Cheryl R. Cowtan's Blog

One cannot read Jess Row's article "What Fiction Can Teach Us About Surviving the Slow Apocalypse" without pausing to think.
Row delves into the post-apocalyptic questions that circle the most trying of times...those times when even the most skeptical must surely begin to think of freeze-dried food.
In his article, Row considers the social construct of "summer camp" as a comparable life-changing experience in which people are removed from the known to be placed into the unknown. Like a disaster that displaces people, the summer camp takes a group of newcomers and puts them into a new "space" in which they must navigate to "survive". This navigation involves learning new rules, skills, and determining who to trust and with whom to align.

As a writer of cli-fi (climate fiction), I was most taken with Row's note of "the dreamer" and "the wisher" as characters in such a setting. When I wrote "The Precious Quest", I placed the novel's timeline in a period 20 years after the beginning of the end. As such, I did not think about dreamers and wishers still existing, only doers. But, perhaps; a dreamer or wisher character could be enabled by doers and survive the harsh climate apocalypse.
Surely, we saw these characters during Covid, which was a shorter three year societal change. Those dreaming of a past of free movement and mall access, and those wishing and waiting for an end to the pandemic restrictions represented basically all of us.
Who else was there?
Yet, there were "doers", people willing to carve out new ways to socialize by shaving the edges off of social restrictions. These people formed new groups or strengthened and learned how to be part of their original group in news ways. For example: Here in Grey Bruce, a farming community in Ontario, neighbours who worked in solitude on farms along one concession joined together for short visits, calling themselves the 10th of Bruce Committee. The committee's job was to share a beer, share their experiences, and combat the loneliness of rural living. Meanwhile, those families stuck in apartments in cities where movement and gathering was more noticeable, and more likely to be condemned by neighbours, had to relearn or discover the social possibilities within their small family unit. This often enriched their interactions through board games, discussions, art, puzzles, and other shared experiences. That's not to say these groups did not hope for a return to the way things were pre-Covid, but I feel those who adapted by enriching new or established social support were more likely to say, "it will never go back to pre-Covid for we are changed" rather than wish for a return to "normal".
As much as a "slow apocalypse" may frighten us, I feel these false starts and short crises can also provide hope for an unknown future as we prove to ourselves that humanity can adapt. Which, is what we continue to show ourselves through film and fiction.
Be heartened by Row's article, when the beginning of the end is finally here, if you could survive summer camp, you have the skills you need to survive the apocalypse.


The Precious Quest: An Epic Journey of Love, Identity and Power

I haven't read a lot of epic fantasies, but I loved this. Laywren is a complicated main character, one of the toughest female warrior characters I have ever read about. The world she inhabits is ours – but not really. It might be an alternate universe, or a post-apocalyptic earth. Doesn’t matter. The setting is as interesting as the characters. The story reaches a natural conclusion, but it’s clear it’s not the end. I’m looking forward to reading the next installment.

Award-Winning Author Gloria Ferris

First, there was an abundance of Canada Geese landing in the field, their winged descents a navigational wonder as they touched down on black-webbed landing gear close to the nearest, freeze-dried corn cob poking from the snow.
Then, I noticed, for the first time this winter, large, wild turkeys. So far away were their silhouettes, I would not have known they were turkeys had they not moved. Who can mistake the gobbly-gobble, neck-jerking, forward-stretch, of the wild turkey?
Still, the biting wind and warning storms made me hesitate to name the migration as the precursors of spring. False hope can leave one with frostbite in these climates.
But finally, one morning, with the sun trying to thaw the snow and ice covered ground, I heard the trumpeter of open water.

A sea gull cried from the skies beyond my view and I called back, thinking at first, it was a cat.
But the cry came again, and my heart gladdened for the gulls were here.
It won't be long now, I nodded to myself. The wind does not carry the smell of Spring yet, but the gulls know.
And so it comes, my friends, it comes.
Spring is on its way.

CaNature Eh!: Poetry About Nature in Canada

Hey Friend!

Hope all is well.

Just wanted you to know I'm hosting a giveaway for 100 kindle versions of Girl Desecrated, my award-winning paranormal suspense thriller, and the first book in The Fergus She series.

Eighteen-year-old RACHEL is struggling with a split personality. When her "other" (Scarlett) gets control, Rachel blacks out and bad things happen. In a desperate bid to keep Scarlett down, Rachel soon uncovers a heinous heritage, an ancient pact, and a truth that is much worse than madness. Rachel races against fate to save herself, but time is not on her side,
As Rachel's control over Scarlett weakens, the people in her life reveal their true purpose by taking sides in the battle. Who will be victorious? Who will end up in control of Rachel's body? Not Scarlett, if Rachel can help it.

Winner of the IndieBrag award and ranked 9/10 for originality by Publisher Weekly BookLife Magazine, who claimed this novel "blends horror and thriller seamlessly", "Girl Desecrated" is a "standout in an overcrowded genre"!

Girl Desecrated: Vampires, Asylums and Highlanders 1984 (The Fergus She Vampire Book Series 1)

4.3 out of 5 stars (52) Reviews on Amazon

Giveaway starts April 28th! Put Girl Desecrated in your "want to read" folder to be notified. If you've already read "Girl Desecrated", share the giveaway with your friends and followers, and pick up "Master of Madhouse" Book II in the series for free on Kindle Unlimited or at Pubby https://account.pubby.co/start-friend...

Enjoy!

I feel like a total fraud, but once I tell you why, perhaps you will forgive me.
When I cranked out The Fergus She Books I and II (Girl Desecrated and Master of Madhouse), I had ever intention of writing more because I love the characters and you loved the books.
You've heard the saying, "Best laid plans of mice and men"?
Well, just as I hit 5000 members on my newsletter list, started book III of The Fergus She and was getting awards at work, and raising my teenage boys, and living large, I developed a mysterious illness.
I say mysterious because it started slow, just a little more fatigue than usual. Then, the fatigue became me forgetting my students' names, struggling to stay awake on my commute, crashing when I got home, and my home... the house I used to clean in 4 hours top to bottom now took me 2 days.
Fast forward five years and probably 100 specialist, doctor and lab visits and their is still no diagnosis, I am no longer teaching, no longer married nor living in that beautiful 2500 Sq foot home, no longer writing... heck! I don't even have a working computer.
That fatigue? It has morphed into muscle weakness that becomes complete paralysis on occasion and it is triggered by exertion.
Don't get me wrong. I'm not complaining. War rages in the Ukraine. The stealth Covid rages in China. So who am I to complain?
I'm just sharing why I feel like a fraud.
The writer who didn't write.
The storyteller who didn't finish the story.
But know this dear reader... 😘 I love and appreciate your patience. And, the story is written in here... in my mind. I know what paces Rachel (The Fergus She) still has to be put through. I know the historical background of Scarlett that must still be unraveled. I heard your requests for more about Rachel's mother, and I can't wait to share what her subplot.
Someday, I will get a diagnosis and hopefully treatment.
And someday, I will finish The Fergus She.
But it has to be someday, hopefully soon, but not today for I will need my prior energy to keep up the twists and trysts set in Books I and II.
But that day is coming. And, so is Book III of The Fergus She.

It all started out with too much alcohol the night before. Decisions were made. Dangerous decisions. Somehow, we all agreed that after 20 years, it was time to return to “Dead Man’s Swamp”.

The next morning, hangovers prevented a good discussion or planning. We loaded up our boats, our food, and the kids made a sign – “Dead Man’s Swamp” which my older brother, Lee, would put up to warn others.

Then we set off, hours too late in the day, hope too fresh in our chests.

Arran Lake was pristine blue and sparked a rapid play of childhood memories in my mind. My parents had purchased a run-down resort on the lake in 1980, and it had changed our family forever. One change was the freedom we experienced in being able to traverse the lake and land at will, often finding ourselves embroiled in unexpected adventure. Now, here I was, lined up on the lake with my own teenage children and ready to challenge the river, which had turned us back many times before.

The first beaver dam had us lined up in a bottleneck of good cheer, waiting for each other to go over. But, hours of paddling later, we found ourselves pulling our canoes and kayak through the undergrowth with groans, some walking ahead of their kayaks in chest-deep water and ancient, sulfur-smelling mud reminiscent of “The African Queen”. Unlike the classic black & white movie, the occasional expletive could be heard.

Clever children wrapped their legs in lily pads to ward off the mosquitos as the sun descended. Large splooshes warned of those who were tipping their kayaks. The swamp thickened, water running under the bog roots. We searched for a trickling path, some standing in their kayaks, but only brush met our hand-shaded eyes.

On and on, paddling forgotten, we dragged and pulled and climbed over floating bog plants, their roots thick enough to restrict our passage, but not able to hold our weight.

Twelve beaver dams in, twilight struck, along with the suspicion we had lost the river’s path.

We gave up on finding the river and began looking for land. Glorious land… Whispered prayers crossed my lips as those ahead found solid ground. Dragging up our kayaks, we left everything, food, paddles, wet clothing behind and started walking through the swamp.

Leaning over disclosed the whine of hundreds, thousands of mosquitos in the marsh plants. Flip flops caught on roots and cutting grass sliced at our calves. The ground became more wet forcing us to backtrack and choose another direction, hoping to find our way out before nightfall.

The adults flagging, the children continued on ahead with the dog. Finally, a child’s voice carried back to us. “A house! I see a house!” More whispered prayers. Turning on the flashlight, I lit the way into a field. The temperature dropped, the wet clothes on our bodies beginning to chill, but it’s okay. We’re out. We’ll call for our ride. We’ll never do this again.

But isn’t that what we said 20 years ago? Never again? The youngest member of our band calls out, “We survived Dead Man’s Swamp!” and I know he’ll be back in 20 years, looking for adventure and I’ll say, “Yes”, once more, for nothing brings a family together more than a shared challenge.

Standing on the bog roots with my nephew, waiting to pull the next kayak through.

Nothing makes us more thankful for our shelter and climate-controlled homes than being at nature’s mercy, even if for a short time, even if temporary.

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What’s on my mind? Thanks for asking. I’ll tell you. It’s fear. The fear I will make a mistake and be mistaken for a white-supremacist.

Why? Well, in my mind, one of the worst and most insulting things I could ever be accused of being is a racist. Yet, when I was a girl, we would give the “a-ok” sign after wiping out our bikes or seeing a cool car driving by. It was a hand-sign that said, “all’s well” or “I approve of you”. Now that hand sign is being registered in a database of white supremacist look-fors, along with bowl-cut hairstyles and certain sunglass styles.

Good lord. It used to be easy for good, caring, tolerant, inclusive people to avoid being mistaken for a white-supremacist – just be your good self and don’t wear a pillowcase on your head and don’t get a tattoo of a swastika. It used to be easy to find white-supremacists too, because they didn’t suffer the consequences they would in present-day society. Now, they have to be more covert – use hand signs and sunglasses to identify each other. Good and evil is getting nebulous, hazy, foggy, easy to accuse innocents, easy to miss those who should be accused. It’s all blending in. But that is an unfortunate result of a good thing.

It’s proof those evil blackhearts have to hide. But it also leads to false accusations of racism, which I’ve experienced after determining a student plagiarised an essay, and after encouraging the progressive discipline of a student who was destroying school climate and bullying others, and after… well you get the picture. The r-word is easy to toss around, for some. And, I’m white and being white and Christian comes with the baggage of historical blame and false accusations often based on my skin colour.

Even writing this creates a niggling fear in the back of my skull that my school board will charge me, fire me, strip me of my teaching certification for daring to quote “Buckwheat”.

And, so what? Is my fear or status or life experiences equal to the fear of those targeted by “a-ok” hand-sign-appropriators? Of course not. Let’s not even go there.

I’m just here to repeat a little advice to avoid a persecution stampede of every kind, person-loving, inclusive, caring, human-being over 50 who might inadvertently ask the hairdresser to gift their grandchild with a classic bowl-cut and then give the a-ok hand sign approval. Which I absolutely won’t be doing, EVER, right after I sort through my son’s sunglass collection.

But my Dad might, my neighbour might, my 99-year-old auntie might have, those who don’t know might. So, in their defence, which is in the defence of tolerance and inclusion, remember this…

Oren Segal, director of the ADL’s Center on Extremism, said CONTEXT is key to interpreting whether an “OK” symbol is hateful or harmless. He said the ADL had been reluctant to add it to the database “because ‘OK’ has meant just ‘OK’ for so long.”“At this point, there is enough of a volume of use for hateful purposes that we felt it was important to add,” Segal said.

https://globalnews.ca/news/5954206/ok-hand-sign-bowlcut-hate-symbol/

Stigma will kill the “a-ok”. Sign it out of your repertoire now. Come up with something new. Maybe one that says “F-U supremacists, quit stealing our hand signs!” and of course, one that says, “Quit being an evil dickwad, you’re giving the rest of us white-folks a bad name” and a hand sign for “I will advocate to incarcerate, suspend or otherwise kick your ass if I ever catch you hurting anyone”.

Good people…

Keep up the good fight, but don’t take out the good guy. We need all the good guys we can get, even those innocent kind-hearted folk who happen to be white men, whom society loves to target–light coloured men like the men I am married to, daughter of, sister of, mother to, niece of, aunt to, friends of and proud descendant of. These men who are on the good side, no matter what their colour–if they give the “a-ok” sign, consider context first, not skin, not gender, but CONTEXT.

And for those of us who feel deeply attached to the “a-ok” hand sign? If you could wave your hand and help identify white-supremacists, would you? If so, you won’t mind giving up the “a-ok” sign for a good cause.

Let’s start a new trend. Let’s create some new hand signs.

​It was my first semester of teaching at an alternative school. I had little reference to draw upon, having been hired directly out of University and having been trained for junior intermediate classes, but a job was a job, and I took this one at a secondary school for kids who could not attend regular schools for a variety of reasons. Many of which I was to discover as the year went on.

This day, I was excited to continue a reading lesson I had assigned as homework to my grade 11 College English students. I was blessed with a small class – one of the perks of alternative school, but even so, I had to divide the students into groups based on their progress. That morning, I was shocked to find that 75% of the class had not even started the reading they had been given over a week ago.

Once those few who had completed the reading were working on their questions on the computers, I asked the rest of the students to sit with me in a circle. My plan was to read with them, which would support and help identify any issues that might have prevented them from reading on their own.

I was puzzled to discover the students were hesitant to come to the chairs I was cheerfully arranging in a circle. I encouraged them, calling each by name, but still no one moved.

One of the students, typing at the computer, stilled his hands on the keys while he waited to see what would happen.

Instead of standing and waiting for them, I casually sat in one of the chairs, crossed my legs, and opened at the reading. My more confident student tossed her black hair out of her eyes and made her way over. She clicked her tongue piercing against her teeth, sat down and opened her book, exactly as I had expected her to do.

I knew some of my students were nervous. But their regular fidgeting and eye sliding reached new heights and soon the air was so thick with tension, my heart was starting to pound. I pretended to be absorbed by the pages in front of me, while an imaginary clocked ticked in my mind. I was very aware of the limited time the alternative schedule gave me to work with my students.

I wasn’t sure what I was going to do if they refused to sit down.

[image error]Photo by rawpixel.com on Pexels.com

I put my finger on the page as
if I were tracking words, pretending to be unaware and uninterested in their
hesitation. I was making myself “small”. The silence was broken by the sounds
of shuffling and squeaky sneakers on waxed floors. I didn’t let myself sigh
with relief.

My student who never took his
coat or backpack off, turned his chair around so that the back was facing the
inside of the circle. He perched on the edge of the seat and dropped his gaze
to his book. A blonde girl, who had just started that day, silently lifted her
chair and moved it three feet out of the circle, and then took her seat. My boy
who never spoke, had walked to the door, but then had turned and was standing
there looking at the floor. Three more students sat down. Two turned their
chairs and sat with their backs to the circle, and one sprawled out, all arms
and legs to take up as much room as possible.  

I raised my head and took a
look at the abnormal seating arrangement in front of me. I wasn’t sure what to
do. No one had talked about this scenario in my University classes. But one grey-haired
professor had tossed out tips on a random basis, and it was this mishmash of
advice, I drew upon.

I checked my assumptions and turned
them positive. I released myself of the need to control. And I reminded myself
of the purpose of my plan: to provide my students with access to the reading
and to assess their skills.

Suddenly, it didn’t matter how
or where they were seated. It didn’t matter if I could see their eyes or faces.
And it didn’t matter that the circle wasn’t a perfect shape.

I smiled and thanked them for joining me. My student standing by the door was literally vibrating and a sheen of sweat was reflecting back the florescent light on his upper lip. I encouraged him to open his book.

His relief, as he realized I wouldn’t be forcing him into the circle, was evident as his shoulders dropped and the pinched white around his lips filled with colour.

I reminded myself that these
were my kids for the entire semester. I had time.

“I will read, today,” I said,
and then I softly drew my students’ imaginations into a story about courage and
risk-taking in places far, far away from the classroom.

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If Ontario Premiere Doug Ford does this “The Conservatives have also promised to ban cellphones in all primary and secondary classrooms to “maximize learning time,” it will improve student learning.

If you don’t work in a classroom, you have no idea how damaging cell phones are to student learning. Let me try to explain it.

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As teachers, we cannot take phones and parents rarely keep them at home. Why? Children and teen’s phones have become a right in our society.

With students spending up to 20% of their in-class time texting, emailing, and checking social media, it’s no wonder the debate about cell phones in the classroom is alive and well.

https://www.oxfordlearning.com/should-cell-phones-be-allowed-classrooms/

I get it. I’m a parent too. I’ve had calls and emails from my children’s teachers. Do I rip their computers away? Take away their phones? Well, if I do, they may no longer have technology to assist them in writing. Or not always have access to the Google classroom where the lessons are. They may no longer be part of their social group communication, because on phones is where students communicate. Even I struggle as a parent, and I know this…

If you have a child in secondary school, know that they will and are using their phones to watch videos, play games and communicate with others during lesson delivery. Remember passing notes in class? Imagine the bullying opportunities occurring in a class with cell phones. Imagine teaching while 10 students are texting hate language /cruel comments about another student in class and the snickering travels around and you can’t stop the “note”, or read it because its locked on cells you can’t open, can’t take and can’t stop. And you can’t prove it. You just know. Imagine dramatic reveals happening in class–break-ups, death notices, crime updates and more. One minute you’re teaching, the next, kids are crying and running out of the room. And you’ll never know why. Imagine kids texting helicopter /anxious parents from class who then show up at your door thinking their child is in crisis when they were laughing in class only minutes before.

All this goes on under desks while teachers are trying to deliver lessons. How many times will a teacher interrupt a lesson to instruct a student to “off and away”? 25 to 30 teens in a room. 45 mins to teach each subject lesson. 5 seconds to ask each student to put their phone away.

On any given day 80-90% start using phones in my class. They walk in with them in their hands. I ask each student up to 3 times. “Off and away, please” Some students pull the cell phone back out within minutes of being addressed. I then move to longer chats about impacts and goals. Those can take 2-3 mins. About 40% keep taking their phones out. By 3/4 through class I might get 90% working with a focus that is needed for productive learning. By the last 10-15 mins all phones are back out.

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All this is happening while I should be instructing and rotating and assisting.

This is all time stolen from learning.

This is happening in varying degrees in every class, every day.

And the students without phones or who are listening and putting them away? They are having their learning time taken up by this daily struggle.

I know what you are tempted to think at this point. It’s easier to believe I am a bad teacher, and I cannot compete with cell phones. Let me assure you that I’m a multi award-winning teacher who is known for her engaging lessons and effective classroom management style.

[image error]Author receiving the award of teaching excellence

Children are missing out on learning because they are using their cell phones in class, and this is happening in varying degrees in every class, every day.

How long should I keep leaving the kids who are focussed on learning to re-instruct the others “off and away”? How many times should I instruct a student before I give up? The answer is never give up on any child. Of course it is. In my heart it is.

But consider. A teacher tells one student approx 10 times a class– “off and away”, plus a goal talk. On day 1….absolutely! Day 10? Still at it, maybe 5 instructs, even though parents have not supported by keeping the phone at home, but the goal talks will come weekly now. And the teacher is taking this time from teaching and from individually supporting other kids. Now, its day 30 and there is no change in the student’s cell phone behaviour. Do you think that student is still receiving dedicated guidance on behaviour? At the continued cost of lost learning time for other students? On DAY 60?

This is an immense social, class climate and academic problem that has not been resolved and teachers do not have the permission, parental support, or means to manage it. And teens do not have the self-regulation, training or will to manage the temptation. What will be the fall-out?

We need a government to set some guidelines and soon.

The Jewel in the Cave by John Moss

My rating: 5 of 5 stars


I read this intriguing, fast-paced novella in a few hours and was left wishing for more of Angel and MEme’s story.

Angel is a cave scientist who was born without the use of her legs. Her upper body strength and fearless exploration skills give her an edge over the other scientists who are unable to traverse the smaller, suffocating tunnels. There Angel finds a hidden prehistoric art gallery, painted by the “girl who was born from the earth”–MEme.

Author, Moss, cleverly shares each young girls’ story of overcoming struggle and loneliness through persistence and bravery in a dangerous environment.

This novella would be a perfect compliment to HSP3M, Intro to Anthropology, Psychology and Sociology secondary school courses. As well, an inspiring read for young girls who are facing ability challenges, or who have an interest in the past, pre-language societies.

As a fan of Jean M. Auel’s “Clan of the Cave Bear” Earth Children’s series, I thoroughly enjoyed this journey into the past. “The Jewel in the Cave” would be a great mother/daughter reading pairing to the Earth Children’s series. The Clan of the Cave Bear

As well, a wonderful summer read for middle grade and young adult and new adult readers who plan to explore the Royal Ontario Museum and Petroglyph’s Provincial Park or their local museums.

As an English text for reader response lessons in English classes, teachers could explore characterization-specific traits that lead to each girl overcoming their challenges. It is a diverse, inclusive novella with the main character having a physical disability, and the references to MEme being of a mixed tribe and considered “different” from her people.

—Connections to self: “The story of being born out of the earth was MEme’s own. It puzzled her and frightened her and gave her strength. It allowed her to see things others couldn’t see, to connect opposing worlds others couldn’t connect. She saw animals in rock and released them with paint. She understood how one thing could stand for another, how words could be made from the shape of a sound”. (Moss, 57)
—Connections to world: “She named things and tried to teach the children these names. There was no turning back. Language was a new technology. It was here to stay. Some of the older people tried to avoid it. They feared words would get mixed up with the actual world. They feared they would lose what was real.” (Moss, 122)
—Character study: “Being born without the use of her legs gave Angel Harris certain advantages. She became an excellent swimmer, a wheelchair runner, and she could arm-wrestle men with bewildering success. More importantly, her special abilities meant she could worm her way through impossibly small passages…” (Moss, 6)

If you are looking for an empowering read for a young female in your life, I highly suggest this Silver Medallion Novella by critically acclaimed Canadian author, John Moss.



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Balanced between the violence and betrayal of Game of Thrones and the heart-warming coming-of-age story, Merlin lies The Pillars of the Earth. This television mini-series is based on the world bestselling novel by Ken Follett, and it will reward your viewing investment with memorable characters, intertwining destinies, a greater cause for determination and a suspenseful struggle for survival.

Set in the 12th century, England, The Pillars of the Earth has a stronger moral compass than Game of Thrones. In this time period of poverty, godliness, and lack of law, small villages must fend for themselves, and are often victims to the royalty who can burn, reward, hang, beat and rape their members at will. It pushes the harshness of the times into the frame more than Merlin. Yet beyond this reality, faith runs within Ken Follet’s plot, and though often challenged by the “evils of ambition”, the symbol of goodness (the cathedral being constructed in a small village) continues to rise.

The cathedral’s building is overseen by a prior monk, played by “kind-eyes, soft-spoken” Matthew MacFayden, previously Mr. Darcy from Pride and Prejudice. MacFayden performance for this role fits it like a monk’s cloak in its believability. (Unlike the disbelief you may be feeling at the pun-simile I just used.)

Prior Philip hires the family of builders who carve the stone and architect the cathedral, headed by Master Builder Tom played by Rufus Sewell. Sewell does a convincing job as a man who only wants to work with his hands and leave greatness behind. Tom raises his own son, Alfred, and his adopted son, Jack, a carver of flaming hair who will feature in the story’s prophecy to King Stephen.

The two sons, though raised by Tom, are as different as black and white, both love the same woman, both covet Tom the Builder’s tools and heritage, and they will struggle in their relationship as fighting siblings until it destroys the family, the cathedral or themselves.

The other man of faith is one who flails himself bloody to bribe his God into meeting his ambitions is the Bishop Bigod. Ian McShane portrays Waleran Bigod as a sadistic but deliciously manipulative holy man who strategically puppets England through 16 years of war.

The highlights of this series for me includes the time period. I enjoy historical, medieval based films and books, especially ones that stick to the language of the time. There was only one shocking word – that dropped by Waleran Bigod. The sex scenes were more sensual than the violent sex portrayed in Game of Thrones, and Pillar’s scenes did not seem overly gratuitous. As well, misogyny seemed to be lower on this series’ list of goals behind the portrayal of its females: a crown-hungry Queen, a “witch-accused” hermit, an honour-bound lady, an incestuous, psychotic mother, and a love-struck teenager who only desires a “small piece” of Jack.

I really enjoyed the aspect of the cathedral’s raising running alongside the intertwined lives. This additional plot was very interesting from an architectural / historical perspective and really enriched my memories of Europe as I was given insight into the challenges of raising stone to such heights.

The final pleasing aspect of this series was seeing Donald Sutherland (Earl Bartholomew) light up the screen. His performances always contain an element of beauty for me, he projects some combination of visual grace and auditory peace that I immediately open my heart to. Or perhaps I just recognize a fellow Canadian, and feel at ease with “my people”.

If you loved Merlin and Game of Thrones or found Merlin too candy-coated and Game of Thrones too spicey, you will find The Pillars of the Earth much to your liking. It is nestled between the two, yet rises above as an incredible and tasteful story of 12th-century struggle to find a balance between honouring ourselves and honouring our Gods.