My Start in Writing

What starts a person writing?  Is it having something they want to say?  I’ve always had something to say which, if they could, my now deceased parents would agree.  It took more than that for me.  I owe my start in writing to a pigeon we named Homer.

It was during the most difficult of child-rearing years for me when I needed some sense of achievement other than trying to be a good mother.  I prayed about it and wouldn’t you know a pigeon came to my rescue?  He landed in our yard one day, absolutely exhausted.  We discovered from his tags and putting in a call to his owner that he was a homing pigeon on a return flight from the far north to his home still a distance from us.  All homer needed was a good rest away from harm. 

Michael had devised a system for rescuing birds, a necessity at the time with nine cats living next door to our Port Perry home.  He built an enormous cage, fed them a diet of worm-like strips of bologna and grapes until they recovered and then we’d set them free.  Homer, I felt, was different and I saw in him my chance to write his story for our local paper. 

The call was made and the morning a photographer was to come for a photo, Homer escaped.  I can still see Michael, feet straddled either side of the peak of the garage roof, hands cupped in trap mode, slightly bent and creeping up from behind in an effort to nab a squab for me.  I’d cooked my plan to ask if I could write the story but there would be no story without the bird.  As Michael went from roof to ground and back to roof in order to capture my future as a writer, I whined out complaints. 

“You’re moving too fast.  You’re scaring him.  Don’t make so much noise.”  All of this from my safe spot on the ground.    

Ah, he did it, my hero!  With Homer back in his cage Michael headed off to work, I got the kids off to school and start rehearsing my pitch to the editor of the Scugog Citizen.  Camera in hand he arrived at the appointed hour. 

“Will you get him out of the cage so I can take a picture”?  Ouch!  Problem!  I couldn’t do it!  I’m skittish when it comes to creatures of all kinds.  I agreed to open the cage but assigned the task of picking the bird up to Mr. Newsman.  Having had a taste of freedom after the much-needed rest, Homer saw his opportunity and started a walkabout in the yard.  When he realized he was being pursued by the man with the camera he sped up to a hop, a jump and short flights.  I don’t suppose it helped that the photographer was being closely followed by the aspiring writer who was giving her I-wanna-write-the-story-and-be-a-writer pitch.  Not quite back to full strength, Homer was caught, returned to his cage and all breathed a sigh of relief. 

It was agreed I would write the story and the photographer would return to snap his shot with Michael, who could hold Homer.   It was set for that evening when my Braveheart returned from work.  And so, a writer was born.  I wrote for the newspaper a year starting in August of ’91.  A line was crossed into selling ads as well.  As a salesperson, unlike dear old Dad, I’m a better dancer and I can’t dance, don’t ask me.  The paper eventually folded … no, my writing had nothing to do with it.   

            Having saved a clipping book of all those columns I walked into the Erin Advocate office some years later to meet the editor, Joan Murray.  She looked through my binder and decided to give me a chance.  My first column hit the stands on March 5^th, 2003 and I’m still going strong … sporadically at best, but strong.  Twenty columns were written under the heading Writer’s Blocks as my column in Port Perry was called.  A quilt block appeared with each write-up that tied into what was being portrayed by my words.  That was my shtick at the time it eventually changed to Marlene Chats which I’ve happily continued.  I like meeting new people, getting their story and then having them printed so those reading my column get to know the people their community.

            Later it became about memoirs so, let’s start sharing, shall we? 

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