Happy Tuesday! Well, I’m late and no I don’t mean that kind of late. I’m late publishing my first ebook.
I got myself a little bit hung up on the formatting of my ebook for Kindle Direct Publishing.
As you can well imagine there’s a lot of involved in digital publishing. Of course, there’s a lot of involved in any kind of publishing.
I thought I might share a little bit of a behind the scenes look at the processes of I’ve gone through so far.
If you are not interested in ever writing an e-book or interested in how it is written or the technical process associated with it, bounce off this blog immediately, and breathe a big sigh of relief. I will bore you no more.
This is the story of how I met Pierre Elliot Trudeau.
As I mentioned before my father worked at the South Terminal. Of course, we didn’t call it the South Terminal at the time it was simply ‘Vancouver International Airport’.
This was the scene of my first brush with fame.
Because my father worked at the airport we were invited to meet Pierre Elliott Trudeau when he visited Vancouver.
My mother dressed me in my prettiest outfit and we waited patiently for Prime Minister Trudeau to disembark.
If you were a prime minister back in the day you simply walked off the plane and started talking to people.
There wasn’t a big show of security at least not that I could see.
P.E.T fever was at its height and all young ladies were supposed to scream cry and generally make swooning type overtures.
The Precursors (of my mother’s Mental Illness)
My father’s oldest brother was named M but we knew him as ‘Wowie’ growing up. I thought this was because I couldn’t pronounce his name, but actually, it turns out that it was because my father couldn’t pronounce his name as a toddler and ‘Wowie’ stuck into adulthood.
M’s wife A took her own life when my cousins were still very young children.
I remember her vaguely as a pretty and (I thought) happy blonde lady from the odd family get-togethers we would have. They didn’t live near us so it wasn’t that often that we were able to get together.
I wonder if this was one of the precursors to my mother’s illness.
Back in Burkville,
my mother and L.B. picketed to try to stop the second runway being built in ‘Core O’Brown’, an area adjacent to the Fraser River close to MacDonald Beach. They brought T and me with them and we were on TV. The picket signs were that day’s craft project. We each had our own. Continue reading
Where was my Mother while all this was going on?
This wouldn’t be the last time l wondered this reflecting on my childhood.
It came in variations.
Where were the parents?
Why weren’t any parents there?
One of my Mother’s favorite things to do was sit at the kitchen table talking on the phone, which was one of those vertical rectangular wall mounted hard installed rotary dail things, and smoke copious amounts of Cameo Menthol cigarettes, while my brother and I went about our business without her interference.
Looking back on that closet room without a door I needed to stop and take a crying break, but at the time it wasn’t so traumatic.
I just thought it was normal, but I was beginning to realize it wasn’t.
I can remember being so scared in that room, but I didn’t think anything of it.
You don’t when you’re a kid.