Sinterklaas is Coming to Town

In the spirit of Christmas and celebrating my husband's heritage, I thought it only fair to share a little of what it's like to celebrate the holidays in  Holland.

Sinterklaas is similar to who we know as Santa Claus or St. Nicholas or Father Christmas. One big difference though is that Sinterklaas does not have a weight problem and dresses much like a bishop. He doesn't travel around in a sleigh pulled by reindeer and he doesn't have elves.

You better not cry, you better not pout...Sinterklaas is coming to town.

Sinterklaas arrives in the Netherlands in mid-November, by boat from Spain. No frigid northern climate for this guy and only the best mode of transportation. When in Holland he travels around on a big white horse named Americo. And his helpers? Zwarte Pieten - little men with dark skin and colourful clothes. In other words, slaves. As they parade through the streets, these slaves make fun of the bystanders, much like a clown at the circus, and throw pepernoten - little candies - at the kids.

He knows if you've been bad or good, so be good for goodness sake.

Over the next few weeks, Sinterklaas assesses the children, finding out if they've been "naughty or nice". And he keeps a tally in his big black leather-bound book. The children are invited to sit on his lap and admit to whether they have been good or bad. But heaven forbid they lie, or they've actually been bad because Sinterklaas has no qualms about stuffing the treacherous little humanoids in is sack and taking them back to Spain.

On December 5, Pakjesavond, Sinterklaas rides his horse over the roofs of houses while his assistants - see he doesn't even do the work himself - are sent down the chimney to get carrots left by the children. A little treat for the horse. I guess that's how he keeps his trim figure. No milk and cookies for this Saint. If you were good, you get presents or candy left in a shoe by the fireplace. But if you were bad? Nevermind those lumps of coal. You get kidnapped. In a sack.

From what I can glean, Holland still has the traditional Christmas we North Americans have come to know and love, celebrated on the same day, December 25. So in essence, they get TWO Christmases. And we get one.

But to be fair, this little bit of history has long since become a legend to keep the kinderen in line. He doesn't really steal the children. Rather, the naughty kids have to sing a song and they are forgiven.

Sinterklaas is actually a pretty great guy who the kids love and admire. Though he ain't so jolly, and he still keeps slaves.

But, hey, we're not all perfect!

I thought I would also share this great essay by David Sedaris that talks a little about Sinterklaas. Have a listen...and a good laugh.

Yes, Virginia. There is a Santa Claus...

This classic letter, and response, answers the age old question. A must read for everyone.

We take pleasure in answering thus prominently the communication below, expressing at the same time our great gratification that its faithful author is numbered among the friends of "The Sun": Dear Editor, I am 8 years old. Some of my little friends say there is no Santa Claus. Papa says, "If you see it in The Sun, it's so." Please tell me the truth, is there a Santa Claus? Virginia O'Hanlon Virginia, your little friends are wrong. They have been affected by the skepticism of a skeptical age. They do not believe except they see. They think that nothing can be which is not comprehensible by their little minds. All minds, Virginia, whether they be men's or children's, are little. In this great universe of ours, man is a mere insect, an ant, in his intellect as compared with the boundless world about him, as measured by the intelligence capable of grasping the whole of truth and knowledge. Yes, Virginia, there is a Santa Claus. He exists as certainly as love and generosity and devotion exist, and you know that they abound and give to your life its highest beauty and joy. Alas! How dreary would be the world if there were no Santa Claus! It would be as dreary as if there were no Virginias. There would be no childlike faith then, no poetry, no romance to make tolerable this existence. We should have no enjoyment, except in sense and sight. The external light with which childhood fills the world would be extinguished. Not believe in Santa Claus! You might as well not believe in fairies. You might get your papa to hire men to watch in all the chimneys on Christmas eve to catch Santa Claus, but even if you did not see Santa Claus coming down, what would that prove? Nobody sees Santa Claus, but that is no sign there is no Santa Claus. The most real things in the world are those that neither children nor men can see. Did you ever see fairies dancing on the lawn? Of course not, but that's no proof that they are not there. Nobody can conceive or imagine all the wonders there are unseen and unseeable in the world. You tear apart the baby's rattle and see what makes the noise inside, but there is a veil covering the unseen world which not the strongest man, nor even the united strength of all the strongest men that ever lived could tear apart. Only faith, poetry, love, romance, can push aside that curtain and view and picture the supernatural beauty and glory beyond. Is it all real? Ah, Virginia, in all this world there is nothing else real and abiding. No Santa Claus! Thank God! He lives and lives forever. A thousand years from now, Virginia, nay 10 times 10,000 years form now he will continue to make glad the heart of childhood. Francis P Church From The History of Christmas

Bishop Nicholas of Myra

By Madelaine Wong

This Letter to Santa reflects the goodness and hope we have all come to associate with Santa and the true spirit of the holiday season. It's a reminder of the things we should not take for granted. Truly moving and honest.

December, 325 A.D.

Dear Bishop Nicholas of Myra,

Your most humble servant asks for nothing as the anniversary of the birth of our Lord Jesus approaches. I am writing to thank you for saving my life and the lives of my friends, one year ago, today. As you know, we were unjustly condemned by Eustathius, the ruler of Myra, and sentenced to death.

We were, the three of us, held for months without trial in a small cell, starved and beaten, accused of unimaginable crimes. Oh, the misery of that dank, dirty prison. Rats bit our feet while we slept and the guards abused us when we awoke. I must tell you, I preferred the rats. Of course, I don’t have to tell you about the misery. You were also unjustly imprisoned, years ago.

On the day of my arrest, I was pulled away from my potter’s kiln, locked in chains as the neighbours watched and my wife wept. I yelled to my wife to write to you, to beg your assistance. You are known far and wide as a wise and generous man. I still remember how you helped that poor man who could not afford to pay the dowries for his three daughters. They would be suffering in a life of prostitution if not for you. I knew you were a man with a reputation for justice.

I still have nightmares, remembering the day of our execution. We were pulled into the glare of daylight. After spending so much time below ground, the sun was painful to our eyes. Our heavy chains dragged behind us. We were unused to walking after being confined in a cell too small to stand upright. Our bodies were weak and malnourished. The crowd gathered. Their eyes glowed with excitement. They chanted, “Chop off their heads!” They were hungry for blood. I saw my wife, jostled by the crowd; she clasped her hands across her chest. She was praying for me.

They picked me to die first. They told me to bow my head. I did. I awaited death. I admit I almost welcomed it. The executioner raised his sword. I saw the glint of the metal, and squeezed my eyes tight. Death was imminent. Then I heard you shout, “Stop!” I opened my eyes and saw you standing in front of me, your hand grasping the sharp blade of the sword. You stayed the executioner’s hand. I remember you called out, “What good is served by their killing? How is the God of mercy honoured by bloodshed?” You demanded our release and we were unbound.

I collapsed on the ground. I looked up at your face, smiling down at me, your beard as white as snow. I hadn’t the strength then, to offer you thanks. My body, so weak from famine and shock, poor wife and son had to support me on our return home. You never asked me to repay you, and indeed I cannot, being a simple tradesman. All I can offer you now is my sincere thanks.

You will certainly go down in history for your goodness and generosity.

Your friend in Christ

A Workplace Grievance

by Robin van Eck

Santa's toy shop is no different than any other big corporation. Politics, ethics, sexual harrassment, it all comes into play. No one is immune,

Dear Mr. Kringle,

It pains me to write you this letter. I have faithfully served you for the past 400 years and have never in that time had a single complaint. And it makes my stomach curl to speak ill of another person. But I feel I can no longer keep this under my britches.

This situation I hesitate to speak of has caused my performance to suffer in the most grievous of ways. Maybe you recall back in the spring when I inadvertently sewed Raggedy Ann’s eye on where her ear should be? I still pay the price for that mistake. The constant ridicule from the other elves has made it difficult to concentrate on my responsibilities and now their looks are making it impossible.

They know.

I am sorry to report, sir, that I have been sexually harassed. It is still going on and I wish for it stop or I will have no other choice but to find work elsewhere.

It started as what seemed to be innocent fun. A group of us elves were hanging out at the Candy Shop when Mrs. Kringle approached and invited us all to a friendly game of Cricket. Now I am pretty good at Cricket. It runs in my veins. As you may recall my father was a Cricket Pro in his day and he taught me everything he knew. So of course, I was all for a friendly game. Everyone else declined, except for Claude.

So we said goodbye and followed the good lady to the Cricket field. I was winding up for my first shot when Mrs. Kringle said, “Let’s raise the stakes. I win, you two cook for me and Kris for a week. One of you win, I will be your faithful servant for one week.”

Claude and I quickly agreed you see, because we never had no lady ever offer to take care of us that way. Not since my good mother, God rest her soul. Thing is, I knew I could beat her. Kind of seemed unfair at the time, but it was it was.

So of course, I won.

Mrs. Kringle invited me to the house for a lovely dinner – you were out doing the yearly maintenance on the sleigh – and it all seemed good until later that evening she came to my room and insisted on giving me a sponge bath. She peeled off my tights and forced me to sit naked by the fireplace. I didn’t know what to do, she being your wife and all. She did give me a towel to cover my parts but once she had the bucket of suds and the sponge, it didn’t matter if I was covered. That sponge was put in places I didn’t even know I had.

Then she showed up the next morning to pick out my clothes for me, help brush my teeth, hair, back - then shuffled me off to the toyshop. She brought me lunch, ironed all my clothes, even my shoes, Mr. Kringle. Who does that?

The only saving grace was knowing it was only a week. I could make it. The other elves were curious about all the attention I was getting from the “boss's wife” but they paid it no mind when I explained I won a bet.

But the week came and went and it never stopped, sir. She followed me everywhere. Remember Rudolph’s swearing in ceremony? She was right by my side and kept touching my nether regions, oh so subtly. She brushed past me, making sure my nose was right between her breasts. She touches me, sir. And frankly I’m getting scared.

And now the other elves whisper.

I’ve asked Mrs. Kringle to stop. That her part of the deal is long since done. But she hasn’t. She winks at me and blows kisses when we pass in the hallway.

I hate to have to tell you this, as you have been such a wonderful employer. But last night was the final straw. She came to my room when I was sleeping. I woke and she was sitting there, cross-legged on the floor, watching me. Her breathing was rapid. I was afraid to look at her. But I did. And she was doing things to herself, sir. Things she should not be doing in front of me.

Please, Mr. Kringle, make it stop.

Otherwise, I will have no choice but to find other work. Don’t know where I would go. But I hear Utah is nice this time of year.

Respectfully yours,

Lourds Elfkinhoff III

Letters to Santa

Hey y'all! Gonna try something different. In honour of the approaching Christmas season, I am inviting you to submit Letters to Santa to be published on my blog throughout December. Make them funny, gritty, serious, erotic...basically anything goes. 500-1000 words. And send them to rzvaneck@gmail.com No payment, it's just for fun and glory.

December Brings...

It's December. Officially.

On this day, the realization that Christmas is only 24 days away, is all too real. Only a small amount of Christmas shopping is done. Like I mean, one thing has been bought. I have a list of some of the other stuff I need to get, want to get. But I hate shopping so Christmas can be a miserable time of the year. Until it's all done. And I sure do like getting presents.

This is the first year we've given the child an advent calendar. I was sitting here just moments ago and remembered, Hey, today is the first. Time to break out the calendar. Great way for a 3 year old to learn her numbers, by the way. I asked her to find the 1 and she searched through all the mixed up numbers and voila! she found the 1. A simple moment of pride for me, I suppose. Now if only she would learn to use the potty the way she's supposed to, then Mommy would be REALLY proud. And selfishly ecstatic.

This December Grandma is coming to visit. She will leave the moderate Okanagan climate to slog through the bitter chilliness that is Calgary. At least Christmas isn't in January or February. That would be brutal.

Deadlines, deadlines, deadlines. There was so much I hoped to accomplish this year and now it feels as though time is running out and nothing has been done. My novel was supposed to be finished. Not even close. On the bright side I did get quite a few stories submitted and lots of rejections in return. But it also came with a few publications as well, so it wasn't all bad. Book reviews in FreeFall, a short story in an anthology, a short story short-listed for a contest. All progress. And, I taught my first ever workshop less than a week ago and it went better than I could have imagined for a first try.

I've done a few public presentations. Readings at the AWCS Open Mic, An Encore Reading of Freshwater Pearls on November 23 which went really well, and I was invited to read for filling Station's flywheel Reading Series next week. December 8 at 7:30 at Pages on Kensington for anyone who's interested. And, I was invited to read for Writing in the Works in March. Very excited about that. Just really need to work on the novel so I have something decent to read.

December also brings snow and cold. I hate cold. I hate snow more. But one thing I've noticed this year, we haven't yet had as much snow as last year and even though it snowed just the other day, I kind of liked it, more for the sake of the child. It reminded of those snowy days as a child when I actually loved to see the white stuff on the ground. As we grow older and have to drive in the misery, it loses that childlike appeal. But watching the excitement in the child's eyes when she looked out the window, and later when she sloshed around in it, brought just a touch of warmth and appreciation back. Not to mention it wasn't all that cold and the roads weren't that bad so no need to white knuckle it down the Deerfoot.

The Christmas tree will go up. Probably today. The outside lights, maybe this weekend. And then we wait for good old Santa Claus. Would it be silly to put out cookies and milk every day until Christmas? Has Santa ever gotten stale cookies and sour milk?

The long and short of it...December brings the end of a year. And no matter how good or bad that year was, the bright side is, it's over and January starts a new year.

New opportunities and growth.

For all.

REMEMBER

 

Write What You Want to Know?

A common mantra among writers is to write what you know. However, I have heard it said, not to write what you know, but rather to write what you WANT to know. Of course, this would involve a heck of a lot more research, but maybe you’re the writer who loves that aspect of the process.

I’m on the fence.

To some degree I do like research, but sometimes it is easier to write the things you know about.

I’ve noticed a common theme in many of my stories lately. Mommy issues, addiction, mental illness, Alzheimer’s disease and aging.

The first three, mostly because these themes have run rampant in my life, I have taken an attraction to. Maybe more for understanding, for wanting to know what makes the mind do the things it does. And maybe for a better understanding of just who I am.

Alzheimer’s and aging have taken on a new form for me. As I may have mentioned sometime earlier, I have started to work with seniors part-time. I used to be that person who was terrified being in the same room as a “cranky” old man or woman. But of late, this has changed.

The seniors I find myself working with have some form of dementia. Primarily Alzheimer’s, which stands to reason since it’s the most common form of dementia.

Recently I did a book review where the topic was Alzheimer’s. Even from that I got a better understanding of the disease. I had a great Aunt who suffered from it but from her I didn’t gather much because I never saw her after she progressed to the point she didn’t remember anyone.

But now…well…I want to know more about it, and it exists in my family, so it’s just another thing to add to that list of things I want to know more about.

So together, writing what we both already know and what we want to know, brings more life to the piece at hand. Add with it some empathy and understanding, and whammo! Brilliance.

Or so I’d like to think.

A Chance for Exposure

Writing a story from start to finish is only half the battle. After you’ve toiled and fretted over that story, a writer needs to get it out there.

As any writer will tell you, the actual act of getting published is hard. Really, really hard. I’ve had much luck with publishing book reviews and the like, but is it what I really want? No. I love to be able to write, no matter what the topic or genre, but if truth be told, I thrive on fiction.

Recently I had my first short story published, but not without a lot of trial and error. I still have numerous stories out there in the world waiting to hear back from potential publications but in the last year, I’ve had so many rejections it’s almost enough to make a person give up. But the reality is, if you want to succeed you can’t give up. But publication is not the only place a writer can get exposure.

Readings! Now that’s fun stuff. It can be terrifying to read your work in front of an audience, but when you’re done and people come up to you afterward and ask for more information about your story, like, what happens next, or even coming up to you months after the fact and saying, I really enjoyed the piece about such and such you read at such and such, it leaves you feeling that maybe, just maybe, you’re leaving a mark. No matter how small it might be.

So, despite the fact I haven’t had a lot published, I have a few readings coming up.

October 26, 2011 Open Mic @ Owl’s Nest Books at 7pm where I will put my name in the hat once again for a chance to read something. There is no guarantee.

November 23, 2011 An Encore Reading of Freshwater Pearls Anthology, also at Owl’s Nest Books. 7pm. I will read from my story, Wednesday, which was recently published in this fabulous anthology, along with fellow writers: Lee Kvern, Lori Hahnel, Susan Carpenter, Frances Hern, Julie Lockhart, Richard Gorecki.

November 30, 2011 Open Mic @ Owl’s Nest Books at 7pm. I may or may not put my name in the hat again. Depends on what happens on the 23rd and how many other people want a chance to read.

March 10, 2012, Writing in the Works 5 @ Memorial Park Library. Now this is a new opportunity for me. Writing in the Works is a program created by Calgary writer, Rona Altrows to give writers who are working on book length projects, actively searching for a publisher, or waiting to be published,  a chance to promote themselves. By invitation only, I am pleased to be asked to participate this year along with writers: Lori Hahnel, Jane Cawthorne, Rea Tarvydas and Rita Bozi.

If you’re a writer trying to get yourself out there, I highly recommend taking part in readings. No matter how big or how small, it’s all part of being a writer.

Hope you’ll come out to see me and all the other talent at these events.

The Potty Project

Who am I kidding? It’s no project. It’s a complete pain in the butt. We’ve been trying for months to get the daughter to pee in the potty. Some days she does it, and then just as suddenly she goes on this stubborn streak and although I know she has to go because she hasn’t gone since last night, she just won’t do it.

Today I decided I would not put a diaper on her. It would be panties or nothing. For the record, she has opted for nothing. Just to spite me I’m sure. Like whatever I want her to do, she will do the opposite. So we sat on the potty most of the morning, and she refused to go. She would sit, she would get up and play, she would want water, she would pull toilet paper off the toilet paper roll, but no matter what she would not pee.

I left her for awhile. Came back and she’s standing on top of the potty, lid closed, but guess what…she peed everywhere. All over the floor, all over the top of the potty, but not at all in the potty. And it was a lot of pee. See…I knew she had to go. And she was close, but not exactly what I had in mind.

Still won’t put a diaper on her. I am determined, one way or another she will be potty trained before she turns 10.

I know I shouldn’t worry. I know it will come. I’ve been told numerous times not to worry, she will do it when she’s ready, but for all those people who say not to rush her, there are twice as many looking at me with a critical eye that says, “she’s three and not potty trained yet? What is wrong with you?” Or worse, “Is there something wrong with your child?

Well, let’s see what the rest of the day brings.

Learning What’s Important

I’ve been ridiculously busy the last little while. Despite trying to write, to finish little projects that are almost there, I have been working…because let’s face it, more money is always good. But I found something that is more than just work. Something that touches me in a way I never could have imagined. Sure, I went into it hoping to find something that would change or maybe even define me as a person. But I didn’t know how much of a difference I could make in a person’s life, or just how much I would learn.

I’ve started doing home care for seniors. This would consist of anything from companionship to personal care. Most of the clients I can expect to get have some form of dementia or maybe even alzhiemers. My first client is a lady, she’s 92 years old and for the past few years started to develop dementia. She has these moments when she slips, not really forgetting who I am, but thinking she doesn’t need me. She’s tried to kick me out a couple of times. But then there are the days she is so lonely she doesn’t want me to leave. The three hours I spend with her, is just not enough. Yet she strives to hold on to her independence, like the moment it’s gone, she is done. My job is to help not feel so lonely, to find her things to do.

Problem is, in her constant complaints of boredom, she doesn’t want to do anything except watch TV. She doesn’t want to walk, she doesn’t want to leave her suite, doesn’t want to read or be read to, she just wants to sit and doze in her chair and complain about the lack of quality television. And, much to my surprise, she doesn’t want to talk about herself either. I was under the impression that most seniors loved to talk about themselves and their pasts, but not this one. Ask her a direct question about her past, no matter how trivial the question or the intention of the question, and she thinks I’m prying.

Which makes me wonder, is she hiding something? Something she doesn’t want anyone to know. A secret? That’s the writer in me, speculating.

By the way, it’s really hard to have a conversation when you can’t ask a few questions. I know sometimes I have a habit of asking inappropriate or personal questions, but of course I don’t do that with her.

It makes me sad to see her hunched over, lonely. Nothing to do but bide her time until it’s time to go. But like I said, it’s not like she has nothing to do, it’s that she chooses to do nothing. Like there is nothing left to live for, and my challenge, to help her find that thing.

She can be the sweetest lady. She can be the most ornery lady. She laughs and smiles, gets sour and agitated. But one thing remains the same, she is so polite.

We painted her fingernails the other day. Something so simple, yet seemed to bring her some great joy. It actually gave me a little insight to her. There are few pictures of her family, those that do exist, kept in her bedroom on her dresser. In those pictures, I see a different woman. Straight-faced, matter of fact…very proper. But pictures only capture a moment in time.

So who is this woman?

I am determined to find out.

A Great Piece of Information

I was reading something today, advice for writers on getting published and as a fiction writer how best to use a blog to my advantage. This guide suggested things like writing blog posts from the point of view of a main or secondary character in a novel or short story to garner interest in the writer. Another section suggested using a blog as a means of sharing the writer's journey: from story ideas to writing routines, because there are a huge number of people out there who will never write a book but are interested in the process.

All good suggestions. And there are a multitude of blogs out there offering writing advice to new writers. Some good advice, some not so good. Or maybe it's not that the advice is not so good, but maybe it's that I don't agree and that's all fine and dandy. Write about what works for me. My process, because no two processes are the same. For example, I tend to write at night when the house is quiet. I don't have a specific place to write because I don't have the room in my small apartment for special space. But other writers find it better to write first thing in the morning, which I rarely can do. Because of who I am and because I have a toddler who is very demanding first thing in the morning. Besides I don't think clearly at that time of the day. I used to. And sometimes it does work, but most of the time not. And there are other writers who have a special place to write. I wish I could be so lucky. Maybe one day. But for now I write where I can, when I can.

I mostly write at the computer, but there are days when I am stuck on a particular scene that I have to free fall write it out on paper to figure out where the scene is going. And there are writers out there who only write on paper and don't make it electronic until a first draft is figured out. I sometimes start my stories that way. When it's just a tiny idea that needs to be expanded, but about half way through I say to myself, I better get this on the computer and I do. Once that happens there is little going back to the paper version.

But that's just me. Everyone is different. Everyone has a way that works for them. And so be it.

More later...maybe a letter from a dead guy is in the works.

And I don't mean Jack Layton, though, may he rest in peace. It's a sad day in Canada, but one still full of optimism.

Wall Art?

I don't think so. A f*%king mess is what I call it. One that is going to require large amounts of nail polish remover to get the marks off the wall and will probably strip the paint at the same time.

I don't get the fascination. Permanent marker, zinc oxide diaper cream, Vaseline, nail polish. Is it a need to express herself in whatever means possible? Seriously, she is already fully capable of expressing herself. Usually in the form of tantrums and throwing things, but it's expression nonetheless. Am I not giving her enough creative outlet? She has colouring books, she has Play Doh, she has paints. But it's not good enough. I must be missing something. 

As annoying as it is, I do understand she is not doing this to drive us crazy. Or maybe she is. Is it a test? Or just creativity.

Whatever it is, one thing is for sure...I want to stick my head in the toilet and flush.

Down By the Bay

Our minds work in weird ways sometimes. You remember the song "Down By the Bay" by Raffi. It was a regular kids tune back in the 70's and 80's. I vaguely remember the song from kindergarten and maybe grade 1. That was over 30 years ago.

"Down by the bay/Where the watermelons grow/ Back to my home/ I dare not go/ For if I do/ My mama will say/ Did you ever see a goose kissing a moose/ Down by the bay..." And so on...

Chicken and Eggs

Over breakfast this morning I came to a startling realization. Eating chicken and eggs together are inherently wrong. I don't why today of all days this occurred to me. I've eaten the pair together in the past, but suddenly today I realized that one comes from the other, granted it was probably a boy chicken I was eating, but something seemed so bad about it. And it spoiled my appetite.

A Spirit of Encouragement: The Alexandra Writers' Centre Society
New article on Suite 101 in preparation for the 30th anniversary celebrations.

First Came Zinc...

And this evening came the Vaseline.

What is wrong with children? Why are they so obsessed with slimy, goopy gunk that makes such a damned mess and gets into the hair and clothes without much of a chance of it coming out? Not to mention they both are to protect from water...so do you think it's easy to just wash away? No...water

Some Things I Hate

1. People that think they know everything. Take my husband for example. Now don't get me wrong, I don't hate him, I just hate some of the things he does sometimes. Like when he's had just a touch too much to drink and I try to have a conversation with him. He suddenly thinks he's goddamned Einstein and no one else can have an opinion or he just has all the answers to all the problems in the world. If only Canada did things like the Europeans we would be much better off. Aargh. And then, rather than

Brilliant and Noteworthy

Some of the greatest writers say, write everyday. It's great advice but so hard to follow most of the time. Right now I find myself staring at a blank page and wondering what the hell is supposed to happen next. And then slowly, one word at a time starts to fill the page. Sometimes there is no path, no final goal. A word turns into a sentence, a sentence into a paragraph, a paragraph into a page and

Freshwater Pearls Anthology

I have a story coming out in an anthology this fall.

The story, Wednesday, will be my first real fiction publication.

Lots of other great writers inside, too.

Click the link to go to the Freshwater Pearls website to pre-order your copy today or you can pre-order copies through AWCS for only $20. Click on their secure web pages to be taken to the online store.

“Wednesday” by Robin van Eck

When I lived at home, Gertrude spent Wednesdays locked in her bedroom. Through the paper thin walls, I heard her moan and cry out as if in pain. Once when I was twelve I unlocked the door with the ink cartridge from a ballpoint pen and barely missed being struck in the head with an empty glass.

Buy the book to read more. Will be available September 2011.

2 o'clock in the morning...

Something freaky happened the other day.

Not the absurd or cool or coincidental kind of freaky, but the I-just-about-shit-my-pants kind of freaky.

I know I watch too much serial killer, sociopathic or just plain psychotic kind of TV and I have no

Worms Working Hard

Worms spend their days eating, pooping and procreating. Not a bad life if you ask me. And they have no brains.

But they are good for more than just fish bait.

New Website...

I finally have a new website...I know you're thinking...but THIS is your website, and you'd be mostly right...but this is the place I spill my guts and say stupid shit and talk about weird things and then amid it all, sometimes I talk about writing and say something brilliant.

But my website is not about that...who wants to be brilliant on their website...most websites are boring, with nothing new to add...the blog is where the good stuff's at.

Anyway...check it out...www.robinvaneck.com It's colourful and sort of artistic...in a finger paint kind of way.

Kind of like this blog...and you think I like pink, don't you?

Going to see a guy about some worms...

Tomorrow is the day...going to see the guy about the worms. Worm farming...should be an interesting field trip. Will post more on that tomorrow.

What's with doctors anyway? I've been having an ongoing female problem and finally managed to find a family doctor. I went in for the wonderful, annual check up, which I admit I hadn't had since October of 2008. Shame on me, I know. But it is what it is. So I went. And I dunno, call me weird but I find it completely unusual to go for more than a year and half with hardly a monthly visit to speak of. It's been there, just not much. And now in the last two months...spotting every bloody day. (no pun intended)

So I talk to the doctor about it and she her best "guess" is Polycystic Ovary Syndrome. I was sent for a whack of blood tests and then waited.

Okay that was a couple of weeks ago.

So today, I go to the doctor because I am also having a blood pressure problem. I think it has a name. Julianne. Anyway, since there is nothing I can about her...I have to do what I can to manage it. So I went in today, for what was only supposed to be a blood pressure check.

So she proceeds to tell me the results of my blood work and other tests. All clear. Whee...I don't have cancer, I don't have high cholesterol and my hormones are apparently normal. Everything...check, check, check.

But then...the results of the urine test. Here's how it went:

Doctor: Did you have any symptoms of a bladder infection?

Me: No.

Doctor: Period? Spotting?

Me: (seriously? can't you read the stupid screen in front of you. That's kind of why I came to you in the first place.) Hmm...spotting for almost 2 months now.

Doctor: Oh? (looks at the computer a little closer) Well I want you to go for another test but make sure you're not spotting.

What? Really? And if I could control that don't you think I would? Cause I have these wonderful powers of control over my body and hell, I am just here for shits and giggles.

And she still thinks it's POS but doesn't have any definitive proof to back it up. If the hormones are good and there are no cysts...then what? Is it still POS? Problem with doctors, we put too much fricking trust in their knowledge but just because they went to school for a hundred years and have a degree or two...doesn't mean they know everything.

Don't get me wrong...I get that doctors see hundreds of patients a week and it's virtually impossible to remember everybody. But...when the information is right in front of her...and she didn't even remember what I was there for in the first place. Blood pressure. Helloooo.

And I wonder, when a doctor gets back test results and something appears a little wonky, shouldn't they review the chart first to see if they can make any sense of the results before talking to the patient. Just a thought, so that they don't look like they don't really give a shit. Which for the most part, they probably don't.

Anyway, a few more tests to come...one related to the above problem, one unrelated.

And that is that.

Worms, Worms, Worms

It's been raining again. For more than a day. The worms are going to be forced from the ground once again and will be found slithering for cover, hoping they don't get trampled by angry feet.

The last time it rained like this, after the rain, I went out for a walk and found myself stopping to admire the slithery beasts, even took a picture. Will add it if I can get it off my Blackberry.

And I am going to see a man about some worms.

Back to the research. I've been kind of putting this off because honestly it involves three things I really don't like.

Worms. Dirt. Garbage.

But it has to be done for the sake of Caleb and Abel and Daddy. I need to know just what's been happening on that farm. To do that...I must start with the worms.

So I called the only worm farm I could find in Calgary. Worms @ Work If you're in need of really good compost, contact them. See, I promised I would do some promotion for them. More to come, I am sure.

And I am going to see them on Monday. Toddler and all. Wearing anything but out best-dressed. It's going to be a field trip. And I suspect, the toddler in tow will be as terrified of worms as she has recently been about mosquitoes and any other small flying insects.

I was reading a book last night. Actually a couple of books so I don't remember if it was bird by bird by Anne Lamott or Writing from Life by Heather Robertson, but one of these ladies said when she does research for one project, often more comes out of that research. For example, I am researching worm farming for a story I am working on, but at the same time, I have now created two blog posts on worms, and there is the potential for an article for Suite 101 on the subject and the Calgary-based company.

A little research can go a long way.

Ack! Worms...

I've been working on a story. As usual. But this one has taken on a life of its own and now I find myself having to research worms and worm farming.

Who would have thunk it?

I hate worms. As a small child going fishing with my dad on the weekend, I couldn't bear to touch those things. My dad had to always put the worm on the hook for me.

When I would walk in the rain and find worms on the side of the road having been forced from the quiet of their homes, I would take every precaution to avoid them. I did not want worm squish on the bottom of my shoe.

In high school when I would help my mom with the weeding of the garden (against my will) I was completely creeped out when a worm would be found coiled or slithering through the dirt.

I would not touch it. But I would not kill it either. Just leave it alone and let it do its thing.

And now for the story.

I won't go into details but through some thoughtful discussion with a dear friend, coupled with an absurd dream I had recently about an old friend becoming a worm farmer (quite successfully I might add) it was decided that it was too cliche to have the farmer in my story be a pig farmer so what the hell, dare to be different...he became a worm farmer. Which led me to the internet and researching anything and everything I could find out about worm farming.

But...there is always a but. The information I found was generic. Could be perceived any way I wanted it to. The only way I am going to fully understand the process is to get my hands dirty. Therefore, I made contact with a local worm farmer and will going on a field trip. Official date is not set, but I am hoping for next week. After the rain stops.

Speaking of rain. I went for a walk yesterday. The sidewalks and roads were littered with worms having been forced from their simple existence. A horrible disruption to their routine of aerating the gardens and whatever else it is they do. (To them, I imagine it's similar to those poor people in Slave Lake being forced from their homes. Or the recent tornado carnage in the US. Sadness.) And even now...more than 20 years later, I still avoid them.

No squish on these shoes.

Art of the Book Review

I'm not sure I would say there is an art to writing a book review. Although many people have been coming to me lately saying they wished they could write a book review and I why don't I teach a workshop on just how to do that. My response is usually that I don't know that I'm qualified because how do I know if the book reviews I write are really that good. I just write them and hope for the best. Hope I don't insult an author, especially if it's someone I know.

But I have been giving this a lot of thought. And I remember a book review I wrote a long time ago that, for lack of a better word, sucked. It was bland and boring and all it did was describe what the book was about. That's not a review. That's a synopsis. It's the same thing you would find on the back jacket cover.

So..a little over a year ago, when I was asked to write a review, I thought I would go into full respiratory failure. How on earth was I going to write a decent review that didn't just sum up a book. A review that had substance and showed I had actually put some thought into what I wrote.

To make matters worse, the first book I was given to review as a collection of short stories. And let me tell you, writing a review on a collection or anthology is a polka dotted zebra, compared to a review of a novel or book on one particular topic.

So here's a few things I did to prepare for that review.

Research
Go through a newspaper, online or in literary magazines and read other book reviews. Ask yourself, what makes this review interesting. What about it makes you want to read the book, or not? Is there something that stands out? Is the review a summation of the book and then an opinion by the reviewer or is there a substance to it?

Be The Reader
Well this is a given. You have to read the book before you can write the review. I always read the book once through without giving too much thought to the review. Sometimes I make tiny notes or mark really amazing passages, but for the most part I read it not as the reviewer but as the reader and along the way think about what makes this book really good, really intriguing, what's intriguing or not about it. Does it remind me of something else, like a time in my life or an experience that I could compare it to? Again, don't put too much thought into the first read through.

Sit on It (no this is not some kind of weird osmosis)
After I've read the book, I leave it for a day or two. After the story has had a chance to percolate and churn, I come back to it. Grab paper and pen and start jotting down the things that I remember - the things that still stand out. Whether it's things about the character, about the theme or about particular scenes, it may all be relevant. I look for commonalities between the things I've jotted down.

Be the Reviewer
Now I go back and often reread the book. Yes, cover to cover. But now I am looking at different things. Great dialogue, great character development, interesting relationships and even the structure of the book.
In collections I usually try to pick out at least one favourite story. This usually isn't hard to do. And you may have different reasons for it being the favourite.

Excerpts
I find using actual excerpts from the book are helpful in creating a structure or bringing out a particular theme or something about the character. Make sure you reference the page number and story and author next to the excerpt.

Excerpts are not necessary to a review but I think it adds something. Not only does it show the author (and the readers of the review) that you actually put time into searching out accurate excerpts, but it gives more body to the review. I have read several reviews that don't use excerpts and I've read lots that do. I prefer reading the ones with the samples. I like getting a little sampling of the writing, but I think it's the preference of the reviewer.

Structure/Good vs. Bad

Structure in a review is almost as important as structure in a book. I like to try and have a natural progression through the review, from beginning to end.

I open most of my reviews with a thought, a comparison to something in real life that mirrors the theme of the book. Maybe even a scene that I've made up myself.

Or I start with an excerpt from the book, or a news related piece. All that relate to the book, of course.

What if I don't like the book? What if it's someone I know and I don't like the book? What if there are some really good things about the book but also a lot of bad things?

I like to structure my reviews much the way I do a critique. Start with the good, mention the bad, and end with the good. Sandwich the negative in the middle and pad it with a lot of good on either side.

But that's me.

If you choose only to write good reviews then so be it, but I think you're selling yourself short. If you choose to write both, great.

I recommend not being too harsh even if you don't like the book. This probably comes from me being a writer. Writers put so much time and energy into their projects that a negative review can be demoralizing. Don't get me wrong, I don't want to sugar coat it either.

I prefer to be diplomatic.

A dear friend asked me not that long ago, if I read a book by someone that I knew and I didn't like it, would I still write the review? I had to think about it, but I came to the conclusion that I probably wouldn't. I also, won't write a good review if I didn't like the book. No matter who it's for.

But there in lays another problem.

Lately I have been asking people to send me books to review. Some of these people are colleagues and friends. What would I do if someone I know asked me directly to write a review of their book and I didn't like it? That, I don't know and hope I never have to find out.

Perception/Interpretation
You will never interpret a book the way the author intended. If you do, it's probably pure luck. I always struggled with the thought of misinterpretation. What if I was wrong in how I perceived the story or theme? That's the thing about interpretation. It's fairly unbiased. Societal, familial and environmental factors make up who we are as a person and how we are going to perceive certain situations in a book. Don't let that hold you back. It adds more levels to the review and there are bound to be others out there that think the way you do, or alternatively, completely disagree.

All I can say is be fair.

Be honest. 

And...be creative.

Literary Erotica

Woo wee...pleased as punch that my book reviews are gathering attention across the internet. Specifically Suite101 I've been given the opportunity to do and share what I love. Write and read. Write about what I read.

And the latest reading has brought up an interesting subject. Erotica and does it have a place in the literary world?

Bad Romance was an exception to the usual definition of erotica. It's packed full of the dark stuff of fantasy and fetish. But that's not all that erotica is about.

Nude Maja
Francisco de Goya y Lucientes, 1746-1828



Erotica has been around in one form or another for centuries. Paintings, sculptures and literature. Over the years, many have viewed erotica as nothing more than literary pornography, but it's so much more.

In its literary form, erotica is sensuous and arousing - somewhat like pornography. But it's not supposed to be gratuitous as most pornography comes across. There is a point to the story, there is something buried deep within the psyche that causes a character to need, or want. It's not just about the sex. It's about the relationships, it's about the environment, it's about the character.

You could have an erotic story about a woman who is a sex addict. The story is not about the acts, per se. The story is about the person, the addict, dealing with such an addiction and how it affects the rest of her life. Sure there are usually sexually explicit scenes but they need to have a point. Does the character feel pain when she indulges in her addiction? Remorse? Satisfaction? Does she see a problem in what she is doing? How does this addiction affect her other relationships? The woman could be married. Or maybe still lives with her parents. Maybe her days are filled with constant sexual thoughts that affect her job performance. There is so much more to be explored.

Freaky Fountain Press has brought up something different, yet tangible. The freaky side of sexual relationships. The fetishes, the painful relationships, the indignity that can be felt in participating in some of the weirder fetishes. The dark side. This newly formed book press takes us to a place that most do not wish to journey. But it's out there whether we like to admit it or not.

For so many years, gays and lesbians have been fighting for freedom, and the fight is far from over. They have struggled to be seen and heard, fought for the right to marry. And society is coming around.

Erotica has been closeted in much the same way. Why are we so afraid to talk about our most intimate desires? Why are we afraid to admit it's there and deserves its place on the bookshelf?

Time will only tell but one thing is for sure...erotica is making its way into the light.

Book Review: Bad Romance edited by Robin Wolfe

Bad Romance edited by Robin Wolfe (Freaky Fountain Press, 2011)
an anthology of dysfunctional desire

There can be so many reasons for staying in a bad relationship. The fear of being alone, the feeling of addiction to the one we love, the intensity of volatile emotion that makes us feel alive. We know they will hurt us; we know they will leave us wounded and lost. And yet we don't walk away...because when the pain is this irresistibly pleasurable, how can we? (Back Jacket, Bad Romance)

Genre: Erotic Fiction

Book Review: the Boy by Betty Jane Hegerat

the Boy by Betty Jane Hegerat

Another Suite 101 book review.


Genre: Fiction/Nonfiction

Book Review: Nothing Sacred by Lori Hahnel

Nothing Sacred by Lori Hahnel

Check out the latest review on Suite 101.


Genre: Fiction Short Story Collection

Book Review: Being Four by Kim Cormack

Book Review

Reviewed by me on Suite 101

I'm Reaching...

A point in my writing where I have to buck up and believe that I actually have some talent, or throw in the towel completely. The thing is, I know that I have the talent. I know I have the determination to get where I want to be, but along the way you meet people that either boost you up, or knock you flat on your ass. We don't like to admit that we need the constant compliments or flattery, but really we do. What good is any of this if there aren't people out there that believe in what you're doing?

As anyone in any kind of artistic field knows, there are those that think it's a pipe dream, or as my husband likes to call it, "my hobby". And maybe right now it is a hobby because really I'm working hard at it but seeing little payoff. But again, that depends on what kind of payoff you expect. Are you looking for monetary payoffs? Because if that's the case, you might as well be looking somewhere else. Like the trash cans on the street and bins in apartment complexes and then make regular trips to the bottle depot, because honestly, you'll probably make more money that way. Although it's not nearly as much fun.

Or are you looking for the recognition? Someone out there to take notice of your efforts?

Writer or dumpster diver? I think I'll choose writer, even thought sometimes the idea of diving into a dumpster head first feels a little more realistic. More payoff for the effort.

And you get dirty. That's what makes it 'real' work right? I've spent my life with people that believed unless you get dirty, pull a muscle while on the job or shoot a nail through your foot with a nail gun, then you're not really working. Even though you bring home a paycheque, it's not really work.

Well you know what? Writers pull muscles all the time. Writers drive themselves into insanity, spend hours with bad people, chase criminals, kill people, search for a lost love one, tackle subjects not meant for the faint of heart. If a writer wants to drive a nail through the foot of someone, they can. And they can do it essentially unscathed. If they want to maim and dismember someone, they can, without fear of being held criminally responsible.

Gee, when I put it like that, it's probably better to be a writer. Writers can be anything they want to be and for as long as they want. A writer can be sexually deviant. A writer can experiment with poisons, can hand their heads out of a fast moving train or ride on the back of a donkey. They can explore made up worlds, meet unimaginable creatures, time travel...I can time travel if I want. Shit...and I can still dumpster dive if I really, really want to.

What could be better than that?

It's Tuesday...Again

High fevers, psychotic mommy's and men who collect hats. That's what my days have been full of for the last little while.

The hubby came home sick the other day and suffered all weekend. Yesterday, the little person seemed to contract whatever her daddy had because she spent the day with a fever and sleeping and it was a restless night to say the least. This morning there is still a fever though it does go down with each children's Tylenol I pump into her. Probably calls for a trip to the doctor but we'll see how she is in a couple of hours.

But amidst it all, I have written stories, submitted stories and now it's the 'hurry up and wait' we writers are so good at. I sent off a story Saturday. The one I have dubbed 'psycho mommy', dealing with the aftermath of postpartum psychosis. It was an interesting topic to write about, and a mentally draining subject to research. But the story came out fairly strong so for that, I am satisfied. Lets just hope someone else thinks so too.

And then there is the hat collector. Such an intriguing character. An old man telling a story of his childhood and dogs who eat Chiclets. Fun stuff. That one is still in the writing stage but it's coming along.

So all in all, I have 5 pieces of writing out there in the big wide world, trying to fend for themselves like the child I will let go of one day. And just like the disheveled mother...I really hope they don't come home, unless they really, really have to.

Let Me Go Back to Sleep and Try This Again

As I wake from my slumber, I focus on the little person at my bookcase. I wipe the sleep from my eyes and look closely. Thank God she hasn’t torn all the books from the shelf as usual. I lay back and smell a familiar odor but can’t quite place it. It’s something I’ve smelled before. No, not baby poop. Not vomit.

It’s strong and brings me back to my childhood, my teens, even my adult life. But what the hell is it? It’s got a slight ammonia smell, or at least something I associate with that offensive odor.

I look at the little person.

“What are you doing?”

She doesn’t answer. Keeps her back to me, absorbed in what looks like lining the books perfectly. If only she could alphabetize the titles she has rearranged on numerous occasions.

“Hey. Come here.” I  sit up. She turns and then I see it. “Oh God.”

Probably the only bottle of nail polish I currently own is open on the shelf. The little brush lays beside the bottle on the shelf. “Shit.”

I get up and grab the bottle. It’s empty. I search and then see. Gobs of sparkly pink, with a little glitter, are spread over the top of the dresser. And the smell is becoming offensive. I look at little person’s face. No pink paint. Thank God. But her hands are sparkly and there’s a thick hard stain on her pajamas.

I take her to the bathroom, and try to wipe the paint off her skin with a wet cloth. It works a little, but not enough.

There has to be some nail polish remover around her somewhere, but do you think I can actually find it? I look through the medicine cabinet for something that might work. Aha! Rubbing alcohol.

I pour the clear liquid onto a cloth. It smells like nail polish remover. I just pray little person has no open cuts or scratches. I wipe the polish off her little hands. It works. Then I take the bottle and try to clean the mess off the dresser. It mostly works, but I don’t think it’s meant for removing paint from wood so it doesn’t give me the exact desired result but it’s better than it was.

Little person is cleaned, I’m showered.

But now, all I can smell is nail polish. Everywhere I go in the house. It’s strong. There’s a little on my hands that won’t come off.

But in all the early morning hassle, I did not get upset.

At least not until I poured my hot coffee into a normal water glass.

Why Write?

There are so many reasons a writer writes. Is it for the fame and fortune, that more than likely won't come, is it for the desire to be noticed, or to drive yourself completely insane? Or maybe you have a powerful message to share with the world.

I write because it makes me happy. To create new worlds so far from my own, or maybe not so far, to develop new and interesting characters, to try new structures and experiment with an idea. For me it's about the art. And if something that I write gets noticed then so be it. That's just an extra bonus. Of course I want to be published. I want my stories to be noticed. What serious writer doesn't?

Do I want fame and fortune? Again, who doesn't? But there are much easier ways to get there than by writing. I know very few writers that actually make a living at what they do, but I know many writers that have written fabulous stories and have been published by many a literary magazine or trade publisher. It's definitely possible to be published, but it's hard. It's a challenge. But do I care if I ever see my name on the front of a book? Not really. Because I just want to write.

I love the feeling I get when I read a story or essay in public and people come up to me afterwards saying what a great piece it was. Or, when they come up to me month's later and say they loved that piece I read at such and such. The fact that people remember what I have written, for me, is validation enough.

But I still work my hardest to learn new techniques that have worked for other writers. I am always trying to hone my craft, perfect my art, even though I know it will never be perfect. It might be good, it can always be better, and someone will always think I could have or should have done this or that differently. In the end, all that matters is how happy I am with the finished product.

And then I submit those stories to contests, to literary mags, in the hopes that someone else will see the vision I had while writing it. It doesn't always work, but sometimes it does. And sometimes, someone likes a story that I was not even particularly pleased with, but sent it out anyway.

Like most writers, I am my own worst critic. You can edit a story ten times and on the eleventh, still find something that could be changed or made better. There comes a point where you have to have faith and just let it go. If it gets turned down, it's not the worst thing that could happen. I think for me, the challenge is as much fun as the writing itself. Take a literary magazine for instance. Most get hundreds, even thousands, of submissions a year and of those submitted, maybe only publish 1-3% of those. Those numbers are demoralizing. But it also makes me want to try even harder.

Whenever I receive a rejection, I read that magazine to see what beat me out. Usually, I can see it, sometimes I can't. More often than not, I go back to the rejected piece and if there are glaring problems, I fix them and resubmit. If I don't see anything wrong with it, I resubmit. And I have seen some success from the diligence.
It may take forever, but at least, through the whole thing, I am writing.

I've been baffled by so many things in the last little while.

Just seeing how much my little girl has grown and learned in her short 2 and half years years. Seriously. She is quirky, she is witty and she's such a comedienne. She's learned how to put together a jigsaw puzzle. This little foam one that she received as a gift quite a while ago. She's tried and tried to put it together properly but it wasn't until this past week that I noticed her doing it. Matching the colours and shapes and designs exactly the way they should go. The other night, she puts the whole thing together except one piece. Which she then turns to her Daddy and says, "Daddy?"
She holds out the singe puzzle piece. Daddy says, "You can do it. Where does it go?"
She holds the piece over the only open hole and smiles, "Dis?"
Daddy says, "Yes."
She proceeds to turn the piece upside down, "Or dis?"
"No," says Daddy.
"Dis or dis?" And she turns the piece back and forth then starts to giggle.
Daddy shakes his head and sits back on the couch.
I can't stop laughing.

Then just today, I brought out paints for her to try. This is the first time I've ever let her play with them. It was exciting and new. She watched so intently as I showed her how to wet the brush and dip it in the paint. Then she did it. And was so excited over this new activity. Although she thought it was funny to go through the entire book and only colour the eyes of the caterpillars and butterflies.

At some point in the last few days it's occurred to me that in the matter of less than a year, those little one word phrases she uses now that only we understand, will turn into full sentences. She will begin to ask why? Hopefully this will be a replacement for the oh so common NO she uses quite adamantly now. But soon, we will be having full conversations with her. That we will both understand.

But no, I am not just baffled over the little person's development. I am baffled that I just got over a cold a week or so ago, and suddenly I am sick again. WTF? Really? I'm usually lucky if I get two colds a year. One before Christmas, one after Christmas. But this time, it's been two and in the matter of a month. I blame the rapidly changing temperatures, but who knows?

I'm also baffled that I have been writing like crazy. Three stories on the go and a novel. One of the stories is pretty much done. I just need to let it sit and stew for a little while before I look at it one more time then send it off. Another is in the editing phase and the third is still incomplete. And the novel, well, that's a whole different matter. I attribute this to the growing writing connections, the writing groups I have become more involved in, and the great support I have in other writer friends. It also helps that I have a short story being published in the fall and another one was short-listed for a contest, which didn't win, but it was short-listed. Giving me that overwhelming feeling that maybe, just maybe, my writing doesn't totally suck and this is not for nothing.

And so there it is. I am baffled. Amazed. Stunned.

Life is good.

Nostalgia and Remembrance

We used to play together every summer. Four years older than me, Michael would come to spend the summer with his Great Aunt (my grandmother) so yes, we were cousins. Though not directly. We rode our bikes, went swimming in the lake, sat for hours watching Young and the Restless. (He had this unusual obsession for soaps as a teenage boy.)

One afternoon, we were riding around Invermere, Michael was always way ahead of me. Older, stronger, taller, and he had a BMX bike that he loved to show off with. We reached the bottom of the Athalmere hill and suddenly he stops. When I finally catch up, spitting out my wind whipped hair, I see why he stopped. In his hand he held a thick leather wallet. I'm sure my eyes bulged when I saw just why it was so thick. There had to be at least $500 in there.

I asked him where he'd found it. He pointed to the gravel ditch on the side of the road. Being my adolescent self, I wanted to spend it. I am not proud of this fact, but hey, I was a kid, had never seen that much money at one time. And I think most kids would have thought the same thing. But not Michael. He stuffed the wallet in the belt of his pants and took off back up the hill the way we had come. I pushed my short little legs as fast as they would go, but I couldn't keep up. I could only assume he was going back to my grandma's.

He handed the wallet to my grandmother who instantly phoned the local RCMP to report the wallet. Soon thereafter, a man appeared at the door, to collect the wallet. He was a cab driver. For his honesty, the man gave Michael $20. I wanted to crawl in to a hole. Of course he had done the right thing. And I knew if it had been me that found it, if I had been alone, I never would have reported it. I was going to hell.

One summer before, Michael gave me shit for running over a garter snake with my bike. I hated snakes. I still do. I figured the world was just that much better off with one fewer snake in it. But in retrospect, I suppose running over him once is one thing, but when I turned around and ran over it three, four, five times...okay maybe a little overkill. As payback, while we played at the beach, I got stung by a bee. And yes I hate bees too.

That was the last time he came to Invermere for the summer. But the following year, I went to Prince George with my grandparents to visit him. Michael was now a year older and into sports. He didn't have time for a little kid anymore. I spent most of the time in my room, watching him play catch in the backyard. He was not the same. When they came into the house to get a drink, I made a nasty comment to one of his friends. I don't remember what I said, but I remember how mad he was. He didn't speak to me the remainder of our visit. Where we had once been close, suddenly with one single comment, it all seemed gone.

Over the years we spoke occasionally, but not like we used to. Then when I was in my early 20's he moved to Victoria. I was in Kelowna by this time. During phone calls, he told me about his new girlfriend, his daughter and later a son. I was happy for him, but missed how it used to be. There was a gruffness in his voice that I never recognized before, but I hadn't seen him in over 10 years. Things change. Life does things to you.

At 25 I moved to Calgary. Less than a year after I arrived, I get a call from him announcing that he was finally getting married and he really wanted me to be there. I promised him I would.

He picked me at the ferry. I hardly recognized him. He was gaunt, tired, substantially tatooed. And on a day that he should have been happy, he was anything but. He rambled, and mumbled. We made small talk. It was hard to get back to the comfort level we used to have between us. And then of course in the hubbub of the organizing, I barely saw him.

The reception was when we really connected. But we were both kind of drunk. And he seemed more angry than anything else. Something was wrong, but I didn't know how to broach the subject. How do you sit down and get someone to talk to you who first, is intoxicated, and second, you have been so far removed from this person for so long, that what right do you really have to pry, save for the fact that he is family? So I didn't push. I hardly saw him, and a few days later I was back home.

Over the next 10 years, I never saw him again. We emailed back and forth a few times. He was getting divorced, he moved to Fernie to be with his mom and work. But I never saw him, even though he was now that much closer.

I got word that he was in the hospital. Had no idea what was going on. Was told he had a liver infection. I didn't figure it out. Did not put together what I had sensed, did not see anything. About year later he said he wanted to see me. Wanted to meet Julianne. We kept putting it off.

He was all of sudden in rehab. And oh, it was all coming together now. The pieces started to fall into place. Liver damage, rehab, angry, gaunt. I didn't see it then but suddenly it all made sense.

A year later, 2009, I get a phone call from my dad.

Michael died.

37 years old, could not get a grip on the alcoholism and he was gone. Assisted by his own hands remains unknown. At least to me. I have my suspicions but no one has ever really said either way.

I hated myself for not being more aware. For not going to see him. Even though I also knew there was nothing I would have ever been able to do even if I had, I felt guilt. When he probably felt completely lost and alone I had no idea.

I know it's not my fault. I know I have nothing to feel guilty about. But, we will always ask ourselves what if? What if I had seen him? What if we had remained closer? Short answer, he probably would have dragged me down with him.

But needless to say, he is family. And I still think about him and miss him most days.

And he's happy now.

(and I am totally not sure why I just wrote this, but it is what it is.)