A Travel Writer Again

 

Amazon US: https://us.amazon.com/Road-Tripping.../dp/B0GNJFDZMF

Amazon Canada: https://www.amazon.ca/Road-Tripping.../dp/0228639352

Barnes & Noble: https://www.barnesandnoble.com/.../road.../1149544339...

Smashwords: https://www.smashwords.com/books/1968339

Kobo: https://www.kobo.com/.../road-tripping-southern-alberta...

I took a few writing courses and began my published, writing career (as opposed to my unpublished writing career) with a short story titled A Hawk's Reluctant Flight, in a small magazine called Western People. With that on my short resume, I had travel and historical articles accepted by other magazines, one of which didn't pay anything to the author. Then I took another writing course and one of the speakers was a publisher, Grant.

At the time Alberta was divided into tourist zones and I had been thinking about doing a book on what there was to see and do in each zone. I sent a query letter to Grant's publishing company and the senior editor responded with a phone call. We set up a time for me to go to the city and meet with both of them. I outlined my idea and Grant said yes it was a good one but he thought the books should be more on the people and culture of each zone. He liked his idea and I liked mine so we decided we couldn't work together. As I stood to leave I said. "Well, at least as I research the zones I will see all the backroads of Alberta." He replied. "I've always want to do a book on the backroads of Alberta." I sat back down and that was how I began my backroads series. Over the next ten years I travelled through and wrote two travel books on Alberta, four travel books on British Columbia, and one travel book on the Yukon and Alaska.

My favourite books to read have always been mystery novels and after much thought I decided to write one. Since one of the mantras of writing is to write what you know I made my main character a travel writer. Since then, I have written seven mystery, six historical, two sci/fi, two holiday romance/comedies, and one non-fiction. And now, thirty-three years after my first Alberta travel book was published, I am a travel writer once again.

My latest book is titled 'Roadtripping Southern Alberta' and here is the Introduction, and the section of the book that explains the front cover. Enjoy reading and hopefully you will visit the area soon.

Introduction

 Unfortunately, many people have lost the art of the drive. It’s been replaced by the art of the destination. Everyone wants to get to their journey’s end instead of enjoying the drive, the travel. This book is about travelling through southern Alberta. Each chapter in this book is a loop, so you start and end in the same place. Some of the loops are close enough to each other that you can hop off one and onto another, tour it, and then hop back onto your first loop. You are free to take as long as you wish on each chapter to enjoy the whole experience.

Most hamlets, villages, and towns have museums that are preserving and chronicling the unique history in each area. After visiting those, and other places cited in this book, drive or walk around the communities. You might see children selling lemonade or iced tea on a street corner or you might meet the residents who are friendly and helpful. You can check out the shops, galleries, and stores. There is always something unique and interesting to see. Plus, you might be fortunate enough to find a Farmer’s Market where you can pick up fresh vegetables, baking, eggs, and meat products.

Regrettably, not all sites, adventures, or experiences are mentioned here- it would take a book much larger than this and I extend my apologies to those places. This book is designed to give you an idea of the natural and man-made attractions, the stories and history of the areas, and the famous and infamous people who lived here. In the process, it is my aim to get you out exploring this part of the province. So, if you see a sign for something not mentioned in here, or if you wonder what is down a road, feel free to go check them out. It is your holiday and hopefully this book will make you love the journey again.

Alberta is a large province with wide, open spaces. In places you have an unobstructed view in all directions. Sometimes there is a long distance between towns or locations so you can check to see how the crops are doing, count the number of cattle in a field, watch for wildlife, and wonder about the dreams of the people who built the houses, barns, and granaries that are now in various stages of decline. Or you can play a new game: I spy with my little eye in the far, far distance something that is….

It doesn’t matter how you are travelling, there are campgrounds (some with hook-ups, some primitive), resorts, national and provincial parks, recreation sites, hotels, B&B’s, and motels for you to stay at. Most towns have parks for picnics and golf courses, and some have RV sanitation dump stations.

If you decide to reverse the route in which you explore any of these roads, remember to also reverse the direction in which you turn off that road. Once off the road, all other turns will remain the same.

Relax and enjoy the trip and remember, many of the sites you will see can only be found in this province. As one man I met said: "This is the true Alberta."

Medicine Hat and Red Rock Coulee

‘The city with all hell for a basement’ was the way Rudyard Kipling described Medicine Hat because of the gas fields discovered beneath it in the 1880s. By the early 1900s most homes, offices, schools, and churches were heated by the gas.

The city was named after the Saamis, or Medicine Man's, hat which was lost by the Cree's medicine man during a battle with the Blackfoot. This was considered a bad sign and when the Cree were all killed the site was given the name Saamis.

The Saamis Tepee, which can be seen from the Highway as you drive through the city, was originally constructed for the 1988 Olympics in Calgary. After the Olympics, it was bought, dismantled, and moved to Medicine Hat where it overlooks the Seven Persons Creek Coulee. The teepee is 20 storeys or 65.5 metres high and its poles are made of steel with a concrete foundation.

To see the teepee, exit off the highway onto Southridge Drive/College Avenue SE and the teepee plus the Medicine Hat visitor information centre are to your right along Southridge Drive. At the centre you will find information on sights not mentioned here such as the city's historic walking tour, the viewpoints, and the many parks.

The poles of the teepee are not covered so it is open to the sky. Walk inside the teepee to see the round storyboards, which are paintings depicting stories about the history of the first people, such as the Plains Cree, the Blackfoot Confederacy, the arrival of the non‑First Nations, and the Metis. There are interpretive signs below explaining each board.

From the teepee you can walk to the edge of the cliff and look down on the Saamis Archaeological site in the Seven Persons’ Coulee below. It is believed that the area was occupied as far back as A.D. 1525 and as recently as A.D. 1740.

With the abundance of clay along the banks of the South Saskatchewan River in the Medicine Hat area, it was natural that a pottery industry began and grew in the early 1900s. There was natural gas to fire the kilns and a railway to transport the finished products to market. Three potteries, Medalta, Medicine Hat, and Alberta, were all operating at the same time. Medicine Hat Potteries later became the Hycroft China, Ltd.

To see the products of Medalta Potteries and to take a tour of the building, museum, and huge kilns at 713 Medalta Avenue SE, turn left onto Southridge Drive when you come out of tourist information. Southridge Drive becomes College Avenue when you cross Highway 1. You reach a four‑way stop at Kipling where you go right. Head straight through the lights at Dunsmore and when you come to Allowance Avenue turn left. You cross the railway tracks on an overpass and just after the tracks is Prince Avenue where you again go left. Head one block to North Railway Street and bear left once more. You have the railway tracks to your right as you drive and then turn right on Highway 41A east. At Wood Street you turn right and in one block is the Medalta Potteries. There are signs to follow to make these directions easier.

The building now houses an industrial museum and art gallery. Tours and workshops are offered and once you have finished your tour, visit the large gift shop which sells all their pottery.

As you leave Medicine Hat going west, get onto Highway 3. At the west end of the city you will pass Holsom Road which leads to Echo Dale Park. In 20 km from Holsom Road turn left on SH 887S to go to the Red Rock Natural Area also called Red Rock Coulee. The road is paved and at km 24.7 from the highway it curves to your left. However, you continue 1.8 km ahead on the gravel road to the small parking area on the right. After walking through the gate, stand and look at the large masses of stone in the coulee. You will be intrigued by the huge, red or reddish-brown rocks that are shaped like gigantic balls with flat tops. These are called concretions and are scattered over a wide field. Many of them have been split in two or more pieces by the elements. While they seem to have been randomly thrown in the coulee, they are actually finely layered, red sandstone boulders emerging, through erosion, from the softer ground around them.

They were formed over 74 million years ago in a shallow sea which covered the area. The reddish color is from hydrous iron oxide or rust.

Just remember as you wander through the rocks that you are in rattlesnake country. And because the soil content is comprised of bentonite (volcanic ash) and clay, which, when mixed with water, forms gumbo (smectite), if it starts to rain get out of the field as quickly as possible. You could sink in the soil up to 8 cm or even slip and fall on the gel‑like surface.

Back on Highway 3 and heading west, you will reach Bow Island in 35 kms. 

My Agenda for Writing Mystery Novels

https://www.bookswelove.com/shop/p/illegally-dead

https://www.amazon.ca/Illegally-Dead-Joan-Yarmey/dp/1773626655

https://www.bookswelove.com/shop/p/the-only-shadow-in-the-house

https://www.amazon.ca/Only-Shadow-House-Travelling-Detective-ebook/dp/B075TFC2B1

https://www.bookswelove.com/shop/p/whistlers-murder

https://www.amazon.ca/Whistlers-Murder-Joan-Yarmey/dp/1773627554

Authors have different ways of writing their novels. Some outline each chapter. Others wing it just going where their characters take them. Some start with a plot and add characters and some have characters around whom they build a story. A few take an event or an idea and build on it putting in characters and settings that go with it.

     I have never worked with a solid outline, or arc as it is sometimes called, for my novels, whether they are mystery, historical, or young adult. And this is mainly because I find that my characters seldom end up the way I first pictured them and the plot never takes the route I thought it would. I do start the story with a character in his/her everyday life so the reader can get to know them then I put in the trigger or problem that is out of the control of my main character or that starts the mystery. This puts the main character on his/her quest for a solution.

     I do have scenes pictured where characters are going to have a certain conversation or be at a certain place but unexpected conversations or character twists surface as I am writing the story. Some of these are surprises or mishaps or glitches that get in the way of my character’s quest. I strive not to make these predictable, nor so far out that they don’t make sense to the story. They should leave the reader with the thought that they should have figured that would have happen. Personally, I find that it is no fun to read a book in which you can foresee where the story line is headed and what is going to happen.

     If I get writer’s block or get to the end of an event and not really know what to write next, then I pick up one of the encounters that I know a character is going to have and I write that. Sometimes I will have two or three of them waiting to be put into the manuscript where they are needed.

     For the climax my character goes through the action of resolving the problem or solving the mystery. This has to be fast paced and sometimes at risk to my character. By this time the reader should be rooting for the main character and wanting him/her to succeed without injury. Hopefully, too, this is where the surprise comes in, where the reader goes. “Wow, I didn’t see that coming." or "I never thought it would be that person.”

     I have even been surprised or saddened or happy by the ending of my books. When I was nearing the end of writing one of 'The Only Shadow in the House', I still hadn’t figured out which of two characters had done the killing. Suddenly, a different character put up their hand and said, “I did it and this is why.” I was surprised but realized that it made total sense.

     I believe that if my emotions are rocked by the ending so, too, should those of the readers. When the book was published I had readers tell me that they had also fluctuated between the same two characters as I had and they, too, had been surprised by who was actually guilty. Something a mystery writer is always happy to hear. 

I Am Enjoying Growing Older

 

https://books2read.com/The-Art-of-Growing-Older

https://www.amazon.ca/Art-Growing-Older-Attitude-Ability/dp/0228631904

When I was in my twenties and thirties and saw an obituary of someone who died when they were in their late sixties or in their seventies, I always thought what a good long life they had had. I am now 76 years old and I don’t think I am old enough to die yet. In fact, I've found that being a senior can be just as enjoyable as being a child, or a teenager, or an adult. Each has their own learning curves, their own ups and downs, and their own highlights. No one should fear growing older. It should be embraced because it is better than the alternative. As the saying goes: Growing older is a human right that is denied to many.

I have written a memoir about my life and how I learned that the oldest documented person to have lived, Jeanne Calment, was 122 years 164 days when she died. I thought if she could live that long, then so could I. The Art of Growing Older is my past journey and my future plans to live as long, or longer, than Jeanne. Maybe I can set a new record.

Here is the first chapter of my memoir.

                                          The Art of Growing Older

                                           It’s Not Age: It’s Attitude and Ability

            Dedication:

 To

Gwen, Roy, George, Avenel, Carson, Lois.

And To

Salliann, Ron, Eli, Yvonne, Iris, Michael, and Matthew who, sadly, never made it halfway to their life’s potential. To Ruth, and Syd who made it to their seventies.

I was eighteen and in my last year of high school when Canada’s Centennial celebrations were held in Montreal in 1967. I put down a deposit of $10.00 to book a place on a school-sponsored trip to those festivities. Then my boyfriend asked me to marry him and I said yes. I cancelled my trip and began my wedding plans. The marriage lasted eight years.

       Since then I have joked that I have to live to 120 years-of-age so I could go to Canada’s Bicentennial celebrations. I would be 118 in 2067 so I figured that by living to 120, I would have a couple of years to remember and talk about my experience.

       Then, in 2017, Canada celebrated its 150^th birthday and I turned 68 years-of-age. I was surprised that fifty years had already passed since I first made that statement. I realized that I was half way to Canada’s bicentennial.

       Although it started out as a joke I have learned that it is not an unrealistic quest, that I could conceivably live to 120 years-of-age. Every year thousands of people around the world are reaching their 100th birthdays and becoming centenarians; many are even becoming super centenarians by turning 110. Some are reaching 115 and 117 and 119 years of age. One woman has actually lived to 122 years, 164 days.

       If she could do it then why couldn’t others. Why couldn’t I? I could think of no reason why I couldn’t so I decided to give it a try, to work at living to 120 years of age or longer.

       Too bad, though, that for those first fifty years I didn’t look after my body, and therefore my health, as well as I should have. 

Part One

                                      My Life Before Cancer

            Chapter 1   My Childhood

I was born in New Westminster, B.C., Canada, part of the first wave of the Baby Boomer generation. When I was two-years-old my parents moved to a farm near Edmonton, Alberta, and a couple of years later into the city of Edmonton. Mine was a normal childhood for the time, which meant nutritious food and plenty of outdoor activity.

       The house we lived in was small but the back yard was large. There were rows of raspberries and strawberries dividing it into a lawn and a garden spot. Every summer, Mom put in a huge garden. We had fresh berries when they were ripe, vegetables when they were ready, and she canned dozens of jars for over the winter. She also canned pears and peaches, which she bought from the store. There were always oranges, apples, and milk for snacks in the refrigerator. Mom also made homemade white bread.

       Every morning we had hot oatmeal for breakfast. It wasn’t until I was in my teens that I was allowed to have cold packaged cereal on the weekends although my parents still ate their porridge. My siblings and I came home from school for lunch which was usually soup or salmon sandwiches or macaroni. For our suppers we ate the left over roast beef and trimmings from our Sunday meal, or canned beans and bread, scrambled eggs and toast, or pancakes and natural peanut butter. This was before the manufacturers added hydrogenated vegetable oil, salt, and sugar to the peanut butter to insure a longer shelf life, so there was always oil on the top when we opened the lid. My dad used a butter knife to blend the oil back into the mixture before we ate it.

       All our meals were homemade. We never went to restaurants and there weren’t packaged or prepared frozen meals on the market. We couldn’t afford any junk food or fast food that might have been available at the time. We never had chocolate bars or candy in the house except on Halloween. On that night I tried to stay out as long as possible to get as many goodies as I could. I ate everything else in my bag except the hard candy which usually lasted until Christmas because I didn’t really like it.

       The only down side by today’s standards was that we ate strictly white bread, first home made and then later store bought, and margarine.

       Even at an early age I loved food and was a big eater. I would eat the lunch my mother prepared, then hurry over to my girlfriend’s house and have lunch with her and her parents. Her mother made the best chicken noodle soup.

       During grades three, four, and five, each spring all the children in the school I attended were given a three-month supply of cod liver oil capsules to take. I still remember how terrible they tasted. I used to drop the capsule in my hot porridge and stir it around so that I didn’t know which mouthful I would be eating it.

       I had the usual childhood diseases, such as chicken pox, measles, and mumps and none of them were very serious. I never broke a bone nor had any serious accidents. I do remember going to visit the doctor for boils that I would get under my arms. One time he decided to lance one without giving me any painkiller or freezing it first. Even now I can feel the knife slicing through the skin and him squeezing the pus out. I was given a lotion to put on them and as I grew older they disappeared.

       I was a child before television and I basically lived outside with my friends. We played games, rode our bikes, skated in the winter, walked to school. At school we had recess, physical education, and track meets to train for. I had a very active childhood. I also got my first job at age ten.

       A woman in the neighbourhood made corsages and she hired some of us children sell them a week before Mother’s Day. She would give each of us a box containing about eight corsages of different colours and we would go to separate streets.

       At each house I climbed the front stairs and knocked on the door. When it was opened I showed the different corsages and explained who had made and how much they were worth. If a man answered, he usually bought one for his wife. If a woman answered, it was a much tougher sell. But I made enough money to buy my mother a bouquet of artificial flowers for Mother’s Day.

 Then we moved into a larger house in a new neighbourhood that was on the outskirts of the city. I started taking lunch to school. Bologna was cheap and for years that was what made up most of our lunch sandwiches. One day my brother told mom that he was getting tired of the same sandwich every day. But I stuck up for those sandwiches. I liked bologna. I don’t know if his sandwiches changed but mine stayed basically the same until I graduated. Occasionally for variety, Mom switched tomato or cheese for the bologna.

       When I turned twelve I started earning my own money through paper delivery and babysitting and that is when my food choices really changed. A few times a week I went to a nearby restaurant for chocolate sundaes or French fries with friends after school or we’d meet on weekends. We still didn’t have what today we term as junk food in the house so I had to buy my own. I bought chocolate bars and ate two at a time. If the people I was babysitting for left a large bag of chips out for me to snack on, I would eat the whole bag. I was suddenly getting plenty of sugar and fats in my diet.

       I also began bingeing at home, making myself bread and jam or bread and cheese sandwiches before supper. Not just one or two, but until I was full. And then I would eat supper an hour later.

       Because she now worked, Fridays were the only day that mom still made bread and that was because dad, who worked out of town during the week, was coming home for the weekend. I sometimes bought the family a chocolate cake and chocolate swirl ice cream for dessert with our Friday night suppers.

       My first real job was at a small, drive-in restaurant, which I had to walk about two kilometres to. The owner let the staff eat hamburgers, fries, milkshakes, and ice cream at a discount. My next job was in a Kentucky Fried Chicken, (KFC as it is known today), outlet which was closer to my home. There, staff could eat all the chicken we wanted. I indulged until eventually the novelty wore off.

 I was still very active. I had lots of friends at our new house and we had the freedom of biking into the countryside for exploration. Occasionally, I biked over to see my former friends and I was still walking to school.

       As I advanced into junior high school there were new and varied sports introduced to our physical education. I began playing basketball, volleyball, baseball, and badminton. I even learned a few dance steps. Since I was good at sports I belonged to the school’s volleyball and basketball teams. We practiced two days a week after school and travelled to other schools to play games and tournaments.

       In high school I also belonged to the school teams. And I still walked everywhere because it was unheard of for my parents to drive me to my friend’s house, or downtown, or to high school football games at other schools. Swimming and figure skating were two more activities I took in gym class.

One memory stands out very clearly from my teen years. It was to have an effect on the next four decades of my life.

       When I was in grade nine one of my teachers decided that as a gracious community gesture our class would hold a spring tea for the seniors who lived in a nearby lodge. And to bridge the generation gap each of the students would “adopt” one of the seniors as an honorary grandparent.

       “When your adopted grandparent arrives, he or she will be shown to their place at a table and it will be your responsibility to serve them tea and cake and to get to know them,” my teacher explained.

       On the day of the tea we decorated the gymnasium with balloons and streamers and waited. Because this was such a novel idea there was a television reporter and cameraman from the local television station to cover the event. Later that evening I watched myself and some of the other students on the news.

        Finally the seniors’ bus pulled up. The boys who had been assigned to help them off the bus rushed out. From just inside the gymnasium doorway I watched the sea of white heads as the old men and women slowly made their way down the hall. The women were dressed in their best outfits with their sparse hair done up and rouge on their wrinkled cheeks. The men wore ill-fitting suits or pants and shirts. Some walked on their own, some used walkers or canes, and some were helped. This was before most places were wheelchair accessible so no one who may have been in a wheelchair attended.

       I was one of the greeters and I stood at the door waiting to welcome them. As each approached I pinned a corsage on the women’s dresses and men’s shirts or suit coats. Most of them smiled or said thank you but a few looked lost as if they weren’t sure where they were or what they were doing here. Once they had their corsage they were escorted to their tables, which were set so that there would be two “grandparents” and two “grandchildren” at each one.

       When everyone was seated I went to the long table holding the pieces of cake and picked up two plates. I carried them to the table where my “grandmother” sat and introduced myself.

       “What do you take in your tea?” I asked.

        “Just a little sugar,” she said, her voice shaky.

       I went to the tea pots and poured her a cup. I didn’t drink tea so grabbed a glass of juice and returned to our table. I had a difficult time relating to my adopted grandmother. Conversation was hard. Three of my natural grandparents died before I knew them. I don’t ever remember doing anything one-on-one with the grandmother who was part of my life. She was always at family gatherings but as a child I don’t recall us ever spending a day or even an afternoon together.

       I looked around the room. While most of the seniors seemed happy with the tea, I felt pity for them. I didn’t like the idea that they needed to be adopted, like a stray cat or dog or someone no one else wanted. I felt sorry that they were old.

       As I walked home after school I thought about the afternoon. I knew that I never wanted to be in the position where I had to have strangers “adopt” me. I never wanted to be old.

       And that was when, at the age of fifteen, I decided that I would commit suicide when I reached sixty-five years of age. I would not go through those years of my life as a lonely, old woman waiting for someone to be nice to me.

 

New Year's Resolutions

https://books2read.com/Single-Bells

https://www.amazon.ca/Single-Bells-Joan-Donaldson-Yarmey/dp/0228628385

https://books2read.com/The-Twelve-Dates-of-Christmas

https://www.amazon.ca/Twelve-Dates-Christmas-Joan-Donaldson-Yarmey/dp/1772992518

A New Year’s Resolution could be described as promise made by a person to change themselves or something in their lives for the better. It could be being nicer to their neighbour, reading more, or having more fun. This change begins on New Year’s Day and is supposed to last for the year.

Making a New Year's Pledge is a custom observed mainly in the Western Hemisphere but is sometimes found in the Eastern Hemisphere.

Eight of the top ten resolutions are: spending more time with loved ones; getting in shape through exercise; losing weight; quit smoking; stop drinking; enjoy life more; pay off bills; learn something new.

How do these resolutions relate to my writing?

1.)    Spending more time with loved ones.

Writing is a solitary undertaking. I sit in a room alone with my computer (some writers use pen and paper.) I don’t like to be disturbed because that disturbance usually comes when I am right in the middle of a scene and I want to get it all down the way I am visualizing it. In order to spend more time with loved ones, I have to cut back on my writing. I read an article about one best-selling writer. Her son asked her if she would go to his baseball game. She said she couldn’t because she had to work on her next great book.

2.)    Getting in shape through exercise.

I spend my writing time sitting in a chair. If the story line is going well, I want to keep at it to the detriment of other activities.

3.)    Losing weight.

Hunger distracts me. I find that I write better if I have a full stomach, usually full of chocolates, but anything works.

4&5.) Quit smoking and drinking.

I have never smoked so that is easy. I only have an occasional drink so I am fine with that, also.

6.)    Enjoy life more.

Again, doing anything outside that room takes time away from my writing. And since I enjoy writing my books and planning more stories, I guess I am enjoying life.

7.)    Pay off bills.

Many writers write in order to pay off their bills. Some write hoping that they will have the next great best seller and earn lots of money. Most write because they love to write.

8.)    Learning something new.

Most beginner writers take writing courses to learn their craft. For others writing comes naturally. Many writers take a course in something they are writing about so the reader feels that the writer knows what they are putting in their books. When I write my historical novels I do a lot of research—reading books, visiting the places I am including in the book, and checking sites on the Internet. I have learned so much about Canadian history that I didn’t know before. I like to live by the saying: keep learning because it doesn’t cost anything to store the information.

       So how do my New Year’s pledge(s) relate to those resolutions? I am going to continue doing my exercises in the morning before I begin writing so that I stay in shape. In spite of liking to write with a full stomach I work at maintaining my normal weight and will make sure that I continue to do so. Luckily at this time in my life, I don’t have any large debts and can write because I love to. I am not going to take up smoking nor will I drink more. But I think the most important one is I am going to continue enjoying life by writing more but also by spending more time with family and friends.

       In the past I have set aside my writing so that I could do things with my family and friends. They laugh with me, go places with me, are happy for me when I do something new and different. Writing is words on paper. 

My One Published Short Story

https://books2read.com/The-Twelve-Dates-of-Christmas

https://www.amazon.ca/Twelve-Dates-Christmas-Joan-Donaldson-Yarmey/dp/1772992518

https://books2read.com/Single-Bells

https://www.amazon.ca/Single-Bells-Joan-Donaldson-Yarmey/dp/0228628385

I am a writer who lives in Edmonton, Alberta, Canada. I write fiction, non-fiction, short stories, and some poetry all set in Canada. My published fiction covers mystery, holiday romance, and Canadian historical novels for adults and young adults. My published non-fiction covers travel writing and a memoir. In my memoir, The Art of Growing Older, I talk about aging with attitude and how is it possible to live a good long life.

I don't send out my short stories to many magazines so have only had one published. The following is that story.

I was vacuuming the living room the day that my husband Byron hung up the phone and announced that his literary agent, Ron Higgins, had found a publisher for his novel.

“I've been telling you it was a great idea, Celia,” he said to me. “I just had to find an agent who thought the same way and he had to find the right publisher. They must think it will sell because they offered me a contract and an advance based on just my query and synopsis.”

 I was so happy that it finally happened. I thought that now he could relax and enjoy the writing instead of getting so worked up about all those rejection letters. I hated when he yelled and tore the letters into pieces and threw them around the room.

When the contract came in the mail Byron read it out to me. According to the contract he had to send the chapters as he finished each of them to his agent who would edit them. When half the manuscript was finished, Mr. Higgins would send it to the publisher to read. Byron signed the papers and I brought out the bottle of wine I had bought for the occasion. We had a drink to the millions of copies Byron was convinced the book was going to sell. I didn't expect it to be that many but I secretly hoped that we could buy our own home or take a vacation with his royalties. He told me to phone our friends to come for a party the following evening to help him celebrate.

I made the phone calls and then worked hard the next day making Byron's favourite appetizers, cleaning the house, and getting ready for the party.

Our friends came and they all seemed to be having a good time congratulating Byron. Everyone had a drink and I was circulating with a tray of food when Byron began talking loudly.

“Yes, I did send my idea out to a few other agents and some publishers before I acquired my agent. He’s the one who found a publisher. And those agents and publishers who turned me down are sure going to feel like idiots when it’s a best seller. I’ll have the last laugh then.”

“Is it a big publisher from Toronto or New York?” Someone asked.

“No, it’s a small publisher in Vancouver. Of course I got an advance. All good writers get advances.”

“Was it enough to buy a home in Mexico?”

“No, the advance wasn’t as big as Stephen King’s. But this is just my first book. You can be sure that with the success of this one larger publishing houses will be bidding to publish my next one.”

I couldn't take any more of it. I pulled him aside and whispered that he was starting to sound like a pompous ass. He was aghast that I would say such a thing.

“I am not. I’m just telling the truth. Besides, they are all interested. This is as close as they will ever get to a famous published author.”

“You’re not famous yet,” I told him.

“It’s just a matter of time.” He turned to the crowd. “I’d like to propose a toast to my new book. When you read it you will be impressed with my creativity.”

 Everyone in the crowd raised their glasses and dutifully toasted him. He then said that he would sign their napkins because when he was as popular as Stephen King they could tell their friends they knew him when he was a struggling writer, that he had been their neighbour.

I worked part time in a drug store and had a small home business making children's costumes. I used our spare bedroom as my sewing room. One day as I had just finished sewing the first of fifteen dresses for a dance group Byron came home early from work. He walked into my sewing room carrying a box. He set it on the bed.

“What are you doing home?” I asked him.

“I went shopping today,” he said and left the room.

I looked at the box and then up at Byron as he came in again carrying another box. He set it beside the first one.

“What’s in those?” I asked as I wrapped the dress in plastic.

“They are part of my new computer,” he answered.

I was shocked. “What?” I asked

“I just bought a computer, a computer desk, printer, paper, chair, and a bunch of supplies I need for my writing.”

I looked after our finances and I knew we couldn't afford all these things. “We don’t have the money,” I said. “How are you going to pay for it?”

Byron answered nonchalantly. “The store was giving a $100 discount if you bring in your old computer so I took in my old laptop. The rest I put on the credit card. The advance from my book will cover some of it.”

“But you only got $150.00 and ten percent of that went to your agent,” I told him

“Don’t worry,” he scoffed. “I’ll get more when I finish my manuscript and my agent gets it to the publisher. And with this new computer that won’t take me very long.”

The house we rented was basementless and only had the two bedrooms.

“Where are you going to put these?” I asked him.

“In here,” Byron said. “So get your stuff out. I need the room.”

I was totally confused. “What?” I asked.

“You heard me. I have a book contract now. I am a bona fide writer and I can’t write on an old laptop at the kitchen table any more. I need a real office to do my writing.”

“But where will I put my sewing machine, my material, my patterns,” I asked. I needed the space for my business.

“In the garage, throw them away, whatever. Just get them out of here.” Byron left the room and I stood in shock. I didn't know what to do.

When Byron returned with another box he dropped an even bigger bombshell. “And I quit my job.”

“What?” That seemed to be my favourite word in this conversation as I was having a hard time absorbing everything.

“I have to finish my manuscript.” Byron was beginning to sound exasperated. “I can’t continue to work and get my writing done, too.”

I was really beginning to worry. “How are we going to live, make our rent payments?” I asked. “I don’t earn enough money with my part time job.”

Byron didn't seem to care. “You’ll have to get a second job or start working full time.”

“But what about my business? I won’t have time for my sewing.”

Byron really sounded disgusted as he waved his hand around the room. “This isn’t a business. It’s hardly a hobby. It’s time you started contributing some real money. Now get rid of this stuff so I can set up my new office.” And with that he took some packets of paper out of one of the boxes and handed the box to me. “This will help you get started. And hurry up. I want to set up my office today.”

Byron left again and I slowly began to gather the patterns and materials on the bed into a pile.

Byron returned and stopped in the doorway, an angry look on his face. “What’s taking so long?” he demanded

I was in tears and could barely answer. “I don’t… What will I…?”

Byron dropped the box on the floor. He grabbed my bolts of material from the bed and threw them in the empty box. “I don’t have time to wait while you have a hissy fit. Get busy. Everything has to go except the bed. I’m keeping it so I have some privacy.”

I looked at him. “Privacy?”

“Yes. If I want to work into the night then I can lie down when I’m tired and not be disturbed when you get up to go to work in the morning.”

My sewing machine and material ended up in a corner of the garage. I took the dress to my customer down the street and told her I was sorry but I couldn't make the others as I had promised. I returned the deposit.

A week later I got a second part time job at a grocery store and when I got home I opened the door of the spare room to let Byron know.

Bryon was working on his novel on his new computer. “I’d appreciate it if you didn’t interrupt me when I’m working,” was all he said.

“Sorry, I just thought I would let you know that I won’t be home many evenings to make supper.”

Byron waved his hand and went back to work. I closed the door.

 

For the first few months I thought everything was going well. Byron would be at the computer when I got up in the morning and working hard when I came home from work. I was just earning enough money to keep ahead of the bills and I was hoping he would finish his manuscript soon and find another job.

One day, though, I answered the phone and it was Ron Higgins, Byron's agent. He wanted to speak with Bryon. I knocked on the bedroom door and opened it. Byron immediately began yelling. “Would you quit interrupting me? Haven’t I told you not to talk to me when I am working. I lose my train of thought.”

I handed him the phone. “Your agent wants to talk with you.”

Byron glared at me and grabbed the phone. He took a deep breath then said pleasantly. “Hello Ron.”

He listened and I could see his face turning red. “Yes, Ron. I know I am late with some chapters. I will get them to you by the end of the week.”

When Byron hung up he said to me. “From now on, when you have something to say to me, you write it on a piece of paper and slide it under the door. I don’t have time for interruptions.” He threw the phone and me and slammed the door.

That was the first of many phone calls that I answered from Mr. Higgins. Apparently, Byron wasn't sending in chapters on time and he wasn't answering Mr. Higgin's emails about them. Each time I would reassure Mr. Higgins that I had given Byron his last message and then dutifully write down the new message on a piece of paper and shove it under Byron's door.

My sister Sylvia lives in England. Before the contract we'd keep in touch through emails and Facebook but Byron wouldn't let me in his room to use the computer anymore. And I had to cancel my cell phone so I couldn't text her. With just my two part time pay cheques coming in we only had a landline and Internet service for Byron. Long distance phone calls cost extra. Sylvia wasn't any better off than me financially and couldn't afford to call me either. One day she did phone and asked if Byron would let us email each other twice a week. I didn't think he would agree but she insisted on sending him an email to ask.

I was dusting the living room after work one day when Byron stomped down the hall, his housecoat flapping behind. I wrinkled my nose at the smell of beer and body odor as he neared.

“I printed this off for you,” he yelled, throwing a piece of paper at me.

I cringed. He never talked to me in a decent voice anymore.

I hadn’t liked the changes in my husband while he’d struggled to become a published writer and I certainly didn’t like the person he’d become since getting his book contract. There were many times I wished he’d never gotten that contract and, even some, when I wished I’d never married him.

“I want you to come into my office now and email your sister back.”

In his office there were empty beer cans, plates with leftover food, and full ashtrays everywhere. It smelled as bad as he did. On the floor I saw the many notes I’d pushed under the door. I picked some up and asked if he even read them.

“I don't have time,” he said crossly.

Byron gestured to the office chair and told me to sit down. I sat and asked him what he wanted me to say.

“What do you think? Tell her not to send any more emails.”

In my agitation, I accidently hit the Caps Lock key and started to type in capital letters.

“Capital letters means you’re shouting, Dummy,” Byron laughed harshly. Then he sobered.
“That’s not a bad idea. You’re going to type the message in capital letters. That way your sister will definitely get the message not to do it again. I don’t need the hassle of receiving stupid emails.”

“I don’t want to shout at my sister,” I said.

 “If you don’t do it, I will,” Byron threatened.

So I typed Sylvia's message in capital letters then left his office in tears.

I was tired and hungry and decided to make something quick and easy for supper. As I put the lid on the pot with the pasta, Byron entered the kitchen and yanked open the refrigerator door. “Is that all the beer?” he asked peering in.

“I guess so.”

“Is it too much to ask that there be beer in the fridge?” He grabbed a can and opened it.

“I bought a dozen yesterday.”

“Are you saying I drink too much?”

Byron had claimed other writers like Dashiell Hammett and Raymond Chandler drank while writing and it made them more productive. From the number of phone calls from his agent about late chapters, I guessed it wasn’t working for him.

“What’s for dinner?” He lifted the lid from the pot.

“Macaroni and beans,” I answered.

“Geez.” He slammed down the lid. “Can’t you fix anything decent?”

“Hey, I worked all day.” I was getting angry at his attitude.

“Are you insinuating I didn’t?”

I sighed and wished, again, that I’d never married him.

 

The next evening I put oil on to heat for French fries then went to have a quick shower. It felt so good I spent more time under the soothing water than I’d intended. When I stepped out of the shower, I could smell smoke. I donned my housecoat and hurried to the kitchen. The oil had caught fire and it had spread to the cupboards and curtains. The living room and hallway were filling with smoke.

I coughed as I warned Byron, then rushed next door to call the fire department. I returned but Byron was not out in the yard. When the trucks arrived, I hurried over.

“My husband’s still in there,” I cried.

The firemen tried entering the house but were driven back by the heat and smoke. An hour later the fire was out and an ambulance had taken Byron’s body away.

“I set the oil on the burner and went for a shower,” I explained to the police officer who was questioning me. “When I came out there was smoke everywhere.”

“Then what did you do?” she asked.

“I ran next door to call the fire department,” I said as I dabbed my eyes.

“Did you warn your husband?”

“Oh, yes. I shouted at him,” I said, thinking of the word FIRE I’d printed three times in capital letters on a piece of paper and shoved under his door.