Mom & Dad’s Martinis

Today it is my pleasure to welcome Jacelyn Cane and her memoir, Mom & Dad’s Martinis.

Author’s description

Jacelyn Cane’s mom and dad liked their martinis dry: straight gin on the rocks with a dab of vermouth and a hint of water – and they liked them often. They also liked to party; they danced, socialized, and drank – they were good at all three. Sometimes this behaviour led to humorous situations – antics in the pool, at the club, the cottage or in the car, for example. Other times, however, the experiences were not so funny – family fights and times of neglect, trauma, and abuse. By weaving together a series of episodes that take the reader to light and dark places, author Jacelyn Cane tells a poignant cautionary tale for anyone affected by alcoholism and/or family struggles. The author is using a pseudonym and most of the names in the book have been changed to protect people’s identities. “Mom and Dad’s Martinis: A Memoir” is a great read for anyone who has experienced a childhood mixed with joy as well as sorrow. It is a story of love, acceptance, forgiveness, and hope.

About the Author

Jacelyn Cane was born and raised in Toronto. She lives with her husband, and near her three children and step-daughter. She is a retired elementary school teacher who also worked in social justice education with the United Church of Canada. She has worked in theatre and as a reporter. She was educated in Toronto, earning a B.A. in Political Science and an M.A. in Canadian History from York University. Later, she earned a B. Ed. at the University of Toronto. She is passionately involved in numerous social justice issues such as climate crisis concerns and Indigenous rights. She loves meditating, writing, reading, music, laughing, and being around nature. She is motivated by a deep sense of spirituality. Her number one love, however, is being with family and friends.

Find the Author

Website: http://jacelyncane.com

Buy the Book

Amazon — https://amazon.com/dp/0228805104
Amazon –https://amazon.ca/dp/0228805104
Amazon –https://amazon.com/dp/B07T7Z818H
Indigo — https://www.chapters.indigo.ca/en-ca/books/mom-and-dads-martinis-a/9780228805106
BN — https://www.barnesandnoble.com/w/mom-and-dads-martinis-jacelyn-cane/1132123904
Kobo — https://www.kobo.com/us/en/ebook/mom-and-dad-s-martinis
Smashwords — https://www.smashwords.com/books/view/944724
Apple — https://books.apple.com/us/book/mom-and-dads-martinis-a-memoir/id1469160761

Yes, there is a giveaway

The author will be awarding a $10 Amazon/BN gift card to a randomly drawn winner via rafflecopter during the tour.

Enter here to win.

This post is part of a tour sponsored by Goddess Fish. Check out all the other tour stops. If you drop by each of these and comment, you will greatly increase your chances of winning.

An Exclusive Excerpt Just For Us

My mom grew up on Tarlton Road in Forest Hill, Toronto. For many years, she lived a charmed childhood. Every day, my mother swallowed her molasses and cod liver oil and strolled to school with her neighbours and lifelong best friends, Mary and Sue. Off they went, down Tarlton West, onto Chaplin Crescent, through the park, over the railroad tracks and on to Forest Hill Jr. School. It was a long walk for little girls – and they came home for lunch every day.

In the evenings, after supper, Mom would bounce outside to play with the neighbourhood kids – hide and seek, cowboys and Indians, and red rover. Along with her girlfriends, my mother tried to master “double Dutch” skipping and threw a rubber ball against the house singing “Ordinary Moving”. On the lawn, the girls muddled through cartwheels, back bends, somersaults, and even some Russian dancing.

On rainy days, Mom and her girlfriends gathered in her basement to dress up in outrageous costumes – hats, high heels, and jewellery. Thanks to my grandmother, everything was packed in an old trunk and a dress up closet. One Sunday night, together in their dresses and high heels, my mother and her girlfriends paraded around to music played on a wind-up Victrola – “String of Pearls,” “Perfidia,” and more. And while they played, smells of my grandmother’s roast beef wafted to the basement.

“Dorothy,” my grandmother called down.

“Yes, Mommy.”

“It’s time for dinner. The girls need to go home now.”

“Already?”

“Yes, dear. You’ll see them after dinner.”

Every Sunday night, they had a scrumptious roast-beef dinner in the dining room with the family, including Aunt Geraldine, my grandmother’s sister.

“This plate is for you, Dorothy,” said Mom’s mother, as she scooped some roasted potatoes onto my mom’s plate. On Sunday nights, they always ate off Grandma Duncan’s good china – made in France with two exquisite blue and green birds sitting on branches. “Hold it carefully, dear.” Mom’s mother loved that china, and so my mom loved it too. They always had wonderful conversations in the dining room and Mom looked forward to those meals. Her mom was a great hostess and my mother became one too.

Soon, my mother and her closest girlfriends – Mary, Sue, and Helen – were labeled “the Tarlton Road Gang.” Eglinton Avenue was just beginning to be a place to hang out – and the soda fountain at Kresge’s discount store was a favourite destination.

“Let’s go to Kresge’s for a cherry Coke,” my mom said one afternoon.

“I’m gonna get a banana split,” Helen added, fixing the large bow in her curly hair. They’re the best in town.”

Thank you!

Jacelyn Cane — we appreciate your sharing your book Mom & Dad’s Martinis with us! Best of luck with sales, and with all of your future writing.

Proud Mama Moment

I’ve three wonderful kids, and one of them has just taken a job with a start-up. This company, called Noken, is designing a new app they hope will reinvent travel as we know it.
Check it out. Please. Every click I get will help me win a chance to go on a trip with her! (I’m hoping for Iceland. See Northern lights to the right.)
You also might find you like the concept.
Here’s a little text she wrote and sent me.

And that’s the way it was, June 15, 1984

I would be an excellent liar. Not of the small, occasional-lie type, but of the grand, that-story-is-so-amazing-she-couldn’t-possibly-have-made-it-up type. After all, intricate plots and multi-faceted characters are my strength as a writer, and if you wanted to turn a small country’s propaganda machine over to me, I know I could do you proud.

That is why I almost never lie. Falsehoods scare me. And, in the way of those who abhor people who flaunt the very faults they work so hard to control, I hate liars. I am particularity outraged by grandiose, habitual liars who create a make-believe world and foist it on others as truth. How dare they?

You probably already know what I think of our president, so I won’t go there.

Yet, there are two areas where lies and reality do blur for me. One is one right here in my blogs. The other is in my books.

I write my blogs under my own name and in first person, as though I am presenting you with hard facts. And I often am. But I view my posts as a creative endeavor, too, and I allow myself a little poetic license to make a point. Particulars can be omitted, events can be exaggerated, and timing can be altered to provide a narrative that is more succinct and entertaining. I want you start the post, I want you to finish it, and I want you to understand what I am trying to say. So reality gets a little air brushing. I figure that you are fine with it.

I write my books as fiction, and they mostly are. Like many writers, though, I have used my own experiences to craft parts of my stories. The Zeitman family looks a lot like my own, at least on the surface, and some odd details, like the family’s favorite meal of eggplant parmesan, were lifted directly out of my own life. I mean, why bother making up another entree?

I’m now finishing my first rewrite of book six (and last) in the Zeitman family stories, and am having to revisit some of the events I borrowed from my own life and then bent and shaped to meet the needs of my novels. I’m discovering something interesting. My own real memories have become shaded by the altered version that I’ve told so many times in my books. Yikes.

So here is the truth.

June 15, 1984 at 4:17 a.m. I gave birth to my first child.

About a month earlier (not the night before), I had a strange experience while falling asleep. I felt and kind of heard what appeared to be my baby’s thoughts. It lasted a few seconds. It was very odd. I have never experienced anything like it again. I have no way of knowing whether it was real or imagined.

I did make my first presentation to the president of my company the day I went into labor, and he did make an uncomfortable joke about how having sex sets off childbirth. He was right, sexual arousal releases oxytocin, a hormone that does a lot of things, including induce labor. I knew what he was talking about at the time he said it, but was willing to bet that most of the men in the room did not, even though of course they laughed like they did.

There was no gathering in the break room after the presentation, and no horrible joke told about how a busload of children of color going off a bridge “was a start”. That joke was told by a geologist at another function some months later. I was every bit as stunned and horrified as my character, and made the same attempt at an objection that she did. I got the same reaction. Everyone acted like I’d farted loudly and looked away and said nothing. This was 1984.

Thirty-three years ago I experienced one of the most significant days in my life. Yet the events of it now blend into the day Lola Zeitman gave birth to Zane. I feel like I have lost something of my own, and telling you the truth is my way of trying to regain it.

I also have a better understanding of why lies scare me and why I work so hard to avoid them. Our memories are tied to the truth. The liar, and those who hear the lie, find their recollections begin to blur, and after awhile, there is no true memory. What a horrible thing to lose.

Unless, of course, there are tapes. I used to think that the idea of having videotapes of anything and everything was the very definition of an Orwellian nightmare. Now, I wonder if a recording of an event isn’t the only way to preserve it, unshaded by forgetfulness and wishful thinking and pride.

Maybe the universe is keeping a video of my whole life; the good and bad and the embarrassing and the exhilarating. Wouldn’t that be nice? Maybe I could get to watch those tapes some day, and relive each moment the way it really happened.

I like the idea. Lordy, I hope there are tapes.

(For more segments about June days from long ago, see That’s the Way It Was June 10, 1947, June 18, 1972, June 28, 1888, and June 30, 1940.)