Throwback Thursday – Jennifer's Journal

Sometimes we sit lamenting as memory traces back
The old familiar landmarks that we miss from off our track.
They’ve built the railway stations where our feet were wont to skate,
They motor over footpaths where our lovers used to wait.
But there’s one left still – dear old Signal Hill.*

I’ve always loved Signal Hill. That’s probably why I incorporated into a couple of scenes in my debut novel, Calmer Girls.

Overlooking St. John’s Harbour and the Atlantic Ocean, it is the capital city’s most popular tourist attraction.

I take the time every summer to pay a visit, and this past July was no exception. Here are a few shots from that gorgeously sunny and breezy day – then again, as any tourist can attest, it’s always quite breezy atop this hill!

**The iconic Cabot Tower – jenniferkellandperry.com**

In the distant past, Signal Hill has been the setting for victorious battle, the location for Marconi’s monumental establishment of wireless telegraph communication, and a signalling station for approaching ships.

Today it is a National Historic Site under Parks Canada.

The best thing I like about Signal Hill?
The views, of course!

View from Signal Hill — jenniferkellandperry.com

If you look closely at some of my pics, you can see the trail around the hill.

This is not a hiking trail for the faint of heart.

Thanks for taking a look at my throwback to July and one of the best-loved sites my province has to offer.

*Poem by Lydia Chancey, Book of Newfoundland, 1937

Happy Thursday, everyone!

Here’s a throwback to July 2013, when I was in the thick of creating the first draft for Calmer Girls. At the time I was also blogging twice a week, but hey, when your muse is whispering in your ear to pen a poem and she won’t shut up, you pen a poem. There’s no getting out of it.

She Writes

She wakes tangled in themes
through a cobweb of dreams
with gossamer remnants
that linger and tease,
pushes back dusty curtains
and on a page blank and white
she writes.

She deletes the clichéd
yesterday she okayed
and contemplates words
like ephemeral and moonglade
they taste like confections
with her tangerine sections
and jolts of black coffee
she writes.

She’s reminded of chores
she keeps trying to ignore
with the scatter of crumbs
that litter the floor,
shrugs her shoulders and thinks
it will be there tomorrow
she writes.

The bills wait, unpaid
And the bed’s still not made
There’s this blog post to write
and it can’t be delayed
her novel must wait
it’s a musing or rhyme that
she writes.

She reaches again
for the manuscript when
her mind can’t break free
from the plot line within
and it makes him uptight
there’s no dinner tonight
but he digests her flaws.
After all, it’s because
she writes.

***