Red, White & Blue

This is my son, Angus.
This is the photo I'm saving for his wedding day.
I took it last weekend on our camping trip to Balsam Lake. It was Canada's first long weekend of precious summer and I share it with you now because it's the States' first long weekend of summer and I thought Gus' colour scheme seemed appropriate. Red berries, white whipped cream, blue hair.
I didn't want to let him get it dyed blue. I tried every reason I could think of to talk him out of it.
1. You have beautiful blonde hair; why do you want to screw it up?
2. People will tease you.
3. Old ladies have blue hair. Next thing you know you'll be schlepping about in knee-highs and support hose.
Finally I realized it's just hair. It'll grow back. And since I radically changed the colour of my own hair, I can't really talk.
Gus has had peacock-coloured hair for a month or so now and I'm actually getting used to it.
I think my concern about the hair wasn't anything to do with hair. I worry about who he is hanging out with. I wonder if the rebellious hair colour means he's rebellious in other parts of his life: is he experimenting with drugs? Is he smoking? Is he drinking? These are the things that really freak me out. He's only 14 and I see so many young people who have ruined their lives with oxycontin and drunk driving. And I sure hope he never gets anyone pregnant or quits school.
His hormones are kicking in and he seems angry a lot. He fights with his brother all the time – it just drives me up the wall. He lies to us with a straight face about unimportant things – all I can do is hope he's telling us the truth about the important things. I remember being like this. Man, I wouldn't go back to being a teenager for anything. It was probably the worst time of my life. So much rides on getting through this trying time unscathed. All I can do is try to show him the way, pick my battles and keep the lines of communication open.
Some days, though, I find it overwhelming; depressing.
It sure makes me appreciate what my own parents went through.

By the way, everybody's been complaining about Blogger lately, and I'm no exception. I have found, however, that the problems disappear if I switch Browsers. For example, I usually use Safari but last week when Blogger took a big dump and then sort of recovered, my Safari left me stranded. I couldn't comment on other people's blogs, I couldn't post to my own.
The first fix I tried was updating all the software on my computer. Then I switched to Firefox. As a result, I can comment on any Blogger site and post to my own without problems.
I'm not saying that justifies Blogger's screw-ups because I'm just as pissy as everybody else, but it does help.

I've been working on a summer publication at work these last two weeks and our theme has been summer music. As a result this song has been running a loop in my head. It speaks to me of golden summer days and, hey, it's about hair!

An Apple for my Teacher: Oprah

Excuse the tears. 

I had to write this while it was fresh, while the raggedy paths on my face were still wet.

Oprah, I'll miss you.

You looked fine in your pink dress tonight. And your hair was fantastic. Lord knows, you've had yourself some wicked hairstyles in the past 25 years but tonight it was beautiful, all bouncy loose curls brushing against your pink cheeks. You looked slender and regal, composed and wise. How did you get so wise?

I haven't been your biggest fan. I can't lay claim to that, but I have been a fan. We've grown up together, after all. You've been like my slightly older sister, the smart one, who I haven't always paid attention to, but should have. Every once in a while you'd grab my ear and I'd lean forward on the edge of the chesterfield and my eyes would well up and I would get you, get you right here in my pounding heart. After 25 years, you'd think I would have learned all your lessons. Tonight, though, watching your final show, it was like I was hearing them for the first time.

Follow your calling, you said. 

You are responsible for your own life, your own happiness, you said. 

You are worthy, you said. This is what struck me the hardest. It was like you slapped me upside the head with it. You are worthy. Everyone, you said, is missing the same thing in their lives. Everyone. You. Me. Our parents. Our children. We all want validation. We all want to be heard. It was like I heard this for the first time. "I am worthy." I bawled like a baby. Then and there I decided to make sure the people in my life know they matter to me. Angus, Sam, Dave and Mom, my sister and my brother, all my family, all my friends: you are worthy. You matter. You are every bit as important in this world as everyone else and more so, to me. Sometimes it may seem that I don't hear you, that I'm not listening, but I hear you where it counts, in my heart, and I know I need to tell you this all the time, especially you, Angus and Sam, especially you, because in your growing years, in your hours of fear and uncertainty, I know you need to hear that you are valuable, that you are important, that you are loved. No matter how many times I holler at you, know that I never, ever stop believing in you or loving you.

Funny, Oprah, that you always wanted to be a teacher. Funny that it took 25 years for your lessons to sink in – I never said I was the brightest kid in the classroom. I just want to say thanks for being my favourite teacher because, really, you are. I want you to know that tonight I do feel worthy, that writing in any form is my calling and I will accept that, even though I have never accepted it before. I have always sought confirmation; I wanted to feel my writing was worthy. But now it's all so clear. It is worthy. I'm worthy. I really am.

This apple's for you, Mizz Oprah, looking all pretty and pink.

This apple, and this post, is for you.

This apple, by the way, is called a Pink Lady.
I know you said there are no coincidences, Oprah,
but I didn't know what type of apple this was and, in fact,
never even heard of the Pink Apple, until I googled "apple."
And this came up.

Stitches

I like sewing.
I'm terrible at it and I can't thread a sewing machine to save my life, although I do like the word bobbin.
Hand sewing, though, is a fish of a different feather.
Just now I sewed up some buttons on a button-down shirt that wants to be unbuttoned more than buttoned down or up, and that's fine in certain situations but not when you're at work, or at the market – anywhere showing off your gallbladder scar isn't your first priority.
I got Grandma's sewing basket out of the closet and found some inconspicuous grey thread. The price tag was still on the spool: 29 cents. You pretty much can't buy anything for 29 cents anymore. I think even 29 cents would cost more than 29 cents.
Dave had to help me thread the needle. I tried cutting the end, licking it, all my limited tricks. The worst my eyes get the harder this job is. Finally I pouted enough that Dave got the job done for me.
Then I sewed.
An immense satisfaction soaked through my fingers and into my bones. The feeling of getting a job done; of fulfilling a task that was put off. There is nothing better.
In my house, sewing is always something put off until there is absolutely nothing else to do.
But today I am exhausted after unpacking from our long weekend camping trip. I am tired to the core, but the laundry is folded, the dishes are done and there are fresh sheets on the bed, waiting for me with scented comfortable softness.
And so, with rain pouring down outside and the leaves unfurling almost before my eyes; the air ripe with budding blossoms and the cat curled up asleep in the window sill, I sew.

Lost on the Rock

I took this photo in Newfoundland last fall. Click for a bigger view.

Path End wasn’t really the end. Main Street went north and it went south and Lacy Parsons wasn’t sure which direction to go.

She dallied, debating. 

The back of her legs stuck to the plastic seats of the rented Honda Fit. She raised them and listened to the sucking sound they made as a layer of skin got left behind. It was bloody hot in the parking lot of the Bell Island ferry service, where she’d just been dumped like a shipment of fresh fish. She had wanted a flight from New York to St. John’s but couldn’t get one. Her best alternative was to Bell Island on a commuter flight. She’d never been there before; couldn’t even fathom there was a necessity for a commuter flight to the godforsaken place.

At least she got there. And she got a car, such as it was. No air conditioning. No automatic. Just a kiddy-car with cherry-cola coloured paint.

She thought that maybe she should unstick herself from the car and go into the office; see if they sold maps, or maybe just ask for directions. She didn’t, though because she was from here, just been away for a long time, and if you were from here, you’d be thought foolish for buying a map.

Nothing ventured, she thought, putting the Japanese go-kart into drive and making a right because right was north and St. John’s was north and that’s where her parents lived, in a wartime bungalow on Topsail Road.

Lacy hadn’t been home since she went away for college. Nine years ago, that was, with a whole lot of bends in the road between now and then. She’d quit school, left the country, toured Europe with a backpack and a boy, gotten pregnant, gotten an abortion, found a career, found a life, found out her dad was dying and, Lacy, could you please come home and say good-bye?

Something flashed in the rear-view mirror. Lacy looked behind her and saw a silver SUV, a Jeep Compass. The sun was reflecting off the distinctive chrome grille. She flicked down the mirror and drove around Path End Cove, keeping to the right at the Y intersection, following the water, following her gut.

The flash caught her attention again. She looked in the driver’s mirror and was startled at how close the Jeep was. Sure, things were closer than they appeared, but this was really close. She frowned. Stupid tailgater. 

Lefevres Road went by. Jorgensons Road. Fir Tree Road. Lacy wondered where the fir trees were. There weren’t many on the Rock. Not like the giants in the Adirondacks of New York State. Like everything else in Newfoundland, the black spruce were huddled against the wind, clinging to the lichen, humped and stunted.

A slow driver ahead, some old guy in a hat, and Lacy flipped her rearview mirror back into position to see if it was safe to pass him. The road was clear. She wondered briefly where the Jeep had gone.

There wasn’t much to see as she headed north. Here and there moose standing like dark sentries to the muddy swamps; glimpses of freighters on the ocean horizon; small pastel houses with rusty pick-up trucks in the driveways.

Bulls Cove. Gripe Cove Pond. Bolands Pond. Long Pond. The place names flew by, the sun made its way down the sky and Lacy noticed the Jeep following her in the distance. 

But no, it wasn’t there. The road behind was empty.

A sideroad to Mortier Arm and there was the Jeep, waiting at the intersection.

Of course it wasn’t that Jeep. Just another silver Compass, dark tinted windows, and how many could there be here? 

She blew past it, wondering, waiting to see which direction the Jeep would take. But it didn’t move. Just sat at the intersection, becoming a dot in the distance as Lacy moved ahead towards Mortier.

She was going to stop in the village for gas but as she was about to pull in to the mom ‘n pop gas bar, she saw a silver Jeep Compass at the pumps. 

Lacy swung the car back out onto the highway, gravel crunching, tires squealing. Her heart hammered in her chest.

What the hell, she thought, and put her foot down hard on the accelerator, hoping to put some distance between herself and the Compass as it fueled up.

It couldn’t be the same vehicle.

There was only one road along here. It couldn’t have gotten ahead.

Lacy also realized that there couldn’t be that many people in this small area with the same vehicle. No way. 

She wondered if she was losing it.

When she got to Fox Cove there were plenty of little sideroads. Each one had a silver Jeep Compass, stopped at every intersection. She couldn’t see any drivers because of the window tints; she felt like they were big empty eyes, watching her.

As she got closer to Conways Pond and the sun disappeared she saw there was another silver Jeep following her. 

Alone in a strange place in the dark, with weird things happening, Lacy was acutely aware how vulnerable she was. She thought, I’ll stop at the next town. I’ll get a room. I’ll call my parents. I’ll buy a map, just let me get home safe.

Please, she thought.

Just past Herring Cove, the road ended at an abandoned fishing village. A few dark buildings lined the shore, but there were no lights other than the moonlight, washing the barren landscape with midnight blue. 

Over the hill came headlights.

The vehicle stopped. The engine died. The headlights dimmed.

The moonlight reflected off the Jeep’s silvery grille.

It winked at her in a gust of breezy salt.

Suddenly and strangely calm, Lacy got out of her car and walked toward it, her gauzy short summer skirt catching the ocean breeze, her long hair blowing in her eyes, her face set.

A Maritime song played lightly on the wind, the fiddle keening with high, bitter notes, the sadness of it misting off the windows of the abandoned buildings.

Lacy walked.

It waited, the silver shadow, the answer, the key, the end. 

"Dad?" she said.

I wrote this late at night an hour before the deadline for the Lost on the Rock contest hosted by Laurita Miller and Alan W. Davidson. Not surprisingly, it didn't fare well in the contest but I feel a little sorry for it and, with a little tweaking, I present it here for its moment in the fog.
Congratulations to all the winners – I look forward to seeing your stories.

Ka-Ching, ka-Ching

G.P. isn't the glass half empty sort...
here, she's got a glass full of girl.

I'M NOT A big-time book reviewer; I just know what I like. So if you’re looking for a breakdown and analysis of G.P. Ching’s The Soulkeepers, you just ain’t getting it here.

I did study English and Advanced English and Literature-Out-The-Wazoo-101 about a million years ago but I was young, then, and willing to speculate on sentence structure and now I’m just a weezly old curmudgeon who reads what she wants to read and screw the rest.

(Cue cackling laughter.) Dad-gummit, this is a good book.

I bought the thing for two reasons: I like the way G.P. Ching writes her Friday Flash stories over there on her blog, So, Write. She has a way around the keyboard, does G.P. The other reason is she was touting The Soulkeepers as a YA novel (that’s Young Adult for those not in the know) so I bought a Kindle copy for my sons who are 10 and 14 and may not always conduct themselves as young adults but still, technically, fit directly into that category.

I’m always trying to draw their attention away from video games towards reading and sometimes it’s a struggle. The good news is, Sam, my 10-year-old, dove into The Soulkeepers straight away. His nose was buried in it. And that’s no wonder, really. Unlike most YA novels whose main characters are girls, the star of this book is a teenaged boy, Jacob Lau, who starts out dead.

Yup, dead. 

Deader than a proverbial doornail. The first line is, “Death lived up to Jacob’s expectations.”

Whoa! Talk about your magnificent opening lines! G,P.’s writerly skills grab you by the shorts with this sentence and shake you and say, “You better hang on for this ride because it’s gonna be a lulu.”

Of course he gets resuscitated, and that’s a good thing because he’s a feisty character and a nice guy, plus he’s high on the cute scale so you don’t honestly want to see him dead for an entire novel.

No, dead wouldn’t be good for long, not when you have to search for your missing mother, who may or may not have secret ninja-like fighting abilities; not when you have a job with an otherworldly neighbour who grows plants that smell like corpses; definitely not when you have bullies willing to pound you out; or when the hottest girl in school is chasing you around even though you have a fabulous girlfriend; or when the battle between Good and Evil will be won or lost depending on you. 

By the way, I fell in love with Malini Gupta, Jacob's girlfriend. She is an exotic flower in a small, whitebread town, but she’s no wallflower. She holds her own with the best of them and, as Jacob meets and falls head over heels with her, so too does the reader. There’s a romantic scene about halfway through that literally brings tears to my eyes, so beautifully is it written.

My son, Sam, who still doesn’t think much of romance, was a little icked out on this point, but that’s because he’s at the bottom of the YA age range. (And thank gawd that he still finds girls icky, for now. Let him take his time with 10; he’ll be 50 soon enough.)

Thinking about the sequel, due for release this fall.

At some point Sam put the book down for a minute and I scooped it up. I wanted to see for myself what had him so interested.

Well, that was it. Sam never got it back. Those pesky Soulkeepers stole my readerly soul and towed me right through to the end. Breathlessly I skimmed through the pages, desperate to know what happened next. As I was driving home from work, or doing the dishes, my thoughts wandered to The Soulkeepers. I don’t actually have a lot of time for reading these days, but I found myself picking up the Kindle at every opportunity. Finally, I stayed up way too late the other night, flying through to the exciting conclusion. Then, being sad that it was over.

See, that’s the sign of a great book – when you can’t wait to get to the end and then you’re sad once you get there.

From what I’ve heard, G.P.’s book is selling like hotcakes and she’s gaining an impressive following of young people enamoured of Jacob and his adventures. She’s already talking about a sequel and I can easily see The Soulkeepers becoming as successful a franchise as the Harry Potter books.

What I love about this book is she doesn’t talk down to young people. Her writing is vintage G.P. – stylish yet clean; the kind of writing that lets you forget you’re in a book, so lost are you in the story. There are also some heavy duty issues lying underneath the plot line – racism and religion are touched on without heavy-handedness. The religious aspects have the same exploratory wonderment that The DaVinci Code has. In fact, I’d even go so far as comparing The Soulkeepers to Dan Brown’s book. Loved both.

You don’t need a kid as an excuse to buy G.P.’s book. Especially when it’s on sale over at Amazon for only 99 cents. (Which is ridiculous – this novel should definitely be higher priced.) But if you do need a kid, well, I’ll rent you mine. He’s not so great at doing dishes, or making his bed, but he is huggable and adorable and perfectly suited for motherly admiration.

Buy it. Read it. Love it.