The Writing Sweater
It’s a cold, wet, dreary, gray day here on the Wet Coast. (And no, for those of you Elsewhere, that’s not a typo, but an apt description.) It’s been just about dark all day, and the edge of our street is one long, massive puddle, thanks to leaf-blocked storm drains. I’m inside today, editing. Like I often do on days like this when writing is on the agenda, I found myself reaching for my writing sweater. I should not actually admit to wearing this sweater, and I never, ever leave the house in it. But somehow, on days when the house cools off quickly between furnace cycles and the light is thin and cool, this particular sweater works for writing. It’s probably as old as I am, or close to it. Years ago, I rescued it from the donation bag when my mum was cleaning out her closet. It’s pretty much indestructible. It has permanent stains that may actually be wood stain from my mum helping my dad build our family’s cabin when I was a toddler. Or maybe they’re from some other project; I don’t know. I do know they’re not coming out. The sweater’s been washed hundreds of times. It’s got a couple of minor pulls, and there’s no doubt from the look at feel of it that it’s been around for a long, long time, but it’s in pretty amazing – if ugly – shape. It once had buttons, I think, because there are button holes, but the buttons themselves are so long gone there’s no hint of them on the knit. Lesser, newer sweaters have gone off to charity in the years since I’ve had this one in my closet. I own softer, more comfortable sweaters now. But somehow, this one keeps hanging around, available for days just like this. I’m not superstitious about clothes, as a rule. But this sweater only comes out for writing. I don’t know why. I don’t even know why I rescued it all those years ago. But here I sit, writing this, wearing it, anyway. Share...
Remembering
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Happy Halloween!
Okay, I’ll admit it. Halloween is not my favourite holiday. There are parts of it I like, of course, and look forward to. I’m a fan of traditions, and Halloween offers its own unique set of them. I appreciate that. When it comes to Halloween traditions, these are a few of my favourite things: – Driving my daughter to the front door of the school (a rare treat), where we know we will see the long-time principal wearing a school t-shirt and his Frankenstein mask, welcoming the costumed kids and, despite his best intentions, not fooling even the littlest kindergarteners; – The little ones in their costumes. The under-seven crowd has always been my favourite part of Halloween, so adorable and earnest in their outfits; – The joy of not having rain for trick-or-treating. In the Lower Mainland of BC, that’s more of a treat than the chocolate, almost; – The chocolate. Chocolate is always good, no? Chocolate in tiny little packages that really don’t count…? Excellent. – The contraband. Inevitably, I end up with at least a couple of Peanut Butter Cups, culled from the kid’s haul and traded for things she likes, for my once-a-year enjoyment; – The excitement of others. Firecrackers and scary movies and zombies are not really my thing. But I love to see kids excited, planning their costumes, running from door-to-door, interacting with each other and the neighbourhood and generally having a great time. Those are the best parts of Halloween for me. Whatever yours are, I hope you enjoy them today. Share...
The Right Goodbye
My friend Leslie was a cool chick. She loved her kids, her boyfriend, Star Wars, her friends, and standing up for what she believed was right, probably in about that order. The top three on that list meant so much to her they were inscribed permanently on her body in an impressive collection of ink. She didn’t fit, visually, on our playground, where I knew got to know her as one of the school moms. But she fit with us and she cared, big time. For some people, funerals are the right goodbye. For others, it’s a wake or a party or a tiny gathering of friends. When Leslie died in July, there was no immediate memorial planned. The three of us who’d been four until then held our own, privately, toasting her at a repeat of the birthday dinner we’d had for her the year before when she’d hoped for a future and told us what it meant to her to celebrate her birthday with us. It was a good way for us to say goodbye, but it was just us. The universe, I thought, still had something else in mind. There were other gatherings for her, with friends and family and the sea. But today, I saw the goodbye I didn’t know I was waiting for. For me, this was the right way to see Leslie off. I don’t pretend to know very much about Burning Man, but Leslie loved it. And she would have loved this, too. She’s one of the pictures in this piece, and this, for me, is the right goodbye. Dear Temple of Transition [Burning Man 2011] from Ian MacKenzie on Vimeo. Share...
Conflicts of one kind and another…
While I was sitting at Sunday lunch at the Surrey International Writers’ Conference on Sunday, my elementary school celebrated fifty years of existence with a reunion of all the staff and students they could round up from the last half century. I’d have gone if I could have, and I’m sorry to have missed it. I loved school. I had a lot of great teachers, and I fondly remember the secretaries and even the custodian – who, well into his nineties and not able to see very well anymore, was at the reunion. Among the teachers are a couple to whom I owe a deep debt of gratitude. Turns out they were there, too, and I would have had a chance to say thanks. Having thought about them a lot since I heard about the reunion, I think I’m going to seek them out anyway and let them know. One of them will be in the acks of this book when it finds a home, but I don’t want that to come too late. I’ll tell him soon. But had I been able to attend, I would have done so trembling with the sort of anxiety that comes from remembered trauma, too. Because much as I loved school for school’s sake, it was a difficult and hurtful place for me to be, too. I look at this photo and there are faces of ten-year-old children in it that make me anxious still. At forty. That’s a sad thing, isn’t it? I was never one of the “in” crowd, always a bit on the outside. That came to a head in grade six and seven, when I was the one they picked on for two solid years. Why? Who knows. I know part of it was that when they tried it on with me, I cried, so they had me, and they knew it. It made them powerful. I wasn’t an athlete, I wasn’t a partier, I was just a kid who loved school and loved to read and had a sensitive heart. That was enough reason back then. Two people told me about and invited me to the reunion. One is the principal of my daughter’s school, who happens to have been a grade seven teacher (not mine) at my school when I was a student. The other was one of the mean girls. She came to me a couple of years ago online to apologise for what she’d done. I appreciated the gesture. Still do. My biggest wish in sending my own daughter to elementary school was that she avoid the hurt that had such a deep impact on my life and still does. It affects you long-term, bullying, though they didn’t call it that back then if you weren’t being physically intimidated. It changes the way you trust, the way you choose people to be in your life, your ability to be open to others… all kinds of things. So far, my kid is far stronger than I ever was. She’s a leader, and has no patience for meanness. Long may that continue. It’s one of the things I’m proudest of about her. I missed the reunion. But I’ve been reminiscing about all the things – good and bad – that shaped me in those days. I think in life as in fiction, there is no story without conflict. So happy anniversary, Daniel Woodward. Here’s to another fifty. Share...
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