Today’s blog post features author, K.G. Watson. Ken is the author of a large number of books in our collection, and there’s no sign of him slowing down! He writes everything from historical fiction (Duty’s Son, Duty’s Daughter, Duty’s Dad) to non-fiction (Acts of Remembrance, a first-hand account of WW2 through the lived experience of a young girl in Holland during the war) and has written books that centre around real-life challenges such as ageing, homelessness, and the endurance of the human spirit (To Give and Receive with Grace, Life Supports, Stitch in Time etc.) You can find all of his titles on Amazon! Not only is Ken a published author many times over, he’s also an accomplished Opera Chorus singer, blacksmith, and genealogist. Ken has even narrated his own book, Duty’s Son, which will be available on Audible Audiobooks through Amazon soon! Check out his info below:
He hadn’t counted on going in. He’d just been too darned lonely house-sitting the place while its owner studied overseas. He really resented the inane or gratuitously violent TV offerings. So, after his TV dinner, he’d just gone out, walking, till he got tired enough to sleep – just like every other night for the past six months. But who counted? He had seen the bustle from a block away. Cars had been trying to get into the plugged parking lot. Lines of bundled-up families chatted excitedly and called to each other as they converged. Bright light bathed the spire and filled the windows. He found himself trapped between clumps of people ahead and behind and fenced in by the solid row of parked cars to his left. The human tide simply herded him off the sidewalk with them and up the broader approach to the double doors. Rather than step out of the line into the knee-deep snowbanks, he decided he’d just go with the flow. It wasn’t that he didn’t know the drill. It was Christmas Eve. How many similar services had he conducted through his lifetime? It’s just he couldn’t do it anymore. And he had nobody to not do it with either since Margaret had died back in the Spring.
The memory brought the image the Remembrance Cards the Funeral Home had produced. She had always demanded she be referred to as ‘Margaret’ never ‘Maggie’. A moment when he had called her that as he sang an old song about being young had set off an unexpected explosion. “I was named Margaret and that is the name on my Birth Certificate, and my Driver’s License and my bloody Passport,” she had shouted. “Get used to it!” She’d never sworn before or after. “OK,” he said to himself halfway up the walk. “What else is there to do tonight, anyway?” Most of the group ahead turned towards a side entrance – probably the Christian Education Wing or something similar – big gym, meeting rooms, kitchen, likely the church office. They left a pair of animated adults right in front of him. One pulled open the main door to let his partner enter and the two couples behind him all but pushed him inside.
He took two more steps forward and the group closed ranks behind him – a solid wall of backs in wool worsted. He reflexively pulled off his toque as he stepped through the inner vestibule doors into the sanctuary. Belatedly, he noticed he had passed the cloakrooms to the right and left just behind him. He had opened his coat. He’d be OK. At that moment he just wanted to get out of the road of the people now fanned out behind him. Three large steps got him into a pew with an aisle seat. A mother tugged a child closer to her, leaving the seat open. When she gave his tousled hair, last cut six months ago, and his three-day stubble a second look, she moved the child to her other side giving as much space as possible between them and the vagrant she obviously thought he was.
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