My son Sam, who is 13 and a half, is handsome. He has big brown eyes surrounded by long black lashes. He has thick, wavy hair. He also has a fabulous smile but you wouldn't know it because every time there's a camera around, Sam makes funny faces. Take these photos, for example, which were taken last summer, mostly on our moving trip from Ontario to Alberta. We took our sweet time, and camped along the way. Dave and I had a great time but Sam swears he's never gonna drive across the country ever. ever. again. This is Sam and Dave having a pop. Note Sam's face.
OK, so he's not always making faces. If you distract him with a panting, squirming dog, you may catch an actual smile. You know, by accident.
Swimming ... floating ... a long ways from shore, Sam can relax ....
... that is until his Spidey senses make him aware of Mom's telephoto lens, then he manages an adorably sweet smile.
I have no explanation for his. Dave was relaxing, Sam was playing in the sand, my camera came out and suddenly Sam thrust his arm in the air ... Dave has no inkling what Sam is doing, which cracks me up even more.
The fake thumb's up pancake smile. A smile common to 13 year old boys, right parents?
The mesmerized by pancake syrup face. Perhaps he is imagining himself in an Aunt Jemima commercial. Perhaps he is imagining Mom losing her camera ...
HA! The dreaded Dave-is-touching-me face! I have a zillion photos exactly like this, Dave grabbing Sam for a photo, Sam trying to fight it, Dave wrestling him like a greased pig, Sam finally giving up and posing under protest. Yup, a million photos just like this one ... only they don't all have the Wawa Goose in the background.
This is Sam's patented holding-the-cat face.
This is Sam's in-front-of-the-house-of-a-Canadian-icon face. Margaret Laurence is one of Canada's most famous, bestest writers and I am SUCH a fan. Sam? Not so much... "I don't wanna get my picture taken. I don't even know who she is. I don't wanna. You can't make me. You'll buy me an ice cream at Dairy Queen? OK, hurry up, HURRY UP, PEOPLE ARE LOOKING AT ME, omigawd shoot me now..."
This is Sam's I've-been-in-a-car-for-five-days face, which could easily be confused with Canadian-prairie-scenery-is-the-most-boring-in-the-entire-WORLD face. Don't take it personally, Saskatchewan. It takes a lot to impress Sam. If you were a video game, he'd think you were gorgeous.
This is a genuine Sam smile. Notice he is distracted by a small dog. Notice small dog looks tortured. This pic was taken at the 4 Wing Air Force Base in Cold Lake. We were watching fighter planes take off and land, which mildly amused Sam for a few minutes. Then he decided to make the small dog act like a plane, which amused him greatly. *No small dogs, boys or planes were injured in the making of this photograph.
This is not an accidental blink. This is an on purpose blink. There's a difference.
Saskatchewan may not impress Sam but he was like, "LOOK! LOOK! A FIRE PIT!" That's what happens when he's denied video games.
Look familiar? This is the Mother version of the Dave-is-touching-me face ...
... only I can't hang onto him like Dave can.
Dave's got big pipes. Sam better eat his Wheaties if he wants free of those big guns.
Happy birthday, Sam! This is Sam's I'd-rather-be-looking-at-a-firepit-than-posing-with-this-stupid-cat-cake face.
This is the BIGGEST MUSHROOM IN THE WORLD and it's just down the road from Cold Lake, in a blink-of-an-eye town called Vilna, Alberta. I found this online about the giant mushroom:
The World's Largest Mushrooms are indeed something to behold, but the best part is the free tour you get from the elderly gentleman who lives across the street. He watched (with his own eyes!) its development from conception to maturation, and his knowledge on this sculpture is encyclopaedic.
When he sees you getting ready to take a picture, he'll saunter over from his perch across the street and start spilling astounding statistics ("... it cost $35,000 to build...Hurricane Andrew could blow through here and the mushrooms would still stand...").
I asked him if the mushrooms get a lot of visitors, and he said, "Oh, yeah, about once every half hour in season!" and, "There's a lot of stuff like this in these parts, but these mushrooms are the best. That pyrogy's nothing more than a half-moon." To which I replied: "But the pyrogy has a giant fork in it, and the mushrooms don't!"
We had taken that photo of the mushroom on the way to Edmonton Airport. Sam had spent the summer with us, but he was headed back to Ontario to be with his father and go back to school. I flew back with him, and did some visiting while I was "back home," so this photo wasn't the last time I saw Sam ... but it is the last photo I took. Interestingly enough, it's an actual Sam smile... I haven't seen my darling boy since last August. I can't even tell you how this breaks my heart ... but summer is coming on fast and it won't be long before I'll hold him in my arms, and he'll squirm and make faces and he'll probably be a foot taller since I saw him last... Sam may be the king of funny faces, but to me it's the sweetest, most endearing face in this whole world.
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.
He's so brave. Twelve years old, standing at the side of the busy highway, waiting for his school bus. Red from head to toes.
Sam looks like an alien. A martian who wears headphones, sneakers and a backpack. Underneath the typical schoolyard paraphernalia he's wearing a red Morphsuit. Don't worry if you've never heard of Morphsuits. I hadn't heard of them either until Sam began saying his young life would be meaningless without one.
"What do you do with a Morphsuit?" I asked.
"You run around and stuff," Sam replied. "Oh I HAVE to have one. HAVE to. Puhleeese???"
You can imagine the drama. But can you imagine the suit? Picture yourself wearing pantyhose over your head and you get the idea. It's a one-piece, flimsy, body-hugging suit that I wouldn't wear for all the tea in China. I said to my kids yesterday that, if I had a white one, I'd look like the Michelin Man.
On Sam it's not so bad. He's skinny as a rake and the suit does show off his cute little rear end. And frankly I don't care if he wears it around home all day long but he insisted on wearing it to school today. I told him it wasn't a good idea. Kids would tease him. The teacher might give him grief. I mean, you know school these days – it's hard enough surviving the chalkboard jungle without wearing a skintight red suit.
I gave him all the pros and cons (mostly cons) but let him make his own decision.
So there he stands, waiting for the bus. He's excited, I can tell, bouncing up on his toes, neon red head turned towards the hill over which the school bus will come. He hears the bus coming, turns out and waves a red hand at me and yells, "Love you!"
"Love you, too!" I say. "Have fun!"
He nods. The bus slows to a rumbly stop. The safety arm comes out, Sam's red head looks both ways and he crosses the road.
It's an hour later I can't help wonder how his day is going. Are the kids laughing with him or at him? Is he still wearing the suit? I made him pack other clothes just in case.
I have a lot of things to do today and I should get doing them. Instead, I sip on my cold coffee and think about my favourite martian. My brave little alien. My man in red.
I'm king of the castle! And you're all dirty rascals! Yup, it's really cool being on top of the waterhouse. I spent 20 minutes trying to figure out how to get on top of this thing and now here I am. Life is good.
Here I am. Huh. Still up here. It's kinda boring up here. View isn't as good as I thought. And how the heck am I gonna get down? I need help. Hey! Quit laughing at me! Somebody hellllllp.
"Just trust me," Dave says. It's not his butt up here. I hope there's no dog poo on the bottom of my shoes...
... if there is, now it's all over my jacket.
Do I look stupid? Because I feel stupid. Nope, this isn't humiliating at all. Not if you're six. Unfortunately I'm 12.
Stop taking pictures of my butt!
Whew! Safe at last.
Now I gotta find the camera and destroy the evidence before Mom posts this on the internet. GAH! TOO LATE!
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!
Sam-I-Am had a haircut today. See that picture of him – yup, the one up there. Up, look UP. Yes, that one. The one with the hair. I took that photo a month ago and up until today he still hadn't cut his hair which grows, by the way, faster than Pamela Anderson's breasts.
Yup. It was long. Longer than the line-up for free samples at a Viagra convention. (I just realized something – erectile dysfunction pills are blue. Hair rinses for elderly women are blue. Does blue hair turn old guys off, necessitating blue pills??? Huh. Must think long and hard on this one.)
So to make a long hair short, Sam got his haircut. This was such a momentous occasion that I felt the need to commemorate it with photos.
Sam, being a typical 11-year-old boy (who turns 12 on Wednesday), does not know how to merely smile for the camera. The minute he sees one, his normally casual grin is replaced with all kinds of facial theatrics. Today was no different. In the space of a few moments I took these photos and then decided to post them here for his future embarrassment.
Sam laughs. "No, no. Say peanut butter pockets, 10 times fast."
"Peanut butter pockets 10 times fast."
Laughs and groans from Sam. "OK. Say peanut butter pockets."
"Peanut butter pockets."
"Now say it 10 times fast."
"It-it-it-it-it-it-it-it-it-it."
"MOM!"
And so it went. While Sam and I were lost in the twisty turning Bermuda Triangle that is backwoods Muskoka, I drove him positively bonkers playing dumb and managing to avoid saying peanut butter pockets 10 times fast.
"What?"
"Are you doing this on purpose?"
"No, I'm doing what you say."
"OK. In quotes," and he makes quote marks with his 11-year-old fingers, "Peanut. Butter Pockets. End quote." Fingers make end quotes. "Got that?"
"Yes," I say. Rolling my eyes with great overstated fervour.
"Now, say that."
"That."
"MOM!"
Maybe it was the sweet smell of Don's Bakery goodies wafting up from the back of the Jeep. Maybe it was the hot weather deep frying our sense of humour like a Scottish Mars bar but Sam and I had the best time Friday afternoon. Having been given the afternoon off, a Friday afternoon on a sunny summer day which is as fine a gift as baccarat crystal filled with Dom Perignon champagne, I decided I would drag Sam to the Butter Tart Festival being held by my company in Port Carling, Ontario. We got to Port Carling alright but there were SO many people and SO many cars and so (all cap it yourself) much everything that we never found the festival. We tried unsuccessfully to park a few times before I said to Sam, "let's just go." And he said, "Great!" Because he doesn't even like butter tarts. (Insane, I know. It must be because of the time I dropped him on his head.)
Since we were in the area anyway, and since I had a fever for butter tarts, we decided to go to nearby Bala, home of the world famous Don's Bakery. I spent half a week's pay on perfect butter tarts, incredible chelsea bun, egg bread and cookies. Fifty drooling dollars worth of awesomeness. Then we decided to go visit my blogging friend Debbie, who lives not too far away.
Now, I had only been there once. A long time ago. But I figured I would remember. Well, we did find it. Forty-five minutes of back roads and wrong turns and getting unbelievably lost later, all the while driving Sam into gales of giggles trying to avoid saying peanut butter pockets 10 times fast. He laughed, I played dumb, butter tart fumes made the Jeep smell like a bowl of brown sugar heaven and I must say it was the best afternoon I had ever spent with my youngest son. Possibly ever. So thanks, Sam. And this is just for you:
A favourite photo of me and Sam on my wedding day.
My heart is POUNDING I am so excited! Just now my son, Sam, gave me a Mother's Day present – an animated video he made just for me!
Sam is only 11 but he's a devoted and talented animator who treats animation like his "business." Every day after school he goes to his desk and gets busy creating animations. It's what he wants to do when he grows up and, I must say, if he continues to be this dedicated, I'm sure he will get his wish.
Usually his videos are about the kinds of things that one might imagine an 11-year-old boy would be interested in but this time he made an animation just for me. I am so excited, I am so touched that my throat is closing in with emotion and I've got happy tears running down my face. How glorious it is to have someone you love so much do something so selfless, and just for you. Sam Olliffe, I love you to infinity and beyond!!! Thank you so much for this priceless gift. oxox
Now please take a moment and see why I'm so proud:
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.
