"The best thing one can say of anyone is that they fight," Doris Lessing, British novelist. She wrote this in The Golden Notebook, her 2007 novel that won her the Nobel Prize.
I found the quote above in this week’s Newsweek article about Doris Lessing. It spoke to me. I think that you should fight until you haven’t the strength to take one more swing, and then after a good night’s sleep, get back in the ring and start swinging again.
I was often chastised in my early days of the widow message board by my “elders” for not accepting the status quo, but I have since come to realize that making a plan and executing it is too much a part of who I am. Doing nothing has never solved any of my difficulties or made my life better. What it leads to, in my opinion, is frustration and bitterness, and a deep sense of helplessness. Some of my battles have been long. Some were short. Sometimes I received assistance. Often I was expected to go it alone. The point is though that I came out of the other side of the struggle better for it whether the outcome was preferred or not.
I think that it is Dylan Thomas who writes about “raging” against the coming of death, but his comparison is not too much different from Lessing’s advice. Life is meant to be lived and forcefully if necessary.
Thursday, October 11, 2007
Wednesday, October 10, 2007
Soup and Sandwiches
Last night it was vegetable barley stew with tuna sandwiches. Tonight it will be minestrone, romaine salad and fresh bread. Did I mention the soup will be homemade? Like last night’s stew? No, well it will be. How did this happen? Me cooking.
When I was young and my mother wanted to teach my sister and I to cook, she meant baking. The kinds of things that my father liked to have around that were time consuming to prepare, and she didn’t feel like doing herself. While I don’t think my parents had children with the intention of fobbing off their least favorite chores on us, over the years that is what happened. I am sure that I was never taught to cook a meal though my mother claims otherwise. I am sure for the simple fact that my father wasn’t someone who wanted his meal ready and on the table when he arrived home from work in the evening. He wanted to read the paper. Have a few beers. And then a few more. Smoke the cigarettes that had been burning a hole in his pocket during his ten hour shift at the meat packing plant. While our friends were having dinner, we were playing outside,waiting for them to be done, but by the time they were finished, it was dinner time for us. After enduring family meal, a ritual that became more and more arduous as the years rolled by, my father’s drinking got steadily heavier, and my parent’s relationship more strained; my sister and I would hurry through the clean-up the hope that would still be enough daylight left for play or homework or whatever. As a result, I never learned to cook a meal.
When I went out on my own, meals were haphazard affairs. I am the kind of person who can eat the same thing for weeks and months on end without thinking much about it. Variety never had much to do with food for me. Even now, I have certain preferences and if not for Katy and Rob, I would rarely spice up my routine beyond my few favorites.
My late husband liked to cook, and he was easily bored with routine. He did most of the evening meal prep when we ate in, but because we were childless for the first while, we ate out a lot too. Later on his illness effected his appetite to the point where he didn’t eat much, and Katy was still a baby, so there was no need to prepare meals in the traditional sense. I got into the habit of feeding the two of them and then eating breakfast foodmyself, if I ate at all.
Rob had limited rotation of meals when I first met him. When it became too tedious for his daughter to bear, I think, then Jordan would cook to change things up a bit. So, when he and I blended our lives nightly meals became something that I to truly deal with for the first time in my life. At first, I left it to Rob, who was pretty good about it despite the fact that he had to work all day and come home to the additional work of preparing the family meal. He would give me jobs to do like vegetable prep or salad making. From there I progressed to making lunch for everyone, as Rob came home most days, and it was a bit like making supper but with a less demanding menu. After a time the occasional meal became my responsibility. And now, I am making soup from scratch.
I know that many women would find my pride in this accomplishment laughable especially because in my peer group, many married young and have been juggling husband and children and jobs and cooking for decades now. But for me, I am still quite impressed with myself. First I am writing regularly, and now I cook. On par as far as creative endeavors go? Perhaps not, but both are outlets in my quest for personal growth and discovery.
When I was young and my mother wanted to teach my sister and I to cook, she meant baking. The kinds of things that my father liked to have around that were time consuming to prepare, and she didn’t feel like doing herself. While I don’t think my parents had children with the intention of fobbing off their least favorite chores on us, over the years that is what happened. I am sure that I was never taught to cook a meal though my mother claims otherwise. I am sure for the simple fact that my father wasn’t someone who wanted his meal ready and on the table when he arrived home from work in the evening. He wanted to read the paper. Have a few beers. And then a few more. Smoke the cigarettes that had been burning a hole in his pocket during his ten hour shift at the meat packing plant. While our friends were having dinner, we were playing outside,waiting for them to be done, but by the time they were finished, it was dinner time for us. After enduring family meal, a ritual that became more and more arduous as the years rolled by, my father’s drinking got steadily heavier, and my parent’s relationship more strained; my sister and I would hurry through the clean-up the hope that would still be enough daylight left for play or homework or whatever. As a result, I never learned to cook a meal.
When I went out on my own, meals were haphazard affairs. I am the kind of person who can eat the same thing for weeks and months on end without thinking much about it. Variety never had much to do with food for me. Even now, I have certain preferences and if not for Katy and Rob, I would rarely spice up my routine beyond my few favorites.
My late husband liked to cook, and he was easily bored with routine. He did most of the evening meal prep when we ate in, but because we were childless for the first while, we ate out a lot too. Later on his illness effected his appetite to the point where he didn’t eat much, and Katy was still a baby, so there was no need to prepare meals in the traditional sense. I got into the habit of feeding the two of them and then eating breakfast foodmyself, if I ate at all.
Rob had limited rotation of meals when I first met him. When it became too tedious for his daughter to bear, I think, then Jordan would cook to change things up a bit. So, when he and I blended our lives nightly meals became something that I to truly deal with for the first time in my life. At first, I left it to Rob, who was pretty good about it despite the fact that he had to work all day and come home to the additional work of preparing the family meal. He would give me jobs to do like vegetable prep or salad making. From there I progressed to making lunch for everyone, as Rob came home most days, and it was a bit like making supper but with a less demanding menu. After a time the occasional meal became my responsibility. And now, I am making soup from scratch.
I know that many women would find my pride in this accomplishment laughable especially because in my peer group, many married young and have been juggling husband and children and jobs and cooking for decades now. But for me, I am still quite impressed with myself. First I am writing regularly, and now I cook. On par as far as creative endeavors go? Perhaps not, but both are outlets in my quest for personal growth and discovery.
Challenging
Last night the immigration paperwork was finally completed. Rob had all the proper documents, plus photocopies, organized Virgo style and ready for us to read through and sign. He had also taken some time to call the CIC and ask about the possible consequences of our up-coming trip to the States because along with the application for permanent residence a request for an extension of our visa needs to be sent. However, our leaving the country, even for a few days, will effect the latter as we will re-enter before that application is granted. Truthfully, I have been a bit worried. As a spouse the likelihood of being denied re-entry is minimal, but what they say about border guards and customs officials is true. They have ultimate authority and really aren’t answerable to anyone when deciding who is in and who must turn around and go back. Consequently, the CIC officials in the “home office” will never give a straight answer on matters of re-admittance.
When I questioned Rob about what he learned, which was the usual mealy-mouthed stuff - ie: not much we already didn’t know - and his assessment, he told me, “I think we will be okay.” To which I replied, “You think?” Using a tone that was meant to imply that I wasn’t reassured, and he took as “ What do you mean by that, dumb ass?” He then proceeded to tell me that while he had heard other women challenge their husbands in such a manner, it was a first for him. A statement I instantly doubted given what I know about his late wife, Shelley, and he later confirmed for me when we discussed it again. So, I turned it around and asked him what his response would have been to someone who only “thought” something was correct. The look on his face told me he would have responded in kind. My reply to that was “Well, I am your evil twin.” And he just laughed.
The other night before we fell asleep Rob was musing about opposites attracting but how much different it is when two like-minded spirits are drawn together. And he is right. Not that there aren’t the odd moments when our similar styles mean that one of us is forced to come at things from unfamiliar angle, but the more we are together, the easier it gets to know when that is, or isn’t, required. Although we both have known what it was like to be with someone who accepted us for ourselves, it is no less a miraculous thing the second time around. It’s actually more special in some ways because we are so much more consciously aware of the gift. Still nothing worth having comes without effort, and even work, at times. If there were no friction at all, then how could you know if the other person was truly being themselves and not just going along, stuffing real feelings that have to surface sooner or later? Better to challenge and have those discussions that promote growth and deepening ties. Relationships are give and take not go along to get along which I see so many people do. Out of fear? Perhaps but more likely out of the romantic misconception that if two people are in love, they never disagree or argue or get angry or need space or are still an individual with individual needs at all. That might work if all that is wanted is a hearts and flowers for a few years before trading up (or down) for the next bliss-outed encounter, but for a relationship to last reality must be acknowledged and dealt with. Sometimes the house needs to be cleaned and garbage needs to be put out on the curb. Kids will demand. Jobs will ruin plans. Extended family will require attention. Couples will actually see things from differing points of view. And it’s how those moments are worked through that reveal the true love in a relationship.
So last night, it was immigration. We have been a long time working on this and it’s important to get it as right as humanly possible. After the paperwork was done, child was bathed, read to and finally asleep, we curled up. Rob at his desk chair and me on his lap because he wanted to show me some funny email he’s gotten from a friends at work. We talked about this and that and just basked in the coziness of our life. Nerdy though it may appear from the outside, it’s working.
When I questioned Rob about what he learned, which was the usual mealy-mouthed stuff - ie: not much we already didn’t know - and his assessment, he told me, “I think we will be okay.” To which I replied, “You think?” Using a tone that was meant to imply that I wasn’t reassured, and he took as “ What do you mean by that, dumb ass?” He then proceeded to tell me that while he had heard other women challenge their husbands in such a manner, it was a first for him. A statement I instantly doubted given what I know about his late wife, Shelley, and he later confirmed for me when we discussed it again. So, I turned it around and asked him what his response would have been to someone who only “thought” something was correct. The look on his face told me he would have responded in kind. My reply to that was “Well, I am your evil twin.” And he just laughed.
The other night before we fell asleep Rob was musing about opposites attracting but how much different it is when two like-minded spirits are drawn together. And he is right. Not that there aren’t the odd moments when our similar styles mean that one of us is forced to come at things from unfamiliar angle, but the more we are together, the easier it gets to know when that is, or isn’t, required. Although we both have known what it was like to be with someone who accepted us for ourselves, it is no less a miraculous thing the second time around. It’s actually more special in some ways because we are so much more consciously aware of the gift. Still nothing worth having comes without effort, and even work, at times. If there were no friction at all, then how could you know if the other person was truly being themselves and not just going along, stuffing real feelings that have to surface sooner or later? Better to challenge and have those discussions that promote growth and deepening ties. Relationships are give and take not go along to get along which I see so many people do. Out of fear? Perhaps but more likely out of the romantic misconception that if two people are in love, they never disagree or argue or get angry or need space or are still an individual with individual needs at all. That might work if all that is wanted is a hearts and flowers for a few years before trading up (or down) for the next bliss-outed encounter, but for a relationship to last reality must be acknowledged and dealt with. Sometimes the house needs to be cleaned and garbage needs to be put out on the curb. Kids will demand. Jobs will ruin plans. Extended family will require attention. Couples will actually see things from differing points of view. And it’s how those moments are worked through that reveal the true love in a relationship.
So last night, it was immigration. We have been a long time working on this and it’s important to get it as right as humanly possible. After the paperwork was done, child was bathed, read to and finally asleep, we curled up. Rob at his desk chair and me on his lap because he wanted to show me some funny email he’s gotten from a friends at work. We talked about this and that and just basked in the coziness of our life. Nerdy though it may appear from the outside, it’s working.
Tuesday, October 9, 2007
Writing Contest is a Mystery
I have come to the conclusion that the mystery writing contest in the Edmonton Journal is part talent and part crap-shoot. The two preceding chapters have been good but not really great. This last chapter even contradicted the first chapter on a fairly noticeable point. The author who began the novel and will write the last chapters is obviously looking for writers who are competent and further the story, but since he has to tie up all ends in the last chapter, it’s highly unlikely he went into this contest with no vision at all of where the story might or should end up. He is looking for certain elements and a writer will hit it or not. Which explains the choices for the second and third chapters. So based on this, I wrote a draft of the fourth chapter based on what I think should happen next and if it falls within Thomas Wharton’s tentative vision, great and if not I will try again next week. Here is chapter four. Enjoy.
Chapter 4 – Bert Gombrick
Emmy ran back to her van. She knew she wouldn’t be able to catch Gombrick’s truck, but she knew where to find him. When she arrived at Bert Gombrick’s house, she didn’t bother hiding. She pulled right into the driveway. Emmy wondered for a moment if she should be more frightened, but she remembered the look in Jack’s eyes. Defeated, but not necessarily scared. If Jack really was worried about her safety, he wouldn’t have asked Emmy to drop the case. He would have told her to do it in no uncertain terms. Certain in that knowledge, Emmy marched up to the front door, but as she raised her fist to knock on the door, she realized it was slightly ajar. She pushed it open slowly and stuck her head tentatively inside. The room was dark, blinds drawn, but there was a light coming from the kitchen, streaming into the adjacent dining room and drawing her inside. Stifling the urge to announce herself, Emmy tiptoed cautiously through the living room toward the light. Halfway across the living room her foot caught on an area rug causing her to bump forcefully into an end table next to the leather sofa. The lamp atop it wobbled precipitously. Emmy caught it with one hand before as it fell, righted it again slowly and continued toward the kitchen entrance pausing for just a second to force herself to take a deep breath. She’d all but stopped breathing normally ever since she entered Gombrick’s home, taking such short shallow gulps of air that she was beginning to feel a bit light-headed. Steeling herself, she took a few more brisk steps until she found herself about to round the corner that led into the kitchen. She stopped again, took another deep breath and rounded the corner.
It was a kitchen. Surprisingly like the display she and Chelsea had been admiring at the IKEA in South Edmonton Common just the weekend before last. Honey-brown Akurum/Nexus cabinets with stone effect black Pragel countertops and a Bolomen double-bowl inset sink set in a breakfast bar between the appliance area and the eat in kitchen. Emmy had to will herself to stop admiring Gombrick’s surprisingly similar taste in décor, but she couldn’t prevent herself from wondering, did this particular kitchen define Bert Gombrick as a person and if so, what did that say about her? Gombrick was sitting at the table. The same dining set that she had been hounding Jack about just before he announced he was leaving her for another woman who, ironically, owned that very same table set according to Chelsea. With a start Emmy noticed Gombrick was staring right at her. Or rather, he was just staring. His head at an angle. One arm dangling at this side. The other arm stretched out across the table as though reaching for something, but the only thing on the table was a pen. The kind banks hand out free to customers opening new accounts.
Before dialing 911, Emmy moved in for a closer look. Careful not to touch any more than she had already, she crossed the room to the table and took a long look. So, this is what a dead body looks like, she thought slightly amazed that it was slightly less creepy than she would have imagined. A murder victim. Or so she assumed. No blood or visible wounds that she could see. Biting her lower lip and swallowing the revulsion, she placed two fingers on the side of the dead man’s neck, looking for a pulse she was very certain she wouldn’t find. The skin wasn’t cold but it wasn’t warm either and had a slightly bluish pallor. His mouth was open, jaw slack and his eyes filmed and half-closed. He looked a bit like a fish on a dock in mid-gulp for air.
Pulling her hand back, Emmy was about to reach for her cell phone when she noticed the pen again. It seemed odd, but it was as if Gombrick was still reaching for it. Getting as close as she could without disturbing anything else, Emmy tried to make out the writing on the pen’s exposed side.
Sherwood Park Fitness and Yoga.
Even though she knew she shouldn’t. Emmy scooped up the pen and pocketed it. Minutes later when she was safely standing on Gombrick’s front lawn, she called Jack.
“What were you thinking?” Jack wasn’t yelling, but he might as well have been. Emmy sat next to him in his department issue Caprice Classic as a small armada of EPS swarmed Gombrick’s home. Police tape cordoned off the section of sidewalk in front as neighbors began to gather.
“What was I thinking?” she countered. “What were you thinking? Not telling me the truth about him? About the case? I wasn’t expecting to find him dead, you know.”
“Em,” Jack sighed. “You shouldn’t have gotten this involved. Did you think I would warn you off out of pettiness? I just can’t give you the details. This is a high level investigation, and Gombrick was just about our only inside lead. Please, Emmy, if not for my sanity than for Chelsea’s sake. Drop this case.”
Even though she knew he meant well, Emmy looked him in the eye and lied, “Okay, Jack. You win again. I’ll go home and forget about Ixion and Bert Gombrick.”
Jack Budge sat just around the corner from his old home until just after dawn. He was cold and cramped and wishing he was wrong when he saw the van pull out of the driveway. He waited until Emmy drove by and then started his car. Pulling a u-turn, he took out after her. You never could lie to me Em, he thought as he followed her onto Yellowhead Trail not noticing at all the black 4x4 following behind him.
Chapter 4 – Bert Gombrick
Emmy ran back to her van. She knew she wouldn’t be able to catch Gombrick’s truck, but she knew where to find him. When she arrived at Bert Gombrick’s house, she didn’t bother hiding. She pulled right into the driveway. Emmy wondered for a moment if she should be more frightened, but she remembered the look in Jack’s eyes. Defeated, but not necessarily scared. If Jack really was worried about her safety, he wouldn’t have asked Emmy to drop the case. He would have told her to do it in no uncertain terms. Certain in that knowledge, Emmy marched up to the front door, but as she raised her fist to knock on the door, she realized it was slightly ajar. She pushed it open slowly and stuck her head tentatively inside. The room was dark, blinds drawn, but there was a light coming from the kitchen, streaming into the adjacent dining room and drawing her inside. Stifling the urge to announce herself, Emmy tiptoed cautiously through the living room toward the light. Halfway across the living room her foot caught on an area rug causing her to bump forcefully into an end table next to the leather sofa. The lamp atop it wobbled precipitously. Emmy caught it with one hand before as it fell, righted it again slowly and continued toward the kitchen entrance pausing for just a second to force herself to take a deep breath. She’d all but stopped breathing normally ever since she entered Gombrick’s home, taking such short shallow gulps of air that she was beginning to feel a bit light-headed. Steeling herself, she took a few more brisk steps until she found herself about to round the corner that led into the kitchen. She stopped again, took another deep breath and rounded the corner.
It was a kitchen. Surprisingly like the display she and Chelsea had been admiring at the IKEA in South Edmonton Common just the weekend before last. Honey-brown Akurum/Nexus cabinets with stone effect black Pragel countertops and a Bolomen double-bowl inset sink set in a breakfast bar between the appliance area and the eat in kitchen. Emmy had to will herself to stop admiring Gombrick’s surprisingly similar taste in décor, but she couldn’t prevent herself from wondering, did this particular kitchen define Bert Gombrick as a person and if so, what did that say about her? Gombrick was sitting at the table. The same dining set that she had been hounding Jack about just before he announced he was leaving her for another woman who, ironically, owned that very same table set according to Chelsea. With a start Emmy noticed Gombrick was staring right at her. Or rather, he was just staring. His head at an angle. One arm dangling at this side. The other arm stretched out across the table as though reaching for something, but the only thing on the table was a pen. The kind banks hand out free to customers opening new accounts.
Before dialing 911, Emmy moved in for a closer look. Careful not to touch any more than she had already, she crossed the room to the table and took a long look. So, this is what a dead body looks like, she thought slightly amazed that it was slightly less creepy than she would have imagined. A murder victim. Or so she assumed. No blood or visible wounds that she could see. Biting her lower lip and swallowing the revulsion, she placed two fingers on the side of the dead man’s neck, looking for a pulse she was very certain she wouldn’t find. The skin wasn’t cold but it wasn’t warm either and had a slightly bluish pallor. His mouth was open, jaw slack and his eyes filmed and half-closed. He looked a bit like a fish on a dock in mid-gulp for air.
Pulling her hand back, Emmy was about to reach for her cell phone when she noticed the pen again. It seemed odd, but it was as if Gombrick was still reaching for it. Getting as close as she could without disturbing anything else, Emmy tried to make out the writing on the pen’s exposed side.
Sherwood Park Fitness and Yoga.
Even though she knew she shouldn’t. Emmy scooped up the pen and pocketed it. Minutes later when she was safely standing on Gombrick’s front lawn, she called Jack.
“What were you thinking?” Jack wasn’t yelling, but he might as well have been. Emmy sat next to him in his department issue Caprice Classic as a small armada of EPS swarmed Gombrick’s home. Police tape cordoned off the section of sidewalk in front as neighbors began to gather.
“What was I thinking?” she countered. “What were you thinking? Not telling me the truth about him? About the case? I wasn’t expecting to find him dead, you know.”
“Em,” Jack sighed. “You shouldn’t have gotten this involved. Did you think I would warn you off out of pettiness? I just can’t give you the details. This is a high level investigation, and Gombrick was just about our only inside lead. Please, Emmy, if not for my sanity than for Chelsea’s sake. Drop this case.”
Even though she knew he meant well, Emmy looked him in the eye and lied, “Okay, Jack. You win again. I’ll go home and forget about Ixion and Bert Gombrick.”
Jack Budge sat just around the corner from his old home until just after dawn. He was cold and cramped and wishing he was wrong when he saw the van pull out of the driveway. He waited until Emmy drove by and then started his car. Pulling a u-turn, he took out after her. You never could lie to me Em, he thought as he followed her onto Yellowhead Trail not noticing at all the black 4x4 following behind him.
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