Sandra Birdsell

The Two-Headed Calf
by Sandra Birdsell
M&S, 1997

In August (1997), I saw Bob Dylan in concert, and the dude swung through a raucous set that included a little folk, a little country, a little blues, possibly even a little jazz. It was only rock and roll, but Dylan's category sifting impressed me.

In The Two-Headed Calf, Sandra Birdsell does the same. The collection contains nine short stories, which display the stunning array of Birdsell's talent. This is a damn fine book, and it's my early-money favorite to sweep the nation's literary awards.

Birdsell's book begins with two stories about a middle-aged mother and her recalcitrant daughter, and I feared that the collection was going to be stuffed with the bitter whining of the "sandwich generation" (caught between stay-at-home adult children and demanding, dying parents). Thankfully, however, the collection's middle stories take on broader narrative themes, tackling stories about ethnic heritage (Mennonite) and how families can perpetuate historical traumas in how they tell their stories (and ultimately how individuals live their lives).

Towards the end of the collection, I sensed another shift, as the stories there depicted some of the absurdities of modern urban living. A woman wakes up and finds her home besieged by angry homeless people who want to share her middle-class luxury (a large, mostly-empty house). There is something of Raymond Carver in these later stories, just as there is something of Alice Munro and Margaret Lawrence in the earlier ones.

It is my sense, however, that Birdsell has played with the categories established by these earlier writers, and made of their influence something of her own. If she is not already there, this book should vault Birdsell to the front rank of Canadian fiction writers. She demonstrates here a strong personal vision, a deep humanity, a sharp sense of humour, an ability to capture the absurd, the cruel, and the inconsequential. And she wraps it in a marvellous package: strong narratives driven by strong characters sketched in secure, lyrical, authentic language.

Some passages I found to be over written. Some passages I found to be too obvious echoes of other writers: Carver, Munro, Lawrence chief among them. On occasion, I worried that Birdsell was falling into the trap that mires too many of Canada's literary journals; that is, admiring and imitating the past, forgetting to forge ahead, break new ground, continue to chart the uncharted. From time to time, I found Birdsell's habit of shifting time frames annoying and confusing (her depiction of narrative time recalls the work of William Faulkner).

In the end, however, I decided that whatever weaknesses the book may have, it's strengths are multiple. This is a book that deserves both a popular and a critical audience. It may well set the basis for Birdsell's reputation.

This review first appeared in Paragraph (Winter 1997).