writing

Pickles and Lipstick /  by Lena Scholman

It takes a moment for my eyes to adjust from the bright white snowy street to the dim surroundings inside. The door jingles as I close it behind me, yet there’s no urgency to summon assistance. I’m just here to browse, to slip back in time. The smell of everything ever sold reminds me where I am. Black rubber boots with red soles, woolen socks and insulated navy coveralls line the walls. I run my hands over the gloves: leather, suede, cotton. My shoes drip moisture into the old wooden floors, which cannot be sanded down any further. In the corners, where I head, there’s still a sheen of yellow varnish. On a dusty shelf, I spot preserves and start to laugh at a memory, tucked away like the layers of merchandise all around me. I pick up a mason jar and remember the February decades earlier, when my dad stood where I now stand. Realizing it was Valentine’s Day, and the stores were closing, and he was out of time, he decided the thing my mother would most love to receive would be a jar of pickles. You can guess my mother’s reaction. “But they’re really good pickles!” my dad insisted. They must be, because you can still buy them twenty-five years later.

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Carpe Diem - A Thanksgiving Post /  by Lena Scholman

THE HOUSE was Mom’s idea.

My childhood Sunday afternoons were spent driving the back roads of apple country, looking for land to buy amongst the seven thousand acres of orchard that filled a valley on the shores of Georgian Bay. Dad worked as a foreman in a local apple packing plant, a job with too much responsibility and too little money, and Mom looked after the four of us kids and, at harvest time, helped my grandfather pick apples. Dad yearned for an orchard of his own, and finally one day, Mom found it. 

            With a sagging roof and dark windows, the white farmhouse looked abandoned. The front porch hadn’t seen a coat of paint in decades and the yard was covered in brambles. Though there was no “For Sale” sign, she knocked on the door. An elderly bachelor greeted her with apprehension, and later, appraised of her desire, sent her away.

            Undeterred, she returned a few days later, this time with some baking and her youngest son in tow. The man’s fear of my mother diminished at the sight of my brother’s cherubic face. He accepted her boterkoek peace offering and let them in. 

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On Setting: Amsterdam, Westerbork & a Storybook Castle (Moat Included) /  by Lena Scholman

In Amsterdam, we were so fortunate to have the best tour guides, remember I mentioned the Jewish girls who lived on my grandmother’s farm during the war? Now 85 and 80 years old, spending time with them was a huge privilege. I explained that I wanted to make my setting ring true, and they were happy to give me the local’s tour. I’d written a scene where two of my characters take the train from the Centraal Station towards the Waterlooplein (a.k.a the old Jewish quarter) and I wanted to retrace those steps to see how far it was, to imagine the barriers, the smells, the vendors. Today it’s impossible to compare the black and white photographs to the current neighbourhood as much of the area has been torn down and rebuilt, but the Jewish Historical Museum helped to fill many of the gaps. 

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My Story Begins May 10th, 1940 (Or, At Least, That's What it Feels Like) /  by Lena Scholman

As a kid, when I used to get sick, I was sent to my grandmother’s home to lie on a brown and orange velour couch. My parents were working in the orchard, and even if they weren’t, my grandmother was the best nurse around. She brought me stale ginger ale, dry toast and let me watch the Andy Griffith Show and Leave it to Beaver. After lunch there were only soap operas on television, so she turned to her bookshelves to find me something to read. Though I loved Anne of Green Gables, Little Women and Charlotte’s Web, none of those (WASP) classics touched me like Anne DeVries’ novel Journey Through the Night. This slim series of stories, commissioned to capture the war years, were popular in the Netherlands and in Canada in English translation. The story of one family’s heroism captured my imagination, but also perhaps coloured my imagination, and my self-perception. After devouring the harrowing survival tale of war, I concluded that I belonged to a salt-of-the earth tribe. My people were oppressed, resisted and survived to tell the story. If anyone (like say, Queen Wilhelmina) were looking to boost the self-esteem of a generation using the novel as a propaganda vehicle, it worked. I grew up believing that basically every Dutch citizen had tried to save Anne Frank. It wasn’t until I began interviewing my own family about the realities of the war that I realized life wasn’t, isn’t, so black and white.

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A Time to Play /  by Lena Scholman

On the last Wednesday of the month, my writing group and I sit down and dedicate a portion of our weekly gathering to goal setting. Our ambition ranges from writing 15,000 words to finding joy in writing again to submitting a memoir piece for publication. But this month, my goal was much less lofty. Inspired by the wisdom of the late Carol Shields, I vowed to rebel against some of the structure I’d put in place as a guidepost. April would be a month to play.

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If you want to be loved, get a dog (and other great advice on writing) /  by Lena Scholman

It's been several years since I first decided to take a creative writing course. I signed up for the continuing education class "Writing the Novel Part 1" at Sheridan College in Oakville. Since then, I've amassed enough notes to light a fire and keep myself warm for decades, or at least roast a few marshmallows. 

Here's are some of my favourite bits of advice:

Here's are some of my favourite bits of advice:

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Hope for #metoo /  by Lena Scholman

Shortly after November 8th, 2016, I stopped reading the newspaper entirely. Previous to the election of the 45th President I had been a regular subscriber to national and local newspapers and several political magazines. I’d been following some of the loudest voices on social media, and like many others, turning to SNL for comfort. Not even Justin Trudeau’s good looks were cheering me up. Not even a shirtless, boxing version of Justin Trudeau was cheering me up.

            Cancelling my subscriptions one by one I decided I didn’t want to be depressed every day. I’d convinced myself it was important to be informed, (this article was particularly humbling) but I also understood on some level that to care about everything was to care about nothing. By that I mean my attention was divided. 24-hour news and information weren’t making me more compassionate, if anything, the deluge was slowing my central processing and dulling my empathy to the point where I felt de-sensitized and cold all the time. Knowledge can lead to enlightenment, but spin can lead to cynicism, and I needed a remedy to my rapidly calcifying heart.

            I still wanted truth, but beauty, too.

            I wanted to feel, but not be crushed by the weight of the world.

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