FLYING MADLY OFF IN ALL DIRECTIONS

I am not writing a blog this month because:

*The garden has called:

Twenty years ago, when we bought this bungalow, there was a tidy front garden, a row of shrubs, a small, raised bed with two trees and the rest was grass. I dug up the grass and planted every inch of ground with shrubs and flowers including bamboo.

-High maintenance. Oh, how I wish I had left it alone.

Grant dug out the grass in the back yard and replaced it with terracotta pavers.

-Low maintenance. Sensible.

I planted every other empty patch with Rhododendrons, ground cover, flowering shrubs, and we put in a fishpond.

-High maintenance, not sensible.

I am not writing a blog this month because:

*Swimsuit season is coming up and I am working on getting toned.

Ha, ha, ha!!! As if!

*I am working on fitness, so I can work in the garden. I am doing stretches, promising myself that I will walk daily, meanwhile my hands are stiff with arthritis and it’s hard to type let along work in the garden.

I am not writing a blog this month because:

*I am pushing through with the editing of my up coming book, now tentatively called Coastal Adventures: And the Dog Came Too.

I am not writing a blog this month because:

*The blog I was writing this month just wouldn’t gel.

* It’s tax season!

* AND I AM FLYING MADLY OFF IN ALL DIRECTIONS!

I will come back to earth next month. Maybe read a bit of Stephen Leacock in between. Get the reference?

Meanwhile, lets enjoy this sweet time of year, spring with all her promises.

If you enjoyed this and are curious about more content from an Island Crone, please subscribe from my web page/blog sidebar. I promise to post at least once a month and sometimes more. But not often enough to bore.

~ Island Crone by Liz Maxwell Forbes

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PICTURE THIS

I awake at first light, the birds singing their morning song as I brew my coffee and head down the hall to my studio. The cat walks with me wrapping his tail around my legs, leading me to the front door.

Once at my desk soft light streams through my new stained-glass window and the hummingbirds work the feeders hanging outside. This is my sanctuary, the space I made for calmness and creativity. I sigh with contentment, reach for my notes, and begin editing my latest book.

A beautiful scenario you say. However, after months of procrastination, I am only just there. Last summer I had sent my manuscript to my first readers, received their insightful comments and put them aside where they sat through the long winter when I should have been writing and editing. Instead, I worked at decluttering, shredding old writing, getting rid of books, piling cardboard boxes with stuff, creating so much clutter that I couldn’t move let alone write.

I was stuck in a dark place.

I began to think about love, inspired by author Liz Gilbert, who writes letters of love to herself. (Look it up. Elizabeth Gilbert. Letters to Love.)

And I thought about my love for writing. Writing is my therapy, so why am I using my writing room as a dumping ground for all the homeless things in my life? If I were to write a letter of love to myself, I would say that I am loved, I have value and I am worthy of writing in a beautiful space, a sanctuary.

Last week something shifted. I moved furniture, cleared away the boxes, organized my manuscript and work notes, bought a woven throw-rug to brighten the room, and treated myself to a beautiful stained-glass window to hang over my writing desk. I created my sanctuary and began writing again.

If this is a bit woo-woo for you, think about this, another reason why I was suddenly able to work again: As of last week, Mars was no longer retrograde in Cancer. No longer stalling progress. Mars, which is involved in creativity in my chart, is flowing again. Hallelujah!

Whatever you believe, the fact is that this morning I awoke at first light….and with luck and a whole lot of love, And the Dog Came Too-Camping on the Coast will be published this year.

If you enjoyed this and are curious about more content from an Island Crone, please subscribe from my web page/blog sidebar. I promise to post at least once a month and sometimes more. But not often enough to bore.

~ Island Crone by Liz Maxwell Forbes

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YUM OR YUCK?

Visiting my daughter Sheila and her friend Beth, Huntsville Ontario

A few years ago, on a flight to Toronto to visit my daughter Sheila, I sat next to a woman who looked like someone I could know. Someone I would like to know. But apart from a cursory acknowledgement of my presence she busied herself with reading and making occasional notes on her laptop. I got it. My fear when travelling is being stuck beside an insufferable boor for the duration. It happened once on a flight from Vancouver to San Francisco with a seat mate whose views on women and almost everything else were diametrically opposite to mine and I was too polite in those days, to tell him to shut up.

I knew this wouldn’t be the case with this woman sitting beside me and I hoped we could chat; it was a long flight from Vancouver to Toronto and I hadn’t packed a good book.

What was it about her that assured me that I would feel at ease talking to her? It was partly the way she was dressed. She looked like many women I knew on Vancouver Island and especially in the Cowichan Valley. Her casual slacks, cotton plaid shirt topped with a lightweight V-neck spoke ‘no nonsense, I am comfortable in my skin.’ Good leather walking shoes, short-cropped hair, warm-open face, no make up. Genuine came to mind, someone who would be fun to know.

What did she see in me that prevented her from engaging in conversation? Older, grey hair? Did I look fussy? I hadn’t been sure what clothes to bring to my daughter’s lake front home in the Muskoka’s.

Sharing a moment with Sheila on her 60th birthday.

“People don’t dress up to travel anymore Mum,” my daughter had warned me.

What Sheila hadn’t factored in was that her casual would be my dress up. Casual on the free-wheeling west coast is a different genre to conservative Ontario. I chose a careful middle of the road wardrobe, and I must be giving off middle-class vibes.

Earlier this morning while awaiting my connector flight from Cassidy Airport on Vancouver Island to Vancouver Airport I had also made assumptions based on how someone was dressed, and I was reminded how quick we are to categorize others. I love watching people and speculating about their lives. This morning, the woman sitting across from me was, I was sure, on a business trip. I mean who else would be wearing make up, nylons and heels and a flowered polyester dress at seven in the morning? And she had a new looking carry bag at her side. But no laptop, hmm maybe not.

She saw me looking at her, “I’m so happy to be going home,” she said, “just spent ten days visiting my brother and wife on the island. How about you?”

Well, there go my brilliant detective skills.

“Off to Huntsville, Ontario for my daughter’s birthday,” I replied. “Her sixtieth.”

“Midlands, Ontario for me, I much prefer Ontario to here, especially where my brother lives, Crofton, its hardly even a town.”

“Crofton?” I exclaimed. “That’s where I live. Maybe I know them.”

With a quick glance from side to side, she leaned across the space between us and whispered. “You wouldn’t know them. They’re hippies. Older would-be hippies but still decent people. He volunteers at the food bank.” She paused, as though searching for the right words. Then nodding her head solemnly she added, “They dress differently.”

Liz hippie vibes 1969

I mulled over that comment as I sat quietly in my seat on the long flight to Toronto. ‘They dress differently.’ That’s a laugh. They probably look like me. And dress the way I do which I can only define as Vancouver Island style. Now if I hadn’t been trying rock the well healed sophisticated jet setter vibe on this trip, that woman would have never approached me.

About one hour before we landed at Pearson, my seat mate closed her laptop, tucked her book and papers into a carry all on the empty seat between us, and turned to me, saying “And what brings you to Toronto?”

Well, ask a talker a question like that when she’s had a sock in her mouth for two hours, you’ll get a story. She got it all, giving up my daughter for adoption, reuniting with her, the cancer diagnosis and now her 60th birthday party. She listened with her whole being. She knew of similar stories; in fact, she was a writer and taught creative writing in British Columbia and had lived part time in Victoria BC. We even knew some of the same people. Time ran out before we had finished our conversation, she apologized for not speaking up sooner, but she had a presentation to complete. I was glad I had not interrupted her while she was working.

She gave me her card when we parted ways.

She was Anne Fleming. The same Anne Fleming who was a runner up for last years Giller Prize for her book Curiosities. Anne Fleming- Author  https://annefleming.ca

Would I have pegged Anne as a writer? No, I assumed she was an academic, a University Professor, which is exactly what she was. Pigeon holing people is not an exact science. I still think if I had been wearing my jeans and Birkenstocks when I took the seat beside Anne, she would have put her work away and talked.

Do we owe it to the people we meet to show an honest representation of ourselves and our values by the clothes we wear? By dressing like a chameleon was I being dishonest? Pretending to be someone I am not? Does it matter?

I think it does. Its somewhat like choosing a book. It’s the cover that is designed to catch one’s eye, followed by the title and if those two important pieces of information interest you, you’ll pull the book off the shelf and take a closer look. Its very much the way we instantly access the stranger who holds the door for you, and a quick word or a smile are exchanged. In that moment you’ve made a yum or yuck judgement. Based on clothing? Or?

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WHAT ARE YOUR NEW YEARS RESOLUTIONS?

What? You don’t believe in New Years Resolutions?

I do.

I believe in them in the way I believe in Tarot card readings or consulting my crystal pendulum. It doesn’t matter that year after year I write: Lose ten pounds, or twenty depending on the year; walk every day and do yoga; be a better person.

In case you wondered, I do not believe in the tooth fairy or in Santa Claus, however I believe in the concept of both and in the joy they bring. However, this year, I have added another resolution.

*Look up old friends! Connect with someone from my past!

It could be a phone call, or a letter written in black ink and tucked into the best velum envelope, the kind the aunts would give for gifts on Christmas, a subtle hint to write a thank you note back. Just connect, however it works.

These days my social media is full of prompts to downsize; the underlying message is that we are closer to death than birth at my age and we shouldn’t leave a mess of loose ends for our children to inherit. A mess like twenty years of Harrowsmith magazines (truly, I think they are at my daughter’s house), or old silver ware that needs polishing and obscure notes on backs of photos written in my illegible handwriting.

It was one such barely legible note on a piece of carbon copied paper, that I came across recently, written in my mother’s handwriting, that prompted this new resolution. It was part of a rambling list of instructions that we found following our mother’s death that read, “Lizzie, Leyda L’s antique gold earrings to go to Leyda Campbell.”

At the time I had tucked the note away and mostly forgot about it. I knew the late Leyda L. but who was this Leyda Campbell?  I had never met her; she was one of a small group of friends Mum had made after my siblings Kate and John and I had left home. Mum died thirty-eight years ago and from time to time I thought about the earrings, knowing that I should do something but there was no internet back then and honestly looking for a Leyda Campbell was not on the top of my list of things to do.

However, Mum also left me a small oil painting by Leyda Campbell which I loved, and it hung prominently in my home. One day an acquaintance dropped by and on seeing it exclaimed. “You have a Leyda Campbell!”

“Do you know her?” I asked, thinking maybe I could finally give her the earrings.

“I’ve lost track of her” he said. “But she’s well known.”

That was more than thirty years ago. Still no internet in my life. I wore the earrings occasionally, feeling guilty that I hadn’t followed my mother’s almost death bed instructions, fretting about being a selfish daughter.

Still, I did nothing.

Until one week ago when I came across Mum’s note in a pile of old letters.

I googled www.leydacampbell.com

Originals » Leyda Campbell – The Wilderness Artist

I had found Mum’s Leyda, and she was a spectacular artist and a strong independent woman who had lived and worked up north and loved the wilderness. I phoned her.

Leyda spoke glowingly about our mother, said how much she had loved her.

Leyda was an emerging artist in her twenties when she painted her nine by eleven oils on site around Salt Spring Island and Mum had of course supported her by buying a painting from the Backroom Gallery on Oak Bay Avenue. I think Mum was a bit of a mother figure for Leyda, it was clear that Mum thought highly of her as she was mentioned in her last wishes, even if it was a carbon copy note. Leyda had known nothing about Mum’s bequest and went on to say how kind Mum was to her and how welcomed she felt at her home. And I am happy that the earrings have found their home at last.

Leyda and I have promised to stay in touch. We have both written memoirs, and we are mailing each other a copy. I will include the antique gold earrings with my copy of Growing Up Weird A memoir of an Oak Bay childhood, that includes family photos. Leyda is mailing me her memoir called Leyda, Friends, Adventures and Campfire Stories, as well as a certificate of authentication for my oil painting called On Top of the Moat.

I can’t think of a better way to be starting the New Year. I believe in New Years resolutions. If only they could always be as magical as this one. Finally contacting Leyda Campbell. Thirty-eight years later.

Mum would be proud of me.

If you enjoyed this and are curious about more content from an Island Crone, please subscribe from my web page/blog sidebar. I promise to post at least once a month and sometimes more. But not often enough to bore.

~ Island Crone by Liz Maxwell Forbes

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DO EPIC SHIT

I borrowed this title from a local coffee shop in Chemainus. I’m sure they won’t mind. After all we are both celebrating a one-year anniversary and the sign stating DO EPIC SHIT has brought them epic publicity. (Coffee Shack has been in this location for one year, and I have been blogging monthly for one year!)

The sign brought them negative publicity at first when a woman posted her objection on social media stating that she couldn’t take her children in the restaurant let alone drive pass the front of the building.

The sign came down.

Immediately social media was filled with objections. “We love that sign.” “Put it back up.” “Where is this place?” And of course, there were also reams of negative comments criticizing the few people who had objected to the sign. Yes, there was more than one outraged mother. But mostly people loved the sign, it made them feel good and they posted rave reviews about the restaurant.

The sign went back up.

I wonder if they will capitalize on that flurry of epic-ness and serve a new breakfast item? The Epic Breakfast.

So, I had this thought. What if someone publicly objected to the books I have written? After all, there are some racy bits in my Oak Bay memoir. Books have been banned for far less.  A good book banning would increase sales. Nothing creates desire like having it taken away.

Or what if readers were disturbed by the content of some of my blogs? I have touched on delicate subjects. Subjects that are important to me and I hope to my loyal followers.  As I have a new book in the works and marketing that book is a priority, I need to do epic marketing! But please, no book or blog banning. My delicate psyche couldn’t handle it.

But back to EPIC SHIT. I love that sign, and I had to show it to my favourite epic friend of nearly sixty years! Sharon and I are both Pisces, both talk to strangers, and back when we were younger, in Victoria during the vibrant 1960’s, we did epic stuff. Sharon still does and I have a hard time keeping up.

And you bet we talked to strangers on this Coffee Shack day. We had to rope one in to take our picture!

Dubious Advice from an Island Crone # 11

Hang out with fun-loving younger friends. And try to keep up.   DO EPIC SHIT!

It was a year ago in November that I re-launched my Island Crone Blog, and I love my loyal followers. Thank you for supporting me, I love what I am doing.

If you enjoyed this and are curious about more content from an Island Crone, please subscribe from my web page/blog sidebar. I promise to post at least once a month and sometimes more. But not often enough to bore.

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Tri-colour American Cocker Spaniel, Blaze

WHAT IS THE STORY ABOUT?

You would think writing a memoir was easy. And why not? You don’t have to make anything up. But do you really want to know every little detail of my life and what I ate for supper on the day I …whatever? Of course not. That’s an autobiography and only of interest if I were an IMPORTANT PERSON such as Margaret Atwood or King Charles.

(Disclaimer here: I am food obsessed and in each of my memoirs, I talk about food. In my soon to be published book, I rhapsodize over the muffins I ate in quirky little cafes on our travels. Fascinating. Right?)

The fact is, a memoir is about a selected time or event or issue in one’s life, written to entertain or inform. If I were an addict, or alcoholic, or had committed some dastardly deed, I could write about how I overcame my problems, but sadly ha, ha, I have had a rather easy life, so in what area could I possibly be such an expert, that anyone would want to read my books?

It seems that people relate to my writing because they relate to me. My experiences as an average woman in our society are universal issues. I love telling stories, and memoir writing is all about telling stories. What keeps me writing is the feedback I receive from my readers on how my memoir, especially Growing Up Weird, has changed their life, or helped them understand their own issues. That is gold.

A life changing memoir for me was My Turquoise Years by M.A.C. Farrant (2004). I read it when I was beginning to write seriously, and I was blown away. It was a cheeky, funny, audacious coming of age story set in Victoria BC in the 1960’s. I instantly plummeted into depression because I could never pull off a book like that. Of course, I couldn’t because I wasn’t Farrant, I was me.

Same thing when I read Anny Scoones, home- tales of a heritage farm. I fell in love with her writing and the cover and shape of her book. (Books are tactile.) Scoones wrote about ordinary life on a wild and crazy farm, far from ordinary and I soaked it up. She reminded me of me. She gave me courage to write about my back to the land period of life. I knew there would be someone out there who would like my writing too and so I carried on and River Tales came into being.

I have a library of how to write memoir. I seldom look at them. I’ve learned more by reading memoirs, especially the memoirs written by another favourite Canadian author, Alison Wearing.

Her Honeymoon in Purdah, Confessions of a Fairy’s Daughter and Moments of Glad Grace are unexpected and lively just like Wearing.

Authors like Farrant, Scoones and Wearing make it look easy, but of course it isn’t, and the trick is to know the answer to the big question, one my friend Tom Masters, who is in my writing circle, invariable asks, “What is the story about?”

“What indeed!” This is where I was stuck with my third memoir which started out to be one story and changed into another story. This happens!

This sometimes-humorous memoir, tentatively called And the Dog Came Too- Travels on the Coast is about our camping and vacationing travels throughout Vancouver Island, the gulf islands and parts of B. C. I sent the manuscript out to my wonderful beta readers (first readers) who are now giving me their insightful feedback on what works and what doesn’t.

And of course, once I re-read my stories, and read my beta readers’ comments, I was filled with self-doubt; all part of the writing process. (Writers are terribly insecure.)

Happily, after a short hiatus from writing, where I relaxed and let the feedback percolate, the essence of the story became clear and the pull to write returned.

I knew what the story was about!  

I love writing and it feels good to be back. Sadly, this book will not be published in time for Christmas. So, no scintillating memoir from me in your Christmas stocking this year!

But coming in spring. I promise! 

Note: the dog featured is our beloved Blaze who sadly is no longer with us. You might also note that I have pictures of him posted in my office and very few of my human family. No judgement please.

If you enjoyed this and are curious about more content from an Island Crone, please subscribe from my web page/blog sidebar. I promise to post at least once a month and sometimes more. But not often enough to bore.

~ Island Crone by Liz Maxwell Forbes

contact me at:  baybooks@shaw.ca

Growing Up Weird: A memoir of an Oak Bay childhood

River Tales: Stories from My Cowichan Years

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SMALL MOMENTS OF HAPPINESS

Back a few years, when we were still living in Chemainus, Grant bought a new thunder-grey Nissan Tundra hot off the factory shelf. We drove into town and parked in front of the coffee shop on Willow Street. The local good old boys were having their usual ciggies and coffee at the outside tables.

We smiled and said good morning, and as we walked away from the truck, we heard one of them say, “there goes a lucky man. He’s got his truck and a good- looking woman at his side.”

“He’s got his priorities right,” Grant said as I whapped him on the arm.

Willow Street Cafe in Fall

Flash forwards a dozen years. We were enjoying lunch on the deck at the Willow Street Café at the far end of Willow Street. Our cocker spaniel was sitting at my feet, the big patio umbrella shading us from the hot sun. The place was lively, food was good and I was on top of the world. A woman at a nearby table kept glancing over, then she caught my eye and smiled.

“Look at you!” she exclaimed in a big voice, her arms spread wide. “You’ve got your dog and you’ve got your man. You’ve got it all. Go girl.”

“She got the order reversed,” Grant grumbled later.

Ah but, it’s a happy memory for me.

Another one of those everything’s alright-in-my-world moments occurred a few years ago. It was evening, curtains closed to the rain beating against the windows, the flames on the gas fireplace flickering, Grant and I lounging in our easy chairs and our dog and cat curled up on the sofa. I couldn’t imagine anything more perfect than relaxing with a loving partner and an adored dog and cat in front of the fire. My heart was full.

But flash forward to present day. Our home is now missing a dog. Our precious cocker spaniel was run over a couple of years ago. And we are not ready for another dog. Grant’s cat allergies are worsening and we should be rehoming our cat. But I can’t bring myself to do it. The heart has gone out of our home.

For the sake of Grant’s health, we are keeping the cat out of our bedroom. Conrad’s favourite place to sleep was on a cushy chair next to my side of the bed.

Now I am doing ‘cat training’ which consists of patiently ignoring his tales of woe as I try to sleep (fat chance) while he serenades me loudly outside our bedroom door. He is an indoor/outdoor cat and we don’t have a cat door. I am the doormat, er doorman. The first night that I left him outside when I went to bed, he scratched on the bedroom window and cried for two hours. I cried too. I let him in and he continued his sad tale at the bedroom door.

Last night he changed his pleas to more conversational tones, sweet meows with up and down notes accompanied by quick bursts of scratching the door jamb. I hope that means my side is winning. He can lure you into complacency with his sweetness. The goal is to have him content to sleep in a different room from Grant and me and to keep Grant’s allergies manageable.

Conrad left his original home when he was young and pushed his way in with us. I packed him up once and moved him and his expensive cat tree back to his first home, a couple of houses away. (Grant’s doctor’s orders re allergies.) He was back with us very quickly, minus the cat tree, his cat siblings had taken it over.

So, this is round two and I will stick it out because I don’t want to send him away even if it means I stagger around half asleep looking like something the cat dragged in. Now isn’t that an appropriate metaphor?

I will keep you posted.

Signed, obedient cat servant and juggler.

Note: The two “Willow Street” anecdotes in this blog are included in my upcoming memoir (working title) And the Dog Came Too.

Tri-colour American Cocker Spaniel, Blaze

My tri-colour American Cocker Spaniel Blaze, curious about my book display.

If you enjoyed this and are curious about more content from an Island Crone, please subscribe from my web page/blog sidebar. I promise to post at least once a month and sometimes more. But not often enough to bore.

~ Island Crone by Liz Maxwell Forbes

Growing Up Weird: A memoir of an Oak Bay childhood

River Tales: Stories from My Cowichan YearsFacebooktwittermail

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Gardening is Art

‘The art of creating stimulates dopamine production, providing us with a sense of pleasure and motivation to continue our artistic endeavours.’(APA)

fish flying over yellow leopards bane

I was on my kneeling stool, hands deep in a thicket of overgrown Daylilies when it occurred to me how much gardening is like writing.  I start with an intention and often end up in the wildest places. When writing it could be that a drift of crab-traps on a dock morphs into the time I bought a purple sweater in Camden Town and later missed my train. Much the same with my circuitous journey through my garden today.

Rose Campion

I had gone to the garden with the intent of deadheading Rose Campion and other past-their- prime summer flowers when I spotted the Mexican Feather Grass that had seeded itself in the gravel driveway. In a flash, I was away. New plan. I will pot up those grasses. But as I was revelling in the vision of clay pots filled with waving grasses artistically placed around the potted Rosemary it was suddenly: SQUIRREL! Look over there! Daylilies dead and dying. I must cut them back. I gathered my gardening tools and began hacking back the foliage, the delicate grasses temporarily forgotten.

That is how I garden and that is how I write. (Actually, that’s also how I talk. Drives some people crazy; not mentioning names here.)

When I am fully involved, gardening and writing are calming. With my mind focussing on a single task, another layer of my brain seems to engage leading to a burst of creativity enabling wild ideas to surface.

According to the American Psychological Association (APA), ‘when we engage in creative activities our brains enter a unique state and the Default Mode Network becomes highly active, allowing us to generate new ideas by connecting disparate concepts. The Default Mode Network is most active during mind wandering or daydreaming.’

pot of Osteospermum from my sister and self-sown brown sedge grasses on the gravel drive

I could landscape a whole new garden or write pages and pages of mind shattering prose if I could stay in that creative space.

So, if you see me lolling around, drinking coffee, staring into space, know that I am working! Truly!

Writing is Art

If you want to read more about creativity, my friend and writer Lois Petersons’ beautifully illustrated book Creatively Human – Why We Imagine, Make and Innovate is available for pre-order.

https://www.amazon.ca/Creatively-Human-Imagine-Make-Innovate/

If you enjoyed this and are curious about more content from an Island Crone, please subscribe from my web page/blog sidebar. I promise to post at least once a month and sometimes more. But not often enough to bore.

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RIVER TALES-A REVIEW

Liz and Maureen and dog Blaze at the river 2022

Summer should be all about swimming, reading and lounging, but not so this summer, I have been working; writing and editing my next book. Tentative title And the Dog Came Too. The manuscript is out to my wonderful beta readers now.

As I love what I am doing, it isn’t really work.

And there’s always room for play. We have had heavenly swims at my old river property and luscious potluck feasts in the Secret Garden where a couple of years ago we celebrated my River Tales book with my sister Kate’s book club, some of whom are my beta readers. Happily, that book is so popular, I am reprinting it!

A summer feast in the Secret Garden: Anna, Cathy and child.

Yes! A second printing of River Tales-Stories from My Cowichan Years. Volume One, our wonderful indie book store in Duncan BC has the last two copies on their shelves, but that’s it! And as it sold well and will continue to, for the social history as much as its entertainment, I am printing another run, but this time including snippets of reviews that I collected along the way.

My favourite review, is the long, lush, lyrical soliloquy written by the lovely Georgina Montgomery, artist, writer and editor, for The Ormsby Review.

The following is an excerpt. Almost as good as reading the book!

COWICHAN SOLILOQUY

Despite being what one might call an accidental country girl; Forbes quickly embraces her new life. And she doesn’t stop for the next 20 years, as recounted in this memoir, River Tales: Stories from My Cowichan Years. With an engaging story-telling ability, sharp eye for detail, and tuned ear for dialogue, Forbes provides an entertaining, informative, and well-written on-the-ground snapshot of an interesting, not-so-long-ago time.

And it was, as they say, a time.

She and her partner raise not only a blended family of children, but a menagerie that variously includes cats, dogs, chickens, two horses, three Highland cattle and, for briefer stints, bees, peacocks and peahens, ducks, a goose and a gander, guinea fowl, pigeons, pigs, and a goat.

Day jobs are necessary, yet — with pioneer-like spirit and Harrowsmith sensibilities — the group tackles a long list of home, garden, and pasture improvements, all the while accommodating an even longer list of guests. Friends, relatives, strangers from far and near: Forbes documents a steady procession of individuals and couples who come over the years to stay temporarily, renting a room or “the studio” for a month (or a year), camping in teepees, and sleeping in trailers or vans for a season (or two).

Hosting picnics, corn roasts, dinners, and parties brings other visitors to the river property on a regular basis. (Forbes clearly has a generous, sociable and easygoing nature. She doesn’t say this about herself, but it’s apparent in every chapter.) Several dozen photos included in the book provide a partial visual record of all the goings-on.

Many of the larger gatherings are for specific occasions, such as “cousin reunions,” the annual summer party for the local intercultural society and, once, an Earth First rally.

Even more of the parties are of the why-not sort. Neighbours occupying nearby acreages — there are private homes, a bible camp, a dude ranch, a historic fishing lodge, and a monastic community of the ultra-conservative Apostles of Infinite Love — are sometimes invited, with varied uptake.

A particularly memorable party for Forbes — “a party that grew into a five-day-long happening” — captures much about the time and place and people she chronicles throughout the book. It’s the middle of August 1989 (by which time Forbes is no longer with her partner and has become the sole owner of the property):

People kept on arriving, tents were set up, large quantities of food appeared: tabouli, humus, Greek salad,… The party developed its own life and rhythm and flowed with the energy of music and people, moving from the porch, where Peter from Thetis Island, resplendent in a grey three-piece suit from the Sally Ann, had set up his drum kit, to the fire pit, where wine and tokes and guitars welcomed. It drifted to the river, where Michael, Nik and Andrew had built a sweat lodge made of branches and skins (actually old blankets and tarps), and back to the fire, then to the small teepee, where people gathered in a circle rhythmically drumming on deerskin drums…. Suzanne, my writerly neighbour from up the river, came with her two amorous Yorkshire terriers and her mother, Shorty. Soon Shorty was perched on the wobbly wooden chair in front of the piano, well fortified with scotch, belting out honky-tonk songs (pp. 248-249).

However, for all the family and friend social times Forbes recounts, and the trials and tribulations she describes in maintaining a large rural property, it’s the big river flowing virtually at her feet that is a unifying force in these tales.

Day in and day out, it delivers her many things. Sunlight and moonlight dancing on the water’s surface. Countless species of wildlife and vegetation. Warm water to play in during the Cowichan Valley’s hot summers. Wicked whirlpools and rocks beyond the safe-swimming zone. Fresh salmon, trout, and crayfish for the table. Kayakers, river tubers, and anglers on foot and in watercraft. A drowning when a young man loses control of his boat in fast waters in sight of Forbes. Winter floodwaters that rearrange the riverbanks and threaten worse.

books for dreaming

Rivers often feature in literature as a metaphor for time and the constant that is change. River Tales, with its kind of Wind in the Willows meets Pilgrim at Tinker Creek feel, fits nicely this ages-old parallel.

Here Forbes provides with a near-diary intimacy (seasoned with good humour and minus the angst present in much of anyone’s personal jottings in the moment) a perceptive and well-paced account of an important two-decade period of her life. A reader needn’t have lived in this region of Vancouver Island, let alone hobby-farmed or even homesteaded, to be able to relate overall to her “Cowichan years.” For most of us, this is what life is: a ride through personal growth, relationships, social change, successes, losses, and joys. And that ride takes us down a common channel, one with a combination of meanders, back eddies, tumultuous runs and, if we’re lucky, many long stretches of sweet calm.

Near the end of the book, reflecting on what the river taught her, Forbes provides the perfect conclusion:

No matter how we tried to impose our will on the land, the river ran where it pleased, sometimes taking the soil with it, washing away our efforts to make change. We had rocks, huge boulders, placed along the riverbank to protect our property and our homes, even though we knew that eventually the force of the river would wash them away. The Cowichan is an ancient river and has changed its course many times over the years … and it will still be flowing through the land long after all of us are gone (p. 313).

I will give the last word to Annie Dillard. “`Last forever!’ Who hasn’t prayed that prayer? You were lucky to get it in the first place. The present is a freely given canvas. That it is constantly being ripped apart and washed downstream goes without saying.” — from Annie Dillard, Pilgrim at Tinker Creek.

Georgina Montgomery was a freelance writer and editor for corporate and government clients for over 30 years, 21 with West Coast Editorial Associates LLP.

The Ormsby Review. More Books. More Reviews. More Often.

Publisher and Editor: Richard Mackie

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~ Island Crone by Liz Maxwell ForbesFacebooktwittermail

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Sharing Our Stories

You all know my obsession with reading the obituary pages in our local newspaper. Both my daughter Maureen and I read them avidly, poring over the photos and descriptions, later phoning each other to discuss someone’s amazing life or how the family worded the more humorous ones. Sometimes the obituaries written by the deceased (pre death of course) are the best. As it was the other day when I opened the Times Colonist Obituary section to see a photo of a lovely looking woman with the ocean and islands in the background with the first sentence reading. “I am a Pisces, have been fortunate to always live by the sea and to see water.”

That could be me! I am a Pisces and have always lived close to the water. But this obituary belonged to a Fay Pettapiece, who was born February 21 1931, and died May 31 2024. I met Fay last year in Oak Bay at the Windsor Pavilion at my book presentation for the Oak Bay Heritage Society. Following my talk, Fay, who was carrying a large cloth bag, walked up to the podium to speak to me, she was a hard to believe ninety-two, quick and funny, confirming my belief that we writers can go on forever. To my surprise she pulled her recently published memoir from her bag, saying, “I brought a copy of my book for you.”

by Fay Pettapiece

“Oh dear,” I blurted, “I just bought your memoir from Ivy’s Book Shop today so I won’t need it but thank you so much.”

I immediately regretted my words. I couldn’t have been ruder if I had tried. Later when she lined up for me to sign my book Growing Up Weird: A memoir of an Oak Bay childhood (we were selling my books at another table and I didn’t notice her buying one), I was so flustered I forgot to apologize for not accepting her gift. I would have given her a copy of my book. But I assured myself that we would meet again and we would laugh about my gaucheness.

In her book The Years Between: My Experiences in British Columbia Reflecting a Century of Change, Fay Pettapiece writes about her early years in East Vancouver, later moving to an off-the-grid acreage south of Nanaimo where she walked four miles to school each day through thick brush, eventually becoming a dietician, marrying a dentist, living an adventurous life and finally moving to Victoria to waterfront property on Beach Drive. I meant to contact her so we could talk about writing memoir and growing old. I wondered what she thought of my book. But I let it slide, and it was with great sadness that I read that she had died, just a year later.

Writing a memoir takes courage, often leaving the author exposed and vulnerable, but a well written story such as Fay Pettapiece’s or even a roughly written memoir, is usually a gem. The writing style is part of the charm and the intimate glimpse into other lives and times adds another level. Historians love these home-grown tales and haunt the used bookstores where they often turn up after an estate sale. This is where I have picked up my little finds, invariably self published, written by ordinary people who write from their heart. And when I can, I get in touch with the author and tell them how I enjoyed their stories. Interestingly, the writer is frequently an older woman, so my softly worn female friends, get that pen out and start writing!

The following books are delightful. However, with the exception of Pat Lines, I have not been able to thank any of these women for writing their memoirs:

The Milk Lady- Memories of a Farmers Wife by Patricia Lines. Signed copy printed 1992. Pat Lines was a lovely woman. She frequented the Duncan Post Office where I worked at the time she was writing her book.

Duncan 50 Years Ago by Peggy Saunders-no date but she refers to “before the depression” and includes memories of Duncan’s old Chinatown.

Between Tzouhalem and Prevost-As I Remember Duncan by Muriel Jarvis Ackinclose (1920’s and 1930’s) Detailed anecdotes of growing up in the Cowichan Valley. Published 2000

And so They Came to Cowichan by Margaret W. Bishop. Memoir of her Evans and McLay families who arrived around the 1860’s. First published 1975. Reprint 2007

The Warm Land -The Story of a Valley and the People Who Live in it, by E. Blanche Norcross. Published 1959

Often, we mean to call a friend or reach out to someone who has touched us in some way or who has made a difference and we don’t do it, and then it’s too late. That is my regret with the lovely Fay Pettapiece. From now on I am going to reach out and tell someone they are beautiful, or say they make this world a better place. Or tell them they’ve written a darn good book!

If you enjoyed this and are curious about more content from an Island Crone, please subscribe from my web page/blog sidebar. I promise to post at least once a month and sometimes more. But not often enough to bore.

~ Island Crone by Liz Maxwell ForbesFacebooktwittermail

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