The Phone Call

Barack called last night.

His voice was rough.

“You should really stop smoking”, I tell him.

“I know, Pam. I will. I will”, he said.

“Where are you?” I implored.

“Pam, you know I can’t tell you that”.

“Is Michelle with you?”

He did not respond.

“Is it getting worse in the Ukraine?” I ask.

“Don’t you watch the news, girl?”

I can tell he is upset with me. I proceed to tell him about my day. He seems uninterested.

“Why did you call me?” I demanded.

“I had a few minutes”, he said. I can hear him smoking at the other end of the line.

“I’ve always admired you, you know”.

“I know, Pam. I know.”

There is the sound of a  commotion on his side.

“Pam, I’ve got to go. I’m needed in a meeting”.

“Okay.” I wished I had taped the call, so I could play it again later.

“Will I hear from you again?” I ask.

“Only in your dreams, girl”.


Happy April Fool’s Day, everyone ! 




Hospital Waiting

I’m at St. Joe’s hospital waiting for some tests. I got here too early. I finished my school assignment and, alas, I forgot to bring a book. So, I guess I will post something on my blog.

This is a busy place. On my left is a woman who must control everything. She has changed her seat 5 times since I’ve been here. There she goes. She’s looking for another chair again. Did I mention she moved all the furniture around, too?

Someone is playing the guitar right now – a little Johnny Cash. One little girl is delighted. She is dancing to a “Ring of Fire”. Her grandmother likes it as well. Grandma claps; the little girl dances.

My mother things anyone who plays music in public like that is homeless. He does not look homeless. A hospital employee has just joined in, playing a harmonica. It’s not Cash now. Can’t think of the singer, but it’s definitely a jam session here.

“Will you still love me tomorrow?” he sings. (Probably not, fella)

Are you on Goodreads?

Do you like my blog? Many of you have told me so, through countless messages.

If you are a member of Goodreads, and apparently 20 million people are, please consider adding my book “Reggie” to your “Want To Read Shelf”. I would appreciate it greatly. I am been working on it for many months now and it’s finally finished. Here is the page: Reggie


Poor Little Orphan


Her tone is classic and overly dramatic.  Poor little orphan, she says as she kisses the child. Anna corrects her misnomer. He has a parent, Anna reminds her. He still has his mother.

Downton Abbey returned last night for the 4th season.

I have to admit, I missed the characters, perhaps all but Mary. She’s a little moody for me. I missed Anna and Mr. Bates; I missed Thomas (yes, Thomas); I missed Cora and of course, the Countess Dowager. Isabel is starting to grow on me, too. She’s the type of woman who always needs a project – that’s her purpose in life.

We said good bye to some characters as well. O’Brien sneaks out in the early hours of the morning because of the uncertainty surrounding that infamous bar of soap. Sybil died last season and Matthew too decided to meet up with Lavinia in the afterlife and beg forgiveness for breaking her heart.

The new season has promised new plot twists. I have issues with Edith willing to forgo her virtue for a married man, but bravo for her new independent approach to life. She is an early feminist. I think Mr. Mosely will return to Downton on a permanent basis. What is Rose’s place too? Is she representative of the youth that disappeared when Sybil was killed off?

I do appreciate the language of this time, the language of the English. I have noticed that very few English people, if I use the show as an example, used contractions. I have only noticed one in a previous episode – I can’t remember what it was. Or, I “cannot” remember.  Contractions are, perhaps, too conversational, too personal. That’s not the aristocracy at all.

Did you watch last night’s episode?

Call Me Reggie


Call me Reggie. I know you want to, but you’re not sure how to address me. 

Back Cover Book Description: It’s 1890 and a body has been found in a wooded area near a swamp in Princeton, Ontario. Reggie, convicted of the crime, sits in his jail cell writing his memoirs. In his writing, he shares memories of his youth, his family and insight to the crime of which he was convicted.

Book Excerpt: From the beginning, their evidence was faulty; their trial was a sham. The parade of witnesses was started with the promise of money – so many dollars for a positive eyewitness, so many dollars to say you saw me do it. Most of these women could not recognize their pug dog if they wanted to, but oh how they remembered me. Why you ask? I’m prettier than a pug, you see; I’m a handsome devil, which is not a crime in itself. People remembered me more than they remembered the victim. There is irony there somewhere, don’t you think reader?

There were too many women involved and, honestly reader, I never thought I would complain about too many women in my life, but oh how these ladies turned on me. They remembered me alright, every feature of my pretty face. They stared at me so at the trial; some laughed at my state, but I knew every woman wanted me, secretly, shamefully. A convicted killer in their bed tonight? Any takers?

Call me Reggie. I know you want to, but you’re not sure how to address me. That’s alright. I’m use to hesitation, the quivering of the hand, the perspiration on the brow. You’ll like me; I know you will. You might even grow to love me.

Bernadette Rules!!!


My friend, Bernadette Rule, has achieved more literary success this week. Her story, A Layer of Ghosts, was published in a prestigious Hamilton magazine.

I encourage you to read this story which outlines two summer journeys  across Canada and the tragedy that unfolded during one of them. Note her use of dialogue to tell a story.

As well, I encourage feedback. You know where the comment section is located.

A Layer of Ghosts by Bernadette Rule 

Lynn Coady and Canadian Literature

gillerI watched the Giller Prize Award Show last night. Lynn Coady took home the prize for her book “Hellgoing”. Even though I enjoyed the hour long show, I have one constant guilty feeling that has been nudging at me all day. I am sadly unfamiliar with some of the current names in Canadian literature!


Now, I recognized Margaret Atwood obviously. I imagined myself sitting at her table, sipping wine with her. I would ask her about her book, she would ask me about mine.

Sexy Michael Ondaatje was there too. I loved The English Patient! Of course, I knew Alice Munro as well, and one shot of Timothy Findley. That was about it, though. I am ashamed at my ignorance, especially since I am Canadian. I must read more Canadian literature! That is my new challenge.

Can you name 5 Canadian novels published in the last 5 years? I mean from memory. Can you do it without turning to Google?

What should I be adding to my Canadian reading list?


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