Without stories, how would we remember anything? Before stories were written down, every single culture in the world kept memory alive through oral tradition, telling stories around the fire at night. Two of the most vital and primal things in our lives have always been: the warmth of a fire and our need to tell the stories that matter to us.

Stories entertain, they make us laugh, sometimes cry, but most of all a good story teaches us something. Even if it’s a very simple tale, like a conversation between two people, we always walk away having learned something, at least about the person we’ve been talking to, if not about ourselves.

I remember hearing stories about the War from my Grandparents. Grandpa stayed home to work on the family farm, feeding the troops. Grandma was in the Women’s Land Army. It was a tough time, but I always recall how proudly they both spoke of their involvement. One of my favourite stories comes from that era.  You see, my Grandparents were brought together by the war. Grandma used to cycle past Home Farm, where my Grandfather grew up, every day to and from her job during the war. His eye, caught by the pretty young woman on the bike, Grandpa started waiting for her to pass as he worked in the fields. Romance sparked and the rest is our family story.

Both my grandparents survived the war, as did my father’s father, who was in the Navy. But many, many loved ones were lost so that we could enjoy the freedoms we now take for granted. So today’s story is their’s. One of bravery, courage in the face so much horror, pride and a fierce determination to provide a better world for their children to live in. If we pay attention to these important stories, then it’s less easy for us to get lost along the way and make the same mistakes that cause others to lay down their lives to protect us against the tragedy of war.

So today, I am remembering, lest we forget.

(I just learned that Lieutenant Colonel John McCrae, who wrote “In Flanders Fields” was from Guelph, which is where most of my relatives live. A local boy…)

So I had a wonderful time being loaned out as a book at the Toronto Ref Library on Saturday, as part of their Human Library.

My first borrower was an elderly lady by the name of Joan. Joan and I pass each other every Monday morning as I’m leaving my therapist’s office and she’s waiting outside for her turn. I have no idea what’s drawn me to her, but I always thought she was sweet and figured since we see each other once a week, every week for ages now, I should smile and say HI. She’s always complimented me on how warm my smile is and my heart always feels a little warmer as I thank her for reflecting my smile back at me. A great way to start a Monday, if you ask me. I’d been thinking of asking Joan for coffee or tea sometime, just to get to know her a little better, when she read my mind and asked me first, just last week. I immediately thought of suggesting she take me out on loan from the library, as it would be a wonderful opportunity for us to get to know each other. Turns out it was. It was an enjoyable first chapter for us both and we’ve decided to make a habit of spending an afternoon together in the future over a warm beverage, so we can trade stories.

I only had one other person take me out on loan, but both my sessions ran close to an hour — double the allotted time. Elaine and I had a deep conversation about telling our stories and fighting — and losing — the protracted battle for a happy ending in the wake of a tragedy. It was a tough conversation. I like to be able to help, especially if I am out of my depth and with no answers. I was able to walk away though, empowered by the support I was able to offer. Elaine is such a font of valuable and wise information — I hope she finds the strength to let her lost battle be the key to someone else’s win against the war on compassionate medical care for the elderly and disabled. It’s too easy for the doctors and hospitals to sweep aside patient understanding for dismissive “I know what I’m doing.”

While I was sitting on the “shelf” with the other books I had a wicked time chatting with my fellows up for being borrowed:

Lyndsay:  You are truly inspiring to have defied death at such a young age and with such a wonderful sense of humour about it all; I’m serious about being your ghost writer if you ever want to tell your story.

Beth:  Keep up the wonderful work — independent presses are what keep our reading experiences rich.

Andrea: It was so nice to grab some face time with you finally — thanks for the crash course in Twitter 101!

Vani: You were an über popular book and I’m disappointed we didn’t get more shelf time; I made the jump to Twitter, so look me up and we can share the experience as newbies.

Nick: Your bravery and ability to remain open-minded in the face of potential oppressors is awesome! Don’t ever let narrow minded fear or intimidation stand in your way of the good work you’re doing.

Shawn: Never got to flip pages with you, but I aspire to be as  plugged in to urban culture as you seem to be.

Catherine: It was great to connect over telling great stories, no matter the drudgery of transcription woes.

Chris: You are an unsung hero standing up for one of the city’s most undervalued infrastructures — without the TTC, where would Toronto be?

Donovan: Truly a pleasure to meet such an accomplished and easy-going writer, such as yourself; I look forward to running into you again.

Finally a HUGE thank you to Ab, Ken and most of all Anne Marie for organizing such a phenomenal event. I am so first in line for being on regular loan if you ever establish a permanent collection.  Just one of the reasons libraries are vital to cities and the people in them.

…I’m really looking forward to being a borrower next year.

Every good story needs characters. Ones we can identify with, who often represent we the reader in some way. The story of our lives shape us into the characters we become. I was always a sensitive, daydreaming, pacifist kid: “I’m a writer and a dreamer, not a fighter.” Which, of course , made me the delightful target of every and any bully who ever scented my timid easy-going nature. School, for the most part was utter hell, especially high school, where I was marked out as the sole fag — a powerful word I soon came to understand the meaning of.

It breaks my heart to see the kids taking their lives these days to this same bullying that ground me down day-after-day. My parents were powerless to do anything about it, partly due to me not wanting to worsen my teen fate with a bail out from Mommy and Daddy, but mostly due to a completely broken school system running by Darwin’s Laws and not the Laws of Compassion, Understanding and Support for those who needed it most.

Take heart though, this is not a story about bullies. Although they make for great villains, that is a post for another day. I’ve been taking my power back from them for decades now. This is MY story and they are NOT my editor, so they cannot tell me how to write MY story — I do not give them that power. This is the story of characters, the tests, or quests, or obstacles set before our protagonists that build the stamina of character they need to go on to do great things.

I think one of the most powerful tools for building good characters, no matter how tragic they are destined to be, is to find the humour. A giggly girl by the name of Erica was one of a team of friends who saved my life and my sanity during the hell of small town high school. There were never tears because by god that would be letting the bullies win, but there was an abundance of laughter and that’s what got all of us through that very “educational” — in a character building way — time in our lives.

I just had a reunion with Erica and she is still her giggly self. It’s been 23 years since I last saw her, but that moment in time of her and I having one of our — to me — life saving laughs by the lockers upstairs is locked in the vault of my memory. And you know, seeing her made me realize that while it still sometimes feels like the horrible moments outnumbered the good moments, the good moments were much more powerful. If you’ve ever seen a sword forged, it gets subjected to white-hot furnace heat again and again, then pounded into shape by a hammer, but it’s the cool water bath after that tempers the forging. Water has always represented the emotions, and laughter (alongside love) is the most powerful of emotions. I have been tempered by a lot of good people over the years, responsible in the forging of my character. I’ve been very lucky in that respect.

I’ve always been fond of saying, “I need to see my hero bleed, before I can really care about him.” But I want to add to that statement: “I need to experience his sense of humour, to know he’s capable of surviving the shit being thrown at him.” I believe good characters make a story important — memorable — to me, and to many people. And the forging of them draw us in and keep us coming back for more.

I have a very bad habit of over-editing my work. My Inner Editor is constantly getting in the way of my creative muse and often very difficult to shut off. That is the main reason it’s taken me so long to get this website live.

I originally had the intention of keeping the site simple, but the moment I discovered the theme for my blog posts — The Power of Stories — I suddenly realized I had more to say than I thought. My whole life is influenced by stories and how they are told, the power they have over our imaginations and the way they influence every moment of our lives.

But, being the perfectionist my Inner Editor is, I’ve gone over and over and over my prior posts, originally determined to ensure there are no embarrassing typos, but instead getting distracted on updating and expanding on the ideas in my posts, re-writing them to be more clever, more meaningful, more succinct. Well, I had to put my foot down and make it stop. Over the last week I’ve told several people to expect the launch of my new website. They were at first patient, but then a few stopped tapping their foot politely and asked me, “What the fuck? Are you doing it or not?!”

Yes, I am. One more week, I promise. And this time I mean it. No more over-editing, although I think I’m going to have a hard time not going back to at least tweak a few things–all in the guise of checking for typos.