{"product_id":"dropped-threads-2-isbn-9780679312062","title":"Dropped Threads 2","description":"Continuing in the tradition of the beloved first volume, \u003ci\u003eDropped Threads 2: More of What We Aren’t Told\u003c\/i\u003e taps into women’s compelling need to share their personal reflections on life’s defining moments of surprise and silence. These stories celebrate the female experience with an honesty\u003cbr\u003eand intimacy that will take your breath away. Readers will explore what may be unfamiliar terrain, and will come away with the powerful knowledge of what it must be like to step into another woman’s shoes. “The fact is,” writes Adrienne Clarkson in the foreword, “none of us knows anything, and it is what happens to us in life that teaches us everything.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eCarol Shields and Marjorie Anderson, with the assistance of Carol’s daughter Catherine, have gathered an astounding collection of fresh, beautifully crafted and original pieces by well-known Canadians, including Jane Urquhart, Susan Swan, Shelagh Rogers, Michele Landsberg, Elizabeth Hay, Billie Livingston, Sandra Martin and Flora MacDonald. As with the first book, this volume also includes contributions from new writers, women whose names you may not recognize but whose stories will resonate, move and inspire.\u003cb\u003eContents\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAdrienne Clarkson, Foreword\u003cbr\u003eMarjorie Anderson, Introduction\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003eEnd Notes\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003eJane Urquhart — Losing Paul: A Memoir\u003cbr\u003eAlison Wearing — My Life as a Shadow\u003cbr\u003eMary Jane Copps — In My Mother's Arms\u003cbr\u003eLisa Majeau Gordon — An Exercise in Fertility\u003cbr\u003eBillie Livingston — Cat Bag\u003cbr\u003eShirley Serviss — One Step Forward\u003cbr\u003ePamela Mala Sinha — Hiding\u003cbr\u003eDana McNairn — A Marriage in Seven Parts\u003cbr\u003eLisa Gregoire — Northern Lights and Darkness\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003eVariations\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003eMaggie Dwyer — Like Mother, Like Daughter\u003cbr\u003eSandra Martin — Snapshots\u003cbr\u003eBarbara Defago — Inside Talking\u003cbr\u003eLinda Harlos — The Fall, and After\u003cbr\u003eHildegard Martens — By Choice\u003cbr\u003eMarianne Brandis — Virgin Crone\u003cbr\u003eFaith Johnston — Debonding\u003cbr\u003eSarah Harvey — Mother Interrupted\u003cbr\u003eC.J. Papoutsis — They Didn't Come with Instructions\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003eGlimpses\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003eIngeborg Boyens — On the Water's Edge\u003cbr\u003eMary J. Breen — Nobody Needs to Know\u003cbr\u003eJennifer L. Schulz — Toe-Ring \u003cbr\u003eDebbie Culbertson — A Place on the Pavement\u003cbr\u003eWanda Wuttunee — We Are More Than Our Problems\u003cbr\u003eLinda Rogers — Bettina's Hat\u003cbr\u003eMichele Landsberg — Don't Say Anything\u003cbr\u003eSusan Swan — My Secret Life as a Mother\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003eNourishment\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003eKaren Houle — Double Arc\u003cbr\u003eElizabeth Hay — Ten Beauty Tips You Never Asked For\u003cbr\u003eCarole Sabiston — Conjuring Up a New Life\u003cbr\u003eFlora MacDonald — New Voices\u003cbr\u003eSandra Beardsall — Life with an Overeager Conscience\u003cbr\u003eSandra Birdsell — One of a Bunch\u003cbr\u003eMaude Barlow — The Coat I Left Behind\u003cbr\u003eAnn Dowsett Johnston — The Boy Can't Sleep\u003cbr\u003eShelagh Rogers — Speaking of Dying\u003cbr\u003eCarol Shields, Afterword\u003cb\u003ePraise for \u003ci\u003eDropped Threads\u003c\/i\u003e:\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“There are exciting and truly intimate entries in this book . . . these women take ideas even secret ones, and infuse them with poetry, scoured and buffed sentences and . . . stopwatch comic timing. . . . The true depth of the collection is found in these women’s clear memories and their willingness to share.” \u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003e—Quill \u0026amp; Quire\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e“It’s a collection of revealing essays and short stories by 35 Canadian women at mid-life and beyond, reflecting on the life events that caught them off guard and, somehow, haven’t been talked about. . . . As it turns out, there are many dropped threads in our lives. Weave them together and you’ve got a tapestry.”\u003cbr\u003e—\u003ci\u003eChatelaine\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“\u003ci\u003eDropped Threads\u003c\/i\u003e is a collection of 34 pieces by Canadian women in which they describe . . . everything they never said or were not able to say before, but which had tremendous power in their lives. . . . [Senator Sharon Carstairs’s] essay about women in politics [is] clear-eyed and devastating. . . . Miriam Toews examines her father’s lifelong battle with depression, which culminated in his suicide . . . with gentleness and insight. . . . These are all the conversations we would wish to have with friends and these essays stimulate the sense of exuberance and relief that one always feels after a long, self-revelatory talk.” \u003cbr\u003e—\u003ci\u003eHalifax Chronicle-Herald\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“\u003ci\u003eDropped Threads \u003c\/i\u003eis a much-awaited anthology of essays and stories by Canadian women, including celebrated writers as well as women who are neither writers nor famous. . . . The angst of the women in \u003ci\u003eDropped Threads\u003c\/i\u003e covers a wide spectrum.” \u003cbr\u003e—\u003ci\u003eOttawa Citizen\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“If the value of books were measured by the insights stored within their pages, \u003ci\u003eDropped Threads \u003c\/i\u003ewould be priceless. . . . [This] is a wonderfully well-written and excellently edited book that offers such intimate insights that it sometimes seems like a stream of consciousness. The compositions frequently make the reader feel like an eavesdropper—and an extremely entertained one at that. . . . The stories in \u003ci\u003eDropped Threads \u003c\/i\u003ecathartically tie up loose ends for their writers, while providing readers with an exquisitely crafted patchwork quilt of life experiences.” \u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003e—Winnipeg Free Press\u003c\/i\u003eBorn in Oak Park, Illinois, in 1935, \u003cb\u003eCarol Shields \u003c\/b\u003emoved to Canada at the age of twenty-two, after studying at the University of Exeter in England, and then obtained her M.A. at the University of Ottawa. She started publishing poetry in her thirties, and wrote her first novel, \u003ci\u003eSmall Ceremonies,\u003c\/i\u003e in 1976. Over the next three decades, Shields would become the author of over twenty books, including plays, poetry, essays, short fiction, novels , a book of criticism on Susanna Moodie and a biography of Jane Austen. \u003ci\u003eLarry's Party\u003c\/i\u003e (1997) was the novel that followed her Pulitzer-Prize-winning \u003ci\u003eThe Stone Diaries\u003c\/i\u003e. Published in several countries, it was adapted into a musical stage play, won England’s Orange Prize (now the Women's Prize), given to the best book by a woman writer in the English-speaking world. Shields’s final novel, \u003ci\u003eUnless, \u003c\/i\u003ewas shortlisted for the Booker, Orange and Giller prizes and the Governor General’s Literary Award, and won the Ethel Wilson Prize for Fiction. Shields died on July 16, 2003, from complications of breast cancer, at age 68.\u003cb\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003eMarjorie Anderson\u003c\/b\u003e met Carol Shields in the 1980s when both were teaching at the University of Manitoba. She is the seventh of eight children born to Asdis and Thorsteinn Anderson, Icelandic-Canadian fishers, farmers and storytellers from the hamlet of Libau on the edges of Lake Winnipeg. She has a PhD in literature and taught for seven years in the English department at the University of Manitoba before moving to the School of Business, where she became director of the communications programs for commerce and MBA students. She was awarded the university’s Achievement Award for Excellence in Teaching, and has taught in international programs. She recently gave up full-time teaching to spend more time on literary projects and continues to run a communication consultancy for academic and corporate clients. She and her husband live in Winnipeg and enjoy spending time with their four daughters and several grandchildren. Anderson's lifelong interest in writing and storytelling, and her involvement in editing and teaching over two decades, made the task of editing \u003ci\u003eDropped Threads \u003c\/i\u003eand \u003ci\u003eDropped Threads 2\u003c\/i\u003e a comfortable one. She describes her collaboration with her friend Carol Shields as a great pleasure.\u003cb\u003eIn My Mother’s Arms by Mary Jane Copps\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003eThe “ordinary” family is capable of inflicting much pain upon its children. Pain which, by necessity, moves inward, creating adults who must either unravel their secrets or perpetuate a legacy of betrayal.\u003cbr\u003e-- Jan Austin, psychotherapist\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI am startled awake by the quick, cold hands that hoist me to her shoulder. She impatiently pats away my instinctive cry of distress.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAt three, sleep was a place I went to, like going to the playground with my sister, or running in the backyard with Prince, our cocker spaniel. Sleep was even a favoured outing, always surprising me with who, or what, would show up to play.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI loved surprises. I believed in them, saw them as a necessary part of life. My days were filled with looking for them. Head down, I would walk along sidewalks, intent on finding a shiny coin or sparkling jewel. Whenever possible, I would turn over rocks and dig in the earth beneath, sure a treasure was awaiting me. And always, I pulled at the pockets of adults, convinced that the clinking I heard was something they were carrying as a gift, just for me.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eSo on this night, as the sliver of light slashes across my tumbled crib, and her fragile hands wake me to darkness, I can ignore my siblings’ sudden silence and fill my sleepy head with thoughts of Santa Claus.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eIn my house, midnight Mass distorted the reality of Christmas morning. My parents and brothers and sister would return home hungry, ready to get on with the opening of gifts, and I would be wakened to join them. I suspect that my mother, faced with the day’s prospects of too many in-laws and the endless details of the holiday meal, simply wanted to get something out of the way and pushed to establish this Christmas-in-the-dark tradition.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eBut it isn’t snowing. Perhaps the Easter bunny, then, or maybe my birthday. I snuggle deeper into her neck, closing my eyes tightly, for it is bad luck to ruin a surprise.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI’ve inherited my reverence for gift giving from my mother, a devout orchestrator of holidays and celebrations. These hallowed events were staged in one of two places, depending on the occasion. The living room couch, a much-protected piece of furniture, elaborately displayed the wares of Easter, St. Patrick’s Day, Valentine’s and birthdays. Always, I would build up the moment of surprise by walking down the stairs facing the wall, averting my eyes until the last possible second from the splendours that awaited me.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eSweaty from slumber, I cling to her coolness as she carries me down the stairs. Once in the living room, I push myself away from her shelter and look toward the couch in eager anticipation. It is empty. Unsettled, but not deterred, I close my eyes and once again set my drowsy hopes on Santa Claus.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eChristmas was truly fantastic. The den, a large addition at the back of the house, became a holiday shrine. In one corner stood the magnificent tree (Scotch pine was her favourite) with lights, fragile decorations, aged tinsel, a golden angel and, of course, a circle of brightly wrapped gifts. Stockings hung from the top of a built-in bookcase, bulging with candy and the unwanted but necessary tangerine. And beneath them, the unwrapped deliveries from the North Pole. All this was held from view by heavy, brown brocade drapes that shut the den off from the dining room. Opening these drapes required her permission.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI feel the presence of my siblings as we reach the dining room and pop my eyes open in delight. All significantly older than I am, my two brothers and my sister are my playmates, my caregivers, and I love them fiercely. They stand huddled together near the kitchen door, looking not at me but at my mother. They do not make a sound. Behind them I see the open drapes and know for certain this is not about Christmas.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI must have seen their terror. I must have sensed her anger. But I had already chosen my role in this house, to remain hopeful long after it was prudent. My desire for a gift would not be quelled. Perhaps it was what saved us.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eOnce we are in sight of the other children, her voice rings high and loud above my head. This is her never-ending-flurry-of-words, all racing out of her mouth, bumping into one another, falling together and never making any sense -- at least not to me. But the others seem to understand. They turn in unison and enter the kitchen. From behind, she shoves each of them toward the stove.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eIf I had not been struggling against the mist of sleep, I might have seen her eyes, wide with panic and veiled with the glaze of prescription drugs. If I had been a little older, I might have smelled a day’s alcohol on her skin and heard the madness of her demand.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eShe is asking her children for proof of their loyalty, their unshakeable love. She gathers us around the stove, my brothers on her left, my sister on the right and me still in her arms. She turns the large front element on high, the electricity crackling to life and slowly changing the colour of the black coil.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“If you love me,” she says, “you will move your hand toward this element until I say stop.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHer voice booms and bounces in the quiet kitchen. My siblings squirm. I remain mesmerized by the brilliant spiral below me.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“You first,” she says, nudging my sister with her elbow.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe shaking hand of my eleven-year-old sister begins a descent from its highest height toward the glowing orange element.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI am annoyed. I know about going first -- about opening the first present, being served the first plate, getting the first piece of cake. As the youngest, and very much the baby, going first is my place, my territory in a crowded household. Besides, I have been looking for a surprise and this sun-like object must be it.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eWith the agility and speed of a three-year-old, I wiggle and lunge, diving toward the burning element.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eMy sister’s hands catch mine. She pushes me back, toward our mother. My oldest brother moves quickly, stepping between us and the stove, clicking off this evening’s source of pain.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI giggle and laugh. I think we have invented a new game to play together, a type of dance, perhaps. My sister takes me from my mother’s trembling embrace. The speed words have stopped. Tears slide down her face, and she mumbles apologies without pause. My brothers cautiously walk her up the stairs, their footsteps creaking toward her bedroom. I sit with my sister in the kitchen. Held within her tight embrace, I listen to the wild rhythms of her heart.","brand":"Vintage Canada","offers":[{"title":"Default Title","offer_id":46303669158117,"sku":"NP9780679312062","price":19.0,"currency_code":"USD","in_stock":false}],"thumbnail_url":"\/\/cdn.shopify.com\/s\/files\/1\/1842\/7735\/files\/9780679312062.jpg?v=1767725727","url":"https:\/\/k12savings.com\/es\/products\/dropped-threads-2-isbn-9780679312062","provider":"K12savings","version":"1.0","type":"link"}