Almost Wordless Wednesday: My Favourite Back-to-School Stuff
Author: jill
•8:08 AM
A full-time student, Mom of three, wife to one definitely needs a day planner ... and it should be cute, too.
Love, love, love these notebooks by ecojot!

Tape Flags are a must so that I can mark those very important passages ... the memory is not what it once was...

I'm not really sure why, but Highliters seem to be a must for all students ... especially when I could just underline the passage with a pen and save myself a few dollars on what will end up being pretty markers used by a 4-year-old princess. But what would be the fun in that?

I know it's weird, but there it is ... I love paperclips.
No explanation needed, right?
And, of course .... BOOKS!!!!!

, , | comments (1)
Romantically Inclined
Author: jill
•9:50 PM
Romantic, as defined, means to be characterized by a preoccupation with love or by the idealizing of love or one's beloved. We have all felt romantic at one time or another in our lives, some times more than others. For instance, while changing diapers and breastfeeding eight to ten times each day, I did not feel particularly romantic. Tired, mesmerized (by my new little miracle), in love, scatter-brained, but never romantic. However, romance blossomed when Jonesy and I spent the weekend in Niagara-on-the-Lake several years ago, touring wineries and staying in a fancy hotel.

One day, earlier this summer, Jonesy and I took our three children to the Public Library. This was not romantic at all. However, it was fun watching as the kids selected a book to borrow, trying to decipher what it was that caught their attention. As fun as that was, I snuck off for a few moments because I, too, was in need of a new read. Usually, if I am going to borrow a book from the Library, I reserve it and then ask Jonesy to pick it up when he is out doing some other errand I have sent him on. He is my supplier - my book supplier, that is, which in many ways has become like a drug for me.

So, I wandered down the aisles, just waiting for something to grab my attention, for no particular reason. I wanted something written by a Canadian author, something contemporary. I chose a book I had never heard of, nor was I familiar with the author. But something about it drew me in - perhaps the title?- and I am so happy that I found it.

The book I chose is called, The Romantic by Barbara Gowdy. And guess what? When I researched her a bit, it just so happens that she was born in Windsor, but grew up in a suburb of Toronto.  But more on Gowdy later...

Louise Kirk's mother leaves when she is nine years old. I mean, the woman just disappears, abandoning her husband and child. Louise will spend the rest of her days looking for a woman whom she can look up to and count on. She looks for a mother (figure) in their housekeeper, in Mrs. Richter, and finally, in the women she works for/with.

A short time after her mother leaves, the Richter family moves into the house across the street. Abel Richter becomes the love of Louise's life, the one that she will do anything for and cannot be without. They are bound together by common circumstances - both having been abandoned by a mother, both social outcasts at school - and they play together as children, until Abel's family moves to Vancouver. In a meeting of chance, they reconnect as teenagers, and immediately fall back into their relationship, but on a much more mature level. The relationship becomes Louise's undoing. She loses herself in Abel, understanding his very soul yet not being able to understand his actions.

However, it is Abel that is of real interest for a girl like me. Because I could have saved him - I know I could have. Consider the following ...

"I had hoped to feel something more, to have a revelation, but the things that occur to me have occurred to me a hundred times before. His excruciating sensitivity to the physical world. His rapturous dreams. His guilt and anguish over the death of the baby bat. His dread of interfering and of choosing. But why did he have these feelings in the first place? Why was he who he was?" - excerpt from The Romantic

Abel was a musician and a poet. He was creative and sensitive to a fault. He never considered himself when making decisions, which ultimately cost him his life. He truly believed that the lives of those who love him most will be better without him in it. He honestly believes that; otherwise, he would not have drunk himself to death. Don't worry ... I'm not giving anything away. The reader becomes aware that Abel dies in the fourth sentence of the novel.

Some of his characteristics - the rapturous dreams, the sensitivity, the anguish over the death of the baby bat - are easily explained for me because Abel is a creative/artistic person. Artists experience the world through emotion, the emotion of the room, of the moment. It is what drives them, in my opinion.

"Why was he who he was?" Abel was the way he was because he was adopted, in my opinion. Now, this intrigues me. You see, I can relate to Abel because I, too, was adopted. I was adopted as a newborn infant, and I will write about it one day because I have many thoughts on the topic. The details of Abel's adoption are never explored and I was hungry for more information in that area. It does not matter how wonderful your adoptive parents are, a child that has been surrendered/abandoned is always left with unanswered questions.

Of course, there are the obvious ones, like why? But there are more things that one longs to know and understand. The circumstances. The choices. The father. Am I like my natural parents in any way?

And, I swear to you, I am not angry with her - the woman who gave birth to me. In fact, I feel sorry for her. I am sure that each year on June 30th, she has a terrible time. She suffers from migraines, or she just withdrawals, or she gets really, really drunk. I have read accounts written by women, who could never understand why their mother became so distant and emotional at the same time each year. Until they found out it was because she was mourning the child she never knew ... on the anniversary of the day they met and said goodbye. It is the only link she had to her child.

But when trying to understand Abel, we need to consider what adoption does to the child. By projecting my own feelings and thoughts on Abel, I would imagine that he questioned why the woman who gave him life did not fight for him. Was he not worth it? Was there something wrong with him? Maybe he just wasn't important.

As a parent, I cannot imagine looking at my newborn child and then signing the papers. I couldn't have ... I would have been one of those rebel girls who got all the stares from the disapproving eyes. But I would have had my child with me. Not with anyone else. Not raised by a stranger. No matter how wonderful that stranger was.

However, I also understand that Abel and I were born in a different time, when society was governed by a different set of rules. Unwed mothers were treated as though they were low-life social pariahs.

Anyhow, I think that Abel is haunted by his adoption. He grew up wondering if the world would be better off without him. Every chance I get, I tell my children how much they were wanted and planned for and anticipated (with love). They know that the moment each of them entered this world was the happiest time of my life. The same cannot be said for the day that I entered the world. Nobody wanted me, and I arrived under a cloud of guilt and shame. I imagine this is how Abel felt, and I expect it is how most adopted children feel.

In fact, I have this image in my mind ... it is of the Nursery. Because way back in 1969, the Nursery is where all the newborn babies stayed while their mothers were in the hospital "recovering" from their delivery. You can imagine it, too, I bet. All the little baby beds pushed toward the window, moved around like puzzle pieces, so the proud new Daddies could show off their greatest prize to all those who came to visit. Tears of joy, smiles, the inevitable comparisons of familial traits. None of which really make any sense, but seem to be a part of having a new baby.

Except that one little bed. Pushed into the back corner, out of the way. Nobody was interested in seeing her. No one smiled. There were no tears of joy. Just tears. Until one day when a stranger came to pick her up and take her away.

But that is where things started to look up for that little baby girl ... I'll tell you about it some day. It's actually a very cool and unique story.

Abel avoided interfering because he feared making a mistake and he cleans his apartment all the time because it gives him a feeling of control. He feared not being chosen. And he would never choose because he would never want to hurt someone. There is no need to choose, in his mind.

Ask Jonesy ... I hate choosing.

"Okay, Jill, do you want good ol' fashioned Chinese food or spicy Thai?" Jonesy will ask me.

"Oh, whatever you want, as long as I don't have to cook it," is my reply.

"Honestly, just pick one," he'll insist. But I can't. Subconsciously, I have been afraid that I'll pick the one he wants the least, and then maybe he'll leave me for some girl who always knows just what type of food he really wants to eat. Because it doesn't really matter what I want ... I mean, I was so undervalued that the woman who gave me life left me behind. So, what makes me think that I should be allowed to pick the take-out we order? And in some really weird way, I don't what to offend the Thai food, but I totally feel like eating good ol' fashioned Chinese Food tonight. And so I find a way to keep everyone happy in my warped mind ...

"Okay, let's have Chinese this time, but we'll order Thai next time, okay? Don't even ask me, just bring home Thai ..." is how I respond. That way, Thai food won't be offended and Jonesy can look forward to a Thai dinner soon. Everyone is happy, right?

Okay, so maybe I need some therapy ... Honestly, the real point I wanted to make is that being adopted affects a person in ways that they may not really understand, certainly not as a young person. It shapes the way in which one sees the world, the way in which one experiences the world. And perhaps, you can only understand it if you, too, were adopted as an infant. 

Abel deals with his demons by adding more demons until his life seems hopeless. And helpless. And Louise cannot move through her own life without him. She must see things through to the end.

It's a great read, and obviously invoked many thoughts in the life of me. Don't you just love when you stumble on a excellent book, like that? Or a good movie no one has told you about.

Barbara Gowdy is one interesting lady. She did not have her first novel published until she was thirty-eight years old. She has been married three times, once to an alcoholic who was killed in car accident (I suspect he was her Abel). She is a perfectionist. She studied piano for eight years, practicing five to eight hours per day but quit because she could not perfect the art. (source)

She has a HUGE imagination, writing on topics of gross disfigurement, necrophilia, exhibitionism, reincarnation, and homosexuality. And she is funny ... it always surprises me when something I am reading makes me laugh out loud. And Gowdy did, more than once.

And so, we are left with the question of who "the romantic" is. I could make an argument for Abel, and I can make a argument for Louise. However, if forced to choose (and you know how I hate to choose), it seems to me that Louise is The Romantic. Abel is beautiful and emotional and sensitive ... he writes poetry for God's sake. When he is with Louise, he loves her the best; but I'm not really certain how he feels when Louise is not in the room. It is Louise who is preoccupied with Abel, and idealizes their relationship. It blinds her, really. She thinks the best of him, she only sees the good in him and explains away what she does not want to believe.

She loves him with every ounce of her being. Isn't that romantic?

You decide ...
, , , , , , | comments (2)
Rush to Read
Author: jill
•10:06 PM
"My characters feel completely real to me, like old friends whose stories I know well and happen to have been the one who committed them to paper."  Lori Lansens (source)


When I finish a book, I feel like I know the characters. Like they are friends of mine. And, often I miss them, because we have been a part of each other's lives for the last few days and by then it is difficult to let go. As I have written before, sometimes I slow my reading pace just so that I have a little more time with them.

I missed Addy Shadd when I was finished reading Rush Home Road, By Lori Lansens. A lot. And I missed little Sharla, hoping that she found some love and stability in her life. As I read, the characters seemed real, like people I might know. But that might be because the story takes place in the same area that I grew up. More on that later...

Rush Home Road begins as the story of little Sharla, who has a horrible excuse for a mother. Sharla is left with a stranger, because her mother wants to run off with her boyfriend. Seventy-year-old Addy Shadd is the stranger, and she opens her home to the little five-year-old girl, treating her as if she were her own child. But in doing so, Addy is forced to confront some unpleasant memories. And as Addy revisits her memories, we (the reader) re-live her life with her. And, that is how the story becomes one of Miss Adelaide Shadd.

A few friends suggested this book when I announced I was going to try and read one hundred books in a year. Lansens is from Chatham, Ontario ... the same town I grew up in. And, although I did not know her, I do know her cousins. So ... it's like I know her, too ... right? I can say that I know a famous author whose brain I can pick, to learn about the writing process - whenever I want. And she can invite me to her "author" parties, where she will happily introduce me to her publishing friends. What? That's not going to happen? Well, I do know her cousins ... that much is true. And I did grow up in the same town as she did.

It gives a story a unique perspective when you know the area you are reading about. In fact, just the other day - for reasons that are much too lengthy to get into now - I drove through Rushton Corners, near Buxton, which is the small town on which Rusholme is based. And there are familiar (last) names throughout the story, too. Plus Lansens has said that she based The Oakwood Bakery (found in all three of her novels)  on a bakery/coffee shop that she worked at (in Chatham) as a teenager (source). Lansens and I also attended the same elementary school in Chatham, so we must have lived in the same side of town. Did I know her? She is a few years older than me, but our paths could have crossed. Maybe she brought me a hot chocolate when she was waitressing at that little coffee shop ... 'cause my Mom and I like to go out for hot chocolates.

But even if you are not familiar with the area, you will love this book. It is about being true to yourself and doing what you think/know is the right thing to do (even when it is really hard); it is about surviving the best way you know how. To bring some depth to the story, there is a running theme of feeling like an outsider. Haven't we all felt like an outsider at some time in our lives? I know I have ... several times, in fact. And just wait until I return to university in twenty-two days (but who's counting?) because amongst all the teenagers, I will most certainly be an outsider.

Lansens says this ...

I think that most writers are by nature outsiders, since as observers we live on the fringes and find the most intriguing company there. (source)

So, I am left with the hope I can be included in that company some day ...
, | comments (1)
Chicken and Rice
Author: jill
•8:48 PM
We have standing joke in our family. Actually, the men in my family have a standing joke ... I don't think it is funny at all. Neither does my Mom.

When I was growing up,my Mom made chicken and rice casserole; she learned it from her mother. It was in the regular rotation of weekday meals and it was ALWAYS one of my favourites. In fact, if she made some spinach with it ... well, I was in heaven.

As an adult, I know that it is simple to make and you can even do all the prep work in the morning and throw it in the oven 30-40 minutes before you want to eat. Plus, it is easy on the budget. But as a kid, I just knew it tasted good.

And, so when I grew up and got married, I made it for my husband, too. Because it was easy on the pocket book of a newly-married couple and, more importantly, I loved it.

But, apparently, the husbands do not share the same level of adoration for the chicken and rice as the wives do. Probably because they are not in charge of every single week-day meal. Oh, they endured it and smiled appreciatively as they quietly choked back the delicious meal that had been placed in front of them. But they did not like it much ... apparently. And being the wonderful men that they are, they just suffered in silence.

Until recently ... when my Dad let it slip that he is not so fond of the chicken and rice casserole.

"Actually, it's not that I don't enjoy the taste," he explained, trying to dig himself out the hole he had just dug for himself. "It's just that I am so sick of it because it seems like it was all we ate when we were first married. So now, I've been eating it for almost forty-six years." My Dad really has a way with words, doesn't he?

"Yeah," Jonesy adds. "I was starting to think that chicken and rice was the only thing Jill knew how to cook when we first got married." Ummmm ... looks like Jonesy brought his own shovel. 

The boys had their chuckle. But I'm pretty sure I'll get the last laugh.

Throughout the summer, the kids and I have been learning about different places around the world. I found a (colouring) map of the world on the Internet, and each week we locate a new country, colour it in, and then we make the flag for that country. We have done crafts associated with that area of the world and learned about animals indiginous to that nation, as well.

However, the most fun part (for me) has been learning about the cuisine of all these undiscovered (to us) regions of the world. And the kids have enjoyed it as well ... learning what other kids around the world eat for breakfast is interesting, I guess. Caiden loves trying new foods ... and the girls do too, as long as it looks good and not weird. Which for two princesses can be almost anything they have not seen before.

This brings me back to chicken and rice. It seems as though every single country in the world has their own version of chicken and rice casserole. Spanish chicken and rice. Thai chicken stir-fry and jasmine rice. Pakistani chicken and basmati rice. It's everywhere ... everyone in the world loves chicken and rice. Except my Dad and my husband.

So, with each country we visit, we try chicken and rice. See? I told you I'd get the last laugh ... because we have not eaten this much chicken and rice in years. Try it ... pick a country (any country) - and I assure you there is a national "chicken and rice" dish associated with it.

But if you want to try the best chicken and rice casserole, make my Grama's recipe.

Chicken and Rice Casserole
     (By Grama Marnie Smyth)

~3lbs Chicken Pieces (use whatever you like - thighs, legs, (bone-in) breasts)
1 can Cream of Chicken soup
1 celery stalk, chopped
1 onion, chopped
1/4 tsp ground sage
1/4 tsp ground thyme
1 tsp dried parsley
Minute Rice (see recipe)

Season the chicken to your own tastes - salt, pepper, sage, etc. Bake the chicken in a large casserole, until cooked all the way through. Remove the chicken from the casserole dish and drain away the majority of the chicken fat; however, remember that the chicken fat will add lots of yummy flavour. If you are not eating straight away, cool and refrigerate the chicken until later.

Meanwhile, combine the can of soup with a can of water in a sauce pan. Add the celery, onions and spices; bring to a boil. Simmer for just a few minutes, and then, using the soup can as a measuring device, stir in two cans of Minute Rice. Pour the rice mixture into the casserole dish, scraping up all the little bits of chicken and flavour off the bottom.

Nestle the chicken on top of the rice and cover with a lid.

Bake in a preheated 350F oven for 30 minutes.

Serve with your favourite vegetables for a great family meal ... according to the ladies in my family.

Okay ... if you have been reading this blog for any length of time, I'm sure it will come as no surprise to you that I find Minute Rice absolutely appalling. So, I have messed around with this recipe, so that I could find a suitable substitute. I use the canned soup, diluted with one can of water plus the spices (never measured, just sprinkled); and to it I add almost one can of long grain rice (Basmati, or Jasmine, or just plain ol' rice). I will also add whatever vegies I think I can sneak past my kids ... shredded carrots, broccoli cut very small, cauliflower will sometimes blend in nicely ... what do your kids like? I bring it to a boil, and then pour into the casserole pan. I do not pre-cook the chicken; I raw chicken drumsticks or thighs. Cook at 375F for at least one hour, maybe even 1 1/2 hours. The result is a creamier rice. And you can use whatever soup you like ... Cream of Broccoli/Celery/Mushroom.
But, I have to admit ... every once in awhile I like to make my Grama's original, with a side of spinach.
, , , , | comments (1)
Why do I Love Hank Moody?
Author: jill
•10:11 AM
He is vile and without morals. He sees women as physical conquests ... he loves their bodies before he knows their minds. Sometimes before he even knows their names. He is sexist and lazy and has absolutely no self control. He is the opposite of every characteristic I look for in a man.

And yet, I cannot get enough of Hank Moody. Plus, I would totally hang out with him.

Why would I love a guy who lacks morals and would f-ck anyone, anywhere? Even if it meant losing the one person he truly has a (love) connection with. Now my mother would say, "Is it necessary to use such a vile and offensive word?" And I would have to tell her that "yes, yes it is" because that is what sex is to Hank ... an act, without emotion most times.

Now, I ask you why would I want to be involved with a guy like that?

Do you watch Californication? You should. It is well-written. It is current. It is very funny. And, it is hot.

Jones notes (to get you caught up): Hank Moody is a writer, with one work of creative genius that has made him famous in the literary/artsy world of Hollywood. He has an ex-wife that he loves from his soul and a teenage daughter that he is trying to raise. And if there is trouble within a five mile radius, it will find Hank Moody. Especially, if there is s-e-x involved.

But it brings me back to the question of what makes me want to watch Hank Moody? I mean, there are many women out there who would watch three minutes of his bullshit and wonder what is wrong with me. Me? I cannot wait for the next episode.

I have been an avid fan since the first season. In fact, it was the one television show that I made a real effort to watch ... skipping unimportant paragraphs in unsuspecting little girls' bedtime stories, halting adult conversations, ignoring e-mails because I had to watch Californication at 9pm Monday nights. And when it was all finished after just thirty minutes, I longed for the next thirty minutes.

However, when the third season premiered - almost a year ago now - I was not interested in watching television. In fact, I didn't watch any television. Ever. I was in a place of self-discovery, finding my love of writing and my evenings were spend with a laptop. So, I missed the whole season. But I didn't forget about the show.

The other night, after a very long day of trying to entertain three children, the only thing my brain could handle was just good ol' fashioned entertainment.

Like Hank Moody.

But you cannot just watch one episode and think that you won't care about watching the next one. So, over the course of a weekend, I watched the entire third season of Californication ... please, I beg you to watch this show. It is so entertaining. And you should not love Hank; but seriously, how can you not love Hank?

David Duchovny. Did you watch him as Agent Fox Mulder on The X-Files? Was his name Fox because he is a fox? I'll have to leave that up to you ... but there is some undefined quality about David Duchovny that makes me want to know more about him ... so I googled and clicked  a few times.

Guess what? David Duchovny studied English Literature at Princeton; then he went on to get his Masters in English Lit at Yale, and he has partially finished his PhD. In English Literature ...

I knew there was a reason I love like him.

But, Duchovny has had his share of personal problems. If you follow all the gossip, you know that he checked himself into a rehab facility for sex addiciton in August 2008. It was at this point that things became clear to me. Perhaps some of Hank's escapades were based on actual events in Duchovny's life. Not that he could/would ever admit to it. Or perhaps, Duchovny could just really relate to Hank Moody ... which makes for excellent "interpretataion" art. Whatever the reason, Duchovny makes Hank Moody who he is.

And of course, I'm pretty sure I could help him to become the person that he really is deep down in his soul. Because  that's the thing ... Hank Moody is a really good person. It's just that he makes some really stupid decisions. Decisions that are going to get him into some deep trouble ...

Unfortunately, the new season of Californication does not start until January 2011. Very disappointing for the die-hards, like me. But it does mean that you have lots of time to get caught up ... go to Blockbuster and check it out.

Maybe the reason that I love about Hank Moody so much is that I want to see him become the man that he is capable of becoming. To realize his potential. I want to watch him grow up ... finally.

Do you?
 

, | comments (2)
Reluctantly Growing Up
Author: jill
•11:41 AM
Once, when I was fourteen years old, my Mom asked me to "hang out" my Grama. Actually, she didn't ask me to, she told me that I had to.  You see, Grama had had a stroke and was confined to a wheelchair; and although I didn't understand all the reasons, my Mom and my Grampa did not want to leave her alone for fear she might need help with something. So, they always made sure someone was with her.

On this particular day, my Grampa had some business to attend to and although my Mom had promised to spend some time with Grama, she had a conflict. So, she insisted on me going to stay with my Grama. But I didn't want to. I wanted to stay home and talk on the phone or go over to a friend's house or re-do my hair or whatever it is fourteen-year-old girls like to do. I can remember arguing with my mother and insisting that I should not have to do things like that ... like babysitting a grandparent, that is. It was really not up for discussion though, because the fact remained that my Mom and my Grampa felt that someone should be with Grama.

Thinking back, I wonder if she would have enjoyed an hour to herself, without someone "there." Because that is all it was ... just an hour out of my very important fourteen-year-old life. And if you were paying attention, you will note that I said, "once" since this was not something asked of me on a regular basis. But, my Grama knew what was up ...

So, I put on my best (fake) smile and spent some time with my Grama. Whom I truly did adore, by the way. Grama taught me a lesson that day - one that I will never forget. The minute my Mom shut the door to leave, Grama called me over and handed me a ten dollar bill.

"Grama, what is this for?" I asked.

"Well, no young girl should have to babysit her Grama," she explained. "So, I figured I'd make it worth your while. I'm sure you have better things to do ..."

I have never been so ashamed of myself ... or humbled. I tried to give the money back, but she wouldn't hear of it. For me it was tainted guilt money and I hated having to take it. Plus, in 1983, ten dollars was a lot of money for one hour of work!

But it tells me the kind of woman that she was ... she was unselfish and empathetic and she was cool. Furthermore, I think she was embarrassed that she might need help (from others) to manage through her day ... a fourteen-year-old, no less.

Ironically, she had lost her independence at the same time I was trying to gain (master) mine.

I read Life on a Refrigerator Door by Alice Kuipers a couple of weeks ago, but am just writing about it now. It is the story of Claire, a fifteen-year-old girl, whose mother is diagnosed with breast cancer. And Claire is trying to be grown-up, but at the same time she just wants to be taken care of. She is a typical teenager, except that her mother is dying; and now, she has to be the grown-up ... but she doesn't always want to be.

This is one of the most cleverly written books I have come across in a long time. It took me only a little over an hour to read it ... which is great when you are trying to read 100 books in a year. It is a series of notes written between Claire and her mother ... notes left on the fridge. We've all done that, haven't we?

As a reader, you are asked to fill in some of the blanks because not all the details are given. But it's easy to do ... because it is so well-written you feel like you know these people. Trust me, I was sobbing by the end of the story ... Caiden was a little concerned for me.

As a woman, you will relate to this story on two levels ... as a teenager, and as a Mom. And, I'm not sure which one is more difficult. Losing a parent as a teenager is so difficult ... and Claire is such a wonderful young lady that you cannot help but worry for her. You want her to be okay. As a parent, you are divided between your need to care for your child and the need to care for yourself ... and when fighting cancer, it is difficult to do either really well.

Alice Kuipers was born in London, England but moved to Saskatoon, Saskatchewan in 2003. She is married to Yann Martel, who you might know because he wrote the incredible Life of Pi ... such a great read!!! You have read it, right? Didn't you love the ending? So clever, so surprising, so incredibly good. I love a story that surprises me at the end. And you might be interested to know that Life of Pi is being made into a movie, slated for release in 2012.

Anyhow, there must be some real creative juices cookin' at their house!

Kuipers seems like the kind of girl you would like to hang out with ... just a down-to-earth girl who enjoys the same things you and I do. She has a young baby, whom it seems she is currently caught up in. Oh, and she has had another book published, Lost for Words.

Kuipers has a great blog that I love ... especially if you enjoy writing as a creative outlet. Check it out sometime ...
, , , , | comments (1)
Chappaquiddick Revisited
Author: jill
•8:18 PM
Alcohol can make you do some really stupid things, don't you think? Even though it can be a part of a really fun night, it can also lead to some very stupid decisions. Don't deny it ... it's happened to you, too.

When I was in University, some bad decisions were made. What? No, no ... not by me ... by a couple of guys I knew. And, although I was not involved in these decisions, I heard about them the next day. Everyone heard about them the next day.

It all started with a David Wilcox concert at the University of Windsor. Do you remember him, David Wilcox? He was super popular on the University Campus tour circuit in the late '80s and early '90s. As I said, the evening started with a concert at the University pub, and then these two guys, who were friends of mine during University, decided that they needed something to eat. 'Cause everyone is hungry after a night of drinking at the local pub, right? Here is where the first of the stupid decisions occurs ... they decide to drive to a restaurant.

It is important to know that the restaurant they chose is on a 4-lane road ... the road that leads to and from the US boarder crossing. In fact, it is the busiest boarder crossing IN THE WORLD, heavily travelled by transport trucks at all hours of the day and night. I can attest to this first hand because, as any University of Windsor student will tell you, it is difficult to adjust to the noise made by the truckers honking their horns and downshifting gears all through the night. Anyhow, when these two guys pulled out of the parking lot (after consuming more drinks while they ate), they turned into on-coming traffic. That's right, they were driving in the wrong direction ... on a busy four-lane roadway. Luckily, they immediately realized their mistake and quickly pulled into a driveway, out of the on-coming vehicles. 

They began to ease out of the driveway in their drunken stupidness, and backed right into the front of a transport truck. It crushed the back end of their small compact vehicle, but (under the pressure, I guess) the car popped up further in the driveway. The truck driver got out to ensure the two boys were all right; then, he left them. Now, at this point, wouldn't you be so scared that the only thing you would consider is to abandon your car until the next morning? Me, too ... but not these two.

They get back in their car and drive home. This is when the really, really bad decisions begin to occur. Upon arriving home, they discover the license plate to their vehicle has been knocked off in the collision with the transport truck. They decide to go back to the scene of the accident and get the license plate ... because they are afraid that if the police find it, they will know about the accident.  And then they could get into trouble. So, they drive the completely destroyed compact vehicle back to the very busy four-lane roadway and the scene of the accident to look for the license plate ... because they are afraid they are going to get in trouble from the police. Of course, the police happen upon the drunk boys and arrest my friend for DUI.

Yes, alcohol can cloud your judgment, resulting in bad decisions. The book I just finished made me remember my friend's DUI arrest.

I just read Black Water by Joyce Carol Oates. This was not a bad decision, nor was it clouded by the consumption of alcohol. In fact, it was an excellent decision on my part.

Although Oates denies it, it seems to me that Black Water is closely based on the incidents that occurred at Chappaquiddick. Again, in my opinion, Chappaquiddick was the result of poor decisions as a result of drinking copious amounts of alcohol. The panic. The fear. The very bad decisions. The protection of an image and a family name.

Have you read all the details surrounding Chappaquiddick? It is fascinating ... you cannot make up stuff like that.

Black Water details the final hour(s) in the life of Kelly Kelleher, a 26-year-old political junkie who wrote her Master's Thesis on The Senator, as he is known throughout the story. When she meets the Senator at a party, she is enamoured by him immediately. And he becomes interested in her, as well - even though she is young enough to be his daughter. They leave the party together, the Senator trying to balance his drink and Kelly trying to balance her hesitation with the opportunity she has been presented with. Sounds familiar, doesn't it?

Kelly does consider an evening with The Senator as an opportunity ... but she's not a gold-digger. She does not want money, she does not want fame. She is truly inspired by him and his vision for the future. She is in awe of him, but I don't think she really wants anything from him, other than for him to think she is smart and an asset to his political team. However, I think you can guess The Senator's interest in a young girl.

Anyhow, they become lost in the dark and The Senator drives off the road into a river ... a dark, black, swampy river. As she awaits his return (with help), Kelly reminisces about earlier in the evening with The Senator as well as some memorable occasions in her life ... until "the black water filled her lungs and she died."

The brilliance of Joyce Carol Oates shines through in the way that she makes the reader feel as though s/he is in the car with Kelly, fighting against the black, smelly water. It's eery, really. Oates makes note of things like the radio suddenly going quiet, the crickets being the only noise. It forces the reader to think about the sounds Kelly listened to as she drowned ... or the silence around her, except for perhaps the running narrative in her head. She details the taste of the dirty black water and its foul, smelly odour, as well. The gasoline in the water. It interests me (as a wanna-be writer) the way in which a few well-placed words can make you feel as though you are experiencing the same thing as the character(s).

There is something about Joyce Carol Oates that draws me to her. And for a reason I have yet to discover, I just find her fascinating. I was first introduced to her when I was in University ... many years ago. I had an assignment to write an essay on a book of my choosing. Somehow, in the vast University library, I found Wonderland by Oates. And, I absolutely loved it ... it's a great read. Plus, I got an A on my paper ... the first A that I ever received on a University essay. I should have realized then that if you feel a connection with something, then you can write about it easily. The words just seem to come ...

But I did learn something from writing that essay ... Joyce Carol Oates was a professor in the English Department at The University of Windsor in the late '60s and into the '70s. In fact, when I went to discuss my essay with my professor, he told me that he worked with Oates when she taught at Windsor. And for some reason, the fact that she once taught at my school made me feel close to her. Which is ridiculous, of course; because I've never met her. But I would love to ... in fact, I would probably burst with excitement if I could ever meet with her.

In reality, the only way I'll really get to know her is through her writing ... so I will continue to read what she has written. A few months ago, I found a copy of her fourth novel, Them, which was published in 1969 ... during the same time she was a professor at The University of Windsor, and it was the same year I was born. I cannot wait to read it, but now I want to read Wonderland again. What's a girl to do? Read them both, I guess ...

Pick up something by Joyce Carol Oates ... surrender yourself to her.

, , | comments (1)