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Creative Non-Fiction Class

The final story I’m sharing here is slightly out of order in terms of the class timeline, but it is also my favourite piece from the class. I found the assignment daunting: tell a non-fiction story within the frame of a specific form not typically used for this kind of writing. She called it a Hermit Crab Essay. A story crawls out of its original shell and finds a new home elsewhere. The form should be unusual for non-fiction, but should fit the subject matter appropriately (I’ve worded that poorly, but I can’t find the class syllabus with the actual assignment). (March 2011)

From the author statement I submitted with my piece:

I had a really great time working on this assignment. I was terrified at first, not sure what form to use or even what I wanted to write about (no surprise there, that’s how most of my assignments begin). I considered a number of different topics, to the point that I completely stressed myself out. I planned to start writing on Saturday, and finding myself unable to come up with anything I decided to have a nap, desperately hoping something would occur to me in my sleep.

Out of nowhere a story from my past popped into my head, something I hadn’t thought about in years. As I lay in bed (not sleeping) the details began to come back to me and I was struck by the appropriateness (and assignment-worthy inappropriateness) of telling my childhood story using a fairy tale narrative.

I thought about how traditional fairy tales are often dark and a bit scary, and also how they have been watered down and Disney-fied for children. I thought about how witches and monsters are pretend, and that some of the people we encounter in real life can be much scarier. I thought about how much I was loved, and the fact that I had a generally happy and safe childhood. I thought about that child-like resiliency that adults often forget children have. I thought about taboos, sex and sexuality, the house I grew up in, and my Flitter-Bit Strawberry Shortcake toy.

It didn’t take long for me to get motivated. I sat down at my computer and banged out the fastest and easiest first draft that I’ve managed to write for this class so far. I read it over. I worried that it would freak out my classmates during peer editing. I decided that it probably wouldn’t, and if it made them uncomfortable, too bad. I liked it. I was pleased.

Once upon a time, in a kingdom not too far away, lived a King and Queen and their only child.  The Princess was a happy girl, but sometimes she got lonely without any siblings to play with.  She spent a lot of time reading books and making up exciting adventures for her toys.  When the Princess was allowed to play with the other children in the court, they seemed to enjoy the games she invented, and even though she was a bit bossy and always insisted on making up her own rules, the Princess was well liked.

There was a large bedroom in the basement of the castle, and the Princess had recently been permitted to move from her tiny room upstairs down to the new bedroom.  Leaving behind the bright colours and nursery-rhyme wallpaper made her feel grown up.  The new bedroom had high windows that looked out into the courtyard and had a ledge just wide enough to climb on.  The Princess now had a huge dresser and a closet large enough to hold all of her toys.  But the best thing about the new bedroom was the enormous waterbed.  It had a headboard with shelves for the Princess’s prized books and a lovely oval mirror in the centre.

The Princess and her friends loved to climb up onto the dresser and leap onto the waterbed.  They had to squelch their screams of joy because they knew that if the King and Queen discovered them jumping on the bed they would be in a lot of trouble.  Sometimes the Princess would have the other children lie down on the bed and she would climb even higher, to the ledge of the windows, and jump from there, making everyone giggle with the massive waves created by her landing.

One winter day the King and Queen received an invitation to a Ball where children, even good little Princesses, were not allowed.  On occasions such as these the King and Queen usually selected a young Noble to stay at the castle with the Princess for the evening.  But this was a very popular Ball, and all of the kingdom’s young Lords and Ladies had been spoken for.  Rather than exploit their royal favor, the King and Queen invited the son of a trusted royal family from a neighboring kingdom to watch over the Princess that night.

The Prince was a handsome young man of sixteen.  The Princess had never met him before and was quite shy when he arrived.  The King and Queen left him with instructions, cautioned the Princess not to pester the young Prince too much, kissed her goodnight and left in their carriage for the Ball.

The Prince smiled at the little Princess and asked her questions about her studies and her interests.  She offered to give him a tour of the castle, and led him by the hand through all of the upstairs rooms, pointing out things that might be of interest.  Then she took him down the tower stairs to show him the entertainment room.  She finished the grand tour in her bedroom.  The Prince was impressed by the large waterbed and proceeded to sit and then lie down on it, rocking a bit to make waves.  Hoping to keep his attention, the Princess started to show him her favourite toys, but he didn’t seem interested.  Instead he suggested that she play with her toys while he worked on his homework in the entertainment room.

The Princess was crestfallen.  She liked the Prince and wanted him to play with her.  She was hoping he would be like her favorite Lady-In-Waiting who always brought the latest albums to play on the record player, turning them up loud while they danced around the entertainment room together.  The Lady-in-Waiting never ignored the Princess to do homework, although she sometimes spent a long time on the telephone with her boyfriend, a Knight.  But the she would always confide in the Princess afterwards, telling stories about the Knight: how he was a total jerk or how she found him incredibly sexy.

So when the Prince went upstairs to get his schoolbooks, the Princess slammed her bedroom door, threw herself onto her waterbed and began to pout.  She hoped that the Prince would feel badly and come to rescue her.  It didn’t take long for her to get bored, but she was a very stubborn little Princess and continued pouting for at least twenty minutes.

Eventually the little Princess could stand it no more.  She climbed down off her bed, inched open the door and tiptoed down the carpeted hallway to the entertainment room to spy on the Prince.  She thought he looked very handsome sitting on the couch bent over his books and papers on the coffee table.  She wondered if he was sexy.

Spying got boring too, so the Princess made just enough noise so that the Prince would look over at her.  She smiled a sneaky smile at him.

“What are you doing?” he asked.

“Nothing,” she replied innocently.

The Princess darted towards the coffee table, snatched up the Prince’s pencil, and giggling, ran away.  She headed toward the tower stairs and the Prince jumped up to chase her.  She screamed as he laughed and roared like a monster.  He caught up with her before she reached the top. He grabbed her, picked her up and started to carry her back downstairs.

The Princess kicked and squealed, “Let me go! Let me go!” but the Prince kept roaring.  He carried her into her bedroom and threw her down on the bed.  He growled, “Give me back my magical pencil you little witch!”

The Princess was delighted.  She held the pencil high, shook her head back and forth and screamed. “Never!”

The Prince grinned and replied, “If you won’t return my magical pencil I will have no choice but to… TICKLE YOU!”

He jumped onto the bed, trapping the Princess between his legs and started to tickle her mercilessly.  “I am the tickle monster!” he cried.  The little Princess was very ticklish and she screeched and squealed and squirmed beneath him, but kept a firm grasp on the pencil.

“Stop! Stop!” The Princess finally cried, out of breath from giggling and screaming. The Prince stopped and smiled wickedly at her.

“Will you give me back my pencil?” he asked.

“Yes! Yes!” she cried. “Take it!”

The Prince snatched the pencil from the Princess’s fist and rolled over beside her on the bed.  They had made waves in the waterbed.  “That was fun,” panted the Princess, still out of breath.  She felt funny.  Her body was sore from being tickled, but she also felt a warm tingling feeling inside.  She liked it.  When the the waves started to fade, the Princess got bold. She climbed on top of the Prince and started to tickle him.  He grinned at first and playfully swatted her hands away, but after a moment he lay back on the bed and closed his eyes.  Rather than squealing or screaming like the Princess, the Prince let out a low moan.  Suddenly, he threw the Princess off of him and jumped off the bed.  “That’s enough,” he choked.

Once he left the room the Princess felt terrible.  She didn’t want the Prince to be mad at her.  She went upstairs to the kitchen and made two peanut butter and jam sandwiches.  The Queen’s homemade strawberry jam was the best in the land.  The Princess poured two glasses of milk and carefully carried everything down the tower stairs to the entertainment room.  The Prince barely glanced at her when she entered.

“I’m sorry for tickling you,” the Princess said, “I made us some sandwiches.  Are you hungry?”

They ate in silence and, when it was almost bedtime, the Prince told her to go and get ready for bed.  The Princess asked him if he would tuck her in.  He nodded.

The Princess washed her face, brushed her teeth and changed out of her clothes into her nightie.  She crawled into the center of her enormous waterbed, got under the covers and hollered, “I’m ready! You can come tuck me in now!”

The Prince stood in the doorway.  The Princess smiled shyly at him.  “Will you lie down with me until I fall asleep?” she asked.

The Prince seemed uncertain, but he turned off the lights and lay down on the bed.

“You can get under the covers if you want,” she said.

He lifted up the blankets and slid in beside the Princess.  He was lying on his back.  The waterbed was warm.  The Princess turned towards him and snuggled up to his side.

“Goodnight,” she said.

“Sweet dreams, Princess.”

– – –

The Princess woke up suddenly with a pain between her legs.  The Prince was stroking her hair.

“Shhh, it’s OK,” he whispered.

As her grogginess began to wear off she realized why she was hurting.  The Prince had pushed up her nightgown and his hand was under her panties.  Something was inside her.  There.  The Princess was scared.  She tried to move away from him, but he held her tight.  She started to sob.  “No, shhh, it’s OK,” he said and kissed her on the cheek.

“I want my mommy,” the Princess sobbed, “Where’s my mommy?  I want my mommy to come home.”

The Prince removed his hand from under the blankets, but the Princess kept crying.  The Prince continued to whisper, “I’m sorry, shhh.  It’s OK, shhh.  I didn’t mean to hurt you.  Don’t worry.  Shhh, go back to sleep.”  He held her, stroking her hair, kissing her cheek and whispering to her.  The Princess closed her eyes.

 – – –

In the morning, the Princess woke up with the sun.  She squinted and looked around her room.  The Prince was gone.  In the bright morning light the night felt like a dream.  When the King and Queen asked if she liked the Prince she simply said, “He’s OK, but I like the Lady-in-Waiting better.”

The End

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Creative Non-Fiction Class

For our final assignment we were given the opportunity to re-write something from earlier in the term. It was an opportunity to raise the grade on a particular piece and to tackle a subject from a different perspective. It was supposed to be a big change, not just another round of edits. My goal was to turn the story into a series of vignettes. I think that the pedagogical implications of this assignment are fantastic, and although I believe my re-write is an improvement, it’s still not top notch. Regardless, here it is: Crossing Canada Redux (April 2011)

Traveling eastbound on the Yellowhead the sun begins to set behind us, surrounding Caddy with beautiful light. A rainbow appears on the highway before us as though we’re heading directly for the pot of gold. I believe we are.

It’s dark and well after 10:00pm when the four of us pull into Lorraine and Esther’s little farm outside of Saskatoon. It’s my first visit here and it took us a while to find the place. Everyone is hugged, introduced and offered wine. I am impressed, but not surprised, by how well my friends and my Aunts get along, and the wine and conversation flow easily and much later than we expect. Dan, still hung-over from his farewell party the night before, is the first to head to bed. It’s not easy to find room for four guests in a farmhouse, and he and I end up sharing a twin bed while Wade gets a couch and Andrea a mattress on the floor.

We all move a bit slower than planned the following morning, and enjoy a hearty breakfast of oatmeal and fruit before venturing outside to get our first glimpse of the little farm. The Cadillac’s headlights had not revealed the quaint garden filled with wildflowers and my Aunt’s art, the restored greenhouse, or the shady arbor that had been built for Esther’s daughter’s wedding the previous summer. And there’s a horse!

Just enough time for a few group photos, and then we need to pack up the car and hit the road. I leave a thank you card for Aunt Lorraine and Esther on the bed. It’s the last handwritten note my Aunt will receive from me. When she discovers it, I hope she smiles and remembers the letters we used to exchange when I was a kid.

– – –

The thought of spending this perfect summer day cooped-up in the car is unbearable.  It doesn’t take much for Wade’s Aunt Linda to convince us to go out to Lake Winnipeg for a swim. It’s so hot that we stop for Freezies on the way. I can’t keep the smile from my face as I chew and slurp the cherry-flavored ice. I’m six years old again.

When we get to the beach I kick off my flip-flops and run to the water, arms stretched out to embrace the lake. I’m always the first one in. My screams at the cold shock don’t entice anyone to join me right away, so I swim around to warm up while I wait for everyone else to get hot enough to venture in.

– – –

Northern Ontario, with its long stretches of rocks and trees and nothing else, has gotten to us. Dan is stubborn, Wade gets annoyed, I become bitchy and Andrea tries to smooth things over. It’s group therapy in a Cadillac. We drive until we can’t stand it any longer, and Andrea suggests we get out of the car and take a walk near Lake Superior. It’s exactly what we need. We skip stones, take silly photos and remember how to make each other laugh.

– – –

We’re sticking it to the man in Ontario. Trying to save money, we hit a grocery store and plan to dine al fresco at one of the parks along the highway. The trouble is, there is a fee at every park we’ve passed – a charge to drive in, park, eat at a picnic table, and leave. We are spoiled, having grown up out West. Not to be dissuaded, we find a reasonably large shoulder, pull over, and hike down an unmarked path. It leads to a clearing by the lake. Score! It’s pretty, it’s private, it’s perfect.

Squabbling is at a minimum when our mouths are full. We’ve all been feeling the inevitable tension that occurs when four people are forced to be together for extended periods of time. We drive all day, hang out in the evening and share a hotel room at night. Friendships aside, we are starting to annoy the shit out of each other.

After lunch, Wade and Andrea announce that they’re heading back to Caddy for a nap before we hit the road again. Dan and I can barely contain our gratitude. We haven’t been alone for a few days and the strain must be obvious. Wade gives me a knowing look as he and Andrea pack up a few things to carry back. “We’ll leave the blanket for you guys.”

Once they’re out of earshot we can’t keep our hands off each other. My love for outdoor fucking is no secret, and foreplay is unnecessary. Clothes are off and Dan is inside me in record time. There’s no reason to suppress my moans out here. I share my ecstasy with all of nature. As my first climax fades I relax and enjoy the sensations: the sound of the lake lapping the shore, a gentle breeze caressing my naked skin. I feel the tension between us melting away. Squabbling is at a minimum when our mouths are full.

– – –

Caddy started giving us serious attitude in Ottawa. Nearly every attempt to start the car triggered the anti-theft warning message, which meant we had to wait three minutes before starting her up again. It’s beyond annoying, and we nearly got a parking ticket in Ottawa because we can’t move the car, but it hasn’t kept us from getting where we need to go. I call my dad to ask about the problem. He says we might as well wait until we arrive in Nova Scotia to get it looked at.

Bad advice, Dad. We decide to stop about 75 kilometers from Montreal, thinking gas might be cheaper in rural Quebec. It’s mid-afternoon and we have plenty of time to get to the city and find a hotel. Except this time Caddy decides that we no longer deserve a warning. She flat out refuses to start. Maybe she’s tired of driving. Maybe she’s sick of our bickering. Whatever it is, there’s no way she’s taking us any further. It starts to rain.

We attempt to stay dry and decide what to do next. We’ve tried everything we can think of. We finally nominate Andrea, the closest thing we’ve got to a francophone, to ask the gas station attendant to call us a tow truck and a taxi.

It’s nearly midnight when the tow truck drops Caddy off at the dealership. Our cabbie agreed to a flat rate into the city, but he goes well beyond the call of duty, entertaining us with amusing stories to take our minds off our troubles, and navigating to a number of hotels to inquire about vacancies. He manages to help us turn a terrible situation into an adventure.

The few days we spend in Montreal while Caddy gets fixed are among my favorite of the trip.

– – –

It’s been eleven years since I last visited Nova Scotia. My parents used to take me every few years, but they stopped paying for my vacations a long time ago, and I haven’t had a chance to return. Now that mom and dad have retired and built their summer home at Cameron Beach, I have an excuse. Not to mention the fact that Caddy belongs to them and they want her back.

I have no problem remembering the muddy red sand squishing between my toes. Walking forever on the sandbars when the tide is out, and jumping into the water from the big rocks when it’s in. I keep these memories close at hand as we venture eastward. I’m enjoying the journey, but I can’t wait to get there.

I take the wheel in New Brunswick, and as we cross the border into Nova Scotia I begin to recognize landmarks from my childhood and I’m invigorated by the distinctive smell of the maritime air. My heart starts to pound in Amherst when I realize we’re less than an hour away. I babble on about things suddenly familiar that I had forgotten: the brick building where we need to turn left, that lone tree in the field, Chandler’s corner store. My excitement is contagious and my friends are as giddy as I am in anticipation of our arrival. As we turn on to Toney Bay Road I can barely contain myself. My parents’ house is new, but I have no trouble recognizing it as we approach in the dark.

I see the welcoming glow in the windows and I know I’m home.

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Creative Non-Fiction Class

We had a substitute instructor one week in February and she had us do an in-class assignment that I quite liked. She played us a few YouTube videos: some narrative folk songs, and a few poets reading their work. Then we had to take one of the pieces that resonated with us and copy the style, telling our own story.  The poem I liked had the line “this is not a place to linger” repeated throughout (of course, I threw out my notes from the class and can’t remember who it was). I came up with the first four paragraphs, pretty much as is, in class, and added the final two later. I enjoyed the free-writing exercise and was pleased with how it turned out. Although not a formal assignment, I kept it in my portfolio for the end of the year. (February 2011)

Although the orange and auburn leaves in the valley look beautiful this time of year, this is not a place to linger. When the deep, dark days of December descend into that valley, and the cold, coal black skies begin to spit out sparkling snowflakes you will begin to realize that this is not a place to linger.

This is not a place to linger, even if you enjoy the silly, slippery sports like skiing, sledding and skating. There are better places than this to play.

When the twinkling lights and cheerful snowmen begin to appear, you may think that it isn’t so bad. Plied with the spirits of the season (rum and eggnog, mulled wine, hot chocolate with marshmallows and peppermint schnapps) you will believe that all is merry and bright, but don’t be fooled. This is not a place to linger.

A new year brings hope and the promise of a fresh start, but this is not a place to linger. Soon the frost, the cold, the snow, the cold, the ice, the cold, the wind and the cold will convince you: this is not a place to linger.

If you survive the winter you’ll begin to wonder if Crayola has released their special edition Spring in Northern Alberta box of 64 shades of brown and grey. You will forget the beauty of autumn and winter and realize that that this is not a place to linger.

Don’t let the budding leaves and warmer temperatures fool you. This is not a place to linger. Work a part-time job while you finish high school. Find a cheap apartment in the city and leave as soon as you can. This is not a place to linger, and if you don’t get out now you may never leave.

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Creative Non-Fiction Class

The longest assignment we received was to write about a “cultural artifact.” I had a hard time figuring this out, but eventually settled on knitting (although since it’s technically a verb, I went with “knitting needles.”)

I‘m pretty happy with this piece. I got to write about one of my passions and to connect it and myself to other people. Explaining knitting to non-knitters has always been a challenge for me, and I like to think that this piece gets me closer to that place. My writing prof brought up a really interesting point that I had not (consciously) considered while writing, that the narrative is like a work of knitting itself. I also really hate the title. (February 2011)

Start with two sleek nickel-plated ends that fit perfectly in my hands.  They will be cool to the touch at first, but will become warm with use.  Connect them with a smooth join to a strong but flexible cable that won’t kink, no matter how much they’re twisted.  Taper the tips to a sharp point capable of slipping through the finest yarn.  Make the shaft so slick that the stitches slide with ease, even if they are a bit tight.  Contrast the shiny silver ends with a vibrant purple cable.  These are my knitting needles.

Knitting is my meditation.  It keeps my hands busy so my mind can find peace.  It’s simultaneously relaxing and invigorating.  Once you know the basics you can turn off your brain and settle into the repetition: insert needle into stitch, wrap yarn around needle, pull loop through stitch and remove it from needle.  Repeat.  The act of knitting is quite simple.  On the other hand, the art of knitting is a challenge.  There’s more to it than making stitches.  Consider the many variations to the basic knit stitch, the qualities of different fibers and how needle size and yarn weight affect gauge and drape.  Learning to read a knitting pattern is like learning a new language, and the act of creating something beautiful and practical from two sticks and a bit of string is wildly satisfying.

While I find pleasure in the process as well as the products, I also have a special connection to the knitting tools that I use.  Yarn comes in an endless variety of colors and fibers and weights.  I am drawn towards purples, blues and greens.  I prefer merino wool, alpaca and silk blends.  Knitting is a tactile experience, and fondling yarn is a sensual activity.  Some people have a secret stash of porn; we knitters have our yarn stash.  And not unlike an angler who has her lucky fishing rod, a baker her ideal spatula, or a writer her favorite pen, a knitter has her preferred set or style of needle.

The most familiar knitting utensils are a pair of foot-long straight needles, pointy on one end with a knob on the other.  I learned to knit with a set of these, but I no longer have any use for them.  They are large and awkward and make me feel like a child stumbling around in my mother’s high heels.  My knitting needles are just my size.  I don’t need to worry about jabbing the person who sits next to me on the airplane.  Long straights also limit the knitter to making flat pieces of fabric, which is perfectly acceptable when making a scarf, but three-dimensional objects will require seaming.  Knitting is fun.  Sewing up seams is not.

Double-pointed needles are just that: needles that are pointed at both ends.  They are shorter than straight needles and are usually used in sets of four or five to knit small tubular objects like socks, mittens and sleeves.  Trying to maneuver a handful of small pointy sticks jutting out of a small knitting project is unwieldy and frustrating.  These needles also have an annoying penchant for slipping out of the work, leaving the stitches in danger of unraveling.  Once they’ve escaped your mitten or sock they will burrow deep into the sofa, roll away under someone’s chair or hide in the dark corners of your purse.

My knitting needles are circular needles.  They combine the best of both worlds.  They can be used to knit back and forth like long straights to create a flat blanket, or you can knit in the round to make tubes of any size, from the body of a sweater to the fingers of a glove.  Not all next-gen knitters knit with circs, but I see them used more often by my peers.  I’ve even got my Aunt Marilyn, a traditional knitter who showed me the ropes, knitting socks using the Magic Loop technique on a circular needle.

—

Mary Lillian Guthro passed away on June 30, 2010 at the age of 83.  Cancer.  She was my dad’s mother, my last surviving grandparent and a knitter.  The last time I saw Mary was the summer of 2008.  I had been knitting for a few years by then, and I think she was pleased that we had something in common, but it was hard to tell.  To be honest, we didn’t know each other very well.  She lived in Nova Scotia, and we moved to Alberta when I was three years old.  When I showed her my handiwork that summer she sort of peered at it and nodded.  “That’s nice,” was about all I could get out of her on the topic of my knitting.  Mary was a woman of many words, but in my experience they were rarely complimentary or kind.  I suspect that she always thought I was a little bit spoiled, being an only child, and didn’t want to encourage me too much for fear I might think too highly of myself.

When I was in my twenties, my grandparents came out to spend a couple of months with my parents.  My mom had the idea that Mary could knit me a sweater to keep herself busy.  I remember when I was little she knit beautiful Fisherman’s sweaters for my parents and me.  They were incredibly warm, albeit a bit itchy.  I didn’t think I’d get much use out of a traditional pullover, but when I went to visit one weekend, Mom and Mary and I went shopping.  We found a pattern for a long-sleeved cardigan that I liked.  Mary took my measurements, purchased the yarn and got started right away.  I was excited.  I’d never had the opportunity to see anyone knit up close.  I watched her cast on and start knitting.  She was fast.  I was fascinated by how two pointy sticks could turn a big bag of yarn into an article of clothing right before my eyes.

The sweater turned out to be a disaster.  It didn’t come close to fitting me.  The sleeves were different lengths; the body was too wide and too short.  The stitches were uneven.  It didn’t look like my grandmother’s work, but she behaved as though there was nothing wrong with it.  I couldn’t help but wonder if she really didn’t care.  Maybe she felt rushed or pressured into doing something she didn’t want to do.  My mom thought Mary might have forgotten how to read a pattern since she had spent the last decade knitting mittens from memory.  I was disappointed.  I tried to be grateful for the time and energy she spent working on something for me, and I gave her a big hug and thanked her for the sweater.  After my grandparents went home to Nova Scotia my mom unraveled the whole thing, put the pattern and the balls of yarn into a big bag and put it away for me.  I forgot all about it.

It was a few years before I decided that I ought to do something with that bag of yarn.  I had always thought of knitting as old-fashioned, something that grandmothers did to keep themselves busy, but I was beginning to think that there was something kind of cool about handmade objects.  I remembered some of the awesome knitted items I had been given as a kid: checkerboard slippers with a pompom on top, the rainbow balaclava that kept my head and face warm when walking to school, and best of all – warm woolly mittens.  The attached idiot strings ensured that I wouldn’t accidentally lose one of those handmade treasures.  I began to imagine the practice of domestic arts to be edgy and retro. There was something appealing about having a unique hobby, something different than anything my friends were doing. I decided to learn to knit.

Mary was too far away to be my teacher.  Instead I asked my surrogate grandmother, my boyfriend’s Baba, to teach me to knit while she was in town.  She gave me my first pair of long straight size 7 knitting needles and a practice ball of icky acrylic yarn.  Unfortunately, she was a terrible teacher. Knitting was second nature to Baba, and when it came time to describe what she was doing, it was impossible for her to translate her movements into words.  Instead, she tried to move her needles, hands and fingers slowly while I watched closely and tried to mimic her actions.  It was hopeless.  Eventually I managed to cast on a row, but the stitches were so tight that I could barely squeeze the needle into the stitch to make a new one.  Baba’s visit ended and I became frustrated and gave up, defeated by a pair of pointy sticks and some fat string.

As I always do when I find myself at a loss, I turned to Google.  My preliminary “how to knit” queries got me some decent results.  There were helpful diagrams and a few YouTube videos describing the basics that Baba had failed to explain.  I picked up my size 7 pointy sticks and my squeaky acrylic yarn and tried again.  And again.  I continued to make tight stitches, but in time I loosened up enough to be able poke the needle through the loop without a fight.  I managed to knit a little square that didn’t look too terrible so I figured I could safely move on to a scarf.  I went to Michael’s and bought some cheap white acrylic yarn to go with the many balls of black I had left over from Mary’s sweater fiasco.  The next time Baba came to visit I had finished about a foot of my scarf.  She was impressed with how my skills had progressed, but not as impressed as I was.

I continued to knit boring, flat things and didn’t really improve on my skills until my Aunt Marilyn came out from New Brunswick for the summer.   She helped me figure out tension so I could knit even stitches that weren’t so tight.  She gave me a little booklet called “How to Knit” that plainly portrayed all the basics of knitting.  Suddenly it all made sense. I became insatiable and wanted to know everything there was to know about knitting.  Aunt Marilyn gave me a set of short double pointed needles and showed me how to knit in the round.  She taught me how to read knitting patterns.  I used my new skills to make my first pair of mittens.  I learned to knit the slippers that I loved so dearly.  I started to understand the differences between wool, acrylic and other fibers.

—

I wasn’t able to go to Mary’s funeral.  It was held two weeks before I was scheduled to arrive in Nova Scotia for my vacation.  I had set the dates and booked my flight months in advance.  Before I arrived, my parents had been helping to clean out Mary’s house, and my mom was keeping her eyes open for anything she thought my grandmother might have wanted me to have.  I’m the only serious knitter in the family so my mom called dibs on all of the knitting stuff.  On my second or third day back we went to Mary’s house.  I could not believe the yarn stash she had.  There was more yarn in her house than any one person could knit in a lifetime.

I spent awhile digging through everything, but it was mostly cheap acrylic yarn and it all had the slight scent of stale cigarette smoke, a stinky reminder of my grandpa Herb who died three years earlier.  I ended up salvaging a decent sized bag of yarn.  Moving on to explore the hardware I found a few treasures: needle gauges, tiny rulers and scissors, some vintage patterns and lots of cool old buttons.  The needles were another story.  I am still shaking my head at the number of knitting needles this woman had purchased over the years.  The majority of them had never even been taken out of the packaging.  And most of them were size 7.  How many sets of the same size needle could one knitter need?  I picked out a few for sentimental reasons.  The rest of Mary’s knitting stuff went to charity.

I think she would have preferred it that way.  Mary donated the dozens of pairs of mittens that she knit every year, in every color of the rainbow, to her church to distribute to the poor each Christmas.  While cleaning out Mary’s house, my mom found a Safeway bag with three different sets of mittens in varying stages of completion and asked me if I would finish them.  I admit I have always been a selfish knitter.  I knit for myself, and I’ve only started knitting gifts for loved ones in the last couple of years.  I can’t imagine spending countless hours knitting for strangers, but I did spend an afternoon on my summer vacation honoring my grandmother’s memory by working on the mittens with her size 7 double pointed needles.  I didn’t like the needles, and I didn’t like the yarn, but I did like feeling as though I was helping Mary with her unfinished business.

This post was imported from an old wordpress.com blog I used to have.

Creative Non-Fiction Class

Assignment number three is to write about an event (are you sensing a theme?) and once again I know what I want to tackle. The problem is that the event that I want to write about is big. Huge, really, and I only have 1500 words to tell the story. It would have been smart to choose something else: a birthday, a birth, a wedding, anything, but I really wanted to write about my road trip across Canada with friends. I’m stubborn like that. So I tried. And I was not entirely successful.

Word limitations are good, or at least a necessary evil, but it’s important to choose a topic you can fit into the space provided. I had too much to say, too many pieces I wanted to include, and ultimately, I ended up with a fractured travel journal instead of a cohesive essay about an event. But in the spirit of sharing, I’m still going to post it here. (December 2010)

The Destination:

Cameron Beach, Port Howe, Nova Scotia.  I’ve never lived there, but it’s home.  My Aunt Marilyn and her family have owned land here for a couple of generations, and my parents got a good deal on some property a few years ago.  Now that they’ve retired, mom and dad have built a summer home and relocated from Alberta.  It’s been eleven years since I’ve stepped foot on the muddy red sand, walked for hours on the sandbars when the tide is out, or smelled the seaweed-salty air, but I can recall all of these things perfectly.  When I was young we used to return to Nova Scotia every two to three years to visit family, always spending time at “The Beach,” which, despite its generic title, always means Cameron Beach.  We’d stay with Uncle Clarence and Aunt Marilyn at their log cabin cottage that my uncle built in the early seventies.  Eleven years is a long time to be away from home, and I can’t wait to get back.

The Travelers:

Marsha – That’s me.  I’m 31, a recent graduate of the University of Alberta with a B.A. in English.  I’m using my degree to its full potential, working full-time in a chain restaurant. An upscale burger joint.  One great thing about working in the service industry is that it’s easy to get time off, provided you can live without a paycheck.  My boss has assured me that I’ll be welcomed back when I return in two months.  I’m lucky.  This is a luxury not many people I know can afford.
Dan – My boyfriend.  He’s 23 and a current English undergrad.  He’s the moody, artistic type that I find so attractive.  After being “just friends” (occasionally with benefits) for a couple of years, last summer we decided to try being a couple: so far, so good.  Dan also works at a restaurant, although his attitude is more negative than mine.  He’s quitting his job to go on this trip, and planning to spend the entire two months with me.
Wade – My roommate and close friend.  He’s 23, and he graduated with a slightly more employable B.Ed.  Wade is from Northern B.C. and he returned there after graduating to work for the local school board.  It turns out that Fort St. John doesn’t have much to offer an attractive and intelligent gay man.  In less than two years Wade returned to Edmonton, moved in with me, and got a job as an instructor with a private company.  He hasn’t been there long, but he’s still managed to get a full two-week vacation.  I’m thrilled that he’s spending it with me.
Andrea – A friend.  26 years old with a B.Ed. and working as an employment counselor.  She’s banked three weeks of vacation time and is going to spend an extra week in the Maritimes with Dan and I after Wade heads home.  Andrea is our glue.  She’s five years younger than me, but she’s the mother of the group.  Andrea is also our social convener.  She’s the one who plans and organizes the activities and events that have kept the four of us close when life outside of school could have caused us to drift apart.   In fact, it’s Andrea who pulled this whole trip together.

The Vehicle:

1990 Cadillac Seville: white with navy blue interior and leather seats.  If you have to drive a car on your cross-country road trip, you want a roomy and comfortable luxury vehicle like Caddy.  She actually belongs to my parents, but when they moved from Alberta to Nova Scotia they took their Ford diesel truck and left the Cadillac in my care.  It was a win-win situation.  They could make their road trip together in one vehicle, Caddy got to spend the winter months in my heated underground parkade, and I got to drive her.  Of course, mom and dad eventually wanted their car back.   My dad’s proposal was simple: I drive Caddy to Nova Scotia, and they pay for the gas.  It was an offer I couldn’t refuse, and the 2006 Crossing Canada Road Trip was born.

The Trip:

Approximately 5500 Kilometers.  Our goal is to do it in twelve days.  We don’t want to rush, but Wade would like to spend a couple of days in Nova Scotia before his flight from Halifax takes him back to work.  We arm ourselves with dozens of maps and tour books from the AMA.  The plan is to stay in Canada the entire way, and not cheat by crossing the border.  Over a couple of bottles of red, we make a rough plan of our route, discussing where we want to go, what we want to see, and where we will likely spend our nights.  Friends and relatives are contacted about spare bedrooms and floor space.  When a hotel is necessary, all four of us will stay in one room.  Dan and I get one bed, and Wade and Andrea will share the other.  We giggle over hotel espionage: only two of us will enter the lobby to book the room, that way we never have to pay for two extra people!  Andrea would like to make hotel reservations in advance, but she is vetoed.  Although we’ve discussed possible destinations and tourism possibilities, Dan has insisted we don’t make any concrete plans, and keep the journey open to the possibility of spontaneous adventures.

It’s all Relative: Edmonton – Saskatoon – Gimli
The trip starts off great with everyone in good spirits, although Dan’s a bit hung over from his goodbye party at work.  The road from Alberta to Manitoba is mind-numbing, but the company makes it fun.  We play car games and sing along to whatever soundtrack is chosen by the current driver.  Friday night is spent at my Aunt Lorraine and her partner Esther’s little farm near Saskatoon.  On Saturday we stay in Gimli, Manitoba with Linda and Eric.  Technically they are Wade’s great Aunt and Uncle, but they’re too young for such grand titles.  Both hosting families are generous, providing us with comfortable accommodations, delicious food, tasty adult beverages, and excellent conversation.  Staying up late isn’t a problem since we can take turns napping in the backseat the next day.  We couldn’t ask for a better start to our trip.

The Long and Winding Road: Gimli – Great Lakes – Niagra-on-the-Lake
We knew that this would be the most difficult part of our trip.  I was not looking forward to driving through Northern Ontario.  Towns are few and far between.  There are a lot of rocks and trees.  This is where savvy travelers veer south into the U.S., but we’re persistent.  As we travel around the Great Lakes Dan becomes moody and stubborn, Wade gets annoyed, I become bitchy and Andrea tries to smooth things over.  It’s like being in group therapy.  We drive until we can’t stand each other or being in the car a minute longer and then Dan suggests a walk and a picnic near Lake Superior.  It’s exactly what we need. We skip stones, take silly photos and remember how to smile and laugh with each other.  We keep going.

In the Niagra region we get to be tourists: we see a play at the Shaw Festival, check out Niagra Falls and take a Wine Tour, which appeals to everyone’s taste.  I’m relieved that we’re having fun again.  However, we’ve also started to have minor car troubles.  Sometimes when we try to start Caddy she gives us a three-minute anti-theft warning.  If you remove the key, wait a few minutes and then try again, she’ll start up.  It’s annoying, but we figure we can put up with it until we get to Nova Scotia.

Je Suis Canadien: Ottawa & Montreal
A road trip is about the journey, but you’ve got to have destinations along the way.  We spend two nights in Ottawa exploring the city streets, Parliament, and the National Art Gallery.  When it’s time to move on, Wade insists we take a quick detour to Carp, Ontario for a tour of the Diefenbunker – a Cold War bunker.  He’s a history buff and this turns out to be the highlight of his trip.  While I have my reservations about spending a couple of hours in an underground bunker, it turns out to be pretty cool.  When we emerge from the underground we head to Montreal.  Thinking it might be cheaper, we stop for gas about 45 minutes from the city.  Big mistake.  Caddy has decided that we no longer deserve the three-minute warning.  She refuses to start.  Maybe she’s tired.  Maybe she’s angry about something one of us said.  Whatever it is, she’s decided that there’s no way we’re going to go any further in her.  We spend hours at the gas station trying to figure out what to do next.  We end up taking a cab into Montreal and get a tow truck to escort Caddy to a dealer within walking distance of our hotel.  After arranging for her repair, we put that stuck-up bitch out of our minds and enjoy our time in Old Montreal.  We shop, we walk, and we laugh.  We soak up history and culture.  We eat amazing meals.  We spend an afternoon wandering in The Village and try, with varying degrees of success, to speak French.  After two days we get word that Caddy is feeling better and is ready to move on.  So are we.

Coming Home: Montreal – Port Howe
I’m excited to get to The Beach and see my family, and everyone else is tired of being on the road.  It’s over 1000 Kilometers to Port Howe, but we haven’t been driving in Montreal and we’re feeling up to the task.  Dan and I get up early, pick-up Caddy from the shop and return to the hotel for Wade, Andrea and our stuff.  We drive straight through, stopping only for gas/pee/stretch breaks.  I take the wheel in New Brunswick, and as we cross the border into Nova Scotia I begin to recognize landmarks from my childhood and the distinctive smell of the maritime air.  My heart starts to pound in Amherst when I realize we’re less than an hour away.  My friends laugh at my childish excitement, but it’s started to rub off on them and they join me in giddy anticipation of our arrival.  As we turn on to Toney Bay Road – the road to the beach – I can barely contain myself.  I was twenty the last time I was here, my parents’ house is new and the night is dark, but I know the place as soon as I see the welcoming glow through the front windows.

I’m home.  And I brought friends.

This post was imported from an old wordpress.com blog I used to have.

Creative Non-Fiction Class

The second assignment was to write about a place. I knew I wanted to write something about the time I spent in South Korea, but it took me a long time to settle on what story to tell. I really struggled with this one. In fact, I almost dropped the class before this was due. After all, I was only taking it for fun, and the stress of writing, along with the pressures of my work and personal life took me to a level of anxiety that I almost couldn’t handle. I made an appointment with my prof and she talked me down off of the metaphorical ledge and gave me an extension on the due date. This is probably my worst piece from the class, but I’m sharing it anyway. Why not, right? It is a good story. (November 2010)

On my first night alone in South Korea I got trapped in my bathroom.  A new door had been installed in anticipation of my arrival.  I could tell that it was new because there was still plastic around the handle and the doorframe.  The door opened fine from the kitchen, but I guess no one bothered to go inside and close it to be sure it worked from the other direction.  I didn’t usually go to the effort of shutting the bathroom door when at home alone, but the apartment didn’t feel like home to me.

I had been transported to my new accommodations by Lay and Mr. Ko: two Korean English teachers from the school where I would be working.  I was disappointed by the appearance of the building when we pulled up, but I kept a smile glued to my face.  I didn’t want to appear ungracious to my hosts.  The entrance was an unmarked door that faced an alleyway so narrow there was barely enough room for Mr. Ko’s car to drive through.  Looking up, I could see no windows in the three-story beige cement façade.  Not that there was any scenery in the alley other than garbage bags and a few small red and blue plastic pails (which I later discovered were for the disposal of food waste) lining the front of the buildings.  You can imagine how lovely the alley smelled in the thirty-degree heat and humidity of late August.  Welcome to Korea!

Mr. Ko, the strong silent type, wrestled my heavy suitcases up the flight of stairs to a second floor apartment.  He then grinned at me, shook my hand and bowed his head, then hurried back to his car, leaving me alone with Lay.  She showed me around my new home, dutifully pointing out the many items that had been provided for me by the school.  I smiled and nodded and said “thank you” a lot.  Before leaving, Lay gave me a sheet of paper with my new address written in both English and Korean.  She also gave me her cell phone number (in case of emergency) and left me with a hand-drawn map and instructions on how to get to the school the next day.  Although I didn’t want to be alone, I was relieved when she said goodbye and left so that I could drop the brave face I had been wearing all afternoon.  I threw myself facedown on the single bed and cried like a little girl.  I let all of the stress that had been building since I landed in Seoul six days earlier pour out of me on to my pillow.

My little meltdown didn’t last long.  When I ran out of tears and my breathing returned to normal I made the conscious decision to get the hell up and familiarize myself with my surroundings.  After all, I was excited about this adventure.  I wasn’t about to let a little fear and loneliness ruin it for me.  If this was going to be my home for the next year I might as well try to make the best of it.

The apartment itself was dingy, but all of the furnishings were new.  The bedroom was a decent size with a wardrobe, a low table with drawers and a small television perched on top, and a single bed made up with a neon orange and pink bedspread.  It hurt my eyes, but I appreciated the splash of colour in the otherwise dreary space.  On the wall above the bed, up near the ceiling, I discovered an air conditioning unit that was controlled by a tiny remote.  I couldn’t read the symbols, but after a little trial and error I managed to get it working.  The cool air was refreshing and made me feel a little bit better.

Although from the front of the building there didn’t appear to be any windows, I actually had three in my apartment.  One opened out to the hallway and had metal bars on the outside, presumably to deter thieves.  I could see through the window into the apartment across the hall.  The window on the opposite side of the room faced the brick wall of the building next door.  I opened it and peered down into the narrow passage that ran between the two buildings – definitely no view from here.  I sighed and began to accept the fact that my room felt like a prison cell.  The vertical beige lines on the cheap wallpaper didn’t add to the aesthetic.  The only other window in the place was a tiny one in the bathroom.  I closed the bedroom windows and the plain beige curtains and let the air conditioner work its magic while I moved to the other room.

The front door opened directly into the kitchen and was made of thick grey metal.  It had three different locks.  I had learned that the crime rate in Korea is quite low, but between the bars on the windows and the ultra-secure door I started to wonder about the neighborhood I would be living in.  On the wall by the door I found a strange box, bigger than a standard thermostat, with a few different buttons and some knobs.  The Korean words beneath the buttons meant nothing to me, but I suspected the box might control the under-floor heating that I had heard was standard in Korea.  I was half right – it turns out that it controlled my hot water heater.  While I didn’t need the floor heat in thirty-degree weather, I shivered my way through three days’ worth of cold showers until the landlord kindly stopped by to show me how to work it.

I had been provided with a table and two chairs rather than the traditional low table and cushions on the floor.  I was glad, not because I’m particular about chairs, but because I didn’t like the looks of the linoleum floors.  An enormous rice cooker sat on the table – the focal point of the kitchen.  I had also been provided with other kitchen essentials like dishes and a few food items.  It was a pretty standard kitchen.  The only notable thing was the gas stove that Lay had made sure I understood before she left.  You had to open the gas valve on the wall before you could start up the stove.  It reminded me of using a propane BBQ: open the main gas line, turn on the stove gas, turn the knob to light it, and when you’re finished cooking, turn everything off.  I figured I could manage to cook without burning off my eyebrows or blowing up the apartment.

The bathroom was in a room off the kitchen.  It was small, with a standard toilet, which I was relieved to find.  I was not looking forward to using the infamous Korean squat toilets.  A glass cabinet on the wall revealed a toothbrush, toothpaste, shampoo and conditioner.  It was a nice touch, although I had brought my own toiletries from home.  There was no bathroom sink (I would be washing my hands and brushing my teeth in the kitchen), but a set of hot and cold water taps jutted out of the wall at knee level and connected to a long hose that led to a showerhead, which hung at hip level.  Showering was going to be… interesting.  The drain was in the middle of the bathroom floor, but there was no shower curtain or designated bathing area.  The entire room was the shower.  I could live with that, but I was a bit concerned by the final piece of equipment in the room – a washing machine with a digital screen.  What if it got wet?   I was going to have to get out of my habit of taking long luxurious showers every morning.

Suddenly overcome with the urge to pee, I turned and closed the door and sat down on the toilet.  Afterwards, I headed to the kitchen to wash my hands.  Except the door handle wouldn’t turn.  I tried harder.  Nothing.  Confused, I bent down and looked closer thinking maybe I had locked it by mistake.  But regardless of which way I flipped the lock the handle still wouldn’t turn.  It dawned on me that I was trapped in the bathroom in an apartment in a foreign city with no way to get help.  I flashed on an image of myself screaming from the tiny bathroom window and realized that I didn’t even know the Korean word for help.  What was I doing here?

My heart started racing and I thought I was going to pass out.  I sat down on the toilet and put my head between my knees to keep myself from freaking out.  I repeated the phrase “everything is going to be OK” over and over again.  If I had to I would kick down the door.  I wasn’t entirely sure that was an option, because it seemed pretty sturdy, but just telling myself that I could gave me courage.  I looked around the bathroom for something I could use as a tool – toothbrush? No.  Maybe I could use the shampoo bottle to bash the door handle off?  Doubtful.

I started to giggle hysterically at my predicament and sat down again to catch my breath.  I kept thinking that when this was all over it was going to make for a great story.  On my fifth attempt, using all of my strength, I managed to haul on the door handle hard enough to get it to turn a bit.  This small success gave me the nerve to keep working at it and eventually I managed to escape.

I was only trapped in the bathroom for a half an hour, but the anxiety stayed with me the entire time I was in Korea.  Although I tried to keep my sense of adventure and stay positive, I didn’t even make it through three months of teaching English in Korea.  I ended up breaking my contract and fleeing home to Canada.  I felt like a failure, but at least I was free.