Throughout A Coward’s Guide to Living protagonist Jacob Will’s life, music had played an influential role. His father played the music which becomes a reflection of Jacob’s thoughts and/or moods. Quite catholic in scope, it makes for an interesting soundtrack to the story.
Richard Thompson‘s ’52 Vincent Black Lightning is just one of the pieces of music Jacob Will references in the book. Read more about Jacob’s Music at bmeisterman.com .
In the absence of a legal will, how are the last requests of the deceased to be addressed? Would a letter be considered a will? What if that letter requests something so seemingly horrible as to make one question their own life? And what if that letter was written by someone about to take their own life?
That’s what Jacob Will (no pun intended) was faced with when his best friend left a request – that of committing eleven little deaths of his own. On paper, one death should do it, right? Why then eleven? And what was Jacob’s role in unknowingly creating his future?
And, were Jacob to do it, just how would he go about it?
That’s a lot of “ands” and “whats”. And he’s just getting started.
How do you feel about where you live? Do you even think about it? Frankly, Jacob Will, the protagonist of Eleven Little Deaths, never gave it a thought and he worked in arguably the greatest city on earth.
He blindly accepted as natural the attractions and amenities the city offered almost as an entitlement – there for him should he want to avail himself of them. Self-centered might be used to describe him, but that would indicate a certain self-awareness which was non-existent. Clueless might be a better description.
Like so many in this area, Jacob Will lived in New Jersey and worked in advertising in New York. If his own truths were evident to him, he would realize he was nothing but a wage slave. But that kind of realization would only come from deep introspection – something foreign to him. Yet, that was not the only thing he was unaware of.
The journey he was about to embark upon would take him places both physically and psychically with no map to guide him. Heaven won’t help him – he’s on his own.
There are countless writing tools available with more being added daily. However, when plotting out Eleven Little Deaths, there was one resource I used daily – a Rand McNally road atlas of the United States. Instead of using an outline or note cards, the atlas served literally as my road map for the protagonist, Jacob Will.
I’ve been to many of the places portrayed in the book and now (oh, the horror!) must visit the others, just to close the circle on this. Over the course of future posts, I’ll write a bit about each place to provide more of a flavor of what Jacob has experienced. I’m hoping not to offend any Chambers of Commerce while doing so. Maybe an invite to each location, a promise of the key to each city, and luxe lodging might favorably affect such a description.
For Farry Poland, that was easy – take your own life. For his best friend Jacob Will, that was never a consideration. In fact, not much was ever under consideration for him. But before Farry’s death, he laid in place a plan to be revealed only after his funeral, for Jacob to get his life together. And while the details of this plan were sketchy at best, the outcome was not. What would ensue would change his life forever.
Most people start their morning off with a cup of coffee; Jacob Will’s started with a funeral. And it went downhill from there, until it got better. Much better.
His best friend died, by his own hand, but not before leaving instructions on what Jacob needed to do with his life. And if he followed these, nothing would ever be the same. Thank God! Many miles will have been traveled before Jacob comes to understand there is life after death.
Eleven Little Deaths could best be described as Homer’s Odyssey meets Thelma and Louise, minus Louise. Or Jack Kerouac’s On the Road as re-imagined by Carl Hiaasen. Traveling across the country, Jacob realizes his issues are deeper and more plentiful than he thought, compounded and illuminated, sometimes maddeningly so, until he discovers what he’s been missing… a life.
The Canadian government is speaking on behalf of sealers and seal product producers as a World Trade Organization (WTO) appeal body looks at the decision made to uphold the European Union (EU) ban on Canadian seal products.
Fred Henderson loads his truck with seal pelts in Noddy Bay on Newfoundland’s northern peninsula in 2004. — Telegram file photo
This is from an article on the Discovery Channel’s website. It underscores what is a still growing problem in over-fishing already decimated fish stocks.
Tasty Fish Grow Smaller in Warming Ocean by Tim Wall
Fish sandwiches may be skimpier in the future as the planet’s oceans continue to warm.
Biologists measured progressively smaller average lengths of edible fish in the northern Atlantic Ocean between 1970 and 2008. Six economically-important fish species — haddock, herring, Norway pout and plaice — declined in length by an average of 23 percent.
The fish lived in different environments from bottom-dwelling plaice to surface-skimming herring. The range of habitats suggested that some common factor was altering the entire ocean community in the North Sea, a section of the Atlantic rimmed by Scandinavia, Great Britain and Germany.
ANALYSIS: Climate Change Could Shrink Animals
During those same 38 years, the average seafloor water temperature increased by 0.2–0.6 degrees Celsius per decade, for a total of one to two degrees C, in the North Sea. Besides the increasing water temperature, no other factor, such as commercial fishing, affected the fish universally, noted the authors of the study published in Global Change Biology. The biologists concluded that climate change may be shrinking economically important fish species.
“We would anticipate that synchronous reductions in length across species could be occurring in other regional seas experiencing a strong degree of warming,” study leader Alan Baudron of the University of Aberdeen, told the Guardian.
However, not every fish measured by the study declined. Sole and cod both approximately maintained their sizes. Haddock and whiting, on the other hand, decreased in length by approximately 29 percent in parts of their ranges.
ANALYSIS: Animals, Plants Shrinking as Climate Warms
North Sea fisherman’s commercial success may decrease along with the shrinking fish. The weights of individual fish caught declined by between three and 48 percent between 1978 and 1993, noted the biologists. Plaice and haddock suffered most serious declines in weight.
As the ocean warms, less oxygen dissolves into the water. Fish depend on that dissolved oxygen to breathe. Smaller fish in the North Atlantic may survive better in oxygen poor waters, wrote the study’s authors, since the animals need to intake less of the dissolved gas.
Fogo Island.
Christmas Bird Count, the world’s longest-running citizen science wildlife census, is 114 years old. “Are you a bird watcher?” asked Paul Linegar when I called him at home to volunteer my family for this year’s Christmas Bird Count.
It’s true. I spent this past summer running up the Cuckold’s Cove Trail to see if Lucky, the eaglet, had finally ventured out of the nest. Last February at Bowring Park, I was thrilled to meet the red-footed goose even though I could’ve sworn he was a duck. And as soon as I heard about the wayward snowy owls, I headed straight to Cape Spear.
“Any owl sightings today?” I asked the first guy I saw after pulling in.
“There’s one right there,” he said pointing to a rock on the north side of the parking lot.
Well now, this birding thing is easier than I thought.
The owl was an exquisite creature, its thick white feathers barred with brown and its head pivoting this way and that like a weathervane. We were only there a minute or two when the white ball of feathers took flight, its massive wings reaching down to almost touch tips under its body.
The white plume landed on a rock in the bog to the south of the parking lot where the barracks used to be in the Second World War.
He sat stock still on a small bluff, keeping his big round eyes trained on the long lenses pointed his way. He didn’t seem scared, just curious.
It was at this point I noticed a half dozen other groups scattered throughout the bog, no doubt viewing this guy’s feathery buddies. Now I can’t wait to go to Cape Race to see the Harry Potter invasion.
All this to say: if I know what bird I’m looking for, I should be able to identify it.
Plus I’ll take descriptive notes and photos so if I can’t identify something in the field, I can always bring home a picture and cheat notes and go from there.
This seemed good enough for Paul Linegar and he signed me up for the stretch of trail between Torbay Point at the end of Doran’s Lane in Outer Cove to Red Cliff in Logy Bay. I am excited to finally be a part of the world’s longest-running citizen science wildlife census.
The Christmas Bird Count started in 1900, when an American named Frank Chapman asked people all across North America to count birds and submit the results to him.
Chapman’s census has grown to include thousands of counts throughout the States, Canada and further south.
The results of these counts are compiled and allow researchers to get a better handle on how many feathered creatures are where during one specific period.
Here in Newfoundland, the Christmas count takes place on Boxing Day, regardless of weather. Fourteen designated areas from Wabush-Labrador City to Ferryland each cover a 24-kilometre circle administered by a local birder.
Paul Linegar, my bird boss, will collect data from volunteers who walk in his circle which stretches from Torbay in the north to Paradise in the west and the Goulds in the south.
If you are interested in helping out and can tell a puffin from a partridge, and don’t mind walking outside in severe weather, consult the following site which shows leaders’ names and co-ordinates: www.birdscanada.org/volunteer/cbc/index.jsp?targetpg=compilers&lang=EN&prov=NL
If you’d like to set up a new count in your community, contact count co-ordinator Dick Cannings at dcannings@birdscanada.org.
And if you’re in the mood for a stroll, or snowshoe, in the woods on Boxing Day, consider the Red Cliff area where seven Flanagans might need help distinguishing a grouse from a ptarmigan.
Just kidding. I, the informed birder, now know they are one and the same.
Susan Flanagan would like everyone to say a special prayer this Christmas for
Pat Gehue, whose family wants him to come home. Susan can be reached at susan@48degrees.ca.
A child’s Christmas feedback
Ruth Wakeham writes: “Your family’s experience was in so many ways similar to ours. I, too, wanted knee boots so badly, probably in the same year that your sister did. We also still have photos of all the children of the family in cracker hats. There was nothing quite as good as new pyjamas. Your column took me right back. I could almost feel the cosiness of the flannelette as I was reading. I must ask Dad if he still has that white-handled electric knife. Thanks again. You made my Christmas.”
Andrew Tucker writes: “Your article in the Telegram, “A child’s Christmas,” brings back a lot of memories. We have the same Christmas picture in front of the couch, Christmas tree in the background. There were 10 of us — nine boys, one girl. Back in 1966, looking at them, you wonder who the goofball was, who the serious one was, how they would all turn out. We were fortunate enough to do the same picture 16 years later on the same couch, believe it or not. Nobody was ever allowed in the living room except at Christmas time.
“When friends look at and compare our two pictures, the 1966 one and the 1982 one, they often joke: same kids, same couch, same wallpaper, is that the same tree?
“Great fun. There are a lot of stories in pictures like that. Thank you for sharing it.”
Lynn Courish writes: “I hope I have stopped crying enough to send you a heartfelt thank you; my sister pointed out this article to me today as she actually recognized Gerry (just from the photo). What an amazing story you have done here, but hey, it is not a story is it? It was life and still is. I loved every minute of it. It was very well written but I have to be honest, for me, the memories just came flooding back at me. … Thank you so much. It feels like a Christmas gift to me.”
Heather LeShana writes: “Just read your article about Christmas. You could have been writing about my childhood. Thanks so much for the memories. Wishing you and yours a holiday filled with love, hope and new memories.”
Shirley Birmingham called to say that for her, the magic of Christmas was seeing the lit tree for the first time Christmas morning. She also still has a ginger container from A. Lilly and Company.
See COLUMN, page B2
Linda Ryan writes: “I dearly loved your story about your family’s Christmases on ‘Turn. It brought back so many wonderful memories of my own. I, too, had an aunt who had moved to the States. Before their little family left Argentia, my military uncle gifted to my dad a handsome, hand-painted and rather significant, wooden Santa complete with sleigh and reindeer. Oh, how we treasured it.
“Whenever my dad would judiciously set it up in our front yard, Christmas had officially arrived in our neighbourhood. Soon after, winking lights and wreaths of all kinds would appear on the surrounding houses in a harmonious nod to the season. And, we would all wait with great anticipation for a soft sifting of snow to entirely set the scene. I can still see Santa and his reindeer in my mind’s eye. It was the first of its kind around our small town. Some people would slow their cars to admire it and some would even stop and take pictures of their own children standing alongside Santa and waving.
“My sister and I, and certainly my parents, too, would always look forward to the boxes to arrive each year from Virginia. The boxes would always contain something that could not be found around here. Often, my aunt would send jumpers that she had expertly sewn for my sister and me. And, we would wear them proudly with sweet white long-sleeved blouses to all the Christmas and New Year festivities. I remember one year, my aunt sent us the most beautiful cherry red corduroy jumpers. We immediately put them on and literally wore them out. When I had finally outgrown mine, I wore my sister’s. I never wanted to give it up. Eventually, my mother, who was a pretty good sewer herself,
re-created the jumpers into miniskirts for my friend Judy and I — we wore them with our short white patent leather go-go boots in a Christmas concert singing and dancing to “Jingle Bell Rock.” Oh, my!
“I still have the only Barbie (American Girl, brunette in a striped swimsuit) I ever owned, given to me by my cousin — the year was 1965. Barbie had made the international trip along with her best friend, Midge. Who knew that some decades later, I would marry a man named Midge.
“The packages inside the ‘Christmas Box from Away’ were always beautifully individually wrapped which, for me, was the most magical thing about it all. I remember one year, customs had torn open the presents (leaving their inspection slips) and hadn’t bothered to rewrap even one. I was devastated that someone would do that and not have the decency to at least tape up the torn papers. Imagine! At 7 or 8 years old, it was an atrocity.
“We didn’t have a lot back then. But what we had, we surely appreciated. And, we surely appreciated our American relatives thinking of us at Christmastime.
“My dad is gone now (he loved Christmas and I inherited that love for the season from him), as are his sister and my American uncle. But to this day, my cousin, sister and I still carry on the tradition across the miles. It helps us all to keep the spirit of Christmas present and the beautiful memories of Christmases past alive. …
Thank you, Susan, for reviving those in your column today.”
Bruce Meisterman 