“Secrets and Guilt”: A Literary Weekend with Linden MacIntyre & Friends

Imagine overlooking a lake with a vista of rocky, pine-tufted islands adrift along miles of shimmering blue water that stretches invitingly before you. What could be better than that?

Well, combine it with two full days of stimulating intellectual conversations, insightful ideas, and thought-provoking discussions among some of Canada’s top authors and journalists - Linden MacIntyre, Steve Paiken, Jay Ingram, Carol Off, and John Ibbitson - throw in a friendly BBQ and informative evening boat cruise, and you have a fabulous Muskoka Chautauqua weekend, such as we just had at the J.W. Marriott’s Rosseau Resort. We certainly felt that we were also included in the “Friends”.

In 2010, some visionary members of Muskoka’s arts community decided to revive the spirit of the original Muskoka Assembly from the 1920s, which sought to provide a restorative holiday for body, mind, and soul in a magnificent setting. (For some historical background, see my previous blog, Naked Poets, Freethinking Clergymen, and an “Enchanted Island”.) Promoting Canadian literature was also a mandate, and led to the Muskoka Assembly being known as the Literary Summer Capital of Canada by 1928. The modern Chautauqua has also reinstated the Reading Circle, which recommends six must-read books each year. I am thrilled and honoured that my novel, The Summer Before the Storm, was one of last year’s winners.

Kudos to the organizers of the revived Muskoka Chautauqua, which indeed encourages renewal, enrichment, and personal growth amid the inspirational beauty of Muskoka.

Perhaps Wilson MacDonald, one of the poets who was popular at the original Muskoka Assembly, expressed this ideology best in his poem, “Out of the Wilderness”:

I, a vagabond, gypsy, lover of freedom,

Come to you who are arrogant, proud, and fevered with civilization -

Come with a tonic of sunlight, bottled in wild, careless acres,

To cure you with secrets as old as the breathing of men;

Come with the clean north wind in my nostrils,

To blow out the dust and the smoke of your lives in a great blast of beauty;

Come with a chaos of wildflowers, grouped in a lovely disorder,

To shame all your gardens of maddening, cloying perfection.

I have in my veins all the sweet unrest of the wild places….

For more information about the Muskoka Chautauqua and future events, visit their website.

Sometimes “beautiful” is the just right word

When Prince William saw his bride at the altar, he told her that she was “beautiful”, which indeed she was. Because writers are always advised to avoid overworked words like “beautiful”, I began idly thinking about what he might have said instead. Ravishing? Too much of a sexual connotation, not appropriate in this instance. Gorgeous? Too effusive. Stunning? Yes, but that doesn’t necessarily imply beauty as well. Ditto for “resplendent”.

One of the challenges in writing description is to select the perfect word, so connotation and context are critical (not just important). Among the synonyms for “beautiful” are the following: comely, alluring, bewitching, cute, dazzling, divine, exquisite, foxy, magnificent, pretty, radiant, pulchritudinous - well, you see where I’m going with this. Can you envision William using any of those in this situation?

“Beautiful” has a quiet dignity and well-established pedigree, making it sometimes the most appropriate adjective. The dictionary states, “A person or thing that is beautiful has perfection of form, color, etc., or noble and spiritual qualities.” Exactly!

St. Patrick’s Day Tribute to the Irish

Social, religious, political, or economic strife has often been the catalyst for emigration. All these factors were instrumental in bringing Irish immigrants to Canada in the 19^th century. When the government of Upper Canada - now Ontario - wanted to open up the primitive “backwoods” in the 1820s, Peter Robinson was sent to Ireland to find poor families willing to try their luck with free land grants in the primeval wilderness. Peterborough, in the Newcastle District, was named after Robinson by those grateful settlers who had survived the treacherous voyage and harsh conditions of pioneer life.

The settlement of Upper Canada by the Irish forms the backbone of my novel, A Place To Call Home.

This is what Anne Forrest said about it in “NUACHT”, the Community Newsletter of St. Patrick’s Society of Montreal:

 “Once in a while a novel grabs the reader's attention from the opening pages to long after the final words have been savoured. Such is A Place To Call Home… it is Wills' ability to create believable characters that is most impressive…. Wills cleverly weaves several real historical figures into the novel who give the story a strong sense of authenticity…. A novel that is so detailed yet not boring is a rare gift. It takes the reader back to that period about which too little is known. It leaves him wishing he could join Rowena [O’Shaughnessy] and her family for a further 50 years.”

Writer's Digest Magazine said: "A Place To Call Home is a gripping and fascinating saga about an Irish family's immigration to Canada and the building and founding of the [fictional] Ontario town called Launston Mills. Wills masterfully traces the development of the town, told through the eyes of Irish immigrant, Rowena, and her son, Keir. The historical facts were flawlessly researched, but rather than it reading like a series of facts, Wills peopled the book with vivid and very real characters whose experiences captivate the reader. .... An exceptionally well-told story... A Place To Call Home offers a delightful glimpse into Canada's past, told through characters who come to life and jump off the page."

This novel is now available as an e-book as well. See A Place To Call Home for more information, and to order online.

Giveaway!

“There is amazing stuff close by – local artisans and independently owned retailers, cool things to do and eat, and great charities to support. It’s good for the economy, the environment and the soul,” says 100 Mile Finds. I have a storefront there, and am thrilled that The Summer Before The Storm has been so favourably reviewed on the site. It’s currently being included in a terrific giveaway, so head over to 100milefinds.blogspot.com before Feb. 18 to enter!

Disparities - and Dangers - of Language

We Canadians use bathrooms, Americans prefer restrooms, and the British, loos. Their cars must be cuter, since they have bonnets and boots, while ours have more prosaic hoods and trunks. I once received a puzzled look from an American waiter when I requested cutlery and serviettes, so I explained, “silverware and napkins” - terms that we also use.

Our cultures have shaped our common language in interesting ways, but we can usually understand one another. Although we North Americans might be a tad confused by that bloke in trainers and a naff jumper, carrying a brolly, who just finished a nosh-up of bangers and jacket potatoes after receiving his wage packet, and then stopped at the off-licence before getting into his estate car and entering a dual carriageway, followed by a bobby in a panda car. Unless you watch lots of British TV shows.

The “dangers”, or perhaps more accurately, pitfalls of language occur when we use ordinary words that mean something completely different in another region. Imagine my surprise when I read that “cottaging” in Britain means anonymous sex between men in public washrooms! So my blog titles like “The Enchantment of Cottaging” and “The Joys and Challenges of Island Cottaging” must have raised a few eyebrows. Cottaging in our part of Canada refers to spending leisure time at a seasonal home by a lake.

Australians must get a chuckle out of Canadians who run around labelled with a popular brand of casual clothing - Roots - and wonder if we’re advertising uninhibited natures.  The Aussie slang “root” is a slightly politer form of the F-word. Ironically, Roots outfitted the Canadian team at the Sydney Olympics in 2000. I wonder if that encouraged any Australians to “root” for Canada.

Some years ago when my husband, daughter, and I were in England for a few months on business, I was shopping for a new fanny-pack. I went into a posh department store and had a surprising reaction from two very dignified, middle-aged sales ladies. They looked at each other in astonishment, turned beet-red, and began to giggle. “Dear, we don’t call them that here,” one explained to me between titters when I had described what I wanted. “We call them bum bags.” I thought that a rather rude term, and wondered what was so funny and embarrassing about my request.

My daughter wanted to experience an English private, or as they call them, public school, so I arranged for us to spend a day at one in a nearby town. Upon learning that I had once been a high school teacher, the Headmaster asked if I’d be willing to talk to one of the senior English classes. Well, the topic they wanted to discuss was differences between Canadian and British English. So I started with the usual “You say lorry, we say truck. We have flashlights, you have torches.” And then I began talking about my perplexing experience at the department store.

The class went absolutely silent. The shocked looks among the girls and boys, as well as the teacher, changed to awkward amusement, and then whispered excitement. After the class, I saw the master conferring with other staff, who all looked at me with horror and scuttled away. He said to me, “Well, my class will NEVER forget you!”

Still in the dark about some dreadful faux pas that I had now made twice, I asked one of my husband’s colleagues over dinner at his house. He and his wife both blushed furiously, and he went to fetch a dictionary for me. That was how I learned that “fanny” is a British slang term for female genitalia. Imagining myself standing in the classroom and using the equivalent word, c**t, I was dreadfully shocked, but also highly amused. After all, I had done this in all innocence. I wonder how British schools teach books like Thomas Hardy’s Far from the Madding Crowd, which have characters named Fanny.

I still dine out on this story, which elicits riotous laughter from Canadians. Ah, the vagaries and delights of the English language!

A Child’s Christmas in Wales

From the moment I began reading Dylan Thomas’s classic Christmas tale many years ago, I was completely enchanted. It’s a wonderfully nostalgic memory of Christmases past brought to life through such rich and evocative imagery that it leaves you almost breathless. What a delight then to discover a film version that is not only true to the text, but also so beautifully acted and filmed that it more than does justice to the story. It is a classic in itself. Watching this has become a cherished Christmas tradition at our house since it first appeared on TV in 1987, and indeed, our daughter grew up with it. When we speak of “the Uncles” or the “horrible-whiskered cats” or Miss Prothero and the firemen, we need say no more, but chuckle in fond remembrance.

You can hear Dylan Thomas reading his story at this link, but do be sure to check out the movie with Denholm Elliott as the grandfather who tells the tale to his spellbound grandson on Christmas Eve. Elliott does it so much better!

So on Christmas Eve we will once again be mesmerized by the “bandaged town” with “powder and ice-cream hills” by the “carol-singing sea”.

I wish you all the joys of such a heartfelt Welsh Christmas!

Lest we Forget

Like my characters, I can’t forget the Great War. I lived through it with them, felt their pain and sorrow, and am now helping them to rebuild their lives in Book 3 of The Muskoka Novels.

So every day is Remembrance Day for them and for me. 

At this time of reflection, John McCrae’s less famous poem also deserves to be read.

The Anxious Dead

           

O guns, fall silent till the dead men hear

    Above their heads the legions pressing on:

(These fought their fight in time of bitter fear,

    And died not knowing how the day had gone.)

O flashing muzzles, pause, and let them see

    The coming dawn that streaks the sky afar;

Then let your mighty chorus witness be

    To them, and Caesar, that we still make war.

Tell them, O guns, that we have heard their call,

    That we have sworn, and will not turn aside,

That we will onward till we win or fall,

    That we will keep the faith for which they died.

Bid them be patient, and some day, anon,

    They shall feel earth enwrapt in silence deep;

Shall greet, in wonderment, the quiet dawn,

    And in content may turn them to their sleep.

Lest we forget.