Sunday, September 6, 2026

Being Heard (part 1) by Leanne Dyck

The ability to vote gives a voice, in matters of government, to all Canadians. All. People.

However, there was a time, not that long ago, when women were denied this right. 

How and when did Canadian women get the vote?



Being Heard

Long before colonization, Aboriginal women had a voice in the decision-making process of their communities. The Iroquois [Haudenosaunee] and the Mohawk [Kanien’keha:ka], for example, were a matrilineal society where property rights, inheritance, voting rights, and even the arrangements of marriages were held and passed on through the elder women of the community. [1]

The history of [how women earned the right to vote]...in Canada is long and complicated...

    The Constitutional Act of 1791 creating Upper [Ontario] and Lower [Quebec] Canada, does not mention gender. Voters are “persons” who own property of a certain value. [2] This effectively meant that voting was inaccessible for a majority of the population, since property in this time period was very expensive. [3] There are no written records of women in Upper Canada (which followed British common law) voting. There are numerous records and accounts of female property owners voting in Lower Canada (which followed the civil code practiced from French colonial days)… [However, in 1834,] Lower Canada restrict[ed] voting by women, to protect them from “dangerous conditions” at polling stations, after deaths occurred during some controversial elections…

    The British North America Act, the constitution of the Dominion of Canada, states in Section 41: “every male British subject, aged Twenty-one Years or upwards, being a householder, shall have a vote.” Other criteria for voting [were] based on provincial laws, and all five [provinces] exclude[d] women from the vote. [2] All women in Canada [lost the right to vote after] Confederation in 1870. [4]

    [When Queen Victoria ascended the throne and began to rule the British Empire on June 20, 1837, she ushered in the Victorian era. The era ended with her death on January 22, 1901.]

    The necessity of being male to vote reflected the emerging Victorian idea of placing women and men in separate spheres. Women were idealized as guarantors of cultural survival, who had no place in political life. They were expected to remain at home, producing children and protecting culture…

  Exclusion from the franchise also remained acceptable to many Canadians because many women as well as men believed that men had greater capacity for reason and that men’s potential for military service justified more rights. [5]




Being Heard Part Two
Sunday, September 13
at approximately 4:40 PM

photo by ldyck

"Drop cloth"

Our house needed a makeover...
And so...
Thank you, Matt and Steve
Fast, personable, and professional
Highly recommended house painters



photo by ldyck



On this blog in September




Sunday, September 6
to
Sunday, September 27
Being Heard
a four-part article on the history of women voting in Canada

Sunday, August 30, 2026

Jealousy (short story) by Leanne Dyck

Who is man's best friend? And what happens when this friendship is threatened?


photo by ldyck

Jealousy

He had the audacity to bring her here, to our home.

And she... And she called me "cute" and gave me a few pats. Her bony hand on the top of my head. She thought she could win me over with a few nice words and a show of affection.

Well, I would have none of it.

I tolerated her in front of him. But when I was alone with her, I growled and snapped. I drove her away, and I'll do the same to you. This is our home. We're happy here. He doesn't need you. So leave us alone. You're not wanted here! Leave! Now!

written on June 9, 2026


"A Rabbit in a Hat" was written in appreciation for the readers of my short stories.


A Rabbit in a Hat


The magic occurs
when you believe
the rabbit disappeared.

Your belief
creates the magic.

photo by ldyck



On this blog in September


Sunday, September 6
to
Sunday, September 27
Being Heard
a four-part article about the history of women voting Canada 
(other wise known as the Canadian women's suffrage movement) 

Sunday, August 23, 2026

I'm A Knitter (short story, humour) by Leanne Dyck

Knitters have a code. What if you break that code?

photo by Manon


I'm A Knitter

Really, I'm not a bad person. I don't mistreat small animals. I like kids. I just have this one small vice. Please don't judge me.

I have been knitting now for twenty years. You would think that I would be turning out wonderful tapestries of colour. I see the patterns. I admire the garments. Really, honestly, I do. They're just...well...and it pains me to confess this...um, well...they're just not what I want to knit. You see, I'm a "lazy knitter." It's hard for me to admit—but it's true.

After a hard day, I love nothing better than to kick back, grab my needles and some yarn, turn off my brain, and knit. That's why I knit scarves. I must have turned out twenty or thirty of these useful pieces of apparel. All necks are adorned by my stitches. My husband. Our kids. The milkman. Our dog.

I see the looks. I hear the whispers.

"She's not a knitter. She wastes her time knitting scar-ves."

I know me and my kind are not welcome in knitting groups.

They say, "You can't simply knit a scarf! You have to add cables, lace, colourwork, or..."

And I have tried. Really, honestly, I have.

Tricky knitting just isn't for me. It causes eyestrain. It damages my brain. I hate math!

I turn to knitting for solace. It's my means of escape. If I wanted to work on a hobby, I would take up gardening.

All I want is acceptance. All I want is to belong. Surely, that's not too much to ask. Surely, I'm not alone. Surely, there is someone out there who can understand. 

I'm a knitter... Aren't I?



photo by bdyck

Recently, my friend Manon and I went on another off-island adventure. This time we sailed to Salt Spring Island—a big sister island to my island home, Mayne Island.

For me, a highlight of that trip was visiting Artcraft Gallery and Shop.

AI Overview: "Artcraft is the longest-running juried fine art and handmade craft exhibition in British Columbia."

Visiting Mahon Hall (114 Rainbow Road) brought back vivid memories of delivering suitcases full of handknitting in early June. Each year my handknit baby sweaters sold like hotcakes.

On this tip, I was pleased to discover that an artisan has stepped up to fill the void my aching wrists forced me to leave.

photo by ldyck

Artcraft is open daily from 10:00 AM to 5:00 PM until September 20, 2026.


Sunday, August 16, 2026

I Would (poem) by Leanne Dyck

A fun, tongue-twisting poem and the ancient poem it inspired

photo by ldyck


 I Would 

I would.
if I could.
But I can't
so I won't.

Would you
if you could?
If you would,
go
do.

written May 2026

I wrote this poetry review in 1987 for the University of Winnipeg’s Children’s Literature course.

I would if I could

If I couldn’t, how could I?

I couldn’t, without I could, could I?

Could you, without you, could ye?

Could ye? Could ye?

Could you, without you could, could ye?



I love the nonsense of this traditional Mother Goose nursery rhyme. It seems to flow in a silly fashion, begging to be told. It gives far more in fun and frolic than it ever demands of the listener. It does, however, have a message: that it is silly and unnecessary to think too much. I agree wholeheartedly with its unmistakable logic.


photo by ldyck


My friend and fine artist Jody Waldie at her recent art show on Mayne Island.

Terrill Welch Gallery Spotlight on artist Jody Waldie

by Terrill Welch

September 25, 2022




Sunday, August 9, 2026

Loving Lisa (short story) by Leanne Dyck

Love demands of the lovers to have faith, to trust.
And if you lose faith...
If trust is gone...

photo by ldyck

Loving Lisa


It's hard to breathe, think, move. It feels like one of my vital organs is missing—a liver, a kidney, a lung, my heart.

I know it would help if I could cry, but I'm beyond tears. I'm numb—my brain's valiant effort to protect me from the truth.

But what is the truth?

I roll the gold band around and around on my ring finger. I walk over to the fireplace and take our wedding photo off the mantel.

Who is this young couple? They look so happy, so much in love—joined together by a promise. Has he broken that promise?

I replace the photo and find myself in the kitchen. Coffee mug in hand, I sit at the table and peer out the window to where his car should be.

I don't want to think I feel abandoned. I feel the distance between us.

But we've always been of different worlds. Me...? I'm constantly in my head—analyzing, dissecting, categorizing, creating. I sit at my easel for hours. Paint splashes across the white canvas. He's always in motion—pumping weights, jogging, swimming, kayaking. He's a ray of light bouncing around the earth.

I'd like to drink away my worry with a glass of wine. I settle for coffee—it's hot against my tongue. 

How he hates my dark moods.

"You should talk with someone," he often tells me, pushing me to treatment. I know what he thinks: fix yourself; you're broken. I'm not allowed to be negative, ever. He expects me to be perpetually happy. Well, that's not normal. It's fake. He takes my sadness as a personal insult.

He proudly hangs my paintings of sunshine and sweet things, but my darker, moodier creations are relegated to my studio.

"Why did you paint that?" He asks, judging, trying to censor me. 

"You have no right," I tell him, and we fight.

Did I drive him away?

It may sound odd, but I'd like to think that I was at least partially responsible. It gives me a sense of control. I'd rather believe that than...

Is someone else involved?

He's a good-looking man. I see how other women leer at him. They lick their lips like he's chocolate. Lately, I've noticed one of his students—a sweet, young thing. What's her name? Oh, yes, Lisa. I see how Lisa swallows him up with her eyes, then quickly looks away.

Where is he right now? Are they twisted together in silk sheets? Is he loving Lisa? What's the truth?


On and Off Mayne Island


House Show Victoria
Saturday, August 15
7 pm


photo by ldyck

My Year in Fairland

Book Launch and Reading

Mayne Island Library

Saturday, August 22

3:30 PM


Sunday, August 2, 2026

A Secret Message Everyone Could See (poem) by Leanne Dyck

 A dear memory of a mother's love.

photo by ldyck

A Secret Message Everyone Could See


My mom cradled my hand in hers.

With the finger of her other hand,

she wrote letters

in my palm.

I

L

O

V

E

Y

O

U

A secret message

that only I could feel,

but everyone else

could see. 



"selfie" by ldyck

(My neighbour Kathy gave me this beautiful flower.)



My summer reading list...


by Shelby Van Pelt
An octopus forms a special relationship with a lonely senior citizen.

Lent to me by a friend
read

by Glenn Dixon

Purchased online
read

by W Bruce Cameron
Explores the special relationship between a dog and their human.


Thrift shop find
read

by Nita Prose
A famous writer is found dead. Why? How? Who?
The second book in the Molly Maid series.

Yarn sale find
read

by Gwen Cooper
The remarkable adventures of a blind cat.

Given to me by a friend
reading

by Tyler Hellard

Ordered online
to be read

by Bette Greene

Ordered online
re-read (I read this book for the first time when I was in junior high.)

Sunday, July 26, 2026

Claudia (short story) by Leanne Dyck

This short story was inspired by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle's relationship with Sherlock Holmes.


free library in Sidney, BC

photo by ldyck



Claudia

"How's Claudia?"

"What's Claudia been up to lately?"

"When can we hear from Claudia again?"

Claudia. Claudia. Claudia. That's all she ever heard—day in, day out, each and every day. It was like the entire world was in love with Claudia. Of course, they were attracted to Claudia. Claudia was bold, dramatic, adventurous, and intriguing. She, on the other hand, was dull and boring. Just a writer. Just an author. She lingered in the shadows—overlooked and ignored. But it was her talent that had created it all. If it weren't for her, Claudia wouldn't exist. They all knew that, and yet... Claudia. Claudia. Claudia. 

She was so sick and tired of it. She was so sick of being overlooked that she was hatching a plan. She was going to kill Claudia. One more book, and Claudia, the main character in her bestsellers, would be out of her life forever.


Why Arthur Conan Doyle was Sherlock Holmes' biggest hate, according to an actual historian by El Kuiper



photo by Manon

(I'm tempted to make a comment about turkey neck,
but instead I think I'll reread last Sunday's poem.)

Taken the day Manon and I went to the Street Market in Sidney, BC


On this blog in August


Sunday, August 2

"A Secret Message Everyone Could See" (poem)

A dear memory of a mother's love.

Sunday, August 9

"Loving Lisa" (short story)

Love demands of the lovers to have faith, to trust. And if you lose faith... If trust is gone... What then?

Sunday, August 16

"I Would" (poem)

A fun, tongue-twisting poem and the ancient poem that inspired it.

Sunday, August 23

"I'm A Knitter" (short story)

Knitters have a code. What if you break that code?

Sunday, August 30 

"Jealousy" (short story)

Who is man's best friend? And what happens when another human threatens this friendship?

Sunday, July 19, 2026

All Of Me (poem) by Leanne Dyck

This mindfulness poem is about self-compassion.

beach art—artist unknown
photo by ldyck



All Of Me


I can be gentle and strong.

I can be strong 

without anyone knowing

 how strong I am—

not even me.


It's okay

if not everyone likes me.

The important thing,

the very important thing,

is to like myself.


I’m an unknown.

a surprise.

And as always...me.

I lay claim to my gentle magic.


I’m slowly learning

to love myself,

all of me.



On this blog in JuLY


Sunday, July 26
Claudia
This short story was inspired by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle's relationship with Sherlock Holmes.

On Mayne Island...

On Saturday, July 18, the Agricultural Society Hall on Mayne Island was full of inspiration and creativity and talent and... It was stuffed full of quilts. And people. So full that I had to step outside for a breather. And that's where I found...









Kate Herring had a table full of purses and hats and a whole lot more. The quilt show is over, but Kate still has some of the hats and purses. Give her a call, and maybe—if you're lucky—you can still shop. Believe me, I could have bought all the items on the table.

Congratulations to organizer Pam Withers and the women of the Mayne Island Quilter's Guild. So glad I could attend. Thank you, Deb, for your wheels.

Sunday, July 12, 2026

Between and Underneath (children's story) by Leanne Dyck

An unnamed narrator is playing hide-and-seek with their big brother. The narrator believes they have found the perfect hiding spot—between and underneath—until...

Between and Underneath, for children 4 to 8 years of age, examines the themes of directional concepts and childhood anxiety.

"Geese"

photo by ldyck

Between and Underneath

"Go hide." My big brother leaned against a tree with his head resting on his folded arms. "One. One thousand. Two. One thousand. Three..."

I lay down flat in the tall grass, but soon my brother said, "Ha. Ha. Found you hiding in the tall grass."

I hide behind a tree, but my brother said, "Ha. Ha. Found you hiding behind that tree." And he said, "Okay, I'll count again, but try harder this time. It's no fun when it's too easy." And he counted, "One. One thousand. Two. One thousand. Three..."

I couldn't hide in the tall grass and not behind that tree or that one and not—

"Twenty. One thousand" and "Ready or not, here I come."And I wasn't ready, and here he came. "You need to hide. Why didn't you hide? Don't you want to—" 

"Yes, I do. I promise I'll hide really good this time."

"One. One thousand. Two. One thousand. Three..."

I ran around our yard looking for a good place to hide. I looked here, there, and everywhere. I ran around to the other side of the garage. I ran to the old rusty truck. A flipped-over canoe rested on top of the old rusty truck.

"Come over here. I'll hide you," the canoe called.

I ran over and slipped between and underneath. It was dark and scary in there.

"Don't be scared," the canoe sang. "I'll keep you safe."

And so I stayed between and underneath. I stayed, and I didn't say a word. I barely breathed.

"Once upon a time," the canoe said, "I was sailing in a river. Fish were under me, and blue sky was overhead." The canoe had lots of once-upon-a-time stories. Lots.

"Come out. Come out. Wherever you are," my brother called. He couldn't find me. I'd won.

"Thank you for helping me, Canoe," I told the canoe. "It's time for me to go."

"No, I want you to stay. I'll be lonely without you. No, you can't go."

What if...? What if the canoe never lets me out? What if I have to stay between and underneath forever? Forever... What if...? Tears slid down my cheeks.

"Where are you?" my brother called. 

My big brother. He'll help me.

"I'm in here. Under the canoe but—"

"Come out. The game is over. You won."

"But I can't. I can't. The canoe won't let me out. Please, help me."

I heard grunting. My brother was fighting with the canoe.

The canoe went up.

"No, he can't," the cano cried. "He can't."

The canoe fell down.

"See. You're mine," the canoe told me. I'm much stronger than your stupid brother. You'll never be free. Never!"

The canoe went up.

"No!" The canoe cried.

The canoe fell down.

"Never!" The canoe roared.

I begged, "Please let me out. Please let me go. I miss my mom and my dad and my big brother. Pl-ea-se!"

"No! Never! You're mine."

I couldn't help it. I started to cry.

"Calm down. Just calm down. I'll keep you nice and warm; you'll see." And the canoe told me another story about being out on the water on a beautiful sunny day.

And slowly, I began to get an idea.

"You're lonely, aren't you," I told the canoe. "You don't want to be left out here," I said. "You want to be out on the water, don't you? You want to be out on the water with my family," I said. "I can help you get what you want."

"You can..." His voice was so soft. I knew he wanted to believe me. "How?"

"I'll talk to my dad. I'll remind him how much fun we had. I'll ask him to take you out on the water."

"Why would you help me?"

"Because—because—I don't want you to be sad."

"You don't?" He didn't say another word for a long time until... "No, you're just trying to trick me. All you want is for me to let you go. And when I do, you'll forget all about me."

"No, I won't. I promise. I'll help you."

And the canoe let me go.

And I kept my promise.


Abby sleeping in the dirt
photo by ldyck

Picking a book
is like
choosing a dog,
you don't know
what you have 
until you experience them.
-written this morning
July 12, 2026


On this blog in JuLY

Sunday, July 19
All of Me (poem)
This mindfulness poem is about self-compassion.

Sunday, July 26
Claudia
This short story was inspired by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle's relationship with Sherlock Holmes.