My first ambitious attempt at nonfiction emerged when, as a stranded 11-year-old, I lived temporarily with my aged Manx grandmother, a good Christian woman of wide girth and narrow attitudes. Confined to quiet pursuits one Sunday afternoon, and armed
Flower Fantasy by Sylvia Taggart
For Mothers Day, one of my late Ma’s poems: Flower Fantasy Though flowers cannot speak, we know, And yet they say so much, I hear a message from each rose And in the petal’s velvet touch. I see your smile
History in the Attic
I don’t have a roof-space; mine is a small single-storey cottage with beams – not even old ones – but my living room is pretty much like anyone else’s can’t-find-a-thing-for-dust-and-boxes attic. Yesterday, whatever I was searching for in one of
Mum’s Poems
![Mum’s Poems Mum’s Poems](https://trishnicholsonswordsinthetreehouse.com/wp-content/uploads/2013/03/Ma-001.jpg)
Mum’s Poems Today is the fourth anniversary of my mother’s death. Sylvia Mary Taggart – Ma, to me – born January 7th 1928, died 17th August 2007. Like many daughters, I didn’t fully appreciate her qualities until I was an
Scribbler’s Progress – My Writing Journey
Scribbler’s Progress – My Writing Journey My most productive period as a storyteller was between the ages of three and five years. I hid for hours in the bathroom, squabbling with my characters. Sebastian was there too: we were inseparable.