The Lure of the Desert

When I was a girl, I read voraciously. It never occurred to me that I would wish to craft such stories when I grew up.

Being a horse lover, I picked up books about horses with the guarantee that I would love the story. The Black Stallion series and Black Beauty come to mind, as well as those of Marguerite Henry.

The mystique of King of the Wind took me to faraway places and gave me the assurance that one can succeed no matter what their origins. The Godolphin Arabian was one of three horses that formed the original stock of all racehorses in the Thoroughbred Registry.

Naturally, my newfound knowledge led me to the sport of Thoroughbred racing, where I followed the careers of such champions as Secretariat and Seattle Slew. I had a major crush on Secretariat (as far as a reasonable human can have a crush on a horse) and my father tried desperately to get me tickets for the last race of this incredible champion at Woodbine Racetrack. Alas, he couldn't get it and I was reduced to watching the race on a tiny black and white portable television.

I rode my bike as if I was a champion jockey, flying around the clubhouse turn to victory. Dad took me on a few tame trail rides but I still imagined I was in a race every time we accelerated to a tame trot.

When I was a teenager, I visited my father while he was on assignment in Algeria. Of course, my romantic feelings surfaced as we made arrangements to ride Berber horses across the plains north of the Atlas Mountains. Images of Bedouin tribes riding across the desert filled my mind. I even imagined the possibility of being kidnapped and sold to the white slave market. Yup, I had a vivid imagination.

We set out on a ride through rocky terrain - my dad, his girlfriend, the guide and me. My horse was a bay, a little fractious and nervous. The ride proceeded without incident until we turned for the journey back to the stables.

It was then that the mare decided to take the bit in her mouth and bolt. I tugged with all my might but was afraid of losing my balance and falling to the hard earth. In a vain attempt to keep my seat, I lifted my bottom from the saddle and grabbed a handful of mane, just like the jockeys I'd seen on television. The wind made my eyes water and the horse kept running faster and faster. My fellow riders were quickly left behind.

To the south a line of trees worried me. What if my horse simply crashed into them? To my relief she curved left and followed the line of trees to another treeline. However, she didn't slow. I thought for sure we were destined for a big collision.

The thumping and lumping finally led me to lose my seat. Just as we approached the trees, I bounced from the saddle and flew over the mare's head. I landed on my feet just as she skidded to a halt.

There we were, Berber mare and me, heaving great breaths with both sets of knees shaking. My arms were still wrapped around her neck and my head was pressed against her sweaty hide.

I don't know how long it took for my companions to catch up, but it seemed like minutes.

The first thing my dad shouted was, "Are you all right?"

His girlfriend (much later to be his wife) yelled with delight, "Sandra, that was fantastic!"

It was then that I decided I liked her.

The guide apologized for the mare's bad behaviour and offered to switch horses. I rode a magnificent grey Arabian back to the stables, admiring the shadow of his arched neck on the stoney ground.

You would think that such a harrowing experience would put me off riding forever, but in the thirty years that followed I landed on my ass countless times (never my fault, of course) and I wouldn't hesitate to ride again.

Okay, more hockey...

I can't help it -- the damn stuff is in my blood although I never strapped on skates until I was a teenager. Bad Ice concentrates on the major league, but today I'll talk about the kids.

Hockey tournaments.

It's a Christmas tradition. Some parents hike to the next town or maybe the next province for a tournament, but the IIHF hosts its annual World Junior Hockey Championship in different countries. This year the IIHF championship tournament is in the Czech Republic. Many Canadians make the trip. It starts on Boxing Day. These boys won't be with their families for Christmas, but they don't care.

Some started in house league, some in rep hockey. They're from all over the country.

For Canadian boys, it's not enough to win the silver. When you're in the finals, you're so close. Silver isn't the target. It's the gold or nothing. I watched the bronze medal game between USA and Russia, and the winning Russians were thrilled to win the bronze. It's not the same in the final game. Silver is better than bronze, but it's not the gold.

Scored in overtime, one Canadian player is on his ass in the crease and the other slaps the puck in the scrum. The Swedish goalie remains on his stomach, his face hidden in his gloves. A full five minutes later a linesman comes over and pats his back, asking if he is all right.

A few minutes later, the camera focuses on his face behind the cage he had never removed. His blue eyes glisten with tears. After all, he's just a boy.

The Canadians are lined up shoulder to shoulder, singing along with their national anthem. They sing like shit but the heart is there. A few 'woo hoos' and 'hi moms' are mixed in.

When the goal scorer is interviewed, his teammates skate to his side and plant sloppy, lip smacking kisses on his flushed cheek. Apparently it's a new tradition. Real guys kiss.

A giant Canadian flag is unfurled on center ice. It's just like the big flag we have at the Husky gas station between Newmarket and Barrie. They're aren't too many of those around, but it's nice to see that they make their way to such events as this.

In the team photo, some hold up one finger for number one, some hold up four fingers for fourth gold in a row.

One boy skates in front of the now empty Sweden bench and applauds their efforts.

Now they climb into the stands with the trophy. I'll bet some officials are a little nervous. The boys allow fans to touch the silver trophy lined in gold. As they drag it to the dressing room, a bottle of champagne is emptied into the vessel. At least some of these boys are of drinking age!

Stephan Legion, out with a separated shoulder, managed to lift the trophy with one hand. He is interviewed in the dressing room and gets pied. He says at least the cream tastes good. He plants a kiss on the interviewer's cheek, slathering his face with white foam.

Most of these boys will be in the NHL within a couple of years. They keep coming.

Maybe I'll do a YA novel about little Mishayla, my heroine's daughter from Bad Ice. She's a kick-ass hockey player, too.

Photo from cbc.ca - (Jacques Boissinot/Canadian Press)

Pond Hockey

Today the NHL is hosting its second Winter Classic, where Sidney Crosby and his Pittsburg Penguins will face the host Buffalo Sabres. It's snowing like an SOB right now in Buffalo, and the crowd is roaring with anticipation.

I think the guys in visors will have an advantage in the swirling snow, but they may need windshield wipers. Some may be concerned that such an unusual scenario during a regulation game would be a disadvantage, but I feel both teams face the same variables.

Game On.

The following is an unedited excerpt from my upcoming novel, Bad Ice.

For the rest of the afternoon the pond was alive with the muffled sound of metal blades scraping on windswept, uneven ice mixed with chatter and laughter. Occasionally a cracking sound echoed off the densely treed, steep hillsides when two wooden sticks collided. The sun, a pale white disk, barely succeeded its feeble attempt to penetrate the icy haze in the platinum sky.

Jason took his turn tending goal at one end of the pond. He leaned against the chipped metal hockey net as the action heated up at the far end. He loved watching young people playing pond hockey; it took him back to his own childhood. No referees, no grouchy coaches, no shit-disturbers chirping from the opposing players' bench. Or my own bench, for that matter.
Watching the children in carefree play, as he often did, he felt a mixture of contentment and loss. He wondered what it would have been like if a child of his own had been among them. Well, he thought, maybe I'll never know.

He picked out Mishayla, her flowing honey coloured curls bursting from under her helmet. Then again, maybe there's hope.

She kept up with the Gauthier children with apparent ease. She'll make it far, he thought. Maybe by the time she hit her teens, a professional women's league would be ready to welcome her.

Her mother, on the other hand…

He laughed when Christina awkwardly pushed the puck past Bertie at the other goal, obviously by accident. She raised her arms and squealed with delight. She almost lost her balance and Bertie dropped his stick and reached out to prop her up.

Jason skated over to join the others as they offered congratulatory back slaps.

The daylight turned from light silver to steel blue, and a few snowflakes began to drift about. Jason squinted upward and called across to Bertie, pointing at the sky.

Bertie waved in assent, and placed his whistle to his lips. He blasted a call that ricocheted off the pine trees. Corinne, who had been at the edge of the pond attending to little Barbara, beckoned to the children.

"It’s getting dark, my children; I can hear the cocoa calling me all the way out here. Wrap it up, time to go."

With moans of protest, the Gauthier children gathered their sticks, dumping them on the snow at the edge of the makeshift rink. They climbed up on the tailgate of the SUV, and Corinne helped them to exchange their stiff, frozen skates for chilly boots.

Jason skated toward his friend. "I’ll take these two ladies in a few minutes. I think our novice here needs one more lesson."

Bertie glanced at the still struggling Christina as she inched along the ice, using her hockey stick for balance. Mishayla skidded around her, laughing as her mother squealed in protest. "Yeah, she looks like she could use some help, but I don’t think she’ll be an expert today."

"Not that kind of lesson, idiot."

Bertie raised his eyebrows. "Oh, that kind of lesson. Don't forget this is a family rink."

Photo from cbc.ca

A Christmas Greeting

As I put away groceries and put up my feet for a few moments, I reflect on this past year and realize I've been very lucky. True - money has been tight and I didn't see family members as often as I would have liked. But we remain healthy, we didn't lose anyone and the only black spot in the past week was my Escort breaking down last night. DH is gaining a good reputation with his placement agency which might garner him a full time IT position, my son has finally found his zone with schoolwork and my daughter is developing a good work ethic by handling two jobs in order to save for college.

I had a novel published, I have another one accepted and my first royalty cheque arrived a few days ago. True, it was for $9.75 but I'm framing it anyway.

I look forward to 2008. I'll finish one of my WIPs - either The Yearbook or The Weeping Woman and I'll get an agent.

I wish every one of my 'blogging buddies' (to coin a phrase from Stephen Parrish) a very happy and peaceful Christmas and a prosperous and healthy New Year. I'm grateful that I've made so many new friends in the past year. You've all done wonderful things for my confidence, and I thank you from the bottom of my heart.

Now, I have to get back to work - driving the kids around in our remaining car, writing a 2000 word chapter for a challenge and thinking about a quick and easy supper. Merry Christmas!

Cider With Rosie

Years ago, I picked up an illustrated hardcover copy of Cider With Rosie, Laurie Lee's recounting of his early days in west country England just after the First World War. Originally published in 1959, my copy was released in 1984.

I don't know how I came by the book - I think I got it because of the illustrations. It sat about the house for a few years before I read it.

It took me to a place and time I wish I could have visited, with its hardship and beauty. One particular passage comes back to me every Christmas. I hope I'm not breaking any laws by inserting this excerpt, but I feel I must share it with you on this day of unrelenting snow.

The boys set out on their annual caroling trek, visiting the various manors around their little village. Their last stop is Joseph's farm.

We grouped ourselves round the farmhouse porch. The sky cleared, and broad streams of stars ran down over the valley and away to Wales. On Slad's white slopes, seen through the black sticks of its woods, some red lamps still burned in the windows.

Everything was quiet; everywhere there was the faint crackling silence of the winter night. We started singing, and were were all moved by the words and the sudden trueness of our voices. Pure, very clear, and breathless we sang:

As Joseph was a walking
He heard an angel sing;
'This night shall be the birth-time
Of Christ the Heavenly King.

He neither shall be borned
In housen nor in hall,
Nor in a place of paradise
But in an ox's stall...'

And two thousand Christmases became real to us then; the houses, the halls, the places of paradise had all been visited; the stars were bright to guide the Kings through the snow; and across the farmyard we could hear the beasts in their stalls. We were given roast apples and hot mince-pies, in our nostrils were spices like myrrh, and in our wooden box, as we headed back for the village, there were golden gifts for all.

I Won! I Won a Major Award!

Stephen Parrish has awarded me "A Roar for Powerful Words" from the "Shameless Lions Writing Circle." I truly didn't expect it. When I read his posts, I'm reminded of how much I still have to learn about writing. His articles are poignant and thought-provoking.

Compared to most of my blogging pals, I'm a rookie. When somebody comments on my posts, I'm freshly surprised and pleased every single time. It's like going to a party full of popular people and almost dying of shock if one of them talks to me or laughs at my jokes.

Now I'm supposed describe three things I believe are necessary to make writing powerful, and I must also choose five others for the award.

What makes writing powerful?

1. Passion. If you're a technical writer, a poet, a romance novelist or a newspaper columnist, the writing has to come from the heart or it won't come alive for those who read it.

2. Reading. If you don't read a passage that brings tears to your eyes or a feeling of longing or nostalgia, how will you offer others the same gift?

3. Accepting criticism. If you can't allow others to help you make your writing stronger, you will wallow in the mud of mediocrity. There's no point in being static -- you have to move forward, even if you already have a best seller.

I'd like to pay this award forward by honouring some of my critique partners. They crack the whip, pushing me to be the kind of writer I want to be -- one who transports my readers, who makes them laugh and cry, who makes them want to remember me.

Gina Ardito, Debora Mills, Penny Azar, Terri Pine and Zee the Challengemeister. Girls, visit The Shameless Lions Writing Circle to pick up your badge. And thanks for being there for me.

Pavlov's Theory Gone Wild

Chester is no fool. He knows how to sit, spin around and speak on command. He knows what a treat is, and understands "Wanna go for a walk?" and "How about a beer?"

No, he's not my husband. He's my dog.

He may be bright, but lately he's been taking the Pavlov theory a little too far. When he was young, he got lost in a storm and thus wasn't thrilled with the sound of thunder. When the park down the street started hosting the July 1 fireworks, he became increasingly nervous at the sound of booming and screeching. Canada Day weekend had him hiding under various desks and tables, and he's not a little guy.

The smoke alarm beeps when the oven is too hot. I can't find the broom handle fast enough to disarm it. Chester heads for the front door and promptly pees on the floor. By the way, he pees like a girley dog and doesn't lift his leg. I've lost a lot of doormats this way.

Nowadays, I can't even open the oven door without him getting jittery. Just to be safe, I put him out the back door when I have to turn food over in the oven. He also paces like a prisoner when something beeps on television.

Because we have a bug zapper shaped like a tennis racquet, he freaks out if someone plays badminton in the yard. Bubble wrap? He can't even look at it -- he's out of the room in a flash. God forbid anybody should pop the damn stuff.

The damn dog has too many rules.

Dance, Baby, Dance

I love to dance. I can't help moving to the music. I'm especially addicted to Footloose. Every time we go to the company Christmas party, I request the song and go nuts. Once I even accidentally hip-checked the publisher off the dance floor.

I just got home from this year's dinner and dance. I flew solo because my husband opted out so he could pick up our daughter from work. I had a nice dinner, won a cute cake plate with a snowman on it, and thought I'd hang around long enough to burn a few calories on the dance floor before beating the snowstorm home.

We had a live band this year. A blues band with saxophones, trumpets and the like. They started off with "Doin' It Right on the Wrong Side of Town" and my feet began tapping while I was still in my chair. A trio of people hit the floor and my feet slid out of their shoes. In an instant, I joined the dancers.

I usually dance with abandon and sometimes attract a little attention. I probably look like an idiot but heck, I'm having fun. However, this time I was upstaged by a little lady in red. She was probably about ten or fifteen years older than me, but she danced like a twenty-year old. She twirled and gyrated with enthusiasm, prompting shouts and whoops of encouragement from our co-workers.

I ran out of gas halfway through the song, and it took every ounce of energy I had just to stay alive until the end. My legs became rubber, like a hockey player's when he's been on the ice for an extra long shift.

By the time I reached my table, I was gasping for air as if I'd just run a marathon. I'm obviously out of shape. I called it a night and didn't dance anymore. Not due to exhaustion -- I probably could have gone another round after a short rest.

Some Depends would've helped, too.

Love At First Sight?

Tonight I sit with a lovely salmon dinner, all by myself. Hubby and oldest daughter are at work, and teenage son has gone to a friend's house, possibly overnight.

I'm watching Men In Trees, and the theme is: How long before it matters? Patrick has lost his memory, and the whole town attempts to trigger a breakthrough by giving him a slide show of his life. His fiancée is concerned that she was only a blip in his radar, and not longer registers on the memory scale.

As romance writers we usually take the instant love approach, but we also take the long road to love. I haven't read Love In The Time of Cholera yet, but my impression is that it takes many years for the lovers to be together. Correct me if I'm wrong.

I remember the day almost twenty-five years ago when I first saw my husband. His eyes first caught my attention -- big, brown and deep set. He wasn't tall, but he was intense and intelligent. A cute geek, really. He was unlike any young man I had dated up until then, and he captured my heart within a few months.

As you can see, love grew. Perhaps it was instant attraction, but it took a while for us to decide that we belonged together. Through 23 years of marriage, and a lot of joy and heartbreak, we had to make new decisions, but we're still together. And he's still a geek who can't fix a faucet to save his life. But I love him anyway.

How long does it take for one to make an impact on another person, and thus be the love of his or her life? An hour? A few days? Years? Tell me about the love of your life.

Speaking of Memories

Kanani tagged me with an "Earliest Memory" meme. It's interesting how early memories can be. My sister swears she remembers lying in a baby carriage and recalls the little pom-poms that lined the hood.

My earliest memory was when I was about three years old. My family was temporarily stationed in Trinidad while my father supervised a construction site. I remember playing in the backyard when my feet started to sting, then burn. I screamed and ran into the house through the kitchen door. Mildred, our housekeeper, scooped me up and practically tossed me into the large kitchen sink, turning on the water full blast. I looked down at my little sandaled feet and saw hundreds of little red ants swirling down the drain. Fire ants. Nasty.

In other news, I received a Google Alert this morning. Apparently, The Space Between was on the top 50 of "Most Gifted Contemporary Romances" on Amazon.ca. Kind of amazing, considering they've been listing the book as 'out of stock' for the last two weeks. Buy some more, Amazon!

I did a screen capture where it is today, Page 3, Number 53 between a J.D. Robb and a Danielle Steel. Hee hee hee hee! I won't do a link because it probably won't be there tomorrow. Unless you all order one as a gift! Let's get me on Amazon.com, too! (Too many exclamation points, I know...)

Let's see if some of my friends at Romance Writers Unlimited have some Earliest Memories. I tag:

Gina
Zee
Debora
Penny
Paisley

Blast From the Past

I've been trying to get back into my current writing projects. One of them is The Yearbook, inspired by a year I spent in Spain in 1974. I found the old yearbook and started flipping through it to gain some motivation. On impulse I decided to Google a couple of the teachers. Well, I came up with two hits:

John Pharms had a difficult childhood and obtained a scholarship from West Michigan University due to the assistance of a mentor who believed in him. He spent a couple of years as a student teacher at the American School in Mallorca. I remember him as a big man with a huge smile and a voice that struck fear in us all. He taught us Phys Ed and one of our tasks was to clear a vacant lot of branches and rocks so we could play baseball. That wasn't the fun part; it was even more challenging finding the baseball when it rolled into a patch of prickly pear cactus.

He was thrilled to hear from me and will be happy to help me jog my memory about that incredible year at the American School in Spain. I went to his website and discovered that one of my classmates who was very close to Coach committed suicide shortly after I left. Coach had taken him under his wing and made him manager of the basketball team. He was devastated by his 'little brother's' death and made it his life's work to encourage young people to pursue their dreams. He's a motivational speaker for disadvantaged youth, based in Michigan.

The principal Peter J. Foley once served in the Peace Corps. He is now vice president of an incredible private boarding school in Thailand. He was an unconventional principal in a time and place where discipline didn't seem to exist. He seemed more like one of the students, and everyone treated him like a pal rather than an authority figure. He also sent me an email, and wants to hear more about my books. He says he's been working on a manuscript for the last five years, and needs a kick in the butt to finish it. He could probably fill volumes with his wealth of experiences.

Chatting with these two gentlemen has definitely given me a kick in the butt. The memories are flooding back and I hope I can weave them into this novel with some measure of success. Stay tuned for more developments.

Image: Rear view of The American School circa 1976.

Not Just Tires Anymore

I dropped my daughter off at work this morning. It's her second day at her second job and she's nervous, but that's another story.

I decided to stop on the way home to pick up some window insulation kits for our leaky 50's windows that haven't had storm inserts for a couple of decades. If I don't put the shrink wrap on the inside, we're doomed to icy drafts and foggy windows for the next six months.

I had a choice of stores - Home Depot or Canadian Tire. Of course I chose Canadian Tire because I'm loyal to Canadian-owned retailers. Don't get me started about Wal-Mart, because that's another story, too.

I like Canadian Tire. You get special Canadian Tire Money if you pay by cash, and can exchange it for anything, just like cash. I once had a boyfriend who saved enough to buy a whole bicycle. The bills come in 5, 10, 25, 50 cent, and one and two dollar denominations, each with a picture of Sandy McTire.

As I entered the store, the smell of motor oil hit me. It's not as gross as you think, considering the vinyl smell of Zellers has me running for the hills, due to a three-week stint as a waitress in their restaurant (yet another story).

I purposely chose a hand basket instead of a cart because when I hit a Canadian Tire store, I can't stop shopping. There's so much to see: stainless steel pots and pans, canoes, hockey tape, windshield wiper fluid, camping gear, lighting fixtures, toys, Christmas decorations, televisions, flashlights, hunting rifles, fish batter, doorbells, lawn mowers.... you get the drift.


I found what I needed, plus a furnace filter and a new rubber thingy that goes under the door, then decided to cruise the other aisles in search for a new dish drainer... uh, dish rack? You see, our old Rubbermaid was getting a bit grungy. I could no longer scrub off the calcium deposits, no matter how much vinegar I used. It was pretty gross, really.

I searched and searched. I found fancy stainless steel electric kettles, strainers, toasters, garlic presses, but no dish strainers.

We had a dishwasher once. We had it for twenty years. It was one of those types you roll out of the dining room into the kitchen and hook up to the kitchen sink. Our 50's kitchen doesn't have a built-in dishwasher. After all those years, our dishwasher stopped circulating water in the proper order. It filled, but didn't drain. Our dishes looked worse coming out than they were going in.

After several attempts at repair, we wheeled it to the end of the driveway and I delegated the dish duties to the family. The result is pretty much the same because my kids don't want to do the dishes and they think I'll take away the privilege if they do a lousy job. Ain't gonna work.

I guess Canadian Tire doesn't think anybody does dishes by hand anymore.