I was sad to read of the passing of Dorothy Gilman. I was entranced by her wonderful writing: Caravan ( a mystical mystery) The Tightrope Walker (funny and frightening all at the same time) Incident at Batyama (magical and exotic) and A Nun in the Closet (extremely funny with spiritual overtones, natch). Although I enjoyed her Mrs. Polifax series, especially because of the middle-aged, very proper heroine, her stand alones inspired me more.

I always wished I could have met her. I looked at her photo and felt she was so extraordinary, so possessed of gifts and powers that made the world a better place. Her writing was positive, inspiring, and often, very funny.

Wherever you are, Ms. Gilman, I raise a glass to you in homage.

Linda

Just a few more sleeps until I can see One For the Money. I am a huge Janet Evanovich fan and am eager to see what the production team and actors have done with her first book. I have watched the trailer a zillion times. Well, okay, maybe not a zillion. Maybe more like fifteen.

I think I will find the movie delightful. I like Ms. Heigl as Stephanie, and the actors playing Ranger and Morelli, both of whom I recognize from other gigs. Who would have thought that the designer in The Devil Wears Prada would end up as macho Ranger? And the serial killer in The Closer (he was brilliant) as Morelli?

I was a little taken aback by Debbie Reynolds as Grandma Mazur, as I recall Grandma being described as looking like a scrawny chicken. Ms. Reynolds, delightful to watch and a screen icon, is amazingly glamorous and healthy looking. But what the hey, I’ll watch the movie and probably love her, too.

Linda

These days, I think many of us are overwhelmed by challenges: financial, creative, personal, professional. There’s something in the air.
Even though I wouldn’t go as far as to print t-shirts ordering us to ‘Get Back on Board’, I sort of enjoy the concept of reminding people that we are all in this together, and that the more we help each other, the better we are. And the better the world we live in.

So I sing the praises of the author who encouraged me to explore a new market, of the friend who invited me to promote my jewellery collection at her next party for women entrepreneurs, the cousin(s) who remembered my mother’s birthday, and the friend who offered to foot the bill for an unexpected expense. (I turned her down, because I can handle it, but I am still deeply touched.)

This is what makes a better world, and hey, you are all going to end up in a book celebrating this! This is what writers do, we find something in every day that we can turn into words.
Linda

Probably most cities have a co-op store. I shop frequently at my local co-op grocery store, for myriad reasons. The store stocks stewing hens at a great price. (Have you ever wandered fruitlessly around a city, looking for stewing hens, to cure your nearest and dearest of a vicious cold or flu, only to turn up empty handed? I tell you, hie thee to the Co-op.)
I love trout, but can never find it. There it is, beautiful, coral, gleaming, fresh, at the Co-op. I usually hum a few strains of The Trout (Schubert, I think) as I trot down the aisle, cradling it in my arms, already imagining how it will be transformed into a glorious meal, after dashes of olive oil and kosher salt.
I know it sounds crazy, but there are fewer crabby shoppers at the Co-op than at other stores. Maybe it is because the staff is happier? Or the customers are happier? I can only say I am am happier when people aren’t ramming their shopping carts into me and then cursing at me as if it were my fault, while flinging bags of frozen veggies around like soccer balls. I want shopping to be a swift and easy experience, not a gauntlet. I am grateful for the relative serenity of the Co-op.
And last, but not least, I love the Co-op, because every time I am fondling a piece of trout or salmon, I am just ten feet away from a rack with a display of history books, which includes – YES! – my first book, Rebel Women: Achievements Beyond the Ordinary.
Of course, I am totally cool about it. I don’t stand in front of the rack for more than a few minutes. But sometimes, I shamelessly accost strangers with beef briskets in their hands, and point at the book, and say, “I wrote that! It is a Canadian bestseller!”
I wish I could report that they then proceed to fall about in 25 different directions, totally impressed. Instead, they usually back away from me, very carefully. However, sometimes, I have actually run across a person who doesn’t think I am a lunatic or impostor, who gets me to sign the book, and then buys it, bless them! Is this a great life or what?
Onward to my next shopping trip,
Linda

Many of us begin the New Year with positive thoughts about our past and hopes for your future. Who drifted into my thoughts yesterday? My beloved high school French teacher, Mlle. Dorothy Hawley.

She looked a little like Lilian Gish. She was elegant and positive and dreamy in many ways. She taught the little philistines at Viscount Bennett High School the French language by singing us through it. The only reason I can conjugate or compose some sentences in French is by remembering, to the tune of John Donne, “Je me suis couche! Me suis couche! Je me suis couche! Me suis couche! Je me suis couche! Je ne me suis pas couche! Passe compose de verbes comme de coucher!”
We sang our little hearts out while she conducted. Maybe some of the boys felt a little silly, but we sure learned our French grammar, spelling mistakes above, aside.

I am grateful to Mlle. Hawley for her joy in the unexpected and the original. While other teachers might quash the eccentric and artistic imagination in somebody like me, she gave every impression of delighting in the unusual voice and child who essayed creative expression.

In retrospect, I might not have survived high school without her. How I regret taking a pass on the last high school reunion, not wanting to see the butch girls who had beaten me up on the basketball court, or the trashy gals who ridiculed me in the hallways (gee whiz, just because I was what was known as A Brain, go figure ….) Only after the fact, did I hear that my beloved Mlle. Hawley was at the reunion. How I wish I had attended and told her what she meant to me.

I went to her funeral a few years ago and cried like a baby.

If I am an artist and a writer, it is because of Mlle. Hawley and her wild, creative, feminine, courageous spirit.

Happy New Year! As they say, if you can read this, thank a teacher!

Linda