This one was another for book club, and I have to say that when I finished it I shut the book with a snap and said “That’s it?!”

Here be spoilers.

This is the story of Mary Boulton, the young widow who killed her husband. That we know from the outset, as Adamson tells us this as we are introduced to the fleeing Mary. Or, as Adamson constantly refers to her, “The Widow”. As if the two frightening brothers-in-law aren’t enough to remind us of her past, this moniker is necessary as well. Don’t forget, dear reader, that Mary killed her husband.

Why does Mary kill her husband? I’m not sure if Adamson intended that to be a mystery, but if so, it was a wholly unsatisfying one. And if it wasn’t meant to be a mystery, and Mary’s reasoning behind her act was meant to be obvious and sympathetic, well, Adamson doesn’t succeed with that either. Finally if it’s meant to be an illustration of her madness, perhaps he shouldn’t have told us she was half-mad on the first page.

Really, I suspect Mary killed her husband so that the author would have something to keep her running.

And run she does. For several hundred pages of drawn out, boring description. The Outlander can be seen as both Mary’s story and the story of those who come to assist her on her journey, and frankly I cared more for her angels than for the widow herself. There just wasn’t a whole lot there.

Not in terms of characterisation, anyway. In terms of mind-blowingly detailed (boring) description, well, there was more than sufficient amounts of that. In fact, I wouldn’t say I read this book so much as I skimmed it for actual plot.

I almost dropped it halfway, but was spurred on by the question of those two scary brothers-in-law who are relentless in their pursuit of Mary. Do they ever find her? That was what kept me going until the rather predictable end.

This has been a tough week.

Last Monday, June 1st, I was at work at 8:30 working on an urgent request. I had just come in, saw it in my email and headed straight to my boss’ office without noticing one of my team members, Lucie, wasn’t in yet. She would normally be in by this time. When I got back to my office my voice mail indicator was flashing with a message from a colleague.

This woman worked downstairs, used to work with Lucie, and was in fact her cousin. She was calling to let me know that Lucie had been in a car accident. She sounded strangely calm, and I thought it was a fender bender. Maybe a bad one, but my mind never went to the worst possibility.

Until I called her back and she was sobbing. “April, they’re saying she’s dead.”

I didn’t believe it. It had been so third hand, from Lucie’s daughter, to her mother, to her cousin, to me. They must be mistaken.

They were not, unfortunately. The car accident was brutal, sudden and fatal. Today was the memorial service.

Lucie worked for me for a mere three months, but in that time she had such an impact. She was so organized, so easy to talk to, I didn’t have to give too much direction, she knew what she was doing.

I remember one of my last conversations with her. I was letting her know that I understood it must seem like a lot of menial tasks, because I often asked her to draft emails that needed to be sent out to our network across the country. I told her that while it wasn’t glamourous there would probably be more coming her way. Not because she couldn’t do more, but because she was an excellent writer, in both french and english.

“Really?” she asked me. She seemed disbelieving.

“Absolutely. You write extremely well and it’s been a huge help.”

I wish I had said more. I wish I hadn’t been stressed out the last day I saw her. But I find comfort in knowing I had least had the chance to say that one little thing. One compliment, one acknowledgment of her strengths.

Not to be trite, but we should all do that more often.

Repose en paix, Lucie.

Oh man, this is totally the best.  My Mom loved this song.

Oh! And this, which I knew the original with Willie Nelson and Waylon Jennings, but this one also has Johnny Cash and Kris Kristofferson!

Nate Phelps.

A speech/article by Nate Phelps, son of the infamous Fred Phelps (who I will not link to).  Interesting insight, particularly since his father’s “religion” seems to have driven him to thte other extreme.

In case you missed it in one of my many very late night posts on facebook, I wanted to share this very moving tribute to the troops in Afghanistan.  While it’s slightly old, and was originally made for specific soldiers who passed away, I think it can be generalized.

It is beautiful.  While I heard of this “highway of heroes” phenomenon, to see it, finally, brought tears to my eyes.  The music may have contributed as well.

Two scenes always get me: The row of police (OPP?) on the side of the highway (there must be at least 6 cars) and the guy standing on the median with his hand over his heart.

I must not get caught up in this. It is a flirtation, a passing moment, and while it is good for the ego, nothing can or should come of it.

That doesn’t mean I’m not both ashamed of my weakness while also amazed at my bravery.

If only circumstances were different. Very different.

Note to self:

I’m not a princess
This ain’t a fairytale
I’m not the one you’ll sweep off her feet
Lead her up the stairwell

The bar, the youth, the discovery.
Drinks from a favourite book,
Science Fiction characters on the doors of bathrooms,
This is what I think of.
I think of that moment, in the darkness,
On the dance floor,
That moment of clichés,
With sparkling lights and loud bass,
And your sunlight grin.
Oh how in love I was,
With life,
With the song,
With myself,
With you.
And years later with the memory,
And the words.
A Bittersweet Symphony
Indeed.

Enjoyable, yet infuriating, Family Tree is the story of two white people, Hugh and Dana, who have a baby “with African-American features”.  Being a book that makes such an emphasis on Hugh’s family going back to the Mayflower and Dana’s not knowing her father, well obviously everyone (except Dana) freaks out.

No one is going to grant this book awards but at the same time, I couldn’t put it down. Hugh pissed me off, although a small part of me sympathized. I should have caught the outcome but didn’t. And why did we need the Earl and Corinne story lines? Unnecessary.

The discussion of what it means to be African-American was rather pathetic.  As someone who is technically mixed race (1 quarter Ojibwa), the idea that these people raised and living their entire lives as blond haired white people suddenly begin to question their very selves and go around saying “I am African-American” was aggravating.  If I was black and had read this book I would have found the whole thing patronizing and mildly offensive.

Ultimately what kept me reading was want to know the answer to the question of where Elizabeth’s dark skin came from.  The result was mediocre, but I was pleased to know.

I miss books like this.  It’s been so long since I’ve come across one. What I Was found me today at Chapters.  I can’t even tell you where.  Was it on a table (20 books to read before you’re 20?  Maybe New & Hot Teen Fiction?), or maybe just there on the shelf.  I have no idea now.  But anyway.  I picked it up and read the back and got chills up my spine.  This was a book I had to read, even if it tore my guts out (which it did, mostly).

What I Was is the story of H.  16 years old and shuffled off to his 3rd boarding school in the middle of nowhere, England. Here at St. Oswald’s, H goes through the now familiar motions of his “sterling history of mediocre achievement”.

And then he meets Finn, an “almost unbearably beautiful boy” who lives by himself in a hut on the cliffs of the seaside.

What follows is the slow deepening of their regard for each other.  Rosoff drags it out painfully slowly for a book that’s just over 200 pages.  Like H searching Finn’s facial expressions, we are left searching the pages for any hint of how the hermit boy feels for his unasked for friend.  Like all the best characters (in my humble opinion), Finn is minimal, but takes up so much space.  And while it’s the mystery of Finn that kept me reading, it’s my complete and utter connection with H that made the story for me.

It takes some magical story telling for a 30 year old woman to see herself so thoroughly in the naration of a now 100 year old man remembering his 16 year old self.  With every time H goes to see Finn, crossing the treacherous water, often soaking himself through with water and humiliation I could sense his feelings growing, while at the same time retaining an innocence that would not have existed if the two main characters were even two years older.

I read How I Was in about 2 hours, turning page after page with an urgency I haven’t experienced while reading in quite some time.  It seemed only fitting that while reading this Young Adult novel I felt 15 again, if only briefly.  Only now, instead of wolfing down my food at supper to get back to the book, I was steadfastedly ignoring the laundry in the dryer.  The wrinkles would be worth it.

Nothing is perfect however, and I admit to feeling slightly cheated and annoyed at the resolution.  While clever in it’s own way, it felt a bit too safe.  H is metaphorically pulled out of the water one more time, no deeper self examination is needed.  How convenient.

I’ll give Rosoff a bit of a break on this, though.  While the ending felt too safe, I did not feel that way about the rest of the book, which is what’s important I think.

“What I Was” was a surprise, in the best way possible.