Non Fiction – Page 4 – Cynthia Reyes

A Good Home, Book Editor, Book lovers, Books, Canadians, CBC Television, Creative Writing, Life Challenges, Mentoring Writers, South Africa, South African Journalism Training, Tim KNight, Writers

A Terrific Writer-Editor

May 23, 2014June 4, 2020 Cynthia Reyes

Tim Knight is a brilliant writer.

He’s an Emmy-winning documentary-maker.

Ladeda — On location: “Inside Noah’s Ark”

And writing coach.

Luckily for me, he’s also an excellent editor.

I know this because he taught me to write for television and edited many of my stories.

And because when I came up with the crazy idea of producing a book — at the worst time in my life — Tim calmly agreed to be my editor.

It was not a job for the faint of heart.

I first met Tim just before my graduation from journalism school. Tim Knight, head of TV Journalism Training for the Canadian Broadcasting Corporation was already a legend. He interviewed me for the best job a TV Journalism graduate could land: an apprenticeship with the CBC’s prestigious trainee reporter program.

Each year, CBC TV picked the top 6 students from journalism schools across Canada. That year, I became one of the six. But my journalism professor wasn’t pleased. I was a Canadian citizen, but one who’d come to Canada from Jamaica. He argued that the job should go to a real Canadian.

Tim overrode his objections and I got the job.

Tim’s been looking out for me ever since. Not that I gave him much choice.

I sought Tim’s advice before every career move. Producer-director. Executive producer. And when Tim decided to leave the CBC to write his first book, he recommended that I replace him as head of CBC TV’s journalism training. His word carried so much weight that the job was offered and I took it.

We worked together to train South African journalists at the end of apartheid. For us Canadians, this was a remarkably moving experience.

Years later, I had a car accident.

In ‘Type A’ style, I thought I could return to work soon.

Not so.

Something happened to Tim when he realized the full extent of my physical, intellectual and emotional states post-accident. His cool manner slipped: he was worried about me.

Tim became one of the few people who knew just how bad things were. He’d watched me struggle — to write, speak, think.

He must have been surprised when, years later, I said I was producing a book and wanted him to edit it. Not that he showed it.

“Send me the manuscript,” he said.

I did.

“This book could be great,” he replied. “Not just good, but great. It needs more work.”

More work! I was already exhausted. How much more work?

Some chapters were excellent, Tim said. Some would need substantial work. But he would help me.

It was not easy for anyone to help me back then. Sometimes, Tim had to stop our conversations abruptly. I’d start stuttering badly again, lose track of what was being said to me, but refuse to admit I was in trouble.

His voice would become very firm. “Cynthia, we’ll talk again later.” Tim never babied me, which was important. No matter how unwell I was, I always sensed when people were trying to baby me, and I didn’t like it.

Mostly, Tim said, I needed to make the music consistent throughout the book.

The music?

The music. The storytelling. The rhythm, the pace, the cadence of the writing. And so we went to work, to create the music in every chapter.

Every good writer needs a good editor. Considering the shape I was in, I especially needed a good editor.

Tim not only edited my first book, he also edited my second.

What a blessing to work with such an excellent editor, trainer and communicator.

Thank you, Tim.

A Good Home, Home Decor, Homes, Life in canada, Lifestyle

The Porch – by Guest Writer Heather Beveridge

May 17, 2014May 20, 2014 Cynthia Reyes

Dark green paint was the colour of almost every two-story house in Toronto’s east end.

If you were very bold, the house was painted deep red with an ecru trim. My mother didn’t want to stand out in a crowd or cause a row in the neighborhood, so she insisted that our house exterior be painted the standard dark green trim with a white porch. The porch floor was painted grey.

Painting the outside of the house was always a big job. First, the extension ladder was borrowed from my grandfather’s garage. Extension ladders in those days were not light aluminum ones; nevertheless, my father would walk to my grandparents’ home at the top of the street and come home carrying the wooden ladder while I sat on the porch and waited.

No one ever painted over the old paint. Perhaps there were too many layers. A blow torch was used to soften up the old paint. The torch had a brass barrel, never as shiny as the ones that I see at auctions.

Next came the lighting of the gas. This wouldn’t have stuck in my memory if my mother hadn’t been such a worrier. My mother expected an explosion whenever there was fire, gas, or even matches. My father would quietly ignore my mother’s admonitions, light the torch and begin peeling the paint. It gave off a beautiful smell like burning leaves on a fall day.

Peeling the paint was right up there with helping my grandfather shave wood. Over and over, my Dad and I would clean off the old paint from the porch. Twisting off those silky strips of glistening paint and pulling ever so gently and slowly to try to get the biggest curl of paint yet.

Our porch served many duties. The huge baby pram with its great big belly like a whale was always on the porch. My baby brother always slept outside during the daytime – even on the coldest winter days – buried beneath piles of blankets with an old coat thrown over the top of the pram. It was Nana’s idea of child-rearing: she insisted that children must sleep outside even in winter, and my mother had no choice but to follow her determined mother’s ideas.

The porch was also where I was put on house-cleaning day: “Here – take your toys and play on the porch. No, you can’t come in until the floors are dry.”

There was no furniture on our porch. At the time, I never questioned why – but I remember the Duncans’ house down the street had a glider on their porch with striped cushions.

Ours was a ‘playing porch’ – an open porch with steel-grey painted wood floor and bars of white cut-out shapes with a smooth enamel green railing on top. The railing was just the right height for me at five years old to imagine that I was standing on board my pirate ship and waving goodbye to all those scalliwag friends of mine.

Out I would go into my land of adventure, sticking my head in every so often for more toys. Especially on rainy spring days, my friends and I would gather on the porch.

Blankets dragged from the house and kitchen chairs became Indian tepees or, more often, a pirate ship. The enemy was hiding just around the corner in the alleyway and the tepee or ship had to be put in just the right place so the baby carriage wasn’t bumped, setting off wails. Occasionally, we ventured off onto the lawn to retrieve weapons tossed overboard in the excitement of the moment.

That porch served us well as children. I couldn’t imagine a house without one.

It wasn’t until our own home was built that a glider was installed on the porch. It wasn’t quite the same with railings that were laminate and no paint to peel. And a cement floor would never be as fine as the shiny warm planks that served double duty as a pirate ship.

THANKS TO HEATHER FOR THIS STORY.

A Good Home, Easter, Easter Flowers, Fairies, Family Matriarch, Family Stories, First Home, Flowers, Garden, Gardening, Home, Homes, Jamaican countryside, Lifestyle

A Child At Easter

April 20, 2014March 29, 2015 Cynthia Reyes

I’m dedicating this story to the child within each of us.

My first garden had everything we children needed: tall trees with big outstretched arms, a wide stream and acres of fields to play in. All this stood beside and behind a tiny pink farmhouse where a mother and father and five children lived.

A pink farmhouse? Yes.

Seven people in a tiny pink house? How tiny?

Two bedrooms, two front rooms.

Must have been crowded, I hear you thinking.

But this was a land of mild temperatures and hot sun. Children spent many of their waking hours outside. Nature – the wildness of it, the near-danger of it, the freedom of it – was our garden. A child’s own garden.

It wasn’t until our family moved to our grandmother’s much larger house in a nearby village that the first memories of a flower garden — the kind that people tend — lodged themselves in my seven-year- old mind. It was in front of the house, under a window.

via public domain.net — via publicdomainpictures.net

I remember that garden now as a small space full of pretty flowers. Roses, zinnias and dahlias, Joseph’s Coat of Many Colours and other things grew there, each cheerfully elbowing out the other, competing for space and sun.

Crocus in Spring — Photo by Hamlin Grange

And I remember these, above everything else: the fairy flowers.

Clusters of tiny flowers bloomed in gentle colours: pink, white, yellow, mauve. Unlike the other flowers in the garden, these huddled in small patches, as if supporting each other — or seeking warmth from the cool, early-morning mountainside air.

“Luminous”, I’d call them now, because their petals seemed to glow, as if someone had polished each one very tenderly till it shone.

It was magic: they simply appeared one day, as if a fairy had waved her wand above the soil. The size of them – about three inches tall — and the magic of them made me think that these were the sort of flowers that fairies would have growing in their own garden.

Then, when I wasn’t looking – perhaps when I was at school during the day, or asleep during the night – the flowers disappeared completely. When that happened, I imagined that the fairies had brought them to another garden where other children could enjoy them. It was a sad and hopeful feeling all at once.

The timing of the flowers’ arrival always seemed spot-on: Easter time, or Holy Week, as church-going families called it. And so, surrounded by the mysterious stories of Jesus’ crucifixion and resurrection, my sisters and I decided that the tiny flowers were to be called Easter Lilies. Easter lilies — brought by fairies.

It wasn’t the first time – or the last – that I’d get my magic and miracles mixed up. For a child who is told ghost stories and biblical tales of miraculous resurrection finds it easy to believe in fairies.

Unknown to my parents, I even thought of ghosts and fairies in church. When the pastor got too fiery, or too boring, or glared at me for giggling and whispering to my sister, I imagined a kind ghost or fairy – or maybe God himself – putting him to sleep right there in the pulpit – just for a while.

Now – with a garden of my own – reality overtakes imagination, most days. I know that pretty gardens take a lot of work. Those magical moments of my childhood were hardworking times for my parents.

It was my mother who tended the little garden and made sure the flowers would bloom. It must have given her great pleasure, but it was work — along with her other duties as a mother, wife, designer and seamstress of women’s dresses, and active church member.

Still, I hope Mama would forgive me for wondering — at least when it comes to the little garden — if she got a bit of help from the fairies.

A Good Home, Electrical wiring, Family, Home, Home Decor, Life in canada, Photographs, Renovating, Restoration, Restoring old houses, Woodwork

Down to the Wire – John’s House Pt. 4

April 18, 2014April 18, 2014 Cynthia Reyes

I have not had the nerve to ask John THE question:

“Will the work be finished by April 30?”

Now that the electrical wiring is all done, John’s been working hard to meet his self-imposed deadline. But I know he’s had a couple of major life events to deal with recently. So I waited a bit before checking in.

I find John working throughout this Easter weekend. For him, this is not a time to kick back and rest for the holidays.

As usual, he’s well prepared for this phase of work — the plastering and painting. He’s stocked up on supplies……

For patching holes in walls and baseboard ….

Repairing the plaster around the new light switches ….

Priming walls and painting the woodwork….

And the most delicate work of all:

The walls and ceiling of this room.

See that thing in the ceiling? No, not the black thing – the white thing, to the left. It’s a finely crafted medallion – a gem rarely seen in houses today. This medallion – along with the plaster ceiling and crown molding, was badly damaged by a water leak from the floor above some years ago. John, intrepid soul, decided to repair them both. But first, he had to stop the problem from recurring:

“A new eaves trough and downspouts solved this, which is what I did just after taking possession of the house. Since then there has been no more water leaking into (the house).”

The features in this room are remarkable. The high ceilings. The medallion. The deep crown molding. The leaded windows.

Is there progress? Heck, yes.

Have a look at this:

And this:

And this too.

Plus, John also finished up the wood flooring on the third floor.

Seems to me like John just might get to keep his promise to Ann – that they’ll move in by month-end. After all, he’s been working like the dickens. But I don’t have the heart to ask him this, on top of everything he’s gone through lately.

So we’ll just have to find out together.

Stay tuned.

Photos by John Garside.