Writer at Work

My first taste of a writer's deadline was invigorating and amusing.

When I work from home the telephone intrudes on my day. M will testify that I am much focused and don't like to be interrupted or distracted when my mind is working on something. There are times when my irritation at being interrupted shows in my voice but, for the most part, I try to keep my tone neutral and friendly. And just as well, as one never knows which call will be an important one. Recently I received a call, not one necessarily destined to change my life, but with the potential to hone my skills and move me further along as a writer.

Actually, I did really well on this particular call. Not only did I disguise any irritation, but I was also hospitable to the stranger who spoke as if we knew each other. And in some way we do, as we share the same chair at our hairdresser's.

My hairdresser reads my blog and talks to me about my writing while she shapes and trims my increasingly mind-of-its-own hair. She joined the dots between one client who writes, albeit for herself, and another who edits a small monthly community newspaper and was in need of a contributing writer. However, it took the other client a little longer to complete the circle. So long, I gave up expecting the call.

When the call did come, the interview was brief: I don't have a pedigree as a writer. My degree in English and three year stint teaching secondary school English may count for something, but that's about it when it comes to the 'let me impress you' stakes. However, this is a small monthly paper, not the Vancouver Sun; he had a deadline to meet - and no writer. The usual writer had not been able to follow through. Could I write a press release, based on information he would provide, and have it to him by noon on Wednesday? This was Monday afternoon.

I laughed - my first deadline. Two days is better than two hours but with a busy schedule I was already processing where I would carve out the time for my first freelance assignment. Sure - I replied - I'll work on it tonight. Not all writing is the same and I was fraught with doubt writing the press release.

The invigorating part was the "Great story" reply to my piece the following day with only one change by the editor. No rewrite required!

Hmm - I can get used to this.

Lost at the Gabba

M and I both have brothers who live in Australia with their families. My brother lives in Brisbane. M has a brother in Sydney and another in Perth. Yip, we're all pretty spread out.

Here is a fun exclamatory story from my brother. For those not initiated to the fine sport of cricket, the Gabba is a famous sports stadium in Brisbane, Shaun Pollock is a South African cricketer and Brandon is our 12 year-old nephew - a good cricketer too - who was recently selected for a Queensland indoor cricket team:

Well people!

As you all know I have so much money (sic) … I can quite easily throw it away!!

Well, for those doubting Thomas’s … I did exactly that tonight!!! $1000 to be exact!!!!

Picture the scene … family outing to the renowned Gabba … good old Nando’s for dinner … a quiet beer beforehand. All ready for a 20/20 clash between Queensland and Western Australia.

The bowler strides in, batsman hits the ball … perfect … soars over the boundary into our part of the crowd. Ball comes straight to me … I can see it as big as a melon … keeps coming … it’s mine … I can see it [a white melon you might ask?]. It is still mine … it is meant for me!!!!! AND ME ONLY!

It reminds me of the time Shaun Pollock hit a ball to me [beach cricket] and I caught it … a ball I still have in my bottom drawer!!!! This to prove I can catch!!!

At the critical moment, milli-seconds before impact, Brandon’s friend reaches out and makes contact with the ball. His thumb will hurt for days yet!! As will my ego! The small deflection changes the route of the ball and it ends up going onto my left hand [both hands were ready for the catch] … I promise.

[Here come the excuses now] I had struck my left hand with a hammer trying to mark out our new pool a few hours before … no feeling in the left hand … and, thud, it dropped onto the ground. The officials came running over … as they had no video evidence I had dropped it … they thought I had caught it!!!!!! [Every catch by a supporter off a six is worth $1000.]

Thanks Mom … you taught me well ... $1000 down the drain!!!!!

And to top it all, I walked out to a small white slip of paper on the car windshield … $75 parking fine!!!!

Where is the justice in this world!!!

Well, back to catching practice!! I know I will never be a carpenter!

A Borreltje

Ten years ago M and I visited his grandmother in Holland for one week as our gift to her for her 90th birthday. Every evening, after a day of sightseeing or visiting family, we would return in time to enjoy a 'borreltje' with Ouma: cashews, cheese, crackers and a glass of wine. This was one of Ouma's highlights. She would have it all ready and waiting for us. Each morning she would say that we didn't need to come back just for her, but each evening we did, and each evening she loved it.

Over a glass of wine, M and Ouma would talk and I would listen. I know enough Afrikaans to follow a conversation in Dutch. Speaking the language, however, is a different story. One of Ouma's stories was about the 'borreltjes' that she enjoyed having with her neighbours in the retirement apartment where she lived.

At five o'clock every evening, the group of five or so friends would gather at one of their apartments. Each one took a turn to bring a bottle of something to be enjoyed. This social event was the highlight of their day. A couple of glasses later the visit would be over until they reconvened the following evening. Ten years younger at the time, M and I thought that this was a novel way to grow old and a tradition we might consider when the time came.

The Christmas before last, our 80 year-old neighbour, Ginger, invited us to come and enjoy a glass of wine at her place. We were still relatively new to the building and thought it was a great way to get to know our neighbour better. Ginger had also invited Rosie who is easily Ginger's age and lives one floor down. We had a great visit.

It had snowed heavily that December and, with fresh snow on the road, we had a whale of a time watching the cars trying to get up the hill on Lonsdale. We stood comfortably warm in Ginger's apartment, sipping wine and coaxing the cars up the icy and slippery hill, "go, go, you can make it!" We cheered when one made it and groaned with empathy each time a driver gave up, reversed cautiously and turned onto a snow-laden side road.

After an evening of hilarity, wine and snacks, we called it a night and padded across the hallway to our front door. Inside our new home, I said to M, "Do you realise we have just had our first borreltje?" Scary, isn't it?

Nellie, The Iron Horse

Nellie is beautiful in every season: whether she's caught in a snow drift or has soft green grass under her bronzed hooves. She's a familiar figure as I make my way up and down Lonsdale.

Nellie's a retired work horse. She used to haul supplies up the steep hill that is Lower Lonsdale, bringing building materials to the residential and commercial buildings of North Vancouver. She's a firm favourite with the residents of Lower Lonsdale. We can always find her with her head lowered ready for that much needed drink from the water trough in Victoria Park.

In summer when the lawn is mowed, we fill her trough with cut grass as well as her hollow bronzed head so that she is sure not to go hungry. After a good snowfall, we dress her in and make her a snow horse. She looks particularly lovely with a snow-filled torso.

Her water trough is a good place to leave your commerative red poppy on Remembrance Day. Nellie worked at the time of the Great War, so says her trough - dated 1915.

Her sculptors marked her hoof prints in stainless steel in the sidewalk. I hear the clip clop of her hooves whenever I walk by. Nellie's stillness is a whisper of serenity in the busyness that is life on Lonsdale.

Countryscape

We live north of Vancouver: just fifteen minutes north on the sea bus. North Vancouver is a unique place to live - a city with a village feel. Not that you know everyone or that everyone knows your business, yet it exudes familiarity and lacks the stark anonymity of city living.

From our living room window we have a city view of Lower Lonsdale and Vancouver. The buildings stand as sentinels, tall into the sky. At night they transform into a myriad of decorative lights. We have yet to close the blinds to that night-time view. From all our other windows we look across rooftops to our village countryscape replete with church steeple.

How many cities offer you genuine countryside in your own backyard? We can hike mountains in summer (see The Grind August 2009), ski them in winter, sail and kayak the ocean, walk the seawall, watch the sunsets and laze on the beach. Admittedly, only a few hardy souls venture a swim in the sea but the lakes abound with summer revelers.

If you haven't already been enticed by the uniqueness of this village-city, keep reading. There is more to explore north of Vancouver.

Night-Time Reading

I squeeze five minutes of reading in most nights - ten if M is taking his time getting to bed. Just this week I smiled to myself when I realised that the reading topics that most interest me all start with the letter 'F': faith, finances and France - a few more F words to add to my list (see F Words August 2009).

I'm not too keen on the finance books next to my bed waiting to be read. I already don't like the titles but I'm prepared to give them a chance because I am always looking for something new to learn. But I do not labour through a book just to finish it. The author has three chapters to get my attention. Failing that, I boot it out; I am an avid reader with limited time.

One of the books I am reading is 'The Incredible Journey of Faith' by Ray Pritchard (see America August 2009). I bought this book at the August conference we attended where Ray Pritchard was the speaker. At the conference Ray Pritchard gave anyone, anywhere, copyright privileges for any of his material. Using that permission, here is a piece from the sixth chapter of this book:

"I received an email from a man in Pennsylvania who had read one of my books. Not long ago the doctors told him he had prostate cancer.

It was while reading your book that God and I came to peaceful terms with cancer. Not only that but he gave me the ability to see how cancer would be useful in His kingdom and in my life. Cancer clears away the cobwebs, cancer clarifies, cancer makes concise, cancer enables you to find comfort in God and freedom from the world's entrapments.

If he had not had cancer, he would never have discovered these things. Cancer may not be good in and of itself, but it can be good to have cancer if out of that crisis you come to a new understanding of God. We learn more in the darkness than we do in the light. We grow stronger in affliction than when the sun is shining and all is well. It is not coincidence that Moses discovered God's glory in a time of personal crisis. It will be the same for us as well."

I closed the book; I prayed for my mother.

Good Morning YVR!

Good Morning Vancouver!
It's a new year, a new decade with new hopes!

Sluggish from the New Year's Eve celebrations, I nurse my cup of tea. Hopes, dreams and gleeful anticipations for 2010 emerge from the fog that hovers as a remnant from the late night festivities. There's a writing course to do, French to master, a trip to visit family in South Africa and a holiday in France to enjoy. Somewhere, this year, a little fear slips in uninvited. I take a deep breath - yes, I'm looking forward to resuming my yoga class.

On January 1st, I like to take stock of life and recalibrate. I snuggle into my chair, feel the warmth from the fireplace on my legs, sip my tea and look across the water to Vancouver.

Let's not forget the Winter Olympics which will overrun our city next month. We are looking forward to taking it all in. We won't get any skiing in ourselves but we hope to snow-shoe at least once this winter.

I mull this over.

My new year resolutions are aptly summed up in a Swedish proverb:
Fear less, hope more; Eat less, chew more; Whine less, breathe more; Talk less, say more; Love more, and all good things will be yours.