Announcement and Three Things I Love About Norway

First of all, I am thrilled to announce that Turtleduck Press, the indie co-op press I’m a part of, is opening to new members as of today. We’re looking for novel submissions from science fiction and fantasy writers. I’ll be talking more about this on Monday, but in the meantime, to learn more, check out the announcement at Turtleduck Press!

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Second, a bit of trivia for you. Norway is my ancestral home — three of my grandparents were born there — and I was lucky enough to visit in 2001.

This Friday is the Seventeenth of May, the Norwegian equivalent of Independence Day or Canada Day. It originally commemorated the signing of the Norwegian constitution in 1814, although Norway didn’t achieve independence (from its union with Sweden) until nearly a century later, in 1905.

As a holiday, the Seventeenth of May, or Syttende Mai in Norwegian, has become a day to celebrate the country, mainly with flags and children’s parades and the singing of the anthem — “Ja, vi elsker dette landet”, or “Yes, We Love This Country”.

So in honour of Syttende Mai, here are three things I love about Norway:

Memories Less Travelled

This week is a little unusual for the blog. First, I was unexpectedly without Internet for several days, so I missed posting on Monday for just about the first time ever. Second, I’m taking time out from travel blogging for a special post.

This week is the anniversary of my father’s passing. He died ten years ago tomorrow, on March 14, 2003, after a short battle with cancer. I can’t believe it’s been that long already — it’s strange to realize how many experiences I’ve had that he never got to see. He never even knew that I moved to Toronto, and it’s been my home for years now.

I don’t think about him very often anymore. When I do, I have my favourite memories and impressions, the ones I go over and over, like a string of rosary beads. But he was more than those few memories, and if I don’t hold onto the rest, they’ll be lost. So here are a few more sides of my father to add to that string of beads…

He knew everybody. He was a pastor first, then a hospital chaplain and a trainer of other chaplains, so he met a lot of people. And he remembered them all, somehow. I wish I knew the trick. He used to take his children on long bike rides through the river valley trail system, and inevitably he would run into an acquaintance. They would stop and chat, and we would be annoyed and also a bit amazed. (Side note: I can’t talk anymore. A few weeks ago I visited the Taj Mahal, and guess what? Someone I knew came up and said hi!) At his funeral, the church was packed, and the entire front pew was full of pastors in robes, come to pay their respects.

Of Gifts and Love and Family

First, a bit of anthology news. Kit Campbell, the author of the anthology’s spring story, has a post up about the genesis and evolution of her story.

Just a reminder — Seasons Eternal is available in paperback (and it’s a very pretty book; I’ve seen it!) or the ebook format of your choice. All the info is on the Turtleduck Press website, here.

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As Christmas approaches, I find that I’m missing my family a lot. My family of origin, I should say, because I won’t be alone — I’ll be celebrating with my husband and my in-laws, for the first time in our own house. This isn’t the first year I’ve been away for the holidays, either. Maybe I’m missing them particularly because I’m thinking about creating traditions. Or maybe I miss them this much every year, and I’ve just forgotten.

When my siblings and I were little, we used to meet in the hallway well before sunrise on Christmas Day, and creep down the hall so we’d all see the living room at the same time — the tree already lit, casting a multicoloured glow on the heap of wrapped presents beneath. That moment was one of my favourites, because anything might be in those gifts.

We’d open our stockings first — cooked up as a ploy by our parents to enable them to sleep in just a little longer. The stockings always included baggies of cereal and Christmas oranges. By the time we finished breakfast, our parents were awake and the unwrapping could begin. Whoever sat closest to the tree got to be Santa’s helper and pass out gifts that we’d take turns opening, prolonging the anticipation.

Afterwards, surrounded by new books (oh, and sometimes things that weren’t books…), we’d curl up contentedly and read the day away until turkey dinner time.

Gifts in my family tend to be modest, but carefully chosen; say what you will about commercialism, but I’m delighted when I find a present that I know will make the recipient’s eyes light up. For me, gift-giving is an expression of love. I don’t feel pressure to be extravagant and spend too much, but I do feel pressure to find (or make) the perfect gift. The one that expresses the connection between giver and recipient. (Which is why I’m not a big fan of gift cards. But I might cave this year.) Of course, that road leads to craziness…but I still try.

Of course, Christmas isn’t really about presents. It’s about people. We had Boxing Day dinners with extended family. When my parents divorced, we had two Christmases on consecutive days, often involving two turkey dinners (or a turkey and a ham). After my husband and I started dating lo these many years ago, we sometimes had three Christmases. I have fond memories of all of them. They all involved being together with loved ones, sharing a feast and family traditions, no matter the permutation of family.

And that is something I will have this year. It’ll just be a new permutation.

Besides, I think I’ve found some pretty great, ahem, expressions of love this time.

How do you feel about gifts and Christmas?

Remembering My Autumn Vacation

As a follow-up to Monday’s post, here’s what I want to remember about this year’s writing retreat…

Writing in a lounge chair on the dock, under the canopy, with a bottle of Smirnoff Ice close at hand. The lap of waves and the rocking of the wooden platform, and all the trees enclosing the bay.

Enjoying the crispness of early fall with leaves just starting to turn. Roasting marshmallows one night, eating clam chowder on a rainy day, drinking chocolate chai tea, snuggling up under cozy covers.

The four-poster bed, with intricately carved headboard and footboard, so tall I had to climb up into it before sinking down into its warmth.

Rediscovering the joy of writing — creating and editing a new story that just poured out of me, remembering the things that made me want to write an older story and then edging back into it.

Feeling completely free of all the usual pressures and responsibilities of life, which have been myriad lately. Just me, the beautiful surroundings, the good company, and the keyboard. And the words.

 

Remembering This Summer

This has been a long, hot summer — glorious or tiresome, depending on your preferences — but it’s drawing to a close at last. Over the past week I’ve felt a chill in the air, the first hints of autumn. Another season almost over.

It’s been an eventful and hectic summer for me. As I look back on it, I’m trying to fix in my mind the way I want to remember it…

A Farewell to My Neighbourhood

One of the things I love about Toronto is that it’s a city of neighbourhoods. Every little chunk of the city — every ten-block stretch of commercial/retail development surrounded by residential streets — has a unique flavour. There’s a Chinatown and the student district, of course, but there’s also Greektown and Little India and the hippie corner and the hipster stretch. Like many different cities all inhabiting the same space.

The neighbourhood where I’ve lived for the past seven years is one such place, a microcosm unto itself — or maybe several.

My Grandmother’s Legacy

My grandmother, my mother’s mother, was one of the strongest women I have known.

Born into a working-class family in Norway, she lost her father to drowning at a young age. After her mother remarried, the family emigrated to the Canadian prairies, into conditions just as harsh as the ones they had left behind. She didn’t speak a word of English when she arrived, and only had a Grade 8 education when she left school. Norwegianisms used to creep into her language now and again: “I hope you are keeping well,” she would say, and “Uff-da” instead of “Oh dear”.

She was working as a housemaid to Vancouver’s grand families when she met the man she would marry.