My weekend in 7 uncropped, un-Photoshopped pictures

I love my family.

Last H.P. post, I promise. Kind of.

This is NOT a spoiler. (Would I do that to you?)

I have been checking out a few of the Harry Potter fan websites these last few days, just observing the general reactions from readers around the world. I want to address a question that keeps coming up in various forms: "WHY did JK Rowling have to kill off so-and-so??"

The correct answer is that she didn't kill anyone: they died. Allow me to explain.

In his delightful book, On Writing, Stephen King explained that most of his characters begin as very hazy, indistinct people in his mind. The more he works on the story, the clearer he sees them. And eventually comes that magical moment when they are fully materialized in his imagination, and all he does is sit back, watch what they do, and write it down. He has admitted that his characters often do things that surprise him, and no matter how much he may have believed he knew the end of the story, sometimes the characters have other plans.

Detailing how the Outlander series of books began, author Diana Gabaldon tells us that the story was initially a straight period romance set in the 1740's. But, referring to her lead character, she admits, "....but Claire just wouldn't behave. I kept writing scenes and Claire kept reacting in wildly inappropriate ways. It was only after I knew her better that I realized she was actually from the future, and then things fell in to place."

People who have read Harry Potter feel like they know the characters, that they are almost real. Do you think JK Rowling feels less? She has known, loved and despised these people for almost twenty years. To suggest that she arbitrarily decided, "Hey, I'll kill THAT guy" strikes me as somehow disrespectful. If you were sad that a particular character died, don't you think she was, too? Don't you think she would have saved them if she could?

But, of course, she couldn't. She didn't control these people. She just visited with them for a time, then reported back to us what she saw.

Done

Despite the fact that I read as slowly as I could, and had a pretty busy weekend (including a great family reunion today), I finished the last Harry Potter book this evening.

All I can say is wow. WOW.

And I sincerely believe that is all anyone should say about the details of the book for the next week to ten days. Why do so many poeple want to spoil these final moments for others, by selfishly blurting out info from the book? Just shut up already. I for one am glad I had the chance to read each word for myself, with no idea what was coming next.

But seriously? WOW.

The Last One

In less than six hours, I will have a copy of Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows in my hands.

I am excited beyond all reason, looking forward to the Harry Potter Party at our local book store tonight, which will culminate with the precious volume being distributed to greedy, needy, questing hands at 12:01 am. But I am also very melancholy....how can all those years of speculation, enjoyment, and heated discussions be coming to an end?

Yes, I am a Harry fanatic. So is my son, my mother, my sister, my friends Watermelon and Tasse, my ex-husband, my late father. Harry Potter has been huge in all of our lives and tonight will be the end of that part of our relationship, the night when All Will Be Revealed to us. Well, except for Daddy. (Ok, Dead Guy joke not really appropriate. Sorry.)

I am not going to get in to my assorted wild theories about what the book will reveal, but I do want to share the one I am most passionate about, and believe in the most strongly:

Snape is a hero. He is 100% on "our" side, and has been since his stint with the Death Eaters when he became loyal to Dumbledore. And the way he ultimately proved his loyalty was the night he killed DUmbledore. Dumbledore had theorized -- or perhaps Trelawney had prophecized?? -- that Dumbledore would end up in the type of situation he did. He looked to Snape to promise to kill him if and when the time came. Which is why Snape hesitated. And why Dumbledore pleaded with him. Dumbledore wasn't pleading for his life, he was pleading for his own death.

Why did he have to die? Not sure, but we have been told upteen million times that Dumbledore is the only wizard Voldemort considered his equal, the only wizard he feared. So maybe by checking out, Dumbledore was trying to make Voldemort smug and a little relaxed, trying to give Harry the very slight edge he needs.

Who will be the two main characters who die in the book? I have no idea, though I liked RockStarMommy's reasoning that one will probably be a Weasley, simply because there are so MANY of them.

Regardless, in a few hours, I will finally have all the answers in my hands. And although I am a very, very fast reader, I am going to force myself to read slowly, to fully imagine every sentence before I read the next. After all, I will never have another Harry Potter book again.

The Joy of Cats

Mario and I are at the end of our ropes over the cats. The Little One (three years old) is destructive, mean, terrorizes the dog, and has clawed our upholstered livingroom furniture down to the wood interior. We can't have people over, because we are ashamed of our welfare looking livingroom set, but we can't replace the furniture, either, because she'll just do it again. And apparently all the vets in my general area have gone all Kumbaya on my ass, because not ONE is willing to declaw my cat.

The older cat (nine or ten) is the most loving, sweet tempered, sooky cat to ever come down the pipe. He also has some feline version of majorly fucked up eczema, meaning expensive shots at the vet every six weeks. Adding to his charms, he vomits in the house at least three times a day, in ever more creative locations. And no, I'm not talking hairballs, I'm talking vomit. Vet just kind of shrugs and says, "Well, sometimes cats do that." He is also an outdoors cat (he was originally a stray that Mario's son took in) so if he is left in the house when we go to work, he pisses all over our basement carpet, refusing to use the litter box.

I don't know what to do.

At risk of sounding like a heartless bitch who doesn't deserve pets, let me tell you I am a heartless bitch who doesn't deserve pets. And I am willing to admit that, if it was just me and Mario, I might very well suggest that I have had enough and it is time for them to either meet the SPCA or that big hypodermic needle in the sky. I'm not kidding, I am that fed up.

But I have a child. A child who is passionately attached to those two assholes. And well, shut up already, but I am, too. I love those cats, they are my troublesome babies and they make my heart sing, but the reality is they are destroying my house and I don't know what to do anymore. It can't go on like this much longer.

End of vacation funk

Well, that's it. My two weeks of vacation are over.

It rained for the first eleven days, and then got nice on Friday, two days ago. Mum, Brian, and I went to the beach Friday afternoon to eat fried clams and walk in the surf, but Mario was in too much pain to go with us and stayed at home. Saturday was gloriously sunny and warm, so Mum and I went to pick strawberries....and then I spent the rest of the beautiful day inside, with all my stove burners at full blast, while I made my strawberry jam for the year. I left the house again in the evening, when Mario and I went to see "Sicko" at our local movie house. RUN, don't walk. Michael Moore rules all things, forerver and ever, amen.

Today, Sunday, was beautiful but so humid that I literally could NOT go outside. Instead, I watched a movie on TV, played on the computer, did laundry, and made strawberry shortcake. (Note to self: Next year, don't pick so many damn strawberries.)

I am very, very sad that I am going back to work tomorrow. I am finally getting in to Relaxed Mode -- what does it say about my job that it takes two weeks to decompress? It seems impossible to me that in less than 12 hours, I will have my headset on and 2432567363 emails staring me in the face.

Guess it will help me look forward to our Chrsitmas trip to Disney....

Postage

Ok, I admit it, I am a bit of a stamp junkie. I know that this passion derives from the fact that I actually do use snail mail on a regular basis to communicate with my best friend. Ok, ok, Kelz and I email daily, but waaaaaay back in the day, we didn't have this luxury. I was in Canada, she was in the United Arab Emirates (or is that ERAB, Kelz?) but we had good old Canada Post to keep us connected. Yes, it meant a two week delay in our conversations, but our conversations are often intensely personal and emotional....a time delay is not necessarily a bad thing, people.

And while we do email daily (ok...several times a day), there is nothing like a Letter. She is much better at this than I am, but (as she will soon learn, when she gets back from vacation and receivs a rather large box), it's not because I have stopped writing, it's because I stopped sending.

But I am determined to turn over a new leaf, or re-examine an old leaf. I will be a letter writer again. Which brings me to the stamps.

I was standing in line at the post office, trying to send her said box. And then I saw Gordon Lightfoot looking down at me. Ex-squeeze me? Yes, a series of stamps acknowledging Canada's musical imprint on the world. Gordon Lightfoot...Joni Bloody Mitchell...and, umm, Paul Anka? well ok, I get it, I listened to the music of the 50's and 70's, Paul Anka can stay, it's all good. But the fourth person immortalized was ANNE MURRAY? Is there anyone in the WORLD who is not over Anne Murray?

Why couldn't it have been Burton Cummings?After all, in 1970, the Guess Who's album sales, worldwide, topped more than every other Canadian artist combined. Why couldn't it have been Bryan Adams, who has also gone on to become such an accomplished photographer that when the Queen celebrated 50 years on the throne, HE was chosen to be Canada's official photographer in an intimate portrait session with Her Majesty? And, God help us ALL, why couldn't it be Celine Dion, who I once adored (way back before she even learned English) but later became such a shrill, melodramatic harpy? ANYTHING other than Anne Murray, who publicly turned her back on Canada by refusing to come to the Juno Awards because "they weren't important enough."

The Anne Murray stamp will never see the light of day, I assure you.

Home

Home from our camping trip. It rained every single day, but if you have ever met me, you are not surprised: apparently, at some point in my life, I angered the Weather Gods, because I haven't had a sunny day on vacation in over eight yers. You think I am exaggerating, but you are underestimating my power as it relates to crappy weather. People at work LITERALLY ask me when I am going on vacation so they can choose other dates for their own. I couldn't make this up if I tried.

Still, we had fun in our own way. Any opportunity we get to spend together as a family, with no computers, phones, TV's or video games, is always welcome. And we always walk away from it more solid. Hey, we are a blended family, I will take our blessings wherever we find them.

We went to see the new Harry Potter movie yesterday: me, Mario, my son, my mum, my sister, and my friend Watermelon. It wasn't my favourite HP movie by any means, but it did help me appreciate another side of Family....we all went together because that's what we sincerely wanted to do, we wanted to share the experience with each other, with family. And some could argue, for example that my friend Watermelon isn't my family....but those would be people who don't understand me and how my heart works.

In other news, my sister-friend Kelz is now off camping with her kids for two weeks, so I don't get to talk to her daily as is my wont. I want her to have a great time, but I DON'T want her to be where I can't reach her at any hour of the day.

Yes, it's all about me.

And I'm going to stop writing now, because my fatigue is clearly showing...

The Woods

Tomorrow, I leave on a camping trip with my son. Mario's participation is still up in the air, not because he doesn't want to go, but because we need to factor in his physiotherapy appointments. If he can, he will. And if he can't, he won't. Either way, I MUST.

Lest I seem a heartless bitch, let me assure you that Mario realized something very fundamental about me years ago: I must go to the woods. At least once a year, I physically must retreat to a place where there is only sky, wind, water, and pine sap in my hair. I have to do this to mainatin my sanity, to recharge my batteries. And he gets that.

Brian is very excited, he always is when it's just the two of us, not only because he gets my undivided attention but because he still finds it amusing that I can do everything without someone (a man) helping me. Yes, Brian, your mother is perfectly able to pitch a tent, put up the screen tent, split wood, build a fire, and cook dinner with no man to help her. Hey, there are worse things my kid could learn...

I'm not sure why I need these retreats to nature so desperately, but I do. I need silence. I need dappled sunlight. I need rain at the most inconvenient moments. I need leaking tents at 3:00 am, and I need raccoons in the screen tent at 4:00 am, when I am the only adult around and am forced to deal with these masked intruders on my own, wearing only a T-shirt, panties, and sneakers, armed only with a lantern and a stick. I NEED THIS.

Reading

Children remember things in funny ways. A lot of what we think we remember is actually a second hand story that has been impressed on our memories through photos and the stories of our elders. I understand that I have such false memories, we all have them. But I have two particular memories that I know are my own, and I know they are real.

I remember being four years old, at our cottage in Ontario. I was the oldest of the three grandkids, and books were always a big deal. There were many picture books, but even though we had all seen them a hundred times before, we all climbed in to our grandparents' laps when the books came out.

I remember, oh like it was yesterday, one hot night in the Kids' Bedroom, a night spent arguing over who got the single bed and which two kids had to share the double bed, a night when the sinister perfume of the mosquito coil under the bed scented the air, and the lamp spilled it's ugly orange glare over the pine walls. I was the victor that night, securing the single bed for myself, while my grandfather tried to wrestle my brother and my cousin Lisa in to the big bed. And while that was going on, I opened our pressed-board copy of Thumbelina, one of my favourites. And I looked at those weird letter things. And I understood them.

I remember stopping in my tracks, panicking, as I stared at the page. I GOT IT. Good God, I was four, I knew my LETTERS for heaven's sake. But on this night, I saw the letters and the letters made words. Adding to the chaos of getting a two, three, and four year old to bed, I cried, "Papa! I can read! I can read, Papa!"

To be fair, Papa immediately stopped wrestling with the other kids, and dropped down next to me. "Show me, Jennifer." So I flipped back to the beginning of the book, and began to read aloud to him.

"Oh, Jennifer, you have only memorized what you have heard a thousand times..."

He didn't believe me. The most important moment of my life, the moment my light came on to ever burn brightly, and he didn't believe me. I was devastated. I flipped ahead in the book, and read that page. He paused, then took the book away from me and gave me another. He opened it randomly and said in a whisper, "Read that."

And I did.

Four years old and reading. This became, as early as the next day, an undisputed fact: Jennifer can read. But I remember that initially no one believed me.

The other memory: the Christmas just after I turned eight, Mum bought me the Little House books. I remember that those lovely yellow volumes came, from the fine folks at Readers Digest, in a yellow cardboard case, and at the top there was a spot to write "These books belong to..." I remember very clearly getting out a black pen to write, "Jennifer."

It was the seventies, and Little House was a very popular TV series to which I was addicted. I knew that Laura Ingalls was a real person, and I had accepted the TV series as the literal truth. And so when I began to read her stories as she wrote them, I finally saw the poetic licence the show had taken. (We can discuss the poetic licence Laura took in her books another time.)

A few days after Christmas, after I had drank my fill of my toys, my Bionic Woman action figure, my Cyndi dollhouse, I started reading the books one evening. We were well brought up kids who understood BedTime, so my exhausted parents went to bed while I was still reading in the living room, no worries that I would put myself to bed.

I remember Mum was the first one up the next day, around 6 am. She found me still on the rust-coloured velour couch, with the seventh volume of Little House in my hands.

"Jennifer, why are you up already?"

I looked up, actually a bit surprised. "I haven't been to bed yet, what time is it?"

Long story short, she refused to believe that her eight year old step-daughter had stayed up reading all night, and CERTAINLY refused to believe that the eight year old had read almost seven novels over night.

Well....she soon learned not to doubt that.


When I was a child, my obsession with reading clearly hit my family hard. How could a child so young... Well, I don't know the answers to that, either. My point to this long post is simply that, at the two strongest literary moments of my young life, no one believed me. Lord knows they all know NOW, but when I was a child, experiencing the written word, the Word which would shape my life, no one believed me. I remember that betrayal.

New Heights in Loser-ism

I make no secret out of the fact that I don't cook. I love good food, but I never had the burning interest to learn how to make it.

Now, once upon a time, I was a stay-at-home mom for three years, and the cooking mostly fell to me. And during that time, I often fed several of my husband's friends during the week as well. (See, not only did I used to cook, I used to be social. But that's another story for another day.) They loved my cooking, loved the fact that I would spontaneously make them all a lasagna at 8:30 at night when they all suddenly showed up. Nobody starved, and nobody died of ptomaine, so clearly I used to have a handle on all this shit.

Today, I decided I wanted to make a nice dinner for Mario. Nothing fancy, just something nice that I prepared. Being summer, my first thought was nice cold lobster, expense be damned. And ooooo, I'll make some of My Potato Salad, with lots of egg, bacon, Granny Smith apple, and (heaven) just the right amount of dry mustard, among other yummy goodies. My Potato Salad was, again once upon a long time ago, one of my signature dishes. But somehow I have never made it for Mario so I decided today is the day. I can still remember everything that goes in it. Piece of cake.

First step: boil some eggs.

Boil some eggs.

Shit.

I DO NOT REMEMBER THE CORRECT WAY TO BOIL BLOODY EGGS and there is no way I'm asking Mario or my mum. I don't want them to know just how giant a loser I am.

Happy Canada Day, y'all.