This weekend, my husband and I both had conferences in Edmonton. He attended the Alberta Teacher’s Association conference for first-year teachers while Sunshine and I went to the annual Inscribe Christian Writers’ Fellowship Fall Conference. We were happy that both conferences landed on the same weekend so we only had to make one trip—and that our car was ready in time for us to make the trip!
I was looking forward to the conference for several reasons. I’ve always enjoyed conferences—the chance to learn and to meet others, to eat good food and get away for a bit. I was also looking forward to meeting Jane Kirkpatrick, as I’d read several of her books. But most of all, I was hoping that the conference would help get me over the writer’s block that I’ve had for most of the summer. I was looking for some inspiration and direction.
Jane opened the conference on Friday night by asking us, “What experience do you want to have here?” She talked about what experiences we might want to have (such as eating good food or meeting other writers) and then asked, “What keeps you from those experiences?” She told a few humorous stories to illustrate things that could keep us from the experience that we want to have. I could identify with that. I’ve realized lately that I have often used excuses—too busy with work, have a seven-month-old baby to chase, must get housework done—to avoid doing what I really want to do. Jane reinforced that I must push aside those excuses and just go for what I want.
On Saturday, one of the workshops that I chose to go to was a freefall writing exercise. I haven’t done much freefall, and once again, I was hoping it would help me overcome some writer’s block. Susan talked about what freefall is and then gave us a few prompts. Sunshine was in a good mood at the time, and sat on the table playing with a pen and some crinkled up paper. I was happy to write while she was busy, but she also inspired the writing of a lady sitting across the table from us. My thoughts went all over for the first prompt, but the second prompt got my imagination going on the start of a short story.
I was also busy managing the conference “book store”, and grateful that my mother-in-law was there to help take care of Sunshine. Many of the other writers commented on what a good, cute baby she was. On Saturday, she managed to catch naps during some of the sessions, and at other times played with her toys, sat on my lap, or chewed on my pens.
This year, I had set myself the goal of entering most of the categories in the Fall Contest, and despite leaving things until the last minute and having to quickly put together my entries, I managed to enter three pieces: a devotional, a short short story, and a creative nonfiction piece. During the awards time, I was busy with the book table when I heard my name called. I won second prize for my short short story. That was a huge encouragement, especially since it came with a cheque. Watch for that story here later this week!
Today it is Monday once again. The conference is over and the weekly grind begins. Yet I find that I did have the experience that I had hoped for at the conference, and I have some definite goals and plans for my writing in this week and the months to come.
Monday, September 29, 2008
Friday, September 26, 2008
Book Review: Reluctant Smuggler
One of the first rules of writing is never use clichés. Writers are to avoid them like the plague—or should I say, writers are to stay as far away from clichés as they would from a skunk. This is something that most of us struggle with, but author Jill Elizabeth Nelson seems to have mastered. In her novel Reluctant Smuggler, her use of fresh and new clichés kept me smiling and amused throughout the novel.
When things go wrong before she even arrives at her hotel, however, Desi realizes she’s up against something big. But before she can find out what, Tony has an accident while making a raid on the smuggler El Jaguar and she’s called home to him. While he recovers from his near-death experience, Desiree must deal with emotions still surrounding her father’s death and the fact that he won’t be part of her dream wedding. Tony must also fight doubts about whether he’ll recover enough get his job back and be able to support Desi.
Desi and Tony soon realize that they have a common enemy—El Jaguar is responsible for smuggling not only drugs and women, but also antiquities. And he wants vengeance. Threats on their lives add complications to the wedding planning. But finally, Desi walks down the aisle to her handsome agent, and they fly back to Mexico for the honeymoon—only to find themselves in the middle of danger once again.
Jill Elizabeth Nelson writes a page-turner. Her research into places in Mexico, as well as the Spanish phrases used throughout the book, add authenticity to the story. Her characters show doubt and fear, yet also faith and courage. While Tony and Desi are head-over-heels in love with each other, they also have their moments of disagreement and tension, like any normal couple. With humour and romance sprinkled through suspense and danger, Reluctant Smuggler is one fun read.
Reluctant Smuggler is the third book in the To Catch a Thief series, but I haven’t read the first two books. This one stands fine on its own, as any back story is quickly and adequately explained. Desiree Jacobs is a securities expert, fighting the rival Greybeck firm for a contract from the Museo de Arte Mejicana. Then the Mexican president asks her to take on a special assignment: find valuable antiquities that are disappearing around the country. Homesick for her fiancé, FBI Agent Tony Lucano, Desiree reluctantly takes on the assignment.
When things go wrong before she even arrives at her hotel, however, Desi realizes she’s up against something big. But before she can find out what, Tony has an accident while making a raid on the smuggler El Jaguar and she’s called home to him. While he recovers from his near-death experience, Desiree must deal with emotions still surrounding her father’s death and the fact that he won’t be part of her dream wedding. Tony must also fight doubts about whether he’ll recover enough get his job back and be able to support Desi.
Desi and Tony soon realize that they have a common enemy—El Jaguar is responsible for smuggling not only drugs and women, but also antiquities. And he wants vengeance. Threats on their lives add complications to the wedding planning. But finally, Desi walks down the aisle to her handsome agent, and they fly back to Mexico for the honeymoon—only to find themselves in the middle of danger once again.
Jill Elizabeth Nelson writes a page-turner. Her research into places in Mexico, as well as the Spanish phrases used throughout the book, add authenticity to the story. Her characters show doubt and fear, yet also faith and courage. While Tony and Desi are head-over-heels in love with each other, they also have their moments of disagreement and tension, like any normal couple. With humour and romance sprinkled through suspense and danger, Reluctant Smuggler is one fun read.
Wednesday, September 24, 2008
Fitness Interview
Today I'm being interviewed over on Fit For Faith about fitness. Blogger Kimberley Payne is running a series of interviews about fitness for the average girl--if you enjoy my interview, check out others on her blog.
Monday, September 22, 2008
Daily Bread
My eyes were on the clock, calculating what time I’d have to start making supper, as I mentioned to my mom that my husband had suggested we go to Mass that evening. With a quizzical raising of her brows, she asked, “Why? Is that because you missed it yesterday?”
It was Monday night. Her question surprised me slightly, and made me realize how much I’d gotten used to going to daily Mass occasionally. When I worked downtown, there was a church a few blocks away. If I power walked over there, I could make it just in time for the noon Mass. It was a nice chance to get away from the office for some peace and quiet, some prayer and reflection.
Sunday is a mini-Easter, a weekly feast day to celebrate Jesus’ resurrection. Daily Mass doesn’t replace that. For me, it’s a way to take a break from my daily routines and focus on God, a way to make space for Him in my everyday life. I once thought that it would get boring to be saying or listening to the same thing several times a week. Yet even though the words are the same, my attitude, feelings, or circumstances are different each day as I come there, and that makes the prayers and readings different and fresh each time.
There are a couple families in our church who attend Mass every day. I admire them, and at first I thought, “Wow, they must be holy.” Then I realized that if I attend Mass more often, it’s not because I’m more of a saint, but rather because I’m more of a sinner and need the graces offered there. My husband explained that Catholics take literally the prayer, “Give us this day our daily bread.” So we come there to join together and receive God in the Eucharist. I can pray and read my Bible by myself—and some days, I prefer that—or I can do it with others before the Eucharist.
Besides which, Sunshine likes Mass—there’s people to smile at, things to listen to, and hymn books and prayer sheets to munch and crunch. And for mommy, it’s a moment of fellowship with others as well as with God.
It was Monday night. Her question surprised me slightly, and made me realize how much I’d gotten used to going to daily Mass occasionally. When I worked downtown, there was a church a few blocks away. If I power walked over there, I could make it just in time for the noon Mass. It was a nice chance to get away from the office for some peace and quiet, some prayer and reflection.
Sunday is a mini-Easter, a weekly feast day to celebrate Jesus’ resurrection. Daily Mass doesn’t replace that. For me, it’s a way to take a break from my daily routines and focus on God, a way to make space for Him in my everyday life. I once thought that it would get boring to be saying or listening to the same thing several times a week. Yet even though the words are the same, my attitude, feelings, or circumstances are different each day as I come there, and that makes the prayers and readings different and fresh each time.
There are a couple families in our church who attend Mass every day. I admire them, and at first I thought, “Wow, they must be holy.” Then I realized that if I attend Mass more often, it’s not because I’m more of a saint, but rather because I’m more of a sinner and need the graces offered there. My husband explained that Catholics take literally the prayer, “Give us this day our daily bread.” So we come there to join together and receive God in the Eucharist. I can pray and read my Bible by myself—and some days, I prefer that—or I can do it with others before the Eucharist.
Besides which, Sunshine likes Mass—there’s people to smile at, things to listen to, and hymn books and prayer sheets to munch and crunch. And for mommy, it’s a moment of fellowship with others as well as with God.
Friday, September 19, 2008
"What Do You Do?"
Last night, my husband mentioned that another person had asked him what I do. I’ve had the question a few times myself from people at church or at the school. Somehow, when I’m holding Sunshine or when they know that I have a six-month-old baby, I thought that answer would be obvious. Why, I’m a mom, of course. But that doesn’t seem to be good enough. It’s as if they’re waiting for me to pop her into a daycare and get on with my life.
Our society has devalued what it means to be a mother. Maybe it would sound better if I told you what I do by saying I’m a chef, baker, seamstress, gardener, laundress, housecleaner, nanny, and dish washer. I once saw an article (in Reader’s Digest, I think) that said if every housewife was paid the equivalent wage of what it would cost to contract out her jobs, she’d be making something like $300,000 a year. But because she isn’t actually bringing any money into the home, and we seem to measure value by money, then her position is seen as worthless.
In our post-feminist culture, we assume that every woman wants a career. Yet, as Jennifer of SuburbanCEO.com says, “The notion that women have always yearned to work outside of the home but weren't allowed to until they were liberated by the modern feminist movement just didn't resonate with what I know of women. If we want something, we make it happen. If staying at home and raising children were inherently miserable, the women's movement would have happened about 5,000 years ago.” There are still women who want to be stay-at-home-moms, and I’m one of them.
Perhaps part of the problem is how we identify ourselves by our jobs. If you meet somebody new, the first thing that you ask them (after introducing yourselves), is “What do you do?” And the answer comes that I am a teacher, a doctor, a lawyer, etc. Many people have assumed that my husband and I are both teachers. (After all, what else do you do with an English degree?) Maybe the problem isn’t so much with people’s curiosity about what I do, but with my feeling that they will look down on me for saying, “I take care of Sunshine.” Even if I joke that it’s a full-time job.
So instead I tend to tell people that when my mat leave ends, I’ll be going back to work as a contract editor, because I can do that from home and still take care of Sunshine. Then again, since I’m claiming maternity benefits, maybe I could say that I work for the government—raising new citizens!
Our society has devalued what it means to be a mother. Maybe it would sound better if I told you what I do by saying I’m a chef, baker, seamstress, gardener, laundress, housecleaner, nanny, and dish washer. I once saw an article (in Reader’s Digest, I think) that said if every housewife was paid the equivalent wage of what it would cost to contract out her jobs, she’d be making something like $300,000 a year. But because she isn’t actually bringing any money into the home, and we seem to measure value by money, then her position is seen as worthless.
In our post-feminist culture, we assume that every woman wants a career. Yet, as Jennifer of SuburbanCEO.com says, “The notion that women have always yearned to work outside of the home but weren't allowed to until they were liberated by the modern feminist movement just didn't resonate with what I know of women. If we want something, we make it happen. If staying at home and raising children were inherently miserable, the women's movement would have happened about 5,000 years ago.” There are still women who want to be stay-at-home-moms, and I’m one of them.
Perhaps part of the problem is how we identify ourselves by our jobs. If you meet somebody new, the first thing that you ask them (after introducing yourselves), is “What do you do?” And the answer comes that I am a teacher, a doctor, a lawyer, etc. Many people have assumed that my husband and I are both teachers. (After all, what else do you do with an English degree?) Maybe the problem isn’t so much with people’s curiosity about what I do, but with my feeling that they will look down on me for saying, “I take care of Sunshine.” Even if I joke that it’s a full-time job.
So instead I tend to tell people that when my mat leave ends, I’ll be going back to work as a contract editor, because I can do that from home and still take care of Sunshine. Then again, since I’m claiming maternity benefits, maybe I could say that I work for the government—raising new citizens!
Wednesday, September 17, 2008
House For Sale
Shortly after we rented our house, my husband found it in the “for sale” listings online. We aren’t terribly concerned, as there’s a slump in house sales in this area, rather than the boom that’s hit the cities in Alberta. Most buyers looking at the house want it as an investment property, which means that they’d let us keep renting it. It seems like when we mention to people where we live, they immediately know which house it is—either because they know someone who has rented here in the past or because they’ve looked at buying it themselves.
What does get annoying is having to leave every time the realtors want to show the house. The first time it happened a couple weeks ago, I had just cleaned house and moved the last of the boxes out of the living room (good timing!). I spent the afternoon scurrying around, putting things in order and hiding our “junk” (you know, the little notes to yourself, the spare keys, the mail you have to answer and the receipts you want to keep, etc.). When my husband walked through the door, exhausted after a day of school meetings, I had to tell him he couldn’t just relax at home. Supper was put on hold while we took Sunshine to the pool for an hour.
The next time the realtor called, I stayed put. My aunt (who is in a similar situation) had told me that the renter actually has the right to remain in the house if they want. Since realtors often want to show the house around the dinner hour, they’ve exercised that right. I was in the middle of making supper when the realtors arrived. I stayed in the kitchen cooking (and got complimented on how good it smelled) while they toured the house. Perhaps they looked around more quickly because I was here. But we had somewhere to go that evening and I had warned them that the time they were coming by wasn’t the greatest for us.
Last night, we got the phone call. Again, they managed to pick the day that I had just cleaned house. I put a few other things in order and made sure to have supper ready a bit early, then called my husband after school to warn him. We ate supper and left, running a few errands before heading over to the school to hang out. While he made phone calls to parents, I tested a science experiment—making soap—for his next class. Now he’s suggesting I make that a hobby... it was fun, but not that fun.
I’m beginning to understand what my in-laws went through in selling their house earlier this summer. However, for them each time the house was showed it was good news (even if it was still inconvenient), as they wanted their house to sell. For us, it’s just inconvenient. As is the “for sale” sign that got put back up on the front lawn. I was quite happy not having it there, especially now that I have to mow around it. But hey—maybe the lookers last night will decide to be buyers and we won’t have to put up with this any longer.
What does get annoying is having to leave every time the realtors want to show the house. The first time it happened a couple weeks ago, I had just cleaned house and moved the last of the boxes out of the living room (good timing!). I spent the afternoon scurrying around, putting things in order and hiding our “junk” (you know, the little notes to yourself, the spare keys, the mail you have to answer and the receipts you want to keep, etc.). When my husband walked through the door, exhausted after a day of school meetings, I had to tell him he couldn’t just relax at home. Supper was put on hold while we took Sunshine to the pool for an hour.
The next time the realtor called, I stayed put. My aunt (who is in a similar situation) had told me that the renter actually has the right to remain in the house if they want. Since realtors often want to show the house around the dinner hour, they’ve exercised that right. I was in the middle of making supper when the realtors arrived. I stayed in the kitchen cooking (and got complimented on how good it smelled) while they toured the house. Perhaps they looked around more quickly because I was here. But we had somewhere to go that evening and I had warned them that the time they were coming by wasn’t the greatest for us.
Last night, we got the phone call. Again, they managed to pick the day that I had just cleaned house. I put a few other things in order and made sure to have supper ready a bit early, then called my husband after school to warn him. We ate supper and left, running a few errands before heading over to the school to hang out. While he made phone calls to parents, I tested a science experiment—making soap—for his next class. Now he’s suggesting I make that a hobby... it was fun, but not that fun.
I’m beginning to understand what my in-laws went through in selling their house earlier this summer. However, for them each time the house was showed it was good news (even if it was still inconvenient), as they wanted their house to sell. For us, it’s just inconvenient. As is the “for sale” sign that got put back up on the front lawn. I was quite happy not having it there, especially now that I have to mow around it. But hey—maybe the lookers last night will decide to be buyers and we won’t have to put up with this any longer.
Monday, September 15, 2008
Making Friends
I remember starting university six years ago and praying desperately for a friend. Just one familiar, friendly face on the whole campus, someone I could talk to about classes and study with once in a while. And yet as I stared around my classes, I wondered how on earth I’d ever find someone in all these strangers who shared similar interests and ideas with me. It seemed a task impossible. Yet it happened.
Over the next months, I ran into students in the same places that I studied, saw them at chapel, met them on the way to the cafeteria for lunch. Conversations began. Friendships were formed. And now, six years later, I’m married to a guy I noticed on my first day of classes, and still consider seven girls that I met at university among my closest friends.
As we moved to our new home in a new town, I realized that this friend-making business was about to start all over again. I told myself that I’d have to get involved, make an effort to get out and get to know others around here, because as a stay-at-home-mom, it could be too easy to just stay at home and get lonely. My husband would have co-workers to talk to and would make friends at work, but for me... I wasn’t sure where I’d find kindred spirits.
The school staff has proved very friendly and welcoming. Many of the “staff events” include spouses, and so I’ve gotten to know a few of the other teachers at the school. Yet conversations rarely seem to go beyond “Ah, she’s so cute—how old is she?” and “so what do you teach at the school?” At the last event, a BBQ at one teacher’s home, someone pointed out to me another woman and said, “She’d be a good person to get to know, as she’s also a stay-at-home-mom.” I watched for a chance to talk to this fellow SAHM, but she was too busy chasing her three kids to have time to chat. And I wondered what I would say—“Hi, I hear you’re a stay-at-home-mom. So am I. Wanna be friends?”
We also found ourselves warmly greeted at church, which, like the town, is small. Every Sunday, there’s coffee time after the service, and we enjoy the chance to chat a bit with the others there. I ran into a few of the families at daily Mass during the week and talked briefly with them then. We found out that we had things in common with a couple families—they were homeschoolers and I had homeschooled, we all enjoyed playing cards, they had large families and we want a large family. And then after Mass one day, one of the moms invited me to join her and her sister for coffee.
We talked non-stop for two hours. Babies, homeschooling, faith, town, staying at home as moms—we had so much in common. While we talked, their kids played and piled toys in front of Sunshine and generally made noise around us. I walked home feeling uplifted and encouraged. Once again, the daunting task of making friends had somehow proved less daunting than it actually seemed. And once again, I realized how much it means to have a few friends.
Over the next months, I ran into students in the same places that I studied, saw them at chapel, met them on the way to the cafeteria for lunch. Conversations began. Friendships were formed. And now, six years later, I’m married to a guy I noticed on my first day of classes, and still consider seven girls that I met at university among my closest friends.
As we moved to our new home in a new town, I realized that this friend-making business was about to start all over again. I told myself that I’d have to get involved, make an effort to get out and get to know others around here, because as a stay-at-home-mom, it could be too easy to just stay at home and get lonely. My husband would have co-workers to talk to and would make friends at work, but for me... I wasn’t sure where I’d find kindred spirits.
The school staff has proved very friendly and welcoming. Many of the “staff events” include spouses, and so I’ve gotten to know a few of the other teachers at the school. Yet conversations rarely seem to go beyond “Ah, she’s so cute—how old is she?” and “so what do you teach at the school?” At the last event, a BBQ at one teacher’s home, someone pointed out to me another woman and said, “She’d be a good person to get to know, as she’s also a stay-at-home-mom.” I watched for a chance to talk to this fellow SAHM, but she was too busy chasing her three kids to have time to chat. And I wondered what I would say—“Hi, I hear you’re a stay-at-home-mom. So am I. Wanna be friends?”
We also found ourselves warmly greeted at church, which, like the town, is small. Every Sunday, there’s coffee time after the service, and we enjoy the chance to chat a bit with the others there. I ran into a few of the families at daily Mass during the week and talked briefly with them then. We found out that we had things in common with a couple families—they were homeschoolers and I had homeschooled, we all enjoyed playing cards, they had large families and we want a large family. And then after Mass one day, one of the moms invited me to join her and her sister for coffee.
We talked non-stop for two hours. Babies, homeschooling, faith, town, staying at home as moms—we had so much in common. While we talked, their kids played and piled toys in front of Sunshine and generally made noise around us. I walked home feeling uplifted and encouraged. Once again, the daunting task of making friends had somehow proved less daunting than it actually seemed. And once again, I realized how much it means to have a few friends.
Friday, September 12, 2008
Random Acts of Kindness
Just before my husband started teaching, our car was vandalized. He wanted to go out for one last time, while we could do so without running into any of his students, and so we’d driven through the rain to the local movie theatre. When we emerged a few hours later, the rain had stopped, and so had our car.We’d been having starter problems for a little while, but they were intermittent and we hadn’t fixed it yet. This time it was merely an inconvenience, as we were close enough to walk home, and did just that. We would go back in the morning, we thought, to fix the starter with a handy hammer trick someone had shown us, and bring it home.
It was noon before we got there the next morning, after a leisurely start to our day and a nice walk over with a side trip into a store on the way. We found the passenger-side window smashed, the rock still sitting under the steering column, though the vandals had first tried to break the door handle and left marks on the door. What they stolen had more value in memories than money: a couple of our favourite CDs, the CD case I took to Australia with me, my Dutch liquorice candies, our well-worn road maps. I felt sick, disappointed, frustrated.
Friendly by-standers gathered around, commiserating with us over our loss. One gave us the number for the police, and he soon showed up, though there was little that he could do beyond make a report. A friend passing by stopped to help us sweep up the glass, get the starter going, and then took us over to the local car dealership to get it fixed. Their kindness lightened some of the sick feeling; there was a strange contrast between the random acts of violence and the random acts of kindness.
That weekend found me on the bus to the city because the car was still in the shop. During the last leg of the journey, Sunshine got fussy. A grandmother sitting in front of us moved to the seat beside us and offered to hold her. Happy with someone to make friends with, Sunshine made it to the bus depot without a problem.
There, we rushed through the washroom to our gate, only to find that the bus was delayed. The twenty of us who were trying to catch the same bus sympathized with each other before most of them dispersed to find other things to do until the bus arrived. I was left with a baby, a diaper bag, a duffel bag, and a car seat.
A stranger standing there offered to watch my bags for me while Sunshine and I went in search of some food. When we returned, she told us to go sit down while she kept watching the bags. Others smiled at us and said what a good baby she was, and she smiled back at them, happy with everything that was going on around her.
As I finally climbed onto the bus, exhausted yet looking forward to seeing the friend who was picking me up at the other end, I again thought of how strangers had helped me. It seems like such small deeds as I recount them here, yet they meant so much to me then when I was tired and alone.
It can be so easy to focus on the problems in our world and to gripe about the people who throw rocks through windows for no reason. Yet we should remember the good around us and the people who offer smiles and assistance – also for no reason. So I’ll appreciate the flowers my aunt sent me after our car was vandalized, and think on the random acts of kindness.
Friday, September 5, 2008
Book Review: March by Geraldine Brooks
The novel opens with one of March’s letters to his wife—a letter that whitewashes the reality of war to protect his family. The letter deteriorates into his memories of what really happened during a recent battle, which Brooks paints with the grim realism that can only come from heavy research.
Because March is the chaplain, he was not actively engaged in the fighting, but deals more with the aftermath, trying to help the wounded and dying soldiers. Yet because of his own struggles and his unconventional beliefs, March finds it hard to offer comfort and to earn the soldiers’ respect.
When the army moves into an abandoned plantation home, the novel flashes back to the first time March saw this home, as a young peddler twenty years earlier. More flashbacks later in the novel describe how March and Marmee meet, fall in love, and marry, and elaborate on their rise and fall in fortune. Brooks also paints both of them as being adamant anti-slavery opponents.
March eventually requests a transfer from the army to a plantation, where he ministers to and teaches the “free” blacks trying to work for wages. For me, his failure in the army didn't seem to agree with the father portrayed in Little Women, who had such a strong influence on his daughters even in his absence. I would have expected him, in the same way he guides and understands his daughters, to be able to connect with the soldiers in his care.
On the plantation, March clashes with the plantation manager over the blacks’ rights, and slowly earns a place on the plantation. He also has his first bout with the fever that will take him out of the war. As he recovers, the plantation faces the threat of enemy bandits, who don’t want to see cotton grown for the profit of the North or slaves being taught what it means to be free. As the bandits attack, March’s values and beliefs—and his health—are tested to the limit.
The novel then goes briefly to Marmee’s viewpoint, as she answers the telegram and rushes to Washington to be with her ailing husband. We see her reactions to events that March had already described—and how her memories and feelings about those events are vastly different than his. To bring her husband home, she must fight not only the fever that ravages his body, but also the memories and sense of failure that ravages his mind.
Geraldine Brooks paints a grimly realistic picture of the horrors of the American Civil War. Her details and descriptions of places and events are well-written and real. She shows the varying views of those involved in the war, from the slaves to the masters to the soldiers fighting for shallow reasons. An afterword to the novel explains some of the choices she made, including basing much of March’s character on Louisa’s father, Bronson Alcott.
While March intrigued me enough that I picked it up to read, I found myself liking it less the more I read. At first, I thought this was because the March that Brooks paints didn’t fit my image of Alcott’s March—much as I dislike movies based on books that stray too far from the book. However, further reflection made me realize that March doesn’t change throughout the course of the novel. The ending was decidedly unsatisfactory, because March is still waffling about his duty, his role in the war, and his beliefs. He is one of few literary figures that I would call cowardly. And that is not a good thing to say about the novel’s protagonist.
For an interview with Brooks about March and a reader's guide, see her website.
Wednesday, September 3, 2008
Write Every Day
Today I'm posting over at Inscribe Writers' Online about trying to start writing every day.
Monday, September 1, 2008
Hiking Crypt Lake
Quite a while ago, my husband was browsing through my hiking trail book and found a trail he thought I’d like. “You take a boat across the lake, then climb up into a valley, and then crawl through a tunnel and have to use a cable to get along a narrow ledge before you get to the lake,” he said. It sounded adventuresome and challenging—my type of fun. However, it wasn’t in one of the parks that was close to us, so it wasn’t going to happen very soon.
This August, we found ourselves in the southern part of the province with our camping gear and a bit of spare time. My husband calculated how far it would be if we toured through Banff and Jasper, and how far it would be if we headed south to Waterton. The latter plan won, as neither of us had been there. The next day, our car was pointed south. We drove through flatlands worthy of Saskatchewan that turned into rolling foothills worthy of the ranches they hosted that suddenly reared up into the mountains of Waterton.
The next morning we were up early, broke camp, and headed into the park to ask about hiking Crypt Lake. We got to the visitor’s centre at 9:45 and noticed the sign saying that the last boat headed across the lake to the trailhead at 10:00. I scurried over to ask the warden where the dock was, and we scrambled to get there before the boat left.
The boat was full of other hikers, ranging from a 60-year-old father to several five- or six-year-old kids. Our boat pilot and guide talked to us about filtering the water, “ringing the doorbell” by shouting so that the animals knew we were coming, and what time the boat picked us up after our hike. At the trailhead, Sunshine decided she needed a snack, so the rest of the bunch got ahead of us. Then she fell asleep in the Snugli and missed the first half-hour of switchbacks.
The trail wound upwards through trees, giving us some shade from the hot sun and occasional glimpses of Waterton Lake. We could also hear the river somewhere down to our right, and at one viewpoint stopped to admire a waterfall. A couple hours later, the trail left the trees and began climbing up a rockslide. At the end of the valley, one of the tallest waterfalls I’ve ever seen came tumbling over a ridge. Just to the left of the waterfall, I could see a narrow line on the side of the mountain—our trail. My husband groaned. “Don’t tell me that,” he said, for that meant we had a lot of climbing to do.
Slow but steady we made that climb. Every corner had us wondering how much further up we had to go. I kept searching the mountainside for some sign of the tunnel that we were expecting. Then a group of hikers (from the first boat across the lake) passed us, and paused long enough to point out a place on the rock wall ahead of us where we could just see a few people, looking like red and white ants, inching their way along. I began to question whether that was the best place to hike with a baby.
Sunshine was still happily riding in the Snugly, fussing when she was hungry and falling asleep when she was tired, and garnering smiles and comments from the hikers passing us. Many were amazed that we had a five-month-old baby with us, commenting, “You’re brave!” Others said, “Wow, she’s probably the youngest hiker to do this trail!” or “You’re starting her young!” When we passed a forestry trail crew, we asked them about the best way to get through the tunnel and across the cable: should we have the Snugli in front or in back? They advised us that the tunnel was very low, so we’d want Sunshine in front.
A stream just before the final section of the trail allowed us to take a refreshing break and fortify ourselves for what was to come. We’d been warned about the tunnel and the cable; what we hadn’t been warned about was the ledge crossing the rockslide before the tunnel. The rock shelf was about as wide as my brother’s two big feet. To our left, the rocks rose up into the sheer cliff of the mountain. To our right, they tumbled down to the valley, far below. I kept my eyes on the trail, my right hand on Sunshine, and my left reaching out towards the rocks. Then we had to stop, and wait for those going back to pass us, before we crossed the last, narrowest section of ledge.
At the end of the ledge, we climbed a narrow metal ladder, took a huge step from there into the tunnel, and stopped. Sunshine had been fussing and squirming all the way along the ledge, and I knew she was hungry. I had hoped that she’d wait until we got to the lake, where we could take a break before starting back, but she disagreed with that idea. Since I needed her to be still for this part of the trail, I sat down and fed her. We had just enough space in the entrance of the tunnel to do so. My husband commented, “This is probably the strangest place you’ll ever feed her.”
While she ate, several other families caught up to us. Two boys ran along the ledge ahead of their father. I wanted to scream, “Walk, don’t run!” They made it safely across, scrambled up the ladder, and disappeared into the tunnel. I hoped that they would exercise more caution on the upcoming cable.
With Sunshine done her snack, we ventured into the tunnel. It was dark and cool and short. I had to bend double, holding Sunshine with one hand and using the other to help support myself. My husband had our daypack on his back, and had more problems, finally resorting to crawling through the tunnel. On the other side, bright sun greeted us. I crawled down a ledge and looked at the cable, disappearing around the mountain. The ledge here was wider than the one before the tunnel, yet where did that cable lead to?
The father and his boys were stopped at the end of the tunnel, admiring the view before turning back. Another family, with three teenage daughters, came around the cable and assured us that the lake was just another ten minutes. And so, heart in my throat, I reached out for the cable and started along it. Sunshine reached out too, her small hand barely able to close around the thick cable. Then we got around the corner, to see the cable go up and over the rocks, and decided that was enough. Perhaps on our own we would have done it, but not with a baby.
So we turned back, clambered back into the tunnel, crawled our way through, and had to face the ladder. My husband went down first, while my hands got clammier and my heart rate sped up. Rocks I am okay with; ladders I am not. Especially ladders that require you to stretch about two feet to reach the top.
While Sunshine smiled at our spectators, and my husband guided me from below, I grit my teeth and inched along the rocks, probing for footholds and trying to reach that ladder that was just further than I wanted to lean. Rocks seemed more sturdy to me than a small metal ladder, but the ladder offered a better handhold. Inch my inch, I slid my weight forward, and finally grabbed one side of the ladder, put my foot on it, and got the other side. Then I stepped down, grateful to be on solid rock again at the bottom, and we once more traversed that narrow rock ledge.
At the stream, we took a long break, eating our lunch, drinking lots of water, and letting Sunshine play on a rock. Then we changed her poopy diaper and headed back down the trail, now watching the time to make sure that we caught the boat at the bottom. We managed to get there with enough time to peel off our socks and shoes and cool our hot feet in the icy water of Waterton Lakes before the boat arrived.
Perhaps someday, when Sunshine is old enough, we’ll go back again and find out where that cable goes and what the much-praised Crypt Lake is really like.
Unfortunately, in the rush of moving, I forgot my camera. If you follow the link, there are some beautiful pictures of Crypt Lake.
This August, we found ourselves in the southern part of the province with our camping gear and a bit of spare time. My husband calculated how far it would be if we toured through Banff and Jasper, and how far it would be if we headed south to Waterton. The latter plan won, as neither of us had been there. The next day, our car was pointed south. We drove through flatlands worthy of Saskatchewan that turned into rolling foothills worthy of the ranches they hosted that suddenly reared up into the mountains of Waterton.
The next morning we were up early, broke camp, and headed into the park to ask about hiking Crypt Lake. We got to the visitor’s centre at 9:45 and noticed the sign saying that the last boat headed across the lake to the trailhead at 10:00. I scurried over to ask the warden where the dock was, and we scrambled to get there before the boat left.
The boat was full of other hikers, ranging from a 60-year-old father to several five- or six-year-old kids. Our boat pilot and guide talked to us about filtering the water, “ringing the doorbell” by shouting so that the animals knew we were coming, and what time the boat picked us up after our hike. At the trailhead, Sunshine decided she needed a snack, so the rest of the bunch got ahead of us. Then she fell asleep in the Snugli and missed the first half-hour of switchbacks.
The trail wound upwards through trees, giving us some shade from the hot sun and occasional glimpses of Waterton Lake. We could also hear the river somewhere down to our right, and at one viewpoint stopped to admire a waterfall. A couple hours later, the trail left the trees and began climbing up a rockslide. At the end of the valley, one of the tallest waterfalls I’ve ever seen came tumbling over a ridge. Just to the left of the waterfall, I could see a narrow line on the side of the mountain—our trail. My husband groaned. “Don’t tell me that,” he said, for that meant we had a lot of climbing to do.
Slow but steady we made that climb. Every corner had us wondering how much further up we had to go. I kept searching the mountainside for some sign of the tunnel that we were expecting. Then a group of hikers (from the first boat across the lake) passed us, and paused long enough to point out a place on the rock wall ahead of us where we could just see a few people, looking like red and white ants, inching their way along. I began to question whether that was the best place to hike with a baby.
Sunshine was still happily riding in the Snugly, fussing when she was hungry and falling asleep when she was tired, and garnering smiles and comments from the hikers passing us. Many were amazed that we had a five-month-old baby with us, commenting, “You’re brave!” Others said, “Wow, she’s probably the youngest hiker to do this trail!” or “You’re starting her young!” When we passed a forestry trail crew, we asked them about the best way to get through the tunnel and across the cable: should we have the Snugli in front or in back? They advised us that the tunnel was very low, so we’d want Sunshine in front.
A stream just before the final section of the trail allowed us to take a refreshing break and fortify ourselves for what was to come. We’d been warned about the tunnel and the cable; what we hadn’t been warned about was the ledge crossing the rockslide before the tunnel. The rock shelf was about as wide as my brother’s two big feet. To our left, the rocks rose up into the sheer cliff of the mountain. To our right, they tumbled down to the valley, far below. I kept my eyes on the trail, my right hand on Sunshine, and my left reaching out towards the rocks. Then we had to stop, and wait for those going back to pass us, before we crossed the last, narrowest section of ledge.
At the end of the ledge, we climbed a narrow metal ladder, took a huge step from there into the tunnel, and stopped. Sunshine had been fussing and squirming all the way along the ledge, and I knew she was hungry. I had hoped that she’d wait until we got to the lake, where we could take a break before starting back, but she disagreed with that idea. Since I needed her to be still for this part of the trail, I sat down and fed her. We had just enough space in the entrance of the tunnel to do so. My husband commented, “This is probably the strangest place you’ll ever feed her.”
While she ate, several other families caught up to us. Two boys ran along the ledge ahead of their father. I wanted to scream, “Walk, don’t run!” They made it safely across, scrambled up the ladder, and disappeared into the tunnel. I hoped that they would exercise more caution on the upcoming cable.
With Sunshine done her snack, we ventured into the tunnel. It was dark and cool and short. I had to bend double, holding Sunshine with one hand and using the other to help support myself. My husband had our daypack on his back, and had more problems, finally resorting to crawling through the tunnel. On the other side, bright sun greeted us. I crawled down a ledge and looked at the cable, disappearing around the mountain. The ledge here was wider than the one before the tunnel, yet where did that cable lead to?
The father and his boys were stopped at the end of the tunnel, admiring the view before turning back. Another family, with three teenage daughters, came around the cable and assured us that the lake was just another ten minutes. And so, heart in my throat, I reached out for the cable and started along it. Sunshine reached out too, her small hand barely able to close around the thick cable. Then we got around the corner, to see the cable go up and over the rocks, and decided that was enough. Perhaps on our own we would have done it, but not with a baby.
So we turned back, clambered back into the tunnel, crawled our way through, and had to face the ladder. My husband went down first, while my hands got clammier and my heart rate sped up. Rocks I am okay with; ladders I am not. Especially ladders that require you to stretch about two feet to reach the top.
While Sunshine smiled at our spectators, and my husband guided me from below, I grit my teeth and inched along the rocks, probing for footholds and trying to reach that ladder that was just further than I wanted to lean. Rocks seemed more sturdy to me than a small metal ladder, but the ladder offered a better handhold. Inch my inch, I slid my weight forward, and finally grabbed one side of the ladder, put my foot on it, and got the other side. Then I stepped down, grateful to be on solid rock again at the bottom, and we once more traversed that narrow rock ledge.
At the stream, we took a long break, eating our lunch, drinking lots of water, and letting Sunshine play on a rock. Then we changed her poopy diaper and headed back down the trail, now watching the time to make sure that we caught the boat at the bottom. We managed to get there with enough time to peel off our socks and shoes and cool our hot feet in the icy water of Waterton Lakes before the boat arrived.
Perhaps someday, when Sunshine is old enough, we’ll go back again and find out where that cable goes and what the much-praised Crypt Lake is really like.
Unfortunately, in the rush of moving, I forgot my camera. If you follow the link, there are some beautiful pictures of Crypt Lake.
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