I am thrilled to be hosting a spot
on the THE BLUE HOUSE by Myrna Denham Porter Blog Tour hosted by Rockstar Book Tours. Check out
my post and make sure to enter the giveaway!
About The Book:
Author: Myrna Denham Porter
Pub. Date: January 13, 2022
Publisher: Myrna Denham Porter
Formats: Paperback, eBook
Pages: 245
Find it: Goodreads, https://books2read.com/The-Blue-House
This is a
memoir of a woman who grew up at the edge of the Canadian Prairies. For Myrna
“no woman is an island” and she attributes a “life worth living” to the mentors
along the way, as well as her combined parents’ Christian values. To Myrna, in
today’s society, these values seem to be slipping away. Commitment,
persistence, hard work, love and forgiveness, though harshly delivered by her
father and lovingly delivered by her mother, were all part of Myrna’s early
childhood.
Excerpt-Chapter
1
On the
Canadian Prairie
Atop a
Throne of Cordwood
Very
clearly, in memory, I see the girl I was at fourteen, beautiful and
determined, leaving the blue house where she had grown up.
I see
myself in the back of a truck, perched atop a pile of logs soon to be cut
for cordwood. The two men inside the truck, transporting the wood to
be sold in a distant village, show no concern for any danger I
might face traveling over bumpy roads, balanced precariously on that
heavy load. As the truck heads down the long driveway, the girl I
was looks back at her home for the last time.
When I think
of that moment, I feel both sadness and compassion for that naïve,
determined girl. I understand now that, while none of us can know what
lies ahead, the way we set off, the spirit in which the journey is
begun, will determine if we see the path ahead through a glass
lightly, or darkly.
They say
that character is destiny. Clearly, my character at that young age was still
forming. Perhaps I knew what I didn’t want to become more clearly than
what I did want. A spirit of defiance was enough to propel me down
the road. While my body rocked and bumped down the drive away from the
blue house, something in my core felt steady and sure even as it moved
into the unknown. Now, approaching fourscore years on earth, I see
that departure in a different light. It tells me something about goodbyes and
how important it is to always say, “I love you.”
In the kitchen,
as I prepared to leave, flies buzzed in and out of the torn screen in the
window, drawn by the unwashed pots and pans in and around the sink. Moth
er stood kneading bread dough over and over, refusing to look up at me.
This was not how I knew her to be. My childhood memories are full of
Mother putting my hands in hers and then looking directly into my
eyes with such loving kindness, or simply patting my head softly.
It was her way of connecting. Through the simplest gestures, she transmitted an
unshakable belief in her children. Her love gave each of us a positive
sense of self so that we were assured of success, no matter what
obstacles we might face. Yet today, the last day that I would ever live
in the blue house, the sudden end of my childhood, Mother would not look
up. Without her loving, assuring eyes connecting with mine, for a moment
my confidence was shaken.
My sister
Linda recalled when she left nearly ten years later, heading for
California to live with relatives, Mother was hoeing the garden and
refused to look up or say goodbye. Why would Mother not acknowledge her
daughters as they set out into the world? Was it just too painful to
confront the prospect of us vanishing for good? Was she worried about all
that could happen to us leaving home at only fourteen years of age? Or
was she perhaps thinking that while I was managing to escape our
miserable life of utter poverty, she never would? Was this why she kept
kneading the bread dough, refusing to look up, with just moments left
between us? All of these questions rode roughshod across my heart.
I believe
she was neither cold nor indifferent; rather, her pain was so deep it
caused her to behave in a way that was contrary to her kind and affirming
nature. Perhaps it was a lingering memory of the loss of our oldest
sister.
While Mother
would eventually give birth to seven teen children, her first pregnancy
occurred at seventeen years of age. The first born, Donaldene Margaret,
lived for one month. In that time, the child suffered a bowel problem
requiring Mother to give her enemas with a sharpened bar of soap. Little
Donaldene, in constant pain, cried a lot. One night, sleeping between my
parents, she died. My parents didn’t know if the cause was crib death or
a result of her bowel troubles. Mother always said, “I wanted to die that
night, too.” My parents kept her tiny casket in the house, with the lamp
on throughout the night, the saddest vigil.
Perhaps this
was why Mother stood in the kitchen, silently kneading the bread, on the
day of my departure. This image of my mother, unwilling, or unable, to
look up and truly see me one last time, the sense of missed
connection, haunted me deeply as we drove away from the blue house, and
it has haunted me ever since.
Linda, eight
years old at the time, still remembers watching me lurch and bounce away
atop that pile of cordwood. All she could think, watching me recede
into invisibility, was, “Oh, my God!”
It is
important to leave the people we love knowing how we feel about them in
our hearts. Even if they cannot fully receive this message in the moment, the
words can grow inside them, and perhaps comfort them at a later time
when they might really need that fortification. The truth is, we never
know what will happen. We never know how, or even if, we will see each
other again.
I cannot
recall what I was thinking when I left the blue house for the last time,
at the start of a hundred-mile trip to the town of Wynyard. I was heading
for my ma ternal grandmother’s home, with plans to attend high school
there in the fall. For the summer, I had been offered a job on a farm just
outside of the town, working for a couple I had never met.
I was headed
toward an unknown destiny. Yet, as I struggled to get comfortable atop
the sharp, hard wood, I do remember one very distinct feeling: a fierce,
almost wild hope, rising. I was finally moving towards a conviction I had
long held in my heart like an inextinguishable talisman: I am somebody,
and I am going to be somebody greater. Here was the first realization in my
gladdening heart that the destination was not a place. My north star was
the belief that, having escaped the blue house at last, I was headed to
something greater. As I clung tightly to the old straw rope that loosely
held the logs in place, I did not know or consider what lay ahead
of me. I just knew I had to survive the journey.
About Myrna Denham Porter:
Myrna was born in 1940 into a family of seventeen children in
a remote area of Saskatchewan, Canada. It was an area where conditions were
harsh, aspirations were low and few attended high school. Inspired by her
mother to further her education, Myrna left home at the age of fourteen to work
as a nanny while attending high school.
At the age of seventeen, she emigrated to the United States.
After a successful career in the early sixties as a flight attendant, she
married, raised two children, and obtained her bachelor’s and master’s degrees.
Through her career and volunteer work, Myrna is proud to acknowledge she has
made a difference in the lives of others. She believes that through these
activities a sense of contentment and peace is obtained.
Encouraged by her good friend and associate, psychologist and author Dr. Jacob Shefa, to write her story, Myrna began her memoirs several years ago. When she began her memoirs, her intention was to leave a legacy of strong values and a guide for “a life worth living” for her grandchildren as well as future generations. But as Myrna wrote, she began to realize others might benefit from her story.
Giveaway Details:
1 winner
will receive a finished copy of THE BLUE HOUSE, US Only.
Ends February 21st, midnight EST.
a Rafflecopter giveawayTour Schedule:
Week One:
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2/6/2023 |
Guest Post or Excerpt/IG Post |
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2/7/2023 |
Guest Post or Excerpt |
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2/8/2023 |
Guest Post or Excerpt |
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2/8/2023 |
Guest Post or Excerpt/IG Post |
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2/9/2023 |
Guest Post or Excerpt |
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2/10/2023 |
Review/IG Post |
Week Two:
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2/13/2023 |
Guest Post or Excerpt |
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2/14/2023 |
Review |
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2/15/2023 |
Review/IG Post |
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2/16/2023 |
Review/IG Post |
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2/17/2023 |
Review/IG Post |
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