Connections by June Gadsby

While doing some research on my family tree and coming up with quite a few surprising connections, it struck me that ‘connections’ came in all shapes and sizes and were not necessarily those of relatives or ancestors.

I have one non-family connection of which I am immensely proud. It goes back to Captain Robert Falcon Scott, CVO, RN, who was a British Royal Navy officer and explorer and led two expeditions to the Antarctic regions: the Discovery Expedition and the ill-fated Terra Nova Expedition. A famous explorer who took a group of men to the South Pole in 1912. They discovered, during this expedition, fossilised plants, which proved that Antarctica was once forested and attached to other continents. Unfortunately, the return journey came to a tragic and unnecessary end. Scott and his companions died only 11 miles from a depot that would have saved their lives. 

So, you are wondering, what is my ‘connection’ with the famous Captain Robert Falcon Scott. It was with his only son, Peter, later to become Sir Peter Scott, famous naturalist, writer and artist who founded the Wildfowl and Wetlands Trust. Peter had been many things before becoming a naturalist, including an Olympic ice skater, yachtsman and, ironically, a hunter – which he soon gave up when he discovered his love of wildlife, especially birds. When I met and married my husband, Brian, he worked for Sir Peter as Manager of the Washington branch of the WWT. [The original Washington in the north-east of England, rather than the Washington in the USA, where our mail very often ended up.]  HRH Prince Charles, whom I have also met twice, was at the time President of the charity, which has been and still is largely supported by the Royal Family.

My first meeting with Sir Peter and his wife Lady Philippa was a memorable occasion. They were not only visiting the wildfowl park that my husband managed, they were to have a meal in our house on the edge of the 100-acre piece of land that housed 1200 rare species of wildfowl. I rushed home from the hospital where I worked in order to smarten myself up and prepare the meal.  I was in my slip when I heard a huge crash coming from the kitchen. A cabinet full of my collection of Bronte pottery had fallen from the wall, knocked a tea-caddy and a kettle full of water onto the floor making a terrible, brown gunge. Sir Peter and Lady Philippa were due to arrive in a few minutes, and, in fact, we were still clearing up the mess when they joined us. It was a very embarrassing situation, but bless them, they were sympathetic and we eventually enjoyed a good meal together. It turned out to be a lovely social occasion. [1] 

Sir Peter had a great sense of humour – he loved playing practical jokes on his colleagues and was famous for his odd choice of brightly coloured socks. Lady Philippa was charming, which is how we found all the VIPs we met during this period of our lives. 

One memory I have is of Sir Peter walking into our kitchen while I was painting a bird portrait. I had heard how he had a habit of altering other people’s paintings. This was affectionately known as ‘Scottying’ and I held my breath, waiting for this to happen to my work. However, he was extremely kind in his praise for my little bird [2] and didn’t offer to change it in any way. I was both thrilled and disappointed. I would have loved him to ‘Scotty’ my painting. Sir Peter Scott’s paintings now sell for thousands of pounds. Unfortunately, we only have signed prints of his work and no originals. However, we did have the honour and the pleasure of visiting his studio and seeing many of his original paintings – mostly of geese flying across beautiful skies. [3]

We were invited to Sir Peter’s 80^th birthday party down at HQ Slimbridge and were so looking forward to it, as were many other people. Sadly, dear old Peter died two weeks before his birthday. Philippa, who continued his work for a few years has also now left us and we are no longer living with 1200 rare birds in our ‘front garden’, but enjoying life in rural France. My husband, now approaching his 84^th birthday, is just as passionate about wildlife and nature and is never seen without camera in hand. I still paint animals, among other subjects and write books that take the reader to the far ends of the earth – like my favourite novel set in the wilds of Patagonia, which is not all that far from the South Pole; and while I was there among the icebergs and the glaciers a few years ago, it was almost like walking in the footsteps of Robert Falcon Scott.

[1] Lord Brassey, June Gadsby, Sir Peter Scott & Lady Philippa Scott.

(2) Greenfinch

 

 

3] “In Winter Dusk”  Xmas 1984

Decorating with Dad by Eileen O'Finlan

Find buy links to this book on my Books We Love author page

This Christmas will mark the twenty-second time we’ve celebrated the holiday since my dad passed away at the age of sixty-six.  My family is big into holidays.  When I was a kid the house was decorated for every one of them, even the minor ones.  Christmas, though, was the ultimate.  No one got more into the decorating than my dad.  He turned our home into Christmas Land, inside and out.

Christmas decorating got underway once we’d returned from Thanksgiving weekend at my grandparents’ home in Bennington, Vermont.  Dad was in a festive mood after several days of feasting and visiting with a houseful of relatives.

First the living room had to be rearranged.  Over the years Dad, an engineer by trade, developed a strategy for furniture placement.  One layout was for Christmas, the other for the rest of the year.  It wasn’t just the furniture, either.  Knick-knacks and whatnots all over the house exchanged living quarters with the Christmas decorations boxed and stored in the basement.

Once the room was rearranged, the tree set securely in its stand and watered (until we switched to artificial trees), the most difficult and least fun part began - stringing the lights and garland.  Extra bulbs were kept on hand since if one went out they all went out. That meant testing every bulb on the string until the culprit was found, replacing it, and hoping that one worked.  Heaven help us if more than one bulb went out at the same time.  Dad wasn’t much for swearing, but those bulbs were almost guaranteed to elicit a few words more colorful than the lights. 

My sister, Cindy, and I endured the interminable wait in order to pounce the moment Dad finished.  It was our job to help hang the tinsel and ornaments.  We delighted at seeing these old friends that had been out-of-sight, out-of-mind for a year, especially the ones that hung on the trees of my mom’s childhood.  My favorite was a set of three delicate, sparkly silver shoes each with a tiny child inside representing Wynken, Blynken, and Nod.  Mom and Dad joined in the tree trimming while we all sang along with the Christmas albums on the record player.

Once the tree was completed, we moved to the rest of the room.  The top of the huge black and white TV was large enough to hold the snow village.  Each house and the church were painted cardboard fitted with a light bulb making their colored cellophane windowpanes glow.  There were decorated pine trees and elves made of pinecones, pipe cleaners and felt.  Flimsy it may have been, but it was cherished.  A tinkerer at heart, Dad kept adding to the village.  A mirror became a skating pond, tiny lamp posts graced the “street”.  The village eventually outgrew the TV top and had to move to a new location.

A gold bell that played Silent Night hung from one doorway, mistletoe from another.  A lighted church sat on the end table on top of sparkly white cotton batting emulating snow and surrounded by Nativity vignettes.  Mr. and Mrs. Claus stood on either side of the fireplace.  The last thing to be displayed was the crèche.  I loved the smell of the papier mache figures and the soft glow from the blue light illuminating Mary’s robe.  In the weeks to come I would spend hours playing with the crèche as if it were a doll house.

Not a room escaped decoration.  Every window had a candle either on the sill or hanging inside a red wreath.  Even the bathroom had a bubble lamp and a candle in the window.

Then came the outside.  A large plastic lantern, later to be replaced by a Santa, brightened the front porch.  Dad strung colored lights along the porch railing and throughout the hedge in front of the house.  After a heavy snowfall red, blue, yellow, green, and purple lights shone through giving the hedge an otherworldly glow.

There was no such thing as too many Christmas decorations as far as Dad was concerned.  Over the years, he made tree ornaments including drums and sleds with each of our names on them.  He outdid himself the year he made a perpetual calendar.  The scene at the top was attached with Velcro and could be changed with the seasons.  Naturally, the Christmas scene was the best.  It was a miniature replica of our living room right down to the same wallpaper and the clock and candlesticks on our fireplace mantel.

 

 

With the decorating complete, our home was transformed.  Every day of the Christmas season I played in the wonderland of my own personal Christmas Village.  Every night glowed with colorful splendor.  The saddest for me was the weekend after New Year’s when everything came down, packed away in the basement, the magic gone, the house returned to normal.  It was like waking up from the best ever dream.

Since Dad’s been gone, I decorate the house.  Though my taste is a bit different from my dad’s, I seem to have inherited his love for holiday decorating. I still move furniture, to give the tree pride of place.  I miss the smell of papier mache from the long lost crèche, my current one being made of sturdier material.  I love to sit in the living room in the evening, gazing at the lights on the tree, the one remaining Wynken, Blynken and Nod ornament always prominent.  I can feel Dad’s presence in the quiet of the evening.  Our styles are very different, but unlike me, he was decorating for kids.  His joy came as much from the glee his efforts brought to us as from his own enjoyment of the holiday.  I think he is smiling with me as I create my grownup version of Christmas Land.  And I’m certain he would appreciate the invention of pre-strung lights on the Christmas tree.

Ian Foster and Nancy Hynes - A Week In December [Official Video]

Translation, as in "Lost in."

Translation:  as in” Lost in.”

 

(NB. I wrote this article when I began looking for a French translator of my first thriller “Dead Bishops Don’t Lie”. This eventually gave birth to  “La Danse Des Évêques”.)

 

Has anyone priced the cost of translation recently? When I did, I nearly fell out of my writer-worn wicker chair. After contacting a few Quebec translators and one in particular, I realized I would be giving her the equivalent of a brand new Camry, for what seemed like perhaps fastidious but relatively easy work.  ( .30$ X 90,000 words = Camry LE.)

Besides, my wife says that if I’m going to spend that kind of money, the much awaited, much postponed, infamous Kitchen Renovation Project will come first.
Undaunted, to the internet I go, to eventually stumble onto a Parisian woman’s website: “ Multi-disciplinary translation experience, Cambridge and Sorbonne - educated, price can vary according to your budget,” it says. Wonderful. I know, I know. You don’t have to remind me of the cliché: If it sounds too good to be true…..” Anyway, I immediately email her my budget and deadline. No problem, she answers.
She sends me a small sample of her work, which reads well.

My spirits buoyed, I send her my manuscript along with a substantial down payment. (Everyone wants money up front in this game).

And then, I wait. And wait. Weeks go by, the deadline eventually passes. No reply to my many, increasingly terse emails, and of course, nooo translation.
Curiously, I can’t find a phone number on her website.
Yet another scam?
Frustration reaching the boiling point, I’ m about to send her a lawyer’s letter, when I receive a short apology. She’s just recovering from a severe bout of malaria, and could we extend the deadline.
Malaria, poor woman. I picture her lying in bed under the mosquito net, (probably hard to find in Paris) high fever, delirious, too weak to work on her computer. How could I have been so distrustful?
My faith in human nature immediately rebounds, like the Dow Jones on a rare, good day, with the same unquestionable logic. I instantly reacquire Blind Faith and write back, extending the deadline.   
She thanks me but, oh, a minor point: could I send more money, since her bank deducted a hefty conversion fee on my first payment.
Not so fast.  “Can you send me a few chapters?”I dare write.
“Of course “she replies,” I’ll send the first ten right away.”
Wonderful, I think. Progress at last. I briefly imagine my new book --for it is a new book--  enhanced into a novel of Balzacian proportions by this erudite, young Parisian woman.
I begin reading her attachment, and my heart sinks into the basement. Her translation has all the passion, flavor and excitement of my Honda    Odyssey ’s Technical Manual. I breathe deeply, trying to convince myself that maybe I’m, surely I must be, overreacting. So I give it to my wife to read. Moments later, her eyes glaze over and she begins to doze off. “Nice.” She says. “Nice travel brochure,” she utters before falling asleep.
I’m …up the paddle without a creek.
So, I decide to fire my French translator and start from scratch.  Disheartening.  Enter fellow writer Shirley to the rescue, and she gives me the name of a friend looking for translation work. After a few emails I realize she’s not as experienced as I would like, but she seems to understand my punchy, often fragmented style of novel writing, and she can deliver same in French.
I forge ahead. Exit more money, enter more anxiety until I’m able to judge a sizable chunk of her work. Next, I learn that my publisher, who will accept or reject the translation, has caught ….. pneumonia. More delay, more uncertainty.
Malaria, pneumonia, insomnia, paranoia: positively unhealthy, this writing business.
Then at last, some good news: the publisher  has recovered and has accepted the translation. Everyone is ok……well…for the moment. Who is the saint one prays to for good health?

 Lessons learned:

1) When looking for a translator, never trust his or her small sample. Get at least 3-4 chapters of your work.

2) Hire a translator who is familiar with your genre, or a least a translator experienced in translating novels.

3) If possible, find a translator in your area, whom you can contact and work with by phone: you will have continuous interaction with your translator.  

4) Avoid wire transfers and conversion fees: you’ll be asked to ante up the difference.

5) If  possible have your publisher deal with the matter. Canadian publishers are often eligible for Canada Council translation grants.