Canadian Stories Matter
Culture survives only through the stories it dares to tell. Around kitchen tables and campfires, in one-room schools and crowded cinemas, on Televisions in our living rooms, our narratives fuse scattered shards of memory and declare, “This is who we are.” I heard those tales in prairie frost and cedar hush, carried by ancestors who held Canada inside them long before confederation.
They were Loyalists who fled a burning hearth during the American Rebellion, ash still clinging to their boots when they landed at the mouth of the St. Lawrence. They built cabins, then shouldered muskets again in 1812, believing a homeland could be coaxed from ice and hope. Another branch heard hoofbeats and gunfire at Red River, where the Métis fought for a voice on soil that had known their footsteps since glaciers towered a mile high. That friction of promise and protest thrums inside me—and refuses to fall silent.
My forebears broke more than sod. They dragged steel rails across muskeg and granite so a ribbon of track could stitch provinces into something bolder than geography—a nation. They raised cattle beneath cyclones of prairie sky, hunted buffalo, then herded the last surviving beasts onto railcars to preserve a thunder that once rolled unbroken. They mined, milled, and prayed through blizzards that erased horizons, floods that swallowed barns, tornadoes that twisted forests, and decade-long droughts that cracked the earth like porcelain crockery, while finding breath to sing over newborns and harvest tables.
When distant bugles sounded, they answered. One great-grandfather shipped to South Africa in scratchy khaki; another crawled through gas and wire in the mud of the Somme; a grandmother waved sons toward Juno Beach. They wore the uniforms of the Empire first, then of a trembling new Canada and the white helmets of nations who seek peace. Their medals lie in drawers now, quiet as feathers, yet the cost of them beats in the chest of their sons and daughters, etched into every tranquil dawn we inherit today.
Why recite this litany of storms, rails, and rebellions? Because stories stake a claim. If we fall silent, others will write us out—or, worse, write us wrong. And if we are told we have no story, eventually we may believe it. I reject that erasure. The people who tilled these fields, knelt at these graves, and sang beneath northern lights deserve more than a footnote in a stranger’s chronicle. Remembering them keeps the nation’s pulse audible. It reminds us of whose sacrifices cleared the path beneath our feet.
Canada is not an abstract border, but a living tapestry woven from threads—Cree stories of creation, Acadian ballads of exile, newcomer hopes whispered in countless accents, and, yes, the stubborn yarn of my own family. Passing those threads forward affirms that we exist, that we belong to one another, and that together we can weather whatever blizzards history hurls our way. Our survival, like our landscape, depends on telling, hearing, and cherishing those stories.
Get in touch
If you're interested in working with me or have any questions, please don't hesitate to reach out. I'd love to hear from you!
The Writer’s Journey
Landscape moulds its people
I first grasped the country’s vastness from the back seat of a white Ford Fairlane, travelling from CFB Kingston to my father’s final posting at Jericho Beach in Vancouver. In July 1963, we embarked on a two‑month odyssey, skirting the north shore of the Great Lakes—Kingston to Sudbury, then along the rock‑rimmed sweep of Lake Superior toward Thunder Bay.
Sudbury’s Giant Nickel and its stark, blackened hills—so bleak then, so green now—left me awestruck. My dad loved an early start, hustling us from motel beds while we were still in our pyjamas so he could steal a few miles before breakfast.
Just after dawn one morning we rolled past a weather‑beaten sign that read Welcome to Manitoba. A lone deer stood beside it, steam rising from its back as mist curled off the land in the soft, mystical light. I had never seen a deer outside a picture book; in that instant, I knew we were truly on an adventure.
From Winnipeg, the Prairies unspooled for an entire day—heat shimmering off asphalt, wheat fields flat as a table, with a blue sky that curved like a dome from horizon to horizon. By nightfall, we reached Calgary, lingered for the Stampede, then drove north to Edmonton for a two-week visit with family.
Turning back toward the mountains, we climbed rolling foothills until Jasper’s granite spires lifted us into another world: mountain‑goat herds balanced on ledges, elk grazing in roadside meadows, moose munching treats from tourists. One youngster even tried to clamber into our back seat for a piece of bread while Dad shouted for us not to feed the wildlife.
Leaving the Rockies, we slid into the desert valleys cradled between them and the Selkirks—sage‑scented, sun-burned hills where vineyards clung to brown slopes and vast green irrigation circles baffled my nine-year-old mind. Soon the highway plunged into the Coastal Range, hugging canyon walls high above rivers that thundered far below. Forests deepened, darkened, and wept rain. We slowed our pace to wander through waist-high ferns and picnic beside broad, pebble-strewn riverbanks.
Descending once more along the Fraser’s winding course, we entered the zone where mountains exhale salt‑tinged air and announce the sea. At last, we threaded the emerald garden valley toward Vancouver, the city where the peaks rest their feet in the Pacific.
I’m an old woman now, yet that cross-country journey is seared into my imagination. Each shift in landscape felt like turning a fresh page in Canada’s story. I’ve long believed that land molds the people who live upon it, and that conviction anchors my writing—especially in The Magpie’s Tales – Origins. Whether it’s the prairie’s fierce light and lingering twilight—where brutal winters give way to summers that blister the earth—or the cedar‑shadowed, rain‑soaked coast where secrets vanish without a trace, every landscape moulds its people, and those people, in turn, forge the legends of their land. I’ve been chasing that truth ever since.
Dog Days
The heat rises, waving off the pavement,
Smelling brown and dusty.
The grass, stripped of its soft scent,
Blades dry and sharp underfoot.
Hounds sigh, lazy eyes trace your steps,
But they do not rise to play.
Languid cats seek cool shadows on the pavement,
Ignoring insects that creep past closed eyes.
Dragonflies skate on stagnant waters,
Bees kiss the fading blooms.
The trees breathe, humming with cicadas’ buzz,
Leaves whisper hints of colour—
Fall is coming.
February
February a lover beguiling,
Promising much ever smiling.
In the morning, he paints a scene so fair,
Of sunshine, green, and blossoms rare,
But as the day to night does yield,
In evening's grasp, he unleashes his ire,
of icy wind, sleet, and treacherous desire.
Winter Moon
Behind the pines, the winter moon's pristine light,
Guides souls along the path through the cold, quiet night.
Emerald, rose, and sapphire, cascading in rhythmic flow,
Beneath the deep blue dome where stars softly glow.
They ripple and dance in harmony
to accompany the journey's melody.
Footprints drum the snow, a gentle sound,
Each step is a testament to the travelers' journey profound.
Whispered mist of a winter creature's flight
Blend with nature's chorus in the pre-dawn light.
On this frozen night, hues crystalline and bright,
A painted scene crafted by a hand divine,
where dreams and reality unite.
November
The month between the seasons,
When autumn colours give way
to the harsh monochrome of a winter’s day.
When warm breezes become the bitter bite of cold
The month to mourn the dead, their sad tales told.
The month when geese take wing to fly
In regimental formation,
Behind the clouds and across the moonlit sky.
Their mournful farewells bring forth the frost and snow,
The sound in the windswept darkness of winter coming
and the death below.
Homecoming
In the waning days of last season's flight,
leaves, tumbled down brown and frail, in fading light.
Where rain clouds rolled thunder, lightning, and hail,
Now fair-weathered they drift a gentle sail.
Across deep blue skies, geese call out - I am home.
Returned to you from where I did roam.
Welcome me back to the place I am known.
Lovers
He chased her through the pines; he danced for her.
He called to her with black wings beating and eyes flashing.
They flew through the pines to find a roost amongst them
and stayed until the snow had left the plains below.
Dedication
In memories' realm, your story dwells,
Where time's grip fades and memory swells,
As long as lives hold you dear,
Your tale transcends, forever clear.
When words are woven, your spirit ignites,
In verses penned, eternal heights,
Within the ink, your essence unfurls,
A legacy etched, beyond worldly twirls.
Forever etched in history's embrace,
You live on, an immortal trace.
For as long as remembrance holds true,
Your story endures, forever new.
The Funeral by The Silver Birch
At the foot of a slender silver birch tree, a Magpie lay stiff and still amongst the stubble of the recently cut corn; one black wing feather fluttered in the morning breeze.
Perched on the fence post above, its companion bent her head low for a better look, then hopped down beside him. She bobbed her head, clucking at him and gently pecked his black and white head, trying to rouse him—but he would not stir.
After a few minutes, she understood her loss. She tipped her head back and wept with loud, mournful whoops and bitter cackles. Her lamentations brought a gathering of her clan, who settled on the fence and in the branches of the silver birch tree.
The funeral began with a solemn dance around their fallen brethren; they pecked and chattered, urging him to rise up, their sad efforts lasting twenty minutes. The service concluded in silence as the birds quieted and rested in reflection before each mourner, one by one, took flight.
The Buffalo Race* - A Story
When the world was very young, all the creatures in the world were equal. Everyone could understand one another as they all spoke the same language. No one wore special colours or clan markings; all lived in peace, and no creature ate another.
In those days, it was believed that if an animal were to eat another creature, it would gain strength from the flesh of that creature, and it would be above all others.
As it goes, that night follows day, as animals are animals and people are people; eventually, someone wants to rule over everyone else.
The biggest animal on the Great Plains was the Buffalo. He thought of himself as handsome and strong, and by rights, he should be able to eat other creatures and rule over everyone else.
Man, of course, also wanted to rule the world. He believed he was the smartest of all the animals; therefore, he should rule and have the right to hunt others.
To resolve the issue, the wise owl proposed that there should be a race, and the winner would govern the world. The Buffalo was very sure he would win, so he agreed. He could run forever through rain and snow, through the winter’s cold and summer’s heat.
The Man knew he could not win a race with the Buffalo; Man had only two legs. He could not run as fast or as far as the Buffalo. Nor could he run through the summer’s heat or the cold winter snow like the Buffalo. Still, Man wanted to rule the world, so he demanded the right to choose a champion to run the race.
The owl agreed that, to be fair, Man could choose a champion to run the race for him if the Buffalo would agree. Man asked the birds to be his champion. Now, the Buffalo laughed at this. He was sure the birds were too feeble to beat him, so he agreed.
After much consultation, the birds decided on three champions, each to run a portion of the race. They chose the swift Hummingbird, the mighty Hawk, and the clever Magpie to represent Man in the race.
The owl decided that the race would start at the Rocky Mountains in the west and finish at the Great Lake in the east. The signal to start the race would be a thunderclap.
All the creatures took paint and marked themselves for the great race. The animals chose their favourite. Some wanted the Buffalo to win; others wanted Man.
The sky darkened, and lightning flashed; a thundercloud rolled down from the mountainside. With a mighty burst of light and sound, the race began.
The Hummingbird took an early lead, but his tiny wings beat so quickly that he tired too soon and dropped to the earth, where he was trampled under the feet of the great Buffalo.
As the animals neared the middle of the Great Plains, the powerful and steady Buffalo took the lead. The mighty Hawk swept in from high above and gained on the Buffalo, but as they neared the finish, a tremendous icy wind blew in from the Great Lake, and the Hawk was blown far away from the finish. It seemed certain the Buffalo would become the chief of all the creatures in the world.
Suddenly, from behind, the Magpie flew past the thundering Buffalo and reached the shore of the Great Lake to win the race. The Magpie and her clan sat high in a tree and waited for the Buffalo and all the other creatures.
As the representative of Man and the winner of this race, the Magpie declared that her clan could never be eaten. The wise owl proclaimed this was right and fair, and all the animals agreed.
In the dusty clouds of the race, no one had noticed that the clever Magpie had ridden on the back of the Buffalo for the entire race, only to swoop ahead at the very last minute to win.
All the animals went their separate ways, but the colours and the markings they had painted on themselves for the race remain to this day.
The Buffalo returned to the plains to eat grass, and Man became the ruler of the world and a great hunter.
As for the Magpies, they feast forever on the remains of every hunt.
( *Adapted from a tale told by the first people of the plains)