From Left to Write: The Cartographer of No Man's Land

I'm not sure when it happened.

It could have possibly happened when I lived on the west coast, just one state south of the border, in Washington, as a young child.

It could have happened when I lived on the east coast, just one state south of the border, in New York, as a kid.

It could have happened when I dove into Lucy Maud Montgomery's Anne of Green Gables, landing on a farm on Prince Edward Island.

I'm not quite sure exactly when it happened.

But, at some point it did.

I fell in love with our neighbors to the north.  I fell in love with Canada.

Was there any love lost for my home country?  As a child, absolutely not.  However, I vividly remember my Canada curiosity.

Could I have both?  Live here, love there?  And what exactly was it that I loved so much?

Truthfully, when this affinity struck, I don't believe I had ever even been north of that map line.

As a kid in New York, we once went to Niagara Falls, but I couldn't tell you what side of the Falls we were on.

While living in a number of locales across this country, I have not travelled much - I leave that to my baby brother and his wanderlust.  But, when I did finally travel the wee bit I have, I headed north to British Columbia in '95 and 2000.  And instead of a remembered childhood love of the then abstract place on a map, Canada, I looked around and breathed deep.  As much of a tourist as I was - and yes, I did indeed do the typical tourist activities - it felt more like stepping out into a favorite corner of my backyard.  It was comforting, fresh, natural, and of course, a visually stunning feast for the eyes.

It's been thirteen years since last visiting and I dream of going again.  In the meantime, I think I'll keep exploring that remembered childhood love through words woven across a printed page.

 

This post was inspired by The Cartographer of No Man's Land: A Novel by P.S. Duffy.  Angus enlists in the Nova Scotia WWI regiment and travels to Europe to search for his missing in action best friend and brother-in-law.  Along the way Angus discovers more than he ever wanted to know.  Join From Left to Write on November 14th as we discuss The Cartographer of No Man's Land.  As a member, I received a copy of the book for review purposes.

Wanted: Missing Muse

My muse up and disappeared.  I thought she was simply escaping on a rather marvelous vacation.  I was, in fact, quite envious.  But now, I'm beginning to worry she developed a terminal illness and expired...and I'm trembling with fright at that disastrous prospect. 

 

November 1st is rapidly approaching, aka NaNoWriMo launch day, making that missing muse even more of a problem than it has been through the last year.

 

The previous two years, I click clacked my way across my keyboard for NaNoWriMo and last year, my wee girl got her NaNo on for the first time, jumping on board with great gusto.  She loved it so much, she wants to write again this year...and she wants the other half of her Mother-Daughter Team click clacking while she puts a special purple pencil to her Hello Kitty notebook.  With said muse missing, in distress, or chained face down in a river somewhere, I'm madly sending out search parties for her in hopes of joining my li'l girl for NaNo and thousands of words of my own.

 

The clock is counting down and at this point, I would happily accept a wayward muse or even a drunken, wandering muse who hiccups with greater enthusiasm than the hoped for whispering inspirations.

 

Send help.  I'm going to need it.

From Left to Write: Afterwards

Tall black rubber rain boots, navy chino shorts, topped with a nearly too small Pokémon t-shirt.

Utilizing her new skill, she pulls her hair back into a low ponytail, heading for the screen door.

Metal on metal sounds as she slides the worn screen door open, calling out, “I’m coming, Dad!  Wait for me!”

Rain boots making her tiny feet look and sound bigger than they are race across the deck as her ponytail dances on her shoulders, absolutely tickled with delight to help her Dad with yard work.

An audible gasp escapes my lips, caught in one of those rare moments when life simultaneously stands still and flashes forward.

She’s a decade older, a sixteen year old girl a few feet from me, embracing life, even the simple moments.

I couldn’t tear my eyes from the little girl in front of me or from the teenager I’ll one day meet.

She’s burned into my heart now.

Looking forward to when the two girls will become one, but for now, I’ll hold on to the li’l girl and her small hands that still look for encouragement and guidance a while longer.

 

 

This post was inspired by the novel Afterwards by Rosamund Lupton. After witnessing her children's school set ablaze, Grace attempts to find the arsonist as her teenage daughter lies in a coma in Lupton's suspense thriller. Join From Left to Write on April 11 as we discuss Afterwards. As a member, I received a copy of the book for review purposes.

Writer's Workshop: { Seventh Grade Bookends }

 

Boarding the yellow school bus, the last stop on the route, was hell.

There were a lot of us waiting to climb aboard.  There were never enough seats left.  One child made the less-than-brilliant move to mark my li'l brother's neck with ballpoint pen.  It was the '80s and I'd bet my favorite Bic pens were the culprit - I preferred blue, but that day black was used.

That bus.  That bus stop.  Those kids.  I couldn't stand it.

I needed another method of transportation to the seventh grade.  Definitely.

Feet.  They worked.  Often.

On the days I needed to go faster, a bicycle worked.  Black and white ten speed.  Pedals turning.  Chain cycling.  Wheels rotating.  Faster.

Two get-myself-to-school memories are etched into the ol' brain.  Perfectly placed bookends.

Fall.  And then falling.  Autumn coats the air.  Pumping the pedals to climb the last hill to campus.  Two nameless boys in front as I miss the rhythm, pulling a right leg too early to hop off.  Landing hard.

"Eat dirt?!!"

Grumbling internally.  Some unknown, surely less than witty remark to hide the embarrassment, tossed their way.  Rising up to walk the bike the remaining distance.  A big, huge hole at the knee of the only pair of jeans - any pants at all - owned.

I wore skirts the rest of the seventh grade.

By spring, a friend from the same neighborhood, was joining me on the avoid-the-yellow-school-bus trek.

The oh-my-goodness-what-am-I-going-to-tell-my-mom about this or that talk that went on as we walked home caused giggles to erupt.  But, it's The Pole memory that is the solid bookend to the get-myself-to-school memories.

Once a week, the school newspaper - a two sided ditto - came out.  We took turns reading it to each other, whether we were on bike or foot.

Coming out of the wooded patch, onto the steep hill, we climbed.  Once at the top, the street leveled out.  Then it was much easier to dive into the school news.

She read to me, completely captured by whatever tale that courier font regaled.  Listening intently, I no more saw what was in front of her than she did.

A pole.  A light pole?  I don't know what exactly it was in the moment.  But, she walked right into, school newspaper in hand.

SMACK.

From that day on, it was her pole.

Every school day after, she would give her pole a li'l hug as we passed by it, on our way home.

And on the last day of school, we even stopped to photograph her with it.

I'd share it with you, but then I'm sure she'd have to kill me.  And I'm not ready to do dead.

So, that particular seventh grade memory bookend will stay right where it is.

But, I remember both experiences vividly - acid wash jeans destined to become cutoffs after I crashed and burned in front of those boys for me and navy blue shorts, navy blue & white stripped tee for her and her pole.

I. Loved. Seventh. Grade.

You know how I'm sure?

My memory banks are bursting from that particular year.  Thank goodness.

 

Ran with Mama Kat's first prompt: a seventh grade memory.  I had oodles to choose from for that particular year.  So, to keep indecisiveness at bay, I ran with the bookends!

 

What do you remember from your seventh grade year?

 

Great Expectations

Guess where I get to hang out right now?

Greta, the fun, totally real mama of four, invited me to spend the day with her at G*Funki*fied.

Twitter struck again and led my way to the lady with the sassy pants and I'm so glad it did!  She tells it like it is, shares her fun family photos a la her Project 365, working towards her 2013 running goal (she's totally rocking it) with #Mamavation, and we've found a common bond through her own kidlet gluten free journey.  Make sure to join her #iPPP linkup, sharing phone snapped photos on Wednesdays.

Come on over to Greta's place where I'm sharing what happens when I'm desperate...and just how much I trust my husband.  And then stay awhile and visit with Greta!