft time and plenty of good food.

The camp in Eden Mills, Ontario, offers summer camps for children, confirmation camps, youth and congregational council retreats as well as its environmental program led by the camp director, Fred Ludolph, closely tied with the neighbouring community of Eden Mills in its environmental approach.

Camp Edgewood is located only a short drive from Rockwood, Ontario, where we used to take the campers for walks to see the caves and waterfalls. The camp has evolved since I was a camp counselor and even more since my daughters attended confirmation camp. We’ve been at camp for a congregational picnic too.

There are always tasks and upgrades to be done at the camp. Some of the cabins have been replaced with newer facilities; washrooms have been upgraded. Recently at a men’s work weekend, work was done on the nurse’s cabin, installing a new vanity. I understand that Cedar Lodge, shown above, will be undergoing changes too.

The camp will mark its 65th anniversary later this year in October. I’m sure there are some special events being planned for the celebration. It’s a place to build relationships with others and with God and a place to honour and enjoy nature.

Take a look at the photos on the Edgewood site. Go  check it out.  Maybe I’ll see you there sometime.

Thoughts on a life

We’ll be attending a memorial service this evening for my Aunt Bea. She died earlier this week of lung cancer that had spread to her liver before she was even diagnosed. It’s been an uncomfortable last few months for her, but a time she focused on her family.

Bea’s remaining sisters and a sister-in-law had brief visits, as she was able and as she requested. I’m guessing that few others of our large extended family saw her in those last months. I sent my love in a pretty card, letting her know I was thinking of her.

When Mom talked about her over the past weeks and monthts, she’d declare, “I’m going to miss her so much.”

Auntie Bea, we’ll all miss you.

My aunt lived in Toronto for many years before coming back closer to home. I remember a train ride to the big city with my sister. Mom and Dad had taken us to the station early in the morning, paid our fare and waved good-bye. Bea and her husband met us at the Toronto station and took us to their apartment—a high rise. We could look out the balcony window and see across the tops of buildings, one of them Weston Bakery. On that mini-vacation, we went to the Exhibition, a rare opportunity for my sister and me. The Ex with all its activity and crowds, its hawkers and food booths, made our home-town fair seem like a miniature replica. The thing I remember most about that outing were not the rides but the sombreros we brought home, our named embroidered on the crown in the same turquoise as those  pompoms dangling from the wide brim.  Bea and her husband took us back to the station and waved good-bye. She took good care of us, and we had a good time.

A later time, Auntie Bea came for a visit  to our home; she took my sister and I to see Doctor Zhivago at the theatre. The movie was sad and the scenes and images stayed with me a long time, but I also remember that day as a time spent with my aunt. We were building a relationship.

My friend Linda and I, with the blessing of our parents,  planned  a vacation in Florida. I had just graduated from college and Linda had another year at university.  We were flying to Florida to stay with my grandfather, go sightseeing and also visit her great aunt and uncle. Mom and Dad took us to the airport  that morning and waited while we checked our luggage. We were flying standby, and found that we could not get away that day, yet our suitcases went on ahead. Since summer is a busy time on the farm, my parents could not come back again the next day, so Mom called up Aunt Bea and asked if we could stay the night, and if she could drive us to the airport the next day. That was fine, my aunt said. We stopped and bought toothbrushes and then headed for my aunt’s apartment, where we stayed overnight anticipating the flight the next day. Auntie Bea got us to the airport in plenty of time.

I loved Auntie Bea,  for treating us like she wanted to be treated,  for her wry humour and for being herself. Life had not always been easy for her, yet she attended family gatherings, after an absence of years, and reconnected with her siblings and parents. What I admire most is the way she has reconnected with her children from her first marriage, loved them, along with her adopted children, kept in touch with them over the years, and made time for all her children in those last months. That’s love.

So Auntie Bea, you’ve asked for donations instead of flowers. As I say good-bye today, know that I have appreciated and loved you, and I’ll miss you. These words are my gift to you.

Mother’s Day

May 13, 2010

Mother’s Day this year involved a family gathering with my siblings and their families, anyone who was able to make it on short notice. We gathered for a pot luck dinner at my sister’s home, in consideration of our mother whose sister is dying of cancer. We were still able to celebrate our relationship and appreciation of our mother without having her feel that she had to make dinner or be “at home” to family members who  show up during the day. It was a short jaunt for my parents to come, and they enjoyed the gathering.

Each of my daughters made their appreciation known in some way or other that day. One arrived at our home before the family gathering, bearing an attractive card with a sentimental message, along with the beautiful Hibiscus plant shown in the photo. The second presented me with card of best wishes and a promise to celebrate later, since her life is rather full at the moment. I will look forward to this later celebration. The third brought a handmade card with a touching personal message and small package containing a necklace made by a woman in Kenya.

For all the cards available for puchase on such an occasion, I have sometimes found it difficult to find the right card, one that balances sentimentality with truth and dignity, one that recognizes individual traits that few card shop items can duplicate. Having often chosen a simple card, and adding a hand-written message, I appreciate both the cards selected and messages that are hand written.

I am human, and not perfect, as mothers go. I have struggled in my role many times, trying to balance it with my own needs and that of my husband and extended family or friends. In conversation with other mothers, I know I am not alone. Receiving these beautiful cards, Hallmark or otherwise,  is heartening.  To read and reread those cards from my grown-up daughters is satisfying.

And so to other mothers, I wish you the joy of knowing the same thing—that your children love  and appreciate you for who you are.

Upcoming book launch for Grandmothers’ Necklace — Kitchener, May 1st

Organizing a book launch is a new and interesting experience. It’s an opportunity to tell many people about a book that I’m excited about.  The book is full of stories and poems from over 61  professional and gifted writers who write about their experiences as a grandmother or their memories of and experiences with their own grandmothers. You’ll laugh, cry, and be inspired by the stories within it.

The book also includes stories of grandmothers  from sub-Saharan Africa who are raising their orphaned grandchildren while watching their own adult children die of HIV/AIDS.  Sales of the book— in short, its profits—go to help these African grannies raise their grandchildren, to help them put food on the table, buy clothes and books, and help them pay school tuitions. Here  I also mention: Imagine raising children on your more limited retirement income, your pension.

It’s exciting to see the looks on people’s faces when I mention the name Stephen Lewis. People have come to know and respect the man for the work he’s doing.  One store owner said immediately,  “I’ll take six books to start with.”

When I talk about the project and the Grandmother to Grandmother organization, their mandate to work with the Foundation, and where the funds are going, those whom I am talking with get excited about that too.

After all, we grandmothers in North America can appreciate what it costs to raise children, since we’ve done that too. What we cannot fully realize is the heartbreak of these grannies who are losing adult children to HIV/ AIDS while raising their orphaned grandchildren.

If you’re already planning to come, that’s great. We’d love to see you in the audience.  Otherwise, if you happen to be in Kitchener the afternoon of May 1st,  stop by St. Philip’s Lutheran Church for our launch. The time is 2-4 pm. You’ll hear area authors read their selections from the anthology during the first hour. We’ll have books available for purchase, a time for author signing, as well as time to mingle with others over refreshments.

The book makes a great gift for Mother’s Day or any grandmother in your life. We hope to see you there.

Final Poster