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Ordinary Canary Posts

I’m Mad at Anthony Bourdain

(posted a few days later)

This morning the news broke that Anthony Bourdain had been found dead in a Paris hotel room. His death has been ruled a suicide, and although the details have yet to come out, it is inevitable that it must also be related to a mental health disorder. This is barely a breath after Kate Spade was found to have hanged herself off a doorknob in her Manhattan apartment, a result of a cheerfully hidden case of bipolar disorder. But her handbags were so playful!, said every single reporter, which tells me everything about what they understand about the manic part of manic-depression.

This has been a hard week for me.

I have no affinity to either Kate Spade or Anthony Bourdain, though it is always sad to discover how desperately someone was struggling, but, thanks to their suicides, I am now surrounded by self-appointed experts on mental health.  In the elevator, they talk in respectful and solemn tones about all the people that they’ve heard about–and it is clear from the careful tones that they use that it is a subject that they get to forget about most of the time. Creatives, they tell each other, truly creative people often suffer from depression. Look at Stephen Fry. Look at Robin Williams.

When you are the child of a bipolar parent, this is enraging, even though this is probably just the way normal people cope with bad news. It seems impossible that someone with so much wealth and fame should be so unhappy as to want to end it all, doesn’t it? It’s so easy to look at their lives and say, oh, if I had a few million in the bank, then I wouldn’t have the worries that I do. Money solves so very many problems.  Just not biology.

Like Kate Spade, my mom also died at a young age, and, bizarrely, ended up on national news media when it happened. Her death was not a suicide, but without a doubt was influenced by her bipolar disorder. Self-care is hard when you’re struggling to survive.

But I also know that she would have chosen to live. Some days that knowledge is heavier to carry than others. Listening to strangers talk about how sad it is, but also how unsurprising it is, to see someone with bipolar order take their life…well, it hurts.

Likewise, every time another school shooting/suicide happens, the people who want to own guns shout about how the problem isn’t guns — it’s just those people with mental health problems. I always want to shout back, to remind them that if they understood what it was like to live with someone with bipolar disorder, then they would stop thinking about mental health as something that gets cured through a one-time talking cure.  They’d know the three states:

1. On meds.
2. Off meds.
3. On meds, but the meds have stopped working.

My mom’s life was dedicated to the balance of those three, though it was generally a balance between states one and three.  She spent her whole life just trying to feel normal, constantly working with her doctors to find a pharmaceutical and therapeutic balance that would allow her to keep functioning.  She constantly chased activities and pursuits that she hoped would bring her to a state of calm happiness. My earliest childhood memory is going to stay with my father while my mom went to rehab after years of self-medicating.  Most of the next ones were entertaining myself in therapy waiting rooms and A.A. meetings.

Given a choice, she would have lived.  And that is profoundly painful to know — that she would have lived, but wasn’t given the chance.

Some days, my dead are harder to carry than others. This week they swirl around me, because there is nowhere to go to escape the many reminders of their lives.

And so.  Anthony Bourdain.  I actually know very little about him — he had some TV shows that I don’t think I’ve ever seen.  I can’t pretend to know what was happening in his life.  I certainly don’t judge him for it.  Life is hard.  But there are people whose passing creates ripples in the larger wave of humanity.  His is one of them – and the waves have brought on more grief than I was prepared to handle this week.  And so, I cannot help but be angry, because anger is so much more comforting than despair.

Rest peacefully, all of you ghosts.

 

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My friend Del — it’s like “of the” in Spanish.

I’ve been torn in many directions over the last few months; trying to find time to work on the novel that I have been writing in bits and spurts, exhausting myself with my family and work responsibilities, cramming friendships into the bits of space left over, picking up projects here and there to help this one or that.  In the middle of that, grieving the loss of a good friend who I still cannot believe is gone.  And still beyond all that, the steady guilt of ignoring this place, of letting another month go by with silence here.

In January, in the middle of a blizzard, my kid brother moved out of our house in the most painful way.  He’s been our charge for the better part of a decade, so the schism was not without grief and bitter feelings.  And yet, we carry on.  Worrying from afar and hoping that it will all work out.  Trying to ignore the pain that we all inadvertently cause each other as we bumble about our lives.

This is just life.  Whether you will it or not, you move along on the ebbs and flow of its waves.  Time and tide wait for no one and you can do nothing about the words that you should have written yesterday.  Or the day before that.  Or the day before that.

My friend Del died in February, which made everything else seem very trivial.  Life simply stopped for me for a while, as my everyday duties became complicated by grief.  He has been in my life for my entire adult life, so it took me some time to adjust to who I might be as an adult without him there as my constant friend and support.  I found out at work, so I locked myself into an empty office and sat on the floor for a long time, until I figured out how to stand again.  I didn’t realize it at the time, but this was a metaphor for the days to come.

My Beloved, when I told him, just said, “No, it is too awful.  It’s just too awful,” which I still can’t help but agree with him.  It’s just too awful.

My friend, officiating our wedding, because it made no sense to ask anyone else.

At my friend’s funeral, the pastor read an Auden poem — you know it — the one with the final line about how nothing now will ever come to any good.  My friend, sacrilegious at best, would have deeply enjoyed a pastor reading a gay love elegy at his wake, once he got past the idea of a pastor showing up for his wake at all. But it was a good poem to choose, because Auden had the right of it.  I was, at best, semi-functional while my mind struggled with reconciling the impossible (he was now dead) with the possible (and yet the world went on without him).  I spoke at his funeral to a crowd so large that it was standing room only in the biggest room the funeral parlor had available.  He was not a famous man, and yet, he touched people.  He was a sincere man, who cared about people, who was good at loving people.  That — and a puckish, adventurous nature — made him so special.

Loving people is not something that comes easily to me, but my friend made me better at it. When I heard the news, my first thought was, “But who will love me the way that he loves me?”  And what I meant was that he loved me without expectation or judgment, which is an incredibly rare way to be loved.  Being around him was like slipping into your comfy slippers at the end of the hard day, after you’ve locked your house’s doors against the unsafe world outside.  And you just couldn’t help but love him back.

That would explain all the people at the funeral.

Under ordinary circumstances, I do not enjoy speaking in front of people.  But I could have spoken for hours, telling stories of how my friend has touched my life over the 20 years of our friendship.  But each of his brothers was to speak after me, so I kept it short and told only one story, which thankfully made the crowd laugh, because they knew him the way that I knew him.  By the time we made it to the party after the reception, I so exhausted that I fell asleep sitting up in a living room bristling with people.

The depth of my grief in the first weeks surprised me.  I have lost so many people and animals over the last two years that I wondered if it was cumulative grief, but I don’t think so.  My friend was a part of my past and my future, and to have that lifeline removed so suddenly was enough to bowl me over.  He was always there for me.  Now he can’t be.

His death was so sudden that my calendar is still marked with the plans we had together.  We had been trying to have a shared house vacation together for years, but our plans kept getting marred by other obligations and, even once, a surgery.  At last, this summer it was finally going to actually happen, and I was so looking forward to exploring a new place with him.  Those days, the ones where we had already had plans to be together, are going to be hard days.  He was going to be visiting me again in another two weeks, for the wedding of one of our many shared friends.  That will be hard too.

One of my favorite pictures of two of my favorite men in the world.

My friend is gone, but I hear him all the time.  When I open the pantry to pull out an onion, I remember him telling me to keep the onions and potatoes in separate baskets.  A stainless steel pan comes with a reminder – in his voice – to heat them up before you drop the oil in.  He helped me set up my first fish tank, and I cannot think of undergravel filters without thinking about him teaching me about why I needed one.  My oldest fish, a pleco named Socrates, is now eleven.  In my music room, I have a Japanese fan that he bought me a lifetime ago when I moved into an apartment, which has followed me to every house since.  I have so many of these physical momentoes — a bottle of mead, giant spools of yarn, bottles of Scotch.  But most valuable to me is all of the advice that he gave me over so many years, which I always hear in his baritone voice in my head.  And the love.  He taught me that I was worth loving, because he loved me without wanting anything from me.

And so, he is gone, but he is not gone too, not in the way that other people I have lost have gone.  I touched his body, but a world without him in it seems impossible.  He will be in mine forever, because he helped make me who I am.  I’ve returned to the waking world again, but I am glad to have been able to stop – to call in too sad to work, to have been able to think about all the people that really matter to me and how lucky I am to have such love in my life.  I think it was his last gift.

 

Del with my daughter as a 2 month old.
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Human Moments, No. 12

“Mama,” my small daughter says, as she stands beside my bed.  “I think I need you change my diaper.”

“Okay,” I say, groaning and tearing myself from sleep.  It is 3:30 a.m. I follow her into her room, where she lets me pick her up and put her on the changing table.  Trying not to fully wake either of us, I quietly slip off her old diaper and replace it.  Placing her gently back into the center of my bed, where I know she’ll fall asleep again, I slip in beside her and lie down.  Within minutes, her breathing settles into the sweet, wet rhythm of small children.

Her knee rests just below my right shoulder blade, while her foot gently twitches on my hip.  I lie in bed, listening to the even snores of my spouse, but my brain and hungry stomach will not rest.

Quietly, I tear myself from the warmth of the family bed and slip downstairs to write.

 

 

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A Wooden Bed on Which to Lay Your Head

My daughter lies on the floor of the hallway outside her bedroom door, an arm sprawled in front of her. The other is tucked in next to her side, her pale ruddy skin a contrast to the cheerful green of her dinosaur pajamas. She is soundly asleep and undoubtedly quite pleased at her independence.

I put her in bed properly a few hours earlier, of course. But Baba refuses to lie down in her bed, no matter how much you sweeten the deal. The very thought of it offends her, though she goes into it easily once she’s fallen asleep elsewhere. And so she has fallen asleep in protest on nearly every other surface of her room; the rocking chair, her personalized L.L. Bean couch and once, even on her changing table. For all of our sanity, I put a rug on the floor and it has become the favored location ever since.

Sure, kid.

But this night, when she managed to crawl halfway out of her room before giving in again to sleep, I turned on all of the lights and took a good picture. I put it as the wallpaper of my laptop, where it is displayed for all of my coworkers to see.

“What is she doing?” they ask.

“Being herself,” I say.

The most wonderful thing about young children is that they are so entirely themselves. Baba has no apparent self-consciousness. When she wants something, she’s willing to throw a fit over it, with no concern about the snotty mess that her face becomes or the unflattering way her skin goes splotchy. As soon as she has a thought, she tells you.  When the thought was hilarious, as it often is, and you laugh, she laughs with you. When she doesn’t know a word, she doesn’t hide it – she just describes what she wants over and over until someone supplies her the word.

It’s so wonderfully refreshing to be around. Even when I just, desperately, want her to put on her socks and go out the door and all she wants to do is stop and play with….whatever…she has suddenly fixated on, I can’t help but see the beauty of her nature. Perhaps this is motherhood, this effortless sense of understanding. Although I try hard to extend it to everyone in my life, to know that a person is more than just their behavior in the moment, it’s so much easier with someone so innocent.  And now that she is approaching three, I value these moments so much more, because I know that they can’t last all that much longer.

And how Baba makes me laugh, just by being her authentic self.

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A Weekend in Blacksburg

My friend is studying to be a wild life scientist, a trapper and catcher of information about the world’s dwindling carnivore populations.  He’s approaching his graduation date, but I am only just now getting in a trip to visit him, because after two and a half years, I am finally ready to be separated from Baba overnight.

And so, I find myself on an airplane by myself.  It’s a puddle jumper, as Virginia Tech is only a two hour flight away from home, and the plane is so small that I have managed to get myself a seat that is both window and aisle.

Glorious time, for an introvert.  Two and a half hours of the kind of solitude that I have become accustomed to, the type where you’re surrounded by strangers who need nothing from you.  Although I should be writing, instead I read the last 40 pages of Elena Ferrante’s Those Who Stay and Those Who Leave, the third in her famous Neapolitan novel series.  Somewhere near the end of the flight, I close the book on the last page and sigh, knowing that I can’t check out the fourth and final book from the library for another week.

But then I look up, to see that I have been lucky enough to arrive in the mountains in late fall, where the land is carpeted in hundreds of thousands of trees that are all turning red and orange and yellow.  Suddenly it strikes me how little I’ve noticed the turn of the season and how few trees really live on my street, although one thing I loved about my neighborhood when I moved to it were the size of the suburban trees.  But compared to a real forest, the  paltry sidewalks plantings of the suburbs are nothing.

When I land at 6 p.m., it becomes clear that we are the last scheduled plane and the airport is closing for the night.  There are cafes and bookstores in the terminal, but the employees have shut off all but the emergency lights and they chat with each other in a way that doesn’t encourage customer interruptions.

It is a relief to be out of New York City, to retreat to a calmer place, where the accents are slower and businesses shut down for the night.

In the morning, we go to Virginia Tech, which is a glorious campus, with serene and stately stone buildings nestled among majestic trees that create a campus that feels more like a well-kept city park than a university.  But you can’t go far without running into a memorial for the students and faculty that were murdered here a decade ago.  It is a too-solid reminder of the attack on New York last Tuesday, which hit me and mine closer than any would ask for.  But we try to move past it, darting between buildings in the gray rain, and watching the Virginia Tech undergrads like zoo animals, because the 15 years that separates us makes them seem like alien creatures.

I am here for a short visit – not quite 48 hours – and most of it is spent on friendship, asking about people that no one else remembers, reminiscing about the people that we were when we were the same age as the students around us.  We can’t help but wonder – is the world less innocent now than it was then?  Are we less safe now than we were then?

Then the news of the Texas church shooting breaks, so we know.

 

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The American Legacy

My daughter crinkles paper, blows
on the tree to make it live, festoons
herself with silver.
So far she has no use for gifts.

What can I give her,
what armor, invincible
sword or magic trick, when that year comes?

How can I teach her
some way of being human
that won’t destroy her?

I would like to tell her, Love
is enough. I would like to say,
Find shelter in another skin.

I would like to say, Dance
and be happy. Instead I will say
in my crone’s voice, Be
ruthless when you have to, tell
the truth when you can,
when you can see it.
Iron talismans, and ugly, but
more loyal than mirrors.

from “Solstice Poem”, Margaret Atwood

 

 


 

On the radio this morning, the hushed voices of NPR reporters break the news that the largest mass shooting the country has ever seen happened overnight. The details are still sparse, but I wait for the body count. In the back seat, Baba babbles about the birds she heard singing, while I wonder what new words she’ll pick up from the radio this time.

After the barest details turn into empty radio filler, I turn down the volume. There is time later to obsess about the increasingly competitive rampages of men with guns who want to die over and over again on the front page of every newspaper. And we fall into the trap, as we must, feting the murders on every radio station and in every newspaper in terse and gently probing tones. The President issues a speech that manages not to insult anyone. On social media, the cringey and meaningless posts about thoughts and prayers are echoed over and over.

We are helpless. We are hopeless. But yet, we want to be seen having compassion for people we would not know walking down the street, because the situation is so terrible that we must be observed to publicly mourn to protect our decency. And so we perform our grief, but it feels false. How can you have grief left to give to strangers, when we’ve done this show so many times?

This season, it doesn’t even have an intermission.  Hurricane, hurricane, horror, hurricane, slow response, mass shooting, horror.

Later in the day, Tom Petty dies, because how could such a well-loved American artist live out this terrible day? Although we know by now that it is simply not safe to go to work or ride a train or dance in a night club, music had been safe.  If you weren’t French.  Now, thanks to yet another white man with far more guns than anyone should ever own, that too has been defiled. Even Tom Petty’s death is ruined, because our thoughts and prayers are already taken.

Tomorrow, his record sales are sure to spike, because that is what happens every time. And we will do nothing else. Nothing and nothing and nothing.

 


 

About a month ago, I told Baba that it was time to leave to go to school.

She says, “No, Mama. I no go school. I have to murder my tiger.”

“You have to what?” I ask, as I walk into the living room, where I find her holding a long piece of plastic across the throat of a stuffed Disney-shaped lion that we have yet to identify.

“Ehm,” I say.

“Ehm,” I say a little louder.

Baba interrupts her sawing and looks up with curiosity on her sweet and feral face.

“You seem to be murdering,” I say, in what must the epitome of good parenting.

“Yes, Mama,” she says happily. “See, I murder my tiger! Like this!  You want murder my tiger too?”

“No, baby. Murder is not nice.”

“Murder is not nic-CEEEEEE?” she asks, cocking her head with an overdone smile that usually makes me laugh.

“No love, murder is not nice. Tell your tiger that you’re sorry, honey. Then we need to go.”

 


 

We have a madness that we cannot seem to shake off.   Already the old conversation about gun control has started. I think more about personal risk.  I don’t worry for myself, because I have walked through high-risk halls on my way to work so many years that I long ago accepted the chance that some violent man will take my life. After all, I ride trains. And, in 2017, we all know that bombs and trains go along very well.

Hopefully not my one, but you never know.

But no parent considers sending their child to school without also imagining the day when that decision became deadly. Because you never know.

And this is the world that I must explain to Baba. Now she is so young that her innocence about the world constantly surprises me.

One day she took down our Bernie Sanders card from the bathroom mirror and said, “Who dat?”

“That’s Bernie Sanders, love.  He reminds us to look out for one another.”

“Who Ernie Sandbars?”

I thought a while about how to explain it. “He’s a man who wants to make sure that everyone can go to the doctor if they get sick,” I said.

“Why you no can go doctor?” she asked.

“Well…” I said, at a loss for words.

What a world I have to give you, my Baba, my innocent and feral child. And that is my deepest grief. All I can arm you with are the words and poems of the fighters and the heroes and hope that you stay as courageous
as you were born.

And do better, child. Do better than me.

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Human Moments, No. 11

It’s 4:30 a.m. and the doors slams shut behind her.  Baba’s small and heavy footsteps scurry to my side of the bed.

“Mama, Mama!” she says.  Half-asleep, I have already moved over to help her climb in and she does so, settling in under the blankets.  “Mama, Mama,” she says again, clutching my neck and face obsessively before rolling over and thrusting her backside into my chest.

“Hi Baba,” I say.  “Now, shhh…it’s too early.”

“Mama,” she says, pulling my arm over her.  “You put your hand on my tummy.”

“Okay,” I say, settling in with my arm around her as my heart melts.  The warmth of her relaxes me, just as the warmth of my much-missed cat would when he would curl up next to my side.

My eyes just close.

“Mama!” Baba says impatiently.  “Don’t touch me.”  She returns my arm to me, indignant at my daring.

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The End of Summer

Somehow, Baba’s summer break snuck up on me.  Each year, her day care closes for the last full week of August, as the school prepares for a new year.  Since I have the more forgiving job when it comes to vacation time, I take it off each year to take care of her for a week of full-on motherhood.  This year I didn’t even realize summer break was here until Wednesday of the week before, so I had very little time to plan or prepare, either for my leave of absence from work or for activities to keep Baba busy, which is rather a requirement if I have any desire of keeping my house from utter destruction.

As it happens, I recently started sharing my car with my brother, who is working far enough from home for the first time that he needs reliable transportation.  That seemed like a great idea until I remembered my time off and that he’d have my car for each afternoon.  So…homebound for half the day with a two year old or limited to how far our feet could take us, which is a shorter distance than you might immediately suspect, since Baba still badly needs naps, but refuses to take them when she’s at home with me.  That added some challenges.

Every time I spend a week doing full-time parenting, I am bowled over by how hard it is.  This year, Baba has enough friends that we could fill most of the week with play dates, so it was less lonely than past years have been.  But now that she is so much more mobile, I could barely sit down all week.  (And there is that issue of no more breaks naps.)  My feet are throbbing, my back hurts and my calves ache enough that I have developed a potentially unhealthy loathing of stairs.  As much as I’ve loved the extra time with Baba, who has developed just enough logic and vocabulary to have become hilarious, I am very much looking forward to sitting at my desk for a blessed six hours in a row tomorrow.  Sitting on a train, sipping my morning coffee, writing another scene in another chapter on my novel — this feels like an unbelievably civilized way of living.

Seriously.  It is 7:30 p.m. and I am writing this from bed becuase the thought of having to hold my head up on my own is simply untenable.

Alice Munro frequently mentions that being at home with three children was why she got so good at writing short stories, as she never had the focus to work on anything longer.  I’ve always loved her work, but when I think about that and the last week, I can’t help but admire her more. This blog post is the first writing that I’ve done all week, because my days started when Baba climbed into my bed and only ended after the fight to get her to go to sleep.  By then, I was so exhausted that I could barely climb onto the couch and feed myself dessert, much less put together words in an order that could possibly make sense.

But tonight my frustration with my lack of progress this week finally manifested as enough energy to actually get some work done.  And, wouldn’t you know it, as I opened up my copy of Scrivener, I realized that the notebook that I’ve been writing in has gone off with my car to my brother’s job, which might as well be Timbuktu for as reachable as it is to me right now.  It will return to me in the morning, but doesn’t it just figure?

Virginia Woolf was so right about that room of your own.  If you’re not familiar with the essay, her point was that the men of her day were expected simply to work, while the women were expected to take care of their families and households, so if they were writers, it was that much harder, since they had no space to sit and think and no one working out their meals and laundry for them.  As a working mom, I feel this intensely, since every minute of my day is planned long before the day arrives, which is the only way to keep a job and a household running and still have some energy each day to spend actual quality time with Baba, much less my Beloved.  And I’ve certainly been frustrated with how much that slows down my writing, since I must write in 45 minute chunks of time, since my train commute is the only spare time I have all day.  But that hour and a half each day is a gift and I have missed it, even as my time with Baba has given me more experiences to write about.

In the morning, Baba will go to a new classroom, with the same children that she’s gone to school with since she was four months old. She’ll have a new teacher and spend her days with her friends, who she has missed while she’s been stuck at home with me.  And I will go back to work, both grateful to get back to my normal challenges and deeply regretful that I will have to wait for hours for Baba to throw her tiny arms around my neck in that clumsy strangehold that always takes my breath away.

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Book Review: Moral Disorder and Other Stories by Margaret Atwood

The political turmoil in the world has made me turn this year to Margaret Atwood, who is enjoying a resurgence as a result of her 1985 novel The Handmaid’s Tale being broadcast as a much acclaimed television series. I haven’t reread The Handmaid’s Tale, which does still stick with me from when I first read it nearly 20 years ago, but I have been working my way through her other novels. Given the time constraints in my life, I’ve been picking them out mostly by page length, which brings me to Moral Disorder and Other Stories, a novel told in a series of short stories.

Even Atwood’s earliest novels are full of her wit, wry humor and bitingly funny characterization, so it is unsurprising to discover these same qualities throughout all of the stories, which tell the life story of a woman named Nell in short episodes. The stories are framed by aging; in the first story, Nell is in late middle age and meditating on the nature of a long-term marriage. In the next, she is a young girl, who has yet to meet Tig, the married man that she makes her life with. By the last stories, Nell is long past her adventures and taking care of her elderly parents. Although each story could stand alone, together they tell a powerful story of an ordinary, but interesting, life spent in the Canadian countryside and wilderness.

Moral Disorder and Other Stories is very much literary fiction, so some readers may find it frustrating, particularly if they’re not accustomed to the genre or to short story collections. But for readers who are willing to forgo an orderly plot for the love of language, there are many delights to be found in each story’s vivid description and Atwood’s strong voice.

It’s morning. For now, night is over. It’s time for the bad news. I think of the bad news as a huge bird, with the wings of a crow and the face of my Grade Four school teacher, sparse bun, rancid teeth, wrinkly frown, pursed mouth and all, sailing around the world under cover of darkness, pleased to be the bearer of ill tidings, carrying a basket of rotten eggs, and knowing — as the sun comes up — exactly where to drop them. On me, for one.

One theme that has emerged for me, in reading several of Atwood’s early novels, is how prevalent the Canadian wilderness is in her writing. Perhaps because I have always lived either in a city or in its suburbs, there’s something about the wilderness and the farm settings in Moral Disorder and Other Stories that really caught my imagination. Nell and Tig rent a farm and then later purchase their own. They are city people pretending at the rural life, so it is not too surprising that their first set of ducklings are eaten by owls. After this first disastrous foray into livestock, their herd begins to expand in much more productive ways. First there are Tig’s children from his first marriage, who visit on weekends, running wild around the farm and smoking pot in the barn. Then there’s a high-strung dog, a herd of sheep, constantly escaping cows and eventually a fat horse. Atwood doesn’t shy away from the brutality of farm life, as Nell trades in her city upbringing for a rural lifestyle, but she always shows the beauty in it as well.

There’s never been such a lovely spring, Nell thought. Frogs — or were they toads? — trilled from the pond, and there were pussy willows and catkins — what was the difference? — and then the hawthorn bushes and the wild plums and the neglected apple trees came into bloom, and an uneven row of daffodils planted by some long-vanished farmer’s wife thrust up through the weeds and dead grasses besides the drive. Birds sang. Mud dried.

Unfortunately, for me, the last story did a poor job of finishing off the book, because some of the details contradicted and confused the overall narrative arc, which pulled me straight out of the story and had me flipping back pages to see if I had missed something. Perhaps I had – or perhaps the story kept its conflicting details because, like many of the stories in the collection, it was published elsewhere before being collected into this novel. But for all that the novel felt unresolved because of this, I would gladly read the whole novel over to answer my questions.

It’s just that there are so many other Atwood novels that I have yet to read…

Publisher: Doubleday
Publish Date: 2006
Hardcover: 225 pages
ISBN: 0385503849
Language: English
Rating: 3 of 5 stars

 

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