Annette Haws - Author

Lions and Tigers and Bears, Oh My! Actually Vampires

Annette Haws — Tue, 04 Jan 2011 04:19:12 +0000

I know, I know, no more Vampires. You mention the word and everyone groans and makes some crack about the Twilight series or Bela Lugosi, but I just spent three days with my nose in a book–a 766 page turner, The Passage by Justin Cronin. It’s a great read. Even the invented slang is entertaining. Vampires are smokes, dracs, virals. Children are Littles. Slims are the dessicated left over bodies (think carcass after Thanksgiving). Cronin is clearly a graduate of the Iowa Workshop, and occasionally you feel like you’re swimming through unending descriptive passages and each of the dozens of characters have a complex back story, but give the guy his due, they were all interesting and well written. And the whole premise for the novel, an apocalyptic pandemic, a virus that turns well intentioned humans into blood sucking exo-skeleton monsters, I mean what could be better than that? Borrow it, check it out, buy it on Amazon or at your local independent bookseller, but read this book. It’s so much fun.

Fishy Stories

Annette Haws — Sun, 19 Dec 2010 18:33:53 +0000

After being a loyal Dialogue reader for too many years to count, I finally have a short story, Fish Stories, in their winter issue. I think it’s an insightful treatment of the both toxic and healthy ways women interact with one another, and so I was a bit disgruntled to have it totally eclipsed by the article by Kenneth Cannon II, certainly one of my twenty thousand second half cousins once removed. Yes, you’ve got to love the fallout from polygamy.

“Wives and Other Women: Love, Sex, and Marriage in the Lives of John Q. Cannon, Frank J. Cannon, and Abraham H. Cannon” does not hold back, and good for the author. I reread the biography of George Q. Cannon by Davis Bitton over the Thanksgiving holiday when I was stuck, wrapped in a blanket in a corner of my son’s house trying not to infect my entire family, by what was lacking. That biography was so scrubbed that I wanted to chuck it out the window. Now in 36 pages in Dialogue, the heart ache that a father must have endured is spelled out, no details missing.

There are plenty of stories about my maternal grandfather’s older brothers, and I’ve heard the story of Frank Cannon’s illegitimate child before, the one plucked from his mother’s arms by George Q. Canon to be raised as a twin in his own Grandmother’s home, but I had never known the mother’s identity. Now I do, Maud Baugh of Logan. Poor Maud, a twenty-year-old girl, just happened to be the aunt to Phyllis Baugh, a secretary for fifty years to my paternal grandfather, Old Dr. Randall, a non-Mormon native of Alabama, who certainly knew the whole story but never saw fit to mention it given his connection to my mother, his daughter-in-law and a Cannon. Maud was a woman with some resources and came from an excellent Logan family, not just the upstairs maid as legend has it. When her son’s uncles took him aside on his wedding day (I can’t say much for their timing) to tell him that his parents were not whom he supposed them to be, I hope they knew enough about Maud to get the story straight.

If this genealogy is confusing, you’ve never lived in Utah, and I apologize. The larger issue is how a biography could be written and not mention any of the stories that must have shaped the last thirty years of George Q. Cannon’s life.

These three boys, toddlers all, were left with wife #2 while George Q. left with wife #1 for an extended English mission. Were the little boys all scarred in some way? Did their father’s complicated sexual relationships influence their own? George Q. constantly intervened trying course corrections with his sons that failed. He must have agonized when his oldest son had to publicly confess his adultery at General Conference. What courage was required to soldier on in the face of censure, humiliation, and disappointment. Wow. Why are the most inspirational stories shoved under the rug?

Merry Christmas!

Annette Haws — Sun, 19 Dec 2010 16:54:10 +0000

You will be delighted to know that Charlie and I have reversed the aging process. Through an amazing discovery Charlie made at Costco, we are now the proud owners of a Vita-Mix Machine and drink copious amounts of raw fruits and vegetables twice a day. Tomatoes, mixed berries, apples, grapes, bananas, carrots, broccoli, and green leafy vegetables get tossed into the machine and pureed into a concoction the consistency of a milk shake. We are virtually aglow with anti-oxidents. Our age spots are fading, our memories are improving, and our aches and pains are less vocal. Of course, the qustion we are frequently asked is “What about chewing?” We strain the seeds with our teeth, but not a lot of chewing is involved which is good, because we are also into joint conservation.

The update on our children is not, unfortunately, as exciting. Pete is working at a pharmacy, Betsy is working too much, Andy is working in Ohio, and Charlotte is working on completing her last year of PA school. They are a tax paying, student debt reducing, energy conserving crew of liberals, moderate consesrvatives, and conspiracy theorists who play scrabble on holidays and remember their parents’ birthdays and anniversaries. So far no one has run away to join the circus.

The grandchildren are much more engaging. Ben has lost two baby teeth spontaneously and not as a result of playground mishaps. He rides the bus to kindergarten and thinks he scores all the goals on his soccer and basketball teams. Charlie tried to tell him that goals in basketball are called baskets, but the logic isn’t consistent. After all goals in soccer aren’t called socks.

Lucy is fifteen months old and is a girl with a mind of her own but not much hair. She has started to talk. Her first word was “ya-ya,” but actually it sounded more like, “yeah, yeah.” It’s a response I frequently make myself, and I was delighted, after five years of fruitless searching, to discover my genetic thumbprint on one of my grandchildren. When adults make the ridiculous, obvious remarks that adults make, “Lucy, what a pretty dress,” or “Lucy, aren’t you a big girl,” she responds, “Yeah, yeah.” I’m sure that next year she will perfect rolling her eyes. She’s an adorable child, a diminutive, happy cynic. All she needs now is a small set of car keys and a baby doll to throw over her shoulder.

Charlie and I are not worried about getting older. We just toss back more glutinous fruits and vegetables and devise our escape plans. We’ve rented a flat in Paris for a month next fall to mark our continued existence. Betsy is going with me, she refers to herself as the vanguard. Charlie is coming at the end of the month to ensure my return. Pete, Charlotte, and Andy and Nollie are coming as the mood strikes them.

If you happen to be in France next October and see an elegant ex-pat wandering the streets, searching for food that hasn’t been pulverized, it just might be moi. Please say hello; the chance that I’ll recognize you is greatly improved.

Happy New Year.

A Fifty-two Pound Pouncer

Annette Haws — Sat, 21 Aug 2010 19:13:50 +0000

I never know which version of my grandson will come down the escalator to hug me (and knock me down) in baggage claim. The aficionado of Thomas the Train and Cars seems to have been replaced by a karate chopping five-year-old pouncer who breaks into elaborate dance moves when the music, any music, reaches his ears. The first morning he was here, we were awakened at five o’clock (seven, Ohio time) and were at the play ground at the elementary school as the sun was coming over the mountains. After several days of pleading, “Please, no chopping” or “Grandmothers are fragile,” I have learned to just tuck and roll.

This little boy, who has been in perpetual motion since he deboarded the plane, sat perfectly still to have his face painted like a terrifying blue dragon at Lagoon. His back-to-school haircut had to be gelled and spray-painted green. Not being able to tie a bow was not a deterrent to the purchase of electric blue Converse All Stars. He sped around the shoe store–lightning speed. What is it about new shoes?

In two weeks time, it was only the ride up the tram at Snowbird that proved traumatic. In fairness to Ben, it was terrifying, like a trip to the surface of the moon. We landed above the timber line, no birds, no wild flowers, just gravel and a grim landscape. Ben had been hopping from one foot to another for the last five minutes, but the operator assured me that a porta-pottie would be available on the top. A very nasty, cold, smelly convenience, and Ben sat there for several minutes while I stood guard at the door. This little boy has a bladder the size of a peanut and a pressurized stream that could blast paint off concrete, but the chill wind drowned out the absence of noise. Two minutes into the return trip, two hundred feet in the air, Ben made his announcement. In spite of the tram being jammed with sightseeing vacationers, we sang, we danced, we jumped up and down. I cajoled, I encouraged, I failed. I couldn’t imagine even such a small bladder reloading so quickly. Quarts of urine spilled down his small legs and soaked his socks and shoes. Aghast, people pulled away, turned up their noses, and grimaced at being confined on a tram with such trashy people. We were both humiliated and glad to take French leave from the rest of our party and hide out in the public restroom rinsing out Thomas the Train underwear, shorts, and socks and drying them with the hot air machine next to the sinks. There is much to remember about little boys that I seem to have forgotten.

I’ve considered pinning a warning label on the front of his Levi jacket for his Kindergarten teacher, Caution Pouncer. Instead, I’ll hug him tightly before he leaves me at security and wonder who will meet me at Thanksgiving.

Rocks no longer hot

Annette Haws — Thu, 15 Jul 2010 15:07:40 +0000

I was robbed. My usual oblivious self, I walked into our house and didn’t notice all the drawers and cupboards in the living room were opened or see our Halloween and Christmas decorations spilled all over the floor, but when I walked up stairs, I knew. The trays from my dresser drawer were face down on the floor. I turned around, grabbed the phone, and left. It would be easy to strike a very virtuous pose and say that things are just things, but those little bits of jewelry were portals into my past life. My grandfather’s tie clasp with the little 1916 AOA emblem attached, that he wore every day of his adult life, was something I noticed–and it reminded me of him–every time I reached into my jewelry box. My grandmother wore a lovely aquamarine ring, and when I was a little girl, she would always tell me, “When you grow up, this will be yours.” She never mentioned that she would be dead, and that thought never occurred to me–the ring was just something that we shared. Now it’s gone, along with a pretty pearl ring my husband gave me before he left on his mission, my sorority pin, the engraved locket from the cast of the school play, a few pretty baubles from an appreciative husband, and other things that don’t have any value to anyone but me. I’m sure most of those little bits of my life have been discarded or are gathering dust in a pawn shop. I truly do feel robbed.
My engagement ring and a large diamond earring were not at home. That diamond is waiting for my oldest son to find a worthy finger. My grandfather was a small town general practitioner, and in the late 1930′s a carnival came to town. Someone, perhaps the fortune teller or the ticket taker or the tattooed lady (imagine that being a novelty) needed medical assistance, and the carnival owner brought them to my grandfather. At the end of the consultation, the man brought a dirty handkerchief out of his pocket, opened it on his palm, and displayed a handful of diamonds that were available for a quick, quiet sale. Knowing a good deal, my grandfather bought the lot. Over the years, the diamonds were set in pieces of jewelry for my grandmother, including the earrings. There would have been a sense of symmetry if that stolen diamond had been stolen from me, but it remained safe. Irony is lost on thieves.

All the Living

Annette Haws — Thu, 03 Jun 2010 15:10:16 +0000

It’s a difficult thing to admit, but occasionally I finish reading a novel and set it on the floor or on the ottoman and immediately forget what I’ve just read. I’ve been entertained for a few hours, but then the characters and the storyline vanish, an experience very much like watching television. I mean, does anyone remember anything that he watched on television three weeks ago?
A notable exception is a book I picked up several months ago, All the Living by C.E. Morgan, and I’ve been haunted by it ever since. I keep returning to it, picking it up, reading a few paragraphs, and revisiting that bleak setting in my head. Her use of language is stunning. Perhaps I’ve been reading too many books and articles on the structure of a novel, but this book is perfectly crafted beginning with the first sentence which captures the novel, “She had never lived in a house and now, seeing the thing, she was no longer sure she wanted to.”
The ambivalence, the lack of commitment, the young girl brings to this new situation and relationship drives the plot, and there it is in the first sentence.
A summer, during a drought, on a tobacco farm is not a romantic setting nor is the young farmer, reeling from the loss of his mother and brother, initially an appealing character, and there is no question that their life together will be brutal and difficult. They will spend their lives teetering on the edge of poverty. Aloma will become a rough farm wife, aging early, with calloused hands; and yet, the stark beauty of the description of the sexual encounter hours after their wedding makes the reader ache for these two young people and the hopelessness of their situation.
“Before he could even catch his breath, while his face was still in the hair above her ear, his voice staggered in her ear. Don’t let nobody in you but me.
“Her eyes, closed and all submitted, flashed open at once, What she snapped. We get married and that’s the first thing you say to me?
He raised his head so his face was over hers. She saw the beads of sweat on his lip and the high ruddiness in his cheeks. I mean it, he said.”
No “I’ll love you forever,” just a harsh request for fidelity in the only language this character knows.
Chapters aren’t delineated, and there’s a conspicuous lack of appropriate dialogue punctuation that set my English teacher teeth on edge for a couple of pages, but who cares? It’s an amazing novel, one that I can’t bring myself to lend, only recommend.

Everyone needs a mountain of his own

Annette Haws — Wed, 19 May 2010 21:47:41 +0000

Planning a state without any mountains is a ridiculous thing to do. No wonder everyone visiting Ohio gets lost. The sun doesn’t count because we all know it never stays in the same place. I can complain because I was recently victimized by the lack of landmarks. A sore throat and slight fever caused me to leave church early–new visit, new virus–and I took my little seven month old granddaughter with me to have her nap at home, and because there are no mountains, I turned left instead of right out of the parking lot. I didn’t have my purse; no phone, no addresses, no money, no driver’s license, no credit cards, no diaper, and no bottle of formula. And I was immediately lost. I drove around for fifteen minutes looking for anything remotely familiar, i.e. the grocery store. I can always find my way home from the grocery store. No luck. I turned into a hospital emergency bay, because that’s what I was having.
“I can’t find my son’s house.”
“What’s his address?”
“I don’t know.”
“What’s his phone number?”
“I don’t know that either. It’s in my cell, but if I can get to the Meier’s in Hilliard, I can find my way.”
Fortunately, Lucy realized that our situation was perilous and smiled and cooed at the attendants who otherwise would have arrested me and placed her in protective custody until a more responsible grandparent could be located. At that moment, an angel in a flowered skirt or one of the three Nephites in drag came up to me and said, “Follow me.” And I did; she had that kind of a face. I found the grocery store, I found my son’s house, and I arrived five minutes before the rest of the family contingent.
The next morning on my return flight home, I sat next to two good old boys. My throat was so sore that I could only mouth “orange juice” at the stewardess and nod responses to questions which was probably a good thing, because on a normal day, the bigoted, really nasty jokes they were telling about President Obama would have caused me to smack them. As we dropped into the Salt Lake Valley, the men were immediately impressed by the rugged, granite, snow covered mountains. “Eight thousand feet,” one suggested. I shook my head dismissively and jerked my thumb upward. “Eleven,” I mouthed. Surely their lack of moral direction had everything to do with growing up with an absence of mountains. They were just sea level men, flat land men, certainly not Mountain Men. Too bad for them they didn’t read Horace Greeley’s 1865 editorial.

Welcome

Annette Haws — Sun, 16 May 2010 19:20:32 +0000

Welcome,

After the initial euphoria of seeing my own words in print, having a book published was very much like sending one of my children out to play in the street. Once that book’s out there, there’s no turning back, no correcting a sloppy sentence, or softening a character, or altering an easily identifiable secretary or a former student, delinquent or delightful. The book has to dodge the cars as best it can. I can only stand on the curb and shout affirming remarks, “The antagonist isn’t based on my husband,” or “I’m not the main character. I would never behave that badly.” Of course, people believe what they choose.

Kent Hyer, an old friend from my debate coaching days, arrived at the book launch party and stood in line laughing at me in my circumspect, lavender Eileen Fisher outfit.

“You never did any of those things?” he said.

I shook my head and gave him a sly smile.

He grinned, “But you wanted to.”

Of course. Writing is so cathartic. “If only I had said,” suddenly has infinite possibilities. When I skirt too close to the truth, I have to remind myself, “Zelda, Zelda, Zelda,” because poor F. Scott Fitzgerald was stuck, beautifully stuck, but stuck nevertheless rewriting his tragic life. And who wants to do that?

The upside of this crazy ride has been the excuse it affords to reconnect with old friends. Utah State has generously mentioned my book in several alumni publications, it’s been reviewed in a half dozen newspapers, and the Deseret Book catalogue goes everywhere, so friends from college and my other past lives have written or stopped by to visit. Please feel free to comment or send me an email. I’d love to hear from you.

Annette