Yay, right?
If you're looking for more information about Wereduck, please go to my new website. It's daveatkinson.ca. I have updates there about my Maritime book tour and the big old launch party on October 8.
WEREDUCK NEWS (and a new website)
Oh, hey! Are you here because of my book? Copies should be arriving in stores and in mailboxes any day now.
Yay, right?
If you're looking for more information about Wereduck, please go to my new website. It's daveatkinson.ca. I have updates there about my Maritime book tour and the big old launch party on October 8.
Yay, right?
If you're looking for more information about Wereduck, please go to my new website. It's daveatkinson.ca. I have updates there about my Maritime book tour and the big old launch party on October 8.
DO NOT OPEN UNTIL 1985
Alice cleared out a cupboard in the kitchen the other day to make a clubhouse. She likes to sit in there with a flashlight and a stack of books. She installed a mailbox in case we have anything important to tell her. Jane wrote her the following letter:
Dear Alice,
On the night that I go back in time, you will be shot by terrorists. Please take whatever precautions you feel necessary to prevent this terrible disaster.
Your friend,
Jane
Unrelated: we watched a certain movie recently.
Pre-order Wereduck! DO IT!
You can order it direct from my publisher, Nimbus, or from Amazon. So many convenient ways to pre-order my book! It's easy! Wheee!
Here's how Nimbus describes it in their Fall 2014 Catalogue:
Kate’s family has told her that on her thirteenth birthday she’ll hear the “Whooooo” call of the moon, and howl back, and become a werewolf just like them. But she doesn’t want to be a werewolf. She’s always felt more like a duck.
On the night of her thirteenth birthday, Kate stands near her family’s cabin in the backwoods of New Brunswick and hears the moon calling—but it sounds like more of a “Whoooo?” as in “Who are you?” and Kate does what she’s always wanted to do—she quacks. Quack, quack, quacks.
Her family tries to understand Kat’es new full-moon form, but they are busy integrating themselves with some new, edgy werewolves in town. Engaging, hilarious, and utterly believable, Wereduck is a thrilling addition to the were-canon.
Pretty neat, right? You can OWN this book. I can't even believe it.
Broken glass
Thursday evening. In the kitchen.
I turn when I hear breaking glass. Erin stands at the sink holding half a drinking cup in her hand. She smirks.
I turn when I hear breaking glass. Erin stands at the sink holding half a drinking cup in her hand. She smirks.
"I just got really mad."
"You know a piece of this is going to end up in my foot, right?" I say, picking up chunks of glass from the counter.
"It broke cleanly in about four pieces," she says. "Maybe this time you'll be fine."
"Maybe."
I sweep.
She sweeps.
**
She sweeps.
**
Next morning. 6:17. I stride across the dark kitchen to flip the light switch.
Sharp intake of breath.
Saturday morning story
Saturday morning. Alice is helping me hang a shelf in the bedroom.
"Okay," I say, lining the drill up to the dot we penciled on the wall. "Don't pull the trigger until I say."Letter from Aunt Jane
"Alice!" said Erin from the front seat of the car. She pulled a piece of mail from the pile she was sorting. "You got a letter from Aunt Jane!"
Alice clasped her hands together. "Let me see it!" she squealed.Collective Wisdom: who was your most important teacher?
In my CBC Radio column this month, I ask: who was your most important teacher when you were growing up? Take a listen over at the Island Morning website.
I thought this month I'd include a transcription, for those more inclined to read than listen.
****
No one liked my grade-five teacher Mrs. Griffith.
She was ancient. Gosh, she must have been almost fifty. She made us sit still. No talking. And... she made us learn grammar.
It was awful.
My grade fell through a gaping hole in writing curriculum. The class ahead of us was the last to be taught with phonics. The class behind us was the first to learn with whole language. My class, well, we didn't get taught either.
One day, after Mrs. Griffith watched yet another kid struggle with turning words into a sentence, she threw up her hands.
"Okay," she said. "Books away. For the next two weeks, I'm going to teach you grammar. Don't tell your parents."
Everything was done on the blackboard so it could be quickly erased to leave no evidence of this rogue teaching.
In two weeks, we learned about nouns, verbs, adjectives, adverbs, prepositions, and conjunctions. We learned to punctuate. We learned about the difference between a definite and indefinite article. We learned about subject verb-agreement. And we parsed.
Oh, did we parse.
At the time, we hated it. 25 years later, I can see it was the most important two weeks in my 17 year schooling career.
Let's seek some collective wisdom. Who was your most important teacher when you were growing up?
<streeter tape>
I remember confessing to my grade four teacher the year I wanted to write a novel. He didn't exactly scoff, but he made it clear it wasn't worth trying.
The next year, I said the same thing to Mrs. Griffith. She ordered me a book about how to develop plot and characters.
So I wrote. I filled a Hilroy notebook with a novel which borrowed heavily from the plot, structure, and characters of the movie Back to the Future.
Mrs. Griffith taught me the basics--the stuff she thought was important. But she also gave me the freedom and encouragement to chase after the thing I thought was important.
I think about that a lot, because we're homeschooling our kids. Just this week, my son Henry created his own card game. The characters, rules, and card layout are almost identical to the Pokemon Trading Card Game.
I'm just as proud of this accomplishment as I am when I watch him parse a sentence. Which, I'm happy to say, he can do like a pro.
I thought this month I'd include a transcription, for those more inclined to read than listen.
****
No one liked my grade-five teacher Mrs. Griffith.
She was ancient. Gosh, she must have been almost fifty. She made us sit still. No talking. And... she made us learn grammar.
It was awful.
My grade fell through a gaping hole in writing curriculum. The class ahead of us was the last to be taught with phonics. The class behind us was the first to learn with whole language. My class, well, we didn't get taught either.
One day, after Mrs. Griffith watched yet another kid struggle with turning words into a sentence, she threw up her hands.
"Okay," she said. "Books away. For the next two weeks, I'm going to teach you grammar. Don't tell your parents."
Everything was done on the blackboard so it could be quickly erased to leave no evidence of this rogue teaching.
In two weeks, we learned about nouns, verbs, adjectives, adverbs, prepositions, and conjunctions. We learned to punctuate. We learned about the difference between a definite and indefinite article. We learned about subject verb-agreement. And we parsed.
Oh, did we parse.
At the time, we hated it. 25 years later, I can see it was the most important two weeks in my 17 year schooling career.
Let's seek some collective wisdom. Who was your most important teacher when you were growing up?
<streeter tape>
I remember confessing to my grade four teacher the year I wanted to write a novel. He didn't exactly scoff, but he made it clear it wasn't worth trying.
The next year, I said the same thing to Mrs. Griffith. She ordered me a book about how to develop plot and characters.
So I wrote. I filled a Hilroy notebook with a novel which borrowed heavily from the plot, structure, and characters of the movie Back to the Future.
Mrs. Griffith taught me the basics--the stuff she thought was important. But she also gave me the freedom and encouragement to chase after the thing I thought was important.
I think about that a lot, because we're homeschooling our kids. Just this week, my son Henry created his own card game. The characters, rules, and card layout are almost identical to the Pokemon Trading Card Game.
I'm just as proud of this accomplishment as I am when I watch him parse a sentence. Which, I'm happy to say, he can do like a pro.
Secret snowman
Sunday afternoon. The kids are outside. A three-inch layer of perfect packing snow blankets the yard.
The back door opens.The door slams shut.
The Log Driver's Waltz
Saturday afternoon. In the kitchen.
Erin's in town. The kids are playing outside. I am chopping vegetables for supper and singing the Log Driver's Waltz in my head.
If you ask all the girls from the parish around,
what pleases her most from her head to her toes?
She'll say, "I'm not sure it's business of yours,
but I do like to waltz with a log driver."
Just as the light-footed log driver goes birling down a-down the white water, I'm birling down the stairs to the back door so I can check on the barbecue. I lift the lid. The potatoes sizzle in their foil packets. The trout is nearly done. I sway back and forth in waltz time.
For he goes birling down a-down the white water
that's where the log driver learns to step lightly;
Birling down a-down the white water,
a log-driver's waltz pleases girls completely.
I close the lid on the barbecue and step back inside the house. As I shut the door behind me, I cease humming and start singing in my best Kate McGarrigle voice -- up an octave and full of warble. I waltz myself up the stairs singing at the top of my lungs.
I've had my chances will all sorts of men
but none as so fine as my lad on the river.
I prance up the top three steps to the landing as I belt out the next two lines.
When the drive's over, if he asks me again,
I think I will marry my log driver--
I stop short.
I am staring into the face of the nine-year-old boy who lives across the street.
He must have let himself in.
He looks me up and down.
"Hey," he says.
I nod. "Hey."
Erin's in town. The kids are playing outside. I am chopping vegetables for supper and singing the Log Driver's Waltz in my head.
If you ask all the girls from the parish around,
what pleases her most from her head to her toes?
She'll say, "I'm not sure it's business of yours,
but I do like to waltz with a log driver."
Just as the light-footed log driver goes birling down a-down the white water, I'm birling down the stairs to the back door so I can check on the barbecue. I lift the lid. The potatoes sizzle in their foil packets. The trout is nearly done. I sway back and forth in waltz time.
For he goes birling down a-down the white water
that's where the log driver learns to step lightly;
Birling down a-down the white water,
a log-driver's waltz pleases girls completely.
I close the lid on the barbecue and step back inside the house. As I shut the door behind me, I cease humming and start singing in my best Kate McGarrigle voice -- up an octave and full of warble. I waltz myself up the stairs singing at the top of my lungs.
I've had my chances will all sorts of men
but none as so fine as my lad on the river.
I prance up the top three steps to the landing as I belt out the next two lines.
When the drive's over, if he asks me again,
I think I will marry my log driver--
I stop short.
I am staring into the face of the nine-year-old boy who lives across the street.
He must have let himself in.
He looks me up and down.
"Hey," he says.
I nod. "Hey."
Unvirtuous Abbey, the correct way to eat pumpkin pie, and some news
Hiya. Bit of a content-dump on tomato transplants today.
First, CBC Radio's Maritime Magazine recently ran a documentary of mine about an abbey of virtual monks who pray for our first-world problems. It's called Unvirtuous Abbey, and you can take a listen to it over here.
Second, my Collective Wisdom parenting column aired this week on CBC Radio. This month, I sought collective wisdom about the food traditions we pass down to our kids. Listen here.
Third, gosh, I just last week signed a contract with Nimbus Publishing in Halifax for a book I've been picking away at for a few years. It's a novel for kids aged 8-12. I can give you more details when we get closer to the publications date, which I'm told could be about a year away. But, y'know. Fulfillment of a lifelong dream and all, I kind of wanted to tell you about it.
Broken needle
Erin snapped the needle on her old Singer sewing machine. She took it to the store to find a replacement.
"You’re supposed to replace these every eight hours of use," explained the clerk as she examined the old needle. "How long did you use this one?"
"Oh," said Erin, "about twelve years."
"You’re supposed to replace these every eight hours of use," explained the clerk as she examined the old needle. "How long did you use this one?"
"Oh," said Erin, "about twelve years."
Bathtime
Thursday morning.
I need a bath. I didn't take one last night. I'm going to do something I wouldn't normally do and have a morning bath.
Everyone else in the house is sleeping, except for Henry and Alice. They play quietly in the living room.
"Guys," I say. "You okay in here? I'm going to take a quick bath."
"Take a bath?" says Henry. He cocks an eyebrow. "What day is it?"
I need a bath. I didn't take one last night. I'm going to do something I wouldn't normally do and have a morning bath.
Everyone else in the house is sleeping, except for Henry and Alice. They play quietly in the living room.
"Guys," I say. "You okay in here? I'm going to take a quick bath."
"Take a bath?" says Henry. He cocks an eyebrow. "What day is it?"
That explains a lot, actually
Suppertime. Erin is telling a story.
Alice is enraptured. Her eyes are locked onto her mother's face. She smiles. Her eyes sparkle.
Erin finishes her story. Alice's eyes open just a bit wider so she can say something important.
"Sometimes, when you're talking and I'm not listening, I can make it so I can't even hear your voice."
Alice is enraptured. Her eyes are locked onto her mother's face. She smiles. Her eyes sparkle.
Erin finishes her story. Alice's eyes open just a bit wider so she can say something important.
"Sometimes, when you're talking and I'm not listening, I can make it so I can't even hear your voice."
Them lazy young people
My latest Collective Wisdom column aired last week on CBC Radio. Go take a listen!
The Special K commercial that was filmed at our new house
Erin sits at the kitchen table and takes a sip of tea. We've spent most of the day unpacking boxes and moving furniture at our new home -- a lovely house we'll be sharing with our good friend Margaret.
"I just love the light in here," says Erin, admiring the way sunlight fills the room.
"That's why they filmed the cereal commercial here," says Margaret.
I stare at her. "Cereal commercial?"
"Kellogg's shot a commercial here in the '90s," she replies. "They paid the family who lived here big bucks to move out for the weekend. I've never seen it, but it was apparently a national ad in the states."
I look around. It is a nice bright space. I'm intrigued.
"Neat!"
***
The PEI Film and Media directory mentions a Special K commercial shot on Prince Edward Island in 1993. YouTube has several Special K commercials from that year, most of which feature women in bathing suits climbing in slow motion out of a pool and proceeding to eat a bowl of cereal. And then there's this one:
I remember this ad!
It makes sense that they would shoot a hockey-themed ad in Canada. The inside of the arena looks, suspiciously, in some shots, like Simmons arena in Charlottetown.
As for the house, I'm pretty sure it's our place. If it is, they used the kitchen island as the breakfast table, and shot it over several takes from both sides to avoid the cupboards in the background.
It might be. It might not be. Either way, it's a lovely airy kitchen, and I'm happy to call it home.
"I just love the light in here," says Erin, admiring the way sunlight fills the room.
"That's why they filmed the cereal commercial here," says Margaret.
I stare at her. "Cereal commercial?"
"Kellogg's shot a commercial here in the '90s," she replies. "They paid the family who lived here big bucks to move out for the weekend. I've never seen it, but it was apparently a national ad in the states."
I look around. It is a nice bright space. I'm intrigued.
"Neat!"
***
The PEI Film and Media directory mentions a Special K commercial shot on Prince Edward Island in 1993. YouTube has several Special K commercials from that year, most of which feature women in bathing suits climbing in slow motion out of a pool and proceeding to eat a bowl of cereal. And then there's this one:
I remember this ad!
It makes sense that they would shoot a hockey-themed ad in Canada. The inside of the arena looks, suspiciously, in some shots, like Simmons arena in Charlottetown.
As for the house, I'm pretty sure it's our place. If it is, they used the kitchen island as the breakfast table, and shot it over several takes from both sides to avoid the cupboards in the background.
It might be. It might not be. Either way, it's a lovely airy kitchen, and I'm happy to call it home.
Sick
Sunday morning. We're at a yard sale in front of our friends' house. It is a smorgasbord of toys, but four-year-old Alice doesn't seem to notice. I pick her up.
***
"Oh, sweetie."
She sits bolt upright, her eyes wild.
"Bucket!"
"Bucket!"
***
Moments later.
"That's better. That'll make you feel a bit better."
***
***
Early evening. She's asleep on the couch again. It's late enough that we can safely move her to her bed without ruining her night's sleep.
I pick up her little body and carry her up the stairs. She is a limp doll, but her arms manage to find their way around my neck.
I place her in her bed and pull her blanket over her shoulder.
"Sleep well, little---"
Her eyes are wide open.
"Close those eyes, sweetie."
Two giant unblinking eyes stare at me. Everything else about her -- the slack jaw, the way she has melted into her pillow -- tells me she is asleep.
I snicker. None of our kids have ever slept with their eyes open before.
Her eyes dart around the room. They bounce from the lamp to the clock to the ceiling.
"Sweetie..."
Her eyes lock onto mine. Silent. Assessing.
Her eyes lock onto mine. Silent. Assessing.
Okay. This is a little creepy.
"Sweetie. Close those beautiful eyes."
She doesn't.
What if her subconscious self has taken over? What if it has been fighting for years to grasp a bit of control from her conscious self? What if here, in this pink bedroom, her subconscious has finally commandeered a tiny fragment of this little girl's body?
It can see.
It can see.
I shiver.
"If you start speaking with a man's voice, I'm going to run out screaming."
***
***
Later.
"I think I'm going to sleep with Alice tonight," says Erin.
"I think I'm going to sleep with Alice tonight," says Erin.
"No, no," I argue. "You don't need that. Let me sleep with her."
"No, really. I'd like to take care of her tonight. I really want to do this."
***
***
Middle of the night.
I can fly.
I have always known how to do this. It is as easy as breathing. Why haven't I done this before?
I can fly.
I have always known how to do this. It is as easy as breathing. Why haven't I done this before?
I thrust my arms to my sides as I soar over fields of rippling green grass. Hey, that's the farm where I grew up!
Cool air whooshes past my face. I am free!
***
Down the hall in Alice's bedroom, at the exact moment I am dreaming of flying, Erin is being sprayed with vomit.
***
***
Monday morning.
"You look brighter! How are you feeling today?"
"Pretty good!"
"Let's take that temperature."
102.9 degrees.
***
***
Tuesday morning.
"You look brighter! How are you feeling today?"
"Great!"
She runs a full lap of the first floor of our house.
She runs a full lap of the first floor of our house.
"I am super fast!"
***
***
Same morning. Seven-year-old Jane is still in bed.
"How are you this morning?"
"Good."
She rolls over. She sighs.
"Maybe too good."
Just don't call me sooky
My monthly Collective Wisdom parenting column on CBC Radio is posted over at the Island Morning site. Go take a listen!
Imaginary frand
For a few days, Jane had an imaginary friend named Johnny with which she attempted to get double servings of dessert. It didn't work out quite that way; Johnny got dumped pretty quick.
About a day after Johnny left, Darth Vader showed up in Alice's life. He is a constant companion and has none of the personality traits displayed in any of the Star Wars films.
My son, the blanky hog
Erin: You're going to open a can of co-sleeping worms with that one.
Me: You think?
Erin: Yup.
Me: They'll get over it.
PEI to Ontario road trip, part five
We've been back on PEI for more than a week, but I remembered this day and thought I'd comicify it for y'all.
Speaking of comicifying, a teensy announcement: I'm easing back on my three-updates-a-week pledge. I am having lots of fun drawing these, but some of my other creative thingies have had to take a back seat in the last couple of months. Sorry about that.
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