Those of you who are observant will have seen a new button on the right side of my blog. How could you miss it? It’s bright yellow!! That is to indicate my participation in this year’s National Novel Writing Month or NaNoWriMo as it’s affectionately called. The idea is to write a novel in a month, as the title suggests, beginning on Nov. 1st and endng on the 30th. We must submit pages every so often (not sure yet how often) and the words are counted. A running tally of what we write will be kept on our own personal site for all the world to see - to marvel over, or to laugh at, as the case may be… It’s not meant that we finish a “polished” novel, ready for publication, in only 30 days, but it does give us that push we all so desperately need to get words down in computer and finally write out that first draft of a story idea that’s been nagging to be written. As I have several novel plots (all in my head), I will have to make a decision as to which one I want to pursue at this time. By the end of a month, if we have completed a novel-length manuscript (according to their word-count stipulation) then we have “won.” There are no actual prizes, just the satisfaction of finishing a novel.

I have two buddies in this - quilldriver and Mennogirl. I came up with the highly original nickname of S. M. Toy, so that’s the name I’m writing under. (How was I to know we could be funny or interesting with a name choice?) You can click here after Nov. 1st to watch my progress throughout the month. And cheer me on to victory? I hope so… If anyone else out there is crazy enough to join me and my buddies you’re most welcome to go to the site and sign up. Misery, after all, does love company…

Writers Island prompt this week - The Stranger. Again, I was able to rework a story I entered in a contest last year.

Another Day In Paradise
By S.M. Toy

Bert generally had been a lucky guy. He’d had a good life: steady, well-paid, job, beautiful wife, big house. They had no kids by choice – the original DINKS of the eighties. He was even lucky enough to retire early. At his retirement party, co-workers told him, “We could never afford to live in the Caribbean. While you’re lounging on the beach all day, clipping coupons, we’ll still be hard at work in this office. You lucky stiff!”

Starting life over again in a tropical paradise would have been the perfect ending, too – if Sheila had shared his dream. After six months she’d packed up and shipped off, saying, “I can’t live like this any more, with nothing to do. We’re only retired from paid work, not waiting to die. I have to get out of here and start enjoying life again. You’re so pathetic. Do something with your life.”

Things might have been better, if she’d stayed. But then some would say he was lucky to lose her, she’d become such a nag. Now, with his wife gone, Bert does spend most of his days laying around on sandy beaches, but is bored out of his mind for the most part, refusing to admit his luck may have finally run out – too stubborn to admit it, in fact, or even to leave, and return to his old life.

He was anticipating the upcoming tourist season, and all the people who would fill those beaches, the restaurants and bars, old acquaintances to alleviate some of his boredom. But they’d offer the same talk about the same rehashed subjects, just like the previous season. Sheila had been right. Bert needed to do something. He couldn’t go on like this, latching on to anyone who glanced his way, hoping to strike up a conversation.

He’d spent most of that morning prone on a towel at Lower Bay. A book, long before discarded, lay by his side. Sitting up, he dusted some of the sticky sand from his arms and scanned the beach. He was still the only soul there. A boat was tacking into the bay, its mainsail flapping like a woman’s long skirt billowing in the wind. Only two other boats were moored there. Business had been slow since the previous Easter. Too slow. Bert was lucky he didn’t need to make a living from tourism. His retirement package had been more than enough to provide him with a comfortable life without having to supplement it.

He squinted up at the brilliant sky then back down to the horizon, gazing at the endless sea. The sun was above the yardarm – time for a drink. He wasn’t an alcoholic… at least, not yet. He’d been lucky to avoid habitual gatherings with several other retired expats in a local seedy rum shop, knowing if he gave in to their repeated invitations he’d soon be on a slippery downward slope. But he might begin to consider the possibility if no other prospects came along.

It had been impossible, too, to make friends among the local people. They considered him to be just another white foreigner, but the worst kind – one who never left to go elsewhere, lived on a fixed income, and was not on vacation, so didn’t throw his money their way. He’d become a man in-between: never completely accepted on the island, he would forever remain a stranger to the locals and the expats; but he was also now a stranger to his old life, and would likely never be able to fit in there again if he ever thought of going back.

Standing up, Bert stretched his arms over his head and then swung them around like he was a windmill. The wind was beginning to pick up, blowing sand into his face, scattering dry leaves. He turned his back against it and a large leaf from an almond tree hit him, fastening itself to the thin hair on the top of his head. He reached back and peeled it off, releasing it to the wind. Someone laughed.

Bert turned around. A young village girl was striding towards him carrying a towel that partially hid a small baby as though it were a precious gift. “You funny,” she giggled as she passed in front.

“Wait, don’t go,” Bert said, anxious for any company. “May I look at the baby?” She appeared too simple-minded to be capable of caring for such a small infant.

“Yes, please.” She stopped and proudly uncovered a boy’s silent face. He
peered at Bert with large brown eyes.

“Is this your brother? What’s his name?”

“No, he mine. He name Shakil. We goes for a sea bath.”

Bert frowned his surprise at this claim of maternity from someone so young. He said, “Do you think that’s a good idea? Your baby seems too little to go in the sea.”

“We’s alright. I a good swimmer. I takes care of he.”

Bert wasn’t as confident. “Maybe I should swim with you, just to make sure.” He’d never liked children, but that didn’t mean he could allow these two to go in the water unsupervised.

“Okay.” She sat the baby down on the sand, still wrapped in its towel, and began taking off her shirt and shorts, revealing a hand-me-down bathing suit. Kneeling, she opened the towel and plucked out the naked boy, then stood up. “We’s ready.” She ran to the water’s edge before Bert had a chance to think, but, in a few paces, he was next to them.

The young mother squeezed the baby so tight to her chest that his eyes seemed to pop out. Both of them squealed their excitement as they bounced in the surf.

Bert’s concern was now bordering on panic. “I really think you should give him to me.” The waves were increasing in size. Where the girl stood the depth was only a few feet, but, even in that close to shore, the current was strong. The children had been slapped by one wave; some strands of the girl’s long and beaded, black braids were sticking to her face and the baby’s head, making the two look as though they were already surrounded by seaweed. Bert moved closer, the better to grab them, if need be.

“Ula! Ula! What you does!” a woman’s voice shouted from behind.

The girl and Bert both turned and looked toward the beach. A big woman had broken through the bush lining the road. She ran towards them, but stopped short at the water’s edge. “You comes here! You brings dat baby!”

“He mine!” Ula cried, turning to take another step away from the shore, just as a wave smacked her in the face, drenching the baby as well. He began howling. Bert reached out and gripped Ula’s arm before she could walk any further. She panicked and dropped Shakil then started screaming. Ducking down, Bert fished the baby out from under the water’s surface then held him above chest level. He pushed through the water on to the shore, the baby coughing and spluttering in his arms, and handed the shivering child to the woman who held open the towel. She immediately wrapped him back up like a package. Ula slowly walked out of the sea.

“What you thinks, girl! You crazy? Dis baby too small for dat! You no deserves he. I gonna give you licks,” she said, holding up a large, flat hand. Ula grinned, open-mouthed, at her mother.

Bert asked, “The baby is okay, isn’t he?” attempting to defuse the situation. He reached over to pull the towel away from Shakil’s face. The boy had stopped choking and was now settled into a steady cry. The woman’s hand came down to secure the towel and she turned away, not allowing Bert to touch her grandson.

She spat out, “Dis no your business.” She marched back towards the road, shouting over her shoulder, “Come, girl! Dat’s what gets you in trouble already, talking to strange men.”

Ula had dressed in the meantime and was about to follow her mother when she turned back, flashed Bert a big gap-toothed smile, stretched out a small hand and said, “T’anks, Mister.”

They shook. “You’re welcome. Lucky I was here. But what were you…” She turned immediately, running to catch up with her mother, ignoring Bert’s plea of, “Wait!”

He watched as they disappeared, his jaw set in anger. He ruminated for a moment, more furious with himself than the mother or daughter. He turned around and stared at the endless, boring sea. It really was time for that drink – a good strong one. Then he would phone Sheila. He picked up his towel, book and clothes, and walked down the beach to the bar.

For more photos of Dickie’s trip, go to Bequia photo, etc. in the blogroll.

Mijas

Mijas belongs to one of the typical white villages spread all over Andalusia. It is a town divided into Mijas Pueblo (the old town), Las Lagunas and La Cala de Mijas, and is situated in the heart of the Costa del Sol. While Las Lagunas and La Cala de Mijas can be found by the sea, the old town is located on a mountain from which one can overlook not only the coast, the beaches and the Mediterranean, but also the town of Fuengirola and other surrounding areas.

Mijas Pueblo is the part where you can find whitewashed houses, the town hall, the bullring, historic buildings and parks with spectacular area views. Both Las Lagunas and La Cala de Mijas have fewer visitors and tourists as this is where you will find more housing developments. The former farms and agriculture along the Fuengirola River have been replaced by hotels and golf courses as tourism is now the town’s main focus.

Traces of Mijas’ history are everywhere. For example, the town’s old watch towers are located close to the sea. In addition to the Torre Vieja and the Calaburras towers there are also the Torre Nueva, built in the 19th century, and the Torre de Calahonda, which dates back as far as the 16th century.

Those interested in the history of Mijas can visit the two Mudejar churches. Dating back to 850, there is also a sanctuary of Mijas’ patron saint. Should you be visiting the town in January, you will be able to attend the San Anton Festival – one of the countless festivities held in Mijas.

In the area around the town’s parish church several archaeological treasures have been discovered that date back a very long way. Back in Roman times, Mijas was known as “Tarnisa” and could be found on the old road that connected Cadiz with Malaga. As with nearly every town and city along the Costa del Sol, Mijas also has a Moorish background. Conquered in 714 by the Moors, the towns name was changed from Tarnisa into “Mixa” – the origin of the name as we know it today. After being re-captured and re-re captured a couple of times during the rebellion of Omar ben Hafsun, Mijas finally fell into the hands of Christians in 1487. Later, during the fights in 1512, Mijas remained loyal to Juana La Loca and therefore was awarded the “Muy Leal” title as well as freedom from taxes.

Fuengirola

Fuengirola lies twenty minutes from Malaga airport and is probably most famous for its five miles of sandy beaches, flanked by high-rise hotels and residential blocks of apartments with views of the Mediterranean and coastline. It has a wide promenade lined with of palm trees, interspersed with colourful flower beds and seating. The beaches known as Boliches - Gaviotas and Torreblanca hold a European blue flag.

Fuengirola is particularly popular with Spanish nationals, many of whom own summer apartments here. A considerable percentage of British and other nationalities also visit with the result being a wide variety of entertainment and restaurant choices, ranging from the Andalusian traditional tapas (bar snacks) and shellfish dishes, to British food.

On Tuesdays Fuengirola hosts the largest street market on the coast. There is also a Saturday boot sale (flea market) with a large selection of items on sale.

Being a tourist resort there are lots of things for holidaymakers to do in Fuengirola, ranging from such family-fun activities as aqua park, a trip to the zoo, and a host of sea sports to a leisurely sight-seeing tour, on a horse-drawn carriage or by foot. Walking tours are particularly recommended for Fuengirola’s neighbour, Los Boliches, which still reflects the ambience of a bygone era with narrow streets, neighbourhood shops and traditional white-washed houses that once belonged to local fishermen.

Annual fiestas here include the feast of the Virgin del Carmen in July when local fisherman carry an effigy of the Virgin out to sea, and the colourful feria, which takes place in October and is the time when the town comes to life with flamenco, fino (dry sherry) and fun that carries on from dawn to dusk for a week.

Marbella Old Town

Partially surrounded by the ruins of an old Arab wall, Marbella Old Town is filled with narrow white-washed streets, old churches and squares, as well as lots of fascinating shops and boutiques At the heart of old town is Orange Square, dating back to 1485 and, according to Christian urban design, its surrounded by whitewashed houses and three historical buildings - the town hall, the old governor’s house and the Chapel (Hermitage) of Santiago. The gardens are full of flowers and orange trees and in the centre stands a bust of King Juan Carlos 1.

At the end of Nueva Street (the shopping street), where it joins Orange Square, stands a stone fountain dating from the year 1504 when it was erected by the first Mayor of Christian Marbella. To the left is the Old Governor’s House, which was built in 1552 and still retains the original stone facade adorned with shields and a three-arched balcony.

The Town Hall located on the square was built in 1568. On the front right-hand corner of the building is a sun-dial, various shields and some commemorative stone inscriptions perfectly conserved and in legible condition. One of them has a date of 11th June, 1485, when the town was re-conquered from the Moors. Within the Town Hall are the original Council Chambers, now divided into two floors. The upper floor has an artistic ceiling carved in Mudejar style and the walls are covered with curious murals that date from 1572. These represent the eagle from the Imperial Standard belonging to the Catholic King and Queen, a scene from Christ’s crucifixion, Marbella’s first coat of arms and some allegories of the power of God and the administration of justice. The Catholic King and Queen’s pendant, an important historical relic, is also held in this hall and publicly displayed every June 11th to commemorate the date of the re-conquest of the town.

Dominating the square is the most important building in the town, The Church of Saint Mary whose construction began in 1618. The main facade of the building is adorned with a beautiful red stone entrance worked in Baroque style while the interior consists of three sections that underwent restoration after the 1936 Civil War.The church organ here is the most important built in Spain in the last 125 years. The installation began in 1972 and was completed in 1975. It is made up of 5000 pewter, copper and wooden pipes, four manual keyboards of 56 notes, a 36-note pedal and various other special characteristics. In the church square there is also a tower that was part of the wall that originally surrounded the Moorish town.

Walking from there to Trinidad Street past a row of houses, there are more ruins of the castle and remains of some Roman Capitals that were taken from other constructions and used for building its walls. The existing wall extends to the end of Portada street where it disappears, as did so many others when, in 1786, by royal command of King Carlos III, town and city walls were pulled down. Nearby, the Chapel of Santiago, built in the 15th century, was the first Christian church in the town. Today it houses religious figures belonging to the Brotherhood of Love and Charity, including a wooden carving of Christ in Neo Baroque style.

Located in one of the major streets of the old town is the Santo Cristo de la Vera Cruz Square and Chapel, dating back to the 15th century. The main facade is a combination of simple stone-work construction and traditional whitewash.

This week’s Writers Island prompt, Message In a Bottle, was a good one! I wrote a story last Spring as an entry in a contest that had the same phrase as part of its paragraph prompt. Plus it had a 1000-word-count limit. Writers Island has given me the opportunity to dust off that story and rewrite it for my contribution to this Tuesday’s posting. So, I am able to offer readers another story of “Renewal,” last week’s prompt, as in renewal of a story, while adhering to this week’s theme.

Gramps’ Rescue
By S.M. Toy

“Gramps, what’s the most amazing thing you ever found?”

Shifting Sara’s weight from his right knee to the other, Gramps pulled the ever-present pipe out of his mouth. Scratching his forehead with the same hand’s little finger, he said, “Hard to decide, Princess. I find something amazing every few days.”

She searched his eyes. “But what’s the most amazing thing?”

Turning his head, he looked over her head, out past the verandah railing down towards the beach. “Well, now. The most amazing thing? That would have to be a rum bottle floating in the surf. Found it right down there.” He pointed with his pipe’s stem.

“Aw, Gramps, I meant treasure – real treasure,” she said, rolling her eyes.

He looked at his granddaughter’s face. “Hold on. It wasn’t just any ordinary rum bottle, mind you. A rum bottle that came here all the way from the Caribbean. A bottle… with a message inside.”

Sara’s eyes widened in excitement. This was more like it!

Gramps settled in to telling his story. “Yesiree. I found it right down there, down by the headland.” He pointed again, but this time out beyond the receding foamy water to where a buoy marked the reef. “There was a note inside that bottle, too – a note that read, ‘I am being held captive by pirates. Please Help!’ And it was signed, ‘Princess Wanda.’” He nodded, his jaw jutting out in confirmation of what he had said.

“Really?” Sara gulped, her wondering eyes ablaze.

“Really and truly,” Gramps nodded again, setting his lips in a true straight line. His pipe had gone out so he reached into a breast pocket and pulled out a box of wooden matches. Tamping down what tobacco remained in the pipe’s bowl, he struck the match with a thumbnail and relit the pipe. Placing the stem back in his mouth, he took a few thoughtful puffs, removed the pipe, and said, “I took that note to the police station, the pirate ship was found, and they returned the princess to her family’s castle… in England. Her mother, the Queen, phoned to thank me personally.” He stuck the pipe stem back in his mouth, clamping down on it.

“Wow!” Sara exhaled with astonishment and shivered. “A real queen, pirates, and a princess!”

The screen door squeaked open, Gran’s face appearing in the crack.

“Oh, you drunken fool!” she said. “Don’t be filling the chile’s head with your sea-story nonsense! You was only ever a ferry-boat captain anyways. I don’t know where ya gets all this high-seas business. Now, com’on, the two of ya. Get ready for service. It’s time.” As if on Gran’s cue, a church bell began to ring in the distance.

“But, Gran. We was going to the beach. Gramps promised to take me beachcombing. We might find treasure!” Sara’s face burst into a smile and she turned back to bestow it on her grandfather.

“You’re not going anywheres but church this morning, Chile. And I can tell ya now, and for sure, that the only treasure you two will ever find in that surf is whatever comes out of that old coot’s imagination. Stop lyin’ to her, telling her all them fool stories. Now, Sara, get in here and put on your good shoes. You can’t go to church in them boots. You too, Samuel.” Like a startled turtle, Gran pulled her head back into the house, slamming the door.

Leaning her face into his white beard, Sara said, “Gramps, I’d rather go to the beach.” She stroked the other side of his bristly face with her hand.

“Me too, Princess,” he said around the pipe. Then taking it out of his mouth, he sighed, and added, “But Gran’s my captain now. Captain to both of us. And you know that sailors always have to do whatever the captain tells them. Let’s go.” Sliding her off his knee, he pushed himself up from the rocking chair. He placed a gnarled hand on her blonde head and promised, “Later today. We can have a good look-see down along the shore.”

“Okay, Gramps. But did you keep that note? The one from Princess Wanda?”

“What? Oh, that… No I had to hand it over to the police – as evidence, you know. Now, let’s go. Gran’s already as angry as a late-season Nor’easter.”

That night, when she could hear Gran snoring, and knew the coast was clear, Sara crawled out of bed. This would be her only chance. It was too dark to see anything at all so she fumbled around for the cord and opened the blinds, letting in the silver-light of a half-moon. She’d hidden the note between pages of Treasure Island, Gramps’ favourite book. He’d been reading it to her every night before she went to bed. But not that night. It was Sunday and Gran didn’t allow book reading on Sundays. Sara flipped through the pages and found the note, folding it, making it disappear into her hand. Slipping out of the room, she crept like a mouse past her grandparents’ closed door, down the stairs, and into the kitchen.

The rusty hinge complained when she pulled the cupboard door open. Holding her breath, she paused to listen. Gran was still snoring. Sara exhaled with relief. Reaching inside the cupboard, she groped around until she found what she’d been searching for. She clutched the neck of the bottle and pulled it out, holding it up to the moonlight that shone through the kitchen window. It was half-full of dark liquid. She unscrewed the cap and sniffed.

“Yuck!” The strong alcohol assaulted her young nose. That’s a Gramps’ smell. That, combined with pipe tobacco, was how she always knew if Gramps had been in a room. Sara smiled. She was about to do something that would help them both, in just a few hours. She took the bottle over to the sink, poured out all the rum, then shook the last drops from the lip. Gramps won’t mind. She rinsed the bottle, dried it with a dishtowel, and then replaced the cap.

Sara went to the front door, carefully opened it, and walked out on to the verandah, making sure not to slam the screen door behind her. The outdoor sound of lapping waves along the shore wasn’t loud enough; she could still faintly hear Gran’s snorts and snuffles coming from inside, even after the door was securely closed. Gramps always said, “That woman can make more noise while she’s sleeping than she does when she’s awake, like a full-force gale some nights.” But he never said that within Gran’s hearing. The wind was picking up and was even beginning to drown out Gran. There was enough breeze to speedily twist and turn several decorative windsocks hanging from the rain gutter across the front of the house.

Sara crept down the front stairs, her bare feet chilled by the cold wood. The moon lit up the stone path ahead, allowing her to safely walk alone, but she scurried now out of excitement and fear, wanting to hurry to get the job done before being discovered. She soon arrived at the beach.

Standing at the edge of the water, just out of the waves’ reach, Sara unscrewed the bottle’s cap, but hesitated before placing the note inside. To make sure she hadn’t picked out the wrong piece of paper, she unfolded the scrap and, holding it up in the moon’s light, she read out loud, but mainly from memory, “Help! We is being held captiv by Captin Gran! Please resku us! Sined – First Mate Gramps and Cabin Boy Princess Sara.”

The paper fluttered in the breeze; she clutched it tighter in her hand so it wouldn’t fly away. When the air had calmed again, she folded the note, shoving it down into the bottle, and screwed the cap back on good and tight.

She raised her arm and threw the glass bottle as far as she could into the dark sea. The bottle bobbed where it landed, a few feet from shore. Then, with the very next wave, it disappeared completely.

Here’s this week’s discussion on the Booking Through Thursday blogsite:

I said in August, when we talked about fan mail, that I planned on expanding that to live meetings when the time was right. Well, that time is now!

Have you ever met one of your favorite authors? Gotten their autograph?
How about an author you felt only so-so about, but got their autograph anyway? Like, say, at a book-signing a friend dragged you to?
How about stumbling across a book signing or reading and being so captivated, you bought the book?

A great question for me this week, given my almost twenty years in the book business, first as a bookseller and then as a publishers’ sales rep. I had the pleasure of meeting, and obtaining autographs from, oh-so-many authors over those years. Most were gracious, interesting, fun, engaging, and generous with their time. They were as eager to promote their books and find new readers as I was to tell them how much I enjoyed reading their work. I can honestly say there were only a very few in all that time who were either a pain in the butt or completely shattered any illusions I’d had of them. Only a very few, and I refuse to post their names here. But allow me to reminisce and tell you about some of the highlights…

As a rep, I usually didn’t have to escort the authors when they visited Calgary on their promotional tours. That job (sometimes extremely thankless) was left to the two freelance publicists, Marilyn Wood and Donna Gillmor, who were contracted by the publishers. But I did get to meet most of the touring authors, often lunched with them, or accompanied them, along with the publicists, to readings and signings at various bookstores, the library, and special events. Two authors I had the pleasure to escort became my good friends, and have remained so over the years. I’ve met their families and hear all the news whenever something happens.

It was Linda Granfield’s first trip out West; she was promoting Cowboy: A Kid’s Album. She asked me to drive her outside the city so she could see the Rockies from a bit closer than she’d been able to from her Calgary hotel room view. After she finished her obligations in town, we drove south on what was then called Highway 22X and down the Longview Road, my favourite drive through the foothills. She suddenly screamed out in that great Bostonian accent of hers, “Stop the car! Stop the car!” I pulled over immediately, thinking, Oh, no! Medical emergency! (It was always a great fear that an author would expire during one of these gruelling cross-Canada promotional tours.) Linda flung open the car door and leaped out, spread her arms wide, and exclaimed, “It’s beautiful! These mountains are beautiful!” She thanked me profusely on the way back into the city, as though I had been responsible for putting the mountains in place just for her to experience that day. In my copy of her book, she inscribed, “For Susan, You can be my buckaroo sidekick any day! Happy Trails!” And I’m happy to say I have remained just that to this day!

And Gail Bowen has also been a firm friend over the years since she published Deadly Appearances with Douglas & McIntyre, the first of her so-far ten-volume Joanne Kilbourn mystery series set in Regina and elsewhere in Saskatchewan. Right from the moment we met, Gail and I hit it off and we’ve remained in regular contact ever since. After I moved to the Caribbean, it’s become kind of a rigmarole to buy a hardcover copy of each new book (always from my friends at Pages On Kensington in Calgary), have her sign it when she’s there on tour (or get them to mail it to her), and then mail the book to me. She’s been a great support to me as I’ve developed my own writing, and is always quick to offer a sympathetic email-shoulder to cry on whenever things aren’t going well.

A third author became a friend through a chance meeting. Dennis & I were on Bequia for a vacation while we were both still working in Calgary (early 90s), staying at The Old Fort up on Mt. Pleasant. We had been the only guests in the small hotel until another couple arrived. The four of us dined, at separate tables, in the hotel restaurant that evening and got to talking, as people do while on holidays. They were from Montreal so we had being-Canadian in common. The man asked what it was that I did for a living that allowed me a month-long vacation at Christmas. I blurted out that I was a sales rep for Canadian publishers and started naming them, as I always did, beginning with Douglas & McIntyre. He said, “Why, that’s my publisher! I wrote one book that they published and now I’m writing another…” Oops! I said… But he promised not to tell anyone that I wasn’t back home dutifully selling books into stores right up until the day before Christmas, as I should have been doing… That was Don McKay, author of The Square Mile, The People’s Railway and a number of other non-fiction titles. He and his wife Barbara have remained friends with us over the years and we keep in touch, at least annually. Both stayed with us at different times when they visited Calgary, but they have never returned to Bequia. We’re hoping they will come back again some day.

But in thinking back over my career, and to specifically answer today’s question, there were two other author-book-signing-encounters that stand out in my mind as having been special.

Early on, in the late 70s, when I first started working at The Guild Gallery in Calgary, I discovered that the store could host virtually any author published by McClelland & Stewart because the sales rep, the wonderful Bertha Hanson (who deserves a post of her own some time) was open to promotional suggestions, and that store was almost the only game in town at the time, aside from the chains. So, I met Margaret Atwood, Hugh Maclennan, Morley Callahagn, Pierre Berton, Aritha van Herk, and so many more Canadian icons that were writing at the time. The most memorable was Mordecai Richler who was a very gracious man in person. Yes, I would even say he was humble, although that’s not exactly how he’s known from the public persona he preferred to convey. Richler, I discovered, generally liked people, but did not suffer fools. Bertha surreptitiously pulled a tour-requisite bottle of scotch out of her bag and asked me to find a glass. Then Richler politely requested some water, and accompanied me into the tiny staff washroom where we added a bit of tap water to the glass. (So I can honestly claim to have shared a washroom with Mordecai Richler…) A friend was in the store at the time and called out, “Would you like some ice for that, Mr Richler?” He dashed off to the little cafeteria across the way. The store didn’t get a crowd at all for the signing, unfortunately, so the book sales suffered. But the few of us there did get complete access to this man whose writing I considered to be the best in Canada at the time. I had brought my stack of books to be signed and lovingly took off the elastic band holding together my well-read high-school-then-university-paperback-copy of The Apprenticeship of Duddy Kravitz. Richler was visibly pleased to sign that one.

I also felt extremely fortunate to meet Richard Ford, who currently holds the honour of being My Favourite Living Author (a position previously held by Graham Greene and Brian Moore until their demise – it’s a lifetime honour). He was in Calgary promoting Independence Day and I managed to convince his sales rep that I just had to meet the man, I thought so highly of him. I gathered up the books I already owned and purchased the few that were missing. When we finally met, I thought I would melt (yes, his eyes really are that intense in person!) and I literally gushed about what a wonderful writer I thought him to be, and how good Independence Day was in particular. He shook my hand, and in that wonderful Southern accent, said, “Why, thank you. It’s so kind of you to say so,” staring me straight in the eyes the whole time. It was all I could do to push my stack of books across the counter for him to sign. In my copy of Independence Day, his inscription reads, “For Susan, with my gratitude and with the pleasure of meeting you. Richard.” Eeeek! Since then I have always tried to snaffle a signed copy of Richard’s books in harcover as soon as they’re published. Again, my pals at Pages On Kensington have always obliged.

It’s like opening a veritable floodgate to ask an old bookseller/rep to remember the “old days when…” There are so many more stories about authors, and publishers, that I could tell. If you’ve already read this far I congratulate you, but will bore you no more. The Calgary publicists always said they could write a book about some of the author-encounters they had, but would have to wait until most of those people were dead before writing the truth of what really happened on book tours. Oh, if the reading public only knew half of what goes on…

Our tree is loaded with ripe Starfruit, or Five Finger, as it’s called locally. When I asked about ways to use the fruit, everyone on Bequia looked puzzled. “We make juice,” they all said. I knew to slice the fruit widthwise to decorate a green or fruit salad, but I wondered if it was possible to cook with it. I did a search on the internet and discovered many recipes, all for green or fruit salads. But I also discovered that I could make juice with very little effort at all. “Cut away any green parts from the fruit, roughly chop them and whirl in a blender with some water. Add lime juice and sugar to taste.”

I did all of that and found the fruit to be sweet enough that it didn’t require additional suger. The lime juice helped to cut through that bitter, sharp taste the fruit can have.

But the other thing I learned in my research was that Star Fruit is an excellent source of vitamin C, is low fat, has naturally sodium and is cholesterol free. And that’s all right here, just a few steps from my house! More people on Bequia should eat Five Finger!

It rained most of the night. Now it’s just down to a steady drizzle. But what a welcome relief after the very hot, dry, unseasonable weather we experienced all through Sept., right up to yesterday. This is more like it! Bequia was unbearable. Everyone was complaining, not just me.

This week Writers Island’s prompt was “The Renewal.” I couldn’t think of an original idea specifically for that prompt so I’m posting a story I was working on for Ann Ireland during the Ryerson Short Story Writing Course I took this past summer. It’s theme is more one of “awakening” than “renewal,” but it’s the best I could come up with in a pinch this week.

Family Jewels
By S.M. Toy

Shut up! Just shut up!

Tracy propped one elbow on the café railing and cupped her chin in the hand’s palm. She gazed down the street at nothing in particular, silently willing her husband to stop pontificating. Bad enough she’d had to traipse around after him in the museum all morning.

The Parisian back street was moderately busy that sunny day. The restaurant patio, a block from their hotel, had offered welcome shade and a place for Tracy to relax her aching legs. Doug had plans to hit another art gallery shortly after they ate lunch. While they were settling in, he automatically ordered café au lait. “Deux, s’il vous plait,” he said, holding up two fingers at the passing garçon.

Tracy would have rather had had something cold, maybe a beer for a change, but said nothing.

Doug launched back into lecturing her and didn’t show any signs of letting up, so she continued to stare down the street, nodding every once in a while so he would think she was paying attention. After thirty years of practise she had this routine down pat.

Finally some activity caught her attention, braking through her husband’s droning. Startled into close observation, she blinked hard twice, not believing her eyes.

Pedestrians were stepping aside, giving wide berth, pointing, and stifling their laughter behind hands. An elderly man, squat, pleasantly plump, and totally naked, save for sandals and white socks, strolled out from the parting crowd and along the centre of the sidewalk towards where Tracy sat. With a full head of wavey-grey hair and a Cheshire Cat-face, he had the look of an odd mix of aged-cherub and manically grinning gargoyle, just like those carvings they’d seen in Notre Dame.

Tracy stared intently, then giggled, imagining a friend’s oh-so-British voice declaring, “His dingly-danglies are showing!” When the man came along side of Tracy, his head turned, they made eye contact. He flashed her a big, satisfied smile, threw a quick wave, and continued walking.

“What the…” Doug said, his consideration of the Gauls and Visigoths coming to an abrupt end.

Tracy turned back to look at her husband, a smile still playing on her lips. “You didn’t see his gem-encrusted penis ring. Gave new meaning to the term Family Jewels.”

Doug huffed, “Where are the police?” Craning his neck, he watched the man’s backside, adding, “Surely, even in France, one can’t walk around naked.”

Tracy looked at Doug, her brow now furrowed. “Why not? He seemed perfectly happy to me.” She turned around for another glimpse, but the nudist had already disappeared into a crowd. “And harmless,” she said, more to herself, continuing to look down the street.

A moment later there was a scuffle when two uniforms approached. They grabbed the naked man’s arms and plucked him from the passers-by, dragging him out of Tracy’s sight.

“Good!” Doug said, settling back into his seat, pulling straight his jacket lapels. “That’s taken care of.”

The waiter appeared and disinterestedly placed two cups on their table, leaving immediately.

“Merci,” Tracy said to his retreating back. She reached for a napkin and, while sopping up the spilled coffee from the saucer, she studied her husband’s face. “Why ‘good’? Why can’t we do what makes us happy, whenever the moment grabs us?”

“What a question! Everything would become chaotic without rules. You know that. You’ve helped me raise three children.”

“Helped?” Tracy said breathlessly, shaking her head in disbelief. More like, we’ve always done as you’ve said. She didn’t dare speak her thoughts out loud.

“People can’t just do whatever they want, not if it upsets everyone.”

Looking around, Tracy observed that life in the café had resumed as though nothing had happened. Or, what she thought was more likely the case, a naked man walking down the street was so common an occurrence that few had paid any attention at all. “You’re the only one who’s upset,” she said, waving an arm at other diners seated on the patio. “Besides, if the man has an expensive penis ring, why can’t he flaunt it?” she smirked.

No longer in the shade, she cupped a hand over her eyes. Doug’s face, even though protected by the awning, was turning red; sweat beaded his brow.

“Tracy, this isn’t funny. He’s crazy. How long might it be before he hurts someone, or himself? Better if he’s locked up.”

Like me? Tracy pursed her lips, but remained silent.

After gathering courage for a few moments, she said, “I’m leaving.”

“You want to go back to the hotel? But we just got our coffee. I thought we were going to eat.” He searched around for their waiter.

“No, Doug. I’m leaving you.” Tracy reached to the ground, fingering her purse handles.

Doug turned back to his wife with a startled look. She’d managed to silence him more effectively than if she’d reached out and slapped his face. He harrumphed and, reaching for the sugar, fumbled with the coffee spoon, trying to buy time and avoid the direction Tracy was heading. Finally finding his voice, Doug said, hissing at her, “What will the kids think? What about the rest of the family, our friends, our neighbours? How do I explain this? You’re going to make me look like a fool!”

The sun glinted off the balding spot where his hairline receded. The beginning of a tear glistened in the corner of one eye so he quickly removed his glasses, swiping the moisture away, not allowing it the opportunity to course down his cheek.

Tracy sighed and shook her head as if to stop the guilt from settling on her shoulders one more time. She grabbed the handles of her bag, lifting it from the ground, and pushing herself up from the chair, reached over and placed one palm on his cheek. She whispered, “Goodbye, Doug.” Then turning, she straightened her back and walked steadily through the café entrance, out onto the sidewalk, heading towards their hotel. If Doug had called out to try to stop her, she didn’t hear.

The sun shone in her face causing her to squint. Or was that the beginning of a smile? Tracy fingered the blouse button at her neck and quickly unfastened it, as well as the next, allowing a slight breeze to deliciously trickle down into her cleavage.

Tracy lay on the bed, fully clothed. With the window shut and the curtains closed, she was completely in the dark. But she wasn’t asleep, just thinking, thoughts racing through her head so fast and all jumbled up that she couldn’t sort out what she should do next. She had unknowingly been studying a crack in the hotel room wall, one that began in the left-hand upper corner and snaked its way down to almost meet the window’s edge.

A tentative knock sounded at the door. Tracy closed her eyes then covered them with the back of one hand. She remained silent.

“Tracy?” Doug tested the waters. “Tracy, I know you’re in there. Please open the door.” A moment passed before he tried the handle. It turned and the door opened. He entered the room. “Why didn’t you lock the door?” he said, sounding annoyed at first. “Anyone could have walked in.” Then becoming concerned, he said, “And what are you doing in here in the dark? You’re not feeling well? I knew it. Why didn’t you say so at the restaurant?”

Tracy waited a long moment then said quietly, “I’m fine.” She removed her hand, but kept her eyes shut.

“Maybe you just need something to eat. Would you like me to order room service?” Doug hesitated. “Or maybe you’d like to go downstairs. You could get the same food and it would cost a lot less in the café. Walking around might do you some good, too. Better than laying here on the bed, in the dark.” He walked over to the window and grabbed a curtain.

“Please keep that closed,” Tracy said, and she opened her eyes to glare at her husband.

Doug turned when she spoke, dropping the curtain. “What’s wrong with you, Tracy,” he said. “And what’s this about leaving? You amaze me! You don’t really want to leave me. Where did this suddenly come from? Just because a naked man walks past, you want to give up thirty years? After all I’ve done for you, provided you with? And right now, especially when I’ve finally retired, you want to leave? I thought we were going to spend our golden years together. Now stop this foolishness, Tracy. Get up and we’ll go out so you can have some lunch.” He stopped speaking for a moment and moved to the foot of the bed. “I ate after you left the restaurant. We can skip the art gallery this afternoon, if you want. Maybe do something you’d like to do. Shopping? But let’s forget we even had this conversation and just go back to the way things were. Okay?”

Tracy sat up and turned around, placing her feet firmly on the floor. She looked directly at Doug and said slowly, emphasizing each word, “What you’ve done for me?” she gulped. “What you’ve given me?” Now that she had suddenly found her voice, there was no stopping, and she leaped right down his throat. “I’ve had thirty years of boredom, of doing only what you wanted to do because I thought that was the way a happy marriage worked, what society wanted of me, and I was afraid to do anything different. Now a naked man has shown me there’s something more to life that I’ve been missing all along. I know now I can do what pleases me – if I want to. It’s not just the gallery this afternoon, Doug.” Her volume had risen to the point where it was close to becoming a scream. “If I get dragged into one more museum, or have to do anything else because you want to do it, I might just possibly die. Walking around the streets naked would be preferable to this unrelenting boredom our life has become. At least I’d feel free, like I was doing something I chose to do.”

“Shhh. Keep your voice down.” Doug held out his hands, patting down at the air. “There might be someone in the next room.”

“They wouldn’t care about what we’re saying in English.” But Tracy’s voice had lowered voice out of habitual deference.

Doug paused to think. He slowly said, “It’s the money you want, isn’t it? If you think I’m going to let you go without a fight, allowing you to get away with this… or, wait a minute… is there someone else? You’ve planned this with someone, haven’t you?”

“You just don’t get it – and there’s the problem. I don’t want your money, or at least no more than I’m entitled to. And there’s no one else. I just want to be allowed to find out who I really am. I can’t do that as long as you’re constantly calling the shots.”

“I know what it is - you’re menopausal. You’re not thinking clearly, Tracy.” Doug suddenly looked concerned, leaning over and reaching a hand out to pat her shoulder. She stood up from the bed and shrugged him off. He continued, “Can’t we wait until we get back to Toronto to talk about this? You could see a doctor there, or maybe talk with a therapist first. Then we’ll both decide what to do.”

Tracy sighed loudly. Then clenching her teeth, she said, “I’ve never thought more clearly in all my life.” And if I don’t follow through now, I’ll never get away from this man, she grimly thought. “I’m not sick. I just need some space.”

“So what do you plan to do?” He became very business-like again. “I might remind you that there are responsibilities you can’t just walk away from. We have tickets and bookings already paid for. You should at least stay and finish this trip.”

For the very first time in her life, the novelty of not-knowing, not having a plan as to what was about to happen, was decidedly exciting yet, at the same time, still frightening. “I think I’d like to go home.” She said, looking away from him.

“Okay, if that’s what you want.” Doug shook his head. “I don’t know why we can’t just go back to the way things were this morning. We were having such a good time.”

No, you were having a good time. I was tagging along, like I’ve always done.

Tracy glanced at Doug’s angry face before he turned away to walk into the bathroom. When he came back out she was still standing in the same position as though unsure how to move.

“I’d better start seeing about changing our flight,” he said. “This isn’t going to be easy, you know. It’s probably going to cost a lot, too.” He pointed around the room. “You’d pack up our things. I’ll call you from the lobby and let you know when I get through with it all. And, Tracy…” He reached an arm out to her, attempting to drape it around her shoulders, but she moved out of the way so the arm dropped by his side again. “Buck up, Sweetie. We’ll figure a way out of this.” He let himself out of the room.

Tracy sighed deeply. Where had her happiness gone, what she’d felt earlier when leaving the restaurant? She walked over to the window and drew back the curtains. The much cheaper room-without-a-view Doug had insisted on taking looked out at a blank wall of the next-door building. The windows still allowed in some light and Tracy stood in the middle of it, trying to clear her mind of all thought. It hurt to think, but if only she could only figure out which direction she should go now that she had suddenly set things in motion. All she knew was that there was no going back to what they’d had, what they had been.

Reaching up behind her head, Tracy expertly pinned back some escaped strands of hair into her usual hairstyle of a tightly wound bun. Sighing once more, she walked over to the wardrobe, opened the door and, reaching in, pulled out her own suitcase. She hesitated briefly, just for a moment, before reaching in to grab Doug’s.

I’m reading a wonderful little book by Peter Mayle and Gerard Auzet titled Confessions of a French Baker, and believe I have now discovered the secret of making perfect baguettes! I had the ingredients correct, but not in quite the right proportions. Also, the method as described in this book is slightly different from the way I thought it should be done after reading several other books on baking these past few years. So today I experimented, using Gerard Auzet’s instructions, and voila! It worked! Toothsome, with lots of holes, crunchy exterior, chewy interior… I almost ate all 8 baguettes myself before Dennis came home for lunch! He agreed. This was my best effort yet.

And, feeling in a baking mood, I also made Butter Tart Muffins because the recipe sounded too good to be true. I discovered it in the LCBO’s Food & Drink Autumn 2007 Magazine. The recipe comes originally from a coffee shop called The Bean in Huntsville, ON. No mention in the article as to who invented this recipe, but I must say that person was a genius! So simple an idea, yet Sooooo good… I made the recipe substituting chopped pecans for the raisins, just because, and not only did these finished muffins taste like butter tarts, but the house smelled as though I’d baked a pecan pie. Delicioso!