Tuesday, February 23, 2016

LIVING IN A SMALL TOWN by Victoria Chatham






I’ve been fortunate, or unfortunate, depending on your point of view, to have lived in many places from an Welsh villages, to English towns. As an army family we were constantly on the move when I was a child, mostly finding that the moment we caught up with my father he was posted on – again. My most settled period was when my children were small I spent twelve whole years in one place.

For the last nearly two years I’ve been living in a small Alberta town and have to say I’m loving it. Oh, there’s times when I miss the amenities of Calgary city life, especially the ease of meeting friends for coffee or supper or go off to the movies on a whim. 

What I don’t miss is the rush and noise and especially the traffic. No, my current home suits me very well.
The train track runs through the middle of town, the trains themselves announce their approach with a long, wailing horn as evocative a sound as loons on a lake at twilight. However, there are times, depending on the weather conditions when that train sounds as if it is coming right through the house. The rumble of the wheels on the tracks echoes through the evening only to be blown away by the constant wind. And that wind takes some getting used to.

Trees line both the main and side streets with their well-maintained older homes. Traffic is at a minimum. The most I have seen at one time is eight cars at the four-way stop. Voila! Rush hour. Even my go-faster foot seems to have slowed down by its own volition and keeping within the speed limit is now no longer a problem. I am no longer in a rush to get anywhere. I like that I can walk where I want to without the crush of pedestrians around me. I like the space and time I have to think while I walk, which inevitably leads to more rounds of writing when I get home.


I like that I have been here long enough to get to know some of the residents. It's a pleasure to stop and take the time for a real conversation whether it's with the lady who operates the candy store or the staff in the local Co-op or the florists.

I like supporting local businesses who don't charge an arm and a leg for the services they provide. I like be and I love the humor to be found, especially the sign in one shop window: DOORBELL BROKEN. YELL DINGDONG REALLY LOUD.

I’m thankful for a clear sky and far-seeing view. I’m thankful for my peaceful surroundings and the opportunity to become, for a while, a human being rather than a human doing.




Check out Victoria's books on


Monday, February 22, 2016

Books We Love's Tantalizing Talent ~ Author Ann Herrick




People often ask why I started writing. The answer is that I had parents who read to me. That's where I got my love of reading, and my love of reading led to a desire to write.
            My first attempt at writing came when I was eleven years old. I was very much into horses then and decided to write a book about a girl who rides in the Kentucky Derby. This was ages before women jockeys, but that didn’t stop me. What did stop me was, in the pre-computer, pre-eBook age, thinking that I had to actually physically make the book as well as write it. I couldn't figure out how to hold the pages together (I tried gluing—didn't work), so I gave up.
            Fast forward to the age of fourteen. I had an idea for a book set in Wyoming in the 1800s, because Wyoming was the first state to give women the right to vote (detecting a theme here?). But when I was doing some research at the library, a boy I knew asked what I was doing. I didn't really answer, but he guessed that I was writing a book and he smirked. Unfortunately, I let that deter me from finishing that book.
            In high school I got the impression that one had to be a cross between Jane Austen and Charles Dickens in order to be an author. So I put the whole idea of writing on the back burner.
            Years later I met my friend Pat. One day she mentioned that she was going to a writers meeting. I said that I had always thought about writing, so she insisted I go to the meeting with her. I went, and learned a lot. When Pat invited me to a second meeting, I decided at the last minute that I should have some writing of my own to share and sat down and banged out a couple of paragraphs of what I hoped would be a picture book on our old typewriter. I started writing then, and haven't stopped since.
            My first success was with greeting-card copy, and then short stories. I felt I was really getting somewhere when I sold a short story to 'Teen Magazine.
            What got me started writing Young Adult (mostly) Romance novels was my daughter's interest in the First Love Silhouette and Sweet Dreams books. I picked one up and read it. I really liked it and thought, "I could write a book like this." I based my first book on a short story that I had started. That book never sold, but I got good comments from editors about it. I knew editors were super-busy people who did not write a comment on a manuscript casually, so that kept me going until the day I got "the call" that an editor wanted to buy my book!



My Books:
The Next Great Rock Star!
Also Known as Lard Butt
The Farewell Season
My Fake Summer Boyfriend
Life, Love, and Surviving High School
It's All in Your Mind
The Perfect Guy
All's Fair in Love and Words
Hey, Nobody's Perfect
How to Survive a Summer Romance (Or Two)
Snowed In Together
The Real Me
Trading Faces

Boxed Sets (each set has 3 novels):
First Loves
Seasons of Love
Perfect Love


Genres: Young Adult Romance and/or Contemporary
              Middle Grade Contemporary (with a touch of romance)

Blurbs:

Amazon
The Farewell Season: 
Eric used to think he'd live forever, but not anymore. As football season starts, he hopes he can live normally again after the death of his father. But his refusal to face his grief results in anger at his coach, fights with his sister, resenting added responsibilities, and disillusionment with football. It takes a special relationship with Glynnie, who is struggling with the divorce of her parents, to open his heart to love again.


Also Known as Lard Butt:
Amazon
Laura discovers that Ricky, the boy who created her horrible nickname "Lard Butt," has moved back into town--and immediately schemes to keep him quiet. After all, she can't let her new swim teammates, especially drool-worthy Noah, hear the horrible name! No way!

She's determined to put a million years between grade school and junior high--even in the face of a father who drives an éclair, a would-be-movie-star mother who suddenly moves back home, and a past that comes back to haunt her with the dreaded nickname.

Although Laura's embarrassed about how she looks in a swimsuit, she tries to stay true to her vow to take risks. She even lets Maria talk her into going to the school dance, where she braves negotiating a truce for a quarreling couple. New friendships form, Laura's mother starts getting too domesticated for Laura's comfort, and hints of romance start to develop--or do they?


Amazon
The Next Great Rock Star!
Will Jason ditch his best friends--including Layla--in his quest for fame and fortune?

When Jason and his friends form a garage band, they call it "No Frills" because they want to keep it real--even when they enter a band contest and pressures to alter their image mount. Then one day, due to a close encounter with lightning, Jason's life changes in a big way--but is he magically cooler or is it just his perception?

As he goes from blah to cool, his head swells as he takes his fifteen minutes of fame too seriously. His too-busy mother and fortune-telling grandmother don't get through to him. Even maybe-more-than-a-friend Layla is ready to give up on Jason, especially when he starts flirting with much-older Mindy. Only a rescued kitten keeps him even remotely grounded. It isn't until he loses the friendships with the band mates he once counted on that he realizes he has a major problem, and he worries it might be too late to fix it.



Coming Soon:

 

Azrael’s Whispers




Click Here To Purchase From Amazon


I thought I'd let everyone read the short story that finished in third place in Red Toque's Canadian Tales Of The Fantastic Short Story Contest


Azraels Whispers

 


Desecraters of tombs, looters plucking at baubles, thats what we were.  Crowbars levered at nails screeched in protest as we tore at the boards erected to bar entrance to this once-hallowed ground. I wiped sweat and stared at rust flows etching down cedar planks, outlining the vestiges of the Catholic cross that once stood over the doorway. White paint crumbled, graying under the oppressive touch of the suns heat, only to be swept away by the breath of wind and rains caress to dim lands of memorys fading passages. Haphazardly nailed plywood concealed stained-glass windows that once danced with the colors of heaven.  None of us knew when this old angel of grace had been closed up.
            Behind me commuters motored past on another Abbotsford morning, oblivious. Did grave robbers feel like this as they broke into the pharaohs tombs? Were we all infidels born to be cursed, like Howard Carter? King Tuts curse had always fascinated me. How would I feel, if this were my sacred space? In the end, did it really matter? 
            Our job? To open the doors of this relic of a church one final time.
             After you.
            No, after you, joked two of my demolition crew. We stepped inside, disturbing dust that billowed up, sparkling in the brilliant rays of sunlight streaming into the chapel. Gods open arms beckoned in the echoes of chants clinging to cobwebs in the rafters.
            B-Boss? 
            The crowbar fell from Rudys hand. Metallic echoes resounded.
            A slender figure sat in the front pew.
Jesus, Manuel uttered, frantically making the sign of the cross. 
  Stale air clung to our nostrils as our eyes became accustomed to the gloom.
            Is it alive? someone managed to croak. Then, it moved. Nicks hammer toppled from his fingers.
 Ai ... Madonna, Manuel whispered, emerging from his catatonia. He was from a devout Catholic family and had more respect for the church and God than Id ever had, but for a second even I nearly buckled to my knees, an instant convert.
            No one dared breathe as the figure rose. A frail old ladys fingers tracked the same concise movements over her chest as Manuels, only slower. She turned towards us, the holiest of smiles on her thin face, somehow personifying the ancientness of the building. Wordlessly, with a dignity that was as much a natural part of her as the Bible clutched in her hand, she moved down the aisle.
We parted to let her pass, keeping a respectful distance, unsure if she was real or some apparition that would spring on us and rip our throats out, like some bloodsucking vampire.
What the ? I squinted, half expecting her to turn to dust as she walked into the sunlight.
            One last time, she said as she carefully descended the church steps, grabbing the railing for support. The others looked to me for guidance. 
Look, lady, I said, hurrying after her, were here to tear down this place. You shouldnt be here, I blustered, trying to come across as the hard-nosed guy in charge. 
            Such a pity. She was grand in her day, you know. The wrinkles on her face smoothed as she stared back at the musty confines. I still hear the hymns singing out from the choir. Her eyes moistened, no doubt seeing this sanctuary as it was before, as it was meant to be, bustling with patrons in prayer and reverence. Dust-laden alcoves had once protected statues of Jesus and Mary. Yet framed in the softness of her gaze I spied a haunting presence shadowing her serenity.  
Howd you ...?
            Get in? I have my ways. Now if you'll excuse me, I must be going. 
            My crew merely stood there, faces blank. Ah, just an old lady, Rudy, a big youth, half-joked.
            Fingering the tattered Bible, clearly a well-used friend, she didnt move as I returned to join her. She could have been my grandmother. She was more than likely someones.
The fleeting hauntedness in her eyes stared back at me, speaking of the peace born from angels' graces. Yet hidden in the shadows where dark spirits congregated, one angel stalked. Azrael. Gods angel of death, his voice calling, bearing whispers of the finality of things.
            Ill drive you.
            I have money, she said indignantly.
            I could see that. Floral dress and long coat with a hat pinned sideways on her head, and on her ring finger a diamond that would make the Queen look twice.  Everything pressed and perfectly in place, as if she were attending some elegant ballroom affair. 
            I know, I said. This isnt about money. There were things money could never buy. Not for her. Ill drive you wherever you need to go. 
            She looked into my eyes and from that stolid, frightened gaze, I knew she needed a friend. Thank you. 
            I turned back to Manuel, his Mexican complexion still ashen from meeting his imagined Blessed Virgin Mary. Youre in charge. Have everything ready for demo tomorrow.
            Tomorrow? She was supposed to come down today.
            Big Rudy nudged his shorter friend. Hey, lets hurry and well have time for a couple of wobbly pops at the peeler bar. The irreverence of youth ... was I much better at their age?
            I dont understand, boss. Manuel scratched his head, staring at the elegantly dressed lady from another age. Time slid back fifty years, trolley buses clanked by, Edsels tooted their horns and I pictured her standing there in her youth.
            Neither do I. Call it giving two graceful old ladies another day. 
            I opened the door to my pickup, wishing it wasnt full of signs reading Aggressive Demolition. Hastily I cleaned papers, lunch bags and coffee cups off the seat, and she climbed in as regally as a movie star entering a limousine. I really appreciate this. 
            I know. Youre welcome. Where to?
            As we drove around the older section of town she asked to stop here and there, sometimes staring at empty lots with buildings that no longer existed. Sighs occasionally escaped her lips and shed talk softly of memories. Often shed get out and walk to the front of some house or store and stand there, remembrances of earlier days shuttered in the silence of the minds eye. I didnt ask any questions. If she chose to, wed talk more later.
Mill Lake, please.
Damp pungent earth, so foreign compared to the construction smells I was used to, greeted us. Help me, please. This will be hard on these old feet.
Under her clothes she was paper thin.
            Few people were around, only natures smells and sounds. Now and then Id have to hold her up, as if my strength and the Bible she cradled so fervently to her chest were all that were keeping her going.
            Arm in arm we walked along the trail a little ways before sitting down at a park bench that had a view of the entire lake in the heart of Abbotsford. Cant go any further, she gasped, tears slowly ebbing down her face.
            The November day was warm and hints of cedar drifted in the moist air, the lake surface smooth as glass. Canada geese honked and ducks squawked as if sharing a bawdy joke between themselves.
            There really used to be a mill here, you know. Right about over that playground. I met my husband when he was working at that mill.
            How long you been here?
She chuckled, a surprisingly rich voice from earlier years. All my adult life, since I was twenty. At first I could count the number of buildings in this town on my fingers. John and I used to walk around this lake nearly every evening. Wed feed the ducks that stayed for the winter. Back then wed get a couple feet of snow and some years we could skate on the lake. The paved walkway was just a muddy trail. Oh, by the way, I'm Agnes McCurty.
            I grinned, surprised that the frail woman sitting beside me was the same Agnes McCurty whose voice had been one of the loudest raised in protest against the Adams Block reconstruction project. Dale Green. My folks moved here from Ontario about fifteen years ago.
            Youll have seen some changes here too, then. She sighed. After the church closed in seventy-nine, I used to sneak back in every so often just to sit and pray. I was one of the ladies who helped out, arranging flowers, Sunday school, bake sales, what have you. I guess I kind of forgot to give my keys back. 
            A few years later my husband died and my three kids moved out east. Oh, they phone from time to time, and my eldest begs me to move in. Claiming they could keep more of an eye on me, but without my home, my roots, what good is that? She shivered, the wind seeming to ghost right through her. The birches and poplars were bare, huddling for the winters that never seemed to come anymore.
            Take me home, please. 1173 Essendene.
            I knew the address. Only half a block from the church and slated to come down next week for a shopping mall. Revitalization, businessmen called it. In her pre-war house, furniture was covered with dust-sheets and boxes were stacked carefully, many marked Goodwill. A suitcase sat by the door. 
            Will you take that for me?
                Her front door sighed closed behind us, her hand shaking as she struggled with the key in the lock, and I drove her to one last address. St. Andrews Retirement Home.
     Two attendants in white came to greet us. We were starting to worry about you. Expected you a few hours ago.
Agnes, who had fewer movements of times hands left than any of us, regarded him with a quiet smile. I knew this wouldnt be easy today, she said as I unpacked her bag from my truck and she stood hugging her Bible. Thank you.
             My pleasure, Agnes. I gave her hand a gentle pat. I doubted Id display the same braveness, nor muster half her charm if I found myself in her situation one day. Nowadays retirement homes were much more than places where old folks went to die, but in the hush of the doors closing behind her I heard the whispers of Gods angel calling.
Id never forget that sound.
The shutting of a life.



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