Minggu, 31 Mei 2015

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Flowers, by Carolyne Roehm

It has been more than a decade since Carolyne Roehm first shared her love of gardening and flower arranging. Now, for the first time ever, she turns her own photographic lens to that passion with Flowers, showcasing more than 300 images of the varieties in her abundant gardens, all captured at their most vibrant and exquisite moments throughout the season.

With a gardener’s intimate understanding and a designer’s elegant eye, Roehm shows us the flowers she has cultivated for decades in and around Weatherstone, her historic Connecticut home. While alternating dramatic close-ups with portraits of lovely arrangements and sweeping views of her land, Roehm writes with wit, emotion, and affection of what flowers have meant to her, as well as of the joys and travails of the committed gardener’s life.

What began as a casual hobby ultimately became a multi-year endeavor, as Roehm used her camera to explore the special relationship a gardener enjoys with her carefully nurtured beauties. The outcome is a remarkably personal visual essay: sumptuous, surprising, and as revealing of the sensibility behind the camera as the magnificent species that stand before it.

This beautiful objet d’art—a flower garden in a book—is Carolyne Roehm’s most significant and singular volume yet.

  • Sales Rank: #70680 in Books
  • Brand: Roehm, Carolyne/ Becquet, Sylvie (PHT)/ Kristal, Marc (CON)
  • Published on: 2012-11-06
  • Released on: 2012-11-06
  • Original language: English
  • Number of items: 1
  • Dimensions: 14.30" h x 1.34" w x 11.33" l, 6.95 pounds
  • Binding: Hardcover
  • 288 pages
Features
  • Used Book in Good Condition

Review
"Gardening is [Carolyne Roehm's] passion, and her photographs of its blowsy stars are reverent works of art. This book is nothing less than an ode to fragile, fleeting beauty, and it is utterly captivating." -Veranda

"When Flowers by Carolyne Roehm landed on my desk, I was astonished by the beautiful bloom on the cover. Against a pure white background, you can really take in all of the intricacies and subtleties of the flower, right down to the little 'hairs' on the leaves . . . With each turn of the book's massive pages, you're immersed in the the gardens Roehm photographed. I can almost smell them! . . . You won't want to miss this stunner." -Kevin Sharkey, MarthaStewart.com

"Fashion designer Carolyne Roehm’s Flowers is the epic Lawrence of Arabia of flower tomes, featuring 300 images of posies from Roehm’s abundant personal gardens in Connecticut . . . Roehm's book offers countless ideas for flower arrangement BFFs like creamy clematis and ivory roses or the inspired touch of adding strawberries to an arrangement of plump pink, peach, red and white roses. Her book is filled with the kind of visual inspiration that makes you want to dash to your own garden or supermarket and create a bouquet of your own." -HGTVGardens.com

"For this book, Roehm took on an additional task, acting not just as the stylist, but as the photographer too, taking many of the striking shots herself. As a result, Flowers is her most deeply personal--not to mention lush--book yet." -1st Dibs

"From the grande dame of elegant entertaining, Carolyne Roehm's 11th book focuses on what is often considered the ultimate finishing touch for any well-appointed table or party--flowers. Along with personally photographing a large portion of the book, Roehm masterfully relays her knowledge of the infinite details of stylish living." -Traditional Home

"[Flowers is] a big book, physically larger than most coffee table books. And it's heavy and beautifully bound . . . [Carolyne Roehm's] images say it all . . . You won’t be able to put [Flowers] down, once you open it." -New York Social Diary

"A photographic musing on lush gardens and their fleeting beauty." -New York Cottages and Gardens

"Readers are in for a real hortucultural treat . . . The over sized (gigantic in a fabulous way) book is packed with lush imagery." -StyleBeat blog

About the Author
CAROLYNE ROEHM is one of America’s most important tastemakers. She is the author of eleven books, including A Passion for Interiors, A Passion for Blue & White, A Passion for Flowers, A Passion for Parties, At Home with Carolyne Roehm, and Presentations. A columnist for Veranda, she is a frequent lecturer at garden clubs, botanical gardens, junior leagues, and women’s organizations. She divides her time between her exquisite homes in Manhattan and Connecticut.

Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved.
There are two types of peonies: the herbaceous variety, consisting of individual flowers, and the deciduous shrub. Or, as I like to refer to them, the blondes and the brunettes. 
   The blonde herbaceous ones are, like their two-legged sisters, easy to love—they’re big, blowsy, and abundant, and you just want to pull them to you, bury your nose in their crazy, flyaway petals, and inhale that sweet perfume. If this sounds like damning with faint praise, I swear on every brown hair on my head that it isn’t. Blonde peonies put me in mind of Marilyn Monroe (all right, she wasn’t a real blonde, but she had the soul of one): the flowers exude a fantastic life force—they simply explode before your eyes, and everything they are remains on display at all times. Whether you see a great swath of them in the garden or come upon their adorable heads bobbling in a vase, you understand the Marilyn peonies the moment you look at them, and your heart foods with gratitude and pleasure. 
   Even so, I’d give a slight edge to the brunette—if the herbaceous variety belongs to Marilyn, the deciduous is Greta Garbo. The beauty of the “tree” peony, as it’s called, is less obvious, more unconventional. You have to unpack layers of mystery to fully appreciate its character; it is fascinating rather than effusive. As with poppies, the petals of a peony can be as delicate and translucent as crepe; the flower’s deep scarlets and magentas manage to be at once boldly saturated and subtly nuanced.    
   Though it can break your heart to cut them, a single bloom in a vase will reward long contemplation. I adore my roses the most. But no flower more clearly expresses for me the presence of the spiritual in the realm of nature than this one.

Most helpful customer reviews

19 of 21 people found the following review helpful.
Bravo!!!!
By Marianne S. Hanley
Bravo!!!!! A Treasure - exquisitely done - but I am not surprised - her work is nothing short of amazing. Two thoughts come to mind when I read Carolyne Roehm's books - she is a totally under-appreciated artistic talent and I am so glad I have her work to inspire me!

10 of 12 people found the following review helpful.
A Book of Flowers
By Lili Goldberg
Have all of Carolyne Roehm's books - all of them incredibly beautiful and knowledgable - whether it's her garden, her parties,
etc., etc. she knows how to do a beautiful, interesting and knowledgable book - the photographs are incredible and the size of the book (large) gives one a sense of being there in her garden, admiring the beauties of nature. Bravo, Ms. Roehm! for another masterpiece!

4 of 4 people found the following review helpful.
Flowers by Carolyne Roehm
By Florence F. HawkinsFH3842
Flowers, Carolyne Roehm's new book, was not nearly as beautiful and captivating as I expected.
It was rather predictable, and lacked any interesting close ups of flowers as the cover hinted.

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>> PDF Ebook Your Call Is Important to Us : The Truth about Bullshit, by Laura Penny

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Your Call Is Important to Us : The Truth about Bullshit, by Laura Penny

  • Sales Rank: #3845379 in Books
  • Published on: 2005
  • Original language: English
  • Dimensions: 7.60" h x 5.50" w x 1.00" l,
  • Binding: Paperback

Most helpful customer reviews

36 of 41 people found the following review helpful.
Not as bad as all the reviewers' venom would have you believe
By Bill Lewin
This book intends to be funny and sarcastic, which it is. True, as another reviewer mentioned, it offers little by way of suggestions as to how to combat empty language (for that, see The Evasion English Dictionary by Maggie Balistreri), but the author's purpose is met and she does a fine job. The tone is an amped-up NPR commentary, maybe an underground radio rant. Perhaps some of the negative reviews here have to do with the subtitle's curse word. People, if you're scandalized by cussin', judge this book by its cover and leave it be.

65 of 78 people found the following review helpful.
Not Bad....
By Small Tax Maps
In these times of great technological advances, the masses have the ability to knock Kings & Queens from their socialist ivory towers. Sometimes the stones deserve to be thrown, as in the case of Ward Churchill. Ms. Penny does not.

Ideologues of both stripes pop up far too often on Amazon from Free Republic & Democratic Underground, tossing meaningless 1 star reviews. Anyone that's not in a persistent vegetative state can figure out for himself or herself if something is biased. This book is & that's OK.

I actually read the book & yes, some of the information is found elsewhere & the statistics & studies mentioned (shockingly) back up her points. The book is a well-written & funny opinion piece, in the tradition of Fran Liebowitz, not Michael Moore or Naomi Klein. It's old-school. No solutions are put forward, no one is asked to march on the evil corporations & there's no recipe for papier-mâché effigies inside. I look forward to her next rant.

69 of 84 people found the following review helpful.
The Truth Hurts
By Amazon Customer
Good, crisp writing- witty and acerbic at times, but an interesting read overall. The disparaging comments I read are typical American blathering hyperbole fueled by the "I-hate-anything- that-criticizes-the-United-States-of-Americorporation." Ms. Penny has done an excellent job of describing the systemic infection of greed driven lies that has eaten away the true moral** infrastructure of America.

(**I hesitate using this term because it is bandied about so much these days that it has become a political cliche')

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Jumat, 29 Mei 2015

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Owls in the Family: School Edition with Study Aids, by Farley Mowat

  • Sales Rank: #1046750 in Books
  • Published on: 1970-01-01
  • Format: Import
  • Original language: English
  • Number of items: 1
  • Binding: Paperback
  • 124 pages

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Kamis, 28 Mei 2015

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Inventing Tom Thomson: From Biographical Fictions to Fictional Autobiographies and Reproductions, by Sherrill Grace

Since his drowning in 1917, Tom Thomson has been recreated by poets, playwrights, novelists, filmmakers, biographers, and other artists as a legendary figure synonymous with Canada and its northern identity. Touted as a great artist cut off in his prime, his mysterious death in Canoe Lake, Algonquin Park, and the controversy about his final resting-place fired the popular imagination and raised him to the status of a national hero. In Inventing Tom Thomson Sherrill Grace examines many of the ways in which the figure of Thomson has been imagined by Canadians. Even people who do not know his paintings well will recognize The Jack Pine and know his legend through the marketing of Thomson memorabilia on the Web, in museums, and in stores.

  • Sales Rank: #7571857 in Books
  • Brand: Brand: Mcgill Queens Univ Pr
  • Published on: 2004-11-04
  • Original language: English
  • Number of items: 1
  • Dimensions: 9.00" h x .90" w x 6.00" l, 1.21 pounds
  • Binding: Hardcover
  • 248 pages
Features
  • Used Book in Good Condition

About the Author
University of British Columbia

University of British Columbia

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1 of 2 people found the following review helpful.
Inventing Tom Thomson
By Neil J. Lehto
This 234-page book gathers its material from the few biographies and semi-fictional novels about the life and death of one of Canada's greatest artists, Tom Thomson, who drowned in Ontario's Algonquin Park in 1917. She makes no great effort to sort out fact from fiction but rather uses what she finds to argue that Thomson's story is inextricable from the how the nation came to embrace woodsman-artist Thomson, as brother, colleague and discoverer of the nation's spirit.

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Senin, 25 Mei 2015

** Download PDF How Roman Catholic Theology Can Transform Male Violence Against Women: Explaining the Role of Religion in Shaping Cultural Assumptions Abou

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How Roman Catholic Theology Can Transform Male Violence Against Women: Explaining the Role of Religion in Shaping Cultural Assumptions Abou

This book articulates a Roman Catholic theological understanding concerning salvation in Jesus Christ that can be transformative of physical and sexual male violence against women across the world. It identifies key elements for a working definition of such complex violence, and highlights the pervasiveness and seriousness of the violence with quantitative data. For the Catholic believer the violence is graver still because a Catholic component can often be identified in the violence. This component is illustrated in the book by qualitative data about Catholic women who suffered incest. Employing the foundational and methodological framework of the praxis of authenticity in consciousness that Bernard Lonergan has identified, and that everyone can verify in their own experience, as well as its specifically Christian conversion component, the book provides grounds for making the situation of violence a theological matter. The book s argument progresses by following Lonergan s definition that theology functions to mediate between a religion and a culture and that the function of systematics in method in theology is to construct contextualised understandings for the sake of doing the truth in love. Theological meanings transformative of the situation of violence are elaborated in the book in terms of how to conceive salvation in Jesus Christ. Such an understanding of salvation is constructed by drawing firstly on meanings for salvation in scripture that are dialectically opposed to destructive meanings that the Catholic women, who suffered incest, referred to above received and believed concerning salvation. Insight into these biblical meanings is deepened by drawing on the theologies of salvation of Karl Rahner, Gustavo Gutierrez, and feminist responses to Gutierrez s theology. The transformative meaning for salvation is developed further by addressing the issues of the male Jesus as saviour and his violent death of redemption in ways that can serve the struggle to stop male violence against women. The book ends by drawing attention to recent documents on male violence against women by Church leaders that make specific reference to a transformative role for theologians and by calling for third level theology colleges to take account of the pertinent violence as a theological imperative and to collaborate with others in the field of concern as part of the function of theology.

  • Sales Rank: #17309961 in Books
  • Published on: 2010-12-03
  • Original language: English
  • Dimensions: 9.50" h x 6.50" w x 1.00" l, 1.70 pounds
  • Binding: Hardcover
  • 432 pages

Review
Michael O Sullivan s theological analysis of male violence against women breaks new ground in that it seeks to interrogate the legacy of a theology and a tradition that has, for the most part, been silent on the issue of violence against women, notwithstanding its prevalence in societies world-wide. The premise of the book is that even rather esoteric theological doctrines have a significant cultural and practical impact, in that they play a role in the shaping of attitudes, the construction of ideologies and the maintenance of social roles. For more than forty years now, feminist theologians have provided analyses of the depth of the impact of the patriarchal theologies that have dominated Christianity. This work draws on the past four decades of feminist analysis, and brings a new and unique perspective to bear on the discussion about the sexist substrata of the Christian tradition. --Prof. Linda Hogan, Trinity College Dublin

The book indicates not only an informed familiarity with the spectrum of feminist theology and spirituality, but sound academic judgement and balance in evaluating their various expressions. There is also evidence of creativity in its argument for the desirability of the maleness of Jesus for the effectiveness of his message of salvation, and in its positing a multi-polar gender in Jesus. There is an impressive study of feminist hermeneutics regarding John 7:53-8:11, and the author makes a convincing argument for the retrieval of the counter-witness of Jesus within patriarchy as a model for the authentic male and as a revelation of God s rejection of violence against women. --Dr. Thomas Dalzell, All Hallows College, Dublin City University

The author intends his work to contribute to a transformation in how male violence against women is understood and how the situation can be ameliorated, thus facilitating a salvific opportunity to women who are the victims of such violence. He works with the notion of salvation first from a scriptural base and then with soteriological understandings rooted in Rahner and reworked by Gutierrez and others to show that salvation is a reality already operative in the present even if its full realisation lies ahead. This work is particularly valuable to both theologians and cultural commentators, as well as to those involved in action for social justice, because it demonstrates the important public function that theology exercises in mediating between a religious worldview and the wider culture. --Dr. Eugene Duffy, Mary Immaculate College, University of Limerick

About the Author
Dr Michael O Sullivan is Head of Theological Studies and Director of the MA in Applied Christian Spirituality at All Hallows College, Dublin City University. He has been a member of the Faculty of Theology and Spirituality at the Milltown Institute, Dublin, Ireland since 1986. He completed postgraduate studies in theology at Regis College and the University of Toronto, and at Kimmage Institute of Theology and Cultures, Dublin.

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3 of 3 people found the following review helpful.
New Dimensions of Catholic Social Teaching
By bernadette flanagan
MIchael O Sullivan SJ has significantly expanded the discourse within which Catholic Social Teaching takes place in this ground breaking publication. The work begins by situating the theory of male violence against women in global data and in personal narrative. The approach to addressing the distressing situation outlined is grounded in the framework of authenticity constructed by Bernard Lonergan. The centrality of a transformative discourse of salvation in Jesus Christ is argued compassionately. The theological contributions of Karl Rahner and Gustavo Gutiérrez receive particular attention. The text challenges the academy and pastoral practitioners to interrogate their own practices in the light of the multiple and diverese forms of violence that continue to beset the lives of women without reprieve, such as the fact that women account for two thirds of the world's 774 million adult illiterates - a proportion that is unchanged over the past two decades. The range of data and authors employed clearly illustrate that the issues of the book cal for attention of both men and women in all continents. For all who seek to advance Gospel based justice, this is essential reading.

Sources of Transformation: Revitalising Christian Spirituality

2 of 2 people found the following review helpful.
Theology as Transformative
By Thomas G. Dalzell
This book indicates not only an informed familiarity with the spectrum of feminist theology and spirituality, but sound academic judgment and balance in evaluating their various expressions. There is also evidence of creativity in its argument for the desirability of the maleness of Jesus for the effectiveness of his message of salvation, and in its positing a "multi-polar gender" in Jesus. There is an impressive study of feminist hermeneutics regarding John 7:53-8:11, and the author makes a convincing argument for the retrieval of the counter-witness of Jesus within patriarchy as a model for the authentic male and as a revelation of God's rejection of violence against women - Dr. Thomas G. Dalzell, All Hallows, Dublin City University, Ireland.

1 of 1 people found the following review helpful.
A Theological Perspective on Male Violence Against Women
By Dr. Eugene Duffy
This is a very important work as the author contributes to a transformation in how male violence against women is understood and how the situation can be ameliorated, thus facilitating a salvific opportunity for women who are the victims of such violence. He works with the notion of salvation first from a scriptural base and then with soteriological understandings, rooted in Rahner and reworked by Gutiérrez and others, to show that salvation is a reality already operative in the present even if its full realisation lies ahead. This work is particularly valuable to both theologians and cultural commentators, as well as to those involved in action for social justice, because it demonstrates the important public function that theology exercises in mediating between a religious worldview and the wider culture. - Dr. Eugene Duffy, Mary Immaculate College, University of Limerick

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>> PDF Download Benedict Arnold: A Traitor in Our Midst, by Barry Wilson

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Benedict Arnold: A Traitor in Our Midst, by Barry Wilson

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Benedict Arnold: A Traitor in Our Midst, by Barry Wilson

While most biographies of Arnold concentrate on his revolutionary exploits and subsequent treason, Wilson explores his role in Canadian history and the routes that brought him to Canada. He takes the reader into rural Quebec in the 1760s and 1770s when Arnold toured the area as a Yankee trader and goes behind the scenes in 1775-76 when Arnold's American forces almost captured Quebec after an amazing trek through the Maine wilderness. Wilson explores Arnold's business exploits in Saint John, New Brunswick, the emerging Loyalist port town where for six years Arnold commanded an international trading network before returning to England. Written for those interested in unexpected tales from Canada's colourful history, Benedict Arnold follows Arnold's life from the battlefields of New England to the siege of Quebec, from the high seas to the day-to-day details of running a trading company in Saint John. Wilson offers a detailed, sometimes sympathetic, portrait of this controversial and complex man.

  • Sales Rank: #2060077 in Books
  • Brand: Brand: Mcgill Queens Univ Pr
  • Published on: 2001-03-15
  • Original language: English
  • Number of items: 1
  • Dimensions: 9.31" h x 1.02" w x 6.23" l, 1.27 pounds
  • Binding: Hardcover
  • 296 pages
Features
  • Used Book in Good Condition

Review
"An engaging book. Wilson stimulates the reader's interest and empathy in the tale which he tells forcefully and wittily. This is an accomplished piece of writing, a good and interesting read." Peter Goheen, Department of Geography, Queen's University "A very enjoyable read." Eric Ross, Professor Emeritus of Geography, Mount Allison University

About the Author
Wilson has been a journalist for 30 years, and is currently a national correspondent for the Western producer, a member of the Parlimentary Press Gallery, and a frequent contributor to CBC Radio.

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19 of 20 people found the following review helpful.
Excellent Biography of Benedict Arnold
By Christopher Hounsome
Mr. Wilson, a Canadian journalist, has done a remarkable job bringing the little-known aspects of Benedict Arnold to life.
He skillfully describes the political, personal and social factors which made Arnold the man that he was (both good and bad). The focus is on Arnold as an adult, following him through his days as a Yankee trader, as a superb General and leader of men, as a "turncoat", and then as a trader, husband, father and litigant. His years in eastern Canada and England are dealt with in some detail.
Like so many others, Benedict Arnold was, to me, more a symbol than a man. I knew the basic events surrounding the "incident", but virtually nothing else. Thanks to Barry Wilson, this is no longer the case.

0 of 0 people found the following review helpful.
Five Stars
By Barbara Irazoqui
Awesome

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Minggu, 24 Mei 2015

# PDF Download The Watch That Ends Night, by Hugh MacLennan

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The Watch That Ends Night, by Hugh MacLennan

  • Sales Rank: #6685065 in Books
  • Published on: 1975
  • Number of items: 1
  • Binding: Paperback

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Jumat, 22 Mei 2015

~ Download The Boat Who Wouldn't Float, by Farley Mowat

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The Boat Who Wouldn't Float, by Farley Mowat

It seemed like a good idea. Tired of everyday life ashore, Farley Mowat would find a sturdy boat in Newfoundland and roam the salt sea over, free as a bird. What he found was the worst boat in the world, and she nearly drove him mad. The Happy Adventure, despite all that Farley and his Newfoundland helpers could do, leaked like a sieve. Her engine only worked when she felt like it. Typically, on her maiden voyage, with the engine stuck in reverse, she backed out of the harbour under full sail. And she sank, regularly.

How Farley and a varied crew, including the intrepid lady who married him, coaxed the boat from Newfoundland to Lake Ontario is a marvellous story. The encounters with sharks, rum-runners, rum and a host of unforgettable characters on land and sea make this a very funny book for readers of all ages.


From the eBook edition.

  • Sales Rank: #2297331 in Books
  • Published on: 2009-08-04
  • Released on: 2009-08-04
  • Format: International Edition
  • Original language: English
  • Dimensions: 8.00" h x .98" w x 5.15" l,
  • Binding: Paperback
  • 384 pages

About the Author
Farley Mowat was born in Belleville, Ontario, in 1921, and grew up in Belleville, Trenton, Windsor, Saskatoon, Toronto, and Richmond Hill. He served in World War II from 1940 until 1945, entering the army as a private and emerging with the rank of captain. He began writing for his living in 1949 after spending two years in the Arctic. Since 1949 he has lived in or visited almost every part of Canada and many other lands, including the distant regions of Siberia. He remains an inveterate traveller with a passion for remote places and peoples. He has twenty-five books to his name, which have been published in translations in over twenty languages in more than sixty countries. They include such internationally known works as People of the Deer, The Dog Who Wouldn’t Be, Never Cry Wolf, Westviking, The Boat Who Wouldn’t Float, Sibir, A Whale for the Killing, The Snow Walker, And No Birds Sang, and Virunga: The Passion of Dian Fossey. His short stories and articles have appeared in The Saturday Evening Post, Maclean’s, Atlantic Monthly and other magazines.


From the eBook edition.

Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved.
1

Conception

I have an ingrained fear of auctions dating back to the third year of my life. In that year my father attended an auction as a means of passing an aimless afternoon, and he came away from it the bewildered possessor of thirty hives of bees and all the paraphernalia of an apiarist. Unable to rid himself of his purchase, he became perforce a beekeeper, and for the next two years I lived almost exclusively on a diet of soda biscuits and honey. Then the gods smiled on us and all the bees died of something called foul brood, enabling us to return to some semblance of a normal life.

Auctions remain associated in my subconscious mind with great catastrophes. I normally avoid them like the plague, but one April day not many years ago I too fell victim to the siren call. It happened in a sleepy little Lake Ontario town which once had been a major port for the great fleets of barley schooners that vanished forever shortly after the turn of the century. In that town there lived a ship chandler who refused to accept the coming of steam and the death of sail, and who kept his shop and stock intact for half a century, waiting for the day when a sailorman would again come knocking on his door. None did. He died, and his heirs decided to auction off the old man's junk so they could turn the building into a pool hall.

I happened to be passing through that town on auction day accompanied by a young lady for whom I had conceived a certain passion. However, her passion was primarily reserved for auctions. When she saw the auction sign she insisted that we attend. I steeled myself to buy nothing, but as I stood in the dim and ancient store which was still redolent of Stockholm tar, oilskins, and dusty canvas, something snapped within me.

Among the attitudes I acquired from my father was a romantic and Conradian predilection for the sea and ships. Like him I had often found surcease from the miseries I brought upon myself by spending hours immersed in books about the cruises of small boats to far-distant corners of the oceanic world. Ten years before the day of the auction I had anchored myself to a patch of eroded sand hills in central Ontario, about as far from the sea as a man could get. There I had labored to make grass, trees, vegetables, and mine own self take root. My labors had been in vain. Drought killed the grass. Sawflies and rabbits girdled the trees. Wireworms ate the vegetables. Far from rooting me into the Good Earth, a decade of servitude to the mingy soil only served to fuel a spirit of rebellion the intensity of which I had not begun to suspect until I stood in the old ship chandler's store physically surrounded by a world I had previously known only in the imagination.

I bought. I bought and I bought and I bought. I bought enough nautical gear out of another age to fill an outbuilding on my parched little farm. I am my father's son, and so the story of the bees had to repeat itself to an inevitable conclusion.

It happens that I have a friend who is a publisher and who feels much the same way about the book business as I do about dirt farming. Jack McClelland is a romantic, although he blanches at the word and vehemently denies it. During the war he served as skipper of M.T.B.'s (Motor Torpedo Boats) and other such small and dashing craft, and although he returned at war's end to the drabness of the business world, his spirit remained on the bridge of an M.T.B. streaking through the gray Atlantic wastes, guns blazing at the dim specters of German E-boats hopelessly trying to evade their fates. Jack owns a cottage on the Muskoka Lakes and there he keeps an old-fashioned knife-bowed, mahogany launch which in the dark of the moon sometimes metamorphoses into an M.T.B., to the distress of occasional lovers drifting on the still waters in canoes.

One night a few weeks after I bought the departed chandler's stock, Jack McClelland and I were moored to a bar in Toronto. It was a dismal day in a dismal city so we stayed moored to the bar for several hours. I kept no notes of what was said nor do I recall with clarity how it all came to pass. I know only that before the night ended we were committed to buying ourselves an oceangoing vessel in which to roam the salt seas over.

We decided we should do things the old-fashioned way (we both have something of the Drake and Nelson complex), and this meant buying an old-fashioned boat, the kind of wooden boat that once was sailed by iron men.

The only place we knew where such a boat might be procured was in the remote and foggy island of Newfoundland. Consequently, one morning in early May I flew off to that island's ancient capital, St. John's, where I had arranged to meet a red-bearded, coldly blue-eyed iconoclast named Harold Horwood, who was reputed to know more about Newfoundland's scattered little outport villages than any living man. Despite the fact that I was a mainlander, and Harold abhors mainlanders, he had agreed to help me in my quest. I am not sure why he did so but perhaps the unraveling of this chronicle will provide a hint.

Harold took me to visit scores of tiny fishing villages clinging like cold treacle to the wave-battered cliffs of the great island. He showed me boats ranging from fourteen-foot dories to the rotting majesty of a five-hundred-ton, three-masted schooner. Unfortunately, those vessels that were still sufficiently seaworthy to leave the wharf were not for sale, and those that could be had within my range (Jack had astutely placed a limit of a thousand dollars on the purchase price) were either so old and tired that piss-a-beds (the local names for dandelions) were sprouting from their decks, or they were taking a well-earned rest on the harbor bottom with only their upperworks awash.

Time was drawing on and we were no forwarder. Harold's red beard jutted at an increasingly belligerent angle, his frosty eyes took on a gimlet stare and his temper grew worse and worse. He was not used to being thwarted and he did not like it. He arranged to have a news item printed in the papers describing the arrival of a rich mainlander who was looking for a local schooner.

Two days later he informed me that he had found the perfect vessel. She was, he said, a small two-masted schooner of the type known generally as a jack boat and, more specifically, as a Southern Shore bummer. I can't say that the name enthralled me, but by this time I too was growing desperate, so I agreed to go and look at her.

She lay hauled out at Muddy Hole, a small fishing village on the east coast of the Avalon Peninsula — a coast that is rather inexplicably called the Southern Shore, perhaps because it lies south of St. John's and St. John's is, in its own eyes at least, the center of the universe.

Tourist maps showed Muddy Hole as being connected to St. John's by road. This was a typical Newfoundland "jolly." Muddy Hole was not connected to St. John's at all except by a tenuous trail which, it is believed, was made some centuries ago by a very old caribou who was not only blind but also afflicted with the staggers.

In any event it took us six hours to follow where he had led. It was a typical spring day on the east coast of the island. A full gale was blowing from seaward, hurling slanting rain heavily against the car. The Grand Banks fog, which is forever lurking just off the coast, had driven in over the high headlands and obscured everything from view. Guided by some aboriginal instinct inherited from his seagoing ancestors, Harold somehow kept the course and just before ten o'clock, in impenetrable darkness, we arrived at Muddy Hole.

I had to take his word for it. The twin cones of the headlights revealed nothing but rain and fog. Harold rushed me from the car and a moment later was pounding on an unseen door. It opened to allow us to enter a tiny, brilliantly lighted, steaming-hot kitchen, where I was introduced to the brothers Mike and Paddy Hallohan. Dressed in thick homespun sweaters, heavy rubber boots and black serge trousers, they looked like a couple of characters out of a smuggling yarn by Robert Louis Stevenson. Harold introduced me, explaining that I was the "mainland feller" who had come to see their boat.

The brothers wasted no time. Rigging me up in oilskins and a sou'wester they herded me out into the storm.

The rain beat down so heavily that it almost masked the thunder of breakers which seemed to be directly below me, and no great distance away.

" 'Tis a grand night for a wreck!" Paddy bellowed cheerfully.

It was also a grand night to fall over a cliff and break one's neck, a matter of more immediate concern to me as I followed close on Paddy's heels down a steep path that was so slippery your average goat would have thought twice about attempting it. Paddy's storm lantern, fueled for economy reasons with crude cod-liver oil, gave only a symbolic flicker of light through a dense cloud of rancid smoke. Nevertheless the smoke was useful. It enabled me to keep track of my guide simply by following my nose.

Twenty minutes later I bumped heavily into Paddy and was bumped into as heavily by Mike, who had been following close behind. Paddy thrust the lamp forward and I caught a glimpse of his gnomelike face, streaming with rain and nearly split in two by a maniacal grin.

"Thar she be, Skipper! T'foinest little bummer on t'Southern Shore o' Newfoundland!"

I could see nothing. I put out my hand and touched the flank of something curved and wet. Paddy shoved the lantern forward to reveal reflections from the most repellent shade of green paint I have ever seen. The color reminded me of the naked belly of a long-dead German corpse with whom I once shared a foxhole in Sicily. I snatched my hand away.

Mike roared in my ear. "Now dat you'se seen her, me dear man, us'll nip on back to t'house and have a drop o' tay." Whereupon Mike and Paddy nipped, leaving me stumbling anxiously in their wake.

Safely in the kitchen once more, I found that Harold had never left that warm sanctuary. He later explained that he had felt it would have been an intrusion for him to be present at my first moment of communion with my new love. Harold is such a thoughtful man.

By this time I was soaked, depressed, and very cold, but the Hallohan brothers and their ancient mother, who now appeared from a back room, went to work on me. They began by feeding me a vast plate of salt beef and turnips boiled with salt cod, which in turn engendered within me a monumental thirst. At this juncture the brothers brought out a crock of Screech.

Screech is a drink peculiar to Newfoundland. In times gone by, it was made by pouring boiling water into empty rum barrels to dissolve whatever rummish remains might have lingered there. Molasses and yeast were added to the black, resultant fluid, and this mixture was allowed to ferment for a decent length of time before it was distilled. Sometimes it was aged for a few days in a jar containing a plug of nigger-twist chewing tobacco.

However, the old ways have given way to the new, and Screech is now a different beast. It is the worst conceivable quality of Caribbean rum, bottled by the Newfoundland government under the Screech label, and sold to poor devils who have no great desire to continue living. It is not as powerful as it used to be, but this defect can be, and often is, remedied by the addition of quantities of lemon extract. Screech is usually served mixed with boiling water. In its consequent neargaseous state the transfer of the alcohol to the bloodstream is instantaneous. Very little is wasted in the digestive tract.

This was my first experience with Screech and nobody had warned me. Harold sat back with an evil glitter in his eye and watched with delight as I tried to quench my thirst. At least I think he did. My memories of the balance of that evening are unclear.

At a much later date I was to be accused by Jack of having bought our boat while drunk, or of having bought her sight unseen, or both. The last part of the accusation is certainly not true. As I sat in the overwhelming heat of the kitchen with steam rising to maximum pressure inside my own boilers, the brothers Hallohan drew on the wizardry of their Irish ancestors and conjured up for me a picture of their little schooner with such vivid imagery that I saw her as clearly as if she had been in the kitchen with us. When I eventually threw my arms around Paddy's neck and thrust a bundle of bills into his shark-skin-textured hand, I knew with sublime certainty that I had found the perfect vessel.

As we drove back to St. John's the next morning Harold rhapsodized about the simple-hearted, honest, God-fearing Irish fishermen of the Southern Shore.

"They'd give you their shirt as soon as look at you," he said. "Generous? Migod, there's nobody in the whole world like them! You're some lucky they took to you."

In a way I suppose Harold was right. Because if the Hallohans had not taken to me I might have remained in Ontario, where I could conceivably have become a solid citizen. I bear the Hallohans no ill will, but I hope I never again get "took to" the way I was taken to on that memorable night at Muddy Hole.

Two days later I returned to Muddy Hole to do a survey of my vessel and to get my first sober (in the sense of calm, appraising) look at her. Seen from a distance she was indeed a pretty little thing, despite her nauseous color. A true schooner hull in a miniature, she measured thirty-one feet on deck with a nine-foot beam and a four-foot draft. But she was rough! On close inspection she looked as though she had been flung together by a band of our paleolithic ancestors — able shipbuilders perhaps, but equipped only with stone adzes.

Her appointments and accommodations left a great deal to be desired. She was flush-decked, with three narrow fishing wells in each of which one man could stand and jig for cod, and with two intervening fishholds in each of which the ghosts of a million long-dead cod tenaciously lingered. Right up in her eyes was a cuddy two feet high, three feet wide, and three feet long, into which one very small man could squeeze if he did not mind assuming the fetal position. There was also an engine room, a dark hole in which lurked the enormous phallus of a single-cylinder, make-and-break (but mostly broke) gasoline engine.

Her rigging also left something to be desired. Her two masts had apparently been manufactured out of a couple of Harry Lauder’s walking sticks. They were stayed with lengths of telephone wire and cod line. Her sails were patched like Joseph’s coat and seemed to be of equivalent antiquity. Her bowsprit was hardly more than a mop handle tied in place with netting twine. It did not appear to me that the Hallohans had sailed her very much. I was to hear later that they had never sailed her and shared the general conviction of everyone in Muddy Hole that any attempt to do so would probably prove fatal.

She was not a clean little vessel. In truth, she stank. Her bilges had not been cleaned since the day she was built and they were encrusted with a glutinous layer of fish slime, fish blood, and fish gurry to a depth of several inches. This was not because of bad housekeeping. It was done “a­purpose” as the Muddy Holers told me after I had spent a solid week trying to clean her out.

“Ye see, Skipper,” one of them explained, “dese bummers now, dey be built o’ green wood, and when dey dries, dey spreads. Devil a seam can ye keep tight wit’ corkin (caulking). But dey seals dersel’s, ye might say, wit’ gurry and blood, and dat’s what keeps dey tight.”

I have never since had reason to doubt his words.



Since the sum the Hallohans had demanded for their vessel was, oddly enough, exactly the sum I had to spend, and since this nameless boat (the Hallohans had never christened her, referring to her only as She, or sometimes as That Bitch) was not yet ready to go to Samoa around Cape Horn, I had to make a serious decision.

The question really was whether to walk away from her forever, telling Jack McClelland a suitable lie about having been waylaid by highwaymen in St. John’s, or whether to try and brazen it out and somehow make a vessel out of a sow’s ear. Because I am essentially a coward, and anyway Jack is onto my lies, I chose the latter course.

Upon asking the Hallohans where I could find a boat­builder who could make some necessary changes for me I was directed to Enarchos Coffin — the very man who had built the boat four years earlier. Enos, as he was called, was a lean, lank, dehydrated stick of a man. In his younger days he had been a master shipwright in Fortune Bay building vessels for the Grand Banks fishery, but when the Banking fleet faded into glory he was reduced to building small boats for local fishermen. The boats he built were beautifully designed; but a combination of poverty amongst his customers, a shortage of decent wood, failing vision, and old age, somewhat affected the quality of his workmanship. The Hallohan boat was the last one he had built and was to be the last he would ever build.

When I went to visit him, armed with an appropriate bottle, he was living in a large, ramshackle house in company with his seven unmarried daughters. Enos proved amiable and garrulous. The Southern Shore dialect is almost unintelligible to the ear of an outsider and when it is delivered at a machine­gun clip it becomes totally incomprehensible. For the first hour or two of our acquaintance I understood not a single word he addressed to me. However after the first burst of speed had run its course he slowed down a little and I was able to understand quite a lot.

He said he was delighted to hear I had bought the boat; but when he heard what I had paid for her, he was only able to cure his attack of apoplexy by drinking half the bottle of rum, neat.

“Lard livin’ Jasus!” he screeched when he got his breath back. “An’ I built her for they pirates fer two hunnert dollars!”

At which point I snatched the bottle from him and drank the other half of it, neat.

When we had recovered our breath I asked him if he would undertake repairs, modifications, and a general refit. He willingly agreed. We arranged that he would fit a false keel and outside ballast; a cabin trunk over the fish wells; bunks, tables, lockers, and other internal essentials; re­spar, re­rig her properly, and do a hundred other smaller but necessary jobs. Enos thought the work would take him about two months to complete.


I returned to St. John’s and thence to Ontario in moderately good spirits. I did not worry about the boat being ready on time, since we did not plan on sailing her until mid­summer. Occasionally I wrote to Enos (he himself could neither read nor write) and one or other of his strapping daughters would reply with a scrawled postcard of which this one is typical:

Dear Mister Mote

Dad say yor boat come fine lots fish this month Gert got her baby.

Nellie Coffin

During the waiting months Jack and I dreamed many a dream and made many a plan. We agreed that I should precede him to Newfoundland near the end of June taking with me a jeep­load of gear and equipment, and that I would have the few finishing touches to the boat completed so that she would be ready to sail when Jack arrived in mid-July. After that, well, we would see. Bermuda, the Azores, Rio de Janeiro — the world lay waiting!

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Farley Mowat is nothing if not persistent. After purchasing the Newfoundland schooner from Hell, badly misnamed as Happy Adventure, he finds he has a boat that leaks constantly, has a compass that doesn't know where magnetic north is, hates to head West, has an engine that works when it feels like it and that is just for starters. Much of the time sailing is in the fog, both real and self imposed. Most sane men would have turned this boat into kindling, but Mowat sailors on, one harrowing experience after another with an assortment of mates and in the process tells us a funny and true story of his adventures as only he can. Written over thirty years ago, the story has lost none of its charm and interest.

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Farley Mowatt at his humorous best.

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A Bird in the House, by Margaret Laurence

One of Canada’s most accomplished authors combines the best qualities of both the short story and the novel to create a lyrical evocation of the beauty, pain, and wonder of growing up.

In eight interconnected, finely wrought stories, Margaret Laurence recreates the world of Vanessa MacLeod – a world of scrub-oak, willow, and chokecherry bushes; of family love and conflict; and of a girl’s growing awareness of and passage into womanhood. The stories blend into one masterly and moving whole: poignant, compassionate, and profound in emotional impact.

In this fourth book of the five-volume Manawaka series, Vanessa MacLeod takes her rightful place alongside the other unforgettable heroines of Manawaka: Hagar Shipley in The Stone Angel, Rachel Cameron in A Jest of God, Stacey MacAindra in The Fire-Dwellers, and Morag Gunn in The Diviners.

  • Sales Rank: #3729107 in Books
  • Published on: 2010-01-26
  • Released on: 2010-01-26
  • Format: International Edition
  • Original language: English
  • Number of items: 2
  • Dimensions: 7.76" h x .59" w x 5.13" l,
  • Binding: Paperback
  • 216 pages

From the Inside Flap
One of Canada?s most accomplished authors combines the best qualities of both the short story and the novel to create a lyrical evocation of the beauty, pain, and wonder of growing up.

In eight interconnected, finely wrought stories, Margaret Laurence recreates the world of Vanessa MacLeod ? a world of scrub-oak, willow, and chokecherry bushes; of family love and conflict; and of a girl?s growing awareness of and passage into womanhood. The stories blend into one masterly and moving whole: poignant, compassionate, and profound in emotional impact.

In this fourth book of the five-volume Manawaka series, Vanessa MacLeod takes her rightful place alongside the other unforgettable heroines of Manawaka: Hagar Shipley in The Stone Angel, Rachel Cameron in A Jest of God, Stacey MacAindra in The Fire-Dwellers, and Morag Gunn in The Diviners.

About the Author
Margaret Laurence was born in Neepawa, Manitoba, in 1926. Upon graduation from Winnipeg’s United College in 1947, she took a job as a reporter for the Winnipeg Citizen.

From 1950 until 1957 Laurence lived in Africa, the first two years in Somalia, the next five in Ghana, where her husband, a civil engineer, was working. She translated Somali poetry and prose during this time, and began her career as a fiction writer with stories set in Africa.

When Laurence returned to Canada in 1957, she settled in Vancouver, where she devoted herself to fiction with a Ghanaian setting: in her first novel, This Side Jordan, and in her first collection of short fiction, The Tomorrow-Tamer. Her two years in Somalia were the subject of her memoir, The Prophet’s Camel Bell.

Separating from her husband in 1962, Laurence moved to England, which became her home for a decade, the time she devoted to the creation of five books about the fictional town of Manawaka, patterned after her birthplace, and its people: The Stone Angel, A Jest of God, The Fire-Dwellers, A Bird in the House, and The Diviners.

Laurence settled in Lakefield, Ontario, in 1974. She complemented her fiction with essays, book reviews, and four children’s books. Her many honours include two Governor General’s Awards for Fiction and more than a dozen honorary degrees.

Margaret Laurence died in Lakefield, Ontario, in 1987.

Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved.
The Sound of the Singing
 
 
That house in Manawaka is the one which, more than any other, I carry with me. Known to the rest of the town as “the old Connor place” and to the family as the Brick House, it was plain as the winter turnips in its root cellar, sparsely windowed as some crusader’s embattled fortress in a heathen wilderness, its rooms in a perpetual gloom except in the brief height of summer. Many other brick structures had existed in Manawaka for as much as half a century, but at the time when my grandfather built his house, part dwelling place and part massive-monument, it had been the first of its kind.
 
Set back at a decent distance from the street, it was screened by a line of spruce trees whose green-black branches swept down to the earth like the sternly protective wings of giant hawks. Spruce was not indigenous to that part of the prairies. Timothy Connor had brought the seedlings all the way from Galloping Mountain, a hundred miles north, not on whim, one may be sure, but feeling that they were the trees for him. By the mid-thirties, the spruces were taller than the house, and two generations of children had clutched at boughs which were as rough and hornily knuckled as the hands of old farmers, and had swung themselves up to secret sanctuaries. On thelawn a few wild blue violets dared to grow, despite frequent beheadings from the clanking guillotine lawn mower, and mauve-flowered Creeping Charley insinuated deceptively weak-looking tendrils up to the very edges of the flower beds where helmeted snapdragon stood in precision.
 
We always went for Sunday dinner to the Brick House, the home of my mother’s parents. This particular day my father had been called out to South Wachakwa, where someone had pneumonia, so only my mother and myself were flying down the sidewalk, hurrying to get there. My mother walked with short urgent steps, and I had to run to keep up, which I did not like having to do, for I was ten that spring and needed my dignity.
 
“Dad said you shouldn’t walk so fast because of the baby. I heard him.”
 
My father was a doctor, and like many doctors, his advice to his own family was of an exceedingly casual nature. My mother’s prenatal care, apart from “For Pete’s sake, honey, quit running around like a chicken with its head cut off,” consisted mainly of admonitions to breathe deeply and drink plenty of water.
 
“Mercy,” my mother replied, “I don’t have to slow up that much, I should hope. Get a move on, Vanessa. It’s nearly five, and we should’ve been there by now. I suppose Edna will have the dinner all ready, and there won’t be a thing for me to do. I wish to heaven she wouldn’t, but try to tell her. Anyway, you know how your grandfather hates people to be late.”
 
When we got to the Brick House, my mother stopped hurrying, knowing that Grandfather would be watching from the bay window. She tidied my hair, which was fine and straight and tended to get in my eyes, and she smoothed down the collar of the white middy which I hated and resented having to wear today with my navy pleated skirt as though it had still been winter.
 
“Your summer dresses are all up to your neck,” my mother had said, “and we just can’t manage a new one this year, but I’m certainly not going to have you going down there looking like a hooligan.”
 
Now that the pace of our walking had slowed, I began to hop along the sidewalk trying to touch the crooked lines where the cement had been frost-heaved, some winter or other, and never repaired. The ants made their homes there, and on each fissure a neat mound of earth appeared. I carefully tamped one down with my foot, until the ant castle was flattened to nothing. Then I hopped on, chanting.
 
“Step on a crack, break your grandfather’s back.”
 
“That’s not very nice, Vanessa,” my mother said. “Anyway, I always thought it was your mother’s back.”
 
“Well?” I said accusingly, hurt that she could imagine the substitution to have been accidental, for I had genuinely thought it would please her.
 
“Try not to tear up and down stairs like you did last week,” my mother said anxiously. “You’re too old for that kind of shenanigans.”
 
Grandfather was standing on the front porch to greet us. He was a tall husky man, drum-chested, and once he had possessed great muscular strength. That simple power was gone now, but age had not stooped him.
 
“Well, Beth, you’re here,” Grandfather said. “Past five, ain’t it?”
 
“It’s only ten to,” my mother said defensively. “I hoped Ewen might be back – that’s why I waited. He had to go to South Wachakwa on a call.”
 
“You’d think a man could stay home on a Sunday,” Grandfather said.
 
“Good grief, Father,” my mother said, “people get sick on Sundays the same as any other day.”
 
But she said it under her breath, so he did not hear her.
 
“Well, come in, come in,” he said. “No use standing around here all day. Go and say hello to your grandmother, Vanessa.”
 
Ample and waistless in her brown silk dress, Grand mother was sitting in the dining room watching the canary. The bird had no name. She did not believe in bestowing names upon non-humans, for a name to her meant a christening, possible only for Christians. She called the canary “Birdie,” and maintained that this was not like a real name. It was swaying lightly on the bird-swing in its cage, its attentive eyes fixed upon her. She often sat here, quietly and apparently at ease, not feeling it necessary to be talking or doing, beside the window sill with its row of African violets in old ginger jars that had been painted orange. She would try to coax the canary into its crystal trilling, but it was a surly creature and obliged only occasionally. She liked me to sit here with her, and sometimes I did, but I soon grew impatient and began squirming, until Grandmother would smile and say, “All right, pet, you run along, now,” and then I would be off like buckshot. When I asked my grandmother if the bird minded being there, she shook her head and said no, it had been there always and wouldn’t know what to do with itself outside, and I thought this must surely be so, for it was a family saying that she couldn’t tell a lie if her life depended on it.
 
“Hello, pet,” Grandmother said. “Did you go to Sunday school?”
 
“Yes.”
 
“What did you learn?” Grandmother asked, not prying or demanding, but confidently, serenely.
 
I was prepared, for the question was the same each week. I rarely listened in Sunday school, finding it more entertaining to compose in my head stories of spectacular heroism in which I figured as central character, so I never knew what the text had been. But I had read large portions of the Bible by myself, for I was constantly hard-up for reading material, so I had no trouble in providing myself with a verse each week before setting out for the Brick House. My lines were generally of a warlike nature, for I did not favour the meek stories and I had no use at all for the begats.
 
“How are the mighty fallen in the midst of the battle,” I replied instantly.
 
“Second Samuel,” Grandmother said, nodding her head. “That’s very nice, dear.”
 
I was not astonished that my grandmother thought the bloody death of Jonathan was very nice, for this was her unvarying response, whatever the verse. And in fact it was not strange, for to her everything in the Bible was as gentle as she herself. The swords were spiritual only, strokes of lightness and dark, and the wounds poured cochineal.
 
Grandfather tramped into the dining room. His hair was yellowish white, but once it had been as black as my own, and his brown beaked leathery face was still handsome.
 
“You’d best come into the living room, Agnes,” he said. “No use waiting here. Beth says Ewen’s gone away out to South Wachakwa. It’ll be a wonder if we get our dinner at all tonight.”
 
Grandmother rose. “Yes, I was just coming in.”
 
Grandfather walked over to the window and peered at the plants on the sill.
 
“Them jars could do with a coat of paint,” he said. “I’ve got some enamel left in the basement. It’s that bottle-green I used on the tool-shed.”
 
“Is there no orange left?” Grandmother enquired.
 
“No. It’s all used up. What’s the matter with bottle-green?”
 
“Oh, nothing’s the matter with it, I guess. I just wondered, that’s all.”
 
“I’ll do them first thing tomorrow, then,” Grandfather said decisively.
 
No tasks could be undertaken today, but there was no rule against making plans for Monday, so my grandfather invariably spent the Sabbath in this manner. Thwarted, but making the best of a bad lot, he lumbered around the house like some great  wakeful bear waiting for the enforced hibernation of Sunday to be over. He stopped at the hall door now and rattled it, running hard expert fingers along the brass hinges.
 
“Hinge is loose,” he said. “The pin’s worn. I’ll have to go down to the store and see if they’ve got one. That Barnes probably won’t have the right size – he’s got no notion of stock. Maybe I’ve got an extra one in the basement. Yes, I have an idea there’s one there. I’ll just step down and have a look.”
 
I heard him clumping down the basement steps, and soon from the area of his work-bench there arose the soft metallic jangle of nails and bolts, collected oddments being sifted through. I glanced at my grandmother, but if she was relieved that he was rummaging down there, she gave no sign.
 
I did not know then the real torment that the day of rest was for him, so I had no patience with his impatience. WhatI did know, however, was that if he had been any other way he would not have passed muster in Manawaka. He was widely acknowledged as an upright man. It would have been a disgrace if he had been known by the opposite word, which was  “downright.” A few of my friends had downright grandfathers. They were a deep mortification to their families, these untidy old men who sat on the Bank of Montreal steps in the summertime and spat amber tobacco jets onto the dusty sidewalk. They were described as “downright worthless” or “downright lazy,” these two terms being synonymous. These shadows of wastrels, these flimsy remnants of past profligates, with their dry laughter like the cackle of crows or the crackling of fallen leaves underfoot, embarrassed me terribly, although I did not have any idea why. Walking down main street, I would avoid looking at them, feeling somehow that they should not be on view, that they should be hidden away in an attic along with the other relics too common to be called antiques and too broken to be of any further use. Yet I was inexplicably drawn to them, too.

Most helpful customer reviews

1 of 1 people found the following review helpful.
A lesson for everyday life
By delph
I have read this book and the very first time, it is true that it gives an impression of overwhelming death and sorrow. The protagonist, Vanessa, comes into contact with life, that is REAL life and she just finds it hard to cope. But it is a story which is just so incredibly true-to-life that any one can identify themselves with the main character. It is only many, many years after that Vanessa understands what had confused her when she was 10 : her grandfather, so much feared and respected, and all the deaths which she had to endure in her family. If you have ever been at that stage, losing some of the people you loved in your heart of hearts, you will understand what Vanessa had to go through and see yourself in her position in front of new things as painful as death. It is not morbid at all, it just shows you that your family is there to help, but that in any case, everything's not hunky-dory!!!

1 of 1 people found the following review helpful.
8 Great Stories of Canadian Culture and Heritage
By A Customer
This is a book I chose for a Grade 13 English ISU up here in Toronto. This book is in essence, about the developing process of a young female writer, Margaret Laurence, portrayed in this book as Vanessa MacLeod.
I found the story entitled "The Loons" was the most interesting, it dealt the Native Indian issue of segregation and compared it with the crying of the loons.

2 of 3 people found the following review helpful.
I recommend this book
By abby
I really enjoyed this book. We studied it in school this year and at first I found it a bit slow but after a few pages I started to really get into it. It was easy to identify with the main character Vanessa and I really liked the way the rest of the characters were described, especially the grandfather. Here's a little example; "Well, Peter, you've brought the wood." It was his habit to begin conversations with a statement of the obvious, so that nothing except agreement was possible." I like this because it sums up the grandfather' character in two sentences, even though it's being developped throughout the entire novel. I can't really explain exactly why I enjoyed this book so much, I guess it's because of the subtle humor and the emotion involved. The sad parts are quite moving, and that's difficult to do without making the whole book depressing.

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