I was sleepy all the time then pregnancy made me sleepy, and the night feedings, and the west coast rain falling. We lived outside Vancouver in a dormitory suburb: Dormir, Dormer, Dormouse – something like that.
When Funorama came on it was time to turn on the lights and cook supper.
I remember the television programs – Popeye the Sailor, The Three Stooges, Funorama. I was sleepy all the houses and where the clothesbasket sat. I remember hanging out diapers, bringing in and folding diapers I can recall the kitchen counters of two houses and where the clothesbasket sat. I could have told how old I was when I forged my mother’s signature on a bad report card, when I had measles, when we papered the front room.īut the years when Judith and Nichola were little, when I lived with their father – yes, blur is the word for it. Every week through the winter a new dress, spotlit – the sequins and tulle, the rose and lilac, sapphire, daffodil – and me a cold worshipper on the slushy sidewalk. I could have told how old I was when I went to look at the evening dresses in the window of Benbow’s Ladies’ Wear. I remembered each separate year with pain and clarity. I can’t sort out one year from another.” I was offended.
'Once, when my children were little, my father said to me, “You know those years you were growing up – well, that’s all just a kind of a blur to me. Magnificent and overwhelming: one story a day is more than enough. Each piece is a world to extrapolate, a replete glimpse that unfolds to travel as far as most novels. The stories collected in A Wilderness Station are consistently startling in their perceptive reach, beautifully wrought and vaguely terrifying, such is their immaculate sense of completion, of being absolute, finished in the sense that they each say everything that needs to be or could possibly be said. As insightful and all-knowing (and true) as any story writer (Tolstoy often feels like the nearest equivalent the shared ability to see the wider picture while never losing a forensic intimacy).
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