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After Margaret Atwood’s Memorable Memoir, Can I Be Far Behind?

I have shared this tale before, and feel encouraged to do so again. It is an odd milestone in my own writing odyssey, and when Margaret Atwood achieves a profound feat, as her new memoir reveals, I do take note. I have about forty pages of my own memoir done, and years to go before I sleep.

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It was not my intent to piss off Margaret Atwood.

The opposite, in fact. I wanted her to know she was an inspiration.

She was giving a reading at the University of New Brunswick in my student days. I attended, but there was quite the gathering and she was whisked away at the end. However, I overheard there was a ‘gathering’ in her honour. Invitation only, of course. Academia and literati.

I crashed the party (that was the term used by the professor who clapped his sturdy hand upon my shoulder but – happily – did not thrust me into the night).

But Ms. Atwood was kept deep in many a learned conversation and I had no opportunity to converse. I did, however, overhear where she would be spending next afternoon – the historic University Observatory.

Next day I knocked upon the Observatory door.

It was not a cheerful Margaret Atwood who answered, and answered with alacrity.

She asked my name.

She asked my business.

And she asked how the hell I knew where she was. She had stolen the day to do some writing. Some ‘real’ writing, in this window-of-opportunity grudgingly offered on the book tour.

At least I was there to praise Atwood and not to bury her with some essay question.

Nor had I a manuscript to hand to her.

I might not have garnered a smile, but her curt thank you was reward enough.

For me, at least.

11/08/2025 0

A Decade That Has Passed Like Ten Years – And Onward>>>>>>

>>>>> forever and yet another day:

Happy Anniversary with WordPress.com!

You registered on WordPress.com 10 years ago.

Thanks for flying with us. Keep up the good blogging.

01/19/2025 0

So I’m Told

Old.

And cold.

And not so bold.

Broke the mold.

There is no gold.

It’s time to fold.

Nothing to hold.

Bought and sold.

05/24/2024 0

An Eclipse Without The Rapture Redux

I did NOT go up in the Rapture, even though I waited around for some time. However it was a darkling event, and well- worth my effort. Not total, so things did not disappear, nor did birds and other animals go off the deep end. The crows, upon occasion, cawed bloody murder. But they often do that anyway.

However, the Eclipse was nifty. One couple gave me a pair of “Resting Eyewear AAS Approved” from Moonviewers .com to wear. And another chap gave me a printed photo of the Eclipse.

So, a good time was had by all. Except – you know – I did not ascend into Heaven.

DE BA UEL

04/08/2024 0

An Eclipse Without The Rapture

My father saw a total eclipse. He only describes his age as a child, so I make the guess it was in the 19teens. His one comment about the effects of the darkness was that the cows started mooing, and began heading back to the barn.

My last total eclipse was in 1972. How time and the sun flys. And the moon.

I was at an archaeological dig at Bartibog Bridge, about fifteen kilometers north of Miramichi in New Brunswick. The archeologist in charge of the dig obviously knew of the eclipse (I know I didn’t) and had brought a professional, tripod telescope with him. He had attached a screen over the lens, and everyone was given a chance to take a look. My memories about the whole event are almost as succinct as my father – and at least he talked about the actual event itself. My biggest memory of that day is that I found a bone that might have been human. But – yes – it did indeed get dark, and it could have been three in the morning. I did not find it spooky or otherworldly.

But I did find out something kinda spooky this morning. The local radio show had an interview with someone who was at the centre of the eclipse in 1972. It was at Arisaig, Nova Scotia, and it was such a favoured location that scientists came from across North America to see it. The fellow who was interviewed, remembered cars and trucks filling the parking lot and the fields around the harbour. Some of the scientists had large pieces of equipment and even larger telescopes (and cameras) on tripods. Hundreds of private cars were parked along the roads. The harbour and the pastures surrounding it offered unrestricted views.

Also, during the Eclipse story, mention was made of the Carly Simon song You’re So Vain, with the famous refrain:

Well I hear you went up to Saratoga

And your horse naturally won
Then you flew your Lear jet up to Nova Scotia

To see the total eclipse of the sun

Carly Simon was actually interviewed about this, and revealed she used those verses because she wanted a rhyme with the word “Saratoga” and the word “won”. Which, as a writer, pleased me to no end.

The oddity (to me) is that Arisaig is (at least as the sun shines) just up the coast, on The Northumberland Strait, from Bartibog Bridge. And, decades later, Arisaig Harbour became one of the most enjoyable places I would ever visit. And have done so often.

And – of course – I wondered at the time if I might get famous enough for Carly Simon to sing about me.

And now, just after I post this, I am going to walk up a hill with barely a tree on it, and await this eclipse. And see what happens. I should reveal that I have been awaiting the rapture for years.
DE BA UEL

04/08/2024 0

A House Of Ghosts

It had been a house of dreams, it was now a house of ghosts.

Ghosts tranquil and benign peered through the dusty upper windows, stood in wait behind the boarded doors. The dreams of long ago, which had tumbled down the stairs, and frolicked through the rooms, were now memories in the minds of ghosts.

The ghosts were themselves memories, destined to further fade with each new birth. But there would be no births in this house, as it slid inexorably toward decay. The lackluster brown shingles would be more smudged, the remaining panes of old glass would break, the floors would warp and collapse, the roof would succumb to the years of harsh weather.

Even the `No Trespass’ sign was barely legible. Then where would the ghosts go?

Blaine left his car and walked toward the house.

If he had eyes to see, who would be there to greet him? Would children’s dreams, fair-haired and boisterous, burst through the front door and surround him in games of tag and laughter? Would he get caught by their enthusiasm (would he become a child himself), and race behind the trees, burrow into the hay, hide between the bins of potato and turnip, intent not to be `it’.

Or would he meet the ghosts, quiet and tentative at the top of the steps, moving slowly with their uncertain smiles. Would they greet him with a wave, invite him into their warm-smelling kitchens, offer him fresh tea, and squares right out of the pan? Would he sit in the stream of fall sunlight flowing across the well-oiled floor, and talk about childhood?

Blaine walked part way up the drive before he stopped.

He knew what lay beyond the boarded windows, and the sagging door upon its rusty hinges. Wallpaper would be water-stained, and curling off the plaster walls. There would be lumps of refuse in the corners of the rooms, with one inevitable rusty bed frame lying on its side. There would be gaps in the ceiling, where beams of sunlight shimmered through motes of dust. There would be holes in the baseboards, where earnest rodents made comfortable homes.

There would be musty smells offering a hint of long-ago meals, and something gone bad in the pantry. There would be one upper window (at the back) which still had a tattered lace curtain, half obscuring what had once been totally private. At night he would hear bats.

It was not this house he had come to see, of course. Of course, not this derelict house, which he knew could never be restored, and which was so beyond help even death slept while visiting.

12/29/2023 0

One Flew Over The Crow Tree

For years and years a massive Murder of Crows used to fly over my house on their way to their nightly roost. They would fly across the harbour, and head for a copse of trees at a university a few miles away. They would often (or some of them) alight in a huge tree two houses down the street. There could be two hundred, and they would fill the tree, cawing and rustling and flying around. Then, in twenty minutes or so, they would be on their way.

Alas, the university cut down that copse of trees for the construction of some buildings. The crows no longer make their journey. I do not know where they now roost.

However, one recent morning, I saw a crow at The Crow Tree.

It hovered and hovered and hovered and hovered over The Crow Tree. I rarely ever see crows hover. Then it grabbed right on to the tallest piece of a branch (already denuded of leaves) and held on.

It swayed and swayed and swayed back and forth in the wind, sometimes using its wings for balance. It stayed so long that I was able to get my binoculars to watch (and totally confirm it was a crow). It was.

The crow put me in mind of a cowboy attempting to stay on the back of a bucking horse. Whoo-heee!! I imagined it saying.

All told, it clung to the branch for a minute. Then it let go, flew up, and away.

I had not seen a crow on The Crow Tree for over a year. There are still local crows, in twos and tens, on the ground and in the trees. But not the massive flock that would (I assume) take a wee rest during their evening passage. I do miss their passage from east to west, spooky though it was.

10/30/2023 0

Birthday Bash Fit For A Pirate 19/09

My day of birth has been usurped by “Talk Like A Pirate Day” Who ya gonna call? Who do I sue? Pirates are already beyond the law. What would I do? Make them walk the plank?

But – anyway and regardless – (or should I throw all propriety to the winds and say “irregardless?) I will tout my own birth (it couldn’t have happened without me) and describe a birthday celebration I wrote some years ago.

Still waiting on that suckling pig.

There will be scampi on a plate with breakfast for my birthday.

Quarts of wild strawberries will float in flagons of cold Rhenish wine. Blueberries will be hidden by thick cream, and golden honey shall trickle from plates of buttered toast. Braces of quail and brown roasted turkey will be surrounded by steaming heaps of new potatoes and tender ears of corn. Joints of beef and lightly curried lamb will stand between bottles of red Anjou wine and jugs of red Italian fire.

A smoking, suckling pig will have bowls of dry, yellow squash at its feet and stacks of cheeses at its head. Pastry and pies and a foot high chocolate cake will stand among jars of brandied fruit. A cask of aged port will remain, to do justice at the end.

Then I shall settle back to patiently await my dinner.

09/19/2023 0

31 August 1917: A Weasel Well-versed In The Ways Of The Earth

In Kafka In The Castle, I fill in the ‘missing’ diary entries from Kafka’s real diary. He either did not fill in these days himself, or he destroyed them. There are some estimates that Kafka destroyed 70% – 80% of everything he wrote.

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31 August 1917

The last night of the month. My last night in this tiny house. My last trek along the Alchemist’s Lane as someone who belongs. And soon, my last walk down the Castle steps. Which Max so dutifully counted. And after Max conveys me to the specialist, I imagine I’ll embark on the last part of my life. The power of the Alchemist’s Lane is far from spent, if one truly sees what I have turned into. There could have been no substance so base as myself to put beneath the test of smoking acid. Burning with precision into my lungs.

Since Max helped last night, there is not much for me to carry away. I might indeed be taking as little as I brought that first day. Technically, I must leave by mid-night, and I plan to walk out the door at that precise minute, turning the key in the lock at the last strokes of the cathedral bell. Of course, I don’t have to do this – no one will appear to check on me. But, I enjoy technicalities. I skirt through life on both the vaguest, and the most precise, of technicalities. After all, I am a well-trained lawyer. Like a weasel well-versed in the ways of the earth.

But sadly, this burrow must be vacated. And by its exposed front entrance, for I never had the luxury of a back escape route. But then – is that what is now being offered me? Opened for me? Not the Alchemist’s Lane, which will lead me to the city. Between the walls, through the courtyards, down the steps, and beyond the many gates. But the Tuberculous Lane, which may meander in many directions, stop at many doors, but finally – eventually – lead to the deep decent into a darkened pit. The only thing of me remaining above to be my name, carved in stone. The Herr Doktor. Not an unexpected fate. But not a fate I wish to happen too soon.

Not, at any rate, as soon as my fate to walk out that door, my few parcels and papers in hand. A lingering look upon the table, the lamp, the stove. I think I will say good bye. I think I may even say thank-you. And then, I will take a great deal of time to find my key. It will be in the last pocket I search. And I’ll close the door slowly. With care. And the key in the lock will make a noise I shall never forget.

08/31/2023 0

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