Covid, Bronchitis and a Miscellany of Pastimes

For three weeks I’ve been triply sick. The illnesses began with covid. A mild case. But, after four or five days, bronchitis set in. Next came a nasty sinus infection. All the good things I was doing lessened the discomfort only a little. Extra vitamins C and D, steamy showers, ivy leaf cough syrup, lots of rest, litres of hot fluids, echinacea capsules, oregano oil, Tiger Balm.

Me, fresh from a hot shower, pretending I’m not sick…the creases in my brow give me away

At the two-week mark, on the advice of the nurse on the heath-care hot line, I visited the emergency department of our local hospital. What a speedy experience that was! A prolonged cough rattled and wheezed under my tight-fitting medical mask. A concerned nurse whisked me off to a solitary waiting area. In record time she had me registered then placed in an isolated room. During the next two hours I was seen by a different nurse, a doctor, two x-ray technicians, then the doctor again. Between visits I read a few chapters of Anne Rice’s The Vampire Lestat.

The novels I am presently reading

The good news—no pneumonia. That possibility concerned me a lot. During three consecutive winters, I suffered with pneumonia. Each case lasted longer than the previous one. In the spring of 2012, a CAT scan revealed scar tissue in one lung. I got a pneumonia vaccine. Was told it would last 10 years. The emergency doctor said they now recommend one every five years. When my health improved I was to arrange for the shot. In the meantime, the viral bronchitis would have to heal on its own. Antibiotics would cure the bacterial sinus infection. Or, so the doctor said.

The week of antibiotics ended two days ago. My health has seen little improvement. Maybe the sinus problem is viral too? My wise yoga teacher suggested that I take the antioxidant NAC—N-Acetyl-L-Cysteine. Here’s what the label says:

NAC is a highly stable form of cysteine and is a precursor in the body to the critical antioxidant glutathione. [It] helps to reduce the severity and frequency of influenza-like symptoms in adults over 65 years of age.

As I am an adult somewhat older than 65 with flu-like symptoms, I researched several brands. I bought a “Bonus Size” bottle of the capsules. Three days and six doses later, I can almost breathe through one nostril or the other. I also began taking an echinacea-based tincture five times a day. When I had bronchitis in the winter of 2002, it held me hostage for six weeks. I plan to extricate myself much sooner this time.

So, how have I occupied these sick days?

1. Reading novels. Most just okay. One exemplary—I Capture the Castle by Dodie Smith. The same author wrote One Hundred and One Dalmatians. I never knew that the Disney movie was first a book. I wonder did the firm studio do it justice? I will have to read the novel. The castle book is extraordinary. It boasts one of the most original narrators I’ve encountered in years. Young, clever, confused, honest, and at times hilarious. The eccentric characters are treated with vivid details and much good-will, the ordinary ones give balance and believably.

2. Reading non-fiction. My 91 year-old far-away friend regularly sends me hand-written letters. How happy I am that she never learned to use a computer. Words penned on paper are intimate. They speak to your heart. And, how much we can learn from their physical presence. Pat always uses thin, pale blue, letter-sized sheets. She’s been doing this for years. I wonder if her supply will ever run out. Oh, I do hope not. Few of her words are ever crossed out. However, there are sometimes carets inserted to add a necessary adjective. I think of Jane Austen writing entire novels on tiny sheets of paper in minuscule script. No delete, backspace, edit, cut, copy, paste. Maybe brains worked differently back then.

Pat never fails to mention the book she is reading at the time of the letter. The last was Edward Abbey’s Desert Solitaire: A Season in the Wilderness, copyright 1968. I wondered, would I enjoy it as much as I did Walden so many decades ago?I looked it up. Excellent reviews, especially with regard to the writing. The library system on Prince Edward Island has only one copy and there was a hold on it. I broke my rule about not buying any more books and ordered it online. Now I will have to discard one. That shouldn’t be a problem. Lately I’ve been eyeing a few that have lost their lifetime-of- pleasure promise.

3. Completing challenging crosswords. Two or three a day. Usually in bed at night. When the pen falls out of my hand and stains the sheets, I know it’s time to quit and try to sleep. By the way, I don’t use a pen because of extreme confidence. Rather, it is easier to see in the semi-light of the darkened bedroom.

4. Making soup. Mornings are best for serious endeavours. I have some energy then. I like to cook. I haven’t been able to taste much for weeks. Some say that’s a result of covid. Maybe. Or maybe it’s just that my sinuses are full most of the time. Homemade soups are equally time-consuming and rewarding. Yesterday I roasted russet potatoes, turnip, fennel, yams, celery, carrots, onion and a whole head of garlic with bay leaves, several sprigs of fresh rosemary (I over-winter a plant in my garage) and generous sprinkles of dried thyme. Organic veggie broth and more seasonings produced an exceptionally fine soup…so said my husband. I couldn’t taste it but the compliment rang true as Gilles is a mostly honest man. He wouldn’t lie to me just because I’m sick. Well, he may. Perhaps, when my sense of smell is recovered, I should cook with a clothespin on my nose and trust that end result will also be “exceptionally fine.”

Homemade soup…I ate mine without the yogourt swirl…no dairy for impaired respiratory systems

5. Watching NetFlix. We gave up cable TV three or four years ago. I have never missed it. Especially the commercials. I don’t know how to stream programs nor do I wish to learn. So, NetFlix is my only visual escape. I am embarrassed to admit that I enjoy Korean drama series. Gods and goddesses, monsters, high technology, fantasy, corporate corruption, little-known history, all with a predictable romance thrown in. A bonus is that I can mute the program and just read the subtitles thereby convincing myself that I am not a vegetable.

6. Feeding the birds. Winter blizzards batter houses and trees and knock out power lines. I keep my three feeders full. I spill some on the ground for the mourning doves, jays and crows that are too big to fit inside the caged seed silos. It is so cold this morning that the chickadees and finches don’t wait for the crows to disappear before heading in for breakfast. Courageous creatures. Watching the birds is as rewarding as watching NetFlix.

Out-of-focus bird feeder frenzy…taken through a less-than-clean window

7. Necessary household chores such as laundry and vacuuming. Last week I spent two hours ironing. I forgot how much I enjoy watching wrinkles disappear. I wonder if there is a metaphor in that last sentence. Or a longing. Ages ago I considered writing a piece called meditations while ironing. I may still compose that. My recent happy experience with a steam iron was probably enhanced by my breathing in the hot mist.

8. Communicating with family and friends. Phone calls, FaceTimes, messenger, instagram, emails, postcards, real pen and ink letters, and this blog. Reaching out to others in a time of forced isolation feeds our need for intimacy. What I love best are the moments of shared laughter. Medicine for the soul.

9. Sleeping.

I have always been attracted to multiples of three. So, I’ll stop now. Maybe I’ll nap. Writing demands a lot of energy.

The Murder of Creativity–How Dreams Uncovered the Crime

“Creativity takes courage.” Henri Matisse

Henri Mattisse “The Dream”

Last night I over-dreamt. I feel as if I attended an all-night movie where none of the “shorts” were related.


“The creative adult is the child who survived.” Ursula Leguin

My last dream memory is of lying on my left side, nestled under the covers, my face buried in my pillow. A girl’s voice calls to me, “Auntie, Auntie.” (Auntie had a last name but it is lost to me now.)
I raise my head. A child of five or maybe eight years, sits on the floor facing me, her back against the wall.
“Bethany?” I ask. “What are you doing here?” Vague now. It seems I am supposed to be babysitting Bethany and one or two other children.

I wake up. Other dream pieces materialize.

I am still lying in bed. A distraught man comes to me. Says that his prostrate is burning. I tell him, “Get the bag of frozen peas, the one with the large blue X on the front, and put it over your genitals.” He refuses. I say, “Your only choice then is to go to the hospital emergency.”

In the last remembered fragment, I am in a large, unfamiliar house. Horizontal wooden planks, weathered to a brown-grey, line walls, floors, and ceilings. I wander from room to empty room looking for an exit. I come into a small vestibule with a door leading outside. An older man enters—a brimmed hat shrouds his face. I know he’s a police detective. I say, “I am known to have prescient dreams,” and tell him the name of the murderer was revealed to me in a dream; however, it is up to him to find the proof.

**********************

It is now a few hours later. I have eaten breakfast, been for a long, cold walk with my dog and fielded a phone call. But, the dream images peek out from behind other thoughts, play on my mind, keep me from being fully present. I realize that the day will go badly if I don’t “do something with them.”

Keeping in mind that 99% of dream images are aspects of the dreamer, here I go.

Dream #1
Associations

For every image in a dream, the unconscious can provide associations that explain that image’s meaning. Every word, idea, mental picture, feeling or memory that spontaneously arises in relation to an image is written down.


Bethany
Bethlehem Christmas Jesus Baby Beth Epiphany A saviour A new beginning

Young girl 5 or 8
What was I like at that age? What did I value? What did I believe?
Move to new house. Tomboy. Grade 2. My own bedroom. Windows too high. Couldn’t see out unless I stood on the bed. Snakes in window wells. Summer. Tree-climbing. Adventurer.

Back against a wall
No where to turn, a desperate situation

Auntie
Auntie Mame—looked after young boy. My aunties—hardly knew them. Who am I an aunt to? Nieces and nephews live far away. Auntie Blanche—Marilyn’s fake aunt—jealous. Someone who is supposed to take care of children? Not a mother. A loving care-giver. I am sleeping—neglecting my duty.

Title: The neglectful care-giver.
Theme: Failure to take care of business
Feelings: Surprise! I didn’t realize what was expected of me
Questions: What have I been neglecting? What young-girl part needs attention? How would taking care of this be a new beginning?

Research:
The most famous Bethany was a village on the eastern slope of Mount Olivet, about three kilometres from Jerusalem. It’s where Jesus’ three friends Martha, Mary and Lazarus lived, and where the latter was raised from the dead (John 11:18).

It seems that I am on the right track. I remind myself that all dreams in a night, however dissimilar the imagery, are related in theme.

Dream #2
Associations:
A distraught man
My husband? My inner masculine? He’s about my age. The active inner force. The doer (as opposed to the dreamer). The man who gets things done.


Prostrate
Gland. Sperm production. Reproduction. Ability to produce children. Symbolically, the source of new ideas (children).
But, it is on fire, burning up, too hot. Destroying what is inside? Not being used? Seed is not being released. Pent up. Source of cancer.


Bag of frozen peas
urine? Pee? Bag—testicles? Large blue X—not good anymore?
The solution I offer won’t cure the problem—just freeze it for a while. Inner man rejects it.
Go to emergency—is it an emergency? Are things worse than I perceive?

Title: the burning prostate
Theme: the danger of neglecting one’s creativity
Feelings: once again, I feel aloof, not emotionally engaged with the problem.

Questions: How can I get the creative juices flowing again?

Dream #3
Associations:
Unfamiliar house
a place I have never been, an unrecognized place in myself


Large empty rooms
no furnishings=no ideas, no inner furniture, bleak


Weathered wood

feminine, natural material, usually outdoors, how did it weather inside? The feminine is old, tired but still holding up, still strong

Seeking an exit
I am lost inside this barren space, need to escape

Police detective
someone who solves crimes, the part of me that can help me out of the bleak house, my conscience
Prescient dreams
dreams that foretell, a consciousness of something beforehand, I know the murderer but my conscience will have to prove the guilt.

Title: the murder of creativity
Theme: problem solving
Feelings: sadness about the old house and the empty rooms, lethargy as I wander, hope when I meet the detective. ( Frustration when I woke up and wondered why my unconscious chose the word “prescient” because my conscious self didn’t know its meaning.)
Questions: How will my conscience solve the problem? Who/what did murder my creativity? Self-doubt? How do I restore my belief in mySelf?

Wow! That exercise, as time-consuming as it was, proved not only helpful, but necessary.
For almost two weeks, I procrastinated about writing. Found excuses at first and then retreated into inane NetFlix dramas. Killing time. Killing creativity.

The solution, of course, is to write. Simply write. No matter how uninspired. No matter how crudely done. The simple act of writing restores us to ourselves.

“The worst enemy to creativity is self-doubt.” Sylvia Plath

The Bird Feeder

I don’t feed the birds because they need me; I feed the birds because I need them.

Kathi Hutton

Mom, at ninety-six, beside her feeders

A Wednesday morning in January 2021. Minus four degrees Celsius. A shimmer of snow. A shiver of wind. Tentative sunbeams through rippled clouds. A perfect day for a walk.

We meet at nine. My neighbours and I. I wait. This day, no one comes. I walk alone.

Pronoia…the belief that good things are just waiting to happen. I’ve been waiting for a spark. An inspiration. Without companions, stillness enters. Only the crunch of boots on brittle snow. The swish of swinging arms against a scarlet coat. My mind relaxes. Then plays with a word. Alone.

**********

As she grew older, and older, and older still, my mother’s most ardent wish was not to die alone. My sister said she did. I don’t believe her.

Mom died at ninety-seven. But, she was probably ninety-eight. We celebrated Mom’s birthday on September 22. However, when I prepared a natal chart for her, it didn’t belong to the woman I knew. Mom said that her oldest brother once told her that she, the seventh child, was born in August—harvest season on the Manitoba farm. Some weeks later, her parents, Anton and Maria Koshelanyk, journeyed from Caliento to Steinbach—only thirty minutes by car today but an arduous trek in 1917—to register the birth. Both spoke only Ukrainian. The registration date became Mom’s birthday.

At ninety-two, Mom moved from her small home into a retirement community. She had a bright one bedroom, ground-floor apartment with a small, but fully functional kitchen. Her two garden plots provided an abundance of fresh produce for her to eat and preserve. Her several bird feeders that hung just beyond the living room window provided food for her spirit. Behind them lay conservation land—trees, scrub, wildflowers, and grasses—an abundance of camouflage for avian visitors. Mom insisted that black oilers furnished the best nutrition and would tolerate no “cheap bird blends.” A myriad of breeds crowded her feeders: woodpeckers, sparrows, juncos, nuthatches, chickadees, and cardinals—as many as five vibrant red males at one time! Bully birds, especially jays, would also fly in but mom shooed them away. In spite of the deterrents that my brother provided, her battles with squirrels were less successful.

One winter afternoon in her ninety-seventh year, Mom headed out to replenish the feeding station. Stepped into a snowbank. Sank beyond her knees. Struggled to free herself–without success. In time, a passerby rescued her. Then, that good Samaritan reported the incident to the authorities. The latter prohibited Mom from leaving the building to feed the birds. They bolted the service door that she usually used and threatened to remove the feeders if she disobeyed the order.

Mom told them, “If you take away my feeders, I will die.”

A compassionate custodian took over the job of restocking the bird station. One day, when her helper was off-duty and the feeders were empty, Mom placed suet and feed beside the living room window. She opened the sash, climbed out, retrieved the food and fed her feathered friends. Her mission accomplished, she clambered back in. However, once inside, she couldn’t close the sash. It refused to budge the last two inches. Mom turned up the thermostat, donned a heavy jacket and waited for my sister’s next visit.

When Mom was ninety-six, she stayed a week with us in Prince Edward Island. She told me at the time, “Prairie, don’t live to be this old. It isn’t any fun. I’m ready to go.” Even so, she lived another fourteen months. We siblings believe that she decided to stay around until a great-grandson was born. The baby was expected on my father’s birthday, April 27. Lincoln arrived one day early. When he was just days old, my niece took him to see his great-grandma.

Mom, granddaughter Kim and great-grandson Lincoln, May 2015

Shortly before that visit, health assessors determined that Mom was functioning well and would be able to continue in her present location for some time. Two weeks later, Mom was put on an emergency transfer list. In a phone call I asked her how she felt about the move to a nursing home. “I don’t like it at all,” she said. That was our last conversation. From that day on, words refused to move from her brain to her tongue.

On July 1st Mom was transferred to her new residence—a single dingy room on an upper floor of a large rectangular block of bricks. She refused to have any of her artworks hung or photographs displayed. She turned her chair away from the small window. There was nothing to see. There were no birds to feed.

Two months and three days later, the nurse in charge told my sister that Mom’s organs were failing. She died that night.

Was she alone? I don’t believe so. In the spring I had a dream that I shared with Mom. In my vision, Mom and I sit close together on the upper tier of an open bleacher. Sunlight bathes us. We don’t speak. Just enjoy the warmth and the view over the empty playing field. After a time, my Aunt Alice, Mom’s favourite sister, appears. She smiles at each of us then takes Mom’s hand. The two vanish.

I’m grateful I told Mom my dream. Like, me she is a believer in visions.

After my walk today I filled my bird feeders. Used a special treat—hulled black oilers. I gazed up at the sun-streaked sky and said, “Hi Mom.”

Mom’s summer bird feeders

I Never Delete When I’m Walking the Dog: On Writing and Blogging

There are far too many people born into the world, and far too many words written. Millions and millions of them pouring from the presses every minute. It’s a horrible thought.”

Inspector Alan Grant in Josephine Tey’s The Daughter of Time, copyright 1951

Writing isn’t about making money, getting famous, getting dates, getting laid, or making friends. In the end, it’s about enriching the lives of those who will read your work, and enriching your own life, as well.

Stephen King in On Writing—A Memoir of the Craft, copyright 2000

_______________________________________________________________

The renewed desire to write began with him. The Storyteller. He recited a poem. The recitation prickled my skin. Flushed my cheek. The left one—if that makes any difference. The message vibrated every cell.

Enough. These few words are enough.
If not these words, this breath.
If not this breath, this sitting here.

This opening to the life
We have refused
Again and again
Until now.

Until now.

 David Whyte

I remembered the multitude of times I tried to write. All attempts aborted. Remnants discarded or stuffed into the corners of seldom-opened drawers. The life of a writer. The life refused again and again. Perhaps that was not the gist of the poem. It didn’t matter. It’s what I heard.

The resonance of the poem might have been the result of, or increased by, the unaccustomed yoga posture. I was participating in my first Yin Yoga workshop. Poses were held for several minutes. My body relaxed into the positions, or attempted to. My senses sharpened. My mind expanded. My heart softened.

After that late November weekend, when I returned to writing, I realized that the only person I could write for was myself. I once read that a writer must first know her audience. I suppose, if she wants to earn a living by writing, that’s important. But, I am long retired. I live simply and neither need nor desire more money. I am free to create for myself. Good fortune indeed.

What is marvelous, and unexpected, is that others enjoy my stories. Friends, acquaintances and complete strangers. It’s the last group that astounds me. In the ten months that I have been writing my blog, it has attracted more than 750 visitors and over 2000 views from people in 22 different countries. Further, I have 49 followers. Amazing! Yes, some bloggers have thousands or even millions of fans, but I am thrilled with my half a hundred. The fact that I have any at all is extraordinary when you consider that, in 2019, there were:

  • 500 million blogs worldwide
  • 77.8 million new posts published each month on WordPress
  • over 409 million people reading more than 20 billion pages on WordPress monthly

Were Tey alive today, she would be appalled.

In the face of the world-wide blog-inundation, what compels me to write? First, a need to move thoughts out of my mind and onto paper. Otherwise, my head might explode. Second, that one reader who comments, “I loved that story!” What unparalleled satisfaction.

Of the fifty-one posts that I have published, Onychophagia—an account of my former nail-biting habit—has been most viewed. Were readers intrigued by a word they didn’t recognize? Or, do a lot of WordPress readers bite their nails? The single-word header defied the odds. One source claims that titles of six to thirteen words “attract the highest and most consistent traffic.” So much for statistics.

In 2014, I wrote:

I like computers. You can instantly delete an undesirable word, sentence, paragraph, book.

Yet something is lost in that action. I miss the pencil line through the unwanted prose. The messy manuscript that attests to the hard work that may have resulted in just one perfect sentence. Maybe I’ll stop deleting for a while. Just write. Like I think when I’m walking my dog. The thoughts flow then…no problem. They’re just there. And they feel unforced. They feel good. And right.

I never delete when I’m walking the dog.

In 2017 I took a “writing from life” course. I discovered that, for me, thoughts were best committed first to paper. Not to a keyboard. I bought a fountain pen and a spiral-bound notebook. No computers until those initial thoughts found concrete form. No stopping. No deleting. I suspect there is something different that happens at the end of our fingers when we hold a pen and make marks on paper. Something quite dissimilar to what happens when our thoughts flow through our fingers to a keyboard. Well, that’s true for me. The size and shape of the letters, the pauses, the exclamation marks, the dots and dashes, the going back when I’m done, to edit. The notations in the margins. The arrows and carets. The beautiful messiness of it all. Yes! That’s the part I love. When that barrage of words is then transcribed, the hard work begins. The search for synonyms. The elimination of every unnecessary word. The replacement of the “ly” words and some “ing” words—as much as possible. The checking for action verbs and reworking sentences to avoid the passive tense. Weeks or months or even years later, I decide that a piece of writing is good enough to be shared. I post it on WordPress. Then start anew.

*******************

By the way, I no longer write stories in my head when I walk my dog. Regular writing empties my mind of people and plots. I am free to appreciate the dynamic natural world that surrounds us and, before it’s too late, detect the skunks that sometimes cross our path.

I have always loved words and enjoy reading to anyone who loves to listen.
Pitou and I back from a long walk.

Why Write A Memoir?

A little more than a year ago when I finished my memoir, I sent a query letter and a few sample chapters to a publisher—one that promised to respond within sixteen weeks. No acknowedgement arrived. Further, research pointed out that only one in 300,000 manuscripts by “unknown” authors gets accepted by a traditional publishing house. These Many Moons Magnificent was my new-born daughter, albeit, a tiny one. Four years of writing culminated in a book of only 34,000 words. Who would print such a paltry thing? A more important consideration, however, was my reluctance to share my past with strangers. I put the pages in a purple folder, inserted the folder in a plain brown envelope, then secreted the package at the bottom of a deep drawer. Next, I continued to write. Once I had began, I could not stop.

In late December 2019, I published my first blog, “Perfect Meatballs”, a glimpse into my determination to overcome perfectionism. On the next four Sundays, I posted four more tales. During those weeks, I realized I was ready to blog Moons.

Why? Not for imagined riches. I ignored WordPress’s promise that I could earn, earn, earn if I included ads in my blog. A good story is its own advertiser–naive but I want to believe it is true. Further, and gratefully, I do not need money. Nor fame. I am content in my modest life.

One afternoon at the Writers’ Group, I was struggling with a difficult piece of personal history. I said, “Sometimes the writing is painful.”

A member pounced on the admission, “Then why do you do it?”

Before I could formulate a response, a woman answered for me, “Because she has to.”

There was that. But, why did I have to?

Finding Your Answers Within, a book by Dick Sutphen, had found me decades earlier. I decided to look inside—myself, not the book. Quiet moments when beach-walking, forest-bathing, bicycle-riding, or highway-driving provide fertile ground for answer-seeking. On the way home from Writers’ Group that day, auto-pilot kicked in. My mind returned to the aggressive question. Why was I writing a memoir? Before I thought them, three words sprang up—a final expiation. I chuckled. I didn’t know the meaning of expiation. Even so, I remembered a solo winter walk where I asked myself why I blurted out nonsensical words every now and then. Emotional repression spontaneously emerged. The inner wise woman was right then. She must be right now.

Once home, a dictionary pronounced:

expiation (noun)

the act of making amends or reparation for guilt or wrongdoing; atonement.

Similar: atonement, redemption, redress, reparation, restitution

For what did I need to atone? One atones for sins. Real sins or imagined sins? Perhaps both.

I knew I had injured people through Emma-like precipitate remarks, an inflexible stand on negotiable issues, and the acting out of fantasies and delusions. But, I had spent years forgiving myself for such transgressions and, where possible, had sought forgiveness from those I had hurt. When painful memories arose, I recited Louise Hay’s mantra,“I did the best I could with the knowledge, awareness and understanding I had at that time.” And similarly “S/he did the best ….” Maybe, there was some deep-seated guilt, real or imagined, that yet plagued me. My response to the message was to keep writing.

A first reader suggested that I publish Moons because it would help others on their self-realization journeys. Certain fragments may inspire some people to embark on Vision Quests, study astrology, participate in Breathwork, or dialogue with a witch. Perhaps. But, just like wealth and fame, self-help was not my motivation in broadcasting the work. For whatever reason, I was now ready to share my story with more than a handful of friends.

In the final analysis, perhaps passion or pleasure propels people to write. Memoir is the most accessible and the most intimate subject matter.

Postscript

Tomorrow, the first two chapters of These Many Moons Magnificent will be published. The book is short; the chapters are short—only one to four pages in length. Even so, as one reader told me, “Prairie, you say a lot with few words.”

Raku moons, Prairie Wakerobin, from a 1994 exhibition

The Story Behind My Blog

First, thank you to everyone who read my first post and to those who took the time to share personal insights, support my endeavours and share the blog with friends. My heart is happy.

Here is the back story to the blog.

In early September 2015, just three weeks before her 98th birthday, my mother died. I am still surprised by the hugeness of my missing her. Even so, her death allowed me to do something that had been incubating for several years–write about my life. I had tried before, in 1994. The book that resulted was dreadful; it met an early demise. I came to realize that I could not write about my young life while Mom lived. Now was the time.

I signed up for a writing course. Over the next few months the “container” for the story emerged. It would be a “journey to a name”, the story of how a baby named Geraldine evolved into a woman called Prairie.

The going was so slow that I enrolled in another writing course in the spring of 2017.

At my request, the instructor read the opening few chapters of my memoir. After calling the writing “punchy”, she asked, “Is there more?” Magical words to a fledgling writer! Not yet– but there would be.

That fall, I joined a writers’ group. My hands trembled as I read to the members the first time. The astute observations and the genuine encouragement that followed erased my reservations and propelled the work forward.

A little more than a year later, in mid-January 2019, I finished the book. I encased a hard copy in a purple folder, then buried the folder at the bottom of a desk drawer. I will know when it is time to make it public.

I became restless. Stories bubbled up. I committed their details to paper. Each month I would read one to the writers’ group. At our most recent meeting, I wondered about sharing them via a blog. Yes! And so it began.

I have eight finished pieces. My plan is to post one each Sunday for the next two months. In fact, I considered calling my blog “Two Months of Sundays”. But, the memories and their stories continue to emerge. I have the skeletons for several. I’ll see how things progress. In the interim, I hope you continue to read my posts and find something in them that resonates for you.

Coming this Sunday “Creamed-Shrimp-On-Toast–the Magic of Memory”.

Thank you again.

Love,

Prairie