Ocean of Beer

Feb 16, 2025

In my life, I have drunk, me alone, an ocean of beer. It lapped up against me on every beach I ever sat on, every dock I ever dangled my feet from, every bonfire I ever sat next to.

Sudsy and cool, bitter and bubbly, I remember my first sips from the brown bottles my dad left on the living room coffee table. I’d tilt the bottle back and drink the last drops on a Saturday morning. But Dad smoked a pipe, and sometimes I’d end up with a sulphury soggy match in my mouth.

In my life, I have smoked, me alone, a volcano of cigarettes. They called me from under every bridge on the way home from school, from every brick wall I ever leaned up against outside a school dance, from the glamorous packages left open on the coffee table beside my sisters’ cups of tea.

Choking and sharp, I remember my first drags. Deciding how to hold the thin tubes packed with brown flakes of tobacco. Between my first finger and my middle finger, near the tips, around the top knuckle, no further down—I wasn’t a Neanderthal. And I remember learning how to tap the ash, and flick the butt, or grind it out in a stinking ashtray, or under my heel. So much to learn. So important to do it right.

In my life, I have eaten, me alone, a jungle of junk food. Licorice shoestrings dangling, gummy worms crawling, golden packages of potato chips stalking me in silence and stealth. Packed in pretty wrappers, shiny and alluring, candy and chewing gum springing from the shelves of every variety store I ever tiptoed into, out of reach in tall display cases of coffee shops and movie theatres and pharmacies. Invisibly enticing, salty, chewy, crispy, crunchy, buttery, soft, melting, sweet, smooth, from every wrapped morsel I ever opened.

Born in this jungle, I hold no memory of first times. Ever-present in icing on cupcakes, corn flakes on casseroles, cookies on plates, fresh from the oven. Frowned upon, forbidden, tooth-decaying, flab-inducing, ice cream and saltines, caramel and chocolate, everywhere, everywhere, everywhere. I was the hunted, climbing the trees to escape the tendrils of temptation. Jumping in a canoe to paddle away down a raging river of confusion.

Addiction. I am the hunted, fighting back, saying no, seeking refuge in the storm.

This ocean, this volcano, this jungle are long ago and far away. Now, I float on a stream, daydreaming, and allowing the current to take me. Occasionally, I bump up against the banks of the river, but that is where I find you, and I know, now, I am no longer alone.

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Historical Fiction

This winter, I am taking part in a fantastic Historical Fiction contest with my book, Head on Backwards, Chest Full of Sand. (I still can’t believe that 1978 makes a story historical, but here we are.) The winner will receive a Kindle reader loaded with fifteen historical fiction titles, including mine. Good luck! Click here to check out the contest and be sure to let me know if you win!

An update on my next novel…

I’m thrilled to report that I have another novel coming out very soon. It’s in the final editing stage. Where the Night Winds Wail is a suspenseful, moody tale that takes you deep into the heart of love, trauma, and healing. Set in Ontario in 1998, join me as I put poor Jake Jackson through the wringer. I will post the new book here as soon as the cover is ready.

For lighthearted reading grab a paperback copy of my novel Odd Mom Out click here.

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