Another guest who is new to the Scribbler.
Lise was introduced to me by another author who
lives in western Canada. She has kindly agreed to share the STBS with you and adds an excerpt for your reading pleasure.
Title: Time Enough
Synopsis:
In the early 1900’s, a Manx family of miners subsists on a small-hold farm; their lives are stable, steeped in routines, love and faery lore, but they are on the verge of ruin. The young family must leave forever, in search of a new life. How will a mother of six, Euphemia, and her eldest son, Henry, make a home in a totally unfamiliar place? William’s younger brother, Thomas, posts their bond for emigration to Michigan. Euphemia suspects her first lover has ulterior motives and that he will destroy her. Henry, almost a man, longs to remain and save their land. No matter. They must go. Too late, they discover they are trapped. Euphemia and Henry together and separately, must struggle to surmount betrayal, abuse and heartbreak. On a three-decade journey from Isle of Man to Saskatchewan, via Michigan and Manitoulin Island, we are immersed in this moving saga of Euphemia and Henry’s fight for independence. A sweeping novel about sacrifice, courage and the unexpected rewards of risk and resilience. Can forgiveness restore love and bring hope? Is there time to heal the past and build a future?
The Story Behind the Story:
As a child, I looked forward to Saturday visits with my maternal grandparents, enraptured by their stories of homesteading in Alberta and Saskatchewan. Starting from scratch in the wilderness seemed like an adventure to me, even though they didn't gloss over the hardship and sacrifice. They taught me about kindness, hard work and creativity, to save every scrap, grow and preserve food, how to make something out of nothing. The house was filled from attic to dirt basement with old stuff. Grandma used a wood stove and wringer washer. Grandpa would show me his collection of arrowheads, gathered during the first ploughing on his quarter section. He said these points represented the people who'd come before, whom he admired for their ability to survive on the open prairies. All this was food for my imagination.
I believed all my grandparents, pioneers on both sides, weren’t "ordinary" people, as I saw everyone else. They'd been so brave, intrepid and dedicated to a dream bigger than themselves. Offered a chance at a better life, they took a huge risk and set off into the unknown. I could only imagine what they went through. So I did.
Time Enough was a ten-year endeavour of research, genealogy, travel and constant writing. I discovered that my grandfather, although we knew he was of Manx descent, was born in Michigan. As I learned more about where my maternal ancestors originated, both on Isle of Man and Manitoulin Island, I began to create a fictional story of immigration to Canada. The ending, however, was told to me by my grandmother when I was a child, and was my first inspiration. The heartbreaking story of leaving the homestead in the Great Depression kept me going, all those years. I wrote my way backwards, into what might have been the beginning. I believe many people, even today, can relate to losing everything, and being forced to set out on a new path, as many of our ancestors did. Learning about their courage and resilience can bring us understanding and hope.
Website:
Please go HERE.
Buy it HERE.
Scribbler: Where is your favourite spot to write? Are you messy or neat? Your beverage of choice?
Lise: While working on the novel, I wrote at my dining room table, very early in the morning. I journal every day, trying to catch the blue hour before sunrise, to get my writing juices flowing. For ten years, I inhabited the world I was creating from about 6:30 to 10:00, most weekdays. Coffee was always on the go, usually ending up ice cold, as I became immersed in my work. Now that the book is published, I tend to share morning coffee-time with my husband, a luxury after so many years of focussed work. A lot of time is now devoted to marketing and networking, which is an important aspect of the writing life. I continue to work on a chapbook of poetry, which I will get back to. There’s always “time enough,” I’ve come to learn.
(Place: Isle of Man, May, 1904: A grandmother and her daughter-in-law are sitting side-by-side on Faery Hill, presenting the daily offering to the faeries, as is customary amongst the Manx people. The grandmother, Nan, shares the secret that she has asked her son in America to rescue the family from disaster.)
“Whatever do you mean, Nan?” Her tone harkened back to fifteen years ago. Is she sinking into depression again, after all this time? Oh no. “You’re here, Nan. We’re all here. Our Henry’s learning from you; the others will too. There’s no rush. Don’t you always say there’s time enough: traa dy liooar, is it? I’ve learned that much, you all say it so often.” She attempted a laugh. Please, please let me bring her out of it, like I did before.
Nan patted her hand.
“Well done, my chree. You’ve an ear for Manx.” Then she shook her head. “I’m sorry to say, there is no more time.” Her muffled voice dropped the words into her lap. She pounded her fist
against her thigh, then raised her head to meet Euphemia’s gaze. Suddenly it seemed the birds fell silent and the wind dropped
to earth. Whatever can she mean? She seems angry, and sad, both.
Nan inhaled, as if
preparing to push a boat into the water. “The Little Ones had something important to say, t’other night. Terrible news, I’m afraid, my chree. Themselves said someone in the house will pass over. Soon. “Goll sheese ny liargagh: he’s going down the slope, fast.” Didn’t need them to tell me that. I know it. As do you.”
“Know what?” A roar like crashing waves on the sea blocked her ears against Nan's
shaky voice.
“Please, we must be honest and face facts, dear one. I’ve suspected since New Year’s morn. Saw it plain as day, in he ashes from the chiollagh, which I spread on the floor, to foretell the year ahead, ye ken,
according to the old ways. The faery footprints led out the door, not in. Luck
has left our house.” Nan paused and looked past the cliffs, breathing harder than she had
after mounting the hill.
The ominous tone
tempted Euphemia to laugh. Nan seemed to sense her doubt. “I didn’t want to believe it, either; I’ve watched for the signs and now I’m sure. William’s been poisoned, by the lead mine. We call it “the milk reek,” my chree. The sweats, the shakes, and especially the ill temper, so unlike my
boy. He’s getting worse every day. Goll sheese ny liargagh.”
Euphemia’s lips parted, but the protest caught in her throat, as if clogged with
ashes from the hearth. She collapsed backward, nearly overturning the little
cups. Nan lifted her head and held the cool flask to her lips.
“Drink a bit, lass.”
Euphemia jerked upright, grabbed the flask, and gulped. She coughed and wiped her mouth
with the back of her hand.
“It can’t be,” she said, sputtering. As she tipped the flask back again, whispers
whirled around her. “Yes, yes, it is. Yes, it is. Yes, it is.” The hair rose on her arms. Her head swam. Tears stung behind her eyes
but wouldn’t fall.
“Aye, doesn’t bear thinking about, my chree, I know. I tried to pretend, too. I’ve seen you do the same, seen the worry at you, when William coughs, or
shouts at the boys. It’s not him. It’s the sickness, my chree. Oh God, the loss of another son to those damned mines.” She hit her thighs, as if hurting herself could ease her pain. Euphemia
recognized that impulse. “So many families torn apart. So many wid—” A sob completed the awful word.
True. Eva, Mary,
Amy, others whose names she didn’t know, gone away, forced to find work in English factories after their
husbands’ passing, their children left with kinfolk, or orphaned. If anything happens to William, could I leave my five youngsters,
least of all my newborn babe? To be raised by their grandparents, who mightn’t live long enough to see them grown? Now tears and milk spilled freely. My milk will be spoiled tonight, curdled. Hugh will get the colic and
not sleep….
“Shh. There, there, I’ve a solution.” Nan’s voice brightened as she expelled one word: “Thomas.” Euphemia thought she detected a note of excitement, where usually Nan
sounded disappointed, even angry, when mentioning her youngest surviving son…
“And now, why, the mine’s killing my William. Well, not if Themselves and I can help it.” Her voice retrieved its headstrong tone. “Thomas brought me a daughter, and you’ve given us grandchildren. He’ll do his duty again, you’ll see. I’m awaiting his answer.”
“No, no, please, Nan—” The last thing she wanted was Thomas to return. Well, there could be
one worse thing. She fell back on the ground, damp seeping into her clothes.
She yanked at the grass with clenched fists.
“Come, lass, the dew’s falling. You’ll catch your death. We’d best get back or they’ll think we’ve been fetched away. Not a word to William, mind. I’m prepared for a battle with him. Quick, there’s the first star. Help me up,” she said, patting Euphemia’s knees.
“We mustn’t be caught here after sunset or the Red Caps will take us, sure. The way down is much easier. I can almost run, like
a young girl. Ah, was, was,” Nan expressed her customary wistfulness for times past. “Here’s the basket, my chree. Let’s see who gets home first.”
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