My Brother's Blue Jay

 

My brother John fed the birds outside his home in Ste. Anne, Manitoba. He loved to watch them come to the feeders outside the window. So did his seven granchildren. This jay is snatching peanuts in shells that we put out in John's absence. My brother died on February 15th, 2012. I call this photo John's Blue Jay, not only because he loved birds, but also because watching them when I was there this past weekend for his funeral evoked many stories about my brother. I saw him only every year or so as he did not fly and Winnipeg wasn't on my agenda too often unless there was a wedding of one of his children or a birth or some other occasion. I was glad that my sister, her husband and I were able to visit our brother in January. This last trip was to go to his funeral service where it was apparent that this good man and his loving family have many friends. I said a few words about my brother after his son, Jim, spoke so movingly. A few stories about the early days before any of them knew John. I was two when he was born, I don't remember a time when he wasn't there. It is very hard to accept that he isn't any longer. Such a colossal loss. 

My brother was not a complicated man. He was a man of few words and quite quiet. But it did not take long to know that he was a kind man, filled with love. He will be sorely missed.

Storm on the Horizon.

I was fortunate enough to get an Aeroplan ticket to go to Winnipeg tomorrow for my brother's funeral on Saturday. Will I get there? At the moment, there are Travel Alerts for Toronto with snow predicted to begin at midnight. There will be, apparently, 5 to 10 cm. overnight. I know the drill. Chaos on the highway, chaos at the airport. Still, I am hopeful. There was also snow predicted when I went there a month ago to visit my brother, increasingly worried about him as he spent weeks and months in hospital. It was a good visit so if my flight is cancelled tomorrow, I know I saw him when he was still with us.

 

Life and Loss.

My brother died in hospital in Winnipeg on February 15, 2012. Everything shifts. The brother who was always there, from the time I was two, is gone. He was such a gentle man and as a child what one heard so often was what a nice boy he was. A nice boy. Well, he had his moments, ganging up with my younger sister to fight with me. What did we all fight about? It's hard to know now, so long ago were those days. We also played together and either protected or admired each other.

The paths of children raised in northern mining towns often diverged as we grew up and went away to school, to work and/or to get married. Very few returned to live in the place where we shared our childhood. Though many of us have visited and remarked on how things have changed. The underground mine that has become an open pit. The houses that have been torn down. How the town thrives through an economic downturn because of the discovery of more gold..

If someone has a brother or sister there, they are just as likely to have another in some other part of Canada. Or elsewhere. Thus I happen to have a sister in Vancouver and until yesterday had a brother in Winnipeg. Stretched out across the continent from where I live in Toronto. Nonetheless we three siblings have grown closer again in these later years when we could travel more and had also the benefit of Skype, email, Facebook, etc.

It is a sad day. Such a nice boy, yes. Such a gentle and loving man.

The Life of a Writer. #4 .Moving.

I was going to write about Christmas Day and what happens when left alone to cook a turkey for the family who call from their out of town home on the morning of the festive dinner that they are ill. What happened then was that two friends came and a good warm festive air circled us and the next day the grown kids came and enjoyed turkey soup, fitting as stomachs were still settling for them. Aside from those few words, it is old news now.


Now I have moved into another reality. One of decluttering and preparing a house I have lived in for over 40 years for sale in a week or so. It is time for moving into a new phase of life. And during all of this, how does one find time to write? I don't know the answer. Maybe there isn't any  time for that. However, I am prepared to enjoy this transition at this stage of my life and get back to writing in earnest once I am settled in a new and smaller place. A place where my friends who have already made this move assure me I will feel lighter. As junk disappears, I already do and rather imagine that it happens in stages.

How to move with the least amount of stress? Share with me! All suggestions welcome. I am well underway already, but it does seem daunting. I can work from morning to night and then look around and wonder if I've actually done anything. Where did all that stuff that is now in the garage ready for pick up by a man with a truck go? Nothing looks particularly different in the house. Although when my sister visited last week, she said she could see a big difference. Still the question remains, how to shoehorn what I want to take with me into a small kitchen, a small coat closet, a small linen closet and one rather large closet in the bedroom. Where will all the books go? All my papers? Well, some of the books, over 50%, have already gone to a refugee committee at a church for sale to raise funds for the committee's work. And the papers I continue to sort and shred.


In the meantime, I think it is time to read a book and go to a movie. Wouldn't you!!!

The Life Of A Writer. #3. Mentors.

I have been fortunate over my lifetime as a writer to have attended a number of first class workshops, retreats and courses from the Banff Centre of the Arts to the Humber School for Writers. The facilitators and mentors have been top notch, ranging from Austin Clarke at Glendon College (York University) in the mid 1970s to Alistair McLeod at the Humber School for Writers in 2006.


There were two who stand out as my ongoing mentors, both of whom are unfortunately no longer alive. I didn't meet either of them at workshops or courses, but they were the two who became both mentors and friends for the long haul. The first was William (Bill) Kilbourn whom I met through municipal politics (early 1970s) and the other, Adele Wiseman, when I interviewed her as Writer-in-Residence at the University of Toronto (mid 1970s) for a paper I was writing for the MLS degree on the various resources for writers as they learned their trade. Both of these courageous and talented writers encouraged my writing and I enjoyed their support and friendship over a period of over 20 years before they both died in the early 1990s. 

 I have many friends who are writers, but I don't think at the advanced age I have reached I will have another mentor like either Adele or Bill. Neither of them were alive when my first book, One Day It Happens, was published in 2007, but both of them believed there would be books. Especially about the northern mining community where I grew up and my second book, Ile d'Or, is the book they might have envisaged. Or I hope so. It was their faith that often kept me going. Their humourous responses to my despair at that ever happening. Their insightful comments about it. Now my friends and I encourage each other. Sometimes we read and critique each other's work. We go to each other's launches. We discuss promotion and applaud each other's successes, We carry on, knowing how important that camaraderie around writing is, that understanding of the long hours we slog away in solitude that precede any published article, story or book.

Two friends who have shared this journey over many years since I met them in the early 1980s are Joy Kogawa and Ian Wallace and I have appreciated, and still do, our conversations and mutual support. Now I am also meeting many other writers through my writing group and through the Writers' Union. Having books published gives one access to the work that goes on around the writing itself, including the advocacy of the Writers' Union and access to their resources on a myriad of topics (legal, copyright, etc.). But that's another story (or blog post).  

See also — Lisa Young's blog on writing:
www.50essaysonwriting.blogspot.com 

The Life of a Writer. #2. A Week of Avoidance.

Sometimes avoidance is necessary. Or is that just another excuse? No, there are too many events this week that nourish my mind and spirit. And after three months on crutches (another excuse?) when I read and wrote much more than usual, I need that nourishment. Or I need some level of change. So on Monday evening I went to the Toronto Dollar Supper Club to hear David Crombie speak. What a treat to hear a talk on cities within the context of ideas and vision. There is such a lack of that at the municipal level  in Toronto (not to speak of other levels of government) these days. My mind was challenged again to think of what can happen in positive ways as the democratic process leaves room for ideas to thrive. And for people to make their voices heard. Yes, such an evening (when my friend, Joy Kogawa, was also honoured for her work around the Toronto Dollar) helps replenish the spirit.

Tuesday: A friend took me out to dinner at Zucca's where we both ordered black cod with an olive crust. After admiring the presentation, the meal then melted in our mouths. Ruby has done so much for me over the time of healing from foot surgery that I felt I ought to be the one treating her to dinner, but she reminded me that I'd given her my Metropass for three months and how she had been able to use it to find out if it would be useful for her. Of course, that led to some discussion of the deterioration of the TTC. Unfortunate reality as the infrastructure seems to crumble and service is about to be cut. Not to mention fare hikes. In any case, she enjoyed the flexibility of the Metropass and wanted to treat me. Thanks, Ruby.

Tonight I will go to my local library to hear a talk on Chagall given by David Wistow from the AGO. I took a course from David on the Group of Seven many years ago and know him to be a fine, informative speaker. I have seen the Chagall show at the AGO twice as well as many years ago his work at the Chagall Museum in Nice. I look forward to tonight's speech.

The week goes on. And the truth is that this week I have also been revising some stories and as well have read an unusual novel by Teju Cole, a Nigerian born author, set in New York City called Open City. I am now finishing a book of essays called Why Not?, such a literate little book, by Ray Robertson, a thoughtful Canadian writer.

After tonight, two evenings of socializing.. Open House at Dance Cafe and Christmas party of my writing group, Moosemeat. Better to avoid writing for a while than these stimulating events!!! Or better to take them in along with a bit of writing on the side. The balance will shift the other way soon enough.

The Life of a Writer. #1. What I do when I intend to write to avoid writing.

Ah well. I think about it a lot. I make my bed. Do the laundry. Cook. Bake. Do you want a recipe for cheesies made with rice krispies? Or an apple crisp made with cinnamon raisin bread as a topping? I've made both of these this weekend. I ate the apple dessert in two days. The challenge becomes not to eat the cheesies before going to the Christmas party of my writing group later this week. I think I'll make a salad for that as well.

Oh yes, I went to St. Lawrence Market yesterday morning. Then had a friend over for lunch. She is en route from the east coast to Saskatoon where she lives now. She brought the flowers!

I also read both the Globe and Mail and the Toronto Star, Saturday editions. And am reading a couple of books. And I guess while all of it was interesting and even necessary, now it is time to do some work.