1st generation Canadian-Hungarian
Father, Fly fisher, Chef, Reader, Leader, and working on writer.
Feedback appreciated anytime. Tips always appreciated.
Why VOCAL is Dangerous.
Beware! There be monsters among us! You’ve decided to step out of your closet. You’ve made time to sit and write. You’re good stories, your best adventures, and your laugh till you cry anecdotes.
Standing on the Edge of Losing Everything.
I’ve been reading a lot lately, from all of you and across a vast spectrum. Things I wouldn’t necessarily choose. Things like poetry and stories about depression, anxiety and struggle.
A Hell's Kitchen Catastrophe
We’ve all been lied to. There are stupid questions and stupid times to ask them. I found this out the way we tend to find irreparable missteps. By putting my foot in my mouth and boy did I ever shove it all the way down.
Dinner and a Not-Date, Date
Her hand moved out from underneath the layers of blankets and sheets stretching her long, slender fingers to the side table blindly feeling for the smart phone screen and drumming her fingertip across the surface in attempts to silence the alarm. It was Monday morning and it sucked already. She felt heavy with despair and empty of the energy to move. She let her hand hang off the side of the bed, dangling like a dying flower. Blinking the sleepy, blurry, fog away, she peered up looking out the bottom of her window, her mood sinking even lower seeing the water droplets beading against the pane. “Of course it’s raining,” she thought to herself, “why wouldn’t it be raining! Stupid weekend, waste of my time. Honestly, could I possibly have worse choices in men?” she asked herself angrily. Her body flushed with emotion. Frustration. Pain. Disappointment. That ache was back, she let her heart get broken again.
Dear Daughter, You’re eleven now, turning twelve in early summer. You are already too big, too smart and too strong. The days of needing me to hold your hand are passing by, soon you will be showing me the way. You are at sitting at the dusk of childhood stepping into the dawn of being a young woman.
Through Your Hands
“Hello Mama.” “Oh my son! So happy you called. What is the news?” “I want to write a story.” “You can tell good stories. You should write a good story”
Through My Mother’s Hands
At three months old I lost my mother. Naturally I was too young to digest the loss but even so I must have known an abandonment had occurred. One day I had an attentive, nurturing mother and the next day there was no one. Though my mother was tiny in stature the void left in the family was massive, a black hole, a vacuum that took everything within its pull into the abyss.
From Hollywood to the Moon and everything in between, you can thank a Hungarian along the way.
I was born and raised in a picturesque mining town in the south east of British Columbia that boasts scenic rivers, lakes and mountains, filled with the Canadian norm of hockey, skiing, hunting and fishing. What the town was short on was ethnic families. We were one of the few. Born to Hungarian parents and after my mother’s early passing, I got another Hungarian parent. We were Hungarian through and through. I didn’t learn the English language until primary school, it was Hungarian (or Magyar) to be precise, spoken inside the walls of our house. Period. This resulted in such gags as us three kids trying to bait each other into speaking English at the supper table. If my younger sister fell into the trap then it was a firm scolding. If it was my older brother or me then this would result in a quick cuff to the back of the head from our father, which could be particularly hilarious if one had a mouthful of soup or supper and got further reprimands for making a mess when food was shot across the plate from said cuff. Good times. What wasn’t so great was being so different. Blessed with a traditional Hungarian name from an intensely patriotic father, I was on the outside and deemed to be a little odd. With an abundance of Jason’s, Mike’s, Dave’s and Darren’s in school having a strange name made me very different. Why? Because almost no one knew anything about Hungarians or Hungary. Growing up and into adulthood this hasn’t changed all that much in my experience. Hungary is barely known about on this continent and Hungarians even less so.