My Year Of Creativity (December)

Unedited

The sun has set on 2025 and a new year has begun. Will 2026 be a year of color, with rainbows after a storm? Maybe the sunlight will shine on a field just right, and the glorious hues of the grasses grown will pop? Or the days could be dark, full of angry storm clouds overhead. Although it might be hard, on the darkest days beauty can still be found…the year has just started and what lies ahead is yet unknown.

Nursing a cold that appeared on New Year’s Day, I am reflecting on a year that is now past…in the greater scope of things, 2025 (for lack of a better word) sucked! Last year might have been spent in blissful ignorance, if knowledge of Project 2025 hadn’t urged me to listen to the news. Without tuning in to current events, there would have been little awareness of the chaos that our current administration has set to the world order. In our area things seem to be unchanged. My social media feed would have consisted solely of jewelry reels and hobby sites. Last year a choice was made to see life beyond my own backyard.

In December 2024, I decided that my 2025 New Year’s resolution would be to complete one creative project a month. The year ahead looked like it might have hard changes. For many people the prediction rang true. Being aware of what was taking place within our country caused me to have many negative emotions. The reason for my new year’s intention was this: having something to focus on, would clear the noise that might be rattling around my head. As last year’s door started to close, my husband asked if I thought the creative outlet helped. “Yes, sort of”, was my simple answer.

Paying attention to what was happening, gave me an understanding of where our country seems to be heading. The direction the U.S. is going is very bad. Currently, the one thing that has consequences for me is this: If Project 2025 were to fully go through, my rights as a woman would be severely diminished. As a white female in my late 50’s, turning the clock back to a repressive age might have little bearing, but it would affect our daughters. Equal rights are being challenged: since the overturning of Roe V. Wade reproductive freedoms have been rolled back in many states. In November 2025, the U.S. Department of Education reclassified traditionally female professions (social work, public, health, nursing, teaching…) to non-professional; possibly this is the beginning of time going backward for women. Many more freedoms have already been taken from other populations in our country.

Working on artistic endeavors last year allowed for an escape from the outside chaos. At the beginning of December 2025, there was doubt that I would complete this last month of creativity…one day, during the second week of the 12th month, my knee went out on me while swimming. At first, barely any weight could be placed on my leg and the thought of standing to solder any of my pieces seemed impossible.

Rest was needed because a large portion of my extended family was going to St. Thomas for the holidays. The trip was to celebrate my mother. She is turning 85 in March. I wanted to be in the best walking shape possible when our vacation began. Much to my chagrin, not loving to sit still, time was taken to mend. Bored with the wire wrapped, beaded necklaces, a chain made of wire (that required no soldering) was started.

Early in the month, a class to learn the art of decoupaging shells had been signed up for; this craft of decorating objects with paper was something not done in years! The workshop, was held upstairs in an area that had no elevator. Luckily my knee was stable with a brace and I was able to attend the class:

Two, imperfect, ring dishes were made. An art (lost by me) has now been recovered.

The third week of December turned out to be a busy time: We had the first “big” snow of the year; One of the projects I had started working on in November, was almost finished: a hawk pendant; Another piece, also started in the 11th month, was ruined: a bezel set stone; Lastly, my youngest daughter and I took an enameling workshop.

Experimenting with enameling: front and back of pieces

A few days before we flew to St. Thomas, my chain necklace was finished and the hawk pendant was painted with patina.

On December 24th, it was time to depart for the long planned trip. Although a few months before our matriarch’s actual birthday, this period was chosen because it was the best time for many of my mother’s grandchildren to attend. Unfortunately, we each had one adult child missing. Although it didn’t feel like a winter holiday, it was the first (and probably the last) Christmas that my mother, sister and brother have been together in about 3 decades. A beautiful location had been chosen: the property where we stayed was on a cliff. There were many Iguanas on the rocky shore. Cats and jungle fowl live together. We only stayed for five nights, but there was time for town, the beach and a day of snorkeling. Mostly, for those who don’t see much of my mother, there was the opportunity to celebrate her. This holiday was a nice way to end the year!

View from our window
Epstein’s Island

12th Month Complete

With this post, “My Year Of Creativity” ends. On my own, I plan to continue to create and write. What form the anecdotes take on this blog is yet to come. Hopefully, some of you will “test the waters” and share your story. Remember, this is why the site was created: for you to tell your tale. The only rule for the narrative (whatever form it takes) is that the account needs to be true…

Author’s note: The new year has already started ominously. Yesterday, I woke up to the news that the our country launched strikes on Caracas, Venezuela. President Maduro and his wife were placed in U.S custody. Although the Venezuelan president is a dictator, the fact that he and his wife were taken has serious implications for the world order. To better understand this please watch Heather Cox Richardson: the last six minutes are the most important.

Heather Cox Richardson:

How U.S. taking out Maduro matters to the world:

Despite the early bad news, I wish you all the best in the year to come and leave you with this:

“Everything can be taken from a person but one thing: the last of the human freedoms – to choose one’s attitude in any given set of circumstances”.

-Viktor Frankl

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My Year Of Creativity

January https://tell-me-your-story.org/2025/02/01/my-year-of-creativity/

February https://tell-me-your-story.org/2025/03/07/my-year-of-creativity-2/

March https://tell-me-your-story.org/2025/03/30/my-year-of-creativity-march-2025/

April https://tell-me-your-story.org/2025/05/18/my-year-of-creativity-april-2025/

May https://tell-me-your-story.org/2025/06/06/my-year-of-creativity-may-2025/

June https://tell-me-your-story.org/2025/07/11/my-year-of-creativity-june-2025/

July https://tell-me-your-story.org/2025/08/08/my-year-of-creativity-july-2025/

August: https://tell-me-your-story.org/2025/09/14/my-year-of-creativity-august-2025/

September: https://tell-me-your-story.org/2025/10/21/my-year-of-creativity-september-2025/

October: https://tell-me-your-story.org/2025/11/08/my-year-of-creativity-october-2025/

November: https://tell-me-your-story.org/2025/12/12/my-year-of-creativity-november-2025/

I Remember

In memory of the victims of PAN AM Flight 103. This was originally written in December 2018 on the 30th anniversary of the Lockerbie Bombing. Today marks the 37th year of this terrorist attack…

I Remember

The fall of my Junior year in college, I left my college in New Jersey to study with Syracuse University in London.  I had applied to the Syracuse program because I needed a change from my college, which had begun feeling small. 

I wanted to spend a year in London, but was afraid I would be homesick.  I fully intended to meet friends from my hometown and travel during Winter break. The Syracuse program gave me the opportunity to extend my stay to a year if I was happy. About two weeks in to my semester in London I decided to stay for the full year.

I loved my time in London.  I cannot put into words what a wonderful and exciting experience it was for all of us who studied there.  We were young, practically still children, full of hopes and dreams. 

30 years ago today the dreams were taken from 35 of my fellow students. The tragedy of Pan Am flight 103 changed all who it touched.  For those people who were connected to the disaster over Lockerbie, Scotland: I remember.

Pictures flow through my mind…

Traveling for the first few days of winter break with my roommate, Deirdre

Leaving London 

Traveling to  Amsterdam, Cologne, Munster, Brugge and Brussels

Arriving at the Brussels train station where Deirdre and I would part ways:

She to a family she knew in Belgium, 

I back to London to meet with friends for Christmas.

Liz, at the train station saying “There has been an accident on one of the planes”

Me stupidly saying “was anyone hurt?”

Being told, “Everyone is dead.”

Darkness fell,

Walking from the Syracuse center after laying flowers on the steps…

Being approached by another student “Sarah, thank God…I did not know your last name, there was another Sarah from our program on flight 103.”

Slowly finding out who I had known:

Ken Bissett, who sat next to me on the flight to London and was supposed to return for spring semester…

Miriam Wolf with her vibrant hair and welcoming personality.

The others: Pamela, from Bowden; Turhan;the Cocker twins…

Feeling guilty that I had not been on the plane.

Lighting candles all over Europe, In remembrance for those that had died. 

Moving through the dark. Finding light.  Letting go of the guilt.

Remembrance

Unedited

In October of this year, there was a short visit to Syracuse, NY. After a several hours of driving that beautiful autumn day, a stretch of my legs was greatly needed. I met with a loved one in the area and went for a stroll. We walked through a beautiful graveyard, as the autumn breeze blew. The golden leaves, of some of the changing trees, moved overhead with the wind. Up and down slopes we traveled and eventually reached Syracuse University campus.

When my youngest moved to the area, I mentioned the desire to one day to visit the memorial for those who were victims of the Pan Am flight 103 bombing in 1988. Having studied abroad with these students, this tragedy was an defining event in my young adult life. As we neared SU, my daughter said to me: “I found the memorial you mentioned wanting to visit”. We walked along the paths of the campus. Eventually, we came upon the tribute that was placed for my classmates.

We stood in silence, me with a little lump in my throat, almost 40 years later this is still hard…

About a week after my child and I viewed the site on University Hill, it was Remembrance Week. She sent me this picture in front of Hendricks Chapel.

Then, a few days later, a friend forwarded me this from instagram:

https://www.instagram.com/syracuseu?igsh=aGthbTEycjR1NTh5&utm_source=qr

Remembrance Week

“Each year in the fall, Syracuse University observes Remembrance Week.  Events are designed by the Remembrance and Lockerbie Scholars, whose goal is to raise campus and community awareness of terrorism and to encourage the entire Syracuse University community to remember the victims of the Pan Am 103 bombing by becoming involved and working to positively impact others.”

From Syracuse University/Remembrance

https://remembrance.syr.edu/events/

Although it was hard to read the names, the first chair was the worst: I sat next to Kenneth Bissett on the plane to London. Interactions with many of these students are recalled. Yet with the sadness, gratefulness is felt: the SU community continues to remember….

Authors Note: Tomorrow is the 37th anniversary of the Lockerbie Bombing, and once again I will share my story.

12 Years

September is Suicide Prevention Awareness month.

Suicide doesn’t discriminate; it touches all people no matter your gender, race or religion. Perhaps at this moment you don’t know anyone who has taken their life. Some day you might…This year there is so much anger and hatred being spread that it seems like many people have forgotten what it means to empathize. Pack away your disdain for one day, check in on those around you. Be humane: show up with kindness and compassion and maybe you will help somebody realize that they can make it through another day.

For the past three years, I have published the following story about the day my dad died, to help bring awareness to suicide. Today marks the 15th anniversary of his death, I am reposting this story as it was written in 2022.

My Dad


I find irony in the fact that September is National Suicide Prevention Month. This is the month the unimaginable happened to our family. The date will be forever embedded in my memory: Thursday, September 16, 2010.

Twelve Years….  It is hard to believe that so many years have passed since that night.  The year that followed is what I call a lost year. What is a lost year?  To me, it is a period of time where I am pushed out of my comfortable, benign life to face a hostile, unknowing reality.  

I remember that night like it was yesterday. We had sent our youngest child to bed early because she refused to eat her dinner.  I felt awful because she cried herself to sleep.  As my husband (Greg) and I read a bedtime story to our middle child, the phone rang.  We ignored it. The phone stopped ringing and then immediately started to ring again. I said this call must be important, so Greg answered the phone.

The next thing I knew, the phone was being handed to me:  “It is your mom”, Greg said, “you need to talk to her”.  My mother was on the other end of the line crying, someone from 911 told me that my mother needed to talk to me. Then I heard “Sarah, your father has killed himself”.  I told her I would be there as soon as possible.

I threw some clothes into a bag.  Greg gave me some cash and asked if I was sure I could make the 1.5 hour drive, to my parents house, by myself.  My eldest child asked me what had happened. I said “something is wrong with BopBop, I need to go see Nana.”; it was hard to believe what my mother told me was true.  We had just seen my parents the previous Sunday.  My father seemed off the day we saw him, but he had a lot weighing on his mind.  I just thought my dad was concerned with a heart issue that might impede the upcoming surgery that he had scheduled.

With my bag packed, me partly in shock and denial, I got into the mini van.  Driving into the night, a light rain started. On auto pilot the minivan drove, with me behind the wheel.  How could my mother be helped before I got to her? Friends, I needed to contact  someone who would go to mom.  She couldn’t be alone. 

Luckily, the hands free cell phone law hadn’t gone into effect. Dialing a number I knew by heart, into my little Nokia push button phone, I called the mother of a good friend of mine and at the same time a good friend of my mother’s. She would know what to do to support my mom. The phone rang for a long while. Finally the answering machine picked up, but this wasn’t the sort of thing to leave on an answering machine. Hanging up,  I thought of someone else to call; this time the operator was dialed, because I didn’t know the number.  Again, no answer.  Old family friends…who could I call? I finally settled on somebody.  “Just a friend”, I thought, “that is what she needs”. I called the operator again and another number was dialed for me.  Finally, there was a voice on the other end of the line: Bob.  I told him what had happened and he said that he and his wife would go right over.

On that long drive in the dark rain, the phone calls went on. There was a call to my sister, who was unreachable at the time.  Eventually we spoke. She said she would make the calls to the rest of our extended family: our brother, aunts and uncles. The last call I made was to a close friend who talked to me through part of my drive, but then she had to go. Before she hung up she checked to make sure I was ok.  “Yes” was the word that left my mouth, but really was I all right?

When I reached my parents house, there was a police car in the driveway.  The lights were flashing in the drizzle like you might see in a movie.  Bob was out there waiting for me with an umbrella. He said we needed to go through the front door. For some reason I couldn’t go in the door that I always went in. The door that lead to home: through the hall to the kitchen and then to the family room.  I so rarely went through the front door.  I didn’t really understand what was happening.  Then it occurred to me that not only was Bob a family friend, but he was my parents lawyer.  An investigation was underway.  

As I was led into the living room, I saw all the friends that I had tried to contact, but had failed to reach. My mother sat on the couch, looking frail.  I think she was all cried out at the time. There was a little spray of blood on her sweater and a small spot on her face. These are the things I remember.  

The rest of the night is a blur. Anne, the first woman I tried to contact, asked us to come home with her. My mom’s friend and assistant, Sandy, offered to take my dad’s beloved dog to her house, just until my mom got back on her feet.  Bob said he would go to my grandmother’s house in the morning to tell her what happened to her eldest child.  I told him, “I need to be the one to tell her”.  In the end, we agreed that he would pick me up at Anne’s house in the morning and we would go together.

I don’t know how I slept that night.  The next morning I did the hardest thing I have ever done in my life:  I sat with my almost 95 year old grandmother and told her that my dad, her son, had taken his life. She put her hand on her heart and started to cry. Then she straightened and said “I need to be strong for all of you”.  My grandmother, who had lost her middle child to death by suicide 40 some Septembers before this, wanted to be strong for us.  She knew how to survive the unbearable.

Anyone who has experienced a tragedy, knows that life can change in the blink of an eye. Our lives were forever changed the night my father ended his. We will never know why my dad chose to do what he did. His death was instantaneous.    

 I find irony in the fact that September is National Suicide Prevention Month only because of my experience twelve Septembers ago. At  the same time I am extremely hopeful that, because of this month, more people  are aware of how to help prevent suicide.  Remember to support those around you.  Be aware that different events may cause someone to consider suicide. Know the the risk factors and warning signs of suicide (https://afsp.org/risk-factors-and-warning-signs). There is also a National Suicide Prevention Lifeline, the number is 9-8-8

I hope that sharing my words this September will  help you or someone you know realize that it is OK to ask for help or at least help recognize the warning sign that might lead to suicide. Unfortunately, my father didn’t ask for help and we hadn’t recognized the signs that told us he was in distress.

What Is Your Story?

I have always enjoyed watching people. Sometimes I will look at someone and think “what is your story?”. There are times when I will engage someone in conversation and the person will tell me about part of their journey in life. I love when someone can be unguarded, have no filter, and just share with me. My blog, Tell Me your story, was set up as a space for people to share a true, personal, story.

These days you see the so called “perfect life” of everyone on social media. The reality is that humans are imperfect. We all have stories, not just one story, but many stories. My grandfather, who was married to my grandmother for 62 years, once said to me: “Your Ana loves to tell stories.” ” Usually they are stories I have already heard, but every once in awhile she still surprises me and shares something about herself that I never knew!”

Perhaps I learned to appreciate personal stories because of the ones my grandmother told me throughout my life. Maybe I recognize that true accounts of people’s lives are precious, having grown up with a father who was an anthropologist. Whatever my reason is, I believe that telling your story is important; it can be told in many ways: Is your genre music, and the words you sing your tale? Do you have photographs you have taken that show an account of something you want to share? If you have a hard time writing, but the written word is the way you want for others to hear your story, I can help. How you tell your story is up to you.

Over the last three years, since I started Tell Me Your Story, I have “met” many people. Some have shared their stories with the readers of this blog. Others have reached out and told (only) me their tale. Each person has shared a part of themself with me and I have been touched. Here are some of the stories I have “published” that weren’t my own:

A Northwest Passage https://tell-me-your-story.org/2022/01/26/a-northwest-passage/

Call Me Joye https://tell-me-your-story.org/2022/06/22/call-me-joye/

On The Edge Of Being Homeless https://tell-me-your-story.org/2022/07/16/on-the-edge-of-being-homeless/

Cedar Springs- Joy, Sadness and Death In Dallas https://tell-me-your-story.org/2023/01/19/cedar-springs-joy-sadness-and-death-in-dallas/

Will this be the year you share a small (or large) part of who you are with others? What is your story?

If you would like to submit your story here is the link https://tell-me-your-story.org/contact/

I Remember

In memory of the victims of PAN AM Flight 103. This was originally written in December 2018 on the 30th anniversary of the Lockerbie Bombing. Today marks the 36th year of this terrorist attack…

I Remember

The fall of my Junior year in college, I left my college in New Jersey to study with Syracuse University in London.  I had applied to the Syracuse program because I needed a change from my college, which had begun feeling small. 

I wanted to spend a year in London, but was afraid I would be homesick.  I fully intended to meet friends from my hometown and travel during Winter break. The Syracuse program gave me the opportunity to extend my stay to a year if I was happy. About two weeks in to my semester in London I decided to stay for the full year.

I loved my time in London.  I cannot put into words what a wonderful and exciting experience it was for all of us who studied there.  We were young, practically still children, full of hopes and dreams. 

30 years ago today the dreams were taken from 35 of my fellow students. The tragedy of Pan Am flight 103 changed all who it touched.  For those people who were connected to the disaster over Lockerbie, Scotland: I remember.

Pictures flow through my mind…

Traveling for the first few days of winter break with my roommate, Deirdre

Leaving London 

Traveling to  Amsterdam, Cologne, Munster, Brugge and Brussels

Arriving at the Brussels train station where Deirdre and I would part ways:

She to a family she knew in Belgium, 

I back to London to meet with friends for Christmas.

Liz, at the train station saying “There has been an accident on one of the planes”

Me stupidly saying “was anyone hurt?”

Being told, “Everyone is dead.”

Darkness fell,

Walking from the Syracuse center after laying flowers on the steps…

Being approached by another student “Sarah, thank God…I did not know your last name, there was another Sarah from our program on flight 103.”

Slowly finding out who I had known:

Ken Bissett, who sat next to me on the flight to London and was supposed to return for spring semester…

Miriam Wolf with her vibrant hair and welcoming personality.

The others: Pamela, from Bowden; Turhan;the Cocker twins…

Feeling guilty that I had not been on the plane.

Lighting candles all over Europe, In remembrance for those that had died. 

Moving through the dark. Finding light.  Letting go of the guilt.

The Ever-Changing Road

Finale of The Unexpected Journey

Follow the links at the bottom of this story to read it from the beginning.

This past September, as the summer turned to fall, my husband and I started forging a new path together. When my spouse met me, I was a divorced, single mother with a toddler and two cats. We are now “empty nesters” in the true sense of the word and for the first time in the whole of our relationship: our children have all flown the nest and we have no pets left to care for.

Looking back on the unexpected turn that took place within our family 6 years ago, I realize that this is what it means to be alive. Life in itself is a journey. Some people just have a rockier road to travel, before they find smooth ground. Often there will be great things to see along life’s path and then you hit a bump…

In the summer of 2023, I came across this poem by Becky Hemsley, which I feel describes the journey of life beautifully:

This poem has been shared with permission by Becky Hemsley.
To see more of her work go to
https://www.beckyhemsley.com/about-3

The family member who took us on our unexpected journey was our middle child. For awhile, we had three daughters. However, life is constantly changing. Now, five and a half years later, we have a son again. Bailey is detransitioning back to Bay; it is important to understand that Bay becoming Bailey wasn’t a lie. Our child didn’t become female because it was a “fad”. In 2019 Bay began to identify as female. The way I understand his transition to becoming female is this: The years of extreme depression Bay suffered, contributed to feelings of gender dysphoria; this caused a disconnection from his body. As a coping mechanism he began to identify with the female gender. As was explained in Part 4 of The Unexpected Journey (Summer of Loons), gender is a spectrum. For some months now, Bay has been feeling androgynous to male and this is part of why he is detransitioning. Feminizing hormones were taken by Bay, but he never underwent any gender affirming surgery. His physical detransition won’t be hard.

Over six years have passed since we found out our middle child was depressed with extreme suicidal ideation. Then, five and a half years ago, we were told we had a third daughter. Today, I am a stronger person than I was when Bay took us down this hard road. My life feels full. Our three children, all young adults, are healthy and happy. The “baby”of the family has surprised us by coming home more than we anticipated. However, the house is quiet most of the time. My husband and I have been through so much over our 21 years of marriage. Together, we continue to make our way along the ever-changing road.

To see the other parts of An Unexpected Journey, follow the links:

Part 1: https://tell-me-your-story.org/2022/08/26/the-beginning-an-unexpected-journey-part-2-of-the-summer-that-could-have-been-idyllic/.

Part 2: https://tell-me-your-story.org/2023/02/01/on-thin-ice/

Part 3: https://tell-me-your-story.org/2023/07/13/standing-at-the-edge-of-the-world/

Part 4: https://tell-me-your-story.org/2024/06/29/the-summer-of-the-loons-the-beginning-2/

Part 5: https://tellmeyourstory369820890.wordpress.com/2024/06/30/the-little-things-prologue-2/?preview=true

Part 5, chapter 1 https://tellmeyourstory369820890.wordpress.com/2024/07/01/the-little-things-chapter-1-chasing-joy-2/?preview=true

Part 5, chapter 2 https://tell-me-your-story.org/2024/04/20/i-didnt-break-chapter-of-the-little-things/

Part 5, chapter 3 https://tellmeyourstory369820890.wordpress.com/2024/07/03/dark-days-chapter-3-of-the-little-things-2/?preview=true

Part 5, chapter 4 https://tellmeyourstory369820890.wordpress.com/2024/07/04/then-the-quiet-the-little-things-chapter-4-2/?preview=true

Part 5, chapter 5 The Ground Beneath My Feet: Chapter 5 of The little Things: – Tell Me Your Story

Other related stories:

https://tell-me-your-story.org/2024/06/24/the-trip-of-a-life-time-the-summer-that-could-have-been-idyllic-2/

https://tell-me-your-story.org/2023/06/08/the-last-place-i-wanted-to-go-2/

Two Lost Souls

This story was first published in 2022….Happy Halloween!

One morning, in late August, the lake was shrouded in mist. Looking out on the water, the low clouds reminded me of a veil between the living and the dead. I thought about the children who died off the shores of this property….

The History Of A House And The Tragedy That Happened 

In 1908 James Stroud had a “cottage” built at the end of an Island, on one of Muskoka’s lakes. The house was grand: made partly of stone and steel, with gardens and paths surrounding the property. Fireplaces were in many of the rooms: four on the main floor and one in almost all 7 of the bedrooms. There was a grand staircase: a sweeping set of steps that split off into two smaller flights going in opposite directions.


At the back of the house were two more set of stairs: the first gave the servants easy access to the kitchen from their room upstairs; the second went down to a room in the basement. A dumb waiter moved things up and down from the ground level to the kitchen. The doors at the back of the house were those the domestic help used, as they gave easy access to the other side of the estate. There was an incinerator on the opposite bank of the property, down the hill, beside the lake, where trash was set afire. Things that could not burn were placed nearby.   

The owner, James, had two grown children: James (Jimmy) and Martha. The son never had a family of his own. His sister, however, married and had two children: Anna and William. Three years after the cottage was built, while  perhaps playing a game of hide and seek, the seven year old girl and her five year old brother ran away from their nanny: down the hill, toward the paths near the incinerator. Sadly, this playfulness ended in tragedy. Their little bodies were found in the water with their arms wrapped around one another, as if in an embrace. This is how I pictured them when I heard the story. An assumption was made that Anna who was older, went in to save her sibling and they both drowned.

How My Family Become Part Of This Story

In the late 1930’s, James died in his summer home, a place that he loved. The house was left to his son Jimmy, as Martha  (although she still vacationed nearby) did not want to be reminded of the devastation from years before. 20 some years later the property was left to my grandfather because Jimmy had no heirs.My father’s family started spending summers in the Muskoka region.

In the 1960’s my grandparent’s built a small cottage on the other side of the island from the one built in the early 20th century. The two houses became known as the “big cottage” and “little cottage”. When I was young, my immediate family spent our summers in what we called the “little cottage”; it was all one level with three bedrooms. My father’s parents stayed in the  “big cottage”. My uncle would come up for a while every summer. When I was 13 my grandparents decided that they would prefer to stay in the smaller house. The younger generations now had summer residence in the big cottage. 

Strange Happenings

At the age of 14 some friends and I decided to play Ouija. None of us knew the rules…as I played, my fingers, and those of my friends, hovered above the planchette. Playing the game  mostly “yes” and “no” question were asked. The little wooden plank flew across the board with no one touching it. We all assumed we had contacted Anna and William because one of them couldn’t spell. I don’t remember saying goodbye, we weren’t aware we should.

One night, the same summer, a good friend and I were sitting in one of the old wooden, luxurious, boats that Jimmy had owned. This was a comfortable place to sit and listen to the party on the island across from ours; an event that we were not quite old enough to attend. While we were waiting for the gathering to start, the two of us talked in the quiet night. All of the sudden, out of the dark night, we heard a young melodic voice way say “Moooooommy“.We looked at each other and realized the haunting sound was heard by us both. We were scared because there were no other children living near by. It wasn’t an echo we heard but what was it? As in a horror movie, we didn’t choose the smart thing to do by running up the lighted path to the cottage. Instead, the two of us agreed that sitting in the old boat was a bad plan…we moved to one which we could drive, waiting to hear the words again.

At the big cottage there were unexplained things that happened: screen doors that slammed, when I was at the house alone; the feeling that someone had walked into the room, but no one was there… At the age of 20, the cottage felt quiet.  I said to my sister, “I don’t feel a presence here anymore.” That night, while lying in bed, my lamp fell over by itself: an entity telling us of its presence. Was it old Mr. Stroud who had died there or was it one of the children? 

As the years went by, my uncle married and started to bring his wife and three step children up to the little cottage. Eventually they had two girls of their own. In my early adult life, I wasn’t able to spend much time in Muskoka. Something odd happened to my uncle’s family This is what I was told: One night, as everyone slept, the babysitter who was up for the summer (to help with the 5 children) awoke.   She saw two little “girls” in white dresses, roaming the house.  Assuming they were  my Aunt and Uncle’s youngest children, she followed them. Down the stairs they went, then out into the night and disappeared.  These were not my cousins, but the children from so long ago. Apparently, the baby sitter was pale and shaking when she recounted what had  happened.

By the mid-1990’s my grandparents stopped going up to Muskoka; it was decided to sever the property and sell the side that the big cottage was on.  The upkeep was too much money and we hadn’t kept the house in the splendor it deserved. My uncle and his family bought another summer residence on the same lake. We continue to go up to the little cottage, which is now bigger because my sister, brother and I all have our own families. On our property strange events have still occurred. One night, several summers ago, my husband awoke to a light brushing across his cheek and a soft voice calling his name.

 In May of 2020, my youngest daughter and I went to stay at my mother’s home. We hadn’t seen her and Paul (her significant other) since the world locked down. That evening, we had dinner with them, on their back deck. As the sun was setting we told stories about things that go bump in the night.  I started to tell my Ouija story.  As these words were spoken by me: “…we all assumed that the two children who had died along the shore, years before, had been contacted”  Paul looked over in shock. He said, “Two children drowned just off your property? I’ve seen them, on the road, wearing white dresses.”

The paranormal activities at our cottage continue to take place. When the border into Canada reopened in the summer of 2021, we went to our beloved cottage. My eldest daughter drove up with two friends. Around 3 or 4 in the morning, one of the young ladies woke up screaming.  At the same time in a bedroom over the boathouse, my youngest daughter was awakened by the clock radio turning on; there was no music, only the sound of gurgling.

Today we met my mother and Paul for lunch. They had arrived back from Canada two weeks ago. We were talking about this story. My mother said, “maybe you could say: perhaps they are happy here and don’t want to leave the property? ” Under his breath, Paul said “I saw them again.” Mom responded, “Why didn’t you tell me?” He answered, “I didn’t want to scare you. I saw them twice, they looked lost.”

Somewhere in Muskoka, two souls have wandered the land for over a century trying to figure out where they belong….

* Author’s note: All names have been changed. Permission to take and use the pictures of the 1908 cottage and property was granted from the present owner..  Last week I did a little research (which turned in to several hours) on the 1st owner of the cottage.  I learned a a lot of history and interesting facts, however,  the most relevant are these: 1) I did not know that anyone had died in the cottage.  2) I always presumed the children that died were both girls.

12 Years

For the past few years, I have published the following story about the day my dad died. I continue to share this account because September is suicide awareness month. Today marks the 14th anniversary of his death, I am reposting this story as it was written in 2022.

My Dad


I find irony in the fact that September is National Suicide Prevention Month. This is the month the unimaginable happened to our family. The date will be forever embedded in my memory: Thursday, September 16, 2010.

Twelve Years….  It is hard to believe that so many years have passed since that night.  The year that followed is what I call a lost year. What is a lost year?  To me, it is a period of time where I am pushed out of my comfortable, benign life to face a hostile, unknowing reality.  

I remember that night like it was yesterday. We had sent our youngest child to bed early because she refused to eat her dinner.  I felt awful because she cried herself to sleep.  As my husband (Greg) and I read a bedtime story to our middle child, the phone rang.  We ignored it. The phone stopped ringing and then immediately started to ring again. I said this call must be important, so Greg answered the phone.

The next thing I knew, the phone was being handed to me:  “It is your mom”, Greg said, “you need to talk to her”.  My mother was on the other end of the line crying, someone from 911 told me that my mother needed to talk to me. Then I heard “Sarah, your father has killed himself”.  I told her I would be there as soon as possible.

I threw some clothes into a bag.  Greg gave me some cash and asked if I was sure I could make the 1.5 hour drive, to my parents house, by myself.  My eldest child asked me what had happened. I said “something is wrong with BopBop, I need to go see Nana.”; it was hard to believe what my mother told me was true.  We had just seen my parents the previous Sunday.  My father seemed off the day we saw him, but he had a lot weighing on his mind.  I just thought my dad was concerned with a heart issue that might impede the upcoming surgery that he had scheduled.

With my bag packed, me partly in shock and denial, I got into the mini van.  Driving into the night, a light rain started. On auto pilot the minivan drove, with me behind the wheel.  How could my mother be helped before I got to her? Friends, I needed to contact  someone who would go to mom.  She couldn’t be alone. 

Luckily, the hands free cell phone law hadn’t gone into effect. Dialing a number I knew by heart, into my little Nokia push button phone, I called the mother of a good friend of mine and at the same time a good friend of my mother’s. She would know what to do to support my mom. The phone rang for a long while. Finally the answering machine picked up, but this wasn’t the sort of thing to leave on an answering machine. Hanging up,  I thought of someone else to call; this time the operator was dialed, because I didn’t know the number.  Again, no answer.  Old family friends…who could I call? I finally settled on somebody.  “Just a friend”, I thought, “that is what she needs”. I called the operator again and another number was dialed for me.  Finally, there was a voice on the other end of the line: Bob.  I told him what had happened and he said that he and his wife would go right over.

On that long drive in the dark rain, the phone calls went on. There was a call to my sister, who was unreachable at the time.  Eventually we spoke. She said she would make the calls to the rest of our extended family: our brother, aunts and uncles. The last call I made was to a close friend who talked to me through part of my drive, but then she had to go. Before she hung up she checked to make sure I was ok.  “Yes” was the word that left my mouth, but really was I all right?

When I reached my parents house, there was a police car in the driveway.  The lights were flashing in the drizzle like you might see in a movie.  Bob was out there waiting for me with an umbrella. He said we needed to go through the front door. For some reason I couldn’t go in the door that I always went in. The door that lead to home: through the hall to the kitchen and then to the family room.  I so rarely went through the front door.  I didn’t really understand what was happening.  Then it occurred to me that not only was Bob a family friend, but he was my parents lawyer.  An investigation was underway.  

As I was led into the living room, I saw all the friends that I had tried to contact, but had failed to reach. My mother sat on the couch, looking frail.  I think she was all cried out at the time. There was a little spray of blood on her sweater and a small spot on her face. These are the things I remember.  

The rest of the night is a blur. Anne, the first woman I tried to contact, asked us to come home with her. My mom’s friend and assistant, Sandy, offered to take my dad’s beloved dog to her house, just until my mom got back on her feet.  Bob said he would go to my grandmother’s house in the morning to tell her what happened to her eldest child.  I told him, “I need to be the one to tell her”.  In the end, we agreed that he would pick me up at Anne’s house in the morning and we would go together.

I don’t know how I slept that night.  The next morning I did the hardest thing I have ever done in my life:  I sat with my almost 95 year old grandmother and told her that my dad, her son, had taken his life. She put her hand on her heart and started to cry. Then she straightened and said “I need to be strong for all of you”.  My grandmother, who had lost her middle child to death by suicide 40 some Septembers before this, wanted to be strong for us.  She knew how to survive the unbearable.

Anyone who has experienced a tragedy, knows that life can change in the blink of an eye. Our lives were forever changed the night my father ended his. We will never know why my dad chose to do what he did. His death was instantaneous.    

 I find irony in the fact that September is National Suicide Prevention Month only because of my experience twelve Septembers ago. At  the same time I am extremely hopeful that, because of this month, more people  are aware of how to help prevent suicide.  Remember to support those around you.  Be aware that different events may cause someone to consider suicide. Know the the risk factors and warning signs of suicide (https://afsp.org/risk-factors-and-warning-signs). There is also a National Suicide Prevention Lifeline, the number is 9-8-8

I hope that sharing my words this September will  help you or someone you know realize that it is OK to ask for help or at least help recognize the warning sign that might lead to suicide. Unfortunately, my father didn’t ask for help and we hadn’t recognized the signs that told us he was in distress.

The Little Things: Prologue

Part 5 of An Unexpected Journey

This past November was a difficult….

On the 10th of the month, we received word that a good family friend from Toronto had passed away. She had been in my life since I was very young and was one of my mother’s closest friends. Our families were (and still are) somewhat intertwined in the history we have with one another. I always considered this wonderful woman and her extended clan a part of my family.

A little more than three weeks after our friend died, it became apparent that we needed to help our beloved dog, Murphy, go over the Rainbow Bridge. He was just a puppy when he became a member of our family in August of 2009.  Murphy had a good life and at 14 1/2, our dog was in extreme pain. Everyone knew it was time to let him go, but I wanted just a little more time with him; this wasn’t meant to be. The day before Thanksgiving, with his family by his side, he took his last breath.

I wasn’t ready for either of these losses. The deaths, on top of other things that were happening, made it difficult for me to find joy. I had momentarily forgotten how to rejoice in the simple moments or find the tranquility in something that might seem insignificant.

The Sunday after Thanksgiving, my youngest daughter and I drove north with my mother. We were headed to Toronto to attend our friend’s funeral. My sister, who arrived the day before, was waiting for us at the hotel when we reached the city. In addition to being sad, I was stressed. The traffic was awful (due to road work as well as a Christmas parade). I was afraid we might not make it to the visitation that afternoon. Luckily, all went according to plan, but I didn’t feel any better.

The next morning, being an early riser, I planned to walk to the nearest Starbucks and arrive when it opened at 6 AM.  Around 5:30, I went down to the lobby with my coat and mittens (my hat having been forgotten at home). Coffee was just being set up. I decided not to go to the coffee house but went for a walk anyway. The fresh air would be good for me. The morning was brisk, about 16°F and a light snow was falling. The city was quiet, the roadwork on Bloor Street had not started up for the day. Despite the torn-up streets, there was something magical that morning. With the shops lit for Christmas and the snow lightly falling in the crisp morning air, I felt a calmness wash over me. I walked about two miles that morning, until my ears were unable to stand the freezing weather. That time outside was more than just a good stretch for my legs: with that walk, I was reminded how I learned to find joy in the little things….

Authors Note: Stay tuned for the next segment of this story: it will be released somewhat like an old-fashioned serial.

To see Part 1, 2, 3 and 4 of An Unexpected Journey, follow the links:

Part 1: https://tell-me-your-story.org/2022/08/26/the-beginning-an-unexpected-journey-part-2-of-the-summer-that-could-have-been-idyllic/.

Part 2: https://tell-me-your-story.org/2023/02/01/on-thin-ice/

Part 3: https://tell-me-your-story.org/2023/07/13/standing-at-the-edge-of-

the-world/

Part 4: https://tell-me-your-story.org/2024/06/29/the-summer-of-the-loons-the-beginning-2/

Other related stories:

https://tell-me-your-story.org/2022/07/23/the-trip-of-a-life-time-the-summer-

that-could-have-been-idyllic/

The Last Place I Wanted To Go…