When I first read the words 'the origin of morality' I wondered if the story would end as it did with our aggressive rooster. My little sister loved collecting the eggs. If the rooster happened to be in the chook yard with the hens when she walked in he'd chase her. One day he knocked her to the ground and pecked and trampled her. The following Sunday, when eating a baked dinner, one of the adults made a comment about the rooster. There was laughter. I looked at my plate full of baked veggies and meat and realised this was his comeuppance. I wasn't very hungry after that but the rooster served his purpose.
I knew some of this from your memoir, but I enjoyed hearing it again. If I didn't know any better, I would think this timely lesson of Mr Rooster might be a "sub tweet"! But it's a good lesson. As they say, Haters gonna hate.
This lovely thought-provoking piece brought me back to my grandparents farmhouse and the various chicken coups in outbuildings, in particular the sacks of feed that provoke sense memories of dusty smells of corn feed mixed with chicken manure.
I don't have the words to tell you how much I love this post, how timely it is, how much I needed that specific advice right now. Just know that I think I get exactly what you are saying here.
One of my earliest memories is being attacked by my nana's rooster. As soon as I got over my scratches and terror, I was excited because I had a great story for my friends.
The problem is, I don’t have a phone. I’m kind of old and set in my ways in that respect. It seems that it’s a thorn in everyone else’s side, but my own. (I just showed my wife this email and she laughed at me.) She said try explaining your way out of that one. So, here goes.
I’ll be 65 in March. I retired this year, starting in January. I’ve always written. I like to write long, short stories. I like to think that I’m inspired by Alice Munro and Mavis Gallant, as well as a little bit of Maugham thrown in. But I’m a blue collar man, not unlike your own father. I don’t know a lot, but I was good at my job. I never went past grade 12. But I love early Christian history (not religion) and Tacitus.
But I do like to write.
I think I realized how good a story could be when my grade 9 English teacher came into the room and said he was going to read us a story. It was THE SNOW GOOSE. It was the most remarkable reading I’d ever heard. It was a live audio book. That same teacher had a correspondence with a friend who was teaching in Bulgaria. They decided to have both classes exchange addresses and write to each other. International penpals. I got a girl named Kate. The last letters we exchanged were in the early 80’s. Communism was falling apart. She was able to leave Bulgaria, married a man from Mauritania who was not kindly. They had two children before she left him, got a job with the World Bank and moved to Washington DC. She reached out with a letter, but by that time in my life, I’d fallen into a drug-addled haze that would take me three or four years to find my way out of. And then I got a letter from one of her sons, twenty-five or thirty years later, telling me she died. Cancer. They found her letters from me, with all the pictures and drawings I sent her over the years, and thought I deserved to know what happened.
I’m not asking you to be my penpal. I only have 100 followers. I have 3 Paid subscribers, who are all friends of mine. One lives here, (BC) one lives in Ontario, and the other is in Mexico. I don’t have a large audience. I’m building one though. And I think I’m doing pretty good. I'm averaging 12-13 subscriptions a month. But I feel that I can’t get anyone to notice me. Like I said, I write long stories, which is perfect for a place like this. I don’t want to lose you as a new contact, and I don’t want to sound “clingy.” I like the idea of old fashioned correspond. And with email, everything is instant. Remember the old snail mail days?
My mother recently died. It’s been three years already. Wow. Has fast did that sail by? Anyway, she was 96. She lived a great life and had an easy death. Makes up for the hard life they all had to live back then. She was born in 1924, in Holland. She had a difficult time accepting Germans as "a people.” To her, they were always the "Rot Moff!” And the Japanese were no better off in her eyes. But she’d seen a lot of change. In just that short period of time. We’ll call it a hundred years. They moved to South America right after the War. My father got a job overseeing the construction of a mill in Surinam--or something like that--back when it was still the Dutch Guiana. She used to wash the laundry in the river. She watched a woman get her finger bit off by a piranha.
My father told me he learned to read at a young age. When he was six, in 1924, he read in the headlines that the last of the Barbary Pirates Abdel Krim had just been captured. That was the man the character Sean Connery played in the movie THE WIND AND THE LION was based on. So I get stories ideas in my head, and throw in stuff like that. I wrote a story about the Mau Mau uprising that took place in Kenya during the fifties. My brothers and their friends used to use the Mau Mau as a threat for me, much like the Boogey Man. They told me stories they’d read in the papers when they were kids—they’re 10 & 11 years older than me. I mean, what 17 or 18 year old wants their little brother tagging along? So I wrote a story about the Mau Mau, but made it into a tragic love story.
As I said, I only have grade 12, so I don’t have a lot of exposure to a lot of the great writers. I’ve had to find them myself. But one good thing about the Canadian education system of the 60s and 70s, is that it was pretty inclusive. I had to wait until I got into grade 12 before I could take English Lit. I loved it. Again, I had a teacher who could inspire you with his great oratory. He read Shakespeare with passion. But I liked the idea of the five act structure, and told myself I was going to use it to write a story. THE AFRICAN SONGBOOK: A Tragedy In Five Acts. It’s a love story, and you know there's not going to be a happy ending because it tells you so right in the title.
I'd be honoured if you were to read that and leave a comment on my page. As I said, I have 100 followers. Maybe if you could recommend me? I don’t expect anything, but they tell me if I want to be a writer I have to advertise my stories. I keep asking myself, what does it take to go viral? What would that be like? It’s rather strange how the stories you don’t think will resonate with anyone are the stories that seem to shout out for attention. I had a foreman at the mill I worked in, and he used to read my stories. I gave him the one I’ve been serializing latest: THE BOXER’S LAMENT. It’s a story about an old, blind, boxer and the niece who is forced to take care of him. It’s a love story as well, but it’s love of family as much as it is about loss. He loved the story. It resonated with something inside, he said.
Anyway, I have to force myself to stop. If you’re interested in anything I’ve said, drop me a line. And just so you know, I’m almost at the point in my life where I may have to get a phone simply because those damned QR codes keep coming up on line now.
Thank you. I just lost my mom, and dearest friend, this year. I ache for her. One of her precious childhood stories was about being chased around and pecked at by the farm's rooster. You put so eloquently, what she must've experienced. She was raised by her maternal grandparents when her mother died one week after my mother's birth. They spoke Czech, and rarely, English. I was just telling a friend, that my mom's grandfather would always tell her, (in heavily accented English) "Maryann, don't make yourself hurdyup!" Anyway...you have always been my favorite author. I wish I had seen you when you were last in Syracuse NY, but I will always have your books. Thank you for all that you put out in the world. One of your greatest fans, Toni M. Horrace.
My favourite part: "from Mr. Rooster, I learned that there are those who will never love me, nor even like me, who might at the slightest provocation, or no provocation at all, try to hurt me. This simple, intransigent fact: Nothing we can do or say will placate those who are determined to dislike us. Indeed, they might well like to squash us out of existence, to make more room for themselves."
Exactly! We are born with the potential for good or bad behavior, and society has the options available for us to follow after good or bad motivations, but we need to best prepare the way for the next generations if we want to see the best of each other.
I have a friend who had a chicken with a broken beak that she hand fed. She loved that bird to distraction. I thought it strange at first, to have a chicken as a house pet. And then, it seemed everyone had a chicken for a pet. And they live such long lives. Who knew?
So glad to read such a thoughtful and inspirational memory. I love nature and also spent time with my Grandma feeding all things wild and free. Thanks Joyce.
Love the photo of the young author......and love the words of the slightly older author!
When I first read the words 'the origin of morality' I wondered if the story would end as it did with our aggressive rooster. My little sister loved collecting the eggs. If the rooster happened to be in the chook yard with the hens when she walked in he'd chase her. One day he knocked her to the ground and pecked and trampled her. The following Sunday, when eating a baked dinner, one of the adults made a comment about the rooster. There was laughter. I looked at my plate full of baked veggies and meat and realised this was his comeuppance. I wasn't very hungry after that but the rooster served his purpose.
Thank you. Very thoughtful provoking. ☺️
I knew some of this from your memoir, but I enjoyed hearing it again. If I didn't know any better, I would think this timely lesson of Mr Rooster might be a "sub tweet"! But it's a good lesson. As they say, Haters gonna hate.
What a beautiful piece with a last line to sear onto our brains and minds.
Thank you JCO
This lovely thought-provoking piece brought me back to my grandparents farmhouse and the various chicken coups in outbuildings, in particular the sacks of feed that provoke sense memories of dusty smells of corn feed mixed with chicken manure.
I don't have the words to tell you how much I love this post, how timely it is, how much I needed that specific advice right now. Just know that I think I get exactly what you are saying here.
One of my earliest memories is being attacked by my nana's rooster. As soon as I got over my scratches and terror, I was excited because I had a great story for my friends.
This was an email that didn't go through...
(I didn't know how else I could contact you.)
The problem is, I don’t have a phone. I’m kind of old and set in my ways in that respect. It seems that it’s a thorn in everyone else’s side, but my own. (I just showed my wife this email and she laughed at me.) She said try explaining your way out of that one. So, here goes.
I’ll be 65 in March. I retired this year, starting in January. I’ve always written. I like to write long, short stories. I like to think that I’m inspired by Alice Munro and Mavis Gallant, as well as a little bit of Maugham thrown in. But I’m a blue collar man, not unlike your own father. I don’t know a lot, but I was good at my job. I never went past grade 12. But I love early Christian history (not religion) and Tacitus.
But I do like to write.
I think I realized how good a story could be when my grade 9 English teacher came into the room and said he was going to read us a story. It was THE SNOW GOOSE. It was the most remarkable reading I’d ever heard. It was a live audio book. That same teacher had a correspondence with a friend who was teaching in Bulgaria. They decided to have both classes exchange addresses and write to each other. International penpals. I got a girl named Kate. The last letters we exchanged were in the early 80’s. Communism was falling apart. She was able to leave Bulgaria, married a man from Mauritania who was not kindly. They had two children before she left him, got a job with the World Bank and moved to Washington DC. She reached out with a letter, but by that time in my life, I’d fallen into a drug-addled haze that would take me three or four years to find my way out of. And then I got a letter from one of her sons, twenty-five or thirty years later, telling me she died. Cancer. They found her letters from me, with all the pictures and drawings I sent her over the years, and thought I deserved to know what happened.
I’m not asking you to be my penpal. I only have 100 followers. I have 3 Paid subscribers, who are all friends of mine. One lives here, (BC) one lives in Ontario, and the other is in Mexico. I don’t have a large audience. I’m building one though. And I think I’m doing pretty good. I'm averaging 12-13 subscriptions a month. But I feel that I can’t get anyone to notice me. Like I said, I write long stories, which is perfect for a place like this. I don’t want to lose you as a new contact, and I don’t want to sound “clingy.” I like the idea of old fashioned correspond. And with email, everything is instant. Remember the old snail mail days?
My mother recently died. It’s been three years already. Wow. Has fast did that sail by? Anyway, she was 96. She lived a great life and had an easy death. Makes up for the hard life they all had to live back then. She was born in 1924, in Holland. She had a difficult time accepting Germans as "a people.” To her, they were always the "Rot Moff!” And the Japanese were no better off in her eyes. But she’d seen a lot of change. In just that short period of time. We’ll call it a hundred years. They moved to South America right after the War. My father got a job overseeing the construction of a mill in Surinam--or something like that--back when it was still the Dutch Guiana. She used to wash the laundry in the river. She watched a woman get her finger bit off by a piranha.
My father told me he learned to read at a young age. When he was six, in 1924, he read in the headlines that the last of the Barbary Pirates Abdel Krim had just been captured. That was the man the character Sean Connery played in the movie THE WIND AND THE LION was based on. So I get stories ideas in my head, and throw in stuff like that. I wrote a story about the Mau Mau uprising that took place in Kenya during the fifties. My brothers and their friends used to use the Mau Mau as a threat for me, much like the Boogey Man. They told me stories they’d read in the papers when they were kids—they’re 10 & 11 years older than me. I mean, what 17 or 18 year old wants their little brother tagging along? So I wrote a story about the Mau Mau, but made it into a tragic love story.
As I said, I only have grade 12, so I don’t have a lot of exposure to a lot of the great writers. I’ve had to find them myself. But one good thing about the Canadian education system of the 60s and 70s, is that it was pretty inclusive. I had to wait until I got into grade 12 before I could take English Lit. I loved it. Again, I had a teacher who could inspire you with his great oratory. He read Shakespeare with passion. But I liked the idea of the five act structure, and told myself I was going to use it to write a story. THE AFRICAN SONGBOOK: A Tragedy In Five Acts. It’s a love story, and you know there's not going to be a happy ending because it tells you so right in the title.
I'd be honoured if you were to read that and leave a comment on my page. As I said, I have 100 followers. Maybe if you could recommend me? I don’t expect anything, but they tell me if I want to be a writer I have to advertise my stories. I keep asking myself, what does it take to go viral? What would that be like? It’s rather strange how the stories you don’t think will resonate with anyone are the stories that seem to shout out for attention. I had a foreman at the mill I worked in, and he used to read my stories. I gave him the one I’ve been serializing latest: THE BOXER’S LAMENT. It’s a story about an old, blind, boxer and the niece who is forced to take care of him. It’s a love story as well, but it’s love of family as much as it is about loss. He loved the story. It resonated with something inside, he said.
Anyway, I have to force myself to stop. If you’re interested in anything I’ve said, drop me a line. And just so you know, I’m almost at the point in my life where I may have to get a phone simply because those damned QR codes keep coming up on line now.
Gratefully,
Ben Woestenburg
Surrey BC,
Thank you. I just lost my mom, and dearest friend, this year. I ache for her. One of her precious childhood stories was about being chased around and pecked at by the farm's rooster. You put so eloquently, what she must've experienced. She was raised by her maternal grandparents when her mother died one week after my mother's birth. They spoke Czech, and rarely, English. I was just telling a friend, that my mom's grandfather would always tell her, (in heavily accented English) "Maryann, don't make yourself hurdyup!" Anyway...you have always been my favorite author. I wish I had seen you when you were last in Syracuse NY, but I will always have your books. Thank you for all that you put out in the world. One of your greatest fans, Toni M. Horrace.
My favourite part: "from Mr. Rooster, I learned that there are those who will never love me, nor even like me, who might at the slightest provocation, or no provocation at all, try to hurt me. This simple, intransigent fact: Nothing we can do or say will placate those who are determined to dislike us. Indeed, they might well like to squash us out of existence, to make more room for themselves."
Exactly! We are born with the potential for good or bad behavior, and society has the options available for us to follow after good or bad motivations, but we need to best prepare the way for the next generations if we want to see the best of each other.
Delightful morning read
I have a friend who had a chicken with a broken beak that she hand fed. She loved that bird to distraction. I thought it strange at first, to have a chicken as a house pet. And then, it seemed everyone had a chicken for a pet. And they live such long lives. Who knew?
So glad to read such a thoughtful and inspirational memory. I love nature and also spent time with my Grandma feeding all things wild and free. Thanks Joyce.