History and Mararet Atwood's "Robber Bride"

Yesterday I finished rereading Margaret Atwood's novel, The Robber Bride. When I first read it, years ago, I didn't enjoy the story, and I'm pretty sure I didn't get the point. I probably became lost in the details, and was disappointed with the ending. This time, I believe I understood, having grown up a bit, and having seen more history come and go, along with the spin governments and organizations put onto events.

For example, with the New Brunswick government's hapless proposal to sell our provincial utility, NBPower, to Hydro Quebec, we hear stories and explanations from all sides. Not one of us can read the future, but every one has a perspective on the past and the present.

The Robber Bride is the story of three women whose lives are turned upside down by another woman, Zenia, who has stolen each of their men in turn. The book begins from the perspective of one of the women, a history professor. Zenia was dead, they thought, out of their lives at last, but no, in the early pages of the book, they are shocked to see her in a restaurant where they have met for lunch. Zenia has concocted her own death, a deliberate fabrication, one of many, as we discover, as we travel through the memory of each woman in turn.

Each of the three women received a different version of Zenia's life. Is there any truth in her at all? Is there any truth even in the recollection of the women? Near the end of the book, each of the three spends time alone with Zenia in her hotel room. Discussing their experiences afterward, they are surprised by their diverse descriptions of the room. Did the room actually change so much? or was it the faulty nature of eye-witness accounts?

People don't see what they really should see, if they want to protect themselves from wily people like Zenia. Some, like Zenia (and our governments), are very good at fabricating a version of history to suit the need. Is there ever a truth? Is there ever a true history of anything?

Here in my blog, and in my journal, I record my own history. Sometimes I look back at what I've written to remind myself of what happened on a specific date, but it is only a recording of what I think happened. Sometimes I tell clients that we'd need a video to know what actually occurred in the events they are ruminating over. Yet even a video only shows the chosen perspective of the camera's operator.

I'm glad I reread Atwood's book. It is a fitting reminder for us all, in these times of historic change, to do our best to experience the world with clear eyes.

Four Footed Family

About a month ago, we found a kitten in the woods. He was sweet and cuddly, and willing to be carried to various neighbours' doors. "Is this your kitty?" No one has claimed him. I guess he is ours now. He seems to have acquired the name Squirt, although Squid keeps coming out when I try to call him. He says he doesn't care what he's called, as he doesn't have a name other than Kitty, to which he answers much more readily.

This little Squirt kitty is a mischief. So far today, he has knocked the metronome off the piano, breaking the catch that holds on the front cover. AND he must have decided to climb my bedside lamp, as it and other things landed on the floor. How that broke the swirly compact florescent bulb, I have no idea, but break it he did.

My husband is nervous that Squirt will try to climb the mast of his fancy boat model in the study. I advise him to take it into another room "temporarily", but he won't. I predict trouble.

I don't mind a kitten knocking over the basket of dryer lint every time I stand it up, or running like a crazy kitty up and down the stairs, but Squirt is not to be trusted. You can see from the photo what my older cat, Balthazar, thinks about the new family member.

Despite all this, little Squirt is a welcome addition, as my puppy died not long after Squirt arrived. Yes, Paddy Murphy is gone, having taken the easy way out, through sudden death on the road. My, how I miss him.

These animals teach us many things. I think Paddy has more to teach me, as he is sticking around. I have an invisible dog, who still begs me to go for walks, and can't understand why I might have to go to work instead. He just wanted to run and play all the time, and I wouldn't let him, poor thing. He had no idea that his decision to leave his body would make me sad.

I guess that's the same as the decisions we humans make. No way can we take into account how we are going to affect everyone around us, when we are just trying to be our own unique human selves. My pets, new, old, and invisible, have advice: Enjoy life. Play. Run. Love.

(And just for fun, here's a comment on Astrology and Relationships - How do our Spiritual Planets Affect Others?)

Grateful I live in Fredericton

I heard from a new friend on the other side of the continent, and the other side of the border. She is feeling lonesome, having few people nearby who think the way she does. She lives "remotely", she says, and has little support.

That got me thinking about the wonderful network of friends I have here in Fredericton, New Brunswick. There was a time a number of years ago, when my thinking on things had shifted, and I felt rather unconnected. But now I can find kindred spirits just walking down the street. People meet me, and say, "Oh! You're the Dream Lady!"

Makes me laugh. A happy laugh. I am glad to be known this way, glad to have plenty of soul friends along my path, backing me up and supporting me in moving forward into whatever I am moving forward into.

(I never know where the River of Life will take me, as I float along in my trusty canoe, but I am enjoying the scenery along the way.)

My Book on Google Books!

Just discovered that my book is available for reading, in full, on books.google.com. Don't worry. Writing this book wasn't expected to make me a wad of money. In fact, I wrote it so I could remember what I think, ha, ha!

I must have decided some time ago to offer my book this way, but I have not until now checked to see if it was there. It would be neat if someone, several someones, would read it and write a review on there.

Oh, okay, I'll confess. I just Googled myself. Blogs, newsletters and politics sure do add up!

In any case, have a look at my book on Google Books, and let me know what you think.

My Daddy

My Daddy, Cecil Reynolds is turning 80 next week. Today we celebrated. People came from far and wide. My feet hurt, but it is worth it. Such a joy to give my Daddy a happy day.

We had photos from various stages of Daddy's life, but he showed up with photos of his own, including photos of my great-great grandparents, Nicholas and Anne Reynolds, who arrived from Ireland long ago.



He also brought photos of his step-mother's brother-in-law, because of another photo that showed up in the Daily Gleaner this week. This is a family of "British Home Children" who came to New Brunswick long ago, to escape war torn England. These three Platt children came to my community, and the two boys grew up on the farm where I live. The eldest eventually married the girl next door, to become my relative.

Daddy loves pictures, and loves to tell stories. That might have been the highlight of the party for him, to show one and all the photos that he cherishes.

Staying Healthy

So far so good. With my hubby hacking away with some sort of chest congestion, I am still apparently healthy. Poor guy doesn't get to sleep with me, as I trundle off to a cough free bed each night. I miss him! But after being coughed on the other night, and getting up to wash my face, I think I'm better off sleeping separately.

Garlic sandwiches are my primary line of defense, other than washing my hands a LOT. Take a slice of bread or toast, butter it, slice a couple of raw garlic cloves onto it, cover with a slice of cheese. Fold and eat. Mmmm. So far no human has complained, but icky microbes find me to be a hostile environment.

Then lots of herbal tea and super duper doses of vitamin C. I'm taking 2000 to 4000 mg of the stuff each day. Add in Jamieson Honey Lemon Zinc Lozenges with Echinacea and Ester-C and perhaps I'll manage to sing in the Christmas musical at my church.

Comfort Food

This week's scientific advance seems to be documented proof that comfort food is comforting. In a study by Dr. Margaret Morris, rats were stressed, traumatized, by being taken away from their mothers. Half of the little rats were given a regular healthy diet, while the other half got to pig out on junk food. These junk food rats were better able to manage stress than their healthy buddies.

Comments to the news story include the following:
"Wow, who is funding this groundbreaking research? Is it really necessary to traumatize baby rats to affirm foregone conclusions? Perhaps, in the spirit of science, Ms. Morris should be held in isolation for a few weeks with a few stalks of celery and a bag of carrots. I wonder whether she will become depressed or agitated? Perhaps we could get a research grant?"

I, on the other hand, am imagining mother rats giving their offspring a hug and a kiss goodbye, with encouragement to be brave little rats, and someday they might be as famous as Uncle Seamus Rat. Wouldn't every young rat wish that they had the same opportunity? Pity the poor rats who must live in squalor in gutters and barns.

Meanwhile, we can be grateful to all of those animals who selflessly participate in human research, for the betterment of human society. A fitting thought for American Thanksgiving Day, don't you think?