“Two visits to Sherwood Inn, 80 years apart, in 1943 and 2023” by Elizabeth Sime

Bag unpacked and I’m almost back to my normal routine, after a stimulating October weekend at a writing retreat with Brian Henry at Sherwood Inn. The last time I was at Sherwood was in August 1943 during the second World War when I was ten.

My father learnt about Sherwood Inn from Mr. Draper, a business associate from Bay Street in Toronto. Father was looking for a small Inn on Lake Joseph where he could take Mother and I for a week of day trips by canoe.  My parents’ main interests on this holiday were canoeing, good food, and staying in a friendly place with like-minded people. Mother was in agreement and I didn’t have a choice, but was looking forward to being in or on the water. 

Mr. Draper arranged for a red cedar strip canoe to be ready on the beach for our adventures. We brought our own paddles which were suitable for our height. Father always paddled stern and had a wider paddle. There were no life jackets in those days. I was dumped in deep water and taught to kick the canoe to shore. At ten, when I was learning to paddle, we stayed close to the shore. 

Young Betsy Draper's dog Jet in
the formal dining room at Sherwood Inn

Each morning when not raining rattlesnakes, we set out with a packed lunch for a day trip on the lake. There were lots of rocks and places to swim for our lunch time stops.  I was happy. 

Now the lake is ringed with palatial "cottages." [Supermodel Cindy Crawford and her gazillionaire husband Rande Gerber own a quaint mansion here.] But in 1943 only a few simple cottages suitable for living in the bush could be found on Lake Joseph. These cottages had no electricity other than provided for by a small generator for lights. There was an outhouse, a wood stove for cooking, and a box with a block of ice to keep food cool.  The cottages had large screened-in porches to deal with the summer bug problem.

Mothers spent July and August with their children at the cottage, enjoying nature away from city activities. In the 1940’s polio was on the rampage and it was safer for children to be out of the city.  The cooler breezes up north were better than spending the summer in the city without air conditioning. And, there was always a lake to jump into when it was hot. 

To get to Muskoka in 1943 was a journey. Some travelled by car and others by train. In those days, 50 miles an hour was the speed limit on highways and Number 11 was the only road to the north. It went through the busy centres of all the villages and towns between Toronto and Muskoka. Gas was rationed but my father saved up enough coupons for the summer holiday trip to the north. 

At the slow speed of travel, we had time to absorb the change in landscape. When the highway went through the blasted rock-cut at Severn,  I remember thinking , We are now in rock country.  The trees also changed, to pine, spruce and hemlock. This was not a gradual change; suddenly we were in a different world. I felt as if I was really going to the north, far away from city activities.

Thomas B. Costain, author of The Silver Chalice and 85 other novels on one of his many stays at Sherwood Inn

Other guests would go by train to Gravenhurst and proceed by boat to Sherwood. I remember the supply boat coming to the main dock. I think it was called the Constance. The boat was a floating store to provide supplies to the few cottagers on the lake.  

On a rainy day, when we weren’t out paddling, I heard a bell ring when the boat was about to dock.  I ran down with twenty-five cents to buy two Neilson’s Burnt Almond Chocolate bars with blue wrappers. I even got five cents in return. Chocolate was a real treat during the War, as sugar was rationed. I ate one of the bars before I got to my parents to share my purchase.

We arrived at Sherwood late in the afternoon in time for dinner, tired after the long curvy drive from Toronto in our blue Plymouth.  Not like today when it only takes a couple of hours to speed along the straight 400.  At dinner, it was expected males would wear jackets and ties and females a dress. Even at home, my father always wore a tie and jacket for dinner and my mother changed from her daytime attire. For my family, this was a normal routine.

Artist Lawren Harris was another frequent
guest at Sherwood. The tranquility of the setting
attracted writers and artists – and still does. 

Customs have changed at Sherwood. In 2023, I brought a dressy sweater to wear at dinner just in case the dress code still existed.  I don’t own a dress or skirt anymore. The sweater went home unused, which was okay with me. This weekend the majority of guests were with me on the writing retreat. It was not necessary to change clothes between activities. Wearing something comfy was more important.  

Activities blended into each other. Breakfast, lecture time from Brian, rapid writes, one-on-one project discussion with Brian, lunch, more writing tips from Brian, then time to write. Dinner was at six, followed by a session of listening to pieces written by group members. The day was full.

I did have time to absorb some nature. I watched the lake changing from whitecaps one day to being like a mirror the next.  To stand under the tall majestic pines, smell and see a log fire burning each night just outside the front door reminded me I was staying in a northern forest. It was stimulating for me to spend time with like-minded people who shared a common interest in writing. Canoe tripping in 1943 and writing in 2023, were both very enjoyable experiences at an Inn where the personal touch is still important, the staff are all delightful, and the company of fellow writers is the best of all.  

***

Elizabeth Sime is a retired Public Health Nurse who practiced in the Yukon and Ontario. In her retirement she enjoys painting and writing. She is currently working on a memoir about her time with Indian and Northern Health Service in the 1950's.

For details of Brian's upcoming writing retreat at Sherwood Inn, see here.

See all of Brian’s upcoming weekly writing classes, afternoon workshops, and wonderful retreats here. 

“Arowhon Pines – I’ve already reserved my spot for next time” by Joyce Schacter

I’ve just returned from an inspiring weekend of writing with the Quick Brown Fox himself, Brian Henry.

This retreat reminded me that the craft is an interactive process: write, read, receive feedback, revise. Brian encouraged, coached, cajoled and helped us apply ourselves to what we love: the stuff of stories. He presented key topics, led discussions, organized us into reader-feedback buddies, put us at ease in his kind and funny way, and set up an environment that nurtured the writer in us. 

In one-on-one sessions, our fearless leader applied his laser vision and editorial savvy to our writing projects and brought them to new levels of clarity. 

The beautiful natural setting at Arowhon Pines Resort in Algonquin Park was ideal for a writing retreat. Ethereal mist moved across the lake in the cool early mornings of mid-September.

We hiked, canoed, kayaked, and swam in the still waters of Little Joe Lake, and had a boat tour of the area. Though the word “retreat” suggests temples and robes, the only monastic feature of Arowhon Pines is the old-fashioned bell clanging call to the dining hall for delicious gourmet meals. Dining together gave us wonderful opportunities to connect and draw motivation from each other. 

We were an eclectic dozen, including a feng shui expert, a painter in search of a new artistic medium, an accountant with an interest in Depression-era prostitution, and a retired jail warden, to name a few.

After I slipped into Little Joe Lake for a pre-breakfast swim one misty morning, I was designated Chief Lemming in the line up for the Go Jump in the Lake exercise that we’re planning next time ... I’ve already reserved my spot.

***

This piece arose out of Joyce's retreat with us a few years ago. To read more about Arowhon Pines Resort, see here. And read more pieces about – or inspired by – Brian’s retreats, workshops and weekly classes here (and scroll down).

For information about upcoming writers’ retreats, at both Arowhon Pines in Algonquin Park, Sherwood Inn on Lake Joseph in Muskoka, and at the Elm Hurst Inn and Spa in Ingersoll, see here (and scroll down). 

See all my upcoming weekly writing classes, one-day workshops, and four-day  retreats here. ~Brian

The Algonquin Park Writers’ Retreat – How Perfect! by Barbara Baker

Arowhon Pines Resort resident fox, photo by Barbara Baker

The road was gravel. It twisted through tall, leafy, overhanging trees that created a tunnel-like effect. After the first kilometer, my cell phone binged. I checked. No Service. Really? I tucked it away.

The next eight kilometers took us farther into Algonquin Park and finally ended in a parking lot at the edge of the blue waters of Little Joe Lake. I got out of the car and followed the signs on the walking path through the woods to the lodge.

The initial shock of no cell phone reception was ... shocking. Add no tv, radio, wifi or even a clock. How will any of us writers survive in this archaic environment?

The reality of all that was not accessible wore off within minutes as the beauty and peacefulness of Arrowhon Pines Resort encapsulated me.

I was taken to one of the many log cabins tucked away in the forest. A giant bed with crisp white linens, private bathroom, a stone fireplace, veranda overlooking the water, roomies to share the beauty of the setting and the cabin (though certainly not my room), as well as the ups and downs of our writing projects – how perfect! I only checked my phone two more times to make sure it really had no reception.

Brian Henry, our writing mentor for the retreat, opened the session. Cheerful, quirky, enthusiastic, funny – the list goes on to describe his attributes but he’s probably already blushing so I’ll stop.

A cabin at Arowhon Pines, photo by Barbara Baker

After the “fortune cookie” warm-up exercise, the room was a hub of voices and chatter and excitement. What a variety of storytellers! The energy flowed intravenously through the group and followed me back to my writing corner.

Coming from Calgary, I thought I might get the prize for the furthest distance travelled but since I only had to fly for four hours maybe the people that drove seven hours would get it. But there was no Furthest Distance Travelled prize. We were all winners.

Breaks from the writing sessions and private writing times were spent kayaking, hiking to the 400-year-old medicine tree, early morning coffee on the deck watching the mist rise, following the resident fox for photo ops or just walking without a destination in mind. Pure bliss.

And then there was the food, the amazing food of Arowhon! Add the camaraderie of all those writers in one location and you encounter unstoppable laughter, encouragement, support, understanding, some very tall tales and so many new friendships.

Another highlight of the retreat was the one-on-one mentoring session with Brian to discuss individual projects. Intuitive, enlightening – Brian was full of suggestions and ideas, offered support and encouragement and dished it all out with honesty, in confidence and with sincerity. This man has a thing about helping writers improve their voices and write their stories. How great is that?

When it was over and time to go back to the binging of cell phones and our normal lives, it was very hard to leave the hugs and the companionship of like-minded souls and one of the prettiest places to visit. Thank you Brian Henry for making it all happen!

***

For information about upcoming writers’ retreats, see here (and scroll down). 

To reserve a spot, email brianhenry@sympatico.ca

Barbara at Arowhon Pines

Barbara Wackerle Baker grew up in Banff, Alberta, and spends her free time racing up and down the Rockies trying to keep up with an active family of outdoor enthusiasts. Her passions include writing, photography, exploring landscapes and time with her grandchildren (the most beautiful grandchildren ever). 

Three of her stories have found homes in Chicken Soup publications, a dozen others are in short story contest anthologies, one of her stories won the 2016 John Kenneth Galbraith Literary Award, and her short story "Life Support," initially published in the Globe and Mail, was made into a short film that premiered at the Totonnto International Film Festival (here). She's also published three YA novels: Summer of Lies, What About Me, and Jillian of Banff XO (see here).

See all upcoming weekly writing classes, one-day workshops, and four-day retreats here.

“The Wisdom of Lily and the Fishbowl” by Anne Louise Pittens

 

In the spring of 2024, I went on adventure and learned to let go. I was headed for a writing retreat in Port Carling, Ontario – Muskoka country – but with a few threads to pick up along the way.

Brian Henry, long time editor and writing coach, hosted the retreat at the lovely Sherwood Inn on Lake Joseph. To get there, I flew from my home in Whitehorse, Yukon, to Toronto. In a nostalgic moment, I stayed the night at what used to be called The Bristol Place Hotel, now The Westin, on the airport strip. For

ty-six years earlier, I had stayed there for my honeymoon. I was curious to see if the hotel had weathered the years any better than my marriage, which had not done well at all! When I entered the lobby, I discovered that I did not remember the place. A bit like that first marriage, I thought, as I settled into my room. All the best to let things go.

A luxurious bed looked inviting, but I had a terrible sleep, fretting about a dozen things that have long escaped my memory. Primarily, I was nervous about meeting up with my brother who was driving me to my destination early in the morning.

Beyond a few texts every year, I had not spoken with him in a long time. I hoped we might enjoy catching up in person, but I knew he was not in a great head space due to recent personal trauma. I was determined to stay positive.

At seven am, I gave up trying to squeeze out anymore sleep and made my way down to the lobby in hopes of finding a decent cup of coffee. After a minute of searching, I located the coffee shop crammed into the back corner of the lobby like an afterthought. 

The lineup was long. The food display case was next to bare, and the lone person working was run off her feet. Exhausted from travel, I zombied my way into line and waited my turn.

As I approached the order station, I spotted a goldfish bowl on the counter. Sad place for a fish, I thought. No choice but to endlessly swim in circles, never getting anywhere, never moving on.

Fortunately, there was no fish trapped in the bowl, just a jumble of cards. They were the sort of card you get at a florist shop to message the recipient of your floral thoughts. Beside the bowl was a jar of pens and a stack of blank cards.

Instructions read as follows:

Leave a happy thought!

Take a happy thought!

While waiting for my coffee, I picked up a pen and card and considered what I might write. I have never been good at this sort of thing – like writing a message in a greeting card. I never know what to say. At that moment, my coffee arrived and instead of leaving a happy thought, I took one.

Seeing my brother pull up, I stuffed the card into my back pocket and climbed on board. By the time we travelled for an hour, we had worn out our topics of choice and tumbled into silence.

On the upside, we were beyond Toronto and past Barrie. The further north we drove, lakes and rocks took over from urban housing and shopping malls. Ah Muskoka! As a child, I spent many summers embracing the chilly waters of Mary Lake at Port Sidney. Now, I could feel my lungs opening to the fresh air.

Over the years, I had all but forgotten the jewel green of springtime leaves and how sunlight sparkles on the water.  White clouds graced the sky and reflected across the glassy surface of the lake, a perfect mirror image. A spring breeze blew up, and watercraft tethered to docks bobbed in the surf, straining at their ropes like dogs’ strain at their leashes. Boat houses dotted the shore.

And of course, here and there, a Muskoka chair (Adirondak chair if you’re not from Ontario) sat perched on a lakeside rock looking to the horizon. All it needed was an occupant in the requisite Tilly hat, pen and paper ready. A cup of coffee and a resting hound would complete the picture.

Muskoka Chairs at Sherwood Inn

The Sherwood Inn was welcoming and warm. Nestled into a lovely, treed setting, it sat on the edges of Lake Joseph. I have a thing about older architecture and was not disappointed. Dark green shutters stood out against the white building and in the evening, the interior lighting cast a warm and welcoming glow. I could hardly wait to explore after checking in.

Tired from the journey, I went to my room where I was delighted to find a private bathroom, a writing desk, a comfortable bed, and a cozy seating area. The window looked over a large deck and beyond that to the lake.

With time before the retreat started, I changed into more comfortable clothing to have a snooze, hopeful I would awake feeling renewed and refreshed. As I dropped my jeans on the chair, the card from the coffee shop fell out of my pocket. This was the message:

Lily Elliot

You

Are

Lovd

Loved

Based on the writing, it was hand-printed by a child of six or seven years of age. I could imagine her standing there, elbows on the counter and her tongue held in just the right position to form the letters.

As we travel through each day, we never know how the little things we do or say are going to impact the world around us. Somewhere along her journey, young Lily left a note for a stranger to tell them they were loved.

My lucky day! I really treasure that she felt no need to get a new card and start over because of a spelling mistake. Lily knew. Mistakes are ok. Everyone makes them. We move on.

And in that moment, with Lily’s lesson in mind, I moved on. Three blessed days of writing in a beautiful place lay ahead of me. The food was delicious, beautifully presented, beautifully seasoned, and bountiful. Great service is always a pleasure, and it was in abundance. To be able to share this time with others who love to write – and Brian who loves to help and encourage – was the best tonic ever.

But a note to Lily; wherever your travels have taken you, I wanted to say a heart-felt thank you. I don’t know how I ended up at the same coffee shop as you and I don’t know how you came to write this card, but I have it now. It is tucked into my bedroom mirror.

Now, no matter what is going on in my world, every time I look at your card and your message, I feel lighter in spirit. I recall those beautiful spring days I spent at the Sherwood writing retreat in Muskoka, investing my time in the things that matter, and learning to let go of the things that don’t.

Anne Louise Pittens lives in Whitehorse, Yukon, with her husband Michel and Gryphon – a Swiss Mountain Dog who hates the cold.  With almost a full retirement recently upon her, Anne is spending her time writing, shovelling snow and shivering to produce a little extra heat.  Occasionally she can be found scrolling through old photos of Mexico and Costa Rica. The Yukon is a magical place and welcoming to every person who cares to give it a try.

See more pieces about or inspired by Brian’s retreats, workshops and classes here.

For more essays, short stories, and poetry by you fellow writers see here (and scroll down).

See Brian Henry's upcoming weekly writing classes, one-day workshops, and four-day retreats here.

Close to paradise ~ My first stay at Arowhon Pines Resort, by Brian Henry

Nothing settles my heart like an Algonquin lake. For me, sitting on the porch that wraps around the dining hall at Arowhon Pines this past June,* drinking a morning coffee while watching the mist rise off the lake came pretty close to paradise.

Hummingbirds hovered at the feeders, their wings whirring with the effort of keeping them stationary, while down at the far end of the lake, a minuscule smudge in the shallows showed up in my binoculars as a bull moose munching on water lilies. Best of all, though, I had a pen, a notebook, and time. Lots of time. I loved it.

Decades back, I was keen on canoe-tripping into the interior of Algonquin Park. But the ground seems to have gotten harder and canoes heavier; after the last time I took a trip that required  carrying a canoe from lake to lake and sleeping on the ground, I couldn’t stand up straight for a week.

But having a real bed was just the start. Then there was the food. Dinner on Friday evening featured a choice of lobster in passion fruit; roasted chicken with Arowhon stuffing and house cranberry sauce; roast loin of venison; or orange and ginger glazed tofu. It was a tough choice, even though for us the lobster was out (not remotely kosher, you know).

To my family’s collective sighs of pity, I went for the tofu, but the flavours were so sharp and complex that it stacked up well against both the venison and the chicken.

If you wanted, you might avoid the hell of having to choose by ordering a half portion of all four entrees. But for myself I was close to full just from the buffet of appetizers (the salad strewn with edible flowers was my favourite) and I wanted to leave at least some room for the buffet of desserts. Among those, I voted for the homemade wild blueberry ice-cream as best of the buffet, but the kids were passionate advocates for the maple mousse and the butter tarts (winners of some award or other).

And of course in between the appetizers and the main course, there was also the mushroom soup with a truffle cream, which was simply the best soup I’ve ever had. So I can’t recommend ordering the whole dinner menu – that was a strategy I reserved for breakfast, where I asked for almost everything: half portions of smoked whitefish, eggs, potatoes and toast, French toast, and cinnamon pancakes, plus juice and coffee. Lots of wonderful coffee.

For lunch on Friday, we all ordered fish and chips (delicious). Lunch on Saturday was a buffet with far too many dishes to begin to describe, but I have to give special mention to the outstanding bean and mushroom salad, the Scotch eggs, the tomato basil soup, and the edible flowers everywhere.

But what I loved most was how we could go from enjoying food that’s as good as it gets, take one step outside and be at the edge of the wilderness, with Little Joe Lake at our doorstep and a series of other lakes within an afternoon’s paddle. We took three trips out on these lakes: once a guided tour on a small pontoon boat; once all four of us in a pair of canoes; and once me and my son in a pair of kayaks.

We saw moose on every outing. More accurately, we hung out with moose. A mama and her calf were happy to let us drift close enough that we could hear them munching their water lilies; close enough to smell them. They paid no more attention to us than to a loon that swam by.

Brian vs William

My son and I had to go swimming, too, though it hadn’t been a warm spring, and even with the sun high overhead, the air temperature didn’t rise above 22⁰. But, heck, we were at a wilderness lodge and a few other hearty people were jumping off the dock, so we did, too.

Georgian Bay has colder water. William promptly turned blue and his extremities went numb, so I told him to get out while he could still climb the ladder. As for me, well, that breakfast I’d had and the extra pounds I still posses provided warm insulation.

We also hit the games room for a family ping-pong tournament and to introduce the kids to the wonders of a well-salted shuffleboard table. Possibly this was a mistake. At a restaurant back in Toronto, William demonstrated to one of his buddies how salt acts like ball bearings, erasing friction so that salt and pepper shakers – and even dinner plates – glide and spin as effortlessly as pucks on a shuffleboard table.

Perhaps, though, we experienced the most marvelous wonder of the trip that night as we headed back to our cabin. With the closest traffic eight kilometers down a back road through the woods, the quiet was profound and the sky clear of reflected light. In the west, an orb hung in the sky as bright as a spotlight.

In books, I’ve read references to airline pilots mistaking Venus for an on-coming aircraft but had never before understood how this was possible. Now I did. The sky was so clear that Venus didn’t look like just another star; it was plainly a disc, a goddess shining in the heavens.  

Sunset over Little Joe Lake, by Emma Henry

Note: I took this trip in June 2015 to check out Arowhon as a site for holding writers' retreats. It passed! The subsequent retreats have been great, too. Read reviews and other pieces inspired by of the retreats offered so far here (and scroll down).

Check out details upcoming retreats, at Arowhon Pines and other locales here (and scroll down). 

See my upcoming weekly writing classes, one-day workshops, and weekend retreats here.

“Memories of Arowhon Pines” by Lucia Saja

 

It was a hot June day in 1964 and I was crammed inside a crowded bus, full of screaming, singing, excited kids heading to camp.  I wasn’t one of the campers.  I was about to turn 17 and about to start my first fulltime summer job.  I thought I’d be working in the kitchen at Camp Arowhon, but when the bus got there, the kids got off and a small group of us were told to stay on.

The next stop was the sublime opposite of the camp.  Arowhon Pines was a luxury resort nestled among tall pines on a peaceful lake.  The rustic setting was spectacular and completely foreign to me.  I was 100% a city girl.  I’d never even gone camping, and, here I was in the middle of Algonquin Park.  Little did I know, I was about to start the adventure of a lifetime.

We were shown to our quarters in what is now called the “L”.  The girls were on the left side, the boys on the right.  The communal washrooms were in the junction of the two wings.  I was so self-conscious.  I’d never shared space with so many people before.

We got our rooms and assignments.  My first shift was in the laundry at 7am the next day.  The good news was, I would have afternoons off.  The bad news was, I had to earn them by working in the steamy laundry, washing bedding in huge machines, putting sheets through the mangle (a giant set of cloth covered rollers that pressed the sheets and pillowcases flat), and ironing campers’ shirts.  The work was hot and repetitious, but I loved my new-found freedom.

I remember that first morning at Arowhon.  It was 6 a.m.  The air was cool and fresh.  A pale gray mist covered the ground and swirled around my legs as I walked.  The only sound was that of leaves rustling and a lone chickadee somewhere in the woods.  

As the weeks passed friendships formed and the “L” became a community.  Like any community, it was rife with characters.  The matriarch and owner, Lillian Kates, was a small solid woman with tanned skin, snow-white hair and a commanding manner.  She visited on a regular basis, even though she’d passed on most of the responsibilities to her son Eugene.  When she was on the property, we all knew to look smart and look busy.  Her philosophy was that everything should be done correctly at all times.

Then there was Aunt Sarah.  She was as fiery as her bright auburn hair and fire engine red lipstick.  Aunt Sarah ran the snack shop.  She kept everyone supplied with junk food and entertained us with outrageous stories about her life.

My boss in the laundry was Mike, a large man in overhauls, who revelled in the noise and steam let off by the giant machines in his kingdom.

There was also a rotating crew of short-term workers.  They were unshaven, older men who sat behind the staff cabins drinking on Saturday nights.

Lucia and Melinda

My real education came from Melinda.  She was from Altoona, Pennsylvania, and she’d graduated from Penn State.  I thought she was the smartest, most exciting person I’d ever met.  She owned a motorcycle.  She read poetry for pleasure!  

She talked about world affairs and literature and religion.  No one I knew talked about that stuff.  She had joined the Peace Corps and worked in Afghanistan for two years.  In 1964, I didn’t even know where Afghanistan was.  

All I knew was that I wanted to be like her.  I wanted to go to university, read poetry and change the world.

I learned so much that summer.  I learned to be independent, to make beds properly, to mangle sheets, to work collaboratively, to open my mind to ideas and possibilities. I developed a lifelong appreciation for people in the service industry.  

I also learned that meals could be more than overcooked meat, boiled potatoes and limp veggies.  The generous chefs at Arowhon informed my palate,  offering me exotic, delicious foods that sent me into waves of rapture.  I learned to paddle a canoe on my own and discovered that not paddling and just floating on a silent lake could be transformative.

I returned two more summers and became one of the veterans.  I cleaned rooms as chambermaid and eventually worked as waitress.  I remember the giant fireplace that dominated the dining room even then and the linen covered tables filled with guests “dressed” for dinner: men in sports jackets and ties and ladies in cocktail dresses and heels.   

In September 2023, just shy of sixty years later I returned, as a guest, fulfilling a promise I’d made to myself decades earlier.  Wonder of wonders, little had changed.  It was perfect, just as I remembered.  And the food, it still set off waves of rapture.  Instead of getting treats from the chef out the back door of the kitchen, I had my choice of fresh exciting meals with sublime flavours.

The greatest impact was when I walked over to see the former staff quarters.  The building sits on a little hilltop surrounded by trees.  It is now used for storage.  As soon as I saw it, I felt a rush of emotion.  The years disappeared; the cabin doors flew open and the ghosts poured out.  I saw us bustling back and forth to the bathroom, getting ready for work.  In the evening, sitting at the edge of the walkway swinging our legs and joking.  The cabins were alive again, filled with laughter and talk.  We sure did talk and talk and talk.

The summer of ‘64 was a magical time, one that helped shape the adult I became.  I did keep learning and never stopped being curious and open to new ideas and experiences.  I didn’t change the world, but spent most of my life reporting on global events as a news writer.  A few years ago, I searched for and found Melinda.  She is in her eighties and living in Hawaii.  She said she still rides a motorcycle.      

***

Lucia visiting former staff quarters at Arowhon in 2023

Lucia Saja spent most of her professional life with with CTV New. She started in the News Library in 1979 and over the next 30 years she to learn every aspect of news production, including video production, story development, line-up, and script writing. 

She retired as Senior Script Writer for CTV News, which meant she edited scripts for accuracy and grammar before going to air. She also trained new writers and worked on all the news specials over the decades.  

In September 2023, Lucia returned to Arowhon Pines Resort for one of our writing retreats. See upcoming retreats at Arowhon and elsewhere here {and scroll down}.

See more pieces about our writing retreats, or inspired by them, here.

See Brian Henry’s upcoming weekly writing classes, one-day workshops, and weekend retreats here.