Avid readers often have a genre of story that they are most attracted to. If you are like me, you have genres that you love at certain periods of your life. My parents passed on a love of reading to me and my siblings and my mom spent a lot of time reading to us.
The moment that I first began to read ("Cat and Dog" - it was a nail-biter!), it was like a whole new world had been unlooked....the magical world of words! My favourite author, as a young teen, was Lucy Maud Montgomery. Her wordy, poetic writing style appealed to my dreamy outlook on life. I own all her books and still have to fight myself when I see a copy of "Anne of Green Gables" at any used book store.
"You don't need it, Brigette. You own 3 copies already." I will argue to myself.
"Yeah, but this one is in LARGE print and has pictures. Maybe I can buy it and give it to someone as a gift. What a nice gift!" I will defend myself.
"Yeah," I will scoff to myself, "that's what you said about the last few copies you bought. Remember what Paul said about buying too many books..."
"I know...I know," I will respond, "but who needs food when you can have beautiful beautiful literature to feed your soul.."
"Okay...maybe just one more copy..." I will eventually relent and another lovely copy of that amazing book will have made it's way into my home.
As I grew older, I made my way through murder mysteries, feminist writings and musings, post-modern stories and classic literatures. I fell in love with the writing of Margaret Laurence - another female Canadian writer - and had the exciting opportunity to study her at two different high schools. I still have some passionate responsive readings that I pull out sometimes and read, admiring the fire in my younger self.
When I met Paul, it was important to me to know what literary genre he preferred.
"So, what do you like to read?" I recall quipping.
"I love fantasy." He answered.
"FANTASY!??" I remember scoffing, "Like stuff about dragons and magical fairies?" This was when I was stacks of books deep into my classical readings so I thought that fantasy was a non-genre or, at least, a genre not worthy of my reading attention (what a literary snob I was!)
"You mean, you have never read any fantasy?" Paul was not fazed by my ostentatious manner, "you should really try it sometime..."
He handed me a novel from his stacks of collected books. There was some sort of giant sword on the front cover. I remember swallowing a snort of disdain, grumbling something about the things you will do for love and then opening the front cover. I was quickly absorbed by a quest pattern that was gripping, a character development that was complex and philosophies that were more elaborate and convoluted than anything I had ever encountered before. Add to this the fact that the authors were working within a world that they had completely created, philosophies and religions they had imagined, geographies and histories that they had designed by words placed together with words. I was awestruck and quickly found my favourite fantasy author, another Canadian: Guy Gavriel Kay and read all his books.
Ahhh....books....so little time. So many books.
When Paul and I were blessed with children, I rubbed my hands together and began assembling complete collections of children's literature. Beatrix Potter, A.A. Milne, Dr. Seuss, Shakespeare for Kids..... I would read and read and read to the kids. Last year, we discovered books on CD. Whoa! My mind was blown; no longer do we waste time just driving anywhere; we drive and listen to stories. The added benefit of listening to stories (beyond having a car that is quiet) is hearing a story read in various accents. We listened to "Black Beauty" and many of James Herriot's writings as they were narrated by a man with a thick British accent. We giggled together as the tortoise in "Alice and Wonderland" sang his "beautiful beautiful beautiful soup" song.....my four-year-old often sings this and we all break out in chortles. Currently, we are listening to a radio play of CS Lewis' Chronicles of Narnia narrated by his very own step-son. My family will climb into our car, buckle our seat belts and be swept away into worlds of fantasy, mystery and beauty; the cheapest school trips available!
But I digress and hardly remember why I am leading you all down this road. Let's chalk it up to plot development and get back on track. Genres. That's where this all began.
What do you like to read? Sword-swinging fantasy? Factual non-fiction? Heart-hammering historicals? Sentimental romances? Philosophic theologies? Laugh-out-loud comedies? Or provocative mysteries?
I'd like to share a little mystery with you.
It did not begin with a dark and stormy night. The day was bright, brisk and had a temperature that was below zero. The sky was brilliant blue. There never was a dark and mysterious detective with a name like Hieronymus Bosch that entered the scene rumpled, unshaven and complex. Only a series of cheery nurses and cheerier surgeons. But the mystery component remains.
What was so mysterious was ........my nose! That's right! Grip your seat, dear reader!
About a week before I was scheduled for surgery, my nose decided to turn a deep red. I examined it, poked it, cajoled it but it refused to return to a normal shade of Brigette-skin-colour.
I decided it was acne deciding to pay me a visit in an attempt to comfort me with memories of my teenaged years. I poked a little harder and only achieved in making my red nose an angry-red nose WITH A SCAB!
It is difficult to hide an angry scabby nose when you have no hair or eyebrows, thereby nothing with which to do a comb-over. Paul told me it would be awkward to do any sort of comb-over onto the middle of my face anyways but I scoffed at him and would not be comforted. Where was my rumpled detective who could solve this mystery?
As the days to my surgery counted down, my nose size grew up. Each morning I was greeted by a more swollen, more red, more scabby nose.
"This is just great!" I pouted one day, "I look like a disaster!"
"No, no, no...." Paul comforted me, patting my arm in a calming there-there-there pattern, "maybe more like the clown in the Operation game?"
"Hahaha!" Paul is about the only person who can laugh me out of some of my saddest moments.
Surgery day arrived and Paul drove me and my now-purple nose to the Juravinski Centre. We had decided that the only way to deal with this imposter was to accept it. I refused to name it though and would only refer to it as My Purple Nose (remember, naming gives power to things! I will NOT empower My Purple Nose!)
We registered, ambled over to the Same Day Surgery waiting room, and made our way inside Same Day Surgery. There, we were visited by various nurses who gave complex clothing instructions, administered iv hookups and took my vitals.
Every single nurse began their visit with a tiny gasp, followed by the questioning words, "What is WRONG with your nose?"
Every single time, I would heave a large internal sigh, pull together my tiny, tattered shreds of dignity and respond with "I dunno. It's just swollen and purple."
The nurses would lean in as close as they would dare - cognizant of the fact that the purplishness could be contagious - and would contort their faces into features of disgust.
"Ew......that's gross." they would squeal.
"Yep. Thanks." I would say despondently. Nothing like bolstering the confidence of a balding, eyebrow-less woman who is facing shape-shifting surgery.
"It's okay, hon." Paul would say each time a new nurse left, "It's not really THAT noticeable." His attempts to make me feel better worked because he is Paul, my own personal-confidence-salve.
Later that night, after surgery was over and done, I lay weak and pale upon my hospital sheets. My Purple Nose gleamed like a colourful beacon with a life of its own and became the topic of every conversation I had.
Perhaps its arrival distracted me from becoming too worried about my mastectomy? Perhaps my body was growing a new lump to make up for the loss of another lump? Whatever the reason, when I developed a fever that night, the nurses decided that swabbing my nose was necessary.
"Maybe you have cellulitis or a staph infection?" they mused together. One even had the courage to lean in close and delicately swab my swollen sniffer.
A week has passed and My Purple Nose has reduced in size. It is a pale shade of red and only slightly scabby.
It is still not dark. Storms do not rage. Detectives have not broken down my door and dusted for clues but a mystery remains. What REALLY happened to my snozzer last week? Was it a bacterial infection breaking free in the middle of my face? Was it a physical embodiment of my anxieties? We will never know and the Purple-Nosed Mystery remains an unsolved case!
May we all sleep at night!
(the end)
Yet to Come:
Recovery Room Drama and the Singing Senior.
Jillian Michaels Ain't Got anything on Me and My Post-Surgery Workouts!
Paul - The Wonder Husband and Perfect Care-Giver!
Another Mystery- Will Brigette Ever Learn How to Be Succinct?
