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The grapes simmer in the massive stock pot permeating the air with the thick rich scent of will-be jelly. My wooden spoon stained wine red as I stir. The steam has my skin glowing, my pores breathing in the velvety grape loveliness. A skill it took until my late 40s to learn.
A clipping of grapes from the Ceraldi family’s vine in East Vancouver via Italy was originally gifted to my Mother and then to me. That piece of Vancouver’s little Italy covers my entire backyard in Pitt Meadows now. In summer the plump heavy bunches of fruit hang thick from the vine near crippling our aging rusted metal gazebo in the centre of the yard. It transforms a suburban plot of yard into a Mediterranean haven allowing us to bask in peace in our own little Heaven. Our suburban vineyard is interspersed with kiwi vines, thornless blackberries, blueberries, a tree with quince and pears grafted together and they all become part of this ritual of preserving. When developers bought the green space next to us and took out all the abundant mighty trees and bushes on the westside of our yard the vines exploded from the exposure to more sunlight. It tripled the harvest. The same expanse was felt in my soul when I finally learned what I had watched my Grandmother, Mom, Aunt and cousins do for generations. I mourned hard for the loss of the green space that 3 years later still sits as an empty dirt lot waiting for development. It deepened my appreciation for the grapevine refuge that preserves our solace. Life was busy with other things and I had missed out on this right of passage, the skill of canning. Most of my cousins had participated in the peeling and processing of fruit before they even reached their teens. My Mother no longer canned and the window of opportunity felt like it was closed until I was faced with a yard full of fruit demanding attention. Mom had always been a jam maker so she viewed jelly making as advanced and marvelled that I would first time out of the gate attempt it. My best friend joined forces with Mom and I and we laboured together boiling jars, stirring the grapes, straining the hot burgundy liquid through cheesecloth. That sense of belonging, that sisterhood, that wholeness I sought seeped into my spirit. A city girl all my life yet the farm stock in my blood and self-sufficiency in my bones rose to this occasion and that hollow space was filling like the jars of jelly. The lids on the jars made the triumphant popping noise signalling a successful seal and it is the sound of being complete.
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 The most shocking discovery you make as a writer is that writing is the easy part. This is the proverbial punch in the throat because writers know how painstaking it is to create a project, transfer those thoughts into words, and get them transcribed. If you are an indie author, the journey has you wearing all the hats of agent, publicist, and marketer, among other things. I had the good fortune to be paired with an excellent mentor, Abbie Headon, through the Independent Publishers Guild in the UK. The time difference made it a challenge, especially because I am violently allergic to early mornings. Our video calls were great fun, exchanging thoughts and ideas. The playing field was fairly level with me not fully caffeinated at the beginning of my day and her a little depleted at the end of her workday. We discussed advertising and how pricey it can be, as well as the results being unpredictable (even after spending hours on webinars and researching the market). Abbie suggested I try guesting on podcasts as a marketing tactic.
How does one go about getting invited as a guest on a podcast? I found a website called PodcastGuests.com and subscribed. It is a bit like TINDER for podcasters and guests; they are paired up based on their area of expertise. I would pore over the emails, seeking which podcasters were searching for guests and applying. I had all but lost hope anyone was interested in speaking to me until finally, after five months, I had a match and my first guest spot. I had specifically said "audio only," so imagine my surprise two days prior when the host said, “Be camera-ready.” In my younger days, the camera was my friend, but now at 58, I am about as excited to have myself on film as I am to have another birthday—not at all. I reluctantly complied, choosing my clothes and makeup carefully. Brittani Starr (Zarlequan) was very gracious, and it was a great first experience. Watching myself was torture. I realized I have angry “Bea Arthur” (of Maude and Golden Girls fame) eyebrows. I am known for my lack of a filter, and if I do manage to control my tongue, my face will betray me every time. Time and age have trained my verbal response, but my face never received the memo. I cannot tell you how often in my life I am saying in my head, “What is my face doing?” That was my first lesson as a guest: face control. Next up was my guest spot with Denny (The Sunday Jam) based out of Bulgaria. In this episode, I implemented my years of experience in my old life as a claims adjuster to keep the podcaster on track. Denny was sweet and quirky, and I commend him for taking on a podcast with English as his second language. I was thrilled he had pursued me because, even though he did not have a large audience, it gave me exposure somewhere else in the world. Last week’s guest spot was with Angela Valente Romeo (Colliding Worlds). I learned from this spot that I need to have more than one glass of water available. This was a marathon of sorts; the other two podcasts were 20-30 minutes long, and this one was 80+ minutes. Behind the scenes, Angela and I continued to chat for at least another hour plus after filming was complete. She was so interesting! She had worked as a lawyer, artist and art gallery owner, screenwriter, model, actress—you name it, she’d done it. And she’s lived all over the U.S. I was very inspired by her, another woman refusing to be defined or limited by her age. Finally, yesterday I was honored to be Reenita Hora's guest (The True Fiction Project). This was a completely different experience. When I applied, Reenita’s assistant asked me to send them a hard copy of the novel, and they would let me know if I was a fit. Months passed, so imagine my excitement when I was asked to be on the show. The other podcasters did not have any requests. This show required a professional microphone, headphones, and a ring light for filming clarity. When I signed on, I met with the engineer, who gave me the rundown on how things could be cut or re-recorded, advising me not to panic if I sneezed or stumbled on my words; all could be edited. My main concern, living so close to the train and with construction across the street, was the background sound. He assured me all of that could be taken care of should it occur. Miraculously, it did not. Reenita was as professional as they come, and I was so honored to be on her show. The concept of her podcast is to chat about non-fiction first—life, projects, background, etc.—and then part two is reading fiction. I was prepared to read a chapter from How We Healed, and she asked that I only read about three minutes' worth, then she would offer something extra for her paid subscribers. I had to figure out on the fly where to cut my chapter reading and what I was going to offer as the “extra.” Ultimately, I read “Ballerina” from Life Lyrics because it is not yet available on any of my social media platforms. Just like that, it was over, and we chatted a bit about what I am working on now. Like the three podcasters before her, she enthusiastically said she wanted to have me back. Werner, her incredible engineer, offered some very kind and flattering words as well and expressed it would be a great episode. I bid them adieu with a huge smile on my face. I am grateful to have been part of all these shows, whether they had 91 subscribers or 225k. They have helped mold and shape me into an engaging guest. Thank you, Mentor Abbie, and podcasters Brittani, Denny, Angela, and Reenita for making this journey of many hats a joyful one. Stay tuned, there is more to come. So, put on your seatbelts, kids, “You ain’t seen nothing yet.”
Each individual you cross paths with leaves an indelible mark on your journey. Among them, these four remarkable souls have profoundly enriched my understanding through their eloquent words and distinct paths. I wholeheartedly urge you to explore their literary creations; a gateway to expand your mind, stir your emotions, and ignite your inspiration!
FIRST TO THE FRONT: The Untold Story of Dickey Chapelle, Trailblazing Female War Correspondent written by: Lorissa Rinehart
Liquor drew a curtain over thoughts of the dawn Her words were as vibrant as her photos. GEORGETTE "Dickey" Louise Meyer Chapelle has been dead as long as I have been alive. I knew nothing about Dickey Chapelle before listening to this audiobook and now I have a new champion. Her adventures surpass any Hollywood version of war correspondents. I can’t believe how she isn’t a household name and had to ask myself why and realized it was because she was a woman. A white man doing the same work would have been heralded as a national hero. She gained the respect of the men in many war zones because she would not accept special treatment. No matter what she faced she did so with an honest unbiased eye, which is very likely another reason her story is not widely known; she did not fear speaking out against any U.S. wrongdoing (even though she was proudly American). There is so much here I want to talk about but don’t want to give spoilers because this book is a gift I want you to unwrap. The narrator, Kate Handford was an excellent choice, she has a pleasant even tone which definitely helps during some of the more graphic and painful passages. I can hardly wrap my head around some of the places and situations Dickey found herself in whether WWII, Hungary, Laos, Cuba - all absolutely incredible. I have such great respect for her. Rest in power Dickey and let me say thank you for living your life so fully and unapologetically it is inspiring. Lorissa Rinehart this story will stay with me for the rest of my life. I thank the publishers, Lorissa and Netgalley for the opportunity to review this fantastic story. 5 out of 5 stars!
Mother's Day Weekend - for some a joyful day, for others ever the reminder of loss and trauma. I have some recommended reads for people trying to make sense of that relationship that left them with more questions than answers. They are works of fiction but the truth is definitely in these pages.
 The last couple of years has been a trying journey for most with the pandemic looming over us like a curse. It brought out the best and worst of people. Some took a long deserved rest, others took up old hobbies or dived into new ones. There was a big surge in pet adoptions. Anything to break the monotony of our new “normal.” Arric and I felt it was a sign from the universe to finish this book. I can say this was an absolute labor of love and this novel really has felt like our baby. The process, much like childrearing was a rollercoaster ride, many highs and lows, twists and turns to get it published. Adventures come with lessons. It was indeed a thrilling and sometimes frustrating ride but well worth it. We are grateful for the people that helped this come to fruition.
The history of this novel dates back to 2003 when I attended Oprah Winfrey’s “Live your Best Life” tour in Seattle, Washington. It was an experience I will never forget. She spoke for easily 5 hours. We were served a lovely lunch and were sent away with impressive gift bags. Included in the gift bag was a workbook/journal and we definitely wrote in that day. What I came away with was the message of what it means to live your best life and how to listen to what life is trying to tell you. The biggest take-away though was when you have given your 100% sometimes you just have to surrender and understand what it meant for you is meant for you and what isn’t simply isn’t. I wrote the first paragraph of this novel that day. At that time I believe my intention was to write a short story. I picked the writing up and put it down many times. When I did decide to commit to the project it was going to be a biography of my husband’s grandmother, but life had other plans. Granny lived all the way in Chicago, we in a suburb outside Vancouver, BC Canada. With the distance, her age, her hearing and then ultimately her passing, it wasn’t destined to be a biography. With Arric’s help I was able to take what she told us about the South, mix it with Arric’s experience living there, my imagination, and the fictionalized version of Granny’s journey was born. We both spent hours listening to her tell stories of her life. It was the lessons that she wanted to pass along much more than the stories. Although this is a work of fiction, rest assured I understood the assignment and weaved in her teachings. The title is indicative of the odyssey of the characters but also the writers. The story centres around 3 women and that is an homage to the 3 women that impacted both our lives: our mothers and Granny. They taught us to be fearless when it comes to fighting for happiness and that was and still is a priceless gift. Enjoy the journey, we did… I was leaving a comment for a short story a friend has on astoryaday.org and it asked for contact information and there was a space for a web address. It prompted me to assure you I am still out here writing, painting, taking photographs. The whole point of having this page is to share my creativity with you. I have completed my novel. It will likely take some time between edits, and some re-writing so until then I can share with your some of my other art. Here is a piece a wrote a couple of years ago about my Mother.
TALK IS CHEAP I did not always appreciate my Mother. I was well into my 30s when I realized that Anna was the lottery of all parental units. She came from a humble background in the small town of Greenwood in British Columbia’s Kootenay district. She was not well educated, yet she has proved to me repeatedly that book smart does not equal common sense, or guarantee success in this world. What sets her apart from other mothers and other human beings in general, is her spirit. She is altruistic. The best part of her being altruistic is she doesn’t know what that means and would be embarrassed to ask. There is such beauty in her simple kind nature. Always equally willing to help a neighbour or a stranger. Anna’s love is the titanium of emotion, nothing stronger in this world. The discovery that she was extraordinary happened over time with small every day occurrences. Once on my work coffee break a co-worker overheard me ending a phone call with, “I love you too.” My workmate inquired if I had been talking to my husband. The utter look of disbelief on her face when I said I was talking to my Mother was alarming. She sat there contemplating mouth agape for a few moments when she said, “I don’t know if I’ve ever said that to or heard that from either parent.” It was my turn for my jaw to slack, this co-worker a lovely woman in her 40s, brought to light what I took for granted. I could not remember a day in my life, even when I was the very worst version of myself, that my Mother did not tell me that she loved me. I did not always know what I had in a Mother like Anna. My Father committed suicide when I was 7 years old and this altered our lives in a way known only to those who survive this experience. You have a sense of abandonment that no amount of counselling, meditation or acceptance can completely shake. I was angry for a long time and that was easy to hang on her. Despite my anger we forged a bond. This happened at a time when the percentage of single parent homes in my world made up about 1% of the households of my elementary school. There were no daycares, only neighbours I could stay with until she got home from work. When I was old enough I became a latchkey kid gorging on cookies, watching Gilligan’s Island and the Brady Bunch until she returned. I thought of home as my safe place, but in truth it was Anna that was the safe place. I longed for my Father. He, like many Fathers in our blue-collar neighbourhood, worked out of town for 6-8 months of the year. When Alphonse came home bearing gifts his presence was like Christmas in July. I remember the innocence of my childhood leaving me when I was told he was dead. There was this void, like there was no longer any air for me to breath. My last memory of him was waving goodbye as I drove off with my Godmother to spend the night at her house. The whys even at 7 were a heavy burden that I have never had answered. My Father had always been the good cop to Mom’s disciplinarian presence and now there was only her. People were cruel. They asked her if she would go on welfare as though she had no other option. My first day back to school a classmate declared my Daddy had shot his head off in our garage, when all I had been told was that he was dead. Anna found out soon that their friends were awkward and distant; the wives feeling like she had designs on their husbands. In reality, in the depth of her grief, she could not have fathomed anyone else, ever. We were suddenly pariahs. People would often promise to visit, we would wait all day and nobody came. We didn’t get invited places. I always loved when there was a new kid at school because they didn’t “know” and I could pretend my Dad was a business man working out of town, or a police officer gunned down on the job. I had many stories. I was so ashamed of having no Dad. We had this unspoken understanding that we only had one another. She recounted to me many years later how I told her people were tired of listening to her sadness, they had moved on and she had to too. It shatters me to think how painful that must have been to hear from her little girl. I was one of those cruel people. Anna took my words to heart. She poured her energy into giving me the life she felt I deserved. She did not take any time for her. I would venture to guess she easily went 5 years without new clothes. She found work in the school system so she could maximize the time we spent together. Mom enrolled me in dancing, skating, music lessons, everything. We took the bus to Stanley Park on Sundays to walk thru the rose garden and feed the birds and the squirrels. I asked her once if she every sought any counselling and her response was telling. She said, “We didn’t have those kind of things then. The doctor prescribed me Valium. I did not like that foggy feeling. I needed my wits about me. If I felt bad I got down and scrubbed the floor and if I was still feeling sad and thinking about things I just scrubbed the floor again.” She still abides by this form of therapy. Her home is spotless. She advised me that it is what you do that matters, talk is cheap. Tragedy did not end with my Father’s death. My Mother remarried a terrible man that took advantage of her naiveté́, stealing both her money and her confidence. We escaped together after 4 years of Hell and she had to start again in her mid-40s. Anna was not about to sit around and dwell. She fought her way back. She worked hard. She took in tenants and never complained. Once again though I managed to hang resentment on her back, this time for making a poor choice of husband and putting us in harm’s way. He was a con man and she a trusting loving soul, the perfect mark. After a childhood cut short, my teen years with an abusive home life, I allowed the anger to boil over into my 20s fuelling it with liquor like gasoline on a fire. My anger, and who I had become, was too much even for Anna and her colossal love for me and she asked to me to leave. Something amazing happened after I left and met the quarter century mark. I was not who I thought I would be, or where I thought I would be yet somehow I unconsciously let it all go. Sometimes you have to burn things to the ground before you can start to build again. Like some biblical revelation I saw Anna’s sacrifices and selflessness and was able to see the differences between her and other Mothers and that changed who I was too. Our next chapter we grew closer even though we did not see each other much. We both found love and our energy poured into our relationships. We were less adversarial and more equal, both happy in our own worlds. We had learned to enjoy life because we knew at any time things could change dramatically and of course they did. We had survived a suicide and an abusive home, so what was left to target us but Cancer. Anna was diagnosed with Non-Hodgkin’s Lymphoma. I would have taken it from her if that was possible. Now I knew the kind of Mother I had been gifted with and had to face the possibility of losing her. She was never the kind of person that could come in to someone’s home and just sit. Anna found herself with barely the strength to climb 2 stairs. When I went with her to the oncologist the doctor explained the seriousness of her condition and Mom responded with, “So I am okay then?” The doctor looked at me in disbelief. I smiled because I knew if she believed she was okay, she would be okay and I told the doctor the same. Anna told the Oncologist she did not have time for this. She has been Cancer-free for 5 years and I cherish every moment. Life is too short to be unhappy. Despite many good years with her partner Anna knew she could no longer stay. Facing death gives you unparalleled clarity. Although she still cared for him she knew she had to go. At 74 she was to begin again. She moved in with me and then found her own place close by and another chapter of our lives began, this time we were closer both in proximity and in our relationship. I tell my husband that if he wants to know what I will be like as I age to take a good look at Anna, and a long listen to her, because she is me and I am her. She is still a force in the last year of her 70s, but I see the difference year by year and so there is an urgency to do as much as possible together. We began the tradition of seeking out travel adventures, big and small. Now I am able to take the lead and plan and she can just relax and enjoy the ride. It is my way of giving back to her all she gave to me. Inevitably we come away with a story or two on every trip: be it how we ended up having drinks with a hustler named “Philippe the Hat,” in a bar in Havana, or dancing at a disco at 2am on a cruise to Alaska. Together we found out that love and joy have no price tag and no expiration date. I appreciate my Mother. I drink too much; I eat too much; I gamble too much; I don’t exercise enough; yet to Anna, I am perfectly imperfect. She makes me want to be a better person because she loves me unconditionally. If she can face all that life has thrown at her at 79 and tell me this is the happiest time in her life, then I can certainly become the best version of myself because talk is cheap. Months ago I saw the preview for "Lion" and earmarked it in my memory bank to see. My Mother went to see it and told me it was beautiful and sad. A couple of poets that I really respect posted on Facebook their recommendations that this was a "must-see" movie. Thursday night I ventured to the small theatre I cherish in my community and I allowed the brilliant Sunny Pawar and Dev Patel to take me on Saroo Brierley's journey to find his home, his family and himself. Spoiler alert, if you haven't seen it and you want to, read no further. My heart ached and my eyes leaked pretty much from the start to the finish of this film. I did not know going in that this was a true story. Dev Patel's portrayal of Saroo reminded me so much of my son. He is handsome, gentle, caring and although his story is much different than my son's, his pain is of a similar nature. I felt this movie deeply.
A pivotal moment comes when Saroo's adoptive Mother informs him that she could have children, she chose to adopt and he had no idea. My son was born in my heart and not my womb. You could see Saroo was conflicted between the love he carried for his birth Mother and the love he had for Sue. He perceived that Sue would be heartbroken if she knew of his search for his Mother in India. I was never certain of having a child, unlike the majority of women that I have encountered. Most women never question if they would or should be a Mother. At times I have regretted that I did not reproduce. Unfortunately because I have voiced that regret it has been subject to misinterpretation. I never for a minute meant that my Son was anything less than EVERYTHING to me. My son, just like Saroo to Sue, was so much more than I ever could have dreamed of, or designed with my own DNA. He is truly amazing. I was talking to him about how people grow and change and commented, "you know how when you are friends with some people that you knew when you were younger, but at your present age if you were to meet them for the first time you likely would not become friends?" His honest answer was, "No Mom. I cannot think of someone I would not be friends with." This is true. I have seen him spend time with people who clearly were undeserving of his time and energy, like people with racist tendencies. I believe he feels that even if he opens a small window for them to consider things in a different way that they were worth the investment of his time. He really makes me stop and think and reexamine my approach to people and life. For all my uncertainty of reproducing I have never regretted being his Mother. It is sometimes a heartbreaking role but more often than not it surpasses my wildest expectations. When I returned home from the movie eyes still red and puffy from the experience I searched on the internet for Saroo Brierley. I had a keen interest in finding the man behind Sunny Pawar and Dev Patel's portrayal. He did not let me down and I watched with a full heart Saroo with both Mothers in photos and videos. I went to sleep with a full heart grateful for my son and to the woman that birthed him. My baby, you are almost 35, and you bring so much beauty to my life.  On Family day, Monday February 13, 2017, I did something I had always wanted to do. I got up on a stage in front of a microphone and read my poetry. Perhaps a small thing for some but at 51 for me it was HUGE.
For the last 20+ years Monday nights at the Cafe Deux Soleils on Commercial Drive in Vancouver, BC, have been dedicated to poetry. It is called a Poetry Slam. There are three parts to the slam: the feature artist, the open mic, and the competition. The first time I attended was probably 9 or so years ago with my Mother. We watched in awe as Shane Kocyzan, a large gentle man recited a beautiful love poem that brought me to tears. My Mom asked me if he was Amish (beard reference, and cute mom reference.) We experienced the late Zaccheus Jackson. His delivery was loud and rapid like machine gun fire, his stature tall and intimidating. He spoke of his life navigating his identity as a First Nations person, his adoption, his addiction and ultimately his arrival to that moment. The whole experience was mesmerizing down to the English girl with the shaved head and bare feet (Jessica Mason Paull) who hopped up on the divider of our booth securing a prime spot to watch the slam. I had to caution my Mom to stay silent about this as we were in their world and not the other way around. It wasn't easy for me to get to the slam often because I worked afternoons and lived in the suburbs, but I almost always was able to get to the finals in April where I was wowed by C.R. Avery, Joaquin Zihuatanejo, Mighty Mike McGee, R.C. Weslowski, Sonya Littlejohn, Jillian Christmas, Sho Wiley, Johnny McRae, Dana I.D. Mathews, Ian Keteku, Tasha Receno and the list goes on. Over time I have attended many performances at the Rio, The Vogue, The Vancouver Playhouse, Wise Hall and of course Cafe Deux Soleils and was inspired by poets. I have gotten to know some of these people very well and they have enriched my life in ways they will never understand. Sonya Littlejohn and Dana I.D. Mathews were in town for feature performances and the lovely Sonya said to me, "I'm just going to put this out there to the universe, I think you should get up on the mic." Honestly my soul shook. What a terrifying and exhilarating idea. Despite writing most of my life and having been published I didn't think of myself as one of them. The poets I watched in awe were the cool kids and I was just glad to share space with them. The Universe whispered, "You can do it." I accepted. After all it was "Family Day" so I would be able to attend, so would my husband Arric, Sonya, Dana and even their little girl Chakra. Yes, it was time to seize the day, feel the fear and do it anyway. The Slam Family, or Slam-ily as they call themselves were so welcoming and encouraging. The incomparable Jillian Christmas, slam master herself, asked if it was okay to take my photo. Really? Was this going to happen? This may have been a small thing for some, but HUGE for me. I took the stage and gave my 2 minutes 15 seconds. There was snapping, applause as I finished and I was grateful to the Universe that Sonya's request had been granted. I was encouraged to return. Someone thanked me for sharing my poem. A dear friend Tammi and her husband Jason came out to support me. I felt that community that the Slam-ily is all about. That night I saw seasoned poets absolutely kill with their pieces. I saw a couple of people choke in the middle of their poem. I saw people also having their first time at the mic. The best part of all of it was the way the Slam-ily cheered for all. When one poet stumbled the crowd didn't jeer in any way, the opposite, with cheers of, "you got this poet." What I came away with that night is that it may be easier, in the words of the multi-talented Dana I.D. Mathews, to take a punch in the face then get on the stage to perform, but it is well-worth the effort. Thank-you Slam-ily, until we slam again... Love, Melody |
