A very enthusiastic and sold out audience enjoyed an evening celebrating Ottawa’s own Lynn Miles’ 25 year career as a singer/songwriter on Friday night. Her dedicated following and very strong connections to the local arts community were evident throughout the evening.
Alan Neal from CBC Radio One 91.5 FM hosted the evening (his day job is host of the program All In A Day). Neal had done a great deal of background research and did a masterful job of providing the backdrop to the story of Lynn’s career. While keeping Lynn as the focal point of the evening, Neal showcased a trip down memory lane. Lynn and the audience were treated to video and audio clips of people past and present who were or are part of her career. Lynn sang several songs, old and new, all to the audience’s delight. Lynn bantered with Neal and connected with the audience from start to finish.
Lynn made her first recording, on videocassette in 1987. At one point it was mentioned Lynn had written over 700 songs. In one audio clip from the early 1990’s, CBC’s Peter Gzowski asked Lynn if she was shy. She said she was and it took her a year to open her eyes in front of an audience and another year not to just look at the microphone once her eyes were open. There was an audio clip tribute from Murray McLauchlin, video clips of being interviewed by Alanis Morrisette and messages from producers and collaborators throughout the years. Lynn told a story of being busted for busking with Alanis Morrisette when they were in Santa Monica many years ago.
Lynn has won and been nominated for a number of awards over the years, including winning a Juno in 2003 and the 2005 Canadian Folk Award. Throughout the evening we heard several songs including Surrender Dorothy, Hockey Night in Canada and The People You Love. She played every request and she showed sheer enjoyment when guest artists such as Lynne Hanson performed I’m The Moon (Lynn Miles spontaneously joined in to sing harmony) and Sarah Slean performed Black Flowers.
Lynn was humble, down to earth and demonstrated a great sense of humour throughout the evening. We were treated to insights about her early career and to the influential roles played by a number of people like the owners of Rasputin’s Café. It was there Lynn and other singer/songwriters would perform and hang out till the wee hours. One of the owners, Helen, provided Lynn with cash to help make her make an album in the earliest years. She thanked the owner of The Ottawa Folklore Centre for hiring her when she needed cash and she thanked many others for their support over the years. In the end, it was the audience who showed their gratitude and respect to one very gifted singer and songwriter, Lynn Miles. I’d recommend that if you aren’t familiar with her work, then it’s time to log on to iTunes or head out to shop for a CD or, as Alan Neal did, look on eBay for a copy of that very first Lynn Miles cassette.
At noontime Friday, a sizable crowd composed of the “young and young at heart” gathered at Knox Presbyterian Church to hear Annabel Lyon speak about her latest young adult novel Encore Edie , sequel to All-Season Edie . The novelist is perhaps best known for her 2009 novel The Golden Mean , which was shortlisted for all three major Canadian literature awards: the Scotiabank Giller Prize, the Governor General's Literary Award, and the Rogers Writers' Trust Fiction Prize, winning the latter. Those interested in hearing about that novel, however, or its sequel, The Sweet Girl , were laughingly told by the event’s moderator, Meagan Black, a Carleton University student, that they should have attended the previous evening’s event (“ Freedom ”) instead. Not that any attendees were disappointed with Friday’s hour-long event, which covered everything from the perceived didactic nature of children’s literature to the nuts and bolts of the writing process.
Lyon, a relaxed and engaging speaker, began with a reading from Encore Edie . In this latest installment of a confirmed trilogy, the titular “nerdy, bookish” character has recently begun high school. Coupled with the regular stresses of growing up and fitting in, Edie is also trying to dodge parental pressure to hang out with her cousin “Merry” (Meredith), who was born with Down’s syndrome. In an attempt to do both, she tries to put on a musical production of Shakespeare’s King Lear . In the selected reading, Lyon shared a scene in which Edie meets with an older student, Reagan, the costumer of the school’s previous play. The lightness of the scene (Edie ordering a large black coffee; the girl nervously meeting with the army-jacket wearing Reagan; Edie still rattling from the “serious” coffees she consumed hours before) was well presented, with Lyon perfectly mimicking the flat tone of the bored barista, the faster delivery of a nervous Edie, and the cooler demeanor of Reagan.
Following the reading, Black queried Lyon about the differences she has noticed between writing for adults and for children. While conceding that “writing is writing,” Lyon noted that while she can get a little discouraged when writing her adult novels, it was “always a joy to go back to that world, to go back to this character (of Edie).”
Indeed, she wrote much of the first Edie book while working on The Golden Mean , flipping back and forth between the two. Later speaking on the didactic reputation of children’s literature, Lyon reiterated how she cannot tolerate writing that patronizes children, noting that few topics should be off-limits and that “darkness is in the treatment” of subject matter. That being said, in writing her Edie books (and indeed, The Golden Mean ), she has purposely included characters with mental disabilities, a theme influenced by growing up with a brother with Down’s syndrome.
Consequently Lyon noted that she “feels strongly about how people with mental disabilities are treated in arts and culture” and aimed to create in Merry a “rounded character” rather than using her as a mere symbol of Down’s. In this line of discussion, she referenced the movie Dumb and Dumber and spoke about how language to describe mental disabilities persists whereas comparable slurs (relating to race, for example) have been largely been deemed unacceptable in contemporary society. She also discussed how while still resistant of any writing that condescends to audiences she is interested in how ethics can be communicated in fiction, noting that there is an “emotional value-added aspect of fiction that you don’t get in academic texts.”
Much of the talk also focused on the technical and practical aspects of writing, editing, and publishing. Lyon further elaborated on these points during the Q&A session toward the end of the event. Now a professor at the University of British Columbia (UBC), Lyon discussed how as a would-be student in the same program she first came up with the character of Edie. Although at that point exclusively interested in writing novels for adults, a requirement of the program meant that she had to choose two specializations and opted for children’s literature as her second. She wrote the first chapters for All-Season Edie in 1994, picking the story up again 8 to 10 years later and then finishing it. At that point she had had a collection of short stories published, but admitted that the worlds of adult and children’s publishing are worlds apart. Not only has she learned to rely on her editor’s guidance when it comes to adjusting vocabulary for younger readers, she learned about the “two year rule,” whereby readers will generally read about characters roughly two years older than themselves, so that an 11-year old character is actually written for 9-year old readers. These readers have proven to be a great motivator for Lyon as she shared an anecdote about how she was “stuck about two chapters into the second book” when she read a letter from a child saying how much they loved the first book. This realization of “oh, I have a reader!” acted as a great reinforcement, a kind she suggested you don’t get when writing for adults.
In terms of advice for would-be authors Lyon strongly recommended that writers study their craft just as a carpenter or journalist might, be it through a MFA program, non-credit courses, or similar, arguing that writing doesn’t just happen in a garret somewhere with a muse to guide you. She noted how in her studies she was able to draw on poetry and screenwriting courses to improve her fiction, commenting that all of her longer works are composed in traditional three-act structures. She also warned against writing to trends, saying that the success of books such as Twilight and the like cannot be predicted and wryly commenting that “mermen” are apparently going to be the next big thing in YA publishing.
The event concluded with much applause and a book signing where copies of Lyon's books, for both adults and children, were available. Attendees were also pleased to hear a rumor about a possible stand-alone children’s and YA literature festival that is in the works. Based on Friday’s event, it will likely be a great success.
Thursday night’s late show, “Freedom,” featuring eclectic novelist trio David Bergen, Annabel Lyon and Shauna Singh Baldwin, turned out to be a fine, intriguing evening. From start to finish, the event was engaging. The authors were too bright, too accomplished at their trade for anything else to be possible. Yet certainly, there was a precise moment about halfway through where, just as things threatened to descend into the realm of predictable, introverted lit-talk, David Bergen managed to toss in just the right amount of unpredictability and informality needed to keep the pot boiling.
It was during the panel section of the evening, when Ottawa poet and moderator for the evening Sandra Ridley asked the trio questions. Unexpectedly, Bergen, apparently unable to contain his boyish curiousity, apologized to the moderator, faced Lyon, and started asking his own questions to her. He asked about how she structured her works, and whether she outlined her plots ahead of time and a few other technical questions. For a few minutes the three of them discussed their organizational approaches to writing, and it seemed that they had almost forgotten the audience in their curiousity to uncover the others’ trade secrets. The audience certainly didn’t mind being momentarily excluded.
Seeing the natural connection form between the authors was memorable. At the best moments, it wasn’t three performers trying to entertain an audience, it was three very different people who had allinvested their lives into the same craft, genuinely connecting in conversation.
The evening concluded with a time of Q&A, which did a good job maintaining that informality so necessary in keeping things relevant and interesting. Some fascinating reader-writer connections were formed: The first audience member to stand up addressed Singh and told her of a trip through Pakistan in which she had used one of Singh’s novels as a kind of guidebook, going to each of the different sites mentioned in the novel. Singh was clearly honoured that her book had made such an impact on this woman’s life.
Perhaps the most memorable moment of the night came near the end of the Q&A. A woman stoodup, prodded by a friend, and asked hesitantly whether a certain baby in Lyon’s most recent novel, The Sweet Girl , had been fathered by this character or that. Apparently this had been the source of some controversy in their book club. Lyon’s shocked and surprised expression was priceless.
“You thought that!” she exclaimed, laughing. “Come talk to me after.”
She wasn’t being derisive of the woman’s comment. She was simply fascinated that an intelligent reader could come up with such an alternate interpretation. Raising her arms in a baffled expression, she brought up Roland Barthes essay, “The Death of the Author,” implying, who was she to judge an interpretation of her own book? The book is finished; its text is there for anyone to dismember and reassemble; it is no longer hers to dictate exactly what it means. They would speak after the event not as author and reader but as two readers of the same book. I wish I could have witnessed the conversation.
To me, the event was a success not because of its profound in-depth look at “freedom” (the theme, in fact, was only touched on briefly and tangentially) but because of a few small perfect moments.
Maybe the most perfect of these moments was Bergen’s reading from his latest work in Canadian realism, The Age of Hope . When Bergen spoke the last sentence of his reading and raised his eyes to the audience a quiet laugh ran through the audience, not because the last line was funny, but because wewere thrown slightly off-balance at how compelling the narrative was, how perfectly it ended, and how much emotional thrust it contained for its simplicity.
In a packed hall at the Knox Presbyterian Church, we were privileged to listen to three highly respected authors and follow the ensuing question and answer session that Charlotte Gray, well-known Ottawa-based writer and a Writers Festival board member expertly and firmly moderated. It is worth mentioning here that all three authors in some way have started out using part of their own history and their family's history as one aspect from which to build the fictional lives of their characters.
Christine Pourtney's Sweet Jesus tells the story of two sisters and their adopted brother, addressing moral and religious questions that come to life during a road trip and in the relationships between the siblings and their surroundings. In response to the question on placing religion centrally in the novel, Christine Pourtney answered that she wanted to explore the "meaty soup of opinion, beliefsin a strong framework," and write a book "in which both camps (believers and non-believers) could co-exist." Linda Spalding's novel, The Purchase , also centres on religious and moral issues as it follows the life of a Quaker family who have to confront slavery as a fundamental personal question.
Finally, M.G. Vassanji's The Magic of Saida takes the reader to the coastal area of present-day Tanzania and its rich history, its mythology, and magic. His protagonist, a medical doctor from Edmonton, returns to the places of his childhood in search of his childhood friend. Reading this novel currently, I was especially taken by his explanations of the moral quests that are contained in the story.
The selection of the novels paired for the session could not have been better in my view. Not only did they have at the centre protagonists in their personal struggle with a quests or search for clarity in their lives, they represent excellent examples how the past informs the present and how the present also can shed new light on the past. In fact, as the moderator stated at the outset: History is not the past, it is all around us.
Interestingly also, when they were each asked how they begin a novel and what aspect was most important at that point, they each answered that they were most interested in a question that the novel attempts to answer or not. It could be a deep moral or religious question or one of identity and belonging. As they also agreed, the initial question did not necessarily find an answer at the end of the novel. It was as important, or even more so, to follow the protagonist's quest for the answer, to understand the individuals whose lives were influenced by the search for an answer. "To get into the question and build a world around it," this reflection by Christine Pourtney reflects the general agreement among the authors.
Finally, from the general discussion some salient points for me deserve to be highlighted. Historical fiction can be seen as a hybrid between fact and fiction. Is that a problem for the fiction writer? For Christine Pourtney, "writing about the present is a historical act." It is what it feels like here and now, whether it is set in the present or the past. She writes out of "intuition, not history." For Linda Spalding, the question is about moral judgment. "Trying to understand the complications of people in their time
and environment. I have an expanded sense of the decisions and actions of the time for the reader to have a better understanding." For M.G. Vassanji his book is "not historical fiction, more a quest - questions about the past. At the end you learn about the question and the person who asked the questions." That does not suggest that some form of historical reality is of course necessary.
In summary, having heard the readings and the discussion, I can only recommend all three books. I will certainly add the two I don't have on my bookshelf yet.
When Donna Naughton first told her partner Diana that she intended to write a book
on Canadian mammals, Diana assumed that Donna would be writing a field guide, and need one or two years to complete it. Instead, over the course of eleven years, Donna turned out the definitive volume on Canadian mammals for this generation. The Natural History of Canadian Mammals (University of Toronto Press, 2012) has already riveted all kinds of readers. It was one of the main attractions at the Frankfurt Book Fair; at its Canadian launch on October 25, it packed the 3D Theatre of the Museum of Nature with eager readers, young and old, professional biologists and amateur enthusiasts.
A.W.F. Banfield’s 1974 volume,
The Mammals of Canada
, also came out of the
Canadian Museum of Nature and the University of Toronto Press. It has been a great
resource for scholars for four decades – but it was time for an update. Donna Naughton
explained three pressing reasons for this updating. The mammal species living in Canada have changed since 1974; Canadian mammals are on the brink of a dramatic possible change in climate; and the illustrations which drive The Natural History of Canadian Mammals needed to come to light.
The Vancouver Island marmot is one of five mammal species found only in Canada;
it was not officially classified as a species when Banfield went to press. While Canadian
Mammals was in preparation, the number of the rare marmots in the wild increased, from only thirty-five to between 300 and 350! Changes in species classification are not the only reason to include new species; one Pacific dolphin species has recently begun to appear in Canadian waters, as its range moves further north due to the warming of ocean waters.
Several American species of shrew can now be found in southern B.C., as their original
habitat becomes hotter and drier. The Natural History of Canadian Mammals provides
us with a vital baseline, giving a snapshot of Canadian fauna at the beginning of a shift in
The marvellous watercolour illustrations are at the heart of Canadian
Mammals; their story demonstrates how this book is a product of the whole institution of the Canadian Museum of Nature. When Museum of Nature staff members were asked whether they had any ideas for books, Donna leaped at the opportunity to publish a neglected collection of breathtaking watercolours, done by Paul Geraghty and Brenda Carter. A book format was just the thing to showcase the illustrations, and to bring the museum’s treasures to a wide public. The natural history illustrator Julius Csotonyi was brought in to provide pictures of about forty species that the two original artists had not had time to cover; he used a sophisticated digital watercolour programme, so that his work would blend in perfectly with his predecessors’. Donna declared that his picture of a wolverine was the most accurate she had ever seen.
Canadian Mammals also drew on talents from all over the Museum of Nature. The dental illustrations, which are crucial in mammal biology, were done by a staff member from the paleontology preservation lab. Micheline Beaulieu-Beauregard works in the museum’s world-class Herbarium – but stepped away from her usual plant specimens to illustrate mammal skulls, drawing between three and six diagrammes per species.
Micheline told me that her contribution to Canadian Mammals will probably be
the most tangible and lasting of all the work she has undertaken at the Canadian Museum of Nature. She and Donna Naughton think alike; Donna sees Canadian Mammals as the pinnacle of her work for the museum, and considers it in the light of a public servant’s retirement gift to the nation. It was wonderful to hear how digital technologies and people’s artistic and research talents could combine to save art from obscurity, and to save species from ignorance – and how all this could be accomplished through that most old-fashioned medium; an illustrated book.
Empire 7 at the World Exchange Plaza, acted as our venue for the Ottawa film premiere of Deepa Mehta's audacious adaptation of Salman Rushdie's landmark Midnight's Children . Rushdie had also recently released the memoir Joseph Anton - an alias made up of the first names of Conrad and Chekhov. It was a name he had to adopt to avoid suspicion while under the protection of the British police after the infamous fatwa or religious edict from Iran's Ayatollah Khomeini, while on his deathbed, for the publication of his other well known novel, Satanic Verses . It is a remarkable feat that Rushdie has not only survived in the physical sense, but has been able to project an equally staggering body of work to counteract the ignominy and notoriety of "the Rushdie Affair" as the whole brouhaha came to be dubbed. Haroun and the Sea of Stories , which Rushdie wrote for his son following a separation from him in the aftermath of the fatwa, is not only remarkable for the conditions under which it was written in, but also for being one of the finest children's book of any era. Yet out of all his numerous opuses, it is Midnight's Children, as one of the most decorated novels of twentieth century, that stands apart.
Deepa Mehta herself, being no stranger to threats and suppression of her art, found a kinship with Rushdie whom she met relatively recently in Toronto when Rushdie was promoting The Enchantress of Florence . While enthusing about a potential collaboration, Mehta had suggested Shalimar The Clown , possibly Rushdie's most film-able book. Then almost as a self-whispered dare, Mehta said, "How about Midnight's Children?" to which Rushdie quickly consented. Rushdie, as Mehta would tell us in her Q & A session after the film, sold the rights to the script for just a dollar.
Midnight's Children is the story of Saleem Sinai, and how by virtue of being born at the very same moment of his country's independence at the midnight of August 15th, 1947 he is "handcuffed to history." Saleem and 420 other children are bound by magical powers which bind them to each other, but ultimately to their country. Rushdie explores the emergence of not only modern day India, but also of Pakistan and Bangladesh.
The film itself is a wondrous palette of colours - with Sri Lanka being the setting for over 64 locations as diverse as Kashmir and Bengal spanning several decades. Mehta stated the her focus on particular colours and slowly intensifying them were thematic choices. For instance, in the part signifying The Emergency of Prime Minister the Indira Gandhi, blue particularly resonates over the grim darkness, caressing the viewer's eyes with a sense of calm. Rushdie himself narrates, his voice exhibiting the calm energy of a man thrilled to bring a work which is almost 30 years old to a new generation.
The Walrus feature on Mehta in the November 2012 issue, written by the very observant and thoughtful Stephanie Nolen, states that Mehta, "loves the book, and understands it deeply." At the Writers Fest event, she called it the "first great novel of post-colonial literature." Hari Kunzru goes on to say that it was Rushdie through Midnight's Children who "proved, once and for all, that English is an Indian language." While any literary hyperbole for Rushdie is usually warranted, this overreaches. Early Indian writers such as Mulk Raj Anand and particularly R.K. Narayan have defined India in English in a way that is as relevant today as it ever was, decades before Rushdie. Moreover, A House for Mr. Biswas , by Indo-Trinidadian Nobel Laureate V.S. Naipaul, is a more likely claimant of the first great post-colonial novel.
The integrity of the film is assured by Rushdie's own close involvement. The acting in the film, is understated and superb. Satya Bhabha exhibits a tenderness and toughness which is a jarring contrast to Matthew Patel in the peerless Scott Pilgrim vs. the World. Shriya Saran and Shahana Goswami are impossibly elegant, and makes one wonder why every wedding isn't Indian. The breakout role may be the one of Darsheel Safary in his precocious portrayal of a 10 year old Saleem.
When prompted by a question by a local filmmaker Jith Paul, Mehta describes how she trains her actors based on the ancient Indian arts text the Natya Shastra. The rasabox from the shastras consist of 9 key emotions, her favourite being "wonderment." Mehta describes how she challenges actors to learn how to say "I love you" while being in the grid of hatred. "Every emotion carries nuance, even love has parts of revulsion and doubt in it." It is indeed her and Rushdie's exploration of nuances which seem to dent their popularity, particularly in India, a culture still not used to critical self-examination, particularly to outsiders.
Apparently Rushdie shed a few tears when he saw the first screening of Mehta's film. It's not hard to understand why.
Every seat Side Door Restaurant was taken and the rest of the floor was packed with people standingand listening to Chef Michael Smith passionately talk about how we have become so removed from the food we eat. Joined by the executive chef of Sidedoor and Top Chef Contestant Jonathan Korecki, the two casually reminisced about growing up and learning about where food comes from.
“Go to your grocery store and look at where the fruit and vegetables come from,” Korecki says. “Most of the time the town or province is written in the smallest writing.” Smith is an advocate for food literacy. He was frustrated with how we were so into watching the TV shows and following the food blogs, but was so quick to make excuses as to why we couldn’t or wouldn’t prepare food at home. “There is no excuse, you can cook.” And it is true; we can cook. Even though I now cook professionally, I've always cooked at home with my mother. I grew up eating her so called mistakes, and loved every bite. I learned that just because it didn’t’ turn out how it was planned, it is still palatable and time and love and were put into it. I always believed that food is the strand that holds us all together.
As many small canapés were passed around, we were full of smiles, chatting amiably while we gobbled up every new round that was served. There were baby scallops on the half shell with black bean sauce and citrus. Meatballs, and various mini tacos from pork, beef, to tuna tartare. It was food that brought us all together and a great atmosphere that kept us there. Unfortunately the short time constraint cut what would easily have been a late-night stay, yet Michael Smith found some time to sign copies of his new cook book, Fast Flavours .
We need more people like Smith pushing the message of eating local food that comes from our farmers, and our soil. With all the resources at our finger tips we can easily find out about the many great foods we have the choice of buying. We could even start a garden and really understand the time that goes into getting us our food. Just build up some confidence, ask someone over to help, and I guarantee the meal won’t even be the part of the experience you remember most. It’s about bringing people together. The food is just an added bonus. Bon appetit.
Isaac Adamski is a cook at Beckta dining & wine.
Photo credit: Daniel Bezalel Richardsen
A Nation Plays Chopsticks Part 2
(Serial cStories eBook Single on win.cstories.ca ... continued )
And I play because I am a snoop. I learn things I would never otherwise know about New Brunswick, receiving a kind of translation, a geography lesson mile by mile, a roadmap, gossip, secrets, an unofficial oral history of this place’s lore and natives. My team translates and I am along for the ride, a spy in Night-town.
We ride the highway down from Nackawic where we always lose to the Axemen or the Bald Eagles, millworkers on both teams up there. I’m deep in the back seat of Al’s 4 by 4, but I spy a deer waiting by the shoulder like a mailbox. I point it out to Al at the wheel. The deer is hunched, nose out, poised to run across the busy lanes, its dark eyes inches from my face as our metal box blows past its snout and ears and private insects.
“I seem to hit one of those every two years,” Al says. “Wrecked more damn vehicles.” Al, as did his father, works fitting people with artificial limbs. The passengers in our 4 by 4 all hold bags of gas station chips and open beer—what we call travellers. I take up their habits.
Powder the goalie says, “I hit a deer last year and it was stuck across the windshield, this stupid face staring in at me in the damn side window. Damn deer’s fault, up in grass above, everything hunky-dory, and doesn’t it decide to cross right when I’m there. I must have drove 200 feet before the deer finally dropped off.”
“You keep it?”
“Didn’t want to get busted. Three a.m. and I was drinking.”
“That’s when you keep them. Toss it in your freezer.”
“Ain’t got no freezer. Had to stop later at the gas station, headlights all pointed every which way.”
People are killed every year hitting moose on the road to Saint John. Off the highway there’s a moose burial ground where they drag the carcasses and scavengers have their way with the organs and bones. First they offer the dead moose to the Cherry Bank Zoo for its lions or tigers, I forget which. The moose the lions don’t eat end up in the pile off the highway.
Dave the RCMP says, “Man, when I was in Saskatchewan I was driving to Yorkton and came across this guy who had hit one cow square on, killed it, and he clipped another and it flew down in the ditch. It was still alive and I had to dispatch it. I come back up and this guy is crying about his van, some red Coca-Cola van, vintage I guess, front all pushed in, big V pushed in, crushed the grill, and this guy is just fucking crying about it and I said, Mister, I’m here to tell you you’re lucky to be alive. But my van! Just fucking crying about his little red Coca-Cola van.”
Powder the goalie is in possession of beer stolen from the truckload of Spanish Moosehead ale. I’d like to have one can as an illicit souvenir.
“I’ll bring you some,” he says to me one game.
(Serial cStories eBook Single continued on win.cstories.ca ...)
cStories eBook Single by Mark Anthony Jarman
from the original short story collection My White Planet
published by Thomas Allen Publishers
A Nation Plays Chopsticks Part 1
cStories eBook Single by Mark Anthony Jarman
(Serial cStories eBook Single on win.cstories.ca )
Drive the night, driving out to old-timer hockey in January in New Brunswick, new fallen snow and a full moon on Acadian and Loyalist fields, fields beautiful and ice-smooth and curved like old bathtubs. In this blue light Baptist churches and ordinary farms become cathode, hallucinatory. Old Indian islands in the wide river and trees up like fingers and the strange shape of the snowbanks.
It’s not my country, but it is my country now, I’m a traveller in a foreign land and I relish that. The universe above my head may boast vast dragon-red galaxies and shimmering ribbons of green, and the merciless sun may be shining this moment somewhere in Asia, but tonight along the frozen moonlit Saint John River the country is a lunatic lunar blue and the arena air smells like fried onions and chicken. We park by the door, play two twenty-five-minute periods, shake hands, pay the refs, knock back a few in dressing room No. 5, and drift back from hockey pleasantly tired, silent as integers. And I am along for the ride.
Why do I enjoy the games so, enjoy the primal shoving and slashing and swearing and serious laughing at it all afterward? In these games I have taken a concussion, taken a skate blade like an axe between my eyes and I jammed brown paper towels on the cut to staunch the blood. Stitches, black eyes, and my nose is still broken from a puck running up my stick on its mission. Might get my nose fixed one of these days. One opposing player, when younger and wilder, is reported to have bitten another in the meat of the eye!
Today the inside of my thigh is a Jackson Pollock splatter painting: yellow green purple nebulas under the skin, flesh bruised from pucks hitting exactly where there is no padding (the puck has eyes). At night my right foot pulses and aches where I stopped two slap-shots on the same spot years ago. My elbows are sore and they click when I move my arms. My joints are stiff when I climb the pine stairs, especially now, since yesterday I took the boys skiing and then I played hockey at night. Rub on extra horse liniment. My neck won’t move freely and a check wrecked my shoulder last April and for weeks I had to sleep on my back or the pain awoke me. Never got the shoulder looked at. I pay money for these injuries, these insults to my spirit.
So why pay, why play the game? As the Who sing, “I Can’t Explain.” Hockey is my slight, perverse addiction. Certainly I crave the physical side, especially versus working at the desk on 300 e-mails or doodling in a dull meeting. I enjoy the contrast, the animal aspects. I crave a skate, a fast turn on the blades.
(Serial cStories eBook Single on win.cstories.ca ... to be continued )
cStories eBook Single by Mark Anthony Jarman
from the original short story collection
My White Planet
published by Thomas Allen Publishers
Home Schooling Part 2
From the original collection " Home Schooling "
Published by Cormorant Books
(cStories eBook Single ...continued from win.cstories.ca ) ... Harold’s school was, or had been, called Miramonte. When they first came here Annabel had discovered the name carved into a rock near the front gates. When she’d shown it to Harold, he’d said how interesting: the apartment building where he’d lived in San Jose, the auspicious year he’d met their mother, was called the Miramonte. He’d considered the coincidence a good omen. He’d called to Nori, who had been up near the house hanging laundry out on a clothesline, to come and see. She’d picked Mika up and walked down the driveway to where Harold and Annabel were standing. “I remember that apartment,” she’d said. She’d handed Mika to Harold and had drawn a finger lightly over the carved letters, then wiped her hand on her jeans. “It isn’t a name I’d pick,” she’d said, her voice cool.
“What would you pick?” Harold had asked. Nori had said she didn’t have time to think about it. She’d taken Mika from Harold — Mika was still a baby, less than a year old, when they came to the island — and trudged back up the drive to the waiting basket of cold, wet laundry. Harold had brushed dust and grass seed off the rock. The name shone out at him, a light in darkness, Annabel could see, although in truth the letters were weathered, malformed, with a dark greenish tincture, like verdigris on copper.
Annabelle saw first the woman’s hands, bruised and scratched from her work. Then she saw her laced-up shoes, blunt at the toes, with rundown heels and draggled laces. The woman’s unruly reddish hair tumbled from under a rain-spotted, wide-brimmed hat. She crouched near the rock. I gave our home this name, she seemed to say. Another time, the woman stood in the field near the forest, not alone, but with a companion. Annabel saw them and they saw her, she knew they did. Their names were Jane and Fredericka. Their story went something like this: in the early 1930s they came to the island and purchased five acres of low-lying land on Mariner Road, where they built a house, the same house Annabel lived in now. Jane, it was said, had been escaping a jealous husband — and a child, according to some versions of the story — and Fredericka, who was called Freddy, had given up a promising career in the civil service to be with Jane. On the island they could walk arm in arm along the beach, go skinny-dipping, hold hands outdoors, run through the grass with their hair streaming in the wind, their faces flushed with exertion and laughter. They could do as they pleased, with no one to give them curious looks, not that they would have cared.
Jane shot wild ducks and quail. Freddy dug clams at low tide and kept chickens and acquired an amphibious car that she navigated across the channel to town when she needed to stock up on supplies. Annabel knew these things about Fredericka and Jane because Patrick had told her. When he was six years old, Jane and Freddy would let him feed their chickens and play with the newborn kittens in a cardboard box on the back porch. They’d invited him to their house and fed him treacly oatmeal cookies that stuck to his teeth. They poured glasses of homemade blackberry cordial, sunlight reflected like clotted cream in its murky depths. Iron pots the size of cauldrons simmering on the stove, a mousetrap in a corner, a Westminster clock that chimed the quarter hours.
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