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Calling Me Home is our group's first published novel, and it marks a major milestone for both Julie and the blog itself. We started this blog more than four years ago as an outlet for some of our thoughts on writing, but also as a platform to help introduce us to you, our readers, as writers looking forward to publication. That time is beginning. In celebration, each of us is sharing our thoughts on home, how it calls us, and what it means to every "me" in our group. We hope you enjoy these posts, and we hope to see some of you February 12!
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| Sasha and I at "Big Trees" in 2009 |
By Kim
The idea that I was meant to be a writer came to me as a jolt – literally. I was eight years old when my parents located my grandmother’s childhood home, an old stone farmhouse in Galt, Ontario, Canada. Listening to the owner reminisce about his boyhood encounters with a poor starving artist (my great-grandfather, Carl Ahrens) and his pretty daughters (my grandmother and great-aunt), I learned much of the art my parents owned had been created in that very room. With threadbare carpeting and ugly faux-wood paneling on the walls, it hardly looked like a space to inspire an artist. I fought the urge to blurt out, “Why did you ruin a perfectly good studio?” The words not only would have landed me in a great deal of trouble, but they made no sense. I had no idea what Carl’s studio had looked like.
The idea that I was meant to be a writer came to me as a jolt – literally. I was eight years old when my parents located my grandmother’s childhood home, an old stone farmhouse in Galt, Ontario, Canada. Listening to the owner reminisce about his boyhood encounters with a poor starving artist (my great-grandfather, Carl Ahrens) and his pretty daughters (my grandmother and great-aunt), I learned much of the art my parents owned had been created in that very room. With threadbare carpeting and ugly faux-wood paneling on the walls, it hardly looked like a space to inspire an artist. I fought the urge to blurt out, “Why did you ruin a perfectly good studio?” The words not only would have landed me in a great deal of trouble, but they made no sense. I had no idea what Carl’s studio had looked like.
I had other strange urges as well; to pull up a corner of carpeting to
see if the wood floors were still there underneath, to run outside and hug a
gangly looking elm tree that waved at me through the window, to seek out my
grandmother’s old bedroom. One impulse I could not resist. As I left, I touched
the outside stone walls.
I felt an electric current course from the stones into my hand – a
feeling I’ve never forgotten. At that moment I knew two things: I was going to write
a book someday, and my grandmother was with me. We later learned she had passed
away while we were at her old house.
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| Near Tobermory, Ontario |
I imagine every creative person, whether their craft is writing,
painting, dancing, or quilting, has a place that inspires them, a place where
the muse speaks freely. For Carl Ahrens it was the forests of Waterloo County, Ontario.
‘Up north’ is where my heart resides. I know exactly the moment I first
glimpsed Georgian Bay, because my camcorder recorded my exclamation of, “Oh, my
God, look at that!” Next comes ten minutes of gushing remarks about the
turquoise water, the lopsided windblown trees, and the rocky islands. I’m
completely unaware the camcorder rests in my lap, recording footage of a Subway
bag on the floor of the car.
I’ve been in Ontario four times recently, and I anxiously await my next
trip. I don’t even care if it’s in winter. The bay has called to me ever since
that first glimpse. Being there brings back memories of the best parts of my
childhood in Maine. Quiet walks in the woods, rock-hopping on the coast,
spotting the occasional deer, the smell of pine, night skies where the moon and
stars feel so near you can touch them.
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| This is the spot! At Leith in 2007. |
Unlike Maine, there’s also a deep
personal connection for me, almost primal, to the landscape of that part of Ontario. I have many
candid family photographs of the Ahrens family on the beach at Leith, near Owen Sound and a
newspaper article claiming Carl christened a stretch of forest there his
church. Much of the Bruce
Peninsula is still
strongly influence by the same Ojibwa tribe that adopted Carl as a young man. I
first heard the sound of native drums and smelled the intoxicating combination
of sage, sweetgrass and tobacco just outside of Tobermory. Many of Carl’s
contemporaries also found inspiration in the landscape of Georgian Bay – TomThomson, Frederick Varley and A.Y. Jackson to name a few. The painting by Thomson below is a prime example. Some of the places I find most
inspiring, however, have no family connection at all. The first time I saw the
north shore at Killarney my immediate thought was “I want to paint this.”
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| Georgian Bay as interpreted by Tom Thomson |
As a wife and mother of two living in Dallas, the idea of moving to the
Georgian Bay is merely a daydream I indulge in when the words just don’t want
to come. I remind myself that Carl, too, relied on photographs and memory for
inspiration when illness prevented him from leaving his house for over a year,
and still produced some of his best work. Hoping to do the same, I surround myself
with images of my soul’s home. When that doesn’t work, I use one of the rocks I
picked up from the shore as a worry stone, play my CD of Georgian Bay sounds,
drink my Ojibwa Sacred Blend tea and dab sweetgrass lotion on my neck for
aromatherapy. All senses engaged, I begin to type.
