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Searching for the Postmark

by Jeff Donovan

297 pages; quality trade paperback (softcover); catalogue #03-0387; ISBN 1-4120-0025-4; US$25.50, C$28.95, EUR21.00, £14.50

A simple love story that is more than simply a love story, Searching for the Postmark is a thought provoking novel about accepting the loss of a loved one - a story of letting go, of holding on, and of moving on.

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about the book      about the author      sample excerpts or Table of Contents      catalogue info

About the Book Can one place help two people come to terms with the past, and can a series of long-distance letters provide the basis for a future? Reaching out into Lake Michigan, the slender peninsula of Door County, Wisconsin is a place of idyllic beauty and rustic charm - of sailboats and sunsets, dormant cherry orchards, and dry-docked wooden fishing boats. It is a place Brian Bailey loves - and tries to escape to. But the quaint tourist towns, quiet back roads, and weathered gray barns offer little respite from his memories. Memories never known bring Colleen O'Connell from Arizona to The Door in search of the places her brother held dear. Hoping to find remembrance in a place she's never been, she finds instead an old farmhouse, perched atop a hill. The story of two people brought together by the very distance that separates them, Searching for the Postmark asks difficult and uniquely human questions about what it means to live, love, and die - and how the fellowship of family helps us find meaning in the fleeting nature of our existence. From the remembrance and longing of autumn to the excitement and hope of spring, Brian and Colleen's journey through the seasons tells a story of holding on and letting go, of memories kept and created, of letters sent and unsent. A beautifully descriptive and deeply introspective testament to the power of people and place, Searching for the Postmark is a summer read that will stay with you into fall, and winter. "What I hope to have written," writes author Jeff Donovan, "is a book that, in addition to telling a nice story, will also give the reader pause to think and reflect, on the death of a loved one, and on that from which we draw meaning in our lives." A thought provoking love story about accepting the loss of a loved one, Searching for the Postmark will appeal to anyone who finds special meaning in the dream of Door County, and have meaning for anyone who has lost a special loved one.

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About the Author Jeff Donovan lives in Wisconsin with his wife and three daughters in an old farmhouse with two front doors. The author divides his time between laundry and dishes, following the Green Bay Packers, and driving his children here and there - and there and here. When not busy wondering if all his hair will fall out before he cuts his ponytail, he spends most of his remaining free time thinking about writing, and very little of his remaining free time actually writing. His other books are as yet unwritten. The author may be contacted through his website at www.swammpybooks.com

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Sample Excerpts or Table of Contents

September 30

Dear Brian,

The weather has finally started to cool a bit here in Arizona, though not enough; the stifling heat of summer now merely oppressive.

It may sound funny to you, but the climate here robs us of the seasonal stereotypes that live in our American psyche. The reality of the seasons is wherever you live, but the ideal that exists in our minds belongs to those of you in the North. Think of Christmas songs. "I'm dreaming of a white Christmas." "Chestnuts roasting on an open fire, Jack Frost nipping at your nose." "Sleigh bells ring, are you listening, in the lane, snow is glistening." How many Christmas songs do you know that talk about palm trees swaying in the winter heat? Christmas cards show a family dragging a freshly cut tree through the snow, or skating on a frozen pond, or snowflakes clinging to a window.

And it's not just winter that belongs to you, but all the seasons. Kids swimming in a cool pond in the summer, a rope swing hanging from an old oak tree on the shore. A haystack in the fall, pumpkins placed around it, a pile of smoldering leaves in the background. The April showers that bring May flowers, the corn knee-high by the Fourth of July, the newborn calf nibbling at the budding green grass. These are the images that come to mind when one thinks about the changing seasons.

It's not that there aren't changes that take place here, or elsewhere, throughout the year. The changes are different, depending upon where you live, and each setting has its own unique seasons that are dear to those who experience them. But you live in the Grandma Moses paintings of the seasons, in the place we all wish we lived in our childhood.

I've been trying to picture The Door, what it might look like in the fall, the leaves all changing colors. I was only there less than a week and know little of the changes that occur, of what it might look like now. The book you sent me has a number of pictures of the fall colors, but it doesn't capture the feel of the season. I wish I could come back for a weekend and see your fall. Please describe it for me. I do so miss The Door.

Love,

Colleen

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October 4

Colleen,

Autumn is not a single season. It is three distinct periods that share only a common name. You cannot visit Wisconsin, spending a weekend driving through the colors, and think you've seen fall. Rather, you have to live here across all three months, and then you can experience autumn.

September is the bridge between summer and fall. The heat and humidity of August slowly begin to melt away as the kids adjust to going back to school, and footballs replace baseball mitts in the parks. Cooler air descends from the north, letting the leaves know their transformation is to begin. The sumac is often the first to change, its small leaves a brilliant red, covering the sides of the highway, a carpet laid out down the sides of the path. The deep greens of summer begin to lighten, yellowing the birch and ash leaves. Pockets of orange and red and brown begin to appear on the maples and oaks, dotting the hillside with small bursts of color. The squirrels sense the change, scurrying about to gather their winter fare of acorns, hickory nuts, and horse chestnuts. Jackets come out of the closet for the first time in months, and the air conditioner is finally turned off in favor of the cool breeze that blows in the bedroom window, billowing the curtains like the sail on a boat. And if the football gods are pleased with what they see, with a little luck the Packers are 4-0 at the end of the month.

October, I think, is my favorite month of the year. The transformation that began in September is now in full swing, the air growing crisp as the full parade of colors fills the trees. You could never imagine all the shades one color can have. Are there nine shades of red, or ninety? Oranges and yellows and browns mix with the reds, stubborn greens the exception, hanging on to a memory. The geese of spring hope return, now the geese of fall remembrance, their formation heading in the opposite direction. Indian Summer brings a few last days of warm sun on your face, giving you a chance to look back over the bright summer before you turn to face the dark winter that lies ahead. Christine and I used to take the girls for an all-day ride in the country on the Sunday of Indian Summer, going in no particular direction, a lonely country lane the busiest road we would travel as we marveled at the colors, stopping to let the girls play at some ancient park that was new to them, in some forgotten little town that was mostly now a memory.

October is the giant leaf pile I would gather for the girls, to throw them into, or bury them under. When the horseplay was over we'd burn the mound, the sweet smell of the pungent smoke lazily drifting across the yard. October is the cornstalks and hay bales we'd set up against the split-rail fence, and the ghosts we'd hang from the trees. October is the trip to the apple orchard and pumpkin farm, the fresh honey we'd eat every day, the squash and the gourds and the Indian corn. October is the Sunday vat of chili that simmered all day, warming the house with its aroma. The end of October brings the end of daylight savings time, and the beginning of darkness.

November dawns gray, the cloud-filled sky hanging low above. November is unique for its barren stillness, for the quiet it brings. The leaves have mostly fallen, the branches bare. I love to walk in the woods in November, such a contrast to the budding hope of spring, the lush green canopy of summer, the bright pallet of early fall colors. When you walk in the woods in November you can see through the trees, back into the darkness of remembrance. I like to sit on a bed of damp leaves, my back against the trunk of an old oak, and look up through the empty branches, watching the gray clouds race swiftly across the sky, pushed by the cold winds that signal the final change of autumn.

The smell of the turkey that fills the house brings an end to fall. The cars that pass by on the road show the change, one weekend carrying deer on their roofs, the next weekend Christmas trees. As November comes to a close so too does autumn, and we all shut our doors and retreat within. The wonder that is Christmas lies ahead, followed by the long winter months of introspection. Spring is the hope that leads us through winter, autumn the memory that sustains us.

Autumn. Three months, three seasons. Autumn. An experience, not an event.

Brian

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October 8

Dear Brian,

Is it possible to have a mid-life crisis at 29? I'm really getting down on my job, starting to hate the day-to-day drudgery of the rat race. All the sexy glory I once dreamt of is beginning to fade away. I read a quote the other day that said something to the effect that no one ever dies wishing they'd spent more time at the office, and it hit a bit too close to home for me.

I rise before the sun and am off to work by seven, to meetings and power lunches and more meetings. Then I lug a briefcase full of papers home to fill the empty evening hours, dragging it back to work the next morning to do it all again. Ah, the circle of life! It all seemed so grand when I started. The book lay open before me. I was going to make my mark on the world. Now the world has made its mark on me. A robot, a number, a body that fills a chair at a desk, a chair where someone sat before me, and where someone will sit after me.

Isn't there supposed to be something more to life? What do you do for a living?

Love,

Colleen

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October 13

Colleen,

What I do for a living is live.

I remember when I was a junior in high school, in the locker room at halftime of a football game. We were losing, getting killed actually, as we usually did. The coach was disgusted beyond words, and opened the floor for discussion. The senior captain of the team gave a rousing speech, a real Knute Rockne job, about goals and effort and commitment. I don't know to this day if it came from his heart or if he was just saying what he thought the coach wanted to hear, but he had fire in his eyes and he was pacing, ranting and raving at us, talking about how the second half would define the rest of our lives. It was just a damned high school football game, like hundreds of others played that night, like thousands of others played before it, and countless others that would come after it. It was not the defining moment in his life, or any of our lives, though he didn't know it at the time. I smiled to myself at the absurdity of it all. The smile inside must have escaped, for when I looked up he was standing before me, arm cocked, ready to punch me out for my cavalier attitude. I laughed in his face and he came after me, the coach separating us, me lying prostrate on the floor beneath the guy, him ready to teach me a lesson about life. As we walked back out on the field for the second half the coach pulled me aside and said something to the effect that most people don't have the ability to take a step back and view things from afar, with a larger perspective on themselves, and their lives.

I think, in retrospect, that for me that was one of those few defining moments we go through in our lives, for I knew right then that there is more to life than the events of a lifetime. The bubble burst that day, the dreams of glory vanished, and I began to question the purpose of our short time here on earth. From that day forward I never wanted to be anything, I just wanted to be. Why is it that we should have to spend ten of our sixteen waking hours each day, five of seven days a week, fifty of fifty-two weeks a year, away from those we love, doing what we'd rather not be doing? I think the hunter-gatherer societies of old were probably much smarter than we pastoralists give them credit for. They lived for hundreds of centuries spending most of their day surrounded by the people they loved. We, in a few short decades, have created a life for ourselves that separates us from the special people in our lives most of the time. And they were primitive?

Since that day in the locker room I've never really had any career ambitions, no dreams of glory, no desire to leave my mark on the world, or let those who come after me know I was here. I've just wanted to be. Be a good person, be happy, be with the ones I love - and be able to look back on my life, before I die, and say with satisfaction that I did it right.

To be truthful, I suppose everyone, including myself, longs for their fifteen minutes in the sun. I had five minutes saved for Shannon and five minutes saved for Kerry, to walk them down the aisle between Christine and me, or to hold their children, my grandchildren, for the first time. I'd saved the other five minutes for Christine, to thank her, in the twilight of our years, as we looked back over our long lives together. If I had an extra five minutes I might have wished to write a book, something that would give the reader pause to think about the nature and purpose of their existence, make them appreciate the gift that is life, and motivate them to use it properly.

As you may have guessed, I've had considerable occasion over the past few years to ponder life*s imponderables. I've had deep thoughts - about the existence of God, the purpose of life, the unknowns of death. And I've had small insights - about caring for others, about seeking peace, about accepting being loved. But I still haven't found the meaning of life.

Yet I find that my search often takes me back to that long-ago day in the locker room, and the question of perspective - of how we view ourselves and our lives, and how that view is created. Much of our perspective comes from within, from that person we are inside us, though I think a greater portion comes from outside us, from the special people we let into our lives, for they help create what is inside us.

Of course, our perspective changes when those special people are no longer here. My mother and Christine look different to me now than they once did. Life looks different to me now than it once did. Grandpa tells a riddle he heard after my mom died that asks if you know how to make God laugh. The answer: tell him your plans.

You only get one chance, Colleen, and life's too short to worry about the details if you miss the big picture. A job is a job. There are plenty of them out there. Don't define your life by what you do, but by who you are.

Find out what's dear to your heart, the people you love, and spend your time with them. The present is all we have, and it affects both the memories we recall - and the new ones we create.

In closing, I'll suggest a little game I play from time to time. When I start to slip, when I begin to forget who I am, or why I'm here, it always helps me focus, and regain perspective.

A hundred years from now, when no one who knew you in this life is still alive, someone will come across your headstone and pause, to read the summary of your existence. What words do you want carved in your little piece of granite?

Brian

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Catalogue Information

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