tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-38306061901741287522024-03-05T01:01:11.170-08:00Donna Carrick- Writer's CraftA commentary on our lives and times from the viewpoint of an Author/wife/mother/businesswoman.Donna Carrickhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13328714849719887970noreply@blogger.comBlogger41125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3830606190174128752.post-12548465587850871172013-03-02T20:30:00.000-08:002013-03-02T20:32:05.824-08:00Writer's Reach<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEie2sQUxA0dq7pi41hGWxTt55nhPGDRewA2VHwENdvqVV3QKnR3vOOs0Dq-3755MWekU2XRXvl9pB1tiod6z2RNavmfWxJy13RdBITzeceP0tqIKlTeCbGfIaaJpFLcKm_TDCJcJ02b1-8/s1600/29CB42D6-265A-4424-A257-DB127356A131.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="149" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEie2sQUxA0dq7pi41hGWxTt55nhPGDRewA2VHwENdvqVV3QKnR3vOOs0Dq-3755MWekU2XRXvl9pB1tiod6z2RNavmfWxJy13RdBITzeceP0tqIKlTeCbGfIaaJpFLcKm_TDCJcJ02b1-8/s200/29CB42D6-265A-4424-A257-DB127356A131.JPG" width="200" /></a>I dream of writing words so fine<br />
they make the madness turn sublime;<br />
so powerful they dry your tears;<br />
so so sweet they sing a hundred years.Donna Carrickhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13328714849719887970noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3830606190174128752.post-37999877001505649192012-09-06T09:10:00.004-07:002012-09-06T11:39:34.752-07:00People I'm Grateful For -- Sept.6/12<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgbl5c9qhPHPFXiHAzX06L0nr6o2_oT4gttdZ_4_-jschdiNNp1YGVLzxqqOEN5LfVe3lghaDHm_VZOIQ0G2iWQzrqaAZCYpk17IBNjEX6k-xNM_umjYV24wep_2yVmX7xeIF27sOQcmDc/s1600/DaisyKids04.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear:left; float:left;margin-right:1em; margin-bottom:1em"><img border="0" height="156" width="208" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgbl5c9qhPHPFXiHAzX06L0nr6o2_oT4gttdZ_4_-jschdiNNp1YGVLzxqqOEN5LfVe3lghaDHm_VZOIQ0G2iWQzrqaAZCYpk17IBNjEX6k-xNM_umjYV24wep_2yVmX7xeIF27sOQcmDc/s320/DaisyKids04.JPG" /></a></div>This is a thoughtful time of year, with Fall in the air and the children back at school. Our Canadian Thanksgiving is on the horizon and minds are sated from the summer's abundant rays.<br />
<br />
Things are quieting down for us on the social front, as they do every September. Our northern home enjoys many warm-weather visitors -- in winter, not so many.<br />
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It's a season for gratitude, and with that in mind, I'd like to take a moment to ponder the people for whom I am most thankful:<br />
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1- Those who are consistent in their kindness, generously including us in the fun times, even as we do our best to be gracious and inclusive friends. Your company decorates our lives. It sparkles like sunset on our own Georgian Bay.<br />
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2- Those who bravely hold and express their true views while remembering to respect the individual rights of others to do the same. Those who refrain from hostile or overbearing debate, prefering to 'simply state' as desired, then move aside, allowing others to feel at liberty to 'simply state'. Those who remember that 'freedom' is a farce without mutual respect.<br />
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3- Those who think of us, just as we think of them, as necessary elements in our lives.<br />
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4- Those who recognize that we are imperfect, but love us anyway.<br />
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5- Those who are aware of their own imperfections, but who possess the best of hearts, which always trumps our human flaws.<br />
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6- Those who arrive without fail, who honour tradition, who bring their smiles and laughter. Those who enjoy us, and who allow us to enjoy them.<br />
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7- Fellow writers, with their constant support for each other. The way they share ideas, their unending encouragement for one another. They are the recorders of our time, their words are paintings to be viewed by generations to follow.<br />
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8- My on-line friends, for the generous way they share the large and small events of every-day life. Their joys, their sorrows, even at times their grief. I so look forward to their updates, their pictures and their news.<br />
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9- Let me not forget to express this same gratitude for my own dearest ones. My husband, Alex, and our three 'next generation' beloveds, Tom, Ted and Tammy. When times are difficult, you are the ones I most rely on, and for you my gratitude knows no bounds. <br />
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Being human, I often fall short of my own ideals. I hope the people in my life will forgive my shortcomings, knowing my friendship is honest and true.<br />
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That's all for today.<br />
<br />
Donna Carrick<br />
September 6, 2012Donna Carrickhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13328714849719887970noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3830606190174128752.post-81794015453487845282012-09-05T16:12:00.004-07:002012-09-05T16:12:59.538-07:00August 31, 2012: Blue Moon RisingJust wanted to share a quiet haiku on the final day of August:<br />
<br />
August gleams its last.<br />
Summer dances in denial<br />
Under fulsome moon.Donna Carrickhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13328714849719887970noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3830606190174128752.post-88580233729734637162012-05-13T04:35:00.000-07:002012-05-13T04:36:41.549-07:00Wearing the White Carnation ~ Remembering Mom and other amazing women<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjuilAzY5pHrPHReVQDOdaUc39RirNcEev81RJVlExBUI3-lBuIS2y60lt2KG7pwQkKha_hrfsun7rTQ_AM4T4KG3aaGkPJYMIPqFpRTNoTtIYRYqcF3OlcZWnRJw2YoN89s8rTms8jb3I/s1600/Easter2010+006.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 262px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjuilAzY5pHrPHReVQDOdaUc39RirNcEev81RJVlExBUI3-lBuIS2y60lt2KG7pwQkKha_hrfsun7rTQ_AM4T4KG3aaGkPJYMIPqFpRTNoTtIYRYqcF3OlcZWnRJw2YoN89s8rTms8jb3I/s320/Easter2010+006.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5460829564451982434" /></a><strong><em>As the years fly by, I am in awe of the impact this tiny woman continues to have on my life. My mother, Betty Lou, (b-Oct.6, 1931, d-Feb.14, 2000) was one of those eternally optimistic ladies we often encounter among her generation. She never rose without a cheery "Good Morning", and she sang (admittedly badly) while performing the most menial household task.<br />
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I would be lucky to possess one-half of her wisdom -- the common sense with which she approached every one of life's challenges.</em></strong><br />
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhtzy8-agm18yLCs2l1lPPaJI5RbjI57-_xHh5_fuoJ_Rlzihh14bP0k3e1-_nJXi7txva7toPhCV0Hy2VospRwmRKX0pUIY4OHrKjPfV0XrPG3OfkyFBDqN37z55iyVggDX1LX3H63CN8/s1600/Easter2010+004.jpg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 159px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhtzy8-agm18yLCs2l1lPPaJI5RbjI57-_xHh5_fuoJ_Rlzihh14bP0k3e1-_nJXi7txva7toPhCV0Hy2VospRwmRKX0pUIY4OHrKjPfV0XrPG3OfkyFBDqN37z55iyVggDX1LX3H63CN8/s200/Easter2010+004.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5460829211715885634" /></a>But then, Mom descended from a long line of sturdy souls. I remember her grandmother, <strong>my great-grandmother Griselda</strong>, pictured here in the early 60's shortly before she died at 96.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh_m-uWRgXXPU2TuxheBL7DLltnRAu8PcS7fVbqq1hF7k231nubW6hgsTpfmk4mvX4Y8w54yn8M0FvPlRarilFRAag7OKjyEd9ZM-y0cIB5hxEkw5TYgsHQrTVI9fOzO7qZAA73wA1Enec/s1600/Easter2010+002.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 163px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh_m-uWRgXXPU2TuxheBL7DLltnRAu8PcS7fVbqq1hF7k231nubW6hgsTpfmk4mvX4Y8w54yn8M0FvPlRarilFRAag7OKjyEd9ZM-y0cIB5hxEkw5TYgsHQrTVI9fOzO7qZAA73wA1Enec/s200/Easter2010+002.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5460829010017916210" /></a> She was especially proud of this photo of her farm, where she continued to work until her death. Having lost her husband in middle age, Griselda handled the bulk of the physical labour, assisted only by her disabled son. My <strong>mother's Uncle Archie </strong>had broken his back as a young man but still did what he could.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEji_VkDjZt-m1DKQMYwP-eGUpqAsXgEjZk0aBf62ekCfZ66D3trg-FXgk0OQ3eyV26ge6V8NbABMBlf7syOPro1t7P7-3gG7B9-YPGUzhsJiRQFxr99XayhvJe6O0uIo0mMUWL7VFNDwhg/s1600/Easter2010+003.jpg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 124px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEji_VkDjZt-m1DKQMYwP-eGUpqAsXgEjZk0aBf62ekCfZ66D3trg-FXgk0OQ3eyV26ge6V8NbABMBlf7syOPro1t7P7-3gG7B9-YPGUzhsJiRQFxr99XayhvJe6O0uIo0mMUWL7VFNDwhg/s200/Easter2010+003.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5460828622947256114" /></a><strong>Uncle Archie</strong> is on the right, pictured here with a friend on the farm where he lived with his mother.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjAeqBuLcxFM73fRdfihMl9wJFcVsLI6V9miB7AyMe1n6Pzdza7To3COhyZgb073B9bxc24hPlzHMKNbg2aF2DbYvGrQsUULs6ES_GZ2sKjdWU-cgpY8vb_Fl_2H70mhpMJ6nJyS_1TPdA/s1600/Easter2010+012.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 157px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjAeqBuLcxFM73fRdfihMl9wJFcVsLI6V9miB7AyMe1n6Pzdza7To3COhyZgb073B9bxc24hPlzHMKNbg2aF2DbYvGrQsUULs6ES_GZ2sKjdWU-cgpY8vb_Fl_2H70mhpMJ6nJyS_1TPdA/s200/Easter2010+012.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5460828414659894274" /></a>One of the most important people in my childhood was <strong>my Grammie Bessie</strong>, my mother's mother. My sisters and I loved her with all our might. She was sensible, smart, well-educated (a registered nurse who ran a team in a hospital) and carried herself with dignity. This woman taught me self-respect and kindness, lessons which have served me well.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjJRz9jmICraZQDLqbkfT6ZrDlh0TyV9x9YQQXexxSnsjvD05qP1Bjmakl0oGUEbtfXXaSbfBqYHSETJAa_tVY3eMIXhwu4oXwJ5cMbqS6t2_zTxJ516lQjT8Jm2yH4rG2431Cb4xKmMLU/s1600/Easter2010+007.jpg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 192px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjJRz9jmICraZQDLqbkfT6ZrDlh0TyV9x9YQQXexxSnsjvD05qP1Bjmakl0oGUEbtfXXaSbfBqYHSETJAa_tVY3eMIXhwu4oXwJ5cMbqS6t2_zTxJ516lQjT8Jm2yH4rG2431Cb4xKmMLU/s200/Easter2010+007.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5460828248803061794" /></a>My father's mother, <strong>Mary Elisabeth</strong>, was one of those ladies you read about in books. In the height of the <strong>Great Depression</strong>, my grandfather ran off to chase the ponies, leaving her alone to raise three children. In fairness to Grampie, he probably hoped to earn a living gambling -- there weren't many jobs to be had in 1935. He returned home in the 60's shortly before he died, and I remember him as a cheerful, loving grandfather.<br />
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<strong>Nanny Mary </strong>held three jobs for most of her adult life. She was head cook at one of the most prestigious hotel/restaurants in the Maritimes -- the Brunswick Hotel -- as well as keeping 2 permanent jobs as maid/family cook/housekeeper for wealthier people in her neighbourhood.<br />
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<blockquote><strong><em>Although she belonged to the class of "working poor" during the Dirty Thirties, Nanny Mary taught me about charity. She never feared walking the streets of Moncton alone past midnight. Every homeless person on High Street knew her name, and they knew that Mary was on her way home from her job at the hotel. She carried food from the restaurant, which she gave to each person she encountered. She told me: Don't fear a poor man, or a working man. Share when you can. There is always someone worse off than you.</em></strong></blockquote><br />
In my memory Nanny Mary is always laughing. She never saw the <strong><em>hard life </em></strong>as something to complain about.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEibdCCS0eYl5-Cg_rq8F2cBSKCBYSulu4oVx3gjtSaUjlV_2bWMVTkmAjIPec-sRTs76wv-sq0ppBQLrv3joD3R5C-s340BHgNeJhJfWQIf_0k-j22rLp_R9_eDwzh35SOeBCWbYCAsa6s/s1600/Easter2010+009.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 136px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEibdCCS0eYl5-Cg_rq8F2cBSKCBYSulu4oVx3gjtSaUjlV_2bWMVTkmAjIPec-sRTs76wv-sq0ppBQLrv3joD3R5C-s340BHgNeJhJfWQIf_0k-j22rLp_R9_eDwzh35SOeBCWbYCAsa6s/s200/Easter2010+009.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5460828087036442466" /></a>This is me, my <strong>Nanny Mary</strong>, my <strong>Dad</strong> and my <strong>oldest son, Tom</strong>. <strong>Mom</strong> was holding the camera, as usual, wanting to get a shot of the <strong>"4 generations"</strong> on Mothers' Day 1986. <strong><em>Notice the carnations we are all wearing?</em></strong><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg_uQZuc5uHh5Te4QlF6UR2xZzmN4-JHoQ1UjO-94MxUwwo273JOiGBJvpp4OsSN6hLGf-nvQNmHVU5eCYWQB5HY9Dn9rCY2bQvAaWePyugaUdL04wjBUSoWzhp3uQcCEhLVpbcT1RUI4E/s1600/Easter2010+008.jpg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 136px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg_uQZuc5uHh5Te4QlF6UR2xZzmN4-JHoQ1UjO-94MxUwwo273JOiGBJvpp4OsSN6hLGf-nvQNmHVU5eCYWQB5HY9Dn9rCY2bQvAaWePyugaUdL04wjBUSoWzhp3uQcCEhLVpbcT1RUI4E/s200/Easter2010+008.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5460827882461364178" /></a>There have been so many important people in my life! Honouring them all would take nothing less than a book, but the "mothers" in this photo were certainly among my most influential.<br />
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Here are my <strong>Mom</strong>, my <strong>Nanny Mary </strong>and my father's sister, <strong>Aunt Betty</strong>, who was my mother's closest childhood friend. My mother and my Aunt Betty shared a bond based on perpetual good humour, kindness and devotion to their families and friends. I am thrilled when my cousins tell me I look like their mother. <strong><em>I think so, too!</em></strong><br />
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<blockquote><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj6DUlxCBZixcMVmDyua4X4vrnKEweuNwL_lKq8fTPjD1ffYqmV4KUEr4jUOAUn6Kd0RgORW7MX2jqWLBvO5TJTCnck9aD3C6D993HiGAzfAWipB-KzFk2ypifCn2ljqEUJjwTEtz5Nu4s/s1600/Easter2010+005.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 147px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj6DUlxCBZixcMVmDyua4X4vrnKEweuNwL_lKq8fTPjD1ffYqmV4KUEr4jUOAUn6Kd0RgORW7MX2jqWLBvO5TJTCnck9aD3C6D993HiGAzfAWipB-KzFk2ypifCn2ljqEUJjwTEtz5Nu4s/s200/Easter2010+005.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5460827555103227650" /></a><strong><em>When I was first asked to write a "Mother's Day" blog, I was hesitant. My mother's life was not one that could be easily packaged in a few sentimental phrases of 'a thousand words or less'.<br />
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I wanted to honour her, but not at the expense of the truth. How could I celebrate the spirited "Mighty Mouse" of my childhood, without turning a blind eye to the hardships life dealt her?</em></strong><br />
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For purposes of this <strong>Mothers' Day Memorial</strong>, though, I'm determined to focus on the happy moments. Here (on the far left) is a picture of my <strong>beautiful mother</strong>, standing as maid of honour at her sister <strong>Helen's</strong> wedding. You can see the joy of youth in Mom's face -- the hopes of one day marrying and starting her own family. <strong><em>It's all there.</em></strong></blockquote><br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi9cN0s3r59ehArGoUF4DxYvbHJi24YcApTE574OL8mZHvKWGMmbLGV7xdJnsbhlD9bI8EhJklDW1kbAraovNWqf72sTgAg4hjYscj9Sa94BFDBNvGMkgiF1uTBGv-PS3uwzelJ-VKL8iw/s1600/Donna+Old+Photos+013.jpg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 182px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi9cN0s3r59ehArGoUF4DxYvbHJi24YcApTE574OL8mZHvKWGMmbLGV7xdJnsbhlD9bI8EhJklDW1kbAraovNWqf72sTgAg4hjYscj9Sa94BFDBNvGMkgiF1uTBGv-PS3uwzelJ-VKL8iw/s200/Donna+Old+Photos+013.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5460826818294133298" /></a>Here is <strong>my Mom </strong>many years later, in Saskatchewan with my older <strong>sister Debbie</strong>, myself, and my younger <strong>sister Rosalind</strong>. A stranger would not notice the sadness she tried so hard to hide. Life has dealt so many blows -- the loss of two sets of twins, 4 boys born too early; living with a volatile mate -- and has yet to deal so many more. <strong><em>In 1977 my older sister committed suicide, a blow from which we doubted Mom would ever recover.</em></strong><br />
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<blockquote><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEglcG1ssIV_jKGwCuWbr3Wg8XETeZYh03rgFrL6R-XkmZLBWemSpEdF-d3zSOUVpxHv9uyrEOv594ds_Bqja6vticrZlwDKA7bQufJNYRfNAMUD6R_VfMhdlu_PvIxdiRRrcLpdZprldOw/s1600/Donna+Easter2010+098.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEglcG1ssIV_jKGwCuWbr3Wg8XETeZYh03rgFrL6R-XkmZLBWemSpEdF-d3zSOUVpxHv9uyrEOv594ds_Bqja6vticrZlwDKA7bQufJNYRfNAMUD6R_VfMhdlu_PvIxdiRRrcLpdZprldOw/s320/Donna+Easter2010+098.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5460827257876528706" /></a><strong>On to the next generation of Mothers!</strong> This is me, on April 3. 2010. (My 50th birthday.) I'm grateful for the path that led me to my incredible husband and family, and for this smile on my face. They say all roads lead to Rome. My path has sometimes seemed impossible, but it brought me to exactly where I want to be. <strong><em>I have no regrets.</em></strong></blockquote><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiDjmyNM6GQYs5KLx8qR-GGLLvOBDVNgsDXqbYIibU9rLbHftcd7OV92_zvejTgoOvTf175DBYt-EMHa8X3nZsUtGPme6uZz3UxVcUbHVUzHcg55ZN7FP4HuxNl6E-2C4H43mcjtTMVas8/s1600/Huntville3-04JPG.jpg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiDjmyNM6GQYs5KLx8qR-GGLLvOBDVNgsDXqbYIibU9rLbHftcd7OV92_zvejTgoOvTf175DBYt-EMHa8X3nZsUtGPme6uZz3UxVcUbHVUzHcg55ZN7FP4HuxNl6E-2C4H43mcjtTMVas8/s200/Huntville3-04JPG.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5460825221616415554" /></a>These are some of the people who are most important to me <em>now</em>: <strong>my husband Alex</strong>, who is my constant partner in this madness we call the <em>"writing life"</em>, our oldest son, <strong>Thomas</strong>, middle son <strong>Ted</strong>, and our baby daughter <strong>Tammy-Li</strong>! Also pictured with us is our children's <strong>cousin Alexx</strong>,(the golden blonde teen) who was travelling with us that day. (Let's not overlook that other golden blonde, our puppy Daisy!)<br />
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEik1Ka4gtmE9-a5I3k7QN-zW6ijds5Hp7YUUoXIyFTzmZXmRe2SuBB1gBiic1K1kin4JJYPhZwe6-1YgGRxPOEpbYz2961QqUjy-Efi2AU6p05Mk2btqC6TXrq4vWC9s3F0MBIMHzNG-tA/s1600/Summer07-22.JPG"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEik1Ka4gtmE9-a5I3k7QN-zW6ijds5Hp7YUUoXIyFTzmZXmRe2SuBB1gBiic1K1kin4JJYPhZwe6-1YgGRxPOEpbYz2961QqUjy-Efi2AU6p05Mk2btqC6TXrq4vWC9s3F0MBIMHzNG-tA/s200/Summer07-22.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5460826508792944738" /></a>Here I am with my <strong>darlings </strong>on our beloved beach. Yes, <strong>Alex</strong> is there as well -- he's the shadow you see holding the camera! <br />
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg15LMZcu_m9Tr9byhGB1RjDz4y80d9HcGxrOFFLhPmXyPFOY6Mo9xaeU2sjPhwqD2rfjtXndvdFQSVUvYYC3tD0c5c4EfIw4saFgJI9vSWkZd1J4WNIcvRyYKbtVhVrSELFtBiZ5rQ9VU/s1600/Summer07-25.JPG"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg15LMZcu_m9Tr9byhGB1RjDz4y80d9HcGxrOFFLhPmXyPFOY6Mo9xaeU2sjPhwqD2rfjtXndvdFQSVUvYYC3tD0c5c4EfIw4saFgJI9vSWkZd1J4WNIcvRyYKbtVhVrSELFtBiZ5rQ9VU/s200/Summer07-25.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5460826183040018626" /></a>Where would I be without these dear children of ours? I can't even imagine....<br />
<br />
<strong><em>I only hope that one day, when it's their turn to wear the "White Carnation", they will remember me with love.</em></strong>Donna Carrickhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13328714849719887970noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3830606190174128752.post-44463810921342967832012-04-08T14:46:00.000-07:002012-05-11T21:02:46.637-07:00Once, on a cool Spring afternoon... ~ Donna Carrick, April 8, 2012April, 2012 Poems<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhWhH-t3rPuzqewPIZaw74BKWjGmPavg6BBsZ-hkJYbk0D64EOCQBjz4o7C6qMd6E2HRIsaOYsKNX0HcCD2EZwqSayvPmNn3E9_JUn0k12UMwDVnR6UtCp4_Ex7j97zGYZdUyFYOJZKoy8/s1600/Daisy2+June26-11.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear:right; float:right; margin-left:1em; margin-bottom:1em"><img border="0" height="240" width="190" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhWhH-t3rPuzqewPIZaw74BKWjGmPavg6BBsZ-hkJYbk0D64EOCQBjz4o7C6qMd6E2HRIsaOYsKNX0HcCD2EZwqSayvPmNn3E9_JUn0k12UMwDVnR6UtCp4_Ex7j97zGYZdUyFYOJZKoy8/s320/Daisy2+June26-11.JPG" /></a></div><br />
Once,<br />
On a cool Spring afternoon<br />
Complete with birdsong,<br />
The roar of distant waves<br />
And enthusiastic neighbour dogs<br />
Barking on their walks<br />
Filling our ears,<br />
We sat, my dog and I,<br />
'Neath a grey sky.<br />
Our hair coiled,<br />
Dampened by the drizzle<br />
That fell from trees.<br />
<br />
Soft muted colours,<br />
The green of new-ling lillies<br />
And white birch bark,<br />
Protected from our eyes<br />
by diffused daylight<br />
That spackled here and there,<br />
Now hiding, but look quick,<br />
Showing for an instant,<br />
The season's splendour<br />
Still to come.<br />
<br />
I looked at my fine companion,<br />
And she at me,<br />
And in the quiet of the moment<br />
I wrote,<br />
<b><i>"We were here."</b></i>Donna Carrickhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13328714849719887970noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3830606190174128752.post-73633064081238698112012-02-09T14:43:00.000-08:002012-02-09T15:57:41.280-08:00The Writer Within ~ thoughts for a cold monthSometimes eyes closed the writer within sees all knows the score needs only the movement of fingers to explore express exalt the word...<br />
<br />
In quiet moments words drop like stones onto/into placid water each resonates with its own sound each ripple-set unique as meaning grows.Donna Carrickhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13328714849719887970noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3830606190174128752.post-9990058377958761982012-01-19T19:42:00.000-08:002012-01-19T19:42:52.878-08:00Hail the Dragon -- Happy Chinese New Year!<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj1SNuGZdeusQICYlbXEyDGcMV4i_CFnhXivLP61V1jvKc5KnEiNMUmr9tJpr5lUN095D1l78CTIjeV8NMPHd40-UNFzmgwnJIW6FKArBd3FqFp0sS44FGChBPW9NCKzf9PGBnlyWUYHGw/s1600/Dragon+2012.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear:left; float:left;margin-right:1em; margin-bottom:1em"><img border="0" height="250" width="380" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj1SNuGZdeusQICYlbXEyDGcMV4i_CFnhXivLP61V1jvKc5KnEiNMUmr9tJpr5lUN095D1l78CTIjeV8NMPHd40-UNFzmgwnJIW6FKArBd3FqFp0sS44FGChBPW9NCKzf9PGBnlyWUYHGw/s200/Dragon+2012.jpg" /></a></div><br />
<br />
<br />
<b>Proceed with equal<br />
parts joy and caution, you who<br />
would hail the Dragon.</b>Donna Carrickhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13328714849719887970noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3830606190174128752.post-63893712210981511622012-01-19T09:45:00.000-08:002012-01-19T09:45:55.887-08:00Crime Writer’s Quest ~ Donna Carrick, January 19, 2012<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjK8lKCqbjUmArCipVgZLPj_-pEn4Fqq4kvQQtnIFZDUwYgErXFa6gdJ35cesRnane__c5taaF6kV8ikaAni7j_CyQbecRd1Sc9zjDi3m5VYbXjH_zFlwXYHFXBFDVxGluyZ1XNVqe-kFw/s1600/Justice+Scales2+canstockphoto7868882%255B1%255D.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear:left; float:left;margin-right:1em; margin-bottom:1em"><img border="0" height="150" width="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjK8lKCqbjUmArCipVgZLPj_-pEn4Fqq4kvQQtnIFZDUwYgErXFa6gdJ35cesRnane__c5taaF6kV8ikaAni7j_CyQbecRd1Sc9zjDi3m5VYbXjH_zFlwXYHFXBFDVxGluyZ1XNVqe-kFw/s320/Justice+Scales2+canstockphoto7868882%255B1%255D.jpg" /></a></div><br />
<em>The world is comprised of both good and evil.</em><br />
<br />
We understand this to be one of life’s core truths.<br />
<br />
Those of us who bear the scars of our own encounters with the latter will often search for meaning inside the random complexities of our existence.<br />
<br />
Occasionally we’ll catch a glimmer of the order we crave. It’ll peek at us from the face of a smiling friend; we’ll taste it in a lover’s kiss or feel it in the warmth of a beloved child’s unbidden hug.<br />
<br />
It’ll hover in the air, shimmering like after-rain rising from pavement on a scorching day.<br />
<br />
Then, just as quickly, our sense of understanding disappears.<br />
<br />
It gets lost in the sound of a stranger’s footstep after dark. It cannot survive the panic when our car stalls on a deserted road, or when an otherwise empty house speaks to us in the dead of night.<br />
<br />
We Crime Writers understand this: that the fabric of our society is woven with strands of both light and darkness. We get that, as often as not, there is no ‘meaning’ waiting to be revealed in the behaviour of our fellow-man.<br />
<br />
Human acts of kindness and cruelty have no more consistency than can be found in the wind, one moment singing to us softly and the next raging without mercy, flinging guilty and innocent alike out of its malicious path.<br />
<br />
Still, we Crime Writers crave balance. We long for equilibrium, to adjust those scales time and again. We set our caps for justice.<br />
<br />
We carve our heroes from 'inner nobility' and set them loose to rain perfection on an imperfect world.<br />
<br />
And yes, we know our very concept of 'universal justice' is merely an illusion.<br />
<br />
<strong>That’s why we call it <em>fiction</em>.</strong><br />
<br />
Donna Carrick, January 19, 2012<br />Donna Carrickhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13328714849719887970noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3830606190174128752.post-12506075620647105112011-12-06T04:49:00.001-08:002011-12-06T04:57:32.530-08:00Maritime Waltz<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjZNn-yCvTh3iOfPWRvNHmMaN0jw0ubuAtU0C6Et3b0090wzQV-hilMXXwv2GCJXvDoEMIgLi6nE8lVLYYLEDIByna-f5BBqEAEG-tkVIIF4lvamBVyZiZNJeG39UNhDafwBZCuzEgEsDk/s1600/Deb+Copy+of+bkuemtsig2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear:left; float:left;margin-right:1em; margin-bottom:1em"><img border="0" height="187" width="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjZNn-yCvTh3iOfPWRvNHmMaN0jw0ubuAtU0C6Et3b0090wzQV-hilMXXwv2GCJXvDoEMIgLi6nE8lVLYYLEDIByna-f5BBqEAEG-tkVIIF4lvamBVyZiZNJeG39UNhDafwBZCuzEgEsDk/s200/Deb+Copy+of+bkuemtsig2.jpg" /></a></div><i>Last night my thoughts drove once again to Parlee Beach. Memory can be a wonderful thing. All of my senses are tuned in to the experience. I can smell the ocean, feel the sand between my toes. I close my eyes and I am there.<br />
<br />
I hope you'll join me...<br />
</i><br />
<br />
<b>Maritime Waltz</b><br />
<br />
Come dance with me<br />
To the rhythm of the sea.<br />
We'll savor the salty sprays.<br />
<br />
Our hearts will swoon<br />
At the sight of the moon<br />
Adorned in her favorite rays.<br />
<br />
Our love may die<br />
With the dawn's first sigh.<br />
"Forever" may fleeting be.<br />
<br />
Still, take my hand<br />
On the shifting sand.<br />
Forever come dance with me.<br />
<br />
Donna Carrick, December 5, 2011Donna Carrickhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13328714849719887970noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3830606190174128752.post-34606865904601806322011-11-11T04:30:00.001-08:002011-11-11T04:33:59.374-08:00Quiet of November<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjmg13AqAG0BgfWCOqKmvkY_HxInnJ9YrRRYV8hYo36k_APgsBeBojjLkWEL0PPgybqwFpIQl3R8yS_WvwGHm6vgdiv5aMs-35t-tuiw3xJtcWBqoqDvak5j3Xaupn9mMpEi4vZRtHMHlo/s1600/Debportcarlingsig.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear:left; float:left;margin-right:1em; margin-bottom:1em"><img border="0" height="240" width="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjmg13AqAG0BgfWCOqKmvkY_HxInnJ9YrRRYV8hYo36k_APgsBeBojjLkWEL0PPgybqwFpIQl3R8yS_WvwGHm6vgdiv5aMs-35t-tuiw3xJtcWBqoqDvak5j3Xaupn9mMpEi4vZRtHMHlo/s320/Debportcarlingsig.jpg" /></a></div><i><b>November brings its own moments of quiet reflection:<br />
</b></i><br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
~~<br />
<br />
Lo, the sands of time<br />
Speak to us of blood on beach.<br />
Let us not forget.<br />
<br />
~~<br />
<br />
Donna Carrick, November 11, 2011<br />
<br />Donna Carrickhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13328714849719887970noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3830606190174128752.post-42786390360854784612011-10-28T06:43:00.000-07:002011-10-30T19:09:05.661-07:00October Songs -- by Donna Carrick<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg1RdpFuL7fJFKUUbfIbrBud7ObdjJdwQZkeOKXKoGHAC6dOrlAhKuQyoMw1lRF_TyVaARl5s_Fzx_xI-6UjbpZxnlv8SZHSk_46jsoTJ6wWdSeCFYS855t47rUwT8zGfpsvUD5lzl8Qg0/s1600/DebBenchTrees2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear:left; float:left;margin-right:1em; margin-bottom:1em"><img border="0" height="153" width="160" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg1RdpFuL7fJFKUUbfIbrBud7ObdjJdwQZkeOKXKoGHAC6dOrlAhKuQyoMw1lRF_TyVaARl5s_Fzx_xI-6UjbpZxnlv8SZHSk_46jsoTJ6wWdSeCFYS855t47rUwT8zGfpsvUD5lzl8Qg0/s320/DebBenchTrees2.jpg" /></a></div><i><b>October is the perfect time for poetry. </b></i><br />
<br />
The North country is in flux, it's mood changing daily -- even hourly. The sights, sounds and smells of a dying season fill our senses.<br />
<br />
In Canada, these feelings may be even more acute. Some of us approach the snow and ice with trepidation, but overall there is a sense of resignation that brings a certain peace.<br />
<br />
We want the world to pause, to hold its beauty for<i> just a little longer</i>. It's with this theme in mind that I offer these<b> October Songs</b>:<br />
<br />
~~<br />
<br />
I will take this love<br />
Wherever it may lead me,<br />
As long as I have words...<br />
<br />
~~<br />
<br />
October's passion:<br />
splendor of red, orange, gold.<br />
My love walks with me.<br />
<br />
~~<br />
<br />
Precious solitude.<br />
Autumn claims the heart of me,<br />
whispers to my soul.<br />
<br />
~~<br />
<br />
For awhile they held<br />
deep cool breath of Fall -- in love --<br />
and then she was gone.<br />
<br />
~~<br />
<br />
I hope you will enjoy these pieces. Please feel free to visit again, stay awhile, and share your own thought on this season by commenting below.<br />
<br />
Thank you,<br />
Donna Carrick October 28, 2011<br />
<br />Donna Carrickhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13328714849719887970noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3830606190174128752.post-28864497352387371142011-10-16T14:37:00.000-07:002011-10-16T14:44:11.956-07:00This Time of Love and Laughter ~ Donna Carrick, Oct. 16/11<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: right;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi9IL63by-pR3CwpdsYM35rXD23GXmllJyGMOQxUULiHejVH12Zr-YzzQORWVCUYTzoXHKVauKdxbhwXZkN_6JgMgmTy74FIGo2R0rOfmk91eVMonkktYMZmreCwJiI3FTgMVI2F19y_tk/s1600/IMG_0310-2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear:left; float:left;margin-right:1em; margin-bottom:1em"><img border="0" height="210" width="180" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi9IL63by-pR3CwpdsYM35rXD23GXmllJyGMOQxUULiHejVH12Zr-YzzQORWVCUYTzoXHKVauKdxbhwXZkN_6JgMgmTy74FIGo2R0rOfmk91eVMonkktYMZmreCwJiI3FTgMVI2F19y_tk/s320/IMG_0310-2.jpg" /></a></div>It goes... it goes so fast,<br />
This time of love and laughter.<br />
It flies on silver wings<br />
Through skies of blue.<br />
<br />
And though we try our best<br />
To hold the smiles, the sunlight,<br />
In twinkling of an eye<br />
It fades to memory...<br />
<br />
Quicksilver joy, comradeship,<br />
Hands that we hold today.<br />
Eyes that watch as moments<br />
Soar by like coloured kites.<br />
<br />
For nothing lasts but memory,<br />
Sweet ghost of love gone by.<br />
<br />
Donna Carrick<br />
October 16, 2011Donna Carrickhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13328714849719887970noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3830606190174128752.post-30175467983246531092011-09-25T06:17:00.000-07:002011-09-25T06:27:17.860-07:00As Summer Falls ~ Donna Carrick<br />
Here we are on Sunday morning,<br />
Last in September,<br />
Sunlight tickling the yellow and red<br />
Till it comes out of hiding<br />
From within layers of weary green.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiOyI8UG3XlBeYTm2n512ompvAzotAwJBVbZd-QF-FlpqRPT26q4HyFGiNVqcahr5m3SMNG0lssUl8DQToYGBvpIshto1SkjlKP1UhQRF4jQjZIa9AFc9TtqYBo18mvn7OzSIciMjWyJa8/s1600/Avatar+Background+Donna.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear:right; float:right; margin-left:1em; margin-bottom:1em"><img border="0" height="189" width="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiOyI8UG3XlBeYTm2n512ompvAzotAwJBVbZd-QF-FlpqRPT26q4HyFGiNVqcahr5m3SMNG0lssUl8DQToYGBvpIshto1SkjlKP1UhQRF4jQjZIa9AFc9TtqYBo18mvn7OzSIciMjWyJa8/s200/Avatar+Background+Donna.jpg" /></a></div>So summer falls at last<br />
Into the glory of its past.<br />
<br />
We watch in wonder as<br />
Autumn hails itself<br />
The one true ruler<br />
Of the North.<br />
<br />
Donna Carrickhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13328714849719887970noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3830606190174128752.post-48434769751355496372011-09-11T06:50:00.000-07:002011-09-11T06:50:28.082-07:00One day that changed the world....Lest we forget.<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg1WpF_5w7UmUZp0lt8iWf9eosK2SfcfWRbSSdWK2fa56KY5vHfcNU89Z5no1hytucyr1fVFrlbZVlKO39JPUfFZJBN7ohJO2gMHp2GswIfsAZyt6_7RzagFsIZUh2m9iAxV7injqiHM9w/s1600/IMG_0986.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear:left; float:left;margin-right:1em; margin-bottom:1em"><img border="0" height="320" width="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg1WpF_5w7UmUZp0lt8iWf9eosK2SfcfWRbSSdWK2fa56KY5vHfcNU89Z5no1hytucyr1fVFrlbZVlKO39JPUfFZJBN7ohJO2gMHp2GswIfsAZyt6_7RzagFsIZUh2m9iAxV7injqiHM9w/s320/IMG_0986.JPG" /></a></div>Like most adults, I woke today filled with memories of that other morning, ten years ago, almost to the moment.<br />
<br />
It had been a period of loss for our family. First my mother, unexpectedly at the age of 69 in early 2000. Next a dear aunt, then another -- sisters of my mother. Then, on September 3, 2001, my husband Alex lost a beloved aunt, follwed the very next day, September 4, by his father, Donald Carrick.<br />
<br />
We returned to work on the morning of Monday, September 11 after a week of funerals. Already saddened, but relieved, at least, to put the heaviest of our grief behind us and get back to our normal routines.<br />
<br />
It was just past 9 am. My office phone rang. It was one of my staff, a young lady, calling to say she would be a little late. "But Donna," she added, "there's something wrong in New York City. I don't know what, but something's happened at The Towers."<br />
<br />
I won't pretend her first words chilled me. I had no idea, after all, what they meant. But her next sentences gave me pause. "It's really scary," she said. "Everything here is too quiet. There are no planes in the air -- none."<br />
<br />
I put the phone down. I work for a major media organization, and at that time we were still connected with Canwest at the 1450 Don Mills Road building. I ran from my office on the 2nd floor up a half flight toward the big news screen on the 3rd floor.<br />
<br />
Within moments, almost 200 of my friends and co-workers had joined me. In absolute silence we watched the newsman as he struggled to make sense of the first impact. He, and we, thought it must have been an accident. He spoke in reverence, pausing to find the right words. Clearly it was not a typical news report. He was just a guy with a microphone and a camera, trying to tell the world what had happened.<br />
<br />
And then, before our eyes, in one flash of horror, the unthinkable occurred. The second plane. As he spoke, facing the camera, behind his head we saw it pass, turn, and collide with the second tower.<br />
<br />
And we all knew.<br />
<br />
There was no cry of horror in our building. No stifled collective gasp -- no outrage spoken in words.<br />
<br />
There was only a deep, unbroken silence as the knowledge flooded us.<br />
<br />
During the days that followed our hearts broke time and again, with each new discovery, each fresh image that was presented to us. We were filled with an unprecedented grief, and a love for our brothers and sisters in New York City.<br />
<br />
The phrase "Ground Zero" came into our language. But we know the damage of that day was not isolated to the towers. Not at all. Its impact ripples to this day through the hearts and minds of people everywhere. None are left untouched.<br />
<br />
So here we are in Canada on a beautiful Toronto morning. What has changed in our world? <br />
<br />
Ten years have come...and gone. A heightened sense of security worldwide has restricted our freedoms in ways we might never have imagined. We've suffered suspicion... against our neighbours, from our neighbours. Friendships have grown, or have been set aside. Babies have been born, and loved ones have died.<br />
<br />
But that moment, standing with hundreds of my co-workers, friends all, entrenched in the silent horror of first awareness, before even the newsman knew for sure..... <br />
<br />
...that was a pivotal moment.<br />
<br />
A moment that cannot be erased, nor can it be trivialized, nor should it ever be.<br />
<br />
All that has come to pass since that day has been acted on an altered stage. <br />
<br />
And now, ten years later, we still seek peace. Too elusive. Too vague a concept. Our global psyche too cluttered with offenses given and received, too filled with suspicion and hatred.<em> Forgive us our trespasses, as we will forgive those who trepass....</em><br />
<br />
Instead of a day committed to reliving that horror, as if anyone could or would ever forget, I pray we will dedicate this day to seeking peaceful solutions to our differences.<br />
<br />
That's my fervent wish on this day, ten years to the moment later.<br />
<br />
Donna Carrick<br />
September 11, 2011Donna Carrickhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13328714849719887970noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3830606190174128752.post-82070686578170429262011-09-04T08:29:00.000-07:002011-09-05T19:38:55.196-07:00September #haiku ~ by Donna Carrick<i>This one is in memory of the lives lost on September 11, 2001. Alex and I were returning to work that morning after a week of family funerals, relieved to finish a week of sorrow, only to learn the sorrow had hardly begun...<br />
</i><br />
<blockquote>All around the world<br />
Nature is the only sound.<br />
Plowshares, swords at rest.<br />
</blockquote><br />
The following are inspired by the season as well as by our love of our Northern home:<br />
<blockquote>Slow September rain,<br />
tender as a memory.<br />
Farewell summer love. <br />
**<br />
Grey September blues.<br />
Half-forgotten melody.<br />
Lyrics call for you.<br />
**<br />
Late summer shadow.<br />
Memories of season gone,<br />
passing with regret. <br />
**<br />
Wake to gentle rain.<br />
Late summer, birds, cicadas.<br />
Our North dressed in grey.<br />
**<br />
Yue liang lights our way.<br />
Cool September harvest moon,<br />
lantern in the sky. <br />
**<br />
A crystal moment,<br />
subtle as a woman’s sigh.<br />
Everything has changed.<br />
**<br />
Subtle September,<br />
scarce a touch of autumn red,<br />
in cool denial. </blockquote>Donna Carrickhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13328714849719887970noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3830606190174128752.post-71095214855698624172011-07-08T12:48:00.000-07:002011-07-08T12:48:40.017-07:00February the Fifth, by Derek Haines<a href="http://www.goodreads.com/book/show/10083118-february-the-fifth" style="float: left; padding-right: 20px"><img alt="February The Fifth" border="0" src="http://ecx.images-amazon.com/images/I/61AUt0bH78L._SX106_.jpg" /></a><a href="http://www.goodreads.com/book/show/10083118-february-the-fifth">February The Fifth</a> by <a href="http://www.goodreads.com/author/show/3159313.Derek_Haines">Derek Haines</a><br/><br />
My rating: <a href="http://www.goodreads.com/review/show/170407584">5 of 5 stars</a><br /><br /><br />
Delightfully quirky....<br />
<br/>...insanely imaginitive...intensely insightful...just plain fun. <br />
<br/>Derek Haines employs all of his impressive writing skills in this fantastic tale of February, Supreme Potentate of the Twelve Sun System of Gloth. <br />
<br/>I'm grateful to Amazon Kindle, which offers a platform for exciting authors like Haines to reach out to readers globally. Haines uses an elegant narrative style in this tale of February's rise to Royalty. If you enjoy a strange and ecclectic story that is both beautifully crafted and "really out there", you will love this e-book. <br />
<br/>Donna Carrick <br />
<br/>author of The First Excellence<br />
<br/><br/><br />
<a href="http://www.goodreads.com/review/list/3014545-donna-carrick">View all my reviews</a>Donna Carrickhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13328714849719887970noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3830606190174128752.post-25102480884127529242011-04-14T14:54:00.000-07:002011-04-14T14:54:20.873-07:00The First Excellence Video.MOV<iframe width="425" height="344" src="http://www.youtube.com/embed/tcs7TzYOT9M?fs=1" frameborder="0" allowFullScreen=""></iframe>Donna Carrickhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13328714849719887970noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3830606190174128752.post-66064503590450962642011-02-10T08:24:00.000-08:002011-02-10T09:21:26.469-08:00Making Peace with the Dancing Bears -- February 10, 2011<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgGRf7uIkTtnqXfHMBBW3GnqV7Mh73FOcPc8S2bLxKHbp8OiatcDZOWRGXmHAVj-YLTTZre6DGeTHxj4bx9Xwe6glcMaTZRa_JgCU3-dn34t-qiJk9FkvQGNIBVNLvHp5TmpTS6lrfJEjI/s1600/Dancing+Bears+canstock3448134.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear:left; float:left;margin-right:1em; margin-bottom:1em"><img border="0" height="133" width="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgGRf7uIkTtnqXfHMBBW3GnqV7Mh73FOcPc8S2bLxKHbp8OiatcDZOWRGXmHAVj-YLTTZre6DGeTHxj4bx9Xwe6glcMaTZRa_JgCU3-dn34t-qiJk9FkvQGNIBVNLvHp5TmpTS6lrfJEjI/s200/Dancing+Bears+canstock3448134.jpg" /></a></div><br />
Like most writers, I’m an avid reader. Since my earliest days of “See Spot run!” I’ve been hooked on the written word. The masters of yesteryear have shaped my conscious thoughts in ways even I can not explain.<br />
<br />
What is it that gives a book such majesty? What injects mere words with the ability to change us, enhance us and lift our lives into something infinitely more worthwhile than what we had before?<br />
<br />
As a writer, I’ve pondered this question many times. Is it structure, plot, character, poetry – what is the one key ingredient of a truly great work?<br />
<br />
Here’s the conclusion I’ve drawn: on its own, none of these elements will produce an outstanding book, although each is usually blended with technical skills in the best of literary works. Mere punctuation will not sprinkle a story with fairy dust. Poetry alone, thick with personal meaning but devoid of universal appeal, will not liberate our subconscious from the trappings of the mundane.<br />
<br />
No. The only sure way for a writer to capture his readers is to harness the power of being comfortable with his voices. Beloved books all have one thing in common: they invite the reader to sit with the author and explore his innermost workings, that menagerie of thoughts and ideas, joys, sorrows and horrors that are unique to each of us.<br />
<br />
A writer must reach deep into his psyche – soul, if you will – and pull out whatever icky mess he finds there. A well of experience, the mucky stew of the past, is the key ingredient of any work of art.<br />
<br />
Sometimes, on a good day, we’ll look inside ourselves and find only joy. Those are the days when our stories will be at peace, when our minds become aviaries filled with colourful winged creatures who sing to us of golden moments in the sun.<br />
<br />
The next day we might find ourselves staring into a black pit of snakes, our guts wrenching with anger, doubt and self-loathing. Then the villains in our minds will rule the day. The world will experience their wrath<br />
<br />
<i><b>Behold the poisonous power of the serpent! He, too, is part of this universe. He, too, deserves his moment in the bright light of understanding.</b><br />
</i><br />
Only the brave can dive into this unknown territory, day after day, never sure what we will find. The compassionate among us can view each of our inner ‘animals’ with a touch of love and a river of understanding.<br />
<br />
Most people are unable to face what lies within their minds. They are not comfortable with the voices – they shrink from the gnashing teeth, the bloody claws of their own demons.<br />
<br />
But, of course, those people are not writers. We are a hardy lot. We’ve learned to live in peace with all aspects of ourselves.<br />
<br />
When we hear the rumbling of the dancing bears, we do not run in fear. Nay, not at all. Instead, we writers don our finery and dance along, grinning and growling with the best of them!<br />
<br />
Donna Carrick, February 10, 2011<br />
<br />
<b>Leave a comment below to win your choice of any Carrick book found at our website: http://www.carrickpublishing.com/?page_id=57<br />
</b><br />
Contest closes at noon EST on Feb. 13, in time for Valentine's Day. Be sure to let me know how to contact you, in case I draw your name out of the hat!Donna Carrickhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13328714849719887970noreply@blogger.com16tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3830606190174128752.post-15486919009233058782010-11-19T19:40:00.000-08:002010-11-19T19:40:14.490-08:00Two Scoops Video.MOV<iframe width="425" height="344" src="http://www.youtube.com/embed/diL5Fw6zqds?fs=1" frameborder="0"></iframe>Donna Carrickhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13328714849719887970noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3830606190174128752.post-77045639090389124462010-10-12T12:28:00.000-07:002010-10-19T09:39:06.207-07:00The Night She Died ~ A Halloween story by Donna Carrick, October, 2010<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgvCDVHNvUZchXwi1kCY3r5nr8k0ofA_fQO6o2rxb-p_76PjYKjNAZ41AxJWktELCcsQV4vmEogdzY87fkKr-8_lwlWlAoCs7PEpXgFWIsdh76gpQr4cR9fOe5Q0zXAoC84e_2R2kfb4GI/s1600/Simply+Wicked.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" px="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgvCDVHNvUZchXwi1kCY3r5nr8k0ofA_fQO6o2rxb-p_76PjYKjNAZ41AxJWktELCcsQV4vmEogdzY87fkKr-8_lwlWlAoCs7PEpXgFWIsdh76gpQr4cR9fOe5Q0zXAoC84e_2R2kfb4GI/s320/Simply+Wicked.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br />
“Hand me that basket, will you, please?”<br />
<br />
I reached past Annie to the large wicker basket filled with bite sized chocolate bars: Caramilk, Mars and Snickers.<br />
<br />
Grace took it from me without looking up. She was generous with the little ones, placing two bars and some chips in each bag.<br />
<br />
It was October 31, 1974. A warm day had produced a clear evening, perfect for costumes and candy.<br />
<br />
The skeleton said ‘thank you’ in a high-pitched voice. The princess just turned and ran, nearly tripping over her frothy skirt.<br />
<br />
“Look at those guys,” Annie said, pointing at the house next door where a cluster of six children were lined up. They were dressed in home-made costumes – four witches and two warlocks.<br />
<br />
Grace laughed, her jowls swaying like heavy fruit in the wind. Not long ago, our cousin had been a beautiful woman. People had compared her petite frame, long dark hair and contagious smile to Audrey Hepburn. In the early ‘70’s, Audrey’s trademark sprightly outfits and mannerisms were no longer stylish. Just the same, as a teen, Grace had played up the similarities by dressing in pedal pushers and fun tops.<br />
<br />
In ’71 Grace married her high-school sweetheart. With the first of three children on the way, it seemed like the thing to do. Frank got a job at one of the big grocery stores, so they weren’t suffering for money. They bought a two-storey house on a tree-lined street in our little Maritime city and settled in to make a life.<br />
<br />
Three years later, with the second baby not yet walking, people no longer mistook Grace for Audrey. An addiction to cola, chocolate and the Colonel’s secret recipe had taken care of that. <br />
<br />
We still loved her, though. So when our mother asked Annie and me to help Grace out with the little ones for a few days, we jumped at the chance to sleep on her fold-out couch. Frank was out of town at a grocers’ convention and Grace, though we didn’t realise it at the time, was pregnant with baby number three.<br />
<br />
The coven of witches flew up the stairs to Grace’s porch and we resumed our shelling out duties. Baby Sara watched the children with wide eyes, wiggling in her infant-seat on the porch. Grace's toddler Lily helped with the candy, solemnly making sure each child got the same amount.<br />
<br />
“These are great costumes,” Grace said, touching a pointy, silk-covered hat on one of the girls. “Did your Mom make these?”<br />
<br />
“Yes,” the little witch said. She smiled and we all laughed.<br />
<br />
“I can’t tell who you are,” Grace said. “Your faces are painted so well, I think you really must be witches. Is that Shelly Small I see under that hat? And Tracey?”<br />
<br />
The girls giggled.<br />
<br />
“What about me, Mrs. Lefebvre? Can you tell who I am?”<br />
<br />
“No, indeed, I don’t think I can! Oh, wait a moment… Is it Candice Howard? And is this your little sister Haley? Oh, my goodness, how you girls have grown! I hope you won’t cast a spell on me.”<br />
<br />
Grace doled out a generous helping of empty calories to each of the four girls. The two boys held back shyly.<br />
<br />
“Come on, Ricky,” Grace said. “We like wizards, too! Brent, I know that’s you. What a clever wizard you are!” The boys smiled, holding their bags up. It was obvious the children adored our kind-hearted cousin.<br />
<br />
“Thank you, Mrs. Lefebvre!” they shouted.<br />
<br />
“You’re welcome, dears. Say hi to your Mommies for me!”<br />
<br />
Everyone loved Grace. She stood only five feet tall and weighed close to three hundred pounds, but it was three hundred pounds of class and heart. In his private moments, Frank must have resented this sudden physical change in his young wife, but he never complained. Adversity is commonplace in the Maritimes. You learn to live with it.<br />
<br />
I’ve often wondered what caused our cousin to balloon up so suddenly. Why the gallons of cola, the compulsive eating? Her parents were wonderful people. I don’t believe her problems were rooted in her childhood. <br />
<br />
The coven scattered, leaving Grace, Annie and me to chat on the porch while we waited for the next batch of goblins. It wasn’t late, but darkness takes hold early in the fall. The streetlights shed small grey rings onto the pavement, struggling in vain to illuminate the area. Of course, we had the porch light on and the walk-up was lined with jack-o-lanterns we’d helped Grace carve earlier.<br />
<br />
Still, we were surprised when a young woman, maybe seventeen, stepped out of the night and climbed the stairs to stand in front of us. Her face was pale and her long, sandy-blonde hair fell in front of her eyes. That’s the way we all wore our hair back then. After all, the year was 1974. Coifed curls were passé.<br />
<br />
The girl had narrow hips and a fragile waist. I wondered where she stored her food; she appeared to have no stomach or bowels.<br />
<br />
The smile disappeared from Grace’s face, sinking into in the perpetual frown of her under-chin.<br />
<br />
“It’s you,” she said, “again.”<br />
<br />
The girl didn’t answer. She wasn’t carrying a trick-or-treat bag, nor was she wearing a costume. She had on a tight-fitting zip-up sweater with the hood down, her long straight hair catching the light. She stared at me through translucent silver eyes.<br />
<br />
Eyes are a feature I tend to notice. In fact, with my own non-descript hazel pair, I often find myself envious of women who have remarkable eyes.<br />
<br />
Annie’s eyes, for example, were perfect for her face – an uncompromising Chelsea blue that never wavered.<br />
<br />
Grace had always been known for her perfectly sculpted, huge dark eyes. They were downright exotic, like those of an Arabian princess. Even in her obese state, Grace’s eyes were still noteworthy. Movie-star eyes, that’s what they were.<br />
<br />
This strange girl on the porch, though, blew them both out of the water. In my entire life, both before and since that night, I’ve seldom seen anything quite like her eyes.<br />
<br />
She looked through each of us in turn. Judging us. <br />
<br />
Standing wasn’t easy for Grace, especially lifting herself up from the low steps where we had been sitting, but she managed. She looked down on the strange girl, her heavy arms shaking with…what was it? Anger? Fear?<br />
<br />
Annie stood beside Grace and I followed suit. Whatever was happening, we were united with our cousin.<br />
<br />
“You get on home,” Grace said to the girl. “Don’t you come out here tonight. Go home to your mother, right now!”<br />
<br />
The girl looked directly at Grace. The other-worldly look left her silver eyes, transforming her. I watched as the subtle change took effect, altering her into an mere girl – haunted and sad, yes, but otherwise quite ordinary.<br />
<br />
“You heard me, now,” Grace said, shaking her finger. “Don’t you dare come back.”<br />
<br />
The girl turned away, but before she did I saw a tear shining under the porch light. She straightened her back and walked down the stairs. In the next instant, she was gone – the darkness had absorbed her once again.<br />
<br />
~<br />
<br />
We helped Grace gather up the candy and blow out the candles in the pumpkins.<br />
<br />
“I’m glad you girls are here,” she said. “I just can’t stand to be alone on Halloween. I can’t face it anymore. With Frank gone…”<br />
<br />
Annie looked at me, but I was too young to catch the undercurrent of Grace’s words. I didn’t know that Grace and Frank were on the rocks.<br />
<br />
Now, of course, many years later, I understand why Grace had pleaded with our mother to let her bring the kids to our house, why she couldn’t bear to be alone on Halloween.<br />
<br />
My mother had problems of her own contending with my father’s drinking. His volatility was a closely guarded family secret. Mom couldn’t let Grace and her children stay with us, so she offered to send us to Grace’s house instead.<br />
<br />
In October of 1974 I was thirteen years old. Like many teens, I was not particularly good at tuning in to the drama that surrounded me.<br />
<br />
Annie, on the other hand, was an empathetic soul. She often understood things I didn't grasp.<br />
<br />
“Who was that girl?” I asked.<br />
<br />
“It doesn’t matter,” Grace said, still shaking. She sat on the couch, struggling to breathe slowly, beads of perspiration on her forehead.<br />
<br />
“Can we get you anything?” Annie said.<br />
<br />
“Yes. There’s a glass of Coke in the fridge. Would you get that for me please?”<br />
<br />
Annie ran to get the sugary drink that would one day send our cousin to an early grave. We had no way of knowing Grace’s sugar consumption would kill her.<br />
<br />
“That girl...” Grace began, speaking slowly, “…the first time she came here was three years ago, right after Frank and I got married. I was pregnant with Lily. Frank was off at one of his conventions. She came up the stairs as I was handing out candy, just like she did tonight. You both saw her, right?”<br />
<br />
She looked at us, suddenly doubting whether we’d actually seen the girl.<br />
<br />
We nodded.<br />
<br />
“She was nervous that night,” Grace continued. “She was with a group of children, maybe three or four. I thought she was an older sister or something. But when they ran off, she walked down the steps without a word and headed in the opposite direction. I didn’t think much of it at the time.”<br />
<br />
She took a long drink of her cola. My stomach turned, watching her consume the flat, sweet beverage, but she didn’t seem to mind it.<br />
<br />
“Later that night,” she continued, “the girl came back. It was around midnight. I was alone and pregnant. I didn’t know what to do.”<br />
<br />
“What happened?” Annie said, sitting next to Grace and rubbing her back.<br />
<br />
“We never lock our doors around here. At least we never used to. The girl pounded on the front door. I ran out to see what was going on, but before I could answer the door she was already standing in the hallway.<br />
<br />
“I asked her what she wanted. She frightened me. You girls remember how tiny I used to be?”<br />
<br />
We nodded again, waiting for Grace to continue.<br />
<br />
“She said she just wanted to stay awhile. To talk with me. I could tell she was nervous. But I didn’t think about that. All I could think was that I wanted her to leave. You’ve seen her eyes. She looks like a witch. She scared the be-Jesus out of me.”<br />
<br />
“Anyone would be scared,” I said.<br />
<br />
“Did she leave?” Annie asked.<br />
<br />
“Not right away. She came into the living room and sat on the couch. She kept saying ‘Just let me stay a couple of minutes. I won’t bother you.’<br />
<br />
“I got the broom out of the hall closet and shook it at her. ‘You have to go,’ I said. Finally she got up and made for the door. The second she was outside, I locked it behind her, then I ran to the back door and locked it, too. I made sure the windows were locked. Then I sat on this couch in the dark, praying she wouldn’t come back.<br />
<br />
“She must have stayed on my porch, that’s all I can think. I honestly believed she’d left.”<br />
<br />
Our cousin was still shaking. She took another long drink of cola and shut her eyes.<br />
<br />
“Did she come back?” Annie asked.<br />
<br />
I drew in a sharp breath, waiting for the answer.<br />
<br />
“Yes. Either she came back, or she had never left. I’m not sure which. I finally fell asleep on the couch around 12:30. I woke up again around 1:00.”<br />
<br />
“What happened?”<br />
<br />
“I-I just can’t talk about it anymore,” Grace said. “I’ve pleaded with Frank to sell the house – to move out of this neighbourhood. But we both grew up here. He says we can’t afford to move.<br />
<br />
“Come on, now,” she added, shaking her head. “Let’s send the little ones to bed before they get all wound up.”<br />
<br />
I glanced at Lily, the oldest, who had come into the room and was sitting on the other side of Grace, clutching her mother’s arm.<br />
<br />
By 11:00 both children had long since fallen asleep and we got Grace settled into her bed with a sleeping pill.<br />
<br />
“It’s the only way I’ll get any rest,” she explained. “Annie, would you check the door one more time?”<br />
<br />
“I will.”<br />
<br />
“And don’t forget the back door. Please.”<br />
<br />
“I will.”<br />
<br />
Annie had more patience than I could ever lay claim to. Grace had already insisted that she check all of the doors and windows. Obediently, she’d gone from one to the other without a word.<br />
<br />
We watched Grace slip into a drugged slumber before we finally went back to the living room to make up our couch-bed.<br />
<br />
“Holy crap!” Annie whispered.<br />
<br />
“I know,” I said.<br />
<br />
Annie’s blue eyes sparkled in the darkness as she pulled the covers up, trying to make a cocoon. Sleeping with my sister was enough to make me homicidal. She was a terrible blanket hog – with no remorse whatsoever.<br />
<br />
I sighed and stomped off to find another blanket.<br />
<br />
“Grace is terrified,” Annie said.<br />
<br />
“Me, too!”<br />
<br />
“I think she’s lost her mind. Seeing that girl is playing tricks on her.”<br />
<br />
“Yeah. I wonder if she’s imagining the whole thing.”<br />
<br />
We tried to sleep. Annie drifted off for a moment, but every passing car, every creak in the old house, had us both wide-eyed once again. Finally we gave up and just lay there, whispering girl secrets to each other to take our minds off the shared sense of impending terror.<br />
<br />
We’d only been asleep a short time when we woke to the sound of pounding on the door. I jumped out of bed, but Annie said “No, leave it. Just ignore it.”<br />
<br />
Before I could climb back into bed, the girl was in the hallway.<br />
<br />
“I thought you locked the door,” I said.<br />
<br />
“I did.” Annie was the brave one. She was used to sound and fury, having taken more than her share of our father’s crap. She jumped out of bed and positioned herself between me and the nervous intruder.<br />
<br />
“What do you want?” Annie said. I could feel her body tensing up the way it always did when she stared down the old man. Bracing for the blow.<br />
<br />
“I just want to talk to you. Can I come in?”<br />
<br />
“No. This isn’t our house. We have babies sleeping here. You have to go.” Annie took a step toward the girl.<br />
<br />
Our visitor had other ideas. She pushed past my sister and sat on the edge of our bed.<br />
<br />
“Just let me stay a few minutes,” she said. “I won’t bother anyone. You both go back to sleep and I’ll just sit here quietly.”<br />
<br />
My gut churned the way it always did when I was afraid. I worried I’d lose control of my bowels. Annie once again placed herself between me and the girl.<br />
<br />
“You have to go,” she said. She was calmer now, her voice quieter, more gentle. “I’m sorry, but this isn’t our house. You can’t stay.”<br />
<br />
The strange girl got up slowly and crept back to the door, staring at Annie, hoping for a change of heart.<br />
<br />
“Go home, now,” Annie said.<br />
<br />
With that the girl was gone.<br />
<br />
An hour later we were still restless, drifting in and out of sleep, each wrestling for control of the blankets. We weren’t talking anymore – we were way too tired for that. We were in ‘hunker down’ mode, praying for the long night to pass.<br />
<br />
Even though we were half-expecting something more to happen, the man’s voice still startled us when it shattered the eerie stillness.<br />
<br />
“There you are!” he shouted. He was in the laneway beside our cousin’s house, just outside the living room.<br />
<br />
There was pounding on the door and the girl’s voice, frantic now, pleaded with us to let her in. Before we could respond, the knocking stopped. We heard footsteps taking the porch stairs two at a time.<br />
<br />
“Where were you tonight?" the strange man shouted. "I asked you a question. Who were you with? What were you doing?”<br />
<br />
“Please… leave me alone,” the girl said.<br />
<br />
There was a scuffle. Annie banged on the front window and shouted, “Leave her alone! I’m calling the police!"<br />
<br />
Annie reached for the phone. There was a loud thump as the girl jumped off the porch and another as the man followed her, filling the night air with his angry curses.<br />
<br />
He caught the young girl easily. She squealed as he pounded her against the wall of the house. Our cousin’s side window was small and high, so I couldn’t see into the laneway, but the noises were deafening as he beat the defenceless teen with inhuman force.<br />
<br />
I couldn’t move. I looked at Annie where she stood holding the phone, a mixture of horror and fury on her face.<br />
<br />
The shouts and the beating continued for maybe five minutes.<br />
<br />
Then silence.<br />
<br />
No more squeals. No more curses. Even the girl’s whimpering had stopped. In the stillness the house continued to shake, or maybe it was just the blood pounding in my ears.<br />
<br />
“Stand up,” the man’s voice said. “Come on. Quit playing with me. Get on your feet.”<br />
<br />
No response from the girl.<br />
<br />
Then I heard his footsteps as he ran away, up the alley and gone, just like that.<br />
<br />
Five minutes later the police arrived. They pounded on the front door.<br />
<br />
This time Annie opened it.<br />
<br />
It took twenty minutes for them to question us. During that time, an officer tried to wake my cousin, but couldn’t get a rise out of her. They searched the neighbourhood to put our minds at ease, but you could tell they were just going through the motions. They’d been called to my cousin's house before. There was no battered girl in the alleyway, no violent man to place under arrest. In fact, all that remained was the shared sense of a lingering nightmare.<br />
<br />
Maybe we really had dreamt the whole thing...<br />
<br />
The police did their duty: took our statements and went on their way.<br />
<br />
~<br />
<br />
Thirty-six years have passed since that night at my cousin’s house. My sister died a few years after that. Teen suicide. Not surprising, given our family life.<br />
<br />
Frank ran off in 1980 and took the three kids with him, shacking up with a clerk from his grocery store. I never blamed him, even though I knew it tore Grace apart. His new wife, Shirley, was an older woman who chain-smoked, treated his children well and promised to never, never let herself get overweight.<br />
<br />
I’ve been married and divorced twice – both times going in with high hopes. I’ve now come to grips with the fact I wasn’t meant for matrimony. I haven’t got the patience.<br />
<br />
As for Grace, the diabetes finally got her. She died last week, drowned, more like it, in cola and potato chips. She was nearly four hundred pounds, a shuddering mass of grief and loneliness. And remorse. She’d been in a nursing home since Frank left, no longer able to climb the stairs in their house.<br />
<br />
~<br />
<br />
Our family moved away from the Maritimes when I was in my teens. With thousands of miles between us, I’d long since lost touch with my ailing cousin. I thought of her often, though. When I got the call from Lily saying her Mom had died, I caught the first plane home.<br />
<br />
Frank was at the funeral. He looked like a broken man. He left Shirley’s side to greet me, his eyes searching mine for forgiveness. There was nothing to forgive. It wasn't his fault Grace had died. She'd killed herself, like my sister only more slowly. More painfully, but just as surely.<br />
<br />
“I only wish Grace could’ve been happier,” he said. “She was always smiling when we were kids. She laughed all the time. Everyone loved our Grace.”<br />
<br />
“That’s true,” I said, wondering how the years could have fooled us all so thoroughly.<br />
<br />
I glanced around the room and spotted their youngest son, Andy, whom I recognised from pictures, standing next to his sister, Sara. Andy was slightly overweight. Sara, on the other hand, was stunning – the spitting image of Audrey Hepburn, right down to the tiny frame and the curve of her delicate jaw. It was like looking at Grace in the early days.<br />
<br />
Sara glanced my way and the exotic beauty of her eyes took my breath away – dark pools in an ivory face.<br />
<br />
Grace’s youngest children were fast approaching middle age. The realisation shook me.<br />
<br />
Frank was saying something, so I turned to face him.<br />
<br />
“It was that girl,” he repeated, gripping my hand. “Do you remember? The teenager that was murdered outside our house in ’71.”<br />
<br />
“I remember,” I said. Back then we didn’t have the internet, but after the incident we'd experienced in '74, Annie and I had scoured the public libraries looking for reports of her death. Her name had been Alison Carter. An ordinary name. An ordinary girl.<br />
<br />
Unless you remembered her eyes – those silver shafts of light that went right through you, that saw your every weakness and condemned you for the coward that you were.<br />
<br />
“Grace always blamed herself,” Frank said. “Always said if only she’d let the poor girl stay awhile, she wouldn’t have been killed.”<br />
<br />
“Grace was pregnant and afraid. She was not much more than a child herself. A pregnant nineteen year-year-old.”<br />
<br />
“I know,” he said. “But she never got over it. Every year on Halloween she dreamt the girl came back. The guilt destroyed her.”<br />
<br />
“It wasn't her fault,” I said. "She didn't murder the girl."<br />
<br />
And what about Grace's kids? I wondered. Had they been damaged, too, by the wraith-like vigilante who stalked their mother?<br />
<br />
Andy and Sara stood together, holding hands, two beautiful adults who looked just like their parents.<br />
<br />
I searched the room, finally spotting the oldest, Lily, alone in the corner. I joined her. She recognised me and held out her hands.<br />
<br />
She was taller than Grace had been – around five-seven – and stood erect. Her sandy blond hair fell long and straight, adding to her height.<br />
<br />
“Hello, Jane,” she said.<br />
<br />
“Hi, Lily. How have you been?”<br />
<br />
I knew Lily had spent a lot of time with Grace in the final years. She was probably closer to her mother than anyone else had been. Still, there were no tears in her eyes, nor was there a catch in her voice when she spoke.<br />
<br />
“I’ve been ok,” she said.<br />
<br />
I looked away. Frank was standing at his wife’s side near the over-sized casket. I wanted to join them, to leave Grace’s oldest daughter alone with her thoughts.<br />
<br />
Lily made me mildly uncomfortable. Something about her always had. It was just too hard, seeing those silver eyes that looked right through me. It was too hard knowing…what I knew -- what Grace must also have known.<br />
<br />
Lily smiled and touched my hand, trying to relieve my anxiety.<br />
<br />
“It’s ok now,” she said. “I've forgiven her.”<br />
<br />
THE END<br />
******<br />
<blockquote><b>***CARRICK HALLOWEEN GIVE-AWAY!***</b><br />
The first 2 readers to leave a comment on this story will receive ABSOLUTELY FREE: <br />
<b><i>The First Excellence ~ Fa-ling's Map</i></b> by Donna Carrick<br />
AND<br />
<b><i>"Three Scoops" Is A Blast!</i></b> by Alex Carrick<br />
<br />
You can learn more about Donna and Alex (And all our books!) at:<br />
<a href="http://www.carrickpublishing.com/">http://www.carrickpublishing.com/</a><br />
</blockquote>Previous stop on the Halloween Blog Tour:<br />
Intense Whisper *Featured Blogger*<br />
<a href="http://intensewhisper.blogspot.com/">http://intensewhisper.blogspot.com/</a><br />
<br />
Next stop on the Halloween Blog Tour:<br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><b><span style="font-family: Garamond; font-size: medium;">Dyan Garris *Featured Blogger*</span></b></span><br />
<a href="http://www.voiceoftheangels.com/deardyan/">http://www.voiceoftheangels.com/deardyan</a><br />
<br />
For those who like to skip around a bit (LOL) here is the complete lineup!<br />
Here's the blog tour line up<br />
<br />
<br />
Day 1 Oct. 19 <br />
Amy Williamson *Hostess with the Mostest* ParaScream Radio, Stage Actress, TV Personality, League of Extraordinary Women of Paranormal and Horror<br />
<a href="http://www.theleagueofextraordinarywomenofparanormalandhorror.com/">http://www.theleagueofextraordinarywomenofparanormalandhorror.com<br />
</a>Give-away: YES<br />
<br />
Day 2 Oct. 20 <br />
Jo Lynne Valerie *Hostess with the Mostest* Paranormal Author, ParaGoddess, TV/Radio<br />
<a href="http://www.JoLynneValerie.com">http://www.JoLynneValerie.com</a> <br />
Give-away: YES<br />
<br />
Day 3 Oct. 21 <br />
Larissa Sarah *Featured Blogger*<br />
<a href="http://www.larissaslife.com">http://www.larissaslife.com<br />
</a>Give-away: YES<br />
<br />
Day 4 Oct. 22<br />
Monica Koetz *Featured Blogger*<br />
<a href="www.bibliophilicbookblog.com">www.bibliophilicbookblog.com<br />
</a><br />
Day 5 Oct. 23<br />
Conjure Oils *Featured Metaphysical Expert*<br />
<a href="http://www.ConjureOils.com">http://www.ConjureOils.com<br />
</a>Give-away: YES<br />
<br />
Day 6 Oct. 24 <br />
Scott Noir *Published Author of Erotica, Studly Man, "Smoldering Prose" <br />
<a href="http://scottnoir.blogspot.com">http://scottnoir.blogspot.com</a> <br />
<br />
Day 7 Oct. 25 <br />
Fan Spotlight Day<br />
Featuring: Psyche Soul Goddess *ParaGoddess In Training*<br />
<a href="http://aprilpsychesthoughts.blogspot.com">http://aprilpsychesthoughts.blogspot.com<br />
</a>Featuring: Lily Oak *Publisher of Hope Open, owner of HedgeWitchery Books*<br />
<a href="http://hedge-witcherybooks.blogspot.com ">http://hedge-witcherybooks.blogspot.com <br />
</a><br />
Day 8 Oct. 26 <br />
Kayleigh Jamison *Published Author, Spiritual Woman, Bookish Diva*<br />
<a href="www.kayleighjamison.com">www.kayleighjamison.com<br />
</a>Give-away: YES<br />
<br />
Day 9 Oct. 27 <br />
Intense Whisper *Featured Blogger*<br />
<a href="http://intensewhisper.blogspot.com">http://intensewhisper.blogspot.com<br />
</a>Give-away: YES<br />
<br />
Day 10 Oct. 28 <br />
Donna Carrick *Published Author of Fiction, Active Participant of #WriteChat on Twitter, Huge Hearted Gal*<br />
<a href="http://donnacarrick.blogspot.com/2010/10/night-she-died-halloween-story-by-donna.html">http://donnacarrick.blogspot.com<br />
</a>Give-away: YES<br />
<br />
Day 11 Oct. 29 <br />
Dyan Garris *Featured Blogger Visionary Mystic & Author of the Award Winning Finalist Money and Manifesting *<br />
<a href="http://www.voiceoftheangels.com/deardyan">http://www.voiceoftheangels.com/deardyan<br />
</a><br />
Day 12 Oct. 30 <br />
Women of Esoterica *Featured Paranormal Expert*<br />
<a href="http://womenesoterica.blogspot.com">http://womenesoterica.blogspot.com<br />
</a>Give-away: YES<br />
<br />
Day 13 Oct. 31 <br />
Ben Hopkin<br />
*Featured Actor, Acting Coach Helping Other Actors Create Magic in Their Performances*<br />
<a href="http://actingwithoutthedrama.blogspot.com">http://actingwithoutthedrama.blogspot.com</a>Donna Carrickhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13328714849719887970noreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3830606190174128752.post-83714056871722939732010-09-02T07:53:00.000-07:002010-09-02T07:53:35.037-07:00Carrick Publishing: To Order Books<strong>** FOR A LIMITED TIME, ANY PAYPAL BOOK ORDER WILL INCLUDE A <u>FREE</u> COPY OF <em>THE NOON GOD</em>!** See PayPal Options at bottom of page.</strong><br />
<br />
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<strong>The First Excellence: Fa-ling's Map</strong><br />
~ Donna Carrick<br />
<a href="http://www.amazon.com/First-Excellence-Fa-lings-Map/dp/1439253935/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&s=books&qid=1273426437&sr=8-1">Amazon.com: $17.99 US</a><br />
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Mystery/suspense/<br />
political intrigue/<br />
Chinese adoption</blockquote><br />
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<blockquote><a href="http://www.amazon.com/Three-Scoops-Blast-ebook/dp/B003WUY3CG/ref=sr_1_4?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1282240639&sr=1-4"><img alt="scoops3cover250%20FINAL.jpg" height="242" src="http://blogdc.donnacarrick.com/scoops3cover250%20FINAL.jpg" width="172" /></a><br />
<strong>"Three Scoops" Is A Blast!</strong><br />
~ Alex Carrick<br />
Collected Short Stories<br />
Coming Soon: Amazon Paperback!<br />
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<strong>**Includes <em>The Size Of The Skip</em>, 2010 Honorable Mention Lorian Hemingway Awards!**</strong></blockquote><br />
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~ Donna Carrick<br />
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Mystery/suspense/<br />
intrigue/current events/<br />
International Aid/<br />
Tsunami, 2004 SouthEast Asia</a></blockquote><br />
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<a href="http://www.indiependentbooks.com/shop/index.php/two-scoops-is-just-right-78-funny-original-short-stories-by-alex-carrick.html">{Indie}Pendent Books: $11.50 US</a><br />
78 short, funny,<br />
original stories.<br />
Humor/lifestyle</blockquote><br />
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<strong>The Noon God</strong><br />
~ Donna Carrick<br />
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Mystery/suspense/family saga/drama</blockquote><br />
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<img alt="" border="0" height="1" src="https://www.paypal.com/en_US/i/scr/pixel.gif" width="1" />Donna Carrickhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13328714849719887970noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3830606190174128752.post-80297811486861302422010-08-18T08:17:00.000-07:002010-08-18T09:31:56.654-07:00Parlee Beach (...and you)<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhOUwwBlto5D92t5QCpg0nH2FKsSrrrTr-KJm0SZznLWricQ-PKOtrS769SvGv7wujb0vZGtiF8bpLOGqUD4iBpREVlDVJbBsURjSwYCr34He209HyG_mGnIq6Z0rMY7GriH4umWZRbMPA/s1600/SunsetViolet07-3.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; cssfloat: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="149" ox="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhOUwwBlto5D92t5QCpg0nH2FKsSrrrTr-KJm0SZznLWricQ-PKOtrS769SvGv7wujb0vZGtiF8bpLOGqUD4iBpREVlDVJbBsURjSwYCr34He209HyG_mGnIq6Z0rMY7GriH4umWZRbMPA/s200/SunsetViolet07-3.JPG" width="200" /></a></div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">My heart yearns long and low for Parlee Beach</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">Where never was I judged, nor ever wanting;</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">Where sunshine stilled the days in memory haunting;</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">Where miles of sparkling sand ignited soul</div>And ears were captured by the seagull’s call.<br />
<br />
My heart breaks soft and slow for Parlee Beach;<br />
For rapturous moments in the salt-blue sea,<br />
Throwing up my arms and being free;<br />
Hearing your laughter nearby at my side;<br />
Your sunshine-angel hair, your ocean eyes…<br />
<br />
Oh, memory!<br />
<br />
Donna Carrick, August 18, 2010Donna Carrickhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13328714849719887970noreply@blogger.com11tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3830606190174128752.post-81952836701216603462010-05-02T04:53:00.000-07:002010-05-02T05:51:04.730-07:00Invasion ~ Donna Carrick, May 2, 2010<blockquote><strong>Last week on Twitter's #storycraft chat, participants were given an assignment: to write a story from the perspective of an inanimate object. "Invasion" is my contribution to the group.<br /><br />A number of talented writers have joined in the fun of #storycraft's first week. Fiction enthusiasts are welcome: simply follow <a href="http://twitter.com/Story_Craft">@Story_Craft</a> and watch for updates from the founders: <a href="http://twitter.com/TamaraNKitties">@TamaraNKitties</a>, <a href="http://twitter.com/Danisidhe">@Danisidhe</a> and <a href="http://twitter.com/iamJaymes">@IamJaymes</a>. (You can also follow me! <a href="http://twitter.com/Donna_Carrick">@Donna_Carrick!</a>) Chats are at 6pm EST on Sundays.</strong></blockquote><br />It's an invasion of privacy, that's what it is. He holds me in grubby hands, turning me about. He splays me like a fish, only to slam me shut when he doesn't like what he finds.<br /><br />Words, beautiful words... the bond we shared, she and I. She used to tell me all of her thoughts and dreams. But that was in another lifetime, before the jealousy and rage. Before HE came.<br /><br />Now it's barely a flake of her life I'm privy to. But what I <em>see</em> is more than enough...<br /><br />His mood changes, although he doesn't say a word. It's in the way his hands press against me. This must be what she felt when he tried to kill her, hands wrapped around her neck, fingers pressing, stars exploding behind her eyes, welcoming her to the land of perpetual night.<br /><br />He curses. What is it? His filthy thumb has left a mark on me. Knowing she will understand his villainy, he scrubs it, but I hold firm. I will not let it be erased.<br /><br />At last -- proof!<br /><br />A door opens in another room. It must be her.<br /><br />He shuts me quietly, setting me on the nightstand. So clever. She will never suspect he's been violating me, using me as catalyst for his violence.<br /><br />She moves slowly, in no hurry to greet him. Words are spoken. He leaves me and I hear the refrigerator door.<br /><br />She joins me, sits on her bed, too weary for tears. There were tears last week, though, the day she told me she was pregnant. It should have been a happy occasion. Instead she wept, smearing ink with salty drops, finally shredding the page.<br /><br />She reaches for me. <em>Ah, dear friend, so well I feel your pain.</em> Even in her grief, her touch is loving. She turns to that last page – sees his mark...<br /><br />For a moment her eyes are wide at the extent of his invasion, then resignation reclaims its rightful place. Reaching for her pen, she writes a final whisper, laying the words out over his mark:<br /><br /><strong><em>"There must be something more to life than this."</em></strong>Donna Carrickhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13328714849719887970noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3830606190174128752.post-83887629849643594232010-04-16T12:39:00.000-07:002010-07-06T18:05:23.601-07:00Wearing the White Carnation: Remembering Mom and other amazing women...<blockquote><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi7UBQAz5kehmpWTzdRfN5ewWYQ0CJVLwP0wfzjMht0Q_M_jPJwthTG2nfAkq_TKaqfwGsiLFlRtQuZYs1-1_YPITlHM93qHfBV08icPCsDkwNlkwVx8lOoMoLJJViu313cKXWsySiMuEU/s1600/PLeyendeckerMothersDay1977.jpg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 186px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi7UBQAz5kehmpWTzdRfN5ewWYQ0CJVLwP0wfzjMht0Q_M_jPJwthTG2nfAkq_TKaqfwGsiLFlRtQuZYs1-1_YPITlHM93qHfBV08icPCsDkwNlkwVx8lOoMoLJJViu313cKXWsySiMuEU/s200/PLeyendeckerMothersDay1977.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5462358103575878322" /></a><em>Welcome to the Twitter Chats Blog Tour, organized by Mariana N. Blaser at <a href="http://marisrandomities.blogspot.com/2010/05/mother-day-twitter-chats-blog-tour.html">Mari’s Randomities </a>and Anne Tyler Lord at <a href="http://annetylerlord.com/memoir/memoir-mothers-day-blog-tour-the-precious-gift">Don’t Fence Me In</a>. Today's theme is Mother's Day. <br /> <br />You'll be traveling with us through the blogs of some of the fantastic authors and writers who participate in our weekly -- funny, entertaining and educating -- Twitter chats. This tour will feature writers from #writechat, #litchat, and #fridayflash.<br /> <br />You will be directed to your next stop at the end of this post. Please feel welcome here, and have a happy Mother's Day!</em></blockquote><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjuilAzY5pHrPHReVQDOdaUc39RirNcEev81RJVlExBUI3-lBuIS2y60lt2KG7pwQkKha_hrfsun7rTQ_AM4T4KG3aaGkPJYMIPqFpRTNoTtIYRYqcF3OlcZWnRJw2YoN89s8rTms8jb3I/s1600/Easter2010+006.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 262px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjuilAzY5pHrPHReVQDOdaUc39RirNcEev81RJVlExBUI3-lBuIS2y60lt2KG7pwQkKha_hrfsun7rTQ_AM4T4KG3aaGkPJYMIPqFpRTNoTtIYRYqcF3OlcZWnRJw2YoN89s8rTms8jb3I/s320/Easter2010+006.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5460829564451982434" /></a><strong><em>As the years fly by, I am in awe of the impact this tiny woman continues to have on my life. My mother, Betty Lou, (b-Oct.6, 1931, d-Feb.14, 2000) was one of those eternally optimistic ladies we often encounter among her generation. She never rose without a cheery "Good Morning", and she sang (admittedly badly) while performing the most menial household task.<br /><br />I would be lucky to possess one-half of her wisdom -- the common sense with which she approached every one of life's challenges.</em></strong><br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhtzy8-agm18yLCs2l1lPPaJI5RbjI57-_xHh5_fuoJ_Rlzihh14bP0k3e1-_nJXi7txva7toPhCV0Hy2VospRwmRKX0pUIY4OHrKjPfV0XrPG3OfkyFBDqN37z55iyVggDX1LX3H63CN8/s1600/Easter2010+004.jpg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 159px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhtzy8-agm18yLCs2l1lPPaJI5RbjI57-_xHh5_fuoJ_Rlzihh14bP0k3e1-_nJXi7txva7toPhCV0Hy2VospRwmRKX0pUIY4OHrKjPfV0XrPG3OfkyFBDqN37z55iyVggDX1LX3H63CN8/s200/Easter2010+004.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5460829211715885634" /></a>But then, Mom descended from a long line of sturdy souls. I remember her grandmother, <strong>my great-grandmother Griselda</strong>, pictured here in the early 60's shortly before she died at 96.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh_m-uWRgXXPU2TuxheBL7DLltnRAu8PcS7fVbqq1hF7k231nubW6hgsTpfmk4mvX4Y8w54yn8M0FvPlRarilFRAag7OKjyEd9ZM-y0cIB5hxEkw5TYgsHQrTVI9fOzO7qZAA73wA1Enec/s1600/Easter2010+002.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 163px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh_m-uWRgXXPU2TuxheBL7DLltnRAu8PcS7fVbqq1hF7k231nubW6hgsTpfmk4mvX4Y8w54yn8M0FvPlRarilFRAag7OKjyEd9ZM-y0cIB5hxEkw5TYgsHQrTVI9fOzO7qZAA73wA1Enec/s200/Easter2010+002.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5460829010017916210" /></a> She was especially proud of this photo of her farm, where she continued to work until her death. Having lost her husband in middle age, Griselda handled the bulk of the physical labour, assisted only by her disabled son. My <strong>mother's Uncle Archie </strong>had broken his back as a young man but still did what he could.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEji_VkDjZt-m1DKQMYwP-eGUpqAsXgEjZk0aBf62ekCfZ66D3trg-FXgk0OQ3eyV26ge6V8NbABMBlf7syOPro1t7P7-3gG7B9-YPGUzhsJiRQFxr99XayhvJe6O0uIo0mMUWL7VFNDwhg/s1600/Easter2010+003.jpg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 124px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEji_VkDjZt-m1DKQMYwP-eGUpqAsXgEjZk0aBf62ekCfZ66D3trg-FXgk0OQ3eyV26ge6V8NbABMBlf7syOPro1t7P7-3gG7B9-YPGUzhsJiRQFxr99XayhvJe6O0uIo0mMUWL7VFNDwhg/s200/Easter2010+003.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5460828622947256114" /></a><strong>Uncle Archie</strong> is on the right, pictured here with a friend on the farm where he lived with his mother.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjAeqBuLcxFM73fRdfihMl9wJFcVsLI6V9miB7AyMe1n6Pzdza7To3COhyZgb073B9bxc24hPlzHMKNbg2aF2DbYvGrQsUULs6ES_GZ2sKjdWU-cgpY8vb_Fl_2H70mhpMJ6nJyS_1TPdA/s1600/Easter2010+012.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 157px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjAeqBuLcxFM73fRdfihMl9wJFcVsLI6V9miB7AyMe1n6Pzdza7To3COhyZgb073B9bxc24hPlzHMKNbg2aF2DbYvGrQsUULs6ES_GZ2sKjdWU-cgpY8vb_Fl_2H70mhpMJ6nJyS_1TPdA/s200/Easter2010+012.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5460828414659894274" /></a>One of the most important people in my childhood was <strong>my Grammie Bessie</strong>, my mother's mother. My sisters and I loved her with all our might. She was sensible, smart, well-educated (a registered nurse who ran a team in a hospital) and carried herself with dignity. This woman taught me self-respect and kindness, lessons which have served me well.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjJRz9jmICraZQDLqbkfT6ZrDlh0TyV9x9YQQXexxSnsjvD05qP1Bjmakl0oGUEbtfXXaSbfBqYHSETJAa_tVY3eMIXhwu4oXwJ5cMbqS6t2_zTxJ516lQjT8Jm2yH4rG2431Cb4xKmMLU/s1600/Easter2010+007.jpg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 192px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjJRz9jmICraZQDLqbkfT6ZrDlh0TyV9x9YQQXexxSnsjvD05qP1Bjmakl0oGUEbtfXXaSbfBqYHSETJAa_tVY3eMIXhwu4oXwJ5cMbqS6t2_zTxJ516lQjT8Jm2yH4rG2431Cb4xKmMLU/s200/Easter2010+007.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5460828248803061794" /></a>My father's mother, <strong>Mary Elisabeth</strong>, was one of those ladies you read about in books. In the height of the <strong>Great Depression</strong>, my grandfather ran off to chase the ponies, leaving her alone to raise three children. In fairness to Grampie, he probably hoped to earn a living gambling -- there weren't many jobs to be had in 1935. He returned home in the 60's shortly before he died, and I remember him as a cheerful, loving grandfather.<br /><br /><strong>Nanny Mary </strong>held three jobs for most of her adult life. She was head cook at one of the most prestigious hotel/restaurants in the Maritimes -- the Brunswick Hotel -- as well as keeping 2 permanent jobs as maid/family cook/housekeeper for wealthier people in her neighbourhood.<br /><br /><blockquote><strong><em>Although she belonged to the class of "working poor" during the Dirty Thirties, Nanny Mary taught me about charity. She never feared walking the streets of Moncton alone past midnight. Every homeless person on High Street knew her name, and they knew that Mary was on her way home from her job at the hotel. She carried food from the restaurant, which she gave to each person she encountered. She told me: Don't fear a poor man, or a working man. Share when you can. There is always someone worse off than you.</em></strong></blockquote><br />In my memory Nanny Mary is always laughing. She never saw the <strong><em>hard life </em></strong>as something to complain about.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEibdCCS0eYl5-Cg_rq8F2cBSKCBYSulu4oVx3gjtSaUjlV_2bWMVTkmAjIPec-sRTs76wv-sq0ppBQLrv3joD3R5C-s340BHgNeJhJfWQIf_0k-j22rLp_R9_eDwzh35SOeBCWbYCAsa6s/s1600/Easter2010+009.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 136px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEibdCCS0eYl5-Cg_rq8F2cBSKCBYSulu4oVx3gjtSaUjlV_2bWMVTkmAjIPec-sRTs76wv-sq0ppBQLrv3joD3R5C-s340BHgNeJhJfWQIf_0k-j22rLp_R9_eDwzh35SOeBCWbYCAsa6s/s200/Easter2010+009.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5460828087036442466" /></a>This is me, my <strong>Nanny Mary</strong>, my <strong>Dad</strong> and my <strong>oldest son, Tom</strong>. <strong>Mom</strong> was holding the camera, as usual, wanting to get a shot of the <strong>"4 generations"</strong> on Mothers' Day 1986. <strong><em>Notice the carnations we are all wearing?</em></strong><br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg_uQZuc5uHh5Te4QlF6UR2xZzmN4-JHoQ1UjO-94MxUwwo273JOiGBJvpp4OsSN6hLGf-nvQNmHVU5eCYWQB5HY9Dn9rCY2bQvAaWePyugaUdL04wjBUSoWzhp3uQcCEhLVpbcT1RUI4E/s1600/Easter2010+008.jpg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 136px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg_uQZuc5uHh5Te4QlF6UR2xZzmN4-JHoQ1UjO-94MxUwwo273JOiGBJvpp4OsSN6hLGf-nvQNmHVU5eCYWQB5HY9Dn9rCY2bQvAaWePyugaUdL04wjBUSoWzhp3uQcCEhLVpbcT1RUI4E/s200/Easter2010+008.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5460827882461364178" /></a>There have been so many important people in my life! Honouring them all would take nothing less than a book, but the "mothers" in this photo were certainly among my most influential.<br /><br />Here are my <strong>Mom</strong>, my <strong>Nanny Mary </strong>and my father's sister, <strong>Aunt Betty</strong>, who was my mother's closest childhood friend. My mother and my Aunt Betty shared a bond based on perpetual good humour, kindness and devotion to their families and friends. I am thrilled when my cousins tell me I look like their mother. <strong><em>I think so, too!</em></strong><br /><br /><blockquote><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj6DUlxCBZixcMVmDyua4X4vrnKEweuNwL_lKq8fTPjD1ffYqmV4KUEr4jUOAUn6Kd0RgORW7MX2jqWLBvO5TJTCnck9aD3C6D993HiGAzfAWipB-KzFk2ypifCn2ljqEUJjwTEtz5Nu4s/s1600/Easter2010+005.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 147px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj6DUlxCBZixcMVmDyua4X4vrnKEweuNwL_lKq8fTPjD1ffYqmV4KUEr4jUOAUn6Kd0RgORW7MX2jqWLBvO5TJTCnck9aD3C6D993HiGAzfAWipB-KzFk2ypifCn2ljqEUJjwTEtz5Nu4s/s200/Easter2010+005.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5460827555103227650" /></a><strong><em>When I was first asked to write a "Mother's Day" blog, I was hesitant. My mother's life was not one that could be easily packaged in a few sentimental phrases of 'a thousand words or less'.<br /><br />I wanted to honour her, but not at the expense of the truth. How could I celebrate the spirited "Mighty Mouse" of my childhood, without turning a blind eye to the hardships life dealt her?</em></strong><br /><br />For purposes of this <strong>Mothers' Day Memorial</strong>, though, I'm determined to focus on the happy moments. Here (on the far left) is a picture of my <strong>beautiful mother</strong>, standing as maid of honour at her sister <strong>Helen's</strong> wedding. You can see the joy of youth in Mom's face -- the hopes of one day marrying and starting her own family. <strong><em>It's all there.</em></strong></blockquote><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi9cN0s3r59ehArGoUF4DxYvbHJi24YcApTE574OL8mZHvKWGMmbLGV7xdJnsbhlD9bI8EhJklDW1kbAraovNWqf72sTgAg4hjYscj9Sa94BFDBNvGMkgiF1uTBGv-PS3uwzelJ-VKL8iw/s1600/Donna+Old+Photos+013.jpg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 182px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi9cN0s3r59ehArGoUF4DxYvbHJi24YcApTE574OL8mZHvKWGMmbLGV7xdJnsbhlD9bI8EhJklDW1kbAraovNWqf72sTgAg4hjYscj9Sa94BFDBNvGMkgiF1uTBGv-PS3uwzelJ-VKL8iw/s200/Donna+Old+Photos+013.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5460826818294133298" /></a>Here is <strong>my Mom </strong>many years later, in Saskatchewan with my older <strong>sister Debbie</strong>, myself, and my younger <strong>sister Rosalind</strong>. A stranger would not notice the sadness she tried so hard to hide. Life has dealt so many blows -- the loss of two sets of twins, 4 boys born too early; living with a volatile mate -- and has yet to deal so many more. <strong><em>In 1977 my older sister committed suicide, a blow from which we doubted Mom would ever recover.</em></strong><br /><br /><blockquote><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEglcG1ssIV_jKGwCuWbr3Wg8XETeZYh03rgFrL6R-XkmZLBWemSpEdF-d3zSOUVpxHv9uyrEOv594ds_Bqja6vticrZlwDKA7bQufJNYRfNAMUD6R_VfMhdlu_PvIxdiRRrcLpdZprldOw/s1600/Donna+Easter2010+098.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEglcG1ssIV_jKGwCuWbr3Wg8XETeZYh03rgFrL6R-XkmZLBWemSpEdF-d3zSOUVpxHv9uyrEOv594ds_Bqja6vticrZlwDKA7bQufJNYRfNAMUD6R_VfMhdlu_PvIxdiRRrcLpdZprldOw/s320/Donna+Easter2010+098.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5460827257876528706" /></a><strong>On to the next generation of Mothers!</strong> This is me, on April 3 of this year. (My 50th birthday.) I'm grateful for the path that led me to my incredible husband and family, and for this smile on my face. They say all roads lead to Rome. My path has sometimes seemed impossible, but it brought me to exactly where I want to be. <strong><em>I have no regrets.</em></strong></blockquote><br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiDjmyNM6GQYs5KLx8qR-GGLLvOBDVNgsDXqbYIibU9rLbHftcd7OV92_zvejTgoOvTf175DBYt-EMHa8X3nZsUtGPme6uZz3UxVcUbHVUzHcg55ZN7FP4HuxNl6E-2C4H43mcjtTMVas8/s1600/Huntville3-04JPG.jpg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiDjmyNM6GQYs5KLx8qR-GGLLvOBDVNgsDXqbYIibU9rLbHftcd7OV92_zvejTgoOvTf175DBYt-EMHa8X3nZsUtGPme6uZz3UxVcUbHVUzHcg55ZN7FP4HuxNl6E-2C4H43mcjtTMVas8/s200/Huntville3-04JPG.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5460825221616415554" /></a>These are some of the people who are most important to me <em>now</em>: <strong>my husband Alex</strong>, who is my constant partner in this madness we call the <em>"writing life"</em>, our oldest son, <strong>Thomas</strong>, middle son <strong>Ted</strong>, and our baby daughter <strong>Tammy-Li</strong>! Also pictured with us is our children's <strong>cousin Alexx</strong>,(the golden blonde teen) who was travelling with us that day. (Let's not overlook that other golden blonde, our puppy Daisy!)<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEik1Ka4gtmE9-a5I3k7QN-zW6ijds5Hp7YUUoXIyFTzmZXmRe2SuBB1gBiic1K1kin4JJYPhZwe6-1YgGRxPOEpbYz2961QqUjy-Efi2AU6p05Mk2btqC6TXrq4vWC9s3F0MBIMHzNG-tA/s1600/Summer07-22.JPG"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEik1Ka4gtmE9-a5I3k7QN-zW6ijds5Hp7YUUoXIyFTzmZXmRe2SuBB1gBiic1K1kin4JJYPhZwe6-1YgGRxPOEpbYz2961QqUjy-Efi2AU6p05Mk2btqC6TXrq4vWC9s3F0MBIMHzNG-tA/s200/Summer07-22.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5460826508792944738" /></a>Here I am with my <strong>darlings </strong>on our beloved beach. Yes, <strong>Alex</strong> is there as well -- he's the shadow you see holding the camera! <br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg15LMZcu_m9Tr9byhGB1RjDz4y80d9HcGxrOFFLhPmXyPFOY6Mo9xaeU2sjPhwqD2rfjtXndvdFQSVUvYYC3tD0c5c4EfIw4saFgJI9vSWkZd1J4WNIcvRyYKbtVhVrSELFtBiZ5rQ9VU/s1600/Summer07-25.JPG"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg15LMZcu_m9Tr9byhGB1RjDz4y80d9HcGxrOFFLhPmXyPFOY6Mo9xaeU2sjPhwqD2rfjtXndvdFQSVUvYYC3tD0c5c4EfIw4saFgJI9vSWkZd1J4WNIcvRyYKbtVhVrSELFtBiZ5rQ9VU/s200/Summer07-25.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5460826183040018626" /></a>Where would I be without these dear children of ours? I can't even imagine....<br /><br /><strong><em>I only hope that one day, when it's their turn to wear the "White Carnation", they will remember me with love.</em></strong><br />**<br /><blockquote><em>Thanks for stopping by! Your next stop for the Mother's Day Twitter Chats Blog Tour is <a href="http://inspiredbyreallife.com/?p=853">P.J. Kaiser at Inspired By Real Life</a>. You can Tweet with P.J. @DoubleLatteMama ! <br /> <br />The complete list of participants can be found at the host's blogs: <a href="http://marisrandomities.blogspot.com/2010/05/mother-day-twitter-chats-blog-tour.html">Mari Juniper </a>and <a href="http://annetylerlord.com/memoir/memoir-mothers-day-blog-tour-the-precious-gift">Anne Tyler Lord</a>.</em></blockquote>Donna Carrickhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13328714849719887970noreply@blogger.com22tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3830606190174128752.post-26545119232822842282010-04-02T19:39:00.000-07:002010-04-02T21:01:45.697-07:00On The Eve of My 50th Birthday... Friday, April 2, 2010<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgNdwD86bIc3huuohVhYenrIGjEf5-dMdGjzhalChbiS0E0YTPFdkT4dGapIfm5pIA4Rj0o542OkAn2v1NiB1HHQQTh3WAG4zbvcW04W3NPihLlH9Qg2th_c3tqhSaouKjz5NSebkuCqwA/s1600/031.JPG"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgNdwD86bIc3huuohVhYenrIGjEf5-dMdGjzhalChbiS0E0YTPFdkT4dGapIfm5pIA4Rj0o542OkAn2v1NiB1HHQQTh3WAG4zbvcW04W3NPihLlH9Qg2th_c3tqhSaouKjz5NSebkuCqwA/s320/031.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5455739367702204706" /></a><strong><em>This is a milestone, folks. Yup – as of midnight tonight, Yours Truly will crest the half-century mark.</em></strong><br /><br />Thanks to my beloved husband Alex and our family and friends, the week leading up to this big moment has been memorable. There have been gifts, cards, parties, lunches, dinners – I couldn’t ask for more!<br /><br />Aside from the celebrations, though, there have been moments of reflection. Those of you who have already sailed past this marker will likely know what I’m talking about. There are times when one’s age really is more than “just a number”.<br /><br /><strong><em>Achieving the age of 50 is one of those times.</em></strong><br /><br />I’ve found myself plunging into a near-fugue state while sitting at my computer or standing in the kitchen, walking, driving or lying in bed. One question keeps running through my mind<br /><br /> <strong><em>Am I where I should be at this point in my life?</em></strong><br /><br />Don’t get me wrong, I’m not trying to assess my status in material terms. I have a good day job that pays the bills, as does my husband. We have a home, car, education for our children…<br /><br />In terms of material considerations, I’m more than content – I am downright grateful.<br /><br />No, my ponderings have nothing to do with money or clothes, jewels or homes. Instead they are focused on the less tangible assets – <strong><em>the lessons of life</em></strong>. I review the years that led to this moment, all 50 of them, and what they should have taught me.<br /><br />I’ve certainly <strong><em>tried</em></strong> to take those lessons to heart. I suppose I must hope that effort counts in the grand design. I’ve tried to be generous and loving, tolerant and truthful. I’ve bent in the storm and stood my ground in the hurricane. I’ve been sometimes stubborn, and at other times compliant, as the situation warranted. I have loved my family truly, even in my childhood, when doing so often seemed impossible.<br /><br />But there is <strong><em>so much more </em></strong>I want to learn – so many pearls that still scatter past my feet, out of my reach. And now, on the eve of my half-century, it seems appropriate to chase down some of the most valuable pearls, before this moment passes and I forget what it was that seemed so pressing.<br /><br />So here, for all to witness, is my <strong>“<em>To-Do</em>”</strong> list for the next 50 years:<br /><br />1- Always <strong><em>appreciate the love of family and friends</em></strong>. Let no kindness pass unnoticed. Try to see myself as my loved ones see me. Forgive my own short-comings. They never arise out of malice.<br /><br />2- When in doubt, <strong><em>proceed with kindness</em></strong>. Let gentleness be my ‘default’ position.<br /><br />3- <strong><em>Stand tall</em>.</strong> Make no apologies for who I am. Courage is not the absence of fear, but the facing of it. Brave is the person who rises each day without knowing what challenges lay in wait.<br /><br />4- <strong><em>Treasure my physical health</em></strong>. My aging body is less than perfect, but it serves me well. Take care of it to the best of my ability.<br /><br />5- <strong><em>Follow my passion for written words </em></strong>with conviction and energy. Make no excuses – place no blame.<br /><br /><strong><em>Just keep on riding the tiger until the end of days.</em></strong>Donna Carrickhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13328714849719887970noreply@blogger.com18