Homegrown 2.0: Even More Locally Produced Reads (October 10)

Find more Homegrown picks here.

Sunrise Over Half-Built Houses by Erin Steele (Caitlin Press)

Kelowna, BC

All Lit Up: Does your community feature in your book in some way? How?

Erin Steele: The neighbourhood I grew up in in Surrey, BC features prominently in Sunrise over Half-Built Houses. Its somewhat isolated geographic location—tucked between Hwy 1 and the Fraser River—gives Fraser Heights a small-town feel, making it friendly to some and suffocating to others; it’s manicured and pretty, yet there’s an undeniable underbelly. This duality makes Fraser Heights itself a nuanced character and the perfect backdrop to a book about everything below the surface of appearances.

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The Forgotten by Robert W. Mackay (Now or Never)

White Rock, BC

All Lit Up: Do you have a favourite spot to visit where you live? Tell us about it.

Robert Mackay: Canada’s Longest Pier in White Rock, BC, is a favourite spot to visit very close to where I live. Locals and visitors alike stroll the pier in all seasons and whatever the weather. Stretching hundreds of metres into an arm of the Pacific Ocean, it reminds me of young Canadians who sailed from a very different West Coast pier in 1950. Hastily recruited and run through basic training, they had no concept of the terrible battles they’d face on the other side of the world. Thanks to the efforts of those men and others like them over the years, thousands of people stroll the pier today, at peace. I’m also reminded that like the characters in The Forgotten, our armed forces of today are facing a tumultuous world of conflict and ongoing battles which we hope will give way to a peaceful future.

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Peace Country by Pedro Chamale (Playwrights Canada Press)

Chetwynd, BC

All Lit Up: Does your community feature in your book in some way? How?

Pedro Chamale: My hometown of Chetwynd is featured heavily in Peace Country. While I never outright mention it, I was inspired by both the town and the people I grew up with. It’s my way of incorporating my love for Chetwynd, its people and my concern for our collective future and the climate crisis we find ourselves in.

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Victor & Me in Paris by Janice MacDonald (Turnstone Press)

Edmonton, AB

All Lit Up: What do you love about the arts and culture community where you live?

Janice MacDonald: Edmonton is a glorious place to be a creative of any stripe. There is strong support for and among the writing, theatre, visual arts and musical crowds here, and people turn up for each other even in the dead of -40C. I think it’s because we’re so far removed from anywhere else that we’ve just had to create our own fun. So we have our own world class symphony; our own great ballet company and several terrific dance troupes; a jazz festival, folk festival, blues festival with amazing reputations; art galleries galore, as well as The Works visual arts festival and the annual Art Walk; several independent bookstores steaming along in the wake of the wonderful Audreys Books, which hosts launches of books by a great many wonderful local writers; and of course along with the various theatres in the city, we are home to the original standalone Fringe Theatre Festival. I am tickled to have originated the first mystery series set in Edmonton (The Randy Craig Mysteries, Ravenstone/Turnstone Press) and continue to celebrate Edmonton in the same breath as Paris or Dublin or Florence as I work on my new series (The Imogene Durant Mysteries).

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otherwise grossly unremarkable by Ashleigh Matthews
(Breakwater Books)

Conception Bay, NL

All Lit Up: Does your community feature in your book in some way? How?

Ashleigh Matthews: My memoir, otherwise grossly unremarkable, details the events leading to the moment that my life was split into two eras: Before Cancer and After Cancer. My experience of being diagnosed with cancer, and even more so my experiences throughout my cancer treatments, would not have been survivable without the unwavering support of a variety of communities around me. There is, however, one very unique date upon which my geographical community is featured in my book: January 17, 2020.

The events of January 17, 2020, in St. John’s, Newfoundland and Labrador, were featured on news broadcasts across Canada and around the world and have been referred to as Snowmageddeon since that date. Beginning in the early morning of the 17th and continuing on for 48 hours, Snowmageddeon buried the communities around the capital city of Newfoundland and Labrador under 90cm snow. Wind speeds of up to 130km/hr accompanied the deluge of snow, which meant that the eastern edge of my province was essentially living through a snow hurricane. There had never been a more ideal day to stay inside and out of the snow, safely encased in the house with a fire roaring in the woodstove; however, that is not where I was on the morning of January 17th. I was laying on an operating table located in the centre of the largest adult hospital in St. John’s undergoing my third surgery in less than two months.

I’d already lost my breasts to a mastectomy in late November of 2019, and while I went into the operating room for that surgery hoping it would constitute my only hours spent under anesthetic, I did not escape the cancer monster with only one operating room visit. Several of my lymph nodes were also removed during my bilateral mastectomy, and all of those nodes contained a concerning abundance of cancer cells despite the six rounds of chemotherapy I had already endured. The possibility that the cells in my lymph nodes had spread farther through my lymphatic system meant that I was going back to the operating room early in 2020 to remove all of the remaining nodes that were left under the right side of my arm in case any of those also contained collections of cancer cells. This surgical procedure was being undertaken to excise possible existing cancer cells; therefore, it was non-elective: no weather forecast would preemptively cancel this operating room date.

I awoke from my lymph node dissection surgery a few hours into the snow hurricane and at the same moment that a nurse made his way through the recovery ward announcing to his colleagues that a state of emergency had just been declared by the City of St. John’s, with other municipalities following this action over the minutes and hours that followed. This declaration meant that movement on roads was severely restricted in order to ensure emergency vehicles could move as quickly as possible to aid those in need, as well as so that snow clearing equipment could attempt to remove the mountains of accumulation efficiently. This also meant that the medical staff that were already in the building would remain there until replacement staff could get to the building to relieve them.

As quickly as the storm tossed snow down upon the streets and buildings around the hospital, a mini-community was forming among the people forced to stay inside the hospital because of Snowmageddon. The nursing staff continued to care for me in my post-operative-recovery state despite being well past their end of shift, the cafeteria staff continued to cook and serve the staff and patients every meal with a smile, and the patients shared books, news, and companionship in hallways and over cafeteria tables throughout the hospital.

As the day after my surgery unfolded and the snowfall slowed to an eventual stop, the time came for me to decide whether or not I was going to stay in the recovery ward of the surgery department of the hospital to sleep on a gurney for another night. I could choose to defy the state of emergency and to strike out from the hospital in an attempt to get home; however, there was no guarantee I would be able to make it all the way to my driveway. The majority of the roads in my community were packed to overflowing with snow and I assumed that the farther I traveled away from the main thoroughfares the less and less passable the roads would become. It only made sense that the roads leading to the hospital would be a priority for the maintenance and snow clearing crews out working all day and night, but the roads leading straight to my home were less of a provincial priority. On an average day it would take me 20 minutes to travel from the hospital back home again, a route I’d taken dozens of times throughout my cancer diagnosis and treatment up to that day, yet on this day the combined factors of single-lane highways, dramatically reduced speeds, and at times completely inaccessible roads, made the commute time for this trip truly unknown.

I pushed it as late as I could, but finally I decided that the lure of my own bed, my own bathroom, my own environment was so great that I could justify travelling during the state of emergency as essential for my own post-surgical recovery. If I could get home I would be one less person the hospital was responsible for, and I would get better faster in the comfort of my home. It took over 40 minutes from the time the engine started in the hospital parking lot, but the sign for my road was illuminated by the lights of my car just as darkness was completing its descent around my neighbourhood. Along with the mountains of snow and the sight of my front door, my headlights shone bright on the shapes of five people pushing snowblowers down the street: four neighbours and my father-in-law, working together to make space for me while I was traveling towards home. As soon as I’d confirmed that I was on the way, my father-in-law headed out to cut a path in the snow and he was immediately joined by every neighbour around; every neighbour that saw his solo work and knew someone was in need that night. My community cleared that road and got me safely back into my home, my bed, and with my family on the day after Snowmageddeon.

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