I was lucky enough to be born in a small fishing village in northern Newfoundland before roads and electricity. We firmly believed my dear Aunt Lys was a magic witch – as she could cure all sorts of ailments from warts to festering wounds. Her raspy voice would make us scatter from her garden where we went to steal the delicious black currant berries she used in some of her medications, her shrill screams conjuring up the dark side of her nature – so we though.
I held a belief in Santa Claus until the age of ten. I am still not quite sure.
The old Irish fishermen who lived in the cove told all sorts of stories about spirits and demons. I was steeped in the need to tell other folks all that could run wild in one’s imagination.
Since then I have lived in many places that offer a contrast and a pressing need to explore how we all live life differently yet remain essentially alike in our need for entertainment and adventure in what we read.