From Amazon
Vivian and Hannah take turns telling how they came of age, surviving the death of their father in a freak boating accident and their mother's often erratic behaviour. The sisters also share the book with other characters, notably a young female cousin named Wren who has webbed fingers and a limitless capacity for wonder at the natural world. In the end, the plot is minimal except for the seemingly obligatory revelation of a not-so-surprising family secret, and all the talk of the past hugely overshadows the meager framework of the present-day events. But den Hartog's crystalline descriptions and insights into the human heart make this novel a memorable debut. --Nigel Hunt --This text refers to an out of print or unavailable edition of this title.
From Publishers Weekly
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From Booklist
Copyright © American Library Association. All rights reserved
Review
“Water Wings is laced with the mysteries of the world that holds the small town lives of young Hannah, Vivian and Wren. Kristen den Hartog renders this coming-of-age tale with a delicate yet unflinching touch, capturing her characters’ awe and aching at the wonder and brutality of life. Like the playful butterfly kisses they give to one another, Water Wings enchants and lingers.” — Kerri Sakamoto
“Den Hartog weaves an affecting tale about fathers and mothers and sisters…. What makes Water Wings worth [reading] is the way she uses memory, shifting perspectives and narrative voices to draw nuanced characters, and the manner and style with which she paces her storytelling and reveals her plot details in tiny allotments.” –The Globe and Mail (Sandra Martin)
“A delicately rendered first novel [with a] magical quality.” –The Globe and Mail (Krista Foss)
“Glorious…. She treats her characters with such dignity…. Water Wings [is] a heartening study of people who play the hand life has dealt them with surprising good humour and not a little cunning…. Den Hartog knows that beneath the cheesy veneer of proletariat life lies enough genuine pathos and random kindness to fill a discount warehouse…. She treats her characters with such dignity that at first you don’t notice the backdrop of cast-off furniture and littered front yards… Water Wings flirts with the conventions of the southern Ontario gothic … but on the whole prefers the transcendent to the dismal…. A novel of considerable delicacy.” – National Post
“Exuberant…. A splashy debut…. A lively, funny read – sometimes tender, sometimes mordant, often both…. She has succeeded beautifully. Den Hartog is the mistress of the insightful non-sequitur, and she writes about childhood trauma in the same surreal way it actually presents itself in life…. Den Hartog allows her narrative to flit here and there to wonderful effect. Her writing style is as intricate, as gorgeous – and as reluctant to settle – as the butterflies that are her central metaphor. Water Wings is a work of probing, idiosyncratic intelligence and emotional generosity.” – Calgary Herald
“Water Wings [is] a contemplative and sensitive first novel…The author…proves adept at peeling away layers of her characters’ lives to expose the common tragedy at their core.” – Hamilton Spectator, 24 Mar 2001 --This text refers to an out of print or unavailable edition of this title.
Book Description
Darlene Oelpke is getting married, again. After a string of failed relationships, beautiful, vampish Darlene has finally chosen a second husband -- inexplicably, Reg the Shoe Store Man. Her grown-up daughters, Vivian and Hannah, are home for the occasion, and find themselves immersed in memories of their girlhood both thrilling and tragic. And as they revisit the landscape of their youth -- the river, the forest, their worn-out green house -- they uncover long-buried secrets, as well as deep ties to one another.
The sisters recall the death of their father, killed in a bizarre boating accident when they are still young. Vivian, then an imperious teenager who wields her intelligence like a weapon, does her best to keep the memory of their father alive, particularly for little Hannah, whose recollections are as changeable as the face of the river that silently snakes through the town. But Hannah will have to come to terms with more than one death, as she learns that sinister people can inhabit the most benign places.
With a dazzling cast of characters that includes a nymph-like cousin named Wren (born with webbed hands and an affinity for insects) and a plethora of hairy "uncles" Water Wings is a story of gentle humour and uncommon delights, told with colossal talent and charm. --This text refers to an out of print or unavailable edition of this title.
From the Back Cover
“Water Wings is laced with the mysteries of the world that holds the small town lives of young Hannah, Vivian and Wren. Kristen den Hartog renders this coming-of-age tale with a delicate yet unflinching touch, capturing her characters’ awe and aching at the wonder and brutality of life. Like the playful butterfly kisses they give to one another, Water Wings enchants and lingers.” — Kerri Sakamoto
“Den Hartog weaves an affecting tale about fathers and mothers and sisters…. What makes Water Wings worth [reading] is the way she uses memory, shifting perspectives and narrative voices to draw nuanced characters, and the manner and style with which she paces her storytelling and reveals her plot details in tiny allotments.” –The Globe and Mail (Sandra Martin)
“A delicately rendered first novel [with a] magical quality.” –The Globe and Mail (Krista Foss)
“Glorious…. She treats her characters with such dignity…. Water Wings [is] a heartening study of people who play the hand life has dealt them with surprising good humour and not a little cunning…. Den Hartog knows that beneath the cheesy veneer of proletariat life lies enough genuine pathos and random kindness to fill a discount warehouse…. She treats her characters with such dignity that at first you don’t notice the backdrop of cast-off furniture and littered front yards… Water Wings flirts with the conventions of the southern Ontario gothic … but on the whole prefers the transcendent to the dismal…. A novel of considerable delicacy.” – National Post
“Exuberant…. A splashy debut…. A lively, funny read – sometimes tender, sometimes mordant, often both…. She has succeeded beautifully. Den Hartog is the mistress of the insightful non-sequitur, and she writes about childhood trauma in the same surreal way it actually presents itself in life…. Den Hartog allows her narrative to flit here and there to wonderful effect. Her writing style is as intricate, as gorgeous – and as reluctant to settle – as the butterflies that are her central metaphor. Water Wings is a work of probing, idiosyncratic intelligence and emotional generosity.” – Calgary Herald
“Water Wings [is] a contemplative and sensitive first novel…The author…proves adept at peeling away layers of her characters’ lives to expose the common tragedy at their core.” – Hamilton Spectator, 24 Mar 2001 --This text refers to an out of print or unavailable edition of this title.
About the Author
Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved.
The windshield is dirty, smudged with the tiny bodies of spent insects. Early on Hannah had been taught that insects were beautiful, even ordinary flies, though they began as swarming maggots. It was her father who had pointed out the metallic blue and green of them, their huge eyes and their legs that bent at the knee, things she may never have noticed on her own. How long since he’d died? Nine, Hannah was when it happened, so fourteen years without him. Funny to think. After that there was only the three of them: Hannah, Vivian and their long-haired mother, Darlene. And yet all this time the ghost of their father had hovered like a transparent umbrella, there but not there, just as he’d been there but not there when he was alive.
The anniversary of his death had passed silently last month, as though it were any other day. Blue Thursday this time. The day and the colour camouflaged, changing every year. Hannah woke as usual to a radio song, ate cereal, showered, went to work at the flower shop, came home, ate dinner, watched television and readied herself for bed. It was not until then that she saw him. Just a glimpse. He appeared briefly in her mirror, his face replacing hers. He had his mouth open in song, and he was wearing his mock-serious opera face. And then he was gone and her own face was there. She said aloud, “He died today.”
She had tried to remember the funeral, as she has often attempted to do, but all that had come to mind were the flowers, deathly gladioli, common and unlike him. Two stiff arrangements flanked the coffin, and a wide ribbon bore the hand-written words, R.I.P. Mick Oelpke. In her memory she could not see anything clearly but these flowers and her own finger in the wrinkled lower blooms, touching the velvet centres. If he had only waited to die, she would have made beautiful bouquets of reeds and wildflowers and weeping willow that spilled to the floor. It was easy to know what he would love.
It would be harder to choose flowers for Darlene, which soon she must do, because out of the clear wide blue, Hannah’s mother had announced her engagement to Reg Sinclair, a man who had never meant anything to any of them. A stranger, as much as anyone can be a stranger in a town as small as theirs. And this is where Hannah is headed, back home for the wedding.
Ottawa is less than three hours from the town where she grew up. She should visit more often, needing no reason to come, such as this wedding. Her gift will be the bridal bouquet and two large arrangements to frame that same altar. She must also make a boutonniere for Reg and a basket of petals for Brie to carry. Beautiful Brie, a flower girl. On the passenger seat the basket sits filled with florist’s supplies: pins, tape, wire, wire snips, filmy organza ribbon in two shades of green and a spritzer to spray Darlene’s bouquet before she walks down the aisle. Darlene had wanted common red roses and baby’s breath because she hadn’t got them the first time around, but Hannah had said no. It was unlike Darlene to back down, and Hannah had been surprised when she’d said, “Okay, Girly,” in her nonchalant way. “You’re the expert.” And she was. Hannah knew her flowers.
Still, she was afraid of failing. She had made many wedding bouquets, but Darlene’s would be different. She had looked through all the books at work, hoping for a magical idea. Stood staring into the cooler, making imaginary bouquets from the flowers there, and in the end she had come up with nothing. What suited Darlene? What suited the lapel of Reg Sinclair, whom she barely knew?
In her mind she conjures Reg Sinclair’s shoe store. The Footworks sign and the yellow circle of lights all around it. Inside and out, it was glitzier than the other stores in town. A band of mirror running low along the fake wood walls so that you could see your feet everywhere you walked. Reg Sinclair measuring Hannah’s foot with a foot-shaped ruler, sliding its metal knob to cup the place where a bunion has since grown. From him Darlene had bought Hannah and Vivian sandals in summer, school shoes in fall. Once, patent-leather shoes that smudged when Hannah touched them, holding the print of her finger. Back then they would never have guessed he would marry their mother. That they would one day have Lily, his half-Chinese daughter, as a stepsister. Suddenly related to a girl they hardly knew. Lily was between Hannah and Vivian in age. Rumour said a mysterious wife had given birth to her and returned to China, leaving Lily motherless, a horror Hannah couldn’t imagine. Even before Mick had gone, she’d had nightmares about losing Darlene.
What would Mick think of Darlene marrying Reg Sinclair? Hannah wonders if he knows, if he is somewhere out there, watching. He hadn’t believed in an afterlife, but smart as he was, he may have been wrong. No one would be more surprised than Mick to discover himself in heaven, looking down. He might now know everything and more.
She is nearing home and there is that smell in the air, of cut grass and river. In her rusty VW Bug, a convertible, she turns off the Trans-Canada and onto the tar-mended road into town. A sick, childhood feeling sweeps hotly through her and is gone. The water tower, with its missing letters, seems small now, but it’s true that a boy once jumped from there, plummeting not to his death but to a state of vegetation. Mick had explained what that meant. She used to think of the boy every time she ate vegetables. His brain curly like cauliflower, but wet and bluish-grey. She can’t remember his name. --This text refers to an out of print or unavailable edition of this title.