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.
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.
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.
On June 19th, he would have been thirty-eight years old. He would be a man now. And on the day that he would have turned thirty-eight years old, I stood in the same lake that took him from us for the first time in the twenty-one years that he has been gone.
On June 11, 1989, at about 7:50am, there was a knock at the door. I can assure you that if you get an unexpected knock on the door early in the morning, it cannot be good news. I was faced with a police officer, who told my father and I that my brother was missing, and presumed drowned. My mother was hosting a class reunion and had spent the night at a local hotel with her nursing classmates. It would be another hour before she would know her son was gone. Which was okay because obviously, there had been some kind of mistake. Your brain is an amazing organ because its main function is to protect you from the things that you are unable to deal with; and in this case, my brain told me that there must have been some kind of mistake ... because my brother was both an outdoorsman and an excellent swimmer. I found out later that my Mom's brain was working in the same manner as mine because when they arrived at the beach, she made my Dad search through all the long weeds along the shore. She was sure that he had reached the beach but was too exhausted to call out for help. Yes, your brain works hard to protect you.
However, there had not been a mistake, and we were eventually forced to face the reality that he was gone. For each member of my family, our lives changed in that instant.
The beach that my brother had spent his last hours of life was the same beach that we had grown up on. In a previous post I mentioned that my parents owned a cottage just outside Rondeau Provincial Park on Lake Erie. We grew up in that water ... we swam at dusk in that water, we had contests to see who could hold their breath the longest in that water, my Uncle gave us 100-pounders in that water, we swam in rain storms in that water, we had races out to the sand bar in that water, and we swam when that water was so rough that we could body surf the waves, pretending we were real surfers like the ones in California. And it was fun ... in fact, perhaps it was a time when I was actually carefree. We grew up in that water. So, you see, it seems impossible to believe that same water could hurt us. Consequently, as I stood there more than twenty years later, watching that same water wash over my feet as my own children played and splashed one another, I tried not to imagine the day that same water had spit him out onto the shore for some poor young mother to happen across on a walk with her little boy, almost two weeks after he had gone missing.
His canoe capsized after they had paddled out too far in the lake. The police later told us that his friend reported they could no longer see the shore, and decided that they should turn the canoe around. This was a fatal error. His friend made it to shore; my brother did not.
And so, I have not been back there since his death ... to the same Rondeau Park that had brought me such great times as a child. In fact, while my parents visited that beach every day until he was found - waiting for news from the police search and rescue-turned-recover team - I could never make myself go, except for their last day of searching. I arrived in time for them to call the search off.
About a month ago, my parents announced they had reserved a campsite at Rondeau Provincial Park and they wanted my family to join them for Father's Day weekend. I am not an avid camper ... I am more of a "shower-every-day, avoid-the-humidity-at-all-costs" kind of girl who can appreciate a fun campfire. However, if I push all my aversion to camping aside, it was really the idea of visiting that place again. That place that had taken by little brother away. It might seem strange but consider your feelings if you had to visit the exact hospital room where a loved one had died ... how would you feel? Overwhelmed? Sad? Perhaps, relief that suffering was over? Whatever the emotion, you cannot hide ... I was no longer able to avoid thinking about that force of nature that swooped down and took away a life. A life that was very important to me.
But, a strange thing happened. I felt relaxed at Rondeau Provincial Park. I felt reassured and comfortable; everything was familiar. The big dock ... still had lots of fisherman on it. The little grocery store where you could get an ice cream cone is still there ... it's been fixed up a bit, but it is still there. The cottage my grandparents once rented is still there. The house my parents built when I was three years old is still there. The Nature Museum is still there. And yes, our old cottage ... although greatly modernized and expanded ... is still there. Some things are gone ... most notably, my Grampa's dance hall ... but everything was familiar.
And so, I found myself overcome with emotion but not overcome with sadness. Don't get me wrong, that beach will always invoke great emotion in me. But I felt more happiness from the memories that surfaced about my time spent there as a kid, with my brother, than sadness that would warrant me avoiding this place that been so important to our family. I had some unexplained flashes of things that I could not fully remember, and some things came to mind that I had not thought of in years: like the (imagination-inspired) games we used to play in the forest around our cottage, and the beach parties, and the little secret fishing hole where you could always find my brother with his fishing rod and a small container of left-over corn kernals ... that was his secret bait, but I don't think he would mind if I told you.
I wonder if it was his presence I felt out there? Maybe it was him that made me feel okay. Do you think that could happen?
His name was Joel and I still miss him every day. He would have turned thirty-eight years old this past Saturday. Wish he could have come camping with us to celebrate. Wish he could have known his nephew and nieces. I just wish so many things.
When you are the third of three children, you always feel behind the others. They go to school, you do not. They get to stay up late, you do not. They can read, you cannot. And, they can chew gum ... but you are too little.
How do we know that Addie C. is too little to chew gum? Because we have tried ... and she always swallows it. The good news is that the length of time the gum is in her mouth (before swallowing it) has increased dramatically. For instance, the first time Addie C. tried gum, it remained in her mouth approximately thirty seconds before she announced it was gone. But now the time has grown to thirty minutes until we hear, "Uh-oh ... I swallowed it."
Do you remember the first time you tried gum? I don't. But I do remember my Grama giving me pieces of Juicy Fruit and Chiklits. Oh, how I love the little mutlicoloured Chiklits. I quickly graduated to bubble gum and I have very vivid memories of learning how to blow a bubble. I had the procedure down, but it took me a long time to master it. It was something that I had worked and worked on ... because I just had to do it. See? Even back then I made silly goals for myself. And I can even remember where I was when I finally did it. I also know that I could not have been more than five years old because we still lived at Rondeau Park. When I was three years old, my parents built a house there and we would live just outside the Provincial Park until I was almost six years old. Since there was only a corner store, we had to travel twenty or thirty minutes into Ridgetown for our groceries. So, on this particular day, I had twenty to thirty minutes to practice my bubble-blowing technique. In those days children did not have to sit in a car seat or a booster seat; in fact, they did not even have to wear a seat belt.
I am old, aren't I?
To tell you the truth, I probably had such a great view from the back seat because I was sitting on a case of empty beer bottles. Ha! Those were the days.
Anyhow, I can still see the road in my mind. We were just coming up to a big bend in the highway when it happened ... I blew a bubble with my bubble gum! I felt like I had really accomplished something. Something that I did all by myself, without any help from anyone.
So, when Addie C. kept bugging me for gum when "the big kids" had some, I could understand. She wanted to get it ... she wanted to learn to chew gum. And the only way to learn a skill (if that is what you want to call it) is to practice. So, every once in awhile, we give Addie C. a piece of gum and then wait to see what happens.
Last week, we gave her a piece of strawberry flavoured Bubblicious - cut in half. Because when you are a princess, you must have pink gum. And she chewed and she chewed and she chewed. In fact, she chewed for so long I finally had to force her to throw it away.
She did it! She chewed gum ... just like the big kids!! And she was so proud of herself.
"Daddy, guess what I did?" she said. Jonesy had a flash of fear go across his face because usually this question does not lead to anything good. But Addie C. continued the conversation before he really had any time to react. "I chewed gum ... for weel."
So, now every day she begs us for gum. Which is cool, but a whole new situation has arisen. She pulls the gum from her mouth, making the long string; she sticks her gum on the floor and then puts it back in her mouth; she rolls it into a ball between the palms of her hands and then puts it back into her mouth. Yesterday, she stuck it to a chair.
"Ummm ... Mommy, look at dis," Addie C. said. Again, this is not a great way to start a conversation with Addison because it usually means trouble.
"Oh," I said. "What is this? Do you know?" I used my finger to try and scrape the "stuff" off the seat of the computer chair.
"Yes," she giggles, chewing away on her strawberry flavoured Bubblicious. "Dats my gum."
"Isn't your gum in your mouth?" As if I don't already know the answer to my question.
"Yeah," she tells me. "Dats my gum and dis is my gum. I think it got stuck." She thinks it got stuck ...
Can you imagine sticking your gum to the seat of a chair ... even if it is in your own home ... and then putting it back in your mouth? Ugh.
So, I am waiting ... because I know the day will come when I am asked the question.
"Mommy, how do you blow a bubble with your gum?"
And, I will have an answer because I am an accomplished bubble gum bubble blower.
Do you think you have any control over your own destiny? Or are you at the hands of fate?
I have finished Holes, by Louis Sachar. It is a children's novel, and Amazon recommends it for the nine-to-twelve-year-old age group. Caiden has taken an interest in it, and is going to read it next. Do you know how great it is to share a reading experience with your child? Don't get me wrong, it is super fun to read a story to your child, and laugh together or teach something new; but it is a whole new experience when your child hears you talking about something and wants to read it for him/herself. I hope he follows through ...
Holes has been awarded no fewer than twelve awards, and if you search the Internet, you will find that it is used in classrooms across North America. It is one of those books that has found wildly popular success for no particular reason. It is well-written and all of that; and the story is unique and imaginative. But I could not say why it has triumphed over other children's novels.
Stanley Yelnats has been wrongly convicted of stealing some shoes, and the Judge sentences him to eighteen months at Camp Green Lake. He figures it will be a great way to serve his time because, since his family is poor, Stanley has never been to summer camp. However, he quickly learns that Camp Green Lake is the not the type of camp he imagined.
The boys in the camp spend their days digging holes in the hard clay dirt. It is thought that if you force a bad boy to dig one hole every day in the hot sun, he will turn into a good boy.
Stanley quickly figures out that there is more to digging the holes than trying to reform the boys. They are looking for something. And, if you want to know what they are looking for, you will have to read the story yourself. Or, make it required reading for one of your children. They'll like it ... I promise.
According to Dictionary.com, fate is defined as that which is inevitably predetermined, or one's destiny. Did you know that "luck" is listed as synonym for fate. Luck is defined as the force that seems to operate for good or ill in a person's life, as in shaping circumstances, events, or opportunities. I have never thought of luck and fate as interchangeable terms; should I?
Luck is a term used frequently in Holes. Stanley grew up being told that his family's chronic bad luck could be blamed on his "no-good-pig-stealing-great-great-grandfather." Can luck determine your fate? Is your fate determined by your luck? Do you think that you will end up in the same place in life, no matter which path you take? No matter what kind of luck you have?
I believe that life is series of decisions, and your path will be determined by the choices you make. And, I do think that no matter what choices you make, you will land in the same place eventually. And by "place", I am not referring to a particular location, but rather a state of mind. I was meant to have children ... I really believe that. I chose to aggressively pursue them, seeking medical intervention and understanding. However, I ended up pregnant (3 times) without the help of any medical professionals. I believe that I would have ended up pregnant whether I went through all those treatments or not. It was fate. And having children helped to shape the person I have become. Unfortunately, sometimes it is easier to see your fate in hindsight.
I believe that if I am to stand at the foot of the Eiffel Tower and gaze up at its amazing beauty because it is important for my personal journey, then it will happen. Maybe not next year, but sometime. But what are the things I am meant to do with or in my life, that I have not even thought about? Good or bad, I look forward to doing them. No, wait ... I look forward to the good because I really feel like I've had my share of bad.
In this respect, I feel that Stanley would have had the opportunity to meet Zero at some point in his life - whether it was at Camp Green Lake or somewhere else. Zero is another boy at the Camp, and the two boys' families share a sorted past. A past that must be rectified.
All the boys at Camp Green Lake have nicknames ... nobody is known by their "real" names. Stanley becomes Caveman; Hector is known as Zero. There is Zigzag, Magnet, X-Ray, Armpit, Squid. The boy who once slept on Stanley's cot was known as Barf Bag ... not the person's bed I would want to take over.
Some nicknames can be fun ... like Jonesy. When handed their team jersey, I believe all boys are also christianed with their new hockey name. It's easy to do ... just add "y" to the end of your last name ... Shawsy, Burkey, Velby. However, there have been exceptions, like the way St. Pierre became Saints; one guy was known as Chaz; still another was known as Body. Hold on ... us girls came up with that nickname; and it was more of a code name as opposed to a nickname. But still, that was how he was known. Sometimes, while watching a boring NHL game, I'll try to guess the players nicknames ... this is how the Jones' entertain themselves on a Saturday night in the dead of winter. Nicknames with a side of cold beer - you just can't buy that kind of fun, can you?
But sometimes, nicknames can be hurtful. Zero actually got his nickname because his last name was Zeroni, but everyone assumes it is because he's worthless. And because he is not very smart. When I was High School, I had a friend whose nickname was Pie ... because everyone got a piece. Ugh. She was a really good friend, and although I had absolutely nothing to do with generating this nickname, I felt ashamed of it for her. It was with great hesitancy that I used it. But you know, although it must have really hurt her, she handled it with panache. I would have cried and cried, forcing everyone to use it behind my back, giggling. But not my friend; she used the nickname herself and she made it funny. She also made it okay to use the nickname. So we ALL called her Pie. And it became just a word, like any other name; it got to the point where I didn't even think of the meaning behind it when I used it. But I'm sure she never forgot. I'm sorry I ever used it ... I should have stood by what I knew was right. But I was seventeen; what can I tell you?
I never had a nickname, except DPC ... Drug Prevention Centre. I don't recall preaching, but I must have. To be honest, I never felt pressured to try drugs; although I was given the opportunity several times. I would just politely decline and move to a different area of the party. And, I really didn't care if my friends chose not to decline ... but obviously, I must have made my feelings (on the subject) clear. I didn't take offence to the nickname, and don't think there was any maliciousness intended in using the name. The girls only used it when they were making plans that they knew I would not be interested in.
"Oh ... here comes the DPC ... we'll talk about it later ..."
It is easy to speak loud and clear about something when you are confident and/or knowledgable on the topic. When your opinion is strong. Or when your mother has preached and preached until you just believe what she has told you as fact.
I have done this to my kids, too. Never ride a motorcycle. Ever. Never, ever smoke a cigarette. Never try drugs. And, you have to nineteen to try a beer. The first two will be the easiest to enforce ...
Did you know that Stanley Yelnats is the same spelled backwards as it forwards? The fancy term for this is palindrome. I have spent a stupid amount of time trying to figure the purpose of using a palindrome. I cannot find anyone who has an answer to that question; so, I can only assume that there is no reason. Other than to make people point it out.
Maybe it was my destiny to point that out ... that there is no purpose in using a palindrome. For some reason, in my personal journey, it was important for me to learn that.
Let's hope there is more to my journey ...
Carol Shields, The Stone Diaries, is next ... looking forward to an adult story ...
When I was nine years old, my parents bought a cottage at Rondeau Park. Actually, they co-owned it with my Aunt and Uncle. We would spend the summer there and as many weekends in the Spring and Fall as my parents could manage. I have so many wonderful memories of those years that I was shocked when my Mom told me they owned it for only three years. We played for hours in the woods that ran alongside our property, using our imaginations. You remember, right? That is what kids did before The Disney Channel and Wii consoles. We went for bike rides, as a family, and on nature walks through the trails in the Provincial Park. No outing was complete without an ice cream cone down by the big dock, enjoying the creamy coolness while we watched the fisherman reel in their catch. My brother would spend his days fishing, and I played at the beach behind our cottage ... in the sun ... with suntan oil instead of sun screen. I know ... the 1970s were crazy times!
But what I remember most is the parties the adults would have. Lots of laughing, campfires, late night smelt fishing ... and Mr. Bill. Do you remember that skit from Saturday Night Live? "Oh no, Mr. Bill ..." I can still hear my Uncle talking for hours in his Mr. Bill voice. And if I played my cards right (no pun intended), sometimes I would get to stay up late and play UNO with the adults - eating junk food and drinking pop. But even if I didn't get to sit around the card table, I could lay in bed listening and still feel a part of the party anyway. These are the kinds of memories I wish I could give my children.
Kaaterskill Falls by Allegra Goodman revolves around a Jewish community that summers in Kaaterskill, New York in the late seventies. The women and children stay in rented bungalows during the week and their husbands join them for the weekends. The Kirshners are strict Orthodox Jews and seem to live a simple life. I was a little unsure where the story was going when I began to read it ... there were many characters and the story changes perspective, so I was getting confused. However, I came to truly love this story and I didn't want it to end. This is the kind of book I like to keep, just to have nearby. I cannot explain it, but there are some books I read that I cannot part with. I think it may be that I already know I will want to read it again. Do you ever do that? Read a book more than once? I happen to have borrowed this one from our local library and it will be with a heavy heart that I say good bye.
I am beginning to wonder if all good novels revolve around religion, because again I find myself faced with the issue of religion. This time it is different, because I do not know much about Jewish religion. And, this is not something I am proud of. In my hometown, where I grew up, there was one Jewish family that I can think of. When I asked, I was told that the Jewish religion was very much the same as the Christian beliefs except they were still waiting for the coming of Christ. So, their belief system and teachings were based on The Old Testament. And, the rest of my Jewish experience comes from the Rabbi on Seinfeld. So, you see, my understanding of the Judaism embarrassing.
After a little research, I learned that Judaism is not based on a book of beliefs at all, but ascertains its identity from upholding the traditions of their ancient founders. It is based on actions instead of beliefs; how you behave (or should behave) governs the path your life takes. I found some of these governing ideals very archaic and unrealistic for a woman in today's culture. However, I am open to the idea that one should take responsiblity for one's actions because it is easy to say you believe in something. It is easy "to say" that you are religious and go to Church every Sunday but do your actions support your words? Orthodox Jews, like the Kirshners in Kaaterskill Falls, are the most conservative group, retaining nearly all traditional rituals and practices. At the opposite end of the spectrum, Reform Jews retain their Jewish identity and some traditions but take a more liberal approach to many Jewish beliefs and practices. There are many rituals and celebrations that practicing Jews participate in, and I was unsure of what some of them were as I read. In fact, there were many words that I had to look up in order to understand what was being celebrated.
Rav Kirshner and his followers are at the centre of the novel. Rav has two sons, Isaiah and Jeremy. Jeremy is the oldest of the two, brilliant, well educated and learned, but does not follow Judaism as strictly as he should to remain in good standing with his father. Isaiah works alongside his father, studying with him, trying to learn from him, running the synagogue with him, and caring for him when he falls ill. However, he will always fall short of his father's expectation and live in the shadow of what his brother could have been. Always. While Isaiah craves his father's praise and respect, Jeremy throws it away, not wanting to be a part of it. "He does not want to be, nor is he, the vessel of his mother's dreams. Nor can he be anymore his father's tragedy ... His father's objections have been silenced, as has his mother's praise."
Kaaterskill Falls tells the story of the Jewish woman. Did you know that in the synagogue, the men sit one side and the women sit on the other side ... separated. Because they are not considered equal. Men make the decisions; and more importantly, the Rav makes all the decisions that will affect the community. For instance, when a woman wants a (paying) job, she must get permission, first from her husband and then from the Rav. If a follower wants to open a business, he must get the Rav's blessing which is only given if the Rabbi feels it is in best interest of the Jewish community. Sometimes, the Rav will not speak directly to the women. Actually, although he is greatly respected, the Rav in this story is not warm and fuzzy at all.
The women in the story are all so different but they are the same. Elizabeth Shulman is in her early thirties, she has five daughters and she is restless. Her youngest daughter is three years old, and Elizabeth is looking for a challenge. Something to stimulate her brain ... sound familiar? Religion is an instinctual part of her and she is not looking to change that. However, she wonders ... "What are the opportunites for someone who has only been a mother? Not merely a mother, as if it were unimportant, but only a mother. All consumingly." Elizabeth has been a momoholic but she is seeking recovery now. And in that way, I can relate to Elizabeth. I feel bad for her because she does not live in the twenty-first century, like me. She is living in 1976, and the role of women, although changing, was not the same then as it is today. Elizabeth wants a "chance to shape something that cannot become anything else, only hers. To truly create something, material, definable, self-limited." If only she could have started a blog and challenged herself to read one hundred books in one year.
Elizabeth takes the path less travelled when she asks permission to open her own kosher store in Kaaterskill for the summer months. But she becomes overly zealous, wanting more, and makes a mistake that costs her the one thing that she truly enjoys. When I say that she wants more, I do not mean that she wants to earn more money. The thing that makes Elizabeth a success is that her motives are not based in earning money to become really rich; she is successful because she really enjoys what she is doing. Haven't you ever noticed that the fancy dessert you spent hours on always turns out the best when it is something you enjoyed working on? As opposed to the times when you threw something together in a hurry because you had to. Elizabeth enjoys having something of her own that makes her brain function in a new way. She is stimulated and becomes alive. Many successful people have talked about the same thing, explaining that their business was born out of an interest, something they enjoyed doing. However, when Elizabeth loses the Rav's permission, she becomes an outsider. She does not feel a part of the community she has belonged to for so long. "... she admits the disjunction between her ideas and his plan for the Kehillah. The disjunction was always there, but it was inside of her. Private, familiar. The Rav broke it open, wounding her, making her confess it." I appreciate her feelings because taking a chance is not always embraced by all.
It seems as though all the women are unhappy and feel restrained. Nina thinks that perfecting her religion, she is perfecting herself. Rachel is the exact of opposite of Elizabeth; she is happy channelling her energy to ensure the success of her husband. "Her ambition for Isaiah is uncompromised. He is her profession, and his future is her life's work." Stand behind your man; support your husband and his endeavours. Of course, this is part of having a successful relationship/marriage in my opinion, but you can lose yourself in trying to support the man you love. Again, this I know too well.
Mrs. Schermerhorn is the librarian of the Kendall Falls Library; proud and watchful are the words used to describe her. She examines each person's selection of book "as if to judge whether she is worthy." Jonesy and I just had a discussion on this very topic. He was wondering whether the clerks at the book store judge people based on the type of book they purchase. I don't think they judge but I do think you can tell something about a person based on what they are reading. For instance, when he brought home the Living Raw Food cookbook, one could assume that he is a liberal thinker who is interested in health and is considering carefully what he consumes for food. The same is true for what you find in someone's grocery cart. Don't pretend like you don't do it ... we all check out the contents of each other's grocery carts. I don't do it to judge, I do it because it entertains me. It can tell you a little bit about the person who is behind you in line. For instance, I can tell a bachelor without even looking at who is pushing the cart; how old a person's children are; if they have children; if they like to bake; if they are having a party. I do the same thing with shoes ... checking out the shoes a person wears can tell you a whole bunch about the owner of those shoes. Think about it.
And so, number three is done. And I learned some things ... again. In fact, the next thing I read will be a recipe for kugel. What is kugel? It can be a dessert, I think? And I know I've seen a recipe for Noodle Kugel somewhere. Something new to research.
By the way, Kaaterskill is a real place and reminded me a little bit of the Rondeau Park I grew up in - the small grocery store, park with the nature trail, beaches for swimming. I think that next year I should make it a goal to visit all the places I have read about this year. Now, that would be exciting, wouldn't it? And I could blog about my travels ... does anyone want to hire me?
.
