Growing up, we had a wood clock carved in the shape of Texas.
It hung in our basement, adjacent to the stone fireplace and above the TV. It wasn’t huge but it was hard to miss with its odd shape, glazed surface, and gold hands. I always noticed it, but I never thought about it.
Until last summer.
My mum’s oldest friend came to visit and we spent a few days at our cottage with our extended family. During dinner one night in the gazebo overlooking the lake, we got on the topic of Texas.
In the lead-up to graduation from nursing school, my mum, her friend, and several classmates had been recruited to fill a nursing shortage in Houston.
On top of jobs, they were offered help to find accommodation, plus flights and work visas.
It was a no-brainer for a bunch of nineteen-year-olds starting their careers.
So despite my grandmother’s pleas not to go, my mum and her friends said farewell to French Canada and howdy to the Lone Star State.
Texas Table Talk
For as long as I can remember, I’ve known my mum lived in Texas.
Over the years, she and my dad (who’d go visit) have shared the odd anecdote, like how crazy it was to rock up to places and see a bunch of shotguns strapped to the back of a pickup truck, or how their condo manager laughed and said “Oh bless your hearts, y’all have never seen a cockroach” when my mum and her friends screamed at the sight of one.
(Side note: Having lived in Australia, I can say with conviction that the upside to Canadian winters is far fewer creepy crawlers.)
With my mum’s friend at the dinner table, Texas memories poured out as vibrantly as the red wine swirling around our glasses as we laughed heartily from one story to the next.
It was cool to get a window into the lives of everyone who’d made it down South long before my siblings, cousins, and I entered the world.
It’s easy to forget our parents, grandparents, aunts, and uncles had lives pre-parenthood.
As an avid reader and writer, I often wish there was more captured from that time.
Writing a Book For Family
Back in January, a peer from the writing community I belong to shared this inspiring post:
“My neighbour wrote a 600 page book about his life, printed six copies for his family, and that's it.”
I salute Sir James. Anyone classy enough to produce a book of this quality and hand it out to six lucky people is top-tier.
Writing a Book For My Family
I was channelling Sir James when I began writing my book on Sunday, September 8th. I have zero expectations to make money from it (though that would be a huge bonus).
It’s just something I have to do.
Asked, “Who are you writing to?” I respond “My younger self.”
Barring that, it’d be the future children I hope to have.
I would love to give them an opportunity to peer into my past and how the people and places I encountered shaped the woman I am continuously evolving to be.
My hope is by understanding how I persevered in chasing a dream—and grew through the knockbacks I endured along the way—they’ll be empowered to chase their own.
Life Imitating Art (in a Ballet Studio)
My book is about pursuing my lifelong dream of moving to London in 2014, so I’d booked a solo slot at an English tea house to get started. I’d made the reservation for noon anticipating I’d be wiped from a fundraiser the previous day but I woke up at 7 am jazzed to get started.
Since I couldn’t change my reservation, I decided I would hit up a cafe nearby to start outlining.
So I hopped on the bus and over Mount Royal to the Mile End in search of coffee.
I found the closest cafe to the tea house where in a heartwarming life-imitating-art type of way I was confronted by my ideal audience—kids (in tutus no less).
I wound up at Les Impertinentes (The Impertinents), a hilariously fitting name for a cafe attached to a ballet studio with toddlers tantruming about.
There was a mix of people in the cafe, including a dad who was writing on his laptop while his baby played under the table delighting in the odd bout of peek-a-boo with patrons nearby.
His wife was presumably in the adult class we could see through the window overlooking the studio and it struck me what a nice ambiance the cafe created for families juggling fitness, hobbies, and childcare.
That’s not to say everyone was having a picture-perfect moment though.
For every family having a calm moment there was another reprimanding one kid for hitting their sibling or declaring the end a tantrum by announcing “That’s it! We’re going home.”
Later, when I settled in at the tea house to continue writing, I was touched to see that among the array of people there for the seasonal “strawberry social” service, there were several mother-daughter duos.
They had leaned into the “wear red or pink” dress code and an adorable young girl who beamed as she held the door for me had presumably made her way over from the ballet studio as she was wearing a tutu with her sparkly sequin jacket.
It made me excited about the possibility of doing fun stuff like that with my future kids and reinforced why I love to capture precious memories in writing.
Portals to The Past
Looking back, that wood clock shaped like Texas symbolized an important chapter in my parents’ lives.
My hope is my book on London will be a similar portal to the past—one that correlates with visits from old friends and heartfelt laughter at the dinner table.
This is amazing, Alexandra! Congrats on the endeavor, I hope it’s a joy to write it. Sounds like it already is.
Cheering you on, Alexandra! All those memories will come alive again as you write. Savor every (relived) moment.