I’m baking a carrot cake this morning in celebration of the move of my sister and her husband from Stony Plain to Cochrane.  They will be close to their grandchildren with this move and I am will be so pleased to have my big sister closer to hand as well.

My Granny Harke was famous for her carrot cake and some of the members of the family put together a cookbook of family recipes a number of years ago that has no less than three recipes for Granny’s/Mom’s/Lydia Harke’s carrot cake.  And as I’m sure you can guess, each one is a slightly different version.  Which one to use?

Now if this were my maternal granny, she would just laugh and say, any one of them will be good.  Use any of them, but in fact my Oma Wolff was not a baker of North American pastries.  Her fame was in kuchens and breads and a wide repertoire of recipes that called for plums and recipes that involved a lot of butter.

 Granny Harke, on the other hand, was a stern woman and she would put her hands on her hips and says Ach ja! nobody knew the right one.  And I believe she would have stood beside me and given me instructions all the way.  So the best I can do?  Chose the simplest, and know that it will turn out well.

And because, to my amusement, the most hits I get on my webpage are from people searching for a recipe for a flapper pie (which I did post a while back)  here’s my Granny Harke’s Carrot Cake recipe with modifications of my own.

 Lydia Harke’s Carrot Cake

 Boil together for 15 minutes:

2 /12 cups of grated carrots (about three large carrots)

1 ½ cup of white sugar

1 ½ cup raisins (I’ve always left  them out because I have a son who loathes raisins)

2 cups water

1 tsp each of cinnamon, nutmeg, cloves

Let cool, then add: 

2 tbsp butter

1 ½ cups walnuts (I use pecans but only if there’s no one at the table with nut allergies)

pinch of salt

2 ½ cups flour

2 tsp. soda

1 tsp vanilla (again, an addition of my own)

 Grease or line with parchment a 9x 12 pan.  Pour in batter.  Bake at 350 degrees for 30-45 minutes

Now, there was no cream cheese icing in Granny’s repertoire, but if your own vision of carrot cake is not complete without it t, I leave it to you to find your own recipe for that topping.

 Mahlzeit!

Me, I roll my eyes over the question, “Why do you write?”  Isn’t it obvious?  I’m using story to try to make sense of the insensible; I’m obsessed, perhaps even “possessed”; I have delusions of fortune and fame; I’m vain enough to think that I have something to tell in a way that hasn’t been told before; it’s been a good excuse for retiring from a career as a social worker that could only end in burn-out.

Who knew that writing has even greater burn-out potential?

We are entering the season of spring book launches, reviews of the season’s favourite, announcements of shortlists for regional book awards, all leading to the conferences and banquets where dozens of writers will gussy themselves up, try to find a way around the growing lump in the throat so they can fake some appetite for the banquet chicken while they wait for the blessing of the “winners” and make nice when it’s all over but the over-thinking of how that book was The One”.  Yes, all part of the game; we’re all good sports, we have thick skin, it wasn’t our turn. Or, as a pal of mine has reminded me many times — “Betty Jane, it’s a mugs’ game, trying to fathom how these things turn out.”

I’m finding myself uncharacteristically relaxed about books and awards and all things related this spring, because I don’t have a horse, not even a steady plodder, in the race. I’m curiously awaiting the shortlists and the outcomes, and I will undoubtedly spend too much time trying to fathom what some of those juries could have been thinking.  I will also rise up in righteous indignation over the fine books that were overlooked, and my friends who came away disappointed.

But after this long long foreword, why I really sat down to write this morning, was to reflect on writing and the things that don’t matter?  We all know what matters to us, why we write. But the rest of it?  The rest of it is part of why I’m taking a break, not only from writing but from “being a writer.”

I know that people sometimes feel a little queasy when I talk about the dangers of obsession, about the insidious creeping toward discontent, anxiety, depression.  The over-thinking not withstanding, I think I’ve been a stable, practical, optimistic woman and have presented myself that way for long enough that when I hinted to a friend not long ago that I was feeling a little wobbly on the tracks I could almost hear her thinking smething along the lines of, “How’d a nice girl like you end up with syphilis??” I could have assured her that just as syphilis is treatable, so is this kind of fatigue, particularly with the help of good people.

One such good person mentioned recently that she was reading a book called Radical Gratitude by Mary Jo Leddy, a Catholic theologian who eloquently dispenses her wisdom from a broader spiritual context as well.

It has been worth reading the first chapters of the book – I’m going slowly, pondering, not wanting to ignore any kernels of wisdom, just to reach this bit of truth:

“We should take stock to determine whether we feel only dissatisfaction with the way things are. If we cannot find any small moments and satisfaction, cannot see anything that is better than it used to be, cannot relish one small moment of accomplishment then our world is being consumed by a general sense of dissatisfaction.  This dissatisfaction is soul-destroying and dispiriting .  It makes it almost impossible to cherish the world and to embrace it with passionate care.”  – Mary Jo Leddy, Radical Gratitude.

It is not“radical” in the more current usage of the word that  Leddy urges us to embrace gratitude; this is “radical” in the root sense of the word, fundamental, far-reaching.

I believe I’ve mentioned more times than anyone needs to hear that “I’m not writing much these days” but I am pondering a lot, and occasionally I feel the need to write these musings.  I always sit for a long while, trying to decide whether to “save” or to “publish” but in this case, I feel  some “radical gratitude” might be a good prescription for all those who do have thoroughbreds in the upcoming races.

Also, I’ve decided that because I’m about to become a true “senior” in a few weeks, I should try on the cloak of wise woman, or crone, and go for a new persona. Forget the stable, practical, optimistic adult Betty Jane and work on a new status.  I’d like a hut at the edge of the village – with amenities please – and I would like to keep office hours, but I’m quite willing to dispense advice on a great many thing.  But please remember to bring along a chicken, or a sack of potatoes, or a good bottle of wine to leave beside the door.

So it seems to me, in keeping with my recent resolution to at least keep my webpage alive, even though I’m not seriously working on any other projects, that “Kick” deserves another airing.  And Dark Times deserves readers.  Do look for this wonderful book!

Kick

by Betty Jane Hegerat

(“Reprinted from Dark Times, edited by Ann Walsh, published by Ronsdale Press, 2005)

Justin decides before he even leaves the school at lunchtime that he’s not going to tell his mom about Will. She’ll find out soon enough. In the parking lot he spies a rock with a good edge. About the size of a haki sack. A sweet kick sends the stone flying down the street and Justin panting after it. He can hear Amanda calling behind him but he ignores her.

When he opens the front door, he can smell fish and green onion.

In the kitchen, his mom, still in her housecoat, shuffles from the fridge to the counter, mixing tuna for sandwiches.

“Stinks in here,” he says, and when she yawns, he asks, “Did you sleep?”  She worked twelve hour shifts all weekend, and now she has four days off.  When Justin left for school she was trying to decide whether to sleep or tough it out.

“Some,” she says. She whacks a sandwich into quarters, and slides the plate in front of him. “Remember this when I’m old. Any mom who got up out of her bed after three hours of sleep to make lunch for a fourteen-year old deserves big boxes of chocolates in The Home.”

Justin opens a sandwich and picks out the onion.  His mom rolls her eyes, but waits until he’s finished before she scoops up the disgusting pile of green and drops it down the garburetor. Then she scrubs her hands under the tap like she’s at work.  She’s a nurse, and Justin’s sure their kitchen is clean enough for brain surgery. He makes a tower of the four pieces of sandwich.

She pours a glass of milk, sets it in front of him.  Musses his hair, and then wrinkles her nose. “You didn’t shower this morning.”

“Sure I did,” he lies.  He presses hard on the sandwiches, flattening the bread the way he likes it. But the first bite makes him gag. The same feeling in the back of his throat as this morning when Mr. Waters stood in front of homeroom blinking so fast it looked as though there were insects behind the lenses of his glasses. “Class, we have terrible news today.”

Justin coughs the wad of sandwich into a napkin.

His mom watches his face for a minute and then puts her hand on his forehead.  “What’s up?”

“My throat feels funny.” He glugs down half of the milk. “That’s all I want.” Swiping away the milk mustache with the back of his hand, he stands up. When she has that squinty look, she can read his mind. “I better go.”

Still squinting. “Did something happen this morning?”

Oh yeah. Something happened all right. He mumbles and stumbles through the stuff Mr. Waters told them. About Will and his mom and dad and his sisters in the van in California. And somebody came through that red light and Will’s dad couldn’t stop.

“Oh my God, Justin!” She grabs him and pulls him so close he can feel her heart thumping like it’s his own.  His face is pressed to the nighttime smell of her housecoat.  “How terrible for Will and his family! Are they okay?  Was anyone else hurt?” ­

She’s got it wrong, but he can’t correct her. He just shakes his head and pulls away. With the tips of her fingers between her lips she looks like a little kid. He knows that as soon as he leaves the house, she’ll flop down in the rocker in the living room and stare at the wall. He wishes he wasn’t going to walk out the door and leave her thinking Will’s dad is dead. But she’ll have a worse afternoon if she knows it’s Will.         Halfway to school, still booting the rock, the inside of his foot starts to ache. A soft mushy hurt like pressing on an old bruise. A glance at his watch and he slows down so that he can time his arrival to the bell. There are clumps of grade eights standing around the door. Girls crying and holding each other the way they did this morning. Except for Amanda who swoops down on him at the edge of the parking lot. She hooks her foot in front of his and lofts his rock onto the playing field.

“Why didn’t you wait for me, you dork? I was calling you.”

She’s about four inches taller than he is this year. His mom says the boys will catch up in high school, that Justin will grow into his weight. But for now he still feels like a blimp, which is why he goes home for lunch. He doesn’t need anyone ragging him about stuffing his face.

Amanda says she goes home because the girls in grade eight are morons and she doesn’t want to hang out with them. She says she can’t wait to go back up north for the summer. Jason and Amanda have been friends since kindergarten. She and her mom live across the street with Amanda’s grandparents. Every summer Amanda spends a month in Yellowknife with her dad and her other grandmother. At the end of August, she comes back acting like some kind of junior shaman with a new supply of bones and feathers and other stuff her mom won’t let her keep in their house. Most of it is in a box under Justin’s bed.

They wait on the fringe. “Sucks, huh?” she says. She’s chewing on her thumbnail, looking away from Justin whenever he glances toward her. “Will’s such a turd, but I never hoped he’d die.”

Justin feels like she kicked him in the gut. Maybe she never hoped Will would die, but she has to know that Justin did. Every time Will yanked the toque off Justin’s head and filled it with snow, snatched his backpack and threw it in the air and all his pencils and homework tumbled into the wind; every time Will puffed out his cheeks and grinned and said, “Justin’s got high cholesterol!” Every single time, he wished Will would drop dead. But there was always Amanda, helping him brush the snow off his stuff, stomping along beside him all the way home, shouting at him. “Justin, you have to be a bear! Nobody messes with Bear!”

Finally the bell rings, and they trail in together. They have math with Mr. Waters first period after lunch, so back to their home room.

Justin slides into his desk and looks straight ahead, over top of the empty chair in front of him. Are they going to leave it there? Waters hands out a letter for parents. He says it’s about the memorial service for Will. The math test on Thursday is postponed because he knows that some of the students will want to attend.

Justin folds the letter and crams it into his pocket. Mr. Waters is still talking. “For those of you who were friends of Will’s, there’s a counselor in the office this afternoon.” He begins to point and call out names. And the first one out of his mouth is, “Justin.”

Friends?  Does Waters think he’s doing Justin a favour by including him?  Amanda says thanks but no thanks when he calls her name.” I really didn’t know him very well,” she says.  Justin wishes he’d thought of that line, but more than anything he wants to get out of the room, so he shuffles to the door with everyone else.

In the hall, he waits until they’re ahead of him, the girls whispering and sniffing, and then ducks into the washroom. Sits there on a toilet and watches the minutes click past on his wrist. He knows the routine with the counselor. When his grade five teacher’s baby died, a counselor came to the classroom.  To help them “make sense of it” the principal said.  Like there’s any sense in babies dying. Justin already knew from his mom’s job at the hospital that shitty things happen to kids.

After half an hour, he peeks down the hall. Through the glass wall in the office, he can see a few of his classmates waiting in the chairs. Girls. The ones who probably never even talked to Will.

Finally, Justin slips back into the classroom, into his desk. Amanda is looking at him out of the corner of her eye.

He closes his eyes and tries to drown out the voices. Since morning, he’s been afraid to think about Will. Afraid he’ll see him all mangled and bloody. But instead, he’s imagining Will in the chair in front of him. Will turning with that twisted grin, lifting a cheek, and polluting the air around Justin.  Then holding his nose, and just loud enough for everyone to hear, “Ewwwww. Justin! Silent but deadly!”

Justin gags. He swears he can smell the fart even though it’s a dream.  He gets up without telling Mr. Waters where he’s going and runs for the washroom. After he spits into the sink, he rinses his mouth, and then hides in a cubicle until the bell rings for the next class.

At dismissal, the haki sack guys hang out in the stairwell. Sometimes Justin spies on them from the top of the stairs after everyone else is gone. Pretends to be waiting for someone.  Usually they’re playing “clock” and he fingers the knitted grey footbag in his pocket, knowing that he’s better than any of them. A guy like Will – if he did normal stuff like haki instead of following Justin around – would  kick in and join them, all jokey. But Justin’s not good at jokey, and he doesn’t need anyone telling him to get lost. Today, he races ahead, wanting to be first out of the school.

The rock is in the soccer field one bounce from a Slurpee cup, exactly where he marked it in his mind. Kick, kick, kick, takes him halfway home before Amanda catches up.

“So what did she tell you?”

Justin shrugs. Lines up the rock with his toe, and wraps his fingers around the haki in his pocket. The dense weave has a comfortable scratchy feel.

“You didn’t go, did you? I’ll bet you sat in the can the whole time.” After the kick, she races beside him. Amanda is the only person he knows who can talk in a normal voice when she’s running full-out. “So are you going to the funeral?”

He stops, and bends over to catch his breath. “Are you?”

“I dunno,” she says. “Maybe. If you go.” Then Amanda turns and races ahead of him. From behind, it looks as though she’s flying, one foot hardly back on the ground before the other rises. In front of her house, she waves without looking back.

His mom meets him at the door. Hands on his shoulders, she makes him look straight into her eyes. “Why didn’t you tell me it was Will who died, not his dad?”

“I did. But you misunderstood. I didn’t want to talk about it, okay?”

Her hands drift down his arms, squeeze his wrists and let go. She nods. “Okay. I called the school. They said they had a counselor talk to the class. How was that?”

He hates lying to her. Most of the time, he gets away with half the truth. “Stupid,” he says. “They said it was for Will’s friends, and Waters made me go.”

“And…?”

“I didn’t even like Will!”

“Oh. Oh, I see.” She has that look on her face. Like she understands everything, but she doesn’t. Not any of it. She heads for the couch now, leading him by the hand. “Sit down a minute.” Her eyes are shiny. She takes a Kleenex out of her pocket. There’s a whole wad on the floor beside her chair. “Know why I’m crying?”

“Well yeah. A kid died. It’s sad.”

“All afternoon I’ve been imagining how I’d feel if it was you. And feeling so glad that it wasn’t. Because maybe if it was someone else’s boy, then that means that particular tragedy is used up and it can’t happen around here again. Do you understand?”

Oh jeez, same as when they’re going to fly somewhere and she says she’s relieved if there’s already been a plane crash in the last few months because it decreases the chances. Statistics. And then she feels guilty for being glad that other people crashed.

“Yeah,” he says. He’s tired, suddenly. He feels like putting his head on her shoulder. Instead, he pats her hand. And she smiles. “Guilt, right?” he asks. “You feel guilty.”

“Uh huh. How about you? Do you feel guilty because you didn’t like Will, and now he’s dead?”

“No,” Justin says. “I feel guilty, because I don’t feel guilty.” He’s afraid for a minute that she’ll think he’s trying to be a smartass, but she keeps on nodding. He pulls the folded paper out of his pocket and hands it to her. His gut is rumbling. He’d like to grate some cheddar and make nachos.

She reads the letter, and looks up at him. “I think we should go to this service.”

“Maybe,” he says. If he says no, the discussion will go on for much longer.

She smoothes the paper on her knee and looks thoughtful. “You know, funerals are for making peace, Justin. Maybe you could go and just think about what you’d have said to Will if you’d known he was going on a trip and it would end this way.”

Whoa! Glad you’re leaving, but sorry you’re going to die, Jerk? Yeah, that sounds like something the counselor lady would have suggested.

His mom is frowning, waiting for him to answer. “Justin?”

“Yeah, sure. If we go, maybe I’ll do that. Think about what I’d say to him.”

“So we’ll go to the funeral.”

“Maybe,” he says. “If Amanda comes.”

Amanda, all in black, looks like a raven. Black pants, black sweater, and her black hair loose on her shoulders. She barges into Justin’s bedroom on Thursday afternoon while he’s changing from school clothes into his khakis and button shirt. Ten seconds before, he was tugging on the pants, zipping his fly. His shirt is unbuttoned, his feet bare. “Crap, Amanda! Can’t you knock?”

She shrugs and spreads out on his bed, head on the pillow, arms wide. “I don’t think we should go,” she says.

“Well it’s too late. My mom won’t back down now, and your grandma and your mom said they thought it was a good idea for you to come with us.” The buttons seem too big for the holes. He works his way slowly to the bottom. When he looks up, Amanda is taking deep breaths and then exhaling as though she’s going to die. “What are you doing?”

“Justin,” she says in a squeaky voice that does not sound at all like Amanda, “I think I killed him.”

“What?” He stares at her. “That’s ridiculous. Their van got hit by another car.  In California.”

“I know,” she whispers, “but I think I made it happen.”

“Aw man!” He can’t take this. Not one of Amanda’s visions. Not today.

She lurches up and swings her feet to the floor. “See, I made this amulet about a month ago.”

“You put a curse on Will.” His voice is as heavy as the stone in his stomach. “Amanda, that’s kid’s stuff and you know it.”

“I did not put a curse on anyone, you moron. Shamanism is about communicating, not about evil spells. I made this amulet to put you in touch with Bear. So that you would be strong and Will would never bother you again. I think it may have backfired.”  She swoops down beside the bed and lifts the corner of the mattress. Her hand emerges holding a cloth bag.  With her teeth, she rips open the stitching at one end and tumbles the contents onto the quilt.

Will kneels beside the bed and picks through the two chicken bones, a clump of orange hair, and a tiny translucent claw. He holds it between thumb and first finger. “And this would be…? The claw of the sacred grizzly?”

“Right. Symbolically. Actually it’s one of Dandy’s claws.”

The clump of orange hair was obviously donated by Amanda’s cat as well. Justin stuffs the bits back into the little bag and hands it to her. “I don’t want any amulets, Amanda.  I just want to get this over with.”

On the way to the funeral home, Justin’s mom tells them it’s not really a funeral, but a memorial service. There won’t be a casket.  Amanda, who seems to have left her guilt in Justin’s bedroom, chats with his mom about cremation versus burial. Justin refuses to have an opinion, and stares out the window, wishing he’d been a bear instead of a rabbit when his mom suggested this.

When they park at the funeral home, he considers faking a sick stomach. Like that works when your mom is a nurse. He follows Amanda in black and his mom in her navy coat and high-heeled shoes into a lobby where clumps of people stand talking quietly. He can’t spot any of the other guys from school, but Mr. Waters glides over to say he’s proud of Justin for coming.  Even Justin’s mom can’t think of a comeback to that one.

Justin’s already told his mom that the deal is they leave right after the service. No standing around after, no talking to Will’s family. He figures the last thing Will’s parents need is to see other kids today. Live kids.

On a table in front of the chapel door, there’s a blown-up photo of Will in a baseball uniform. He’s winding up to pitch with a look of intense concentration. Justin doesn’t remember ever seeing that expression on Will’s face. With the blue eyes and the blonde afro like a huge halo under the baseball cap, Will looks like a kid in a Disney movie. On the table a sign with flowery writing says, These were a few of his favourite things. Books: the whole set of the Black Stallion. DVD: Happy Gilmour. Pack of baseball cards. Baseball glove. Bag of Doritos. Electric guitar. Haki sack, grey, with frayed threads. Justin feels as though he’s wandered into the wrong room.  Some other kid who died.

Then the chapel doors open and while they wait to file inside, Justin sees Amanda slip a rock onto the table.  He absolutely is not going to ask her about it later.  The chapel is packed. They sit in the back row, which is not nearly far enough away from all those people who look like aunts and uncles and cousins at the front. There are at least two other kids with wild blonde hair like Will’s. He wonders if they knew what Will was really like. He wonders if he knew.

Justin doesn’t try to sing along, but his mom and Amanda are right into the program. They’re both pretty awful singers. A few words from an uncle, then a man who was Will’s baseball coach, then a minister talks and then finally Will’s dad steps up and thanks them all for coming. He starts to say that he knows Will must be smiling down at this wonderful gathering… and then he chokes up and walks back to his seat and the music begins for one last song.

While everyone else is making their way to the room with the coffee and trays of sweets, the three of them sign the guest book. Justin waits while his mother writes a message that uses up all the space beside their names and then runs down the margin of the page.  He knows that on the way home she’s going to ask him if he thought about it.  About what he would have said to Will if he’d known he wasn’t ever going to see him again.  He watches the murmuring guests in the reception room. Looks back at the kid in the picture on the table.  At the plain grey haki sack.

A deep breath, and then he puts his shoulders back so that he feels much taller, and walks through the doorway to stand in front of Will’s mom. “I’m Justin,” he says. “Will sat in front of me this year. And last year too.” The woman bites her lip and nods, and that’s enough for both of them.

Amanda and his mom have followed him into the room, but he turns and leaves them there. Outside in the parking lot, he squints in the bright sunlight. What would he have said?  Nothing, he’ll tell her.

But then he takes out his haki sack. “Hey, Will,” he whispers. “Wanna rally?” A couple of slow kicks, then heels and toes fly and he dances on his little patch of funeral home pavement. When his mom and Amanda finally come out the door, the hack still hasn’t hit the ground.

Notes on the story:

“Kick” was born of the experience some years ago of one
of Betty Jane Hegerat’s own children when an elementary school classmate
was killed in a traffic accident. With all of the best intentions,
the school provided a counsellor for the whole class.
What was a sad event and a harsh lesson in vulnerability,
became even more of an emotional upheaval. The child who
barely knew the victim came away feeling guilty that he
could not summon the sadness he was “supposed” to feel.
The storyteller took the tale a step farther with the perennial
“what if . . . ?” What if the child not only had barely
known the dead classmate, but had actively disliked him?
What if the boy who died was a bully? How does his victim
deal with the sense that his own dark wishes have come
true?

In a recent interview in the Toronto Star, the man responsible for “Blue Monday” listed three rather simplistic keys to finding happiness:  http://www.thestar.com/news/world/article/1317762–today-is-blue-monday-its-creator-offers-three-keys-to-happiness

I’m well underway on the first and third suggestions, but the second made me pause and remember a friend telling me several years ago that I seemed to live a more strictly “compartmentalized life” than anyone she’d known. What I heard her say was that I kept my family life, professional life, social life, writing life, and spiritual life in boxes with tight lids.  I shook my head, not wanting to accept this rigid view of myself even though she assured me that she didn’t see this as a negative quality, just an interesting one.

In more recent years, I think there has been more confluence of my family, social, and writing streams.  At book launches, I’ve allowed myself the morbid observation that this is probably the one time I’m able to see the cross-section of people who might show up for my funeral.

But while friends from my church are part of that cross-section, my authenticity is compromised by the mask that hides my spiritual life. I have excused as “privacy” my unwillingness to talk about or even acknowledge in most areas of my life that I am a believer, a member of a traditional Christian church.  Indeed, I do consider my beliefs to be private. I grew up in a home where talking about politics, finances, and religion was just not done.  I got over the political prohibition early and have no difficulty sounding off on my political stance, and I might even dare to ask someone (but only someone close to me, you understand) how much they paid for that new house.  But my church affiliation, my faith?  I’m working on that. Recently, I’ve oiled the hinges of that box, lifted the lid to describe the process by which my church,  Lutheran Church of the Cross in Calgary, came to accept sexuality resolutions that were close to my heart.

My deep need for privacy in many matters notwithstanding, why the reticence to identify as a Christian?  Partly, I think, the nature of my involvement in my church in spite of a lifelong – well, almost lifelong, a brief lapse of Lutheranism, in fact a lapse in belief in my teenaged years and twenties which I think is typical, perhaps necessary—membership in the church. With the birth of my first child, the church became important to me as “tradition”, the sense of obligation to expose my children to the Christian values and teachings that I’d always acknowledged had done me no harm, and given me a basis for making later-in-life spiritual decisions.  I came back to the church, but had no wish to be involved beyond teaching Sunday school and Vacation Bible School and providing food as required for funerals or celebrations.  The importance of coffee and feeding people were high on the list of Lutheran values I absorbed.  It seemed to me that if I were to talk about my church, my religion, I might be questioned on matters of theology or expected to defend my beliefs. These were conversations in which I would surely have felt tongue-tied.

Partly, as well, my sense that the world I moved in academically, then professionally, and even socially was anti-religion of any stripe, kept me from confessing my beliefs. There were circumstances in which I felt embarrassed about my faith, and when caught unawares might suggest that I was a just-in-case-Christian. I’ve gotten over that.  That’s who I was.

At this stage of my life, I’m finding comfort in being myself.  And in giving myself that permission I’m finding it so much easier to tap into a deep well of compassion but know the point at which I am in danger of drowning. One thing I know for sure is that my faith is stronger now than at any point in my life, and that yes, I do need my church because it grounds me. Three significant pieces have fit into my puzzling over my spirituality recently.

Two weeks ago,  I attended my godson’s confirmation (an important affirmation of faith for Lutherans) at First Lutheran Church and I was touched to the core by Duncan’s eloquent pondering on machines and robots, on the question of whether the future would hold mechanical reproduction of human beings, and how it all came down to the soul.  I was affirmed in my belief that no matter which directions my children follow, the early religious training (which at times in their teenage years they insisted I was “inflicting” on them) was essential to the way I mother.

Last Sunday, I attended Lakeview United Church with a dear friend who has suffered terrible losses in the past year and who wanted me to hear a minister whose messages, she said, had been giving her comfort. The worship service was short because the church’s annual meeting was to follow, but it was powerful in its brevity.  I smiled when the minister prefaced comments on the upcoming meeting with: “We are small, we are old, and we are white. But …”  He challenged the congregation to look to how big the mission of such a congregation could be. This could have been a description of my own church, and in the years I’ve attended Lutheran Church of the Cross I’ve never doubted the ability and the desire of that congregation to reach out and do the work that needs to be done.  I’ve always believed that there are no small works of caring.

But the important part of the message was a challenge I needed.  “If being a Christian became a criminal offence in this country,” the minister asked, “would there be enough to convict you?”  I know the answer.  And I know the mask that I need to fling aside.

And finally just two days after attending that United Church, an email from my own church describing a celebration of works that on a global scale seem small, but are affirmation for me, once again, that even a small, old, white congregation (and I hope that any young, and fervently active members of my church will not take offense at this description) can make a difference by extending a full glass of water to not just one child but to a whole village.

http://clwr.wordpress.com/2013/01/27/how-deep-can-i-drink/

Now my challenge to myself:  how deep can I drink?  Why would I limit myself to a sip from the cup every now and again?

No, I am not going off on a mission.  My discomfort with proselytizing has not changed in the least. In writing this post, I feel I’ve taken off one mask, and even though I may reach for it from time to time, that will be okay.

There are other masks, but those are for other contemplations.

The woman behind the desk tells Barbara that Jewel has moved up to the second floor. She says it with a lilt, as though Jewel strode out of her room and punched that elevator button all on her own. Barbara has been in enough care facilities to know that upward mobility is about loss of mobility. Why hasn’t someone in the family told them Jewel is losing it?

Jewel, sitting in a chair at the window, might have seen Barbara park her car, walk up to the door. But it’s obvious she doesn’t recognize her.

Gary’s wife. Your nephew Gary?

Of course she knows Gary. No loss of voice precipitated the move upstairs. Jewel sounds as testy as ever, the spinster teacher, the family’s legendary lesbian. Nonsense, Gary always insisted. Gossip. Just because she never married. Maybe she wanted to be a history professor instead of a housewife. Some people, Barbara reminded him, do both. She herself has been a teacher and a mother. Not in Jewel’s day, he said. Gossip.

Choice pieces of Jewel’s furniture from home followed her to the care facility, followed her upstairs. Dark mahogany desk still waxed to a shine, pens in a brass cup, small stack of envelopes neatly squared on a leather-cornered blotter.

Jewel interrupts Barbara’s snoopy scan of the room to ask what brings her by on a day when anyone who’s able should be out in the sun. Would she like a cup of tea? The offer seems to use up all her energy and she melts back into her chair.

A bit of family news, Barbara says. She doesn’t know if anyone has told Jewel that their  Kaitlyn is getting married next month. To her roommate at Ryerson. Kaitlyn and Diana.

She wants to say, like you and Henrietta, but Barbara never knew Henrietta. Henrietta (Jewel called her “Hank”, this Barbara gleaned from Gary’s sister who is Barbara’s source of all she knows of Jewel and Henrietta/Hank)) is part of the legend of Jewel the lesbian, how they roomed together at McGill. Stayed close after they graduated in spite of the miles between them, the teaching positions, Jewel in Edmonton, Henrietta in Montreal. Visits back and forth at Christmas, and every summer vacation together; a new picture of the two of them in London, Rome, Madrid in Jewel’s Christmas cards each year. Until suddenly no Henrietta, no more mention of Hank. None, and no one dared to ask. She’d bite your head off, Gary’s sister told Barbara. Briefly, rumours of another woman, another professor colleague, but only Jewel’s smart solo presence at family functions ever after.

The old woman in the chair was likely described as handsome in her youth, still is, hair cut Prince Valiant style across a broad forehead, tweed skirt and pale pink sweater, leather walking shoes solid on the floor. Only the deep-set hoods of her eyes droop, and only for a second until she peers out from under the lids to say she hadn’t heard this was now possible. For girls to marry girls.

The law just passed, Barbara tells Jewel, as breathless as though she hauled a tablet carved with Bill C-38  to the top of the mountain herself.

Is that so? Jewel closes her eyes. Her chin sags. Now Barbara sees the drip-drip stains on the sweater, the snag in the hem of the skirt, wonders who looks after Jewel’s clothes, the personal touch. There are no grown daughters, just gossipy nieces, slightly afraid of this aged aunt.

A woman in floral print uniform glides into the room, eyes flashing into every corner. This is the one who should be watching the smoker out front. You have company, she chirps, plants a hand on Jewel’s shoulder. Jewel’s eyes open. She knows she has company, she says. Just when Barbara has decided that now the news has been shared, she can leave, the nurse shifts a chair into position, beckons Barbara into it, facing Jewel, their knees touching. There you go.

You’ll be getting an invitation to the wedding, Gary will be happy to pick you up, Barbara tells Aunt Jewel.

Gary is going to be furious.

I do not go out these day, Jewel says, clear voice, clear eyes, clear as can be. But a minute later, she sighs and drifts away again.

Sounds of squeaky feet in the hallway, a rattling cart, whine of something hydraulic, a lift for someone else who’s up here because they’re down? Barbara leans back, waits. Fidgets, leans forward, elbows on her knees, chin in her hands. Now she sighs. It must be the air in this place.

Why did I come, you’re probably wondering? she asks out loud. Not a twitch from Jewel. Oh, I don’t know. Another sigh. I’m good with this wedding, and the relationship. Things are so different these days. So open. Not like it was for you and Henrietta, this she whispers to herself, oh she hopes it was a whisper.

Jewel’s head bobs up a notch, her mouth opens, a soft snore escapes. Barbara nods. It’s a good thing, that it’s all open now, don’t you think? I’m fine with it. Only… It’s like when I sing inside my head, you know? I’m Joan Baez, in my mind. But I’ve never been able to carry a tune. In real life, when the song pours out of my mouth I’m off-key. When I try to tell people about this wedding…and I see the way they smile, I can’t sing the song I want to sing. I sound warped. Why is that?

Jewel stirs, her tongue working against her teeth. Barbara reaches for a knotted hand, surprised by the softness of the skin. She strokes the map of veins with her fingertips. I’m sorry, she tells Jewel. I shouldn’t have come. I can’t seem to get any of this right. She gently releases the hand to rest in the folds of tweed across Jewel’s knees.

When Barbara has moved the chair she was sitting in back against the wall, and turns to say goodbye, Jewel’s eyes are open wide and clear. “Henrietta got married, you know. To a man.” Hands clenching the wooden arms of the chair, she pulls up straight, her head high. “Oh, don’t look so sad. It was long ago. It ran its course.”

There’s more clatter in the hall and Barbara knows that any minute there will be a tray with tea and biscuits.

Jewel thanks Barbara for stopping by.

Outside, the same woman is sitting in the smoking chair, but this time there is a woman in the chair beside her. She has a bouquet of flowers across her knees. Flowers. Barbara walks away thinking that she should have brought flowers.

Was I haunted during the writing of The Boy? Yes, indeed,I was. Am I still in the clutches of Cook’s ghost? No. I’ve spent many months granting myself release from the story. In fact, it was not Robert Raymond Cook who haunted me. It was Daisy Mae Cook, his stepmother, mother to the five small children murdered as well. And Daisy was a gentler ghost than RRC. One of my greatest struggles in writing the Cook family story was in avoiding fictionalizing their lives. Daisy remains an enigma—since the publication of The Boy several people have come forward with conflicting portraits of her. But I will leave her for good with my one lapse into imagining:

(excerpted from The Boy, Oolichan Books, 2011)
Daisy, splashed by a blood-red setting sun, leans into the window. The air in the kitchen is soupy, not even the sigh of a breeze.
She lifts a corner of waxed paper covering the plate of sandwiches, pokes at a crust of bread. Mustard has dried marigold yellow on a protruding grey bologna tongue. She re-wraps, and presses the plate to the counter. Too late for the fridge? Lock the barn door when the horse is dead?
“Mommy?”
Kathy, cheeks flushed, kitty-cat pyjamas twisted, droops in the doorway between kitchen and bedrooms. Then Linda toddles to her sister’s side, blanket trailing, thumb corked between her lips. Daisy huffs the fringe of hair off her forehead. “Back to bed, babies!”
“Thirsty!” Kathy’s toes click on the linoleum. From the living room, the voices of her brothers are muzzled by the heat. “Bobby here?” she asks.
“Not yet.” Daisy scoops one pudgy girl onto each bare arm. She waltzes slow around the kitchen, sets the fly paper spinning. Then swoops over the grey arborite table. Linda’s diaper snags on the chrome edge. Daisy lifts, then bops her around the table, one damp print at each place. Deposits her finally on Daddy’s spot. Shifts Kathy to sit beside her baby sister. Lifting the corners of her apron, she fans a breeze for two flushed, up-turned faces. Reminds herself to take off the tatty apron. Berates herself that she cares. Touches her hair, self-consciously. Relives the plucking of a coarse strand of white from the red this morning. And feels that sting all over again.
From the living room, the opening music to 77 Sunset Strip snaps its fingers. Daisy winks at Kathy. “Kookie, Kookie, lend me your comb!” she sings, tickles her fingers through the little girl’s hair. “Turn it down!” she calls to the boys. “Your dad will be here any minute.” Ray can’t stand the show. Kookie too much like Bobby, she thinks. So why isn’t Kookie in jail? And where is Ray? Where is Bobby, now that he’s been sprung?
Then loud voices in the garage, sharp as the edge of a shovel, the scuff of feet, the hard bark of a laugh, scrape of the door as it opens into the kitchen. Ray and Bobby, husband and stepson, drag the smell of grease and garbage into Daisy’s kitchen. She encircles the little girls, and calls the boys from the living room.

 Susan was the Alberta sales rep for Oolichan Books (and a list of other publishers) when I met her in the fall of 2009.  She turned up at a reading I did at Pages and told me that a mutual friend, one of my UBC colleagues, Vicki Bell, had suggested she meet me. A few days later, Susan called to invite me to coffee to suggest an “idea” she had.  And that was the first of the glorious parade of creative ideas to which Susan marches. She asked how I would feel about paying someone to do the promotional work of getting my books known to Alberta libraries, seeking out readings and presentations for me, beating the drum for my new novel, Delivery, that Oolichan was publishing that fall, but also keeping my “backlist” alive.  She wanted to go beyond the limited work she could do as a sales rep and beyond the publicity most publishers are stretched to provide and was contemplating leaving her job and venturing out on her own as an author “impresario”.  I told her I would gladly pay someone to do the promotion that I found so uncomfortable, and give my own energy to what I loved most, the writing. And so began a working relationship that has become a friendship I value even more. In the three years she has been promoting my work, Susan has taken my name and my books to every library in Alberta and solicited invitations to great gigs all over the province. 

Those of us who contracted with Susan to promote our work and our own passion for the written word have had her tireless commitment to finding venues and new audience and for coming up with idea after idea for new ways to address the changes in the industry. Authors who have not been on her roster have benefited too, from the awareness she has brought to librarians and readers about the wealth of writing in this province.

I feel quite sure that Susan is not done with this business, and that she will be lazing in a deck chair with a cat on her lap, an espresso in her hand and catching new ideas that float in on the sea breeze. I’m counting on it.  Meanwhile, I’m wishing her the very best with her own writing—surely she deserves to put her energy to her own passion for story—and hoping the next mystery flies onto the page. There are readers waiting for another glimpse into paradise.

—The Plains. I haven’t been to Montana in many years, and in fact my strongest memories are of a couple of TGIF trips across the border to Curly Bob’s bar in Sweetgrass when I was working for Alberta Social Services in Lethbridge, my first social work job back in … well, you really don’t need to know how long ago. The other memory is of a boyfriend who became a deadweight. I’d met him through a computer dating adventure (which I will write about some day) and when I tired of him I was glad that he returned to Ontario.  When he sought me out in Lethbridge the next summer, en route to San Francisco he said, I offered immediately to drive him to the border.  I dumped him at Coutts and you’ll have to wait for the rest of the story.The landscape!  I’d brought book tapes for the car but we didn’t need them.

—The people. We had just checked in at the Dude Rancher Lodge, a funky historic lodging in downtown Billings, and as though he was scripted, a lean tall cowboy meandered through with his spurs a-jingle.  Cowboys everywhere, the real deal.  And in almost equal supply, academics, and of course the folks from the library.  After my reading, a lovely man named Michael came up to tell me about the nine nations of North America.  I’d started out with my thanks to the festival organizers for including Canadians and insisted that there was no north/south literary border. But what Michael was excited to tell me was that I’d engaged him as soon as I began to speak. My voice, he said, was exactly that of his mother who could do a wicked imitation of the “Canadian accent”.  Do we really say “abooot” instead of “abowt”?  Who knew, eh? Everywhere, friendly people and a warm welcome for the Canadians. My sister Canadian on the shortlists was Adele Dueck, from Lucky Lake SK who was nominated in the Writing by Women category for her YA novel.

—Billings. We’d never been there, and knowing that the entire population of Montana would fit into Calgary, we expected just another small arid prairie city. Billings is a well-treed treasure, tucked up against the rim of a deep canyon, bordered on its other side by the Yellowstone River. Many of the historic buildings of the beautifully rejuvenated downtown, like many Calgary buildings, are of sandstone. We went for coffee on Saturday morning to a roasterie two blocks from the Dude Rancher and when we came out, were puzzled by the number of people sitting on curbs, lining the street.  A parade?  No, a friendly couple told us. There was a rodeo on in Billings that weekend, and the cattlemen’s association (NILE) had organized a cattle drive through downtown.  Fifty head were coming through. We were on our way to a reading and being Calgarians, I’m afraid fifty head was not enough to entice us to stay.

—The Events and the books. Friday afternoon was given over to the them of “Montana’s Home”, readings and presentations of which we attended two: Handraised: The Barns of Montana (the beautiful coffee table book that won the non-fiction category in which The Boy was shortlisted); Montana’s One Room Schoolhouses (another gorgeous book of photography and history traced through the tiny schoolhouses of not so long ago) that I’m predicting will be nominated for next year’s awards. Then a welcome reception and a chance to meet other authors and the festival organizers. Saturday celebrated all the nominated books with readings and discussion. I had the pleasure of reading with David Mogen, author of Honyocker Dreams: Montana Memories, a beautifully-wrought memoir, and Lael Morgan, author of  Wanton West: Madams, Money, Murder, and the Wild Women of Montana’s Frontier.  What’s not to be intrigued about with a title like that?

Saturday evening, the awards banquet and more authors and books and celebration. Tom McGuane was the keynote speaker and one of my favourite quips by this novelist, screenwriter, filmmaker was that he sometimes tells people he’s a backhoe operator, just to give himself some credibility. We also loved the food, which puzzled us in a pleasant way until we found out that it too was to celebrate “home”.  Comfort food:  meat loaf, mashed potatoes, green bean casserole, pork chops in mushroom gravy. Centrepieces for the tables: piles of books, all of the books that were entered but were not finalists were there for the taking. This struck me as a bit of sad irony at first, but then I decided it was a great way to celebrate all of the entries. After the awards ceremony we had the pleasure of a party at the home of Corby Skinner, one of the festival organizers. I’m blaming Corby’s cat for my declaration this week that no author is complete without a cat. So now we have Rosie, freshly adopted from the city animal shelter. Rosie thanks you, Corby!

My only regret is that I didn’t have the opportunity to meet every writer.  What a fine celebration and what an honour to have been included.  Thank you, High Plains Book Awards and the city of Billings.  We will be back someday.

On a landmark birthday almost 20 years ago, I decided it was time to lasso a dream I’d had since I was a teenager writing angst-ridden poetry and maudlin short stories. I was going to be a writer. Note, that this  ambition went beyond simply putting my pen to the page and telling stories. I was going to be a Writer. And I dove into thr pursuit with a zeal and an energy that amazes me now when I look back at that stage of my life—part-time work for an adoption agency, three children still under my wing, a multitude of volunteer activities.  I took writing class after writing class, acquired an addiction to writing retreats, took up the challenge of breaking into every literary magazine in the land (not successfully, of course, with a number of them still on my list), and set my sites on a novel. I was determined to have a book. That’s what it was all about, right? Books? I imagined reviews, book tours, and even dared to think about awards. I told my friends, with a laugh, that I didn’t anticipate winning book prizes, but that didn’t stop me from imagining what I’d wear to the Giller Gala. I put my shoulder to the wheel and pushed that wonky stone up the hill for eighteen years.

In 2006, after two book manuscripts went to their final reward in my desk drawer, my first novel, Running Toward Home, was published. That same year, I began the UBC Optional Residency MFA Creative Writing program and against all advice, finished it off in two years; six courses, two summer residencies, and a thesis packed into that time. Meanwhile, I taught creative writing at various venues. I graduated jwith the MFA just after my 60^th birthday in May 2008. In fall, 2008, my collection of short stories, A Crack in the Wall was published. In 2009, another novel and my UBC thesis, Delivery, was published, and in 2011, a hybrid of fiction and non-fiction, The Boy. Was I delighted with the succession of books? Of course. Was I satisfied? Of course not. I was gratified by the reader response to all of them, thrilled to be on shortlists for Alberta prizes for both Delivery and The Boy, but… at the same time I found myself sucked into the lure of winning, and vulnerable to envy and resentment.

The Boy was the most challenging story I had tackled, and tackle it I did, going deep into dark holes and plumbing fears I had never acknowledged. To be frank, six months after The Boy was published, I crashed. I was exhausted, emotionally and physically and creatively. People complimented me on all I had achieved in six years, and I insisted repeatedly that it was simply a case of almost two decades of work finally catching up. The truth is, I was too driven for my own good. I wanted more than the pleasure of writing and a reading audience, however small. I let myself be seduced by the writing life, or more accurately, the life of a successful writer. I let the literary culture define success for me, instead of finding the balance I needed between writing life and real life.

This post is the most serious writing I’ve done in a very long time. I keep telling people I’m on sabbatical, but in fact, I am embracing “not writing” with such relief that I can envision myself at the end of the year declaring that I am semi-retired. I am spending hours that were previously committed to the computer with my newly-retired husband, I go for coffee with friends and have stopped looking at my watch and thinking I need to get home to write, and my first concern these days is the people I care about and maximizing the time I have with them.

Perhaps my motivation to put all this on the page signals a return to writing, but at this point, I only want to humbly share what I’ve learned. It is possible to want something too much. It is possible to lose sight of what’s important in life. It is possible to find your way back.

So next week I am off to Billings, Montana for the sheer pleasure of making the acquaintance of writers in another place, and celebrating with them. The non-fiction prize?  I can honestly say that I will not feel anything but pleasure for whoever wins.  And now I have to plan what I will wear to that “gala”.