Well hello again. Two posts in two days, oh my.
I’m visiting over Blonde Monde today and hope you’ll stop in for a read and a comment or two. I wrote about my first date, ever. I was 18. True story.
Also, thank you for the kind comments and emails about my family story yesterday. Because some of you asked, I’ll tell: The story is about how my mother, at age 11, found out her father had passed away.
I wish I could have met my him.
Last week, I posted that I enlisted myself in a writing course at the University of Toronto. It’s just five weeks long. Tonight is week two. To keep this post brief, I’ve pasted my first homework assignment below and will explain how the class went in another post later this week. Promise. I think other lovers of writing would appreciate my dishing on the experience.
I’m nervous to post this, which is exactly why I’m doing it (PS, I’m holding my breath right now). I welcome your comments or emails, loaded with opinions – good, harsh or even simply, “meh”. I’m nothing if not open to improving what I love most.
THE ASSIGNMENT: Recount a story that has been passed within your family for years. 400 words or less.
***
New shoes.
By: Sandy Braz
The low toll of the church bell on a day other than Sunday meant only one thing on the Azorian Island of St. George: God had come.
Her father lay still to preserve remnants of his energy. Each morning, she sang stories about her adventures in the garden, hunting for oranges. He would smile and she would laugh. And then, as soon as it had come, the dancing in his eyes would disappear, into the sickness.
Each spring, along with the orange blossoms, came new shoes; with new shoes came spring festivals and her father’s recitals. But money was scant since the sickness, the orange trees hadn’t grown without her father’s tending, and the huff of his accordion hadn’t been heard in months. For the first time, hunger and sadness and silence had entered their home.
To bide the time, she spent her days dipping her toes into the ocean, soothing her bleeding feet from her outgrown shoes and longing for springtime again. Even though the warmer temperatures had arrived, it was as if spring had not.
As she returned home from the ocean one afternoon, she noticed the neighbour’s orange tree was in full bloom; the scent of citrus lingered and she loved it almost as much as she loved the aroma of her father baking sugar, flour and eggs. Since she couldn’t have his bread, she thought, perhaps she could have oranges after all. Perhaps she could still have springtime.
The following day, she cut the tops of her shoes with her father’s best bread knife. She needed to make room for her toes if she was going to hunt for oranges. He would be angry if he knew, she thought, but it made no matter. He would be happy to smell the oranges again.
The fence to the neighbour’s garden was thorny with roses, but the sweet reward of springtime beckoned on the other side. As she roved the treetops scouring for fruit, she realized she had made new shoes, she had found fresh oranges and tomorrow morning she would share it all with her father in a song – their own special recital.
As she plucked the final orange and laid it into the pocket of her dress, her heart full of happiness again, the low toll of the church bell filled her ears. She knew it then. Her father wouldn’t smell that oranges after all that spring. It wasn’t Sunday, but God had come.
At 1:30 on Sunday morning, Rob and I headed out for the night. Yes, you read that correctly – 1:30am.
My friend has a new beau and he’s in town for the week from London/Nigeria – he’s a world traveler, expat and possibly super hero and divides his time between the UK and Africa.
I had a photo shoot on Saturday and was ex-haust-ed when I got home (why a shoot? I’m updating my other website – the one I use to pimp out my words to magazines and newspapers). The day was such an experience and I met one cool chick with a camera – shout out Cheryl! Needless to say, I was pooched when I got home. But when your friend’s new man has traveled dozens of hours to see her, the least you can do is make your way to Pravda Vodka Bar on King Street to sip on some Dom Perignon to welcome him to your city and celebrate. Right?
Yes, you also read that right – we luxed out on champagne worth more than my pay cheque last week. True story.
I won’t go into details, but the man has had a long, successful career. He likes the finer things in life and isn’t afraid to share the fruits of his labor. Just so happens I love fruit.
Rob and I got home at around 4:30 Sunday morning, which never fails to make us feel like teenagers again, enjoying youth and freedom and fun in a way that makes us feel alive and happy that we’re kid-free and living in one of the best cities in the world. That is, we feel all of those things until we wake up in the morning and feel like 29 and 31 and wish to God we drank less, slept more and didn’t wolf down bacon ‘n’ eggs at 3:30 that morning. Things just don’t digest the same way, apparently.
Youth, as they say, is truly wasted on the young.
At around noon yesterday – Valentine’s Day – Rob surprised with me a medium Americano from Chery Bomb, a box of Godiva truffles and Twenty Love Poems and a Song of Despair by Pablo Neruda. The man knows the way to my heart: Coffee, chocolate and poetry… oh my. Oh and he also gave me one red rose, which is a bit of inside joke because I don’t like roses, which is exactly why Rob gave me one. There’s a bit of a back story to red roses and how they relate to Valentine’s Day. And no, it’s not a love story, so no need to prep for a gag fest.
Mid-way through my box of truffles and thumbing through poetry, I still hadn’t touched the rose. It was a sweet gesture, absolutely, and I thanked my husband, but nah, I’m much more into my other mouth-watering gifts than the lowly red rose. I don’t know why the aversion to red roses, but I have one, so whatever. And before you say something out loud, like, “What a douchebag she is… doesn’t even appreciate the rose… from her husband… poor guy…” you should know that Rob takes great pleasure in giving me roses because I don’t like them. We try not to take things too seriously and this is his way of reminding me of just that. So, for the rest of our lives, I will continue to not love roses and he will continue to give them to me. I will leave the rose in its cellophane, staring at it as I eat truffles and then Rob will trim the stem, prune back the leaves and pick off the thorns and place it squarely in the center of my pink carnations arrangement sitting on our coffee table. It’s sort of our own symbiosis and it works.
The rose is just sitting there now, towering above my frilly gals, sticking out like a soar thumb. Thank God roses die in three days or less.
My carnations are now on day six. And I’m down to my second last truffle.
… that’s what love is. Ya, something like that.
***
Eleven years ago, Rob sent me a box of red roses and picked me up at my parent’s house after two moths and two days of dates, dozens of shared bottles of wine and not a single kiss between us. He was a bit of a slow mover.
He took me to a romantic little restaurant with a piano and waiters with white gloves. He had the lamb and I had pasta, I think. Later that night we went to one of our favorite pubs in the suburbs. It was quiet and only a few lonely men took up residency at the bar.
After a bottle of wine and two hours of the kind of conversation that makes you fall in love with someone, we leaned in close. Really close.
I think the kiss lasted at least a minute. I know this because that’s how long I can hold my breath before wanting to gasp. And I know for certain that I didn’t breath the entire time he kissed me. And no, it’s not because he took my breath away – although he has long since swept me off of my feet – there had been shit loads of garlic in my pasta and not a mint in sight.
When it was over, we pulled back, in soft shock. It had been two months and two days since our first date and things had been building up to this one first kiss for weeks.
Looking back, I really don’t know what we were waiting for or how we had manged to go so long without it. It was the best last first kiss I ever had… despite the roses.
***
So, how was your weekend?
So, I’m starting something new tomorrow night. And it doesn’t involve my laptop; although it does include writing (by the way, don’t you hate it when people start sentences with and? Shit, I do).
I’ve signed up for a course through the University of Toronto called, “Generating Stories” – sort of an ode to brainstorming, I guess, although the title needs work, don’t you think?
Despite the lame name, the course attracted me because, since starting this blog, I’m all ideas, ideas, ideas, but sort of the same ones over and over, you know what I mean? That ever happen to you? You sort reinvent the wheel, trying to perfect the thought about the thing you were thinking. Anyway, blah blah blah, I’m looking to bust out of my mold a bit. I’ll be sure to blog about the class again.
In this course we’ll be writing poetry (poetry!) and memoirs and fiction. I’m nervous and excited. I’m sure there will be some terrific writers there looking to hatch some new ideas, too. I think I’m going to tell everyone I wax people’s hair for a living. If I tell them I’m an editor, they’ll look at me funny, like I’m supposed to remember what the fuck a pentameter is, even though I do, but I don’t care… but I should… because I’m an editor. See?! Awful. I hope the professor asks me to describe diction instead. I figure waxers or editors could come up with a pretty good definition for diction.
Oh, about tomorrow night: I received this email from my professor today and, get this, the whole class is to be… brace yourself… written in longhand. No computers. He even suggested, “bring a pencil”… love it already. The smell of a pencil case is one of my top 10 favorite smells of all time (and don’t you even judge me… I know you have a favorite smells list… you’re thinking about it right now, aren’t you?)
Which reminds me, I need a wax.
On another note, I realized that when I accompany a post with a photo, it’s typically a photo that’s been shot on my travels or via my BlackBerry, which is totally cheating, I think. So I want to change that. I’d like to make the photos on my blog a bit of an homage to The Year that Is 29; a scrap book of sorts. Current images of what I look like, dress like and do in this beautiful city. I’m changing everyday and someday I’d like to look back and just, you know, observe it. If I’m to really treat this blog as a documentary of my life and my List, I’d like the “show” portion of this story to accompany the “tell” more often.
All I know is, 30 better be awesome – I’ve been talking it up in my head for months.
*This is a picture taken last week with my BlackBerry. Yes, again. When I saw this Toronto indie band, Meligrove Band, in concert last year, I had them sign the back of my T-shirt. Such a groupie. So what?
Dear Body,
I love you, but that doesn’t mean I want to get attached. This is a temporary thing between you and me, after all.
I thought I should “cc” you on the following philosophies that will impact our relationship this year. And before you get all sentimental on me, Body, I should tell you that, although you’re good to me now, you wouldn’t think twice about fucking me over, so consider this a mild intervention. I’m on to you.
You’ve already started leaving me little surprises like that small pooch under my belly button and the shift in boob-distribution – don’t think I’m oblivious to that little deal you’re making with gravity, Body. I know all about it.
So, to keep our relationship fair, I wanted to give myself a little reminder of the constant state of flux you’re in. I’m willing, after much vodka and mediation, to accept your evil ways. In fact, I’m willing to accept all the changes you throw at me so much so, that I’d like to give myself a little reminder – a Post-It note of sorts – so that I don’t forget about your constant, although not always approved, evolution. …We’re getting a tattoo.
You heard me.
I’m so decided on this that I’m making it #20 on the List. I’m changing, so are you; by 30, I feel accepting this is only fair to both of us. So, let’s make it official with ink. No erasers.
Remember that time we watched our mother survive cancer? We watched her body go from awesome one day to a deteriorating state the next from invasive chemotherapy. And you thought you had it bad with the occasional piece of unorganic fruit or the cigarettes we smoked in high school. Not even close, Body. Not even close.
I love you, but I have to remember that this is just a temporary thing between us. You could decide to let harmful things in, despite how hard we work together to keep them out. That’s just part of accepting change. But I’m not mad at you and I’m still going to treat you right, dear Body – Vitamin C; Swedish massages; essential oils and bath salts as always – this little tattoo will be our little covenant to keep it real; to not forget about the stuff on the inside, in my heart and in my head, that will keep us both strong when you decide you’ve had enough of pleasing me. You’re entitled, after all.
Think of this tattoo as my little love note, written in ink. No erasers.
With love (and a little less belly pooch, please),
sandyb
love notes.