Gwen Tuinman

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nostalgia

Magaret, Sylvie, Hagar and Me

I think it’s quite fun to find books left behind by previous guests when visiting cottages and inns or the like. I read these dog-eared editions during our stays and imagine who left them behind. Improvised bookmarks hint at the previous reader’s characteristics or lifestyle.  A grocery list, a store receipt, the glossy corner of a magazine page.

The ultimate discovery is a book with notes in the margins. It’s like passing secret messages in class.

Such a book recently entered my life, not while travelling, but rather via a used bookstore in my community. Their copy of The Stone Angel by Margaret Laurence caught my attention. Over the years, I’d seen her name listed among the literary greats and The Stone Angel was a title highly spoken of. So, I bought it.

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Book Memories

I recently had a conversation with a friend’s young grandsons, while visiting an independent bookstore to celebrate the launch of a fellow writer’s novel. One of the boys commented that, except for Chapters-Indigo, he’d never been in a bookshop. The children were impressed by the variety of available books and the general ambience of the space.

Their wonderment took me back to remembrances of my childhood book encounters. I recall my family owning a small selection of Dr. Zeus books, Green Eggs and Ham being my favourite, and a few Golden Story Books. As was common then, my parents, on their modest income, didn’t own adult fiction books.

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Fire Under the Harvest Moon

Since living in the country, my husband and I have come to enjoy the night sky. Without the glow of urban lighting cast upward, we have a clear view of stars and constellations. Where we live, when the sun goes down, darkness is thorough and restful. The only light is that of a full moon of which we enjoy a glorious view.

October’s full moon is given the name Hunter’s Moon. On such nights, according to the Farmer’s Almanac, people historically gathered meat to sustain their families over the harsh winter months when game would be harder to come by.

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Preserving Heritage Barns

The view of rustic barns is one of the greatest pleasures of a countryside drive. They stir fond childhood memories of my grandparents’ farm and inspire my storytelling. I am fortunate to live in an agricultural region dotted with this historic architecture. After a windstorm felled a neighbouring barn, I began to reflect on the life expectancy of these treasured buildings.

I recently enjoyed a conversation with Jon Radojkovic, president of Ontario Barn Preservation (OBP). Along with board members and regional representatives, he devotes himself to documenting and protecting Ontario barns constructed prior to 1959.

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The Auction Barn

Last fall, my husband and I moved to a rural one-acre property in Ontario’s Kawartha Lakes region. Farmers fields surround us and from every direction we see where the earth and sky meet. At night, stars are visible in the natural darkness and howling coyotes often lull us to sleep.

We also found unexpected pleasure in a local auction barn nestled on a nearby sideroad. About once a month, a blend of antique and contemporary pieces is auctioned off. Visiting there is a writer’s field trip. I’m always on the lookout for artifacts I might incorporate into my novels or short stories. We’ve seen Model-T Fords, Persian rugs, rustic cross-country skis, 200-yr-old furnishings, dishware, and collectibles.

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A Woman Looking Through a Window

Wouldn’t it be interesting if instead of writing our signatures, we were called upon to “sign” our names with a simple drawing of our choice? An image that represents us more accurately than an assemblance of letters? I know exactly what my drawing would be. A woman looking through a window.

In my mind, I carry so many snapshots, from over the years, of me looking through windows.

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Hats: A Love Story

I used to dislike wearing hats. They didn’t suit me. Millinery shops would draw me to try on hats. I’d pick a style shown in magazines, the type of hat that should be worn by women I admired—the sort who laughed with abandon, ate life like it was a juicy apple, and never second guessed themselves. When I looked at my reflection in the mirror, the hat occupied the entire frame. I disappeared.  

The first hat I ever wore was a baby bonnet secured with an under-the-chin bow. In spite of burgeoning liberation of the 1960s, mothers didn’t wheel hatless babies around town. What would people say?

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Notes on Riding a Bird

If I could take a ride on anything in the world, I’d choose a bird. As a child, I loved the story of Thumbelina, a girl—you guessed it—the size of a thumb. She could stand eye to eye with a frog, sail a fallen leaf across a pond and wear buttercups as hats.

The book illustrations were in a style reminiscent of the Victorians. My favourite was of Thumbelina riding a cerulean blue barn swallow with a burnt orange belly and a split tail. Together they soared above farms, church steeples, and villages. I hope an illustrator one day sees Thumbelina as an Indian girl swooping along the Ganges River, an afroed girl rocking Black Girl Magic a mile above her neighbourhood, or a First Nation girl leaning over a wing to touch the tops of soft pines.

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First Art Piece

I read an essay recently in which the writer reflects on the first piece of art she’d ever bought as a young woman. The purchase of this large gaudy painting, she declared years later, made no sense then or now. She deemed the colours too bright, and the subject matter unaligned with her cultural identity. By the final paragraph, however, she concludes that the painting reflected her mood at the time of purchase.

It got me to thinking about the first art I’d purchased. It’s become such a part of my environ that I haven’t considered it for some time. The piece is a stone sculpture by George Henry. I acquired it around 1978 at the gallery in Whetung Ojibwa Centre of Curve Lake, Ontario.

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