Showing posts with label British Columbia. Show all posts
Showing posts with label British Columbia. Show all posts

Sunday, April 28, 2024

Rural Manitoba Memories by Leanne Dyck (family memoir) part 4

In Part Three of Rural Manitoba Memories,  you learned that my grandparents opened a tea room and grocery store in Eriksdale after WWI. You also learned (learnt) what it was like for my dad to grow up in Eriksdale. 

This Sunday? What did my dad do after graduating from school? Did he take over my grandfather's grocery store? Is that grocery store still run by my family?

Grandpa Willetts' store

Rural Manitoba Memories

Aunty Kay: Dad had the Red and White Store until after the war and sold it to Larry Whitney in the fall of 1945.

Leanne: Free of the store, Grandma and Grandpa moved to BC.

Grandma: When Mrs. Everette met us, she said, when I stepped off the train, “My, you look tired.”

My reply was, “You would too. I’ve been pushing this thing up every hill since Calgary, and holding it back on every down grade.”

R.H.H., reporter: This week’s column should be of particular interest to all those fortunate people who live in the vicinity of that locality known as Upper Lonsdale. In our wanderings up and down the avenue recently, we noticed that the local Post Office had moved...

This move seemed to us to be a fine opportunity to drop into Mr. Willetts’ new place... I like the new place and told him so. Four other people who came in while I was there, told him the same thing. If you haven’t been in there yet, I wish you would do so at your first visit to that popular shopping district. You, too, will approve of the change he has made, I’m sure.

Although only a small store, as stores go, Mr. Willetts has a wide variety of notions and dry goods. He is to be complimented on the fact that his entire stock looks so clean and fresh. This is an asset in itself as it inspires customer confidence.

I'm blessed to come from a family of writers. People who wrote for fun and to build community. Their writing built this memoir.


 The memories continue...

Read the next installment of 

Rural Manitoba Memories




Just a normal Sunday afternoon, I thought, when...

Okay, so, picture this. My husband and I are playing our board game. Our usual Sunday fun

Sunday, August 24, 2014

Visiting B.C (short story) 3/3 by Leanne Dyck

(In case you missed them or want to re-read them, parts onetwo)

Floyd's parents were waiting for us on the other side. "Congratulations. You crossed the bridge. We didn't know if you were going to be able to make it."

"Neither did I," I told them and they laughed.

"Lyndi, come with me. I want to talk with you." Floyd sounded so serious.

So this is it. This is when he tells me that it's been fun but he's dumping me. We left his parents on the other side of that lookout tower and walked over to the other side. Well, I'm not going to cry. Oh, who am I kidding. I love himI'm going to bawl like a baby. 

He cupped my hands in both of his. "Lyndi, we've known each other for several months now."

"But I just don't love you," I imagined him saying. My mind was so full of worry that I barely heard him.

"Things seem to be going okay," he told me.

My world began to spin. All I could do was nod. I guess he took that as I sign that I was understanding him because he continued, "I love you with my whole heart and."

What is he sayingWhat does he meanI don't understand.

"I want to marry you."

He wants to... What?

"Lyndi, what I'm trying to say... What I want to ask you is, will you marry me?"

Then his words slowly started to make sense. He...wants...to...marry...me. The heavens opened, angels sang, doves flew, the entire world rejoiced--but I think that was all in my head. I wanted to dance. I wanted to jump around wildly. But then I remembered where I was and kept my feet firmly planted on that piece of lumber that was balanced on a few tiny boards a million miles in the air. The most I could do was lean over to him and give him a tight squeeze. "Can I think it over." I said because I wanted to make him laugh.

It worked. He laughed. We kissed. And then I said, "Of course, are you kidding. You don't have to ask me twice."

He dug into his jacket pocket. "You know." He pulled out a box. "This is the reason the security guards stopped me." He opened the box. "This is the reason we almost didn't make it out of the airport." A diamond caught a ray of sun.

"But we did," I said, between giggles. "And we made it across that bridge. And now... And now we're..."

We said the word together. "Engaged."

"But I only have one question," I said. "With our heads in the clouds, how are we going to be able to make it back across that bridge?"

"Together," he told me--and we did. And we still are...




Sunday, August 17, 2014

Visiting B.C.(short story) 2/3 by Leanne Dyck



(Capilano Suspension Bridge)

If you missed or would like to re-read the first installment, here's the link.


Visiting B.C. 

The rain stopped, the sun shone but I was glad I hadn't packed flip-flops or shorts. There was a chill in the air. B.C. was definitely part of Canada. One of the best parts, I began to think.

Floyd's parents took pride in showing us their province. There was so much to see and do. We took a water taxi to Granville Island, a sky train to the Science World, and visited the Capilano Suspension Bridge. Floyd and I were still hawking at the scenery when his parents crossed the bridge. I followed him onto the bridge. This is such a beautiful place. I took another step. Look at that blue sky, it sure is a beautiful day. I took a few more steps. Just look at how tall those trees are. I was half-way across that bridge. Look at that river. Gulp. That raging river. The bridge started to sway more and more. I could fall. What will stop me? I wrapped my hand tighter around the rope rail. This flimsy thing? Um, no. Not. I tried to take another step but I just couldn't. I was blocked by a clear image of my death. There I was--a leg bent unnaturally one way, an arm bent unnaturally the other, and a bolder-sized dent in my skull. Oh, why did I leave Manitoba? It's so beautiful there. And the snow is so soft. I shut my eyes really tight but when I opened them I was still in B.C.; I was still on that bridge.

"Hey, Lyndi, what's the matter?" I guess he'd noticed that I was no longer following him.

Oh, nothing. Just my sure death, I wanted to tell him but all I managed to say was, "I can't--"

"You can't what?"

"This bridge. I want to get off this bridge."

"Don't be silly. You  have to walk--"

"I'm not being silly. And I'm not going to walk one step more."

He started to walk toward me--the bridge swayed wildly with each step. 

"Don't do that," I roared.

He stopped. "Okay but you can't stay there. Other people want to cross."

"I really don't care what--"

"Just look at me."

I love you so much, for you--only for you. I took one step and another and another. 

"That's right, very good. See you can do this."

I didn't cross that bridge. I walked to Floyd and together we made it safely to the other side.

A horrendous thing happened to us on the other side of that bridge? I will reveal all...





Sharing my author journey...

Sunday, August 10, 2014

Visiting B.C (short story) 1/3 by Leanne Dyck

This short story was inspired by a trip I took with a boyfriend to BC. While there (here) we visited Capilano Suspension Bridge  I returned to Manitoba with a ring on my finger.

Photo:  circa 1950s my grandparents--with (possibly) your uncle photo bombing in the background and (possibly) your dog's great grandpa photo bombing in the foreground--on the Capilano Suspension Bridge. 


Visiting B.C. 1/3

The bus jerked to a stop, threw me out and I landed in a snow bank. Winter's icy fingers pinched my flesh—through, it didn't care how many, layers of clothes. My boots couldn't gain traction and so I skated from streetlight to streetlight until I slid into my apartment.

“Cold out?” my boyfriend, Floyd, greeted me with a kiss.

“Too.”

I slowly began to thaw as we watched T.V.

He waited for a commercial and then asked, “Would you like to go to--”

I would have gone anywhere with him.

“B.C.?”

I visualized green grass and heard Hawaiian music. “When?”

“You don't even have to think about it, eh?” Floyd smiled. “We'll spend Christmas with my folks.”

Days, hours, minutes dragged but finally it was time to pack.

“No, Lyndi, it'll be too cold for flip-flops and shorts. B.C. is still part of Canada. It's still winter.”

But I didn't pack my long underwear.

We left our city of snowflakes, flew over Saskatchewan and caught turbulence over Alberta. It felt like shooting rapids as one air current bounced us up and then another slammed us down. I loved every minute of it.

Side-by-side and hand-in-hand, Floyd and I walked from the corridor to the airport. The metal detector didn't kick up a fuss about me. But the same couldn't be said about Floyd. He unthreaded his belt from his pants. But the machine still wasn't pleased. He emptied his pockets--dimes, nickels, pennies. No change. The security guards surrounded him and I began to panic. How well did I know him? Was he a serial killer? Did he carry a gun? I bowed my head and offered a silent prayer for protection.

Laughter. One of the guards slapped Floyd on the back. And he was free.

"Have a romantic holiday," the guard called to me.

I thought that was a rather personal thing to call but just smiled. 

Floyd lead me away from the security area. "Where you worried?"

"Who? Me? Oh, no--not at all," I lied.

There was a woman with glasses and curly brunette hair standing beside the luggage carousel. Floyd steered us right toward her. "Hi, Mom." Floyd gave her a hug. "This is Lyndi."

"Welcome, Lyndi." She greeted me with a smile. "Have you been to B.C. before?"

"Yes, once when I was twelve, but never in the winter."

"Oh, well, you better bundle up. It's minus ten and raining."

"Mom, we just left minus thirty-five and snow. We'll be fine." Floyd's jacket remained folded over his arm.

As we walked through the parking lot, I felt a raindrop on my shoulder. What felt like five minutes later, one landed on an eyelash. 

"Liquid sunshine," Floyd said as we piled into the car. "At least I don't have to shovel it."



Sharing my author journey...

Friday, May 11, 2012

Guest Post: Author Robert N. Friedland (interview)

Richmond lawyer Robert Friedland was born in Brooklyn in 1947. According to his publisher, "Friedland has been the Sheriff of a Judicial District; an investigator for the United States Treasury Department; a Regional Director of the Alberta Human Rights Commission; Human Rights Advisor for Malaspina University-College; a two-term City Councillor in Victoria, British Columbia; and, Chief Lawyer for a group of seven First Nations in the Interior of British Columbia. He currently practices human rights and administrative law in Vancouver, British Columbia. He is a widely published commentator on the international, Canadian, and British Columbian political scene. His stories and short fiction have been published in the United States, Canada, England, and Japan in: The Fiddlehead (Canada); NeWest Review (Canada); CBC Radio,(Alberta Anthology, Edmonton On Stage, Vinyl Cafe); Raw Fiction (Canada); Stand (United Kingdom); The Petroleum Independent (U.S.A.); Entre Nous (U.S.A.); The Casper Journal (U.S.A.); The Abiko Literary Quarterly (Japan); CITR FM, the University of British Columbia's FM radio station (Canada); and, The Broadkill Review (U.S.A.).

BOOKS:

Faded Love (Libros Libertad 2010)
The Second Wedding of Doctor Geneva Song (Libros Libertad 2011)





How/why did you start to write?

I think writers write because they feel something so deeply, for better or worse, that they want to, or must, externalize that feeling for the world.  I started writing as a child. I wrote a children’s story about a Texas Longhorn at a bullfight.    

How did you become an author?

I prefer, “writer”, to author.  I think that my skills of expression were verbal and written word, and not painting, acting, singing.  As a teenager in the 1960’s in New York City, writing was a way of expressing the youthful madness that had seemed to affect and infect an entire generation.  In adult life, writing was a means of solving unresolved issues and conflicts, (internal, external, relationships, work).

Why I Write

It only sounds like a question.

Let’s assume for a moment that there is a choice: to write; or, not to write.

I write to express my self. 

In 1992, in the Cariboo-Chilcotin, I thought I had lost a Sabre pocketknife that I had found more than a decade before on the banks of the North Platte in Wyoming.

The sense of loss seemed overwhelming and disproportionate to all of the other loss I had experienced in life.  I sat down at the keyboard and wrote, “The Lost Knife”, my best story, in a white rush.  If I had not, what then?

What was your first published piece? Where was it published? How long ago?

As an adult, my first published piece was, “The Ride Back”, a short story published by the Petroleum Independent in Washington, DC, in 1976, when I was working around the Oil Patch in Wyoming.  I submitted the story on a dare from a lawyer I knew.  They paid me $200.00, a princely sum in those days, and bought and published a few more stories.

What did you do before embarking on your writing career? Was it an asset to your writing? How?

I think that everything a writer does and everyone he/she meets in life helps fill the well.  You can’t make something out of nothing.  I had great opportunities to meet people and see life lived in many different ways.

I’ve been the Sheriff of a Judicial District; an investigator for the United States Treasury Department; a Regional Director of the Alberta Human Rights Commission; Human Rights Advisor for Malaspina University‑College; a two-term City Councillor in Victoria, British Columbia; and, Chief Lawyer for a group of seven First Nations in the Interior of British Columbia.  I currently practice human rights and administrative law in Vancouver, British Columbia.

I am also a widely published commentator on the international, Canadian, and British Columbian political scene.

My fiction has been published in Canada, the United States, England, and Japan.


What inspires you?

Big feelings, the wonder in little things, the sands of time running through the glass, my appetites, my needs, people, places, ocean, mountain, windblown papers, the secret life of small mammals, and the inevitable and wrenching loss of each and every one of these things over time.

Please share one of your successful marketing techniques

Please share one of yours! (Okay, sure. Let's see I've found it very effective to offer readings for the target readers.) For me, this is the toughest part of the job.  When you start writing, you think it is the writing that is tough.  Then you think finding a publisher is the tough part.  It isn’t until you’ve done both that you realize they were cake, and that the really hard part is selling a damned copy of your book.  Sorry, no easy answers here. (I agree marketing is a challenge. You just have to keep trying things until you hit on some thing(s) that work.)

Parting words

Don’t bullshit yourself.  You have to write to be a writer.  And you have to submit your work to publishers if you want to be a published writer.  Keep at it.  Don’t make excuses.


Doctor Geneva Song’s Chinese wedding ceremony is traditional, but she marries outside of her race and culture.  This ancient ritual sets in motion a fateful journey from the light to the dark for Geneva, her Spirit Sister, and the men who love them.
A beautiful family physician, Geneva Song is pious, religious, highly educated, independent, dangerous, unforgiving, sexually expressive, adulterous, and strong-willed. 
Sister Deri, Geneva’s Spirit Sister, her living incarnation, starts life as a country bumpkin in the remote countryside of Northeast China, becomes a deeply committed and ordained Buddhist nun, a sexual concubine, and the most powerful woman of finance in Canada.
Along the way, the man who loved Geneva first is murdered, and her first husband is betrayed.   Discover why one critic says that Doctor Geneva Song is destined to become one of fiction's legendary women.





“I love this novel.  Robert Friedland knows so much about Chinese culture.  Reading this novel is like reading the writer's heart, and entering the world where Chinese women become intertwined with the West.  Doctor Geneva Song is clearly destined become one of fiction's legendary women, but in truth, it is because she is a real woman of flesh and blood and passion.  Bravo!”

Zhou Wen, Editor, China Business Magazine


“The Second Wedding of Doctor Geneva Song is like a fine red wine: complex, surprising, satisfying, leaving you wanting for more. Friedland’s prose is quietly poetic and his narrative voice subtle and hypnotic. The story is at once otherworldly yet as familiar your own image in the mirror.”

Reed Farrel Coleman, three-time Shamus Award-winning author of Innocent Monster


"In the eight years that we have been inviting Canadians to contribute their stories to The Vinyl Cafe Story Exchange only three authors have had more than one story selected to read on the radio. Robert Friedland is one of those authors, and it is easy to see why: his writing is clean and elegant and he has an eye for subtle detail that makes him stand out."

Jess Milton, producer, The Vinyl Café, CBC-Radio Canada


"I know of only one male, Western author able to both tellingly capture the Asian zeitgeist, and write with eloquent empathy of women. His name is Robert Friedland, and he does both in spare, elegantly understated style in his latest work, The Second Wedding of Doctor Geneva Song. This book is an absolute delight -- I heartily recommend it."

R.G. Morse, The Dark at the End of the Tunnel


“As a lawyer who has been a human rights advisor and a city councilor, not to mention a sheriff and a cowboy, among other professions, Robert Friedland writes with candor, humor and an intimate knowledge of the world - but also with a perhaps surprising tenderness and understanding of the human spirit.”

Cynthia Ramsay
Publisher, Jewish Independent


"Reading Friedland is like eating in a gourmet restaurant in a frontier town--robust language and tough characters capable of the most delicate insights and the tenderest feelings - at the same time, surprising and satisfying."

Thomas Friedmann, Damaged Goods