Items related to Kick the Can
Rowan Hanson, the extraordinary heroine of this new novel by bestselling author Anne Cameron, learns to be independent at an early age. Her mother dies in childbirth, she is raised in a floating logging camp by her grandmother, she makes her own way working for the SPCA and BC Ferries. When she gets involved with Jim, she refuses to get involved with "the ex, the kids, the house, the car, the boat or the lawyer who's apt to wind up with it all, anyway." But in the end Rowan has to take the advice her grandmother gave her twenty years earlier: "When it's your turn to take your kick at the can, kiddo, you do 'er."
"Cameron's women aren't whiners. Their problems are believable, their triumphs small but fulfilling. They feel real enough, likable enough, to want to call one up to
go out for coffee."
-Coast News
"Cameron's women aren't whiners. Their problems are believable, their triumphs small but fulfilling. They feel real enough, likable enough, to want to call one up to
go out for coffee."
-Coast News
"synopsis" may belong to another edition of this title.
About the Author:
Anne Cameron was born in Nanaimo, BC. She began writing at an early age, starting with theatre scripts and screenplays. In 1979, her film Dreamspeaker, directed by Claude Jutra, won seven Canadian Film Awards, including best script. After being published as a novel, Dreamspeaker went on to win the Gibson Award for Literature. She has published more than 30 books, including the underground classic Daughters of Copper Woman, its sequel, Dzelarhons, novels, stories, poems and legends - for adults and children. Her most recent novels are Family Resemblances, Hardscratch Row, and a new, revised edition of Daughters of Copper Woman. She lives in Tahsis, BC
Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved.:
The poker game had been going on for years. Nobody had the slightest idea how many zillions of dollars had been slid across the table top in ones, twos, fives, tens, twenties. The supper stuff was no sooner cleaned up and put away, than the first faded denim butt was sliding onto the chrome-legged chair, the first calloused hands were reaching for the Copenhagen can or rolling a smoke, patiently waiting for the other players to arrive. Some sipped beer or wine, some nipped at pocket flasks, one or two walked outside to inhale some Indica, and a few stuck to tea or coffee. Faces changed, voices changed, but the game just went on, as endless as the tide.
Mary ignored the game for the first ten months. She had clear memories of money lost and money won at oilcloth-covered tables; the winning was great, the losing wasn't. She told herself time and time again she had to keep her nose clean this time, she had Rowan to consider, she'd made enough mistakes with Carol, no need to make the same mistakes this go-round.
It was boredom did it. Boredom and loneliness. She tried to make friends with the few other women in camp, but it didn't work out for her, or for them. They were married and she wasn't. Period. They were pleasant enough, but not one of them was able to believe every single woman in the world didn't have her sights set on stealing their particular old man. And by the time Mary was finished working, they were well into their own family routines, bath time, story time, bedtime for the kids, then an hour or so of conversation or silence with the better half before going to bed to rest up for another day of the same. The afternoon break Mary welcomed gratefully hit at just the time the other women were most occupied with domestic concerns. And as much as Mary loved Rowan, there are built-in limits to the kind of conversation you can have with a kid, however much you love her.
And once that kid has gone to bed, there you are, sitting in a float house, too keyed up to go to sleep, staring at a pile of novels, feeling as if you will screech if you have to read one more chapter of a story about people whose lives have nothing to do with your own. And yes, there was a satellite dish, but what good does that do when everything that comes from the television assumes that anything interesting, entertaining or worthwhile happens in cities thousands of miles from what you know as reality?
So, finally, one night, Mary turned up with some money in her pocket, her can of tobacco and her packet of Zig Zag blue papers, and sat in on the game. just an hour or two, she told herself, just enough to unwind a bit and pass some time.
It didn't help her reputation, what was left of it, and it didn't do anything at all to weld a connection between her and the other women in camp. It unwound her, sure, and it passed time, sure, but it did more than either of those things. And she knew it.
She cared, at first. She didn't let anyone know she cared, but she cared. She stopped caring the night all hell bust loose down the far end of the float houses.
Nobody on the coast will openly admit to being racist. There's always a supposedly good reason for hating whoever the latest underdog is. After all, everyone knows Eyeties will talk about you behind your back in that jabber they call a language, and everyone knows Polacks might be good workers but can't learn anything new. There's no denying Scandihoovians are just about the best loggers and finest neighbours a person could want but they are clannish and they do stick together something awful. Jews, well, they don't work in the bush, they can't survive out of cities, but they do well there because they stick together even more than the Scandihoovians do and every Jew child, it's a well-known fact, gets three chances to go into business for her-or-himself. They get financed by the other Jews and if they go tits-up the first time, well, so what, they get financed again, and if they go tits-up the second time, well, maybe they should be sent off to business administration school, and if they go tits-up the third time, that's it, go to work for someone else. But the rug-riders, well, what does anyone know about them? They stick together like cat shit to a new wool blanket, you have to take them to one side and explain to them about socks or they'll walk around in a four-hundred-dollar suit, white shirt, tie, and eighty-dollar leather oxfords with their bare ankles poking out for all the world to see. They eat funny, and there's no denying that, and nobody in their right mind would move into a house after those people have lived in it because the reek of their cooking gets right into the walls and you can't get rid of it no matter what you do. The men will smile at you and all the time be planning how to screw you out of something and the buggers are going to ruin insurance rates because once they found out about insurance they all started setting their houses on fire and driving their new cars for two and a half years then arranging with a friend to have the car stolen and wrecked so they can use the settlement money to buy another new one. They go to the feed store and buy a big sack of crushed corn meal and another sack of ground buckwheat, and they live on pancakes with bits of goat meat wrapped inside. They don't even know that stuff from the feed store is full of chemicals and only good for animals, no, and there's no telling them, either. The men are all chasing white women but don't let a white man look at one of their women or the swords and knives'll come out and every time you pick up the paper there's another one of them arrested for immigration violations, sneaking in on someone else's identification or something. And likely as not you'll also read about them fighting and ripping each other's guts out with punji sticks for Chrissakes. Want to know how many of them live in a house, well count the windows and multiply by thirty-two and that'll give you some idea. And no use trying to be friends with them because they don't know what friendship is and anyway behind all that smiling and nodding the buggers have contempt for everything about this country except the money they can make. But racism? Oh hell, that's what they have down in the States, and it's a cryin' shame when you think about it, especially the way they treat their blacks, because how many people do you know who could sing and dance the way all the black people can. Racism? Well no, it isn't anything like that at all, it's just tellin' the truth the way it is.
Two houses side-by-each had rug-rider families living in them. The kids took their correspondence courses with the other kids and except for some vocabulary problems, things worked out fine. The men worked hard, the three women helped each other and the babies were cute as bug's ears. But what's going on there, anyway, two houses, four men, three women, and kids back and forth between the places until you don't know which belongs to which and do you figure they share that third woman, or what?
Mary had just won forty-three dollars when the uproar started. She was never sure exactly what happened, or in what order. One minute she was picking money off the oilcloth and the next everyone was yelling and shouting. She followed the crowd out onto the floats, and stood, suddenly sick to her stomach, staring at the bright orange and red glare.
She ran, then. Terrified the flames would race along the cedar shingled roofs, and set her own float shack afire with Smoocherooni still inside, she just started pumping her arms and legs, plowing through the shocked crowd, feet hammering on the planking, down the float to the front door, through the door and into the back bedroom where Rowan was just starting to wake up. Mary grabbed Rowan by the arms, pulled her upright, and raced back out the door with her, not even waiting long enough for the kid to shove her feet into sneakers or slippers.
By then men were running with the canvas and rubber hose, someone was starting up the generator, someone else plugging in the pump, and miraculously, everyone seemed to know exactly what to do.
Rowan broke loose and raced toward the fire screeching wildly, and vanished into the thick smoke. Mary screamed until she thought her throat would burst, and then Rowan was coming out of the smoke, hauling two little kids behind her, pushing them off the float into the chuck and dragging them back out again, dripping wet. Mary raced forward to grab Rowan and instead found herself hoisting the four-year-olds on her hips and thundering away from the flames. The little kids just stared, eyes as big as saucers, not even crying, shaking with cold and shock.
One of the women lived an hour or more, her skin charred, her hair gone, the melted material of her sari embedded in the blisters and raw open cracks of her flesh. They did what they could but all the experts in the world couldn't have saved her. The others fried. Men, women, kids, the whole lot of them except for the two Rowan had managed to get to safety.
The seaplane arrived two hours past dawn and the RCMP walked around taking pictures and writing notes. An hour later, the seaplane took off again, and the two stunned and wide-eyed kids flew off in their pyjamas.
"What's going to happen to them?" Rowan asked.
"Either they'll go to live with relatives," Mary answered, "or they'll go to foster homes, I guess."
"But not here, huh? Not here where they know everybody."
"Nobody here knows everybody, honey. We're all next best to strangers to each other. Besides ... they aren't our kind of people."
"You told me we were all the same." Rowan's eyes filled with tears. "You said beauty was only skin deep and after that we were all just meat, bones, and guts."
"That's true," Mary said firmly, "but there are different languages and ways of doing things, all the same."
Rowan nodded, even though she didn't understand or agree. She walked over to the little rowboat, got in and pulled on the oars, her back to the charred ruin of what had been two adjacent float houses. The smell lingered on the breeze, acrid and stinging, but that wasn't what made the tears slide from her eyes and down her face. Someone ought to have said, "Oh, they'll be fine with us, we'll just set up another bed, what's one or two more, and at least they know people." But nobody had. And somehow, though she didn't understand why, she hadn't dared ask Mary to be the one to make the offer. She didn't want to be disappointed when Mary said no.
She wakened that night and lay in the darkness. knowing Mary was just a loud yell away, knowing there was nothing lurking in the closet, nothing crouched under the bed, nothing waiting in the comer of the room. She knew all she had to do was jump out of bed, run across the floor to the front door and along the mist-slick float to where Mary was sitting in on the card game. She knew she didn't even really have to run at all, just start hollering. But it felt lonely, all the same. It felt as if in all the world there was just her and her grandmother. And that didn't feel right. It seemed to her a body ought to know there were lots of others ready to step up and put an arm around a person's shoulders, smile down and say It's okay, Sweetheart. She wondered if there had ever been a time or place when things were done that way. She rolled onto her side, staring at the darker blur of the wall. She wanted to cry, but it seemed a silly waste of time if there was nobody to hear or care. Yes, she could call out and Mary would come, and then what? What words would explain the overwhelming sense of loss and loneliness? After all, what had she lost, it wasn't her house burned, it wasn't her people burned, it wasn't her flying off to a big black scary future, why did the memory of the departing float plane fill her with such terror and such hollow grief?
Mary couldn't have explained to anybody, not even herself, what it was had changed for her after the fire. Whatever it was, she gave up wasting any time at all worrying what people might think of her. If the wives wanted to think she was humpin' herself to a fare-thee-well with all the single guys, let'em. About time they thought about something, and if they were talking about her, they weren't talking about her friends. And if she had a drink or two, or three or four during the poker session, what harm was she doing anybody, Christ almighty, you're a long time dead and you don't laugh once rigor mortis has set in.
They didn't live full-time in the float camp. When the bush was closed for fire season, most of them gypsied off, taking the freight ferry out and catching a bus to wherever they could rent or lease a car, van or motor home and drive off to visit relatives or go on holiday like normal people. Rowan and Mary usually checked in to a motel or auto court and sacked out there, catching up on movies and shopping for new jeans and new high-top Nike basketball sneakers. When the rains started and it was safe to go back into the bush, they did the trip in reverse.
During snow shutdown, they headed out again, correspondence course tucked in a box, and they celebrated more than one Christmas in a motel unit, with a chicken instead of a turkey, because, after all, there were only the two of them and anyway the oven was too small for a big bird.
They lived in camps in Frohlander Bay, in Clamshell Bay, and at Tarbox Point, they lived in Mid-Point and Galleon and Downrigger, they lived in Esperance and in Calm Harbour and once they lived two miles down the beach from where someone at some time had set up an enormous still and made rotgut to smuggle below the forty-ninth during prohibition. Rowan couldn't believe the size of the metal vats or the miles of copper piping coiled up like vertigris'ed guts* It took no time at 11 for the bunkhouse boys to figure out a way to salvage various bits and pieces and set up their own smaller version, then swipe a twentypound sack of rice, a big package of raisins and a ten-pound sack of sugar from the cookhouse. Actually, Rowan wondered if any of it had really been swiped or if Mary was in on the whole thing from the start. Certainly she sipped her share of the rocket fuel once it started to drip from the condenser. "Oh, it's well aged," she said solemnly, "I bet it's at least four hours old. A body has to do something to poison the intestinal parasites."
Rowan found her own schedules and routines. If she was lonely she didn't know it, she'd spent most of her life not knowing there was any other way to be, and you don't miss what you never knew. When the rain pelted down and the wind howled like a bitch in heat she just lost herself in the correspondence courses and did lesson after lesson for lack of any other options. When the weather was kind, the lessons sat in the cardboard box.
Mary didn't push one way or the other. "It's your life, kiddo," she said, lighting another cigarette. "If you don't give a shit, there aren't many others who will. One way or the other, sooner or later, you've gotta get'ern done."
"I know." Rowan sandpapered the handgrips of her oars carefully, the fine sawdust landing on a piece of newspaper on the floor. "I've got them done. If I mail 'em all off at the same time, they're apt to say something in Victoria. So I just mail off a few every week."
"But they're done?"
"Yeah."
"Why not mail'ern off and get new ones?"
"Then I'd have to do them, too," Rowan winked. "And they'd start to expect something."
The boss saw her rowing back with a gunnysack of cod and went to Mary to suggest the kid ought to be doing more than lallygagging around in a boat.
Mary ignored the game for the first ten months. She had clear memories of money lost and money won at oilcloth-covered tables; the winning was great, the losing wasn't. She told herself time and time again she had to keep her nose clean this time, she had Rowan to consider, she'd made enough mistakes with Carol, no need to make the same mistakes this go-round.
It was boredom did it. Boredom and loneliness. She tried to make friends with the few other women in camp, but it didn't work out for her, or for them. They were married and she wasn't. Period. They were pleasant enough, but not one of them was able to believe every single woman in the world didn't have her sights set on stealing their particular old man. And by the time Mary was finished working, they were well into their own family routines, bath time, story time, bedtime for the kids, then an hour or so of conversation or silence with the better half before going to bed to rest up for another day of the same. The afternoon break Mary welcomed gratefully hit at just the time the other women were most occupied with domestic concerns. And as much as Mary loved Rowan, there are built-in limits to the kind of conversation you can have with a kid, however much you love her.
And once that kid has gone to bed, there you are, sitting in a float house, too keyed up to go to sleep, staring at a pile of novels, feeling as if you will screech if you have to read one more chapter of a story about people whose lives have nothing to do with your own. And yes, there was a satellite dish, but what good does that do when everything that comes from the television assumes that anything interesting, entertaining or worthwhile happens in cities thousands of miles from what you know as reality?
So, finally, one night, Mary turned up with some money in her pocket, her can of tobacco and her packet of Zig Zag blue papers, and sat in on the game. just an hour or two, she told herself, just enough to unwind a bit and pass some time.
It didn't help her reputation, what was left of it, and it didn't do anything at all to weld a connection between her and the other women in camp. It unwound her, sure, and it passed time, sure, but it did more than either of those things. And she knew it.
She cared, at first. She didn't let anyone know she cared, but she cared. She stopped caring the night all hell bust loose down the far end of the float houses.
Nobody on the coast will openly admit to being racist. There's always a supposedly good reason for hating whoever the latest underdog is. After all, everyone knows Eyeties will talk about you behind your back in that jabber they call a language, and everyone knows Polacks might be good workers but can't learn anything new. There's no denying Scandihoovians are just about the best loggers and finest neighbours a person could want but they are clannish and they do stick together something awful. Jews, well, they don't work in the bush, they can't survive out of cities, but they do well there because they stick together even more than the Scandihoovians do and every Jew child, it's a well-known fact, gets three chances to go into business for her-or-himself. They get financed by the other Jews and if they go tits-up the first time, well, so what, they get financed again, and if they go tits-up the second time, well, maybe they should be sent off to business administration school, and if they go tits-up the third time, that's it, go to work for someone else. But the rug-riders, well, what does anyone know about them? They stick together like cat shit to a new wool blanket, you have to take them to one side and explain to them about socks or they'll walk around in a four-hundred-dollar suit, white shirt, tie, and eighty-dollar leather oxfords with their bare ankles poking out for all the world to see. They eat funny, and there's no denying that, and nobody in their right mind would move into a house after those people have lived in it because the reek of their cooking gets right into the walls and you can't get rid of it no matter what you do. The men will smile at you and all the time be planning how to screw you out of something and the buggers are going to ruin insurance rates because once they found out about insurance they all started setting their houses on fire and driving their new cars for two and a half years then arranging with a friend to have the car stolen and wrecked so they can use the settlement money to buy another new one. They go to the feed store and buy a big sack of crushed corn meal and another sack of ground buckwheat, and they live on pancakes with bits of goat meat wrapped inside. They don't even know that stuff from the feed store is full of chemicals and only good for animals, no, and there's no telling them, either. The men are all chasing white women but don't let a white man look at one of their women or the swords and knives'll come out and every time you pick up the paper there's another one of them arrested for immigration violations, sneaking in on someone else's identification or something. And likely as not you'll also read about them fighting and ripping each other's guts out with punji sticks for Chrissakes. Want to know how many of them live in a house, well count the windows and multiply by thirty-two and that'll give you some idea. And no use trying to be friends with them because they don't know what friendship is and anyway behind all that smiling and nodding the buggers have contempt for everything about this country except the money they can make. But racism? Oh hell, that's what they have down in the States, and it's a cryin' shame when you think about it, especially the way they treat their blacks, because how many people do you know who could sing and dance the way all the black people can. Racism? Well no, it isn't anything like that at all, it's just tellin' the truth the way it is.
Two houses side-by-each had rug-rider families living in them. The kids took their correspondence courses with the other kids and except for some vocabulary problems, things worked out fine. The men worked hard, the three women helped each other and the babies were cute as bug's ears. But what's going on there, anyway, two houses, four men, three women, and kids back and forth between the places until you don't know which belongs to which and do you figure they share that third woman, or what?
Mary had just won forty-three dollars when the uproar started. She was never sure exactly what happened, or in what order. One minute she was picking money off the oilcloth and the next everyone was yelling and shouting. She followed the crowd out onto the floats, and stood, suddenly sick to her stomach, staring at the bright orange and red glare.
She ran, then. Terrified the flames would race along the cedar shingled roofs, and set her own float shack afire with Smoocherooni still inside, she just started pumping her arms and legs, plowing through the shocked crowd, feet hammering on the planking, down the float to the front door, through the door and into the back bedroom where Rowan was just starting to wake up. Mary grabbed Rowan by the arms, pulled her upright, and raced back out the door with her, not even waiting long enough for the kid to shove her feet into sneakers or slippers.
By then men were running with the canvas and rubber hose, someone was starting up the generator, someone else plugging in the pump, and miraculously, everyone seemed to know exactly what to do.
Rowan broke loose and raced toward the fire screeching wildly, and vanished into the thick smoke. Mary screamed until she thought her throat would burst, and then Rowan was coming out of the smoke, hauling two little kids behind her, pushing them off the float into the chuck and dragging them back out again, dripping wet. Mary raced forward to grab Rowan and instead found herself hoisting the four-year-olds on her hips and thundering away from the flames. The little kids just stared, eyes as big as saucers, not even crying, shaking with cold and shock.
One of the women lived an hour or more, her skin charred, her hair gone, the melted material of her sari embedded in the blisters and raw open cracks of her flesh. They did what they could but all the experts in the world couldn't have saved her. The others fried. Men, women, kids, the whole lot of them except for the two Rowan had managed to get to safety.
The seaplane arrived two hours past dawn and the RCMP walked around taking pictures and writing notes. An hour later, the seaplane took off again, and the two stunned and wide-eyed kids flew off in their pyjamas.
"What's going to happen to them?" Rowan asked.
"Either they'll go to live with relatives," Mary answered, "or they'll go to foster homes, I guess."
"But not here, huh? Not here where they know everybody."
"Nobody here knows everybody, honey. We're all next best to strangers to each other. Besides ... they aren't our kind of people."
"You told me we were all the same." Rowan's eyes filled with tears. "You said beauty was only skin deep and after that we were all just meat, bones, and guts."
"That's true," Mary said firmly, "but there are different languages and ways of doing things, all the same."
Rowan nodded, even though she didn't understand or agree. She walked over to the little rowboat, got in and pulled on the oars, her back to the charred ruin of what had been two adjacent float houses. The smell lingered on the breeze, acrid and stinging, but that wasn't what made the tears slide from her eyes and down her face. Someone ought to have said, "Oh, they'll be fine with us, we'll just set up another bed, what's one or two more, and at least they know people." But nobody had. And somehow, though she didn't understand why, she hadn't dared ask Mary to be the one to make the offer. She didn't want to be disappointed when Mary said no.
She wakened that night and lay in the darkness. knowing Mary was just a loud yell away, knowing there was nothing lurking in the closet, nothing crouched under the bed, nothing waiting in the comer of the room. She knew all she had to do was jump out of bed, run across the floor to the front door and along the mist-slick float to where Mary was sitting in on the card game. She knew she didn't even really have to run at all, just start hollering. But it felt lonely, all the same. It felt as if in all the world there was just her and her grandmother. And that didn't feel right. It seemed to her a body ought to know there were lots of others ready to step up and put an arm around a person's shoulders, smile down and say It's okay, Sweetheart. She wondered if there had ever been a time or place when things were done that way. She rolled onto her side, staring at the darker blur of the wall. She wanted to cry, but it seemed a silly waste of time if there was nobody to hear or care. Yes, she could call out and Mary would come, and then what? What words would explain the overwhelming sense of loss and loneliness? After all, what had she lost, it wasn't her house burned, it wasn't her people burned, it wasn't her flying off to a big black scary future, why did the memory of the departing float plane fill her with such terror and such hollow grief?
Mary couldn't have explained to anybody, not even herself, what it was had changed for her after the fire. Whatever it was, she gave up wasting any time at all worrying what people might think of her. If the wives wanted to think she was humpin' herself to a fare-thee-well with all the single guys, let'em. About time they thought about something, and if they were talking about her, they weren't talking about her friends. And if she had a drink or two, or three or four during the poker session, what harm was she doing anybody, Christ almighty, you're a long time dead and you don't laugh once rigor mortis has set in.
They didn't live full-time in the float camp. When the bush was closed for fire season, most of them gypsied off, taking the freight ferry out and catching a bus to wherever they could rent or lease a car, van or motor home and drive off to visit relatives or go on holiday like normal people. Rowan and Mary usually checked in to a motel or auto court and sacked out there, catching up on movies and shopping for new jeans and new high-top Nike basketball sneakers. When the rains started and it was safe to go back into the bush, they did the trip in reverse.
During snow shutdown, they headed out again, correspondence course tucked in a box, and they celebrated more than one Christmas in a motel unit, with a chicken instead of a turkey, because, after all, there were only the two of them and anyway the oven was too small for a big bird.
They lived in camps in Frohlander Bay, in Clamshell Bay, and at Tarbox Point, they lived in Mid-Point and Galleon and Downrigger, they lived in Esperance and in Calm Harbour and once they lived two miles down the beach from where someone at some time had set up an enormous still and made rotgut to smuggle below the forty-ninth during prohibition. Rowan couldn't believe the size of the metal vats or the miles of copper piping coiled up like vertigris'ed guts* It took no time at 11 for the bunkhouse boys to figure out a way to salvage various bits and pieces and set up their own smaller version, then swipe a twentypound sack of rice, a big package of raisins and a ten-pound sack of sugar from the cookhouse. Actually, Rowan wondered if any of it had really been swiped or if Mary was in on the whole thing from the start. Certainly she sipped her share of the rocket fuel once it started to drip from the condenser. "Oh, it's well aged," she said solemnly, "I bet it's at least four hours old. A body has to do something to poison the intestinal parasites."
Rowan found her own schedules and routines. If she was lonely she didn't know it, she'd spent most of her life not knowing there was any other way to be, and you don't miss what you never knew. When the rain pelted down and the wind howled like a bitch in heat she just lost herself in the correspondence courses and did lesson after lesson for lack of any other options. When the weather was kind, the lessons sat in the cardboard box.
Mary didn't push one way or the other. "It's your life, kiddo," she said, lighting another cigarette. "If you don't give a shit, there aren't many others who will. One way or the other, sooner or later, you've gotta get'ern done."
"I know." Rowan sandpapered the handgrips of her oars carefully, the fine sawdust landing on a piece of newspaper on the floor. "I've got them done. If I mail 'em all off at the same time, they're apt to say something in Victoria. So I just mail off a few every week."
"But they're done?"
"Yeah."
"Why not mail'ern off and get new ones?"
"Then I'd have to do them, too," Rowan winked. "And they'd start to expect something."
The boss saw her rowing back with a gunnysack of cod and went to Mary to suggest the kid ought to be doing more than lallygagging around in a boat.
"About this title" may belong to another edition of this title.
- PublisherHarbour Publishing
- Publication date1991
- ISBN 10 1550170392
- ISBN 13 9781550170399
- BindingPaperback
- Number of pages160
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Kick the Can
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Harbour Publishing
(1991)
ISBN 10: 1550170392
ISBN 13: 9781550170399
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