Sparklies

In light of Gary the Crow's adventures, I was reminded of a writing prompt on a now inactive site called The Clarity of Night, hosted by author colleague Jason Evans. He used images to inspire us to write flash fiction, which we all commented on, and critiqued.

One of his prompts involved a set of cut jewels: one red, one green and one clear. I was instantly taken back to a time when I was about twelve years old, riding my bike along a road that led out of town.

My recent experience with Gary led me to search for that little story, which I submitted WAY back in 2010, and later expanded into a middle grade WIP. I hope to find the file and perhaps expand it further. Here is the original flash fiction entry:

Sparklies

by Sandra Cormier

I tore along Main Street North on my ten-speed, a jockey urging her mount down the stretch. Tightly packed houses became scattered country homes. I stopped to catch my breath and heard the crow before I saw it.

It perched on a split rail fence and regarded me with one yellow eye. It didn't caw – it spoke.

"Sparkle," it said.

My initial disbelief turned to matter-of-fact acceptance. If magpies could talk, why couldn't crows? 

"Are you someone's pet?" I asked.

It responded with unintelligible sounds like a voice from a tinny transistor radio. It hopped along the cedar rail, stopping periodically to watch my progress as I pushed my bicycle in cautious pursuit. At the end of the fence the bird spread its ebony wings and fluttered to the ground, continuing its course into a patch of tall grass.

I laid my bike in the ditch and crawled across the ground. Warm, dry grass pressed crisscross imprints into my palms. Deep in the thatch, something glittered. The crow watched as I pushed the fronds aside.

Nestled in the shadows among toy cars and rusty watches were three gems – blue, red and crystalline.

I gathered them up. "They're not real," I told the crow as I sat in the ditch and watched the late afternoon sunlight bounce from their facets.

"They are." The crow's voice was suddenly clear and deep, and he grew tall enough to block the sun. "They now belong to you."

Gary the Crow

 Wow. It's been a while, huh?

Pandemic aside, I've been struggling with writing and art for the last few years. What with the death of my sister in 2017, and my father's passing a year later, I've been in a bit of a funk. Everybody has been ramming down our throats that blogging was dead, that social media is a cesspool, and the bots and trolls rule the world.

Anyway, I thought I'd jump on today to tell you about Gary the Crow.

A couple of weeks ago, late on a chilly Sunday afternoon, the crows that usually gather in great numbers in the trees across my street were extra loud. I figured they were sounding the alarm because a fox or coyote was in the vicinity. But they kept screaming.

I bundled up and ventured across to see what was the matter. A black splotch high up in the trees proved to be a crow, dangling by one wing from a branch. Its companions were taking turns trying to work it loose, to no avail.

I made a quick call to our local town animal services number, and was directed to an "after hours" guy who promised to pass on the information.

By then, it was getting dark and had started to snow. The dozens of crows reluctantly moved off to their nighttime roost somewhere east of town, and I walked across in the darkness with my flashlight to check if the crow was still there.

It was. Somehow, it had managed to right itself so it wasn't hanging by its wing. But it wasn't moving. I was afraid it had died. I went back inside, promising myself to follow up with Animal Services. In the meantime I had posted in a couple of local Facebook groups to ask if anyone could offer advice. A few members who were arborists asked for details, but I didn't expect any of them to come out in the dead of night. I spent the night in restless sleep, dreaming of the crow. On the Monday morning I woke at first light and went out, equipped with a pair of binoculars, to check its status. The crow was awake and looking about. It had managed to shift to a more comfortable position, but was still stuck. A few other crows, which I imagined were its nuclear family, had returned and were nearby, keeping watch.

After various follow-up posts to my Facebook groups, and another call to Animal Services, some wheels were set in motion. I went across to the office building adjacent to the woodlot and gave their staff a heads up. They kept communication channels open to Animal Services and the Conservation Authority.

A tree service company brought in the big gun: a large lift truck. They sent their guy up with a couple of big towels, and he gently extracted the crow from the tree, wrapped it up, and the Animal Services lady received the bundle. He was pretty feisty, so it looked like he'd be okay. It seemed he had been tangled in string, attached to a stick. Be careful with string, people! Sometimes squirrels and crows take it to augment their nests, but it can be a real hazard.

Gary the Crow (I don't know if it's a boy but that's what I'm gonna name him) was transported to Toronto Wildlife Centre, and I kept in contact with them, receiving updates. His one-week report revealed that he had no broken bones, a small contusion was healing, an eye ulcer (probably due to the strain of trying to free himself) was resolved. He was eating well, decided he liked eggs. Then the next day he decided he didn't like eggs, so he's eating meal worms and peanuts.

He's gaining weight and strength, and will soon be moved to a larger enclosure to practice flying again. But first, some feathers on his affected wing will have to be replaced, using a grafting procedure called "imping." It's a technique that has been used since Medieval times, mostly for falcons used for hunting. 

I'll check again early next week and will be informed when it's time to release him in the same area where he was rescued.

His fellow crows haven't been around the last few days, so I hope he is reunited with his family when the time comes to give him his freedom.

Thanks to Aileen and members of York Region Nature on Facebook, Newmarket Animal Services, Weller Tree Services and Toronto Wildlife Centre, which relies on donations to keep their excellent work going. I suggest giving TWC a donation in Gary the Crow's name at: https://www.torontowildlifecentre.com/donate/one-time-gift/ 

A Lady of Wales

My beautiful neighbour Lilian (I first knew her when I was 12 years old when we moved to this town) celebrated her 95th Birthday on Sunday, and I went to her care facility to share good wishes along with her family and our other neighbours.

She hasn't been in her home since August, as she'd been suffering from anxiety, loss of balance and forgetfulness. When I finally saw her two days ago, she looked at me with a glimmer of recognition, but I wasn't sure if my face clicked with her. It took a few seconds, but she finally said, "Elaine is staying at the house?" I assured her that her daughter was keeping an eye on the place.

I had been watching over Lilian for several years before that. She was always active, and self-sufficient. She was a champion lawn bowler, and active in the Euchre community. She had called me in tears from Florida twenty years ago when her husband died suddenly in Florida.

But in the last year or so, she'd begun to forget stuff.

I had watched her kitchen window every morning, and if she slid the curtain aside, I knew everything was okay. If I saw her picking up fallen twigs in the yard, I knew she was fine.

In the past year, she often called me to investigate strange noises. I scampered next door to listen. The first time, it was a cricket. The second time, it was feedback from her hearing aid.

We laughed about it, and she told me she was okay and didn't want to leave her home. Her children (at least a decade older than me) had been discussing her situation with her for several months. I sensed she was in denial, as I had to help her a few times over the last couple of years - once when she'd wrenched her back in a fall.

She is now in a local care facility, and it looks pretty fancy to me. Her daughters and son are in the process of cleaning out her home in preparation for selling it. It has to be done.

Her most beloved possessions are with her. She doesn't remember most of the things that had accumulated in the bungalow since the 1960s. The "kids" gave me free rein to choose the things left behind.

It feels weird, claiming items that a person who isn't family had owned for decades. I feel like a museum curator.

I chose a mid-century modern chair that the son had built in high school. I checked with him; he was okay with it. A small hand-painted wooden sailboat. A Coleman cooler from the Sixties. Several dishes and crystal stemware. A vacuum cleaner because  mine is deceased. The "kids" told me I could sell any items I claimed if I wished. They are fully aware that I had watched over their mom when they were too far away to do it themselves. This might be their way of saying thanks.

Back to the party. The party was full of joy. We shared stories, lasagna, and lukewarm tap water (we forgot the sodas). Lilian's son shared a slide show - remember those? - of her birthplace in Wales and the places they had lived in Scotland. His Scots accent crept into the narrative as he talked.



It is love, all around.

Cathy Elliott - June 5, 1957-October 15, 2017

She was my sister. 

I looked up to her all my life. 

We fought, we laughed, we sang together. 

She commandeered my junior guitar and taught herself to play. 

She danced. She leapt. She never looked left or right - only forward. 

We shared everything -- bedrooms, clothes, shoes, friends... Heck, I even introduced her to her first husband when we were still in high school.

 

We canoed. We hiked. We chased sunsets, birds and bears. 

We watched a thousand frogs cross a road on a rainy night, and laughed hysterically when one of them hopped in place in the middle of the road, illuminated by Peter's Volkswagen bus headlights. 

Little did I know back then that a rainy night and headlights would take her from me. Two weeks ago, my sister ventured out into a stormy night on a country road near her home. She was hit by a car while avoiding another that was approaching from the opposite direction.

Many will talk of her accomplishments in musical theatre. Her selfless work helping Indigenous youth find their own paths through art and music. Her contact with royalty and Justin Trudeau. Her amazing works of art in oils, acrylic, multimedia. Her amazing dedication to our M'ikmaq roots.

But she was my sister.

I'll miss you, Sisty. But you will always visit me in my dreams.

A Rose is a Rose

Nanny/Frannie's rose bush went through a few hiccups over the years. Nanny had given the plant to Mom when she visited back when I was a teen. There was the time my brother in law took an axe to it after Mom asked him to "cut down" the rose bush. She meant "cut back." Anyway, nothing was left but the root stock and Mom was so upset. But Pete was forgiven.

Years later, after Mom moved away and after Nanny passed, the roots fought their way out of the dirt and put out tentative branches. A couple of tiny red blooms blooms emerged. I told Mom and she was so happy. She said it was Nanny saying hello.

This year, the bush seems to have a new life, with more little red blooms bursting through the day lilies on the neighbour's side of the fence.

On the same note, Uncle Bob's spectacular roses next door were being dug up by the tenant last fall. I showed up just in time. He must have seen the look on my face, so he quickly offered them to me. I immediately dug a spot in the corner of the yard and popped them in. Not good soil, but I didn't want them to die from exposure. This spring, they seem to be making a comeback. The pink rose is one of Uncle Bob's, with the flamingo from his late daughter's wedding in the background. I'll try to augment the soil with some compost when I can.

I don't know much about roses, but I feel a connection with these plants and I hope they can bring joy to future generations.

Uncle Bob used horse poop. Maybe I gotta go find some horse poop.

A New Site

Hi! Wanted to let you know that I have a dedicated blogger site to post my paintings. I'm trying to figure out why I can't fix the layout on this blog, since I have multiple Google accounts. I'll figure it out eventually.

In the meantime, you can view my paintings at:

http://sandracormierturnsek.blogspot.ca/

I recently joined a local art collective, and entered a local show. I'm going to a social to meet other local artists later this week.

Wish me luck making sense of all this!

New Job, New Perspective

Hi, friends!

First of all, I apologize for the state of my website. I have no books out there at present, so the domain is sitting there like my great uncle's deserted farmhouse, with old furniture barely being held up by rotting floorboards, and a colony of bees taking up residence.

I realize my latest surviving book, Bad Ice, now out of print, is still on the front page, but I haven't figured out how to change it. My son (who is a tech wizard) said, "Here's a program, just do this and this and this and this." Of course, all of it went way over my head. I'll figure it out if I ever get another book accepted by SOMEBODY.

In the meantime, I got a new job. You might remember that after 23 years in the newspaper industry, I found myself with a lot of free time in the last couple of years. Yes, I wrote. Yes, I queried. Yes, I networked. I powered through a brief stint in retail, but realized it wasn't for me.

Later, a friend recommended a company that supplies charity events with silent auction items. They set everything up, schmooze with the patrons, and take the money at the end. The company approached me in September, and I was in!

I get to choose how often I wish to work, and although the shifts are long and sometimes physically draining, I find it very rewarding. I've dropped a few pounds since I started, so that's good.

The best thing: I get to meet fascinating people! This past week, I was fortunate to work at the Ontario Sports Hall of Fame Induction Ceremony, and met such legends as Sandy Hawley (jockey), Ron Ellis (Toronto Maple Leafs legend), Chris Schultz (football), Tony Fernandez (Blue Jays World Series Champion), and the family of Frank Selke Sr. and Jr. (part of the Montreal Canadiens dynasty).

Johnny Bower had a rest at our cashier table.
He had photos all ready to sign in his pocket.
Always be prepared!

Me and Sandy Hawley. We are the same height.
I told him I had a crush on him when I was twelve.
Some guy is giving us the side eye, or photobombing us. I can't tell which.

There were others whom I admired from a distance, but I remained professional and didn't bug them.

Maybe this new gig will give me inspiration to keep writing. I hope so.

Almost Hockey Season, so.... Hockey.

A couple weeks ago, I was fortunate to indulge in one of my passions: hockey. My son texted me and asked if I wanted to go along with him and a bunch of fans to Ottawa to watch Team Canada in a closed practice for the upcoming World Cup of Hockey. He had won the experience because he was a subscriber to a sports internet service. Of course, I jumped at the chance.

We met up at the Air Canada Centre. A big white bus with a flashy World Cup of Hockey logo waited for us. As we settled in with about 20 other fans and media people, I looked at the front of the bus and noticed a familiar face.

I turned to my son and whispered, "Steve Dangle is on the bus." Steve "Dangle" Glynn is a popular hockey blogger and Youtube contributor, who gives hilarious and impassioned commentaries after Toronto Maple Leaf games. My son had alerted me to these great posts a year ago, and I've always enjoyed the posts and Steve's Twitter feed.

I whispered, "I'm going up to say Hi." I moved to the front of the bus, and casually said, "Fancy meeting you here."

Steve did a double take. "I know you. I recognize you from your profile picture."

I smiled and grabbed a cereal bar from the front seat. "Great to meet you. Just grabbing a cereal bar." I then darted back to my seat like I'd just robbed someone.

During the five-hour trip, the organizers made speeches and we played trivia games. When my name was called out, Steve mentioned IN FRONT OF EVERYONE, "Sandra's cool. She follows me on Twitter."

My son also follows him, but to be fair, his profile picture isn't immediately recognizable. Doesn't matter, because we both got to spend time with Steve later.

After getting settled at our hotel we met at the hotel bar for cocktail hour. We had all received swag bags containing a World Cup of Hockey Canada baseball cap, and a great fleece hoodie. Most of us wore our hats down to the bar but I forgot mine.

A surprise guest showed up in the bar.... Drew Doughty. He plays for the LA Kings, and was very sweet, letting everyone pose for pictures. I begged for an extra hat so I could get it signed, promising to bring mine back from the hotel room, 'cause I'm nice that way. :)

We posed outside as a group in front of the bus. I offered to hunker down (I'm 5'2") in front of Drew (6'100"). He muttered from behind me, "You don't have to hunker down."

After Drew was swept away in his fancy vehicle, we all walked to the RS Bar & Grill a few blocks away, and stopped to admire the canal in the sunset. Dinner was great, and we all traded hockey stories. A few of Steve's fans dropped in after dinner and we all talked for a while longer.

Most of the others had left by then, so it was up to me to remember how to get back to the hotel. They let me shepherd them back, because I'm a Mom. We talked about video games and animated TV shows.

The next morning, we checked out and boarded the bus for the short trip to Canadian Tire Centre, just outside of Ottawa. We had a special spot taped out for us, along with a few other local contest winners. On the other side of the eerily empty arena sat some media members, and probably some scouts and NHL brass.

I crept down to the glass, and got lots of great shots of Team Canada running through drills -- Corey Crawford, Joe Thornton, Sidney Crosby, Getzlaf, Couture, etc. I should've worn my free hoodie because despite the hot, humid day, I was FREEZING in that arena! It's cold when there aren't 20,000 people warming it up with their bodies.

Speaking of empty arenas, I heard every creak of the goalies' pads, and the echo of the pucks slamming on the boards. I heard most of Coach Babcock's lectures, too. I have many more pictures, you might want to check out my Facebook author page if you like hockey.

Too soon, we had to get back on the bus for the ride home. I will remember this trip forever. Thanks, Son, for including me.

p.s. They let me keep the extra hat so I gave it to my hubby (we'll share, and put the signed one in our Hockey Shrine).

What's Happening?

Yup... haven't been here for a while, but it doesn't mean I haven't been busy. I created art, wrote words, took pictures, got a job at a local Canadian home and hardware franchise, and have been trying my best to continue my role as a Domestic Diva.

It's been a hot, humid (can you say humid when it hasn't rained much?) summer, and the good part is I've only had to mow the lawn a few times. The job at the local store caused me to lose ten pounds, mostly due to standing for hours at a time and lifting gallons of paint and motor oil from one side of the counter to the other. There are benefits to retail, folks!

Last week I went with a friend to attend a local live talk show, and managed to get my picture taken with Marci Ien and Cynthia Loyst, as well as Donna, who got me into the show at late notice. Maybe someday, I'll be a guest! Today, one of the hosts read my tweet live on the air. My tiny moment of fame...

During the spring, I completed three large oil paintings with the hope of being accepted into a high profile art show and sale this autumn in Kleinburg. Alas, I didn't make the cut, but they seemed very positive with their rejection. Yes... I know rejection very well, so I took it in stride and I'll keep painting.

I did manage to profit from a couple of commissions, and I thank the lovely writer friends who gave me the opportunity to capture the spirits of their dogs and horse. You can see the recent additions on my sidebar.

The writing part of my journey is giving me pause. Since my enforced semi-retirement, I completed a novel and started another. The completed novel had a few "close but no cigar" moments, an experience which can be both inspiring and devastating. I'll take a little from column A and column B.

I have set it aside for a bit to spruce up my hockey romantic suspense that had enjoyed a seven-year stint in the e-publishing world. Maybe I can find it another home, and then I can hitch up my Big Girl pants and continue with the new book.

Patience. Patience. Work. Patience. Hope.

Did I tell you about the fox and the cat? It happened a year ago this week. I still have the scars, as the cat nestles beside me, oblivious to the nightmare that we caused. But that's a post for another time.

Times Are a' Changing

Hello Friends!

Nine years ago, I opened this blog because my first book, THE SPACE BETWEEN, was about to be published by a lovely little publisher, The Wild Rose Press. I was so excited, and certain that the publication of my first book would lead to bigger and better things.

I made a lot of friends, and even a few people who called themselves fans. I released two more books, BAD ICE and THE TOAST BITCHES, with two different publishers. Three, if you count The Bitches' short run at Musa Publishing. Book One and Book Three ran their courses, and now sit on my hard drive, hoping to be re-released in some shape or form. I hope they're not holding their breath, because they will probably remain there.

For all these years, Champagne Books was the home of my second book, the hockey romantic suspense BAD ICE. Last night, I made the difficult decision to ask for the return of my rights. J. Ellen Smith was kind enough to grant it.

We had become friends over the years. I expressed my concern when her Calgary home was flooded. I befriended fellow authors in the group.

Sales have not been good. The publisher is doing well, but they have focused their attention on newer releases, and I wish them great success.

I'm still writing. I'm still trying. This blog will not disappear. I wanted to give up many times, but the writing community has always pulled me back and enveloped me with love and encouragement. There WILL be another book.

In the meantime, if you want to read about a hockey player with a heart of gold and a troubled past, and a young single mother with a little hockey-playing six year old daughter, and a psycho bitch who wants to destroy their happiness..... Get BAD ICE while you still can.

Until better news comes along... or until I feel like writing about the stupid cat, see you on the flip side.

BAD ICE  is available (until it isn't) at the following sites:

Amazon.com
Amazon.ca
Kobo
Champagne Books

I'm Still Here

I'm sitting in my living room, printing mailing labels and putzing around on Twitter. I finished a painting. Well, actually, I did two paintings: One for a writing friend, and the other will be my contribution to a local fundraiser for Indigenous youth in Canada.

Have I been writing? I've been thinking about it. I open my WIP and stare at it for a while, and then close it. Then I open it again. I write words. I close it.

The writing life is an enigma. People say it's a solitary craft, yet these days I am surrounded by writers in the cyber world. Successful writers, aspiring writers, encouraging writers and distant writers. They all have something to say about this crazy occupation, and I alternately toggle between hope and despair.

When I first left the workforce after 23 years as a graphic artist, I had visions of being a domestic goddess, creating art with my words and my paintbrush while surrounded by pastoral sunshine in my back yard. Sure, I had moments where I was satisfied with my accomplishments, whether they be refinished folding chairs or a rearranged living room.

I experimented in the kitchen, and honed my photography skills. I volunteered. I wrote. I chased around the local wildlife. I got mauled by my cat (that's a whole story in itself).

Now I sit here, waiting again for Spring, and doing my best to find my place in the world. Sure, hubby loves my culinary creations, and my sister loves the fact that I've embraced the art of Silent Auction Coordinating. My paintings are admired, but I have yet to pay for more than groceries with the proceeds. Agents love my writing, but don't know where to sell it.

As I jab at the ground lamb in my frying pan and contemplate my predicament, I realize that my problems are nothing compared to the millions of individuals who wake up every day, wondering if it's worth seeing the end of that day. Today is #BellLetsTalk day, when we talk about mental illness, and do our best to erase the stigma that is attached.

Generations before ours suffered in silence, and used (even today) suicide as a final escape from their pain. People with social anxiety were bullied. Angry men were simply told to stop being jerks. Maybe they suffered from depression and as a result, alienated their families and died lonely.

Mothers self-medicated with wine because they dreaded the next PTA meeting, fearing that they would be singled out. Some were afraid to leave their own homes because crowds made them feel as if they were about to drown.

Now we have a chance to understand why that friend constantly backs out of social engagements, or why a co-worker cries in the bathroom stall or takes a lot of sick days. They aren't selfish, or wimpy, or weaklings. They're not just seeking attention. They might be truly suffering, and our understanding and support can help them get through the mire that's holding them back.

Listen to them.

Apple Cheeseball Again Because I Love It

A few years ago, I posted a recipe for Apple Cheeseball, an appetizer that had been floating around the Interwebs and magazines since the mid-Nineties. I decided to post my version again this Holiday Season. It adds an artsy, tasty element to any gathering, and apples have been harmed in the making of this treat.

Ingredients:

1 package cream cheese, softened (about 8 oz)
1 - 1 1/2 cups finely shredded sharp or old Cheddar cheese (white if you can get it)
Paprika (preferably smoked, but Spanish will do - fresh and red!)
A cinnamon stick
1 or 2 bay leaves
Worchestershire sauce or hot sauce (optional)
Garlic powder or ground spices (optional)

Mix the two cheeses, the sauce if you've got it (and any savory or zippy spices you like) together with your hands until well mixed. Or use a food processor if you're squeamish about getting your hands goopy.

Form it into a ball about 3 or 4 inches around, and shape like an apple, with a little dimple at the top. Use plastic wrap if you think it's too messy. Chill it for a while.

Roll the ball in the paprika until nicely coated and red. You can brush off any excess.

Stick a cinnamon stick in the top to represent the apple stem, and a bay leaf or two to represent apple leaves. Put it on a small plate, surrounded with crackers, pita pieces or those little toasty slices with a nice knife. The first person to cut a chunk out will make it look like someone's taken a bite out of the apple!

My friends claim I came up with this recipe, modified from some other cheeseball, but I probably got it from a magazine. My friend Debbie asked for the recipe, and when she made it for family it was an instant hit. She passed it on to her daughter, who got the attention of her college dean's wife. Debbie appreciated the contribution so much she gave me that cute little leaf-shaped plate to put my apple on.

Enjoy, and Happy Holidays! (Yes, I'm still writing. Shut up.)