The Cabinets of Barnaby Mayne

written by Elsa Hart
I am a reading fiend. I can read book upon book upon book upon book. Summer holidays usually offers the opportunity where I make up for the lack of time I had during the work year. But this year was different. You would think that with a quarantine one would have more time to do what one loves. For me, this was not the case. I’ve been finding it really difficult to concentrate on reading for long periods of time. Short Stories? No problem. Poetry? Easy. But novels, no. And I’ve been crestfallen because of it. Luckily I was given an advanced copy of Elsa Hart’s The Cabinets of Barnaby Mayne, and my reading drought has thus been ended.
I started reading this novel one early evening after dinner, and I was pretty my all the way through before the sun rose the next day. I could not put it down!
What magic did Elsa Hart conjure to break me of this stifled reading curse? First off, an intriguing setting London 1703 where most of the action is centred around the home of a “collector”l Barnaby Mayne who is in possession of THE most extensive collection of wonders. This collection includes everything from skeletons of exotic animals from across the world, to strange fish preserved in chemicals, to gemstones, and rare flower and much much more. Secondly, memorable characters. Our protagonist, Lady Cecily Kay, has come from Smyrna to access Baraby Maynes “plant room” in an attempt to identify the various plants she collected in her travels. There is also an assortment of other characters who live within Sir Barnaby’s walls, all of whom have a different interest in his collection. Unfortunately, upon her first night, the house Cecily’s host is murdered, but why? The man who confesses to the crime cannot possibly be capable of the atrocity? Or can he?
This novel is a wonderful murder mystery that keeps the reader captive with each secret revealed. And thirdly, I loved, loved, loved, the plot. The portrayal of the female characters, both Cecily and the character Meacan are smart and independent and interesting. I also really appreciated the fact that they were older and therefore approached situations with the wisdom and foresight that comes with age and experience instead of “learning as they go”.
I was also charmed by this novel because a couple of summers ago, I was fortunate enough to visit Dublin. While there, I explored the museum that housed an extensive collection of all sorts of wonders. This book reminded me of that visit and how entranced I was with all the wonders that I saw.
The Cabinets of Barnaby Mayne went on sale yesterday! Buy it! You’ll love it! Plus its a sure-fire remedy to the frustrating curse of a reading drought.

PS… here are some pictures from the Dublin museum. These are EXACTLY how I imagined Barnaby Mayne’s collection!!!!!

The Toll by Cherie Priest

“The things I take are mine to keep” (135)


One of my favourite genres is Gothic Literature so one day, a couple of months ago I Googles “Contemporary Gothic Literature” and up popped a wonderfully detailed list of titles. One of the titles on this list was “The Toll” written by Cherie Priest. The caption under the title reads “Southern Gothic Horror with a Contemporary Twist”. Perfect.

Admittingly I bought this novel thinking it was an escapist pulp fiction – something easy to read and entertaining enough to distract me from the realities at hand. I soon found out; however, this novel is not only entertaining but wonderfully written as well—a combination of horror, mystery and humour.

What is it’s the premise? A bridge appears where no bridge should be. Right in the middle of the Okefenokee Swamp in Georgia. If you happen to be driving along the road when this bridge appears you just might be “taken” or rather there is a good probability you WILL be taken. By whom? By what? And what is it that lurks in the water….watching….waiting.

This novel possesses a variety of memorable characters however I absolutely adore the “godmothers” Miss Daisy and Miss Claire two rick as 80-year-old heroines who “[know]about everything that [goes]on within a hundred miles (pg. 11).

I found this novel highly entertaining, and because I love her writing so much I definitely will be reading more of Cherie Priest’s novels.

An Intelligent Hell

“An intelligent hell would be better than a stupid paradise” Victor Hugo

Interesting.

Once in a while I’ll have a day where I find it difficult being nice to stupid people.

Now, I know that doesn’t sound very kind of me but I seriously have no patience for anyone who just seems,

well,

juvenile.

And by juvenile I mean having a blatant disregard to anything or anyone other than themselves.

They spill a cup of coffee and expect someone else to wipe it up.

They drink and drive and drink and drive and drink and drive

until they get caught.

They grumble and complain about organizations and institutions they are a part of without ever attempting to facilitate change.

And stupid people are often mean.

Taking out their insecurities on innocent servers at Tim Hortons, or the service department at Best Buy.

I’ve often thought that the older one gets the more grace and patience one acquires. That wisdom and gentleness are cultivated and expressed no matter how irksome or heartbreaking the situation.

But I’ve learned stupidity knows no age.

There are a lot of grown up pouters out there as well as those that revel in melodrama created over the most superfluous of reasons. But, in my opinion, melodrama only exacerbates the stupidity.

Because nowhere, in all of this,

not in complaints,

not in cruelty,

is there any attempt in the acquisition or the application of knowledge or understanding in any way shape or form.

At least not the way I see it.

Antonia Finds a Husband

Chapter 3

Once there was a young girl named Antonia Gigglegoose. Antonia came from a very large family. There were Gigglegoose brothers in the first and second grade, and Gigglegoose sisters in the fourth and fifth grade, and there were even Gigglegoose triplets in kindergarten! Antonia herself just finished the third grade. 

It was summer holidays, and Antonia was working as an Emergency Medical Technician, or, as the grown-ups called it, an EMT. She had started this job unexpectantly when Winnie Walker, her doll, unfortunately, got her leg caught in the spokes of Antonia’s bike when Antonia was pretending to be a school bus driver. It was a slow day as an EMT. No doll needed her immediate attention, so Antonia was thinking of going home and having an early supper.

“Dad! I’m hungry!” Antonia announced as she entered the house.

“Sorry Tony” (Tony was what Antonia’s dad called her when he was in a good mood), but supper won’t be ready for another hour. I just put the meatloaf in the oven, and I’m still waiting for the potatoes to boil.”

“But I’m huuuuuuuuuuungry” Antonia bellowed.

“Well, you’re just going to have to wait.”

“Well, that’s not good at all. My stomach is growling so loud I can barely hear my own thoughts” Antonia thought to herself, “I’m going to find my own husband so that I can have someone to cook my supper.”

“Where can I find a husband,” Antonia wondered to herself.  “I can look at books? Hmmm, Jack in Jack and Jill is too clumsy. He might spill soup or milk when he is cooking my dinner.” Prince Charming? No, he looks like he is dressed for a party or for church all the time. What if I looked at school? 

“Dad, I need the phone.”

“Why?”

“I want to ask a boy that was in my class if he wants to be my husband.”

“No, maybe when you’re older”.

“Ok, then can I ask a girl that was in my class if she wants to be my husband?”

“No, maybe when you’re older” her dad answered mindlessly as he tested the potatoes with a fork.

“Fine,” thought Antonia. “I’ll look somewhere else. Perhaps television will be helpful.”

Antonia went into the living room and turned on the T.V. There seemed to be a curling match taking place on channel 2.  Antonia watched and listened for a few minutes. She didn’t like the yelling the curlers were making “hurry, hard” “sweep faster” began to annoy Antonia and just before she was about to turn the T.V off her heard this wonderfully sonorous voice commenting on the game. “He sounds nice,” thought Antonia to herself. And sat with her chin in her hand to listen to more. It was at a commercial break that Antonia began to wonder what name was attached to the voice she heard. “

“Welcome back to curling corner. My name is Fred Ferguson, and we are in the middle of a riveting game with only 3 shots left.

“Fred”. Antonia said the name aloud. “Fred. That is a very suitable name for a husband.”

 “I should probably learn everything I can about his job so that we have something to talk about over supper”. So, Antonia went to find a notepad and pencil.

Antonia found her notepad and paper and made herself comfortable on the sofa. The curling commenter continued talking about curling and as he did, Antonia took notes. “Rock. Sweep. Key. Ok, I think I’ve got it”. 

After about 10 minutes of listening, Antonia thought she could understand curling enough to have Fred as her husband. Besides, she had lots of stuff of her own to talk to him about. Her job and an EMT, the family dog “Six Toes”, her breadbox playhouse provided lots of stories to share with a husband while he prepared her supper.

Antonia spent a wonderful hour with her new husband. Fred had prepared the most delicious meal. In fact it was her favourite imaginary spaghetti and meatballs!

“Antonia! Supper!” Antonia’s father yelled from the kitchen.

“Sorry, Dad, but I’m not hungry,” Antonia replied, wiping her face with a napkin after eating her supper.

“But you were complaining you were hungry an hour ago. Did you sneak a snack when I wasn’t looking?” Asked her father.

“No, my husband made me supper” Antonia retorted as she attempted to make her way out the door to play with Six Toe.

“Just wait there, young lady. Go wash your hands and sit yourself at the table.”

“Argh, alright. But it would be very rude of you not to invite Fred to dinner.” 

Antonia’s dad blinked at her in confusion. You want to invite who for supper?”

“ Fred. My husband.”

“Fred? Ohhhhkay’. So Antonia’s father squeezed an extra placemat, plate, fork, spoon and knife between Antonia and her sister Arabella.. 

“Who is sitting here?” Arabella asked, gesturing to the extra plate as she plunked herself down at the table.

“That place is reserved for Fred. He is my husband if you must know. He cooks me supper when I’m hungry.

“You’re so weird” Arabella muttered under her breath as she filled her glass with milk.

Every day, after Antonia had finished working as an EMT, she would come home and find Fred on the television. Fred was a very reliable husband. Antonia would turn on the television right at 6:45and there he was. “Hello, Fred. How was your day?”. Fred didn’t really answer her questions so Antonia would have to come up the answers herself. “That’s wonderful, Fred. I’m so glad your friend Bob is recovering from bonking his head on the ice. I do hope he will be out of the hospital soon and back at work soon.” 

Fred was lovely to have around for the remainder of the summer. By the end of the holidays, when school was about to start, Antonia often forgot about her husband and was starting to get excited about fourth grade. One Saturday afternoon, just before the beginning of the school year, Antonia turned on the television to watch Fred at work. Lo and behold Antonia could not find Fred on any of the channels. 


“Hmmmm. I wonder what happed to Fred?  He’s always here waiting for me at this time of day,. Oh well, I guess he had better things to do.” Antonia was momentarily melancholy thinking about how wonderful a husband Fred had been, but then she got distracted by the smell of fresh cookies coming from the kitchen. Her father was back to school baking!

“Would Fred like a cookie or two”, her father asked as Antonia came into the kitchen for her cookie. 

“No. I’ve decided I don’t have time in my life for a husband now that I am going into the fourth grade. I’ll be too busy with my friends.”

“Well just in case you change your mind, here is an extra cookie just in case you run into Fred”. 

“Thanks, Dad!” said Antonia and as she left, she shoved both of the cookies into her mouth. 

A Person Upon Which to Perch

Friend (noun) a person upon which to perch


At times
it seems sincerity is difficult to come by
because
for the most part,

most of us are afraid to be judged for who we are.
So we tweak and change what we say
and what we do
so we will be accepted rather than be alone.

And besides,
we don’t want anyone to know we are crazy. Especially if we’re young. (Thankfully we eventually reach an age where we can wear “crazy” like an accessory)

To have friendships that have withstood the test of time.
where I can “think aloud” and have someone listen.

friends can make sense of my nonsense
or
if they can’t
gently point me at any over-analyzing
or second-guessing
or insecurity

and

either give me a hug

or

kick me in the ass.

It’s a relief to not have to wear a mask
that restrains and suffocates the genuineness of self.

I imagine if no such friends would exist

we’d all be birds
with no place to perch.

Flying around and around
exhausted
from trying to keep aloft of our truth.

Too Much and Never Enough

by Mary L. Trump

Most of the audible books I download are nonfiction. “Too Much and Never Enough” is the second book I’ve downloaded regarding our “interesting” political leader to our south.

Honestly, four years ago, I had a weird fascination with American politics, but now I just find it all too exhausting. I was drawn to downloading this book because I listened to Mary Trump being interviewed and she seemed so extremely articulate and dignified I felt compelled to use this month’s free credit on Audible to hear her story.


Mary’s story is one of her own experiences growing up as a Trump. The account of her relationship with her father Fred, his descent into alcoholism and death is heartbreaking. Mary’s writing not only effectively conveys the love she had for her father she also convincingly presents the confusion with the circumstances surrounding her father’s death and the Trump family’s response to this death.


Yes, she talks about Donald, however not from (in my opinion) a political standpoint. She mostly talks about him within the context of the Trump family dynamic.


Mary Trump narrates her book. Her voice is easy to listen to, and I found it easy to focus on her story while I was working throughout my day.

Legendborn

Legendborn
Tracy Deonn
Love, love, loved this novel. From the first page until the last I was swept away in the story Deonn has written. I’ve always been a sucker for stories about secret societies that may or may not exist on campus, any campus. What would make someone special enough to be admitted to one? What rituals take place? Is there a price to pay?
Bree is our protagonist. She is beautiful and brave and has a huge chip on her shoulder since the trauma of her mother’s fatal accident. Needless to say when she has the opportunity to attend a boarding school for gifted students she jumps at the chance if only to escape the memories of her mother’s death and the guilt she possesses for the cruel way she spoke to mother at what would be their last conversation.
Strange things start happening right from the onset of her move. She can see “things” other people cannot see. What are these terrifying flying creatures that create mayhem and chaos among her fellow students? And who if the breathtakingly handsome young man who is trying to modify her memory?
Bree soon finds out the answers to these questions but in the meantime faces a plethora of other questions about her identity, her legacy and most importantly, the identity of her mother.
Spoiler alert…this story touches upon the Arthurian Legend, which is a tale I adore!

With the importance of the Black Lives Matter movement, I have been consciously trying to read more novels written by black authors. I was so grateful that Netgalley and Simon and Shuster Canada sent me a free advanced copy to read.
Legendborn will be an obvious addition to any classroom or school library. It will also make a perfect novel for a choice in classroom literature circles. Not only is the plot entrancing, and the characters dynamic, the discussion of the various themes presented would be beneficial in any classroom. It is also so well written it can serve as a mentor text.

Contemplating Plato

“The life which is not examined is not worth living” – Plato

Plato has a point.

But examining your life can be a difficult thing. I know it is for me.

Self-examination, of the physical sense is especially traumatizing. I’ve found a grey hair. Ok I’ve found a multitude of grey hairs. And a couple of hairs in my eyebrows are doing some REALLY “interesting” things. Once in awhile, all of a sudden one hair will flip up, and I’ll catch a glimpse of myself looking something like my dad, or my Uncle Johnny. Also, I chipped my front tooth and didn’t realize it until one little grade four student I’m working with pointed it out to me. So I’ve been going around, living life unaware of a renegade LONG eyebrow hair that bizarrely springs outward and up, and a chipped tooth.

Oh, and a pimple.

On my chin.

That I will name if it sticks around longer than the three day’s it’s already been with me.

Note to self; check self out in the mirror a little more closely in the morning before leaving the house.

Now, if you can emotionally get through the physical examination, life is indeed worth living.

However, a mental examination of self is slightly more difficult.

Especially if you’re slightly neurotic

like me.

I can mull and stew and over think a minute scenario, a casual interaction, and a miniscule glance for hours and evenings and days. And 100% of the time I’ve over-reacted. I’m learning not to do this as much. Telling myself that worry is a useless emotion. This self talk helps. I’m a master worrier. Experts have told me so. Not that I take pride in the fact, but just knowing that this is indeed part of who I am makes it less scary. I own this trait. I’m beginning to control it and shape it and chip it away.

Doing so has definitely made life worth living.

Examining the goodness specific to my life is also worthwhile. I have the best of families. Loving and devoted parents, sisters who are the best of friends, nieces I love more than life itself and brother-in-laws that are supportive and have adopted me as a sister of their own (or so it seems to me). I am a teacher. I have taught the most amazing people. People who will indeed make the world a better place not just for the cliché of “being in it” but because they are students of CHANGE. They are smart and sensitive and innovative. It is comforting to know how wonderful our future leaders will be. Over all the years they have proven to be GOOD people who will do GOOD in the world. Simply and succinctly.

In examining all of these people in my life, they indeed make life worth living.

Little accessible things in life, that on the surface appear insignificant, but in reality absolutely contribute to a life worth living: the smell and taste of fresh coffee in the morning (bonus for the Baileys). Saturday’s Globe and Mail. A good, NEW, screams to be read, latest novel from my favourite writer. A DVD box set release of my favourite show. Fresh flowers. A glass of an amazing Cabernet Sauvignon. Belly laughs.

And to en-capture and embrace all of this worthiness , I live in one of the most beautiful countries in the world. I fall asleep to blazing red sunsets and wake up to the sound of chickadees. I can witness the northern lights and an intimidating lightning storm over the course of the same evening. I live a year with four distinct seasons. Spring is quintessentially spring with pussywillows and the hatching of mallard eggs. Summer has the smell of cut lawns and the greenery of trees and the swell of mosquitoes. Fall, glorious colours, the haunting cry of geese flying south and the emergence of deer and moose (sometime bear) out of the bush. And winter. Snow. Sub zero temperatures. Hoar Frost. All coming together in Christmas card charm.

Definitely a wonderful setting for the gradual unveiling of my life.

A life worth living.

The Continuing Adventures of Antonia Gigglegoose….

Antonia Gets a Job

Once there was a young girl named Antonia Gigglegoose. Antonia came from a very large family. There were Gigglegoose brothers in the first and second grade, and Gigglegoose sisters in the fourth and fifth grade, and there were even Gigglegoose triplets in kindergarten! Antonia herself had just finished the third grade. 

That summer Antonia’s older sisters got jobs. Anastasia Gigglegoose (who was just about to start the sixth grade) was getting paid for babysitting the Gigglegoose triplets when mother and father were busy. You see the Gigglegoose triplets were MONSTERS wrecking everything and making all sorts of sticky, gooey messes in their wake. Antonia did NOT want a job taking care of the monsters. Antonia’s other sister Arabella Gigglegoose (who was about to go into in the 5th grade) got paid five cents every time she washed and dried the supper dishes and kept track of her pay in a little orange notebook she had gotten for Christmas.

“I want a job”, Antonia demanded to her mother.

“When you are in 5th grade, you can have your sister’s dishwashing job. For now, you are going to have to make do with your allowance, “Mrs Gigglegoose quipped as she was changing the light bulb above the bathroom sink. 

“Fine. I’ll get a job on my own,” Antonia huffed and marched out of the bathroom.

“Let me know how it goes! I’ll need to know how much to charge you rent!” Teased Mrs Gigglegoose.

Antonia went off to her Breadbox home to contemplate her job opportunities. Antonia’s breadbox home was indeed just that, an old bread crate she had converted into a little “home of her own”.

“I could be a snow shoveller,” Antonia mused, but snow only existed a few months of the year, and Antonia figured she would need to work more than that if she were ever going to be considered a career woman.

“A shoe tier?” Possible. But most of the Gigglegoose children had Velcro on their shoes and therefore didn’t need anyone to help them put on their shoes. However, they usually frolicked about in bare feet, paying no attention to footwear.

“I’ve always wanted to be a bus driver,” thought Antonia. “The only thing is that I don’t know how to drive. I guess Oh well, I guess I’ll have to practice.”

So, Antonia went to retrieve her bike from under the patio and proceeded to pedal her bike up and down the driveway until she felt she was skilled enough to responsibly transport children to and from school.

“Hmmm. Now I’ll need to find some kids to pick up”. To solve this problem, Antonia went into the house and came back with her Winnie Walker doll.

Skipping rope in hand, Antonia proceeded to tie Winne to the back of her bike. Then, after Winnie was secure, Antonia neatly got on her seat and peddled away down the driveway. 

“Why hello Hammersmith children. Welcome to my bus” Antonia had stopped and pretended to open the door of the bus. “Be sure to keep your feet off the back of the seat in front of you. I don’t want to kick you off my bus and have you walk to school”.

Antonia peddled a bit further down the road. “Nice to see you made it on time to catch the bus this fine morning Yoloyellows. Make sure you remember to take your lunch with you into school this morning Yanny Yoloyellow. You don’t want to leave it on the bus like you did yesterday and then feel hungry all day”.

Her final stop was the Barterbertals. “Wade Barterbertal, I want NO more farts from you today. You almost exterminated the entire bus yesterday. Be sure to open your seat window so that we don’t faint if you do let one go and I unconsciously drive the bus into the ditch”. 

Antonia drove up and down the driveway making her way to “school”. Making sure to be safety conscious, every once in a while Antonia would stop at imaginary traffic lights and crosswalks.. Antonia was almost all the way to school when there was an awful crunching noise, and her bike came to a standstill. She could no longer pedal. Something was caught in the spokes of her back tire. “Oh, no!” Antonia thought to herself, “I hope that isn’t a flat tire”.

Antonia stopped, stepped off of her bike carefully, put the kickstand down and turned to look to see what the problem was.

To her horror, Antonia noticed that Winnie’s leg had gotten caught in the spokes. Big tire scrape marks could be seen crisscrossing down Winnie’s leg. “Oh, no! Winnie. Noooooo!” Antonia quickly untied the skipping rope that had been holding Winne to her banana seat then grabbed Winnie by the hair and ran to the house sobbing uncontrollably. “Winnnnnnnnnnnnnnnieeeeeeeee is dying.” She cried.

Antonia’s mother came running from the garage to see what all the bellowing was about. “Antonia! What is the matter? What is wrong?” 

“It’s Winnie! She got caught in my school bus!” Antonia wailed an buried her face into her mother’s shoulder.

“Caught where?”

“In my school bus. I was practicing being a school bus driver with my bike, and Winne’s leg got caught in the wheel.” Antonia howled.

“Antonia calm down, calm down. Let’s take a look”. Antonia’s mother gently took Winnie from Antonia’s arms. Well. I don’t think she’ll lose her leg, but she will have a scar. Come with me, and we will patch her up”. 

Antonio followed her mother and Winnie to the bathroom. Antonia’s mother placed Winnie on the clothes hamper then opened one of the drawers and pulled out the toothpaste.

“Why, toothpaste? Winnie’s teeth aren’t broken.” Antonia asked her voice, muffled by her hanky. 

“Well”, her mother said, “Let’s pretend its antibiotic ointment that will help keep the germs away from Winnies wound”. Then Antonia’s mother put a little bit of toothpaste on her finger and gently wiped it all over the tire marks imprinted on Winnie’s let. She then squirted a tiny bit of toothpaste on Antonia’s finger and had her wipe it all over Winnie’s wound as well.

Next, Antonia’s mom took out the Band-Aids. Gave two to Antonia and instructed, “I think two of these will work. Leave them on for two days and then wipe off the ointment. Winnie should be fully recovered by then.”

Winnie seemed much improved with the toothpaste and band-aid treatment. Antonia hugged her mother “Thank-you. I thought I lost Winnie for good and I haven’t been a bus driver long enough to make enough money to pay for a funeral.”

“Good grief Antonia, getting hurt by a bike doesn’t cause sudden death.” Her mother said in exasperation. 

“It wasn’t a bike accident. It was a bus accident”, Antonia responded curtly, and with that, she took Winnie and went back outside to park her bus properly.

…..

The next day Antonia’s mother went to brush her teeth and noticed the toothpaste was missing. She looked everywhere, even in the clothes hamper and in the bath tub. But she could not find the toothpaste anywhere. “Gigglegoose children! Where is the toothpaste?” Mrs Gigglegoose bellowed from the bathroom.

“I dunno” yelled Anatasia Gigglegoose. “It was there this morning”.

As Mrs Gigglegoose was slamming a bathroom drawer, she happened to glance out the window. There she saw Antonia riding her bike up and down the driveway at full speed stopping to tend to the various dolls that happened to be scattered about the yard. 

“Weeeeoooooo, wheeeeeeoooooooo”, Antonia was yelling. “Out of the way people, the Ambulance is here. Weeeeeoooooooo, weeeeeeooooooo.”

“I guess Winnie has decided that driving a bus wasn’t for her. Mrs Gigglegoose smiled to herself then promptly went to the kitchen and wrote “t-o-o-t-h-p-a-s-t-e” on the shopping list that was stuck to the refrigerator. “Hmmm, I wonder how dollies will require medical attention this week? I better buy 10 tubes.”

It’s the Little Things. In Honour of Father’s Day

In honour of Father’s Day I thought I’d share some little things my father used to do that made my sisters and I feel loved:

1. He would sharpen our pencil crayons with his jack-knife.

2. When my sisters and I would come home off the school bus he’d leave us a little note on the counter telling us where he was working on the farm. He’d always include a little stick drawing of himself and the cat.

3. Every morning he’d wake us up for school and keep us company while we ate breakfast. He’d be the one to dollop porridge in our bowls.

4. He’d find where the mother cat had her kittens, or where the dog had her puppies and would crawl in prickly, cramped, claustrophobic places to pluck out the babies so we could hold them…even it if was only for a minute or two.

5. He’d make Cheez Whiz toast for us when we were sick, and cut the bread into four equal quarters.

6. He’d shovel off the dugout in the bush so we would have our own little skating rink.

7. He’d make sure the night-light was always lit.

8. Every morning during the school year he’d watch us toddle out to the end of the driveway and cross the road . He’d then patiently wait until we all safely got on the school bus.

9. He would be more gentle than my mother when taking out splinters.

10. He would discover baby mice or partridge eggs or newly hatched ducklings and would always find the time to share his discoveries with us.

Oh he did all the grandiose fatherly things too like put food on the table, teach us to drive and help pay for our education…

but it’s the little things that stick closest to the heart.

Artemisia: A Novel

I have read hundreds if not thousands of books over my lifetime. Loved several and dismissed just as many. Rarely has there been a book that’s subject matter I have thought of time and time, haunting me, over the last decade as the novel Artemisia a Novel by Alexandra LaPierre. I’ve always been interested in strong historical female characters because most often they’ve been deemed as heretics or witches or whores by the male-dominated society in which they lived. Artemisia was one of them. One of the first female painters of the seventeenth century she was lucky, at first, to be taught by her famous father, the artist Orazio Gentileschi who took pride in his daughter’s talent. But, as most fathers during the 1600’s Orazio grew protective of Artemisia and tried to marry her off to the best available male – her tutor Agostino Tassi. When Artemisia spurned Tassi’s advances and refused to marry him, he raped her to “teach her a lesson”. A trial ensued, and Artemisia was tortured by her jailors in an attempt to change her testimony. But because she never wavered Tassi was convicted which astoundingly caused outrage in Rome. A small victory for Artemisia because shortly thereafter this scandal and the fact she “ruined Tassi’s reputation” she had to leave her home, and the city Rome. The novel is one that interweaves fiction with historical accuracy, even including copies of authentic documents from the court case.
Lapierre has included several of Artemisia’s paintings. Interestingly enough some of the subjects “Judith beheading Holofernes” for example, has the male character looking suspiciously like her attacker Tassi. I find Artemisia’s use of painting as a catharsis for her pain fascinating in an existential kind of way. I also found her self portraits interesting in that she used strategies never before seen by the painters of her day. One strategy was to fasten mirrors at an angle high on the wall and the ceiling to view herself from a different perspective.
Artemisia was a woman in history who broke the stereotypical mould for women as set by society. Not only did she successfully pursue an occupation, almost exclusively made up of men, she also possessed the strength and courage to stand up for her convictions and never wavered from the truth even though it meant banishment from her home and being labelled a whore.
I’d like to possess the courage of Artemisia. One way of doing so is to venture out on my own to new and foreign places. Shortly after reading the novel, I decided to travel to London, England, on my own. Day upon day, I travelled and walked and visited places and attractions and historical locals on my own, getting lost on subways and down intricately woven streets. But one day I decided to visit Buckingham Palace. As I was meandering down staircases, and corridors, I peered over a velvet rope just to get a better view of a back room. There, to my delight and surprise, I found one of Artimesia’s paintings. Her original self-portrait and I felt as if I had personally met this incredible woman.

When Roses Smell as Raspberries and Foyers Smell as Boyfriends

The sense of smell is a peculiar thing.
The raspberry scent of a particular red rose sends me back to my childhood when my mother grew a beautiful rose-bush in a bucket painted white. It was SO beautiful she took pictures of her three daughters standing beside it.


New plastic binders smell like the Barbie camper I unwrapped Christmas morning when I was eight years old.


A peppermint/chocolate combination makes my stomach turn because, at ten, I ate 6 and promptly got sick to my stomach. I ended up in the hospital for two months…not from the peppermint but from something totally unrelated.
I still can’t help but associate mint with trauma.


But yesterday was unusual. The temperature must have been just right, the amount of humidity and dust in the air perfect, for conjuring up the memory of an emotional summer and an old boyfriend from (literally) the days of yore.


It was a hot summer, and I was in love. Seriously, I was. But things weren’t going as they were supposed to go as things tend not to do with matters concerning the heart.
Nothing was simple.
Nothing was consistent.
And I reeked of insecurity. Wore it like a thick oozing blanket actually. I would spend a lot of time with the boy trying to figure out exactly what the reality of our situation was.


But he was mostly blurred lines and abstract innuendo.


Late into the night, we’d talk, and I’d try to understand
and then I’d drive home in the dark into my parking lot and walk up into my condo.
And I remember the smell.
The dryness. The heat. The stale air that hadn’t been stirred in what seemed like a lifetime.
It was the smell of confusion.
The smell of disappointment.
And simply the smell of sadness.


Yesterday, when I smelled little twinges of that same smell in the foyer of my building, I was transported to that summer,
but this time without the heavy heart.

It was amusement I felt. A sense of how much emotional growth can occur over time. A recognition that I am wiser than I was (sometimes it’s really difficult to tell as my default setting to most emotional situations is “uber-melodramatic”).


And it really is wondrous, the interconnectedness of it all. The past visiting through smell,

triggering a memory,

recognizing a lesson,

acknowledging growth.


All we have to do is pay attention.

To Frustratingly Flail About With My Words

Some days

I believe I can be as articulate as the greatest of ancient Greek orators.

Sitting, surrounded by youth.

Using extended metaphor to enlighten.

Persuasive and entertaining with my words. Arguing a point that possesses a foregone conclusion just to uproot it 

and shake it free of narrow-mindedness. Then transplant it elsewhere.

Entertaining with anecdotes that seem outrageous yet familiar

to a captive audience.

Making others emotionally invest in the story being told.

Relating to the characters.

Relating to the storyteller.

Relating to me.

But then

there are those who don’t listen 

unless 

they, themselves, are the protagonist,

and it is their story being told. 

Because everything that is not about them

bores them. 

And they opt out that story even if it is not theirs 

and could be woven into their existence and used for strength.

Other days 

a big, thick, murky fog

clouds my brain,

and I’m distracted by trivialities or fatigue.

I try to cut through to get to the point that I know exists

just beyond the murkiness. 

Immediate but unreachable.

Like the sun behind the clouds.

And I frustratingly flail about with my words. 

“You know the thingy that what’s his face used for the whachmacallit? You know, the thingamabob?”

Plodding slowly towards a conclusion

that isn’t all that substantial 

let alone scintillating.

And I wonder

how the day determines creativity.

What alignment of stars

or perfect thickness of the ozone layer

 is needed for me to be bright and sharp

and compelling? 

Or if the gods could merely flip a coin,

and decide, 

“today’s the day” 

to make a change. 

Or 

“today’s the day” 

to take a nap.

At this moment, 

I write. 

But it’s a tough slog through the haziness 

of a mind that doesn’t cooperate.

So what is there to do 

but to write 

about how difficult it is

to write today.