Thursday, November 30, 2023

Review of Thick Skin: Field Notes From A Sister in the Brotherhood by Hilary Peach

Thick Skin by Hilary Peach


This review was originally commissioned by BC Bookworld for their Spring 2023 edition although it was published in Fall of 2022. It was my pick for "Favourite Memoir of the Year." Published by Anvil Press: 9781772141955  TP  $22.00

This is a wonderful memoir by a remarkable writer and human being about her experiences as a welder and member of the Boilermakers, Iron Ship Builders, Blacksmiths, Forgers and Helpers, Union Local 191. For two decades after completing her training in B.C., Hilary Peach worked mostly as a travel card welder. This meant responding to call-outs for skilled workers urgently needed at big projects like pulp mills, chemical plants, refineries and generating stations elsewhere. Off to Montana, Pennsylvania, Fort McMurray, Port Alice, Chetwynd, Nova Scotia, Prince George and Skookumchuk she went, constantly refining her skill set, learning from the best welders in the trade as well as dealing with the toxic and hazardous ones.

It is not explained exactly how she became interested in welding or learned she had an aptitude for metalwork with good eye-hand co-ordination, not to mention mental and physical toughness, fearlessness when working at dizzying heights or in cramped enclosed spaces. Or how she acquired the endurance needed for working in severe cold or heat for 10-13 hour days for weeks at a stretch. There is no mention of big brothers or a handy Dad with a workshop but her kind and thoughtful mother seemed fully supportive of her endeavours. So was a renowned instructor, Denby Nelson, at the former Malaspina College in Nanaimo who must have recognized a kindred spirit, a renegade artist needing a way to make excellent wages to finance her Gulf Island acreage plans and creative collaborations with other artists.

But when Hilary Peach set out, in her early thirties in the early 2000’s, with her TIG ticket (Tungsten Inert Gas), fully qualified to work as a welder, there were seven women in the approximately seven hundred member local union. Often the only woman working on a site, she was frequently told to “get a thicker skin.” Or, “don’t bleed in the shark pool”. One way to interpret that is to shudder at the number of electrical shocks, molten metal burns and assorted jagged edges which got past the cheap plastic rain gear and size 12 steel-toed gumboots she was issued at the Esquimalt Shipyard at the start of her career. 

The other reading, for any woman working in the trades, is the ability to withstand the verbal hazing, the filthy language and even malicious meddling with the intent to cause failure. From the belligerent foreman who refused to acknowledge she actually was the TIG welder he’d sent for and had her making coffee for three shifts at $90 an hour, to the airport security guard who was convinced she was travelling under her husband’s name, to all the times opportunities were kept hidden in some special men-only need apply vault of information, the self-described 5 foot 4 inch nerd with big glasses met sexist stupidity with unwavering stamina.

Fortunately, for every deeply insecure and mean-spirited individual depicted in this book there are at least a half-dozen decent, well-brought up union brothers who let her know they would back her up if she ever made a complaint. She never did. But several men scuttled off to complain about her! After one such encounter the foreman came over to talk to her about the tool crib attendant’s complaint after she refused to share his sleeping quarters, claiming she’d threatened him. 

“What did you say?” he asked.“I said that given the opportunity, I would stab him in his sleep and make necklaces out of his teeth,” I answered. “Did you?” he asked. “Well, good for you. Carry on.”

In one truly scary instance, the brothers made sure she made it safely to and from her car and everywhere else she walked on the job before they found a way to get a dangerous predator out of camp. In another, when she was recuperating from severe dehydration, she’d find a litre of orange juice or a jug of bottled water outside her hotel room door, left by the guys she worked with after the first aid attendant spread the word. When one or more other women were working on-site, the dynamics changed in a most gratifying way for the better. They made the guys blush.

Fortunately, Hilary Peach is no slouch at defending herself, possessed of a razor-sharp sense of humour. Here’s how she dispensed with a foreman who sidled up to her and whispered in her ear: <br />“If it had been up to me, you’d have been fired weeks ago. This is no place for women.” “If you don’t like your job,” I said, “you can go and work in a flower shop.” I sense an adjective went missing in that last sentence. As Red Seal carpenter and acclaimed poet Kate Braid says in her excellent Foreword, “Thick Skin reveals the challenges of the job, both physical and emotional, but it’s also a love story. It’s about choosing your battles, fitting in, getting along, and it’s a study in sensitivity and toughness.”

 

Sunday, May 21, 2023

Reading for the DTUC Reunion, Nelson, BC, May 20, 2023



I was nervous, clutching a big manila envelope
My “portfolio”, an important-sounding word
For my carefully clipped travel articles &
a 12 page rice paper fable self-published in Kathmandu
for this interview to a writing school
where a famous poet and film-maker sat
& the poet asked after looking at my course list
‘Are you going to take a poetry class?’
& I blurted out, “Oh no!”
“I like a beginning, a middle & an end to things!”
There was a swift exchange of glances.
I exchanged feet.
“I mean I hear voices…”
The whites of the film-maker’s eyes showed
More quick glances, I believe ‘nervous glances’
Would be an accurate adverb & verb combo here
I was to learn excessive use of spritely adverbs
& gluey adjectives were bad things
& that in itself was a good thing to learn
 

So we all got through the interview
Fred & Colin eventually forgave me my gaucherie
& I now read poetry as a mental palate cleanser
A spiritual guide to streamline the language clumps
In my brain, in my tired mental muscles
I now love writing poetry too, yes! it’s true!
Poetry is the best broom to use after well-trodden dusty prose footprints
Making those feet hop to an Alexandrine couplet or two
A minuet for the cliche-ridden fiction writer
Or a Sicilian septet, a Japanese mondo or a Bengali payar
Keeps us paragraph writers on our toes, nimble, you might say

& I would know nothing of these poetic forms
Would never have met so many talented ALIVE people
Until this narrow, green valley in a city with beautiful old buildings
Had it not been for this multi-disciplinary-
This inter-disciplinary arts academy of sorts
This appendage to big universities based elsewhere
& we blossomed with minimal interference
From elsewhere until the boom was lowered January 5, 1984
But let that go.


This is the place where Clark Blaise sighed
& smiled and said, “Well, you’re a writer.”
Which was the first time anyone had ever said that.
He may as well have said, “You have my deepest sympathies.”
But here I wrote like the wind
I wrote a song and young Stephen Fearing sang it with me
I wrote plays and young Nicola Harwood acted in them
I wrote stories and still swap them for first readings
With Jeff George & Paulette Jiles, the best beta-readers ever.
We learned from working writers, our teachers
Where to send these stories & lo, many were published
Stories which became radio broadcasts and another on Bravo TV
Stories which found homes in textbooks & anthologies
Stories which became books, my books
 

When the very word Winnipeg in a story thrilled me
In Grade 11 in Fort St John BC because until then
I had not knowingly encountered a Canadian story except
For David by Earle Birney
In my entire impoverished high school English education  
Never mind that I am not paid for the use of my own words now
In English final exams or Canadian classrooms
Let that go, too, just for now.
I would not know much about any of this, most likely
Had I not come here to unlearn after a social sciences B.A.
& teacher’s certificate from a big university elsewhere
Here was the place & here were the people &
Here we’ve returned to flourish, our poems & plays & paintings & stories
& music & sculptures to nourish
Our creative genes all a-bubble like our hot-springs

So I went back North to address a graduating class
& I said, channelling Clark Blaise perhaps:


If we choose to work at what we love, we will love our work for the rest of our lives with no regrets, learning from our mistakes, accepting them, working smarter, moving forward. That’s my strategy and I’m sticking to it. This is not to say that I don’t wish all of you a steady and substantial income for your talents rather than the minor feast and famine situation I’ve gotten myself into, don’t get me wrong! But if you have to leave your heart at home to earn cold, hard cash in a workplace where you feel unsafe and devalued, where you are paid to do work you find ethically reprehensible, find a way to work with others to organize change for the better, not just for yourself but for everyone else too, especially those more vulnerable than you are. Be open to the possibilities and the choices you have in every situation, always.


 This pinko political stuff made the College principal
Wiggle in his hard chair but that’s okay.
It is not our job to make people comfy & cozy
Except for our bedtime stories.
I blame DTUC for all of this. Thank you all, very, very much!

Thursday, April 27, 2023

Eastend: Farewell Old House



The wind is up today
 northwest again I think
The cable which brings the phone
 or the power, something vital
 clatters against an eavestrough
 sets up an eerie low screech.

When the wind really ramps up
 this old house has its creaks
 and moans and the sound
 of socked feet thumping lightly
 down stairs which aren’t there
 the boy with the quick steps
 I mean, the stairs are here.

It is a friendly house
 there is love here
 good people who take care of it
 & welcome those who dwell here.

So I will miss these prairie sunsets & the Cypress Hills.

Not so the knocking on the upstairs windows
 when Scotty the T-Rex pokes his big nose
 through my bedroom blinds
 just wants to know, the big showboat
 if I wrote about him yet today.

 

 



Tuesday, April 25, 2023

Eastend: On Seeing Whooping Cranes For The First Time

 

 

 

 

                                                    overhead six whooping cranes

                                                                

 

                                                 fly so high 

                                                 endangered 

 

                                                  tough beauties

                                                     determined

Monday, April 24, 2023

Eastend: The Ghosts in our Lives



The pick-up trucks go up or down
a gravel road heading into the Cypress Hills
Ranchers, I assume, all that space 

or to the ghost town of Ravenscrag
which Google tells me has 29 souls

When I leave here I want to drive there
on that winding gravel road to see that place

like the Walhachin Valley in B.C.
where upper-class English immigrants built wooden flumes
to water their orchards in the semi-desert
and played polo and enjoyed elaborate teas
before the men marched off to the Great War
and some, not all, were slaughtered in France
 

 A myth abides but most returned to the Walhachin
but abandoned it by 1922 

It now has a population of 31
some wooden flumes remain
high up on the hillsides if you look
and know what you are looking at 


 

 



Saturday, April 22, 2023

Eastend: Some Are More Temporary Than Others

Some of us leave this earth 

   better than we found it 

Some of us go far afield 

   from the place where we were born 

Some of us leave monuments 

   charging into war on bronze horses 

Some of us leave this world 

   and the world is better for our loss

Some of us leave books and songs 

   which chime in hearts and minds forever 

Some of us leave grateful children 

   to sing our praises until they go too

Some of us spend our days quietly

  shielding our young just surviving

 



 

Thursday, April 20, 2023

Eastend: New Moon

 
Woke at 4:55 a.m.
Starting reading a mystery on my phone
Until 6 a.m.
Decided life is too short
For gruesome occult thrillers
Even well-written ones and sent it back
To the library from whence it came
Partly-read but as with coffee, tea and wine
True love, bread, cheese and books
Loyal friends, kind strangers and ice-cream
Life is too short for pale artificial imitations
Of the real deal
Accept no substitutions
Forge on for quality, inside and out

Up high the New Moon means
It’s dark, yes, but also the time to start
New projects, indoor tomatoes, a poem

Wednesday, April 19, 2023

Eastend: These Trees That Dance

 
My neighbour’s beautiful many-branched birch
-a European weeping birch I do believe-
A most graceful, tall and swaying tree
A contrast to the massive spruce near by
festooned with cones, a bumper crop
beloved by Bohemian waxwings and robins too
who perch at the very top

These two tall trees stand in two backyards
Companions, coniferous, deciduous
Friends despite needles, or not
the birch holds its leaves in a tight grasp
against today’s relentless snow
Black spots, there are a few, broken branches too
They matter not, the trees stand and sway
Buffer and shade and offer shelter

Some of us humans could take lessons
observing these trees

 




Monday, April 17, 2023

Eastend: Dry Ground At Last



three boys walk down the alley
the sun glints off the baseball bat
their gloves and surely someone
has the softball for this first game
of Five Hundred or just a casual hit and catch

women friends walk their dogs and confide
while their hounds revert to wolves
sniffing for any trace of intruders
left on dried grass and tree trunks

thinking then about the first dry patch of dirt
outside Transpine School in the Peace
how we’d etch out hopscotch squares
decide our categories- mostly breeds of cattle
horses chickens even pigs
the names repeated twice before each hop
a stone on every square after all had hopped safely
one-legged wonders celebrating Spring

today I wore my running shoes for the first time
my own light-footed celebration of dry ground

Saturday, April 15, 2023

Eastend: Spring Run-Off


The water is trickling every which way

Finding old paths, pouring down hills


Blasting through snowbanks heaped at the base


Spooling through culverts below the farm driveways


Seeping past tree roots still frozen but thawing


Steeping the waters like good strong tea

Down in the valley the river is rushing

Released from the wintery grip of the freeze-up

Now it is shoving the bergs and the blocks

And the still-massive shelves of thick river ice

Pushing the chunks like a child plays with sailboats

The bathtub his ocean where boats go to sea 










Friday, April 14, 2023

Eastend: Writing Like a Spring Unsprung




Looking ahead I am realistic
Five more good years
Maybe ten or even fifteen
Or two.

It does not help to speculate
It does not help to bargain
The question would always be
Who with?

If ever there is a time to live
In the moment, carpe diem
It is here and it is now
I’m on it!




Thursday, April 13, 2023

Remembering Molly Brown the Unsinkable Lighthouse Dog

 Here’s something a little different today because my camera and I cannot do justice to the large snow flakes drifting down today, April 13th, in Eastend, Saskatchewan. It’s actually very beautiful but my photos make it merely grey. That will never do.

So while looking through a notebook where I’ve kept writing ideas, rough drafts and random notes over the years, I came across a poem I wrote in 2010 for our new young pup, the unsinkable Molly Brown. It made me laugh and I hope, come rain, snow or shine wherever you are, it will make you laugh at our little lighthouse minx as well! 

We miss her still.

 

The Flirtatious Bodacious Ms. Molly Brown

Our new pup is like certain Grade 9 girls I recall
She loses her mind at the sight of men
She wiggles and giggles and trots after them all
Men in tool belts, oh my my
Men on ladders balancing paint cans
Men landing on our helicopter pad
Men, weary, with coffee mugs in hand
Men urgently speaking into radio-phones
Men with lethal machines to run
Oh, men, men, men!
Molly Brown swoons at the merest whiff
Of diesel, shaving cream, bacon, Players tobacco
Manly men-of-action aromas
We, her people, are just chopped liver, dull fare

It’s time to graduate, Ms. Brown
Time to saunter past the men, aloof
Time to make them drool first, not you
Time to emulate The Cat.


Wednesday, April 12, 2023

Eastend: The Deer Are Limping

Three deer are limping today
On the village streets
One walks on just three legs
The casualties of vehicles no doubt
Some trucks do like to roar
Down these quiet yet never quite empty streets

A lone birdwatcher with binoculars
Hopes for a new bird, a migrant
But finds only raucous starlings today
And one small deer down beside an old house

The deer is dead, and very recently
Its eyes glazing over
In front of this small empty house on Main Street
She makes a note to call the village office
Best to move it soon, before warm weather

Tuesday, April 11, 2023

Eastend: From the Cemetery POV

 From up here in the long steep hills to the west
The village is tucked out of sight, mostly
A few tall roofs and some trees are all
The eye can see and elsewhere it’s more hills
Cypress Hills, the start or the end of them
Depending on your point of view

There’s just me and the gophers here today
They gave squeaky airy hoots
To warn their buddies of my arrival
They’ve certainly taken over the place
The gophers in the graveyard
The deer in the village but it’s all nature’s way

We lived, we gave birth, we loved, we suffered
We are beloved or at peace or silent on the matter
Some of us remain a mystery, reticent with details
We are a name with a date of birth, another for death
One, I was pleased to see, laughed often & loved much
And one other, a rancher is far-seeing...

 




 

Monday, April 10, 2023

Review of The Piano Teacher by Dorothy Dittrich & Notes on Book Reviewing

Review of The Piano Teacher, a play script
By Dorothy Dittrich
Published by Talonbooks, 2022: 9781772014020

An edited version of this review appeared in the Spring 2023 BC Bookworld. It has been my pleasure to write reviews of books in nearly all genres for this indispensable book review quarterly magazine since 2013. I hope to continue for another decade or even two. I plan to keep writing books and poems and reviews until I pop my clogs or lose my marbles, whichever comes first.

When I am offered a book or a choice of books to review by the BCBW publisher, my rules are as follows: #1 I won't review books I don't like at all. Life is too short for petty wars of words. I don't need the aggro, as the Brits say, and writing is too personal and too difficult to have yet another reviewer vent their egos and/or spleens on a book that may have taken eight years to write and another five years to find a publisher. (Or is it just me who takes that long? Anyway, I'm always on the side of the writer.) I don't hold with the slash and burn, or the passive-aggressive non-stop quibbling schools of nasty reviews and to the naysayer who sneered and said I was merely writing book reports, well, I'm still reading amazing books by much more talented and generous writers than yourself and getting paid for it quite nicely, thank you! Happily, I've received the most appreciative thank you notes from some of those very talented authors who so deserved to have a light shone on their contributions and I treasure these notes. With the perilous state of all print media these days, a review in BCBW may be the only printed, hard copy review some books, who deserve much, much more attention nationally, ever get.

Fortunately there are so many very good and absolutely great writers in B.C. that I have yet to turn down a book offered to me for review purposes except for #2, I won't review books written by close friends because it is a professional magazine and I am paid because I am an objective professional writer. When I know too much about the struggle to write and complete a certain book, when I have commiserated and cheered on the author, well, I cannot write a balanced review after all that. Still, I try to make the time to praise the books of my friends and acquaintances, as far too many of them are writers, a smart and funny tribe to hang out with. I'm not going to ignore them because I do try to read their books of course. So I'll gladly put in a good word for free on Goodreads or in other social media like this blog. It's the least we can do, as writers and readers, to spread the word about really good books. If I don't praise them, well, see #1. You may have written a slightly dull book this time out. Or, more likely, I was too busy trying to finish my own book or swamped by a million other tasks which distract me from my own writing. And finally, #3, I don't pick or lobby for any of the books I get paid to review in BC Bookworld. That's the publisher's job, to assign books to the many good reviewers she already has on standby. She knows I'll review books about gardening, hockey, hi-lo vocabulary, travel, short stories (my favourite genre), novels (second favourite especially mysteries, my brain candy of choice), BC history (tied for second favourite), all kinds of memoirs, growing mushrooms, you name it. Other much more clever reviewers can tackle landscape architecture, cerebral poetry and the autobiographies of business tycoons.

Forthwith, a new genre for me: a playscript from the venerable B.C. publisher, Talonbooks, always pushing the edges, always publishing interesting, innovative and downright edgy writing. Oh, and that's #4, I don't write reviews for books by publishers when I'm under contract and working on my own book with that publisher. That's called the appearance of conflict of interest, a pretty obvious no-no I would think, buttering up your own publisher's new crop of books for possible future personal benefit. I'm spelling all this out because I've been asked about reviewing over the years, and have been lobbied a fair bit by hopeful authors and so on, which I've tried to gently deflect. I've also learned a lot because I read lots of book reviews and have done so for many years. My list of do's and don'ts aka basic professional standards for myself comes from seeing some mighty egregious mutual back-scratching and old buddy championing as well as being inspired by brilliantly incisive and expansive book reviews. I refuse to be cynical about books and the whole ecology of publishing. It's a tough business to be in. Now, here is another brilliant writer whom, like the authors of 98% of the books I've reviewed, I have yet to have the pleasure of meeting!

Winner of the 2022 Governor-General’s Award for Best Canadian play script and the Jessie Richardson Award for Outstanding Original Script as well, The Piano Teacher is Dorothy Dittrich’s fifth script for the stage. Reading it is a master class experience for writers at any stage who write in any genre. Pitch perfect and powerful writing.

I was not in the right place at the right time to see this two act play on stage for its debut but after reading the script in book form, published by Talonbooks, I certainly hope other theatre companies will choose to mount it so I can plan to attend. Dittrich is a Vancouver-based musician and writer, a composer, playwright, sound designer and musical director. Her play for three actors comes with such specific musical notes that I sought out certain compositions by Haydn, as played by the Beaux Arts Trio and revisited Aaron Copland’s Appalachian Spring by the New York Philharmonic Orchestra just to hear the desired musical ambience. I could well imagine the beautiful musical pieces swirling out to an audience from amidst the 3-D presence of the players on the stage.

Do not skip over the illuminating Foreword by Yvette Nolan, who directed the first production of The Piano Teacher at the BMO Theatre Centre in Vancouver, produced by the Arts Club Theatre Company. Or the equally compelling and nuanced Introduction by dramaturge Rachel Ditor. They understand Dittrich’s clean, clear melody through Elaine’s voice, the pauses and hesitant harmonies as Erin is introduced, and the bounce and energy of Tom’s lines. They understand grief and healing and joyful release, and why this play is dedicated by the playwright: For all those who have worked through a difficult passage.

The essential plot emanates from a tragedy, slowly revealed, as experienced by Erin, a classical pianist who has been unable to play for two years. The classical music quintet she used to perform with is waiting for her to recover and so is a major orchestra touring opportunity but she is blocked, overwhelmed by the loss of her husband and son. This is compounded by the fundamental loss of her own musical means of expression. Think of a painter who cannot imagine what to do with colours anymore or a sculptor whose world view has gone flat, and stays that way. A psychiatrist and another counsellor have not worked for her. Then, she attends a student recital and meets Elaine, an unconventional piano teacher who gives her hope for a breakthrough. As Elaine gently reacquaints Erin with the piano, I was reminded of other kind and skilled people among us who work with traumatized children as art therapists and with the ‘whisperers’ who work with abused horses, who rebuild relationships based on trust by patiently overcoming fear.

We witness the relationship between student and teacher blossom into a true friendship and then, as any perceptive teacher well knows, the roles can reverse with gifted pupils and the concepts of teacher and student flow back and forth. For Elaine, ever optimistic, kind, and generous, is coping with decades of her own repressed sadness, and no small amount of physical pain. She reminds herself, several times, that Oscar Peterson had arthritis in his hands but he didn’t let that stop him from becoming one of the world’s most accomplished pianists.

Those of us who sing in choirs know how much better we feel in mind, body and spirit after a rousing rehearsal we’ve dragged ourselves to on a cold and damp night. Some of us were lucky enough to grow up in a house with a piano and other instruments, to learn to read music by taking lessons and to become lifelong musicians, amateur or professional. Next up on the stage is Tom, a skilled carpenter whom Erin has hired to build a window beside a large and dark stairwell landing, a spot in her house she considers wasted space.

Tom comes from a working class family and his love of old tunes like “Stardust” and “My Buddy” was instilled by listening to his grandpa sing along to the radio in his truck as they picked up lumber and did other building trade errands. Music lessons were unaffordable but music appreciation was a joyful given every day along with the love of solving design problems and working with wood. Tom confides to Erin, whom he does not know is a fairly famous pianist with recordings to her credit, that he would love to take piano lessons some day like she does.

The power of music to heal, to overcome pain and to restore joy and love in our lives is honoured by this remarkable work. Given that a musical written by Dorothy Dittrich, When We Were Singing, has toured Canada and the United States, I wish for even more exposure and success for The Piano Teacher.

Sunday, April 9, 2023

Eastend: About The Deer

 
 


 

You can’t help but see them all
The deer who are here
Promenading down the alley
Drinking from the small seasonal lake
Beside the grain elevator
In two’s or three’s or herds of a dozen
Prancing down the avenues
Browsing the lilac hedges
Around small empty houses
Tracks crossing the Frenchman River
Where the ice still holds fast

We live here only on sufferance
In the unceded territory of The Deer

 


 

 

 

Saturday, April 8, 2023

Eastend: Out-Of-Towner

It could be the red beret
Sensible wool but pretty bright
It complements my Stewart tartan scarf
Guys driving mud-encrusted pick-ups
Do the classic double-take
It could be because I’m the only adult
Walking, not driving this wide main street
Or maybe it’s just obvious
A stranger in a village of five hundred souls

The friendly woman in the grocery store
Asks me outright: Are you the new Stegner lady?
I allow that I am
She beams at me and asks me what I’m working on
I reel off book review short story maybe finish a novel

She’s not artistic she says
When I ask if she’s a member of the Arts Council
But her co-worker defends her
Reminds her she decorated the whole store for Christmas
We all smile and the young man behind the till says
He used to eat crayons so they called him artistic too
We all laugh and I head out with my groceries
Ponder how lifting the spirits with colours with words
Spreads joy however we do it
With the tools we have at our disposal
Or spend a lifetime refining

Friday, April 7, 2023

Eastend Saskatchewan: Take One

 April is Poetry Month, among other good causes, and although I'm late in contributing, I am finally settled in at the Wallace Stegner House in Eastend, Saskatchewan and have set myself the happy task of writing a poem a day. It's a very good way to 'shake the language loose' and to push myself, when stuck on long-term large writing projects, to write something new every single day. It's what makes the wonderful opportunity to do a month-long residency here so valuable to writers and artists, the chance to shake up our routines, push ourselves out of our comfort zones and tackle new projects in this upstairs study with a west-facing view at the edge of town. The amazing arts council (Eastend has a population of about 500 souls) maintains and administrates the Stegner House, after buying it in 1988 and restoring the interior and exterior to the original plans. Residencies have been offered since 1990.  

Eastend Saskatchewan: Take One

Today I walked three short blocks
Mostly on sidewalks
Hopping over the abundance of deer poop
Avoiding thick crusted ice packs
The murky puddles and snowbanks
Good thing I wore hiking boots
My down jacket and plaid wool scarf
Sunglasses and my red beret

It was -17 yesterday morning
A blizzard the day I arrived
So I stayed inside this 1916 wood frame house
With a view of prairie sunsets glowing
Like incandescent nectarine juice flowing
Over the snowy Cypress Hills
A westward view I’d call sublime
From the windows of this upstairs study
I cranked up the heat a few degrees
Added more layers of down and wool
Read and wrote and thought and cooked and slept

But today I walked to the school
Gave my Fear & Imagination talk
Complete with mohair tarantula computer mouse and rubber snake
To my K-3 audience who were learning
The difference between a comment
And a question and mercifully the librarian
Had twenty-five years of experience
As a wrangler of unfiltered off-topic
Needy delightful and/or distracting behaviours
 

I read my two picture books and showed the rest
They all sang Twinkle Twinkle Little Star so sweetly with me
Fielded comments about holidays and brothers and ticks
Did my best to answer good questions
About how to make books with hardcover bindings
And about how long it took to write books (True answer: my whole life)
Then the inevitable question forever in the arsenal
Of my K-3 fan base
“How old are you?”








Monday, February 20, 2023

 Star Eaters
By Brooke Carter
Orca Book Publishers: February 2023 release
PB-9781459834675
e-book-9781459834699
Image result for "Star Eaters Brooke Carter"
Originally published in the Winter 2023 BC Bookworld quarterly magazine.


Orca Book Publishers, based in Victoria, B.C., has had great success over the past two decades with specialized series of books written for teens in the hi-lo (high interest, low vocabulary) category. Orca has attracted renowned writers in other genres to contribute to their trail-blazing literacy line-up like Gail Anderson-Dargatz, Marty Chan, Carrie Mac, Mahtab Narsimham, Eric Walters and Pam Withers. Wilderness adventures, sports, LGBTQ+, romance, fantasy, horror and lots of mysteries pique the diverse reading interests of 12-16 year olds as they strive to make sense of written English — and, bonus, some are translated to French as well.  

Star Eaters, by acclaimed author Brooke Carter, is a novel written for what is likely the most challenging new series, Orca Anchor, developed for teens with a reading level below or at Grade 2. The publisher has integrated design and production features to make reading even more accessible: dyslexic-friendly fonts (typefaces), cream-coloured paper, and a larger page size with wider margins and thus, fewer words per line. Carter’s novel is action-packed yet thoughtful, as it considers the ethics of blindly following orders and thereby causing mortal damage to other species and entire environments. Destin is a young man on a solo space mission to raid the energy sources of other planets. He is alone with his orders from his “owners”, the IRIS Corps, and his own thoughts, which are informed by an illicit cache of books a previous pilot had left onboard. This discovery enriches his mind and elevates the concepts and language of the narrative through Destin’s point of view.

“What world, what kingdom, what shores? Words floated in his mind. They were bits and pieces of old books he’d read.”

The IRIS Corps, predictably, want their young Raiders to stick to training manuals and star maps and do not allow them to read “old books”. Even though this novel is set in the somewhat distant future, the fear of information from other sources and even ancient knowledge still lingers in the minds of those in power. Destin thinks he’s lucky in this regard because he is a solo pilot and no one else, or so he thinks, can discover his contraband stash of books or prevent him from setting foot on another planet if his screen goes blank from time to time. So he is lured by the green of the trees and the blue of real water and the warmth from the only small sun this “pretty planet” orbits…the sun he is supposed to steal with his spacecraft’s energy catcher. Destin loathes his job title: Raider.

He hesitates to follow this order because it will condemn a beautiful place to a sun-deprived death. But he is threatened by his Commander with the loss of his job and with being returned to the massive, dismal orphanage for war orphans from whence he came. Could things get any worse? Why, yes, he has a stowaway on board from the very planet he has just raided! A young woman with golden eyes, desperate to save her home, slipped into his spacecraft while he was looking at the way sunlight danced on the leaves and water.

What teen reader in 2023 is not familiar with war after war in this world? Or of thousands of children being separated, forcibly in most cases, from their parents and put into institutions to wait for adults to free them? Who has not heard of people desperately trying to save their own environment, whether a river valley, mountainside, prairie grassland, polluted lake or entire ocean. People being dehumanized is the age-old strategy of war-mongers and the destruction of other species and their habitats for the sake of profit continually haunt contemporary headlines.

Hence the high interest factor of this superbly written book for teens which pits Destin’s empathy for someone fiercely protective of her homeland against the insatiable need for energy by those in control who falsely declared her planet “uninhabited”. Now Destin is faced with the ultimate decision of his young life.

Award-winning writer Brooke Carter has contributed a timely and thoughtful tale, a social and political allegory and a beautifully depicted budding romance amidst hellish life or death circumstances…at a Grade 2 vocabulary level. It is no small literary feat to investigate the possibilities for the human condition in the future, which any reader would find engaging and pertinent to Planet Earth.

 Review of Chasing Africa: Fear Won’t Find Me Here -A Memoir
By Lisa Duncan
Published by Rocky Mountain Books (October 2022)
9781771605816-trade paperback   Also available as an e-book.

 

Originally published in the Fall 2022 BC Bookworld magazine.



Lisa Duncan’s memoir shows us the lifelong value of the Grand Adventure we chose when we were young. Our travels can be our escape hatches, our tickets to places where we can be whoever we want to be in the company of strangers. Like Duncan, we’ll learn lessons, harsh and hurtful as well as gloriously life-affirming,  lessons we have the rest of our lives to comprehend and to write about, if we so choose. If life favours us with good health, we may travel again. We’ll know what to pack and we’ll learn what emotional baggage to leave behind too.

 As readers, we can be grateful to have had armchair African adventures along with Duncan’s 24 year old self in 1996 but also, we’ll have been spared her difficult family history. What are the odds, in a family of six, for one member, the father, being diagnosed with Parkinson’s disease in his late fifties and another, a brother in his early twenties learning he has primary progressive multiple sclerosis? There is no known genetic link between these diseases and the father, an angry man, suffers from depression too. The author’s mother, a Dutch immigrant and briefly a free spirit in her own youth, became a a devoted caregiver to both men while in her early sixties.

Youngest-born of the four siblings, the author knew she wanted to travel so, with her mother’s blessing, she flew to Japan to study the language for a year when she was only seventeen. Among other jobs, she worked as a bilingual clerk at Vancouver Airport’s foreign exchange wicket. She attended UBC to study art history for her bachelor’s degree which her father, unable to further his own post-secondary education, scoffed at. But Duncan inherited her mother’s talent with languages as well as a strong and healthy body. She went on to teach Japanese as a second language and also visual arts history for several decades before earning her Masters in environmental education.

Where her life became most sadly conflicted was when she discovered rock climbing. She could not bear to share her passion for being outdoors and up high in the mountains with her brother and her father trapped in their deteriorating bodies or her mother trapped in the never-ending work as their care-giver. Guilt and self-censorship kicked in, guilt for having that strong and healthy body and an increasingly independent mind.

The maternal Dutch side of her family had settled on four different continents, one of which was Africa. Her long-standing dream of travelling to Africa took hold as a child, twirling the  globe to find her far-flung cousins. She began saving for her dream trip and she had the confidence to travel solo after her Japanese experience, and knowing she would meet her family in Johannesburg to begin with. She pored over guide books in the pre-Google era and carefully picked her must-see and-do destinations given her time frame, three and a half months, and a backpacker’s budget.

Lisa Duncan writes like a painter and brings her trained eye to every landscape, looking down at the view from her airplane window of the Zambezi River gleaming far below or up at the red dunes of Namibia in the early morning sun. She kept a travel diary and brings a charged immediacy to all the sights, smells, and sounds as she takes us with her in a cramped Volkswagen with no air-conditioning in 40 C heat. Or on the same Zambezi River in an inflatable kayak, having water fights with her fellow paddlers while keeping an eye out for lethal hippos and crocodiles. She loves meeting people and exploring the land and water, the spice-scented roads of Zanzibar or swimming across Lake Malawi to another island -and sensibly taking a boat ride back again.

The serendipity of backpacker travel, those magical moments which stay in the mind’s eye forever, are wonderfully presented here. Singing ‘You Are My Sunshine’ and ‘My Bonnie Lies Over the Ocean’ to children while waiting hours for a bus to arrive is just one such moment. Yes, of course there are the skilled pickpockets, the romantic infatuations, the dysentery (a guaranteed romance killer), and the frustrations of dealing with bureaucracies but also the sheer happiness of meeting kind and generous locals and fellow travellers.

Even if your own mind and body no longer tolerate overnight twelve hour bus rides or long hikes down unlit roads to find a campground in the pouring rain, you can still enjoy the thrills of intrepid and thoughtful adventurers like Lisa Duncan.

Lisa Duncan now lives with her family in Squamish where she loves to hike, cycle, paddle and write. She has travelled widely, often on long-distance bicycle adventures.