It may be April Fool's Day, it may be the beginning of the A to Z Challenge, but in my world it is, and always will be, a sweet reminder of a mystic morning 17 years ago. Even the light seemed different in those moments, spring sunshine filtering through closed blinds, spilling magic into what otherwise would be a banal hospital room. Bird song drifted through an open window. Nurse Ginny's zen eased me through the mother's work – work as old and as mysterious and inevitable as time.
When this picture was taken I held you in my arms for the first time, dear Angus, and even though my hair was messy and my face was flushed, it is one of my favourite photographs. In it I see a beautiful baby boy, my son, and a girl who suddenly understood the meaning of love.
The day Sam wore his morphsuit to school, I worried.
And worried.
At 4 o'clock his bus rumbled to a stop and my son stepped off. He was still wearing his red morphsuit so I couldn't see the expression on his face, but at least he still had it on. I had fully expected he would change into regular clothes the minute kids started picking on him.
He looked both ways then hop-skipped across the highway, knapsack swinging carelessly from one red hand, sneakers almost dancing up the driveway.
I didn't even get the chance to ask what happened. He stopped mid-driveway and threw his arm up in the air, hand poised for a long-distance high-five.
"I got R-E-S-P-E-C-T," he said with 12-year-old swagger. Then he swivelled his red hips in some kind of weird victory twist and bounced up onto the deck where I sat waiting for him.
"I gather your day went well?" I asked. "Nobody teased you? The teacher didn't make you take it off?"
Sam admitted he was told to take the hood off during class and when he was walking down the halls, but other than that he had it on all day. Apparently he was the coolest kid in school. Absolutely everybody wanted to know where they could buy morphsuits.
Little kids chased him around at recess, asking who he was. He chased them back, staggering around the schoolyard like a big red zombie. "Who did you say you were?" I asked.
"Jesus," he said.
When I stop laughing, me and Sam are going to have to have a talk.
Angus and Sam at the beach two summers ago,
Inverhuron Provincial Park, Lake Huron.
We were on holiday a couple of summers ago and everything was as it should have been: laughter carried on the lake wind and secrets shared around the crackling fire. Sunburns and sleeping bags. Long days at the beach.
It was all there, a glorious week of it but, when I think of that time, it is only one moment that I recall. One small but shining moment, when time stood so irrevocably still that memory etched a potent tenderness in my heart.
It was late in the day, after supper, and we were down at the beach for one last swim. Our good friends Tammy and Richard were there with their daughters, playing in the waves that were pounding against shore. Lake Huron is a fickle playground – one minute her water is serene; the next it can be dangerously rough. It didn't seem too bad that evening, enough big waves to give everyone a thrill, but not enough to scare anyone.
Not until the plastic rafts Tammy and daughter Megan were on began pulling away from shore in the grip of a needy undertow. Tammy screamed for help and it only took a few minutes for Richard, a former lifeguard, to bring them to safety.
I have to say, Richard is one of my favourite people on earth. He's kind and gentle, and he'd give you the shirt off his back, he would, but he's got a few rough edges and is particularly good at scowling and cussing and teasing his wife.
Tammy, mind you, gives it right back. When I first met them I thought for sure they were headed to divorce court but that's just the way they carry on. Besides, I know they love each other. I saw it that evening on the beach. I saw it as clear as I've ever seen anything.
The way they stood, her hip snugged against him, her smile full of gratitude, and of love. They stood there while the sun set and the beauty of this long-married couple suffused me with pure and unbridled joy.
I'm smiling as I write this, just remembering.
For some reason I associated what had happened with Gordon Lightfoot's classic song If You Could Read My Mind. I played the song over and over, thinking about Tammy and Richard, about heroes, and feeling such overwhelming emotion that I would cry every single time the song played.
A few days later I sat down at my computer and wrote But Heroes Often Fail, a short story for Friday Flash. When I finished, I looked up from the computer and tears filled my eyes. I felt pretty good about what I had written, and I still feel good about it. I've written more than 50 Friday Flash stories but it's one of my favourites and I am thrilled it was included in The Best of Friday Flash Volume 2.
I often refer to Friday Flash and how it changed my life but just because I say it all the time doesn't make it less true.
It's simple, really. You write a "flash," which is a story 1,000 words or less. You post it on your blog on a Friday (or a Thursday night if you're a keener, like me) and then add your blog url to the Collector at FridayFlash.org. You then "advertise" your story on Twitter and on the Friday Flash Facebook page.
The first time I ever did this I was AMAZED at the instantaneous results. Within minutes there were people visiting my blog from all around the world. I remember shrieking, "THERE'S SOMEBODY FROM FLORIDA!" Within a couple of days I had visitors from England and even Australia, all writing heartfelt, insightful and helpful comments about my story. In the meantime, I used the Collector and Twitter to read other people's stories.
What I had discovered – what all people who write Friday Flash had discovered – was an incredible community of writers. They might have been based in Rhode Island or Newfoundland or England, but they became as important to me as my "real" family and friends.
Even better, Friday Flash was a teacher for me. It taught me to be a better writer, both by writing and by reading. It was also a confidence builder. If it wasn't for Friday Flash I never would have written a novel. I wouldn't have joined a writers group. In fact, I'd probably still be mired in a soul-sucking miasma of depression. Not now, though. Now I wake up with purpose, with a smile on my face and a bounce in my step.
And this is all due to Jon Strother, the writer who dreamed up Friday Flash and made it a reality. Thank you Jon, from the bottom of my heart.
Now, enough maudlin! Today is a day for celebration! Today is LAUNCH DAY for The Best of Friday Flash Volume 2, a collection of 58 of the finest short stories I've ever had the pleasure of reading.
And if I can brag a little bit, I have not one but two stories in this collection. As well as the story I submitted, But Heroes Sometimes Fail, a story called Running Away was nominated for – and won – the Reader's Choice Award. I actually have to laugh about this. It's a horror story and I almost never write horror. Basically it's totally different than my usual drivel, so it's funny to me to see it included. Regardless, I owe my nominator, Virginia Moffatt of Oxford, a great deal of thanks. Virginia also has a story in BOFF2; called Breakfast News, it is laugh out loud funny.
There are some tremendous stories in this book – I swear you'll laugh, you'll cry, you'll be scared and you'll think. There are stories for all tastes, for all moods, and they're all in these sweet little bite-sized lengths that are perfect for when you don't have time for anything else.
As writer Dan Powell so eloquently said in the Foreword, "Flash fiction is all about the moment. A snapshot of an event, an emotion, a conflict. A glimpse of something important that flickers in front of the reader. It hints at a whole world beyond the borders of its modest word count and when gone the characters, ideas and images sit in the head of the reader for far longer than the story took to read."
Only five of the stories in BOFF2 are written by Canadians, which makes me even prouder, I have to admit. Canada may be a big country but it hasn't got anywhere near the population of some other countries so we Canadians always think of ourselves as underdogs to some degree. When we succeed at something, we're like Sally Field at the Academy Awards: YOU LIKE ME, YOU REALLY LIKE ME. Silly, I know – that's just part of our identity.
To celebrate Launch Day, I've joined up with my four fellow Canucks on a wee blog hop. I do hope you drop by their blogs and say hello. They are all really wonderful writers and wonderful people, as I have come to know. They are:
Jen Brubacher (who lives in England but is definitely Canadian - in fact, Jen is a little jet-lagged and may not be able to post today but she's hoping)
One more thing: I hope you consider buying The Best of Friday Flash Volume 2. It's available in paperback for $9.99 plus shipping and as an e-book. You can buy it from the publisher, eMergent Publishing (thanks to Jodi Cleghorn for all her efforts) and from Amazon. When you buy a paperback from the eMergent, an e-book is bundled in at no extra cost.
To all my family members I have this to say – guess what you guys are getting for Christmas!
Dave spent 20 minutes this morning venting about money worries and then another five minutes at the front door trying to get me to cheer up before he went to work.
"I'm not going until you cheer up," he said. I smiled crookedly, fuming on the inside. Really? Let's get all depressed and then be cheery on the way out? He feels guilty, I think. He just bought a used motorcycle, using his credit line. Nah, we couldn't afford it. We were stupid to do it. Then again, life is short. If it's at all possible to do something you love, do it. Another one of my acquaintances is in hospice with terminal cancer, came right out of the blue. She was fine, she found a lump, two months later she's in hospice.
Dave grew up with motorcycles but he hasn't had one for 20 years. When my brother-in-law Don got one, when our friend Richard got one, Dave got all itchy to get one, too. Peer pressure, I guess. Next thing I know he was cruising the online classifieds and before you can say Bob's your uncle (thanks Susan), there was a motorcycle in our garage.
Last night we went for a ride. It was fantastic. Cool evening air blowing in my face. Watching clouds scud across the setting sun. As miles ticked by my frustrations of the day slid behind us like our lengthening shadow. Last night it was worth every penny.
This morning reality has set in yet again. Dave wants to talk about budgeting. Just the word budget makes my teeth ache.
We have our own money, Dave and I, although it's not like he hoards it or anything. We share. But he has his bills, I have mine. Because he makes twice as much money as I do, at least twice, he pays the mortgage, the taxes, the trailer payment and the utilities. (Fecking hydro is enough to choke a goat.) I pay the Jeep payment, groceries, internet and my own credit card. I also give my ex-husband, Doug, a little money here and there for child support. Not a lot – because I don't have a lot – but what I can. He's good that way. We have an agreeable relationship, not like some who only see each other in court as they either demand more money or refuse to give more. Anyway, times are hard for Doug, too. He has asked me for more money and I honestly don't have more money to give. My pay cheque disappears as soon as it lands in my bank account.
I haven't had a substantial raise in pay since I started working there (yes, there has been an occasional cost of living increase, which is so barely noticeable that I'm not 100% sure if I got them or not) and I have just found out I won't be getting one. Ever. Period. I am at the top of my pay scale so it doesn't matter how hard I work, or what I contribute to the company, I will not be compensated for that extra effort financially. I must be content with what I bring home right now. This, in spite of the fact that my responsibilities have increased substantially. Sometimes I think, "why bother?" Just do what you have to do, try and keep your nose clean, and forget about the rest. But that's not who I am. I have to do my best, all the time – that's just the way I roll, baby.
I'm not alone there, that's for sure. There are a lot of other people in the same boat. We're all lucky to even have jobs, I know. But being lucky doesn't help put food on the table.
Meanwhile, the cost of groceries has pretty much doubled in the last six years. Back then $130 paid for food for a family of four for a week. It's rare that I spend less than $230 these days. Gasoline has also jumped. So has hydro. Everything keeps going up and up – everything except my pay cheque.
I'm beginning to think I'm going to have to look around for another job. Or perhaps take a second job. Maybe delivering pizzas or working at Wal-mart. Every time I drive by Domino's and see the sign in the window that says "Now Hiring Drivers" I want to run in there and apply. Maybe me and Dave could do it on Friday nights, together, like a date. Maybe we could do it on his motorcycle, tomato sauce in the saddle bags, the smell of pepperoni in the wind in our hair ...
Dave takes Angus for his first ever motorcycle ride. Gus loved it!
"Can I get my ear pierced?" asked Angus. "My left ear?" Like there's a difference. Is there a difference? Back in the day you had your left one pierced if you were straight and your right one pierced if you were gay but now everybody's got everything pierced so what does that mean?
"Sure," I said, because I grew up at a time when all the coolest guys had one ear pierced. "BUT THAT'S IT. No nose piercing, or tongue piercing, or belly-button piercing, or woo-woo piercing. No piercings on your damn eyebrow or your cheek – neither the cheek of your cheek or the cheek of your arse. None of those big hole stretchy piercings that make your ear lobe into a picture window, either. Those really gross me out. Can you imagine being an old man with picture window ear lobes? All that long white ear hair and orange wax chunks stuck in the ginormous hole, that grows bigger and bigger as you get older (because it happens) until you're 90 years old and your floppy, holy ear lobe stretches down to your flappy, pierced, hairy nipples. And when you're at the nursing home the personal care workers will have to dig out yesterday's oatmeal from the hole in your tongue, only they won't because, ewww, that's just gross, so the food will moulder there until it stinks and none of your grandchildren will visit because you smell like the science experiment in my fridge at work."
Angus stared at me uncomprehendingly. "So does that mean I can get it done?"
Oh for heaven's sake. A perfectly good lecture in one holy ear and out the other. "I said yes. Where are you getting it done? The hair salon in town?"
"Uh, no. Jaylene's gonna do it."
Jaylene is Angus's girlfriend. She's got more piercings than a baked potato. Apparently she has given lots of people piercings and is a bit of an expert in this department.
"Oh really?" I snorted, visions of bloody ears, screams and infections dancing through my head. "What's she going to use, a darning needle and an ice cube?"
Angus assured me she was using "the proper equipment" with disposable needles that only get used once.
***
When I picked him up from the GF, he came bobbing out to the car baring his neck. I had forgotten about his earring and thought he was giving me an opportunity for hickey inspections.
"No," he said, disgusted. "My EAR."
I thought, "you have a hickey on your ear?" But then I saw the nifty-cool earring and was suitably impressed. "Good job," I yelled out the car window to Jaylene. "Did he cry like a little girl?"
"YES," she said, laughing. My big, brave son laid his head on an ice pack for a half an hour before the big ta-doo and apparently clung to his GF like a castaway on a lichen-covered rock, screaming, when the deed was being done. I heard all the gory details and, suffice it to say, new equipment or not, it was still very much like a darning needle and an ice cube.
Easter Sunday, chocolate and boys,
two of my very favouritest things.
Taller this year, tall enough to see things never seen before.
Next year a dimpled smile will rise above the numbers
and my heart will sadden just a titch
as childhood strays a little farther out of my panicked reach.
Magenta pearl in a pussywillow crook, waits.
Pine needles, new grass, rustling leaves.
My baby's shining face glows in morning light.
Who has more chocolate? Who has more laughter? More joy? More love?
No one more than me.
"But Mom," says my son, who is trying to get something from me and so is employing his best Sincere tone, "I kinda like her."
Angus is 15 and cute. He has a new girlfriend every five minutes. If he would spend half as much time worrying about homework as he does about girls he would be on the honour roll instead of languishing comfortably in the department of your-son-needs-to-apply-himself.
He wanted to go to her house for a sleepover. I was like, NO, you're not going over there to make me a grandmother, NO, whaddya NUTS?
He said, "Now I'm upset because I just realized you don't trust me."
Don't TRUST ME? Didn't I use those exact same words back when I was 15? And didn't I use them only when I was up to no good?
The girl's mother didn't seem to mind. She encouraged it. I imagined her as being 15 herself, having hatched her own brood at the age of two, hanging out at the double-wide with a cigarette hanging off her bottom lip and grandbabies called Tiffany and Briana perched on each hip. But when I talked to her on the phone she was nice. She was a grown-up. She had a job and she didn't live in a trailer because when she was giving me directions she described her place as having a three bay garage and I thought nobody with grandbabies on her hip named Tiffany and Briana would have a three bay garage – unless, of course, she was living in it. Luckily that didn't occur to me until just now.
Apparently I am out of the loop. Apparently "sleepovers" with the opposite sex is the way things are being done now when teenagers who live out in the country want to hang out with others of their ilk. "Oh we have a spare bedroom because our oldest is away at university. We'll just stay up and watch movies. Don't worry, I'll keep an eye on him." I heard "university" and I heard "spare bedroom" and I acquiesced. How bad could it be?
Just to be on the safe side I scouted her out on Facebook.
GAK.
She had dyed black hair, jet black, with a big stripe of blue.
She had more piercings than my kitchen sieve, including this big snot-covered one between her nostrils and one on her tongue, which she was sticking out at the camera and looking just like Gene Simmons from Kiss.
She had a low cut shirt that almost completely showed off her boobies.
And she was SMOKING.
GAK!
I promptly sent Angus a message on FB: New rule: NO SMOKING, NO TATTOOS, NO PIERCINGS, NO DRUGS, NO SEX and I paused, flustered for a second, because I couldn't think of what else to say, so I added, NO GRANDBABIES NAMED TIFFANY AND BRIANA.
I couldn't very well say NO BLUE HAIR because Angus himself had blue hair just last year.
So he got mad at me, of course, and used the trust line again, and said he hated drugs and smoking was stupid and I was beaten by logic into submission and granted him permission even though I was imagining being a grandparent by next January.
Angus is, after all, a good boy. He is. And I do trust him. Which is not to say he's not gonna kill me if he reads this post. Thankfully neither of my children find my blog or my life interesting enough to acknowledge so I'm pretty sure I'm in the clear.
So all was well when we were driving him up to the girl's house yesterday afternoon. Our conversation was easy, and no teenaged hackles were raised when I mentioned the 14,000 piercings on her ear.
"Wait a minute," said Angus. "Were you checking out her photos on Facebook?"
"Yes. Of course. I wasn't a reporter for 25 years for nothing."
"YOU WERE LOOKING AT THE GIRL WITH BLACK AND BLUE HAIR," he said. Loudly.
I nodded.
"THAT'S NOT HER. IT'S HER FRIEND. YOU THOUGHT THAT WAS HER?" I nodded and he started laughing so hard I worried he might get pee on the back seat of the car.
When I met her, she was very normal looking. Blonde hair. Nice smile. No snot-covered ring in her nose. Demurely dressed. I was SO relieved.
Which is not to say a demurely dressed teenager can't make me a grandmother. I am fully aware of the Eddie Haskell Syndrome.
I am merely relieved that Briana's baby boobies won't be on display.
This You Tube video was shot by my youngest son, Sam, at the Haliburton Highlands Secondary School Tribute Concert, held just before Christmas. The performers are my oldest son, Angus (playing bass) and his friend Bethalin, who sings a mighty version of one of Adele's hit songs. Honestly, their performance was the best of the night and I'm not just saying that because I'm Gus's mother! Have a listen, see if you don't agree!
Oh, that hooting and hollering at the end? That's me!
My cousin Debi, gawd bless her, wrote this on Facebook:
Heeeelllloooooooo........
So you finished your NaNo, congratulations.
Now write something dammit, we have had nothing from you for days!!!
Which made me laugh. She does have a point, though. I haven't written anything since Tuesday, when I finished NaNoWriMo. In fact, I didn't even finish the chapter I was working on that night. I wrote enough words to complete the damned 50,000-words-in-a-month challenge, then turned off my computer and haven't touched it since. Oh, I've read a few blog posts and checked the weather, and took three seconds to wish my husband a happy birthday. I also saw a photo of my son with some blonde chick on FB, and sent him an e-mail demanding the 5 Ws of Mothers:
Who is that girl? Why is she blonde Don't you like brunettes, like your mother? Aren't they prettier and smarter? Like your mother? WTF is she doing standing so close to you? What the hell were you thinking, not telling your mother? And, the classic, She better not get pregnant or I'll kick your ass all the way to Kalabogie?
What? The last one isn't a question? Does it matter? Do mothers make sense?
But I digress.
The writing, the writing. This morning I opened up the chapter I was working on and read it. It wasn't as bad as I thought it was, so I added 75 words, then fretted some more about my son's GF, drank some coffee, made a dint in the laundry and came in the bedroom, my woman-cave writing space, obstensibly to write but more likely to contemplate the growing fuzz in my navel.
NaNo drained me. It took all my writing juice and then some. I needed a little break from it all. Also, I've been busy doing normal person stuff, like going to Christmas parties, going Christmas shopping, celebrating Dave's birthday, eating way too much food, all of that. I am sure to gain weight this Monday at Weight Watchers and no surprise if I do: Wednesday night, a big hunk of chocolate fudge birthday cake; Thursday night, chicken parmesan and pasta at East Side Mario's; Friday night, Christmas party buffet; Saturday afternoon, complete pig-out at Mandarin. Yup, I'm screwed, Weight Watchers-wise. Oh well. I had a good time. I'll try harder next week.
My friend Paula also posted on Facebook:
And we want to see photos of you in your new Christmas party dress!
Ah yes, the dress. Friday was Dave's Christmas Party, a swanky fabulous do hosted by West End Motors at Hidden Valley Resort in Huntsville. The party was GREAT. I had the BEST time. I really did. I loved talking to Dave's co-workers – it's not something I get to do often and I'm always charmed by their intelligence, their grace and their wonderful humour. The buffet was outstanding and the candy cane cheesecake was to die for. Yes, I had cheesecake, but then I danced my ass off, literally, when the dance floor opened up in all its techno-disco-pop glory. That's the thing about losing 50 pounds and exercising all the time – I COULD DANCE! I shook my booty all over that floor, almost every song. I mean, you couldn't hear yourself talk so you might as well dance, and dance I did. The only time I didn't dance was when I slurped down a Diet Coke. I felt like a teenager again.
As soon as I got in the car to go home, though, everything seized up.
"Dave," I said, "I can't move my neck." He had to do an emergency neck rubbing just so I could drive. (He had rum with his Coke; thus I was driving. I had a stiff neck. He was just stiff.) When we got home, instead of getting romantic, he fed me Tylenol, slathered me with Deep Cold and used the Orbus Forme (or however you spell that) Thumper on my back. He was at it for 20 minutes. His arm was getting sore, so he stopped.
"Oh no," I begged. "More. More!" The neighbours must have thought something wild was going on. Until the hot white smell of Deep Cold wafted through the breezeway.
I'm digressing again. The dress.
You know what? I made the mistake of looking in the full length mirror in the women's washroom at Hidden Valley. There I was, thinking I was all hot. I looked really hot in the full length mirror at the fat ladies store. I looked really hot in the little low-lit bathroom mirror here at home. But in the cold hard light of Hidden Valley I was aghast at my reflection. Despite losing 50 pounds, my arms still look like the arms on the Michelin Man. All puffy and white and HUGE. Yes, they're smaller (I don't need the extra large blood pressure cuff anymore. I don't have to lift my arm flab just to shave my armpits.) But all I could see when I looked in the mirror were two freakishly fat arms. Feckitty, feck, feck.
There was my sparkly sequinned party dress. There were my high heels and my flouncy hair and dangly feather earrings. But all I could see was my fat, fat arms.
Not to worry, though. I have a high tolerance for mirrors and a strong ability to not dwell on body image. "Feck this," I said to my fat-armed reflection. "I am going to go back in there and dance my ass off and have a fantastic time, no matter what you think."
So I did. Why dwell on the negative? Feck the negative! I went out to that party and I danced like there was no tomorrow and I had the BEST time. It was probably the best Christmas party I was ever at. And when we got home, Dave leaned in to make his move and told me I looked gorgeous.
A happy warmth spread all through me and I snuggled in close to his amorous arms and sighed and kissed him and whispered in his ear, "Get out the Deep Cold and the Thumper, baby. I'll meet you in the bedroom wearing nothing but my flannelette nightgown and a grimace."
Anyway, Paula, there are no photos. I took the camera, hoping to ask someone to take a photo of me and Dave in all of our sartorial splendour, but then forgot all about it. The good news is, I have another Christmas party this coming Friday. I will make sure I get a photo then. And don't worry, I'll make sure my fat arms are on full display so you can see what I'm talking about.
One thing about me: I have equal opportunity fat. Some women look like apples, with skinny legs and skinny arms and a rotund apple-like middle. Me? I'm like a sausage casing, from top to bottom. It's like God had a pastry bag and squeezed all the fat into my entire self, from my chubby toes to my chubby ear lobes.
But I'm digressing again. I really did want to talk about NaNo. I think that will have to wait for another day, however. A day that's not Sunday. A day when it's not gray and rainy and slow. I would like to go to a movie today. Anonymous, that flick about who wrote William Shakespeare's plays, is showing at the local moviehouse. I could get down with a bucket of movie popcorn, a bag of Twizzlers and some of the Bard.
One more thing: I'm looking at e-readers and I've heard nothing but bad things about Canada's Kobo. Apparently they go wonky really quickly and the customer service is terrible. Does anybody have one? I have a Kindle and I love it, but a number of current bestsellers are unavailable to me because Canadian copyrights for e-books are held by Chapters and Indigo. Amazon can't sell them to Canadians and Chapters/Indigo e-books aren't formatted for Kindle. Bah. So much for Free Freaking Trade.
