The Scrapbook

The scrapbook sits on the oval wooden coffee table serving as a fixture of the living room.  As thick as the New York City phone book, its pages have been turned on a daily basis by its owner.  Gracing its cover is a large golden number 50 inside a circle. 

No one who enters the living room is allowed to leave without "taking a tour" of the scrapbook.  When the owner opens it up, the guest is treated to a walk down memory lane.  Each page is covered with photographs, often black and white, sometimes in colour.  Beside the pictures are creme-coloured sheets, each with a memory or a good will message for the owner of the scrapbook.  Many pages had wedding photos of a couple.  The groom is sharply dressed in a black suit, with a beaming smile on his face.  The bride, wearing a full length white wedding gown and a lace veil, looks more demure as she holds a bouquet of flowers.  Interspersed with the black and white wedding pictures are photographs of the groom drawing geometric shapes on the blackboard, his son in his cub uniform, his daughter at her 21st birthday party, a family picnic at a cottage, a family visit to Wimblewood Beach in the summer, the couple singing in the church choir, their grandchildren visiting at Christmas, a visit to the family farm, and their 40th wedding anniversary celebration. 

Handwritten messages are glued to the scrapbook's pages including one about the couple's first dinner party.  The bride decides to bake two pies, one apple and one cherry.  As the guests wait for their dessert, the groom steps into the kitchen to see what is taking the bride so long to prepare.  The bride is in tears:  all of the guests want cherry -- what is she to do?  The groom calms her down with his slow, steady voice and suggests a solution.  The newlyweds return to their guests in the dining room and all is well once more. 

The highlight of the scrapbook is the most recent photo showing the bride and groom at a huge affair.  They dress up as if they are going to a wedding.  They are greeted at the door by their son who takes them in a Model A, the 100th one built in Canada, to Kimbourne Park United Church.  At the church, the couple is greeted by their family and friends.  Along with at least 50 guests they eat a meal, catered by the U.C.W., in the church basement.  As the guests enjoy dessert, they are treated to an evening of speeches interspersed with jokes and tidbits by the Master of Ceremonies.  An anniversary cake marked "Happy 50th Anniversary!" is brought out, carved up and eaten.  The couple opens some gifts from guests, the most memorable of which is given to them by their daughter:  it's the scrapbook.  It is the perfect ending to the perfect day.

The couple brings the scrapbook home and lays it on the oval wooden coffee table where it sits ready to be read; many hands turn its pages.  With the passage of time, the bride adds more photographs to its pages until its bursting at the seams.  Every guest that enters 47 Lankin Boulevard must sit on the gold chesterfield beside the owner of the scrapbook and examine its contents from beginning to end.  The scrapbook never gets a chance to collect dust due to its frequent handling. 

Today, I add a new chapter to the scrapbook:  more family picnics, their 60th wedding anniversary, the wedding of a grandson, the birth of twelve great-grandchildren, and the 50th anniversary of the couple's son and daughter-in-law.  If I were to make a scrapbook today it would have the number 80 on the cover.  Their marriage was one for the record books.  Happy Anniversary, Grandma & Grandad Tufts!



Grandma & Grandad being congratulated by the mayor. 
Photo courtesy Norm Tufts.

Digging in at Dinnertime

D - digging in at dinnertime.
A - always big and tall.
D - daring to kill centipedes.

My little girl wrote this poem for her Daddy for Father's Day.  She also gave him a frame she made with tissue paper, glued on in a blue, black and brown pattern with a photo of herself inside.  She made a card which says on the front:  DADDY FOR SALE!  Taped to the card are other items Daddies use like batteries, a clock, a penny and some keys.  When her Daddy turned the card over, he read the words:  JUST KIDDING, YOU'RE WONDERFUL!  

It makes me think back to other gifts Rob has received for Father's Day.   Many times he has received socks and underwear.  One year we gave him a Dairy Queen cake, complete with an icing tie. The most exciting gift of all though was the year that my son choreographed a dance and performed it with my daughter.  It was set to the song "Real Gone" by Sheryl Crowe from the movie "Cars".  During rehearsals, I remember reminding my son to twist my daughter gently so that he wouldn't snap her arm off when they did their spins and twists and lifts.  I felt a sense of relief when the performance went off without a hitch.  What a great surprise for Rob!

Although the dance was the most exciting Father's Day gift Rob has ever received, the most honourable present that Rob ever accepted was the trophy with the words "World's Best Daddy" beneath a little golden plastic cup.  We paid only a dollar for the gift, but it's real value is priceless.  Thank you, Rob.  You are the World's Greatest Daddy!  We love you!




Picture courtesy http://www.ssqq.com/

I'm Just a Home Child

(This poem is dedicated to my Great-Grandma, Daisy Blay.)

I’m just a home child named Daisy Blay.

I could hear the pigeons cooing on the rooftop of the St. Pancras Workhouse the day I was born in 1894.

I could taste the bugs in the gruel they served us at the workhouse.

I could smell the stench of the Thames River on a hot summer’s day.

I’m just a home child.

I could touch the ruffles on my mother’s skirt as she bent over to scrub yet another floor.

I could smell the canopy of smoke that belched out of the London factories as I walked down the street.

I could feel the heat of the fever that wracked my baby sister Alma.

I’m just a home child.

I could feel the knots in my tangled hair and smell the dirt on my ragged clothes.

I could see my mom hold her head in her hands the day my dad died of cancer.

I could hear the click of the skeleton key turn in the lock as my brother and I returned from school to an empty apartment.

I could hear my mom sobbing the night baby Alma died of rickets.

I’m just a home child.

I could see the one broken chair in our apartment after my mom sold everything to pay the rent.

I could hear the growling of my empty stomach as I searched the cupboards for a morsel of food.

I could feel the calluses on my mom’s hand as she held mine on our way to the Barnardo Home on Stepney Causeway.

I could sense her despair as she waved goodbye one last time as I stood on the steps of the Home.

I’m just a home child.

I could smell the flash powder burning as the Barnardo worker took a photograph of me against my will.

I could feel the fabric of the clean dress I changed into.

I could taste the delicious food they gave me.

But it could not fill the hole in my soul.

I’m just a home child.

I could feel the chalk between my fingers as I practised cursive writing on my slate during lessons at the Barnardo Home.

I could see the knots in the fine wooden trunk that the Barnardo workers gave me for my journey.

I could hear the fog horn on the Kensington docked at Liverpool, as I prepared to immigrate to Canada in 1903.

I’m just a home child.

I could hear the voices of the 400 other child immigrants singing “For Those in Peril on the Sea” on board the ship.

I could see the majestic icebergs complete with polar bears as we crossed the Atlantic Ocean.

I could hear the dock workers speak a foreign language as we reached our destination at Quebec City.

I’m just a home child.

I could hear the rooster crowing at dawn as I prepared to start the work day on a farm in Ontario.

I could smell the heavenly scent of the meals I cooked for the family with whom I lived.

I could hear the orders of the lady of the house as she instructed me on how to wash her family’s clothes.

I’m just a home child.

I could feel the hot tears fall down my cheeks as I read William’s letter describing how he walked shoeless across the frozen stubble of a farmer’s field in Manitoba.  

I could feel the pain in my throat the many times I had tonsillitis.

I could touch the report from the Ontario school saying that I was truant once again.

I’m just a home child.

I could hear the warnings of my Canadian classmates:  “Don’t play with her.  She’s just a home child.”

I could see the beautiful Christmas tree in the Bracebridge home with no presents underneath it for me.

I could hear the rude responses from the children I babysat when I tried to discipline them. 

Even though I was now a teenager, I was still just a home child.

I could hear the seagulls squawking over Bedford Basin in Halifax in 1914, three weeks before the war broke out.

I could see the look in my groom’s eyes as he said:  “I do”.

I could feel the gold and pearl necklace as my husband Charles attached the clasp around my neck.

For the first time, I was more than just a home child.





Photo courtesy Barnardo Home, London, England, 1903.

Grandad Stroud

I never knew my maternal grandfather since he died when I was only a baby.  He was born Robert Henry Stroud on June 17, 1915 in Toronto, Ontario.  He attended Scarborough Collegiate and graduated from Grade 13, hoping to go on to college where he would study law.  However, he had many siblings and his father could not afford to send them all to school so he went to work. 

In 1938 he married Eileen Fenn in a ceremony at the bride's parents house in Bracebridge.  The couple settled in a home on Kingston Road in Dunbarton and proceeded to start a family, having three girls in a row, Marlene, Bette (my Mom) and Sandra.  In 1947, my Grandad Stroud opened a grocery store in Oshawa called "Stroud's Fruit Ltd" (later Stroud's Food Market).  By 1949, having added a boy to their brood named Robert Jr., the growing family moved to a much larger home on Simcoe Street North in Oshawa.  What a step up!  Now they enjoyed the luxury of indoor plumbing rather than an outhouse.  In fact, like the Jefferson's on TV, the Stroud's went from one washroom to four.  My Grandad was also closer to his store where he spent much of his time.  Trips to Toronto were taken to watch a Maple Leafs' game, sit on Santa's knee at Eaton's or buy fruit at the market.  My Mom remembers him taking her along on a hunting trips.  If one of the hunting dogs did not return when he called it, he would lay his coat down in a clearing in the woods and return the next day where he would find the lost dog. 

As the three Stroud girls became teenagers, they were expected to start working at their father's store.  When school ended each day, they would board the bus for downtown.  Arriving at the fruit market they would man the cash register and bag groceries until closing time.  By 1950, my Grandma gave birth to another boy named Bruce.  Stroud's Fruit Ltd continued to prosper and the Stroud's were one of the first families in Oshawa to buy a television.  What a treat!  Although Grandad worked hard at the store, he was still able to pursue hobbies, including breeding beagles and duck hunting.  In 1955, baby Jill joined the family and the oldest three girls were expected to help, taking her for walks in her pram. 

As Grandad's daughters became adults, they married one by one.  His first grandchild, a baby girl, was the subject of his newest hobby, photography.  When my sister Lisa was born, Grandad had another subject for his camera; he took one shot of her which he entered in a photography contest and won first prize.  He also received recognition for a close up of a blue jay that he took.  Grandad had many talents that were put to good use.  He also took fishing trips to French River and returned with a prize catch for his little girls.  In the meantime, his business prospered.  After several years in the grocery business, Grandad tried his hand at selling insurance for which he was also successful.  In 1965, Grandma gave birth to yet another baby named Heather, at 46 years old, completing the brood at seven.  Grandma and Grandad already had four grandchildren at this point. 

Grandad's health had been waning in recent years, likely in part due to his heavy smoking.  He decided to join one of the first fitness clubs, Victanny's, to get back in shape.  One night after a workout, he paid a visit to the sauna, went home, had a heart attack and died.  Grandma was left a widow at a mere 49 years of age; she had to raise her youngest child, only 3, on her own as well as two teenagers.  Although his life was cut short, Grandad left a legacy in his seven children.  Robert Stroud, whose father could not afford to send him to university, ended up running two successful businesses.  He truly was a self-made man.  Happy Birthday, Grandad!

Photo courtesy http://highlandcoldwar8.wikispaces.com/

The Christian Writers' Conference

Today I attended the Christian Writers' Conference called Write Canada 2011. What a great experience! Everyone was warm and friendly. The volunteer workers were so efficient and well-organized. The speakers were well-prepared, well-spoken and informative. The food was delicious! The weather was beautiful (although the organizers can't take credit for that one).

The speakers managed to cover a lot of material in a relatively short amount of time. Not once did I find my mind wandering. Some speakers brought handouts; others had power point presentations; still others brought nothing with them but had such a stage presence and such a sense of humour that they held our attention easily.

The theme of the conference was "Changing the world with words". One speaker, Tim Huff, suggested that as writers we might start first by changing our own world and then bit by bit we'll change the world of those around us.

It was inspirational to meet other writers, especially several who have already published books. They serve as mentors to those of us who have not yet published. It is nice to hear of other people's success stories. I tried to picture myself standing at the front of the room with a copy of my published book in my hand at next year's conference. Until then, I will hang on to other authors' success stories.

Congratulations, Write Canada 2011!



Picture courtesy http://3.bp.blogspot.com

The Garden

Sonnet, rondeau, villanelle, pantoum, haiku, acrostic -- I tried my hand at all of these poems when I took an online poetry course at Mohawk College five years ago. One poem was particularly challenging: write a poem of 20 lines in which each line that appears in the poem must repeat itself later in the poem. Before I took the course, I always thought of poetry as artsy-fartsy. However, after writing poems like "The Garden" (below) I gained a new appreciation for the genre. Poetry writing can be so mathematical. Often each line of a poem has a certain number of syllables. Often poems follow a certain rhyming scheme. As many poems have a formula, so too does a mathematical equation. Regular poetry writing keeps your mind sharp.

A poem is a great way to capture a moment or a memory like a sunset or a sleigh ride. It's also a great way to honour someone like a war hero or a loved one. No Remembrance Day school assembly would be complete without a recital of "In Flanders Fields" by John McCrae. At Christmas time, we sing "I Heard the Bells on Christmas Day" based on the poem "Christmas Bells" written by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow whose son was seriously wounded in the American Civil War. Shakepeare's "All the World's a Stage" is still quoted today. Robert Frost's "Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening" is a staple for many poetry courses as is "The Raven" by Edgar Allan Poe.

Enrich your writing experience by composing a poem. You won't be able to stop at just one.

The Garden

When I open the garden gates,
What beauty do I see?
A feast for the senses awaits
In each flower and bush and tree.

What beauty do I see?
The colours are vibrant and rich
In each flower and bush and tree.
And the bluebird has found his niche.

The colours are vibrant and rich;
I've never seen such scenery.
And the bluebird has found his niche
Amidst this garden of greenery.

I've never seen such scenery
Underneath the harvest moon.
Amidst this garden of greenery,
The bluebird sings a tune.

Underneath the harvest moon,
A feast for the senses awaits.
The bluebird sings a tune
When I open the garden gates.



Painting courtesy www.porterfieldsfineart.com

C is for Cooking

My little girl opens a blue coil-bound book called C is for Cooking: Recipes from the Street, complete with an apron-clad Elmo, Cookie Monster and Zoe on the cover, and turns to page 116. I remind her to wash her hands with soap and water and she retreats to the washroom. Returning, she dons a bright red and green Minnie Mouse apron, and starts collecting the ingredients one by one: flour, sugar, butter, eggs, cocoa, baking soda, baking powder, yogurt, applesauce, vegetable oil, and vanilla. My little girl grabs a chair to kneel on at the kitchen table while she stirs the dry ingredients with a big wooden spoon. I set the oven 25 degrees below the directions in the recipe since my stove burns everything. My little girl takes an egg, gently cracks it on the side of the counter and nothing happens; she tries again until she makes a slight crack, then breaks open the egg with her small index finger and pours its contents into the bowl, retrieving any remnants of shell she can find. I pour in the applesauce since my daughter is not a fan of apples. My little girl blends the wet ingredients with the dry ones. I gently tuck some strands of hair back behind her hair, the ones that have escaped from her ponytail. Later, my little girl sports a chocolate moustache; I try to wipe it off, but she'll have no part of it. I place the two cake pans into my warm oven and set the timer for 50 minutes. As the chocolate cake bakes in the oven, we assemble the remaining ingredients and I make the icing, while my little girl dips her finger in the bowl for a taste test. My daughter leafs through the recipe book while I ice the cake. Now that "Elmo's Hurray It's My Birthday! Chocolate Cake" is complete, it looks like a tornado has just torn through my kitchen: baking ingredients cover my counter, dirty dishes fill my sink and flour sprinkles my kitchen table. But it was all worth it for the look on my little girl's face. We close up the cookbook and put it in the cupboard for our next culinary experience. Will it be "Abby Cadabby's Pumpkin Muffins" or "Cookie Monster's Me-Love-Mini-Meat-Loaves" or "Rosita's Pita Pizzas"? While C is for Cooking has some great recipes, it's the company that makes the experience unforgettable. Bon Appetit!



Photo courtesy www.istockphoto.com