The Pits and Pieces

  Last week I attended a free library event on 'Making A Will'. Yes, it is a topic we would rather not think about, but as someone or other once said, “None of us are getting out of this alive.” I didn’t know that this November was “Make a Will” month in Ontario and the Ontario Bar Association was offering free seminars at many libraries across the province. The lawyer told us that a staggering 60% of Canadians do not have a will. There are provisions in the law for people who die intestate (without a will), with a line of succession (spouse, kids, siblings etc.) of who will inherit your assets, assuming you have some. The ideal situation would be to live long enough that you’ve spent most of what you saved for your later years. But who has that kind of crystal ball? This post is not about will-making or definitions or anything like that because I am not a lawyer. I am like most of you: perplexed by legalities, would rather avoid them, yet know that I don’t want to leav...

  My brother and his family are in the Gulf, visiting Bahrain (where I grew up), Qatar, Dubai and Oman. He has been sending pictures of old, familiar places in Bahrain which have triggered many memories. How do the places where we grow up shape who we become? What do we take with us when we immigrate to a new home and what do we leave behind? Undoubtedly, growing up as an expat in an Arab country, where we were the outsiders, created a sense of ‘unbelonging’ that ran deep. Yet I had a fairly uncomplicated, happy and sheltered childhood. We were not exposed to the vast array of choices and activities that children in the Western world had, nor were we exposed to the extreme poverty that existed in our parents’ home countries of Pakistan and India. We had everything we needed, unaware that we weren’t really living a middle-class life (well below that), but no less content for it. We had friends and community, church and school, social clubs and picnics, parties and sleepovers. ...

  At my writing group this week, we had a spirited discussion about memoir. One member of the group disliked the term, and was dismissive of the genre, even though what we write are life stories, and indeed memoir. She had been conditioned into thinking that memoir was ‘girlie’ and not worthy literature; that to admit to reading it was to somehow diminish your intelligence and your status as a serious reader and lover of books. Two of us disagreed vehemently. Which then led to further discussion on – who is it exactly who sets these tones and standards? Why are men’s stories deemed more important than women’s stories? Memoirists believe that we all have stories in us, stories that are worth telling. We read memoir to find the universality that links us, the common threads. “Aha,” we may think as we read another’s story, “I’m not the only one who thinks or feels that way.” Back to the woman in my group who is reluctant to admit to reading (or writing) memoir. Let’s call her A....

November, one of the least-loved months of the year. Mostly grey, dull, rainy, foggy, a harbinger of things to come. Although this November, there have been some weirdly warm days. What’s to love about November? Perhaps more than at first glance. It’s a month for cocooning, staring out the window, reflecting, from the warmth and comfort of your chair by the fire. It’s the ‘do-nothing’ month before the frantic festivities begin. Maybe not so frantic and not so festive post-2020. If anything, 2020 encouraged us to slow down, be satisfied with less. November has that solemn, dignified feel. Like an elder, stately matriarch: I know who I am and what I bring to the table. It has ‘don’t trivialize me days”, like All Saints and All Souls and Guy Fawkes and Remembrance Day. Solemn days. Autumn’s glory is behind us and the sparkle of the first snowfall still ahead. November is the bridge between the two. November knows it is not well-loved. It is a reminder that the end of the yea...