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.