Mona wrote a novel in 2018
Hope from Stone is a powerful narrative, a character driven story with a lively plot. It has robust detail, believable exaggeration, humor, and strong dialogue.
It takes the protagonist through a process of developing a relationship with God, from trusting her intuition more than popular opinion.
Hope from Stone identifies with modern pop culture by exploring spirituality, dysfunction, stress, and personal choice.
It is a Christian story that starts from the protagonist's secretive, flimsy, naïve perspective about her faith that evolves into a rock solid foundation of hope.
Hope from Stone provides MSers with much needed optimism and inspiration regardless of the condition of their health. Its an informative read for caregivers as well.
A novel about girl in her 20’s living with MS.
Vigorous, independent, stubborn and sometimes difficult to get along with, 28-year-old Rozalind has Multiple Sclerosis.
Through endless appointments, she desperately searches for a cure while trying to make sense of her new condition.
Out of options, she moves home. As Roz becomes more despondent and isolated, her faithful dog, Deputy, is her main companion.
After her mother is unexpectedly faced with a serious illness of her own, Roz builds an inner life with her own growing awareness of God, and her world begins to change.
She moves from a cynical, fault-finding victim to a calm, secure, empowered woman of age.
This fictionalized memoir is an engaging story of courage and hope.
A novel about girl in her 20’s living with MS.
Vigorous, independent, stubborn and sometimes difficult to get along with, 28-year-old Rozalind has Multiple Sclerosis.
Through endless appointments, she desperately searches for a cure while trying to make sense of her new condition.
Out of options, she moves home. As Roz becomes more despondent and isolated, her faithful dog, Deputy, is her main companion.
After her mother is unexpectedly faced with a serious illness of her own, Roz builds an inner life with her own growing awareness of God, and her world begins to change.
She moves from a cynical, fault-finding victim to a calm, secure, empowered woman of age.
This fictionalized memoir is an engaging story of courage and hope.
Short Stories
The background is, I started writing or refining
short stories for make-work projects
for something positive to do
in the early days of MS
Although I've posted most
of these before I will
repost them again.
I still am still lifted up
and get a kick out of them.
Enjoy!
Short Story Audio CD's
I tried my hand
at recording a few
of my old stories. They brought back fond memories.
Heres one now.
The Mo's Mobile
read by Alisa Perry
Egbert’s Free Spirit 1992 Revised 2014 1092 word count
There was always a big painting in the bottom bay window of the old dilapidated cedar shake house on east beach. I had always intended on stopping in to see if there were more or who lived there.
I was on my ten speed one bright spring morning when I decided today was the day. I hammered on the door, assuming most of the activity of the house took place upstairs. A little, scrawny old man opened the door and I nervously rattled out I liked the painting in the window and asked if there were more. He said sure there were more, and led me in.
I looked back at my bike, worried about it being left out on the main drag, so he motioned me to bring it in. Bring it in? I wheeled it in the hallway, and what a place! It was stinking, old, dark, dirty and dilapidated. He was busy eyeing up my bike as I was admiring that magnificent painting I learned he had done. He was an artist from Holland. A rather eccentric one at that. Egbert was his name. He motioned me to follow him, while asking questions about my bike - as I was asking him about his paintings. Tit for tat metered questions. We went upstairs to a full fledged dump. I bet it was months, if ever, since it had been cleaned. Old broken furniture, stacks of papers, magazines, and hundreds of dirty dishes and I mean hundreds. Two whole rooms full. There was a putrid smell but I accustomed myself to that. (Later I was to learn he ate garlic like apples which contributed immensely to the odor). Admist all the junk, there was probably 50 beautifully rendered paintings hung on every square inch of the wall space. Large, small, people, kids, landscapes, seascapes, framed, unframed. All magnificently mastered in painterly fashion. He certainly was an accomplished artist but seemed to pay no mind to his talent or his surroundings, and was more interested in this visitor and her bike downstairs.
After carefully looking at every piece, and taking in his fabulous talent, I commented on one. “One of my son’s playmate” he said. A boy aged 8 or so, crouching looking at something. Magnificent. I asked questions about himself and he answered that he came from Holland, was an artist all his life, and the display of work on the walls were visuals of his life, some professionally framed from gallery shows, other not. He was maybe 80 years old and his wife had died. He had one son “out there”.
Egbert had questions about my bike upon walking me out: Did all the gears work? How did the brakes handle? Was the seat comfortable. Was it heavy? We passed by a closed door and he opened it. I was shocked. I thought the upstairs was enough. Before my eyes was Mt. Shasta of wrecked bikes and bike parts. A stacked-to-the-ceiling pile of twisted metal and various bike components. He said my bike wasn’t very good for me and to come back the next day and he would have a better one. He proceeded to tell me he was the family’s bicycle boy when he was growing up. His job in the family was to maintain everyone’s bicycle in the large Dutch family in Holland. He still rode himself. Anyhow, we shook hands on the pleasure of meeting, and agreed I’d be back the next day and would go on a bike ride.
That was the first of many enjoyable meanders.
When I arrived the next morning Egbert had a girls aluminum 10 speed bike cobbled together from his mountain of mangled parts. The handle bars were made of old antenna pipe, the aluminum girls frame had a Sears logo with Free Spirit decaled on it, (for which it was forever known as). The seat had a softer better contoured shape. I sat on it wowed, and he adjusted it with my toes just touching the ground. Because he was an artist he knew the anatomy intrinsically, the mechanics between men and women, and adjusted the seat impeccably, not only height but depth and angle. We traded bikes for good and sealed the deal with a handshake. He told he it came with a lifetime warranty - his life, not the life of the bike. We both chuckled.
Off we rode down to Peace Arch Park and both border crossings, along Zero Ave running along side the US border. We meandered up and down hidden streets and shaded woods. Through the Reserve, over busy streets and highways to quieter backroads. Up hills and down hills, through farmlands and fields, we rode a couple of hours. He knew the most perfect places to tool around.
We met that whole summer for bike rides. I tried at first to help tidy his life style, as he evaluated some of my art. But it was a no win situation – I was truly a Sunday dabbler painter compared to his highly disciplined craft, while his lifestyle was much too familiar and comfortable to be tangled with. We settled quite happily for our outdoor adventures, stopping at a fruit stand or park picnic table for a break.
One particular day, we were ending our ride down the very long hill clipping along pretty fast. Him in front of me, the wind blowing through my hair, the sea air in my lungs. I closed my eyes for the briefest moment and titled my head to the sky. When I opened my eyes and looked ahead, Egbert was at a full stop. Knowing I’d plow right into him, a few angry cusses trailed behind me before we piled up. Once untangled Egbert stood up with the proudest grin ear to ear and produced a wafer thin quarter between his pointer finger and thumb. I couldn’t believe it, a major crash three houses from home for a quarter!! I didn’t know whether to throttle him or hug him.
But that was Egbert, a free spirit, who ticked a little different.
Which some call eccentric.
Irish Margaret: The mentor who didn't tell me how to live but showed me 2024 1572 word count
I met Irish Margaret around 1995 in White Rock when she and her husband Eamonn were in their early fifties and I was in my early thirties. She was the oldest and the one to stay in touch to keep tabs on the larger clan across the pond. Irish Margaret was the kind of lady you either loved or hated. I loved her.
They lived in an older large home on High Street. The house was probably 3,000 square feet on two basic floors. They did extensive renovations to accommodate borders in the basement to augment her husband’s modest paychecks from the lumber mill and did that for years. They raised one daughter.
Margaret cooked a sit-down Sunday meal every week upstairs and borders eagerly climbed the stairs to attend. Eamonn was part of an accordion band and the daughter grew up Irish Step dancing (and later married a fellow who played the bag pipes). As a result, Margaret threw the most Irish of parties this side of the Atlantic with a homecooked food and live entertainment for 100 people each year!
Eamonn was wonderful at landscaping their yard by changing up the points of interest every few years. They included different water features, gnomes, bird houses and doo-dads (eye balls in the trees I remember one year). A mutual friend, Frank, was in a gardening club and he cultivated roses for various competitions. All his throw-aways landed in Margaret and Eamonn’s yard and they ending up having the most beautiful rose garden. Margaret shopped the thrift stores for vases to put birthday bouquets together.
Margaret’s sense of humor matched her giant heart. My life is filled with thirty years of stories illustrating her love, humor, and generosity. She purchased $100 worth of custom Christmas cards when I was trying to ‘make it’ in the art world. Her borders were often chosen in the hopes of being able to offer a leg up and not just a place to live. She believed in you even when you didn’t believe in yourself.
Another story I fondly remember is when the accordion band was over practicing and Margaret had the idea of welcoming the new neighbours who had just moved in around the corner. She led the accordion players down the middle of the street with a corn broom held high one bright Saturday morning. She probably took a homemade loaf to prove she wasn’t just all fun and games. Or the one about a cop who knocked on her door to repossess a hot water tank she and her husband bought in in good faith from someone trying to make something of himself. At five feet tall she tore a strip off the 6’3’ cop calling him a big lummox and didn’t let him in. That is the kind of woman she is.
Margaret made no bones about telling you what she thought of a situation but could always put a humorous spin on it. Premarital sex and robbing the cradle are a couple topics that come to mind. Only she could make you laugh at yourself – in front of others too – and make a point at the same time. She loved you whether she agreed with you or not and you knew it; you could feel it. Many went to her on the quiet when they wanted true help, which solidified her standing in the community even further. She was active in church prison ministry and took an inmate under her wing when he was released. I do believe that played an influential role in reuniting him with his family in the UK, and I wouldn’t be surprised if she was still in touch with him from time to time. She did plenty of volunteer work and was active in many different arenas. In short, Margaret was a fireball that didn’t quit.
After 30 years in the home in White Rock, they moved to a double lot in Fort Langley where they did an extreme make-over to a little rancher and joined forces to build an adjoining newly constructed house for their daughter and son-in-law. She and Eamonn took in a wayward nephew from across the Atlantic to live with them in the fifth wheel while construction was underway. He was there probably a year, maybe more.
Two grandchildren came along and Margaret and Eamonn were active in helping to raise them. Margaret was on before-and-after-school duty from day one and did it the whole time. She got along with all kids and when the softwood lumber industry collapsed and Eamonn took to driving a school bus, Margaret made cookies to send along with him to give to the kids. I remember thinking, “Who does that?”
Ann Landers had nothing on Margaret who was my own go-to for gracious etiquette. She advised me on how to send thank you notes for gift money. ‘Be sure to tell them what you bought, and don’t just say towels or a picture. Tell them how the turquoise blue matches perfectly, or how the picture of Gerber daisies is looks terrific in that spot beside the orange chair’. Margaret knew how to help people feel good about themselves.
Eamonn shocked us all and died in his mid-60s within months of a left-field health condition. The renovations and newly constructed house were just months completed and the grand kids still very young. It took a couple of years for Margaret to regroup and we were all very worried about her but eventually, to our relief, she did bounce back.
The daughter’s marriage broke down, and the double houses were sold when the grandchildren were in middle school. Mom, dad and Granny relocated in respective townhouses with Granny in the middle. Granny again spearheaded a large renovation in the basement of the townhouse to accommodate the soon-to-be teenagers as she continued to be active in her grandchildren lives.
When air travel was just getting going post Covid, and it was a real mess she decided to take her two teenage grandchildren to Ireland to meet the rellies. With all the airports in deep confusion, I thought she was crazy and let her know, but she was clear and determined. It turned out that, due to her past good works, they got the royal red carpet rolled out both ways by a friendly connections who couldn’t do enough for them for past favours rendered.
When the grandchildren started spending less time with Granny, Margaret started taking in foreign high school students - Italian and Spanish. She was in her 70’s at this point. The two bedrooms in the townhouse's basement had a fully furnished living room and kitchenette where the students stayed very comfortably. She cooked the main meals and did the teens’ laundry, scolding them that for every pair of kegs (knickers) she expected to see a pairs of socks too! Margaret conversed with overseas parents to assure them all was well and even hosted local sightseeing excursions for visiting family. She stuck up for one boy wrongly treated at the local high school by chewing out the principal. Her reputation grew among the student circles overseas and she was never without a billet for the next year.
After Covid, when her youngest grandchild was in her last year of high school and Margaret was 83, she decided to move to England where her siblings and their families were. Everyone thought she was nuts. Except her. After 50 years in Canada, she wanted to live out her life around her siblings. Her sister was the mayor of the little town she was going to and she had plenty of nieces, nephews, great-nieces and great nephews. She sold her immaculate townhouse the first weekend it was on the market to the second highest bid receiving $70,000 over asking price. She packed a shipping container to the brim, paid $6,000 to bring her happy, floppy Shih Tzu, Bennie, and in August of 2023 she and Bennie set off to a new life in England.
She called early morning on January 1st (2024) to wish me a Happy New Year. She was three weeks into the new little bungalow she bought and the shipping container had just arrived. It was complete mayhem she said, yet a friend from Canada was due over to help unpack but that would be limited because she was planning yet another renovation. The two spare rooms were small but adequate; the master bedroom and living room were a decent size, but the kitchen and bathrooms needed help. When I asked if this was the fifth reno over her lifetime, she had to stop and think about it. “Yes, I guess it is.” Then she went quiet. “I never thought of it like that before.”
When I asked about her health, she said it had actually improved. I can relate because I know what happened to my health when I moved to a more likeminded, understanding community. We talked only 15 minutes or so but it was enough to set the tone for my next year. I wished her nothing but the best in 2024 and hung up feeling so enriched by just knowing her. She saw the potential in people and drew it out for all to behold.
So, it is with much gratitude and respect I write these words to honor my dear friend and mentor Irish Margaret who didn’t so much tell me how to live but showed me. ❤️