The Story Behind the Story with Author J.K. Rankin of Fairfield, New Brunswick, Canada

 Let’s welcome a new author to the Scribbler.

I met Jen at one of our popular book events last year. She has kindly accepted our invitation to be the featured guest this week.

Her story is garnering many 5 star reviews.

Read on, my friends.

My name is J.K. Rankin, but my friends call me Jen. I’m originally from Ontario, having spent some of my formative years on a small island in British Columbia called Saltspring.  After graduating from the University of Ottawa in 1991 with a double major in Criminology and Political Science, I moved to Nova Scotia where I lived in the Annapolis Valley and started my career in the field of  Corrections.  In 1999, I moved to Rothesay, New Brunswick and continued my career with Correctional Services Canada as a parole officer. I retired in 2020 shortly after the pandemic started and currently enjoy a quieter life with my husband in Fairfield, NB. 

I am the indie author of The Sanctuary, my first published fiction novel.  It’s sequel, The Inheritance, is currently being edited with the goal of publishing it in 2026. Eventually, this will be a trilogy as I have started writing the third novel to the series, entitled, The Sacrifice.  But...never say never.  I love my characters so much I might not want to say good-bye. Maybe there will be a forth... 

 

Title: The Sanctuary

 

Synopsis:  The Sanctuary is a fast paced suspension thriller about a young woman who finds herself being hunted by the cartel and a retired CIA Agent who is haunted by hindsight and will give his life to fulfill  a promise he made years ago.  What could possibly go wrong with love?  You are about to find out.

  

The Story Behind the Story:

To this day, I can’t point to one specific event or thought that triggered the origins of The Sanctuary.  Perhaps, it’s been the wisdom that comes from living, if I could be bold enough to make such a statement. I would be remiss to suggest my choice of careers did not shape the person I have become to certain extent. My strong desire to understanding the complexity of decision making and human behavior has been a part of me for as long as I can remember.  Guiding me, warning me, you could even say – saving me - like a lighthouse in a storm. 

Regardless, I remember sitting down at my computer one rainy summer day in 2020 and beginning to type.  It started with John and then I added Savannah.  I didn’t have an outline or a goal, I just wrote. I spent countless hours over the course of the following months into 2021,  developing the story lines and soon realized that I might have the beginnings of a book here.  I asked a friend if she would read it and she did.  She liked it but there were some plot issues and character development that needed work.  Stuck, I walked away from it for close to three years. 

Fast forward to May 2024.  I walked into the book section of a large department store looking for something to read for the flight home from Alberta.   As I picked up book after book, admiring the covers, reading the write-ups, something inside me said, maybe someday, your book will be here.  I scoffed it off as utter foolishness, an unachievable goal.  I ultimately chose a book by one of my favorite author’s, Nicholas Sparks  entitled – The Rescue.  I was hooked on the first page and couldn’t put it down.  I was reading the last pages as we descended from 35,000 feet preparing to land in Halifax.  It was one of those books that you don’t want to end and when it did,  I felt a tinge of sadness knowing my involvement in the character’s lives was over.  I wanted to know what happened next. But there was nothing.  Just silence. Now, that’s a good book.  I thought about how that book spoke to me on the drive home to Fairfield and decided I wanted to write something that reminded people why they loved to read.  John and Savannah were calling me back.  So, I opened up my unfinished story and let my characters guide me. I returned to Cache Gulch, Savannah and John.

After a second read through by another friend, at her encouragement and that of others, I made the decision to take the next step.  I found an amazing editor and seven months later, following countless edits, title and cover changes, The Sanctuary was published on 2025/02/14. 

 

 

Facebook Author page: Please go HERE

A question before you go, Jen:

Scribbler: Who was your favourite author, or story, growing up?

Jen: I was a voracious reader as a child. After reading all the Nancy Drew books I could find, I was given a book entitled  “The Chronicles of Thomas Covenant” by Stephen R. Donaldson.  At that time he only had three in the series, I read them all.

 

 

An Excerpt from : Chapter 5 of The Sanctuary

 

Dammit! John Mitchell turned off his tv and slammed his fist on the table. It was all over the evening news. What had always worried him was finally happening. He’d seen the missing girl’s photo and knew it was not a coincidence. Years of painful precautions evaporated the moment Savannah wrote her mother’s obituary. Yes, he’d seen that too. John knew the people looking for Savannah would never stop looking, and there had been just enough information in there that they could have connected the dots. He could never blame her though for posting the obituary. He was certain she didn’t know.

Buy the book HERE.

Thank you for being our guest this week, Jen. We wish you continued success with your writing.

Thank you to all our visitors and readers.

Feel free to leave a comment below.

We’d love to hear from you.

The Story Behind the Story with Author Catherine Meyrick of Australia.

 

Let’s welcome Catherine back to the Scribbler.

She’s a wonderful author with captivating stories waiting for you.

She’s been a guest before and if you missed it, please go HERE.

Read on, my friends

 

 

 

I am an Australian and I write historical fiction with a touch of romance. I live in Melbourne, but grew up in Ballarat, a large city in regional Victoria about 70 miles from Melbourne. History is a everywhere in Ballarat with its Victorian buildings and wide streets. It was one of the first places where gold was discovered in Australia the early 1850s, and was the site of the Eureka Stockade, an armed rebellion by gold miners which was a key event in the development of Australia’s democracy.

I have always been interested in history, both the big events and the quieter stories told by family members. I have a Master of Arts in history and am a retired librarian. Also I am an obsessive genealogist and a neglectful gardener.

I research the times and places where my stories are set as thoroughly as I can and try to ensure that my characters are men and women of their time. I believe that despite their different dress, speech and way of seeing the world, they are still like us. They have the same basic human needs, hopes and dreams as we have—for food and shelter, love and comfort, and hope for survival into a better future. I consider it important that my stories end on a strong note of hope.

 

Title: And the Women Watch and Wait. A Novel of the Great War in Australia

 

Synopsis:

November 1914

Australia has been at war for three months. Kate Burke has come down from the country to Coburg, a semi-rural town on the northern edge of Melbourne, to stay with her aunt whose two sons have already left with the First Australian Imperial Force.

Her sweetheart, Jack Sheehan, is four miles away at the Broadmeadows Camp, one of the many who rushed to enlist, fearful that this great adventure would be over before he could play his part.

By the year’s end, Jack is on a troopship sailing towards Egypt. He has promised Kate that the first thing he will do when he returns is marry her. Like all those who cheered their men on their way, Kate waits in hope and fear, holding Jack’s promise close.

As April 1915 turns to May, Australia’s baptism of blood on the beaches of the Dardanelles is gloried in. But in the months and the years that follow, the cost of war is relentlessly counted, not only on the battlefield but in the streets the men have left behind, and in the hearts of those who watch and wait and pray.

No one will be untouched.

Nothing will remain the same.

A heart-rending story of love, loss and endurance during the Great War in Australia.

 The Story Behind the Story:

And the Women Watch and Wait is the result of the drawing together of a number of my interests over the years. It is an Australian story set where I live, drawing some inspiration from family stories, and is an attempt to write what I actually know.

World War 1 was a background presence for people of my generation. Many of us had grandfathers who had enlisted in the Australian Imperial Force. Both my grandfathers did. Although we never met our father’s parents, we were close to our mother’s, visiting them for idyllic summer holidays most years. Over the fireplace in my grandparents’ sitting room was a photograph of my grandfather, John McGrath, in his Light Horse uniform complete with an emu feather in his slouch hat (he said they told the English girls they were kangaroo feathers) and a bandolier across his chest. He told us children what he kept in each pocket of the bandoleer starting with the lowest pocket which held licorice allsorts, then chocolates, bullseyes, cobbers (small chewy chocolate caramel blocks covered in actual chocolate) and so on. Any stories he told of the war were funny, like the time he was lost in a wine cellar with a couple of mates, emerging three days later as if risen from the dead—or so he said. As an adult I heard other grim stories thirdhand that he had told my father, his son-in-law, who had passed them on to Mum, and she to me. One story that he had willingly told to us all was that on his return in 1919, an old family friend had berated him saying that John’s father would be spinning in his grave to know that one of his sons had gone to fight for the English king. That gave me pause as I hadn’t realised that Irish attitudes to the English had been so strong here in Australia as little as fifty years earlier (this was 1970). I was to discover, later, that John’s father and grandfather were republicans, and John’s grandfather Thomas McGrath, a blacksmith, was possibly involved in making pikes for the Young Irelander uprising in 1848. They emigrated to Australia in 1854 as so many Irish did after the Great Hunger. The comment stayed with me.

At the beginning of the Great War all in Australia seemed united in their support, especially as news of German atrocities in Belgium, of the sinking of the Lusitania and of the first use of mustard gas came through. There was a flood of enlistments, all volunteers. Australia’s army was made entirely of volunteers; they were not conscripted. When enlistments began to fall as the reality of the war hit home, calls for conscription of single men became increasingly strident. Australian legislation only allowed for conscription for home service and as Prime Minister WM Hughes, a strong supporter of conscription, didn’t have the numbers to push the necessary legislation through Parliament, he held a plebiscite in 1916 believing most of the country was behind him. It failed, so a second was held in 1917 which also failed. The campaigns opened up existing divisions in society between rich and poor, Protestants and Catholics, and blame for the failure of the plebiscite, even to this day by some, was placed on Catholics of Irish ancestry. Some considered Catholics to be shirkers and even traitors. Yet Australian-Irish Catholic men continued to enlist, including my grandfathers, though at slightly less than their proportion of the population. Their numbers were not so low that they could truly be considered to be shirking. I wondered how those Catholics at home felt who had husbands, sons, brothers and other family fighting overseas when all this abuse was being thrown around.

While practically every township in Australia had a memorial to the fallen men of both World Wars, for some of us children they were almost unregarded parts of the streetscape. Although a service was held at our local memorial every Anzac Day, I never thought in any depth of what it meant to those left to grieve, or of the nature of the men’s deaths. Perhaps that was a good thing for a child not to be weighed down with. I was in my late forties when I took over my mother’s genealogical research and faced for the first time the weight of grief experienced by those who had lost men during the Great War. Year after year, even into the 1950s, ‘In Memoriam’ Notices were placed in the newspapers. It forced me to imagine what it must have been like to have someone so far from home, in mortal danger, in a time when communication was so slow. To have someone die and not be able to follow the usual rituals that brought a measure of comfort. For them to be buried so far away and not be able to visit their graves. And to bear all this, shadowed by ever-present fear, and put on the brave face that a stoic society demanded.

As I was nearing the end of preparing my last novel, Cold Blows the Wind, these ideas and thoughts started to draw together. I wanted to write about these people, the women especially, and their struggles. I decided my novel would be about the ordinary women from that portion of the Catholic community whose men had enlisted—the women who were left to watch and wait and pray. The characters would be fictional as that would give me the freedom to cover a broader story, but I decided to draw on some of the anecdotes from my mother’s side of the family to add depth to the story. It would set here in Coburg where I have lived for thirty-seven years. I knew the geography, the feel of the seasons, the changing light, the sunrises and sunsets. Some of the buildings from the period remain and I had a basic grasp of the history the place that I knew I would most certainly have to add to. And, as we were just coming out of Melbourne’s extensive lockdowns, with its curfews and limits on how far we could wander from our homes, I needed the story to be set nearby if the worst happened again.

So many stories are, rightly, about the heroism of the soldiers and nurses but And the Women Watch and Wait is a story of the quiet women, their friendships, their support of each other and their men so far away, their stoicism as they carried on. It is about the heroism of daily life, so often unrecognised.

 

Website: Please go HERE.

A question before you go, Catherine.

Scribbler: Who was your favourite author, or story, growing up?

Catherine: There wasn’t a single author whose books I always read. Looking back there are three books that stand out. The first book I remember reading when I was very young was a Little Golden Book version of The Little Red Hen but I suspect rather than reading the book, I was able to recite it as I had forced my parents to read it to me so many times. It’s the story of a hen who goes to her farmyard friends for help in making a loaf of bread from scratch—she begins by planting the wheat seeds. They all refuse so she decides, ‘Very well, I will do it myself’. Of course, finally, once the bread is baked, everyone wants to eat it but the little red hen eats it all herself. Which I thought was absolutely fair. I still do.

The first historical novel that I remember reading was The Flight of the Heron by D.K. Broster. My father gave me a copy for my twelfth birthday. It was a book he had read years before and loved, a story of honour and loyalty set in Scotland during the Jacobite uprising of 1745 and its aftermath. It follows two men on opposing sides of the conflict, Highland Jacobite Ewen Cameron and English officer Keith Windham. It is the story of a friendship that could have been but for time and circumstance.

That same year I read The Sun on the Stubble by Colin Thiele. It is the delightful story of Bruno Gunther, the youngest son of a hardworking German immigrant farming family in South Australia in the 1930s. The story follows Bruno’s adventures in his last year at primary school. This was the first book that I embarrassed myself in public with—I laughed out loud on a packed tram on the way home from school!

These last two books have everything I want from a novel. They transport the reader to another time and place and linger in the mind after the last word is read. And all three contain reflections on the human condition, even The Little Red Hen.

An Excerpt from And the Women Watch and Wait.

This scene takes place on 22 December 1914 when the second contingent of the Australian Imperial Force left Melbourne. Kate Burke has gone with her friend Reenie Casey, and Reenie’s mother, to Railway Pier (now Station Pier) at South Melbourne to wave the troops off.

Outside Flinders Street station Mrs. Casey managed to hail a cab, but it was slow travelling; everyone else on the road seemed to be heading in the same direction. Kate’s heart pounded, fearful the troopships would leave before they got there.

Thousands were standing in the sun outside the gates to the pier which were guarded by police and sentries. The mass of women, mainly, pressed close, waiting as the soldiers slowly filed up the gangways into the towering steamships. Kate stood on tiptoes, near to tears, trying to see over the heads and hats of those in front of her. She needed to see Jack—just a glimpse of him. She told herself that if she saw him, everything would be right, he would come back to her.

Finally, the men were on board and the gates opened. Reenie caught Kate’s hand as the crowd surged forward. She led the way, pushing through the press of people until they were standing alongside the Ulysses.

Slowly, through the afternoon, to the cheering of both those on the pier and the men on the ships, the transports moved one by one toward the heads of the bay until, by three o’clock, only the Ulysses remained. Kate stared up at the men crowding the decks, some sitting precariously on the rails. She had not once caught sight of Jack.

Reenie squealed, jumping and waving to Pat who was leaning over the rail two levels up. Beside her, Mrs Casey stood rigid, her eyes wet, fighting to keep control. She blew Pat a kiss. He clearly saw his mother as he blew one back to her.

The sun beat down from a clear sky. The air was humid. Perspiration trickled from Kate’s damp hatband down her neck. She had the beginning of a headache. She was sick with the waiting, the thought that she would not see him.

Reenie pushed a thermos cup of cold sweet tea into her hands.

The headache faded as she sipped the tea. She continued her search for Jack.

She glimpsed Bert and waved to him but she doubted he saw her.

Those on the pier called to the men on board and they answered back, but in the uproar who could understand what was said or who was saying it?

She heard her name called—Kate, Kate—as clear as if the world was silent.

She looked up.

There he was. She could make out every feature despite the distance, even the beautiful blue of his eyes.

He was smiling at her, waving.

I love you.

She heard his voice as if he were beside her and called the words back.

She had seen him. He would come home to her.

Another soldier moved to the front, blocking Kate’s view. She kept calling Jack’s name and waving furiously even though she had lost sight of him. He might still be able to see her. As long as he could see her, they were together in this place.

Streamers of paper ribbon—mainly red, white and blue—fluttered between the ship and the shore. With the slowly setting sun, a lone voice began to sing Auld Lang Syne. One by one those on the pier and the men on the deck joined in until the whole world was singing its goodbye, its promises never to forget.

In a brief moment of silence, the troopship pulled away from the shore.

Ribbons snapped, a band played, and those watching from the pier sang beneath their tears as they followed the movement of the steamer.

The Last Post sounded.

The HMAT Ulysses sailed off, carrying her men to war.

 Buy the book HERE.

 

I truly enjoyed this story. As I have for all of Catherine’s novels.

Thank you for being our guest this week. We wish you continued success with your writing.

Thank you to all our visitors and readers.

Feel free to leave a comment below.

We’d love to hear from you.

The Story Behind the Story with Ginette Goguen of Shediac, New Brunswick, Canada.

 

Let’s welcome another new author/auteure to the Scribbler.

The first of the New Year. 

I met Ginette last fall at a book event in Shediac. She has kindly accepted my invitation to be our guest this week.

She writes in both French and English. 

Each version is generating a lot of excitement in the book world. 

Read on, my friends

 

 

Born and raised in Shediac, New Brunswick, Ginette Goguen grew up in a bilingual area where French was a minority and English the dominant presence. This reality shaped her mission: to strengthen French pride and illuminate the deep, often forgotten connections between Canada’s two official languages.

A graduate of the Université de Moncton, she holds a Bachelor of Education with majors in French and English, as well as a Master’s degree in Special Education. For 30 years, she taught in francophone high schools in the province, guiding thousands of students and witnessing firsthand the challenges and beauty of bilingual life in Atlantic Canada.

For over 3 decades, Ginette also collected words the way a stamp collector collects stamps—carefully, passionately, and with a sense of wonder. From Acadia to France and England, she documented linguistic twins, cousins, echoes, and roots that link French and English in surprising and intimate ways.

A mother of two and a lifelong learner herself, Ginette originally dreamed of creating a travel vlog while exploring Europe. Instead, her discoveries grew into something larger and more enduring: a book that brings together memoir, etymology teachings, and history, inviting uniligual readers to see the other official language not as a mountain, but as a familiar landscape already embedded within their own.

 

Title:  GARAGE

 

Synopsis:

GARAGE is a unique blend of memoir, linguistic exploration, and educational storytelling. Written by an Acadian educator who spent her life collecting bilingual word-pairs like a pirate gathers rare treasures, the book reveals the deep, often overlooked connections between French and English.

Growing up in eastern Canada — where French is often a minority language living beside a prevailing English world — Ginette Goguen learned early how fragile French can feel, and how powerful it becomes when understood through its history. Her decades as a high school teacher only strengthened that insight: many francophones feel intimidated by English, and many anglophones see French as a mountain too steep to climb.

GARAGE dismantles both illusions.

Through personal stories, classroom anecdotes, travels through France and England, and hundreds of linguistic discoveries, the book exposes a truth hidden in plain sight:

French and English share more than people think — and learning one opens the door to the other.

Words that migrated, transformed, survived invasions, crossed oceans, and reinvented themselves become the quiet heroes of this narrative.

With warmth, humour, and deep humanity, GARAGE shows that bilingualism is not a burden but a legacy — one that can reignite French pride in French speakers while making French finally feel accessible to English speakers.

Part memoir, part linguistic journey, and part love letter to French and English, GARAGE invites readers to look at everyday words with new eyes and to discover that these differing languages are not strangers, but relatives.

 

 

The Story Behind the Story:

I come from a small town where French has always lived in the shadow of a nearby majority English population. Evolving in this bilingual environment shaped everything I would later become — an avid reader, a teacher, a collector of words, and eventually an author.

After completing my postsecondary studies, I enjoyed 3 decades of teaching in local Francophone schools. Along the way, I raised two wonderful children at home, and at work, listened to thousands of teenagers navigate language, identity, and confidence.

For years, almost without realizing it, I had a hobby of gathering words as some people keep coin collections… especially French terms that crossed into Anglophones’ speech.  English vocabularies that, in a sense, still carried a French heartbeat. In my view, they were little linguistic gems picked up during my research and then travels from Acadia to England and France.

I once imagined I might turn these discoveries into a documentary style video while travelling in Europe… but instead, my creative outlet became a teaching memoir — GARAGE, a blend of autobiographical and linguistic storytelling.

Today, I aim to celebrate bilingual life, to make French feel accessible for Anglophones and English accessible for Francophones, rather than intimidating, plus to remind readers that languages are not barriers… they are bridges.

 

Visit Ginette’s Facebook page by going HERE.

A question before you go, Ginette.

Scribbler: Who was your favourite author, or story, growing up?

Ginette: I never had one particular favorite author, instead I’ve always loved all kinds of books. During my childhood, I chose comic books such as Astérix and Tintin, whodunit genres such as Nancy Drew Mystery Series, and the New Testament I received at my local church, etc. When I got older, I enjoyed Teen magazines and Archie Comics. As an adult, I prefer self-help reads, personal growth and wellness guides, motivational manuals and empowerment books.



An Excerpt from : Garage

Part 1

Chapter 1

The morning mist was clearing in Shediac, a small town in the southeast part of New Brunswick, in eastern Canada. Among its few thousand inhabitants lived a young girl who would choose to call this coastal community home for most of her life.

The sun peered through the white lace curtains hung in the family’s large living-room window. Its orange glow radiated on the floor, spreading light that matched the color tones of her wide-legged checkered pants. Of course, bell-bottom trousers were the in-thing of the seventies.

That day, the 5-year-old, hearing the doorbell ring, rushed to the front door to see what the milkman had left outside on the concrete porch. Blacky, the family dog, followed her every move. Two thick glass bottles were waiting to be brought inside: one containing plain white milk, and to her surprise, the second was filled with chocolate milk. Her brothers and sister would be pleased. They didn't often have the opportunity to indulge in this tasty treat.  

"On a eu du chocolate milk sur le step!" ("We got some chocolate milk on the step!") she excitedly shared with the others in a part French, part English dialect the locals called Chiac.

They would usually have to mix regular milk with Quik, an appropriately named cocoa-powdered flavoring that quickly resulted in a cold chocolaty drink. The outcome was the same, with a little effort; but this week, they would have the real deal. 

After bringing in the dairy bottles, she hastily returned to fetch two folded newspapers –L'Évangéline and the Times which also sat on the front porch.  First published in 1887, L'Évangéline,² as was printed in bold letters on the front page, had been one of the Acadian population’s principal French-language source of newsprint for nearly 100 years.  But she would only learn all that later.

                                                              ***

For the moment, her family was lucky enough to have access to both a French and an English daily, six days a week. The youngster would eagerly sift through the newspapers as soon as they arrived, hoping to find a few pages of colored comic strips to admire. However, it wasn't Saturday yet.  She realized this by the tiny section of black and white comics she found well -hidden in that day’s paper.  She then remembered that, as with her Saturday morning cartoons on TV, she would have to wait for the weekend. 

"Pas de funnies ou de cartoons aujourd’hui," ("No funnies or cartoons today,") she’d sigh.

As per usual, her mother would turn on the radio perched on top of the refrigerator in the kitchen. The family’s breakfast routine was to listen quietly to the English-speaking announcer from the CKCW radio station share that day’s weather forecast in addition to the local news. As soon as ads or music began, the conversations would resume, and the kids would talk over each other during the weekday morning chaos. Soon, Glen Campbell's melodious lyrics could be heard playing in the background... 

"Like a Rhinestone Cowboy… ♫"

   

Chapter 2 

Each sunrise would bring about the wonderful aromas of a full breakfast that easily spread throughout the bungalow.  Bacon and eggs or warm oatmeal often fared on the menu. Although, sugary cereals or toasted bread with homemade jam were the preferred offerings.  Bright and early on weekdays, the family always congregated for the most important meal of the day. It was the beginning of a long workday for the father, a school day for the school-aged children, and a typical day for the stay-at-home mother and youngest daughter. Regardless of the scheduled activities, the first feast was loved by everyone.  

"J’aimerais des toasts au jam demain," ("I’d like toasts with jam tomorrow,") requested one of the siblings.

On this particular morning, pancakes were for breakfast. Everyone covered theirs in molasses. They also poured, into small restaurant-style glasses, orange juice which they had freshly made with their manual juicer. The beverage’s tangy taste stung the tip of their tongues and awakened all their senses. 

Since it was a weekday, the youngest said goodbye to her dad as her two brothers and sister got ready to leave for school. Through the dining-room window, she watched her siblings with envy, carrying backpacks on their shoulders while walking up Hamilton Street, only to disappear around the corner of Midtown Garage. 

The three school-aged family members went to École Saint-Cœur-de-Marie, or S.C.M. as they called it, for grades 5 through 8. In the youngster’s mind, school was a huge mystery. She eagerly wanted to go there like the others, but she was not quite old enough yet.  

"J’aurai un school bag moi aussi en grade un," ("I’ll have a school bag too in First Grade,") she mused.

                                                          ***

The weekdays felt long at home alone with her mother, so she would settle in and watch an episode of Sesame Street, then Les 100 Tours de Centour and Les Oreillons. In that era, a square antenna made of iron rods on the roof gave them access to three television stations: two English stations – CTV (Canadian Television Network) and CBC (Canadian Broadcasting Company) – and one French station, CBAFT (Canadian Broadcasting French Television: Radio Canada). There wasn't much on air in the afternoon, other than a soap opera called Another World or game shows like Definition and The Price is Right. She would suddenly see Bob Barker and hear the announcer calling out:

"Come on down!"

That was her cue to take time away from the black and white television set and play with her toys while her mother watched her favorite TV shows.

"Va jouer avec tes catins pi tes teddy bears," ("Go play with your dolls and teddy bears,") her mom would say.

She spent hours playing school with her many dolls and stuffed animals like Baby Alive, Raggedy Ann, Bugs Bunny and Tweety Bird. Since her Weeble Wobbles were too small, she would line up all her biggest make-believe students on a bench. Using a small green blackboard and some white chalk, she would teach them the day’s lessons: how to draw an eyeball, a dog, and all sorts of simple things. Had her toys been able to talk, they would certainly have been the smartest of their kind in her neighborhood…

Buy the English version HERE.

 Buy the French version HERE.

 

 Thank you for being our guest this week, Ginette. We wish you continued success with your writing.

 

 

Thank you to all our visitors and readers.

Feel free to leave a comment below.  We’d love to hear from you.