A Monster Calls, a Review

“Stories are wild creatures, the monster said. When you let them loose, who knows what havoc they might wreak?”

Conor is a young lad with far too many problems on his plate.  He wakes nearly every night from a recurring nightmare that is too horrible for him to think about.  He’s picked on by a trio of bullies at school.  His home life—living with a single mom whom he loves dearly—is fraught with A Big Problem.  And to make matters even more complicated, a monster shows up outside his house one night at seven minutes after midnight, calling for him.

 

Patrick Ness’ A Monster Calls is definitely one of the most heart-wrenching books I’ve ever read.  The book tackles a serious subject matter—cancer—in a way unlike anything I’ve ever encountered before.  Conor’s monster, a wicked and spiny thing straight from the Wilds, is a vivid beast with an attitude that dares not be trifled with.  A tentative deal is struck between Conor and the monster: the monster will tell Conor three stories and then Conor will tell the monster the truth about his nightmare. 

This is the basic premise of A Monster Calls.  The book is a short, gorgeous thing, filled with illustrations that pull the eyes in for long moments.  The plot is simple, and yet it is not shallow.  The stories from the monster are great to think on, for both the Reader and for Conor.  They’re fantastic cautionary tales worth the read alone. 

I confess that the artwork was enough to pull me into this read.  The detail is wild, easily finding a home in the realm of dream.  Jim Kay, the illustrator, has created several wonderful works of art for this book.  They all fit the tone of the scenes for which they're drawn.  The style reminds me of stuff from the Scary Stories to Tell in the Dark series, only more sketch like.  And, perhaps because of the story, I'm also reminded of Where the Wild Things Are.

One cannot help but feel an overwhelming dread shortly after starting the book.  With each page turned the dread grows thicker, the fate more and more certain.  As I finished up the last several pages I read quickly, hoping to pass the deep punches to the gut unscathed.  I did not.  I closed the book and sighed heavily.  I believe I told Keisha something like, “Oh my gosh I feel like bawling.”  Why do you want to read something like that? she asked.  “Because the emotions make me feel alive.” (Yes, I'm a dork.)

And they do.  And that’s exactly why I recommend Patrick Ness’ A Monster Calls.  That's the whole reason to read, is it not?  To feel something?  Ness's words, along with Kay's illustrations, pierced me. 

This book is a great tool for anyone who is losing a loved one to cancer, but one's circumstances need not be so cursed to get something from the novel.  I'm of the opinion that we all need to read something from time to time that makes us appreciate life a little more, that makes us pay attention to those that are hurting around us, that makes us thankful for what we have.  A Monster Calls does just that.  It's not an easy book to read, in terms of emotional impact, but it is a rewarding book.  It is enjoyable.  It is beautiful.  It is tragic.

If you’ve got a few hours (probably around two-ish) to spare and are itching for some quasi-Realism, then look no further than A Monster Calls.  Wow.  That should do it.

A Tragic Christmas Worth Remembering

On Friday, December 21, the Stewart family moved into our new residence.  We were pretty sure that we wouldn't be in before Christmas, but through tireless efforts from our realtor and our lender, and through the providence of a caring Father, we did.  The home is beautiful and far beyond what we hoped for.  A ranch style spread sitting on 1.5 acres--with trees!  Hardwood flooring throughout.  An attached garage with an almost finished out attic.  A plot for a garden.  Lots of stuff, and we love it.

On Saturday, December 22, we spent the entire day unloading boxes and putting stuff up and together.  A long day, but not unpleasant.  Many thanks to all those who were able to help.

On Sunday, December 23, we heard a sermon on the birth of Jesus.  How His birth, His life, His death, and His resurrection--the Gospel, His gift of grace--is the ultimate present to unwrap on Christmas.  How so much God loves the world that He extends to us grace and redemption when we don't deserve it.  And that night, as every year on December 23, the entire extended family gathered together in Bremen to enjoy one each other's company.  This has always been so as long as I can remember.  Coming together as a family.  It's a unique experience, as I come from a family where love is apparent and obvious, where people honestly care about one another, where the backbiting and gossiping is relatively minuscule and non-existent.  My family may not have much in the realm of materialism, but we're over-abundant when it comes to love.  That's how we are. 

After the get-together was over we stopped by Mamaw's house to pick up Stella and to check on her.  She left the gathering early.  She hadn't been feeling to good.  So we stopped and spent a good hour-and-a-half there, just talking and chiding Mamaw's stubbornness.  She didn't want to spend Christmas in the hospital, she said.  She'd go after Christmas.  So I took her trash outside for her and Keisha offered to take some of the food home with us and prepare it so she wouldn't have to.  Mostly we just sat around and talked and watched Avonlea play with Mamaw's water bottle and eyeglasses.  Hilarious stuff, really. 

Mom spent the night with Mamaw and we left to go to our new home.

At 3:54am on December 24, Mom called and told me that Mamaw didn't have a pulse.  She passed away not long after.

On Monday, December 24, we went to the funeral home and went through all the routine stuff.  Questions, answers, coffin room.  We were all stunned.  Christmas at Keisha's grandmothers that night to try normalcy, but my heart and mind were elsewhere.  All I can think about is how fulfilled my relationship was with Mamaw, how much I loved her and how much she loved me.  I spent the formative years of my life living with Mamaw, and my relationship was incredibly deep.  Many nights I spent down her house and she'd wake up early to take me and Jake home before going to work.  How I always opened her fridge and freezer just to see what she had available or if the ice box needed seeing to.  How I called her each week just to talk on the phone and see what was up.  How funny Avonlea looked playing with Mamaw's glasses, how Mamaw laughed. 

I think of the few unfinished things in my life that Mamaw missed: she won't get to see my new house, she won't get to meet the new baby when he comes around, and a few others.  But mostly I think about how full her life was, how much love was there between us.  All four of us grandkids loved her intensely, and her love was reciprocated.  She was without a doubt the best grandmother I could have hoped for, and I miss her very much.

On Tuesday, Christmas Day, December 25, we all gathered at Mamaw's house that night as planned.  We didn't get to eat her delicious cheese dip or sausage balls or barbecue, nor did anyone feel too much like eating, but we managed.  We sat around the tree and looked through photo albums, each of us quietly reflecting in our own way.  We passed out the gifts we had for one another.  My heart lurched at opening the ones from Mamaw.  Her absence was so noticed, and yet her presence was felt.  Love never ends, even if this life is temporary.

So I grieve and miss my Mamaw, but I think only happy thoughts on her memory.  I have the assurance that I will see her again, and until that day I'll go on living my life knowing that she has helped shape me into the person that I am today.

I love you, Mamaw.

On Cemeteries

Share a memory of a cemetery, Carl prompted.  Okay then...

What particular memory comes to mind when thinking about graveyards? No singular one, at least none more prominent than another. I see myself standing at the top of the dangerous hill where Gish Cemetery is located, overpopulated and old. I remember the cold October day of just a year ago, when the ground was opened and my absent father was placed therein for keeping. I remember the same cemetery welcoming in a middle aged Marine, twenty-one guns and all. I remember a different place—Bethlehem Cemetery—some years earlier, Keisha’s dad, tears, shock, grief. In the small towns, a funeral is often a community involvement.

But not all memories are of tragedies and passings. I spent many summers helping my uncle keep a massive cemetery cleaned. My job was always weed-eating around the headstones, a painstaking task, stooping over at every stone and picking up the artificial flowers, swinging in the weed-eater, replacing the flowers, and repeat times a million. Long into the gloaming we’d work, my uncle on the mower, my brother and I with weed-eaters. Good money, though.

Or the time Keisha and I stopped on the side of the road to go off into the woods and find a supposedly very old cemetery. We walked through the woods, curious explorers. We found the place, segregated from the encroaching woods by a fence and nothing more. We spent some time contemplating the graves, searching out the oldest dates and obscurest names, all the while freaking ourselves out more and more. It wasn’t t

Or the place out way back in the woods behind the projects. We’d ride our bikes all throughout the town as teens, leaving no lands unexplored. An abandoned and demolished house, one like you’d imagine a witches hut, a smattering of broken tombstones around the place.

Or the seashell topped graves, sunken deep into the ground, cracked with fissures like canyons. To our young eyes we imagined we were seeing bones inside those cracks.

Or the first time I saw solar powered lights glowing at night along Highway 181, eldritch and sinister. My heart took a fright to that one, and I still feel a spook whenever I see the eerie lights at night. They’re like modern day will-o’-the wisps.

There’s no single memory of a cemetery that comes readily to mind for me. Most prominently in my mind is Gish Cemetery, the one closest to my old stomping grounds. It’s where I figured I’d end up, at least physically, but now I’m doubtful of that one. But who knows. I’m a proponent for cremation, though Keisha informs me every time I bring that up that if I go first that’s not going to happen. Alas…

Apology to a Dead Dog

Dear Unknown Dog,

I am so sorry.  If it's any consolation (which it's not), my wife bawled over you, sobbing unashamedly as I sat in deafening silence, hands clenched tightly around the steering wheel.  I want to be angry at you.  I want to know just exactly what you were thinking when you crossed that busy street.  I want to know whose dog you were and if you lived a good life.  I want to think that your suffering was short and as painless as possible.  I want to go back to yesterday and leave twenty seconds later.

The day was going perfectly well, an uncannily beautiful Sunday afternoon in March, and we were on our way to Bremen for a family get-together to welcome Travis back from boot camp.  Travis would have loved you, I'm sure.  I'm inclined to say that the day was going well for you, too, at least up until the point of contact.  I'm sure you'd been lounging around much of the day, soaking up the soft warmth of the sun, maybe chasing a scent of grilled food or running after a rabbit.  You had no worries, nothing besides finding a little food, a little love, and a little fun.

It's like we were on a collision course predetermined by fate and there was nothing we could do to prevent our meeting.  One second life is well.  And then you flash across the street.  I'm sure you heard the squealing tires as my car hit you.  I'm sure you smelled the burning rubber as I passed.  Did you hear my heart stop?  I couldn't swerve, y'know.  That's how so many people get into wrecks in the first place.  Maybe if Keisha and Avonlea hadn't been in the car then I would have, but I was not going to put them in any more danger.  But know that I tried--I honestly tried--to miss you.  To stop.  To prolong the inevitable.

What I saw in my rearview mirror haunts me.  I'm so sorry.  We prayed that your pain was minimal.  I was upset at our lot in life, that all of creation is tainted because of sin and that we have to deal with death.  I don't know where you were running to, Dog, nor do I know from where you were coming, but I know that you are now running in a majestic field unlike any you've ever seen before.  I'm sorry that I cut your days off short here, and that I took you away from whatever family you belonged, but most of all I'm sorry that I caused you to suffer during your last moments here on earth.  Know that it was not intentional and that I never wish to go through something like that again.

Remorseful,

Logan

Murder-Suicide

I'm moved beyond words and coherent thought.  I wonder how someone can be so selfish?  So delusional?  How does saying "I'm sorry for all the hurt I've caused" lead to causing more hurt?  How can a man take a hatchet to his two sons, ages 5 and 7, and hit their throat, causing them unimaginable pain and suffering?  How can he then explode/burn his house down, killing himself and his kids from carbon monoxide poisoning?  And why does the picture have to be of a happy looking family?  It literally sickens me.

I've never saw the appeal of suicide.  But what's even more baffling is when suicide leads first to murder and then the checking out early.  Is there some great failure as a people that leads to the taking of one's life?  Is there an offense that finally cracks the shell of a person's heart?  Have we, by and large, been too aloof, too absent, and too selfish that we miss all the signs?

Oh God how it hurts me thinking of those boys.  Their confused minds as their father grabbed them, pulled them in, and wounded them.  I can only imagine how their hearts broke at the betrayal of the man that birthed them.  And the man.  What led up to that moment?  Was he slighted at work?  Was he abused?  Was he bullied as a child?  Was his heart simply filled with brackish blood?  Surely this was not his ideal.

These types of news stories have a profound impact on me.  They make me want to pull Keisha in close, squeeze her tight, and tell her just how much I love her.  They make me want to pick up Avonlea and kiss her until she scratches my face off with tiny baby nails.  Not only do this, but they bring into focus how important it is that I be the kind of father I'm supposed to be, to be the kind of man I'm supposed to be, and to be the kind of Jesus follower I'm supposed to be.  Am I invested in people?  Do I notice when something is going wrong in someone's life?  Do I truly, honestly care about Jonathan the Starbucks cashier on Wednesday mornings?  Or what about William the Franey's clerk?  I care enough to know their names, but would I be able to see it in their eyes if something was wrong?  Would I miss them if they stopped showing up?  What about you all, other bloggers that I know only through the Web.  Would I be able to infer something was wrong in your lives?  Would I be able to offer any support?  Would I miss you if you no longer commented/posted?

In the midst of life's maelstrom, especially this week's tumultuous seas, my heart is at peace, but it's tenuous. It's the kind of peace that's rooted in eternal joy, not immediate happiness.  It's the kind of peace that if fraught with burdens and sorrow, for the pain in others overwhelms so.  It's a peace like David's, who called out to God in the Psalms time and time again for deliverance and rescue.  While my personal pain and angst may be relatively shallow, there's a world that's filled with anguish.  I want to do my part to lessen it.  Pray for that family tonight.  They definitely need it.  And if there's anything I can pray for you about, just let me know.  I'll do it.

Aftermath

Monday brought with it heat and sun, despite it being November.  Inside the funeral home it was simultaneously cold and hot.  Family arrived an hour early.  The parlor was opened and we were led inside.  The body was in a casket at the front, clothed in simple, every day clothes.  A thermal John Deere shirt.  Jeans.  A bandanna around the head.  He looked good, and it was the first time I'd seen him since February.

The feeling of nothingness pressed on.  I stood at the coffin and stared absently.  Throughout the evening, many friends and family members showed up to offer condolences.  For once, I was the recipient of awkward conversation and empty words.  My life was instantly in dichotomy.  One part of me was engaging in normal conversation with familiar people; the other part of me was slightly aggravated/annoyed.  Still, I'm thankful for all the people that showed up.

A funeral is rarely pleasant, and this one was about as pleasant as a dentist's trip, just worse.  I feel for ministers.  Having to stand in front of a grieving family and others and make a eulogy has got to be hard, especially for people who die without knowing the Lord.  For I believe with all of my heart that if someone does not have Jesus as their Savior then they are doomed to eternal hell.  I have no idea the condition of my dad's heart before he died, nor can I begin to fathom how longsuffering God is.  I do know that he was saved at a young age, but he lived a life of drugs and rebellion.  What does that mean?  I have no idea.  The only comfort here is that I know that I am saved through Jesus' sacrifice and that I won't have to spend eternity apart from Him.

A dead body is cold.  It's something any lover of fiction knows.  I've been to many, many funerals, but never once have I touched a corpse (at least not to my knowledge).  I hadn't planned on touching this one, either, and I resisted the urge until the final time I saw him.  We all stood around the coffin, people crying and sobbing.  My typical stoic demeanor dissolved at some point.  Compelled beyond reason, I patted his crossed hands.  Bone beneath loose skin.  Dead muscle.  And cold.  Unnatural.

We all exited and waited in our vehicles until the coffin was loaded into the hearse.  The cemetery was a few miles away.  It was sunny and windy.  A few final words were spoken and that was that.  People scattered, and a few of us went back to Nana's house to eat and be together.  While there, I leafed through a dozen photo albums and pulled out baby/kid pictures of me and Jake.  I have seen very few pictures of our childhood, as most of them burned up when our house burned down, so this find was wonderful.

Now it's Thursday.  I'm back to work again.  It's good to be back to routine, but I'm exhausted.  It's been a taxing few days, and I suspect I'll be tired for a few more before I balance out.  I've got in a little reading time of late, but nothing substantial.  I've also edited a flash fic piece and submitted it to an online 'zine.  And I discovered a 4 volume, 8 cd set of great music at the library called the Anthology of American Folk Music, compiled by acclaimed folklorist Harry Smith.

I'm amazed at everyone's support.  For the most part, I don't know any of you.  Still, it's indescribable how loving and supportive the blogosphere is, and I thank every single one of you for the kind words/thoughts/prayers sent my way.  Seriously.

We now return you to your regularly scheduled programming.

My Dad is Dead

My Dad is dead.  His body is laying in the basement of the local funeral home, going through the process of embalming and preparation for burial.  Tomorrow, an 8'x3' hole will be dug in a tiny cemetery atop a tiny hill to bury a 6'-5" man.  Well, he won't be buried until Tuesday, but I'm guessing the hole will be dug early.  That was  my responsibility.  Going to the cemetery with the graveyard keeper, marking the plot, staking the ground.

I'm not sure how I feel.  My relationship with my dad was pretty much nonexistent, and has been this way for the last few years.  In the greater scope, it's been this way for most of my life.  He and my mom divorced when I was but a babe.  So I grew up without my "real dad" an active part in my life.  We--my brother (Jake) and I--would go over nana's and see that side of my family every few weeks, but most of those memories are vague and blurry at best.  I distinctly remember being disappointed in his usual absence whenever we were out nana's, but I also distinctly remember his usual presence whenever we were out there, too.  He would go around singing or humming, hilarious, fun.  Making sweet tea.  Playing chess.  Reading comics.  These things, these positives, I have clearly inherited from him.  I sing/hum almost constantly.  I'm told that I'm a rather funny person.  I (used to) make sweet tea (until my taste buds switched to preferring non-sweet).

But by and by, for most of my life, I've thought of my dad as a man who squandered what he had for drugs and alcohol.  That was why mom and him divorced.  I can remember him being buzzed, eyes glazed over, lethargic.  He sometimes looked skeletal.  These aren't things I like thinking about, nor do I necessarily like revealing them to the Internets, but they're truths that are responsible for me being the man I am today.  From early on I resolved to be a better man than my dad, and now that I have a baby of my own, this ideal has been practiced for five-months strong.

I always intended to see him more.  More than just Christmas and Thanksgiving and the occasional summer time, but I never got around to it.  I could have called or visited, but I suppose that door swings both ways.  Still, it is what it is.  I was trying to think of the last time I saw him, which I guess was back in February, when we got together for Christmas at nana's.  I don't remember anything special sticking out.  Avonlea wasn't born yet.  And that's another thing that's sad.  He never met Avonlea.  Ciara (my sister) showed him pictures of her on Facebook, and he loved looking at them, but in flesh & blood, the two never met.

It was odd, going out there.  I got the call last night about 10pm.  Nana was somewhere a few hours away, on her way home, asking me if I would go out to his house and wait with Ciara until she got in.  I changed clothes and hurried down there, making the forty-minute trip in less than forty-minutes.  There were two cops there when I pulled up, a white van belonging to the funeral home, a neighbor across the street, and my sister and two twin uncles.  I hurried over and got in talking up the last few details with the funeral director.  (Did we want him smooth-shaved?  What time did we prefer to meet and go over the arrangements?)  And we stood around in a huddle in the cold wind, dark night, confused, silent.  Ciara said the cops wouldn't let her touch him.

Soon, the two funeral directors brought out the body.  It was on a stretcher, covered with a brown, squared, simple quilt.  I never saw his face, and I still haven't.  I watched them roll him to the van and put him in.  The cops came up and told us to lock up the place.  Everyone left and we went in.

It was the first time I'd ever been there.  A simple, old, dirty single-wide trailer.  Aluminum foil in the windows for insulation.  A weathered-but-comfortable couch.  It was definitely the home of a bachelor.  Pill bottles lay around, mostly empty.  I gathered that more than a few people had been trying to get him to quit. I soaked it in, still feeling blank inside, headache pounding away.  What am I supposed to think?  How am I supposed to be feeling?  There is no norm.  Every situation is unique here.

Now, after a day of dealing with cemeteries, morticians, and family, everything is slowly settling in.  Even so, I'm still confused, still uncertain.  That's why this post exists.  Writing, and blogging by extension, is the simplest way for me to put my thoughts to focus.  It's personal, yes, but I'm an honest individual that believes transparency is healthy and good.  And when you've stood in a room full of coffins, filled from wall to wall, all different but all similar, your thoughts are bound to be scrambled.  It's late.  I'm tired.  There's still lots to do.  Lots I don't know about.  I do know that my dad loved me, and I think he knew that I loved him.  I know that it hurts knowing that I didn't put forth more of an effort, and that's something I have to live with.  I'm still working on me and this, and I'm sure I will be doing so for a while.  Everybody has daddy issues, and they're influential in personal development.  It's pure coincidence that I started a book last week on becoming a better father/husband and that my mind has been thinking about my dad more than normal these last few days.  I was excited that Thanksgiving was coming up because he was finally going to get to see his only granddaughter.  Not anymore.

I loved my dad, even though I was an absent son, even though he was an absent father.  And now the potential for change and for a relationship is gone.