A House of Gravel

University of Windsor Scholarship at UWindsor Electronic Theses and Dissertations Theses, Dissertations, and Major Papers 6-18-2021 A House of Gravel Andrew Whitmarsh University of Windsor Follow this and additional works at: https://scholar.uwindsor.ca/etd Recommended Citation Whitmarsh, Andrew, "A House of Gravel" (2021). Electronic Theses and Dissertations. 8619. https://scholar.uwindsor.ca/etd/8619 This online database contains the full-text of PhD dissertations and Masters’ theses of University of Windsor students from 1954 forward. These documents are made available for personal study and research purposes only, in accordance with the Canadian Copyright Act and the Creative Commons license—CC BY-NC-ND (Attribution, Non-Commercial, No Derivative Works). Under this license, works must always be attributed to the copyright holder (original author), cannot be used for any commercial purposes, and may not be altered. Any other use would require the permission of the copyright holder. Students may inquire about withdrawing their dissertation and/or thesis from this database. For additional inquiries, please contact the repository administrator via email ([email protected]) or by telephone at 519-253-3000ext. 3208. A House of Gravel By Andrew Whitmarsh A Creative Writing Project Submitted to the Faculty of Graduate Studies through the Department of English and Creative Writing in Partial Fulfillment of the Requirements for the Degree of Master of Arts at the University of Windsor Windsor, Ontario, Canada 2021 © 2021 Andrew Whitmarsh A House of Gravel by Andrew Whitmarsh APPROVED BY: ______________________________________________ L. Baggio School of Creative Arts ______________________________________________ S. Matheson Department of English and Creative Writing ______________________________________________ N. Markotić, Advisor Department of English and Creative Writing April 19, 2021 DECLARATION OF ORIGINALITY I hereby certify that I am the sole author of this thesis and that no part of this thesis has been published or submitted for publication. I certify that, to the best of my knowledge, my thesis does not infringe upon anyone’s copyright nor violate any proprietary rights and that any ideas, techniques, quotations, or any other material from the work of other people included in my thesis, published or otherwise, are fully acknowledged in accordance with the standard referencing practices. Furthermore, to the extent that I have included copyrighted material that surpasses the bounds of fair dealing within the meaning of the Canada Copyright Act, I certify that I have obtained a written permission from the copyright owner(s) to include such material(s) in my thesis and have included copies of such copyright clearances to my appendix. I declare that this is a true copy of my thesis, including any final revisions, as approved by my thesis committee and the Graduate Studies office, and that this thesis has not been submitted for a higher degree to any other University or Institution. III ABSTRACT “A House of Gravel” is a short-story cycle exploring the relationships between a family of four and the hardships wrought by those relationships, as well as their own individual hardships. Partially, “A House of Gravel” explores a microcosm of trauma handed down through three generations, explored in highly-varying degrees: the grandparents, the parents, and the children. Importantly, this exploration takes place primarily from the perspective of the youngest generation, rendering the traumas of their parents to scraps and guesswork, and the traumas of their grandparents’ to further scraps handed down through their parents. Additionally explored is the nature of dependency as each member of the family suffers through or leans on both healthy and unhealthy coping mechanisms, ranging from substance abuse to relationships with others. The family within “A House of Gravel” is one stuck in the constant throes of miscommunication and clashes, but must nonetheless learn to live and deal with one another. Their story is told in the form of the short-story cycle, a series of works that can operate individually, but also function as a single, greater whole, each story gathering greater meaning via their connections to one another. This choice of genre reflects the status of the family unit itself as a whole comprised of individual parts. Specifically, in regards to “A House of Gravel,” the structure of the cycle is reflective of the piecing together of the family member’s histories and characters, resulting in various conclusions being reached, but just as many unknowns and threads remaining unresolved. IV ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS Thank you to my parents, Dennis and Danielle, for allowing me to forge my own path, and the support they provided to make this project a possibility. Thank you to Dr. Nicole Markotić for your advice, edits, and many suggestions. You were the best advisor I could’ve hoped for (and more). It would be hard to imagine this project existing without your support. Thank you to the English department and its faculty, who have made the past six years I’ve spent here a joy. Thank you to Dr. Suzanne Matheson and Dr. Lisa Baggio for your participation in my committee and your valuable insights. Thank you to my roommates who provided welcome distractions from the writing process. Thank you to Marisa Bordonaro, who always helped to quell any anxieties I might’ve had and listen to whatever I needed to get off my chest – you helped keep me grounded. I couldn’t have done it without you. V TABLE OF CONTENTS DECLARATION OF ORIGINALITY ………………………………………………………….III ABSTRACT……………………………………………………………………………………..IV ACKNOWLEDGMENTS ……………………………………………………………………….V NIGHTS THAT NEVER HAPPEN ………………………………………………………….......1 A STEP BESIDE MYSELF …………………………………………………………………….22 FLAGS …………………………………………………………………………………………..49 CANDLELIGHT ………………………………………………………………………………..78 VANISHING POINT …………………………………………………………………………..102 RUM AND SMOKES …………………………………………………………………………128 THE SHORT-STORY CYCLE: NOSTALGIA, FRAGMENTATION, AND UNIFICATION155 WORKS CITED ……………………………………………………………………………….172 BIBLIOGRAPHY ……………………………………………………………………………...174 VITA AUCTORIS …….……………………………………………………………………….176 VI 1 NIGHTS THAT NEVER HAPPEN I don’t want to be here. The thought popped into my mind as I pulled into that gravel driveway, my wheels cruising to stop over the rocky bits and pieces. I used to love that sound, the soft crackle from turning rubber on gravel – used to mean home. And right now, in this moment, as I stared up at the two stories of country farmhouse I grew up in through my windshield, it still did mean home. Only in the physical sense of the word though. Only in the sense that, at one point, my body resided behind these walls. Pocketing a pack of cigarettes and lighter, I leave my purse in the car. Jack had really let the place go since I last stopped by, just after Mom passed. Even from here, the chips in the wood siding, the splotches and patches from flaking paint seemed impossible to miss. Judging by the fact the grass only came up to my ankles and not my knees at least meant he mowed once and a while – emphasis on the while. Certainly hadn’t paid attention to the garden lining the porch though, nothing but weeds there. To call it out of character seemed an understatement. “A man proves his character through the things he makes and the care he gives them,” he said once, like some two-bit wise man. I imagine he had a little pocketbook filled with phrases like that: Surface-level Sage Advice for Clueless Fathers, or something like that. Even the front steps, whose installation I could still remember, had begun to rot and become loose. The threat of their collapsing and eating my leg whole with jagged, wooden teeth if I dared to step upon them seemed very genuine. I remember the sticky heat of summer dripping down my skin. Emily had recently turned two, maybe three. Grade one sat just on the horizon, only a few weeks away – I guess that would 2 make me about six. Mom had made pink lemonade, extra sweet. Emily and I slurped up the sugar through straws from the porch as Jack put together the steps under the muggy Ontario sun. Mom leaned deeply into a chair, sunhat on, pointing one of those shitty, little, plastic fans towards her face. The repetitious bang of Jack’s hammer rang about in my skull: iron hitting nail, over and over. “All right, that’s enough of that,” Mom eventually let out, wiping her forehead with the back of her hand, “just about ready to die out here.” But I wanted to stay, wanted to watch, so I whined and pulled pointlessly against her hand gripped around my arm. And just before she finally tugged me inside, Jack wiped his brow of sweat and grinned up at me – Leaning against my car, I traced my fingers along the branches of the cherry blossom tattoo that snaked up along my forearm, past the inside of my left elbow. “Stop that,” I told my fingers. I rested control of my hand back from my unconscious habit. My hand shook as I held it up, but only slightly. Then, I pulled out a cigarette, lit it up, and took a long drag. When I held out my hand again, the shaking had stop. “Let’s not go reminiscing now,” I mused aloud, “nothing but bad fucking juju there.” Might as well take a minute, I thought as I huffed through my cigarette. Had Jack heard me pull up? Had he heard the telltale car wheels on gravel? The windows all seem covered in dust, impossible to see through in the light. Still, I could practically feel him, judging me from behind the makeshift two-way glass. I stomped the cig into the ground and shoved a second in my mouth. Shit. Why did I agree to this? 3 “I’m worried about Dad.” The words tumbled out of the speaker almost the instant I picked up the phone. I had just finished my shift at Trudy’s, ready to nap the rest of the day away, when I heard the ring: Emily.

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