Albert Thomas Berkshire :: Author

• by Albert Berkshire

There were wine bottles. Hundreds, maybe thousands of wine bottles. Some stood erect, others lay on their side spinning this way and that depending on how they were bumped. Few were broken. Smiles stretched across cheery faces. Conversations flowed and hundreds, maybe thousands of people were focused on one thing – being young.

It was a cool Thursday night when my wife and I strolled along the banks of the Seine. We were walking back to our apartment in the 6th arrondissement, although at that moment, in the opposite direction. The long way seemed fitting. We occasionally looked over our shoulders to see if the Eiffel Tower was alight and sparkling. But that wasn’t really the highlight of the night. At least, not in this short stretch over the cobblestone walk.

I’m certain it’s a cultural thing, but it has been a long time since I’ve heard a large group of teenagers and young adults…talking. And while, based on my comprehension of the lovely, but completely understudied-by-me, French language, they could have been talking about something they saw on Facebook, or You Tube, or Twitter – they weren’t looking at it. They were looking at each other. Talking to each other. Looking into each other’s eyes. (some, for the latter, more intently than others).

There were soccer balls (footballs, to be more Euro-correct) begin kicked around. Badminton and chess were being played. There was paper and charcoal. There was music. There was laughter. There was youth.

Youth…like we had. Youth – before the techno social crutches of today’s North American (but not limited to) society. The same society that has adopted a seemingly obligatory, more-than-necessary check of email, messenger, messages, text, snapchat, BBM (yeah, still out there – Go Canada!), twitter, even Ello (I’m so hip) and the long list of other social media platforms competing for your conversational neuro-allotment.

Youth, it seems, is vibrant and engaging in Paris.

If you cared to read about the French Revolution, you’d understand that as a truly socialist nation – for the people – France has long valued its…well, social values. People read. They are educated in a heavily subsided system that, by my observation, ensures every citizen who wants to be educated – is educated. Perhaps, like my take on Canada’s health care system, it’s an education system in France developed by the people of France, for the people of France, that seems to work for the people of France. And there seem to be many upsides.

People are engaged. And it’s wonderful to see. Sadly, I’d hazard a guess that I’ve not seen it like this in North America – for the most part – since the 1990s. Glued, we are (Yoda moment), to our electronic devices. Unable, we seem (you know I’m going for the Star Wars trifecta, don’t you), to be able to share without a button. Miss, we do (achieved it, I have), the nuances of conversation.

And we need it back in our lives.

We need to discuss what’s happening in our lives. How we feel about the issues of the day should not be pre-empted by Grumpy Cat’s latest meme. A summer vacation’s description should not need to be validated by a like button. We lose the essence of a moment shared when we summarize it in 140 characters so that it conforms to the new attention span. We need to stop abandoning conversations at the sound of a notification.

We need to stare at art longer than fifteen seconds. We need to think about what the artist’s truly saw when the image was captured in his mind. We need to appreciate the subtle irony of Renoir’s portraits of Manet’s niece. And that she later wrote about it in long form.

We need to write each other with words, not emoticons. We need to discuss the deeper meaning of lyrics, not quote them by way of copy-and-paste. We need to not only know the correct use of, but the actual definition of, your, you’re, and yore (yes, there’s a third one – from a long, long time ago).

We need it to matter. Like it obviously matters to the French. We need a different button. Not a like, love, share, post, or tweet button.

We need a reset button. Or perhaps, un bouton de remise.

We need Poison to come back to remind another generation of a time we don’t remember, and a war some can’t forget…and to give us something to believe in.

Albert Berkshire is a storyteller. He places the highest importance on conversation, yet completely embraces a little time alone – even if it is shared. An oxymoron he loves. His preference is to write in long form, more recently with a 90’s rock soundtrack, which he is doing with some semi-psychotic new fictional characters. His first novel of fiction, We Made A Pact, is published by Friesen Press. You should read it. For a much shorter, and less frequent rambling, follow Albert on Twitter @albertberkshire.

-by Albert Berkshire

There are days that should never end. The days where all your crazy notions come to light. The days when you not only realize where you want to go, but accept where it is you should be. Those are the days you just want the car to keep moving.

Credit card. Phone. Passport. Clean underwear. Everything you need to make a run for it.

Just. Keep. Driving.

I’ve calculated that if I drank enough coffee, I could be in Belize in four days. Belize would be a welcome change. Warm ocean breezes, atolls, sand, rolling waves and snorkelling. No calls. No stress. No worries…mawn. 

Just time to write.

It wasn’t too long ago that a 15 hour drive in a day was anything of a challenge. In 1998, whilst moving to a new city for a new job, I succeeded in traveling from Toronto to Thunder Bay in 15 hours. The girl was much further away, but I was where I was supposed to be at the 15 hours mark and like any young pup dreaming of the corporate ladder climb, I pulled over, dropped my bags and settled in for the long, long, LONG Northern Ontario winter.

I think it’s still winter there.

My old joke, which falls on now annoyed ears in my house, “I lived in Thunder Bay for 18 months. It was the longest five years of my life!” is, to this day, the most accurate explanation of my time in that town. We didn’t work out, me and Thunder Bay. Too humid in summer, to cold in winter. It was like Toronto on a menstrual cycle. Bloody angry.

That brings me back to the drive to Belize. The need to escape is sometimes so overwhelming that the idea of just going for it becomes all you can think about. And recently, it’s been the ideas that a) there are easily accessed internet connections in Belize; b) I could easily ignore all forms of electronic communication; and c) the freedom to just write would be waiting for me there on the beach, have all conveniently emerged in my mind as a reality not too far off from the one I’ve been seeking for several years.

The freedom to just write when I have to write. Not when I want, or feel I can, but when I have to write.

The latter is easily explained.

Sometimes things get in your head, and if you don’t get them on paper, on a screen, or recorded onto a device, you’ll lose it forever. And there it little more frustrating to a writer than forgetting what you wanted to write about. Because it was brilliant!  The not so brilliant part of it is calling your other writer friends and asking, “You know that idea I had last night at dinner, when we were drunk. Do you remember what I was going to write about?”

First let’s acknowledge that our writer friends are not going to help us. No one likes competition that much. And secondly…well, see point number one. That’s pretty much it. You’re on your own, freinemy.

So what do you do?

You drive. Because those times spent in a car give you so much to think about. So much to remember. So much to hold on to until the next time. And in a 63 hour drive, you can dream up a lot of material. Belize…it’s so much more than a tropical destination teasing me with a story and the freedom to write it. It’s where my mind drives when I just want to keep driving.

It’s simply amazing…right up until I see my exit.

Albert Berkshire is a writer, producer, voice actor…storyteller. He is regrettably guilty of never taking time to write when he has to write. A good drive might just solve that dilemma. He just hopes to avoid exits next time. For a much shorter, and less frequent rambling, follow Albert on Twitter @albertberkshire.

– by Albert Berkshire

Norma stood staring at the gravestone. It was tilted to the left. It sank slowly over the near thirty years it was in place. She never commented on its position or need of attention. It seemed almost irrelevant.

“I want my full name on my headstone,” she said rather blankly.

“Well, I don’t think we need to talk about that, but I agree. Mary is a beautiful name.”

I didn’t want to talk about headstone inscriptions. But I thought I should at least acknowledge the request.

“No. I don’t care if it says Mary, I want my maiden name on there.”

“I think we have plenty of time to discuss that.”

This was not my kind of conversation.

“No, Albert. I know. I know how I feel and my time is soon. Anyway, that’s enough about that. Let’s go.”

This was her usual way of ending any discussion with me that she felt had run its course, or when I had when I made some valid point about the invalidity of religion.

In all the years my father was laid to rest in that cemetery, she never once made reference to being buried beside him. The only hint that she would be was the blank space beside his name on the headstone, and the knowledge that that was what always happened to a husband and wife – they got buried together.

Lunch was Norma’s next suggestion. She was always hungry. She was, at best 90 pounds. She could eat five meals a day and never gain an ounce. Bit by bit, meal by meal, whatever was wrong with her system was depriving her of the necessary nutrients to stay healthy and strong. She never lacked an appetite. She just lacked the ability to make any use of what she ate. And so, we went for a drive and found a little restaurant on the edge of the water. An American might call it a diner. My father-in-law would call it a cafe. I like to think of it as your typical outport Newfoundland greasy spoon. It mattered not. They had a turkey sandwich on the menu and Norma was thrilled. She was an easy woman to please.

What are you going to eat?” She asked. “What do you eat?”

I’m a vegetarian. This was foreign territory for most members of my family. Norma assumed I lived on salad. If only it were that easy.

“I’ll find something. I always do.” In retrospect, I think I had apple pie. Close enough.

After lunch, we drove to a small community named Norris Point. Norma pointed up to a knoll, a mound of a hill. Too small to be a mountain, too big to be hill. It was a rocky lump that overlooked the harbour. Typical Newfoundland topography.

“Your father proposed to me up there.”

In all the years I knew this woman, in all the years we talked about life and travel, religion and politics, the news of the day, the philosophies of humanity, the trials and tribulations of the world, she never once made a single mention of where she and dad were engaged. I knew they were married. I knew where and when and who was there. I knew about when they dated – and her usual quips about how every girl in the office wanted to go out with him except her, and he had to ask her out. And of course the usual, “I wasn’t even remotely interested in him. I was engaged” routine retort to any mention of them as young adults.

And then this. Today. It was a surprise, more to hear the actual information, than it was to know they were engaged before marriage. It was like the missing link we never knew was missing. Oddly, none of my siblings ever heard the story either. Perhaps she just wanted someone to know. More importantly, this confirmed what I always knew…that I was her favourite. I jest. Unless you are my sibling, then I am serious. I was the favourite kid. Ahem.

After we left to drive home, we mostly had a normal conversation about life, news and politics…and eventually it turned to what we would do for dinner. She, like me, loved to go out to eat. Being served was high on her list. It was something earned from a life of work. She certainly never had the slightest entitlement growing up. Any dinner out for Norma was because she earned it. And she loved a good meal in a nice hotel restaurant.

Things didn’t go great for Norma after that weekend. She suffered a stroke a few weeks later and never fully gained the strength she needed to go home from the hospital. I flew back to Newfoundland on a whim a couple days before Christmas to spend it with her. Christmas in a hospital was about as equally depressing as seeing my mother in a hospital bed, semi-dependent on others…mostly strangers. Over the few days we spent, we had our usual talks, she had turkey dinner for Christmas night, and she slept a lot. Her stories almost stopped, and she was content to drift in and out of the conversations. I sat and wrote next to her bed. She occasionally asked me what I was writing, to which I could only reply – a novel. She said she looked forward to reading it.

“I hope it’s not trashy. And I don’t like a lot of swearing. It’s not necessary, you know. It ruins a perfectly good story” she said with a renewed strength of opinion. She was never short on opinion when it came to her literary critiques.

“No mom. No trash. I don’t think my characters ever swear.”

A few hours later I woke her up to tell her I was headed to the airport. She asked me where a few people were…some current, some past, some that I hadn’t thought of for years. It was the first time I really knew she wasn’t getting better.

About two weeks later, my brother called me and asked, in our typical family non-pressuring way, to come home if I wanted to come home. That generally translated into “I think you should come home.”

I arrived about 3am on the morning of January 13th. We spent the night in the hospital room with mom, and eventually, when the family shift change came, we got some sleep, some food and came back into the hospital a few hours later. By now, all six of her kids were doing shifts around her bed until someone suggested we let mom sleep while we all go have dinner.

The story, as I understood it from my sisters, was that at some point, about 5pm-ish on the 13th, Norma took off her oxygen mask, looked at my two sisters and said, in her typical conversation ending tone – a tone we all knew very well;

“That’s it. I’ve had enough. I’m done here. I’m ready to go.”

As we all gathered around her that evening, she went around the room, naming each of her kids and getting most of her children-in-law correct  – something that still makes us laugh. I, of course, just do it a little more publicly. When she got to me, she said, “We’ve had a lot of good times, haven’t we Albert.”

We had, indeed. My life was never short on adventure. I owe all of that to her.

I never got to tell her that I finished my novel. It didn’t seem important. There were more important things I felt she needed to know. I may even have tried to bribe her with a turkey sandwich if she’s stay a while longer, so we could talk a little more about the less important things. But I knew she was ready to go. She was tired of fighting. Tired of waiting to see my father. That, in itself, was the better story.

Norma Mary Hartery Berkshire died in the early morning of 14 January 2013. I was holding her hand when she passed.

I like to think she got the final word in our years long debate over the validity of religion, the existence of a god – one in which she firmly and loyally believed – and the importance of attending mass every Sunday. That final word, however little planning she may have put to it, was delivered in the most resounding way. She managed to get all of her kids in the same pew, in the same church, on the same day…at least one last time.

I’m certain I felt the Universe smile on us that day.

Norma lived a fine life. She was a lady to the end. Dignified in every way.

Today, 16 October 2013, Norma would have turned 82. There would most certainly have been cake. She loved any excuse to have dessert.

Albert Berkshire is a writer, producer, voice actor…storyteller. He misses the conversations. For a much shorter, and less frequent rambling, follow Albert on Twitter @albertberkshire.

– by Albert Berkshire

I had no intention of writing this today, or any time in the near future. Perhaps, not even at all. But as anyone who writes for a living knows, when it hits, it hits. Tidal waves, I call them.

I was listening to my Riding Mix in the studio this morning. It’s a mix I created to which, on those rides when I’m alone, and it isn’t bear season on the lower-elevation trails, I like to listen. It has good energy. I need that when I’m on my mountain bike.

I listen to music most days when I am working, writing, creating. I love the emotion that comes from music. Some music lights a fire under me, invigorating me, making me work hard and fast. Other tracks slow me down, bring tears to my eyes – may more these past weeks than in the past. Even now, Thunderball by Domino is making my brain move at an alarming pace. My fingers can’t keep up with my thoughts…and then the song slows. It gives me a moment to reach for my peppermint tea that has sat neglected on the table for the last five minute.

This morning, I was listening to a Phontaine track from the mix when I found myself on the iTunes store looking for more Phontaine. I thought there might be something new to download. I never managed to complete the query as I when I typed in “P”, a previous search for Polyphonic Spree came up. A viable alternative, I thought to myself – and the cat on the desk. As it is with most things for me, one thing lead to another, one click took me to something even more unexpected, and suddenly I was watching an NPR Little Desk Christmas performance by The Polyphonic Spree. Tim DeLaughter, the lead singer – and possibly cult leader of ’The Spree, makes me smile. He is the emotion of his music. And sadly, his songs, like those of Kishi Bashi don’t really go on forever. So when his NPR performance ended, I started to scroll through the NPR Podcast listing to find another.

And that’s when Margo showed up.

When I was in my twenties, I had a torrid love affair with the music of Margo Timmins. She was, in 1990, one of People Magazine’s 50 most beautiful women in the world. But she was more than that. She was (then, and still is now) an amazing voice. Now, I know there are two other members of The Cowboy Junkies, but they aren’t, and then weren’t, Margo. They play exceptionally well, but Margo, like Tim DeLaughter, is the emotion in her music.

The thing is, I don’t really like country music. There was a Garth Brooks cover of a Bob Dylan song back in the 90’s that I liked. Gord Downey from The Tragically Hip put out an album as Gord Downey & The Country of Miracles that was more folk than it was country, but beyond that, the only purebred country song that makes me smile the long and lingering smile is Seasick Steve’s cover of Hank Williams‘ I’m So Lonely I Could Cry. It’s that good.

But Margo…Margo was extraordinary. Turns out…she still is.

The song that struck me was the one I always loved – and never knew why. I listened to the words today. Possibly five or six times. I needed to do that today. Misguided Angel finally resonated with me for a real reason. The song relates, in a way I can’t, or perhaps, won’t properly describe, to a character that has been living in my head for a long time. It’s taken me years to get her out onto paper, and in the truest irony of my life, she doesn’t even have a name. (Nor, I think, will she.) For the most part, I never knew her story was going to be told. It was in me, as is any writer’s story, but it was never properly provoked into making an appearance.

Or maybe, I never asked her.

I can remember the day I started writing. I mean, really writing things that mattered to me – as a writer. You see, not everything I write matters to me. It is my job, and I do it. But sometimes I write things, perhaps like this, today, that mean something to me. Anyway, I remember starting to write from the heart. And when I say “from the heart”, I don’t necessarily mean romance or pain in the psyche kind of writing (although that is almost complete, I warn you). I mean writing with passion. The passion that permits my brain to surge ahead of my typing skills and renders my somewhat-obsessive-compulsive self to disregard my myriad of typos until a later moment when I will right their grammatical trespasses. But I never thought about when I started writing as a date, an occurrence, or a catalyst until my friend Shelley asked me when I wrote my best stuff.

The answer? When I was unhappy. When I was a misguided angel, of sorts.

And now, almost three years since Shelley and I had that brief conversation, I realize that it doesn’t have to be my heartbreak or unhappiness or loss or even turmoil that is adopted as the driving force for a story. It can be someone else’s.

Today, it was Margo’s.

The look on her face when she sang Misguided Angel was one of pain. I could feel every word she sang. I could understand the angst of her character. I could relate, in ways, perhaps most people would care not to understand, to the internal struggle of her misguided angel. It was powerful.

When I was younger, in my 20’s, actually, I had a friend who had the refreshing and youthful beauty of Leslie Caron, the stage presence of Sarah McLaughlin, and the deep passion of Margo Timmins. It was a trio of characteristics that set her apart from our other friends. It made her stand out. She was a conflicted soul. And back then, I used some of her pain to write. Yet, back then, and even until now as I just wrote those words, I never realized I did that.

Other people’s pain is an amazing inspiration.

There’s a line in Misguided Angel that Margo sings with such matter-of-fact explanation of her character’s less-than-ideal lover’s passion, to which I can’t help but relate as a writer. “…it’s in the way he walks, it’s in the way he talks. His smile, his anger and his kisses.”

Passion, it seems, brings out the best and the worst in us. But more than that, it leads us down the path we really know we should travel.

I followed it. And I wrote a novel.

Thanks Margo, real or otherwise.

Albert Berkshire is a writer, producer, voice actor…storyteller. He hears music as a gift, appreciates the meaning of words, and relishes in how singing a verse can redefine the meaning for every listener. His love of storytelling, and his passion for the written word has helped make his company, GreatCreative.Com, successful. For a much shorter, and less frequent rambling, follow Albert on Twitter @albertberkshire.

– by Albert Berkshire

I am running through the woods. I have left the comforts of conformity and normalcy and   safety and reason well behind me. Despite the pressure to accept them as society would like me, I am happy to have left them in my rear view. I never liked them that much. Still, I didn’t sign up for this race. I just happened to find myself in it. Like everyone else, I am racing against myself. Though I fear many of them fail to understand that, nor see the logic in its reality. There is no reward that I believe awaits me. No grand prize. No bragging rights that interest me. I seek only more of what I have already found.

The pace is quickening, as is my heart rate. My mind is racing at the same rate as my heart. Random things rush into my head. Memories of things good and things bad are filling my head. They scare me as much as they make me more determined to continue forward. Past glories, moments endured or delighted in, revelry – though I find the word carousal to be more to my liking. They all matter, whether I want them to or not. They resonate in rhythm with my feet. Take the good and the bad in stride, I think to myself.

I’ve gained elevation. Why any of us choose to flee in an uphill direction can only be explained by Hollywood screenwriters and the clinically insane. I can’t determine who would offer the more believable explanation. The air is starting to feel cooler. It is little relief in this race. As I gain elevation, the air, inevitably, thins. I start to slow. I am beginning to tire. I convince myself I have to press on. Giving in, giving up is not an option that I am willing to choose. Push harder. Find more. Do not get caught.

Obstacles appear in front of me. Life is throwing hurdles in my direction. I’ve been in this situation once before and made the mistake of giving in to the challenge. I won’t make that mistake again. I know from experience you just have to go over them as quickly as humanly possible. Life isn’t going to give you more time. Circling back and around is too time consuming, and time is not a friendly travel partner. I press on…over.

Breath hits the back of my neck. It can’t be mine, despite the pace at which I now race. I hope it is just mine swirling around my neck, but it isn’t. I look over my shoulder for the first time. She is close. Gaining on me. I can’t let her catch me. It would be the end of me. And so I push harder.

As I break above the tree line, the terrain levels off. I have hit my stride. My second wind has found me. I can see the place I want to be. Figures await in the distance. It is still far off, so I lean toward the finish. I can hear heavy breathing behind me, but it is no longer against my neck.

Regret is exhausted. And I got to the top of the hill ahead of her…again.

Ski off bigger cliffs. Paddle in Thailand. Offer my feet to Garra Rufa fish. Sleep beside the Colorado River. Hike in Arches National Park. Photograph The Three Wise Men for my mother. Ride Missoula, Moab and Fruita. Crew for friends at the Leadville 100. Go back to the Asulkan Trail. Spend a week on the Oregon coast. Stand on the beach where one of my fictional characters loved to stand. Race, and finish, an enduro mountain bike race. Ride the Staten Island Ferry. Stroll through Greenwich Village. Walk across the Brooklyn bridge. Share dinners with friends. Drink at a Speak Easy. Eat breakfast alone, often. Travel for the sake of being present. Show up unexpectedly at parties because I could be there. Party with friends at the CN Tower. Go to the Vanier Cup, the 100th Grey Cup, and the Hockey Hall of Fame. Thank a soldier. Get caught up with Joe. Say a proper goodbye to Harold. Make a new friend. Share Rumi. Come to appreciate everything I have, everywhere. Apologize. Make peace. Give. Say no to the things that are wrong and yes to the things that are right. Make a promise I will keep. Stare at the lights on the trees. Stroll for no reason other than to linger…longer. Have honest conversations. Come to understand. Find out for certain.

It was a good year for the Bucket List.

In your face, Regret.

Personal Note: This will be my last article for a little while. Everyone needs a break from what they do, and who they are. And I have one more thing to cross off my list before time catches up with me. Unlike Regret, Time is relentless. I made a promise that I would do something important. It’s best that I go do it. I’ll be back before you can count to eleven.

Out beyond ideas of wrongdoing and rightdoing there is a field. I’ll meet you there. – Rumi, 13th Century.

Albert Berkshire is a writer, producer and voice actor. With regularity, he finds himself in the strangest situations, for the strangest reasons, doing the strangest things. But it always makes for a great story…even if he’s the only one who understands its meaning. Making other people’s stories interesting has helped make his company, GreatCreative.Com, successful. For a much shorter, and less frequent rambling, follow Albert on Twitter @albertberkshire.