A flurry here yesterday afternoon as Dr. Heather Morrison announced that two employees of the A&W burger joint in Charlottetown had tested positive for COVID-19. As it happened, Oliver had been through the drive-thru of A&W on Friday; presumably not a great COVID transmission vector, but as close as we’d bumped up against it.

Simultaneously, I wasn’t feeling well yesterday. In ye olde times I would have said I just had a mild cold, or perhaps I simply had a bad sleep, but I had a headache, sniffles, and felt achy. The Premier has been making a particular effort of late, at his briefings, to drive home the “you’re not being a calamity holler if you get yourself tested” point, and so I decided the prudent course of action was for me and Oliver to both get tested.

I drove us over to the Park Street testing clinic, in the old government garage, and we breezed right in. A few questions from well-masked-and-gowned clinicians—symptoms? out of province travel?—and then a quick and painless nasal swab, and we were done. Probably 20 minutes for the entire endeavour.

When we got home, I fired up my automated test results checking system (it needed a few tweaks, as the back end had changed a little); Oliver’s negative test result came back in a gravity-defying 4 hours, around 8:30 p.m., but mine didn’t arrive overnight and well into today, leaving me a little anxious for most of the day. The provincial system only provides results for negative tests—if your test is positive, you get a personal call from Public Health—so I was on tenterhooks waiting for the phone to ring as well.

But then, at 3:30 p.m., my own negative result came back.

I am, to say the least, relieved. And I’m thankful that I live in a place where our testing infrastructure and public health apparatus are well-organized, and where testing is freely and easily available.

Late today came the announcement that we are about to enter a “circuit breaker” phase for two weeks, moving to the “yellow” alert level; as I’m already chastened by my weekend experience, I was already disinclined to leave the house, so not much will be changed for me for this new phase.

Marianne Eloise, writing in today’s New York Times:

When I was growing up, I was as unkind to myself as other people often were to me: I called myself evil, cold, weird. I internalized the worst things anyone could say because I believed them. Looking back at that child now, and that disruptive teenager, I just want her to know that she is loved. I see her staring so intently at her books or her train set or her Game Boy and I wish I could tell her that she’s autistic — and that it isn’t only OK, but good.

Being a nascent publisher, I had no idea of what size print run I should order for Using Her Marbles. So I ordered 30. And then Lulu, the printer, shorted me 5 copies, leaving me with 25.

Apparently that was not enough: between sales at The Bookmark and from my own shop, they’re all gone.

I’ve ordered more; past print orders have been printed and delivered quickly, but it’s the Christmas season, so only time will tell.

You can contact The Bookmark and ask them to set aside a copy for you when the new batch arrives; in the meantime, I’m going to accelerate development of the ebook version.

I sat down in the studio the Matt Rainnie yesterday morning (although I wasn’t in the studio, I was on Skype, and Matt, oddly, was standing not sitting) to have a conversation about Using Her Marbles.

You can listen to our conversation, which aired between 5:30 p.m. and 6:00 p.m. last night on Mainstreet.

Update: the CBC has posted a “web story” version of the interview. 

Remember hanging out with friends? This Q&A by Sylvan Esso made me miss hanging out with friends something awful.

Two new items in the Queen Square Press shop this morning, both recovered from deep within the archival drawers of the print shop:

• I Am a Canadian, printed in 2015, is a passage from a speech that Hon. Alex Campbell gave in Toronto in 1967. 
• First a call to the Cross Keys for a bracer , a line from a poem by the late Frank Ledwell, was printed in 2014 at the tail end of my work on the Confederation Country Cabinet project.

There are just a few copies of each remaining.

The Bookmark hosted a virtual book launch for Alan Doyle tonight; he was interviewed by Kim Stockwood to rollicking good effect.

Doyle talked about the St. John’s pub culture, and how one of the important aspects of it is that you never know who’s going to show up.

Hearing that, I realized that’s what I miss about going to Receiver Coffee every morning: the random happenstance of chance meetings that give life so much of its flavour.

One day I might sit down for tea with Bob and Earlene, the next with Ann and David. Windsor might be in for an espresso, Rob might be parked behind his iPad, and, on a rare day, Thelma might be in town from up west.

I’m not so down on Zoom-socializing as many others, but there’s no debating that you can’t accidentally bump into someone on Zoom. Life under COVID is all organized virtual play dates and no unexpected pickup basketball.

Jeremy Cherfas on turning down work:

I learned long ago that doubling the price on a job, only to have the client accept anyway, actually doubles the misery of a job I don’t want to do in the first place. I need to Just Say No.

I wholeheartedly agree. I’ve become much better at saying no in recent years.

This episode of Taskmaster has a little bit of everything that makes the British TV show hilariously compelling. There are scads of episodes and clips on YouTube for your comedic pleasure.

My late friend Laurie Kingston published a book in 2009, Not Done Yet, her tale of being diagnosed with, and living with, metastatic breast cancer. I accidentally found my way to the book on my own, years before Catherine herself was diagnosed with the same cancer, and I will be forever thankful to Laurie for unwittingly preparing me for something about what was to come.

Early in her book, in the chapter What (Not) to Say, Laurie wrote:

It’s not easy to know how to respond when someone tells you she has breast cancer, but for goodness sake, say something. As hard as it is, and as awkward as you might feel, it is worse to say nothing than to mutter a few heartfelt words.

When Catherine was diagnosed–a process that spun from biopsy to single mastectomy to double mastectomy to, oh, no, wait, none of that, it’s  incurable-but-treatable in a dizzyingly fast progression–I realized that part of my job was to manage the flow of information to Catherine’s family, friends and familiars: I knew that having to update everyone she knew about the latest scan, or how she was feeling, or what she needed, could quickly sap her of her increasingly scarce energy.

So I did what comes naturally: I started an email newsletter.

I started off tentatively, on October 21, 2014:

Apologies for moving so quickly from handcrafted individual emails to a mailing list, but I was beginning to lose track of who I’d told what about Catherine and her progress, and this seems like a way of doing so that’s sustainable, but without the publicness of a blog, which would make Catherine uncomfortable. Catherine has, however, blessed this alternative.

At that point I had no way of knowing that, five years and more than 50,000 words later, I’d still be writing in October of 2019:

It’s been a month since I last updated you all on Catherine. At the time of my last update Catherine was in hospital; she ended up staying there for a week, primarily to allow her to rest, get re-hydrated, and get herself on an even keel after a challenging recovery from her radiation treatment and the restart of her oral chemotherapy.

Catherine lived for more than five years with her incurable-but-treatable condition, until her death in January of this year.

Going back this fall to re-read the tale of ups and downs and forks in the road, of radiation and chemotherapy, experimental treatment, and an ambulance running over her cell phone, I came to think that while the words weren’t written for public consumption, they might be useful words to families finding themselves on a journey similar to ours, and people supporting them. So much of the anxiety of living with cancer, and supporting someone living with cancer is fear of the unknown; while everyone’s path is unique, I knew from having read Laurie’s book that having some sense of the terrain could be useful. 

And so I turned those words into a book. 

Itself all a somewhat harrowing experience, both because book design was something I hadn’t practiced for a quarter century, and, more so, because doing so took me back to relive a lot of really hard experiences. 

A box of those books arrived today, and you can purchase a copy locally from The Bookmark in Charlottetown, or order a copy by mail from my Queen Square Press shop.

To give you a taste of what to expect, here are the first 20 pages of the book as a PDF.

Two days after Catherine died, I wrote, both here and in the newsletter:

I’ve learned in the last 48 hours that I can’t outrun grief through writing, though: it has its own rules and schedules, and, despite my delusions to the contrary, you can’t write an essay and earn an exemption. But I am finding that you can earn some extra credit.

Thank goodness for that extra credit: beyond any service to Catherine and her circles, writing was how I managed my own way. And having the opportunity to revisit those words, and those years, has been, yes, harrowing. But also healing.

Thank you to my mother Frances for editing assistance, my sister-in-law Karen for coming up with a subtitle, my brother Mike for offering me words of encouragement, and to Oliver for being my son, and for putting up with more than usual frozen pizzas while I’ve pulled all this together.