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Special offer: 3 issues for £3
USMNT
Premier League latest
Richie Wellens sacked by struggling Doncaster
By PA Staff published 2 December 21
(Image credit: Steven Paston)
League One strugglers Doncaster have sacked manager Richie Wellens after just over six months in charge.
Wellens, who spent two spells with Rovers as a player, was appointed following the end of last season but Doncaster have won just three of their 19 league games so far and sit 23rd in the table.
A club statement read: "Doncaster Rovers can confirm that Richie Wellens has left the club with immediate effect.
"The club's board have taken the decision that a change is required at this time in order for a permanent appointment to be made in time for the opening of the January transfer window.
"The club would like to thank Richie for his efforts and wish him well in the future."
Under-18s boss Gary McSheffrey has been placed in temporary charge and he will be in the hotseat for Saturday's FA Cup clash with Mansfield.
Wellens' final match was Wednesday's Papa John's Trophy loss to Crewe, which followed back-to-back league defeats.
The 41-year-old, who won the League Two title with Swindon in 2019-20, has now been shown the door twice in 2021 after lasting less than five months at Salford.
Gary McSheffrey
Richie Wellens
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redpajama_set_name: RedPajamaCommonCrawl


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America by Air
Inspired by our March 2016 cover story by James Fallows, "How America Is Putting Itself Back Together," readers share their best aerial photos from across the U.S. Submit your own via hello@theatlantic.com. (Please provide the location, the story behind the photo, and the largest file size you have. Horizontal photos with a bit of the plane visible—a wing, the edge of a window—are ideal. Terms and Conditions here.)
Show 88 Newer Notes
Chris Bodenner
America by Air: A Rainbow Halo
Marshall Collins
Stu Smith, a reader who works as a seasonal commercial seaplane pilot for Seattle's Kenmore Air, passes along a real beauty:
This photo was taken from the copilot's seat by my friend Marshall Collins, who is a flight instructor at Clover Park Technical College (where I received my training and was also a flight instructor). This was a scheduled flight in a Beaver from Seattle to Victoria, British Columbia. We were about a third of the way into the 70 mile-long, northwest-bound flight when the circular rainbow appeared below us. If Marshall had had a wider-angle lens, he would have caught the entire circle.
At the time of the photo we were over the small village of Port Gamble, Washington, which had a long history as a timber and sawmill town. We're looking to the northeast, with Point Julia in the foreground, the Kitsap Peninsula in the middle distance and Admiralty Inlet in the far distance. Marshall was riding along as my guest, since there was an unsold seat on this flight and he was available to join me.
I've had the good fortune of seeing several circular rainbows over the years. Phil Plait had a great article about them in Slate several years ago.
America by Air: Cloudy Cali Coastline
Evan Day
More props from a reader:
Love this series so far and thought I'd throw in one of mine. This shot was taken along the central California coast in the Big Sur area after taking off from Monterey en route to Montgomery Field in San Diego in a Diamond DA-40. In contrast to all of the great shots so far on (mostly) clear days, this photo was captured under instrument flight rules. [CB note: That's defined as "rules and regulations established by the FAA to govern flight under conditions in which flight by outside visual reference is not safe"—in contrast to visual flight rules.]
The right side of the picture shows an interesting pattern that tends to show up in cell phone pictures taken from propeller aircraft. The best explanation I have found is here.
America by Air: Tildes Over Texas
This reader gives us props:
I really enjoyed "How America Is Putting Itself Back Together," as well as your reader series on aerial photography, "America by Air," which is one of my new favorite things. As a private pilot, I've been dying to submit, so today I thought I'd drop a line and share what I have.
Here's a photo of Lake Bryan I took flying over beautiful Bryan, Texas. I love shooting photographs over the cowling of my Cessna 152 because of the effect that the moving propeller creates in the lens, like drifting horizontal tildes [ ~ ] cutting into the frame. Of course, you can't see this effect with the naked eye, but it always shows up on a digital photo. As a Mexican-American pilot, I like to think of the tildes as benevolent latinate characters greeting me in the sky. Think Super Mario and those friendly clouds.
America By Air: Clear Skies on the West Coast
Heading south from Seattle, with Mt. Rainier, Mt. St. Helens, and other volcanic peaks to the east. (Tom Fallows)
It's overcast today in Seattle, where my wife Deb and I have come for the annual Citizens University conference — an inspiring gathering of civic-engagement activists from around the country. But two days ago skies were clear along the West Coast. That is when reader (and son) Tom Fallows of San Francisco took pictures as he left Seattle, above, and came into San Francisco, below.
Coming home to the Bay Area. (Tom Fallows)
No comment needed, beyond remarking that this is a beautiful part of a beautiful country (and world).
After the jump, a reaction from another reader, involving the theme of fathers and sons and the view from above.
A reader in Southern California reacts to a post from a former flight instructor who said how much he loved the low-altitude view. Emphasis added — I have flown through this same area and can picture the scene he describes:
Similar memories of flying in the Riverside, CA and surrounding areas a long time ago.
Loved flying at lower altitudes; had the feeling of flying through a valley, rather than over it. Especially in the morning air, when it was smooth - magical, indescribable feeling. Following the Santa Ana River to the beach, south along the coast, and back over the hills to RAL [Riverside Municipal] was also a favorite. [JF note: I have flown this same route, from the airports in Redlands and San Bernardino toward those on the coast. It is magical, though usually with enough other airborne traffic that you can spend too much time just taking in the view.]
Would absolutely love to get back into it again, but my wife is fearful. I'm scheming tho'. We have a boy on the way… That boy is going to experience small aircraft flight early in his life (I'll take him while mommy is at work). He'll be addicted and it will be two against one!
America by Air: What a Former Flight Instructor Misses
Over Ohio, from 2500 feet (James Fallows)
In response to a new pilot's note about what he enjoyed in the aerial view, a reader who has worked as a flight instructor describes what he misses about that time in his life:
Thanks for your occasional odes to flying. I haven't flown for years—for lack of $$, not for lack of desire. Some of the things I never tired of:
Flying west: over Ohio, an altitude of 3,500 was just beyond the ability to detect human forms on the ground below. And it fascinated me that if I held that altitude, I would crash somewhere just west of Colby, KS. [JF note: In case it's not obvious, this is because the ground level goes steadily up as you head west. Between the Appalachians and the Atlantic, the ground level is generally less than 1000 feet above sea level. It's the same through Ohio and Indiana and across the Mississippi River. But then it starts going up, and has reached 3,500 feet in Kansas. An airplane's flight altitude is measured in elevation above sea level, not above the ground.]
Back in the day, when I was a flight instructor, I would ferry new aircraft from the factory in Wichita or OK City (remember the pre-Reagan days when general aviation was a thriving industry? I'll never forgive him for what he did to that industry). And flying west, way off in the distance over the flat-as-a-cracker landscape that is KS and OK, the tips of the Rockies would slowly appear. I would always try to be alert for the very first clue that they were there, kind of like watching for the green flash at sunset over the ocean.
There's also that sense of ownership and familiarity that you get flying over terrain. I never flew that much in the South or Southeast. But flying to or from the West Coast in the northern half of the country, I can generally look out of an airliner window and fairly reliably know the state we are flying over.
Then there's the magic of IFR.Taking off, and shortly thereafter being absorbed by the clouds into a cocoon of whiteness, then breaking out on top into brilliant blue sky and sunshine. Something people in airliners rarely get to experience is flying being between layers. It's a whole fantasy world of clear horizontal visibility with clouds above and clouds below; especially if there are cumulus upshoots, like building columns supporting the heavens. And then, being swallowed up in white until, magically, the runway appears. Is there anything more beautiful than the Christmas tree of a fully lit runway? Something you never see from the back of an airliner.
I do miss it ...
America by Air: Too Hot to Handle
A reader who goes by Glenn got perilously close to an erupting volcano:
During one of my trips to Hawaii, I decided to get creative and take a ride in a replica of a 1939 biplane. Over Kilauea. There is nothing like the thermals in a biplane over an active volcano.
Needless to say, taking pictures was problematic. Almost all the shots came out completely out of focus. [The one above] is an example of "That would have been a great shot if I only could hold the camera still for one more second."
Here's what Kilauea looked like this week, in timelapse, via Hawaii 24/7:
America by Air: Smog Never Smelled So Sweet
Lauren Mueller
A reader sends this shot of Los Angeles and an affectionate nod to the city's pollution problem:
I snapped this picture upon my return from a year-long master's program in Oxford, England. After enduring all that noxious clean air and lush English countryside, I have to say I've never been more excited to see such a sprawling and smoggy grid before: home sweet smelly home.
The current forecast isn't so bad:
America by Air: The Mid-Atlantic in the Snow
Riley Roberts
I'm stepping in for Chris Bodenner, usual host in this space, because I was so delighted to hear the back story behind today's reader photo. Riley Roberts sent it early this month:
As a newly-certified pilot (I passed my FAA checkride just yesterday), I've spent a lot of time puttering around the DC area's tightly-controlled airspace over the last few months, both solo and with my instructor. [JF note: Congratulations!]
One of my favorite things about flying, particularly on crisp winter days, is the view: when the air is clear, you can see for miles. Once you're at altitude and on course, with the plane trimmed for cruise, the cockpit isn't overwhelmingly busy. There's no sound other than the drone of the engine and occasional radio chatter in your headset. It becomes almost dreamlike—with the landscape slowly rolling by, the horizon rocking up across your field of vision with each bank of the wings, and nothing but open sky for a mile in every direction.
I snapped this photo of Maryland's western shore from the pilot's seat about a month ago, just a few days after the massive snowstorm that shut down the area. It took almost a week to clear the runway at my local airport, so the snow had begun to recede by the time I got back into the air. But the world still looked dramatically different—and absolutely gorgeous.
What I've learned over the decades is that many people shudder at the very idea of small-plane flight. But those of us who love it, love it for exactly the reason the reader explains so well. It is a dreamlike state, in which you do what people through the first 99.9% of human existence only imagined: moving through the air as if swimming, seeing the Earth from above. If you enjoy this, you never tire of it.
Here is a sample of what I thought of when I read this submission: the scene from out the side window of our plane about a year ago, when my wife Deb and I were traveling across the Mojave from Arizona to Southern California. By the laws of physics and the workings of the Earth's curvature, from 8500 feet up, as I think we were then, we would be able to see features 80 to 100 miles away. The map showed that the mountains to the north were at least that distant; from inside the plane, the view seemed limitless.
Over the Mojave (Deb Fallows)
At the opposite scale of intimacy, the photo below shows the other aspect of the aerial view. This was taken out the front window of the plane, when we were less than 1,000 feet above the ground and coming in for a landing in the tiny town of Chester, Montana. What I remember about this "sight picture," as it's called, is the way the runway appeared to be almost an extension of Chester's main street. The runway is what looks like a short street, just beyond the town and paralleling the highway.
On final approach for landing in Chester, Montana (Deb Fallows)
Deb will be writing more about Chester and why we went there, which involved its surprising role in the arts.
Congratulations again to Riley Roberts. Next, on to instrument training! If you haven't read it already, be sure to buy, read, and re-read the timeless classic of airmanship, Wolfgang Langewiesche's Stick and Rudder. It was published in 1944 (by the late father of my friend and former Atlantic colleague William Langewiesche) and seems as if it could have been written yesterday. It's a good idea to read The Killing Zone too—the survival guide to the first ~250 hours as a pilot. Fly safely, so you can have the longest possible span through which to observe these sights.
8:40 AM / March 15, 2016
America by Air: An Existential Threat in Alaska
Gene McGill
Just when I think the series is coming to a close, we get an especially great email from a reader:
My work has taken me to Barrow, Alaska, on several occasions over the years. This photo was shot immediately after taking off from Wiley Post-Will Rogers Memorial Airport in Barrow. The west end of the runway ends close to the Chukchi Sea, and the view in this photo is looking southwest along that coast. Barrow is behind the aircraft, not visible in this view. The landing gear is not yet fully retracted and we are already turning toward Fairbanks, our next stop.
The most significant attribute of this photo is that it was taken on October 2, 2014, and there is no sea ice in sight.
Sea ice up to the shore protects the shore from erosion during storms. Of all the months of the year, October has warmed most above the historic normal in Barrow (pdf). The October departure from the normal between 1979 and 2012 was 7.2 degrees Celsius. Consequently, the sea freezes much later than it used to and this exposes Barrow to strong waves from autumn storms that severely erode the coastline.
The town itself, along with many other smaller settlements in northern and western Alaska, are facing existential threats from these storms. Extensive dredge and fill operations are required to replace beach sand washed away by storms. Barrow is seeking funds for a seawall, estimated to cost between $200 million and $1 billion.
Update from another reader, who's a total buzzkill for the series:
It is fitting that this existential threat is highlighted in a thread about people flying in airplanes, given that:
Flying, particularly on long-haul flights, is so highly emitting that it dwarfs everything else on an individual carbon budget. Many climate groups have calculated that in a sustainable world each person would have a carbon allowance of two to four tons of carbon emissions annually. Any single long-haul flight nearly "instantly uses that up," said Christian Jardine, a senior researcher at the Environmental Change Institute at Oxford University.
For many people reading this, air travel is their most serious environmental sin. One round-trip flight from New York to Europe or to San Francisco creates about 2 or 3 tons of carbon dioxide per person.
Let's see some photos taken from bicycles! Depending, of course, upon how the bicyclist is fueled: ". . . the Prius-driving vegan beats the meat-eating bicyclist by about half a ton in annual carbon impact."
America by Air: We Got a Blimp!
Allan Janus
I spoke too soon when I noted last night that we've only received aerial photos from airplanes so far:
I hope it's not too late to submit a photo! This one was taken from the Shamu blimp over Virginia around 1990. The blimp came from SeaWorld to Manassas Airport to provide camera services for a University of Virginia football game. I was lucky enough to snag a seat on a practice flight the day before the game. We took off from Manassas and cruised over the Virginia countryside to Charlottesville. We orbited the stadium for a bit, then flew over Monticello, and basically had a beautiful sightseeing tour over the Valley of Virginia in the fine fall weather.
At one point, we were joined by the friendly little biplane in my picture. (In the background is the Blue Ridge, or maybe it's the Alleghenies...) We were in the air for about six hours, and after seeing a beautiful sunset, we landed by the light of the full Harvest Moon. A magical flight …
Anyway, I doubt you'll see many more contemporary shots of a biplane in flight, taken from an airship.
Previous blimp blogging here.
America by Air: Commuting in a Copter
In our aerial series so far, we have mostly seen photos from commercial airplanes flying tens of thousands of feet above the ground, but some were taken from smaller private planes and even the very top of the Empire State building. None from a helicopter yet, so here's a photo I took hovering above a Salt Lake City suburb en route to the Canyons ski resort just over the horizon. My stepbrother at the time (February 2011) was a helicopter pilot working the season in Park City, flying backcountry skiers up and down the mountain. I nearly got a free seat when one of the heli-skiers cancelled at the last minute, but someone working at the resort scooped it up instead. I did, however, get this solo ride during my stepbrother's half-hour commute from the hangar in Salt Lake City, landing right on the ski slope. The coolest thing about this photo is the whirring helicopter blades caught in a freeze frame.
America by Air: Central Park at Dawn
Andrew Stein
This reader had a lovely view after a long night:
This was a 6am flight into NYC after getting stuck in Syracuse for work the night before due to weather. We're cutting across Manhattan before looping around to LGA. Central Park, Hudson River, and the GW Bridge are all visible.
More Notes
Emily Buder
A woman who spent two months in solitary confinement in a "transgender pod" tells her story.
Jillian Banner


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Billker:Claudia Bex
Claudia Bex
Division of Cell & Molecular Biology
South Kensington Campus, SAF
London, SW7 2AZ
cbex[AT]imperial.ac.uk
Tel: +44 20 759 45423
Fax: +44 20 759 42056
I am a PostDoc in the Billker Lab at Imperial College, London since 2006.
Structure-function analysis of xanthurenic acid as activator of gametogenesis in Plasmodium
Transmission of Plasmodium spp. requires the initial differentiation of sexual parasite stages into male and female gametes upon blood-feeding by the mosquito. Midgut-derived xanthurenic acid (XA) and a drop in temperature are sufficient to induce gametogenesis of Plasmodium parasites in vitro. A first sign of activation of gametocytes is the measurable rise in intracellular calcium concentration. The order of events upstream of this calcium signal is not understood and particularly the predicted XA receptor has remained elusive. To probe these early signalling events we screened 2000 known drugs and natural products and small molecules for their ability to mobilise and inhibit calcium in Plasmodium berghei gametocytes. Several gametocyte-specific activators and inhibitors of XA-induced calcium release were identified, some of which with the expected properties of xanthurenic acid receptor agonists and antagonists.The most potent activators and a competitive inhibitor belong to the same functional class of molecules and provide insight into the structural requirements for receptor activation. These compounds will prove valuable tools in the identification of the XA receptor and could be exploited for the development of transmission-blocking drugs.
Retrieved from "https://openwetware.org/mediawiki/index.php?title=Billker:Claudia_Bex&oldid=166348"


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Dr. Barry Krakow - Author of "Sound Sleep, Sound Mind."
The first studies to show that trauma survivors suffer inordinately high rates of sleep breathing problems that worsen their insomnia, anxiety, depression, and posttraumatic stress symptoms.
The first randomized controlled study to demonstrate that nasal dilator strips can reduce insomnia symptoms in patients with likely sleep-disordered breathing.
Dr. Krakow's research group is one of the most published on the evaluation and treatment of sleep disorders in mental health patients, including more than 30 peer-reviewed papers and abstracts in this field. In addition, he has authored or co-authored four books on this topic as well.
Dr. Krakow's research teams have consistently shown that insomnia and mental health patients frequently suffer from undiagnosed physical sleep disorders, which prevent them from resolving their sleep complaints, and which therefore often prevent them from improving their mental health.
With the publication of Dr. Krakow's new book, Sound Sleep, Sound Mind, he aims to spread the word that an enormously large number of insomnia patients and mental health patients can benefit a great deal by completing a full sleep evaluation and receiving evidence-based sleep treatments. In his view, sleep medicine needs to be thoroughly integrated into the fields of psychiatry and psychology in order to provide mental health patients the opportunity to rapidly recover their sleep health. We believe that aggressive treatment of sleep disorders in these patients will markedly improve their chances to improve their mental health.
The Gene for Sleep Duration - Barry Krakow, M.D.
Sound Sleep Sound Mind - 4.5 stars out of 5.
Could you please respond to my blog or directly to me on "Turning Nightmares into Dreams?"
It is good to know that someone is addressing the issue of sleep with regard to mental health, although the issue is so potentially treacherous. I fear another stigma on the horizon, if this isn't handled with care. And from the perspective of a narcoleptic, I can assure you that I have had times when I have suffered from insomnia that has crippled me in every aspect of judgment until I resolved it.


News items related to comedian John Moses as issued by the Send2Press Newswire service on behalf of the noted news source.
LOS ANGELES, Calif., May 6, 2016 (SEND2PRESS NEWSWIRE) — Uproar Entertainment is excited to announce the release of John Moses' second CD 'Upper Middle Trash,' recorded in front of a live audience. John Moses has been delightfully offending audiences throughout the United States, Canada and the U.K. for more than 10 years.


Abba Shapiro is an award-winning writer/producer/director with over 25 years' experience in video and film production. His production company, Shapiro Video & Multimedia, works in every format from DVCAM to HD to 35 mm film. Abba has done work for a wide range of commercial, corporate, and federal clients, including USA Today, The Associated Press, NASA, The CW, and the Department of Defense. In addition to doing production work, Abba is a lead instructor for Apple's Pro Video Applications Certified Training Program. He is a coauthor of the advanced editing tips and tricks book, Final Cut Studio on the Spot. He also teaches scriptwriting, Final Cut Pro, DVD Studio Pro, Color, Motion, and Photoshop for video at venues such as NAB, Macworld, Government Video Expo, ShowBiz Expo, and DV Expo.
via Training, tutorials & online classes by expert Abba Shapiro.
Referenced Apple's Free 30 Day trail for Finalcut Pro 7 users. Media has to be transcoded in Finalcut Pro 7. Covering best practices for post production.


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49th Shelf Browse by Category New Books Book Lists Blog
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Re-Writing Women in Canadian History
By 49thShelf
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tagged: history, canadian women, fiction, non-fiction
A list by Diana Davidson, whose debut novel is Pilgrimage.
The Birth House
by Ami McKay
edition:Paperback
also available: Paperback
My house stands at the edge of the earth. Together, the house and I have held strong against the churning tides of Fundy. Two sisters, stubborn in our bones.
My father, Judah Rare, built this farmhouse in 1917. It was my wedding gift. A strong house for a Rare woman, he said. I was eighteen. He and his five brothers, shipbuilders by trade, raised her worthy from timbers born on my grandfather's land. Oak for stability and certainty, yellow birch for new life and change, spruce for protection from the world outside. Father was an intuitive carpenter, carrying out his work like holy ritual. His callused hands, veined with pride, had a memory for measure and a knowing of what it takes to withstand the sea.
Strength and a sense of knowing, that's what you have to have to live in the Bay. Each morning you set your sights on the tasks ahead and hope that when the day is done you're farther along than when you started. Our little village, perched on the crook of God's finger, has always been ruled by storm and season. The men did whatever they had to do to get by. They joked with one another in fire-warmed kitchens after sunset, smoking their pipes, someone bringing out a fiddle . . . laughing as they chorused, no matter how rough, we can take it. The seasons were reflected in their faces, and in the movement of their bodies. When it was time for the shad, herring and cod to come in, they were fishermen, dark with tiresome wet from the sea. When the deer began to huddle on the back of the mountain, they became hunters and woodsmen. When spring came, they worked the green-scented earth, planting crops that would keep, potatoes, cabbage, carrots, turnips. Summer saw their weathered hands building ships and haying fields, and sunsets that ribboned over the water, daring the skies to turn night. The long days were filled with pride and ceremony as mighty sailing ships were launched from the shore. The Lauretta, The Reward, The Nordica, The Bluebird, The Huntley. My father said he'd scour two hundred acres of forest just to find the perfect trees to build a three-masted schooner. Tall yellow birch, gently arched by northwesterly winds, was highly prized. He could spot the keel in a tree's curve and shadow, the return of the tide set in the grain.
Men wagered their lives with the sea for the honour of these vessels. Each morning they watched for the signs. Red skies in morning, sailors take warning. Each night they looked to the heavens, spotting starry creatures, or the point of a dragon's tail. They told themselves that these were promises from God, that He would keep the wiry cold fingers of the sea from grabbing at them, from taking their lives. Sometimes men were taken. On those dark days the men who were left behind sat down together and made conversation of every detail, hitching truth to wives' tales while mending their nets.
As the men bargained with the elements, the women tended to matters at home. They bartered with each other to fill their pantries and clothe their children. Grandmothers, aunts and sisters taught one another to stitch and cook and spin. On Sunday mornings mothers bent their knees between the stalwart pews at the Union Church, praying they would have enough. With hymnals clutched against their breasts, they told the Lord they would be ever faithful if their husbands were spared.
When husbands, fathers and sons were kept out in the fog longer than was safe, the women stood at their windows, holding their lamps, a chorus of lady moons beckoning their lovers back to shore. Waiting, they hushed their children to sleep and listened for the voice of the moon in the crashing waves. In the secret of the night, mothers whispered to their daughters that only the moon could force the waters to submit. It was the moon's voice that called the men home, her voice that turned the tides of womanhood, her voice that pulled their babies into the light of birth.
My house became the birth house. That's what the women came to call it, knocking on the door, ripe with child, water breaking on the porch. First-time mothers full of questions, young girls in trouble and seasoned women with a brood already at home. (I called those babies "toesies," because they were more than their mamas could count on their fingers.) They all came to the house, wailing and keening their babies into the world. I wiped their feverish necks with cool, moist cloths, spooned porridge and hot tea into their tired bodies, talked them back from outside of themselves.
Ginny, she had two . . .
Sadie Loomer, she had a girl here.
Precious, she had twins . . . twice.
Celia had six boys, but she was married to my brother Albert . . . Rare men always have boys.
Iris Rose, she had Wrennie . . .
All I ever wanted was to keep them safe.
Around the year 1760, a ship of Scotch immigrants came to be wrecked on the shores of this place. Although the vessel was lost, her passengers and crew managed to find shelter here. They struggled through the winter – many taking ill, the women losing their children, the men making the difficult journey down North Mountain to the valley below, carrying sacks of potatoes and other goods back to their temporary home, now called Scots Bay.
In the spring, when all who had been stranded chose to make their way to more established communities, the daughter of the ship's captain, Annie MacIssac, stayed behind. She had fallen in love with a Mi'kmaq man she called Silent Rare.
On the evening of a full moon in June, Silent went out in his canoe to catch the shad that were spawning around the tip of Cape Split. As the night wore on, Annie began to worry that some ill had befallen her love. She looked across the water for signs of him but found nothing. She walked to the cove where they had first met and began to call out to him, promising her heart, her fidelity and a thousand sons to his name. The moon, seeing Annie's sadness, began to sing, forcing the waves inland, strong and fast, bringing Silent safely back to his lover.
Since that time, every child born from the Rare name has been male, and even now, when the moon is full, you can hear her voice, the voice of the moon, singing the sailors home.
–A Rare Family History, 1850
Ever since I can remember, people have had more than enough to say about me. As the only daughter in five generations of Rares, most figure I was changed by faeries or not my father's child. Mother works and prays too hard to have anyone but those with the cruellest of tongues doubt her devotion to my father. When there's no good explanation for something, people of the Bay find it easier to believe in mermaids and moss babies, to call it witchery and be done with it. Long after the New England Planters' seed wore the Mi'kmaq out of my family's blood, I was born with coal black hair, cinnamon skin and a caul over my face. A foretelling. A sign. A gift that supposedly allows me to talk to animals, see people's deaths and hear the whisperings of spirits. A charm for protection against drowning.
When one of Laird Jessup's Highland heifers gave birth to a three-legged albino calf, talk followed and people tried to guess what could have made such a creature. In the end, most people blamed me for it. I had witnessed the cow bawling her calf onto the ground. I had been the one who ran to the Jessups' to tell the young farmer about the strange thing that had happened. Dora talked to ghosts, Dora ate bat soup, Dora slit the Devil's throat and flew over the chicken coop. My classmates chanted that verse between the slats of the garden gate, along with all the other words their parents taught them not to say. Of course, there are plenty of schoolyard stories about Miss B. too, most of them ending with, if your cat or your baby goes missing, you'll know where to find the bones. It's talk like that that's made us such good friends. Miss B. says she's glad for gossip. "It keep folks from comin' to places they don't belong."
Most days I wake up and say a prayer. I want, I wish, I wait for something to happen to me. While I thank God for all good things, I don't say this verse to Him, or to Jesus or even to Mary. They are far too busy to be worrying about the affairs and wishes of my heart. No, I say my prayer more to the air than anything else, hoping it might catch on the wind and find its way to anything, to something that's mine. Mother says, a young lady should take care with what she wishes for. I'm beginning to think she's right.
Why it's on the list ...
McKay's gorgeous novel was inspired by the real-life stories of Mrs. Rebecca Steele, an elderly midwife McKay befriended shortly after moving to a farmhouse in the Bay of Fundy. The Birth House tells the story of Dora Rare, a a skilled and gifted midwife in rural Nova Scotia who takes on the male medical establishment and their attempts to undermine women's community by institutionalizing the birth process. Interesting that McKay's book was published right on the cusp of a pendulum swing in North American attitudes towards birthing and pregnancy. This summer, CBC chose the big-bellied, bare-footed cover of this bestseller and book club fave as one of the most iconic images in CanLit.
by Lawrence Hill
also available: Paperback eBook Hardcover Audiobook Paperback Paperback
Based on a historical document that held the names of American slaves trying to escape to Eastern Canada at the end of the Revolutionary war, Hill's novel is haunting, moving, and unforgettable. Hill tells us the story of Aminata Diallo, a young girl in West Africa who is captured, survives the Middle Passage, endures the horrors and indignities of slavery, and works to free herself. She makes a life in Nova Scotia before eventually journeying to Freetown, Sierra Lione, and London to tell her story. Hill gives us an unflinching portrait of how difficult life was for former slaves even once they reached Nova Scotia. Winner of the Commonwealth Book Prize, the Rogers Writers Trust award, and CBC Reads, The Book of Negroes is in production as a mini-series for CBC and BET.
by Lisa Moore
edition:Hardcover
also available: Paperback eBook
tagged : literary, contemporary women
Moore's Booker Prize-listed novel made history of its own this past year: on the 31st anniversary of the storm that led to the Ocean Ranger Rig's demise, February won the 2013 CBC Reads contest. Moore's novel is a meditation on grief. She takes an event where 84 men perished tragically and tells us about the aftermath through the point-of-view of a widow and mother left behind. February also offers a raw and complex portrait of life in contemporary Newfoundland.
The End of East
by Jen Sookfong Lee
At first, what frightened her about this place was the drizzle – the omnipresent grey of morning, afternoon, nighttime too. She was afraid that she would slowly be leached of colour and that, one day, while she was combing her hair in the mirror, she would see that her reflection was as grey as the sky, sea and land that surrounded her. Everything she saw as she moved about the city was filtered through the mist – dampened, weighed down, burdened.
She would come home after a day in Chinatown and find her wool pants covered in tiny drops of water – cold, as if no human being had ever touched them before. If she didn't brush them off, they would seep into the fabric until they chilled her skin and she shivered into the night, long after the dishes were washed and everyone else had gone to bed.
In the summer, the sun finally emerged, dried up the puddles, opened flowers that had cowered in the rain. Buttercups shone in the light and multiplied in the lawn faster than she could dig them out. Children spat watermelon seeds over the porch railing, laughing at the squirrels who scurried across the lawn in fear. But every year, as winter returned, these days slipped from her memory. Too good to be true, perhaps. Too few to be important.
One morning, she woke and realized that she had come to accept the drizzle, that she had grown resigned to the squelch of rubber boots, the smell of damp wool on the bus. She walked around the park in the mornings, a film of fine water on her cheeks and eyelashes. Soon, she could not start her day without washing her face in the mist, letting the coolness do away with the bad dreams from the night.
And the halflight that lingered throughout the day let her believe that she was somewhere else, a dream-like netherworld in which anything might happen. Men could become lovers again. Women could be ageless. Children might even come back home.
But what she settled for was the cool, wet breeze that came in through the windows, the air that straightened her spine as she walked. The way the drizzle stayed with her, soaked into her hair, her clothes, her sheets. It pushed itself onto her skin, huddled with her when she cried, remained cool even as she cooked at a blazing stove. Unshakeable. Like family.
"It is time," my mother says as she pulls me from the cab, "to run that oldman smell out of my house."
As I haul my luggage out of the trunk, the smell of smouldering dust and gas fills the air, burning my nose and mouth. I follow my mother's rapidly retreating body around the side of the house to the backyard, wondering if she has finally snapped and set one my sisters ablaze.
In the driveway off the lane, she pokes angrily at a crackling fire with a metal garden rake; I catch my breath, holding my suitcase in front of me like a shield. Piles of my grandfather's old, woolly clothes line the backyard and spill into the gravel alley, waiting to be tossed into the gassy flames. A light rain begins to fall, generating puffs of smoke that blow into my face. I cough, but she doesn't seem to hear me above the snap and sizzle.
Waving the rake in my direction, she shouts, "Take your suitcase upstairs and go help your sister." As I turn back toward the house, she slaps down a stray spark that has landed in her permed, greying hair.
Once inside, I scan the front hall. The same rubber plant behind the door. My old slippers by the stairs. I breathe out, and cobwebs (suspiciously familiar) sway in the corners.
My mother steps through the door after me, her hands on her wide hips. "What's taking you so long? I thought I told you to run upstairs."
"I'm jetlagged," I mutter, kicking off my shoes.
She inspects my face closely, staring at me through her thick glasses. "Jet-lagged? Montreal is only three hours ahead. Go. Penny is waiting." She spins me around with a little push and pokes me in the back with one sharp fingernail.
I trudge up the stairs to my grandfather's bedroom, where my sister is on her hands and knees, ripping out the nubby red carpet he brought over from his small apartment in Chinatown. Her long black hair drags on the sub-floor.
"Samantha," Penny says, pushing her bangs out of her eyes. "I feel like I've been waiting for you forever."
My hands shake. I try to tell myself that it's only the dampness in the air that's causing this deep bone shiver. But, really, I am simply afraid. When I was sitting in the airplane, the idea of coming home didn't seem so real or so final, and I could pretend that I wasn't passing over province after province. Standing here, in my grandfather's old room, with my mother's footsteps coming up quickly behind me, I know that I have irrevocably returned.
"We have to get rid of your grandfather's junk before the wedding. We'll need his bedroom for the tea ceremony," my mother says, pushing me aside to inspect the closet. She turns to Penny: "I don't know why you have to get married so fast. I'm too old to run around like this. Inconsiderate girl." She lets out a loud breath, punctuating her rapid, angry Chinese with a huff.
"Grandfather's been dead for ten years, Mother," Penny says quietly in English, as usual. "And we've been engaged for almost a month. You've had plenty of time."
She waves her hand. "Why do I think you'll understand? I've had other things to do, like look after all you girls by myself."
Penny looks at me with her round, seemingly innocent eyes and shrugs.
Jen Sookfong Lee imagines three generations of a family in Vancouver's Chinatown in her acclaimed first novel. The End of East tells an important story of Western Canada and explores, in both the public and the private, how the devastating Chinese Head Tax laws and racial segregation/racist immigration policies affected a community and individuals within it. In a talk at the University of Alberta in 2008, Lee explained that her research into looking at historical documents and immigration papers led her to imagine what these men's lives were like when they came to Vancouver in the early 20th century and what it was like for the women they left behind in China. From there, she wrote the Chan family. The tension between Sammy Chan and her mother is complex and unresolved and is one of the most memorable mother-daughter relationships in CanLit.
Into The Heart Of The Country
by Pauline Holdstock
also available: Hardcover eBook
tagged : literary
Pauline Holdstock is an accomplished historical fiction writer whose work on subjects as diverse as Renaissance Italy and the Boxer Rebellion land her books on multiple prize lists. Her most recent novel, Giller-longlisted Into the Heart of the Country, looks at the eighteenth-century origins of contemporary Canada by telling the story of Molly Norton. Holdstock imagines Molly as the mixed-blood daughter of historical figure Governor Moses Norton and a lover of the real-life explorer Samuel Hearne. It is a heartbreaking look at the "country wife" and the role Aboriginal women played in ensuring the survival of menwho built the fur trade. Holdstock is a master at weaving historical detail into a riveting narrative and her choice to tell Molly's story in dream-like sequences gives the book a haunting quality which pushes us to question how we understand our past.
The Imposter Bride
by Nancy Richler
also available: eBook Audiobook Paperback Paperback
In her Giller-shortlisted novel, Richler gives us a layered and beautifully-crafted snapshot of post-WWII Montreal. She tells the story of Lily Azerov, who survives the horrors of war in Europe to immigrate to Montreal and marry into a prominent family. She is one of many girls immigrating to be married off into the city's tight-knit Jewish community as they deal with the aftermath of the Holocaust and try to secure Canadian passage for survivors. The Imposter Bride explores the psychological and social ramifications of Holocaust survivors' guilt in a uniquely Canadian context—against the backdrop of a changing Quebec. And as we discover that Lily is not what, or who, she says she is, Richler pushes us to question what it means to be authentic in the aftermath of the 20th century's most pervasive trauma.
Kiss of the Fur Queen
by Tomson Highway
tagged : cultural heritage, native american & aboriginal
A beautiful, heartbreaking, spiritual novel that follows two young Cree brothers from Northern Manitoba who endure Catholic residential school and work to reclaim their culture through art. Highway's book is on my list for two reasons. First, the depiction of Mariesis Okimasis' grief when her two boys, Champion (Jeremiah) and Ooneemeetoo/Dancer (Gabriel), are forced to leave the family and attend residential school is a visceral portrayal of what that institutional colonialism/racism did to families. Second, Highway uses details from the 1971 rape and murder of Helen Betty Osborne to make us think about that tragic event (and lack of response to it) in new ways.
The Extraordinary Life of Louis Riel's Grandmother
by Maggie Siggins
also available: Hardcover
Finally the wind shifted to the southwest, and almost overnight the temperature climbed. On May 5 the ice on the Saskatchewan River broke. Soon the purple heads of wild crocuses had popped out of the slush. A flock of nine white swans flew by — a loud, clear klooo, kwooo honked out. Everyone in the fort thanked God that they had survived the terrible winter.
To make up for the poor haul of buffalo and furs, the Lagimodières decided that as soon as the weather permitted they would leave for the bison hunt. This year they would journey much further south in their quest.
It's not known whether the Lagimodières travelled with other freemen in the spring of 1811, but probably they were accompanied by the Chalifoux family as well as others. An incident occurred along the way once again involving LaPrairie, now two years old, that made them all nervous. It's related by Marie-Anne's biographer, Georges Dugast. One day several Assiniboine arrived at the freemen's tents. The chief dismounted and asked to speak to Mme Lagimodière. Jean-Baptiste, who had some proficiency in that language, agreed to act as a translator. It was obvious that the old man was enthralled with LaPrairie. Dugast described what happened next
The chief represented that they desired to have the boy and taking the rope which held the finest horse he put it in her hand making signs that he would give it in exchange for the child. As one can well imagine Madame Lajimoniere refused his offer and made signs that she would never consent to such a trade. The Indians believing that she was not content with one horse drew up a second and put the cord of this one also in her hand . . . She said to her husband, "Tell him that I will not sell my child that he would have to tear my heart out before I would part with him." "Very well!" said the Indian, "take the horses and one of my children." "No!" said she, "you can never make me consent to such a trade," then taking her child in her arms she began to cry. The Indian apparently was touched by her tears, for he ceased to insist on the [ex]change and went on his way with his people and horses.
This was a most unsettling episode because the Lagimodières and the others were travelling to the Cypress Hills, which had traditionally been a hunting grounds for Aboriginal peoples; whites were not welcome there. Once again the Lagimodières were teasing fate.
It was an ideal place to track down buffalo. In the 1850s Captain John Palliser called Cypress Hills "a perfect oasis in the desert." Another visitor wrote, "No better summer pasture is to be found in all the wide North-west than exists on these hills, as the grass is always green, water of the best quality is always abundant, and shelter from the autumnal and winter storms always at hand."
Cypress Hills received more rain than the plains, and as well as supporting nutritional grasses which "cover the ground like a thick mat," it sustained forests of lodgepole pine, Jack pine, white spruce, and Douglas fir. But storms also descended with deadly speed; the Cree called the area Thunder Breeding Hills.
These hills are a strange phenomenon, huge mounds, almost mountainous in height, pushing up from the flat grasslands. Unusual animals — reptiles, insects, and birds — are abundant. According to Cree myth, the creatures have been left alone from the time God created the world. The native people were too frightened to hunt them down because they thought the woods were full of demons who made the winds howl and lightning flash.
After three weeks of travel, the party finally arrived at their intended destination — the southwestern part of the hills. The trail climbed upward, circling round and round until the plateau was reached. Here on the top of the prairie world, silver and yellow grasses stretched for miles. Marie-Anne kept her eye out for a spot she thought was suitable. She found it in a circular grove of mixed poplar and birch, with evergreens standing behind like tall soldiers. There they camped and the preparations began. A bed of moss was laid on the ground, branches of lodgepole pine cut. Two days later, Marie-Anne gave birth to her third child. Jean-Baptiste baptized the baby Marie-Josephte, after his mother. But like her brother before her, she was forever known by her nickname, LeCyprès.
Despite all their efforts to get there, not long after the birth, the Lagimodières give up on the buffalo hunt and headed north again. Exciting news had reached them. A colony of English-speaking immigrants was to be established at the forks of the Red and Assiniboine rivers, under the patronage of the Scottish philanthropist, Lord Selkirk. It was expected that eventually thousands upon thousands of farmers, poor crofters from Scotland and Ireland, would settle in a huge area that was now called Assiniboia. The Lagimodières decided at once to join them. It had been such a hard year — the near- starvation, the anxiety of conflict with the Indians, the poor fur catch — but that was not the primary reason they decided to give up on the North West. At Red River, they imagined fields of wheat tall as a man's belly button. Cattle grazing. Orchards full of apples. Pretty houses with gardens. And most important, a church with an imposing steeple and bells clanging them to mass every morning. The children could finally be baptized as God ordained.
The Lagimodières probably didn't realize it, but it would be many years of unremitting hardship before this paradise became reality.
Siggins' biography of Marie-Anne Lagimodière (nee Gaboury) reads like a novel. Siggins weaves facts about the first white woman to come West into a compelling narrative. We get a picture of a complex, determined, and intelligent woman who outgrew her small rural town in Quebec, survived the gruelling voyageur portage out West, and built a family with a man who, among other things, already had a Cree "country wife" and children who were none too happy about Marie-Anne's arrival on the prairies. In Siggins' Marie-Anne, we see a woman adept at making connections and learning languages and mentoring her famous grandson, Louis Riel. Hers is an important history of Western Canada and Siggins is a master storyteller for it.
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Sir Alec Guinness' Blunt Star Wars Critiques Are A Must Read For A New Hope Fans
By Dirk Libbey
While Sir Alec Guinness had a long and varied film career, for an entire generation of movie fans he'll only ever be known as Obi-Wan Kenobi. The accomplished actor took on the role in what would become the biggest film franchise in movie history in 1977, and received an Academy Award nomination for the role. While Guinness may have appreciated the part later on, it turns out that while filming the original Star Wars: A New Hope, he wasn't sure exactly what he'd gotten himself into.
Letters Live is an event currently going on in London in which numerous celebrities are appearing and reading letters that have been written by other famous people. According to Entertainment Weekly, Star Wars: The Force Awakens star Oscar Isaac made a surprise appearance on Sunday and read a letter that the previous Star Wars actor, Alec Guinness, had written to a friend, Anne Kauffman, in 1976 while filming the original Star Wars movie. The Shakespearean actor apparently used the letter to vent to his friend, as he was apparently not having the best time on set.
Can't say I'm enjoying the film, – new rubbish dialogue reaches me every other day on wadges of pink paper – and none of it makes my character clear or even bearable. I just think, thankfully, of the lovely bread, which will help me keep going until next April even if 'Yahoo' collapses in a week.
Looking back on this with a modern eye, we can't help but laugh, and feel a little bad for Sir Alec Guinness. Star Wars was essentially the first big science fiction blockbuster of its day. While dialogue that makes no sense out of context is pretty much par for the course these days, it would have been a new experience for the actor. It's also been made clear, from things that other actors have said, that George Lucas was pretty much making up Star Wars as he went along, which is likely what lead to the new script pages coming so often. At least the money (or "bread") was good. It's not like Sir Alec was the first actor to take a job for the paycheck. For the record, Yahoo was a play that Guinness was set to do in London at the time.
The letter gets even more humorous, however. Sir Alec signs off with his friend because he has to get to the studio and get back to filming. His description of what he has to go do (and with whom) is one of the greatest descriptions of the Star Wars cast ever put to paper.
I must off to studio and work with a dwarf (very sweet, – and he has to wash in a bidet) and your fellow countrymen Mark Hamill and Tennyson (that can't be right) Ford – Ellison (? – No!*) – well, a rangy, languid young man who is probably intelligent and amusing. But Oh, God, God, they make me feel ninety – and treat me as if I was 106.
The asterisk in the quote leads to a postscript where Alec Guinness finally gets his co-star's name right and asks "Harrison Ford - ever heard of him?" This is quite possibly the last time anybody on planet Earth was ever asked if they had heard of Harrison Ford. Shortly following the release of Star Wars the answer was a given.
We're so sorry that Sir Alec Guinness had such a rough time on the set of Star Wars. We love him all the more for putting up with it all in order to bring us one of our favorite movie characters of all time.
Dirk Libbey
Content Producer/Theme Park Beat
CinemaBlend's resident theme park junkie and amateur Disney historian. Armchair Imagineer. Epcot Stan. Future Club 33 Member.
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