Atlantic Books

Atlantic Books

Locate me
FR

#75 Spring 2014

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Blank white book w/pathRichard Foot has reconstructed one of the most dramatic Canadian news stories of the past decade.

Parents will shed tears over this book. Far more importantly and impressively, Foot pays full tribute to parental suffering while retracing the steps that followed—walked by the mothers of boys who died violently, unnecessarily, in a highway collision.

It is that adverb—“unnecessarily”—that is surprising. It is understandable if grief throws a mother into denial about the nature of her son’s death. But the mothers Foot writes of proved that such tragedies are preventable, with the help of longsighted safety policies that are properly followed.

Foot outlines an anatomy of change and details how some, when afflicted by loss, can change the world—making a correction not to undo the past, but rather prevent the repetition of history.

Its one minor flaw is its excessive repetition of key points. But the writing is strong. Driven is moving, informative and inspiring.

Driven: How the Bathurst Tragedy Ignited a Crusade for Change
by Richard Foot
Goose Lane, October 2013

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I had met Bumblebees fiddler Liz Doherty years earlier when she was in Cape Breton researching fiddle traditions. We were friends already so it made sense that I would be their driver, and it wasn’t long before friendships were formed with the rest of the Bumblebees—harpist Laoise Kelly, accordion player Colette O’Leary, and Mary Shannon who played fiddle, mandolin and tenor banjo. Laoise and I made quick friends—she rolled her own smokes and I had usually smoked all mine. She was always ready to “go for a fag.” I guess my personality and my willingness to let the night go on until it was over matched theirs. We all would be there after just about everyone else had turned in for the night or wandered off. Hanging out with these four would set the standard for years. They were mad about the music in a way I’d never seen before. They’d play all night long and be game to go at it again the next day, and the next day, and the next day. This is what they did. They played music, and being in Cape Breton for Celtic Colours was like having their own playground.

I was finishing up some work at the What’s Goin On office when the phone rang. “Dave, the Bumblebees want to go to Gordie Sampson’s party in Big Pond after their show in Ingonish. Can you pick them up at the Holiday Inn in Sydney around midnight?” Starting at midnight and heading to a party at my friends’ house? Sounds like my kind of job. This is going to be fun. Even though I had eight hours or so until I was needed, I had been bitten by the bug and knew I would get no more work done that day, so I headed to the Holiday Inn just to see what was going on. The main lobby was alive with activity—people coming and going with armloads of instruments and luggage, luggage trolleys piled high with the familiar shapes of guitar and fiddle cases, people checking into the front desk with odd accents, and lots of stretching limbs after transatlantic flights and long drives from the Halifax International Airport, five hours away. Ready to get in on the action, I made my way downstairs. Tables were set up to distribute information to artists and volunteers. I said hello to my fellow troops, many of whom I knew from past musical experiences or who had volunteered during the East Coast Music Awards when they were held in Sydney in 1995. So I hung around for a while, soaking up the atmosphere, going out for a smoke to catch up with people, and making myself useful where I could before heading off home for a meal and a nap in anticipation of what I was sure would be a long night ahead.

That first mission to the house in Big Pond that Gordie Sampson shared with friends and fellow musicians Matt Foulds and Carlo Spinazzola—for the party after a show called “Winston’s Classic Cuts” at the Big Pond Fire Hall—brought Celtic Colours to life for me. It may not have been my kind of music, but it was my kind of party.

The house was jammed to the rafters as music and dancing took over the clock. I couldn’t imagine how Laoise Kelly’s harp was going to perform at a kitchen party, but she parked it right next to the table and dug into the tunes with Gordie and Stuart Cameron on guitar, Liz on the fiddle, Colette O’Leary playing accordion and Matt Foulds on hand percussion. For the next couple of hours, you could barely move through the kitchen, but the music danced through the old farmhouse.

At one point I was upstairs in line for the bathroom, and it sounded like someone was pounding away on an old piano. I mentioned to the next person in line that it sounded like Sheumas MacNeil was really drivin’ ’er now. When my line-mate asked when Sheumas had arrived, it occurred to me that there was no piano in this house. As I listened closely, I realized it was Laoise’s harp I was hearing, chording along to the tunes like a Cape Breton piano. And never again would I worry about how an Irish musician would make out at a party in Cape Breton with any kind of instrument.

I had been to quite a few parties at this house, with most of the same people, but this one was different. Parties with this crowd of locals—Gordie, Carlo, Matt, Stuart—usually had a strong musical component. Playing music went pretty naturally with drinking and smoking, and we were all pretty good at it by now. On this night though, there was a sense of discovery. The usual cast of characters had been infiltrated by an unknown cast of characters, and there was no easy way of knowing hosts from guests. The humour, music, and willful consumption were shared by all equally. And it all centred around the music, which itself was elevated by the focus it held in the room, among those playing around the table and those standing at the edges. Although the players came from different countries and had as much in common musically as not, and the collection of instruments—guitar, harp, fiddle, accordion, hand-drums—was exotic by Cape Breton standards and not typical of the kind of session common to this kind of party, still there was a sense of shared tradition. Tunes led by Laoise and Liz and Colette were picked up by Gordie and Stuart and Carlo, who infused them with their own flavours—Carlo’s all-feeling soul and down-and-out blues; Gordie’s fresh absorption of traditional tunes plus his keen sense of popular culture; Stuart’s musical heritage and recent emergence into the world of his father, John Allan Cameron. It all added up on that night in Big Pond.

Long after everyone else had turned in for the night—with the blinds drawn against the early morning sun—Laoise and Colette called for one more “choon,” but the few who were still resisting sleep no longer possessed the faculties to take on such a task. And I don’t think Laoise and Colette were much up to the task at this point either, just wanted to listen to someone else play. I did pick up Colette’s accordion, but it wasn’t long before I gave up. Finally Colette and Laoise went to bed and I went to sleep on the floor. And for me, the festival was really and truly under way.

10 Nights Without Sleep
by Dave Mahalik
$18.95, paperback, 156 pp.
Breton Books, October 2013

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At first, the sculps arrived at a frantic pace. John began by trying to keep the scuppers clear, so any water trapped on deck could drain off. However, this left gaps in the wall, making the piles likely to tumble over. He was puzzling over what to do when Herb Butler came up to him.

“Looks like a row of bad teeth the way you’ve got them stacked there, my son,” the master watch said with a glint in his eye.

“Aye, sir,” John said. “Seems proper to keep the scuppers open. You never know what kind of seas we’ll meet on the way home.”

Butler nodded. Pointing toward the captain’s cabin, he said, “By the look of things though, he’s not going to give us any choice.” He motioned toward the heaps of sculps accumulating mid-deck. “That madman is set on jamming as many on deck as he possibly can.”

“Should we stack them solid then?”

“I believe so, right to the rails.” Butler looked toward the bridge and said quietly, “Try to keep the aft and forward scuppers clear if you can. Lash the stacks in, too.”

Butler turned and walked away.

John now knew for certain that the ship’s troubles had begun for real. He looked up at the steel blue sky. The sun warmed his face and an unexpectedly soft breeze, springlike, seemed to say that his worries were needless.

“All right, boys,” John shouted to his crew. “Fill in those gaps there. Let’s make this a real wall.”

 

ii

By late morning the stream of freshly killed sculps dwindled. Gangs of hunters returned empty-handed.

“Jesus,” one said as he scrambled aboard. “Every single harp is gone. Now you see them, now you don’t, bloody magicians.”

“Yes, my son,” another added. “The young ones have all taken to the water now, not a whitecoat in the lot. They’re all raggedy.” He looked at the bridge. “I suppose the old man will want to start shooting them now.”

“God, I hope not,” John said looking at the pile of sculps on deck.

By noon there was no more room against the bulwarks. John had managed to keep the fore and aft scuppers clear, but a pile of unstacked pelts still remained on the deck. He decided to search out Herb Butler for advice about where to put the remainder.

Just then, George Clarke came on deck. His ruffled clothes and scruffy beard gave him a particularly menacing look as he shuffled over toward John. He towered over the young sealer.

“Well, my boy,” Clarke said, “finished?”

John started to ask about the remaining sculps, but Clarke interjected.

“Sloppy work there. You haven’t run the stack all the way to the end. She’ll shift in a heavy sea.”

“But the scuppers, sir. They should be clear.”

“Who says?”

“I just thought it would be a good idea. We could meet some heavy seas on the way home. She’d never drain.”

Clarke bristled. “So you thought, did you? And exactly who told you to do the thinking around here?” He stared at John for an answer.

John looked down at the grease-encrusted deck. “It’s only wise, sir,” he mumbled.

“What did you say?” Clarke shouted. “Speak up, man.”

John tried to speak, but could not. He wanted to turn and run. Taking a deep breath, he gathered all his strength and met Clarke’s eyes straight on. “It’s only wise, sir, I said.”

“Wise, you say. How can a young snip like you talk about wise? I’ve been on the ice for twenty-six years, boy, since before you were born, and you’re telling me what’s wise.” The captain raised his huge hand in the air.

John readied himself for the blows, but none came.

“Listen here,” Clarke said, “there’s only one version of wise on this ship, and it’s mine.” His face reddened as he thumped his huge chest. “It’s mine. Do you hear me? Mine.” He was shouting.

John nodded, continuing to look at the deck.

“It was me told him to leave the deck drains clear,” Herb Butler said from behind John. He was puffing, having run from somewhere. “Lundrigan here was following my orders. Leave him be.”

Clarke looked right through John toward his master watch, who was trying to regain his wind. “You?”

“Yes, me. I told him to leave the fore and aft scuppers open.”

“And what about those?” Clarke said, pointing to the pile of sculps on deck. He raised himself on tiptoes, glaring down at Butler. “I suppose you want to give them to Davy Jones.”

John turned to see Butler stand erect and, with an insolent shrug, suggest that would be better than the decks not draining properly.

Clarke erupted. His jaw hardened as he strode over, nose-to-nose with Butler, almost knocking John over as he passed. The captain thumped his finger on Butler’s chest. “You listen here, Mister Butler,” he shouted, “and you listen good. Those sculps are going in those spaces.” He jerked his finger toward the gaps John had left, “There, there, there and there.” He thumped Butler’s chest even harder, causing the master watch to stagger backwards. “And any you can’t get in there are going in your bunk. Do you hear me?”

A pall came over the men on deck who stood in shock as their favourite officer was dressed down in public by their captain who seemed to have lost control. They kept their eyes to the deck, lest Clarke’s ire settle on them.

“You put those sculps in those open spaces right now,” the captain bellowed.

“No, sir, I will not, sir.” Butler said.

Clarke’s face turned even redder. He paused to collect himself. “Mister Butler,” he said in a menacing voice, “are you refusing to obey an order from your captain?”

Butler stood erect, looking straight at Clarke. “Yes, sir, I am, when the order poses a clear danger to the ship.”

The captain stepped toward Butler, fists clenched.

Butler stepped back.

Clarke managed to restrain himself. In a very quiet but ominous voice, he said, “Mister Butler, you can rest assured that this is the last trip you will be taking with me. I’ll have none of this mutiny from my officers, you hear? Now you do as I bid.”

“I will not,” Butler replied. He turned his back and began to walk toward his quarters. “I will not be party to this insanity.”

“You come back, Mister Butler!,” the captain shouted.

Butler kept on walking.

“You go to your cabin, then. Be sure you stay there until we get home.”

Without looking back, Butler walked directly to the officers’ quarters and slammed the door, leaving Clarke to sputter at the weatherworn wood.

“Consider yourself put on the log, Mister Butler. I’ll make sure you never get work on a sealer again.” The captain was trembling. He turned around and looked at the men, all standing with their heads down. “Well?” he bellowed. “Is there no man here with the courage to obey a simple order?” A shuffle passed through the men, “Well?”

James Kelly pushed forward. “I will,” he said. He approached Clarke and whispered, “You go to your cabin, George. I’ll take care of this.” A bewildered look passed across Clarke’s face. He surveyed the men once more, looking like a lost schoolboy. An eerie silence engulfed the ship as he turned and limped toward his cabin.

After the captain was gone, Kelly went over to the rail and looked over the ice for a long time. Finally, he turned and walked over to the stack of pelts mid-deck. “Well, let’s get at it. If that’s what he wants, that’s what he’ll get.” He pulled a sculp off the pile, dragged it over to a gap, adroitly sliding it into the open space. “Let’s do the man’s bidding and plug up those holes.”

A whole wave of men flooded forward to help. Kelly kept working too, like a common deckhand. Within fifteen minutes the wall of pelts was filled in and lashed. The sculps spanned the full length of both the port and starboard bulwarks. Like a massive jigsaw puzzle, all of the sealskins had been fitted into place. The wall had displaced the Cross’s lifeboats so the men stowed them atop the piles.

When the men left, the main deck was deserted, save for John and Noah who stood side by side, surveying the massive stockade of pelts. “Now, that’s a wall of wealth,” Noah said. “Lord Jesus, we’re so overloaded that if an ice bird shit on us now we’d go down like a stone.” Noah retreated to the forepeak.

John was positive they were in for it now. Without doubt, the ship was in grave danger. He saw Clarke’s wall of wealth was a wall of death, certain to trap any water that came over the side. If there was even a hint of bad weather on the way home, the ship was doomed. And somehow he knew weather was on its way.

 

iii

John headed below to his little corner of the forepeak. Since the other sealers had moved in, his refuge, formerly full of goodwill and humour, had become a hard place. Everyone seemed to be angry since they were crowded and less comfortable. No one smiled. Even the corners of the rough-hewn stanchions looked sharp and harsh now.

The boys stopped talking when John entered.

Jacob broke the awkward silence. “I thought the old man was going to knock your block off out there.”

John nodded. “Me, too.”

“You should never have done what you did, getting Butler in trouble like that. See what happened because of you?”

John ignored this. “The skipper’s losing his keel. He’s not thinking straight. Boys,” John said, “we’re in for it. I know for certain the ship is going to sink.” He paused to be sure everyone was listening. “She’s overloaded. If the copper didn’t cover the load line, you’d see we’re down way past the safe point. She’s top-heavy too, with those sculps on deck. We’re going to sink, sure as the sun will rise.” He looked over at his friends.

“Don’t talk so bad,” Lawrence Gibbons said.

After a stony silence, Sebastian, the biggest and meanest of the Gibbons, spoke. “We ought to be happy. We’re loaded heavy, the best hunt this old boat has ever had. You’re just a jinker, talking like that. We should be celebrating, not worrying. Leave us be. Take your frets somewhere else. We don’t want to hear them.” He looked at the other boys, urging them to agree. Several “yeas” confirmed his position. “Off with you now.” He gestured at John as he would a scolded dog.

“No,” John said defiantly, “our success will be our undoing. The extra seals on deck will sink us.”

“Don’t be such a maid.”

“Butler was right, you know, to refuse to block off the scuppers. She won’t drain properly.”

“Why should we listen to that turncoat? He won’t follow a simple order.”

“No, no,” John pleaded, “he was right.”

“What foolishness,” Sebastian said, “you’re just sorry you lost your position now we’re full.”

“What?”

“You been all chuffed up like a bandy rooster every since Butler put you in charge of loading. You’ve been acting too proud.”

More “yeas.”

From the corner Lawrence Gibbons added, “The only reason Butler put you in charge of the loading crew is because you’re too small to do anything else.”

John looked over at him, mouth open.

“And he’s got a thing for you, too. Don’t think we haven’t seen it. You’ve gotten pure beside yourself with notions,” Sebastian said. A vicious glint issued from the corner of his eye. “Now, little John, you’re just one of us ordinary sealers.”

John was thunderstruck. By refusing to meet his gaze, Noah agreed; Jacob too. “But you don’t understand,” he pleaded. “We’re in grave danger.”

Sebastian took a step toward him. “Shut your mouth,” he said through clenched teeth. “No cause to stir up a lop in a piggin.”

John never saw it coming, a roundhouse right that landed square on his jaw. A golden light flashed and then everything went black.

The Mystery of the SS Southern Cross
by Tim Rogers
$22.95, paperback, 300 pp.
Creative Book Publishing, April 2014

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Blank white book w/pathSo where do you turn when you need to find a likely stranger? Why, to that vast repository of human knowledge, that colossal ocean of red herrings called the internet. After hours of research, with extra time to play “Wac-a-Mole” with the porn pop-ups that fly toward me when I type in “sperm donor” on the search engine, I find some legitimate sites for people who are in the same boat as we are.

The boat is called the SS Infertility and I’m surprised to find it crowded with people from all walks of life. From first class to steerage, all of us trying to gain the peaceful harbour of family life. Viviën and I look at site after site where women, gay and straight, married and single, pour their hearts out on the topic of conception. It is frightening to realize just how many obstacles from the biological to the financial to the social there are to conceiving a child. On the other hand, our searches provide some comfort. You can’t help but feel a sense of kinship to all those other women out there with a similar hunger in their bellies.

Some sites take a cheerful approach with names like diy Baby. This site focuses on practical advice for the first-time self-inseminator. Based in the U.K., diy Baby makes getting yourself or your wife pregnant with donor sperm seem as simple as throwing up a sheet of drywall in the basement or fixing a leaky faucet.

A site called Co-parent.net offers a whole spectrum of new and intriguing models for a family. There are single men and women looking to find someone with whom they can have and raise a child, but without a romantic relationship. There are gay couples and single gay men looking for either light involvement or full-on co-parenting arrangements with women. There are gay men looking for surrogates with an open adoption clause. Single women who want to parent alone. In short, there are individuals and couples of nearly every walk of life, gender and identity affiliation all looking for some version of the same thing: continuity. A family. A way to love, to pass something on, to pay it forward I suppose.

Still other sites, like FSDW (Free Sperm Donations Worldwide), act as a hub for potential donors and recipients to connect. There we find an astonishing number of men from all over the world offering their services as donors. Some men are willing to travel to you, if you pay their airfare and expenses. Others offer to ship their sperm via FedEx. Some men post pictures of themselves, even of children they have fathered. The pictures make me squirm. These children could hardly consent to having their pictures posted as a kind of unorthodox resume.

There are a couple of important abbreviations that anyone entering this brave new world needs to add to their vocabulary. AI and NI stand for artificial and natural insemination, respectively. Some men have a strict preference for one or the other. Not surprisingly, Viviën and I are all about the AI option.

After familiarizing ourselves with the new jargon and the protocol, we begin to talk about how we will write an ad of our own. Since I am the writer, the actual drafting falls to me. My first attempt at a tag line looks like this: Professional Lesbian Couple Seeking Donor.

We hold it at arm’s length and inspect.

“That makes it seem like we’re getting paid,” says Viviën.

“What?”

“The words professional and lesbian together,” she laughs.

“Ah. I see the problem. Like we went pro. Hey, that’s not a bad idea. Maybe we could get some sponsorships. Hello, Nike? Converse? ”

We take a few more runs at it together. It is actually quite a difficult piece of text to compose. You want to cast a wide net … but not too wide. You want to sound approachable … but not desperate. You want to give some men a reason to write to you … but you don’t want to come off like you’re flogging a set of encyclopedia. After scratching our heads and drafting out loud we come up with the following:

Hi! We are a married couple (two women) looking for a sperm donor to help us start a family. We are not looking for a co-parent, but are open to the possibility of a donor being a part of the child’s life.

A bit about us: we are a writer and an engineer hailing from Nova Scotia and Holland, respectively. We work on renovation projects in our spare time, play basketball and soccer and enjoy the outdoors. We are sociable, easy going and like to travel and have dinner parties. If you are interested please contact us to discuss further.

I am not sure, at this point, where we sit on the easy-going scale, but I have faith that we can be, again, once we manage to get ourselves pregnant. The site doesn’t require it, but most people have chosen to, so we even post a photo of us crouching down on a pier with water and mountains in the background. Our intrepid pup (a blue heeler Aussie mix) sits there with us, perking up his ears for the picture.

The site has its own email system, and we begin getting messages almost immediately, which is very exciting. Our first message is from an enthusiastic and horny twenty-two-year-old going by the name of Delbert.

“Hey, look, we got our first message,” I call out to Viviën, who is stirring a pot of something fragrant in the kitchen. I catch wafts of cinnamon … cardamom. Maybe her trademark lamb stock/squash soup?

“And there are pictures. Lots of shirtless pictures.”

“What? What does he say?”

“He says he can drive down here immediately from Edmonton … at least he’s close by … and get this: take as much time as needed to get as many women pregnant as we like.”

“How many women does he think we have over here?”

“Well the ad says two,” I say.

Viviën comes running over, ladle in hand, leaving a trail of soup drops across the kitchen floor. “But we said AI. We said artificial insemination. As needed? He did not say that!”

“Read it yourself. There’s no way I could make that up.” And there isn’t. This is only the first in a series of events that take us into terra incognita and put us into situations far stranger than fiction.

Double Pregnant
Two Lesbians Make a Family
by Natalie Meisner
$20.95, paperback, 182 pp.
Roseway Publishing, May 2014

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Photo of MotherFumbler book coverThere’s always one gal in a female posse who dares to say what the rest of us are thinking.

You know the one: she makes you cringe or gasp, and laugh so hard you snort wine through your nose.

Vicki Murphy’s MotherFumbler is based on her blog, motherblogger.ca. This little paperback is the antidote for those of you struggling to be perfect when baby crash-lands into your world. You are not alone.

Murphy is a natural comedian, but she also writes beautifully about life and loss.

The love she has for her family reminds us of ourselves, but she knows that shit happens and she’s not afraid to point it out.

With chapters like “Reflections of a Broken Vagina”, “Ugly Baby Alert” and “Kids are Really, Really Gross,” it’s a perfect baby-shower gift for the new mom-to-be.

Really, really.

MotherFumbler
by Vicki Murphy
$19.95, paperback, 216 pp.
Breakwater Books, October 2013

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Blank white book w/pathBruce Graham has created in Duddy McGill a memorable comic protagonist. First introduced in the novel Ivor Johnson’s Neighbours (Pottersfield Press), published in 2004, Duddy is a rural odd-job man whose “work” causes disaster to those unwise enough to hire him.

We first encounter him as he is being sued because a “clothesline platform”—the erecting of which is supposed to be Duddy’s specialty—gives way and injures its owner. Duddy decides to conduct his own defence, and, as his career spirals downwards, his long-suffering wife, Minnie, leaves him.

The tone of Duddy Doesn’t Live Here Anymore is unashamedly hokey, a re-creation of a simpler, sunnier and funnier time—shades of a Norman Rockwell painting come to life in prose. As such, it’s an impressive piece of work. Duddy’s voice, and those of his comrades and enemies, is very consistent, and the humour successfully walks the fine line—like the writings of PG Wodehouse or Ted   Russell—where absurdity is never edged with cynicism.

Duddy Doesn’t Live Here Anymore
by Bruce Graham
$19.95, paperback, 190 pp.
Pottersfield Press, July 2013

 

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How Newfoundlanders Got the Baby Bonus book cover photoAuthor Edward Roberts has a knowledgeable, personable voice, and reading this book is like talking with some who possesses an incredibly broad curiosity for Newfoundland and Labrador history.

Indeed, as a politician, lawyer, and former lieutenant-governor, he often had a front seat at events, and was on a first name basis with many prominent figures.

The 50 chapters here come from a “Past Imperfect” newspaper column he wrote for the Compass (one unpublished), and they are gathered into five sections including “Our Regiment”, “The 1920s and 1930s” and “Memorable Men and Times” (Edward VIII, anyone?).

Within this comes the origins of place names, various fractions and ructions within the House of Assembly, and the definitive answer to the question of whether the Newfoundland Regiment ever faced Adolph Hitler.

The style is conversational and the book is calibrated to suit both a casual and a keenly attuned interest in the subject.

How Newfoundlanders Got the Baby Bonus: Stories From Our Imperfect Past
by Edward Roberts
$19.95, paperback, 254 pp.
Flanker Press, October 2013

 

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A Lucky Life book coverAutobiographies of the “common” man or woman—untitled and not-so-famous—can be tricky to execute well. To do so, the book needs to be a compelling read, targeted to one or more audiences.

With A Lucky Life, distinguished Halifax pediatrician Richard Goldbloom has penned just such a book. In terms of general readability, it is Goldbloom’s self-deprecating humour and joie de vivre that keep the pages turning.

There is also a particular appeal to the book’s cultural tone. A secular Jew, Goldbloom nonetheless “remains unalterably and proudly Jewish in other respects.” This includes the “traditional Jewish way of thinking,” which places high value on family, education, humour and good food—all of which are highlighted in the book.

Yet other readers will enjoy the stories about “medical comets” and gifted figures in the worlds of theatre and classical music. For all, Goldbloom’s lively “rectrospectoscope” details a life rich in luck, love and endeavour.

A Lucky Life
by Richard B. Goldbloom
$29.95, hardcover, 302 pp.
Formac, October 2013

 

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Harrison McCain book coverDonald Savoie’s biography of Harrison McCain is truly a Donald Savoie work. The Université de Moncton academic, whose expertise on governance and regional development has made him a leading public intellectual in New Brunswick, examines the
McCain Foods co-founder through the prism of the Maritime economy.

For a scholar, Savoie is a deft writer, smart yet accessible—his anecdotes of McCain’s blunt-yet-endearing manner are brisk and priceless—so he can be forgiven for the occasional and brief digression into other areas that interest him. He always gets back on track quickly.

Savoie is up front about his admiration of McCain, but doesn’t shy away from faulting him for ignoring succession planning until it was too late; McCain’s disagreements with his brother Wallace tore their family apart. The real question is whether another Harrison McCain is possible today. Savoie’s answer is worth pondering for anyone hoping the Atlantic economy will be rescued by the emergence of another larger-than-life entrepreneur.

Harrison McCain: Single-Minded Purpose
by Donald J. Savoie
$29.95, hardcover, 338 pp.
McGill-Queen’s University Press, November 2013

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Blank white book w/pathRevenge of the Lobster Lover author Hilary MacLeod returns with another seafood-tinged mystery, set in Prince Edward Island. Something Fishy begins when residents find hundreds of dead herrings falling from the sky.

It’s the work of Anton Paradis, the owner of a chic cottage-turned-restaurant which specializes in “dangerous dining … serving food that can kill.” When murder strikes, Anton, an outsider, becomes an obvious focus for suspicion. But the restaurant is not the only contentious local issue.

Newton, owner of a wind turbine that hovers malevolently over the community, has a physical relationship with his invention. “He put his hand on the cold metal of the tower and felt a rush of warmth, a heady feeling, like being in love. Newton had only experienced a strangled version of that with his ex-wife Mary.”

Macleod’s prose style is swift and frenetic and the quirky characters leap effectively into a story already in motion. Something Fishy is an enjoyable frolic set against a backdrop of community, tradition and the threat of modernity.

Something Fishy: A Shores Mystery
by Hilary MacLeod
$22.95, paperback, 310 pp.
Acorn Press, October 2013

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Blank white book w/pathIt’s clear from the first pages of Linda Abbott’s novel that danger is imminent. It’s 1948 in St. John’s, months before two Newfoundland referendums that would eventually see the region enter Canada’s confederation, and Henry Gibbs has been accepted to medical school in Toronto—a fact that upsets his father to no end.

Henry works at Hull Home, a private nursing home run by the pathologically stingy Isaac Hull. Henry’s girlfriend, Mary, also works there, and his grandmother is a resident. Without risking a spoiler, Isaac ignores repeated warnings about a defective stove, which causes a fatal fire. Abbott is sensitive in her depiction of the horrific event and its aftermath, while maintaining vivid, smoky details.

The Hull Home Fire is a challenge to classify. Readers looking for a conventional love story will enjoy Henry and Mary’s tumultuous but ultimately caring relationship. However, it may not be for those who want a nuanced sense of how Joey Smallwood’s politics divided communities, or how young people leaving The Rock for better lives affected those left behind.

 The Hull Home Fire
by Linda Abbott
$19.95, paperback, 232 pp.
Flanker Press, October 2013

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Blank white book w/pathFor readers with time for only one book to mark the 100th anniversary of the start of the First World War, I recommend The Cartographer of No Man’s Land, a novel by PS Duffy, and a sensitive examination of post-traumatic stress disorder.

The sources of PTSD—which was referred to at that time as “shell shock”—whether physical or psychological, were hotly debated within the military. Although it was highly destructive to its victims, it was often regarded as a sign of cowardice.

Duffy expertly characterizes the devastation that PTSD can wreak upon a man and his family. Angus MacGrath, a Nova Scotian sailor, is wounded in body and soul by trench warfare, while the carefree and adventurous Ebbin deteriorates into a fugue state.

The Cartographer of No Man’s Land focuses upon the far-reaching emotional cost of war, but also celebrates the resilience of the human spirit, which ensures that we—the descendents of these soldiers—remember their sacrifice.

The Cartographer of No Man’s Land
by PS Duffy
$22.00, paperback, 384 pp.
Penguin Canada, October 2013

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