I had watched the evening fading fast from my kitchen window, while making a macaroni and cheese casserole for Friday's supper. It was almost dark when Molson and I left the house, me for a walk and he for a sniff. If our walk was interval training, it would be intervals of walking punctuated by standing still. But he gives me the impression that he reads the village by nose like I read a great book with my eyes. Dragging him away from an intense sniff would be like turning a page at a critical point in a story. Can't do it.
While we walked beneath a canopy of stars and I craned my neck, trying not to topple over backwards looking at them, I thought about the writers group meeting last night.
From all directions we converged on Bonnie's house: Claire, fresh in from Montreal where she has been for 11 weeks, caring for a sick daughter; Bonnie just back from Cuba; Melody and Marilyn from Alliston; Brenda, Veena and Julie from Innisfil; Sue and Vi from Schomberg; Magda and Michele from Newmarket; Karen from--I'm not sure--and me from the centre of the universe: Bond Head. We were thirteen women with a wealth of life experience, wisdom and diversity and we came to our September meeting bearing the gift of writing about Christmas.
The writing was as rich and varied as the writers it sprang from. We are creating an anthology for Christmas; something we've done in the past just for fun. As I listened to story after story, all so different, it felt as though we were stitching together a beautiful Christmas quilt made of pieces of brocade; velvet; gingham and satin. Each piece had a personality and history of its own. There was wistfulness; wisdom; humour; skillful story writing; a cultural tale or two and even a recipe for a mouthwatering cheese and onion pie! As each was read, laughter, gasps of appreciation and words of affirmation were satisfying responses. None fell to the ground as a flop, even though some were read nervously.We should have sold tickets to our meeting it was so much fun.
I've been reading a book entitled, The small details of life: twenty diaries by women in Canada, 1830-1996.I've so enjoyed reading the diaries of these women but it makes you face your own mortality to read the "small details" of lives; some so long ago. As I walked the dark and quiet streets of the village of Bond Head, I noted the houses that have stood here for over one hundred years, with successive generations of families filling their rooms. And me, a tiny speck in the universe, beneath the stars; one day I won't be here anymore either. I'm okay with that, only I wonder, with a catch in my breath...will there be writing in heaven?