The Piano Man's Daughter
Author: jill
•11:31 AM
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.
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Going Old School
Author: jill
•7:26 AM
She had been there hundreds of times before, maybe even thousands. But this time was different. At the age of forty-one, she had come to this store in search of back-to-school supplies ... for herself. Although she was very excited, she also felt a little silly, which is the reason she brought her daughter. Perhaps passers-by would just assume the supplies were for the little girl.

"Oh, Mommy," said Martie, holding up a package, "look at these pretty markers."

"Those are highliters," the woman explained. "They are used to mark the important things that you read ... so you won't forget them." Hopefully she wouldn't forget them.

"Can we get the pink ones?" Martie asks.

"Sure."

The woman and her daughter wandered around the store until they had found all the necessities.

"These are the cutest notebooks," said the cashier. "I think I am going to pick some up for myself."

"Do you attend the University?" the woman asked.

"Yeah," the young girl answered, with a little sparkle in her eye.

"Does anyone use actual notebooks to write notes in class?" the woman asked. She was truly interested in the answer, and waited while the cashier thought for a minute.

"Nope. Pretty sure most people use their laptop for notes in class," the cashier reports. There is a small (okay, it's very large) pit in the woman's stomach. "But sometimes I use a notebook. But not very often ..."

The woman laughed. What else could she do, really? When she last attended an institute of higher learning she felt fortunate because she had inherited her Grampa's electric typewriter after he retired. Honestly. The forty-one-year-old woman could hardly imagine unpacking a laptop to take notes in class ... wasn't that a lot of work just to jot down some notes?

"You know ... I am taking some classes at the University this Fall. And, I am going to use notebooks ... and pencils. I don't care what everyone else is doing ..." she told the cashier, with a little sparkle in her eye, trying to be very self-confident and defiant.

"Well," she said, handing the woman her bag full of back-to-school supplies, "there is nothing wrong with old school."

Wait ... she wasn't totally old school. She has an iPod and a cellphone like everyone else in the free world. She knows about Twitter. It wasn't as though she wasn't current and hip and trendy. Okay ... maybe not totally hip and trendy. But still cool, right?

But she wasn't nineteen years old anymore either. The woman brought perspective and maturity to the university campus this time around. She brings experience. And, she also brings a different level of commitment and an interest that she did not have twenty years ago. This time, she would learn things with a deeper understanding. That is not to say that she did not learn things before. Because staying out with friends until dawn and then doing the same thing the next night was a skill that came in handy for dealing with newborn babies and sick children.

There is nothing wrong with writing notes ... the woman wanted to be a writer afterall. And writers write. Some authors still write their novels long hand ... not very many, but there are some who still do.

Yep, the woman thought, there is nothing wrong with old school.

But she was in the spirit of learning. A laptop on campus could come in handy ... she did have a blog to maintain and she can't study the entire day. She turned to her daughter and said, "Come on, Martie. Let's go check those cute laptop bags I've seen in all the magazines." 

Disclaimer: Although this is a fictionalized account, the facts are true - school supplies were purchased and the cashier did tell the woman she was "old school." Real names have changed to protect the innocent.
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Me Minus About Eight Inches ...
Author: jill
•6:46 PM



Click here if you need a refresher on why a new hairstyle is so important in my world.
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Top 10 Reasons I'm Glad School is Back in Session
Author: jill
•8:48 PM
In September 2006, I brought my oldest child to a strange building full of strange people and left him there ... to find his own way in the world. I was filled such apprehension and anxiety ... I think, because I wanted him to love school so much. Like I did/do. And I wanted him to dazzle the strangers, just like has dazzled his father and I. I ached for him while he was away; he was constantly in my thoughts, hoping he was able to manage without me to help guide him. Pretty pathetic, huh?

Let me assure you, I have changed since those early days. In fact, I have twice the number of years of parenting excellence since then. And, I have a much different perspective.

Today was the first day of school for two of my three children. Number three came along for the ride, so she could check out her classroom and officially meet her JK teacher. Excitement abounded as we approached the school this morning ... oh, and the kids were pretty pumped, too.

It wasn't until the early 1800s that public education began to form in Canada. Prior to that, each family was responsible for educating their own children. Can you imagine the collective scream of joy on the day all the kids went to the first school? Woo-hoo!!

Although we each have our own reasons, I thought I would share the reasons I love school so much ...

(10) I get use the bathroom in private, without someone knocking on the door. Whether I am in there for two minutes or thirty, over the summer months it was a rare occasion if there was not a knock on the door ... usually because somebody wanted "something" (see #6).

(9) I can actually finish what I start ... all in a row, without interruptions. Many posts throughout the summer have been written one sentence at a time; but now, here I sit, typing away ... sentence after sentence.

(8) The quiet. I now hear the breeze through the trees, the hum of my laptop. Not that I don't love the sound of all those giggles, but I have listened to them for nine weeks in a row and am now taking some pleasure in the breeze outside my window.

(7) I don't have to watch Hannah Montana or The Wizards of Waverly Place until after five o'clock each day. Or, the Jonas Brothers. Ugh. I am sure they are all nice kids and stuff, but ... Plus, I know all the words to their songs and I'm starting to laugh at their jokes ... this is troublesome for me.

(6) The number of times that I hear, "Mom, can I (insert most annoying thing your child asks for here) ..." will be greatly reduced. Between the three of them, it seems as though they are at me most of the day for food, drinks, or suggesting fun activities ... like painting (a favourite amongst all girls, I think) or going to the park/beach/grandparents.

(5) My sense of guilt will decrease greatly ... guilt over being a boring Mom. It has been difficult to entertain three kids, all at different stages of development, each with their own interests. And, frankly, a mom's energy level diminishes over the course of the summer ... at least this mom's energy level does.

(4) Stuff that I organize will actually stay organized for longer periods of time. That right, toys will stay in their places and clothes will remain on their hangers in the closet.

(3) I don't have to eat at specific times. If I don't feel like eating lunch until 1:30pm, I can get all crazy and eat my lunch at 1:30pm! Breakfast and supper, however, will remain on schedule ...

(2) Speaking of schedules, I get to have a structure to my day ... which I love. I'll admit that it was harder and harder to jump out of bed (ready to take on the day) as the summer holidays drew to an end. But now, I'm back on track with time-specific goals that must be met!

(1) And, the #1 reason that I am glad it's back-to-school time, is the smiles that greet me at the end of the day. The smiles that assure me friends were played with, new things were learned. And when they can hardly wait to tell you about something really cool that happened at school ... I love when that happens, too.

So, I have my quiet back and I enjoyed a guilt-free coffee this morning. But between you and me, the real reason I am so happy school is back in session is because, if the kids are all back in school, it also means it is time for Mommy to go back to school.

Two days until my first day of school ... but who's counting?
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Addie C. Jones and her New Purple Kiki
Author: jill
•8:46 AM
Did you have one when you were little? A blankie, that is?

Mine was pink and it was made of that waffle material. It was so soft and I loved it, a lot. I did not give it up until I was (at least) six years old and certainly not until I was shamed into doing so. Even then I kept it hidden in my closet because I just could not say good-bye. I wonder what ever happened to it?

Addie C. has a blankie, too. And she has loved it to pieces. Literally.

It once was a beautiful shade of pale purple. Now, it is a disgusting shade of dark gray. And it is in rags. Don't worry, I'll tell you what happened to it.

When she was a newborn, Grama Jones made a soft fluffy pink blankie for Addie. And although Addie C. could not tell us if she loved it or not, I loved it so much that Grama Jones bought me a kit and I made her a soft, fluffy purple blankie.

As she grew a little older, and could make some decisions of her own, Addie always chose the purple blankie.

"Popo kiki," she would squeal and point. "Popo kiki!"

And so, the fluffy, purple blankie became known by all as "Purple Kiki." I'm beginning to think she will never leave.

Purple Kiki goes everywhere with us. To the park. To the grocery store. To visit Grama Jones. To drive the big kids to school. Camping with Nana. She even tried to bring it to the beach, but sometimes a mom must enforce some rules. And don't worry ... I'm not one of the completely ridiculous parents who lets their four-year-old drag their blankie through the store. Purple Kiki must stay in the van ... mostly because I would die a thousand deaths if anyone ever saw it! However, in some strange I way I also cherish her and it seems that Purple Kiki has become the sixth member of our family.

Addie C. Jones also likes to suck her thumb. I know ... but there is nothing I can do about it. The more I make of it, the more she wants to suck for comfort - 'cause she feels bad. So I don't even mention it. But, when Addie C. was little(r), I did notice that she likes to grip the blankie in her little hand while she sucks that thumb.

Each night I would lay Purple Kiki across her, the straight edge tucked under her little chin, and watch as she snuggled in. Until one night ...

"No, Mommy," Addie C. Jones explained. "I want a corn."

"Corn? What?" I am searching for answers. "I don't know what you mean, Addie." Let's face it, we're never sure what Addie C. means.

"No. I want the corn of my kiki. Like dis." She begins to turn her blankie until she finds the corner, and I am enlightened. But what you should know, is that there are only two corns which can be snuggled under her nose while she sucks to sleep. The other two are not worthy.

What makes them worthy? I have no idea but I suspect that it has to do with some (disgusting) smell. Because two of the corns are a slightly darker shade of grey than the others. But maybe I'm just being judgmental.

Ugh.

One day, last Fall I came home to find that Addie C. had taken a pair scissors from the craft room and cut slices into one side of Purple Kiki. Now, let me assure you that the way in which I handled this very delicate situation was completely wrong. I should have said, "Oh, well. I guess you don't need Purple Kiki any more. Let's put her in the garbage together." Good riddance.

But no, I think with my heart, remember? And often, the filter in my brain is switched to off, so instead, it goes a little something like this ...

"Oh, Addie. Poor Purple Kiki, you cut her," I say, feeling a loss for this blankie that has been so important to her. But also, attaching human-like sentiment to this inanimate object.

"Oh, Mommy," Addie wails, "can you fix her? Puulllleeeaase ... I love her. Sew her together. Ahhhhhhh..." (imagine many tears dripping down a little girl's face).

"I don't know if I can Addison," I answer, and here comes the really, really bad part. "Maybe Mommy can sew you a new one."

She stops crying, smiles, and screams, "Yeah!! New purple kiki! New purple kiki!" It is at this point that I realize I will never get rid of Purple Kiki. She will live with us forever.

Now, being the excellent parent that I am, I left this task as long as possible. After dealing with my own sense of loss, I kept thinking that she would just give up on it. If there was nothing to replace this "thing," perhaps she would just move on and no longer need a kiki. Or, maybe the nice, clean, soft pink one would become beloved. Plus, she is starting school soon, and she is always telling me that she is a big girl now. So, I kept figuring (which should be read "hoping") that Addie C. would wake up one day not caring about Purple Kiki anymore.

No such luck.

In fact, she cut Purple Kiki some more and essentially made a sleeping bag ... even more cozy than the original. But it is a disgrace and I'm pretty sure Purple Kiki might be health violation.

So, I made her a new one. It is fluffly and soft and it smells fabulous. Addie welcomed it with open arms. She carried Purple Kiki 2 around all day, the original being left in a heap somewhere.

So, on her first night with Purple Kiki 2, I crept into her bedroom to check on her with a little excitement, anxious to see the new kiki in use. There she was, in her bed, the angel that she is, wrapped up in ... in the original. What? Where did she come from?

Purple Kiki 2 has been left lying in a heap on the floor beside her bed.

The next morning I must investigate ...

"Addie, did you sleep with your new Purple Kiki?" I ask.

She looks a little uncomfortable. "No," she mumbles.

I ask her why not.

"It doesn't suck," Addie C. says.

"I know," I say. "It smells great, and it is pretty. No, it doesn't suck - that's for sure." I completely missed the point.

"No, it doesn't suck," she says, pulling at the corn as she sticks her thumb in her mouth.

Oh. It doesn't "suck." Hmmmm.... this is going to be a problem.

Over the last couple of weeks since Purple Kiki 2 entered the scene she has been elevated in status because Addie C. now allows her on the bed. In fact, for awhile, she was using it like a sheet. She needed some time to warm up, I guess. Maybe she felt like she was cheating on the original.

In the meantime, I'm thinking of attaching Purple Kiki 2 to the back of the lawnmower until it gets that real earthy, dirt smell that she seems to adore so much.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Ask Jonesy ... I hate choosing.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You decide ...
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