Musings of Per Grinsom

By Hanne Armstrong

Musings of Per Grinsom is an enchanting world of stories, reflections, and observations told with captivating warmth and sincerity. The ordinary and familiar are rediscovered through narrator Grinsom's insightful and sensitive contemplations. From the story of a foster-child to thoughts on being busy, author Hanne Armstrong carries the reader easily along, now lulling, now startling, now making us think.

Written in wonderfully lyrical prose, Musings of Per Grinsom draws us in right from the first page. Stirring, heart-warming, enriching, each story is taken from life as author Hanne Armstrong views and encounters it, resulting in a perfect blend of imagination and personal experience. Anyone who enjoys pondering the small and large aspects of living, will appreciate the intelligently-written "musings".

Musings of Per Grinsom is graceful, thoughtful, and genuine collection of compositions. Each "Musing" is just long enough and just short enough to communicate without belabouring, to engage without en-chaining. Whether you're looking for something to read by the fireplace on cold winter nights, or in the wilderness on summer vacation, Musings of Per Grinsom is the book for you.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Trafford Publishing
• Release date: Feb 19, 2007
• ISBN: 9781425196950

Hanne Armstrong

Hanne Armstrong has lived in five of CanadaÕs ten provinces, and has travelled extensively in the other five. She has been a music teacher, foster parent, bakerÕs assistant, and small business owner. Armstrong currently lives in eastern Canada, with her dog and her cat.

Book preview

Per

Per. Pronounced ‘Pear’, with an airy feel to it. And Grinsom, the ‘i’ at your discretion short, as in ‘in’, or, following a rolling Scandinavian ‘r’, long, as in ‘eel’. For the meaning—to grin, to laugh, to mock—is contained in either. And there, pronunciation looked after, you have him: Per Grinsom.

Per first came to my attention when I invented him. I invented him as a tongue-in-cheek jibe, a half-meant barb lobbed at the smugness and pretentiousness I believed I saw in parts of the community round and about me.

It came about in this way. I owned, for a brief span of time, a small gift shop. The once elegant premises which I had rented for this purpose had suffered neglect and abuse at the hands of previous tenants, and it was only after much hard work that its condition had been improved to my satisfaction. Except for one stubborn smirch on the entranceway wall. Cleaning, painting, nothing would remove the stain, so I resolved to cover it up.

With a grin in my mind I penned a line which spoke subtly of hypocrisy, and with a broader grin wrote that it was a quote taken from the ‘Musings of Per Grinsom’. Per Laugh-some. Per Laughable. And I posted this elegant affectation to cover the mark on the wall.

That the segment of the community toward which this jibe was directed did not patronize my shop was of no matter; it was my small private joke. And other people came in to browse and shop. Many, I noticed with some surprise, stopped to read, even linger over, Per’s words. As time went on several customers asked where they might purchase a copy of ‘Musings of Per Grinsom’. I prevaricated. Some even claimed that they had read ‘Musings’ and had enjoyed the book tremendously. I was silent.

Comments and questions persisted, until it was gradually borne in upon me that Per himself had begun to exist. And that his ‘Musings’ also existed, needing merely to be written down. These notions took root, began to grow, firmly becoming part of my consciousness. Slowly, little by little. And slowly, little by little, I—no, we—wrote the ‘Musings’ down. I say we, because I know I did not write them on my own, but very much in collaboration with this being named Per Grinsom.

This invented being who had become so much more than he had started out to be. And who firmly remains so. He is a wanderer, vagabond, rover, will-o’-the-wisp; coming and going without warning. He has a beard, I think, and longish brown hair. He is gentle, warm-hearted, pensive, wistful, and there is often a glint of humour in his eye. When he is here, I am enriched. When he is absent, I hold to whatever I can of the memory of him.

So, though he has no corporeal reality, these ‘Musings’ are his. May they warm you, entertain you, give you pause for thought.

The Cat

The house where I once lived was possessed of a roofed porch which ran the whole length of the back of the house. ‘Verandah’ would perhaps describe it better. It was just under three metres in width and some ten metres long, floored by brown-painted tongue-in-groove planking, railed by black-painted wrought iron. Steps led down from it to the back yard, which soon gave way to a large closely-wooded area. Immediately across from these steps was my kitchen door, in which was framed the only window along that entire wall.

This verandah was one of my favourite places to sit,

on an old bench of the same rusty brown colour as the floor. Sheltered from rain or snow, largely removed from insects, and private from my neighbours whose houses did not extend as close to the woods as mine did, my porch was my refuge, my solace, my observation post.

From it I was able to watch raccoons, rabbits, foxes, all manner of birds in their season; and I fed them, of course. Hummingbirds in the summer, and all the others during the winter. Raccoons would make acrobatic nocturnal raids on the bird-feeder which was suspended from the overhang of the porch, and would assure themselves of their share of whatever crusts and so on that I put out at the edge of the woods for the others. Not that I set out to entice these visitors. Except for the birds, that is, I waited until I saw them, usually in the cold weeks of winter when food was scarce and hunger great. Then they would venture close to houses in their need to fuel themselves against the weather. It was at these times that I put food out. And so it would be that within seven to ten metres