Recent review of my short story collection, One Day It Happens....http://www.canlit.ca/reviews.php?id=15096
Review was written by Lee Baxter. Thanks, Lee
Saturday, March 27, 2010
Monday, March 22, 2010
Saturday, March 20, 2010
Ile d'Or. Chapter 1. First paragraphs.
The last gold rush in Canada occurred in the Abitibi region of Quebec. By the 1940s, there were rugged mining camps scattered through the area where prospectors had staked their claims. Flying overhead at night in a small bush plane, a pilot would see lights like diamonds sprinkled in the bush. One of these villages was called Bourlamaque, after a general in Montcalm’s army.
There was a larger town connected to it, Ile d’Or, which was the commercial centre. No markers told when you left one and entered the other, but the residents near the shaft in Bourlamaque were glad to live in the log cabins that were built for the miners with Anglo money.
In the 1980s, word was that the one operating mine left in town was soon to close, that the gold was too expensive to mine, that there wasn’t enough of it any more. For a while, there was rumour of a buyer. The people of the town were worried. Some were anxious that dust and noise and the sight of an open pit would be too much for them. But there were even more who wanted the changes because of jobs the mine would continue to provide.
Michelle Dufresne was standing near her father’s grave in the cemetery on the outskirts of Ile d’Or when a man with a duffel bag slung over one shoulder walked between the tombstones toward her. She hadn’t seen him in town before, so she was startled when he waved at her.
“Hi, Michelle,” he said.
It was then she noticed that his face was somewhat familiar, but she couldn’t place it.
“You don’t know who I am, do you? I’m Nick,” he said. “Nick Petranovich. Remember those dances at the Rialto when we were teenagers?”
Her face went white. Nick Petranovich was older than her and she’d had a crush on him. It had surprised her when he’d asked her to dance and talked to her as if she were his age. But she wouldn’t have thought he’d remember that. And she hadn’t seen him since he went away to university in the 1950s. She’d heard he’d become a doctor, had a family, divorced and — she’d read his obituary just over a year earlier.
“But, but,” she stammered.
She’d thought that he would have been in his late forties by the time of the untimely news. She didn’t know if he’d been in an accident of some kind or if he’d had a heart attack. Or maybe it was cancer. The death notice didn’t specify and among the charities named for donations, none were ones that suggested anything. She backed away slightly to look at him more closely.
“The obituary in The Northern Miner,” he said, brushing his hair back with his free hand. “Yes, I can see you might be startled.” He smiled broadly.
“I don’t understand,” she said.
There was a larger town connected to it, Ile d’Or, which was the commercial centre. No markers told when you left one and entered the other, but the residents near the shaft in Bourlamaque were glad to live in the log cabins that were built for the miners with Anglo money.
In the 1980s, word was that the one operating mine left in town was soon to close, that the gold was too expensive to mine, that there wasn’t enough of it any more. For a while, there was rumour of a buyer. The people of the town were worried. Some were anxious that dust and noise and the sight of an open pit would be too much for them. But there were even more who wanted the changes because of jobs the mine would continue to provide.
Michelle Dufresne was standing near her father’s grave in the cemetery on the outskirts of Ile d’Or when a man with a duffel bag slung over one shoulder walked between the tombstones toward her. She hadn’t seen him in town before, so she was startled when he waved at her.
“Hi, Michelle,” he said.
It was then she noticed that his face was somewhat familiar, but she couldn’t place it.
“You don’t know who I am, do you? I’m Nick,” he said. “Nick Petranovich. Remember those dances at the Rialto when we were teenagers?”
Her face went white. Nick Petranovich was older than her and she’d had a crush on him. It had surprised her when he’d asked her to dance and talked to her as if she were his age. But she wouldn’t have thought he’d remember that. And she hadn’t seen him since he went away to university in the 1950s. She’d heard he’d become a doctor, had a family, divorced and — she’d read his obituary just over a year earlier.
“But, but,” she stammered.
She’d thought that he would have been in his late forties by the time of the untimely news. She didn’t know if he’d been in an accident of some kind or if he’d had a heart attack. Or maybe it was cancer. The death notice didn’t specify and among the charities named for donations, none were ones that suggested anything. She backed away slightly to look at him more closely.
“The obituary in The Northern Miner,” he said, brushing his hair back with his free hand. “Yes, I can see you might be startled.” He smiled broadly.
“I don’t understand,” she said.
Thursday, March 18, 2010
Distant Early Warning Line
Editing of 'Ile d'Or'continues. There are lapses when I assume the editor is editing other books, arranging launches, etc. The publisher has books ahead of mine, coming out in April. I have been down this road before, so I have confidence that my novel will come out in May, as planned. That's not very far away, is it? In the meantime, there are fascinating questions that arise. Yesterday the editor wanted me to verify that it was really possible that the mother of one of the main characters could really have been a volunteer spotter of planes in the early to mid 1950s. Of course, I knew it was possible because my own mother had done this (all other similarities are accidental!!!), but figuring this wasn't going to be enough to convince her, I went onto the internet and read about the DEW line, established in the far north at that time. I also called my brother in Winnipeg because he had spent three years with the RCAF in the late fifties wiring these stations. The American government wanted them built to detect incursions of Soviet planes, considered a threat at that time. In an agreement with the Canadian government, the RCAF took on this work. During this period of deliberation and construction, fearing that some planes might fly in at low altitudes and not be picked up by radar, volunteer spotters were used in many locations in the US and certainly in the northern mining town in Quebec where I grew up. My mother was one of them, fascinated by the airplanes she did identify and count. I also found a couple of old newspaper articles through Google on this program of volunteer spotters, one from as far away as Florida.
When I relayed this information to my editor, she wrote back that what I'd sent her was fine. She had just wanted to make sure that someone didn't find some inaccuracy and embarrass me. Well, this memory of the character in the novel is as fuzzy as most memories and doesn't need nor have all the detail in that context, but now both she and I both know the detail behind the memory. It was fascinating to revisit information about that era.
When I relayed this information to my editor, she wrote back that what I'd sent her was fine. She had just wanted to make sure that someone didn't find some inaccuracy and embarrass me. Well, this memory of the character in the novel is as fuzzy as most memories and doesn't need nor have all the detail in that context, but now both she and I both know the detail behind the memory. It was fascinating to revisit information about that era.
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