Dawson listened quietly as my daughter, then my husband, thanked him for being in our family, and bade him a loving farewell. Then I read to him: from An Honest House, the chapter I had lovingly written about him.
Would you believe it? He lay perfectly still on my lap the whole time I read, attentive, as if taking in every word. I shall miss him.
Can you imagine washing and blow-drying a client’s hair when that person is in pain from head to toe? When you’re trying to cut her hair but she can barely move her neck? When that person can’t sit for longer than a few minutes at a time?
A hairdresser could go broke with clients like me. So my appointments are always at her quiet times. And I sometimes bring her a small gift to show my appreciation.
As Lorna tended to my hair, I asked if she wanted me to read a chapter of the book.
“This chapter is about you,” I said, smiling at her in the mirror. “That okay?”
“Of course!” she said.
But part-way through, Lorna turned away.
I felt awful.
“I’m so sorry, Lorna,” I said, closing the book. “I didn’t mean to make you cry.”
“No, no!” She replied, wiping her eyes. “Keep reading! Please!”
It was an order, not a suggestion.
~~
Lorna knows our back-stories. Some of her clients are stars — in business, the professions, film, TV and music. Most aren’t. Lorna remains humble, respectful to us all.
~~
“Sure you want me to keep reading?” I asked.
“Keep reading!” she said.
So I read and Lorna quietly cried.
When the chapter ended, Lorna was smiling – a weepy but radiant smile. I smiled back at her face in the mirror, weepy too.
“I never expected anyone to put me in a book,” she said, shaking her head at the wonder of it.
By our priest, Rev. Canon Claire Wade at St. Thomas’ Anglican in the village of Brooklin, Ontario
And our church community, family and friends
At 9.a.m in the morning of a long weekend, no less!
It was a full house. The food was great, the speeches were short, and I didn’t stutter or cry while reading.
Thanks to Hamlin for the photos and to publisher Don Bastian for his beautiful speech below:
Publisher Don Bastian
“I’ve attended many book launches, but this is the first book blessing I’ve ever heard of. I think there should be more of them!
In my experience as an editor and reader, memoir writers fall into one of two camps.
In one camp are those who create a book. Their book falls somewhere on the spectrum from boring waste of space to keen insight into a life well spent. But in the end, all they have created is a book.
In the other camp, and this camp is less populous, are those who create a book, of course, but who also create a world. In some mysterious way, in telling the story of their own life, they tell the story of their readers’ lives, as well.
I think you know into which camp Cynthia Reyes has pitched her tent.
Opening the pages of AN HONEST HOUSE is like opening a colourful gift. Yes, we do grapple with the pain we are subject to, having messed things up in the Garden of Eden. But we do get closer to the border of that wonderful garden. We are drawn into Cynthia and Hamlin’s literal garden and into their big-hearted marriage and church relationships and extensive set of friendships. And we are so much the better for it.
And so I am honoured to congratulate Cynthia on her new book. To congratulate her for displaying:
great skill as the writer of a book;
supreme artistry as the creator of a world;
and amazing grace to confer on us, her readers, honorary citizenship in that world.”
~~
Thank you, Don, Hamlin, Rev. Canon Claire, Sharon and everyone who took part.
I sat on the rug in the family room, concentrating on the needle in my hand.
Without turning, I could tell that my daughter was standing in the doorway to the kitchen.
“What are you doing, Mum?” she asked.
“I’m darning the rug. It’s got a few holes and I’m trying to mend them.”
“Who are you?” she asked.
Unasked, but loud nonetheless, was her follow-up question: “And what did you do with my mother?”
Some of you know this rug. It’s the one that was on our verandah. We suspect it’s about 100 years old. But how many things do you know that have retained their gorgeous colour (despite the threadbare spots and holes) after 100 years?
But I digress.
I’m not a do-it-yourselfer. I have ten thumbs and no talent.
But it was a great day in my world: pain no worse than usual; speech clear; best of all, my daughter was here. It was like winning the lottery.
Plus, the lady in the yarn store was sure I could mend the rug.
“I even lost the two sets of yarn I’d bought here”, I confessed.
She smiled and reassured me yet again.
Back at home, I threaded the huge needle and pulled the wool over the hole, criss-cross. It looked awful. My mother’s voice popped into my head: “You need a patch of fabric.”
Of course.
I asked my husband: “Have you a thick old sock? Something I can cut up?”
We found one. Its colour almost perfectly matched that section of the rug. I cut out a chunk, put it under the hole and started mending.
And that’s what I was doing when my daughter spied me.
But when she came closer to inspect, even she was impressed.
