PatAmsden.com

They enter our living rooms, at once familiar figures and old friends, while at the same time beings from another world. A world of satin and lace, black tuxedos and Entertainment Tonight reporters giving us thirty second clips or less, with the ones deemed most newsworthy whether for dress or achievement neatly packaged for our consumption.

Us, the watchers. Viewing the glitz and glitter of Hollywood from the safety of our sofas. Chips and dips along with cheese and pretzels for many, while some of us have gone up-scale with Oprah, hosting more elaborate bashes complete with the latest appetizers and martinis. Some of us even dress for the event now. But I prefer jeans and sweats myself.

Oscar night. The night when all the stars and power brokers, artists and technicians gather to pay homage to their peers. The the ones who have given outstanding performances, produced the best special effects or written the best script. That’s why I’m watching.

It’s got nothing to do with the red carpet or stunning outfits so many stars are wearing. I only listen to the latest insider tidbits brought out by the E tonight reporters and other Hollywood insiders because I have no choice. Really!

We watch as celebrity hosts and hostesses introduce us to the various categories and the nominations for each. We watch as the winners are announced and they make their way up to the stage to give their acceptance speech. They make their way up to the stage to the applause of the crowds and try to remember everyone in their acceptance speech. But what we’re really watching for are those moments when the unscripted happens and someone streaks across the stage, Sally Field says ‘you like me, you really like me’, or some one drops the F bomb.

“They don’t give Oscars for boat-building,” Bill grumbles from his vantage point.

“I don’t see my name up their either,” I say, tossing a pretzel at him.

“But it could be. They don’t have a category for boat-building or glass monkeys.”

“Special effects,” I say laughing. “Where would the Titanic be as a movie without the boat?”

He’s not really convinced. He builds boats; I write stories. He uses fiberglass and wood, I use words and phrases. I suspect most of his boats will have a much longer life-span than my stories. There are times I would give anything to share a story in progress with friends, to listen as they say “it’s a classic,” and run their hands down the length of it.

That doesn’t work for me. I work in solitude, transforming the images and ideas in my mind to the blank pages waiting to be filled. Sometimes I wonder if there’s a point to this madness. Will anyone want to read what I’ve written?

Critique partners and other writers can look at my work before-hand, but it’s not the same as having someone admire the workmanship and lines of a boat in progress. And sometimes it’s best not to get too much input before putting your story out there. Sometimes we take a boat for testing on Elk Lake, you can’t really do that with a story.

“A million dollars for one movie and you’re set for life. No sweating, no hard labour.  They’ve got it easy.”

Right if you forget the waiting, of auditions for parts, of odd hours and lonely hotel rooms. What he wants is recognition. Public recognition from unknown masses. Not just from family, friends and customers but from the man on the street. Don’t we all. At least sometimes.

Don’t I? At least partly. I spend my days answering questions and directing people, getting information  for our computers. But when I sit at my laptop I get to make up my own stories, my own people. They do whatever I want although sometimes they do go off in their own directions, not following my plans for them at all. I’ve tried games where you go into a virtual reality but so far I find writing a much more satisfying endeavor. I can only hope the odd reader enjoys my work as well.

Oscar night passes and life returns to normal. I watch Bill at work in the shop, quietly confident as he works on some patterns, fits mahogany gunnels and a transom to a fiberglass shell; sure of himself as he bends the wood into place; meticulous as he sands down the wood carefully, until it’s satin smooth to the touch, then sands it down again.

He’s at home here in his shop where the smell of wood and fiberglass mixes together and molds fill every nook and cranny. Molds for dinghys and fish tanks, truck covers and other assorted odds and ends. And still he wants more. Molds of power boats and sail boats. Molds, molds, molds.

We take the finished dinghy to Elk Lake and slip it into the water early before the heat of the day becomes unbearable. Oars dip in and we’re off, waves lapping gently at the boat, a kingfisher calling his mate in the distance.

Over on the other side, easily accessible by the public, the beach is filling, the shouts of children playing, filtering through to us. We row through a corridor or lily pads and into the smaller Beaver Lake. A group of Canada geese are holding a convention on a small outcropping of rock while on the beach opposite us a group of Karate enthusiasts give a demonstration to the sunbathers, lying captive.

The sun’s higher now, with noon approaching and we decide it’s time to call it a day. We row back quietly. Taking the boat out of the water in preparation for putting it back on the truck we’re stopped by a man admiring it. “It’s a classic. I used to have a dinghy like that as a boy. Except it was wood. Did you get it around here?”

“Made it myself,” Bill says proudly.

The man steps closer, examining the woodwork carefully, smoothing a hand over it. “It’s a beaut.” He hesitates for a moment. “I don’t suppose you’d consider selling it?”

“This one’s already gone,” my husband says regretfully. “But if you like I can make one up for you.” He reaches into his jean pocket, pulls out his wallet and extracts a business card. He hands it to the man who surveys it for a moment.

“Boat-building…” He shakes his head as if remembering something. “My dad was a boat-builder. Down in Maine. Sometimes I wish…,” His voice trails off. “Well, I’ll give you a call.”

My work is interrupted by a phone call. “Your story came in today’s mail and it’s been going around the office ever since. Everyone in the office loves it and we want to print it.”

A surge or adrenaline goes through me. They like it! The editor is calling me. Me!

“We’d like to run it in our next issue. Is that all right with you?”

Is that all right with you? This is a dream. “That’s fine,” I say, trying to be cool about it, as if this happens all the time to me.

“Is $500. enough?”

There’s a note of hesitancy in her voice and a momentary, very momentary surge of greed runs through me, balanced by my desire to see the story in print. “Sure.” Wimp. I wonder what she’d say if I asked for double? I don’t want to risk it.

“We’d like to cut a hundred words.”

Momentary doubt crosses my mind. Still…”I guess it would be all right,” I say cautiously.

“Good. We’ll send you two free copies.”

“Thanks.” I hang up in shock.

The Wedding. I never expected it to sell. I sent it in because I liked it and thought the worst they could do was reject it. I click on the file in my computer and read through it once with the ending intact and once without the last one hundred words. The editor is right. The last hundred words are a form of verbal diarrhea.

The time on my computer is 3:00. Bill should be home soon. We’re supposed to go shopping this afternoon. I arrange the papers on my desk and try to think, try to write. Two words keep running through my mind. I sold! I sold!

Bill comes in, pours himself a cup of coffee and comes over to me. “Had a bitch of time getting the mold to release,” he says giving me a small kiss. “How was your day?”

“Oh,” I say, trying to appear casual. “The editor of Woman’s World called. She wants to publish my story.” There’s a surge of pride and triumph in my voice.

He puts down his coffee, eyes lighting with a smile. “Honey, that’s wonderful.” He gives me a big hug. “So when’s it going to be published?”

“Next issue.”

“Does that mean I finally get to read it.”

I flush slightly. “You can read it now.”

He reads through it slowly, then reads it again. “They’re right about the last hundred words . It’s great though. I’m proud of you.”

We celebrate with Hagendaz ice cream and for awhile it’s pushed to the background. The shop is busy and I spend time helping him. Mainly I work waxing molds and sanding or varnishing the woodwork. Sometimes I help in skinning out the molds.

The date of publication approaches and I keep expecting to see my copies in the mail. They don’t appear. In the week before the official publication date Bill checks the magazine racks in the drugstores and grocery.

“Still nothing. Cosmo, Chatelaine, Good Housekeeping, and every other magazine out there have their next month’s issue out, but not Woman’s World.”

“They’re not supposed to be out until the first of the month,” I say defensively. We take a run into Victoria hoping to find one at Bolens or Chapters. There’s still no sign of the magazine. I feel a nagging sense of unease. Maybe the magazine died before they had a chance to print my story. Maybe they had second thoughts about printing it. Maybe, maybe, maybe…

Bill says nothing. He knows what I’m thinking. I sleep in the next morning getting up at 8:00 to have coffee and read the paper; to read the want ads.

Bill comes in carrying a stack of magazines.

“Woman’s World!?”

“Woman’s World.” He holds up a copy, opens the magazine. “You’re right at the beginning.”

I look at the magazine. At my story set out so neatly with the bold, bright type announcing the story’s title and the drawing illustrating it. I look at my name underneath. Mine! And then I read it carefully to see what changes the editor’s made to my story.

Some of the paragraphs have been divided into two. Smile has been changed to laugh at one point. But they’re minor changes. It’s still my story. Mine.

“So that’s how it feels to be a published author,” Bill says laughing and hugging me at the same time.

“I knew it. I told you I could do it,” I say laughing. We spend the day talking about what we’ll do with all the money if I write a best-seller.

“Matching sport-cars. Porches.”

“A house.”

“Tudor with a big shop for you.”

“Uplands and I’ll get a shop away from the house.”

“We can travel.”

“Hawaii, here we come.”

No other editors call or beat a path to my door. The shops been slow for the last few weeks. Bill does a boat on spec and still there’s no one wanting to buy. He takes a job on a fishboat, fiber-glassing the hold.

It’s dirty, stinky work and he comes back each night exhausted. “Three weeks, three thousand dollars. “I’ll be a resin-head for that much.”

There’s nothing I can say to change his mind. And no job I can get that will pay anywhere near that amount. My book continues to grow. Is it any good? Is anyone actually going to read it? Yet it’s too late to stop now. There’s nowhere to go but up.

The fish hold job is finished and Steve has called up asking for more boats. Somehow the year passes. Sometimes we’re moderately rich, sometimes paying the bills looks dicey.

Oscar is on again. All shined up and ready to strut his stuff. Friends have come over to watch with us and the living room is filled with people dressed in jeans, drinking beer and smoking cigarettes.

This isn’t the Oprah Oscar home party. No once wears Gucchi or drives a BMW. In fact we’re probably not even a Miller Light crowd. What we are is friends gathered together to have a good time. I take a last peak inside the closet; at the shiny gold-coloured statue waiting inside to be unveiled later in the evening and join the party.

Once again limos deposit celebrities at the entranceway and E tonight reporters rush to interview them. But there’s an air of expectancy in the room tonight. And even as bets are laid on who wins what there’s an undercurrent of excitement, of mystery that Bill senses but can’t understand.

Best Actor and Actress awards come up but somehow there’s a feeling we’re still waiting for the main event. The room is quiet now, the audience hushed as the statue is unveiled.

“And in the Best Boat-Building category the winner is …. Bill Maddick.”

Clapping and cheering breaks out with cries of “Speech, Speech.”

Soon Bill is standing up, his face slightly red with embarrassment and pride.