Words By Whittall

I thought I was ready for country living when my husband and I made the decision to move from downtown Toronto to rural Nova Scotia.   I grew up on a farm. We’d been vacationing here for more than a decade.   Just moving to a new province. No big deal. It was charming, at first. We laughed at ourselves for trying to adopt a neighbour’s runaway rooster, feeding him gluten free crackers and giving him a name before “he” laid an egg in the weigela. I volunteered to help the Ladies’ Auxiliary at the local fire hall and found the squabbling over the right kind of cheese for the ham and cheese sandwiches highly amusing. That first December, I got a kick out of watching Santa walk into the South Shore Mall carrying his own lunch bucket. Soon, though, charm turned to annoyance. Why did everyone drive at least 20 kilometers under the speed limit and stop twice during right hand turns?   Why did the highway crew paint new lines on the road and send a second crew out th...

Soon I’ll be posting more stories to this blog. Soon. I’ve been busy/distracted with the book that my writing group is publishing together. Sometimes it feels like it is moving ahead through shear force of will and not really writing at all. I’ll get back to real writing, soon.  Soon the book, One Word , will be published. Its with the printer now. We’re going to unveil it at a library conference October 19, with an official book launch at LaHave River Books the following week. How exciting! All profits from One Word ($20 + shipping) will go to support the local bookmobile, which is well travelled and indispensable, and needs an upgrade, soon. It is a lifeline to far flung and remote communities across the South Shore.  Meanwhile, the South Shore – all of Nova Scotia – is preparing for Hurricane Dorian, whose arrival is imminent. Wind gusts of up to 150 kmph, storm surges on the coast, and heavy downpours bringing 70 to 100 mm of rain to hard packed earth that ha...

Stories are like clay.   They can be manipulated and shaped, presented from one perspective then moulded to another.   I was once a radio journalist, telling the same stories over and over, every half hour for hours on end.   The trick was to tell the news a different way each time, so that listeners would think something ‘new’ and had happened, even if it had not. Revising and editing, every time I left the booth, I took each story in my fist, crushed it into a ball and started over.   “Three children killed in house fire; two survive.”   “Two children survive housefire that killed three siblings.”   “Fire chief says smoke detectors would have saved three children …” And, so on and so on, so there’d be a “fresh” story for the top of the hour.   In my second career as a government speechwriter, I found myself working with clay again.   I would create a verbal sculpture and then, over and over, other civil servants would suggest a ...

“What was the last word I chose?” Fred asked, having determined it was his turn to pick a random word to blog about. “Butter,” answered John.  There was a murmur among the group. “I don’t think I wrote butter.” “I don’t remember, butter.” “Did I do butter?” I hadn’t been part of the group the last time Fred chose a word, but all this butter uttering brought a different image to mind.  Not the dairy product, but a movie I’d seen years ago.  What was it called?  Brando and some young French actress.  Had I seen her in anything else? No. I wouldn’t have seen her in anything else.  The movie had ruined her. I didn’t like the movie. Didn’t get it. That scene, particularly, made me feel uncomfortable.  Sick. I read later that Brando and the director, oh what was his name, dreamed up the scene over breakfast when a waiter brought butter and a baguette to their table. Apparently, they just looked at each other, and the butter and the baguett...

“Have I made a difference in this world?”   My friend’s question rolled around my head as I walked along Risser’s Beach, turning backward, to see my footsteps in the sand. “Of course!” I’d told him. “You cheered me up many a time.” He wasn’t convinced.   “You never know how you impact other people” I’d said. “A smile, holding the door open – it all makes a difference.”     I thought about the time an actor with a recurring role on The X-files passed me in the hallway and smiled. It was a brilliant, wide smile, possibly because my white ensemble, like my left cheek, was covered in bicycle grease. I was having the most horrible day, the bike chain incident being the latest in a series of unpleasant events.   That stranger turned everything around. It wasn’t because he was an actor on my favourite show; It was because he smiled. A connection was made; Darkness became light. He’ll never know what a difference he made, but to me it was huge. Thought...

Bunion “The word is bunion,” I said. “Bunyan, as in Paul Bunyan?” my husband asked.   I assured him, the word was bun-I-on, not bun-yan.   “Are you certain?” he asked.   “You could do a whole series on legendary lumberjacks and foresters of folklore: Paul Bunyan, Davey Crocket, Al Gore, Johnny Appleseed …” “Wait. Al Gore?” We decided that, if talking about “folklore” then perhaps the former politician would fit, since he was going about trying to save the planet, a legend in his own mind, akin to the giant of folklore with the big axe and blue ox.    Unmentioned at the time, was the actual forester and environmentalist in the family, my brother-in-law Richard.   Rich could look at a tree and tell you if it was healthy, roughly how old it was and if it was natural to the area.   He worked on Vancouver Island, identifying and protecting old growth trees, removing trees sustainably, while planting and protecting new growth.   He ...

Blue Who thought up this topic? Oh, that’s right. It was me.   New to the group, it fell to me to pick a word – any word – to blog about.   Out of the blue and out of my mouth came the word “blue”. Why blue?   It is my third least favourite colour behind orange and yellow.     I have no memorable blue clothing, furniture or vehicles.    My favourite sports team is the Toronto Blue Jays. The original owners, Labatt’s, hoped people would call them “the Blues,” to promote their beer. But everyone calls them “the Jays.”   There’s a hockey team called the Blues, and another one called the Blue Jackets.   The computer that took on Garry Kasparov was called “Big Blue.”   Is chess a sport? Blue is supposed to be calming.   The folks who sell paint will tell you that pale blue creates a serene and soothing atmosphere.   Sherwin Williams posted “126 hues of blues” on Pinterest. Pablo Picasso had a blue period. But that’s a...