National Book Lover's Day Giveaway Winner!!!!

Congratulations to Michelle Biggeman who won a copy of 'Chicken Soup for the Soul - The Cat Did What?' Names were actually written on pieces of paper, put in a bowl (not a hat), and drawn - at 5:05am this morning! (I should have taken a picture of the process).

Congratulations to Michelle and thank you all so much for participating! Your support and kind words mean a lot!

Stay tuned for another giveaway coming soon!

Take care and happy reading!

Lisa

Giveaway! National Book Lover's Day - I Missed It!

Saturday August 9, 2014 was National Book Lover’s day – and I completely missed it!

Me, the writer and bibliophile, almost missed a MOST important day because....I was making pickles.

Pickles and books have nothing to do with each other – other than if you lounge around with a book good and a bowl full of pickles. But I was so caught up in the boiling, sterilizing, chopping and preserving of the tiny cucumbers that the day – the REAL significance of the day – just slipped right by me. It wasn’t until much later when my eyes stopped stinging from all the vinegar I had to use that I realized....OH! I missed a VERY important day!

So to celebrate – a one day holdover – I’m giving away a copy of the upcoming Chicken Soup for the Soul book, ‘The Cat Did What?’ Inside are 101 funny, heartwarming and outrageous stories about those felines who often drive their owners crazy. Two of my stories are featured, including ‘ Indoor Hunter’ and ‘I Came Home for This?’ For you country music fans, the book also includes a foreword by awarding winning country star, Miranda Lambert!

Just leave a comment – anything you want – and I’ll draw a name out of a hat. Don’t forget to sign your full name with your comment! The giveaway runs from Sunday August 10, 2014, 12:01am (PST) to Sunday August 10, 2014, to 11:59pm (PST). Be sure to check back on Monday August 11, 2014 to see if you won!! Good luck!

Happy reading to everyone, be sure to support an author, and for those who pickle – happy preserving!

Lisa

The B25 Mitchell Bomber in Victoria, BC

Record-breaking temperatures made standing around on heat-attracting runway tarmac unbearable. But that didn’t stop me from going back for more – three times, in fact. Although I didn’t get what I truly hoped for, it was all still worth it.

The B25J Mitchell bomber, named ‘Maid in the Shade,’ touched down at Victoria International Airport, Victoria Flying Club, at 10am on a Monday morning. Although I am just an amateur aviation buff, I was itching to go see it. It was a rarity for this piece of history to grace our West Coast Island and it instantly became a local media sensation. Local TV, newspapers and radio stations were buzzing – Facebook and Twitter, if you had ‘friended/followed’ the Victoria Flying Club, were both on fire with pictures and stories from those who visited it. I knew it would be here until the following Monday, so I at least had until the weekend to go see it. I couldn’t wait!

A twin-engine bomber for the Allied Air Forces in World War II, the most heavily armed airplane in the world was used for bombing, photo reconnaissance, submarine patrol, and even as a fighter – as you can see from the patched-up bullet holes from so many years ago (yes, the circular patches under the girl's 'behind'). (For more details visit the website of the Commemorative Air Force)

A 40-minute flight sitting in the waist or middle of the plane cost approximately $400, whereas a spot in the cockpit cost approximately $600. A mom like me with three men to feed and laundry soap to constantly buy doesn’t have spare change like that for airplane rides – no matter how ‘once in a lifetime’ event it would be. I would have to settle for an inside tour for $5.

So the following Thursday my husband and one of my sons and I headed out to the airport. Although they thought seeing an old plane would be neat, I was clearly the more excited of us three. Once there, I hustled through the parking lot and bounded through the terminal out to the tarmac. And there she was – all 9,210 kilograms of her - sparkling in the hot summer sun. I elbowed my way through the crowd of other eager admirers. I guess I shouldn’t have been so pushy – many were war veterans there to admire and reminisce. Don’t worry – no one got hurt in my selfish quest.

We took turns climbing the ladders each to the cockpit and to the waist area of the plane. In the cockpit I took a few ‘selfies,’ such a contrast of times and generations to be using a ‘phone’ as a ‘camera’ to take a photo to post to the ‘internet’ while surrounded by equipment and fuselage dating back to the 40’s.

I held a 50 caliber waist gun, and I itched to crawl through the fuselage to the bombardier’s compartment in the ‘nose’ of the plane. I touched the shell of a bomb in the bomb bay of the craft. During recent years past crew had also visited the plane, their signatures of name, rank and years served in the plane graced the inside doors of the bay.

I snapped a few more photos with my two men, talked with some of the flight crew, and then it was time to head home and sit under a sprinkler.

As we drove away my heart was still with the plane – I wanted to see it fly, and better yet, I wanted a ride.

I knew there was a flight scheduled for the next morning, so the next day I went back. Through the parking lot I again hustled, through the Victoria Flying Club’s terminal I again bounded, and through the crowd outside I once again elbowed. I was able to get MORE photos, this time with less people around, and then….they hooked up the plane to a towing vehicle.

One of the crew from the day before recognized me. “You’re here again?”

I blushed, the kind of girly blush I save for getting what I want, and replied that I was hoping to see it take-off. At this point I had also secretly conjured up a fantasy of a spot coming ‘available’ on one of their flights and that I could just ‘jump on,’ free-of-charge. But I didn’t tell him that.

To my dismay the nice flight crewman said it wasn’t going up but was just being towed to the fuelling station. In my excitement the day before, I must have misheard flight schedules.

My shoulders slumped and my heart sank. As I trudged away dragging my purse on the runway tarmac behind me, the nice flight crewman said it would be heading up at 11am the NEXT morning. I would later find out that my friend had been fortunate to be able to get a ride on that flight, so I figure I’d come watch it take off AND take photos of him and the plane.

So again, for the third time that weekend, I zipped down the Pat Bay Highway, zig-zaging my way through traffic. Through the parking lot I hustled, through the terminal I bounded, and through the crowd I elbowed. This time I REALLY, REALLY badly hoped I could just, you know, ‘hop on.’ There HAD to be a spot available for a girl like me with only two bucks and a coupon for a free coffee from Tim Horton’s in her purse (I was willing to give-up my department store reward points for a flight, even if I sat in the bomb bay).

I waved goodbye to my friend as he climbed aboard, took more photos, and even filmed a VERY up-close-and-personal start-up and taxi out of the plane (see below for video). After the plane lifted off, a fantastic and very exciting sight I had to restrain myself from jumping and cheering for, the SAME crewman from the previous two days saw me. He commented, AGAIN, about it being my third time out there (I started to worry he might call Transport Canada about my stalking tendencies). I turned on the blush, batted my eyelashes, and sidled up to him explaining I was back because I really wanted to see it fly.

Then with a deep breath, I asked the unthinkable.

“So, I hear the plane is heading to Boundary Bay Airport tomorrow.” He nodded in confirmation, looking at me quizzically. (Boundary Bay Airport is in Ladner, BC, barely a stone’s throw of a flight from here to there. Getting back home would be only a ferry ride away). I went on. “So, uh, I was wondering – could I hitch a ride over with you guys?”

Bold of me, yes, but it was worth a shot.

He paused as if entertaining my request and my hope soared. But then he explained, with many big aviator-like words I can’t remember, that as much as he wished he could grant me my request, that it just wasn’t possible. Rules are rules, laws were laws, and it just wasn’t that simple as for the folks going up in their paid flights (it was all something to do with Air Force regulations, Transport Canada rules…yadda, yadda, yadda). He apologized again and we chatted some more. Then, with my purse dragging yet again on the tarmac behind me, I went home. For good.

Even though I never got a ride, every day was a different experience – one that many of the folks who DID go for a ride would never have. I am thrilled and honoured to have seen such a piece of history, yet sad that my charm is obviously losing its touch.

As for now, I’m saving up my pennies for the next time it’s here and I'll also work on my charm – ‘a girl’s gotta do what a girl’s gotta do’ and all that….

To watch my video of the B25 starting up and taxiing out, I hope you'll stop by my Youtube channel. (turn up the volume!)

Thanks for reading this LONG story :)
Lisa

At Church with Diana Gabaldon

It was a Friday night and I was at church.

And I wasn’t really AT ‘church’ in the religious, worshiping sense, but IN a church; specifically, a building that used to be a church. Metropolitan Methodist Church or Centennial Methodist Church (it had changed names over the years), is in the heart of downtown Victoria, BC. And I can’t even say I was at ‘church’ because the building had been repurposed and is presently dubbed ‘Alix Goolden Performance Hall – Victoria Conservatory of Music.’ But given my religious upbringing I felt the overwhelming need to whisper, genuflect and think only holy, pure, unselfish thoughts.

None of those things happened, despite my being in awe of the architecture and stained glass windows synonymous of old churches. I did, however, sit in a pew; the kneelers long gone.

I would, however, be blessed later in the evening.

I was there with a friend for a presentation and book-signing by Diana Gabaldon, prolific author of the ‘Outlander’ series. Her books have been classed as literature, fiction, historical fiction, historical non-fiction (despite their accuracy), science fiction, fantasy, mystery, romance, military history and horror. Generally, her novels are somewhat in the time travel/historical fiction genre, with LOTS of (hunky) guys running around in kilts (this is just my own personal summary – the author, herself, can’t even classify what kind of novels the wildly popular books, are).

I had read only one of her books and that was many years ago. So when my friend invited me along, I went along out of curiosity. I have heard Ms. Gabaldon is a funny, insightful, down-to-earth speaker, and her words of wit and wisdom found in many writing reference magazines and books have always intrigued me. I suspected she would be solely plugging her new book, ‘Written in My Own Heart’s Blood,’ as well as the upcoming TV series, ‘Outlander,’ based on the first book in her ‘Outlander’ series named - you guessed it - ‘Outlander.’ (I’m really good at explaining stuff, I know). My suspicions would be soon proven wrong.

Anyways, there I was, in a church/performance hall packed to the rafters with fans – mostly female. Although, given how muggy it was outside and warm it was inside, a few ACTUAL fans around the place would have done us all wonders.

When the author finally did walk on stage, the crowd went wild, the applause and cheers nearly blowing the rafters off the sanctuary. I would have like to have seen the massive still-present organ beat out the noise everyone made!
And everything I heard about her was true. She was funny and witty, and her dry humour delivered with eloquence and sarcasm was spot on.

True, Ms. Gabaldon talked a bit about her books and upcoming TV show – who wouldn’t – but she also spoke about her writing career and how she got started, as well as her writing process – of which, as she proclaims, she has none. Sprinkled throughout her talk were quips and anecdotes, jokes and sidebars. After recounting how she wrote her first book while holding down two jobs, raising three kids, and supporting her husband and his growing business (at the time), she challenged anyone to say they ‘don’t have time to write.’ I will carry that bit of inspiration with me, always. I loved her, and everyone else did, too.

All too soon it was time for the book signing. My friend and I hustled down the winding stairs from the loft to the main floor, scooting in line before the rest of the congregation could parkour over the pews to the fast-growing line. (parkour – see definition here).

The line moved quickly – it had to what with hundreds of anxious women waiting to have their books signed. What added to the experience was Ms. Gabaldon, along with staff coordinating the event, took the time and effort to allow a photo with the author, either using the fan’s phone or camera! WOW! Now THAT is fan appreciation!

While I was standing in line, anxious for it to move so that I, too, could have my book signed along with a chance at a photo-op, divine intervention overcame me. I came up with the most brilliant idea ever. I hashed out my plan and second-guessed myself a few times – “Don’t be silly, Lisa, that’s just…WEIRD.” But in the end I figured – what the heck? Why not?

It finally came to my turn, and I handed my cellphone over to the event staff to prepare for a photo. Ms. Gabaldon was gracious and kind, but the excitement and impending crowds made any chance of a meaningful conversation impossible. She signed my book and ensured a photo-perfect pose by her (me, well, not so much as you can see, despite the photographer’s attempt at another photo).
Then in a rush, before my ‘turn’ could be over, I whipped out a postcard showcasing my young adult book, ‘Newbie Nick,’ and explained what it was to the prolific author. I summoned the nerve to ask her if she would sign it. (Yes, weird of me to ask, I know.)

But she ‘oohed!’ over the card showcasing my book, and with a flourish signed the back of it. It wasn’t until I left with my signed book clutched to my chest, and my very excited friend in tow, that I looked at what she wrote on my postcard:


‘Good luck!
Diana Gabaldon’

Wow. WOW! WOW!

I translated her good luck sentiment into that of wishing me luck on my book sales and future writing. That signed postcard bearing her kind words means more to me than my photo that didn’t exactly turn out (she was gorgeous, of course, and as for me? I don’t get what I was doing with my mouth).

Upon leaving the church/performance hall I got a case of the goosebumps. It felt as though my whole writing career had been blessed by a great literary inspiration. Wow!

Ms. Gabaldon, I learned a lot from you that night in church – thank you for so much, and more!

Thanks for reading!
Lisa

Not Your Mother's Book - On Family

Just had to share!

My story 'Me vs. Technology' is in the funny anthology, 'Not Your Mother's Book...On Family' published by Publishing Syndicate. My story is my funny take (at least I hope it's funny) on my constant battles with the power of technology and keeping my family away from it, if only just for a moment!

The book can be found in ebook and paper copy at Amazon, Chapters/Indigo, and too-many-too list other good places!

About the book! 'Not Your Mother's Book...On Family' features 60 funny, first-person stories the book’s contributors have written about their own families. As the old saying about families goes: The apple doesn’t fall far from the tree. Ain’t that the truth! How many times have you hollered at your kids then thought, Oh, no! I sound just like my mom! Or looking into a mirror you notice your temples beginning to gray, just like your dad’s? Genetics is the hand we are all dealt, and we have nothing to blame but our family lineage. Regardless of what limb you dangle from on your family tree, your roots play an important part in your everyday life, from “Oh, crap!” moments to family squabbles, from daring adventures to dealing with a crazy aunt or uncle. From those nuclear, blended or extended families, new memories are created, memories that turn into family legacies and stories often repeated. While you can choose your friends, you can’t choose your family. So like the family on the cover of this book, always have a box at the ready. You never know when you’ll need it!

Me and Harrison Ford

Notice how I mentioned ‘me’ before ‘Harrison Ford’? That’s because I was first. That’s right. I was FIRST.

Yet, I was one-upped by the great actor.

Sheesh.

Let me explain....

So I was hustling along, minding my own business as I do, when just outside McDonald’s right smack in the middle of downtown Victoria, BC, I fell. Like right-down-on-my-hands-and-knees, fell. I stepped on something, something unstable and trippy, and my ankle buckled and twisted. I lost my balance, crashed down on all fours, my bags flying out into the middle of the road (I wasn’t ‘trippy,’ myself, in case you were wondering) (sheesh).

I remember seeing a lady bug on the ground when I was down like a dog.

It hurt like a YOU KNOW WHAT yet I managed to stand up, take a few limpy, gimpy steps, and tried not to faint and throw-up at the pain and shock of it all. Within minutes my ankle swelled up bigger than a grapefruit, and my scraped knee bled all over the place (okay, so I’m exaggerating, but it WAS pretty bad). My panty hose did nothing to protect my delicate skin against the harsh pavement.

That’s right – panty hose. And you know what that means, right?

Well, as luck would have it, I was wearing a dress and it was kind of short (save the wolf whistles) and, as I said above, I was outside McDonald’s right smack in the middle of lovely downtown Victoria. That particular fast food eatery has window seats – a long bench along the windows where folks can snarf down their grease and people-watch.

So needless to say, they got a show that day – if you know what I mean. Like a BIG SHOW.

So I limped back to work and seeing as my grapefruit was not getting smaller and my panty hose were sticking to my pulsating, bleeding knee, I knew it was time to call it a day and hit-up the kind folks at the hospital’s emergency room for a little TLC.

The x-rays came back showing that my bones were gorgeous (what can I say) and nothing was out of sorts in that respect. I did, however, tear all the ligaments and tendons in my ankle and would be off work for a week with a 6 – 8 week recovery. It wasn’t a sprain, but ‘one up from sprain’ said the kind doctor: I had done a ‘doozy of a job’ on my ankle. I was given a tensor bandage, some fun little pills (LOVE THOSE!) and advice to use crutches (not possible with my already compromised multi-hernia-repaired stomach).

So I hobbled home, smiled a goofy, fond smile to anyone and everyone I passed (like I said, I LOVE THOSE PILLS), and tried not to get frost-bite on my ankle from all the ice I had to pack on it.

Fast forward a few days and my ankle, foot, toes and half of my calf is a canvas of colours: eggplant, mouldy grapefruit, beet and the burgundy leaves of a Japanese maple tree. I was one hot momma.

During my recovery I would admire my colourful ankle/foot/leg while writing up a storm. It was hard to concentrate, however, what with worrying about getting more pantyhose being forefront on my mind.

Writing while on a computer often involves some ‘net surfing.’ One day during my convalescence I almost fell out of my chair (not a good idea) when I found some ‘breaking news.’ Before I go on, I want to reiterate that I take NO GLEE in anyone else’s pain and suffering, whatsoever.

Harrison Ford, the actor extraordinaire who stole my heart when I was a wee lass when he played the strapping Han Solo in Star Wars Episode IV back in 1970-something, had been rushed to hospital after sustaining an ankle/leg injury on the set of filming the current Star Wars movie (Episode VII) being filmed in the UK.

Unfortunately, a door on the Millennium Falcon fell open and landed on his ankle, crushing it – OUCH! It turns out the poor guy (and I am sincere in my sympathies) broke his leg and required metal plates in his leg. It’ll be a few months before he can go back to work.

Where he has a broken bone or two, I have torn ligaments, tendons, or whatever they are called. Where he was airlifted to a hospital, I had to stumble back to work through the streets of downtown Victoria, trying not to puke. Where I was savouring whatever sympathy I could get from those around me, he made headlines. (As of this writing it’s been over two weeks since the poor man’s accident and he’s STILL in the news!)

But oh how I wish we could compare horror stories. Oh how I wish we could compare bruises. I would loan him my mop I used to get up and down the stairs. I would loan him my ice pack and share the funny little pills I LOVE SO MUCH. We could sit on the couch, our ankles elevated, and watch Star Wars in high-def, shoving popcorn in our faces faster than we can knock back vodka shots (always fun with the funny little pills I LOVE SO MUCH).

Where he can say he was injured outside the Millennium Falcon, I can only hang my head and mutter “I was outside McDonald’s.” It’s not his fault a door fell on him. And it’s not my fault I can’t walk properly.

But no matter who has it better or worse, at least we can say we both have our health – as it were.

But I’m still choked he was airlifted by helicopter and I wasn’t.

Maybe, however, despite him making all the headlines he did, along with the helicopter ride and extra attention, maybe I didn't have it so bad, after all. At least I can skip - now, at least, however unattractively, however - to the movie theatres.

Harrison, I hope you feel better soon. While you’re lounging around, gimme a call – we can wallow in our suffering together and share stories about our adventures while comparing bruises.

Come on, call me – it won’t hurt one bit.

(News is always changing, but here is the latest from the Toronto Sun on Mr. Ford's condition)

Thanks for reading!
Lisa

Those Two Houses

There are two houses for sale on opposite sides of North America. Yes, yes, I know – there are many houses up for sale. But these houses are significant. And it’s by pure coincidence and of keen interest to me that their listings were found within a week of each other, especially given their genealogical connection.

It’s very weird, very spooky and very poignant.

On one side of North America is Waltham, Massachusetts, home of my forefathers. My grandmother was born there, her family is from there (or at least in that region), and my dad and aunt were born there.

On the other side of North America is Richmond, BC, the little city on little Lulu Island where my forefathers emigrated to and where I was born and raised.

Within days of each other, we discovered that not only is the house where my dad grew up in Waltham up for sale, but the house where I grew up in Richmond is also up for sale. Yes, these houses have been bought and sold a few times over the years, but this is the first time we could see their listings, and more.

Oh, the miracle of the internet.

Now, for legal reasons, I can’t show you the listings because I am very by-the-book and follow all laws, rules and regulations.

Says me who, during a drive-by-snoop of our old house in Richmond a week before finding the real estate listing, wanted to steal the house number which was nailed to a piece of wood and left leaning, forgotten, against the garage. My dad, being the stand-up kind of guy he is, said ‘no’ to my sticky-fingered temptation. Harumpf....

Over the years I have often imagined walking through our old house. But right then when we were parked outside the house contemplating theft (me) and commenting on the quality of their yard work (Dad), waves of bittersweet nostalgia at the thought of being able to revisit my old room, kitchen, living room and bathroom took my breath away. I had always been curious about the inside but right then, for whatever reason, overwhelming feelings of homesickness and wistful memories had me knowing that if I were to go through there, I would be a puddle of sentimental tears.

(Just thinking about it, here, has my throat tightening in anticipation).

So it was beyond ironic, coincidence and downright spooky that not a few days later, my dad sent me the real estate listing for his old house in Massachusetts – the house I had heard so much about most of my life. Inside photos of the rooms were on the listing, and although they had been remodelled and updated in the old 1920’s house, he said he could still remember the rooms from when he was a kid.


Then, not a few days later, he found the listing for our old house in Richmond – the house I had just driven-by and pined for only a few days before.

(Note: it was built as a bungalow in 1958, and later raised to become a top/bottom duplex in 1974. We lived in the bottom, my grandparents lived in the top)

It was all very weird - two of our houses found for sale in a matter of days.

When I pulled up the listing for my old house, the real estate company’s website had photos of the interior. FINALLY I could see the inside of my old house. With anticipation and trepidation, the same feelings of angst I had had a week or so before at the thought of going through the old house surfacing, I clicked and opened the photos.

And was dismayed.

Nothing looked like how it was when I lived there. Except for the fireplaces on both floors, wall sconces from when I was a kid still on either side of one fireplace, and the layout of one of the kitchens still somewhat recognizable, nothing was the same. Sure I could figure out which room was which based on the view outside each rooms’ window, but that was it. New paint and flooring everywhere as well as new kitchens and bathrooms had the place looking like someone else’s home, entirely. I knew SOMEthings would change over the years, but I hadn’t imagined the concept of not being able to recognize anything.

And I know it’s not MY home anymore.

And just like that, the nostalgic, wistful, sentimental homesick feelings blew out the front door. Sure I had a tinge of disappointment and loss; the house as I knew it from the inside was gone forever. But there was nothing I could do about it.

It wasn’t like I had been pining for my old house all these years, but I had always cherished the thought of it being THERE, exactly as I remembered it.

Things might look the same on the outside, and though the base - the foundation - might still be the same, things change. It happens, and it’s inevitable. Things need upgrading, updating and fine-tuning – inside and out. Sure there is comfort in the knowledge that the house is still there, and no matter what changes cosmetically, it’s still the same house under all the paint, but still......

There have been lots of changes for me lately – lots good, some bad, and some ‘just the way life goes’ - and that house, those changes, were a much-needed reminder to keep moving forward and to accept change. Let go, move on, and get on with things.

I know this is very cliché, but it reminded me, too, that home is where the heart is (you can stop rolling your eyes now). The memories of my home, and all those I have lived in, will always be safe and secure in my memories. Nothing will change those.

Thanks for reading,

Lisa