Okay, so I am not a fan of genre labels, mostly because I hate to pigeonhole writers into categories. BUT because I know some/a lot/many/most of you appreciate a category so you “know” whether or not you’ll be interested in a particular book, I’ll say that THE BOOK OF ACCIDENTS by Chuck Wendig falls into the horror/suspense category with most of it being a total mindf**k as you try to figure out just What The Hell is happening.
There’s all sort of synopses floating around on the Internet, so I’m not going to attempt another one here. I will, however, say this: judging by some of the reviews I glanced at, people seem to either strongly love this book, or absolutely hate it. (I suspect the divide is along political lines, but I’m just guessing.)
For me, though, the plot chugged along at a pleasant pace, drawing me deeper into the story with each page. I liked the characters, one or two images were particularly delicious, and best of all, the ending was completely satisfying. That doesn’t happen often enough.
This was my first Chuck Wendig read. Suffice to say, I’ll be looking for more of his books. (In fact, I already have! WANDERERS is waiting on my bedside stand tonight.)
This is how I begin most mornings — cat, quilt, book, and cuppa.
The picture doesn’t do justice to the rag quilt, a Christmas gift made by my dear friend and heart-sister, Bev Henneous. Remind me and I’ll post a better photo, one that shows off its amazing colors and workmanship. Spreading it across my lap every morning is like receiving a hug from Bev (who gives the very best of hugs) and reminds me of sitting together on her couch in Bend, OR sharing her own version of this quilt while we talk.
Ruby, of course, thinks the quilt belongs to her, and lets me use it out of the extreme goodness of her heart, and because I (not always willingly) get up early to feed her whenever Her Majesty’s tummy feels empty.
My drink of preference is black tea, and mornings just aren’t the same without it. I prefer Yorkshire Gold, Barry’s Gold, PG Tips, or Smith’s Portland Breakfast or British Brunch. I brew it strong and add only enough milk to color it without losing the heat. I can do coffee in a pinch, but it has to be what the wife of a friend once called “Baby Coffee” – meaning, lots of milk and sugar. (Might as well be eating coffee ice cream by the time I’m done doctoring it.)
If I’m lucky, I’m left to myself that first hour of the morning. It gives me time to wake up, time to read in peace, time to order my thoughts for the day ahead. In warmer weather, I cheat Ruby of her lap-time and sit outside to watch the sun come up and listen to the birds. (We have a particularly loud cardinal who perches at the tip of the tallest tree and sings as if he’s celebrating the dawn of time.) Most days, though, I’m in the easy chair near the fireplace. We’re new to this house, so we haven’t had a fire yet, but I’m already looking forward to crisp fall mornings and shivering winter nights.
This cat, though. She’s something else. She came into our lives and took the place by storm. She’d been found on the streets of Hartford – emaciated, four legs covered in tar, with a suppurating uterus, and an immense rodent ulcer on her top lip. Go head and Google “rodent ulcer” and scroll through until you find the grossest picture you can, and that was Ruby. Those who rescued her nursed her through the worst of it, then we took over and dealt with reoccurrence until we finally beat it. (Knock wood) Then she became diabetic, which we also got her through. (Knock wood). Did you know that cats can experience a one-time reversal in diabetes? We didn’t, but that’s what the vet told us and, praise be, that’s what Ruby experienced. Since then, it’s been pretty easy sailing. (Knock wood; is three times the charm?)
The day we took her out of her carrier to meet her new canine sister, she hissed at Holly….who, being Holly and world’s most perfect dog, shrugged a “whatever” and walked away. Twelve hours later they were curled together on the couch, and remained inseparable until sweet Holly died in June 2020.
But this cat, this Ruby, this gem beyond price…she kept me going through the onset of COVID, through the loss of Holly, through the deaths of so many people we loved over the past two-plus years. She’s been a small purring bundle of love beside my head, against my back, behind my knees, in my lap, perched on the back of the couch. She’s been a constant no matter what’s been thrown at her. She is all about the love.
And, yeah, there are times (like 1 am) when she decides she’d rather have me up and about because I know how to open those flip-top cans of Fancy Feast, that I don’t particularly care for her…but then she climbs into my lap after every meal to say “Thanks, Mom” and head-butt me, and curl up in my lap to watch TV. (And she does. She loves The Great British Baking Show, and any program with animals gets her immediate attention.) And of course I cave. Who wouldn’t?
Sometimes that’s all it takes.
I have some really great friends. Two in particular come to mind, both writers, both having written fiction, nonfiction, and poetry. Good people. They’ve experienced challenges in their lives, like the rest of us, but both contain a generosity of spirit that allows them to nurture someone else who’s hurting even in the midst of their own travails. They’re an inspiration to all who meet them, and if I manage to return even a bit of the kindness they’ve given me, I will do it without question or reservation.
At any rate, I’ve written here about the effect the past couple of years has had on my ability to write. A lot of people rallied round and rah-rah’d, assuring me that I’d come out of the malaise, that my words were waiting and I just needed to knuckle down and try (as though I hadn’t), but these two particular friends built a nest of eider around me; not to protect me from life’s hard knocks (nothing does that), but to give me space to hurt and mourn, because that’s what I was doing – mourning not only the loved ones lost, but the cherished occupation I could no longer access. These friends were gentle and encouraging, and when the time was right (notice of open submissions to Tupelo Quarterly) they encouraged (not nagged) and put on just the right amount of pressure.
Yes, I must have been ready for it, otherwise no amount of encouragement would have made me submit somewhere I didn’t want to, or didn’t feel I ought. And though this submission comes with a bit of uncertainty, well, hell, don’t they all? We never know when we’re going to be published. (At least most of us don’t.) So, yeah, the girl has picked up the gauntlet again…with a sense of relief I can’t quite express.
But as for these friends — John and Shifra — you’re lifesavers and I love you.
…to the staff and patrons at Estacada Library in Estacada, OR for the opportunity to be the kick-off presenter for the 2022 Adult Programming. I appreciate all who attended, eager to learn more about my friend Roger Henneous and his remarkable elephants through my book ELEPHANT SPEAK. Special thanks to Library Director Michele Kinnamon, and especially to Adult Services Librarian Leslie Pearson who first contacted me about the possibility of participating, and who then served as my contact person, as well as my Zoom Guru for the event. I could not have done it without her.
I received the following response to my post “New Year, New Attitude” from Andrea Buka:
I am coming to the same realization as you about cumulative grief. It is overwhelming sometimes.
Last week I came to the realization that I cannot abide spending a third year just waiting it out. Waiting for what? I need to find practices that are healing and counteract the grief and depression. For me this is a resolve to get more exercise and to make things. Cook again, sew again, journal again. And less time in Facebook and more in real books.
I know exactly what you mean when you talk about the dark feelings taking over. I think they sucked away the last 2 years of my life. Thank you for sharing your writing about the dark and the light. It makes me hear your voice, both when I am reading it and later on, too, when I need it.
Thank you, Drey.
It’s an unfunny reality about bad feelings that when they first begin, we often work diligently to try to dispel them. But over the long haul (at least in my experience) they can wear us down, eroding our belief in the light, battering us until, when light does emerge, we sometimes turn away from it, unwilling to believe in the reality of its existence, or that it will endure, that we can trust it. Instead, we wind ourselves deeper in darkness like burrowing beneath the bedclothes because that’s what we’ve come to know, and we hate it, but it’s now our normal and it feels safe even as it’s sucking us dry.
I can’t speak to Andrea’s experience of the past two years, but that’s where I’ve been. Initially, it was too much all at once…too many disappointments, too much loss, and too much sudden change. I’ve never been good with change. I like it (sometimes), but I prefer when it’s initiated by my own hand and comes on at a pace with which I can cope. (Good luck with that; it’s not in the nature of change to be so accommodating.)
The change that (for us in the US, at least) rumbled in the distance in 2019 and landed in our laps in 2020 was sudden and crushing. If you looked closely (assuming you could bear to), you’d find it was faceted, this weight, and each facet mirrored further change, further turmoil and loss. We cowered in our caves in fear of what was outside, because now an invisible monster stalked our streets and whispered at the window, crept in under the door, lodged beneath our fingernails. The monster kept us from those we love, from those who we offer strength, and who offer us strength in return. It cut us off at the knees. Its light illuminated our best nature (consider all those who worked to feed the destitute, and every frontline person who risked their own lives laboring to save the ill) and shone harshly on our worst. (I’m put in mind of the woman who was quoted as saying, “Why should I care about strangers?”)
I envy those who found purpose early on. At the beginning I thought Shelter in place? I’ll get so much writing done! And I did…for awhile…until one psychological blow after another shut down my resources. I felt drained of all vitality and emotionally battered, unable to persist in the exercise I knew I should do, unable to make myself sit and work, to be productive, unable to even make a dent in the stack of books beside the bed.
I’m still trying to understand that time. “That time” makes it sound as if it’s over. If only it were. But it’s ongoing…and changing, had you noticed?…but what I’m discovering with the beginning of this new year is a reemergence, in myself, of a warrior spirit. And she’s fairly well pissed off.
Not at myself. (There’s that, at least.) I can, and must, forgive my own inertia these many months. I can, and must, honor the grief I’ve experienced, the many deaths, some very personal, others those strangers that woman spoke of, because how can any Human Being not shake at their core by the knowledge of over five million deaths (and counting) across the globe. It’s like contemplating the stars; your brain can’t contain the immensity.
But now it’s time for me to move toward the light again, to find it, and to create it if I can’t find it, because I need it. Northeast Ohio, where I currently reside, is not a place renowned for sunlight in the winter. Days here (weeks on end, sometimes) are cloaked in an undifferentiated gray (what my husband’s cousin has dubbed the “Kent Cloud”) without nuance or texture. On those rare days with a peek of sunlight, I will bundle up and stalk the neighborhood, or one of the area’s many walking trails, and turn my face to the light.
Coming in late yesterday afternoon from one such walk, I stopped and marveled at a tiny speck of yellow in the grass by our front stoop. It was a dandelion; closed, yes, but only just, waiting for any brief moment of warmth, of sun, to stretch wide and reach toward the sky.
For those of you who like to tune in to listen (and, I hope, participate) to a discussion of elephants and writing, I’m doing a Zoom presentation through the kind auspices of The Estacada Library in Estacada, OR on Thursday, January 13 from 6:30-7:30, PST. (Contact the library at https://www.cityofestacada.org/library for details.)
I’ve been a fan of Krampus for a long time. I appreciate the balance he brings to the holiday, and I like to think that he and old Santa are quite fond of one another, working in tandem as they do. I’ve watched most of the Krampusnacht videos on YouTube (and if you haven’t, you should), but I never expected to meet him.
Color me startled, but who knew there was a conclave of Krampuses (Krampesi? Krampusei?) (Ah, I just Googled it: di Krampi) in Ohio of all places.
Yeah, I know….no one seems to think anything goes on in Ohio. I hear it all the time from people who discover we’ve moved here. The resounding question is always WHY? And there are those who tell us they’ll NEVER come visit because who, like, goes to Ohio ON PURPOSE?!
Because not only are there venues where to you can meet and greet these lovely folk, but there’s also a polka band that performs with them, and puts on a stellar and thoroughly kick-ass polka version of “The Night Before Christmas.” I kid you not. (And if anyone had told me 13 months ago that I’d be singing the praises of a polka band, I’d have said they were nuts, but I’m here to tell you right now that the Chardon Polka Band is stupendous. (Here you go. I dare you.) The loud hooting you hear is me and my daughter Theresa.
As Theresa put it halfway through the show, “I’m smiling so much, my face hurts.” Me, too, kid.
As Patti LaBelle sings it, “I got a new attitude.” I’m trying anyway, and isn’t that half the battle?
So Happy New Year to all. Don’t know if you partied hearty or kept it low-key like us (fabulous meal cooked by my husband, eaten while watching the National Theatre production of “Romeo and Juliet”), but however you chose to ring out the old/ring in the new (or not), I wish you a coming year of peace, prosperity, health, happiness, and mental equilibrium.
The change in my attitude can partly be blamed on writer John B. Valeri, whose annual year’s end poem hit the mark, as usual. Damned astute guy, our John. He picks up on the universality of feelings. I’d like to share it with you:
Take This Moment, Make This Wish
Do you feel a world apart
When all you want is to be together
Did somebody break your heart
When you thought you had forever
Do you feel miles away
When there’s only time or distance
Did you forget the words to say
When you were met with resistance
If you feel alone this December
It might do you good to remember
We all look up to the same sky
We breath air from the same trees
We all search for reasons why
We can agree to disagree
Take this moment, make this wish
Peace to all, and happiness
The joy comes from within
So that’s where we begin
Do you feel left in doubt
When you used to know your mind
Did you look within, without
When you left it all behind
Do you feel you’ve lost your way
When you used to have direction
Did you somehow go astray
When you reached the intersection
If you feel lost this December
It might do you good to remember
We all sleep under the same stars
We are warmed by the same sun
We all carry our own scars
We can be the change that starts with one
Take this moment, make this wish
Peace to all, and happiness
The joy comes from within
And that’s where we begin
That’s where we begin…. And so I shall.
I also read something recently that talked about the cumulative effect of grief, that as each grievous thing occurs, if you haven’t had time to process it even a little, well, it’s piles up like sludge in a pipe until you’re overwhelmed. I think that’s a lot of what’s been going on with me. Not just exhausted with another year of pretty much keeping to ourselves (for those who care, yes, we’re vaccinated and boosted), but shouldering the loss of so many individuals we know and love.
But if I hope to keep the dark feelings from taking over forever (and I have the good example of certain relatives to know what that looks like when it comes home to roost), the change needs to come from inside me. Wish me luck.
This fellow here is my nephew, Lucas Richard Perkins. As I mentioned in an earlier post, Luke died last November after a 30-year battle with Cystic Fibrosis.
And believe me, he gave the bastard a beating. Cystic Fibrosis, life itself, and that thing we all fall prey to called “bad life choices” had slowly robbed Luke of just about everything he loved. Understandably, it made him resentful and so very, very angry that not many people could reach past that rage. (Although I’m happy to say that I recently learned from his mom that in the days prior to his death, he found a way to set aside the pain and become who he was at heart – a warm, compassionate, loyal, and loving human being.)
Anyway, a few weeks (maybe months) after Luke died, I felt compelled to write a poem about him. “Compelled” is too soft a word to describe the experience; basically something out there in the ether grabbed me by the brain and hand, shoved my ass into a chair, and disgorged five or six stanzas unlike anything I’d ever written. It took a couple more days to bring it to a finish, and when it was done I felt like I’d been possessed. Luke was something of a writer himself, although never had a chance to explore where it might have taken him, and I like to think he took advantage of the writer in the family to let us know he’s okay. There’s plenty of folks out there who’ll say that’s bullshit, but their opinions don’t matter. I know what I know. And even if I don’t know what I know, if it brings me, and Luke’s other family and loved ones, a measure of peace, where’s the harm?
I posted the poem to his Facebook page because I couldn’t think of where else to put it. As you might guess from the picture, motorcycles figured prominently in Luke’s life, but I couldn’t imagine any motorcycle magazine printing poetry. Ray Agnew, a long-ago friend from high school and an accomplished musician, read the poem and asked if he might set it to music. I was understandably thrilled by the offer and of course said yes. Ray took the project and ran with it, bringing in other talented musicians including his son Zane.
I’m proud to announce the song “Heaven’s Highway” (words and music by Melissa Crandall and Ray Agnew; music by Ray Agnew) is now available for purchase (a bank-breaking 99-cents) on Amazon music. You can also hear it on Youtube at https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=IDU2Alr-a2w. ALL PROCEEDS are donated to the Cystic Fibrosis Foundation in hopes of vanquishing this awful disease that has affected too damn many of my family.
Thank you, and happy listening.
…is often how it goes in this game of writing, or at least that’s my experience of it. Famine, feast, famine. It’s an oft-used example, but it really is a lot like one loose pebble on a hillside. Once it begins to roll, you can either end up with a landslide or it’ll get lodged against something else, halfway down the slope.
I gratefully take the work of progress as it comes. And it is work, make no mistake.
So I’m happy to announce the next little progression in the life of ELEPHANT SPEAK: A Devoted Keeper’s Life Among the Herd. It’s very early days yet, but on January 13, 2022, from 6:30pm to 7:30 pm, I will be guest of honor on Zoom courtesy of the Estacada Library in Estacada, OR (https://www.cityofestacada.org/library). The thing I love about these online meetings is that people from all over the globe can tune in, so please pass the word along to those you know who have an interest in elephants. I plan on showing pictures from the life of elephant keeper Roger Henneous, telling a bit about him, and maybe sharing a story or two that didn’t make it into the book. I hope you’ll join us.