Marion Agnew

I'm having a moment. Not the kind that means fame or cultural relevance (see: monstera plants, which have displaced succulents, and mushroom-growing, which is apparently replacing baking with sourdough), but the kind I like.  I mean. A moment in which most things feel possible; the moment in which I haven't yet dropped anything irrevocably today and I can maybe pick up some of yesterday's things.  Little things. The laundry is in the dryer and if I'm not around when it's done, the wrinkles won't matter. I have an idea for supper and don't need to thaw anything. We have adequate supplies of sandwich fixings, butter, raisin bread, chocolate bars, coffee and decaf, and prescriptions.  I have ascertained that the blub in the top of the upright tag alder at the shoreline, which I know is NOT the blackbird and NOT the kingfisher, IS indeed a bird. A goldish little round sparrowish jobber. (The ongoing "learning more about the world around us" project is

A reminder: Tomorrow I appear as part of this Ask an Author panel, sponsored by the Northwestern Ontario Writers Workshop. It would be fun to see you, if you can come. Remember: no stupid questions! Can't vouch for our answers, though. The link to the zoom meeting is live here.  If you're reading this after the event, sorry! A report: Yesterday, this happened. As I said on Instagram (where you could follow me; I'm marionagnew ): I did it for me. I did it for him, and him, and her, and for them. I did it for you. For us. For my immunocompromised, high-risk family and friends. For your loved ones, too. Every vaccination makes us all safer. Thanks, science. ❤️ It's heartening to see friends and family and strangers getting vaccinated. Like a break in the grey, snow-laden clouds that April has brought back to the North Shore. A break that lets in light and hope. 

April 15 is the anniversary of my father's death, fourteen years ago. My sister and I actually begin marking the Days of Anniversaries--his death, and the anniversaries of my mother's birth and death, and Mother's Day--mid-March. That's when the joint vacation my father and I were enjoying with my sister turned into his last month.  My father with his "map of the US" (except Texas) (because then-presidents) (a story to be told another time) made from rocks picked up on the beach. My book, Reverberations: A Daughter's Meditations on Alzheimer's , is about both of my parents, though only my mother had Alzheimer's, because ... well, because families, I guess. In it, I describe my father's other "last" vacation, the summer before he died, when he came up here to visit with family and to remember my mother. Before leaving for the airport on his last morning, he and I visited the older family camp, walked to the point, and sat on the beach.

 Last week, a review I wrote of a lovely book, A Father, a Son, and All the Things They Never Talk About , appeared at River Street Writing: “There is only one way this story is going to turn out.” Everyone has parents. Everyone’s parents die. Yet the stories where parents and death intersect are unique.  George K. Ilsley’s recent memoir tells one such story. As a young adult, George left his Nova Scotia home, heading west, eventually landing in Vancouver—as far away as he could get while remaining in North America. Then, as he turns 50, his father turns 90, and his father needs, but doesn’t especially want, Ilsley’s care.  I enjoyed this book so much--it's honest and engaging. Go here to read the rest of my review , in which I also share a few general thoughts about memoir and creative nonfiction, and check out the book from Arsenal Pulp Press .  Also! In a few weeks, I'll be appearing with two other writers from the region on an "Ask an Author" panel, hosted by the