Test Page For The Great Canadian Novel

The following is a work of fiction.

Flat Earth

Miss Yolanda Drupe, age 29 and two thirds, of Somewhere, Earth, is going to die. Well, of course when I say that, I mean that she is going to die soon, surprisingly and in such a significant way that it will change the world as Humans know it. Stating it in that way is more for emphasis, really, sort of sets the tone, lets you know the narrator means business and that that business is, in fact, death. Which will be visited upon Miss Drupe, as previously stated, in a most astonishing and unexpected manner.

It all began with a gumball machine.

Yolanda was going to miss her bus, which meant she’d have to wait for the next one to come along 15 minutes later, which meant Edmund Dormer was going to be sitting at his desk by the time Yolanda got to work at the small law firm where she was interning and that meant suffering through The Eyebrow.

Yolanda despised The Eyebrow, which belonged to Edmund Dormer, her immediate superior, especially when it was raised in her, Yolanda’s, direction, while he, Edmund, glanced primly at his perfect gold wrist watch on his perfect bony wrist and made the tutting noise that Yolanda especially hated. Yolanda also hated the word “superior.”

...

You're Never Fully Dressed Without Pants

Let's go over this again...

Not pants.

No.

Nope.

Now you're just making fun of me.

... alright, but only on special occasions.

Compensating For Something?

Blending In With Albertans: Respecting The Truck

Albertans in this area seem to be a pretty stoic bunch. Not too much will phase them, they handle most daily occurrences with a great deal of equanimity, and not just because it's too cold to raise an eyebrow. I have personally witnessed an Albertan, almost certainly by accident, hit a deer with their vehicle, pull over, drag the carcass off the road, field dress it, load it, kick the dents out of the fender, and drive off in a spray of gravel, blood and fur.  

I ran over a Mourning Dove on my first day behind the wheel of my Mom's 1971 Impala and I was a wreck for a week.

Nope, there certainly doesn't seem to be much that will get a rise out of them, but I have been doing extensive research in this area and I have found a chink in the flannel of the Albertan armour. Simply suggest they could make do with a smaller house next to which to park their big, silly truck; a smaller garage in which to park their big, silly truck; imply they might seem less intimidating if they didn't have fakey testicles dangling from the hitch on their big silly truck; giggle at the "scary" flames doodled along the sides of their big, silly truck; or challenge their right to park their big, silly truck perpendicular to the sidewalks by parking parallel, right next to their big, silly truck.

Or insist, despite steely looks and clenched, stubbled Albertan jaws, on referring to it unwaveringly as "a big, silly truck." 

Not in the picture: Incredibly small genitals.

  

The Voice Within

I lost my voice a few days ago. It happened at work, where, adorably, I was immediately championed by all of my students who vowed to find it for me by snack time. They failed, but in the cutest way possible and so I am home for the next few days, under a vow of silence, lest I do irreparable damage. I am half tempted to keep talking, on the off chance that I wind up with a sexy, Janis Joplin rasp, but it would be my luck to end up more like Gilbert Gottfried.  

                                                            Best not to tempt fate.

Those of you who know me will think you understand how losing my voice has affected me. 

"Aw, poor dear. That must be so hard. I mean, you never stop talking. We love you but, honestly sweetie, you seriously never shut up. Are you going insane yet? Hnur-hnur-hnur."

Not quite.

Being voiceless has been wonderful for that secret little part of my tiny, blackened soul that hates people and every boring and mean thing they say and do. For once, instead of being forced to be gracious and polite in the face of near breath-taking stupidity or just plain mean-spiritedness, I get to smile benignly and say nothing at all. No socially accepted banalities cooed over the pink, wiggling thing they ejected from their body after 14 grueling hours of who cares; no gracious change of subject because I really do not want to talk about their problem with "the Natives"; no vapid exchanges about how truly cold this coming winter is going to be. 

Honestly, this forced silence is keeping me out of all sorts of trouble.

A secondary bonus, which has afforded me endless entertainment, is how strangers respond to my lack of voice. You see, I don't FEEL ill, unless I attempt to speak and then it feels like a fist is slowly squeezing my throat closed. So, because I don't feel horrible, I can still run some simple errands, take trips to the drug store for precious Neocitron, Halls, etc. and while there I have discovered that when I hoarsely whisper that I have no voice, people automatically whisper back and eventually everyone in line is whispering also, our heads bent toward each other, ears cocked, as though we are sharing state secrets or discussing vajazzling in church. It's magical. 

The only draw back is when I am walking the dogs. Meeker simply assumes that if he does not hear his named being called with a raising note of frustration and desperation, that he is good to go and will therefore accelerate over the horizon at Mach 3 at the very moment the van door opens. Jesse feels free to eat as much dead bear as she can in one sitting and Zoe, well, Zoe does whatever her three little brain cells tell her to do anyway, so there's been no real impact there I suppose.

Along The Line of Smoky Hills

It's Fall or, as Starbucks spells it, Pumpkin Spice Everything Season. I love this time of year. It comes a little sooner than usual, up here at the northern edge of Central Alberta, and doesn't last as long but it's all the sweeter for it. The days are bright and clear, the leaves are a brilliant yellow sigh on the wind and the nights have a crispness that remind you that winter is coming

Edmonton, The City Beyond The Wall

I have always had a fondness for this season. Not just because it smells fantastic outside but also because the days and nights are the perfect length; not so long that you have trouble believing your clocks and not so short that you feel rushed into or out of the sheets. The air isn't hazy from summer's heat anymore so the horizon, and Alberta has a lot of horizon, seems close enough to touch. Sweaters and jeans are so much more flattering than shorts and tank tops, and every child suddenly seems to own at least one corduroy item, which is only the world's most adorable fabric.

Is anyone else hungry? Because I could just EAT these.

There is a special feeling I get in the Fall, like receiving a real letter from an old friend.  It's not quite joy, although that is part of it. And it's not quite sadness, but that's in there, too. It's a sweet reminder of beauty and life, but also of the seasons gone that can't be recaptured. 

It's in the Fall that I lay out my regrets and examine them, one by one, snapshots of things I meant to accomplish and just... didn't. It is also the season in which I decide which regrets are the ones I intend to do something about and which ones are going to be swept up with the fallen leaves and used to plant something new instead. Fall is my New Year, my season of resolution, so much more than when winter holds everything immobile and frozen. This Fall, I resolve to be more adventurous, to be braver. To stand up to bullies. To love more, even if it's Tuesday. Especially if it's Tuesday. 

And to forgive Tim Hortons for their Pumpkin Pie Latte, which I am certain will be in their pile of regrets next year.

Say you're sorry, Tim,  and we'll just forget this whole ugly business.

I want to ride my bike...

First bike ride of the summer! Yeah! This is going to be great.

Where is my bike?

Why is my bike in the back shed, who moved it there?

Where is the saddle and post for my bike?

I am going to kill Husband.

Why is the post for my bike in the garage?

Why is the saddle on the post the crappy $15 one? Where is my $80 Terry Cite X Gel Saddle "designed for her comfort", with all the right bits in all the right places for my lady bits?

Text from Husband: Oh, that seat. Um. Sorry. It's at work. Sorry. On my bike. Um.  Sorry. Get Helpful Coworker to go get it maybe? Sorry. Um.

Helpful Coworker is under the weather and besides, that's a silly reason to disturb someone's Sunday morning, no matter how wonderfully helpful they are. 

I am going to kill Husband.

Never mind, I will use the crappy seat and enjoy my sunny Sunday no matter the cost to my lady bits. This is going to be so great!

Wait. Where is the allan key set? 

And the tire pump?

Text from Husband: Oh. The allan key set is in the big blue tool chest behind the other big blue tool chest, in the drawer marked "Glues and Caulks". Not in the drawer with the glues and caulks, marked "Drivers and Bits". I don't know where the big pump is. The small, tubular, silver one is on the tray with 5000 other small, tubular, silver tools. Sorry.

I am really going to kill him.

Pumping up my tires, I am so close to my first bike ride! This is going to be so great!!

Where is that hissing coming from?

Seriously, where is that hissing coming from?

Canadian Tire Service Person: This kit right here is the best we have for patching bike tires. Can I interest you in an allan key set and a large bike pump also?

Hugs with strangers are great.

Plus, I am a grown up. I can patch this tire. Step one, find the leak...

Oh. The hissing is coming from the bike pump.

Ok.

At least I have a fancy new travel sized allan key set with which to tighten on the crappy seat.

Clip shoes make the best noise on the paved driveway, don't you think? Clomp clomp. Grown ups can enjoy clompy shoes as long as they are Serious about their Sport.

Clomp clomp clomp.

Camel Pack and helmet on, check! Map My Run engaged, check!  Here I go! This is going to be so great!

Crap. My chain just came off.

Not to worry. I am a grown up, it's just that now I'm an oily one. Luckily I am wearing the pair of padded bike shorts I borrowed from Husband. Hands not so oily now. Ha.

Map My Run: Distance,  5 kilometers. Time, 28 minutes, 45 seconds. Average speed, Old Lady Pushing Grocery Cart Uphill.

Wow. I never noticed how snarky that voice sounds. 

Look how lovely and green Alberta is! This is really great!

It's raining. It was sunny like 5 seconds ago. I guess I better turn around.

What the hell was that!? 

Oh.

My seat just fell off.

Whew. That was close. Lucky for me I landed on my already wounded back, with my feet still attached to their pedal clips, which I recall swearing to a friend only yesterday almost never happens.

Right in front of a delivery van.

Seriously, hugs with strangers are the best.

No injuries to anything worse than my pride. I'll just pop this seat right back on with...

Wait. WHERE IS MY NEW ALLAN KEY SET.

Omniscient Memory Camera zooms in on handy new travel sized allan key set, tucked in convenient travel case, sitting carefully on top of the blue tool box next to the other blue tool box.

In the garage.

I don't know how this, too, is his fault but I am so going to kill Husband.

For Dad

Today is Father's Day. As days with capitals go, in my books Father's Day ranks right up there with Mother's Day and Victoria Day for providing excellent reasons to get out in the sunshine, roast some manner of beast and generally have a great time with family. I intend to do all of these things. But not today. Today I am very, very far away from my father and my family and although it makes me sad that I cannot see their faces laughing, I can remind myself of all the things my father taught me and thank him for those lessons, even at a distance.

One of the most profound lessons my father taught me was about love. Now, not a lot of you may know this but my father loves my mother more than any man I think has ever loved his wife and the mother of his children. I can tell you this with certainty because my home was not always an easy place to be. I'm not airing dirty laundry here so I'll just say there were arguments and sometimes the greater family as a whole didn't always get along with all the bits of itself that had joined the Collective over time. That can take it's toll on a person and show itself in many ways. My deeply introspective and gentle father seemed to grow a protective layer of prickles and stings in order to shield himself at times and watching him, I learned that reading quietly could sometimes be an act of defiance; a peaceful man's attempt to keep the peace, though not always successfully. Somehow, though, in the midst of all of this tumultuous family goings-on, he showed my brother and I what it meant to love someone with your whole heart. Dad loves Mom and that is the rock I have built my life upon. No matter what, even if it's hard, especially if it's hard, you never turn your back on that promise to love a person for the rest of your life and theirs. 

I have my father to thank for teaching me strength in the face of adversity, for showing me that love isn't always easy or pretty and that the things that are really worth fighting for are sometimes the best reasons to sit down, shut up and read your book. Dad is the reason I trust that people are essentially good, once you let them get all of the bullshit out of their system. He is the reason I love to laugh and the reason I love Husband with every tiny last little bit of my heart. No matter what.

He also told me once that when he was a little boy he dreamed of running away to the Wild West and joining Roy Rogers on his ranch, to grow up like a real cowboy. You can't help but love someone like that.