Sandy Day's Blog, page 12
October 22, 2023
Seduction
The fish & chip place was across from the community centre, next to the plaza. To get there, I had to walk down Lauralynn, around the corner on to Dennet, past the church, down Glen Watford and into the newly built, square, stand-alone building that housed the fish & chips shop.
When I pulled open the heavy glass door and stepped inside, the smell of deep-fry filled my nose. Not something I was used to, but it was appealing and surrounded me in a warm greasy hug.
I had a coin, which I put up onto the counter. I don't remember if it was a nickel or a dime, but whatever it was, it was exactly enough to buy a cone of french-fries. Me, I was six…seven…eight? Let’s just say, by today’s standards, I was alarmingly young.
I don’t remember my age, but I do remember the golden french-fries nestled together in their scorching hot paper cone glistening with oil and sparkling with salt. I took my cone outside into the fresh air and blew on the chips, trying to cool them down before I dared pop one in my mouth.
If you eat a french-fry too hot, it lodges somewhere between your lungs and your rib cage like a bullet, which, I think you’ll agree, spoils the whole experience.
I don’t remember walking home. And I don’t remember how I knew about the fish & chips store’s existence in the first place. Who took me there on my maiden voyage?
Certainly not my parents. They weren’t takeout food types.
A clue, is the proximity of the fish & chips restaurant to the smoke shop in the plaza. My sisters definitely introduced me to the magic of the smoke shop, where open boxes of penny-candy were set out on the top of a pop cooler like drugs in a den of iniquity.
Forget the fish, a sister must have taken me for chips the first time. That’s how we do it. That’s how we show each other how.
I hope you enjoyed this passage from my in-progress book, Big LoveLet me know if it raised any thoughts or memories for you, I’d love to hear about them. Hit reply, or comment in Substack.
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October 15, 2023
A Glob of Warm Spit
Reflected in the mirror were me and Janie. She was bigger. Brushing our teeth, shoulder-to-shoulder, I watched as white foam bubbled and frothed around our lips, watched her watching herself, wondering if this might be a night when she did something funny like letting the toothpaste dribble into a Santa Claus beard on her chin, or if this would be a night when I’d lean forward to spit in the sink and she’d choose the very same moment to spit a warm glob of foam onto the back of my neck.
I never knew with Janie which side of the looking-glass I was going to get. I waited at her side, feeling the hairs on her warm arm brush in a sisterly fashion against the hairs on mine. She didn’t like the way the hairs were darkening on her forearms, so I worried about the blonde hair on mine. It might be one more thing she didn’t like about me.
I wanted to be in Janie’s best books. I wanted her to let me into her dear-diary-safe-heart. I watched like a weathervane twirling on a barn roof. The lightning strikes were fierce and I covered my ears in the thunder. I wished we could’ve been one instead of two.
I hope you enjoyed this passage from my in-progress book, Big LoveLet me know if it raised any thoughts or memories for you, I’d love to hear about them. I send out a new piece every Sunday.
To all my writer friends:I urge you to join Substack to share your brilliance with the world. Use the button below to create your own Substack and connect your publication with Sandy Day
October 8, 2023
Lemon-Lime, Chocolate, and Rivalry
My preference is not for fiery candy. Red Devils. Sassafras. Too spicy for me. I like my candy sweet and chewy with a high biting flavour, mint, or black licorice.
But my forever favourite is chocolate.
How old were you when you first tasted chocolate?
Well, I can’t even remember, that's how young I was.
There must have been chocolate layer cakes in our house. My mom in her late eighties still baked a few of them each year.
I remember hot chocolate in a cup and saucer. Mom and I keeping our shirts on, holding our horses, waiting and waiting, for Janie to finish her ballet class.
Sometimes, I ordered a lemon-lime.
What even is a lemon-lime?
All I know is it came in a tall glass with a straw. Liquid lime-green sweetness with a tang.
Suze and Marcy won a stuffed toy at the Exhibition in Toronto and gave it to me. I loved the colour of the drink so much, I named the dog Lemon-Lime the Poodle. My memory is hazy, but he must have been green. Or possibly yellow. Or maybe I just loved him that much.
Janie took classes in the basement of the plaza underneath the restaurant where Mom and I waited. She wore pink tights, a black leotard with cap sleeves, and black ballet shoes with elastic over her foot. I did not covet her ballet outfit. Her hair was short; a pixie cut I recall hearing it described as. Suze and Marcy also had pixie cuts when they were younger. But not me. My hair was blonde, and Mom dragged it into pigtails over my ears; bunches, she called them.
Back to the chocolate. Specifically hot chocolate. With whipped cream, in a cup and saucer, with a spoon. Every week, I sat with Mom in a booth in the restaurant waiting for Janie’s ballet lesson to end. I didn't envy her. She wasn't getting hot chocolate or lemon-lime like me.
I hope you enjoyed this passage from my in-progress book, Big LoveLet me know if it raised any thoughts or memories for you, I’d love to hear about them. I send out a new piece every Sunday.
To all my writer friends:I urge you to join Substack to share your brilliance with the world. Use the button below to create your own Substack and connect your publication with Sandy Day
October 17, 2021
Reflections on Fred’s Funeral
At this time of year, mid October, I always start to think about my great-uncle Fred who served in the Canadian Expeditionary Force during WWI.
Yesterday, I sent out an email (my first in a long time) in which I included some photographs of the real Fred and our family.
In thinking of the how and why I came to write Fred’s Funeral I had the impulse to share those thoughts with my readership. If you’d like to join the list, please do. I love the back and forth that always results when I send an email.
Looking forward to our correspondence.
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Subscribe to Sandy’s emails First nameLast nameEmail*Can we send you an email from time to time?SubscribeSeptember 2, 2021
Brushing Teeth
Reflected in the mirror was me and Janie. She was bigger. Brushing our teeth, shoulder-to-shoulder, I watched as the white foam bubbled and frothed from our lips, watching her watching herself, wondering if this would be a night when she did something funny like let the toothpaste dribble into a Santa Claus beard on her chin, or if this would be a night when I leaned forward to spit in the sink and she chose the very same moment to spit a warm glob of foam onto the back of my neck.
I never knew with Janie which side of the glass I was going to get. I waited nervously at her side, feeling the hairs on her warm arm as they brushed in a sisterly fashion against the hairs on mine. She didn’t like the darkish hairs sprouting on her forearms, and so I worried about the blond hair on mine.
I wanted to be in her best books. I want her to let me into her dear diary safe heart but she never did. I watched her like a weathervane twirling on a barn. The lightning strikes were fierce and I covered my ears in the thunder of her rage. I wished we could be one instead of two.
September 1, 2021
Big Love
Jasmine crawled into my lap. She was wearing the pink flannel nightie I’d made for her. You couldn’t buy them anymore because they combusted children, apparently. Jasmine was her usual little furnace of heat and felt like a sack of elbows but I snuggled her close, breathing in the scent of markers and plastic barrettes and hair that could have used a shampoo.
She was full of complaints, and questions—demands for my full attention, which she’d made obvious by climbing into my lap, pinning me in place. Even though in an emergency, I could have snapped her up and run, she was long past the age of me carrying her although I still carried her little brother from time to time.
“Mommy,” she whined, in her need-to-know voice. “Mommy, when are we going to…?” It could have been a dozen things she wanted. A dozen things she wanted to know or do or have. Life was just not moving at the speed Jasmine thought it should.
She was about five or six years old. Her life was full of school friends and new games and skills. She had a lot going on and a lot of angst. It appeared she had inherited neuroses the same way she’d inherited her grandfather’s nose and her grandmother’s eyes. She worried a lot.
Holding her and listening, even though I probably couldn’t have cared less about her latest problem, I realized she was the age I was when the following happened:
For some time, I’d been referred to with a nickname in my family, which I didn’t know whether it was an insult or a point of pride. No, who am I kidding? I knew it was an insult. A not-so-subtle message that there was something wrong with me. The nickname was Kissy Day. It still causes me deep shame.
How did I earn this moniker, you may ask? Well, obviously, it was from the copious amount of kissing I was doing. Or demanding. I’m not sure which.
I was five or six, remember. Who was I kissing? All I can tell you is that there was only one person in the world I adored and that person was my mother. I remember kissing her soft cheeks and her hands, no kissing on the lips in my family. That was germy and not something a normal person did. I remember kissing my mom but do I remember her kissing me back? Yes.
Was it enough? No.
Not for me. And I admit I was probably one of those dastardly kids who, when their mother leans over their bed to kiss them goodnight, throws their arms around their dead-tired mother’s neck and traps her close. Get the picture? Hence, Kissy Day. At least that’s my grown up interpretation of it now.
Anyhow, around the time of the Kissy Day nickname, another thing started to happen. Whenever I crawled onto my mother’s lap, looking for comfort or in need of attention, I was hearing this phrase, accompanied by groans and sighs, “You’re too big.”
I was too big.
I was too big for my mother’s lap.
The age of self-consciousness was upon me.
How could I have been so stupid?
How could I not have known that I was too big a burden? A gigantic, needy creature weighing down this poor woman who happened to be my mother. “You’re too big.”
I am too big. My wants and needs are too big. They’re more than anyone can handle.
I felt Jasmine’s heft in my lap. I held her close. She was not too big, or too mature to need my attention. She was just her, with her peculiar talents and learning style. A little kid saddled with an active mind and a wealth of inherited insecurities and fears trying to navigate a big crazy world she hadn’t asked to be born into. She was not too big.
And neither was I.
I listened to Jasmine with sympathy but without commitment, recognizing that life is so damn hard. Even when you’re five years old. Your goals and expectations are crushed.
My mother’s words come back to me. “You’re too big.”
I was not going to say those words to Jasmine. I would never tell her that the burden of raising her was too big for me to carry. I’d brought her into the world and she had every right to expect big love to envelope her.
Kerry toddled into the room, and seeing Jasmine curled on my lap wanted up there too. I did have two limits and two children in the lap was it. I distracted them with food. “Who wants night lunch?”
They raced to the kitchen and I followed. The inevitable competition for bowls and cereal boxes ensued and I refereed as was my role. Soon enough I’d be alone having a drink after they’d fallen asleep. Soon enough I’d be alone with the silence and the space of aloneness. Soon enough I’d be eating and drinking whatever I wanted without having to share. Their father would be home later. I had a few hours to myself in front of the television. I wanted only to zone out. To be alone, but not too alone. I wanted only to be held in the safety of the family I’d created for myself. To soothe myself and pretend to the world that I was lovable, that I was worthy, that I wasn’t too much or too big a burden. I could pretend all day long. And when pretending didn’t work anymore, I had ways to drown the pain.
Chattering II
"Look what I picked for you, Mommy!"
From my hot and sweaty hand she takes them, but later I find them withered on the sand.
But still I am alive with love. Its pulsing, sensate, radiance. Never sure it’s wanted, wasted, welcome.
She tells me my love’s too big to sit on her lap without breaking her knees; her arms won’t reach ‘round it.
My love in me is flowing. You squeeze my shoulder and I turn to see your eyes, so dark, so glowing, your smile, knowing.
I love you, and it settles, smoulders like a smokey fume. I love you and it flares; my kindling charred and crackling, consumed in moments.
I love you, and I’m lost in it. Inside me, outside me, flowing like a lifeline.
Hang on. I pull you out from drowning. I warm you up and set you breathing.
I love you in. I love you out. Teeth chattering.
August 1, 2019
Something Borrowed by Emily Giffin, A Review
[image error]Are you looking for something to read this summer? This book is not brand new but maybe you haven’t heard of it yet. I learned about, Something Borrowed on the Don’t Keep Your Day Job Podcast. (I highly recommend this podcast, which stole the motto for my life btw.) Host Cathy Heller recently interviewed author, Emily Giffin, and I knew I had to read the book.
For me, while I enjoy the heck out of them, a little chick-lit goes a long way. I like my stories darker and more domestic. The focus on youthful attraction to courtship to commitment feels icky to middle-aged me but Something Borrowed was a refreshing surprise.
Most love stories have triangles and this book has a doozy. The narrator, Rachel (why are all the twisted-sister heroines so aptly named Rachel?) is lusting after the man her best friend is about to marry. In fact, Rachel is the maid of honor. Ouch. Talk about conflict.
Giffin’s treatment of the best friend character, who is kind of a bitch but likeable anyway, is deftly handled. The two women have much to be in friction over including the suspicion that the bride-to-be has been dishonest and in competition with Rachel for their entire lives. Rachel has the typical low self-esteem of a chick-lit heroine but not obnoxiously so. The two women ring true for me. I could identify. I don’t know which one I’ve been in my life, probably both.
Emily Giffin took the risk of alienating us readers with a heroine who commits such a despicable act so early in the story. What kind of person cheats with their best friend’s fiancé? Call me a prude, but that is a big-big-no-no. On the other hand, in the heat of passion, have I done despicable things to other women behind their backs? Yes, I have, and I’m not proud of it. But I would argue, like our heroine that I couldn’t help myself. The desire I felt was stronger than all my own arguments, morals, and ethics. Call it mating instinct, call in phenylalanine, whatever it is, it’s kryptonite. Have I had it done to me? Yup. The grievous feelings of the betrayed are hiding in my heart as well.
Giffin does an amazing job describing the attraction, jealousy, and desire of our two lovebirds. It was palpable and visceral and for me it excused Rachel’s terrible behavior. I am currently putting the finishing touches on a coming-of-age story about a teenager trapped in desire and obsession. I’m also in the process of planning another book about a middle-aged woman trapped in a bad marriage and tempted out of it by a sweet-talking colleague. This topic is of endless fascination to me so it’s satisfying to read a novel that touches on the same crazed emotions but with a lighthearted and oftentimes comical perspective.
I’m looking forward to the next books in the series, in fact, I will read everything Emily Giffin writes. She’s that good. (If you’re already a fan, you’ll be happy to know she has a new book called All We Ever Wanted.)
Let me know what you think of Something Borrowed in the comments.
May 25, 2019
More like the Worm
Today we raked. The fallen maple leaves from last autumn, and the previous year underneath like a slick black shingle.
I raked right through a fat earthworm the girth of my baby-finger. Cut it in two with the grill of the rake. A worm can still live when cut in half, right? I seem to recall that from Grade 2 when earthworms were more plentiful, or more under discussion, or maybe I was just closer to the ground back then.
I flung the earthworm-half back toward the woodpile and wished it well. But it was still lying there, numb and unmoving when I came back for another load of leaves.
At the top of the driveway, Suze tackled the green-bin that had been tucked behind the fence all winter. Its handle is broken so I’d left it out for garbage pick-up last fall but the garbage men had ignored it. Next time, I’ll leave a note.
The green-bin was half-full of water when Suze tipped it on its side. A gush of water escaped along with a putrid smell. Five lumps of black plastic-wrapped dog shit tumbled out. Suze shrieked, jumped away, and retched into the bushes.
The green-bin is still on its side at the end of the driveway, and the dog shit. Maybe I’ll buy some kitty litter to dump on it, dry it up before I shovel it into a garbage bag. If it ever stops raining.
Suze has taken it personally. A dog walker’s laziness is like a slap in her face with a small black poo bag. I’m more like the worm. Stunned by the world’s indifference. Willing my own heart to beat again. Hoping to grow more limbs for escape.
For more stories about Suze and I, click here for your FREE digital copy of An Empty Nest: A Summer of Stories.
April 10, 2019
Sibling Day
In April, some sadist invents a new holiday called Sibling Day. Friends on Facebook post photographs of their brothers and sisters lined up in rows, Polaroids and black and whites, the old days, affection and attention.
My sisters remain silent, and I don’t possess any pictures to post. I know there is one, somewhere, of the three of us—Natalie, Suze and I lined up with Mom and Dad—but I don’t have a copy. Besides, I am painfully aware that there wasn’t much sibling love in that photo, or in our lives. My sisters were close in age but I was an alien, born several years after they were. My father thought it was funny to suggest that I was adopted, as though he doubted my paternity. Then he’d say that when I was born I looked like an ancient old relative by the name Effy Smellie. That was her actual name.
My sisters didn’t warm up to me though I revered them and tried to tag along. Suze was often downright cruel and unless she needed me for something Natalie ignored me. Until I was older and noticed other people’s families, sibling closeness was something I didn’t know existed. There was no cheery closeness among us. No loving strokes or tender murmurs. No hugs. No sisterly cuddles. No love. Our parents didn’t model love—I never once saw them kiss—so my sisters and I didn’t learn to love, at least not by showing affection.
One time, possibly the same year the missing photo was taken—I was swimming in the lake with my cousin, Hannah. My sister Natalie was playing lifeguard—standing on the end of the dock in her flip-flops and skirted two-piece bathing suit, with a whistle hanging around her neck. Hannah and I were up to our armpits in water, our bare feet sliding around on the slimy stones on the bottom of the lake. We would have preferred to swim farther out at the sandbar but Natalie insisted we play lifeguard or swimming lessons or some bossy game of her choosing.
Natalie had a hard, round, life-saving ring tied to the end of a long yellow rope. She was swinging it back and forth, preparing to launch it toward us and then haul us back to the dock through the water.
It was a breezy summer day. The wind was blowing sideways and the lake was choppy. A seagull flew over caw-cawing. Maybe I was looking at the seagull. Or maybe I was looking through the water, scanning the bottom of the lake for those horrible green leeches that sometimes adhered to the stones. But whatever I was doing I didn’t see the heavy, round, life-saving ring sailing through the air toward me.
Thwump.
My cousin Hannah must have saved me. She must have pulled me up and out of the water and towed me to the dock.
I don’t remember that part. All I remember is waking up on my towel on the lawn with a box of pink Elephant Popcorn beside me. I remember wondering if I’d fallen asleep in the sun, and where the popcorn had come from. I remember wondering why Natalie was being so nice to me.
Scrolling through Facebook on Sibling Day is like looking at exhibits in the zoo—intriguing, amusing, but foreign and somewhat preposterous.
And then I start to cry and I cannot stop.
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From An Empty Nest: A Summer of Stories.
