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|  | | Animals I've Slept With (and other pets)
This a collection of articles about the pets I've had and still have including our white lab/husky Skye.
Chapter 1
Sandy
No matter how many pets you have, you never forget your first - your first cat, your first dog. It seems to be an ongoing tradition in our family that as soon as we have a house of our own, we have to have pets to fill it.
When I was a young girl growing up in Toronto, Ontario with my parents and two older brothers, we were adopted by a cat which we named Kit that had walked right down the street and into our house. Kit was the spitting image of another cat that had briefly lived with us before dying of fright after a run-in with a neighbour | |  | | Charlie: Memoirs of a Belmont Farmboy
The biography of a homeboy from England who made it good in smalltown Canada
Introduction
I opened the large and somewhat heavy brown box with a mixture of anticipation and trepidation. I had already been forewarned about what I would find inside. The box held the diaries and collected memories of Charlie Baker, a transplanted Englishman who had spent almost his entire adult life working for local farmers in and around his adopted village of Belmont before his death on Good Friday, April 2nd, 1999 at the age of 89.
Some people go through life without leaving anything behind, while others leave lasting impressions on everyone. Charlie Baker | | | | Going Home Alone - An Odyssey of Discovery
The trials and tribulations of a solo trip to England and Scotland
Introduction
I was born and spent almost fifty years of my life in Toronto. In 1991, my family and I moved to the village of Belmont, just southeast of London, Ontario. Part of the plan was for me to spend more of my time pursuing my short story and poetry writing. Three years later I answered an ad in a local weekly newspaper for a correspondent to cover village news and my newspaper career began.
During the course of my rather checkered writing career, I’ve been asked many times why I haven’t written a book yet. The answer is, I have. My first two completed n | | | | Icebound: The Wrangel Island Tragedy
The true story of a 1920's expedition to Wrangel Island off Siberia that went terribly wrong.
ICEBOUND
Introduction
It’s funny how things happen. What started out as moving day at my father-in-law’s house in Toronto’s east-end in 1996, turned out to be the journalistic find of the century. At least, as far as I was concerned anyway.
Dad, an 85+ widower no longer able to easily manage the steep staircase up to his bedroom and the only bathroom in the house, had finally decided it was time to sell his beloved home of over forty years and move in with his oldest daughter and her family. It had not been an easy decision, but being severely limited in his vision an | | | | Passages - A collection of poems
A sampling of some of the 1,000 poems I've written in my lifetime
First Love
It came on errant wings,
Yet like a whisper on the wind,
New and strange,
Yet expected,
As of a prophesy.
It stayed but a short time,
But seemed forever,
Of sweetness pure
Yet selfish
As of precious jewels.
Then was gone evermore
But yet remembered
As of a dream,
Yet fresh as flowers
With each new spring. | | | | Richard Randamere & Co.
A collection of short stories plus a novella in the ghostly genre
Phantoms
They were everywhere, the phantoms that haunted this house. Try as she may, she could not rid herself of their presence. They were not scary phantoms, but the sad phantoms of a lost love and they permeated the very air she breathed.
It had not been long enough, they said, but she had to go on living and this was her house too. As long as her mind was occupied with other things, she was all right. But as soon as her mind began to wander back to the things they had done together, the tears began to flow and the phantoms came. It wouldn’t have been so bad if i | | | | The Belmont Chronicles
A collection of short stories on the dark side
Writer Beware
Maggie eyed her coffee cup with trepidation; Harry was being far too attentive lately. Perhaps it was just her writer’s intuition working overtime, she thought, remembering the many times she had been accused of being overly suspicious.
“Drink up,” said Harry, watching her every move.
Reaching for the cup finally, she thought back to their conversation of the night before. He had been so vehement about her zealousness in bringing her family into her stories. It mattered not that most writers wrote about what they knew best, he still didn’t like |
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