In grade two, Miss Lennie handed out slips of paper. On each was written a few words. She instructed the class to write a story about the words on the slips of paper.

My slip said, “My Teacher”.

Of all the topics in the world, Miss Lennie wanted me to write about her? Was this some kind of trick?

I decided to teach Miss Lennie a lesson. Rather than tell her the truth, which she obviously expected, I wrote about her buggy green eyes, her fat knees, and her streaked hair—like a skunk’s is how I described it.

I wrote comments that were partially true, but were not compliments. I wrote, not knowing how a woman in her twenties or thirties might react to remarks about her personal appearance. How they might hurt her feelings. How they might reverberate every time she looked into the mirror for the rest of her life.

I was seven years old, and I had a pencil like a chainsaw.

I gleefully wrote the piece knowing that the last line was going to be the clincher. The last line, after all my insults and jibes, was going to be, “but everybody loves Miss Lennie, because she is so wonderful.” Which was the truth.

I knew that the last line would pardon me from all the sins I’d committed in the rest of the creative writing exercise. I smirked that it would probably be the last time Miss Lennie went fishing for a compliment from her Grade 2 class.

A few days later, Miss Lennie handed back our pages. She’d written in red pencil across the top of my story, “Very interesting” and given me an A. I was accustomed to A’s. But she also said, and she told my mother, that she’d like me to do the exercise again.

So I did. And this time I played it straight. This time I wrote that Miss Lennie was pretty and delightful and taught her students so well that there could never be another Grade 2 teacher as magnificent as she was.

This time I got an A+.

What did I learn?

I learned that I had observational powers that, with only the slightest provocation, could be summoned to record a multitude of details. I was astounded at how quickly and precisely the specifics I needed flooded into my mind when I decided to portray Miss Lennie in her worst light. On the other hand, when I was writing to an expectation, rather than my own mischievous voice, I noticed how phony and inferior the words sounded.

I learned I had the power to rebel. I had the power of words. The power of prose. The power of interpreting the observable world in my own unique way. I was a writer. I was seven years old. I was a writer with a voice.

On the way to writing workshop I pass a book sitting out on a planter as though waiting for someone to take it. People do that these days; instead of keeping things forever as in olden times, they throw things away; purge, recycle, declutter. And someone, on this fine October day, decided to place a hardcover Roget’s Thesaurus, red, yellow, and black dust jacket intact, out on their planter for someone to pick up.

The collector in me wants to take it. I’ve never owned a hardcover thesaurus before, and my old yellowed paperback is barely holding together with crackled masking tape. But the lazy, sore shouldered pragmatist in me says, don’t be silly, you don’t need more to carry, and besides, you never use a physical thesaurus anymore. It’s true, now when I edit I keep thesaurus.com open on my browser.

I walk a little farther. At least I could take a picture of the thesaurus among the fall colours on the planter. I could post it on Instagram where I like to put my anonymous pictures, pictures without people. Is it sufficiently ironic to find this orphaned book on the way to writing group?
But I have already passed it. And to take a photo now means stopping and going back, aiming and shooting, and maybe someone will be watching me and I’ll feel foolish.

It’s then I remember the prayer I prayed this morning: please Universe, show me, give me a sign; am I meant to be writing?

When I called her in the year before she died, really I just wanted confirmation that my amorous meanderings were valid. Were something she would have done.

But she didn’t give me that. She said, You know, at my age, it’s just nice to have someone to hold me.

I babbled on a little longer about a man who had thrust himself into my life and snarled it all up and she hmm’d and haw’d the way she always did with me.

How long had I been talking to her about men and not noticing that her beautiful eyes were gazing past me?

And just before she died I called and we had one last conversation and she said, Tell the lake goodbye for me.

~

Kindergarten. We sit in a big circle on the floor. The teacher passes around a mouse. It is a very small mouse. It fits in the palm of thirty-one five-year-olds. Until it gets to me. I don’t know that I am about to do what I am about to do. There is no prior thought or plan. I am sitting cross-legged, quietly, obediently as usual. And then the mouse lands in my hand. My turn. Its little feet are scratchy. It twists its tiny whiskered nose at me and blinks its little red eyes. And then its tail. The mouse slithers its tail across my fingers and I scream.

It takes a long time for the teacher and the janitor to locate the mouse. Everyone is mad at me for flinging it so far.

As the car drove onto the gravelled parking area I was suddenly reminded of the Freiderich’s farm, the crunch of the driveway, the slam of car doors.

My sister would strap on a velvet hard hat and hop onto a horse for her weekly riding lesson. The other riders and horses walked slowly in a circle around the sawdust ring. The instructor, her fiery red hair loose and wavy to her shoulders in a white turtleneck, jodhpurs, and tall black boots stood in the center of the ring, a whip in her hand, giving instruction, and smoking cigarettes.

I waited with my mom behind the window. An hour, an interminable weekly hour. The farm’s owner, Mrs Freidrich, collected horses and everything in the waiting room was a precious antique rendered worthless in my opinion by the horse in its composition. There were horseshoe ashtrays and paintings of thoroughbreds, rearing Lipizzans with clocks embedded in their stomachs, but the piece that drew my attention over and over was Lady Godiva. She was solid black metal, smooth except for two raised nipples, Godiva and her mount, frozen in iron, bareback and bridleless.

I hated waiting but only sometimes did I dare venture out of the waiting room into the stable. The horses’ names were tacked above their stalls and they stood with their giant round rumps to the aisle gazing out of small dirty barred windows except for one, the stallion, Perusso. He was jet black and had a long unkempt mane. He stamped and snorted, pacing in his box stall, prison cell. If I stood on a straw bale I could look in through the bars, into the darkness, and sometimes catch Perusso’s wild white eye.

I dreaded the horses getting loose. Breaking down their tethers and galloping around inside the stable. I feared that once free their first task would be to kill all the humans.

I was trapped there too. At the riding lesson. Not that those killer horses cared but I was trapped there too.

“And what do you do?”
“I’m a writer.”
Silence. The slight frown. Then the question.
“What do you write?”
I hate this question.
I write words goddammit. And sometimes sentences!
“Oh, lately I’ve been writing fiction, a novel actually. Well, not a novel, a novella.” Squirm.
They look embarrassed for me and it sounds like their eyebrows say, “Oh, so not a real writer then.”
I worked at the university bookstore. In marketing. I planned sales on insignia sweatshirts and backpacks. Water bottles were hot sellers.
Another guy in the office handled writers. He perused the catalogues and sent off proposals to publishers for author events. He read the stack of books sent for pre-publication reading, review copies, there were towers of unread books on his desk.
And I’m a writer.
But you don’t actually write, that nasty voice in my head said. No, but I am. I mean, I used to. I’m different. I’m not just a worker at the bookstore.
The slim volumes of poetry, which slipped into our office unnoticed, mocked me. Like a group of girls I could never join they stood side by side on a shelf neat and unrumpled.
I’m a writer.
And then, one day, it happened. I began to write. At first it was songs, which were terrible and unsung. And then the poems began to burst forth. They pushed their way up between the forced rhymes and the mushy subject matters. The poems came darkly and magically. They appeared in my notebook and left me wondering, I wrote that?
Yes. I’m a writer.

Last January, a sudden bout of empty-nest syndrome collided with my daughter’s desire to get a puppy. At first, she wanted me to get a puppy that she would “visit and help take care of”. Fat chance! I outlined for her the many reasons I would not house a puppy for her. Two of them, Newman and Coal, are the now adult cats that she and her brother promised to take care of, promised to take with them when they moved out, swore they would love forever, which now live with me in my apartment. Against my will, my children turned me into a middle-aged cat lady.

When my son had moved out to live with his dad, I was certain I was going to relish my solitude and become productive, tidy, and solvent. Life was just beginning after all – the childcare train had left the station. So I was surprised when I was slammed by empty-nest syndrome, or more accurately, grief. It walloped me when my messy, stinky, noisy, uncooperative teenage son moved out. I never thought it would happen – I actually missed him. I still do.

By last January, I had been living alone for a few months, with the cats, when I realized I missed living with another human in the apartment. I’d had overnight guests in the spare bedroom a couple of times and those occasions made me recognize that I didn’t really want to share a bathroom with non-family. I wanted one of my kids to move home. Funny, I’d heard that most parents had trouble getting rid of them!

Neither of my kids wanted to move in. Then when Jada started rattling the cage about getting a dog, I found myself using the oldest trick in the book – I used a puppy to lure her in. She could get a puppy, I told her, if she paid for it, owned it, and took it with her when she moved out. She fell for it. And so did I.

We were on our way to Port Credit to meet our chosen puppy. Jada was worried that we would not pass the owner’s strenuous list of qualifications. I was not troubled about that. I was fretting that we would be declined on our first choice, Gus, and that Jada would be desperate enough to agree to take home one of the other pups. This woman had a number of puppies available, but only one breed was suitable for apartment living, in my opinion. What would I do if Jada set her heart on one of the consolation puppies,  which we were told were Rhodesian Ridgeback/Labrador Retriever mixes?

When Jada was four-years-old and her brother was one, I had decided  we needed a puppy. Ever the strategist, I chose a breed that I read would be child friendly and began the search for a reputable breeder. I read all the advice about adopting and had a checklist of conditions a new puppy must meet. The hunt proved more difficult that I’d imagined but along the way someone told me about a breeder in Peterborough where a friend had got a puppy. I called and made an appointment. The breeder had two litters ready to go.

Jada and I picked up my sister at her farm and headed to Peterborough. My sister is the animal expert in the family – in fact, she had a litter of Jack Russell Terriers in her barn at the time, but all the books said, “No!” to Jack Russell Terriers as family pets. It was a hot summer day and it was high noon when we pulled into the breeder’s long dusty driveway. Only the breeder’s name on a forlorn and crooked roadside mailbox let us know we were at the right location.

We could hear dogs barking as we got out of the car but bushes screened the back yard so we couldn’t see them. We knocked at the aluminum side door and were ushered into the kitchen of a split level home. As introductions were quickly made, a man in the next room continued to watch a blaring television. The puppies would be in the basement. We just had to wait a minute as the woman shouted for her son to help her get organized. We remained in the kitchen eyeing the shelves of hockey trophies and framed school portraits.

After a short time we were ushered down a circular metal staircase to a basement rec-room where the puppies were squirming and crawling over one another in a child’s blue plastic swimming pool.

Instantly I knew we’d made a mistake. These pups were not eight weeks old, they were much younger. And as four-year-old Jada knelt excitedly beside the pool they fled to the other side where she couldn’t reach them. One pathetic pup with rusty goop in both eyes and a dry nose was too lethargic to get away and Jada’s tiny hands were soon picking her up and cradling the puppy to her face.

My mind was racing. Certainly it wasn’t ideal but safely at home surely one of these pups would thrive under our care and attention, wouldn’t it? We’d driven a long way on a hot summer’s day. The price was right. Finding a puppy was much harder than I’d realized. And if I said no now, how would I ever get Jada to put that puppy down?

My sister asked if we could meet the pups’ mother. Of course we could. The woman led us out through the back door to the kennels. Immediately the steady barking turned into a frenzy. Countless dogs were housed in plywood shacks with narrow fenced-in chain-link runs. It was a hot day. Some dogs stood on top of their houses barking ferociously. I held Jada’s sweaty little hand tightly as the breeder led us to the home of the pups’ mom. She was nowhere to be seen. After a couple of whistles and a sharp call, a cowering female dog slunk from her shack and watched us warily from her platform.

Okay, we’d seen enough. We thanked the breeder and told her we needed to go have lunch and think about it. Jada chattered at me as I strapped her into her car seat. “When are we getting the puppy, Mom? Which one are we getting? I love those puppies.” I’d wished I had something with me to clean her hands.

On the long drive back to my sister’s farm Jada fell asleep and my sister posed the question, “Why don’t you just take one of my puppies?” Oh no. I’d read terrible things about Jack Russell Terriers. They barked incessantly, destroyed furniture, jumped on everything, they were untrainable, hyperactive maniacs.

The scruffy little Jack Russell my sister placed into Jada’s arms a few weeks later lived a healthy sixteen years. She was a terrific pet, a wonderful companion, and one of the best dogs anybody ever met.

A twenty-one year old Jada pointed out the turn off for Hurontario. What would I do or say if the puppies on this trip turned out to be less than desirable? I couldn’t take her by the hand and lead her away, or strap her into a car seat.

Gus entered our lives that day and I had no inkling how he would change my life. Looking back, I have to laugh at how naïve I was. Today, Gus and I sit in our usual morning places in the living room, him snoozing, me writing. We are waiting for Jada to wake up. We spend a lot of time waiting for her, me and Gus. I have a feeling it’s going to be like this for a long time.

As an atheist I would never have wished Christmas away, entirely. Granted, I bristled at the Christian takeover of a pagan solstice celebration; but I had nothing against a saintly old man who poured gold pieces into the stockings (hanging to dry by the fireside) of some desperate young sisters (their orphan-hood and poverty were luring them into a life of prostitution), nor his 20th century counterpart who brought proverbial gifts to ALL the children of the world on one winter’s night each year. No, I quite approved of Santa Claus.

When I was a child, and an atheist, I celebrated Christmas with my atheist family. We housed a decorated evergreen in the living room; we exchanged gifts and feasted on roast turkey; we raised our glasses, in-canting peace on earth – goodwill t’ward Man. We enjoyed the glorious voice of Mahalia Jackson on record and the angelic contralto of my classmate Tommy Faulkner singing O Holy Night in the near empty church where my grade 5 choir performed.These days, even if I fall for the crass commercialism and consumerism of Christmas, my soul, I think, responds to a deeper yearning – to fall in love with the world, to wish everyone peace and harmony, to drink in the coniferous beauty of my urban forest home, to feel gratitude overflow in my childish ticker, and as Ebenezer says, ‘honour Christmas in my heart, and try to keep it all the year.’