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Wendi Stewart - Wendi with an 'eye'

Wendi lives in Nova Scotia’s Annapolis Valley, but the farm on Rainy River in Crozier will always be her home. MEADOWLARK, her debut novel released September 15, is published by NeWest Press of Edmonton. She is the mother of four daughters who did the unforgivable: they grew up.

My good friend, Wally

A close friend has died. It took two years for cancer, a brain tumour specifically, to claim Wally, while we looked on with encouragement and positive thoughts, looked on with fear at times, wanting to beg of those or that which seems to be in charge of our inevitable departure, not to take him from us.

We will all leave this world; we know this. We don't know how or when and I think most of us spend little time pondering our eventual demise.

If we could . . .

I have just spent three days walking a few of the many Nova Scotia beaches. They are quite incredible, breathtaking, soul-soothing.

I think a love of water is in the blood of most of us who grew up around and in Fort Frances and it would be easy to take that fresh water for granted in its abundance were it not so wired into our souls.

An ocean has a louder and bigger story perhaps, but no more meaningful than the water of Rainy Lake or of the Rainy River that hurried past my childhood.

Putting pen to paper

In 1940, Virginia Woolf wrote an essay entitled “The Humane Art.”

In it she said, “A self that goes on changing is a self that goes on living.”

She was reviewing a biography of Horace Walpole who had written sixteen volumes of letters that earned him the title of historian.

In this essay, Woolf had less to say about Walpole than she said about the art of letter writing and its pending doom. And one of my favourite bloggers, Maria Popova, fleshed it all out for me and as always, it got me thinking.

Time to kick cranky to the curb

I might be cranky. Wait here while I check.

I won't be a minute. Pick up a magazine or pour yourself a coffee or cut the grass. Not my grass; I have retired from having a lawn.

Okay, I'm back. I've run a few tests and the results were somewhat conclusive: I am indeed cranky. So, at least we know what we are dealing with.

I didn't see it coming. I left the door ajar last evening while I carried in a shelf I have been working on and aside of the 30 million mosquitoes that scurried in behind me, I suspect a dose of cranky crept in and hid under my bed.

Some days I feel like Newton's Cradle

Remember those perpetual motion gizmos, the little balls that swing back and forth, striking each other to keep the movement constant?

Newton's Cradle it was called, created in 1967 by an English actor and named in honour of Sir Isaac Newton, long-considered the most influential scientist of all time.

Physics class taught us that momentum (mass times speed) is conserved so that when two objects collide the total momentum before the “crash" is equal to the momentum after the crash i.e. "for every action there is an equal and opposite reaction.”

I always think a bin will solve my problems

I am trying to find order in my chaos having just moved.

I think “order” fell off the truck somewhere between here and there.

As I tried to find a spot for the “essential” things, I did more moving them from one side of the room to the other than actually putting them away and some times to another room altogether.

There were a couple of moments, just seconds really, when I thought burning the place down and starting over from scratch was the better option.

I jest, in case my insurance broker is reading this.

Feed children's imaginations with fairy tales

Fairy tales have been around since the early 17th century, say some “experts," while other historians and anthropologists link "Beauty and The Beast” back four thousand years. Suffice to say, fairy tales have been around a very long time.

Psychology Today reported in 2014 that fairy tales are told in all languages, from Arabic to Zulu, the details differing, but the common link is our sense of humanity, of right and wrong, with good and evil separated completely.

On Father's Day

Father's Day is coming.

I am not sure many of us whose fathers have gone ahead think of the hero of our childhood with more devotion on Father's Day than any other day.

There simply isn't a single day that goes by without my father in it, in memory now having lived without him for more than double the years I lived with him.

That fact alone is surprising, where on that first day in October 1974 of living without him came a certainty and an almost wish that my heart should have stopped beating when his did. But not so.

Like the old saying goes: 'Seize the day'

I am moving.

I sold my beautiful property with the maple syrup trees and the Ginkgo tree and its history of 270 million years and the Butternut rescued from my friend's back yard.

I leave the blueberries and the blackberries that grow in abundance.

I leave my pony buried beneath the Pin Oak and carry with me the memories of him wandering my yard in search of patches of clover, nickering at me through the open window, wanting to press his nose into my neck, to breathe me in, his lips searching my pockets for something he is sure is there.

'Every child is full of his/her own possibilities'

I am having a mixed green salad for supper tonight.

I'm not expecting your applause for my healthy meal choice nor do I think you should care about what I am eating, but I do hope you care about what I am going to tell you about the dressing I put on my salad.

Let me start at the beginning.

If you are a Dragon's Den fan you may remember an episode from 2013. If you are not then let me introduce you to Hope Blooms.

Hope Blooms has been changing the lives of at-risk-youth in the North End of Halifax since 2008.