The Great Chipmunk Rescue

Welcome to the not-quite summer solstice edition of Enchanted Side Quests. Summer is arriving a little late hereabouts and we’ve only been spotting the fireflies for the past two-three nights, while off the coast, they’ve been out for weeks. I was relieved to see them, worried some unseen pollutant had disappeared them like so many insect populations you hear about. They’re an important source of magic for children and writers.

I am steadily plotting A Binding of Spellwork and Story, for which I received a grant from artsnb to write, and I know what you’re thinking, “Still?” and yeah, I am not fast at this. Plotting for me includes multiple notebooks filled and every scene broken down to the very best version of itself. I end up with a very messy not-draft of some 50 000 words, and then I get to writing in earnest.

I started taking photos of my plot board so I can SEE some progress beyond notebooks filling up. The one below is from a few weeks back and wow, it’s very heartening to know how much fuller it is already. And maybe I can sequence them all in a video for social media purposes? Like a time lapse of a slow motion plotter.

There is no rhyme or reason to the colours involved, I just like chaotic colour. What DOES matter is the order. Here you can see I have a lot of beginning, a bit of a middle, and some ending stuff.

Life is still chaotic and some family members are still in crisis, but I’ve forced myself to spend a few hours every morning working on my writing despite it all, and it’s helped a lot. My mental health is better and my anxiety lower, which makes me an all-around better parent and better equipped to handle the day’s crises as they come.

I felt a nice inner glow when I saw someone post about my book Care and Feeding of Your Little Banned Bookshop on social media with a caption that read “I think of this book whenever I see a little free library.”

Now I’m grinning again, thinking of all the little library magics in the book and outside of the book, like when a friend of mine took a copy of Bornstein’s Hello Cruel World that I sent them to put in a Little Free Library in Florida during a visit. That book plays a pivotal role in Care and Feeding, so this felt like making magic. I’ve also had friends buy copies of the book specifically to put inside Little Free Libraries, knowing how magical it would be to read this book if that’s where you found it.

Writers, I tell ya. We can’t get enough of that magic.

Which brings us to this month’s side quest: my chipmunk rescue adventure.

So. We all know (one hopes) that if you have a big tub to collect rainwater in, that you put a stick in it in case any critters or bees fall in, they can climb out. For some reason, I put in one of the kids’ snow shovels this year, thinking it would suffice. It didn’t, I think the plastic was too slippery for wet paws. This is important.

I was on the phone with my friend from BC (because I am old and still use the phone for such things) and outside because we tend to get loud and silly when I wandered to our rainwater tub. And there, floating, was a drowned chipmunk.

My heart got heavy with dread. (Please put a stick in your tubs if you haven’t already).

I put the phone down, cursing the shovel for not doing it’s job, and then I took the shovel to remove the small, furry corpse before the kids could see it, which is when the little fella blinked.

Shovel be damned, I scooped the little critter up in my hands and put him on the grass, where he lay there, shivering or maybe shaking with shock. I told my friend I’d call her back and picked him back up to hold against my chest in case he was cold and went around to the front door to ask my partner for help finding something to put the poor thing in.

The chipmunk was moving significantly more already, which was a really good sign.

Mike brought out a box with a t-shirt to hold him and the chipmunk immediately flopped over, probably from exhaustion.

Then came the internet searching of nesting material and food. The kids picked him some wild strawberries to eat while Mike found some clean sawdust and old grass. Little chippy was started to move more still, made himself a cozy nest to hide in, and rested.

Its hard to get closure with stuff like this, because it does have deep affect on the mind to experience this with a wild critter. Last summer I found a baby snowshoe hare in rough shape that we took to the wildlife vet and I still wonder what happened to her. This time, success is waking up to an empty box and a hope that our chipmunk returned to his forest home.

But when nature give you the opportunity to be kind, you also get the chance to rescue yourself a little bit, too.

It has been a WILD month. The hummingbirds have returned, the garden is planted and happily growing, and the critters are out and about.

You can imagine my shock when I was at my desk, working through my morning plotting hours, when I saw something dark through the window, out of the corner of my eye. Was that a bear?

I went around to the front of the house, going out into our mud room which has the only place with windows facing the direction the bear went in. Sure enough, there was the bear, sauntering over to our compost barrel. And then INTO our compost barrel.

Where he pulled out the remains of a half-rotten squash rind covered in coffee grounds.

He then lost interest in the rotten squash rind and compost entirely, choosing to saunter over the vehicles, give them a sniff, then wandered up the driveway and into the woods.

While cautious, I’ll admit it was exciting to be able to watch a young, wild black bear explore from a safe location. It was also a good opportunity to teach the kids some safety stuff and while I was worried we’d have to stop composting, the bear hasn’t come back a few weeks in. We do live in nature’s home, and big wild animals come with the small ones.

That said, I do prefer the smaller ones when it comes to my kids, who have asked to keep thousands of snakes and toads as pets so far this summer.

And with this flurry of pet requests, there is a small feeling of finally. THIS is why we wanted to raise them here, amid the fireflies and the toads and the sometimes bears. My youngest is terrified of snakes, UNLESS the snake is being held by my eldest, who has suddenly started channeling Steve Irwin for reasons unbeknownst, but welcome.

That’s it for this month’s newsletter, Enchanted friends. What adventures have you been having? Have you read any books I should add to my TBR?

IWSG: wishes and chapters

Hello and welcome to the first Wednesday of the month, otherwise known as the official meeting of the Insecure Writer’s Support Group (IWSG). The IWSG is a super secret, crazy exclusive group of writers who band together to support each other. If you’d like to get to know the other members, read about their writing adventures, and perhaps sign up yourself, click here to discover everything you need to make that happen.

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The optional theme for this month’s IWSG post is If you could use a wish to help you write just one scene/chapter of your book, which one would it be? When I first read the question, I shook my head. I wouldn’t wish for anything. It’s hard work and dedication that puts the words down. But then I thought of it. My wish.

I would wish for… a babysitter. First thing in the morning is my best time to write, but then I had kids and sabotaged myself. If I get up an hour earlier, so do they. There is no sneaking away to a quiet darkness to spin stories. There is breakfasts, fighting, and where-are-my-socks.

In my wish, this babysitter will arrive five seconds before my alarm goes off. They will look the other way at my messy hair and crumpled night clothes. They will not speak to me (this is paramount). I shall fill my french press with darkest coffee and steal away to a magical, locking room that I don’t actually have in my house with my pen and my wirebound notebook. This room I don’t have is soundproof, and it quickly fills with the scent of my brewing coffee and the ink spilling onto the page as I write without interruption or worries of school buses and misplaced backpacks and the baby who only had yogurt for breakfast. No. There’s just me and the notes I scribbled the night before to get my chapter going.

I will be agog at my own concentration in the absence of the usual distractions. It’s quite possible I will also become addicted to this sense of mental independence, this ability to focus. I’ll want it more and more. I’ll need it. Better send a book deal my way, quick, I don’t think 6 AM ‘sitters come cheap.

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Photo by luizclas on Pexels.com

yesterday, in my nightmares

I settled in to feed my youngest. Her skin was hot. She’d had a fever since midnight the night before. I checked it again. 37.5 C, a low grade fever at best. Nothing to worry about. Teething, maybe a molar.

She latched on to nurse. I turned on the library app on my phone and settled in to read till she finished.

Her body jolted. The dog whined. “Did something scare you, Nim?”

She stared at the ceiling. She jolted again. And again. Her eyes rolled back. I sat up, trying to break her latch because she’d bitten me.

She cried, strangely. She huffed at the air with desperate grunts.

My eldest daughter started to cry.

Nim kept huffing at the air.

Then she seized. There was no doubt in my mind this is what you called it. She jolted on and on, then grew still. But her eyes, her eyes were vacant. They stared at the ceiling, at a single focal point. I called her name. But she didn’t turn and look at me.

She’s not in there, I thought, dialing emergency services. I’ve lost her.

She seized again, much longer this time, as I held her little body to mine and she stared at that spot on the ceiling while my heart filled with horror.

Her body grew still and at last her eyes left that terrible spot. She put her head down on my shoulder and vomited herself empty.

The ambulance arrived sometime after that. I tried to collect my wits and everything I’d need for the hospital while we clung to each other.

The long drive to the city was followed by tests, x-rays, and samples of her bodily fluids. She slept in my arms and her Dad’s as we waited in her emergency room bed.

The tests yielded no infections. The doctor spoke to us of febrile seizures, caused by a sudden spike in temperature. It could happen again the next time she has a fever. Or not. It’s not uncommon among children. Febrile seizures run in families, though they’ve never showed up in either of ours.

She’s fine.

The words sink in but I’m half afraid to believe them. Those eyes focused on the ceiling, so vacant and staring, haunt me.

She’s fine, I want to holler at the nightmares that have hijacked my thoughts. I clench my fists. I pull her closer, careful not to wake her up.

She’s fine.

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fairy willows

“Look, pussy willows.” I point out to my small person.

“What if they’re fairy eggs, and they’re going to hatch and make everything turn green soon?”

“Good one.” This is our game. Who can come up with the wildest ‘what if?’. The winner is our imagination. I consider my answer, sipping from my coffee. “What if the tree is a fairy nursery and the pussy willows are fairy babies swaddled up to stay warm? Shh. We don’t want to wake them up.”

“Wake up fairies!” My small person hollers. “It’s time to make everything grow again!”

There’s a rustle. A robin chirps. A crocus pokes through the leaf litter. Yellow coltsfoot blossoms dot the ditches. A rotten snowbank collapses and trickles into the water. My small person’s eyes grow wide.

Beloved

She is still uncertain if she should be a scientist, an artist, or a unicorn veterinarian when she grows up. The crease above her nose tells me these are serious decisions.

I keep my vote to myself. “What happened to your dragon farm?”

“Oh, I’m still doing that but there’s a lot of free time in dragon farming. Especially if you’re helping.”

“I’ll be helping.”

She pulls a piece of paper from her bag. “I’ll make a list. Pros and cons. I want to be a scientist so bad but there’s so many sick unicorns who need my help.” She sighs deeply. The world is heavy on her shoulders.

Based on the prompt beloved https://dailypost.wordpress.com/photo-challenges/beloved/

science potions

My eldest daughter came up to me the other day, with her plaintive, I’m-about-to-ask-for-something expression firmly affixed on her face. I braced myself.

“Mum, do you think I could get one of those science potions kits?”

Science potions!

I’m 98% sure she means a chemistry set, but I’m not going to correct her just yet. She starts kindergarten in a few weeks, so we’ve still got time. We can have fun with science potions for a solid three years before she needs to know the proper name, and by then the wonder should have settled in for good.

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the potion master, hunting for science

P.S. I won the Writer Unboxed Flog-A-Wu first pages contest! If you’d like to read my winning entry and check out my prize (which I am so excited about I can’t stop giggling), click here

 

firefly o’clock

Two years ago today I woke up my eldest daughter to see the fireflies for the first time. Her little hand was warm and sweet inside my own as she peered out into the dark forest. “It’s not as dark as I thought it would be,” she announced.
I tried to point out the fireflies among the wildflowers, but her eyes gazed steadily at the seldom-seen stars of the hazy night sky, eagerly devouring them with her entire being. “Wow,” she whispered, transfixed.
We walked further along the wooded lane, with her looking over her shoulder now and again to make certain that the moon was still there. “It’s my friend, the Moon,” she’d tell me in a hushed voice, then shout “Hi Moon!” and give a joyous wave to the jolly orb. Now and then he winked at her with wisps of fog, much to her delight.
A green firefly lit up in a patch of clover not far from us. She gasped. “A firefly!” The green light flashed again, and again, as she counted…poorly.
“I want to see another one, mummy!” she said, So we circled our lawn, traipsing through the wet grass as we watched for fairy lights in wild places.
“We have to whisper, and tiptoe. Whisper and tiptoe,” she hissed loudly to me as she stomped through the wet in her beloved rubber boots.
She squeezed my hand tight as a moth flew too close to her face and they startled one another, but it’s easy to be brave when you’re three and your friend the Moon is right there and your mummy is holding your hand. “What was that?”
“It was a moth.”
“Was it a fairy moth?”
“It might have been, it’s hard to tell in the dark.”
As we neared our little pond a handful of fireflies whispered luminescent greetings and we settled in to watch the twinkle of their phosphorescence. Some nestled in the devil’s paintbrush, while the bolder ones soared as high as the branches of the nearby trees. Her eyes, glazed with the sleepiness of one who should be in bed before dark, wandered back up to the stars in wonder.
In sitting still the mosquitoes discovered us and began to bother. We swatted until she suggested we go back inside. Hand in hand we walked back to the house. “So what did you think of the fireflies?” I asked her.
“I thought there’d be less bugs. And more faeries,” she said, her most serious look upon her face. “But I liked them very much.”
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what’s in a Nim?

Baby has arrived and she’s settling into our lives well. Or, more accurately, she’s overturned our former lives and ripped out the guts of our routines. Now, seven weeks after her auspicious arrival in the middle of an ice storm and a seven day power failure (you’ll have to wait for more on this in a future essay), we’ve rebuilt our lives to include her.

We named her Nimia, a hard-won name, I must say. We had a hard time naming our first daughter (Evening), and our second proved even tougher because we were determined to find a name we loved as much as we loved Evening’s.

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our wee Nimi-gnome

It’s a great deal harder to name children than characters. With characters, you can write whole drafts knowing full well you haven’t found the right name yet, but with kids it’s different. You can’t change it five drafts and three months in when you find one that suits them better. You’ve filled out legal documents that will follow them everywhere. People know them. It would be like J. K. Rowling changing Harry Potter’s name to Reginald Montgomery in the seventh book. Confusion and complication will follow.

 

Harder still: you have agree on this name with a whole other person. I have pages of names I adore, written in two long lists of female and male, but that doesn’t mean Mr. The Spouse likes them enough to name his children after them.

Does everyone make naming their children such serious business?

We happened upon Nimia’s name when I was eight months pregnant. She had been Nim for a few months already; there’s a few Nims floating around in the fictional world and I’ve loved every one I’ve met thus far. When I hear ‘Nim’ it strikes me as full of fun and unexpected giggles – the perfect name for our little girl. However, we still struggled with a grown-up version of it to give her. For a while she was almost Nimue, but the Lady of the Lake seemed a lot to live up to, and there’s always that matter of Merlin still trapped in a tree …

As for fun and unexpected giggles, our Nim has this funny goat-giggle she makes in her sleep which we find quite contagious. Her name suits her well.

I suspect not every writer takes character naming as serious as I do either. Good ol’ Billy Shakespeare suggested “what’s in a name?” as if he could just pluck a name from a crowd and plop it onto the page without a second thought. No curated lists of striking names for him. Then there’s Neil Gaiman, who famously wrote down ‘Coraline’ in a misspell and got a whole book out of it. What about you? Do you struggle to find the perfect name for a character or does a rose by any other name smell as sweet? Do you reach for a pen every time you come across a name that grabs your attention?

A Bedtime Story of the Apocalypse

“The sun won’t go out, mummy. The dragons will save us,” a four-year-old said.

No one listened to the hopeful nonsense of a four-year-old.  A few people standing near her in the grocery store shook their heads. Her mother, who had been reading the nutritional label on a box of Cheerios before the intercom announced the impending apocalypse, ruffled the little girl’s hair with tears in her eyes and said, “Of course, honey. Why didn’t I think of that?”

The mother blinked back her tears and took her little one home to the country, far from looters and panicking hordes. She turned off all media that declared the inevitable end of everything. She pulled out puzzles and toys and sat on the floor and played with her daughter and tried not to think of the end of days.

It was the best two days the four-year-old had ever known, even as the light outside grew dim. “Better than Christmas!” she told her mum with a hug.

On the third day she suggested to her mother they go outside and watch the dragons.

Mother obliged. All that mattered anymore was that her little girl was not afraid. She found reserves of bravery she didn’t know she had to protect the child. She kept her trembling hands to herself.

“Look, mummy, there’s one now!” The little girl pointed at the sky in delight.

Her mother’s eyes followed her gaze and froze. There, an impossible dragon climbed through the sky.  As it grew dark, they watched the dragons breathing fire, twinkling orange lights in a sky full of stars and dragons. “Their fire works like rocket boosters to propel them to the sun,” explained the child. “Wings don’t work in outer space, you know.”

“No, I guess they wouldn’t,” said the mother.

“We won’t be able to see everything from here. Not without a super powerful telescope,” the four-year-old said. “But all the dragons are going to the sun, and they’re going to hold hands with each other and breathe all their fire onto it.”

“How do you know this?”

“The mermaid told me. The one in the pond by the house. They’ll breathe their fire together and it will fix the sun. They’ve done it a dozen times. They’ll have to sleep in their secret moon caves for a few thousand years afterwards, though. Because it’s tiring to recharge a sun like that and they’re going to need a nap.”

The little girl smiled and squeezed her mother’s hand. “Isn’t it nice of them, though? To do that? The mermaid says it’s because they like trees and trees need sun to grow. But maybe they like us a little bit too. You and me, I mean. I think dragons would like us if they got to know us.”

“Me too, sweetie,” said her mother.

That night they fell asleep in each other’s arms, under a sky full of dragon fire. In the morning the mother looked at the child with awe as the sun grew steadily brighter and fears of the apocalypse subsided.

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This story was written in response to a flash fiction challenge issued by Chuck Wendig – click here to see that original post and peruse other stories!

the day my daughter made a dozen pregnant ladies cry

I brought my four-year-old daughter, Evening, along with me to the baby doctor the other day. We were prepared: a new coloring book, crayons, and a fully charged tablet. When we walked in the door, a dozen or so pregnant ladies looked up at me. We were in for a long wait.

The only available seat was next to a single toy, one of those wooden wire ones that either fascinate or bore, depending on the day. I sat down while Evening settled in to play with it for a good half hour while we waited, and then she started getting antsy. At this point, I had already counted my blessings, because a half hour wait in preschooler time is at least four hours adult time.

She climbed up into my lap for a bit, snuggling in. When she grew tired of that I offered her a coloring book. Evening shook her head. “No, I think it’s time to play with my little sister,” she told me, and rested her head against my seven-months pregnant belly. She rubbed it with one hand and started singing.

I let her go, knowing that even if the ladies in the waiting room didn’t like her off-key little girl voice, they’d probably prefer it to the inevitable screams of me trying to stop her. She really got into it, singing for a full five minutes or so, making it up as she went along, and featuring such classic lines as “I wish you would hurry up and come out so we can go for a bus ride together” and “I love you so much.”

When she finished up, I gave her a smile, mustered up my brave, and looked up at the lady across from me. Her eyes were all teared up, her hand rubbing her own belly. I looked around, and sure enough, each and every pregnant lady in that room was bawling.

I haven’t decided yet if it was just pregnant lady hormones or if my little girl just has an uncanny ability to work a room.

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