Two Truths and a Lie: The Great Reveal

Such great guesses. But here is the honest to goodness truth.

#1: Nun On The Run.
I really did go to ROme to spend time with my aunt, a nun. We really did have a pickpocket try to swipe my purse, and she really did swipe him making me think perhaps nuns weren't quite as meek as I believed. We didn't actually run to St Peter's to escape, but we were going there anyway, and the Swiss Guard really did refuse me entry because of the length of my skirt. And yes, my aunt tried to sneak me in the back way making me think perhaps nuns weren't quite as virtuous as I believed, either. All in all, this story is TRUE.

#2 Dog Gone Mad
I never took my blanket up on the roof to stargaze with my dog. Other than that, this story is also TRUE.

#3 FLower Pot
I do have some viking blood, mostly stemming from my isle of man ancestors, but Svori Sveny was entirely fabricated. No glass eye, no family of marauders, no flower pots. This story is a LIE.

Thanks for the guesses. They were fun to read! Almost as fun as this stuff was to write!

Two Truths and a Lie: Flower Pot

In this mini-series, I am offering up three short stories, two of them based on true stories (ie: true in spirit, not necessarily to the letter), the other a total fabrication. You decide.


3. Flower Pot

My great great great grandfather was a Viking. He was a huge man with a red beard and a glass eye, and his name was Svori Svenvy. He came with a party of merchants from Norway to the tiny isle of Man where married a local girl, and settled down to farm and raise a brood of red haired children. Everyone wondered what had prompted him to do this – the Isle of Man was not known for its wealth or resources, and he seemed to have no inclination to return to his homeland. The mystery was solved a few years later. By then, Svori was a man of some renown, known for his smile, and his kindness, and most of all for his love of his garden. For at a time when the land was merely a living, Svori tended his garden meticulously so that even in the poor climate he was living, there were clusters of colourful flowers in bowls around the front door. No-one thought much of it – if Svori wanted flowers, what harm in that. But a few years after his arrival, another party of Norwegian merchants arrived, and they turned out to be from Svori’s village.

They slapped Svori on the back, drank tankards of ale with him, and made merry for three days. And when they left, they promised Svori they would tell no one where he lived. And finally Svori’s secret came out. He came from a fierce family of raiders – the youngest of six sons. Growing up, he had hated raiding and killing, and preferred to spend his time in the fields and messing about with flowers – activities unsuited to a warrior - until his brothers mockingly began to call him Flower Pot. He grew more and more miserable, and finally in desperation, signed up with a crew of merchants and so came to the Isle of Man. His brothers were all dead – killed in raids and battles and presumably bourn to the halls of Valhalla. As for Svori, he lived to a ripe old age surrounded by his family and friends and gentle to the end, and when he died, he was buried at the edge of a green space that has been known ever since as Svoridale Park.

Two Truths and a Lie: Dog Gone Mad

In this mini-series, I am offering up three short stories, two of them based on true stories (ie: true in spirit, not necessarily to the letter), the other a total fabrication. You decide.

2. Dog Gone Mad

“Did you know your dog is on the roof,” asked a well meaning passer by. “She is running around up there and barking at the birds.”

Not again!

Alaska was a medium sized samoyed dog. Bright. Smart. But ever so slightly mad. Alaska thought she could fly. We lived in a large, stone house, with a back deck off the 2nd floor living area. The deck had a drainpipe that slanted down from the roof to the deck and then over the edge and safely to the ground. Alaska used to climb this drainpipe up to the roof, where she would stand on the pinnacle and survey her landscape. From here, she could see the entire street. She could bark at cats below, frighten the birds, who thought they were nesting safely in the chimney, or just curl up and gaze at the stars on a clear night. When it came time to come in or to eat, she could presumably have slid down the drainpipe, but she chose instead to scuttle down the slant of the roof and leap into the air landing shaken but not particularly stirred in the flower bed.

The first time she climbed the roof nobody saw her go up or down. It was just after Christmas, and all we knew was that one morning there were some excited children outside in the fresh snow pointing out the evidence of Santa’s visit – tiny reindeer prints all over the white roof. Outwardly was agreed – inwardly we scratched our heads. The mystery was solved one day coming home with groceries when we heard her barking up over our heads. I cordoned the drainpipe off after that, but to no avail. Alaska liked the roof, and I wasn’t going to stop her. Eventually I gave up and brought in hay so she had a soft landing. And on clear starry nights…well, it was just as nice to take my blanket up there and join her.

Two Truths and a Lie: Nun on the Run

In this mini-series, I am offering up three short stories, two of them based on true stories (ie: true in spirit, not necessarily to the letter), the other a total fabrication. You decide.

1. Nun On The Run

A pickpocket tried to steal my purse in Rome. He might have succeeded had it not been for the nun I was traveling with. She hit him over the head with a large brown leather satchel, and before he could get back on his feet we were off at a run. He chased us. Down Piazza Navona to the Bridge of Angels. We ran faster. Up a sidestreet and into the throng of people milling about Vatican City, the nun’s billowing brown robes whipping me in the face, so that I didn’t see where we were until she stopped suddenly, and I found myself lined up to get into St. Peter’s Basilica

Just when I thought we were safe, the swiss guard at the entrance glanced at my bare legs and barred the gate. “Don’t be ridiculous,” my aunt told him, as she tried to push past him. But he was not intimidated by a nun, and shook his head. We backed away, and sidled out to the square, where the thief stood idly. Until he saw us, that is.. And once again, we were off. This time, the nun led me around the side. We snuck across the path, and were pleased to see a guard stop our thief. We were less pleased when he turned his attention on us. Don’t look, warned Val. Pretend you don’t see him. Again, we started to run, the swiss guard following us this time, and what a comic trio we must have made: Squat brown nun, me, and the colourful guard. Valerie led me through a half hidden gate and shut it. Alone, we caught our breath and then navigated our way through to the Sistene Chapel and out into Borgia Courtyard where we came face to face with the pope, who held up his hand in blessing and then walked away. Then, casually as you please, we left Vatican City, pausing at the post office to buy stamps, and made our way back to the convent.

Truth or Lie?

Soundtrack for Life

You know when you watch a great movie and the perfect song always is there at the perfect time to support whatever the character is doing? I always said I wanted my own soundtrack, and it got us talking once about what songs you would put on there. What 10 or 12 songs would go to the soundtrack of your life?

It's harder than it sounds. Hard to narrow it down, knowing too that I've only lived half my life (I hope) and so there are more yet to be added. And hard to not want to keep changing it because a new cool song grabs your attention. But this isn't about liking songs, it's about songs that have meaning or that in some way fit your life.

Now of course, with IPods, you can do this, and carry your own personal soundtrack around. I did this a few years after we first talked about it, and have my playlist on my IPod. It goes something like this.

• Fly Me To The Moon - Frank Sinatra (I also like Astrud Gilberto's version)
• Cello Suite #1 - Bach
• Lockkeeper - Stan Rogers
• Lonely Sky - Chris de Burgh
• Home I'll Be- Rita MacNeil
• Harvest Moon - Neil Young
• Kiss Me Quick - Elvis Presley
• Theme fron All Creatures Great and Small
• The Wedding Song- Rawlins Cross
• Streets of London - Ralph McTell

So what songs would be a must-have on your Life soundtrack?

This and That (aka Gotta Getta Blog Post Done for NaBlo)

Have tons of ideas for blog posts in my head, but sometimes it's hard to find the time. Like today. Came home from a fabulous weekend in Ottawa where I got to talk books and writing, shop at Chapters, take the kids to see Puss In Boots with my mother-in-law, and spend today making dragon nests out of leaves. I mean, who wouldn't want to do that on a Sunday morning?

Drove home on a mild November afternoon to find Andrew had tossed a chicken in a roasting pan and walked through the door to me met by the wafting aroma. All I had to do was potatoes, cauliflower and cheese, and an apple pie, and voila, Dinner! The down side of using extra old cheddar for the cheese sauce is that the plates seemed a touch monochromatic. Most days that wouldn't bother me, but Sunday dinner...oh well, can't have it all.

Days to Remember

There was a time when I would stay up until dawn just to see the sun rise. When I would run in the snow without shoes on just to feel it between my toes. When I would swim at midnight, take leisurely baths at noon, spend eight hours browsing a book store on a rainy day.

It was the days of cocktail parties. Little black dresses, red wine, witty conversation (at least we thought it was witty). The nights of cheesecake, more wine, deep philosophical discussion in a grotto lit only by dripping candle sticks stuck in old bottles. Four hour dinners because time was our friend and we couldn't get enough of it. Sleep, we decided, was for the weak. Or for weekends when we could sleep until mid afternoon and then get up and do it all again if we wished.

It's good to be able to reach into the past and grasp those things. To have done them.

Priorities change. Needs change (like I need sleep these days. And I don't think daily slices of cheescake would be especially good for me either anymore). We* used to go out at 9 pm. Having drunk a bottle (large) of wine and eaten bread and cream cheese, we'd be sitting on the ferry from Dartmouth to Halifax reading our horoscopes as we set off to the local Irish pub.

I'd like to say it's still there, that Irish pub. But it isn't. Even if it hadn't changed, we have.

Not regretting anything here, you understand. I'm not sitting in a pool of sorrow wishing I could turn back time.

But it was good. And I remember. And sometimes, just sometimes, I wish I could do it all again.

*We being the women I dedicate this post to. The ones who saw me through my early 20's. Always there. Always laughing with me. The men we hung out with changed - sometimes Navy friends, sometimes boyfriends, sometimes univeristy pals. But the women were the constant.

**Although Bob, Mark, Darren, Nick, Shawn, if you are reading this, for the many, many hours of conversation and smart-ass commentary, you rock too!