Learnings From Henry Hot Dog

Some months ago, my writing companions and I were challenged to name an aspect of our writerly selves we’re proud of before getting down to work (reason #9,238 why those writing dates are life changing).

I looked to the shelf beside me, where my earliest, most infamous “manuscript” was shelved. Henry Hot Dog. Written and illustrated by yours truly in third grade, circa 1989-ish.

Henry is, as you may have guessed, a hot dog. As in street meat, not egotistical.

His occupation?

Barbecue Tester at Sears.

As I told the group, I was proud of eight-year-old Me for having the eggs to attempt such a premise. But having long forgotten the story itself, Adult Me was also concerned. I mean, how exactly do things play out for poor Henry as he shows up to work and gets barbecued? Seems awfully dark. And what does that reveal about my mental state at the time–shouldn’t someone have at least flagged down a guidance counsellor?

The rest of the group got down to writing, but first, I had to know how Little Me landed that literary plane.

I exhaled as I read. Henry was fine. Practically on his way to a gold watch. Yeah, he had heated times at work, but the reader soon discovers there’s a remedy. Each night he goes home, kicks off his trench coat and drops his briefcase, eats his favourite meal (condiments in tidy puddles, a side of fries, coffee with a pickle for a stir stick), and watches his favourite show (Growing Pains) before crawling (rolling?) into bed. In doing these things, Henry gradually, magically, “uncooks” and by morning, he’s ready for another day.

Well played, Little Me.

This past year has been, personal and professional lives combined, the most emotionally-charged, change-saturated, learning curve- and lesson-laden, elation- and grief-stricken ride in memory. A few weeks ago (as tends to be the case the moment you stop running from whatever bus has been chasing you), it all sort of…ran over me. No other way to say it, I was cooked.

I fought it a few days longer before deciding to take a cue from Henry. I dedicated August to “uncooking”–and somewhere along the way, stopped feeling guilty about it. I checked my phone in the mornings before stashing it on a high shelf in the cupboard for the rest of the day. My girl and I shared picnics, day trips, and too much ice cream. I read for pleasure, took walks and watched the birds, submerged myself in Georgian Bay, curled up to watch thunderstorms. I talked to my Mamma in Heaven and let the tears flow however they may.

In other words, I went Henry. And while it sounds contradictory, doing so—as women, mothers, writers, people—takes “eggs.”

Little Me was proud.