The Things We Leave Out

Maureen, Liz, Lantzville Beach

The hardest thing about editing is knowing what has to be left out/slashed/deleted. If it doesn’t belong, or move the story forward, it has to go. This story is one I had to drop as it isn’t about travelling on the coast. Yes it is on the coast of Vancouver Island, Lantzville to be precise, and it does include a dog, but it does not belong in my upcoming book. It is a story I love, a casual meeting on a summer day at the beach and I want to share it with you. It took place on a day in June 1995, thirty years ago.

I meet Violet Margaret Norback: 

On one of those days swimming in the waters off Lantzville and throwing sticks for Bodhi, with Grant lounging on the beach with a book, I noticed an elderly woman sitting on a weathered log. She watched as I emerged from the sea and shook the salt water from my hair. I threw another stick in the ocean for Bodhi and walked across the sand to where the old woman was sitting.

“Lovely day for the beach,” I called with a smile.

She didn’t respond and I was taken aback by her closed expression as she pushed away the thick white hair that hung over her forehead. Her pale cloudy blue eyes considered me for a long moment, then she patted the log beside her and said, “Come, sit with me. Don’t be shy.”

I nudged my wet bottom on the rough log and asked, “Is that your house?” pointing to the faded green two-story house behind where we were sitting.

“Yes,” she said as she glanced back at the weathered building.

We sat quietly for a moment or so, I wondered if that was going to be the extent of our conversation, but then she began to speak in halting sentences with spaces in between.

“Fred and I built it fifty-five years ago. I dug the basement with a shovel. We just built it. No plan, no design. It’s a good house, lots of room. We didn’t have much but there was lots of firewood on the beach. I cut it with a seven-foot saw and bucked it up myself.”

Her name was Vi, and Fred, her husband, had died a few years back. I studied her face as she spoke. I was struck by the grief etched across her high cheekbones and elegant nose.

“I’m not used to talking,”  Vi said. “Fred was the kind of man who did not talk much. Just two or three words a day. But I miss him. I’m lonely. There’s lots of men out there. They come around but I don’t want them. It’s different when they’ve fathered your children but as my mother said, ‘you don’t need to wash another man’s dirty socks.’ Some days I don’t see anyone,” she added. “I go two, three days without talking.”

It felt as though she had weeks of talking to do and I was more than happy to listen. I learned that Vi was born in Scotland, in the Orkney Islands and emigrated to Saskatchewan with her parents when she was young. I leaned back on my log and stretched my bare legs in the sun as she continued to tell her story.

“I used to trap. Had my own trapline, made money, mink and racoons. Fred set the traps. He didn’t like to do the rest. It’s a cruel business. My mother always said if you took on a job you had to do all parts of it. The good and the bad. I was good at it.”

“Where’d you trap?” I asked.

“Oh, around here,” she waved her arm vaguely toward Nanoose Bay. “Four miles. Sometimes I went further on ‘Indian’ land, but no one knew. It’s so long ago. It doesn’t matter now.”

“And I brought food home, used the shotgun for ducks and I caught fish. Out by Maude Island. Have you ever been there?” She asked, pointing across the water to a small island in the distance. “I used to row over there before sunup and catch ling cod,” she said, not waiting for an answer. “Sometimes I would put some bread dough up to rise first and come back with a catch of fish for lunch.”

I glanced at the sturdy wooden rowboat hauled up on the beach and marveled that she could row it across the water.

“You remind me of my Sottish grandmother,” I said. “She was adventuresome, and we always went to the beach together. You even look a little like her.”

“Was she lonely?” Vi asked.

I shrugged. “I don’t think so.”

“Ah maybe she didn’t say. Some women had it hard. It’s terrible being lonely. You take what life gives you and you don’t complain.”

Although I looked for Vi every time I walked by, I never saw her sitting on her beach log again, however I stopped by once and knocked on her back door. I couldn’t tell whether she was pleased to see me or whether I was an intrusion. She didn’t invite me in, and we had an awkward moment while we both looked at each other. Vi was wearing the same faded blue cotton house dress she was wearing on that day we talked on the beach. I wished I had brought her some cookies or muffins. An excuse for dropping by.

“We went out to Maude Island.” I said, breaking the silence. “In our canoe.”

“Did you fish?” she asked.

“No. No. We took a picnic and the dog, and I explored the island. It was beautiful and we had it all to ourselves. I want to go back.”

Vi stood with one hand resting on the door jam and nodded her head slightly. That was all. I walked down her stairs, turned at the bottom and gave a small wave goodbye. Vi watched. It was the last time I saw her.

Her two-acre waterfront property on Sebastion Road went up for sale a couple of years later. The town of Lantzville wanted to buy it for a park. The people voted against it. I was disappointed we weren’t having a park in Vi’s name but then I remembered Maude Island. There was more than fishing for Vi at Maude Island.

That day on the beach, when Vi had so much talking to let out, she added in a soft voice, her faded eyes gazing off in the distance, “I really went to Maude Island to get away, to be alone. But I was never completely alone,” she said, “there were spirits there too.”

I know, I felt them on the day Grant and I paddled to the island.

Violet Margaret Norback 1909-2000

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Lantzville Beach

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

*Photo of my daughter Maureen and me was taken in 1997 on Lantzville Beach…I believe the small round looking island in the distance is Maude Island. The other photo is a stranger walking her dogs 1997, same beach. Best swimming beach ever!!!!

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CHOOSING

A few years back, when I was writing a monthly column for The Chemainus Courier, our local newspaper, I wrote about walking the backyard lanes. I loved poking around those overgrown hidden pathways and I would spend hours with my dog wandering up that lane with blackberries spilling over the old truck, picking and eating ripe berries as I went and then I’d walk down to one of the lower lanes where a plum tree dropped its ripe fruit over a compost heap, and then to another lane where I picked the grapes that were usually left to rot on the ground. And then there were the apple trees. And I would come home with my backpack filled with windfalls, apples that made the sweetest pies.

I no longer have the energy to walk up the hill to reach most of the lanes. We live in a seaside town on East Vancouver Island and typical of these towns, there is a hill with houses marching along the side facing the ocean. The lanes I like to explore run behind the houses on the hill and as I live at the bottom, close to the ocean, it’s the getting up to the top that’s the problem. It’s all about the hills!

However, lately I’ve been thinking about those backyard gems, those sometimes-grassy trails and the possibility of apples free for the taking, apples falling over a rickety fence, and I realized I needed to stop being lazy and get back to walking. It’s always so easy to say, “I’ll start tomorrow.”

A couple of weeks ago, I saw an add on social media for a program for seniors called Choose to Move put on by The Active Aging Society, choosetomove.ca. Grant and I went. (He wasn’t too thrilled about it.) Funnily enough, of the nine seniors there, six of us already knew each other, in fact three of us belonged to the same writers group. The focus of the proposed eight- week sessions, was not weight loss or doing exercises, the focus was on getting out, building community, looking at barriers to being active and setting goals. We were already active in the community and this course did not feel like the right fit, in fact all the people we knew at that introductory meeting decided not to join.

But I knew I needed something. Something to help me look at why I was slacking off. Not trying to walk. Yes, I am getting older. But old people walk. My lovely neighbour Sue was texting me for a while, “walkies today?” but I said no too many times.

I needed something I could commit to. Something to make me feel inspired.  I like Zoom and I like questionnaires, charts and goal setting. And I like the fact that the course is part of a UBC study on aging and the results could help develop effective courses in the future for seniors. Meanwhile I think I have found a niche that suits me.

I went back to the Choose to Move site and signed up for an online Zoom course.

By choosing to sign up I will be able to discuss my health goals with a qualified instructor, have charts to record my exercise (I love charts!), and set realistic goals for which I am accountable. At least for the eight weeks of the course.

Chose to Move has a slogan: Being active can help you feel better, look better and live longer.

My short-term goal is to do the exercises already prescribed for me by my physiotherapist, my chiropractor and my family. “Use the rowing machine Lizzie,” instructions from Grant; “Use the stationary bike Mum,” a suggestion from my son Bruce; “Get out walking Lizzie,” loving advice from my sister Kate.

Just think, if I do even half of that I will feel livelier and healthier.

And the big goal is…I will be walking those lanes again, with ease. I might have to get another dog!

I am CHOOSING to improve my life.

Stay tuned for a progress report next month.

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~ Island Crone by Liz Maxwell ForbesFacebooktwittermail

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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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

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