Virginia Woolf had a point . . .

"A woman must have money and a room of her own if she is to write fiction."  I would even go so far as to say she might have stopped her sentence after the word "write", as I have long enjoyed writing memoirs, reviews, journals, critiques and more. In her time, Ms. Woolf and her contemporaries would have had precious little in the way of money or a room of their own, as these were privileges reserved for men alone. Today, women as writers enjoy equal advantages in areas of income and independence, thanks to those foremothers who fought to open the doors. And so I have both. Money, yes. Not vast fortunes, but enough. And a wonderful room . . .

In my lifetime, this room has had life as an office before. My dear friend Lizzy's father, the late Robert W. Healy was a surgeon here in Kentville for many years, and as a small child I passed through this room with its door to the back yard and gardens, mindful of and awed by the large oil portraits on the wall, the entire wall of bookshelves filled with books far beyond the scope of his medical texts, and the large mahogany desk and tufted leather chair. 

When my family moved into this home in 1967, the room had several purposes -- Dad's huge oak office desk was here, piled with all of the paperwork for the multitude of endeavours he had on the go (school board, town council, property developments) as well as all of his veterinary medical books and journals filling the bookcases, along with volumes of fiction, poetry, natural wonders and reference books. Very soon, a television and a long sofa were installed, so my six foot four Dad could grab a quick power nap before going back to work after lunch, or for evening office hours. Of course we all used it to pass through on our way outside, but it was very much his refuge and quiet place. From the huge picture window, he could survey the back yard, his roses and vegetable garden and watch sunsets with satisfaction. It was Dad's den.

After he died in 1983, my mother took over the den, having it repainted and papered, and buying new comfortable furniture more to her own taste. She took down his photos and framed degrees, replacing them with watercolour paintings and more feminine botanical prints. A desk was not a priority for her, but more comfortable chairs and a larger TV were. Why sit in a big open dining room when it's just you and your youngest son? The den became Alice's "nest" and she and Tony probably ate most of their dinners in there until he left for university. Here she did her daily crosswords, watched her soaps and had her tea. Grandchildren played on the floor with Grandma's toys, and I dropped in many days after work with my little one, often being asked to stay for supper.  

When she was so ill with cancer in 1999, this room became her bedroom and day room, with morphine drips and visitors, nurses and flowers. We were mere days from securing a hospital bed to be moved in here when her condition became grave enough to require transfer to Valley Regional. She left this room and never returned home.

And so, the den it remained. Reconfigured, redecorated, rearranged; still, it felt like Mom's place. Over the years after Quin moved out, we used it less and less. We're not big TV watchers and what little we do watch seems to be in our bedroom on the bigger screen set. With its door to the arbour and patio beyond, the room became more of a glorified hallway than a place to land and stay. 
 
From our veranda, cafés with free wifi, the backyard, to the kitchen island, I have done my writing everywhere. Feeling very much the homeless scribbler, about a year ago I embarked on the search for a desk. I didn't want anything bulky or heavy, just a simple surface, preferably real wood, on which to plunk my MacBook and write. I found the perfect piece of furniture with a multitude of possibilities that very day when Julie and I set out to look. Leon's. Good old Leon's. Seems it can be ordered from Amazon, too and several other stores. 

The beauty of it is that it can all fold up into a skinny console table or one leaf can fold out which is perfect for my applications. As shown in the image, both leaves fold out make a great square table for extra dining guests or what have you! Mine is somewhat darker in colour and the crisscrossed legs of the base have a sort of Asian sensibility which you know speaks to me! 

Because there are no drawers, I am forced to store things which might otherwise clutter my desktop in nice lidded boxes which I find for a song at Winners/Homesense and this makes the organizer in me deliriously happy. I change the accessories on the back of the desk as my mood demands . . . currently I have an antique green Remington manual typewriter here.

 Also a small stack of old hardback books with pretty bindings and a scarred painted alarm clock c.1927 with the hands stopped at 7:15. The typewriter and alarm clock were two of my gifts from colleague who quipped that now I would have all the time I wanted to write when I retired. She thrifted these vintage items and probably has no idea that similar ones are listed on Etsy and eBay for upwards of $250 and $70, respectively. I love them and their aged patina. One of my favorite Buddha busts sits on an upended vase for a pedestal.

My 2013 wall calendar for above my work spot is John Lennon's Imagine, with one of his whimsical sketches for each month, and I have to say my next purchase will be a corkboard for some of my favorite collectibles including the holographic Jerry Garcia stamp from Tanzania given to me my beloved audiophile and dear friend, Darrin Michael Harvey.  Once a Deadhead . . .

Yes, there's a couch with tons of comfy cushions and a thick woolly blanket for naps. Bookshelves have been purged some over time, leaving a modest selection of my very favorites and collected travel mementos. TV? Sure, for when the grandkids come and our conversation gets too boring. Music? Not always, but I move my Bose iPod dock from room to room as needed.

My room. From its window I can look out over the snowy landscape today and see black-capped chickadees at the feeder and the sun in the wan winter light slowly sinking. I have a room of my own.  
 

"Intelligence is the wife, imagination is the mistress, memory is the servant." ~ Victor Hugo

I just don't know if I can depend on my memory sometimes.

If this seems to be becoming a recurrent theme, it is because I am experiencing a love affair with the past and all it has given me, but there are moments of crystal recall when no one else other than I am able to verify the memory. Both of my parents have passed, so I can't ask them, "Did this really happen?" Many of my contemporaries have failing memories, too, or didn't attach the importance to a person, place or object that I seem to have. As time passes, I find myself questioning whether my brain has simply implanted situations and images from dreams, books I've read or other people's stories in its convoluted recesses.

At this point there is nothing grave about any of that. I have what most people think is a phenomenal memory, and I am grateful that it has serve me so well for fifty-nine years. I know phone numbers from years ago, even if I haven't dialed them recently. I don't forget birthdays or anniversaries, passwords or codes. I can use King Philip Came Over For Good Soup to remember Linnaean taxonomy and the other tried and true mnemonics for planetary order in the solar system and colours of the spectrum. If you were one of the more than six thousand students I encountered over my thirty-two years of teaching high school, chances are if you give me your last name, I can retrieve your first from the depths.

I am six years old and holding a smooth wooden box with a tiny key on the bottom which when I wind it, sets a brass cylinder in motion. I can see the intricate works through the glass in the box. Tiny teeth on the cylinder pluck teeth on a single metal comb and produce tinkling sounds - a lively waltz. I can read the words on the paper label on the inside of the music box lid –– "Faust Waltz", Gounod. It is only years later when as a teen I am consumed with all things dark that I actually read Faust and understand his relinquishing of his soul to Mephistopheles for "unlimited knowledge and worldly pleasures" that I realize what a strange choice this bit of melody is for a child's music box.

And I know I stood transfixed on the stairs ascending to the second floor of the house where we now live when it was owned by the Healys, examining prints in miniature of 17th century princes and princesses, portraits by Diego Velasquez and his peers, of little children garbed as royal adults in velvets and satin brocades.

I was fascinated by these tiny replicas of queens and kings; babies in rich robes, the Infanta Margarita Teresa, daughter of Philip of Spain. I can see the pewter-coloured frames and the diagonal arrangement Mrs. Healy has made of them as the stairway turns and rises. 













This week, I asked Liz if she remembered what prints were on the stairway. "The Bartletts," she replied. Mind you, she is three years my junior, and may not remember the Velasquezes but it is the miniatures that are indelibly printed in my mind. Yes, the Bartletts came later, pastoral scenes from 1840's Europe and North America. Yes, indeed. I can picture them now that she has provided the information.
































Perhaps memory is not so very fickle as I fear, but rather simply selective. Why don't I just relax, then and let it serve . . .?

Time was all we had . . .

Summer nights are like indelible ink - black, deep blue, forever. I feel carried away by the deepening darkness to other times in my life, always achingly summer.  I can transport myself to places and times long past simply by opening my spirit to the night air, sky and shadows.

In the liquid evening, there are sounds of mothers calling children in from days of hard play, laughter and popsicles. Screen doors slam and it is 1959. My baby brother is four months old, Mark is four, I am going to be six in three weeks. We are plunked into the tub to soak away the sand and grit of beach or sandbox, dried off  and dressed in lightweight seersucker pyjamas and nightgown respectively. One red lifesaver each, a drink; I will my eyes to stay open until it's first star wish time. Rarely do they cooperate.

Lights of all colours, strung from tree to tree come on down the street and laughter rings out from the patio. It is 1965, my twelfth birthday, and all the kids from the block are at the Healy's house. We are all ages, from Robert's age of eighteen down, and there is a record player and 45s for us to dance to. I swear sometimes that Kim Mitchell's song was written about that night - the nervous boys and girls, lemonade or punch to drink, but it's the Righteous Brothers and Billy Joe Royal I remember more than Bobby Vinton's "Blue On Blue". Am I really dancing with a boy to "You've Lost That Lovin' Feelin'"? The night is so warm, my cotton sleeveless dress is damp from fast dances and I'm so self-conscious as Kenny pulls me a little closer and sings along. It's over before I can believe it, and he's off to ask someone else to dance, and I am more relieved than anything.


Tires give a little squeal on the loose gravel before gripping the scorching pavement. That sound lands me in 1970, the year before my grad year from high school. My mother is pregnant at age 38, and I in my teenage mind think she has done this deliberately so I'll have to babysit forever. But sweet freedom is mine for all the summer nights because I have the car and can cruise with friends, or alone which I sometimes prefer. The moon follows all of our roads, windows rolled all the way down, radio turned all the way up. We are all in the same garb, long, center-parted hair, blue jean bell bottoms, t-shirts and water buffalo leather sandals. Seventeen means there's beer at parties and everyone gets high. Almost.

After a brilliant aquapeachgoldpink sunset at the bay shore, the stars come out one by one until the velvet dark sky is studded with a bazillion diamonds. Is it 1988 already? I'm peaceful in my heart, and my five-year old snuggles against me on a blanket beside our car. We are trying to see the shapes of the constellations and this wondrous little person knows many names from books that we have read and charts that we have looked at. "Cassiopoeia, Mommy! And Orion's Belt." We are a pair now, just the two of us, and we're going to be just fine.

A fish jumps just to the right of the dock on a sultry, navy-blue night, and a gentle voice whispers words of love and intimacy beside my ear. In one another's embrace, wrapped in a thick down comforter against the chill of late August's rehearsal for autumn, we kiss, look into each other's eyes and make promises that neither of us is certain we can keep. Our intentions are pure, our passion unquestionable, and I feel safer than I recall feeling, ever, before or since. 

Summer nights feel like all these times rolled together into one beating, grateful heart. My heart.