Olympic Stadium, Athens
Author Terry Keenleyside and his wife, Dorothy, will be at the Rosseau Farmers Market in Rosseau, Ontario this summer autographing copies of his two novels and three literary travel books.
The dates are:
July 22, 9.00 a.m.-2.00 p.m.
August 5, 9.00 a.m.-2.00 p.m.
For more information about the market, please go to: http://www.rosseaufarmersmarket.ca
For details of the five books on sale, click on Books at the top of this page.
![Front COVER At the Table 3[1]](https://takeenleyside.com/wp-content/uploads/2010/08/front-cover-at-the-table-31.jpg)
Caitlyn Jenner’s transformation from male athlete to attractive female has been a major media story for many months. The level of interest in her is reflected in the fact that one of her recent Facebook posts has received over 1.5 million “likes.” But transsexualism is only one of many manifestations of sexual difference. There is another much more common gender type that has by and large been overlooked by the media and in film and literature: transvestism. When this subject is addressed, it is usually in the context of its overt presentation by “drag queens” in particular. But more commonly transvestism is a private, secretive expression of human sexuality, and it is this aspect that is explored in the intriguingly different novel, In A Spin. What’s more the subject is treated in a suspenseful, entertaining and distinctively Canadian fashion.
Henry, a high school teacher and hockey coach, and Joanne, a figure skating instructor, appear to be an ordinary, happily married couple in a sleepy university town, noted for propriety not scandal. But are they? Joanne comes to suspect that Henry is having an affair, maybe more than one, and this is corroborated by their neighbours and friends, Max and Carol. With Max’s help, Joanne hatches a plan to catch Henry in the act of making love to another woman, and in their own bedroom. What she discovers, however, is something very different and it risks destroying their marriage, for there is a surprising, hidden aspect to Henry that seems at total odds with the person she has always known.
Here’s an excerpt from the scene at the local arena where Max meets with Joanne to find out what she discovered when she came home on Henry by surprise:
In the unbroken rhythm of the day, the arena was shifting from figure skating to hockey. Max knew the schedule, and he had timed his visit to be able to talk to Joanne off the ice and alone. They sat in the back of the stands underneath one of the electric ceiling heaters, away from everybody else. “So did you come up with a way of finding out what Henry is up to?” he asked almost right away.
“Yes.” Joanne didn’t look at him. She stared at the players, circling the rink warming up. Even though she’d been only at a skating practice and was more than a little distracted, she was, nevertheless, carefully groomed. Every strand of her hair had been teased and scolded into place and her lips looked iridescent as if illuminated by carnival floodlights. A golden pendant hung from her neck as well, a last-minute decision as she’d left the house, realizing she needed some glitter to hide the strain she felt inside.
“So have you confronted him?”
“Yes.”
“How?”
“I cancelled a skating lesson and came in on him by surprise.”
“So what happened?”
“Nothing.”
“Nothing?”
“He wasn’t with a woman. I…I…found him. I found him…on his own.”
“Oh, so it didn’t work? You picked the wrong day?”
“No, it worked.”
“How do you mean?”
Joanne searched in her handbag for a tissue, blew her nose, and let out a deep, shuddering breath. “There is no woman.”
“There isn’t?” Max said brightly. “How do you know?”
“I just know.” Joanne’s eyes were trained on her handbag…
“Well isn’t that great news?” Max said a little impatiently, tugging at her arm…”You don’t seem very relieved about it.”
“Yes. It’s good news.” But Joanne wasn’t sure it was. If she had found Henry in bed with a student, she might have been able to excuse it as andropause.
“Joanne, what’s the matter? What’s upsetting you?”
“Nothing. I’m…I’m okay.” But Joanne was crying uncontrollably now. “I…I guess it’s…just the relief.”…
“So we were right about him.” Max felt confused. “That’s a relief, isn’t it. It’s nice to realize we really do know him, isn’t it?”
“We don’t,” Joanne wailed. “None of us does.”
“Joanne,” Max pleaded, “tell me what’s wrong.”
“No…There’s nothing. I can’t.”
To read the whole story, you can buy the book by going to http://www.borealispress.com or http://www.indigo.ca. Personally autographed copies are also available by contacting the author: terdotcomm@sympatico.ca.
The following are impending talks and book signings by author Terry Keenleyside, accompanied by his wife Dorothy:
Authors for Indies, Book City
1430 Yonge St., Toronto (Yonge and St. Clair)
Saturday, April 30, 3.30-4.30 p.m.
Author signing of the novel, In A Spin
Bendale Public Library
1515 Danforth Road, Toronto
Tuesday, May 17, 2.00-3.00 p.m.
A discussion with the Bendale Book Club about the trials and tribulations of an accidental travel writer plus readings about unusual experiences depicted in the author’s three literary travel books: Missing the Bus, Making the Connection; Roaming the Big Land, Flavours of Canada, and At the Table, Nourishing Conversation and Food.
For more information, please contact the Bendale branch of the Toronto Public Library.
Here’s an excerpt from the dramatic and funny chapter of In A Spin where Joanne discovers whether or not her husband, Henry, is having an affair:
…on the front steps, as she took our her key to unlock the door, Joanne hesitated again, going over once more the opening line she had rehearsed for several days.”Well, this is certainly something I never expected to catch you doing.” Yes. That was certainly better than her original choice: “Well, how long has this been going on?” Save that for later. Beyond her beginning she had no idea what she would say, no conception of what might unfold. She had envisaged different scenarios. Henry, pants down to his knees, on top of a young woman barely out of her teens–what a slut–their legs flailing over the side of the couch in the den, totally oblivious to her having entered the room. Perfect for her opening line. A more mature woman–in our bedroom no less–desperately trying to hide her nude body behind a sheet and Henry, his hairy chest bristling, pleading with her, “Joanne, it’s not what you think!” Okay for that, too. Of course, there was another possibility. No woman there, only Henry, watching TV in the den. She was ready for that: felt sick so cancelled the skating lesson. And the car suddenly stalled a block away. Henry would tuck her into bed, probably make her some tea and then check on the car. He wouldn’t be particularly surprised when it started right away. “Women!” he would mutter, shaking his head stoically. “Don’t give them anything more complicated to turn on than a hair dryer.” Joanne slipped the key into the lock, and gently nudged the door open. Oh, please let that be what happens.”
To discover the surprise that awaited Joanne, you can get a copy of In A Spin by going to: http://www.borealispress.com, http://www.indigo.ca, or by emailing the author for a personally autographed copy at: terdotcomm@sympatico.ca.
There is more about ice hockey in the novel In A Spin than there is about figure-skating and that is because two of the central characters, Henry and Max, are drawn together by their shared love of the game, even though, as the reader eventually discovers, there is a lot more that Henry is up to than just coaching hockey! The following is an excerpt from In A Spin that illustrates the place of hockey in the story:
“Max just liked the idea of having the arena there as a place to stop when he was out walking, a place to observe the rhythm of Bradbury through the seasons. Slight of build and a little uncoordinated, he wasn’t much of an athlete himself, but he got a kick out of watching sports, especially hockey, and particularly amateurs. Young kids for whom end-to-end rushes were tortuous marathons that ended spilling head first into the net or boards, sticks flailing. Overweight, sweating has-beens at midnight, risking death for the elixir of competition, oh so much more satisfying than their day jobs. He loved the dingy atmosphere, the almost-empty late-night stands, the echoing clap of seats, the chipped
paint, the fog that often lingered above the ice like the ghosts of departed stars, the pennants hanging from the bare rafters, the slashes in the ice where blades had bit into the vanilla sherbet surface, the clock, the buzzer, the expectancy….
“Even after his playing days, Henry was always spatially attuned. A good coach, he knew, had to be. It was central to the job. At the bench, on the sideline, in the locker room, it was all about those x’s and o’s and the quickly traced lines connecting them. All about being in the slot, the circle, the centre, the crease, the corner, at the line, at the point, the post, on the wing, along the boards, behind the net at the right time. But Henry carried that habit with him away from the ice rink….Oddly for a defenceman, when Henry was in his back yard looking out at his pool, he saw things the way a forward would, a guy playing centre ice….But….while positionally he surveyed his backyard surroundings offensively, mentally he was, nevertheless, on defence. That was doubtless a result of all his years playing hockey. He wasn’t Bobby Orr after all. He rarely strayed past centre ice. More often he was at the blue line pinching an opposing forward between himself and his defensive partner, or in a corner pinning someone to the boards. To Henry, good defence was the most critical component of the game.
“It wasn’t just his hockey instincts, however, that led him to survey his home surroundings the way he did. Henry had something to hide, and people concealing something are always on defence, always on the lookout for peering eyes that might catch them unaware, always making sure that nothing is out of place, nothing odd is inadvertently left somewhere that might arouse suspicion. For Henry, defence was a natural, but even if it hadn’t been, he had good reason to think defensively with his neighbours.”
To read more, why not purchase In A Spin by going to http://www.borealispress.com, terdotcomm@sympatico.ca, http://www.indigo.ca?
Henry, a high school teacher and hockey coach, and Joanne, a figure skating instructor, appear to be an ordinary, happily married couple in a sleepy university town, noted for propriety not scandal. But are they? Joanne comes to suspect that Henry is having an affair, maybe more than one, and this is corroborated by their neighbours and friends, Max and Carol. With Max’s help, Joanne hatches a plan to catch Henry in the act of making love to another woman, and in their own bedroom. What she discovers, however, is something very different and it risks destroying their marriage, for there is a surprising, hidden aspect to Henry that seems at total odds with the person she has always known. But with helpful advice from her open-minded friend, Carol, Joanne slowly comes to accept the new Henry, although, in the end, she is unable to save him from embarrassment and public exposure to ridicule.
Interwoven with this story is a satirical sub-plot about academe and a maverick university professor facing dismissal for bizarre classroom behaviour and sexual misconduct. In A Spin is an intriguingly different and distinctively Canadian novel, rich in drama and comedy. Beneath the surface, however, it is also a serious study of the limits of tolerance and the difficulty of knowing people fully.
In A Spin is available at select book stores and from Borealis Press at http://www.borealispress.com. Retail price: $19.95 Cdn. plus shipping and handling. Autographed copies may also be purchased directly from the author at a saving in shipping, handling and taxes (full price: $26.50 anywhere in Canada, or $45.00 for two books; United States: $24.00 U.S, or $37.50 U.S. for two books). To arrange shipment contact the author on this website or email: terdotcomm@sympatico.ca.
Here’s an excerpt from a cottage story on Georgian Bay about that quintessential summer experience of blueberry muffins:
“When I am away from the Bay, but thinking of it, and especially of the old table on the porch, one of the ways I picture it is covered with a red and white checkered cloth. Sitting in the middle is a large blue and white platter, heaped with homemade blueberry muffins. There is a dish of butter beside it, a plate of bacon, and pots of coffee and tea. But these have strictly supportive roles. It is the blueberries that are at centre stage. They are the stars of breakfast and afternoon tea or coffee….
“At one time, the blueberry muffins were baked in the old wood stove–the Royal Matron, circa 1930. Only it could produce muffins of the perfect consistency and flavour–soft, juicy, and simultaneously sweet and tart on the inside, and crusty and crumbly on the exterior, with a hint of birch or maple from the firebox….Now the muffins are cooked in an electric oven. But after a long and rigorous testing program, Dot has learned how to stimulate the qualities of wood stove muffins. Almost perfectly, but not quite.
“To the south directly in front of our cottage porch at a distance of a third of a kilometre, lies the inner channel, which transports small craft safely along protected coastal waters. To the west, through gaps in a ring of islands that sit on the horizon like a fleet of surfaced submarines, we can catch glimpses of the open Georgian, glistening white in the morning light. She is a moody babe, a Great Lake in her own right, and she is known for changing personas in a flash. But as we sit at the table gazing out the porch windows at the ever-changing scene in front of us, our own dispositions are even, our spirits high, and our conversation unvaried: a comparison of the muffins’ flavour and texture with those the wood stove produced in another era. ‘They’re great,’ I will allow. ‘They taste of summer. They’re the toast of the Bay. But they’re not the same as the Royal Matron’s. We’ll never enjoy their likes again.’
“‘No, Dad, we won’t. But please, get over it! Here, have another muffin.’
“And I do.”
Thought you’d get this cherished recipe at the end of the blog? Oh, no! For that you need to order a copy of At the Table, Nourishing Conversation and Food from the publisher at:
http://www.penumbrapress.com/book.php?id=360
Excerpt from “A French Love Affair,” At the Table, Nourishing Conversation and Food:
“I love France….I’m seduced by its charm and perfectly proportioned beauty: the long, wide avenues where evenly dispersed plane trees hang out alluringly at the curb, languid and statuesque, their smooth, mottled trunks as lustrous as a young woman’s legs, their broad leaves filtering a hazy sun and stitching the ground in a patchwork quilt of white and black.
I love the tidy crushed-stone paths in parks, whose pebbles gently massage my feet as I watch children nudge their reluctant sailboats acrosss still ponds, and stooped old ladies brandish their rapier-like umbrellas to shoo away yapping dogs.
I love the wooden benches along riverbanks where lovers embrace,
the geometrically-shaped beds of flowers shouting spring,
the little hidden squares on side streets and the stately ones at main intersections.
Elegant fountains adorned with statues of historic figures, wild beasts, and cherubic infants, shower rippling pools where adults sit, surveying the adjacent cafes.
Where to have breakfast, lunch or dinner? Under which rainbow-coloured awning? From which menu chalked on a white-smudged blackboard at an entrance where a waiter stands in black waistcoat and tie?
I can see myself spinning out my declining years eating serially in the cafes of Paris. Ah, Paris! I love it….
Whether or not it is still acceptable, for breakfast I will buy a rich, crumbling croissant aux amandes at a patisserie and then carry it with me to an outdoor cafe, where I will order a cafe au lait. Preferably the cafe will be on a square with a fountain, but it doesn’t really matter, for I will pass most of my time watching the moving scene before me, guessing the nationality, occupation and destination of every passerby.
For lunch, I’ll have a salade Nicoise or a croque monsieur, but now the cafe must definitely be on a square, for I will be there longer, more engrossed in people-guessing and eavesdropping on conversation at other tables–suited businessmen, leather cases resting against freshly pressed flannels, sealing a deal; women whose silk neck scarves have more penache than strings of pearls describing their latest purchases from the Galeries Lafayette; tourists, their choices in guidebooks disclosing their nationalities, discussing whether to do the Louvre or the Musee d’Orsay in the afternoon; lovers enjoying their first tryst, and others quarelling at the point of breakup.
I am transfixed until mid-afternoon, when I must start walking to prepare myself for dinner.
And dinner? Where tonight?
To read more, you can purchase a copy of At the Table, Nourishing Conversation and Food, from Penumbra Press at: http://www.penumbrapress.com/book.php?id=360.
The good life on the Riviera begins at a young age, as this excerpt from “Over Stuffed Mushrooms, Tim Comes of Age,” in Missing the Bus, Making the Connection: Tales and Tastes of Travel will attest:
Returning to Windsor from France was tough for Tim. He was now entering his last year of high school and home alone…He was restless to get on with his life and to him Windsor seemed hopelessly provincial and restrictive after the Cote d’Azur. Over and over again that year, he complained about the poor choice of dry roses in the liquor store.
We tried to boost his spirits by eating out a lot, playing tennis, and going to the movies. It helped, but still he grumbled. Compared to Nice the food in Windsor restaurants was indifferent; the hard courts were pedestrian after la terre battue, and he had preferred going to the films in Monte Carlo, where one night Boris Becker sat behind us munching on a big box of popcorn. Besides, he complained, it wasn’t the same as when all five of us used to pile into the car with a big picnic dinner and go the drive-in. “You know that film, ‘Swedish Fly Girl’?” he asked me. “We never actually saw it, did we?”
“No,” I laughed. “We couldn’t have; it was restricted…We could see it now,” I said encouragingly to Tim. “Maybe we could get it at a video shop.”
“Naw,” he sighed resignedly. “Wouldn’t be the same as at a drive-in.”
Tim waxing nostalgic. We knew, indeed, he had grown up.
In fact, I remember precisely the night he came of age. It had been the previous spring at a party at Vladimir’s–the man who came to La Colla (our villa) to get his free-range eggs from the princess…we were all there at a big, boisterous function that spilled from their expansive living room onto the candlelit patio with the lights of Menton glittering below like diamonds and ovals of amber trailing from the diaphanous gown of a grand duchess…
Beside me now was a beautiful young woman in a bright-red tunic and short blue skirt that showed off her shapely legs to well above her knees. She had blond hair that glimmered and curled seductively above her shoulders. It bounced lightly when she tilted her head, her blue eyes sparkling at me alone…conversation proved animated and easy. The upcoming Grand Prix at Monte Carlo, the Cannes film festival, the best restaurants at Antibes and Villefranche.
Until, that is, I asked her about her occupation.
“I’m an airline hostess. For Scandinavian.”
“No kidding?” I tried to sound nonchalant, but I couldn’t control the grin that quickly spread across my face and just stuck there. A Swedish fly girl! I’m actually talking to a Swedish fly girl! And she’s enjoying our conversation! This is fantastic!
From that moment on, however, I couldn’t concentrate on what she or I said. All I could think was, A Swedish fly girl! Wait til I tell the others!…
(D)riving home…I burst out excitedly, “Guess what? You won’t believe whom I was talking to?”
“Who? Who?” Dot and Deb were eager to hear.
“A Swedish fly girl! Can you believe it?”
“Really?”
“Yeah,” Tim interjected, glancing at me. “I met her,too. Got a date for tomorrow. We’re playing tennis at the club, and doing lunch.”
“But, but she’s too old for you!” I stammered.
“Yeah?” he smiled slyly.
Cut out by my son, living the Riviera high life.
He had come of age.
To read the full story and other entertaining travel tales (and to see the recipe for “Get Stuffed Mushrooms” that goes with this chapter) buy your own copy of Missing the Bus, Making the Connection at http://www.penumbrapress.com
Turn Off Your Cellphones! It’s Dinnertime!
Here are some opportunities this autumn to learn more about the social, psychological and educational importance of dinnertime conversation and to hear some entertaining excerpts from T.A. Keenleyside’s At the Table, Nourishing Conversation and Food. The book was recently nominated for the prestigious Stephen Leacock Memorial Medal for Humour. At the Table is a collection of unusual and informative stories, drawn from conversations at tables in many locales. Autographed copies of the book, and of the author’s other, related publications will be available at a special price.
Barbara Frum Branch, Toronto Public Library
20 Covington Road, Toronto (near Bathurst and Lawrence)
Tuesday, October 8,7.00-8.00 p.m.
Leaside Branch, Toronto Public Library
165 McRae Dr., Toronto (near Eglinton Ave. E. and Laird Drive)
Monday, October 21, 7.00-8.00 p.m.
Beaches Branch, Toronto Public Library
2161 Queen St. East, Toronto
Wednesday, October 23, 7.00-8.00 p.m.
Can’t make it to any of these events? You can always purchase a copy by going to:
http://www.penumbrapress.com/book.php?id=360.
T. A. Keenleyside 