Sualt Ste.Marie writer Ted Fryia weighs in with his favs for 2008.
I want to give you my BEST READ OF THE LAST WHILE:
Probably the funniest book I've ever read, "LAMB: The Gospel According to Biff" by Christopher Moore. The book is Biff's (Jesus' childhood friend) account of his and Jesus' (Joshua's) exploits that date after Joshua's birth - the story we were never told. The Archangel Gabriel has brought Biff back to earth in order produce the missing gospel - "let it be written" as Joshua had told Biff to do on so many occassions.
The Gospel According to Biff is a laugh out loud read from beginning to end and works on so many levels - whether you are a believer or not. Most highly recommended.
To be honest, the last few months have been exceptional for reads: I think I've mentioned Afterlands (Steve Heighton) when I was in T.Bay. Also, The Golden Spruce.
I'm almost finished Gargoyle by Andrew Davidson, which is his debut novel a smash hit for critics and sales - seven figure contract through a bidding war. It's terrific, but one has to feel sympathy for poor Davidson - having to match or better Gargoyle with his next novel. Oh - only if we all had such problems - hey? But if I had to pick just one, let it be written, Biff wins.
Showing posts with label Ted Fryia. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Ted Fryia. Show all posts
Saturday, November 22, 2008
Wednesday, May 28, 2008
A DEGREE HERE OR THERE by Ted Fryia
Prepare to laugh as Ted Fryia takes us back to our school days - or were your school days ever like this?
A Novel Excerpt From
A DEGREE HERE OR THERE
By Ted Fryia
Even though we lived in Northern Ontario, my father loved baseball more than hockey. He loved it so much that in 1955 – the year I was born – he convinced my mother they should name me Berra, after his favourite player. Then growing up, my father taught me to get down when fielding grounders, to hold the bat off my shoulder while at the plate, use two hands when catching and to always keep my eye on the ball. But what he didn’t teach me was anything about sex. My parents left that to the school. And if it wasn’t a confusing enough, our school’s idea of sex education was to pass it off to the church.
McPhee cut us like cattle; boys in one room, girls in another. Then he left. No one knew who was with the girls, but Father Rochetta was the messenger sent to the eighth grade boys at Holy Trinity. It was hard to believe that a priest could know much about sex, even after the story of another priest on the far side of town, rumoured to be “partaking of too much wine and women”. And there wasn’t much chance of that happening with Rochetta. For one thing, he was older than my father. For another, he was short and kind of pudgy with a thin black strip of hair running around his otherwise cue-ball head. And though he didn’t always wear his collar when he visited our class, this day he did.
Father Rochetta began by folding his hands over his distended belly where the buttons strained to break loose. The top of his head and his face were turning red. “Sex – that’s what I’m here to talk to you boys about today. Sex is something that can be good – if you’re married,” he quickly added. Then raising his eyes, he stared over our heads. “It is a gift from God, to be shared between a man and wife.”
Behind me, Gerry Maki leaned forward and whispered, “So what’s he know about it?”
Rochetta stopped. “A question? Good.”
Gerry sat back. “No Father.”
“Does anybody have a question?”
If Rochetta had known anything about thirteen and fourteen year old boys at the time, he could have predicted we weren’t going give ourselves away on this one. He waited then gave up. “Even people who are not married, from time to time have an urge for sex,” he finally said. “It’s animal instinct.”
When I raised my hand, Rochetta looked relieved. “Do priests have urges?” I asked. The snickering that followed wasn’t what I was going for, but I was proud to take the credit.
Rochetta held his hand up like a cop stopping traffic. “No-no – that’s a good question, Berra. A priest is a man, and all men have urges.”
From the back of the room, John LaRocque asked, “Then that’s a – yes?”
“Yes,” Rochetta said without providing any details. “Any more questions?” Getting none, he went on. “What’s most important is what one does with these urges.”
John’s hand shot up. “Father, what do you do with those urges?”
A lot more snickering this time.
“Well, that’s a very personal question. It’s John, isn’t it?”
“Yes, Father.”
“What a person does with his own urge is between him and God. But what I can say is you must control them. And prayer is always our best tool when fighting temptation.”
Another hand waved in the air and Nicky Carbone asked before Rochetta could acknowledge him. “But what if prayer doesn’t work?”
“I know it’s hard, boys –”
Oh how we howled.
“Now boys, let’s be mature about this. Boys – boys,” Rochetta pleaded. When we were finally quiet, he lowered his voice. “To be honest, there are times myself when the urge is so strong, I feel as if I – like I must” – then he stopped himself. Just in time.
From behind it sounded like Gerry was chocking, until he slapped his desk and began cackling like a crazy person. I tried to hold back, but the snickers around the room were gathering momentum. Within seconds our laughter was full-throttle.
McPhee barged through the door. The room went silent. “Is everything okay here, Father?” he asked.
Rochetta’s face and head were plum-coloured. “Thank you, Mr. McPhee, we’re doing fine. And the boys are asking good questions.”
McPhee’s eyebrows bunched together and he scanned the room. “Okay. Good. How long do you expect to be, Father?”
“Another fifteen or twenty minutes.”
When the door closed, Rochetta looked at us again. “The point I was trying to make is, no matter how strong the urge, you don’t have to act on it. Prayer always helps.”
John LaRocque’s hand went up again. “Father, what about – masturbation?”
A few chuckles slipped, but they died quickly. I looked around the classroom and everyone, even Rochetta, looked frozen in place.
Eventually the priest cleared his throat, “Ah-humm – yes. I know that this is a popular activity among young men, but it is a temptation you must not give in to. Though it – masturbation – is done in private, the Lord is watching.”
That was about all I could take. The image in my head of this wrinkled and wise looking man, white hair falling to his shoulders and peeping from behind a cloud on a bunch of teenage boys “giving in to temptation”, tore the laughter out of me. And I wasn’t the only one. Gerry sounded like he was choking again, until he snorted then went into hysterics. Dave Ellis brayed like a mule when he laughed and just about fell out of his desk he chugged so hard. Jimmy Caputo, who sat in front of me, turned around with tears rolling down his inflated cheeks and slapped the top of my desk. I still don’t know why McPhee didn’t hear this hysterical rabble’s whooping, pounding of desktops
“Now boys – boys. Enough!” Rochetta boomed.
Most of us were already beyond Rochetta’s reach when John LaRocque yelled out, “God must be some kind of pervert if he likes watching guys masturbate.”
Rochetta took a step down the isle then stopped. His face twitched. “John! John – go stand outside the door.”
“Does God have those urges?” John yelled over another wave of laughter.
The priest looked like a black thunderhead as he stormed down the isle, grabbed John’s shirt at the shoulder and yanked. John’s desk toppled to the floor and the priest dragged him towards the door. When Father gripped the door knob his knuckles turned white. He twisted the handle then threw the door open, but it banged and bounced off the wall then slammed shut again. With a fistful of John’s shirt in one hand the priest took hold of the door knob with the other, looked up and closed his eyes for a moment. After taking a deep breath he looked straight ahead and opened the door slowly. Then, letting go of John, Rochetta pointed into the hall and said in a controlled but wobbly voice, “Stand out there – until I come to get you.”
John pushed up from the floor then stepped out the door as Rochetta turned back to us. Behind the priest, John hung his tongue out the side of his mouth, rolled his eyes and began to pantomime that he was jerking off. The priest didn’t’ even look back; with an artful flick of his short fat fingers the door swung closed and cut short John’s performance. Pleased with himself, Father Rochetta strode to the front of the room, shoulders back and chin tilted upward, where he commenced with his talk.
The rest of what he had to say was about how to avoid temptation through prayer. He lost me with that stuff. I was hoping for something a little different; I’m sure I wasn’t the only one hoping for something about the parts – the girl parts. Without the interesting bits my mind wandered. And since we were told in catechism class, “only Catholics go to heaven”, I wondered what kind of talk the public school kids got. Surely, if they weren’t going to get in anyway, no Protestant was ever going to bother with fighting temptation.
A Novel Excerpt From
A DEGREE HERE OR THERE
By Ted Fryia
Even though we lived in Northern Ontario, my father loved baseball more than hockey. He loved it so much that in 1955 – the year I was born – he convinced my mother they should name me Berra, after his favourite player. Then growing up, my father taught me to get down when fielding grounders, to hold the bat off my shoulder while at the plate, use two hands when catching and to always keep my eye on the ball. But what he didn’t teach me was anything about sex. My parents left that to the school. And if it wasn’t a confusing enough, our school’s idea of sex education was to pass it off to the church.
McPhee cut us like cattle; boys in one room, girls in another. Then he left. No one knew who was with the girls, but Father Rochetta was the messenger sent to the eighth grade boys at Holy Trinity. It was hard to believe that a priest could know much about sex, even after the story of another priest on the far side of town, rumoured to be “partaking of too much wine and women”. And there wasn’t much chance of that happening with Rochetta. For one thing, he was older than my father. For another, he was short and kind of pudgy with a thin black strip of hair running around his otherwise cue-ball head. And though he didn’t always wear his collar when he visited our class, this day he did.
Father Rochetta began by folding his hands over his distended belly where the buttons strained to break loose. The top of his head and his face were turning red. “Sex – that’s what I’m here to talk to you boys about today. Sex is something that can be good – if you’re married,” he quickly added. Then raising his eyes, he stared over our heads. “It is a gift from God, to be shared between a man and wife.”
Behind me, Gerry Maki leaned forward and whispered, “So what’s he know about it?”
Rochetta stopped. “A question? Good.”
Gerry sat back. “No Father.”
“Does anybody have a question?”
If Rochetta had known anything about thirteen and fourteen year old boys at the time, he could have predicted we weren’t going give ourselves away on this one. He waited then gave up. “Even people who are not married, from time to time have an urge for sex,” he finally said. “It’s animal instinct.”
When I raised my hand, Rochetta looked relieved. “Do priests have urges?” I asked. The snickering that followed wasn’t what I was going for, but I was proud to take the credit.
Rochetta held his hand up like a cop stopping traffic. “No-no – that’s a good question, Berra. A priest is a man, and all men have urges.”
From the back of the room, John LaRocque asked, “Then that’s a – yes?”
“Yes,” Rochetta said without providing any details. “Any more questions?” Getting none, he went on. “What’s most important is what one does with these urges.”
John’s hand shot up. “Father, what do you do with those urges?”
A lot more snickering this time.
“Well, that’s a very personal question. It’s John, isn’t it?”
“Yes, Father.”
“What a person does with his own urge is between him and God. But what I can say is you must control them. And prayer is always our best tool when fighting temptation.”
Another hand waved in the air and Nicky Carbone asked before Rochetta could acknowledge him. “But what if prayer doesn’t work?”
“I know it’s hard, boys –”
Oh how we howled.
“Now boys, let’s be mature about this. Boys – boys,” Rochetta pleaded. When we were finally quiet, he lowered his voice. “To be honest, there are times myself when the urge is so strong, I feel as if I – like I must” – then he stopped himself. Just in time.
From behind it sounded like Gerry was chocking, until he slapped his desk and began cackling like a crazy person. I tried to hold back, but the snickers around the room were gathering momentum. Within seconds our laughter was full-throttle.
McPhee barged through the door. The room went silent. “Is everything okay here, Father?” he asked.
Rochetta’s face and head were plum-coloured. “Thank you, Mr. McPhee, we’re doing fine. And the boys are asking good questions.”
McPhee’s eyebrows bunched together and he scanned the room. “Okay. Good. How long do you expect to be, Father?”
“Another fifteen or twenty minutes.”
When the door closed, Rochetta looked at us again. “The point I was trying to make is, no matter how strong the urge, you don’t have to act on it. Prayer always helps.”
John LaRocque’s hand went up again. “Father, what about – masturbation?”
A few chuckles slipped, but they died quickly. I looked around the classroom and everyone, even Rochetta, looked frozen in place.
Eventually the priest cleared his throat, “Ah-humm – yes. I know that this is a popular activity among young men, but it is a temptation you must not give in to. Though it – masturbation – is done in private, the Lord is watching.”
That was about all I could take. The image in my head of this wrinkled and wise looking man, white hair falling to his shoulders and peeping from behind a cloud on a bunch of teenage boys “giving in to temptation”, tore the laughter out of me. And I wasn’t the only one. Gerry sounded like he was choking again, until he snorted then went into hysterics. Dave Ellis brayed like a mule when he laughed and just about fell out of his desk he chugged so hard. Jimmy Caputo, who sat in front of me, turned around with tears rolling down his inflated cheeks and slapped the top of my desk. I still don’t know why McPhee didn’t hear this hysterical rabble’s whooping, pounding of desktops
“Now boys – boys. Enough!” Rochetta boomed.
Most of us were already beyond Rochetta’s reach when John LaRocque yelled out, “God must be some kind of pervert if he likes watching guys masturbate.”
Rochetta took a step down the isle then stopped. His face twitched. “John! John – go stand outside the door.”
“Does God have those urges?” John yelled over another wave of laughter.
The priest looked like a black thunderhead as he stormed down the isle, grabbed John’s shirt at the shoulder and yanked. John’s desk toppled to the floor and the priest dragged him towards the door. When Father gripped the door knob his knuckles turned white. He twisted the handle then threw the door open, but it banged and bounced off the wall then slammed shut again. With a fistful of John’s shirt in one hand the priest took hold of the door knob with the other, looked up and closed his eyes for a moment. After taking a deep breath he looked straight ahead and opened the door slowly. Then, letting go of John, Rochetta pointed into the hall and said in a controlled but wobbly voice, “Stand out there – until I come to get you.”
John pushed up from the floor then stepped out the door as Rochetta turned back to us. Behind the priest, John hung his tongue out the side of his mouth, rolled his eyes and began to pantomime that he was jerking off. The priest didn’t’ even look back; with an artful flick of his short fat fingers the door swung closed and cut short John’s performance. Pleased with himself, Father Rochetta strode to the front of the room, shoulders back and chin tilted upward, where he commenced with his talk.
The rest of what he had to say was about how to avoid temptation through prayer. He lost me with that stuff. I was hoping for something a little different; I’m sure I wasn’t the only one hoping for something about the parts – the girl parts. Without the interesting bits my mind wandered. And since we were told in catechism class, “only Catholics go to heaven”, I wondered what kind of talk the public school kids got. Surely, if they weren’t going to get in anyway, no Protestant was ever going to bother with fighting temptation.
Thursday, February 7, 2008
ALIBI CREEK
The prologue of a mystery thriller by Ted Fryia
Andy Wells had tested what was left of the shore-bound ice, poking at the glazed surface with a tree branch and leaning his weight out in front. He had anticipated the edge breaking away. But what he didn’t know is the secret it would give up.
Hoping to get ahead of the season and luck into a winter-starved book trout or two, Andy had wedged the pole into the fracture and pushed. A mass separated from the shore. There it bobbed, rolled and rotated. With it was a body, shirt, hands and hair fixed to the under side.
The breath startled out of Andy in a burst of vapor. His feet slipped and he thumped down on his tailbone. He scrambled to his feet, his rod still in hand, slipping in snow and mud as he crawled over the bank to solid ground. There he pulled off his muddied gloves, reached inside his fleece jacket and palmed a cell phone out of the pocket. With fingers so cold they felt like flattened nubs of stone, he poked at the numbers.
After explaining to the 9-1-1 operator that he’d discovered a body, then his location, Andy hiked through the trees to the highway and waited. It was his first encounter with death. Real human death. It was encounter enough to tell him that he didn’t want to be alone with it.
Now a creek slaps around rock. It punches through ice then empties into the pond. Mist rises while shivering evergreens crowd the shore and leafless birch trees flick strips of white bark at the breeze. Andy sits on the bank straddling a fallen log, a wool blanket draped over his slumped shoulders. Clutching the fishing pole he received as a fifteenth birthday gift, colour still absent from his sallow face, he’s reminded of market fish he’d seen stretched on beds of ice; the image of the man’s clouded eyes are frozen in his memory forever.
A diver is chest-deep in the bitter water, his gloved hands looking like black paws nudges the body around jags of ice. A grey-haired officer waits on the shore.
“Who is it?” the officer asks as he reaches down to help heft the rigid body out of the water.
Once the body is on the shore the diver shoves and slides it further from the edge. “Don’t know,” he says. “Been here a while though; looks like decay started before winter set.”
A young officer comes to assist. He helps his partner turn the bloated body onto its back, then his baby-face pales and he gags. The ballooned face has a sickly white pallor, all pigmentation leeched away where bleached eyeballs stare at him.
“Jimmy, get the boy home,” the older officer instructs. “Radio in and see about any missing persons.”
Fighting to keep his breakfast down, Jimmy nods then trudges up the bank on long legs. He stops in front of Andy. “Hey, you wanna go now? I’ll take you home,” he offers with a sympathetic face, then points to the trees where a path leads to the highway.
Officer Jimmy Dole drops Andy Wells at his home, talks briefly to Andy’s mother and heads back. Wipers move intermittently, streaking the windshield of the police cruiser. Tires lick the asphalt then spit back the morning rain. The radio squawks and the dispatcher calls; none of the missing persons’ reports describe anyone tall enough to be the corpse from the pond.
He wonders what kind of man goes missing with no inquiries made. Could be a drifter or some homeless person migrating from a big city where shelters and food banks can’t keep up. Likely, foul play, Officer Dole has already decided. But by the time he can get back to the pond where the forensic unit will already have the area taped off, he’s sure that evidence will be scarce. Time, rain and snow, high and low water levels, sun and wind would have scoured the site.
Jimmy Dole had been a deputy for a little more than a year, and in that time he couldn’t help but notice that Solomon City, considering its size, had seen more than its share of strange goings on. Many were connected to the Crowthers property in either proximity or kinship. And what had just surfaced in the pond, tucked away in the forested part of the Crowthers’ estate, was just the latest in a series.
So why didn’t he see it in the dead man on the bank? Why did he just realize that this too would lead back to the old house and the old woman’s last days there? Keeping his eyes on the road, Jimmy picks up the radio transmitter, squeezes, then speaks.
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