The Scribble Pad
The mental meanderings of a slightly loose screw.
APRIL 08
Wednesday April 30 - A place to hide
Well, it's been 10 days now. I think I'm still in the first stage of grief: disbelief. I'm unable to wrap my mind around the whole thing; my father was young and vibrant - perhaps too vibrant - and had a long, long way to go. But you know, in the short space of time that's passed, I realise just how good it is to have a place to hide, a private space inside yourself where you can go and be alone and untroubled.
For me, that place is books and writing. What an awesome thing it is to be able to crawl between the pages of a book and pull the covers over my head! My books have always been my solace, moreso now than ever. And it's good to know that my father felt the same way. He left me his books; that's proof enough that he knew what they meant to me, the same thing they meant to him.
Words...what a comfort they can be!
Saturday April 26 - The man you killed
This is an open letter to the louts speeding along the Beetham on Saturday 19th April at about 11:30 p.m., who caused an accident that left one man dead. I want you to know who you killed.
You killed my father, Trevor Carrington. You decapitated my family and left my mother a widow. You took away the man who taught me to find out what my destiny was and follow it, and to hell with whoever thought I wouldn’t, couldn’t, shouldn’t. You took away the man who was supposed to teach my children how to make a Carnival costume and how to play their great-grandfather’s guitar.
Trevor was an old-school masman who brought out a section with Ken Morris and later created a popular 80’s band called The Home Team, a real mas band; no bikini and beads to spoil my father’s mas! This man used to walk around town on J’Ouvert morning in a wig and an old nightie. He knew how to play mas.
He was manager of the Lydian Singers, and sang a sweet tenor. He played the guitar and quatro, blew the trumpet, trombone and flugelhorn. Half of Santa Cruz could testify to hearing the sound of his trumpet carried on the wind on quiet nights.
He was Master of Lodge Rosslyn No. 596 S.C. and Lodge Royalian No.1605 S.C. He believed that, according to Freemasonry, the sons of Dukes and dustmen were equal, and passed this philosophy on to his children.
He was manager at Meat Processors and at Guardian Life, and also worked at Bermudez Biscuits, ALGICO and Crown Life, and shared all he learned there with others. Many successful businessmen earned their qualifications under him at Cipriani Labour College.
This man you killed had a generous heart. There are young men and women who are doing well today because my father put his hand in his pocket and bought books and uniforms when their mothers were unable to do so. He made up boxes of food, nice food, mind you, with apples and grapes, pastelles and ham, and dropped them off for families in need. He voiced books on tape for the blind.
Even in these unsafe times, he picked up hitchhikers, until people got used to his car and waited for him on the side of the road. To him, human kindness was a pool, and whenever you took something out of it, you had to put something back.
My father loved a good lime. His Good Friday get-together, which started “after the Lord’s passion”, was an annual event, and the variety of people there were testimony to the number of circles in which he walked: people from UWI, QRC, St. George’s College and the Masonic Lodges, Lydians and masmen, musicians, and people he just gathered into his life.
So this was the man you took away from us with your blatant disregard for the rules of the road and your disdain for human life. In your recklessness, you have left a hole in our lives that will never be filled. His name was Trevor Carrington. Remember it.
Sunday April 20 - Loss of my father
My father was killed in a car accident last night, at around 11:30. I found out about it this morning when my mother called. This is the first family member I've lost since I was 9 years old.
I'm sitting here halfway between being numb with shock and wrung out and exhausted, not sure what to feel yet. It's weirding me out to think that I fell asleep last night at the same time he died.
I'm thinking about how much he'll miss Carnival, and what a tragedy it is that my children won't have a grandfather, to teach them how to play 'mas and how to play music. And about what a hole has been blasted into my life without warning.
I remember how, when I just started writing, how hard I tried to prove to him that I had what it took to be a writer, and how proud he was of me when he succeeded. And I wonder who I'm going to prove myself to now.
Friday April 18 - 200! Boo-yah!
Just hit 200 pages in my new romance. I love these cute, round, sexy numbers. Interestingly enough, I hit it just at the point where my characters were having stand-up sex in an airplane bathroom, a mile above the Caribbean Sea. Whew. The scene even made me sweat!
Monday April 7 - Thirteen good pages
I love it when a plan (or book, whatever) comes together. Dispatched my kids with great despatch this morning, and was at my computer my about 7. And by 9:30 I'd written 13 good pages. Well, maybe not good, good pages. Or maybe some were good and some weren't. Maybe they're all bullshit. When I go back to them tomorrow, I'll have more than enough time to figure that out.
But it's so good to be writing unencumbered, with fingers flying, barely stopping to think about the next word, or, worse yet, character motivation, plot arc, and all the things that keep a writer earthbound. It's great to wade in there and just write.
Here's to many more days like that.
Wednesday April 2 - Adios, March
Missed me? Don't answer that. Been away from my precious, precious desk for two weeks, grading freshman papers at the local university. I taught the course about 17 years ago, so bring on the pain.
As I was tooling around with dangling modifiers and subject-verb agreement, March just marched on by, leaving me stunned and bewildered. Where'd it go? And is it coming back? What about all my plans?
Yes, folks, between ekeing out a living and dealing with assorted kiddie fevers, my grandiose plans for the month slipped through my fingers. How much did I plan on writing? 25,000 words? Don't make me laugh.
