Things Are Not Always As They Seem

Part of a Short Story

Roger, shaking with fear, could hear his friend huffing along behind him as they ran.

"Wait for me. Why are we running?" Mark whispered.

"Hurry up," Roger hissed urgently to his friend. "Didn't you hear that? We've got to go and tell Dad. That woman was being murdered."

Bursting out of the trees, Roger ran into the house as if a pack of wolves was on their tail. "Daddy, Daddy, a woman - she's getting murdered - in the woods. We've got to do something."

"What are you talking about, Son? Now calm down and tell me what you saw."

"Mark and I were playing in our stump cave and I came out ... to look for something that we could make into seats. I heard them, Daddy. It sounded like the woman was ... crying. He was on top of her ... he was choking her, Daddy. It looked like she ... was trying to get away."

"Was she screaming?"

"No, I didn't hear her ... exactly. It sounded like she was ... laughing but she wouldn't laugh when she was being murdered. He was murdering her, Daddy. He was right on top of her."

"Okay, you and Mark go into the kitchen and get a glass of milk and some cookies and I'll go take a look," his father said.

* * * * * *

Roger thought back to that time many years ago and still felt the wave of embarrassment wash over him as it had many times over the years when he thought of that incident. He remembered his father coming back and putting a hand on his shoulder and saying, "The woman was'nt murdered, Son. You'll discover as you get older that things are not always as they seem."

Over the years he thought often about what his father had said. And how often had he heard his mother say the same thing? Like when he thought one of his friends was spreading a rumor about him and later found out that he was planning a surprise for his birthday. "Roger," his mother had told him, "you'll have to remember as you get older to look into the facts before you get upset because things aren't always as they seem."

He had later discovered that it went even further than that. Women often weren't what they initially appeared to be either, and the same went for men. And a place you loved to visit may turn out to be quite different when you decided to live there. The same could be said for food. What may look absolutely delicious on the plate may not have the taste of perfection. The list was endless. Presentation may imply more than the substance warrants, he had often thought to himself over the years following many disappointments. It was something he was still coming to terms with because he always got drawn in with what appeared to be rather than what actually was. But how do you determine the difference between what seems and what is? He had asked himself this questions many times in the past.

* * * * * *

When he'd first met Serena, he'd been impressed with her friendly and outgoing personality. As they were introduced, she had tossed thick bangs off her forehead in a practised manner, causing her long carmel colored hair to float across her shoulders. He had been mesmerized with that abundance of silk cascading down her back. And her eyes, they had been the most startling shade of green he'd ever encountered. He'd been entranced with the vision before him. Her happy spirit had filled every room she entered and people always gravitated to her side enjoying her company, and her laughter. She was the life and center of every social event they ever attended. He always stood at her side, an obscure shadow to her bigger than life personality. In short she was the effervescence of every social gathering. Everything else in comparison was dull and drab.

That was until they were in the confines of their own surroundings. The laughter bubbled away to an underground trickle, the abundant hair was put into a bun, the green contacts were replaced with glasses and the happy spirit tucked up her feet and gathered to her bosom the latest book she was reading. But the smile, when she turned it on him, remained effervescent and the shadow became obscure no more. His happy spirit filled the room when she smiled at him and he became Superman to her Lois Lane. ...

The Turbulant World of Mothers and Daughters

Part of a Short Story

Janine plunked herself down onto the bench beside her girlfriend, Meredith, her blood boiling. She could feel the heat in her face as she thought about the words she'd had with her mother a short time ago.

"What's wrong?" Meredith asked, seeing her friend's face.

"It's my mother again. She does nothing but criticize me. I can't do anything to please her. I thought it would be better when I moved out on my own. But it's not."

"I thought my mother was critical but I think yours does take the prize. What did she do this time?"

"I stopped by to say hello because it's been a couple of weeks since I've been there. Was she glad to see me? No! She pounced on me with, 'Well, you finally managed to find some time in your busy life to come and visit your father and I."

"What did your father say?" Meredith asked.

You know my Dad. He's always trying to smooth the waters. If it was just him, I'd go over more often. Dad always says nice things to me - he's a builder-upper kind of person. He doesn't try to shred me into little bits every time he sees me." Janine ran her hands through her hair in frustration. "I'd love to have a mother like yours, Meredith."

"We have our problems occasionally too. Yesterday she said, 'I love how you're wearing your hair today, Meredith. It's much nicer than how you had it a few days ago.' It wasn't a terribly bad thing to say. I guess you could call it kind of a left-handed compliment."

"What did you say when she said that?"

"I just laughed and said I like your hair better today too. It's much nicer than last week. But you know my mom, she never changes her hairstyle. I think she's worn the same style since the day she got married. She laughed too."

"I guess part of it is you handle things differently than I do. My mother is more critical than yours but I react to her rather than just letting things roll off me, like you do. I'd hate to think that my mother and I have similar personalities. That would be a scary thought. Expecially if I thought I would treat my own daughter like she treats me."

"I think we can be who we want to be. You already know you don't want to be like your mom, so you can work towards not being that way."

"Yeah, I guess. I try not to react when she says hurtful things to me, but it's hard. Two weeks ago when I was over there, I had only just come in the door and she said, 'Janine, what are you wearing? That looks awful on you. It's far too short and it makes you look dumpy'."

"Wow, that's a tough one. What did you say?"

"I said, 'That's it, I'm leaving. I get nothing but criticism from you. I don't know why I ever come over here. You are the biggest reason I left, Mother.' My dad heard the shouting and came to see what was going on. He looked at me and came over right awway to give me a hug and said, 'It's nice to see you, Sweetheart. You are always the highlight of my day.' That's the difference between my mother and father."

"Let's go and get a cup of tea," Meredith said as she took her friend's arm. "I could use one and from the sounds of it, I think you could too. How do you think Josh will get along with her after the two of you are married?"

"That fiasco has already started. She has made it clear that she doesn't like Josh."

"What doesn't she like about him? Everyone likes Josh; there's nothing not to like. In fact he reminds me of your father, very easy-going."

"She said he's not a go-getter and he'll never amount to anything and I'll probably have to support us for the rest of our lives. I told her he had a good job and she just grunted. You know the way she has of doing it that can be so infuriating. Now she said she knows a good place for us to have our wedding and reception. She wants a big extravaganza with all of her friends. We want it small, just family and our close friends."

"Why is she so into the wedding planning when she doesn't like Josh?"

"I guess she figures marrying Josh is inevitable and she wants to put her stamp on it and be the 'mother of the bride' in a big way. She's driving us crazy." ...

The Demons of Alcohol

Part of a Short Story

She watched him stagger in the general direction of the sofa, making an effort to hold up the walls as he went, his feet shuffling across the carpet. "You're drunk again." Becky's heart was pounding with anger and frustration. She knew he would deny it as he usually did, even though the whiskey fumes washed over her like waves on the shore, filling the entire room with evidence of his drunkenness. Between the whiskey and the cigarettes, Becky found it difficult not to feel nauseous when she was near her husband.

She had moved into the second bedroom several months previously but was beginning to think that even that was too close. "Would you consider going to AA?" she had asked him again a few weeks ago.

His answer had been typical of him. "No, I don't need to go."

"But surely even you must admit that alcohol has had an adverse effect on your life. Eventually your health is going to be seriously affected by it. You probably already have liver disease because of it. And you could hardly call our relationship functional. You're going to have to do something, Paul. I'm not going to continue to live like this. You're going to have to decide what it's going to be - me or your alcohol." Becky knew she was nagging but was having difficulty controlling her feelings of frustration.

He had stared at her, seemingly unmoved by her words. And then he had shrugged and turning his back on her had gone to get himself another drink. There, she thought, was her answer. She was beginning to suspect that there wasn't much mixing going on in those drinks, more like undiluted whiskey. He added a little ice but drank it before the ice had a chance to melt.

Today he sat slumped on the sofa, smoke curling around his face from the cigarette he held in his hand. Her heart continued to pound. She was tempted to just turn and leave right now. One day, she was afraid, he was going to burn down the house. He was an alcoholic, like his father before him had been. And his mother hadn't been far behind. Becky admitted to herself that Paul hadn't had a chance but if he wasn't going to help himself, she couldn't do it for him. She was slowly beginning to admit to herself that she wasn't going to let him drag her down with him into his misery and whatever hell it was he existed in.

He had lost his job about a year ago because of his drinking - drinking on the job to be exact. And every day when she arrived home from work, she found him like this. He had made no effort to look for other work and with each passing day instead had gradually drunk more until by dinnertime, he was usually passed out. It was no longer a marriage or a relationship of any kind. Nothing existed between them any longer.

She continued to watch him. "I can see you have made your decision."

He raised his head slightly from his chest and through bleary, unfocused eyes glanced in her direction. "Wh ... you talk ... 'bout," he slurred his words and then his head fell back onto his chest again. Becky knew that would probably be it until morning for him.

Walking over to where he lay slouched in the corner of the sofa, she took the cigarette from between his fingers and butted it out in the nearby ashtray. And removing the glass from his unresisting fingers, she carried it into the kitchen. The counters were littered with dirty glasses and crumbs from his morning toast. The forty pounder of whiskey sat uncapped on the table along with a glass, moist with condensation. She grimaced. Another water mark was visible on its surface.

Going back into the living room she threw a blanket over him. There was a time when she would try to get him into bed but that time had long since passed. She had phoned his doctor and told him how much he was drinking especially since his job loss and then had set up an appointment for him. That had served no purpose. On his return home he has said everything was fine.

"Did the doctor say anything about your drinking," she had asked.

"No, he didn't mention it. He said everything was good. He did say you had called him though. I don't know what you're so worried about, I don't drink much."

Becky could only shake her head. Sometime later he had complained of stomach pains and she'd suggested he go to the doctor again. Surprisingly he had gone and even taken tests. When she asked him about the results, he had only said that it was nothing serious; nothing that was going to kill him."

'Maybe not immediately,' she had thought, 'but it will eventually'. She had thought during the last few years of their marriage of the children they might have had and that she was now glad they hadn't had. She had been consumed with a deep sadness at the time when she realized it wasn't going to happen but realized later that it would have been difficult for children to witness a parent in an inebriated condition on a daily basis. What would it have done to them? What had it done to him seeing his father drunk and belligerent and very often violent? ...

Turf War

Part of a story from 'Life's Challenges, A Short Story Collection'

Head detective of the Major Crime Division, Matthew Williams, stood on the sandy beach, a puzzled expression altering the contours of his normally handsome visage. Shrugging further into his light-weight jacket, he pulled the collar up as the wind and rain continued to hammer him from the east. He turned his back to the pounding elements and pulled a notebook from his inside pocket.

"What do you make of it?" he asked his new partner, Detective Tiffany Meadows. He shook his head in an attempt to hide his smile, one that lurked whenever he thought of her unlikely name. 'She'd better change it if she plans to get anywhere as a detective in the police department,' he thought.

Tiffany's blue eyes, now clouded with concern, surveyed the small crime scene, an area contained in yellow police tape. In the centre lay a left foot encased in what appeared to be a man's good quality Nike running shoe. An early morning jogger had discovered the grisly remains and had called it in. "Why just a foot, Matthew?" she asked.

"You'd prefer the whole body, would you, Meadows? We're going to find where the rest of the body is and where this foot came from," Matthew Williams replied curtly.

"Well, right off the bat we know it's a man's foot. And we know he wasn't a down-and-outer because that's an expensive sneaker. Maybe he fell off a boat. And I doubt very much that he was a fisherman either so it would more likely be a yacht. Fishermen don't wear expensive shoes like that. Maybe we could start checking out boating accidents; especially since there's been such stormy weather lately. Have there been any missing persons reports lately?"

Williams glared at her. "What makes you think it was washed up and not dropped here?"

Tiffany stared back at the senior detective, refusing to be intimidated. "I know you don't think I'm very bright Matthew but you haven't given me a snowball's chance in hell of proving I can be a good detective. Every time I say something, you shoot me down." She placed her hands on her hips and stared defiantly into his face. His dark eyes bore into hers. "Just look at the shoe," she continued, "it looks waterlogged and, if you look closer, instead of trying to find fault with everything I say, you'd see that the part of the ankle that's exposed above the top of the shoe looks as if it's been in the water for some time, like we look if we stay too long in a bubble bath."

"I wouldn't know. Bubble baths aren't my thing. Are you trying to be a trouble maker here, Meadows?"

"You asked me what I made of it, so I'm telling you," Tiffany said suddenly flashing Williams one of her spectacular smiles. "And also, since you did ask me, you do remember, don't you that about two months ago another left foot was washed up on the banks of the Golden River. That one had a rather unusual tattoo of a dragon curling around the ankle. Wouldn't it be interesting if this one did too?"

"You don't need to act like a know-it-all, Meadows, I'm not verging on dementia. We're still working on the origins of that foot. And yes, before you get too cocky, there quite possibly is a connection between the two left feet." Matthew didn't know why she got under his skin; most times she was a major pain in the butt but, he thought to himself, she did have a killer smile. ...

The Young Girl Inside of Me

Part of a Story - from Life's Challenges, A Short Story Collection

I look in the mirror and see the wrinkles the years have worn in my face, the loose skin that hangs like appendages beneath my chin and the folds of flesh surrounding my eyes. Silver hair adorns my head like an unwanted old hat. The woman who stares at me from the looking glass is a stranger.

My hands, twisted with arthritis, move slowly through their tasks and my legs shuffle as I use my cane for balance. This stranger's body has betrayed me. It had once been my friend as it swung gracefully around the dance floor, ran up the stairs to a friend's house, took me canoeing and helped me win games on the tennis court. But I know, though no one else does, that a young dark-haired girl continues to reside deep within me.

That young girl can still feel the wind in her hair when she rides down Brickyard Hill on her bicycle as if it was only yesterday. Applying her brakes she comes to a screeching halt at the bottom of the hill where she quickly jumps off her bike. Although I can feel her spirit and the agility of her body as she moves, my outer shell no longer obeys my inner commands.

When I think of summers long past, I remember her excitement for the first baseball games of the season. While I sit with pain in my joints, I can still feel her sure-footed race around the bases. And when she stands ready on third base, her glove poised. I hear the 'whack' as the ball is hit and see it soar through the air. Her strong hands catch it and another one is out. The north island wins over the south again.

That young girl within me remembers many of the thoughts and wishes she had as she walked to school, thinking nothing of the three mile hike each way and proud of her ability to make it in under half an hour. She feels that no time has passed since she roamed the beach in search of the ornamental shells of the oyster and water-worn pieces of driftwood, leaping confidently from boulder to boulder. It seems that it was only yesterday she sat on the rocks and listened to the waves lap onto the shore while she watched seagulls swoop and squawk as they grabbed morsels of food from the orange beaks of the oyster catchers.

That girl is very much alive but she is locked within a body whose flesh is no longer firm or supple and whose movements are no longer quick. Her skin is smooth and her hair is shining while the stranger who is home to this girl lacks enthusiasm and exuberance.

When I was busier and more able-bodied and those around me valued what I had to offer, I saw only the young girl in the mirror but she no longer looks back at me; she's no longer seen by anyone, not even myself. But I know she's still there; I can feel her and hear her, and her thoughts are still mine. Late at night when the only light are the stars in the sky, we remember the friends we once knew. They are all gone, like the young girl in the mirror.

My own children are now getting their own wrinkles, thick waists and gray hair; they have aches and pains and health issues of their own. They spend their leisure time at the gym and take vitamins hoping to hold old age at bay. How did it happen that these children of mine look older than the girl within me feels? And my grandchildren, looking like my children did only yesterday, look at me like the stranger I am. ...

The Day My Life Changed

(Part of a story)

The day began as each Saturday morning had for as long as I could remember. That is until I saw the box on the top shelf in my mother's closet. It wasn't seeing the box that caused the problem, but rather asking my mother about it that created the difficulties on that early weekend morning.

"Sit down, dear," she said when I raised the question about the box. Although not much bigger than a small child's shoe box and partially hidden, it was very much in evidence to a snoopy teenage girl.

Right then and there I should have declared an absolute lack of interest in it. But I didn't. Instead I smiled and waited to hear the lovely story my mother was about to tell me and to see the old pictures she'd show me. Waiting expectantly, I was convinced the box was also filled with beautiful old heirlooms that would each be fabulous stories in themselves.

"This box is full of history," she began hesitantly. "It's your history, dear." I had no problem with her words but an expression I could not read filled the hollows of her face and made her eyes dim with sadness. Based on the expression on my mother's face, it did not look like it was going to be a good story and I instantly regretted my curiosity about the box.

Slowly the uncomfortable feeling began to pervade my bones and circulate through my veins as I stared into my mother's forlorn face. Her eyes were the watery version of the lake at night with a full moon shining upon its glittering surface. "That's alright. I've got homework to do," I told her as I jumped up. Sixteen was too young to find out about anything that had put that kind of a look in my mother's normally radiant eyes; eyes that usually sparkled like a sunrise with the early morning sun.

"Sit down, Marsha." She emphasized her words slowly as if they had been wet mud dredged from the center of the earth. "Sit down, Marsha," she repeated as she sat heavily on the edge of her bed.

Those words again! It wasn't like she'd said, "Sit down dear and have some chocolate cake," or "Sit down dear, I have fifty dollars so you can buy yourself a new dress." Those were the words I would have rather heard but, "Sit down, dear," spoken in that stranger's voice, so unlike her own, suggested she was going to tell me something I didn't want to hear. Reluctantly I sat down, trying unsuccessfully not to look at the box. Perched as it was on the top shelf, it seemed to have grown in size while it sat there; its mystery compounding by each second that passed.

"There are things you should know," she whispered as she lowered her eyes. "Things I haven't told you before." A solitary tear crept slowly down her pale face.>p> 'Oh Gawd,' I thought. 'This is not starting out to be a wonderful conversation.' I mentally kicked myself for having mentioned the box. Words I shouldn't speak have a way of sneaking out of my mouth before I can stop them. "Think before you speak," my mother has always told me. I wished for once I had listened to her wise words but one never knows ahead of time which are the ones to listen to and which are the ones that can be safely ignored.

Looking up I saw her dark brown eyes fixed intently on my face. "I should have told you this a long time ago but I've put it off. The fault is mine, darling. Your father has been after me to do so long before now," she said. "I've been afraid. Oh Gawd," she said as she buried her face in her hands. And although she made no sound, I knew it would only be minutes before her tears would spill over the edges of her cupped hands like water in an overflowing basin.

'Afraid?' I wondered. 'My mother has never been afraid of anything. She is the woman who stood up against bullies when I was eight years old even though her knees were trembling. She is the one who confronted the neighbor when his son stole my bike and, although she hated to make a scene, she marched into the school and talked to the principal when I got a detention for something I didn't do. And she stood up in front of my class when she was petrified to do so and gave a talk about her work because I wanted her to do it for me.'

As I watched my mother trying to battle her fears, I knew without a doubt it wasn't something I wanted to hear. "Maybe you could tell me later, Mom," I stammered. "If you've waited this long, there's probably no hurry to do it now. I'm sure it can wait." I quickly jumped up and escaping to my own room, closed the door behind me with a dull thud.

My mother did not follow me. She must have agreed with my logic. I breathed a deep sigh of relief as I sunk down onto my bed. I never again mentioned the box on her shelf. Even a nosey stubborn teenage girl can occasionally learn a lesson or two.

* * * * * *

Over the years I had forgotten about the mystery surrounding the box in her closet and life went on pretty much ass usual as I grew into young adulthood. That is until my parents' death in a head-on automobile accident when I was twenty-one years old. ...

What Woman, Maria?

(Part of the story)

"You always do that, Campbell," Maria said as she glared at her husband.

"Do what? I have no idea what you're talking about, Maria."

"You stop talking and decide to go do something when we're in the middle of an argument."

"An argument? I thought we were having a discussion and that we were finished." Campbell shook his head, a puzzled frown on his face.

"Did we come to a solution, Campbell?" Maria's voice was beginning to reach a higher octave. Campbell didn't like it when her voice began to climb the musical scale.

"I didn't think we had a problem, Maria. I thought everything was going along just fine." Campbell threw his hands up in the air in exasperation. "I don't understand women at all."

"And I don't understand men. But that's the problem. You always think everything is just fine, you don't listen, you never seem to understand anything I say and you'd rather walk away than solve a problem."

"But we don't have a problem. You're making a problem when none exists. I'm going to my workshop. When I have a problem out there, I know what it is. It's plan and simple, not something that's been built up out of nothing and exaggerated out of all proportion. Keep it simple, Babe and then there isn't a problem."

"You haven't heard anything I've said this whole last week, have you? The problem is that woman, you Knucklehead." Maria's voice had reached almost the highest level on the musical scale. Not a good sign as far as Campbell was concerned.

"I'm listening and you have my attention but I really have no idea what woman you're talking about. What about this hypothetical woman?>"

"You know very well who I'm talking about; the one at Corey's baseball game." Maria banged the cupboard door to emphasize that what she was saying was something he'd better not miss.

"Which woman at the game? I still don't know what you're talking about. You know, I think this whole conversation is getting ridiculous. When you've figured out what you're really upset about, let me know. I'll be in the workshop."

Maria could feel her blood pressure soar as she watched Campbell walk nonchalantly out of the kitchen, as if he had not a care in the world. She knew he thought she was dramatizing but she had seen the exchange between her husband and Michelle, Matt's mother. And this wasn't the first time she'd noticed them flirting. She wanted him to know that he wasn't pulling anything over on her. 'And he brought me that bouquet of flowers on Friday too. I wonder if it was because of guilty feelings? I'd sure like to know what he's up to?' Maria fumed.

Campbell measured the piece of wood for the garden planter he was building for the back yard. 'What was that all about?' he wondered. 'I don't have a clue what woman she's talking about. Probably another one of her jealousy attacks.' He shook his head impatiently. 'Oh well, I'm not going to worry about it. Hopefully she'll cool down by dinner time.'

As he worked, he could hear the cupboards slamming in the kitchen and an angry outburst directed at one of the children. 'Well maybe not by dinner time. Hopefully by bedtime.' He smiled at the thought of that. Maybe he'd suggest they have a glass of wine later, after the children were in bed. It had been a while. He thought the flowers would have earned him some brownie points but they probably just made her think he was up to something. Instead they had gone to bed that night and she had turned her back on him again and in only moments had fallen asleep. More times than not she was either too tired, had a headache or stayed up until the wee hours of the morning on the computer. 'The wine probably won't work any better than the flowers did,' he reminded himself.

Maria came in to the workshop and saw him bent over the pieces of cedar, tape measure in hand. Picking up the pieces, he began to walk towards the table saw. "Campbell, dinner is ready."

"What? Oh, okay I'll be right there."

'He probably hasn't given what I said another thought since he came in here. It's so typical of a man. Everything in one ear and out the other. He's so good at tuning me out,' Maria thought angrily. "If you wait too long, it's going to be cold," she said as she flounced out of the room. "Then you can bloody well heat it up yourself."

Campbell glanced after her and wondered again what had brought this whole thing on. Shrugging, he decided to cut just a few more of the board lengths before going in for dinner. He knew it would probably be another ten minutes anyway before it was on the table. He'd rather be out in the workshop than go into the kitchen and feel the below freezing atmosphere there.

Whistling as he worked he was planning the other planters he was going to make for the deck. 'And maybe a bench with planters at each end with a trellis behind. That would be nice,' he thought, 'to have clematis growing up behind where you sat. A nice colorful area to sit in and relax.' Coming to the end of his cuts, he suddenly became aware of the feeling of daggers driving their sharp edges into his back. He glanced at his watch and grimaced. 'It has been half an hour, at least, since she called me in for dinner. She's going to kill me.'

Turning slowly, he pasted what he hoped was a charming smile on his face. 'Wine probably won't help tonight, I'm guessing,' he told himself. "Sorry, Honey. The time kind of got away from me."

"So I noticed but why change now?" There was no warmth in her voice, and no humour and definitely no smile on her face. "You know Campbell, it doesn't take much to make me happy."

"Yeah? The flowers I brought you on Friday night didn't seem to make you happy."

"That's the first flowers you've bought me in three years. They made me more inclined to wonder why than to be happy about them. All I need are little things. If you were to come home from work and put your arms around me and tell me you loved me regularly, I'd be ecstatic. And not just when you want a toss in the hay. You rarely do it even then, Campbell."

"We're married for Pete's sake, Maria." He ran his hands angrily through his hair making it stand up in spikey blonde tufts.

"So you don't think you need to show affection when you're married?"

Campbell, looking confused, shrugged. "I show you affection."

"When Campbell?" Maria stood with her hands on her hips. "When we're having sex?"

"Well, yes." Campbell was wishing he'd gone in for dinner when she'd first called him. This was not a conversation he wanted to have. He hated talking about touchy-feeling things like Maria always wanted to do. 'And she always thinks she's right about everything,' he thought angrily.

"You're not affectionate then either. You don't tell me you love me even then. It's an act for you, a physical release I guess you men call it; it's having sex but has nothing to do with making love."

'Wow!' Campbell thought. 'Who the hell is this woman she's been yammering about? That's what probably got all of this started. Now she's going to drag out every little thing that's been bothering her for the last five years or so.'

"I've been thinking, Campbell. I think we should go and see a counselor together."

'Yup, here it goes,' Campbell thought. "A counselor? What in the hell for? I thought we were getting along just fine. At least until the last few days when you started harping on me. I don't get it, Maria. I really don't."

"Because you're a man. Any woman would understand and feel exactly like I do."

"You know, Maria, I'm going to go and get my dinner now. And I know," Campbell held up his hand, "it'll be cold. I don't really care at this point."

"You're running off again, Campbell. We can't have any discussion without you doing the disappearing act. I'm going to make an appointment with a counselor," she said as she brushed past him and did her own disappearing act.

As he put his plate of food into the microwave to heat, he thought, 'I think I'll save the wine. It would just be a waste of good wine now.'

* * * * * *

Lost Treasures

As the mother of five, four of which were boys, I was almost a stranger to 'tidy'. I had always appreciated and enjoyed this state but unfortunately, my four boys did not feel the same way I did. They equated 'tidy' with 'loss'.

The loss of a treasure equaled, in their eyes, the absence of a dear friend on vacation. Or worse, because that treasure was gone forever. In their eyes, I became an Ogre, belching fire as I tossed and sorted.

In any small boy's room, as most parents of boys know, there is a discrepancy in definition - garbage versus treasures. Every discovery and every possession is a veritable mine of treasures to a young boy's eye.

To a mother's eye, these treasures often mean something quite different entirely. I once discovered a dehydrated frog lovingly tucked away. I shall probably never know whether it was already in this state when it was so carefully placed there or whether nature stepped in later. For this lack of knowledge, I am eternally thankful since a certain degree of ignorance no doubt, helped me retain my sanity during my sojourn as the mother of five children.

Among other 'treasured' collectibles discovered was chewing gum covered in lint, orange peelings, chocolate bar and gum wrappers, broken crayons, hockey cards, prized broken toys, old game score sheets, special 'collector' rocks, reams of old art work, crumpled posters that couldn't possibly be parted with, and many an only sock, always lacking its mate.

The toy box was usually the receptacle for the above collectibles but was also home to pajama tops or bottoms, (never the whole pair), or one shoe or mitten. There seemed to be an unwritten law at our house against two of anything ever being in the same place at the same time. But I could always be sure that the second one would turn up when the need for it had passed, been thrown out, or been outgrown.

When cleaning my sons' rooms, I found it necessary to follow some very basic and simple rules: never, never, never do it while they are around. On one occasion, I didn't follow this necessary rule and after hours of wading and sorting, discovered that ninety-nine percent of these 'treasures' had found their way back to their original place. Those tearful pleas, 'But you can't throw this out, it's still good,' were difficult to ignore. The fact that its wheels were missing was of no consequence, it was a valued possession in the eyes of its owner.

And this one is the toughest of all. After I had sorted the 'extra special drawings' from the 'ordinary' drawings, they gathered up the reject pile and said, 'But Mom, I drew these for you.' I probably don't have to say what happened to those drawings. Yes! They were taped to the hallway wall, the fridge and the kitchen walls. I drew a line at the entrance hall however.

The second most important rule to follow was to never spread the job over two days. 'Attack when unsuspecting', was my motto. While they were still wondering what was happening, the task was complete. If this rule wasn't strictly adhered to, all that would be accomplished was that the room would be rearranged but relatively intact.

I was always disappointed that after hours of working my way through the jungle, the response was not, 'Heh Mom, thanks' as I might possibly have expected but instead was, 'Heh Mom, what did you do this for?' or 'Heh Mom, you threw out all the good stuff!'

I will however, leave you with this heartwarming thought. You have my word, as the voice of experience, that the room always reverted back to its original condition in less than a week, (whether I followed the rules or not). However, a particularly enthusiastic child could do it in less time than that.

The heartwarming part, you ask? I always had artwork taped to my hallway and kitchen walls so painting was never a requirement. The heartwarming part for other parents was the fact that it was taped to my walls and not theirs.

Life is Great

As a young mother of five, I thought life was great,

Instead of joining the rat race doing work I would hate,

I stayed home with my children and taught them to be kind,

To love, and to share, and to care, and to mind.

We went on excursions I knew they would like,

We played games, and sometimes we'd hike.

Our home was a place other children came to,

And often the line-up was long at the loo.

A three-story treehouse we had high in our trees,

And one day I counted twelve boys through the leaves.

The forts that they built covered the floor,

With hardly a path there was to the door.

And when it was bedtime, we made it a game,

We'd race down the hallway; it was always the same.

They'd beat me by a long, long mile,

But I'd give them a kiss and then I'd smile,

And say, "Next time I'll win, you wait and see."

They'd just grin their mischievous grins at me.

Then a grandchild I was blessed with from heaven above,

And then there were six more for me to love,

When I look into each sweet trusting face,

Holding chubby hands, I feel my heart race,

Of my flesh and blood, I swell with pride,

And with happiness, I've sometimes cried.

With Eyes Wide Open

WHAT YOU SEE WHEN YOU'RE LOOKING - Most of us, in our rush through life rarely see what's before us, seeing only the obvious and the expected, we look for nothing more. Life offers so much more if we keep our eyes wide open.

If we look we'll see the magic, the wonder and the beauty of nature. We'll see sights that will make our hearts expand with pleasure and happiness pulling us, if only for a short moment in time, away from the abyss of stress that everyday living can cause. With eyes wide open, we will look at things that are old with an eye that sees its beauty, not with the jaundiced eye that has taught us to view all things old as dispensable. Old is beautiful if we look with eyes of acceptance and love. Viewing things differently can change our perspective and help our lives take on new meaning.

If we keep our eyes wide open, we will notice the wondrous sunsets, each different but each beautiful, much like people. We will look at the many faces of the Fraser River and see how the light and weather conditions can change each scene before us, IF we are looking. We can appreciate what is on our own doorstep and marvel at the beauty, serenity, history and life before us.

Like so many things in life, we may see something of beauty that could so easily have been missed. The fungus, if it hadn't been for its vibrant and vivid colour, would have been lost amidst the ferns and leaves that surroundeded it had we not been looking. It was another of nature's amazing creations, impossible for man to duplicate in its perfection.

The fungis, (what an ordinary name for something of such beauty), its edges ruffled like gathered lace was a lighter shade on its underside. It was as beautiful as any flower in a well-tended garden or greenhouse, made even more lovely because of its natural surroundings. No artist could improve on this masterpiece of nature.

On the same hike we saw them, roots firmly entrenched, not giving up what was theirs, they belonged. They had probably been part of the forest for over a hundred years. Not all of us have roots so entrenchd, so firmly planted, so determined not to give up. But it would take nothing less than a disaster to wrench these roots free from where they belonged. What we can see when we were looking!

Writing, Excerpts and Publications

The Tranquility and Mystery That is Smuggler's Cove

There's tranquility in the calm blue waters mirroring clouds that drift like disappearing smoke. The water softly creeps into nooks and crannies, its only sounds the swish of ripples lapping at pebbles on the beach. An eagle in a distant tree watches for his next dinner while birds flutter nearby, their voices raised in cheerful song. The breeze, warm on my already sun-bronzed skin, tickles my face like the gentle stroke of an ostrich feather. It is a place so tranquil that my chest constricts with the beauty of it.

But there is mystery also behind every outcropping of rocks that rise from the waters protecting what can't be seen. Clusters of small islands huddle like stepping stones near the edge of the distant shore. What is nature hiding? What has it hidden before human eyes discovered its tranquility and beauty? What is the mystery of Smuggler's Cove?

Popular folklore, considered fact by some and rumor by others, is that the bay was used by Larry "Pig Iron" Kelly to smuggle Chinese labourers from Canada into the United States. Having completed their work on the Canadian Pacific Railway, these Chinese labourers were no longer considered a necessary commodity. Charging one hundred dollars for every man he transported, the Captain gave strict orders that no sound was to be made while they were in the bay or the offending party would be dropped to the bottom of the ocean.

The cove was also believed by many to be where bootleg liquor, produced on neighbouring Texada Island, was taken on board to be smuggled into the United States during the Prohibition era.

Whether these stories are true or false, one can almost imagine a ship hovering behind a rock outcropping waiting for its next contraband pick-up. Exploration of this area may offer other mysteries as well for the adventuresome explorer.

Writing, Excerpts and Publications

Barkerville, BC's Most Popular Historic Site

Barkerville is the gateway to the past with over 125 heritage buildings. Visitors to this infamous town can follow the route taken by miners in the Cariboo gold rush days so many years ago. In the late 1850's, prospectors followed the Fraser River to the creeks of the Cariboo in the northern country as gold became more difficult to find in other areas. Billy Barker was one of those prospectors. In 1862 he struck gold and before long, news of his gold strike spread and thousands of miners poured into the area hoping to stake their own claims. Gold fever had hit the Cariboo.

Between 1862 and 1870 over one hundred thousand people had traveled the Cariboo Wagon Road to reach these gold fields hoping to find gold along the many creeks that meander through the Cariboo. Built in various stages, it was 1865 before the road was completed. Previous to this, food and supplies were transported either upon the backs of the miners or by pack trains. After its completion, it became possible for larger freight wagons to be used to transport these goods. Stage coaches were then able to travel the distance between Yale and Barkerville carrying miners and passengers to their destination and the small city mushroomed. The most well-known of the stage coach lines was the Barnard Express Stagecoach Lines.

The Chinese played a large part in the formation of this town helping with the construction and building of the Cariboo Wagon Road. Barkerville's Chinatown is now the oldest surviving Chinatown in North America.

The historic cemetery in Barkerville came into being when the first person was buried on the hill on July 24, 1863. Peter Gibson was laid to rest at 31 years of age. On a walk through this interesting cemetery, a visitor will notice that the average age of those buried in it is about 32. It is the last resting place of some of the great and possibly not so great residents of Barkerville.

At its height Barkerville was considered to be the largest city west of Chicago and north of San Francisco. Even during the quieter time between 1910 and the 1930's, the town managed to thrive until the 1940's when the new mining town of Wells came into being. This once thriving gold town became somewhat of a ghost town until 1957 when the BC government began to restore and reconstruct the buildings into what they now are.

Barkerville is not a town to miss but especially if you are interested in ghost towns and old towns with their history and stories.

Writing, Excerpts and Publications

My Unique Collection

Beginning as a young girl, I received many small dolls from Scotland and Germany, gifts from unknown relatives. As I grew older, I expanded on my collection to include Ashton Drake baby dolls.

Enjoying my dolls, I later decided to expand on this collection to include sons; four to be exact. All similar in that they were boys but each special and different in their own unique way. The first son was quiet, gentle, easy-going and a brown-eyed charmer. The second son was shy and not liking to be the center of attention resisted my attempts to show off what I considered extreme intelligence in a child so young. The third son was feisty and mischievous and kept everyone busy from morning 'til night. The fourth, blonde haired and blue-eyed watched the other three with eyes wide open and became an interesting combination of each of the other three versions.

Enjoying my four sons, I decided to add a daughter to give my collection a little different look. She was blonde-haired, brown-eyed, beautiful and intelligent, Later, unable to find another that fit as well into my collection, I decided not to add any more daughters.

The years passed and I enjoyed the small collection I had until I realized that grandchildren would be a wonderful addition. The first of my grandchildren is a beautiful dark haired girl with an athletic streak. The second addition is a dark haired boy with a beautiful smile and a devotion to bugs and computers. Third is a golden-haired girl with big shining eyes and the voice of an angel. My next addition is another boy with blonde hair and large blue eyes. He believes his role is to entertain the entire group. My most recent addition is the replica of his father in looks. He is the son of the third son of the first collection. I am expecting to add two more grandchildren additions this year. No doubt the grandchildren addition will become much larger than my original collection.

I have discovered that the grandchildren portion of my collection is much easier to look after than was my original collection. No maintenance is needed and, in fact, no decisions at all are required relating to them. They are looked after predominately by the first group and will expand and grow over the years with no particular effort on my part.

My entire collection was, and still is, beautiful. I doubt very much that I could find another collection that I cherish as much as the ones I have. I would recommend collections such as these for almost everyone. Over time they become self-sustaining and the enjoyment derived from them increases with every year that passes. I don't believe there are many collectors who can boast of similar advantages.

Writing, Excerpts and Publications

A Most Unusual Camping Trip

This Story was Published in 'Our World' in 2005 - In eager anticipation we set off to explore all the nooks and crannies, historical sites, galleries, studios and shorelines of the beautiful area we had chosen to visit. We kayaked and hiked before finally realizing that it was six o'clock and time to find a campground.

Almost missing the sign, faded and nearly obliterated from age and weather, we pulled into the isolated campsite. Picnic tables were covered with moss, payment was on the honour system using damp envelopes which were to be put into a bolted, rusted metal box. Outhouses were devoid of toilet paper and locks were long since useable. The water pumps had signs posted warning users to boil water for a minimum of two hours but were lacking the water to boil.

Finding a site with the least moss on the picnic table, on the river side, we decided to set up camp and were delighted with the thought of our enjoyment at the sound of rushing waters as we slept.

That was the very beginning of our experience.

But first things first. I pushed all the buttons to put up the windows in our van so the mosquitoes wouldn't bother us while we were sleeping. Next I slammed the door against those pesky insects. We gathered damp wood for the fire and set up the camp chairs. Then it was time to start dinner. Back to the van for the stove and cooler. Locked - with keys securely inside.

"You didn't," he tried valiantly not to glare at me but didn't quite succeed.

I had an uncontrollable urge to laugh but was clever enough to know that this was not the time, nor the place, to remind him what a great sense of humour I have. "Can you phone road service?" I tried a smile. The smile didn't work and neither did his cell phone.

"How far do you suppose it is to town? I'd be quite willing to walk with you." I tried another smile. Smiles weren't working today.

"I'll get help." That was the least I could offer - after all it was partly my fault.

"And where do you think you're going to get help? We're in the middle of nowhere."

Another smile. "I'll bet we'll laugh about this tomorrow."

"It isn't tomorrow."

"Are you feeling just a little bit out of sorts today?"

Fortunately for me there was the sound of a car. "Excuse me," I called as they drove past our site. "We have a little problem. I wonder if you can help us."

A very nice young couple got out, pierced and tattooed, with beautifully coloured florescent hair. They were going to be the only other campers in this campground and I was certainly happy to see them.

"I've had that problem myself," he explained as he pulled out a key chain full of keys. Trying Chevrolet, Ford, Toyota and Honda keys, he was finally able to open the door of our Blazer with a Volkswagon key.

Sitting around our smoldering campfire later in the evening, we marveled at our luck of the only other people in the campsite having a key that worked in our car. "I wonder what type of work he does?" I asked.

My partner was getting very good with the 'looks' today.

Ignoring the 'look', I pointed out that there were flashlights moving along on the rocks beside the river. Suddenly there was a loud blast. The sound vibrated up the banks of the river at our feet, seeming to last for many minutes and then utter silence. In our rush to the van, we collided and tripping over wet firewood, we bruised noses and stubbed toes.

With a minimum of discussion, we decided that an early night was just what we needed to enjoy the sounds of the river from the comfort of our mosquito-free van.

Writing, Excerpts and Publications

Our Most Unique Family Vacation

Published in The RV Times - Our 'Griswold's family vacation' started out like any other normal vacation with two grandparents and three grandchildren about to embark on a three week trip. Some might say, "Three grandchildren, are you crazy?" Well, there's crazy and then there's crazy.

We drove four long, hot days with no air conditioning in our hottest weather. I know what you're thinking. I thought so too. It took us one day to drive through Washington, one day through Oregon and two days through California. It was not until we had almost reached Palm Springs before a little voice asked, "Are we almost there yet?" The first leg of our trip was over and we were welcomed at our destination with cold drinks and a refreshingly cool swimming pool. We weren't crazy.

We spent two days in Palm Springs and then drove to Anaheim for four lovely, hot, fun-filled days of walking around Disneyland fighting the crowds. Some again might say we were crazy but it all depends on how you look at it. If you love Space Mountain or the Holywood Tower of Terror, you're crazy. I'm not one of them but I did get conned by one of my sons who joined us there into going on Thunder Mountain. I should have been suspicious because last time we were there he told me Space Mountain wasn't a roller coaster ride; it was only a 'roller coaster-type of ride', and I fell for it. Uhmm.

From there we returned to Palm Springs late in the evening. As we drove up to my brother's place - tired, hot and sticky - my husband, misjudging the outside overhand of our motorhome, knocked their mailbox over. The cement base lay in crumbling little pieces on the ground while the children and I carefully stepped over it. I won't say crazy but my husband spent two days rebuilding the cement base to its 'almost' original state while the children and I enjoyed the swimming pool.

After a four-day rest from Disneyland, we decided to set off for Arizona in 48 degree weather with, like I mentioned, no air conditioner. But like troopers we persevered because we had promised the children a visit to the Grand Canyon. Through deserts and over mountains we travelled until finally we stopped near a small town, hoping to find a campsite. The funny, or not so funny thing, was that once we stopped, the motorhome wouldn't start again. I laughed. Really, what else was there to do?

"It's our lucky day," I declared.

"How so?" my husband asked grumpily.

"Well, we could've broken down in the middle of nowhere."

"We are in the middle of nowhere," one grandson pointed out.

However, we did make it to the Grand Canyon and what an awesome sight that was! There is nothing to compare to it. But while we were leaving our campsite the following morning, my husband failed to notice a tree stump and tore the corner out of our motorhome. It was the corner that housed the secondary battery that the fridge ran on while we were driving. Well, what the heck - warm drinks, melted freezies and canned meals are better than nothing. The children handled it much better than my husband did drinking warm beer.

Then we stopped at Bryce Canyon in Utah - another unbelievable sight and one we were glad we had not missed. But when we arrived at our campsite that night and hooked up our water supply, we ended up with water all over the bathroom floor - a loose connection and not the appropriate tools to fix it with. So with the help of the children, I used pots and kettles to bring water into the motorhome. It was just like camping in the good old days.

From there we travelled to Nevade where we stopped at Virginia City. Another great place to visit and one I'd like to go back to again when our motorhome is in a little better shape. As my husband started to back into our campsite, I said I'd get out and direct him. "No," he said. "It'll be fine."

I shouldn't have listened because within minutes he had somehow attached himself to a metal fence post. That wasn't too bad though. The problem occurred when he tried to pull away and the bumper and part of the back wall of the motorhome came away also. Have you got a clear picture of our holiday yet?

So back to two grandparents and three grandchildren. The children were fabulous. They weren't an ounce of trouble. I would take them anywhere again but the husband I'm not so sure about.

Writing, Excerpts and Publications

Get Stuffed

This was published in 'Our World' in 2004 - While doing my will, my lawyer asked what should have been a simple question, "Do you wish to be cremated or buried?"

Not liking either idea, I considered my options and eventually an idea began to take shape.

"I could be stuffed," I said presenting the idea to my five offspring. None were impressed. "Think of the opportunities. I could attend all of the family functions. You could share me week by week. I can be at every dining room table. I can continue to share your lives with you. You can talk to me. I may not answer but I'll certainly be a listening ear. I really can't think of anything nicer!"

They obviously could because not one jumped to say they would take me first. In fact, not one said they would take me, period.

Undaunted with their present lack of enthusiasm, I mulled over the possibilities.

Hinged knees would be a necessity for mobility. Hinged elbows would also be necessary for family dinners and hinged fingers to hold a wineglass would be a must.

They must never let my hair go gray and they should make sure my make-up is always applied. I certainly wouldn't want to attend any social function looking like I had been dragged there. And I definitely wouldn't want to become frayed around the edges. But most important, I wouldn't want to miss anything. They know how I hate to miss a good party.

Each one insisted that while it may be a good idea, (although they weren't convinced), someone else could keep me. How could they not want me when they loved me? I began to realize that love me they do but decline me they did. I was fighting an uphill battle with my wonderful idea.

I decided to convince the grandchildren that a 'stuffed' me would be great to have around filling their homes with warmth and love.

However, I quickly discovered there was no success in that area either. A 'stuffed' me did not appeal to anyone except me.

But I was not convinced that I was totally on the wrong track. I pointed out the benefits of having a stuffed relative. No one else would have one. And if nothing else, I would be a conversation piece right up there with ownership of a Wayne Gretzky hockey puck. When suggested, Wayne Gretzky's hockey puck won hands down.

I began to hear rumblings that I may instead be stuffed into a closet or a shed (not exactly my idea of being stuffed), if I persisted with my notion.

I was rethinking my idea when my grandson suggested that it might be a good idea after all.

I was ecstatic. I finally had a convert. I'm so happy you like my idea," I enthused.

"Yeah," he smiled charmingly in a way only a 10 year old can, "I was thinking that if we put you out beside the garbage cans, it might help keep the crows away."

Now back to that very simple question.

Writing, Excerpts and Publications

Chemainus, Vancouver Island

Published in Northwest Travel Magazine in 2005

Unwilling to let their town die in 1982, some of the residents came up with the idea of a giant outdoor wall mural. This was an attempt to breath life into Chemainus, a small town on Vancouver Island, so it could live without the mill. The mill had kept the town alive for 120 years. They believed in the slogan, "If you say you can do it, you can." Like The Little Engine That Could, "I think I can, I think I can" puffing its way to the top, Chemainus has also puffed its way to the top and now enjoys 400,000 visitors annually.

The vision was one of people who refused to be conquered. It was about determination, persistence and belief while the naysayers insisted that turning the town into an outdoor art gallery could not, and should not, be done. Thankfully there were people who upon hearing those words, heard only "should" and "could".

We recently visited Chemainus, "The Little Town That Did" and were glad we had. The people of Chemainus invited internationally-known artists to use the town as their canvas, making it the exciting and interesting town it has now become. There are currently more than thirty-five murals and twelve sculptures depicting the town's history and its people.

Following the yellow footprints throughout the town, we passed murals relating stories of much of Chemainus' history. The Japanese community is depicted from 1900 to 1942 showing mill workers and fishermen. There are murals of the Chinese "bull gang" moving timber, as well as murals of sailing vessels, steam trains, and workers that were the foundation of Chemainus. There are also murals showing original buildings with long-ago scenes. At the entrance to Waterwheel Park, there is a mural with a working waterwheel. And not to be missed are the murals and fabulous sculptures of First Nations People.

In our stroll around the quaint little seaside town, we passed antique stores, boutiques, studios, and galleries. Arriving on the beach, we enjoyed the sun and had an ice cream cone in the interesting flavour of moose tracks. To better enjoy the murals located around town, and really feel as if you have become part of the past, there are horse-drawn carriages.

We didn't take advantage of the wealth of other activities that Chemainus offers but there is also golfing, boating, fishing, hiking and camping. And for those interested in history, there is the Chemainus Valley Museum and live theater if you wish to pursue your cultural side.

For a little town that thought it couldn't, it certainly did!

Writing, Excerpts and Publications

Life's Challenges, A Short Story Collection

In The Works

PREVIEW: Her Mother's Fur Coat

Pulling the long-ago memory from the dark recesses of her brain, Martine remembered the spectre of her mother as she stood at the edge of the ditch, her fur coat dripping, and her hair thick with mud as it lay plastered against her cheeks. Her eyes, appearing like black caverns leading into her soul, sparkled brilliantly as the headlights of each passing car reflected their light.

When last Martine had turned around, she had seen her mother walking the narrow pathway between the road and the ditch dressed in her finest; a fur coat inherited from a deceased aunt, brand new rhinestone earrings and her hair newly coiffed. And because it was a rainy evening, she wore her gumboots. Anyone living on a farm knows you don't wear your best shoes when it's pouring cats and dogs, no matter what special event it is you are planning to attend.

As a young child of eight years old, to Martine this startling transformation in her mother was a shock, and one that she knew even at that tender age would stay in her memory forever, periodically bubbling up to the surface to haunt her. Before leaving home, she had admired her mother's efforts at elegance and in spite of the gumboots had thought she'd looked quite beautiful.

After getting out of the bus, Martine had walked ahead of the two women. With her head tucked into the collar of her heavy winter coat, she had slogged along, leaning into the northely blowing wind. Struggling against the cold blast of winter she thought of the singing and dancing they would be seeing, music she knew she would love, music she'd been singing in their large kitchen for the previous two weeks.

Her only audience had been her father's canaries, budgies and finches. Each had chirped their approval at Martine's renditions and in their own unique way had caused pandemonium in the small dining area. Because her thoughts as she walked had been up on the stage with the musicians, she had failed to hear her mother's muffled calls for help. The frightened voice of her mother had been pulled into the soggy night air by the wind and rain where it was carried off to the mountains beyond.

But fortunately her mother's best friend had heard her plaintive cry for assistance. "Sir," she had called as she waved to a passing gentleman, "would you be kind enough to help my friend out of the ditch?"

As Martine remembered her mother's ditch dunk, as she now thought of it, time had not dimmed the memory of that stranger's expression as he looked first at her mother's friend, then at Martine before his eyes finally and reluctantly looked down at the sodden spectacle in the water-filled ditch.

"How did she get there?" he asked while he attempted to put off the inevitable. With an expression of extreme sadness, he glanced down at his suit and shrugged before again looking at the sad spectacle of this strange woman helplessly ensconced in the muddy warer. "Okay," he finally answered as he saw that our faces were watching him, beseeching him to help. At that moment he was our guardian angel. The only one for miles around, it appeared.

Martine, with an adult's perspective, thought that it was not the first question he should have asked. But to a young child, his question was reasonable and she had wanted to know also. She knew without a doubt that if she had ended up in the ditch wearing her very best clothes, she would've been in very big trouble and explanations would have been required to more than just this stranger. ...

His Sins

'His Sins' is a three generation family saga telling the story of Alexander and Janet in the first part, Elsa in the second part and Sarah Ann in the third part.

PREVIEW:

Alexander and Janet, Part I - When the cage brought them to the surface at the end of their shift, it was dark again and Alexander often wondered if there had ever really been any daylight. As they bicycled home, Alexander's thoughts were of Janet. They were going to get married and leave Galston forever as soon as she had fulfilled her two year obligation as servant girl to her employers, the Cunnminghams at the Manor House. He'd leave the damp pit and the coal dust and the constant poverty behind forever. He'd leave the miner's row of attached houses where every house looked like its neighbor with its stone walls and thatched roofs. Some said the row of buildings were eighty years old, most others didn't care. The roadways were unpaved and there was mud and pools of water during the winter in front of every doorstep. There was almost fifty people in their row with only one earth closet and one ashpit. Human excrement littered the muddy yard and the stench was unbearable but the inhabitants of the row houses had long since become unaware of it. Only visitors held their noses and wondered why anyone would want to live like this. But visitors weren't welcome so no one worried what they thought. ...

Alexander and Janet were married in the local church surrounded by all of Alexander's neighbours and his family. Janet's family had decided not to participate in the marriage of their middle daughter since they had been hoping for a better marriage for her than to that of a miner.

"Miners," they told everyone they knew, "are little more than rodents, burrowing in the ground; only coming out at night. They're dirty creatures with coal dust instead of sweat coming out of their pores." Janet had smiled courageously in spite of their hurtful words but Mam Stewart saw the tears in her eyes.

Janet's pregnancy was not as yet obvious but the neighbours whispered that there was likely to be a seven month baby. They shrugged. "There are a lot of nine pound seven month babies born but who counts anyway?"

Elsa, daughter of Alexander and Janet, Part II - Walking aboard the C.P.R. Ferry from the downtown Vancouver wharf, Elsa clutched her battered old cardboard suitcase tightly. As the vessel moved further out into the water, she watched the deep troughs of waves following behind as it made a wide arc, gradually leaving the wharf far behind. She might have been crossing the ocean back to Scotland, so lonely did she feel. Seagulls screeched overhead, occasionally landing on the railing nearby. Wrapping her coat more tightly around her body for warmth, she remain on the deck, not wanting to go into the interior of the crowded ship. She preferred instead to be alone with her misery. ...

He had black curly hair, streaked with gray and what appeared to be a two or three day growth of whiskers on his weathered face. His eyes were alert and intelligent as he watched a group of small children playing, a paternal and good-natured smile hovering on his lips. Elsa walked timidly towards him.

"Ah, you must be the new girl, Elsa Stewart," his friendly face was wreathed in a huge smile.

Elsa nodded her head causing her hat to bob vigorously on her head. She grabbed it before it could fall to the ground, feeling her face grow warm with embarrassment.

"It's very nice to meet you, Miss. The Clarkson children have been bouncing around for the last few days, plenty excited about meeting you." Grabbing her suitcase, he threw it into the back of the truck before turning to open the door of the cab for her.

"By the way, the name's Cye Morrison," he said extending a weathered hand in Elsa's direction. "Must be pretty scary for a young girl like yourself comin' all this way to live with complete strangers." Elsa swallowed with difficulty as she struggled to hold back her threatening tears. ...

Sarah Ann, daughter of Elsa and Peter, Part III - "You have a lot of bruises and scrapes on your face, Heather," Sarah Ann said.

Shrugging her shoulders, Heather kept her eyes fastened to the floor. "If my father finds out ... that I've told you ... I'll be in more trouble." Her eyes shone brightly with unshed tears.

"He won't find out, Heather. Can you tell us what happened?"

Heather nodded her head but refused to look up. "I asked why my mother ... was in the ... hospital. He hit me ... I fell down. He said it was ... none of my b.b.business."

The tears spilled down her face and Sarah Ann ached to take her into her arms but knew she couldn't. "I'm so sorry, Heather. Would you like us to see how your mother is doing? We could find out for you; would you like us to do that?" ...

"Have you thought about seeing a counselor yourself, Sarah Ann? Even doctors see other doctors, you know. I think if you could get over this problem, you and Adam would be happy together."

"I thought I would be able to work it out for myself.

"You haven't been able to so far, my dear."

"Adam said he wanted to get married and have children. We had a discussion and then he just walked away. I can't believe he's been gone this long without calling me."

"I don't blame him, Sarah Ann. He's told you exactly how he feels and I can't see that you've made an effort." ...

Review by Writer's Digest:

"His Sins" spans three generations of a struggling family, focusing on the fate of the women who ally themselves with ambitious, emotionally distant and selfish men. The writer creates compelling, complex and intricate characters, particularly in the case of Elsa who the reader follows from before birth until the cliffhanger ending. The social and political events of the time periods covered by this novel come into play in realistic plot twists and scenarios that help develop charactr and build tension. Each generation is convincingly drawn - they all have different ways of speaking, thinking and navigating their worlds. Ms. Behnish was able to carry some of the concerns of the first generation into the third without making all of the characters similar.

Writing, Excerpts and Publications

Rollercoaster Ride With Brain Injury (For Loved Ones)

PREVIEW

'A Rollercoaster Ride With Brain Injury (For Loved Ones)' is a result of my partner's serious motorcycle accident. When I realized how difficult it was to get information on brain injuries or on how family members can help their brain-injured loved ones, I knew there was a need for something to be written. There seemed to be very little that was readily available for those close to the injured person in learning how to deal with the monumental changes in both the injured person's life and those of his family and friends.

When we are faced with a tragedy such as this, it is difficult to know where to go for answers. Unable to find what I felt I needed, I eventually located the hospital library. I spoke with the librarian and although he said the library was for the use of the hospital staff, he kindly offered to e-mail me several web sites containing information on brain injuries. These were invaluable and were initially my main sources for obtaining information. The web sites are listed at the end of this section.

During this difficult time, I found it was also sometimes difficult to get any extensive information from the doctors or the nurses. This was partly because at the beginning very little seemed to be known about the severity of his injury or what the results of the injury would be. I also quickly discovered that what information I was given appeared to be designed to not build up any hopes on my part. Further, I became aware that the more questions I asked, the more variety of answers I received with each person appearing to have a different opinion on both his injury as well as his recovery prognosis.

By writing this book about our situation, I hope to help others in a similar situation realize they are not alone. There will be progress and although it appears to be slow - brain injury progress is often two steps forward and one step back, it will happen. Often the steps are small and changes are sometimes only noticed after a big change has taken place. Moderate brain injury recovery is somewhat like lying awake in the middle of the night feeling like morning will never come - it always does and so also shall there be progress with a moderate brain injury.

There were other reasons why I decided to write this book. One of these was to assist family members to hopefully be able to understand and know what is involved in being a caregiver. This is difficult since no two head injuries are alike so no two cases will be the same. One of the reasons for this is dependent upon where the head injury occurred, (i.e.: is it a frontal lobe injury, or ...?) Also the personality of the injured person appears to make somewhat of a difference. As a result no two caregivers will experience the exact same problems. There does, however, appear to be some basic similarities.

Go to: http://www.progressofabraininjury.blogspot.com to read more. Book can be purchased at: www.trafford.com/10510 Amazon - ISBN: 978-1-4251-6964-0 or by e-mail: writesylvia@shaw.ca

Writing, Excerpts and Publications