Grandmother lived with us. She, the baker and story-teller, would put me to bed with cookies and the latest of her own imagined sagas, or her reading of Lorna Doone, The Three Musketeers, everything Dickens, poetry of Burns, Wordsworth and Longfellow; and the great adventures of the Bible. By the age of seven, I had covered the classics.

Gram loved the written word, and passed that on to me. It became the foundation of my schooling and writing short stories and poetry. “When you become a writer,” she said, “you must carry on the name of our forebear, my own grandmother, Julia Vandyke. Now, she could write!” I have complied.

Honing the craft in University of Victoria’s creative writing programs was another gift of great worth. But earning a living as a writer has its challenges. I chose business instead, and long shelved story writing.

Even as a child I thought and questioned, ‘This island. This coast. What happened here, who was here , hundreds or thousands of years ago?’ I began to read the stories and legends of the first peoples whose land we now call ‘ours.’

I listened to their songs, felt the rhythm of their dances. I am awed by their art, moved by their vision. I marvel at their resilience, dignity, wisdom and humanity in the face of centuries of abuse. Our first peoples have never lost sight of their stewardship of this earth and the life upon it.

A few years ago, I received the extraordinary gift of my Tahltan Bear Dog, born in Old Crow, Yukon. Her lineage goes back centuries, too! She inspires me and makes me laugh every day. She is Snowflake in the stories.

Then along came ‘Aani,’ a small child tugging at my heart. I had to figure out her name, had no idea what it meant. Where did she live? When did she live? Who are her peoples? What is her story? At last she told me:

“I Am Aani Littlecrab.” Her story unfolded in a part of my brain I didn’t know I had, and I wrote it down.

Enjoy!