The room was full and the audience totally attentive while Anne read sections from her book, introducing the main characters — including Canada's first prime minister, John A. Macdonald — and giving background to the story.
Then she moved on to the door prizes — and finally led everyone in singing the chorus of "The Canadian Boat Song."* (Based on an even simpler, though perhaps less authentic, version of the song we found online.)
It was such a great event that other bar patrons wanted to join in. One asked if there was a cover charge (no, readings don't typically have these!), while another wandered in late in the evening with a tiny paper umbrella in his hair. (The camera flash from his friend outside the window might indicate he was doing it on a bet. But he bought a book, so it's all good.)
Underwater sidewalks rise, grow into fishing islands where girls net minnows in the park. In their bucket, tiny fish wriggle through dead grass, dirt. One girl says she saw a huge fish swim across a nearby field — two feet long, an ugly bottom feeder. A canoe would be fun, too, she says, if the channel flow was not so strong, the water cold, the current to the bridge so treacherous.
There is still ice in places on the ground — those white lumps on the left side of the picture were chopped from a too-slow-melting drift.
But finally, it's warm enough to ride.
(And yes, I do wear a helmet... I was testing the height of the seat and air in the tires here. Before I started on my spring tour of Regina alleys, I found and put on that helmet.)
Photoshop has captured my brain this weekend. I love the instant effects and weird creative spin it gives to images. It is amazing. And totally time-wasting. Or not... What could be better than writer buttons?!?
This effect is explained in Photoshop CS Down and Dirty Tricks — a book I am working my way through. The post-it note below comes from the same book. (This version belongs to G.; there are also newer versions available.)
(Click to open a large, non-pixelated image of Rhona McAdam, Steven Ross Smith and Betty Jane Hegerat from last night's Vertigo Reading in Regina.)
A great Vertigo reading in Regina last night with Steven Ross Smith, Betty Jane Hegerat and Rhona McAdam. Yes, it was Easter Sunday — and one of the first warm evenings — but a good group turned out to listen and visit and buy books.
Steven read from his new collection, Fluttertongue 5: everything appears to shine with mossy splendour (Turnstone, 2011); Betty Jane, from the manuscript for her forthcoming book, The Boy, (Oolichan, 2011); and Rhona, from her new chapbook, The Earth's Kitchen (Leaf Press, 2011).
The reading was sponsored by the Saskatchewan Writers Guild, which has recently taken on the reading series, hosted last night by Tracy Haman, with bookseller Gerry Hill. (Look for more of my snapshots from the event on the Vertigo Easter Reading page.)
Wascana Creek continues to rise, breaching its banks and flooding city parks. At least one street and golf course along its channel were also partly underwater.
The creek breached a section of the sandbag barrier south of Les Sherman Park and flowed across Seventeenth Avenue. It was deep enough to close the road and lure a dog to swim, but not so deep that Saturday city work crews on repair detail couldn't drive through.
A surprise guest today — Canada's first Prime Minister has dropped by to wish his (almost) namesake, Anne McDonald all the best as she prepares to launch her new novel, To the Edge of the Sea (Thistledown Press).
John A is featured in this book, which he has just looked up from reading here — with a spare copy on his desk to lend to a friend. (I think he likes it, Anne... He's smiling. Does the story bring back memories of PEI, perhaps?)
As the water rises, city crews are piling sandbags along the edge of Wascana Creek.
The last time the water rose this high — almost 40 years ago — the creek crested and overflowed into several communities. Since then, embankments have been built to contain the rush of spring melt.
In this age of high tech, it's interesting to remember that something as simple as a bag filled with sand is still one of the most useful barriers.
I've been looking up metaphorical uses of sandbagging this morning: stall (investor takeovers), cudgel (as a weapon); compel (with threats), deceive (by underreporting potential)... But for those in floods zones, protect is the only meaning.
On Thursday night, we went to Poetry and Film at the Saskatchewan Filmpool, presented by Kelly Anne Reiss. Turned out that the poets who were reading were all members of the Garnet Street Gang.
Anne McDonald, left, will be launching her novel, To the Edge of the Sea (Thistledown), later this month.
Bruce Rice, centre, has published four books of poetry: Daniel (Cormorant); Descent into Lima and The Illustrated Statue of Liberty (both Coteau) and Life in the Canopy (Hagios).
Bernadette Wagner, right, launched her poetry collection, This Hot Place (Thistledown) last year.
The OPOD page at Atmospheric Optics has a large version of this picture (with permission) with a detailed explanation of the ice halo, sundogs and arc in this photo by the optics expert, Les Cowley. There's even a lovely close-up of the parhelion on the left.
(Atmospheric Optics is a great site to browse, if you're interested in rainbows and fog bows and the effects created by light playing on water drops, dust or crystals of ice.)
A big welcome today to Louise, a character from Betty Jane Hegerat’s The Boy, who has dropped by to answer a few questions about what it’s like to be inside a book.
First, what was it like being a character in this blend of fiction, non-fiction, memoir and investigation? In an audio posted on her website, BJH suggests that your voice was difficult to silence…
Hi, Shelley. Thanks for inviting me to your blog! As you’ve already gleaned, I had a devil of a time motivating BJH to get my story on the page. This was straightforward fiction, the kind of story BJH could have handled in about 5,000 words if she’d put her pen to it and done the job instead of conjuring up dark shadows every time she got a few paragraphs on the page.
All I wanted was a man; spinster school teacher, plain as a pudding, meets presentable widower, marries, has a bit trouble with the stepson but eventually wins him over and all is gumdrops and roses in a little prairie town. I thought we were moving in the right direction in the opening scene when Jake Peters sauntered up to me in the bar, but it seems that’s the red lights were already flashing.
Stepson.
The possibility of me becoming stepmother to a troubled boy triggered the memory of that old murder case and not only did the research BJH seemed compelled to do steal time and attention from my story, for a while it seemed she might dump me entirely. The only way I knew to survive was to feign my own interest in the Cook family. And to keep questioning the energy she was pouring into pursuit of something she refused to define.
What was like being caught up in all this?
Disappointing when I feared that I might be set aside in favour of a book of non-fiction, because I was sure my story would be forgotten once BJH had dealt with the subject by exploring the real life crime.
Then it became challenging, because she was waffling and there seemed to be a possibility that I could steal it back.
And finally it became exciting, because I realized that my nagging was aiding the process and might just be the glue the two stories together.
It sounds as though there was an obsession driving this story. Was it yours or your author’s?
Obsession is the theme all right. Not only was BJH obsessed with that old murder story, but she decided to pull me into it as well. I admit it wasn’t that hard; after pretending interest in the story to keep pulling BJH’s attention back to where I wanted it—on me—I became drawn into Daisy’s story. We knew the ending to that one, and while I had to trust BJH to deal me a gentler hand, the more we heard about Daisy, the more we read, the scarier it became.
I could feel BJH’s fear as well. I think the two of us, in our dialogue about how the story was unfolding, were able to share the fear and finally to get beyond it. I think we both learned that even in “ordinary families”, where parents are concerned and do the best they can with what they have, there are things we cannot control. And that is liberating, because it helps us to absolve ourselves of blame.
Are you done with tugging on BJH’s sleeve now? Or do have other stories you want her to tell?
Ha! If you asked BJH this question, she would roll her eyes. She would tell you about the huge relief she feels at putting both boys to rest. But I like to think she’s grown fond of me, and I’m not going to vanish into the fictional hereafter. I’ll give her a break, but I noticed that she saved some of the pieces she cut from my chapters, set them aside because they weren’t germane to The Boy, but I’m hoping she’ll decide they might be worth revisiting in some shorter pieces.
Thanks so much for joining us, Louise!
Betty Jane has decided to drop by, too, to read a teaser on the discussions she had with Louise about the story, and about Daisy Cook.
~~~~~
For a longer audio clip about The Boy(2011, Oolichan Books) and more updates on the virtual launch, visit Betty Jane Hegerat’s blog.
And if you live in or near Regina, Saskatchewan, why not come to Betty Jane's reading?
It takes place as part of the Vertigo reading series on April 24, 2011, at the Chimney Lounge, 2710 Montague Street, where she'll be joined by Rhona McAdam, Keith Foster and Steven Ross Smith?
Thanks Betty Jane — and thanks, Louise! See you (well, one of you, at least!) next week.
Riddlehoard — delightfully mysterious, by Cassidy McFadzean
Today, I discovered Cassidy McFadzean selling copies of her new poetry chapbook, Riddlehoard, at the True Knit Art Show in downtown Regina. The chapbook is not only delightfully weird — Johah McFadzean's illustrations would have delighted Hieronymous Bosch — it's also compellingly mysterious.
Riddlehoardechoes the Old English tradition of poems that describe an animal, an object, a natural phenomenon — and who knows what else? I regret to say that so far, I haven't solved any of the eight poem riddles she presents. (Nor does Cassidy provide the answers, although she gives a way to find them. But for now, I'm going to resist that temptation and enjoy the read.)
It's a book, it's a game, it's a fascinating poetry collection — and also a medieval-style manuscript and a hoard of riddles. What could be more fun?
Artists, crafters, writers and shoppers. April 9, 2011
This morning, I had the luxury of visiting Wascana park and photographing last night's early spring snow.
One thing that surprised me: The winds came from the north and every tree trunk had a swath of white down that exposure. It reminded me of Richmond, B.C., where moss grows most on the north side of trees.
Until the sun climbed high enough for the melt to begin, from the north each spindly bare deciduous became a white splattered birch.
How much snow was there? I don't know—but it looked like a lot (for April!) to me.
White on white on black on white. A world without colour.
The perfect medium for footprints. Even better for goose prints.
The Canada Geese on Wascana Lake spent the day making mosiacs along the shore. (Who knew geese were so artistic?)
They sing, too, and practice truck imitations, aka honking—like the one below on the right, which is tossing back its neck and letting loose its compellingly annoying song. The one below it is about to start, while the goose second from left, bottom, is merely taking a break.
