Life's That Way

Not many books or movies make me cry, hell, not much in life makes me cry. I’ve always seen tears as a weakness and I know I shouldn’t. I know that it’s a strength, an example of power and it’s a compliment to the people you share those tears with that you’ll allow them to SEE, to really SEE that part of you.

Blah, blah, blah. Easier said than done.

I was out with two friends once at the Lloyd Center Mall. We were talking about family I think, a fascinating topic because we all came from such drastically different ones. My best friend at the time had parents who hardly spoke, but loved her endlessly. Our other friend, long raven hair that would make anyone remember her, came from parents who not only didn’t speak, but hardly spoke to her. That afternoon, eating lunch amidst the hustle and bustle of a mall, my raven haired friend broke down. Right there at the table, right in the middle of our Subway sandwiches, she just lost it. Head in her hands, shoulders shaking, she cried for half an hour over the parental bond she didn’t have but so desperately wanted.

I wouldn’t know how to do that. The most I’ve allowed my friends to see are the tears I shed at chick flicks….or rom coms as Australians call them. (Romantic Comedies) I wouldn’t have the first clue how to do what she did in that Portland Oregon mall. I wished I did, because in my heart of hearts, (as the cliché goes) I know it is a sign of power.

I can count on one hand how many books or movies have made me cry. I’ll count them for you here:

(1)   Walks Alone (a young adult book of an Indian girl surviving by herself, making a dear friend out of a White boy and then watching him die)

(2)   Rent (In this movie, I saw too much of my best friend, the one from the mall, in the character Mimi)

(3)   If Only (my mother and I will always remember this movie. It had to do with a couple in a car accident. He lives, she dies, he’s haunted by her lingering spirit. In the end of the movie, spoilers alert, he has the choice of getting in on HER side of the car, thus letting himself get killed and sparing her. I sobbed)

(4)   The last episode of Six Feet Under (Too much to say about this one, but I was unable to speak or even breathe normally during the episodes last ten minutes)

(5)   Into the Wild (A boy that wanted more out of life than life was offering him, he ventured into the Alaskan wilderness and didn’t come out. I relate to too much of what he wanted and more, what he didn’t)

Well, it’s time to use two hands. I am in the middle, (yes, in the middle, meaning I am reviewing a book prior to its conclusion) of a novel that had me crying in the midst of a festival. I was sitting at the Crows Nest fair here in Queensland Australia. There was a dance troupe performance going on in front of me, a hot dog stand sizzling nearby, a parade starting around the corner and the sunshine was blazing down upon the too big brim of my hat.

And I, the girl who doesn’t cry where people can see her, sat in the sunshine and tried to keep my shoulders from shaking.

I rarely read biographies. (The only exceptions being Christopher Reeve’s “Still Me,” Russell Crowe’s “A History in Stories” and Jackie Chan’s) I would not have picked up Jim Beaver’s “Life’s that Way” if it wasn’t for him being a favorite actor of mine. He’s been in Deadwood, Breaking Bad and Harpers Island, (to name a few) but is perhaps most well known for his role as Bobby Singer in the CW’s Supernatural. I don’t need to tell you about the kind cowboy, if not a bit rough around the edges, he is on that show. What matters is the man in his biography.

Jim Beaver starts out as a happily married man of many years. He and his wife, Cecily Adams, are long time actors. He usually plays cops and cowboys. She spent most of her time on Star Trek before transferring over to being a casting director. They have a daughter named Madeline Rose Beaver. (Referred to as Maddie)

Within pages, Jim explains to the reader that his daughter has been diagnosed with autism and that his wife has been diagnosed with cancer. The book itself is the compilation of a newsletter Jim started to family and friends, but which extended far beyond that by its conclusion.

I knew when I started the book that his wife died, so I should not have been surprised when it happened. What startled me and left in a weepy mess was the fact it made in the middle of the book, not at the end as I had expected. It came out of nowhere too, such that I sat there in the sunshine and purposefully tilted the brim of my big hat down to cover my face. I called my mother, told her how much I loved her, suddenly reminded of the mortality of humans in a way I had never expected.

And that is what this book does, that is what Jim Beaver’s narration does. It reminds you how all encompassing despair can be, that it can destroy your world and leave you crumbled on the floor, punching the carpet and screaming until you’re hoarse. It also shows bravery and what it takes to remain brave in the face of nightmare situations. It reminds people that watch too much TV, (like myself) that when REAL trauma happens, the little stuff doesn’t stop. You still have to take out the garbage, empty the lint out of the dryer, buy new tooth paste at the store. Those things are still THERE even when you just want to punch that floor and scream. And finally, Jim shows us how hard it can be to lose someone you love slowly, because when you do, you both want to confide your fears in the one you love, but also shield them from them. What do you do then? What do you do?

One of my favorite examples is after Cecily Adams has passed away. Jim talks about how their new house, the one they built together, has a new shower in it. Cecily always insisted that they’d have to clean the tiles after every shower to keep it from being stained. Jim said there had never been a moment in his life when cleaning a shower every day sounded like something he’d do. When he finished this entry, (the book is a condensed version of his newsletter, he said simply, “Bye everybody, off to buy a squeegee.”

Simple lines like that just strike so close to home, for so many of us. Before reading this biography, Jim Beaver was just Bobby Singer. He was a hunter of demons and a guy who advocated, “Family ain’t just in the blood boys.” One of the things Jim, not Bobby, reminds you of most in this novel is just what it means to be really human. 

This is a ruby, alright.

The Walking Dead, Rise of the Governor

I have always been drawn to those characters in film who are struggling with inner demons. I am fascinated by stories of men who are leaders, self-sufficient, but who are then broken down bit by bit. It doesn’t have be a trauma that gives them this mesmerizing vulnerability. It can be a woman or it can be Armageddon. It can be a disappointing child or a personal illness. It can be a handicap or a familial loss. I am utterly fascinated by men who are knocked off their pedestals, put through hell and come out the other side damaged, but coping.

This is why I like Rick, the star of the Walking Dead television show. He is their leader and is self-sufficient. He has been put through hell by this zombie apocalypse and has been damaged by it. Every new attack, every new infectious bite, every haven lost or brain smeared on the wall, it changes him. There are moments when the viewer thinks he’ll break and yet he pushes on. When he does crack, just a little, I am on the edge of my seat to see how he will cope. He gets his group through each day, but what gets him through? What will happen to the group when their leader falls?

I wasn’t very excited by the prospect of the Walking Dead novel, Rise of the Governor, as it focused on a cast of characters unrelated to the televised ones. I was, if you can’t tell, a bit enamored with Rick, as well as the relationship between Rick and Shane. Not having that dynamic, nor the one between the Dixon brothers, felt like defeating the purpose of a novel. As a writer myself, I wondered why you'd take a popular universe such as that of the Walking Dead and yank out its cast like so much intestines.

Do you remember reading those books that catch your attention immediately? The ones with first lines, first paragraphs, first chapters that just hook you, almost as if you're a fish catching your fat lip on a lure? Well, Rise of the Governor was NOT one of those. Sure, the action was high, the tension unrelenting, the gory descriptions frequent, but I felt the character relationships were lacking. It didn’t have that shared desperation the show sported, that particular brand of camaraderie that only arises amidst apocalyptic situations . (It is easy to bond with with someone who kept your calves from being chewed on like an ear of corn)

The novel featured two brothers named Philip and Brian Blake, Philips daughter Penny and two of their friends. The world had gone down the proverbial blender, leaving nothing behind but walking balls of blood, gore and hunger. With their chances grim and their optimism grimmer still, I couldn't help wanting to know what kept them from putting the muzzles of their guns in their mouths and just blowing themselves away.

It’s the zombie apocalypse right? In a world gone to hell, what do you have to keep you going? If the plague hit our 2012 world now, what would you need to keep the muzzle out of YOUR mouth?

Philip and Blake do not get along. Philip and his kid Penny are distant with each other due to the recent death of the wife and mom. The two friends tagging along don’t know Penny or Brian, so they couldn't care less if they get their toes gnawed off by undead. Brian is the wimp. Philip is the leader. Penny is the child whose innocence is getting washed away by the rotting zombie stench.

Throughout the novels 300 hundred pages however, they all change. You see the strong get beaten down and the weak stand up. You see the ones with morals lose them after their first kill. You see the ones without morals; discover them following the kills of too many. By the end of the story, the tune of the tale changes from “let’s find a way to live” to “let’s find a way to just survive.”

Every person in this group of five undergoes a metamorphosis. When I'd finished the last page, I flipped back to the very first paragraph and just shook my head.

This is why I loved this novel. It started out an adventure with nondescript faces and then turned into a bloodbath full of baseball bats and bullets. The middle brought peace and that vulnerability man thinks undoes him, but actually gives him depth. Towards the end, there was gut-wrenching heartache, souls that long ago stopped looking like souls and several twists that just leave you gasping for air.

What I want most out of my movies and my books is that GET UP moment. You know the one I’m talking about. No, it’s not that one where the sports loving dude gets up from the couch and pumps his fist at the Big Game. It’s like that moment in Rocky where he’s down and they’re counting and he’s breathing hard and they’re still counting and he can’t see straight and their counting higher and all you can do as he’s laying there is scream…..

 GET UP MAN, GET UP!

That’s the get up factor. This Walking Dead book had my heart beating and then aching for those characters and no, my heart wasn’t beating in response to all the undead ones flying through the air, skewered on nail guns. That’s just sick people. Who would read about that?