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Fiction Short Stories (single Author)

People Like Frank

And other stories from the edge of normal

illustrated by Jenn Ashton

Publisher
Tidewater Press
Initial publish date
Oct 2020
Category
Short Stories (single author), Native American & Aboriginal, Literary
  • Paperback / softback

    ISBN
    9781777010164
    Publish Date
    Oct 2020
    List Price
    $19.95
  • eBook

    ISBN
    9781777010171
    Publish Date
    Oct 2020
    List Price
    $3.95

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Description

Finalist, Indigenous Voices Awards 2021

On the edge of normal, the everyday can be an adventure and the ordinary a triumph.

In the tradition of The Curious Incident of the Dog in the Night-time, Room and If I Fall, If I Die, this uplifting collection explores the world through the eyes of protagonists whose perspectives are informed by their unique circumstances. Some are struggling with physical challenges while others seek to overcome psychological barriers.

Far from being defined by their limitations, these characters revel in achievements others take for granted and find wonder in unexpected places. By celebrating the private triumphs of people who are all too often dismissed, Ashton reminds us all of our own humanity.

About the author

A writer from the age of six, Jenn Ashton was first published when she was fourteen. She has written fiction, non-fiction and children's books as well as editorials and articles for periodicals and journals. She sits on the board of the Federation of BC Writers and the Indigenous Writer's Collective. Jenn is a gradutate of Simon Fraser University's Writer's Studio where she now works as a teaching assistant. She lives in North Vancouver.

Jenn Ashton's profile page

Awards

  • Runner-up, Indigenous Voices Awards

Excerpt: People Like Frank: And other stories from the edge of normal (illustrated by Jenn Ashton)

From the story, “People Like Frank”

The new microwave has a reminder function on it. It’s so you won’t forget that there is something in it, which we used to do all the time with the old one. You’d open it in the morning to find yesterday’s cup of coffee, a cold half-baked spud or the like. Frank calls it the “senile setting” and the beeping drives him crazy. And it makes him angry that he needs it.

He’ll start off a project, like replacing the bathroom fan, and then he ends up over across the other side of the house cleaning the rust off the porch light, every counter and table in between full of tools and bits. And then he gets mad that he forgot what he was doing and stomps back in to finish installing the fan. In the meantime, he’s forgotten that he was warming up his second cup of coffee. Now the new microwave beeps at him, and he gets mad again. I’m getting used to him getting distracted, but I still hate the mess.

In the old days, our apartment was tiny and I had to clean up after him if I wanted to make supper or have a place to fold the wash. Over the years, he got better about putting things away. Now when I come across a hammer or other tool left out in the rain or the rake leaning up against the fence, looking lonely and forgotten, I know it’s not on purpose; it’s that Frank doesn’t remember what he was doing with it. We usually come across these things in spring, when the snow melts. I’ve stopped blaming him.

I think he has a bit more pride or maybe it’s shame, and he’ll come back and start to tidy up until he gets mad again and starts throwing things when he can’t fit them back where he got them from. He’s like that, flashy temper. There are lots of reasons why people get angry sometimes, and I think he’s made up of all the reasons. He just can’t help himself—it’s such a habit. I’m used to it and I don’t much like it, but I put up with it. I can’t change him.

It didn’t use to be this way. Frank has always been the kindest person. If you needed help moving, you didn’t even have to ask, he would offer up and just be there with his truck, a pizza and a six-pack of beer. Back in the day, I would find him underneath the neighbor’s car changing the oil, driving somebody across town to an appointment, or professing to me in the quiet and dark dawn that he wanted to be a better man. He would do anything for anybody, even people he didn’t know. If you ask any of our friends, they would say he is über thoughtful and helpful. People like Frank. He is a small man with a big heart. I used to call him my love extremist.

Back in those days, nobody ever saw a temper, and I don’t think he was angry very often, and if he was, it was only in private. Like when he would read of an injustice in the news and stomp around for a while trying to help find a solution, then send off a fiery letter to the editor offering up some suggestions. It was a gentle kind of anger, I wouldn’t even call it anger; it was just passion and I was never afraid of it.

That is the Frank I fell in love with. And even though I know something about genetics, and even though I knew his parents and could see the life he came from, especially when they both fell into dementia themselves, I never imagined it would happen to him. Perhaps I was just naive or didn’t want to know. When you are first in love, the last thing you think of is the bad or tragic ending that could be yours. It’s hard to see past your next date, lovemaking session or first child, let alone thirty or forty years down the road when the change that has maybe started to happen on and off finally gets itself together enough to turn the gentle, funny and talented man that you loved into a monster that you now can’t stand. Your own balance slides back and forth between compassion and fear, and the blankets bunch up between you in the bed like a new third person whose name is Apathy, because I’ve stopped caring altogether. It’s hard enough just keeping up with him most days, never mind feeling regret. I can’t—there’s just no time in my day.

Sometimes Hate is his second name, like this morning when it slapped me in the face.

The dog’s shit smelled like a hundred dead rotting things, and the putrid after-scent woke me out of a dead sleep and I felt exhausted at the thought of having to clean it up. The dog woke up ill, Frank said, but wouldn’t tell me why. He was afraid to—probably the dog ate something on the trail or on their final toilet walk of the night. Sometimes he gives them big chunks of cheese without me knowing because he’s afraid to lose their love, especially when they curl up with me at night—I can feel they are tense around him. But for the mess, Frank just let me deal with it, instead of possibly making himself feel worse because he can’t focus enough. He gets distracted, and I don’t blame him, it’s not him, it’s the disease and that realization makes me have all the feelings.

It’s hard being a parent to your spouse, having to remind them when to eat or shave or when to take their medications or vitamins, when to put on clean clothes or even take a shower. It’s all hard because you never see it coming. Frank and I were so in love and had our routines down, there were no cracks in our mutual armor, “us against the world” for so many decades, thousands of miles or happy road trips, writing songs and reciting poetry over breakfast, such a solid and complete life that you don’t see the cracks when they start to form. The little niggly things that at first you write off to allergies or a cold, or a sleepless night. A surprise fight that blows up out of nowhere like a spring storm or a pair of socks shoved in the cutlery drawer. Misplaced reading glasses that you find months later in the freezer. Then you start to wonder what’s going on. If I would have known then what I know now . . . I’d seen both of his parents with Alzheimer’s, why didn’t I anticipate it? After years of watching parents and our friends come to long, sad endings with various dementias, why didn’t I see? I berated myself for some time but I think the answer is that I didn’t want to see it, my denial was so strong, and I was just tired, tired to think that old life was still following us around, but this time without an escape, because it was in our own house and our own bed and not some miles away in another town, somebody else’s problem to deal with. I was just too tired to see it.

Editorial Reviews

"Ashton dedicates this collection to "the many people I have known, individuals who face barriers from within and without," and expresses her goal as a writer: "To honor your courage and resilience in these stories." Most readers who discover this fierce, delicate and lovely collection will agree that the author has more than achieved her goal. . . Ashton achieves an unusual blend of dark material with delicate, quiet language. Imagine Bosch's Garden of Earthly Delights done in water colours, without losing any of its searing impact. . . In these stories the damaged character is presented in ways that underscore dignity and agency. Ashton's use of free indirect discourse here is magisterial.
Highly recommended.
Vancouver Sun

"Like many avid readers, I enjoy a good and satisfying dive into dark waters. I regularly embrace contradictions, twists and moral ambiguity. So it was completely unexpected for me to find myself quite simply relieved by the optimism in this collection. People Like Frank felt like a balm, particularly coming as it did during violent social unrest and a pandemic. . . An appreciation for perseverance runs through the collection, and the reader has the sense that the characters value their own lives, no matter how insignificant or unimportant they may seem to others. There is a wakefulness to small experience, a curiosity, a delight. There are gratitude and a celebration of effort. I particularly loved the inclusion of Ashton's drawings which are whimsical, poignant and funny.
"I encountered a great deal of kindness in People Like Frank. As I finished the final line of the last story, I recalled thinking "we need more of these"."
The Miramichi Reader

"People Like Frank, Jenn Ashton's newly released short story collection, is peopled with diverse characters from disabled to immigrants to transients to... These characters speak loudly and clearly, building bridges of understanding. I like how some of these stories are linked. This pairing invites a closer look, encourages a deeper understanding, or offers an opposing view. Stories range in length from 3 to 12 pages. The collection is dyslexic-friendly. It's a perfect book to take with you on your morning commute. Some stories are heart-warm. Others are emotionally challenging."
authorleannedyck.blogspot.com

"The twenty stories in this collection are all relatively short, but don't feel lacking in any way. 'Gentle' is a word that comes to mind when I think of my experience reading this book. And optimistic. Some of the stories feel like they have that childlike quality of paying attention to details and living in the moment. Just the collection for anyone feeling overwhelmed by the outside world. The characters in these stories are on the "edge of normal"; a neurodiverse group of people for whom the "everyday can be an adventure and the ordinary a triumph.""
Consumed By Ink blog

"In this superb collection of haunting and darkly humorous stories, Jenn Ashton casts a compassionate eye over the banal and deftly plucks out the extraordinary." CARLEIGH BAKER, author of Bad Endings

"Jenn Ashton crafts a fierce, delicate collection that honours people facing physical, psychological or social barriers. in many of her stories, Ashton achieves an unusual blend of dark material with delicate, quiet language. Imagine Bosch’s Garden of Earthly Delights done in watercolours, without losing any of its searing impact. Highly recommended." TOM SANDBORN, Vancouver Sun

"Like many avid readers, I enjoy a good and satisfying dive into dark waters. I regularly embrace contradictions, twists and moral ambiguity. So it was completely unexpected for me to find myself quite simply relieved by the optimism in this collection. People Like Frank felt like a balm, particularly coming as it did during violent social unrest and a pandemic. Each story in the collection is closely aligned to a singular view, carefully drawn and made credible by intimate observations. Many of the characters are solitary, their worlds conscribed, and Ashton applies a sympathetic but hyper-focused lens to their habits, their thoughts, the details of their daily lives." VALERIE MILLS MILDE, The Miramichi Reader

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