A picture of my dad when he married my mother.
My dad has been gone for 15 years yet I often think of things he said and did. I often repeat what he said about me being so short. ‘As long as you’re tall enough to reach your teeth to brush them.’ Or ‘Small things come in small packages.’ He would wait a minute and then add, ‘Then so does dynamite and poison.’ Of course, he always said it with a smile.
Some of my favorite memories are studying the stars with him. It seemed he knew the names of all the constellations. Exploring for fossils. Camping by the Red Deer River and crossing the ferry with him. Riding in the grader with him as he repaired roads. Visiting museums on our travels, and the stories he told about the past. He’d come to Alberta as a young boy and settled in one of the driest parts of the province. He often said there were two good years of farming there–1916 and next year. And who can forget the long, dusty drive to Hay River in the Northwest Territories. I believe it was the last long trip I took with my parents. That fall as I returned to school, I wrote the traditional ‘What did you do in the summer?’ essay. I remember I got top marks for the descriptive way I told of our trip. Looking back, I think that was the first time I thought of being a writer.
A special memory is the series of sermons my father did teaching how every detail of the Old Testament tabernacle portrayed a truth about our faith.
Such wonderful memories. I hope all of you have sweet memories of times spent with your father. If you are still able, make some more memories today.
Do you have a job you hate to do?
I found this blog in the depths of my computer files. My notes say it was initially published in Mar. 2004. Sad to say it is as true today as it was then. I offer it with a few changes to bring it up to date.
What is the job you hate doing?
For me, it is bed making after washing the sheets. I used to procrastinate, bribe others, complain and whine. One day, in a fit of pique, I decided to time myself. I was hoping to justify my bad attitude about the job. Imagine my shock and chagrin when I realized it took 5 minutes to do the job. Yup. Five minutes which triggered an hour of moaning and groaning. Now I wish I could say that in a wonderfully mature fashion I decide to never again complain. I didn’t. However, I do now manage to race to the bedroom during commercials and whip a bed together. Most commercial breaks are longer than 5 minutes.
There are other things I hate doing—or at least starting. Every morning I procrastinate about jumping into writing. I know why I have this problem. It’s because I enter a different world, I get involved with my characters. I get so involved with them that I often emerge from a writing session wrung out emotionally to the point of exhaustion. It’s the investment of my emotions that makes it hard to cross that barrier into the other world.
I read a quote that describes my struggle. “At the moment of beginning, almost anything is more interesting than writing.”
Aristotle said ‘Well begun is half done.’ However he did not say how to get well begun.
I have yet to find a satisfactory way of getting past that barrier. I have lots of little tricks but I know they are tricks. Sometimes I fool myself with them. Sometimes I don’t.
To borrow a famous trademark slogan, I just need to do it because I know there’s a story that needs telling. As Michelanglo said: “I saw the angel in the marble and carved until I set him free.” I’m no Michelangelo but perhaps I have a job to do—setting my story free from my beleaguered brain.
Seeing the finished product is an encouragement. Like this book, released on Amazon June 1.
Get it here:
https://tinyurl.com/yaaz88fu
Layering
Here are two pictures of the beautiful Garden of the Gods in Colorado. Both are stunning. The whole place is a sight to behold. But the one on the left is flat compared to the one on the right. Why? Because the layer of clouds gives it added depth and texture.
I find in my writing I need to add layers and textures as well.
I can add texture with description but I need to be careful not to bog the story down. Just a flavor of the setting or a thumbnail description of the character.
Another way to add texture is to layer subplots, add symbolism (Symbolism is basically something that has a meaning beyond itself) and motif–a recurring object, or song, for instance, that triggers a response in the character. I can also add texture and layers through conflict and theme.
All of that is cerebral and means nothing to most people. Suffice it to say stories can be flat if no layers are involved.
A little like life, I suppose. We need clouds to make shadows that give our lives depth and beauty. It’s the strong wind that makes the tree roots grow deep. Like the saying goes, without the rain, there is no rainbow.
Or as Bill and Gloria say in their song, “Through it All”
I thank God for the mountains,
and I thank Him for the valleys,
I thank Him for the storms He brought me through.
For if I’d never had a problem,
I wouldn’t know God could solve them,
I’d never know what faith in God could do.
Full Song Lyrics: http://www.lyrster.com/lyrics/through-it-all-lyrics-bill-gloria-gaither.html#ixzz5HJCcyQIG
May your life be filled with just enough sunshine and rain, shadow and pain to make it a beautiful thing.
ENCOUNTERING A ROADBLOCK
I set out on my morning walk, determined to get in as many steps as possible in my limited time. After all, I had things to do, plans, an agenda. And then I saw a skunk headed for the road. It was going to cross right in front of me. I was bigger and I’m sure smarter. After all, how big a brain can it have? I was sure my agenda was of more importance than a skunk’s. But in the name of common sense and safety (mine), I stopped and waited for it to cross and go on its merry way. A small animal but a huge roadblock.
I realize that writing stories is sometimes like that. I have a plan and I’m set on writing. But suddenly, the writing comes grinding to a halt. I’ve learned I can’t blindly push forward. There is something creating the roadblock and I have to stop and figure out what it is.
Maybe life is like that too. Unexpected things cause our lives to come to a grinding halt. We have to stop and re-evaluate. Is it time to change direction? Choose another route? Wait?
These past couple of weeks, I’ve been dealing with roadblocks. Skunks are the easiest to deal with. Story problems are not quite so easy and life re-directions are the hardest to figure out.
Thankfully, I am not floundering on my own even if it sometimes feels that way. God promises, ‘I will instruct you and teach you in the way you should go; I will counsel you with my loving eye on you.’ Psalm 32:8.
As Matt Redman says in his beautiful song, 10,000 Reasons:
Whatever may pass
And whatever lies before me
Let me be singing
When the evening comes
Happy Mother’s Day
I feel like I should have something profound to say on Mother`s Day. I tried to think of special memories of Mother`s Day when I was a child. But I could think of none. Was it so commercialized back then (in the dark ages)? Yet when I think of my mother, I have memories that surely qualify for a special place on Mother`s Day.
First, there’s lardie cake. Has anyone else heard of this or is it a family recipe, perhaps finding its way down from my Scottish grandmother? My mother rolled out bread dough, spread it with lard (I`m sure that`s how she did it even though it sounds gross), sprinkled it with white sugar, folded it up and rolled it out again. She rolled it out several times that way. Baked in a loaf, it was sweet, crisp and delicious. And back then we didn`t worry about our arteries.
I was six or seven when I got my tonsils out. My throat hurt enough to cut glass with. I remember how my parents brought me home from the hospital and put me on the couch outside their bedroom. I suppose it was so they could watch me. At the time I thought it meant I was extremely ill. I woke in the night with my throat so dry and painful I could hardly open my mouth. Somehow I managed to call—or more likely, whisper—for my mother. I`m amazed she heard, but she did, and brought me cool water to soothe my throat. There is something special about knowing your mother will let you disturb her sleep and come to your side in the middle of the night.
One thing I thank my mother for almost every day is how she taught us about God. She encouraged us to memorize verses. To this day I remember the one I committed to my memory. How wise of her to recognize how much our young minds would retain.
My mother liked to draw with colored pencils. One of my fondest memories is picking wild flowers and taking them to her. A few hours later we`d return to find the flower drawn in colorful, accurate detail. She sketched butterflies, moths, and caterpillars as well. On the top shelf above my desk I have a picture she did of a wild rose.
Maybe that`s my Mother`s Day present to her—remembering her with love.
Where do you get ideas?
It’s a question that is often asked. Where do writers get ideas? For me, they are everywhere. The challenge becomes to write them down if only on a scrap of paper towel before I forget them. (Where do lost ideas go? Does another author, quicker and with more memory storage get them?)
When I think of how many ideas are floating around, I think of my father-in-law.
Farming seemed a noble thing to do so he and his brother left Exeter, Ontario. The brother settled in the grain belt of Saskatchewan and my father-in-law found an abandoned farm in the desert of eastern Alberta and got possession by driving school bus to pay off back taxes.
Farming may have sounded noble, but his heart wasn’t in it. All his life, he remained a frustrated inventor. There had to be a better, more efficient, quicker way to do everything and he would spend hours adjusting and experimenting while one of his sons gnashed his teeth wanting nothing more than to get on with the job of seeding or harvesting the crop or whatever was on the seasonal agenda.
His philosophy was why buy new when anything could be repaired with a piece of haywire? His fix-it bent drove many of his sons to tearing at their hair when the new combine sat idle in the yard while their father insisted he could not only fix the old one but make it run better than the new. And maybe he could but with winter hovering on the horizon, the sons wanted only to get the crop off.
Not that his efforts were in vain. He came up with some nifty ideas. Why waste time forking off hay? He rigged up a sling to pull the load off the wagon.
Below are pictures of how he created a dump truck that didn’t have a hoist.
We bought the family farm and on trips around the yards I would often find myself staring as some maze of wire and belts. Upon questioning my father-in-law or one of his sons, I would be told it was how he pulled the pump, or created an automatic waterer (long before one could go to the nearest farm store and buy one), or that how he figured out a machine to bunch the bales for easier pick up. Any number of things.
I suppose being a farmer and having to do the actual physical work required in order to survive, he never had the time to pursue all his ideas.
It’s the same with a writer. I see story possibilities everywhere I look—the headlines about a baby girl abandoned, the reunion of old lovers who lost track of each other, the report of a man who rescued a woman trapped in a car—I could go on and on. There are too many ideas. Not enough time.
What amazes me is how a great idea will wed another great idea and the two of them breed and reproduce until there are hundreds of ideas forming a story.
I can’t say exactly how it begins. It’s almost magical. It’s like Robert Frost says as he describes the dawning of a poem. ‘It begins as a lump in the throat, a homesickness, a love sickness. It is never a thought to begin with. It finds its thought and succeeds or it doesn’t and comes to nothing.’
Now off to explore a few ideas and see if they will turn into a story.
A Gentle Giant
Today, I thought I would share a guest blog I did on Petticoats and Pistols this week.
When I was a child, my father took us to what is now known as Dinosaur Provincial Park which consists of badlands along the Red Deer River south of our home. There he showed us a rough log cabin and said it had been the home of John Ware—a famous Black cowboy. He told us about the cowboy and it sounded so brave and wonderful. Since that day, I have had an interest in this unusual man.
John Ware was born a slave on a South Carolina plantation in 1845. He was freed at the end of the civil war in 1865 and set out to join a Texas cattle drive. John Ware was a big man and strong…by all accounts, a gentle giant. When he was freed he had a debt to settle with the plantation owner. He caught the man and led him to the whipping tree where John and many of his friends and family had endured the wrath of this man. But he set his ex-master free. John preferred peace to violence.
By 1882, he was an experienced cowboy and was hired by the owners of the newly-formed North-West Cattle Company at the Bar U Ranch to drive cattle into Canada. Once the cattle reached the ranch, John was asked to stay on. It seems he ate as much as two men and needed sandwiches as big as Bibles for lunch.
Breaking horses was one of John’s favorite jobs and he was good at it. One time some cowboys were having trouble with an unruly horse and asked John to help. He got on it and stayed on it as the horse raced toward Oldman River. The horse launched itself over the bank into deep water. Afraid of what had become of John, the cowboys waited until the horse emerged downstream with John still on its back.
Many stories of his feats abound. Like the time the cattle were caught in a snow storm. The cowboys tried to turn them but failed and all returned to the ranch except John. The storm raged for three days before the cowboys could go in search of John and the cows. They found him two days later still with the herd. He had not been dressed for the weather and joked he was afraid to flex his fingers in case they broke of like icicles.
Sometimes John performed feats of strength like straightening a curved hay hook with his bare hands, or lifting a barrel full of water into cart.
John had a dream—to own his own ranch. In 1890 he had built a house on the shores of Sheep Creek. But he wanted a family. He wanted to marry a Black woman and there were few such in Alberta. However, a family moved into the area. He courted Mildred and married her. He was 26 years older than her. They soon had four children.
The land around John and his family was settling up and John didn’t care for that so in 1900 he moved his family to near the Red Deer River. Mildred must have been shocked to see the treeless countryside with its stunted grass and the nearby badlands. Their sixth child was born there but he was never strong. Mildred never regained her health after the child was born. John rode the train to Calgary to get medicine. Where he returned to Brooks (the nearest station) he had 40 Km to ride to reach home. A storm made it impossible for the horse to make its way so John walked the distance. But sadly, the child, Daniel, died before his 3rd birthday. Later that year Mildred died of pneumonia.
That same year, John and his 11 year old son were cutting out some cattle when John’s favorite horse caught her foot in a badger hold and fell, pinning John beneath. John was killed in that accident. His surviving five children went to live with Mildred’s parents.
At his funeral, the pastor described John as “a gentleman with a beautiful skin.” John had not faced much prejudice on the open range though he experienced it in the towns and cities. He was believed to have said that “A good man or a good horse is never a bad color.”
I think of John’s strengths–both physical and emotional–and think what a great hero he would be in any story, just as he is in his own story.
Persistent Hope
I sa
w these tulips poking up through the snow. Already six inches tall, they must have started growing while still covered with the cold, white stuff. It’s as if they knew the snow would go and the warm sunshine would appear. I call that persistent hope.
It reminds me of the very first book I had published.
It is the story of a young woman who has lost everything and has fallen into a dark pit of 
despair. The hero reaches out to her and tenderly draws her from that darkness. He reminds her that even though the sky is filled with clouds, the sun is still shining. Just as even though she felt abandoned and alone, God’s love had not failed.
I realized that this is often the theme of my stories—how to find hope when all seems lost. How to move forward when the feet seem stuck in clay. How to trust God’s love when feeling abandoned.
I suppose it is a lesson I have to remind myself of over and over.
My hope and prayer with my stories is that you, the reader, will discover the truth right along with my characters (and me).
You can find more of hope-filled, persistent hope and love in my new series: Dakota Brides. Available here: https://tinyurl.com/y9xm7utm
The Never-Ending Story….
The never-ending story of Winter.
There are things I enjoy about winter. The snow covers the dust of the previous summer and fall. It sculpts interesting shapes of the landscape. Noise is muffled. It’s a good reason to cocoon in my office. (Or do I mean shelter in place?) I can put in long hours of writing without being drawn outside. I can spend the evenings reading rather than weeding.
Yes, winter is okay for December, January and February. Even in March it’s not too bad because we all know it will soon be over. But into April? Sorry, but that is just too much.
They say if life hands your lemons, make lemonade. But what do you make when it’s snow? The kids are making forts from it. I think I’ll just sit at the window and grumble about it.
Or maybe I’ll use this prolonged winter to clean closets.
Wait. I think I feel a story idea coming on. (Sure beats housecleaning.)
Are you still stuck in winter or has spring…summer… flowers and green grass made it to your corner of the world? If so, enjoy it for me.
An Early Morning Walk
Today I am going to do something I rarely (never to date) do. I am going to share the material in my newsletter so I you are signed up for that, you will get it twice. Sorry.
I love the different faces of morning–foggy and mysterious, bright and clear, dripping with fog or visited by wildlife. Every morning is a new beginning. Filled with hope and possibility. I am reminded over and over that life is what I make of it. I can take the bad and dwell on it. Or I can seek out the beauty.
Elin in Abandoned Bride has determined to do the latter. She’d been hurt, disappointed, abandoned, and left to manage on her own. But she is going to make the best of it. The best turns out to be better than she ever dreamed or imagined. It’s a story of strength and victory. Try it out. I think you’ll like it. You can get it here:
https://tinyurl.com/y7sx9juq