You might think this is a post about one of my books. Yes and no. It’s also about an argument with Mrs. S. concerning tombstone inscriptions; who Canada’s best authors are; and whether that should include Canadian poets and songwriters.
Let’s start with my book, Naarlen. It’s my fifth novel and the black sheep of them all. Most readers hate the book. It’s only redeeming feature is that a small number of determined readers love it. Fanatically. I would say “cult” but I think you need more than nine for a cult.
I ran a series of social media posts about Grisou the Cat. In each post I inserted him into some well known work of art – usually a painting – to show the artist how it should be done right. Then I challenged viewers for the best caption, to win international bragging rights. While there were great captions, the judges ignored MY captions. Quelle frustration! So by popular demand from the adoring millions (rounded up to the nearest millions) this post is dedicated to MY captions. At last! Take that, stupid judges!
God: More bloodied angel wing feathers in the garden? This has to stop.
A few weeks back Pascale and her friend, Alison, decided they would each buy a kayak. They drove up to Nobel, Ontario to try out different models, thanks to the good folk at White Squall Paddling Centre. Husbands Gary and self tagged along to provide company and to look decorative while the women tried out kayaks.
After on-the water tests, Alison chose a green beauty – a Delta 12 – and Pascale chose a shiny red Delta 12.10.
I didn’t want to store the kayak in the garden over winter because:
In what may have started as teenage rebellion, my youngest boy (I’ll call him “P” for purposes of this blog) has become a classical piano player. If that’s not your cup of tea, this is probably a good time to stop reading.
I’ll clarify for those that don’t know P: classical music is a hobby for him, not his career. P started playing when he was knee-high to me. He’s no longer knee-high to me by a long shot, and the pieces he plays are complex. He occasionally plays jazz too. That, however, is just a classical music addict’s way of demonstrating that he could give up classical music if he wanted to, only …
Well, you know the rest of that phrase.
Rebellion, of course, is only effective if you can get the parent to mutter, “In my day, a bit of headbanging, heavy metal was what we considered to be real music.” I may have forgotten to mutter that, or I may even have given the appearance of enjoying P’s classical playing. The inevitable rebellion escalation came last year.
“I want to try the organ.”
“Typical teenager”, I said to myself, but quietly. Aloud, I kept to the high road. I merely said, “No monkeys in the house. I have very bad experience with monkeys.”