Sometimes, friends have suggested a book, and other times I stumble across them on my own. At Christmas time, a couple of years ago, I picked up a book for Caiden from the "Bargain Book Bin." If memory serves me, I needed one more thing for his Christmas stocking, and without putting too much thought into it, I grabbed this book: The Rover Adventures by Roddy Doyle (2008). It had three stories in one book - "The Giggler Treatment," "Rover Saves Christmas," and "The Meanwhile Adventures" - and looked like something a little boy would find amusing; the stories centre around a talking dog, afterall. Back then, Caiden still liked it when I read to him, and the two of us laughed until we cried when we read these stories. Well, I mostly laughed because I so enjoyed his laughing, but for whatever reasons, we  both really enjoyed these stories. And recently, Caiden told me that Roddy Doyle is his favourite author.
     Who is Roddy Doyle anyway? Have you heard of him?  Because he's not from around here. Sometimes it is easy to caught up in North American writers - there are so many great story-tellers here, but also because we can be narrow-minded, too. There is more to British writing than the greats that we study in school - Milton, Spenser, Chaucer (my favourite) and Shakespeare. Oh, and don't forget that lady ... JK Rowling, I think is her name. Roddy Doyle is an Irish writer, living and working from Dublin. He worked for several years as a teacher (of English and Geography), but began writing full time in 1993. Doyle has written nine novels, a non-fiction book about his parents, several short stories, and of course, he has written children's books as well. Six of them to be exact.
     One day, while studying at the (quiet) library on campus, I took note of the books on the shelf nearest me. Roddy Doyle was there. At that time, I did not realize that Doyle wrote adult fiction, as well and I could not wait to get home to tell Caiden.
     I didn't have time to read Doyle's fiction then, but I do now. I just read The Woman Who Walked Into Doors (1996).
     I'll be honest: there were times that I was so emotionally involved with Paula Spencer, the protagonist of the story, that I wondered why I was putting myself through her agony. It is a sad story; one of poverty, alcoholism, spousal abuse, murder, guilt, and trying to find a way to cope with life. It is also a story of love, because Paula Spencer loves her husband, Charlo; and she gives us (the reader) a glimpse into the psychology of a battered wife. I have studied about and worked with battered women ... their situations are cluttered with psychology and hopelessness and tragedy. Statistics Canada reports that almost 62000 women enter women's shelters for refuge from a violent partner every year; only one in four of them will report the assault to the police. On average, every six days a woman in Canada is killed by her intimate partner.
     What? In Canada? I know, it's shocking isn't it?
     The Woman Who Walked Into Doors gave me something new to think about. By that I mean, it better helped me understand the battered woman's reasoning (to stay) and her coping mechanisms, which are not always healthy, by the way. It is not always about money - Paula Spencer really truly loved her husband and she really thought that she deserved to be beated into unconsciousness. (Ladies, please know that you never deserve to beaten. EVER. Even if you are sassy, or refuse to make your husband's tea, or you don't have supper ready when he gets home from work. Not ever.)
     The weird thing is that this story was written by a man; and the weirder thing is that you would never know.
     This past year, I studied composition ... and it is where my heart lies. By considering composition, it gives new meaning to the story, it allows you to understand it in a more meaningful way. Doyle has constructed this story brilliantly. The story is not told chronologically, but anachronically. Interestingly, if you consider the chapter at the centre of the book, it reveals what is central to the story. It tells where Paula Spencer is now, where she is at in her life, where her children are, how she is coping. It talks about today. The end of the book details what happened to effect the changes that were necessary for survival. But the thing is, neither the chapter at the centre of the book, nor the final chapter give the reader that happy ending we all crave. Maybe that's because it is difficult for a battered woman to find the happy ending that she wants, too: if she stays, it means being beaten into unconsciousness; if she leaves, it means feeling lonely and pining for the man she fell in love with. 
     I have discovered that there is a second book about Paula, entitled Paula Spencer (2007). It apparently takes place ten years after the end of the first book. I'm still recuperating from this emotional upheaval ... maybe I'll read the end to Paula's tale when I'm on Christmas break.
If you want to read more about Violence Against Women in Canada, start here.

Have you ever read a play? Well, other than Death of a Salesman (Arthur Miller, 1949) or The Glass Menagerie (Tennessee Williams, 1944) ... because we've all read those, haven't we. Don't worry, I didn't make a mistake with the punctuation in my last sentence. It wasn't really a question, but more of a statement.

Have ever read a play, just for the experience ... like a book? Me either, until this past semester. But maybe we should be reading plays for interest because doing so can give you some real insight into theatre and the ways in which a story is told.

For instance, why would a writer choose to tell their story as a play instead of a novel? Or a short story? Or a poem? It's an interesting question ... one that bears some thought, if you are interested in literature.

In my Literary Criticism class, we studied a play called, Heroes and Saints. It is the story of a Mexican-American family dealing with the affects of pesticide poisoning in the 1980s. Although the family is fictional, the story came as a response to the events surrounding the United Farm Workers' grape boycott and 36-day fast of the Union's president, Cesar Chavez, in 1988. It is similar to the Erin Brockovich story, except that those affected by the poisoning were all immigrant farm workers. Children were dying from bizarre diseases, infants were stillborn, babies were born with limbs missing ... the pesticides were gravely affecting the workers and their families.

The opening scene is of a group of children, moving across a field, erecting a cross, and hanging  a dead baby on it ... in a mock crucifixion. Not a word is spoken until the silence is broken by a helicopter as it moves across the night, showering the crops (and the nearby residents) with the deadly chemicals. Pretty powerful, huh? The ending is equally as moving and you will come to love the characters in between. Once you know Cerezita, you will NEVER forget her ... I promise you ...

Heroes and Saints is one of three plays in Cherrie Moraga's book, Heroes and Saints & Other Plays (1994). Although we only studied one play, I read all three. All three plays centre around Mexican-American families and the struggles they face. Moraga is described as a Chicana writer, a feminist activist, a essayist/poet/playwrite and a lesbian. Her writing tends to focus on issues faced by the Mexican-American, the family dynamic, Chicanas, homosexuality and the Mexican culture.

I thoroughly enjoyed these plays and wish I could see Heroes and Saints in a theatre. So, if you want to read a play - just for fun and enjoyment - pick up this book ... or you can borrow mine ...

The brain is a very powerful piece of machinery. One of its jobs is to protect you ... from things that can hurt you, destroy you. My brain has been very good at its job.

When Caiden was just an infant, I took him to Kindermusik classes. Parents attend with their infants and sing songs with simple actions. We stopped going when he was about two-and-a-half-years old because Mommy could not coordinate the class with his baby sister's nap routine - I guess you know where my priorities lie. I highly recommend these classes to all parents ... they're fun and Caiden loved them so much.

There was one song though ... it had a tune that upset me. I mean, this little lullaby moved me to tears every time I heard it. And yet, I was drawn to it; in fact, I loved it. I had no idea why. One day, Jonesy walked in while it was playing and saw the tears in my eyes. I explained the affect the song had on me and he knew why ...

"It is the tune from Blackbird," he told me. I just looked at him blankly, because not only did I not know the song he was referring to, but I had no idea how it related to me. "You know, the song they played at your brother's funeral ..." But that was more than twenty years ago.

I still had no idea what he was talking about. I didn't even know they played music at Joel's funeral. In fact, I don't really remember the funeral at all. Shouldn't I remember that? But I don't ... because my brain is protecting me from it ... from the memories and the hurt.

Last summer, I won a copy of  Alice Kuiper's new book, The Worst Thing She Ever Did (2010). I would like to tell you that I just haven't had time to read it, but that would only be half true. I think I have been avoiding it. You see, the story is of Sophie who has tragically lost her sister, and she is trying to deal with the loss ... and, I was afraid that some painful memories would surface. And I might not be able to deal with it ...

But, I handled it ... I mean, a few tears were shed but that happens often when I read. I could relate to so much of what Sophie goes through ... her sense of looking for some sort of "normal-ness" in life, her feeling like an outsider, her wishing things could just go back to the way it used to be. She walks through the street, quite literally as her world is crashing down around her, and everyone else is just going about their daily lives. I recall going to the grocery store (when the police were still searching for Joel's body), and wondering how everybody could just go on, like nothing had changed. How could people just buy their groceries when my brother had drowned and I did not know what to do? I honestly didn't know what I was suppose to do next.

Sophie moves through the first year of life without her sister with the help of a therapist, and begins to write poetry. She does not want to remember and forces the memories away. But the more she remembers the good times with her sister, the more she is able to come to terms with Emily's death. Until she remembers everything. And that is all I will tell you ... because you should read it for yourself.

My only criticism of the whole story is that I find it difficult to believe this young, seventeen-year-old emotionally distraught girl could write the insightful, mature, abstract poem that she finishes by the end of the book. Because if there is one thing that I have learned over this past semester, it is that a poem is not something that you just jot down - its greatness comes together after a great deal of thought. Read some e e cummings, to see what I am getting at. But that is just me ... perhaps I am a non-believer, a cynic.

I wonder what would have flowed from my brain to a piece of paper in the months following Joel's death ...

Now, when I listen to Blackbird - which is not very often - I become very sad, and introspective, and teary. But I have come to understand why. And I live in fear of the day, I let myself remember ...




I read another book by Alice Kuipers ... click here to check out my thoughts on it.

Thanks to the girls at Let the Words Flow for the book!!

And, to read more about my brother, click here.

My Dad borrowed them if you can believe it. He borrowed my History books ... the ones I was forced to read for school. Honestly ... what is wrong with him? He packed them up and took them to the beach in Florida ... I swear to you, it's true.

In the History of the World: Part 1 class that I took last semester, I was forced asked to read two books and then write a paper (on each) answering one of three questions posed by the professor. Sounds easy enough, doesn't it? Ha!

I just tried to look pretty.

On the first day of class, the professor showed the students pictures of famous leaders (of state) or historical figures that most people would/should be able to recognize. I could name maybe three of twenty. I know ... that's ridiculous ... Now, perhaps, you can understand why it was important for me to take a course like this. I don't know world history very well.

So, to cover up my stupidity, I tried to look my prettiest.

I was eager to read the book, Hitler (Kershaw, 1991). Who wouldn't be? I mean, Hitler is probably one of (if not) the most notorious figures in world history. Kershaw is OBSESSED with Adolph Hitler. He has written no less than ten books on him and the whole Nazi regime. I am not obsessed, but I am curious. Hitler is not a biography but a look at how a guy like Adolph Hitler came to be in such a great position of (world) power.

You might think that Hitler was a man of prestige and influence from an early age. But, he wasn't. In fact, he was utterly forgettable and had few friends. He wanted to attend art school but was denied entrance more than once; it devastated him and he was left searching for direction in his life. He joined an extremist political group, and to the surprise of even himself, Hitler had a gift for speaking to groups of people. He was inspiring and full of passion. And, so the Nazi party used him as a face to inspire support from the masses. He inspired people to do really, really bad things. It's just too bad that he didn't use his gift for public speaking for good instead of such evil.

So, the book was interesting ... but I would rather have been reading James Joyce's Ulysses - which I still have not read, by the way. Ugh.

Earlier in the semester, I read Great Leaps Forward by Cyrus Veeser (2010). It profiles four state leaders and the way(s) in which they attempted to modernize/industrialize their countries at the turn of the twentieth century. Porfirio Diaz of Mexico, Mustafa Kemal of Turkey, Emperor Menelik II of Ethiopia, and Sun Yat Sen of China each tried to modernize their country so it could remain competitive and powerful in the world market. But it was also important for them to maintain the culture and tradition of their people. For me, this book was mildly interesting ... but it really wasn't the book's fault. It's just that I would NEVER read this book out of interest ... did you hear that, Dad? Not ever ...

I would just try to look pretty.

And so, although I get to count them toward my self-imposed challenge, I am not sure that I can recommend them for reading pleasure. Unless you are a real history buff. Like my Dad. Maybe he would like to read my essays too?

At the end of the semester, the professor helped the class with an exam review by showing images of the historical leaders we had (supposedly) studied, along with some other key images we should have known ... like The Schlieffen Plan or the Tennessee Valley Authority. Do you know what The Schlieffen Plan is? No, of course you don't ... only a History Major has a handle on information such as this. Well, History Majors plus me, I guess ... 

You want to know if I could identify more than three out of twenty images at the end of the semester, don't you? Of course, I could ... but I didn't know all of them.

So, I just sat quietly ... trying to look pretty.  

Sometimes, as a reader, you are just surprised. And, sometimes reading one thing leads to reading another. And to learning about new things, people, or times in history. When all these things happen as a result of one reading, you've pretty much hit the jackpot.

When I began reading Ray Robertson's, Moody Food, I was a little sceptical. I mean, Ray Robertson grew up in Chatham .... that's where I grew up. But that's not what made me sceptical ... he grew up living just down the street from Jonesy, playing road hockey with all the boys in the neighbourhood. Now, I don't mean to stereotype writers or anything ... but, in my mind, literary genius does not begin with a little boy tripping other little boys so he can get a good shot on net. In my mind, literary genius begins with a child who spends all his/her spare time reading and/or writing; he is quiet, and reserved. He does not spend his afternoons screaming "I'm open!"  to teammates, or practicing slap shots, or slashing "friends'" shins. No, in my mind, literary genius cannot develop from a little boy who probably sat on the curb, trash-talking his opponents just because it was his turn to sit out a shift. Writers are sensitive observers of life, right?

Wait ... perhaps I am projecting what I know (and understand) of Jonesy's hockey career on to poor, unsuspecting Ray Robertson. Because my mind is wrong ... Moody Food is the work of pure literary genius.

Plus, Robertson was able to do one thing that no other person in the other entire world has been able to do for me ... but more on that later.

Moody Food is the story of Bill Hansen, a University of Toronto drop-out, working at a Yorkville bookstore in the summer of 1965. The story is fresh and cool and written in a way that is sure to draw you in. Bill inadvertently becomes friends with Thomas Graham, a draft-dodging American musician with a penchant for drug experimentation. They ultimately form a band and make a run for the big-time. They even brush elbows with Jim Morrison and The Doors. And, the way it is written you feel like you are actually on the road with these guys ... like you are at The Whiskey.

Although the story is of Bill Hansen, it is Thomas Graham who fascinates me. He is loosely based on singer-songwriter Gram Parsons. In fact, the similarities are unmistakable ... Thomas Graham = Gram Parsons ... from the beginning of their lives to the end.

Do you know who Gram Parsons is? Me either ... I had never heard of him but he has a wonderfully tragic story and I can understand why Robertson was drawn to him. Parsons was born in 1946, the son of wealthy citrus farmers in Georgia. Sadly, his childhood was fraught with tragedy ... his alcoholic father committed suicide when Parsons was only twelve years old;  and his alcoholic mother re-married a man who would devastate the entire family because of an extramarital affair shortly before her untimely death in 1965. Gram Parsons became active in the music industry in the early 1960s, playing in rock and roll cover bands. He eventually joined The Byrds and in 1969, he formed his own band, The Flying Burrito Brothers. Parsons also collaborated with Emmylou Harris toward the end of his life.

Parsons was set to begin a (musical) tour in October 1973, but wanted to get away and relax with friends before leaving. He had become infatuated with the Joshua Tree National Monument (in California), so Parsons arranged for some friends to stay at a hotel just outside the park for a couple of nights. This would allow him to wander around in search of UFOs while high on LSD ... a preferred way to pass the time. Parsons died September 19, 1973 of an accidental overdose of morphine and alcohol in Joshua Tree, California.

But here's where things get really crazy ...

Parsons had mentioned to a couple of friends that, when he died, he wanted to be cremated and his ashes spread over Cap Rock, a prominent natural feature of the National Monument. So, on the day his body was to be returned to his family, these same friends stole the hearse (with Parsons' body inside) from the airport in LA. They drove it to Joshua Tree, where they attempted cremation by pouring about five gallons of gasoline into the open coffin and lighting it with a match. Of course, a huge fireball resulted. The culprits fled on foot and outran the police. They were arrested a couple of days later, and charged with some petty offences, resulting in only a $750 fine.

That is a true story. Sometimes the best stories are based on fact ... because really, you cannot make something like that up ...

So, I bet you are wondering what the thing is ... the thing that Ray Robertson did for me that no one else in the whole world has done. Get ready for it ... because it so unlike me ... He made cocaine seem appealing - which is not a postive thing, of course. And everything my Mom told me would happen if you mess around with drugs, happened to Bill Hansen and Thomas Graham. She taught me that dabbling in small-time drugs like marijuana inevitably leads to trying more hard core (highly addictive) drugs - which is essentially what transpires  in the story. But, the way in which it is written makes the descent seem not so bad ... I mean, they got a lot of stuff done while snorting cocaine. Like, I could get all the laundry done and clean the whole house in one day 'cause I could stay awake for 24hrs in a row. Or imagine all the reading you could get done! Obviously, I will not be trying to score any blow/nose candy/snow/coke but this was the first time (in my whole life) that drugs (other than my good friend, alcohol) did not thoroughly disgust me.

I was very excited when I read that Ray Robertson had attended Bookfest Windsor in 2009, hoping that I could get a chance to chat with him this year. But he did not attend this year ... so I'm left hoping for next year? Oh ... I just wish I could hang out with him sometime ...

Robertson has published six books and a book of essays. What Happened Next is next on my "Ray Robertson" reading list. Jonesy read it and he really enjoyed it ... it recalls some of Robertson's time as a child growing up in Chatham and his obessession with Jack Kerouac. And so, it was with great enthusiasm that I found some Kerouac in my American Literature Anthology ... hopefully that means I'll get to study his work next semester.



Check out Ray Robertson's website.

Source for information on Gram Parsons.

I have a friend who has been encouraging me to read something by Stephen King as part of my challenge to read one hundred books in one year. Did you know that Stephen King reads seventy to eighty books each year? Suddenly, my pitiful thirty-five books read (to date) seems even more heartbreakingly pathetic.

In August I read, On Writing - A Memoir of the Craft by Stephen King. I'm not sure if this counts as a Stephen King book to the general populous, but I sure did enjoy it. In fact, I loved it, however it is not for everyone.

For me, it was great to "talk" with someone who speaks my language. This is not to say that I feel like Stephen King and I are equals in the world of writers. Nothing could be further from the truth. However I completely understood everything that he wrote about with respect to the craft of writing. In fact, I learned a great deal, not the least of which is that I do have an understanding of the process. Some of the things he writes, I already do, some I understand the importance of but have not been able to achieve (because of the small people running around my house), and other things I had never thought of before, but completely appreciate. All that, just from reading this book.

His number one piece of advice to achieve great writing is to write a lot ... and to read, a lot. Well, that sounds like just about the perfect job to me. Does that mean that I can pick up a great book, hush the children (which means ignore them) and explain that Mommy is working? I'll have to try that one some time.

On Writing begins with a resume, of sorts. StephenKing remembers some of the early times in his life and some of the things that stand out from his childhood. He moves on to describe the events surrounding his first book (Carrie - 1974) being published, and he touches briefly on his alcohol and drug addiction. In fact, he admits that he has no recollection of writing Cujo (1981), which saddened him because he really loves that book and wishes he could recall the process of writing it. It is the kind of the auto-biographical writing that, when read, you want to share with someone else. So, suffice it to say, that Jonesy knows way more about StephenKing than he ever wanted to. But, having said that, I think he found the tidbits I threw out there, kind of interesting. Funny, gross, interesting ...

The other two thirds of the book are fairly specific to the craft of writing. Some is down-right instructional, other parts are teaching through example ... which I love. Sometimes he is specific - 2000 words per day- and other times he is more ambiguous, like when he says. "I'm doubtful about writing classes, but not entirely against them."

If you are a budding writer, I highly recommend picking this book up. But if you are just a fan of Stephen King and not really interested in writing as an art form, this may not be the book for you.

StephenKing - I cannot refer to him as King or Stephen, just StephenKing, all one word - is a really incredible person. I mean, aside from the writer; because as a writer, he is a genius and obviously, well-respected. I read lots of his stuff as a young girl ... Carrie (plus I saw the movie), Pet Semetary, Cujo are the ones that stand out. Of course, I have seen The Shining (red-rum, red-rum, red-rum) and The Green Mile which are movies based on his novels. And please, don't forget The Shawshank Redemption, based on the novella by StephenKing entitled, Rita Hayworth and the Shawhank Redemption -probably one of my favourite movies. I'll have to look for the novella.

But as a girl, my interests changed and I moved on to different writers, like Danielle Steele. Plus, at about the same time in my life, I developed a heavy social agenda, so I didn't have much time to read. Because when you are a teenaged girl, it takes approximately the same amount of time to "get ready" as it does to attend the actual event you are getting ready for.

He is a goofy looking man, whom I did not find compelling enough to really find out about the person behind the stories. For many years, I have thought of StephenKing as a grown up kid; like an adult with a boy's imagination. And, I don't think StephenKing would be offended by that statement; in fact, it would probably make him happy inside. Although he has matured, his interest still lies in the realm of science fiction. Just like it did when he was eight or nine years old and hitchhiking to movies in the nearest town. He wrote that he likes to get his character(s) into a predictament and then watch as they figure their way out of it.

Another admirable thing about StephenKing is that he has been married to the same woman for almost forty years. Which I consider a true accomplishment in the world of fame. He talks about her with respect and love and admiration. Don't you hope that your husband would describe your laugh as "adorable" or that he has a full understanding (and respect) for your lack of putting up with his bullshit - even after forty years of marriage?

Anyhow, after reading this book, I have my own piece of advice. Be patient as a writer. It is much easier to verbally tell a story than it is to write it down. Because most times, your brain moves faster than your fingers, so you have to slow down a bit and take the time to get it right. It is simple to invoke humor or expression using your face or hand-movements when telling a story. However, when writing a story you must be skilled at making your point (whether sad, or funny, or inspirational) using only words and punctuation. And you don't even get to read those words aloud to your reader ... you must hope that they can hear your voice.

Initially, I borrowed this book from the Public Library. I will be purchasing my own copy because I know I will refer back to it time and time again. That is how much I loved and appreciated this book. StephenKing is a natural teacher, and he has much to share. Do you want to learn from him?

It was not that long ago that The Piano Man's Daughter came out. I can remember it clearly because I wanted to read it so badly. Therefore, when I stumbled on it at the Public Library a couple of weeks ago, I knew my search for another book written by a Canadian author was over. I could hardly wait to get home.

But when I did get home, I felt as though bitter reality had slapped me right across the face. It turns out that Timothy Findley's The Piano Man's Daughter was published in 1995.

1995? What? That just cannot be true because it seems like it was just a couple of years ago that I read the first reviews of it. Not fifteen years ago! Ugh ... there's that slap of bitter reality again.

It is a great read if you enjoy stories that encompass two or three generations of the same family, or a journey to understand the true character of one individual.

Just as the title suggests, this book tells the story of Lily - the piano man's daughter - and her battle with mental illness as seen through the eyes of her son. It is engaging and interesting, and although it is primarily the story of Lily, it also tells the story of the whole Kilworth family.

There are several themes running through this novel. Mental illness. Fire as a symbol. A little bit of religion. Spirituality, for certain ... Lily believed that "to be born was to be made visible." And the colonies of ants that Lily loved so much ... I would need to research that a little further before speculating.

As I neared the end of this book, I completely forgot that I was reading. I was so engrossed, I felt like I was there, with the characters. It seemed so real, I just knew that it had to be. And, I was right. Findley has acknowledged that the character of Lily was based on his aunt, who was schizophrenic. Findley describes Lily as autistic; however, I would have to politely disagree. Lily is most definitely schizophrenic, as well as epileptic.

Epilepsy brings a really cool aspect to the story because of the meanings attached to it. In ancient times, epilepsy came to be known as a "Sacred Disease." People thought that the seizures were a form of attack by demons, or that the visions experienced by persons with epilepsy were sent by the gods. Could Lily be a vessel? You read it, and let me know what you think.

It is the epilepsy that makes Lily different as a child, and the illness causes her mother (and family) to feel ashamed of her for that reason. They work very hard to hide the illness because at that time, mental illness (of any kind) was something that could bring shame on a family. But once she grows up, it is the schizophrenia that comes to define her life. She is delusional and has hallucinations, which are the hallmarks of schizoprenia. And the changes in her personality begin around the time she is eighteen or nineteen years old ... another indication of a schizophrenic diagnosis.

But I won't be able to convince Findley of my diagnosis because he died in 2002.

The characters really come to life, and force the reader to consider what is right for them. I had to question whether Lily should have had custody of her son? How could a mother choose her husband over the welfare of her daughter and grandson? Yes, she slipped them some money when she could ... but does that make her decision to turn her back on them all right? When do you stop being responsible for your child?

It is unfortunate that it took me fifteen years to pick this book up. Don't make the same mistake I did ... go, get this one right now.

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 ...

"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 ...

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 ...

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.

I was shopping at a very large retail grocery store over this past weekend. I walked through the Produce Section and felt a little sick to my stomach.

Remember when you used to be able to touch the fruits and vegetables? There were no styrofoam trays or paper bags or plastic wrap. As I looked down a row of coolers, I noticed that everything was in packages ... the broccoli has a plastic outer wrapping, the carrots come in bags, the tomatoes are in mesh packages. It is really ridiculous ... first because of the impact plastic has on our environment and secondly, because we should be able to touch/smell the food before we buy it. Some may say that it is unsanitary to touch food before you buy it because germs could be easily spread that way. But, you wash your fruits and vegies before you eat them, right?

I wish there were big bins of field tomatoes to choose from and that I could choose which red, yellow and orange pepper I want. 'Cause I feel qualified to pick my own food.

However, if you visit a local Farmers Market, you can do all these things for yourself ... and you can smell the sweetness of the food and the dirt from the fields.

As I walked through the produce department, feeling disappointed about the state of our food production, it reminded me that I had a book to tell you about. One that I read a couple of months ago, but wanted to wait until the summer months to tell you about it.

Plus, I was feeling a little sneaky ...

But desperate times call for desperate measures. Even though I have (almost) given up on reading 100 books in one year, I still want to read as many books as I can.

A couple months back I read a book called, Food Rules by Michael Pollan. It is very small; in fact, I read it in a day. It's a pocket book, an Eater's Manual, Pollan calls it.

But it is still a book that I read, right?

It is a book of sixty-four rules by which we should govern our eating habits. It seems to me that it is just a book of reminders, because there are no real revelations that will change what you know about food, but it will serve as a reminder about all the things you know about food in your heart of hearts.

I guess, it's kind of a book of common sense rules for eating. And we can all use a reminder sometimes.

I have picked a few of my favourite reminders to share with you.

Rule #10: Avoid foods pretending to be something they are not. Imitation butter (margarine) is a great example of this ... it is about as unnatural as it gets. Products like "no-fat" cream cheese or sour cream are highly processed, rendering them very unnatural. And those products that are imitation meats, made from soy products are very worrisome. I used to eat them sometimes, but not anymore. Try to stick with what is real and wholesome.

Rule #15: Get out of the supermarket (when you can). Where I live (in sourthwestern Ontario), this is the best the time of year for sustainable living. I have not enjoyed the extreme heat and humidity this year, but that is a story for a different day; however, I have enjoyed the bountiful supply of local foods. Just today, Jonesy went down to a local Farmers Market, and bought fresh (never frozen) perch from the fisherman. Honestly, it does not get better than that ... it was so good. Addie C. ate three pieces, along with at least three helpings of fresh, local yellow beans. I am lucky to live in the centre of such a rich supply of food and I appreciate it. And, we are trying to teach our children to appreciate it as well. So, get out of the grocery store and visit a local Farmers Market. Taste what your region has to offer - you won't be sorry, I promise. And for those of you who visit a cottage, you are the luckiest of all because you can combine the local foods from two different regions on the same plate!

Rule #21: It's not a food if it's called the same name in every language. I am talking about a Big Mac, Doritos, Triscuits, Oreos ... these are not true food items. I'm not saying that these things do not taste good ... but they should not be part of your everyday meals.

Rule #25: Eat your colours. There are different nutrients to be gained from each colour of food. I don't know what they all are ... but I know that it is important to eat a varied selection. Plus, it makes your plate look pretty and appetizing.

Rule #43: Have a glass of wine. Enough said, really. I'm sure this will be your favourite rule, as it is mine. However, research does show that those who enjoy alcohol regularly and in moderation, live longer and have fewer heart-related problems than those who avoid a cocktail or two. Now, in no way am I suggesting that it okay to get fall-down drunk every night. But a glass of wine with supper, or a nice cold beer after a long day at the office, is a way of maintaining a healthy life style. My own philosophy is that a nice cold cocktail helps you to relax, and gain a little perspective. At least, it does for me.

Rule #55: Eat meals. Sounds ridiculous to even mention it ... but according to studies, more and more people are snacking throughout the day. Just grabbing something while on the run. Eat a meal ... sit at a table, with a plate and utensils, and share the meal with someone, if you can. Of course everyone has eaten a sandwich or a piece of toast while walking out the door ... but that should be the exception, not the norm. It is important to experience the food. Because if you think about it, when you are just stuffing something down your throat while driving to your next meeting (or child's soccer game or Doctor's appointment), you don't really taste it. Probably because you are starving by that point, but also because you are not really focussed on what you are doing. If you sit at a table, with utensils and a friend, you want to enjoy what you are eating; you will ensure it is something full of taste and quality. Take the time to schedule yourself some meals ... with your family or a friend.

Rule #60: Treat treats as treats. This is one area my children need to work on. "Can I have a treat after lunch?" I hear this question every single day. Now, luckily for me, they think watermelon is a treat ... but that doesn't cut it every day. They want a popsicle, or cookies, or a brownie ... all the same stuff your kids want. And they get to have them, it's just that I try to ensure they mostly have home-baked treats. Pollan, however, broadens his definition of a treat to include whatever you really, really enjoy but know is not particularly healthy. For instance ... fetuccini alfredo, fried chicken, doughnuts, ice cream, Cheese Whiz. What's your (food) vice? You should limit your intake of that particular food to special occasions, instead of every day.

Rule #63: Cook. I am good at this one, and it ensures that I maintain a high level of control over the quality of food my family eats. 'Cause you know I am a control freak, don't you? You should not be surprised to learn that the decline in home cooking parallels the rise in obesity; and those who cook are more likely to eat a healthful diet.

One day, when Caiden arrived from school, he reported that the kids in his class told him that he must not eat enough because he is too skinny. He was not too bothered about the comments, but it must have been on his mind because he mentioned it to Jonesy and I. Caiden does not have an ounce of fat on his body ... in fact, he has a six-pack of muscles at the tender young age of eight years. None of my kids are chubby ... and neither are they under-weight or sickly looking. The point is that Caiden was singled out as being different because he is not fat. Things sure have changed since I went to elementary school ... when the odd one out was the child who was a little chubby.

I have visited Caiden's classroom over the past year, and I can offer my own observation that the majority of his classmates are overweight, nearing obesity ... in Grade 2. It is causes me great concern for their future health and reinforces some of my thoughts on the food industry. And the marketing industry. Caiden tells me that one little boy's mommy brings him food from Burger King every day for his lunch. Every day? Most kids bring Kool-Aid Jammers for their drink ... or a Coke. When I asked him if other kids bring fresh fruit or vegies in their lunch, he thought for a moment and could remember two kids out of his class who did. Now, of course this is not a scientific gathering of information, but Caiden is pretty observant. Plus, he has recently announced that he wants to be a chef and has taken a great interest in food, nutrition and recipes.

As I have read this back to myself, I realize that I sound bossy and judgmental. I don't mean to. However, I am very concerned for the quality and over-processification (I made that word up ... ) of the food that we eat. And, I guess I just assume that if everyone understood that the food they are eating is not the highest quality that it could be (just because big producers want to make more money), they would want to do something about it. They would make some different choices about what ends up in the grocery cart.

What do you think would happen if people found out that the gasoline we were pumping into our cars was (directly) resulting in a shorter life for our vehicles? And, it was causing them to break down repeatedly and requiring consant repairs? Would you purchase that gasoline anymore? Would people stand for that? No way, because we need our cars to be reliable and run smoothly.

Shouldn't you feel the same about your body, and the "gasoline" that you put into it? Because we need it be run reliably, with very few repairs. At least, I do.

And so in an effort to promote local foods and Farmers Markets, I have listed below some links ... check them out sometime. It's fun finding your own food!

Windsor's Downtown Farmers Market ... open every Saturday from 8am til 1pm, now through October 30th. Local produce, fisherman, Angus beef, some artisans as well.

Galati Cheese Company ... that's right, there is a family-owned company (here in Windsor), who produce their own cheese. It's fresh and delicious and makes incredible pizza! Check it out sometime.

Sartaj Flour ... this is the only flour I buy now - no more do I buy the highly processed, bleached flour found at the grocery store. Sartaj is a family owned company, and they are just the nicest people. They even gave my kids and I a tour of their mill the first time we visited. They make wheat flour, spelt flour, chick pea flour and corn flour. I have tried them all ... but I'm not real sure what to do with chick pea flour yet. It is all high in fibre and has a great taste. I use it in all my baking ... cookies, muffins, pancakes, pizza dough.

Sun Parlor Honey Company ... Did you know that there is a honey producer in Cottam, Ontario? Me either, til recently. Take the kids for a drive one day, and visit a bee farm. And you can buy as much as you can afford because honey never goes bad!

Chatham-Kent Local Farmers ... This is a website listing all the farmers and their products in the County of Kent.

Nickels Orchards ... what I love about this website, is that they have included an availability guide ... and according to that availability guide nectarines, apricots and plums are just coming into season. I've got a recipe for an apricot pie I have been itching to try ... so, I'm thinking a road trip will be happening for the Jones children any day now!!

Hope that will get you started ... but make your own list of local food suppliers. And if you have a favourite that you want to share, leave it in the Comments Section. I'd love to hear from you.

As I have read over this past year, I have kept notes. Which might seem sort of weird to you, but when you want to write (about anything, really), it is important to remember the feelings that were invoked and what inspired them. Sometimes things I read bring a memory to mind, sometimes it is an opinion and other times it is a key moment in the plot. So, while I am reading, I keep one of those really cute little ecojot mini notebooks nearby ... to jot down key words, thoughts, feelings, memories and any page numbers that I might need for reference.

But sometimes, I am just entertained.

While I read Water for Elephants by Sara Gruen, I did not take one note. Nothing. Maybe it was because I read so quickly ... or maybe it was because I was distracted with images of Rob Pattinson in the lead role for the film adaptation (filming right now!). Whatever the reason, a pencil did not hit my cute little notebook once.

On the front cover of the book, a reviewer noted that Gruen has a voice to rival John Irving. Having just read (my new favourite book) A Prayer for Owen Meany, I almost find this offensive. However, it doesn't mean that Gruen is not a great story teller. She is ... in fact, this is a great summer read. It's uncomplicated, it's quick, and it's unique. But in no way is comparable to John Irving.

The year is 1931 and Jacob Jankowski is one week from writing his final exams in order to become a veternarian, when both his parents are killed in automobile accident. In a moment of confusion and desperation, he jumps on board a train to escape his life ... only to find himself surrounded by the greatest show on earth. That's right, he has inadvertantly jumped aboard the travelling circus, and he finds more than he ever bargained for.

The story moves between a ninety-three-year-old Jacob, who is now living in a nursing home, feeling alone and abandoned by his family; and a twenty-three-year-old Jacob, who is discovering who he is. Whenever I think of a nursing home, and the abandoned old men and ladies that live there, I always think of Gracie ... and I didn't even know her.

My Mom worked on the Geriatric Care floor toward the end of her career as a nurse. And she took care of Gracie. Gracie was probably in her nineties, she had no family that visited, she was blind and very, very hard of hearing. She was not ambulatory, and so her days were spent in her bed re-living her life. A brother with a broken arm after a fall from a silo, her marriage, a baby that was taken away from her, a true love that was unrealized ... these are the things she re-lived. And she often cried real tears, but no one (other than the nurses) was there to comfort her.

And, she hosted tea parties for her two besties ... although I cannot remember their names. Gracie would talk for all three ladies ...

"Well, good to see you, Ethel," Gracie would say.

"And you, Grace," Gracie would reply. "I just adore these shortbread cookies you make."

"Well, thank you, Ethel. I think Mabel should be here any time," says Gracie. "Did you hear about the fire down at the "Smith's" farm?"

"Well, yes I did, Grace," Gracie would answer. "I'm just glad no one was hurt. But lots of damage, I hear ... Oh good, here comes Mabel now."

"Sorry, I'm late ladies," Gracie would say. "I had a pie in the oven and couldn't leace 'til it was cooked. You know how Gerry is ... I couldn't rely on him to take it out of the oven!" And then Gracie would giggle ... because she could remember exactly how Gerry was. 

So it would go on, giving small glimpses into her life. A life I did not know, but one I will never forget.

But it does lead me to another thought. It's a thought that one does not come to understand until they are a "true" grown up ... You can learn things from the elderly. Yes, things about your family, things about history. And you can hear about these things first hand. Unless it is too late. Would you believe that your Grama might have a secret? Something that she had never told anyone? Or that your Grandpa was involved in something truly extraordinary or life-changing?

There are so many things I wish I had asked my Grama and Grampa. My Grama died when I was only fifteen years old; and, although I had great times with her and have many wonderful memories, I did not take the time to learn about her. I was only fifteen years old, afterall - I was more concerned with my hair and who had a crush on who. Did she have regrets? What was it like when she was a child? What was her favourite flavour of ice cream? Did she have many boyfriends? Did she enjoy her job? Did she wish she could have gone to University? And, my Grampa had even more stories to share ... and he did so often. But I wish I would have taken the time to really listen to them and ask questions about the parts that interested me.

But these are the things we realize when it is too late sometimes. Probably because we are now getting old. Water for Elephants brings home the idea that inside that wrinkly skin, if you move past the difficulty that hearing loss presents, there is someone with a really cool story to tell you. And you should listen. It teaches us that you are never too old to follow your dream - don't forget that part.

This is the first in my quest to read all Canadian authors for the month of July. Sara Gruen was born in Vancouver, BC; she grew up in London, Ontario; and she studied literature at Carleton University in Ottawa, Ontario. She now resides in the US with her husband, her three children and her own menagerie of pets.