“My COVID Christmas: a Guilty Pleasure” by Kathryn Hazlewood

 

My Christmas as a precocious, wide-eyed, five-year-old in the 1940s seems quite magical now. I still experience a Proust moment when the aroma of mincemeat fills the air, triggering childhood memories of my mother making this holiday treat.

I remember the mischief I instigated too. After mom stashed her vacuum-packed jars of mincemeat in our musty, bone-chilling fruit cellar, my impish three-year old brother and I crept down there, popped the lid of a jar of that luscious goo and began digging a well from the centre to leave the appearance of a full jar. When too cold to continue, we licked our fingers, replaced the lid, and anticipated the shrieks of “Who did this?” days later when mom opened the jars to start baking Christmas tarts and pies. We giggled, knowing full well that all would soon be forgiven under our protestations to mom that her mincemeat was better than anyone else could make.

Intensely evocative memories always seem to focus on baking and eating in my family. My mother’s kitchen was a joyful anchor throughout my life and her recipes continue to take centre stage at all our Christmas gatherings.

Guiltily, though, I admit that I associate being mischievous to those times past as well. Mom was a determined woman and very proud of her baking, with talent gleaned from her mother who our family believes was chef to Emmeline Pankhurst, champion of women’s suffrage in the early 1900s London. Channelling that strong, competitive spirit, Mom sculpted spectacular gingerbread families — mothers, fathers, and children outfitted in fancy jackets, trousers, hats, boots and gloves. Wrapped in cellophane and tied with ribbon, they were hung on our Christmas tree — a ready target for two naughty children.

We waited till the house was quiet, then crept into the living room and snapped off every last head we could reach. The beheadings were discovered next morning, but undaunted, mom carefully applied a thick, colourful icing scarf to the headless bodies and glued each head back on. We, on the other hand, were sentenced to time in our rooms with threats of coal in our Christmas stockings.

Dylan Thomas’s A Child’s Christmas in Wales had nothing on our Christmas celebrations. My five-year-old self singlehandedly made sure of that. A mammoth carved oak table awaited our Christmas dinner with the best china, silver and crystal at each place. 

When all fourteen of us sat down to eat, attention was drawn to me when dad expected me to recite a Christmas blessing. I had learned it at school and shown off to my parents by parroting it at home, but I became shy and tongue-tied with all those adult faces looming toward me in expectation. Stalling for time, I snatched up a crystal water goblet intending to take a sip, but, panic-stricken, I crunched down on the rim and came up with a tongue full of crystal shards.

I was rushed to the kitchen by two old aunts all flapping and fussing. Someone ran for tweezers and the arduous task of fetching bits of crystal from my tongue began amidst salty tears mixed with rivulets of blood. Emergency surgery completed, someone remembered that dinner was getting cold, so we all slid back into our places and my dad said the blessing. If looks could kill…I sat feeling very alone and remorseful.

Fast forward now to Christmas 2022. My expectations for our annual Christmas celebrations were shattered just days before December 25 when double lines appeared on my COVID tester. I had COVID!

The plan, as always, had been to revive my mother’s traditions but that year there were to be no aromas of roast turkey and mincemeat pies, no gingerbread families on the tree and no grandchildren’s childish antics. I was as alone on Christmas morning as if I were that five-year-old sitting humiliated and solitary at the dining room table, now with only my thermometer and a dose of Paxlovid.

But wait! The first surprise of the day began at 8:00 a.m. when my friend Bill shouted through the front door to put a mug outside so he could fill it with fresh-brewed java. As I bent to retrieve it, he called out, “Merry Christmas” from twenty feet away, pointing out a loot bag at my feet.

I recalled a line from Little Women when Jo says “Christmas won’t be Christmas without any presents” but there was one for me.  Maybe this day wouldn’t be so bad after all, I thought. In my loot bag were shortbreads, Nanaimo bars and other little goodies. Not mom’s cooking, but a close second.

I had settled down to read a book, sip my coffee and nibble on shortbread for breakfast when my younger daughter, her husband and my two overly excited grandsons called on Facetime so I could virtually visit their living room where gifts had been torn open and the kids paraded across the screen with loot from Santa. They were to have been with me for Christmas dinner, but what a turnaround to be invited into their home on Christmas morning.

Two more sips of coffee later, and my sister and her family called on Facetime too, so I joined them at their festive brunch complete with a new puppy in a knitted sweater embossed with Ho Ho Ho from scruff to rump. We all toasted to a Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year.

A rap on the door another half hour later and I opened it to find that a thoughtful neighbour had left a plate of homemade cookies, a little battery-powered candle, and a pretty red poinsettia. The accompanying note wished me a Merry Christmas and a quick recovery. Not soon enough, I thought.

As lunchtime approached, my older daughter texted to say she had deposited frozen homemade soups and a full tin of, yes, more cookies on my doorstep. I loaded up the freezer, guiltily thinking, I kind of like this.  

That afternoon, two masked and cautious family members arrived to pick up all the gifts from under my tree to take to their hastily organized replacement Christmas, sans moi. (Was I happy not to be there? Well, I’ll bite my tongue on that one.) Off they went, playing Santa and leaving me a bit guilty yet relieved that everyone would receive their gifts.

Two hours later, my reading was interrupted by another virtual call, transporting me to the replacement Christmas with everyone gathered round the screen as their dinner cooked, ripping into the gifts from me to them. I felt present as the adults chatted and my grandsons ran in circles with their aunt’s two bouncy, antlered Jack Russells. I was really getting into this Christmas-at-a-distance thing.

Then, the moment I signed off, I heard insistent knocking, opened the door and beheld a full Christmas dinner and a Christmas cracker too. I placed the dinner tray before me, snapped the cracker, and became a queen in a red tissue crown, dining contentedly alone. And best of all? I didn’t have to cook!

By the last bite of dessert, I was becoming drowsy. Being waited on and Facetimed throughout the day had tired me right out. I texted my thanks to all the family, saying how sorry I was not to have hosted Christmas, but was I?

When my head hit the pillow, I mulled over the day which had defied my Christmas traditions yet had been one of the most satisfying Christmases I’d ever had. It held its own kind of magic that I could never have imagined – family, friends, screen time, sweets, lunch and dinner had all come my way. I yawned and thought, I wonder if I can get COVID again next year?

***

Kathryn Hazlewood is a retired educator. Her career spans elementary and secondary teaching to PR for a major bank, a sabbatical in France, executive producer of youth TV programs and finally, executive director of a not-for-profit. 

In her retirement she is a busy widow taking conversational French, volunteering in long-term care, traveling, hosting a book club, mentoring high school students in English, serving on a tenant association and spending lots of time entertaining and cooking for grandchildren and close family. 

During COVID she self-published a children’s book I’m Done! and wrote an unpublished, as yet, biography Twisted Twins as a favour for grown twins with Cerebral Palsy. She lives in Burlington.

***

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

New book: Escape to Ponti by Brian Slattery

Hi, Brian:

 In 2018, I participated in your Burlington class devoted to writing for young people, which I very much enjoyed and profited from.

I just wanted to let you know that my first novel has now been published by Fitzhenry & Whiteside/Red Deer Press. It's an adventure story for readers aged 10 to 99, titled Escape to Ponti.  It runs 433 pages with 22 illustrations by Antonio Javier Caparo, an award-winning artist from Montreal.  The book is set in northern Italy during the late Middle Ages and features both sword-play and kung fu, as well as plenty of action and comedy.

  All the best,

Brian Slattery

https://brianjohnslattery.com

Brian Slattery

Note: Brian Henry’s next {online} weekly Writing Kid Lit class starts soon. Details here.

Plus, on February 3, we have an online one-day Writing for Children and for Young Adults  workshop with children's books editor Sarah Howden, Saturday, Feb 3. Details here.  

Escape to Ponti

Fourteen-year-old Bec learned a lesson that day. Be careful whom you rob. A slave on the run from his vicious master, Bec is desperate for money. But when he mugs Tien Nu, he gets more than he bargained for. Tien Nu isn't just a superb acrobat and kung fu wizard. He's also killed his father - or so he thinks. 

As the paths of the two boys become intertwined with the journey of a mysterious knight, mayhem ensues when they head cross-country toward the safety of Ponti, with Bec's slave master in hot pursuit.

A medieval, historical adventure in the Kingdom of Italia.

Available from Red Deer Press here.

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

“Childfree” by Alison White

 

There’s a common misconception that women who choose not to have children are unhappy. Or perhaps they have something wrong with them physically or mentally.  I have often been asked why I never had children, oftentimes with a look of bewilderment, rarely with genuine curiosity.

Society has conditioned us to think that women who are childless cannot be fulfilled or happy. I read an article in the Guardian eight years ago about Pope Francis calling people who don’t want children selfish. I’ve also heard the arguments that children are the future and we need to procreate. But do we all need to procreate? Perhaps there are enough people having children, perhaps too many, and I’m actually doing the world a favour.   

I have never given anyone a clear answer because I never really made a conscious decision not to have children, nor did I long for them. This is a difficult concept to explain to others, but it’s a reality that I am comfortable with.

My reasons for not having children stem from timing and circumstance.  During my first marriage, at the age of 23, I assumed having children was inevitable. I married an Italian with a big family, and let’s just say it was somewhat expected that we would have children, though we never actually discussed it. Unfortunately, we divorced five years later - possibly a lack of communication had something to do with it. At the age of 27, I moved back home with my parents for a while to figure out my next move and then moved into my place, and started my life over.

I began dating and stayed in two more short-term relationships over the next few years but neither of them was ready to move forward, and I wasn’t ready either. Thus, having children was no longer a priority for me. I was focused on building my career, traveling, and taking night school courses. I gradually began to prioritize those aspects of my life and enjoyed my independence.  

Additionally, I started teaching aerobics and taking an interest in learning more about fitness. That's how I met my now husband. He used to walk by the room I was teaching and flash a smile at me as he pretended to need a sip of water from the fountain. The fitness class began teasing me about this since there was an obvious flirtation happening.

Eventually, we became friends and started hanging out with a group of people from the gym, going for drinks on a Friday night after a really good workout. He would come over to my apartment, we would watch TV, order pizza, or play cards. It was nice not to feel pressured into a relationship, but there was an obvious attraction that neither of us wanted to admit. 

We have a four-year age difference, which wasn’t a big deal, but he didn't seem ready to take our relationship to the next level. Mostly, I was okay with that. Both of us were working on different things at different times, and we had so much fun together. It was effortless.

Eventually, our friendship evolved into something more, in Las Vegas of all places. He invited me to join him at his dad’s wedding. Never having been to Vegas, and since he was covering the expenses, I accepted the offer with excitement. It's hard to say whether it was the glittering lights, his Dad’s fun Elvis-themed wedding, or simply being together in a new place. When he held my hand and told me he wanted to be more than friends I felt an overwhelming sense of happiness and contentment, knowing that we would be okay no matter where life took us from there.

During conversations we discussed the possibility of having children, our goals and desires, and how much we enjoyed each other's company. We concluded that we were okay with just the two of us and decided to focus on our mutual love of travel and exploring new places.

Shortly after moving in together, we attended a dinner party with some of his friends. When the men went to watch a football game in another room I was left with the women at the table, whom I didn’t know very well at all. As they shared experiences and talked about their children I remained quiet. One of the women looked at me and asked “Do you have children?”  when I responded, “No,” there was silence as awkwardness filled the room. 

I suddenly felt the urge to join the men to avoid the inevitable questions around when or why or comments like “Don’t worry you have lots of time” or “You and your partner will have great-looking kids!” 

I’m always amazed at the assumption that women’s ultimate goal in life is to have children.

As I’ve grown older, people don’t often ask me about having children. However, there are still times when people are confused and there is a brief moment of awkwardness. I usually respond by simply stating we chose not to have children, which has allowed us to travel and enjoy our life together.

I remain in awe of my family and my friends and their incredible ability to juggle all the responsibilities of life while raising children, especially during the roller-coaster teenage years. I say this because I remember what I put my parents through during that same period! 

Sometimes I find myself wondering what kind of mother I would have been. I think I might have been an anxious one as I tend to worry, a trait I inherited from my mom. I secretly wish I could have given my parents their first grandchild, or any grandchild in any order – it would have been a great gift to them. Fortunately, they have two amazing grandchildren courtesy of my brother and his lovely wife. On my husband's side, we have two nephews and, on my side, we have a nephew and niece. I am grateful for the opportunity to be the best aunt I can be to them and I love them deeply.

Perhaps I would have made a pretty good mother after all – but I’m content with how things turned out.

***

Alison White is a professional sales and marketing leader who is semi-retired. In her free time, Alison enjoys volunteering and has served on an advisory board for women in leadership organization, as well as patient and family program committees for Unity Health in Toronto. Currently, Alison is pursuing her passion for writing personal stories.

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

 

“The Protest” by Janice Locke

 

It was the noise I noticed first – a slow deep rumble that grew steadily louder. My husband and I were in the back of a black limo, threading our way through the busy streets of Central London toward our hotel near Trafalgar Square.  It was cold and grey with a relentless drizzle. 

We were on our way back from a Bat Mitzvah. The synagogue was in a village about an hour outside the City. We were honoured to have been invited by our close friends to celebrate such an important milestone for their 13-year-old granddaughter. The congregation was welcoming and even though the service was serious and steeped in tradition, the mood was happy and celebratory.   Our friends beamed with pride.

The limo was making very little progress.  Barricades were being put up at intersections.  The GPS used by the driver kept moving our ETA out.  What had shown 15 minutes, now displayed 35.

The driver started to show visible signs of frustration, as he veered away from one barricade, only to face another. 

In addition to a greater number of people on the street, police presence began to increase.   Mounted Police, London City Bobbies, and what appeared to be military police seemed to be everywhere we looked.  We noticed Helicopters circling overhead. 

It became clear we were not going to be able to reach our hotel by car.   I looked at my husband.  Neither of us were dressed for walking the wet and uneven London Streets, thronged with people, in our “Church Clothes.”

The driver confirmed by advising us, “You’d best walk”, and we exited the car, and joined the crowds.  I juggled my cell phone, silently gave thanks for Google Maps, and tightly grasped my husband’s arm.  High heeled shoes, nylons, and a light wrap made me feel vulnerable.  Not a feeling I relished.

Heading toward Trafalgar Square the noise became deafening. I knew it was Guy Fawkes Day and wondered if we were heading to an event in recognition of the day. 

Gradually, we made out a chant coming from the Square.  “Free Palestine Now”, was being shouted in unison from the thousands of people already gathered.  More people flooded in from the Tube Stations and the crowds became denser with every step. Palestinian Flags were everywhere.

I was suddenly scared.  My fear was due to the crowds and the overwhelmingly strong emotions from the people all around me.  I tried to make myself invisible as we squeezed and now pushed our way through the crowds.

I considered myself non-political. My family belonged to the United Church.  This was the most generic of Protestant Religions.  My memories of Church were mostly of the feeling of community and the tea and sandwiches served at various fundraisers.   I had the luxury of not feeling too strongly about either politics or religion.  

 My close friends who grew up in Poland right after the Second World War frequently told me my views of “live and let live” were somewhat naïve.  I have never faced war or considered what it would be like to live with views that would lead to violence or war.  I grew up in Canada.  My parents were not rich, but I took food, space, freedom of thought and lack of oppression for granted. 

Ironically, we had spent the previous day at the newly refurbished Churchill War Rooms Museum.   There was a well-presented exhibit that outlined in detail the various events that led to the creation of Israel and the Palestinian territories.  

The complexity of the events leading to the current divisions of lands was overwhelming. Decisions were made in the backdrop of world changing events over hundreds if not thousands of years.   

Was it possible to feel that these events and the subsequent tragedies were not “my problem?”  Did I have to choose sides?  Could I still cling to my perhaps simplistic view that all conflict was avoidable. What would I do if I found myself actually involved in the atrocities? What if my family were involved?

Thankfully, we eventually made our way safely to our hotel.  We had a warm cup of tea in the comfort of our room and prepared for the Bat Mitzvah Party that was happening that evening. 

In Trafalgar Square there were now three hundred thousand Protesters. It remained peaceful.

We were about to join an intimate gathering of families and friends who also had to fight their way through the protests to celebrate a significant day in the life of a thirteen-year-old girl.

The contrast between the close family celebration and the raw emotions on display in the Square were beyond my ability to process. 

I have been thinking of my personal experience as news updates inundate all forms of media.

I don’t have any conclusions, but I now feel involved.  My stance that this is happening far away to people I don’t know has evaporated. But what follows from this? I still don’t know what to think of it all.

Note: For more about the current war between Israel and Gaza, perhaps start with “At War with a Death Cult” here. 

Or to get an idea who these protestors are, see here.

***

Janice Locke has been inspired to capture personal stories and write non-fiction as a result of Brian Henry’s courses. She writes based on personal experiences as a CEO of various public and private companies and as a grandmother. Janice lives in Ancaster with her husband and enjoys hiking the beautiful Dundas Valley with her Sheltie, Callie. 

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

 

Winding Road Stories, a new(ish) publisher looking for manuscripts

A Face in the Window
by Burlington author Lorraine Sommerfeld
published by Winding Road

Winding Road Stories

https://windingroadstories.com/publish/

Winding Road Stories is a new independent American book publisher, just established in 2020. They look to still be figuring out the business and, to date, have just two dozen books out. But they’re hungry for more. They’re looking for commercial and literary fiction for both adults and young adults and nonfiction.

In fiction, they’re specifically seeking: Science Fiction and Fantasy, Literary Fiction, Horror, Mystery, Romance, and Young Adult.

For nonfiction, they’re looking for True Crime, Expert Service, Health & Wellness, Sports, Business, and Memoir.

But if you have something different, don’t hesitate to query them – except no short stories, novellas, or screen plays.

Submit your entire manuscript through their submissions page here.

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

“The Crystal Swan,” a Christmas story by Evena Gottschalk

Many years ago at Christmas, I received a tiny crystal swan, a mirror on which to place it and a hand-drawn card with lovely crayon work, saying, For you, Auntie. The gift came from my best friend’s six-year-old son, Peter.

The sights and smells of that Christmas morning at Ann’s house have been indelibly inscribed in my brain. I remember looking through the window at the trees, the rooftops and the sidewalks brushed with a fresh layer of snow.  Inside, the fireplace crackled, and the smell of freshly baked ham permeated the air.

On Christmas Eve we decorated the tree, baked cookies, drank egg nog. Afterwards, we bundled up and walked through the crunchy snow to attend the Festival of the Nine Lessons and Carols at a nearby church.  We returned home, cold, tired but joyful. Eventually, sleep called and we retired to our rooms.

“Auntie,” Peter whispered. “May I come in? I want to tell you something.” 

“Sure,” I said. Peter came over to my bed.  To have a better view of his round, angelic face, I turned on the bedside light.

“I bought a gift for you Auntie. I chose it myself. Before I could reply, Peter turned around and ran up the hallway to his room. 

After breakfast, we gathered around the tree to exchange gifts.  But Peter pre-empted the ritual of him handing out the Christmas stockings.  Rather he planted himself in front of the tree.  In his outstretched hand, he held a small box topped with an oversized red bow. “Open it, open it,” he said, rushing towards me. “I wrapped it myself.” He leaned on my lap; elbows on chin gazing at me as I lifted a miniature crystal swan out of the box. 

“Auntie, do you like it?”

“Of course, it’s beautiful,” I said.”

 “Auntie, take good care of it, forever and forever.” 

I did.

Peter’s mother and I are first generation Canadians.  Our parents immigrated to Canada to study and never returned. They were not escaping from a life of poverty. Rather they enjoyed the freedom of anonymity, a difficult thing to achieve on a small island. 

Our two families lived in the same neighbourhood, vacationed together. Peter’s mother, and I attended the same university. We considered ourselves sisters, just not bonded by DNA.  She had been my biggest supporter when my husband unexpectedly died.

Peter grew up, went off to university.  I remember the Christmas morning when he presented his fiancée with a pair of crystal lovebirds. How he repeated the exact words when he gave me my crystal swan, but with a twist.  He said, “Take good care of them, because my love for you is forever and forever.” Then he turned to me and asked like he had done so many Christmases before. “Auntie how is my swan doing? Is she safe?” 

“Of course. Auntie loves you and your swan, forever and forever.” 

One summer’s evening I heard a tinkling sound. I ran to my room to discover the swan lying on its side, its wings broken. My heart leapt.  Why did it break, I asked myself. Because there was no one else around and the windows were closed. I dismissed it all, went to the kitchen to prepare dinner.

About half of an hour later my cell phone rang. “He’s gone, he’s gone,” Ann screamed. Her cries pierced my ears, my soul, my body.

“Who? I asked.

“Peter, Peter, my only son, he’s gone.” The phone went dead. I ran to the bedroom, held that broken bird. Sobbed.

Later I learned that he died in a car crash, on his way home from a business trip. 

After his death, I carried that broken swan in my handbag. The swan has traveled to all the countries Peter promised to visit. Until one day, I realized my tears no longer flowed when I uttered his name or look fixedly at his photos. A quietness had settled within me. I thought it was time for Peter to be made whole again. To fly away. And Ann and I had decided it was time to start celebrating Christmas again. However muted.

At our first holiday get together I visited the shop where Peter had originally bought the bird when he was just a little boy. 

“Do you have this one?” I asked the sales associate. I softly unravelled the tissue paper and showed her the broken swan.

 “Let me go look,” she said. She opened the display case and searched. “You’re lucky. This is my last one.”

She placed it in the palm of my hand. And memories of a little boy, in another place, in another time, flooded my heart. I smiled and swallowed my tears.

“Is it a gift?” she asked. “Shall I wrap it?”

“Yes, please,” I said.

***

Evena Gottschalk grew up on the island of Barbados listening to stories told by her grandmother. Now free to pursue her passion for storytelling, she spends time reading and writing. When not working on her novel, she watches British detective shows. She has spent most of her adult life in Canada with a brief stint in Uppsala, Sweden.

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

“My Afghan Friends” by Margaret Whitley

 

I didn’t even realize Laura had my phone number until I got a call from her while my husband and I were driving home to Ontario from a vacation Nova Scotia. Laura, who was a casual friend I exchanged pleasantries with at the post office or grocery store, launched into a panicked appeal for accommodation for a group of Afghan refugees due to arrive in a day or two in Southampton, the summer resort town where we lived.

“Many cottages will be empty,” she said. “That’d be nice. They’ll need peace and calm. They’ve had a harrowing escape.”

Unlike many, I live in Southampton year-round, but my sister Sarah left her cottage empty most months of the year. Yes, they could use that, but it wasn’t winterized and we were already at Labour Day.

My husband and I pulled into Southampton the next afternoon and immediately went to my sister's place.  My parents were already there, trying to sweep the floors and make the home livable since cobwebs and dust had already settled after her family vacated.

A few hours later, a van pulled up, and the P_______ family poured out, disoriented and barely coping with the unbelievable events they'd experienced since August.  Several of the seven family members spoke excellent English, translating for the family, me, and my husband.  Other people, including Laura and Cheryl, one of the drivers, were also part of the welcoming committee.

Within a day or two, a small group coalesced around supporting the newly arrived Afghans. We were sworn to secrecy about their identities and to avoid the media. If the Taliban or sympathizers knew where Afghans had fled, their lives might be in danger.  

That first family included four women: Fariha, the mom; Nilofar, the eldest and most articulate and worldly; the second sister, Palwasha, who had just completed an economics degree; and Asma, sixteen years of age. The daughters were all soccer players.  In Afghanistan, young women, especially professional women, viewed soccer (or football as they called it) as a form of defiance against traditional Islamic beliefs, or at least Taliban beliefs.

Nilofar, a teacher, had frequently travelled to Taliban-controlled provinces dressed in a Burka to secretly educate young women about human rights.  She’d tell the Imams she was offering instruction in the Koran.

Besides the women, the family included Nilofar’s husband, Sayed, a civil engineer; Arsalan, her eleven-year-old brother; and her father, Hamad.

Over the next few weeks, as the horror of the new reality for people in Afghanistan, particularly women, was featured on the nightly news. Nilofar told me the story of her own escape. On August 15th, the day she and Sayed were married, they tried to flee. For four days, they’d tried to enter the Kabul airport, wading through excrement in the open sewers outside the airport gates and suffering beating from the Taliban.

Their papers were finally accepted, and a US military officer let them through the now-famous Abbey Gate. Several weeks later, they learned the American soldier who took their papers and allowed them through the gate was killed by a suicide bomber.  Once through they were temporarily housed outside on the tarmac in the blistering sun, without water, until they were loaded onto a cargo plane for a flight to the American base in Qatar. So many people were compressed into the airplane, they had to stand for most of the five-hour flight.

After another flight, they arrived at Pearson Airport in Toronto several days later. The family and hundreds of others, many young single women and minorities, since they were often the most in danger, were able to enter Canada and other destinations.  Once on Canadian soil, they were quarantined for two weeks in airport hotel rooms. Although safe, the trauma continued as they were barraged by pleas from others still trapped in Afghanistan to get them out.  They heard from friends and family about people disappearing, being shot and beaten, unable to secure food and water and, in many cases, unable to return to their homes.

By the time they arrived in Southampton in September, they’d endured three weeks of hell.

Over the next couple of weeks, the necessary items needed to survive were arranged.  Besides housing, food, clothing, school, and healthcare for the seven P_______s and ten more refugees who arrived over the next few weeks, the beach and the woods offered some respite.

A big bicycling enthusiast, Laura also arranged for community members to donate bicycles and taught the women how to ride. But it appeared more than anything, they needed people to sit and have a cup of tea with them, be there and, if their English allowed, tell their complex stories. They also wanted to cook traditional foods for us, which offered something normal for them to do and allowed them to express gratitude.

When they'd fled Kabul, these families had little more than the clothes on their backs, and much was required of our small community and tiny group of volunteers.  

Our local farms regularly donated produce, various community groups raised funds to buy food, the grocery store delivered a weekly order to each group of refugees, some clothing was purchased, and much more was donated. 

Additionally, we had people donate their counselling services and  nursing expertise. 

But by the end of October, the warm sun on the beach had gone south, more storms started coming in from the north, and the cottage accommodation could not keep our new Afghan friends warm.  Also, we’d learned settlement services were very limited in Bruce County, and even the Owen Sound office did not know how to help support our friends. They would need to move to a larger community with more programs.  So they packed up, now with many more possessions than they’d arrived with, to move to the Kitchener-Waterloo area to be housed temporarily in hotels.

Even in Kitchener-Waterloo, though, it took months and sometimes years to get proper documentation, find employment, suitable education, and access to support systems. Still, life is better than a future in Afghanistan. They are alive, and although in very cramped conditions, they have housing. 

Today, I arranged for a birthday surprise for Arsalan, now 13 and in grade seven, and Palwasha, 27, employed and hopeful of returning one day to school to find a career beyond the mall food court. I have limited opportunities to see my Afghan friends. Still, I am grateful they taught me so much about their culture, and their story is no longer a just a news report. Their resilience, gratitude, and friendship continue to help me grow.

***

Margaret Whitley is a speaker, education consultant and writer.  She has spent almost 40 years in Montessori education, including teaching all elementary levels and establishing the first Montessori middle school in Canada in 1988.

Margaret’s writing has appeared in Montessori publications, the Shoreline Beacon, the Canadian edition of the now-defunct HuffPost, and most recently, an essay on Montessori in Canada in the 2023 Bloomsbury Handbook of Montessori Education. 

Since 2021, Margaret has been part of a group that supported 17 Afghan Refugees.  She is guided by the belief that all humans have incredible potential and continues highlighting education and any form of work that supports and celebrates each community and individual’s uniqueness. 

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