“The Prophecy Stones of Smoo” by Sheila Eastman

 

To My Children:

When I’d dead and gone you’ll find front and centre among my odd keepsakes two small rocks with holes right through the centre. Before you toss them out, I want you to know their story.

Here’s the Short version:

I found these two stones in a riverbed in Smoo Scotland, on the very north coast, in 2013. One is igneous I think and the other sedimentary. They are about 1.5 inches each.

As for the longer version:

I get yearnings. There are forces all around me leading me, pulling me pushing me in various directions. Invisible of course. Do I hear a Banshee wailing to me across the ocean that divides us? Is there a witch beckoning with wings of a black swan? Is there an ancestor’s lonely song calling from beneath rarely travelled sod?

I had to go to Northern Scotland. Where that pull came from, I don’t know but I’ll tell you what I do know. The moment the plane landed in Edinburgh I felt at home. More intense than feeling at home, what I felt was cellular. I belonged here. Though I’d traveled alone, I felt accompanied.

Edinburgh is wonderful. Centuries old, ornate, cobblestoned, hilly, snaked with dark alleys and spooked up with ghost tours. But the north called. I found a tour, which edged into and around the highlands, to Inverness (a good base for going elsewhere), then to the tip of the country, and then a ferry across the cold ocean to Orkney.

We toured the ruins of Pictish houses, Norse structures, and most important for me, the prehistoric standing stones that comprise the Ring of Brodgar. No one knows why they are there. No humans that is. They stand as giant shadows against the evening sun, and in the daytime stalwart sentinels. 

I leaned into the one that called me and placed my hand on it, wanting a response. It stood there stoically but I was convinced there was a little warmth of response under my hand. Really.

Back on the little tour bus, and loaded on the ferry, we left Orkney, heading for the mainland. The next day at a very Scottish breakfast I sat with the bus driver, who was focussed on the small stone in his hand. It had a remarkable hole straight though the middle.

He looked up. “It’s a prophecy stone,” he said.

My spidey sense perked up. “Do tell,” I said.

And he told me if the bearer peers through it she may see spirits or fairies or see through a witch's disguise. It will protect her from witches and ne'er-do-wells, those things that go bump in the night. Whether she sees fairies or not, no bother, the stone will bring good luck.

I wanted one. “Where did it come from?” I asked.

He was coy at first. “Oh, a wee cave not far from here.” He took a drink of coffee, teasing.

“Around here?” I was already mentally lacing up my boots to get going to wherever that was.

He nodded. “Smoo. The stones are in the river there just outside the cave. You may find one or two. Some do, some don’t. What I think is, if you’re blessed or need blessing, you find them.”

“Are we going?” I had to go but I was a prisoner of the bus route.

“Oh, that I canna tell,” he bit into a piece of black sausage. “Up to the tour guide.”

But of course, he knew. We did stop at the famous Smoo Cave (I know of its fame now). My anticipation could have combusted everyone within five feet of me. A prophecy stone!! My very own!!

The driver winked at me on my way out of the bus. We stumbled in a touristy line down a steep hill to a riverbed that opened on one side to the ocean, on the other to a wide-mouthed cave.

It was a nice enough cave. I wandered in there a bit, admired the waterfall within it, appreciated the Durness limestone, (my, isn’t that nice rock) came out again to examine the riverbed. I was looking for my stones. He said they’d be in the river.

It was a sunny day in Scotland. (True!) The river teased me. Stones of every colour glimmered in the sunlight beneath the shallow water. All I could see was a jumble of lovely stones with no holes.

My technique was primitive. I kicked stones over, getting my toes wet, plunged my hands into the freezing water. Finally, the stream revealed a small grey treasure with a perfect hole. Of course, I was thrilled and zipped it into my jacket pocket.

But the river wasn’t done with blessing me. I stole time for one more look. The bus was leaving and I had to catch up to the others stumbling up the slippery hill to the road. And there it was! A white triangular stone with a slightly skewed hole, yes! Right through the centre.

I scrambled up the hill, and boarded the bus with a smile at the driver.

It’s been some years now since I packed my little treasures in my homebound bags. So far the stones are silent. But perhaps quietly, invisibly they do bring me blessings and luck. But so far no fairies.

They do bring memories of a wonderful trip, and a call to the north coast of Scotland that I’m glad I answered. You may wonder why I felt so at home there when my ancestors are Irish. More to be revealed.

Geology:

Google Pics tells me both stones are also called hag stones, having a naturally occurring hole that runs completely through, caused by wave action or the burrowing of bivalve mollusks. That does sound dull. If they were Irish stones I’d picture leprechauns with tiny drills working away all night on the job.

The lighter stone is probably pumice, volcanic, porous, light coloured, ejected from a volcano. Dissolved gases escape as the rock cools, creating the foamy texture. I picture it flying through the atmosphere with the eruption wondering where to land.

The grey stone’s beginning is more elusive. I see various small rocks embedded within it. Perhaps it’s a conglomerate. Undoubtedly it had a quieter birth, settling in slowly as it gathered other smaller stones in one unit.

Do they relate to me? One stone is light in both weight and colour, but had a violent beginning. Perhaps the dichotomy applies. I have what you consider a goofy sense of humour, yet I’ve been through some deep and distressing times. The darker stone is a mystery, comprised of various smaller rocks and smoothed eons by time.

Both reflect the concept of impermanence. Everything changes no matter how slowly, reminding me to stay flexible and to try to accept the sometimes-unsettling fluidity of life.

And so my children, my grandchildren, this is the story of the two stones that spend hours of every day with me at my computer. So far they are withholding visions of fairies. But they continually remind me I am blessed. When I am gone, do toss out whatever you like, but at least you’ll know there is meaning and story behind the things that surround me.

Sheila Eastman is a musician living in Mississauga. She plays and teaches piano and performs in local concert bands in the percussion section – hitting things. Her writing reflects detailed observations of human behavior and her bizarre sense of humour. 

She is a past winner in the Mississauga Library writing contest, poetry division, and was runner up in the Alice Munro short story contest.

Publications include obscure articles on medieval music, an equally obscure monograph on a Canadian composer and totally relevant and exciting articles on wildflowers. Because of her short attention span she writes mainly short stories.

For more essays, short stories, and poetry by you fellow writers see here (and scroll down).

See Brian Henry's upcoming weekly writing classes, one-day workshops, and four-day retreats here.

"My Last John Irving – A review of The Last Chairlift" by Sheila Eastman

The Last Chairlift, Knopf Canada, Available from Chapters/Indigo here.

I don’t often write book reviews, and I don’t often rant. But My Last Chairlift sits on my shelf mocking me right next to books I respect and love. This 889-page tome occupies even more space than my musty Oxford Dictionary, depriving other books of a spot they’ve actually earned.

The problem is, I can’t let The Last Chairlift go just yet. My resentment simmers. And with this review I hope to release myself from its smug grip.

Does it seem sacrilegious to find fault with John Irving? It does a bit to me. For many years I have loved his humour, the depth of his stories, the surprises! When I learned there was finally a new book being released, bright eyed and bushy tailed I clapped my bunny hands (Paws? Feet?) in delight and ordered it, full price. I was expecting a novel I would enjoy.

Expectations can lead us down the dark path of disappointment.

I loved A Prayer for Owen Meany. It gripped me right from the beginning with Owen Meany shouting away in  his bizarre loud voice, and then the suspense of the foul ball that we eventually learn kills the narrator’s mother.

In A Prayer for Owen Meany the story is engaging. The characters are winning and believable.

Owen himself is tiny but a dynamic presence in the book. He is preoccupied with his own death and is a ghostly spectre himself.

“He was the colour of a gravestone; light was both absorbed and reflected by his skin, as with a pearl, so that he appeared translucent at times.” (P. 14)

John adores his beautiful mother, (as does Owen). He treasures his time with her and sets her up with the man (College teacher) who will become his stepfather, also very small.

After his mother’s death John is raised by his grandmother and stepfather. John bears no ill will and the two remain close friends. At Owen’s insistence they fanatically practice a jumping maneuver that will later take on crucial significance.

Religion and politics occupy a large part of this novel. I found the railings about the Vietnam war tiresome (and I admit I skipped pages of the political ranting). But here Irving successfully ties it together.

I liked A Prayer for Owen Meany, though the plot is disjointed, jumping around between present and past, I could follow it. Even when characters are beyond odd, I was able to like them and go with the flow.

Wait you say. This is supposed to be a review of The Last Chairlift.

Expectations:

Having read A Prayer for Owen Meany, I was expecting another intriguing funny story, a big present … perhaps like a large Lego kit that I’d assemble piece by piece with delight. Something new, original. A great story where I could follow a plot and like the characters. 

When I started into The Last Chairlift I found myself in familiar territory. Too familiar.

The Last Chairlift is also narrated by a young boy who doesn’t know who his father is. Guess what? He also lives in New Hampshire in a rambling house on Front Street (same street even).

His mother is alive but is so absent with the world of skiing that Adam grows up with older people: his grandmother, increasingly demented grandfather, cousins, aunts and uncles. His mother falls for a college English teacher, another very small person with big influence. Size is important throughout.

Adam’s mother says, “No man can be small enough for me, Eliot – or so I thought before I met you.”

Irving brings a variety of themes but so obliquely I need my literary shovel to help dig through a muddy ground of metaphor, irony, paradox and obfuscation. We have reminders of Harold Pinter, whose plays are peppered with characters who cannot communicate, who ignore what others say or completely misunderstand what is very clear to the audience.

Characters in The Last Chairlift misunderstand each other, and some can’t talk at all. Grandfather cannot speak but just sits there in his diapers. I get this – he’s old and demented. But Em, a young character, does not speak even though she is physically capable. She mimes.

Honestly, enough strange characters had preceded Em that I didn’t attempt to understand why she doesn’t speak or why her “friend” Nora misinterprets the miming. But does Em represent a group of people? Or us as individuals? Is this all a comment on lack of communication in our society?

Sex. I’m not sure where to begin. It’s like going to lunch at the Mandarin Restaurant for the huge buffet when really all you wanted was a ham sandwich.

"There's more than one way to love people," Adam is told by Molly, his mother’s lover. No kidding. Irving includes a plethora.

The marriage of Little Ray and Elliot turns out to be a cover for both. They are friends, they do love each other, but not as man and wife. Little Ray is lesbian, Elliot eventually transitions and becomes “she.”

John Irving

Gay, lesbian, bi, transgender, feminist – they’re all here. He’s checking boxes. Adam is the lone straight guy. Always the odd one.

It’s just too many. I want to identify with a character, to feel sympathy, to have a chance to like them. The character I like most is Eliot the stepfather, but I never get to feel for him. The point of view is steadfastly the narrator’s. Eliot is too far away.

War: Too much. I skipped lots of pages.

Screenplays. Why? Irving also writes screenplays and decides to give us over 200 pages of screenplay in this book. He sets up the first one relating the events at the hotel Jerome in Aspen, where Little Ray had spent most of her life skiing. Adam, the narrator, says he sees it as a movie. What follows is a one hundred pages of screenplay. I tried but gave up.

After some pages of prose, I was faced with another screenplay – 114 pages this time. Again, I tried. It seemed I was jumping into the head of the writer rather than into the characters. Maybe someday I’ll go back and try again.

Similarity to Irving’s life: John Irving's mother, Frances Winslow, was not married at the time of his conception. Irving never met his biological father.

In an interview Irving said, “You’ve gotta make people think they’re having a good time until they aren’t.”

Well, my good time lasted for the first 147 pages. Act One, Irving calls it. The book is 887 pages long. I thought I was having a good time for 16% of it.

Besides being far too long, the book is overly repetitious, muddied up with too many characters. And too many bizarre characters. The plot is disjointed and boringly similar to previous books. (Irving does say it’s autobiographical, but still…).

I wonder how far this book would have gone, had not John Irving been the author. So much goes with the name.

Expectations: Years ago, a short Buddhist nun, Venerable Man Yee, dressed in her brownish robes, little black hat protecting her shaved head from the cold of winter, said to me (when I was being grumpy about someone), “Sheila, have no expectations. You will have a happier life.”

I’m working on it.

But I don’t think my expectations of John Irving were overly optimistic. I see now that the book is overwhelmingly autobiographical. And not just an exploration of his life, but an attempt to sort it out. Good luck to him. He needn’t have shared it with the suffering public, though. And now, having had my say, I can let it go.

The Last Chairlift is My Last John Irving. Would you like to have my copy?

***

Sheila Eastman is a musician living in Mississauga. She plays and teaches piano and performs in local concert bands in the percussion section – hitting things. Her writing reflects detailed observations of human behavior and her bizarre sense of humour. 

She is a past winner in the Mississauga Library writing contest, poetry division, and was runner up in the Alice Munro short story contest.

Publications include obscure articles on medieval music, an equally obscure monograph on a Canadian composer and totally relevant and exciting articles on wildflowers. Because of her short attention span she writes mainly short stories.

Note: Quick Brown Fox welcomes your reviews and your pieces about reading and writing, the writing life, and other literary-themed pieces. See other book reviews here (and scroll down) and pieces about writing here (and scroll down).

See Brian Henry’s upcoming weekly writing classes, one-day workshops, and weekend retreats here.

“The Letter” by Sheila Eastman

 

One moment Sarah was calmly sitting on the edge of the bed, talking on the phone with a sobbing friend, and in the next moment her own world was in danger. She had purposefully sought out this quiet room for an extended solitary time for a solitary conversation, closing the door behind her, in what she thought was a clear message to her husband.

The door burst open, and Alan charged across the room to her desk and began ruffling through piles of papers. At first, she was simply irritated with the invasion, but then she realized with sudden alarm that she’d forgotten to put the letter away. On the other end of the phone Susie was wailing.

Sarah covered the receiver with her hand. “What are you doing?” she hissed at Alan.

He was indignant. “Where are those damned forms for the vehicle emissions test? I asked you to find them days ago.”

“Just wait a minute!” she hissed again. Her heart was pounding.

 Susie interrupted herself with sobs and nose blowing. “It’s not just that I still love him. Of course I do. Even though we’re not together anymore. But if he dies, what will happen to me? I’ll be cut off from benefits, from his pension.”

“Oh Susie I am so sorry! No wonder you’re so upset.” She looked pointedly over at her husband. “She’s upset, Alan!”

Alan ignored her and continued searching, turning piles upside down, shifting pages uselessly from one spot to another.

“Alan, please! I’ll look in a few minutes.” She was feeling sick. She had no idea where the emissions test papers were, that wasn’t the problem. She couldn’t remember where she’d put the letter.

Susie was saying, “Remember we didn’t get the divorce so I could still get the health benefits. My medication is so expensive I can’t possibly pay for –”

“Alan why do you have to have it just this second?” She hadn’t expected this. He was always respectful of her things, of her privacy. He never went through anything at her desk. Now, even worse, he was opening drawers and flipping through the contents, and now he’d moved on and was going through the pile beside the computer monitor.

He frowned over at her, “Sarah, I want to get this done today, I told you I need it.”

The letter. She had written it a hundred times in her head, going over the content, rehearsing the tone she wanted. What did she want to say? Certainly not that he was haunting her after so many years of peace, his image appearing next to her crystal collection, or suddenly at the window. No, the letter was just an exploration, just to say “Hello, how are you? Who are you?”

She would not say, “We would have celebrated 40 years of marriage this month. Did you remember? Do you ever think of those few years with me? Do you remember that little Triumph convertible we had and how we’d drive around with the top down, with the wind blowing in our hair, the dog on my lap. And every night we went down the Kitsilano Hill the few blocks to the ocean to race the dog in and out of the waves, and watch the sun go down.

Do you remember the time you drove that car right up on the sidewalk to the steps so I wouldn’t get wet in the rain? That’s what won me back to you for a while. Did I ever tell you that?”

And Susie went on, “That hussy! He’s living with that hussy who is sleeping with another woman’s husband! And he bought her a big new house.”

Sarah keeping only one ear on the conversation and was puzzled. “She’s sleeping with another woman’s husband?”

“Mine!” said Susie, even more indignant. And the tears started again.

“How do you know he bought her a house?”

“Well, it’s in Southampton. Everyone knows where they’re living. It’s so humiliating!”

Sarah made sympathetic noises as she watched Alan warily.

She knew if Alan found the envelope, he would never open it, but the name and address would be enough. He would be devastated. And he would never understand. Or maybe he would understand, and that would be worse.

She and Alan didn’t talk very much. He was the steady and stalwart type. He’d been predictable, reliable and faithful, the perfect antidote to the craziness of her last marriage. She’d settled into it, like putting her feet on bedrock after floundering in quicksand. They never talked about their previous marriages. It was as if they had been completely different people those years ago, not even them at all.

Alan had told her more about his cat than about his first wife, and even that wasn’t very much. His cat had a habit of jumping up to the chess board and knocking over one pawn every night. Just one. That was the extent of what she had learned about his domestic life. She learned nothing at all about how or why the marriage broke down.

And her own first marriage?

She’d been so young, so in love. Harry was a wild person, full of life, full of daring and sassiness, rudeness and laughter. He was gregarious, a man’s man, a ladies’ man, and in the end, not her man. He fooled around.

Memories wove through her life. The distinctive odour of his hair! When they were young his hair was short and bristly, but already receding. She wondered if his scalp smelled differently now. The smell was raw and earthy, perhaps with a touch of locker room, even after a fresh shampoo. Locker room – yes, the rank smell of his hockey bag – she recalled those dark late nights when she went to cold arenas to watch him play.

There was so much she wanted to ask him, “What’s your life like? I know you have sons. How do you get along? What do you look like now? Did you lose all your hair? Are you still wild and fun? Did you betray all your wives after me?” 

And in her heart she hoped he had.

It was easy to blame him for it all, to be the poor betrayed victim. Taking that position felt comfortable for years, but lately she was remembering her own chafing within the marriage.

She could hear a counselor’s words in her ear, “And what was your part in that?”

Had she been too busy at school, studying every night? Were their interests just too different?

She’d been so hurt that he wasn’t dedicated to her, puzzled by his distant behaviour. that she really hadn’t known him at all. She’d expected the rite of marriage to somehow make them a new unit like when cells join. Magic. But it seemed they were less of a couple than before making the vows. He railed against the constraints, pushed against her.

And then her own restlessness set in. She had not been settled. She began to wonder how much of that spilled over and affected their closeness.

She had written to him many times in her head, driving to work, putting on her makeup, zipping up her boots, trying to sleep. He dogged her, an image or a sound or an odour appearing when least expected, least welcome. She wanted to put that to rest.

When she finally sat down to write the letter, she’d had to measure every word. “Hello, how are you, tell me about your family.” Most of all she wanted to apologize. She’d blamed him all these years. Only him. Finally, she’d realized she’d had a part in it too.

Stillness settled into the room. Alan had stopped searching and turned to look at her, holding the envelope in his hand. Steady Alan, quiet, conservative, dogmatic, silent Alan. Her rock.

She saw the look in his eyes.

Oh, God. What had she done? What had she done to him? Her heart sank.

“Susie, can I call you back?”

Susie spluttered objections.

Sarah placed the receiver down and turned to face her husband.

***

Sheila Eastman is a busy grandma of four, often babysitting (playing) since three of the babes arrived 20 months ago. She’s been a part of Brian’s classes for a long time, has learned so much, and treasures the deadlines that help with completion. With Covid, her in person activities switched to Zoom, including writing class, piano lessons, and leading a group in meditation and exercise every morning. She has a short attention span and writes short stories.

See Brian Henry’s upcoming weekly writing classes, one-day workshops, and weekend retreats here.

 

 

“Henry’s Bucket List (Part One)” by Sheila Eastman

“What do you mean you’re auditioning? Auditioning for what?” Sharon was standing in the bathroom doorway watching her brother.

“For a play. I’ve always wanted to act. With so many people laid up now’s my chance.”

“Hey that’s mine!” she said. 

He pushed her back with one arm.  With the other he was applying makeup with wild energy, swathing on heavy flesh tones, darkened eyebrows, deep blush. He looked in the mirror and said, “You are so amazing.”

She rolled her eyes at him. “What kind of play is this? A panto or something? You look like an evil Miss Piggy, And with Covid where are you going? We’ve been asked to stay at home.”

He smiled at her with the exaggerated condescension only a brother can give.

She twigged, “Oh, it’s online?”

“Sort of.” He looked deeply into his reflection and said, “You are working at your most creative peak.” His eyes shifted to hers. “I’ll record it.”

“What’s the play about?”

“It’s probably about a brother and sister confined because of Covid and sinking further and further into madness.” He grabbed a toothbrush, and pretended to stab her. “Murder will ensue.”

She jumped back, “Jeez, that’s creepy with the makeup. “

“Wait, it’ll be better with the electric toothbrush.” He turned back to the mirror and said, “Your writing will be electric!”

“You are so weird.”

“I’m just doing my Badass Bucket List. Didn’t I show it to you?”

She shook her head. ”Noooo”.

He’d always had his own style, her brother. He had an unusual take on the world that some people found funny, but most just found strange. Sometimes she didn’t even ask what he was doing or why he dressed that way.

“Bucket List Item Number 23: Say positive affirmations to yourself in the mirror. That’s from the personal development section.” He was trying to apply bright red lipstick and talk at the same time. “And in the artistic achievement section, Number 12: audition for a play.”

“What did you mean, it’s probably about? You haven’t read it?”

“I haven’t written it yet, but I’d better get at it before my mascara runs.” He wiped his lower eyelid clear from a black smudge and said, “You are the most creative person I know.”

“Thanks,” she said, knowing totally that he didn’t mean her. “So, let’s see your list.”

“But then you’ll watch what I’m doing and judge and stuff.” He was wiping off a smear of red from his cheek.

“Well it might help me understand your weirdness. Besides, I have one too – maybe we can share ideas.”

He rolled his eyes halfway to the ceiling and back. “Oh sure, your list will have cake decorating and origami on it.”

‘No, turd, and besides whatever it is on the list is supposed to challenge you or scare you. Listen.” She pretended to get out a notebook. “Number one: swim with pigs.”

He broke wild laughter. “Just go to the pool with your friends.”

She whacked him on his arm “Bahamas dodo, it’s a thing. Ya, it’s kinda touristy but people do go and swim with a herd of pigs.”

“Swim with pigs – just shows you how boring tourism is. I mean that’s weird - but with Covid you can’t go anyway. Besides a little detail, like the money.”

“Covid. I hate Covid.”

“Yeah, wo doesn’t chicky. But let’s make lists that are Covid Clear. And possible – no ‘if I only had the money’ stuff.  but first I need to write my Covid Clear play and audition for it, so excuuuuse me.”

He pushed past her and disappeared into the dubious mysteries of his bedroom.

***

Sheila Eastman is a musician living in Mississauga. She plays and teaches piano and five-string banjo (eee haw) and performs in local concert bands in the percussion section hitting things. Her writing reflects detailed observations of human behavior and her bizarre sense of humour. 

See Brian Henry’s schedule here, including online and in-person writing workshops, weekly writing classes, and weekend retreats in Algonquin Park, Alliston, Bolton, Barrie, Brampton, Burlington, Caledon, Collingwood, Georgetown, Georgina, Guelph, Hamilton, Jackson’s Point, Kingston, Kitchener-Waterloo, London, Midland, Mississauga, Oakville, Ottawa, Peterborough, St. Catharines, Southampton, Subury, Toronto, Windsor, Woodstock, Halton, Muskoka, Peel, Simcoe, York Region, the GTA, Ontario and beyond.