Lesson One: Flat Snakes Do Not Rise from the Dead.

Walking along the back roads on a summer evening, we often discover snakes that have stretched out on the warm gravel and met their end when a vehicle rolled over them. The first time the golden Shay discovered one, she touched it with her nose, nuzzled the body end to end, then stood head down, unmoving. 

She was mourning, not investigating.

Then came the day that she leaned forward to show her respects for a sleek, round-bodied snake. She sprang back as it darted away, and then she stared at the snake-less spot. She hovered hopefully over the next snake, a flattened one, and stepped back, waiting. 

It took surprisingly very little time for her to recognize that, although she mourned all snakes equally, not all snakes would rise to her call.

Lesson Two: Border Collies Will Entertain Themselves If You Are Not Vigilant.

Recently, a Border collie joined our family. Since the golden Shay is part Border collie, I had an inkling of what lay ahead. Now, everyone knows that Border collies are very intelligent, high energy dogs with a strongly developed herding instinct. Unfortunately, many do not realize that the dog does not always develop  strong rapport with a less intelligent, lower energy human who regards them as adorable. At this point, I caution all potential Border collie enthusiasts to seek professional guidance from a reputable trainer -- these ramblings are strictly amateur observations!

First, do not talk soothing nonsense in the hopes of calming them. They require intelligent conversation.  However, although they have a well-developed vocabulary, their skill with verbs is still limited. "We will go on a car ride tomorrow, not now" translates "Mumble, mumble, CAR RIDE mumble NOW!"  "Be good, stop your pulling"   translates "Mumble GOOD mumble PULLING!" and they will pull harder. 

Second, these are working dogs. When you go to the clothesline, take multiple trips with small loads. They will guide and guard you for each. When you go for a ramble in the woods, accept that you cannot wander with your head in the clouds. Involve them -- call them back to the trail, send them ahead and direct them somewhere. Never assume they will trot serenely at your side. They crave interaction. The other day, I came out of a daydream and called Flo in -- but she did not hear me. She did not hear me because, since I was entertaining myself, she had decided to cut back through the woods at an angle to her favourite swimming place, then cross country over to the clear-cut where we hunted berries together before. I pieced this together from the drenched and muddied coat festooned with brambles when we were finally reunited. I could have lost her to coyotes that day. She could have become entrapped in brambles. I received a second chance, and now our walks are shared  experiences, every minute.

Lesson Three: The Last Walk Is a Forever Walk.

In January, my beloved husky began to age. In late March, she suddenly manifested seizure activity. A month later, she died, an aggressive cancer claiming her. 

On her last morning, we walked our favourite woods walk to the fork in the logging road, where she would usually choose the direction. This day, she walked at my side, sometimes glancing at me. "This is our walk," her eyes told me, "and always will be." At the fork in the logging road, she lay down and gazed at the pines sloping down to the swamp. I just stood there, present with her, the Shay dog huddled behind her, eyes bleak. 

When the time was fulfilled, my lady rose, and we turned homeward.

That evening, we buried her physical remains under a great pine tree in the woodlot.

Her spirit is free in the world of spirit. 

And every day, when I walk, I walk for her. I live on, as richly in each moment as I can, for her.

                ____________________________         * * *      ____________________________
​
These are but three of the lessons I have learned from dogs. If I recorded all the lessons, as John says about the life of Jesus, "Even the world itself could not contain all the books that should be written..." (John 21:25b).

I AM THE CANOE
The heat presses my body,
powders the finish on my gunwales,
Crowds my thoughts as I yearn to recall
The rush of water dancing over me.
 
I am the canoe. I do not see. I feel.
 
That gust of cooler air,
That shudder beneath my side –
That is cabin door opening,
Her feet on floorboards.
 
I am the canoe. I do not hear. I feel.
 
I roll to touch the softness, the dryness,
My side numb from the long coma of winter –
That is carpet, then porch.
Now my belly glides over the slick and the cool –
That is ferns, meaning rocks are coming.
The sharpest gouges my skin, deep,
And I cringe for I am the canoe and I feel.
 
I feel the rock edge drag deep
Then the cool ease of mud
Soothing
And now! Now I float!
Water caresses my flanks,
Welcomes me,
Eager, too, for our run.
Water splashes into my body,
And that softness is her foot that touches me,
And that scratchy softness is dog.
Welcome, Dog.
We will ride together,
Swim together.
 
That rush of water against my side is paddle.
Oh! Welcome, paddle. You complete me, my friend.
We surge into the lake and that dip of shadow,
That moment of cool,
That is Eagle, passing above.
Welcome, Eagle, Thank you for your blessing.
 
Sun sears my gunwales but
Water brushes my belly and my sides,
Cool, fresh.
I glide.
Waves part before me and now,
A touch of roughness taps my gunwale in passing
Now softness, fur-ness, at my side.
That is Dog joining me in the water,
And now we swim together once more.
 
And the long winter of waiting is past,
And the summer of rippling water is with us.
I am the canoe. I  do not speak, but I sing. I feel.
 
I am the canoe and I love this season,
When I lie in the shade, cool mud beneath me,
Dog often pressing wetness of nose in the evening,
Coming to the lake because Dog is friend.
And she is friend,
Sharing lake moments,
Sheltering me from storm.
Do not go, please, let us explore always but
Oh! That dryness fluttering over me.
That is leaf falling.
Our season is passing.
I am on my side, pressed to carpet.
Thick air pressing my thoughts, no cool of wind or water.
I sink into autumn, into winter, comatose but images still darting in my mind.
I am the canoe. I do not see. I do not hear, or taste, or scent,
But I touch. I feel.
A press of hand, a moment of paw,
A paddle pushing water along my flank,
Waves parting for my bow,
These are flashes in memory now.
I dream of her. I dream of Dog.
I dream of Eagle, hovering over me.
I miss, oh, I miss them all.
Memories and yearnings crowd around me,
For I am the canoe,
And I feel.
How I feel.
 
 
 

On April 27th, 2021, I came home to learn that I was now a self-published author. In an earlier blog, Self-publishing Unfiltered , I described the fun and frustration of the first two months of my publication journey. I was interviewed by Lighthouse NOW, and my book went smoothly to consignment. Life was gentle and simple.

The next ten months were, at times, like navigating a canoe through class five waters with a cracked paddle. It was less simple, less gentle.

The journey is measured in moments, not sales. I learned to enjoy the summer markets. Fellow vendors shared their strength. I had incredible suggestions and encouragement from authors. It was hard to hear that a few well-chosen questions would work better than my wordy displays, but I also knew they were right. I rushed home and reworked my display – and next afternoon heard such good things. Barb, wherever you are, THANK YOU. You freed my marketing spirit!

The Miramichi Reader stepped forward with a positive review and ongoing support. South Branch Scribbler later provided an interview. There were such joyful moments.

In between, there came illness, cancellations, and explanations.  With recovery came quick bookings and the discovery that Canoer had caught the Christmas current, for consignment copies will surely sell if you really need them. I scrounged copies from friends to fill out the display, while FriesenPress negotiated the labyrinth of supply chains in pandemic times. I do not think they anticipated me when they developed a sound marketing plan.

Five days later, two boxes of books appeared by the front door, the dog again claiming the credit. I think that FriesenPress must have connections at the North Pole, or an equivalent mythic location. That got me through to Christmas, my friends got books back, and then I vanished for surgery and a winter of recovery, useful for finishing my work in progress.

Now I have a stable internet connection, and am learning that there is a strong writing support network out there. Others also struggle with lack of time for writing or marketing or outlining or self-publishing vs. traditional publishing. Reaching out was hard at first. As an adult, when I invited old friends to visit, my mother would worry that they would plunder the attic of its dusty relics if she stepped out. That mindset is hard to break. So far, no one in the Writing Community has attempted to abscond with the silverware, real or virtual! They share their ideas and cheer you on.

People leave my booth to borrow the book from the local library, or drop by to tell me they read their nephew’s or their neighbour’s copy. That excites me. I visit local bookstores, and am each time moved to see my dream on display. I correspond with people and share ideas. I read. I write. My life has grown richer.

Although my sales statistics are possibly the lowest on record, people are reading my book, using our old high school code: the one who buys the book must share it with the rest of the class. I am participating in conversations. I am writing. I am content. After all, Laila’s theme in A Canoer of Shorelines  is: The measure of success is a satisfied mind.
​
My one regret is that my lady, the brindled Husky who saw A Canoer of Shorelines into reality and into marketing and saw my second draft to completion, passed away four days before Canoer’s anniversary. I write for her. I go forward for her. I breathe the gentle air of the lakeshore for her. Such a year, my friend.

   “I don’t know where she is, or what she’s doin’, or why,” Joe breaks in, “but she were at the lake last May. Up by th’ Narrows, in that ol’ canoe, workin’ along with that big white dog runnin’ the shore beside her. ‘This is a secret, Joe,’ she says. ‘I’m not supposed to be here.’”
……
“I know what I saw,” Joe insists. “Were a bright and perfect May mornin’, and there she is all bright and smilin’ and that big white dog runnin’ along the sho’ah.”
-A Canoer of Shorelines, Ch. 21 

​Julie sees Doug, twisting in a slow circle, clutching at drifting balloons as he falls. The balloons burst into images: there is Doug teaching, Julie laughing in the canoe, the first day in North Bay, the mountains in the distance as Doug drives through Alberta, a wide-eyed young waitress smiling, a snow blower growling through the drifts. Each slips from his hands and Doug continues to fall. He will come to earth eventually, because it is, after all, such a small world.

• A Canoer of Shorelines, Chapter 16

 
Yes, Doug, it is a small world, and there is a place for each of us in it. There is a place for the Julies, the Rachels, the Lailas – and the Tinas.

There is a place for you, too.

Having a place in the world does not mean you fit in. Tina does not fit in, but she belongs, because in all her pain, she embraces and affirms life. Do you think it was easy for Laila? Do you think she was born living by the side of the road, being a friend to humanity? No. She worked for it, Doug, and to you, she might not fit in, but in truth she fully belongs.

Doug, the world is small, and everything we do affects the world, even as the world affects us. Be careful in your dealings in the world, Doug; not many of us like what you are doing.

We have, however, hope for you.
 
Why am I speaking to a fictional character? Well, all fictional characters are inspired by our life connections and experiences, so perhaps it is my life connections and experiences that I am addressing. These names I mention are fictional characters in a fictional narrative, but each is someone we know. We know them in flashes of memory and impressions; we have known them all our lives.

Julie and Rachel in the novel are introspective, introverted seekers, fumbling and not confident. Laila is Woman Arrived: she has not traveled but she sees the world; she has been hurt but she knows love. Tina is a broken and heart-breaking child; marginalized, misunderstood, and abused, there is power in her grasp of life.

Doug is a selfish and self-serving person, and people report to me that they do not like him. He is not lovable; he is not kind or good. He is, however, a person, and although his dreams are self-centred and mean, they come from a desire to simply be. The Dougs are not easy; they are disturbing. 


Yet, we must try.

It is, after all, a very small world, and we cannot avoid them.

I am thinking about Doug today because our world hovers on the brink of madness. If I do not believe that people can change, that they can find their place of true belonging, then I will not believe that the world can draw back from that brink. I will not be able to look out over a calm lake with joy, because its calm is illusory. I must believe that its calm is a sign of hope for a future that will continue to nurture such joy.

I am thinking of Doug, too, because I have not been working much with Canoer since December; several events have led me to surgery, but I am now recovering and working on a new draft. I have faced that my life is changing. I cannot lift or load my kayak or canoe, but that is such a small part of who I really am. I can design ramps and pulley systems, I can break a task into its component steps, and I certainly can find joy in the calm of Wasaya.

So, Doug, open yourself to a new way, before you become one more element in an angry world. Learn a new way, or you will miss out on the beauty that is possible on the earth. Remember how Julie ditched you when she was going to the cabin? It is because you weren’t ready. It wasn’t really because you were sleeping, although that helped.

I will be fully alive, Doug, and I have no time to waste figuring out who has caused my problems. I will be on the water, enjoying the light and the shoreline.

There is a place in the world for each of us, as we come to earth in our small world, with eyes and mind open.

In the eighth month of the sixth grade, Tina demonstrated vocabulary recognition equivalent to that of a child in the fourth month of the third grade…. Perhaps Tina was sick that day, her stomach cramping and her attention lagging. Or, possibly, someone had stolen her dog that day, and vocabulary recognition was not her main concern. Is Tina’s first language English, or perhaps a dialect of English that differs in content and patterns from the standardized test? The tests indicate a pattern of need, but is this pattern Tina?

• A Canoer of Shorelines, chapter 12

 
The Christmas season draws to a close. Shall I write about the loneliness of the season, the bewilderment as we sink in flames in the most horrific wave of the pandemic to date, or the fears and struggles of family illness and surgeries?

No. I want to step past my fears and re-enter Julie’s world, the world of special education marvels and the stories behind the stories. Like Julie, we must come to accept Tina as a human being of vibrant potential; we do not define her by her disability. And we do not define her by our expectations.

A parent once exclaimed to me in tones of despair: “My kid is special ed.” I could only answer: “No, your child is Mary. And yes, she is special, because all children are special. True, she is having problems with the work we give her. Special ed is simply better work, meaningful work, something WE do to teach Mary the way she is meant to be taught.”

Over the years, children have taught me these key points:

1. Seemingly innocent remarks can break hearts.
2. A sound in one ear can be two sounds in another.
3. Beware Grade 8’s providing second language lessons.
4. Most important: A is for dog, and B is for cat. You have to know their story!

 
Seemingly innocent remarks can break hearts.
I sat with a twelve-year-old student, coaching him with his ESL lesson on the five senses. “What do you do with your eyes? You see. What so you do with your ears? You hear!” He seemed to be getting it, when he suddenly burst into tears and could not be comforted. My apologies and bewilderment made no difference, and the boy departed for lunch, leaving me baffled and worried.
 
Halfway through my lunchbreak, the light burst over me. “What do you do with your nose? You smell!” Student face crumpled. “Yes, you smell,” I nodded. I believe that tears are justified when a person in authority tells you repeatedly that you smell. Why didn’t I say, “What do you use your nose for? You use your nose to smell. You use your nose to smell wood smoke, to smell partridge cooking….”
 
We need to plan. And we need to accept that it is our phrasing that smells sometimes.
 
A sound in one ear can be two sounds in another.
My grade six student wrote about his trip to the Big Rabbits in his journal. He sounded it out carefully. In his language, there is no /b/, no /p/ There is < and that is both. A b-p that is neither b or p exactly.
 
Hold your palm before your face. Make the /b/; feel the puff of air on your fingers. Make the /p/ and feel it press to your palm. Make < and it falls between. Try ‘/t/ and /d/. His sound lies between. His eyes widened when he learned that in English, there were two sounds to watch for. Once he knew, he could apply his knowledge. There was no spelling problem; from his language base, rabbits and rapids had sounded the same.
 
Beware Grade 8’s providing second language lessons.
When the eyes dance as students teach new vocabulary, it is best to refer to a second source. My first English class offered to teach me their language; if I told them to sit down, loudly and clearly, they assured me that they would immediately sit down. Well, they were in one sense right; the term they provided is usually produced in a sitting position. I hope that at least one of them is reading this! They might not remember, but they opened my mind in so many ways and I am forever grateful.
 
Thus, years later, when teaching phonics to a group of happy ten-year-olds, I could enjoy their laughter. “This sound is ‘meu’,” I explained. “For this one, you say ‘meu’, not MOO.” As the sound left my lips, I knew what I had done. They tilted back their heads and howled with laughter, molars shining in the recesses of their mouths. This translates, in their language, to the word that does not mean ‘sit down’ in another.
 
A corollary lesson comes also from my first year. “How was your first morning?” I asked the new teacher. “Great!” she replied. “But there seem to be so many students named Atsuk. I wonder what it means?” Literally, it means “I don’t know”, but it can mean much more: Forgive me, for I am shy and I am not ready to tell you my name yet. I am not sure what to say, what to do. Please be patient with me. When they are ready, when they are safe with you, they will teach you many things.
 
A is for dog, and B is for cat.
I am so proud of my Grade 1 phonics group. We are matching beginning sounds with words and they are doing it well! Now we are on a felt board app, sliding objects into position beside letters. “We are looking for /a/ things, like /a/ for…. Apple…. alligator…. no, no! That is /d/ dog. Let’s find /a/ apple!” The little face scowls, and the tiny fingers shove the dog onto the /a/ line. I sigh and turn to another student. Goodness! They seem to be phonetically challenged!! This one is pushing the cat into position beside the /b/. “That is /c/ cat. It goes here.”
 
“Nope,” he declares. “This is /b-p/ b-pisu!” Light surges across my mind. This is the word for cat in his language, and this…… this is not /d/ dog – this is /a/ animoosh!
 
My nickname was Animoosh, for obvious reasons. (I only had two dogs, but many other dogs followed me.) Why did I not make the connection? It took a six-year-old boy (his dad and my son went to school together years back, point of interest) to remind me that phonics is not restricted to English! Their language has a phonetic base, and they were going to use it!
 
So, enter the learning moment. Embrace the wonder that awaits when we honestly recognize the reality of children.
 
Oh! I miss the wonder. As soon as I get medical clearance, I am going to strap on my mask, sanitize my hands, gird up my loins, and go back to learning!  

As I, too, find those things annoying, I fully agree. Although I confess that I talk to my dogs and generate responses in voices I have designated for each, I am not comfortable with treating children or dogs as cute and adorable playthings. The Husky is a wise and noble confidante and companion; she is not a sweetie or a fur-baby. The Shay is a joyful and exuberant being, rich in affection; I would never dress her in a clown hat to celebrate that fact.

My girls are friendly, but please do not insist that your friendly dog push its face in theirs. They will demonstrate hostility toward your friendly dog, with expressions that might disturb the sensitive. Please listen and let me finish as I advise you, “Don’t put your face down to her –”. Please do not interrupt and say, “Awww, I’m used to dogs,” and then turn to me with accusing and streaming eyes as I finish, “because, as I was trying to say, the Husky loves to bump noses.” Please do not swing your palm down to pat the Shay on top of the head; she will click her teeth to advise you that she dislikes that. If she banged a paw on top of your head, perhaps you would not like it either.
​
They are my canine companions, the keepers of my secrets. The Husky lies behind me, watching as I write. The Shay studies the front window, and at precisely 4:30 pm local time, she will come up and tug my sleeve, because it is walk time. They are editorial staff and recreational staff.
​
They scan the sky and take note of all birds, drifting leaves, jets, and moving clouds, and at night, they study the moon. They are vigilant.

​Like Musko, they understand human nature. They have made many of their conclusions based on experience. If they and Musko joined forces to write an advice column, I am sure that it would include these, among others:

1. Do not engage in prolonged scrutiny of your human. Particularly at mealtime, this will foster feelings of anxiety. It will not enhance sharing of food. Instead, lie quietly at their feet, sighing softly so they remember you are there. Feelings of guilt will result, prompting a desire to share.
2. Do not press your face to the human’s face while they are fumbling with the alarm clock. They do not read this as support and love, but as an intrusion, triggering an aggressive verbal response.
3. Do not slurp your tongue on the palm of their hand. They will make mewling sounds of distress. A light lick to the wrist, or below the ear, engenders a more positive response.
4. Do not crowd your face between them and the phone. Again, this will engender an aggressive response. You can still hear most of the conversation if you lie quietly by their side.
5. Pace near the treat cabinet at designated times. This serves as a graceful reminder. Do not vocalize at this time, or feelings of hostility may be displayed, particularly if they are tapping on their cell phone or device like that.
6. Sniff the wonderful tracks you find while pacing slowly. Some humans cannot stand still for long, and they become restless. One of you may tug on the leash, but not both of you at once. The human might stumble, and verbalizations will be painful to your ears. Also, the older human might be injured, and will withdraw to their lair.
7. Learn to read the human’s needs. If you hear them crying in the night, lie near, and let your love pulse to them. Listen as they share their fears. Soft vocalizations at this time will comfort them.

Dogs have great patience and an infinite capacity for forgiveness and love. Celebrate that. Read them, as they read you. Grow and live together in joy.

​Once upon a time, I lived on a shallow, rocky lake, in a cabin accessed only by canoe. I saw beautiful sunrises, and decided to write a book about those. Sunrises do not typically fill a novel, but I did grow up in a rambling old farmhouse. I would write about a woman who lived in a haunted farmhouse! It turned out to be the story of two women, both haunted, both with a sentimental relationship with an old farm, both struggling to find their way in the world.