The Reunion. <1030>

You just never know what life is going to throw your way. I’d never attended any high school reunions. High school, for me, was a fever dream of hormones, bad poetry and Mr. Bell’s chemistry class; who wants to revisit that? But the day I got the invitation to our Class of ‘74’s Fiftieth Reunion in Vancouver, I felt a strange pull to go. My long-time friends from those days Carol and Gordon generously offered to put me up for the weekend. All I needed was a plane ticket and an outfit. So I went.

My friend Viv and I went as each other’s plus one. Carol drove us all to the venue at a posh golf club. As soon as we walked in, I saw Beth and Nancy, still sporty and energetic, still hilarious and still in charge of the sign-in table. I remembered how much I liked them.

The four of us split up so we could collect as much intel as possible (Carol’s strategy). Viv and I chose a table in the middle of the room, facing front so I didn’t have to strain my back twisting to see the speaker, and so Viv could hear. Carol and Gord sat took a table close to the door, so they could make a quick getaway if necessary. You just never know when you’ll need to make a discreet exit.

Fashion choices for the evening ranged from jeans to dressy jackets to red carpet worthy gowns. Generally, we all seemed to have aged well; some of us more prosperous, most a bit heavier. Remarkably, 2024 Shelly McDuff looked the same as 1974 Shelly; the same genuine smile and glowing skin, without apparent alterations. Some had clearly had a rougher time but many of the Class of ‘74 were still kicking. Of course we didn’t know about the people who weren’t there, people who didn’t want to come or weren’t able. And then there were the people who had died.

There were at least 30 grad photos on the Memorial Table, each illuminated by a small tea light. All those young faces, frozen in time, beamed optimistically at what life would hold for them. What were their stories? A man beside me pointed at two boys and said they never made it past grad. “They got stupid drunk at the after party” he said, “drove into a power pole.” You just never know when your time is up.

A petite woman in a black sheath dress, low heels and no makeup stood at the back, watching the room. She was a bit unsteady. Her name badge said “Helene”; the last name blacked out with marker. “Great party” I offered as a starter. Helene drained her scotch glass and whispered something I didn’t catch. “Interesting” I said and excused myself to go to the bathroom. Mingling was hard work and I needed dinner.

The catered meal was delicious. The after speeches were short. Nils Andersson wrapped up his “keynote” at exactly four minutes to appreciative applause. Nils was self-effacing and funny. He did a great job of describing the world we’d graduated into. Trudeau’s “just watch me” moment, The War Measures act, Nixon’s imminent disgrace, and the ridiculously low cost of gas were among the highlights. He got an A++ from me for being so well prepared. And brief.

But you just never know what people have up their sleeve. The Reunion Committee had covered off every detail except how an off-the-cuff invitation for “anyone to come up and share a quick high school memory before dessert” might go sideways. Anyway, that’s how Mack Martin got the mike.

Mack opened with a story about his grandfather not letting neighbours borrow his tools; no mention of grad. Still, if he’d sat down right then, it might not have been too bad. But he plowed ahead, oblivious to everyone looking wistfully at their empty dessert plates.

By twelve minutes, two separate people had suggested he wrap it up. Both times he protested he wasn’t finished. Across the room, Carol’s saucer eyes caught Viv and I; her eyebrows had disappeared into her hairline. Was he drunk? On drugs? Or just high on his Mackness ?

When a third, firmer, request made him shout, “I’m getting there!” the committee chair downed her sixth glass of red and laid her head on the table. I hadn’t seen anything this cringy since my second cousin’s wedding when a drunk bridesmaid grabbed the mike to sing “Wings Beneath My Feet” to the groom. What are people thinking? You just never know.

Finally, around what seemed like four hours but was probably twenty minutes, the sound of someone clapping floated over us. Helene, still standing in her spot at the back, was putting her hands together for Mack. The whole room quickly joined in. In high school this would have quickly turned into a taunting chant (Get off the stage loser!). But the Class of ’74 was grown up now and had compassion. Or, at least, manners. The applause swelled, overwhelming Mack and wrapping him in a blanket of sound till all he could do was take his seat, smiling and nodding.

I looked for Helene after, to compliment her on saving the evening but couldn’t find her. Later, as Viv and I were leaving, we saw first responders wheel a stretcher through the lobby. Someone had found Helene passed out on the bathroom floor. It looked like she’d fallen and hit her head on the counter they said. When she came to, she couldn’t tell the paramedics where she was. She couldn’t say where she lived. And when the lead medic read her name badge, she said, “That’s not me” and passed out again. We watched as the attendants loaded her into the ambulance and drove off, lights spinning.

The next day, we called hospitals in the area to find out if she was ok. None had admitted an older female with a head injury. “Helene” had saved the evening and vanished. Who would save her? Sometimes you just don’t get to know.

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Photo by Nia Ramirez on Unsplash

As soon as I saw his lights snap on, I knew why I was getting pulled over. Stupidly I’d adjusted my headlights at the very moment I passed an oncoming unmarked police car. I had just passed a radar trap a mile or so back. And for no good reason, I checked to see if my lights were on. Or off. Or on. You get the idea. So what the policeman saw was a driver flashing her lights at him.

A week before, my husband and I were driving to the movies when a driver signalled us about a speed trap ahead. We were going the speed limit but thanked him anyway. Was this unconsciously in my mind when I sent my accidental heads-up to the police officer? I can’t say for sure.

As he pulled up behind me, I knew the drill. I had seen enough cop shows on T.V. to know that I should keep my hands in view and surrender any weapons. I thought of the pruning shears I kept in the glove compartment for gardening emergencies and quickly got my registration from there before the officer reached my car. My realtor brother-in-law once told me – ‘Never get out of your car when the police stop you. Have your license, insurance and registration ready, roll down your window and stay put.” He had the voice of experience.

I got out my documents and displayed my hands on top of the steering wheel. Officer 1076 was a nice-looking young man with red hair. He wore a lime green visibility vest and a stern look. He checked my documents before pointing out that I had flashed my lights at him. He asked me why and I explained that I was just checking to see if they were on or off. I knew this sounded implausible and, as he listened to this, I could tell he didn’t buy it.

That morning, I had attended our Palm Sunday service at church in the next town. Palm Sunday is often overlooked because of Big Easter the following week. Liturgically, Easter is the centrepiece for Christians. Easter is Drama and Redemption, followed by chocolate and ham. Palm Sunday is a quietly joyful tea and cookies celebration. It is the story of the day Jesus entered Jerusalem, surrounded by palm-waving crowds of his frenetic followers. (And angering the Pharisees, which ended badly. Or inevitably, depending on your denomination.) That morning on church, we were encouraged to celebrate Palm Sunday with gratitude and mindfulness. “Take a few minutes to pause”, we were told “and take three deep breaths to reconnect with God and give thanks”.

The best part of the morning for me was handing out bunches of thyme to everyone as they left. It was supposed to be palm fronds (for Palm Sunday). But I was in charge of getting those and had left it too late. So I grabbed handfuls of thyme from my garden and luckily people loved it.

As the officer looked over my car, he spied the leftover thyme on the passenger seat. He reached in and picked it up, displaying it suspiciously. “What’s this?” he narrowed his eyes, waiting for my confession: “You got me, officer. Those are my drugs. I sell dime baggies at my church as a fundraiser.” Instead I opted for the truth. “It’s thyme.” He looked at me like I was a Smart Ass. Or Stoned. Understandable, as I didn’t look great. I was getting over a bad cold; I had red eyes and a runny nose. I explained about the thyme. It’s an herb, I said, we used it as part of our church service this morning, and I was supposed to get Pa - “O.K.” He said and dropped it.

Just when I thought he was letting me go, Officer 1076 said offhandedly, “Let’s see what I can do here.” What does that mean, I thought? “Let’s see if I can make your day easier and let you go home so you can lie down? Let’s see if there’s a bylaw about not pissing off a cop? Let’s see what else I can come up with on you?” Bingo! The end of the month was looming; he probably needed to fill his traffic ticket quota. And I had pissed him off. I was sure he wouldn’t find anything on me. Still I took those three mindful breaths as he ran my information through the system. When he returned my documents without a word, he strolled around my car. He looked under it. He had me turn it on and rev the engine. And finally, in the rear-view mirror, I saw him squint excitedly at the license plate.

The ticket I got was for not having the latest registration sticker on my license plate. It was in the glove compartment with the pruning shears. I thought best not to open that potential can of worms at this point. Officer 1076 wrote me up for the infraction and smugly presented the ticket. He poked his head in my driver’s side window and cautioned me about alerting other drivers to a radar check by flashing my lights. Accidents can happen. People can get hurt. Officers can get pissed off (I added in my head). I nodded solemnly. I will never flash my lights while driving toward a police car in a radar zone when returning from Sunday morning church with thyme on my passenger seat at the end of the month, I said to myself. To him, I gave a sincere “Thank You”. I wasn’t going to give him any more reasons to nail me.

Wanting to wrap up, I said I was going home now to lie down. 1076 suggested I sit outside when I got home as the spring weather was so nice. I said I might do that. We chuckled. I clutched my ticket and smiled goodbye. Heading home, I inhaled deeply and enjoyed the faint aroma of the thyme. I hadn’t planned that roadside sermon but Officer 1076 left me with a memorable reminder to take the advice from church on the road.

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When I was 26, I had a secret crush on my landlord Dan. Everyone who met him loved him. He was that magnetic guy people just wanted to be around. He was a thirty-something blonde with the healthy good looks that come from working outdoors. Dan always seemed to have a huge grin on his face; his slight overbite just made it more disarming. He didn’t need a lot of indoor space so he lived on the top floor of his Kitsilano house in Vancouver and rented out the two lower apartments. Dan’s company, WhiteWater Adventures, took clients whale watching and whitewater rafting. He had several employees and a couple of enormous boats moored by his Granville Island office. He was living the dream.

When my then husband and I found Dan’s garden apartment listed for rent, we applied and got it right away. The place was perfect; a great location with great neighbours. Everything was tiny, like a Hobbit house. My favourite feature was the pair of French doors leading from the tiny kitchen to the tiny patio. But even a perfect apartment couldn’t save the marriage and the husband moved out, leaving me with a wonderful place I now couldn’t afford. Work had been unusually slow that summer so I took a chance and told Dan what happened, asking for a break on the rent for a couple of months. He agreed and suggested an exchange – I could take care of the postage stamp yard and garden in return for reduced rent; a more than fair arrangement for me. It was a year before he put the rent back up.

That summer, Dan began dating Jane. She was Dan’s female double, classically blonde and athletic with a generous personality. Jane climbed mountains. Soon, the big old oak tree in our front yard was hung with ropes and ladders and Dan was learning climbing techniques when he wasn’t on the water. The next year, the whitewater business was sold and Jane and Dan set out on a series of climbing expeditions. The Bugaboos, the Teetons, Yosemite; each trip more exciting and challenging than the last.

Wanting more, Dan went for the big peaks. He returned from an Everest climb and called me. He’d been asked to give a talk about it. He was terrified of doing these talks, which seemed surreal to me. Here was a confident worldly guy who had stood atop one of the tallest mountains in the world, scared of public speaking. We met for lunch and I shared a couple of tips with him. But with or without my help, he would have given a great talk, his genuine personality and humour would win over any audience. He went on to do many talks after that.

Jane and Dan eventually parted. Jane married and settled down; her climbing gave way to other passions. That Christmas I got a card from Dan. He’d met the love of his life, Colleen. She had a young son. They’d gotten married. He was over the moon happy. He continued to climb.

By now, I had migrated east to Toronto. I lived in a large house with several other actors. I found acting work. I was climbing my own Everest: living my dream of supporting myself as a working Canadian actor.

I got a couple of other cards from Dan. My favourite has a picture of him on top of Mount Everest, triumphant, hands joyfully raised, frost on his eyebrows and sunburned cheeks, and that big Dan grin. There would only have been a few minutes to get that picture. Climbers on the big peaks must start heading down off the mountain soon after they summit. Unpredictable weather, limited oxygen and challenging routes mean that returning from a summit can be just as dangerous, if not moreso than making it to the top.

Dan went on to summit K2, planting a flag there for the protection of the Tatshenshini River, a wilderness area in northern BC. A friend sent me a newspaper article about the climb. Dan was on his descent, untethered from his climbing partner, Jim Haberl. In his book about that climb, Jim described the shock of seeing first Dan’s ice pick and then Dan tumbling over and over, rushing past until he disappeared, forever lost to the mountains he loved to climb.

Dan was only the second Canadian to climb both Everest and K2 at that time. He was posthumously given The Governor General’s Award for his accomplishments.

Post Script: I knew and loved Dan as a friend, crazy adventurer and all-round great person. It was only after his death that I found out about his deep commitment to protecting wilderness parks and wildlife. Dan set aside a large portion of the funds in his will to go toward the preservation of those pristine lands. Jedediah Island sits between Texada and Vancouver Islands off the coast of BC. His family chose Jedediah Island as the recipient of his generosity. Check it out here:

https://www.givegreencanada.ca/island-legacy?ref=donors

https://www.gg.ca/en/honours/recipients/136-50316

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Summer of 1986 wasn’t looking good. Recovering from a failed starter marriage and between acting jobs, I was feeling stuck. Luckily that was also the year Vancouver hosted the biggest party in the world. And thanks to a director friend, I landed a plum job at Expo ’86. (Thanks, Mario.)

The job at GM’s Expo pavilion came with a surprisingly stylish uniform: sleek grey GM pants, two white GM golf shirts, a long red acrylic cardigan and a GM rain jacket to stave off Vancouver’s legendary rain—the pavilion’s main floor was open on all sides. I was issued a name badge, a lanyard, a coveted Expo ’86 pass and a walkie-talkie.

Each shift, team members rotated jobs. These were: Information Desk, Floor Floater, Welcome Station, Elevator Operator, Line Monitor, Car of the Future and Spirit Lodge Usher (two). During any six-hour shift, we might rotate through all seven positions.

Most of these were easy breezy. I loved being a Welcomer. I could spend hours cheerfully pointing visitors where they needed to go, which was often the washrooms.

The Car of the Future was tough We had to deliver a twenty-minute technical monologue from memory—all about a concept car created especially for Expo 86. The Fair’s theme that year was Transportation and Communication. The car was sleek, futuristic, bright red and undrivable. I delivered that monologue with the same passion I brought to my yearly Stratford Festival audition for Second Maid From the Left (A role I never did get.) My only memory of that position was trying not to fall into the open trunk while navigating around the slowly rotating stage.

The show “Spirit Lodge” was GM’s big draw. Lineups for it could be two or three hours of standing and shuffling up a long winding ramp. This was pre-cellphone days. By the time they were admitted to the hushed sanctuary of the theatre lobby people had that desperate look of Judy Garland and her trio waiting to meet the Great Oz after travelling “such a long, long way.” Here, the group waited five more minutes till the theatre doors finally swung open.

By the time they got to the lobby, people had stopped asking, “What’s taking so long?” Now they asked: “Have you seen my husband?”; “Can I smoke in there?” And my personal favourite “Do you have a bucket?”

Ushering was straightforward: welcome everyone, remind them not to bring food or drinks in and tell them to enjoy the show. Once the doors opened, the whole crowd stampeded for a seat giving new meaning to rush seating.

As the audience came in, the figure of a First Nations Storyteller sat quietly centre stage on a stump. Then the lights dimmed, and the stage lights gradually illuminated him and a campfire.

The Storyteller figure rose from his seat and an Elder’s liquid baritone filled the theatre from surround sound speakers, starting the Spirit Lodge story. The figure moved slowly around the fire as he conjured up a canoe from the smoke. (The audience always gasped at this). Children, Villagers, Rivers and a Raven appeared and disappeared in the smoke as the Elder told his story. It was a lyrical, moving show.

Its message was simple: “There’s room for everyone in the canoe.” Finally, as his story ended, the Storyteller himself vanished into the smoke, leaving only the dying embers of the fire as the lights faded to black.

No one on our team knew how any of this was done. The show’s technical magic was a well-guarded company secret, probably so we wouldn’t spoil the illusion for the waiting crowds. I would have certainly blabbed.

When the lights came up again, a bank of doors to the left whooshed opened and bright daylight flooded the theatre. A friendly but efficient disembodied voice instructed everyone to collect all their belongings and exit. We had three minutes to herd the dazed audience back out into the jumble of Expo sounds and smells, collect abandoned cups and orphaned umbrellas and do it all again. In all, a fifteen-minute turnaround.

I never got tired of watching “Spirit Lodge”. It was genuinely beautiful. At the time, it felt respectful of First Nations culture, and I didn’t think much about it being produced by a major corporation.

Now of course, I do. The intervening years have brought the painful legacy of our government and churches campaigns to eradicate Indigenous languages, cultures and peoples into the open. In 1986 it was conveniently hidden to most of us. But in 1986, residential schools were still operating. The last one, in Punnichy, Saskatchewan, wouldn’t close for another decade.

Then there was the environmental disconnect. Here was a car company presenting a show promoting respect for the land at the same time as it was selling products that depended on burning the land’s fossil fuels and not researching significant alternatives. Since 1990, our global consumption of natural resources has multiplied.

“There’s room for everyone in the canoe” is a great message—but what happens when the canoe itself is on fire?

Climate change wasn’t identified as the global crisis it is today. But, even then, watching the show from the back of that theatre, I felt an uneasiness I couldn’t name. Now I know it was the gap between the show’s messages and GM’s profit-driven mission that didn’t match. GM couldn’t present that show today.

Still, my summer of working at Expo 86 ended up being a wonderful turning point for me. I was paying my bills, meeting people from all over and watching my hometown play host to the whole world. And once the world discovered Vancouver, it never stopped coming.

I kept my red acrylic GM cardigan for years. And I still have the engraved silver tea tray given to us by GM CEO Jimmy Pattison. Obviously, Jimmy really liked my work. If only he’d been running Stratford.

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“What do I do? The young driver asks his mother.

“What did your instructor teach you?” She keeps her voice low and calm, even though she’s exhausted from their two-hour driving practice. It’s the longest they’ve ever been out. He’s doing great, she thinks. Time to get home. If he drives around the garbage truck idling where the road curves, in front of them, they could crash into an oncoming car. He must know that, right?

His knuckles are white where his hands tighten on the wheel. His breath comes shallower. Mind racing, he scrambles for the answer that’s now buried under a mountain of instructions.

Signal before you turn. The car on the right goes first. Stay one car length behind. Take a number. Wash your hands before returning to work. Never give anyone your personal information.

“OK, just peek around”, his impatient mother says, realizing it’s bad advice as soon as it’s out. No stay put, wait till the garbage truck moves. It will only be another minute or two. Why didn’t I say that?, she thinks.

But, before she can say it, her son gingerly steers the car out to check the oncoming lane. In that instant a red blur shoots up from behind and, flying past them, just kissing the driver’s side of their car. The son screams, slams on the brakes. The mother screams because she was wrong. So wrong.

A late model Ford pickup with chrome details and a vanity plate reading “SHAR63” skids to a stop just in front of them, kicking up a cloud of dusty gravel. The driver starts shouting before she is even out of the truck. “You fucking hit me! What the Fuck? What is WRONG with you?” She rushes to her passenger side, bending close to search for the evidence. She has flaming red hair, lots of it. It is curly and wild like a fairy tale witch.

The garbage guy looks on, shaking his head. What the fuck? People are crazy. Then he goes back to work. It’s not his job to get involved.

The Mother gets out and walks steadily toward the truck, bracing herself before she looks at the damage. She examines the passenger side; squints and moves in closer. Then she takes out her phone to take a picture of what can only be a miracle. There’s nothing there. Not a scratch, not a scrape, nothing. She stands and says this. The woman shouts louder. “LOOK AT IT!!! It’s right there! Look what you did!!!” When the mother is back home, she replays the scene in her head, landing a strong retort. “Really? Well, just for the record we weren’t doing 70 down the wrong side of the road. That was you.” But in fact, she just stands there exhausted, exposed, not defending herself or her son. She is a shitty mother.

The young man hangs back, watching. This is his fault, he did this. He did what his mom told him. Why did his mom tell him that? Why did she tell him to peek? He feels his eyes get wet, his cheeks are hot. He makes little circles with his hands, it helps him not feel the sting. He snaps his fingers, so he won’t vomit. He barely hears himself whisper, “Look what you did!” The rhythm of the words block out the shouting. “Look what you did! Look what you did!”

His mother hears her son’s voice rise; she knows the shift in him well, though it’s been ages since he’s gotten this flooded. “Look what you did!” The truck lady hears it now and spins around to challenge him. “What the hell?” He picks up the new phrase. “What the hell? What the hell? What the hell?” She’s red hot now, from her tangled hair to her snakeskin boots. She yanks open her passenger door to shout inside “Are you seeing this? You better be recording this.” A skinny man slides bonelessly out of the passenger seat and slithers on down to check the truck’s side panel till he’s almost out of view. His voice is reedy: “I don’t know Sharon, I don’t see anyth –” “Shut up Ray. It’s right there, look closer.”

“Let’s go Adam,” his mother points toward their passenger seat. She does a quick check of the driver’s side before she slides behind the wheel. No damage, thank you Jesus. Adam methodically connects his seat belt with a click. And just then, the garbage truck roars off around the corner. The road is clear. In the rear-view mirror, The Red Woman is still shouting at her hunched husband. Adam’s mom turns the car toward home. Adam snaps and gently rocks “Shut up Ray. What the hell? Shut up Ray. Look what you did. Shut up Ray. Shut up Ray. Shut up Ray.”

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Image Credit: Bruce Smith

The early evening sky was clear just like when the brothers used to fish off the point after school. A soft evening breeze rippled the lake but not enough to disturb the perch. Russ jigged his line, “c’mon, I know you’re down there,” he whispered. Buster was quieter than usual. Russ said, “I miss the old guy. You?” his brother refocussed “Yeah. I do.” It was a month since their old man keeled over, chopping wood. His heart apparently. Both boys agreed it was the best way. Even at 87, he still loved chopping wood.

Buster’s tick calmed down after their dad passed. His eye danced like crazy when he was stressed. Which was a lot of the time. Their dad was harder on Buster than Russ; thought the younger boy was slow, needed to be pushed. When their mom died, it got worse. “Pay attention, quit dreamin, get with it”.

“Hey, Russ? Um…Debbie and I are gettin’ married.” His older brother looked over then threw back his head and belly laughed. “That’s a good one.” But Buster didn’t laugh. “I asked her yesterday.” “You did not.” “Did. She said yes.” Russ frowned. “Now why would you do crazy-ass thing like that?”

Four months earlier Buster was buying a coke at the co-op. There was a new cashier, and his eye wouldn’t stop winking. Debbie, (her name tag said) told him to “cut it out”, thought he was being a jerk. He just left his can of coke on the counter and walked out. Trina, who saw the whole thing from the deli counter, filled Debbie in about Buster’s tick. Debbie felt terrible. She said sorry the next time she saw him. “I don’t remember that” he said when she apologized, his eye ticking harder than ever. Then she asked him out for coffee.

That was four months ago. But Buster knew right away she was the one. She didn’t mind his slow pace, his silences, even his ticking. She didn’t need to talk all the time. They liked being together. And they fell in love.

Russ shook his head. “No. No. We got plans remember? Sumpter Brothers Yard and Septic?” “Yeah..um.. … about that-“ “Don’t’ even say it.” the older brother reeled in his line and tossed the pole on the

boat bottom. Buster got a bite but cut the line with his knife.

No fishing today after all.

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My mother stood in the dark closet at my Grandmother’s house, sobbing into the lapels of Grandpa’s wool overcoat. He smelled like pipe smoke and old wood. I was five. Just before, I had heard Grandma hang up the heavy black receiver in the dining room and say. “Doris, he’s gone.” Muffled weeping from both, a whispered “No, no.” No one said where Grandpa had gone. But Everyone Was Crying. It didn’t sound like he was coming back.

The old treadle sewing machine in the kitchen had two little drawers on each side of the cabinet. The machine itself was tucked away underneath till it was needed. There were begonias and African violets on top of it. It was squeezed in between the back door and the breakfast nook. I had permission to go into the button drawer with whenever I liked. I pulled it out and poured the buttons on to the oilcloth-covered table in the nook. I scooped them up and tumbled them through my fingers, a button waterfall.

There were five pink fuzzy buttons from Grandma Coffey’s housecoat, replaced when her daughters bought her a new green one for Christmas. And the tiny white pearl ones that I pretended were puppy teeth. The six leather-covered ones were from my Uncle Fred’s jacket, which he ruined at a party when he was “young and foolish” according to my grandma. Uncle Fred later became a bank manager and could afford as many leather-covered buttons as he wanted. I sorted my mountain of buttons into piles by size and colour. Then I placed my whole face into the empty box and inhaled the delicious scent of earth and musty wood.

My favourite button was an old brass military one. I took it to my mom. She was sitting on the side of the bed now, one hand clutching at the pink satin coverlet. She looked like crumpled paper. Her jagged sobs slowed and stopped. Then, a sharp inhale, and another wave of weeping swept her away. She put her soggy handkerchief to her face. She rocked herself gently back and forth, the same way she rocked me when I had an earache. I put the military button in her hand. She gazed at it and cried and cried.

My mother told me as I was growing up how great her father was. How brave. He sacrificed the use of his left arm for King and Country when he was injured at the Somme in WW1. His arm became permanently crooked at the elbow and was pretty much useless. Lex Clarence Coffey was an intelligent man. He was the only schoolteacher in the small town of Didsbury Alberta. Because of that, he was harder on my mom and her sister Marion than all the other students. His daughters had to be superior in all things, he said, because of the family’s “position in the community”. My mother carried that message with her for life.

Twenty-five years later, I am sitting with Aunt Marion at her green formica kitchen table. We’re having tea. I have just fled from a visit with my mother; she’s stopped speaking to me. Again. Marion listens till I’m done, takes a sip of her Orange Pekoe, and gently returns her cup to its saucer. She tells me Doris and their dad, contrary to the glowing picture my mother painted, had a fraught relationship. This is news to me. As she goes through the details, a wave of relief washes over me. Wait, is Marion telling me my mother doesn’t hate me? Could it be that her general disapproval of me and my choices (not all of which were great, I admit) was more about her all along?

As the eldest of three, Mom fought the major battles with her parents that her two younger siblings didn’t have to when they came along. At thirty-two, she announced to her parents she was going on a trip to Europe with her friend Alice. Her father told her she couldn’t go. And that’s when she declared her independence and went to Europe anyway. By this time, she was engaged to my father and had someone who loved her and a whole new life to return to. Marion told me, when their father and Dorie fought, she was like a cornered hissing cat. “Your mom is kind to everyone she knows, except her family, my aunt tells me. She saves all her frustration and anger for us.

I was liberated in Marion’s kitchen that day, untethered from the weight of my mother’s stories - and the ones I’d told myself.

My grandpa’s military button sits in my hand, heavy and tarnished. I wonder what jacket I should sew it onto? Maybe a funky sweater. Or maybe…I could just put it away with all the other buttons. It’s served its purpose now.

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Soggy six o’clock sunrise.

My feet sloshing puddles,

I step into the shelter smells:

Wet wool mingles with Old Spice and sleep;

There’s a topnote of Export A’s. Unfiltered.

I lean smokeward to sneak a hit off the stranger’s habit.

Oh, why did I quit?

Coffee steam breathes me awake.

Air brakes screech, doors creak, leaky raincoats squeeze in -

Hey take your turn, man; I’m headed for work too.

We wear different suits, that’s all.

L’air Du Temps wafts up front, Ballerina on Board!

Doug the Driver slurps his Dr. Pepper in the mirror and winks.

at all the girls, his eyes atwinkle.

He’s old,

maybe fifty.

with a roguish mouth, lopsided and lush,

and waves of grey hair.

He belts out a bold baritone

“Oh What a Beautiful Mornin’ ”.

I take the harmony

as

Doug makes a left at the next green

and points our rig towards Oklahoma!

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If you have thought “I should try writing.” or “I wonder if I could?” or “I’ve run out of ideas. Now what?” or j“I need to make some time to work on that…magazine article/ short story/ poem about my mother….. Here’s an opportunity to dive in and get started (or restarted).

I had the pleasure last fall of training in the Amherst Writers and Artists method of facilitating and it was a game changer for me. The training reignited my creative fire and got me writing again, and now - bonus! - I am certified to offer workshops and groups in the AWA method. I will be posting these here in the next couple of months.

Meantime, I am offering two workshops during AWA’s Write Around the World fundraiser, happening every day in February. There is a feast of workshops and facilitators from all over to choose from with a variety of time zones to accommodate writers from everywhere.

My sessions are called: “Refilling the Well: Telling Your Caregiver Story”.

Dates: Feb. 1 (coming soon) and Feb. 8.

Times is 1 p.m. to 3 p.m. EST.

All sessions are on Zoom.

Cost is a sliding scale, depending on your situation. It’s lower if you register for a group of sessions. All funds go to support AWA’s non profit work.

To find out about AWA and Write Around the World, go to their site:

https://amherstwriters.org

Click on the Write Around the World button to get all the details and check out their roster of sessions and writers giving them. It’s awesome. You’ll be working in a supportive environment, where confidentiality is taken very seriously and all writing is treated as art. (No one questioning the writer if “this” did or didn’t happen… etc.). The focus is completely on the writing and making space for each writer’s work.

https://www.edinburghfestivalcity.com/inspiration/523-facts-about-hogmanay

The end of the calendar year is a time of reflection; of making lists and resolutions. The iconic countdown, the ball drop in Times Square, and the anticipation of a whole new year! Fresh Start. Clean Slate. Generalized hope topped off with some specific decisions to “do better”. (No pressure there!) I’m sure it is a day celebrated by Fitness Centres and Weightloss businesses.

In our western hemisphere, we celebrate the close of our Christmas season, by putting away the decorations, returning gifts and sorting through the credit card debt. And by capping everything off with one last blow out – feasting, drinking, and partying to say goodbye to the “old” year and ring in a hopefully better one.

This modern season is very different from the Christmastide of the middle ages. In those days the season began on Dec. 25 with feasting and parties that lasted till January 6th, called Epiphany. This is when the Kings followed The Star and met the Baby in a Stable. It’s a wonderful story. But even then, those Kings had to bring gifts and travel a long way, which probably involved overnights in strange beds and fussing about who would give which precious metal to the Baby.

Anyway, whether you are winding up for that New Year’s Eve Party, or recovering from all the seasonal Joy, or celebrating Christmastide with Seven Swans Aswimming, I wish you Joy. Especially The Little Joys of the Season, those tiny moments that happen randomly, out of the blue. That woman who held the door for the very slow-moving man at the drug store; the cashier who kept the lost wallet and waited for the owner to return, grateful and relieved that all the contents were there and people still do the right thing sometimes. The young man in the Princess Auto parking lot who asked if I needed help as I gazed into the engine of my Honda, trying to figure out where the washer fluid went. (In my defence, Stephen took the cap labelled “Washer Fluid” so I was at a disadvantage…)

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And…the message in the snow today, that someone took a moment to write there, knowing another person would see it and maybe have a better day because of it.

It’s a fact, are terrible things happening in the world right now. It’s not the first dark time in history but these days feel really dark. That’s why those Little Joys are more important than ever. They add shine, a bit of hope, an energy boost to go on a bit farther. They shimmer and sparkle on the grey days. They remind me to look up, look around. Pay attention.

I am grateful to be able to write WingWords. I’m doubly grateful for everyone who subscribes or comments or shares one of my posts. Thank you Thank you Thank you. You lift me up on those tough days, and fill me with joy on the other ones.

This End of Year Season, as the Light returns and our Gregorian Calendar flips over once more, I hope you get to experience some of those Little Joys. Look for them in your day. They might pop up when you least expect them. And make sure to share them when you can. (I’m turning on the comments for everyone for this post…) Little Joys multiply when shared.

Wishing you all the Little Joys your heart can hold for today and beyond.

Merry Happy Joyous Peaceful Season on this, the 7^th Day of Christmas , the last day of 2025.

Love, Alana

(Image: Artist Unknown*)

Nora grudgingly dug her father’s old walking stick out of the hall closet. Arthritis had finally settled into her knees. The oak cane was sturdy, its ornate handle now shiny from years of his firm grip. It was the only useful thing he left her when he died. One day, on a whim, she painted the stick with blue and orange flowers to brighten it up. “That thing is an antique Mom.” Imogene said, more angrily than Nora thought appropriate. Immie had always been an overly emotional child.. But as Nora’s memory began to falter, Imogene was more impatient than usual. She treated her mother like a badly behaved child. “Now it’s just worthless. You could have gotten some money for it before.” “You mean you could have gotten some money for it.” Said Nora. “I’m still using it. And I like the flowers.”

That was Imogene’s last visit. Two days later Nora found a note from her in the mailbox saying she was “taking a break”. It said she needed to “process” her childhood injuries and she was going to travel for a while. Nora didn’t know what childhood injuries Immie was talking about. And she was too tired to ask. She called but only got Imogene’s recorded message, so she left a voicemail: “I got your note, Immie. I don’t know what injuries you’re talking about but do what you need to, that’s fine. Go and Process…Travel Safely Darling”. Then, not a word from Imogene, except one postcard from Athens a couple of months after saying. “Not Dead Yet. ox I”

The morning after Imogene’s postcard arrived, a large handsome fellow showed up on Nora’s doorstep, just sitting there waiting for her to open the door. He purred loudly and blinked at her before picking his way past her into the living room and jumping on top of the bookcase. “Well, hello there” she said as the cat looked down at her from her stack of knitting magazines. Nora asked the couple next door if they knew who owned him. But they said they hadn’t seen him before, he was probably a stray. “You look like a Clifford”, she said to him. “How about it? Clifford? That work for you?”

Clifford settled in quickly. “Stay as long as you want.” Nora said, stroking his silky ears as he switched his tail, and twitched his whiskers. His fur coat was a rich deep brown with an unusual splotch of white, shaped like a map of Greece, on his back. He had a little cowlick of fur sticking up between his ears that made him look like he was about to tell a joke.

Before long, the two had found a comfortable routine. Every morning at 8 a.m., they had muffins and tea at the yellow Arborite table by the kitchen window. Later, Nora dusted and swept the house while Clifford supervised, walking her from room to room. Then Nora headed out to to the ShopRite while Clifford took a nap draped over the back of the couch. Neither ate lunch. Afternoons were spent in the garden, weeding (her) and hunting (him). One afternoon, Clifford presented Nora with a lovely mouse, but she got upset and cried. This annoyed him and he never brought her another present again.

At 3 p.m., they went inside to have a cup of tea and watch “As the World Turns”. After they both had a nap on the couch, Nora made tuna sandwiches for their dinner. They ate in silence, watching dusk settle over the tumbled back garden outside the kitchen window. Then, Nora washed the dishes and stacked them to dry on the drainboard. Clifford helped by batting at occasional drips from the tap. Before bed, they watched old movies on TV. Clifford loved Humphrey Bogart. His favourite movie was “The African Queen”. At exactly 10 p.m., Clifford got up, stretched and led the way up the creaky threadbare stairs to bed. He kneaded the chenille bedspread before taking his position curled around the bump of Nora’s craggy feet, keeping them toasty warm. Sometimes he snored. But then, so did she.

Nora loved her backyard. Sid had left an old bathtub under the oak tree, promising to haul it to the dump. But before he could do that, he died in a freak golfing accident. Now the old tub was part of the landscape. Nora filled it with soil and scattered wildflower seeds. This year there was Cosmos and Butterfly Weed and Purple Coneflower. Nora never knew what would appear; she used a wildflower mix from the hardware store so each year was a surprise.

On the full moon, Clifford and Nora crept out of bed in the middle of the night and went out to sit by the garden bathtub. As the world slept, they listened to the symphony of chirping and croaking floating through the dark from a neighbour’s pond. Sometimes Nora slipped her flannel nightie off her shoulders to feel the soft night air on her skin. They sat there together, undone; gazing up at the full moon. I miss Imogene, Nora whispered to it. Clifford rubbed his head on her doughy white thigh and made comforting noises in his throat.

Then one day, as suddenly as he had appeared, Clifford was gone. After two weeks, Nora resigned herself to being alone again. She left his dishes on the counter by the fridge, just in case. She sat out by the bathtub for a couple of nights but it wasn’t the same without her friend’s steady motor whirring at her side. Now she was in bed by 8:30, and skipped evening T.V. Humphrey Bogart wasn’t the same without Clifford. In her sleep one night, Nora saw him roaming the streets of Greece. He was stealing scraps of cod from annoyed fishmongers and stopped to lap up a puddle of spilled milk by the side of a busy road. She saw Imogene walking in the distance and called to her. But Immie didn’t hear and just kept walking.

The next afternoon, the sky opened up and poured rain. Nora thought she heard someone at the door. When she opened it, there was Clifford, huddled with a Little Ginger Girl. Both were soaking wet. He shook himself off and came right in, showing Ginger the way to his dishes beside the fridge. “They’re right where you left them Clifford. I knew you’d be back.” The cats sat twitching their ears as Nora whirred a tin of tuna through the electric opener. Nora gave Little Ginger her own milk in the Bunnykins bowl. Once they had eaten, Little Ginger explored each room, scouting for good places to lounge. Clifford settled back into his spot on the sofa, drowsily watching the rain ping off the window in the late afternoon gloom. Nora joined him and caught him up on the latest, tenderly stroking his map of Greece. The couple next door was moving to the suburbs because they were having another baby and wanted a bigger yard. No word yet on who had bought but Nora hoped they didn’t have a dog. They had a new mailman – no, mail person – an eager young woman named Coco. And still nothing from Imogene. It had been eight months.

Crack! Nora heard her walking stick fall in the hallway by the front door. When she finally got there, Little Ginger stood, back arched, hackles raised, hissing at the broken stick in an oddly familiar way. And from that moment on, Nora called the new girl Little Imogene.

(*A Note: The picture above is the inspiration for the following story. It was given as a prompt in a writing session, posted without attribution. I did an internet search for the artist but found nothing. If you know the artist or ARE the artist, please let me know, so I can credit you.)

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The November I turned eleven, snow in Warfield was already up to my hips. Wendy Parker asked me if I wanted to be an elf on the Eaton’s Float in the annual Christmas Parade. Of course, I said yes. The Eaton’s Float was Santa’s Float, an opportunity I couldn’t miss. We were chosen because Wendy’s dad was the Manager of Appliances at Eaton’s. And, luckily, in charge of casting elves.

Riding on the Santa Float turned out to be cold work. Even with two sweaters and my snowpants under my green felt elf outfit, I had to keep waving just to stay warm. We only saw Santa’s back because Wendy and I were the Standing Behind Santa Elves. Our job was to wave at the crowd along the route and hurl candy at them. Not the show business debut I’d hoped.

Eaton’s seemed to like my performance of a Standing Behind Santa Elf though because next spring, they called again. This time they asked me to model their pre-teen fashions in their Spring Fashion Show. This was right up my alley. At the fitting two weeks before, Marnie from Ladies Wear, showed me into the change room where three beautiful outfits waited for me. They were a bouquet of spring pastels, each with matching accessories. There was a perky checked pants /pop top set with matching pink tam. A swingy yellow sundress, (think Sound of Music bicycling scene but with buttercup polyester curtains.) And my favourite: a white puff sleeved blouse paired with trendsetting baby blue shorts. The shorts fit me perfectly. I checked myself in the mirror. My heart stopped. It looked like I was wearing black knee socks.

By eleven, my body was already a problem. It wasn’t built for sports. It often got bronchitis. And I had eyebrows like my grandfather, which is another story. Worst of all, my chest was flat as a pancake. My mother refused to let me get a bra, not even a training one. All the girls I knew wore training bras and most of them didn’t need them. But something else was happening – downy soft black hair all over my body. My father loved to tell people that when I was born, I looked like the Tognotti kids next door because of my full head of jet black hair. And now, this hair was sprouting on my arms, legs, on my TOES! What 11-year-old has hair on her toes? I was sure this would cost me my modelling debut. But when Marnie looked me over, she didn’t seem to notice. Still, I had to do something. I could NOT strut the catwalk looking like an actual cat.

I showed Wendy. “That is weird” she confirmed, squinting at my furry legs. “You have to shave that.” Not surprisingly, my mother nixed leg shaving. “You’re too young to shave. And the hair comes back thicker and darker, so you will have to shave your legs forever.” I usually did what my parents told me, but not this time. After all, Mom was a social worker and didn’t understand professional modelling standards.

Next day, I raced home from school before my parents got home from work. I locked the bathroom door and got out my dad’s shaving things from the medicine cabinet. Perching one foot on the toilet lid, I lathered up my calf and part of the wall. I carefully guided the safety razor against the direction of hair growth like I’d seen Dad do. I nicked my skin a few times and dabbed it with Dad’s stypic pencil like he did. And like my dad, I rinsed the razor under running water and watched the black hair swirl satisfyingly down the drain. When I was done, my legs were shiny and smooth; my injuries barely showed. I got everything cleaned up just as I heard the clink of Dad’s lunch bucket in the front hall.

The following Saturday morning, my mother shrieked from the bathroom. She’d pulled the plug to drain water from the sink, and it just sat there. In a panic, she ran more water, creating a waterfall that poured onto the new linoleum my father had just laid down. Dad got to work right away, fetching his tools and dismantling the elbow pipe to clear the clog. Later, my mother eyed me suspiciously. “Your Father said the sink clog was from his shaving.” Every so often, she’d bring up The Bathroom Sink Incident and Dad would reassure her “Honey it happens. Don’t worry, it’s fixed”. Then, he’d throw me a wink behind her back. Mom finally asked me outright if I knew anything about all the hair in the drain. Of course, I said no.

On Fashion Show Day, I worked that plywood runway with a flair I’m pretty sure Eaton’s Ladies Wear hadn’t seen before. My gleaming silky-smooth legs showed off their preteen spring collection perfectly. Best of all, I felt clean, unfazed by the lifetime of hair removal products now ahead of me. Of course, my mom’s prediction came true, and the little black hairs reappeared. But I didn’t care. I was a model now. Sure, I didn’t wear a bra yet, but at least I could strut the runway with clean silky legs. And what could be more womanly than that?

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My birthday is coming up in a few days. I love that it comes on the heels of an ancient Celtic celebration called Samhain (pronounced Sow-In). Samhain goes from October 31 - November 2. It marks the changeover of seasons; summer into winter, harvest into fallow time, light into darkness. Early Druids and Pagans believed this was the time when the veil between this world and the next was thinnest. During Samhain, they would call to spirits from the beyond, reaching into a mystical unseen world.

In long ago Ireland, Samhain was a celebration of the final harvest, with masses of food and drink and partying. Spirits (both kinds) were summoned and everyone wore costumes to ward off the evil spirits and party with the nice ones. When the early Christians came along, they didn’t see Samhain as a good thing. They got nervous about the Chaos and Mystery of it, not to mention all the spirit summoning. So, they created “All Hallow’s Eve” the Christian answer to Samhain. All Hallows Eve still had costumes and food, and sort of resembled Samhain. But on All Hallows Eve, Christians eliminated the spirits (in Christianity, there is only One) and folded Samhain into their own festivity. And so, All Hallows Eve or Halloween was born.

I am not a fan of Halloween. I went trick or treating as a kid but after age 12, the whole thing felt a bit pointless. In our little village of Warfield in the 1960s, no one burned effigies, like Guy Fawkes in Britain or had parties at the cemetary like Mexico’s Day of the Dead. The night was basically about us kids roaming the streets dressed as a witch or a ghost and hitting up the neighbours for candy. Some of us also collected money for Unicef in little cardboard boxes, which at least made it seem like we were doing something worthwhile. But for me, Halloween doesn’t hold a candle in a pumpkin to Samhain.

We need Samhain today more than ever, to help us reconnect to our natural rhythms. Our circadian rhythms are overridden by our rapid technology, artificial light and time changes. Everything goes so fast now we get disconnected from the natural world and ourselves. When we reconnect with those natural revolution of the seasons, we have the chance to slow down and return to ourselves. The land needs to rest. So do we. Samhain marks the start of that rest so we can pause and then gather our energy for the coming spring.

A wonderful therapist I had once observed that, in modern life, at the very time our inborn rhythms want us to slow down and adjust to diminished light and warmth, the world is ramping up. Back to School, Thanksgiving, Halloween, Christmas, New Years - the whole season feels frantic. But there’s richness in the darkness of winter. It’s a time when books are written and babies are made. It’s when those ancient Celts nourished themselves through leaner times with the fruits of their summer labours. I wouldn’t be surprised if that’s where pickled carrots came from.

I have a couple of Irish ancestors (way, way back in the tree) and this may be why I feel connected to all things Celtic - the music, the literature, The Mystery. (I got the Drinking out of the way in my 20s) One benefit of aging is that I’m now fine with The Mystery. I don’t need to “solve” The Big Riddle anymore. Why are we here? Where do we go after? Mostly, I’m grateful to be along for the Ride, bumpy or smooth.

So, for my birthday this year, I will celebrate Samhain with a few days away. I’m staying at a grand old house called Loretto Maryholme which is nestled on the shores of Lake Simcoe. The Loretto Sisters are a Catholic order of nuns who devote themselves to contemplation and the service of women and children. The house has a beautiful big porch and is set back from roads and the hum of regular life. After I arrive, I will sit and breathe and nap. I will eat delicious food and maybe go for a walk. I’ll think some thoughts. I may or may not write. The timing is perfect as my whole being feels depleted and tired. I’ll gather the harvest of my past year, listen for the spirits of those who are gone and prepare to myself to head into the richness of the winter dark. I’m grateful to be able to stop for a few days. For some, that’s not possible. And if you like the sound of Samhain, I hope you find a little slice of time “out” from the buzz of life to marvel at the change of the seasons and celebrate your personal Samhain too.

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Cindy Neilson’s parents let her throw a pool party for her birthday every summer. The Neilsons had a big inground pool with a high fence around it. So if you weren’t invited to the party, you couldn’t see it, just hear the splashing and laughing on the other side of the wood. Deedee and I had been invited to Cindy’s Seventh Birthday pool party in grade one. So I just assumed I was on the guest list in grade two. But everything changed that year with The Farmer in the Dell. And “Stinky”.

I already knew what Cindy and the Pool Party Club were capable of. I watched her call poor Margery Whithall a fat elephant in first grade. In front of everybody at recess. Margery tried to look like she didn’t care. But she ate Fudgicles and Rollos all through the summer holidays. When she came back for grade two, she had doubled in size. I never thought that could happen to me. I never thought I’d be “Stinky”.

“The Farmer in the Dell”, in case you’ve never heard of it, is a brutal exercise in social torture disguised as a sweet little children’s game. I’ll bet some medieval people made it up to separate the popular wheat from the untouchable chaff so villagers with pools didn’t have to be nice to their neighbours. Did Mrs. Mason know this when she taught the game to her innocent little grade one students? Probably not. I loved Mrs. Mason. She smelled of L’Air du Temps and wore pearls and matching sweater sets. She was kind and beautiful. But “The Farmer in the Dell” was not one of her best ideas.

Cheryl Schaefer ended up being The Cheese so many times in grade one in Farmer in the Dell, she finally ran right out of class and sprinted the two miles to her house. When she came back the next week, she was excused from playing the game for the rest of the grade. She had a note from Principal Murphy saying so. When the class played FITD in Gym, she was allowed to go to the office and help Mrs. Clark stuff envelopes. Much later, in grade seven, she became a sprinting star winning first in the 500 yard dash at competitions all over the province. I’m pretty sure she had “The Farmer in the Dell” to thank for her success.

Here’s how the game went: Everyone stood in a circle around The Farmer - who was always Alan Hilton because he was Mrs. Mason’s pet. Then everyone sang about The Farmer being In the Dell and a few Hi Ho Dairiooohs, and after that, Farmer Alan chose a wife and she (always a girl, it was 1963) stepped inside the circle with him. If Alan chose Deedee, she picked me next. And I’d do the same for her. So neither of us had to be The Cheese all through grade one.

So, “wife” chose a “child” who chose a nurse who chose an animal; dog, cat, cow, etc. You get the idea. And this went on and on until The Rat was chosen. And the rat, being a rat, picked “The Cheese”. Then, everyone backed slowly away and sang: The Cheese Stands Alone! while the cheese kid just stood there solitary and unclaimed like an abandoned bag at a bus station.

So, in grade two, without the protection of my Very Best Friend, guess who ended up being The Cheese? Did I pull a Cheryl? No way. I just stood there being the best damn cheese I could be. Until Cindy whispered “Stinky Cheese”. And soon, others had joined in. They’d whisper it when they passed me in the hall and just before I gave my presentation on The Maple Tree for Science. Over time they shortened it to the one smelly adjective. And so I became “Stinky”.

My smelly nickname stuck all through grade two. In grade three, Cindy made up a secret alphabet to use with the Pool Party Club. They printed strange hieroglyphics on ratty scraps of paper and passed them to each other in class. Once, Eric Eckles snuck a look at one of the notes, but he didn’t understand it. And he was really good at crosswords.

Desperately, I tried to offer some juicy gossip to Cindy in hopes of getting some social protection or at the very least, a better nickname. I scribbled out a few scathing (and fictitious) factoids* about Margery Whithall on a page I ripped out of my Language exercise book. (*Her underwear was grey…She didn’t wash…Her mother had a mustache. And, I drew a picture of a pig and labelled it Margery Pighall. I am not proud of this.) Next day in Gym, I asked to go to the bathroom and secretly snuck back to the classroom to put the note on Cindy’s desk.

Language was right after Gym. When Cindy saw the new note she made a beeline for her desk. I pretended to study for the adjective test that day and waited for my note’s explosive contents to land. But when she read it, Cindy just squinted at me and hissed “Everybody knows that…Stinky”. When Mrs. Steffani turned her back to print the word “maximum” on the blackboard, Cindy wadded the note into a tight ball and threw it. It hit me so hard in the right eye, I had to go to the school nurse and I took the whole next day off.

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Eddie Franklin poked a stick into the hole in his front yard. Something had just wiggled down there. The stick broke in half, and he fell back on his bum. His mother would be upset, he was wearing his best pants, and they were going to church soon. Eddie got on his knees and stared at the hole. The thing was sure to make a run for it when it came out. He was ready.

As he watched, he hummed “God Sees the Little Sparrow Fall”, the hymn he’d learned in Fruitful Baptist’s Sunday School Choir. He watched patiently, biting his lower lip. He was just about to poke his finger in the hole when - Bam! - a mouse popped out and skittered past him down the street. He took off after it, past Old Man Angerelli’s place, past the vacant lot, past the Thompson house and across Saltzberg Street which he was forbidden to cross. Eddie saw the little thing disappear in the grass by Mrs. Koshkin’s house. Mrs. Koshkin was always on her porch, rocking in her creaky old chair knitting wool things. And there she was, creaking and clicking. Eddie knew he wasn’t supposed to be this far from home, but he was so close to his prize. This would be worth the trouble he’d be in at home.

Quick as a wink, the mouse darted across the sidewalk, Eddie pounced and caught its tail between his stubby thumb and pointer finger. It dangled mid-air, a failed escape artist, writhing and wriggling. Eddie could see its little teeth and whiskers. The feet had tiny pink pads on them. And claws. Eddie had never had a pet before. He’d take it home and keep it in a jar. He’d poke holes in the top so it could breathe. When he showed Ruth she’d scream. Ruth thought she could boss him because she was two years older. But now he had a secret weapon, and she wouldn’t boss him anymore.

The clicking and creaking had stopped. Mrs. Koshkin leaned on her porch railing, watching him. He had his catch tight in his fist, looking at its little eyes wide with terror. “Careful that doesn’t bite you, Edward.” she called down. “You can get sick from them.” He didn’t like people calling him Edward but he was five and she was old so he couldn’t correct her. Mrs. Koshkin would tell on him to his mother if he talked back.

Eddie squinted up at her ugly black shoes and her apron with big flowers. “What’re you gonna name it?” She asked. “Skitter” He said, “Because he’s skittery”. “I see”. Eddie turned to go but Mrs. Koshkin’s voice got syrupy. “It’s too bad about your parents Edward.” “What” He squinted up at her. “I was so sorry that happened to your father, what a thing.” “My Dad?” Eddie had no idea what she was talking about. “Yes, the war, his sickness. And your poor mother, passing just as you were born. What a thing.” Eddie’s head went hot. Obviously, the old lady was crazy. His mom and dad were home. He had porridge with them 35 minutes ago. They would all go to church when he got back.

Eddie stared at the porch railing. “OK then,” he said to it, turning toward home. He ran home faster than he’d ever run. He didn’t even look both ways at Saltzberg St. Before he knew it, he was climbing his front stairs. It didn’t matter right now he wasn’t supposed to use the front door. The black door handle was hard to open using just one hand. In the front hall, his mother was in her best blue coat, the one with the silver buttons down the front. She was looking in the hall mirror to put on her hat, when she saw him behind her. “Eddie, where have you been? I’ve -” her little boy was pale. His father appeared. “Well, I’ve looked everywhere for him but…“

“Mrs. Koshkin says my mother is dead and my father is sick from the war. But you’re both here. Why did she say that?”

“Oh, my Lord” His mother whispered. Her hand flew up to her neck. His father’s eyebrows shifted up and down as though they didn’t know where to be. His parents caught each other in the mirror. They thought their decision to adopt her sister’s newborn son was well in the past. Eddie had been theirs right from the start. Her poor sister Marion had never even gotten to hold his wriggling little body in her arms before she died.

His father coughed, something caught in his throat. “We’re late for church”. He said and reached around Eddie to pluck his hat from the coat stand.

The small grey tail hung lifeless from Eddie’s fist as he followed his father down the stairs to the car.

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From the beginning of time, Deedee Angerelli was my Very Best Friend. We both arrived in the world via The Trail Tadanac Hospital one snowy mid-1950s November, just two weeks apart. Almost as soon as we could walk and talk, we were inseparable. Summers, we cruised between our three hang outs on Dickens St: At Deedee’s house we played school, in my yard we built snow castles and, we stopped in at Aunty Gina’s in between when we needed to refuel. Aunty Gina ‘s kitchen always smelled of homemade lasagna and fresh cannoli. If you came to Aunty Gina’s door for a glass of water, you stayed to eat.

Occasionally Dee and I fought. One day she made me so mad - I can’t remember why - I bit her on the shoulder and then hid high up in a maple tree behind the Dickens St Playground for the rest of the afternoon. When my mother finally found me that evening, she announced “You’re lucky you didn’t break Deedee’s skin. She doesn’t need a rabies shot, thank Goodness”. My punishment was the usual: a bum whacking with the wooden spoon. But worse than any spanking, which was temporary, was the dread I felt of losing my Very Best Friend. As soon as I got my punishment, Dee and I raced each other to the playground at the top of our street again. At least that is how I remember it. We may have taken a few hours before that to nurse our injuries.

We galloped through Grade One together. We planned our Halloween costumes together. I went as a witch and Dee as a Ghost. We got a public beating together: The Ruler To The Hands in front of our whole class after we went down to the school boiler room searching for clues to a mystery we were working on. (Apparently we needed permission.)

We took ballet together. Every Saturday morning, we climbed the dirty cement stairs in the Trail Tadanac Arena to a chilly, metallic-smelling room Mrs. Wendland called her “ballet studio”. There, we plied and jeted for an hour while the pungent aroma of the latest Smokeeaters victory wafted up through the vents. No surprise to me, Mrs. W chose us to be her “head fairies” for our year-end ballet concert. As the Prima Ballerinas (Mrs. Wendland’s words, not mine) Dee and I got to wear long white tutus. We practiced wafting through the air as our floating net skirts shimmered and glinted with the hundred and twenty-five tiny silver sequins our mothers had sewn on by hand. Everyone else in the dance was a flower or a bug, wearing different coloured tutus with little Brillo pad skirtlets. Aside from my late entrance, Deedee’s and my performance was a triumph.

Dee and I spent every waking hour of that hot dry summer after Grade One roaming the streets of Trail, telling each other stories about our future lives in a house with thirty-seven rooms and six dogs. I wrote stories. Deedee worked for an airline.

The first day of Grade Two, I arrived bright-eyed at Dee’s front door, in my favourite red wool pleated skirt, crisp white shirt and the sweater my mother had knit. I hated the sweater because it was handmade but my patent leather shoes made up for it. My new Scooter lunchbox was packed with all my favourites: Peanut Butter and Honey on soft white bread, apple slices and Dad’s cookies, each wrapped neatly in wax paper. I tingled with anticipation for the new school year.

Deedee appeared in her Barbie pyjamas. “I’m not coming”, she said. I waited for her to laugh and tell me it was a joke but instead she said, “We’re moving to San Francisco.” Where? What? No! I followed her into the Angerelli’s plastic-covered living room where her mother confirmed the horrible news. Their family had just been given a large old house in downtown San Francisco by a dying uncle and they were going to live there now. Deedee was already enrolled in a Catholic school in their new neighbourhood. The whole family would be gone in a week.

“You don’t want to be late for school”. Eda Angerelli gently guided me to the front door. I saw Deedee behind in the hallway staring at the floor. I mumbled a stunned goodbye, and stumbled down their red brick steps, heading out into the world, now without my Very Best Friend. I felt my chest fill up with broken glass and needles. I didn’t notice till lunch that I had left behind my new Scooter lunchbox.

About “Thirty-Seven Rooms, Six Dogs”

This piece was inspired by a similar event in my early life which I spent years mourning. I had a friend whose family moved away suddenly in grade school. There was no time to say much more than goodbye. It was a huge loss, and though my parents felt badly for me, they didn’t appreciate how deeply that loss cut. Even into my thirties, I still searched for that same soul connection without really finding it.

Fast forward sixty years later. I have experienced many losses: the loss of my parents, the loss of my breast to cancer, the loss of two pregnancies and a first marriage. The loss of a several wallets and more than a few cell phones. And, of course, I’ve lost many people I have loved. I also lost a career that I adored but could no longer handle given my galloping alcoholism. Then, when I sobered up, I navigated the loss of another Very Best Friend: Alcohol.

The theme of Loss runs like a river through my life and writing. I have fought it, trying to focus on more upbeat, fun pieces, but Loss just keeps returning. Maybe because I closing in on my seventies, I’m tired of ignoring this endless knock on my creative door. So, I won’t push it away. I’ll open up and invite it in. “Hey you’re back. Pull up a chair. Let’s talk.”

What is the deal with the Scooter lunchbox?

By now, the whole world knows about Barbie since the movie came out a couple of years ago. When I was little Barbie had a younger sidekick, named Skipper, and a best friend named Midge. (That may not be Mattel’s story, but it was mine.). Scooter was either: 1. best friend of Skipper or 2. sidekick of Midge. Or some combination of both. I longed silently for a Barbie doll, Ken, and Skipper. But somehow my mother felt it would be more appropriate for me to own the second stringers: Midge, Allan (Did you love Michael Cera in the movie!?) and Scooter. I didn’t complain this but inside I wondered why I wasn’t allowed to have the “real” thing. Mom never said, and I never asked. Today I hear Midge, Scooter and Ken are sought after collectors items - they’re very rare. Eventually, all my dolls got lost along the way in one of my Mom’s moves. She may have thought I didn’t want them anymore. I still roam thrift stores scanning the shelves for a Scooter lunch box. Here’s a picture of some Scooters. Shout out this FB page:

https://www.facebook.com/groups/281238235383286

About Thirty-Seven Rooms…

This piece was inspired by a similar event in my early life which I spent years mourning. I had a friend whose family moved away suddenly in grade school. There was no time to say much more than goodbye. It was a huge loss, and though my parents felt badly for me, they didn’t appreciate how deeply that loss cut. Even into my thirties, I still searched for that same soul connection without really finding it.

Fast forward sixty years later. I have experienced many losses: the loss of my parents, the loss of my breast to cancer, the loss of two pregnancies and a first marriage. The loss of a several wallets and more than a few cell phones. And, of course, I’ve lost many people I have loved. I also lost a career that I adored but could no longer handle given my galloping alcoholism. Then, when I sobered up, I navigated the loss of another Very Best Friend: Alcohol.

The theme of Loss runs like a river through my life and writing. I have fought it, trying to focus on more upbeat, fun pieces, but Loss just keeps returning. Maybe because I closing in on my seventies, I’m tired of ignoring this endless knock on my creative door. So, I won’t push it away. I’ll open up and invite it in. “Hey you’re back. Pull up a chair. Let’s talk.”

On Writing Groups

I was recently certified to facilitate writing groups using the Amherst Writers and Artists method. In an AWA group, freshly written work is allowed to just be, without interference or criticism as the writer’s words have just spilled newly hatched onto the page. It’s likely we don’t know what the theme of a piece is until we have spent some time and worked on it. But that is for later. In an AWA writing group, writers are given a prompt as inspiration, then invited to write for 15 minutes on that prompt - or to write on something else entirely. Then they may read their writing to the group if they wish and receive responses from others on what they read. The responses are Short specific observations on what struck the listeners, what worked, what resonated. That’s it.

In an AWA group the writer alone has final authority over their piece. And: A writer is someone who writes.

Here is the link to AWA. (https://amherstwriters.org)

And here is my friend and I in a production of Alice Blue Gown.

Those beautiful dresses were made of blue crepe paper. And yes….our mothers sewed those costumes too.

And finally:

I’m currently looking at assembling some of my writing inspired by growing up in a small Mining/Smelting town in BC. Right now the working title is “The Cheese Stands Alone”

“What you need is a good crisis!” This was advice I got long ago from a friend named Hillary. We had met for coffee and I was in the doldrums, feeling depressed and stuck. I expected her to give me spirit-soothing words of encouragement about my situation. After all, we were in a women’s support group together. So I was disappointed, to say the least, by her remark. To make it worse, she delivered it in her perky Yorkshire accent with a small but kindly chuckle. I’m afraid I didn’t take it very well. But her observation stayed with me through the years.

Her words came back to me last November when a Good Crisis sent me to the hospital. I’d had a very busy couple of months and looked forward to my first unscheduled day in a while. I stepped out onto our front porch to start my day. I inhaled the invigoratingly crisp early morning air. A thought floated up: “Ah a new day, I wonder what it will bring?” I got my answer right away. Walking down our front stairs to call in our dog Ruby, I stepped on a sneaky patch of ice lurking there. It was the only ice on the whole porch. In a blink, I was down, unable to move. Or breathe. Or make any sound to call for help.

As falls go, this was classic. It was one of those cartoon, ‘60s sitcom pratfalls, feet right out from under me, body suspended mid-air ending with an Olympian Big Finish on the sharp edges of the stairs. No one was around to see this, you’ll have to take my word for it. (Fun fact: the edge of a stair is called the “nosing”, and it is designed to prevent falling… except when it doesn’t.) Anyway, in a split second I was completely helpless. Looking back now, it was probably right where I needed to be. I wasn’t thinking that at the time.

Before my fateful fall, I was busy juggling the usual life details: dental appointments, house repairs, writing sessions. Earlier in the year, I’d had major surgery and had to take a couple of months out to recover. Now that I was on my feet again, I was anxious to get back to all those things I’d put on hold. Before long, I had picked up the habits that got me through the day: coffee, podcasts, hypnotic doomscrolling which I called “a break” and – of course, sugar to boost my dopamine-starved ADD brain. I squeezed in exercise by walking the dog.

Occasionally, friends mentioned the airplane oxygen mask example to me in passing. That’s such a good reminder, I’d murmur. But when you are hurtling through the day ticking things off your list, putting on the “oxygen masks” of healthy eating and proper rest get moved to the bottom of that list. And then they get shifted to the Tomorrow List. And finally they just disappear from the lists altogether.

So there I was laying on my front stairs, gasping for air and searching the sky for a possible passing plane to come to my rescue when this crystal clear thought came:

Putting myself first is mandatory, not optional.

I hobble-crawled up the stairs and into the house to collapse in the living room. Somehow I got enough breath to bleat out a cry for help. My son heard, came downstairs and dialled 911. I wheezed out our address to the dispatcher and told him I’d had an accident and needed help.

Help arrived quickly as paramedics Kate and Nate (yes, really) entered the house followed by a very tall man they introduced as “The Boss”. The team checked me over, got my story and carefully loaded me into their ambulance in record time. They were great. A tip: If you are going to have an accident that requires the attention of first responders, do it at the start of the day. You will probably get a new shift, and they’ll be fresh as daisies and ready to rock. The Boss and his team were all that.

The ambulance ride got me a speedy admission to Emergency and a spot in a hallway optimistically labeled “Fast Track”. It wasn’t. Five hours later a harried technician called my name, and within two minutes had looked over my paperwork, x-rayed my injured back and deposited me back in the hallway. An hour later, an overworked doctor with kind eyes reviewed my x-rays and discharged me with the Good News: “Nothing is broken. You can go home.” The Bad News? It would take far longer than I ever imagined and several therapies for my back to heal. And it would never be the same again.

Hillary wasn’t wrong about crisis. I’ve had my share over the years. And each one refocuses my understanding of who I am and what really matters. Crisis brings pain and discomfort. I’m not a fan of either. But by now I know this: no matter how deeply that pain runs, eventually it softens and settles inside me. And rearranges me; it makes me more human. In crisis, I am always given courage I didn’t know I had. I become vulnerable. I have to ask for help. None of it is easy. Would I have preferred to have my epiphanies during a bubble bath with soft music playing? Of course. But I’m just not wired up that way. It’s usually the upheaval of a crisis that gets my attention and makes me examine my life.

Today I’ll find time to check in with myself and get what I need - a glass of water or a walk or a nap. I’ll do it imperfectly. And I am ok with that. It’s likely I have another “Good Crisis” or two ahead of me. Though it would be great if I didn’t have to injure myself in the process. This November, I’ll watch the stairs for ice and pay closer attention to what’s important in life.

This the link to the photographer whose work I used for this post. Check out her work at the link below and give her a “like” If you can.

https://unsplash.com/@elsbethcat

I’m hoping this post explains a bit about my radio silence on Substack over the past months. In that time, I’ve done a bit of writing, a lot of reading and recently trained to facilitate writing groups with Amherst Writers and Artists. Will post more in the next few weeks on a writing group I have in the works. Check out AWA here.

https://amherstwriters.org

It is a unique way of writing and listening to others work. I love it the AWA process. And taking their teacher training recharged my creative battery.

My goal now is to post something here every couple of weeks. Thanks for your patience as I adjust to taking things a bit slower and prioritizing my health.

Here are some thoughts and posts on writing “A Good Crisis”

• “Kill Your Darlings” Like many writers, I remove a good chunk of material from first to final draft as I edit and rewrite . Often this means deleting some of my favourite phrases (my “darlings”), when they don’t add to a piece. I save all my “Darlings” in a document labelled Outtakes. ( Maybe I’ll publish it someday - who knows, there may be a wonderful poem just hiding in there!) The phrase “Kill Your Darlings” has been attributed to many writers over the years but here is a link that traces its origins. I think it’s pretty reliable. (Sorry, you’ll have to copy and paste this one)

https://slate.com/culture/2013/10/kill-your-darlings-writing-advice-what-writer-really-said-to-murder-your-babies.html?utm_medium=social&utm_campaign=traffic&utm_source=article&utm_content=copy_link

• On Becoming More Human:

At one point, while thinking about how adversity makes me more real, I went down this rabbit hole (sorry, had to), and reread this classic children’s book. It was a favourite at our house when my son was very young.

from “The Velveteen Rabbit” by Marjorie Williams Bianco

"What is REAL?" asked the Rabbit one day, when they were lying side by side near the nursery fender, before Nana came to tidy the room. "Does it mean having things that buzz inside you and a stick-out handle?"

"Real isn't how you are made," said the Skin Horse. "It's a thing that happens to you. When a child loves you for a long, long time, not just to play with, but REALLY loves you, then you become Real."

"Does it hurt?" asked the Rabbit.

"Sometimes," said the Skin Horse, for he was always truthful. "When you are Real you don't mind being hurt."

"Does it happen all at once, like being wound up," he asked, "or bit by bit?"

"It doesn't happen all at once," said the Skin Horse. "You become. It takes a long time. That's why it doesn't happen often to people who break easily, or have sharp edges, or who have to be carefully kept. Generally, by the time you are Real, most of your hair has been loved off, and your eyes drop out and you get loose in the joints and very shabby. But these things don't matter at all, because once you are Real you can't be ugly, except to people who don't understand."

― Margery Williams Bianco, The Velveteen Rabbit

Here’s the link to the page that came from:

https://www.goodreads.com/work/quotes/1602074-the-velveteen-rabbit

• A Good Pratfall:

While the pratfall I wrote about was a nasty accident, I learned how to do them on purpose when I was an actor. They were so much fun! Done well, a professional pratfall is a work of art, almost like a dance. Lots of planning and rehearsal goes into them. (Skip these links if you are not a fan of slapstick. : ). If you are, here are some great ones:

• Buster Keaton, one of the greats (with a Punjabi soundtrack????)

• Cary Grant:

https://tenor.com/en-CA/view/cary-grant-falls-on-chair-the-awful-truth-gif-8440156

• My first idol, Carol Burnett:

• And of course, Kramer from the ‘90s (never subtle!):

Photo by Abdul Aziz on Unsplash

A friend - let’s call her Diane - recently told me I use too many exclamation points in my writing. “What?!!!!” I shouted, “I Do NOT!!!!” She produced a mountain (!) of evidence that was hard to ignore. Emails, texts, What’s App, Messenger, the grocery list I keep on my phone (I love raisins, what can I say?). She insists I have a “problem” and need an intervention. I don’t know what today’s language gurus think about “!”. They’ll probably say it’s outdated and a sign of lazy thinking. Or indicative of a writer’s control issues: This is important! Interesting! Look here! Remarkable! Pay attention to this! And this! and This! I get it. Over!!!ing stops alerting the reader to something wonderful (writer’s POV) or potentially interesting (Reader’s POV) but ends up as intrusive and boring. 

Look, I often feel enthusiastic when I use “!!!” It’s genuine. But I get my friend’s point. Overusing “!!” is just not sustainable in any written form longer than “Happy Birthday!!!!” or “Where the hell is my pizza?!!!!”. And, yes, I know the danger here is turning my reader off so much that she stops reading and blocks me forever. Or throws her new iPhone 16 Pro across the room. (Sorry, Diane, lunch is on me next time.)

Lately, I’ve been dipping my reading toe into Russian short stories - Chekov, Gogol and Co. (Thanks ) Don’t worry, I’m not going to brag about how much I love “War and Peace”. I haven’t read it. I’m a short-story person with a short attention span. I own a copy of War and Peace, but I know that doesn’t count. My husband Stephen, has read it three times. That could really use “!!!” works but I resist - you can decide how smart Stephen sounds for yourself. (He’s pretty smart. Just saying…)

Anyway, as a result of thinking about this, I am doing a month-long “!” detox starting today. Nothing but “.” s and “?”s and the occasional “:” or “;”. It will be difficult, and possibly dangerous for my already dodgy mental health. But I’m up for the challenge. I’ve let my doctor know and he will monitor me for signs of anxiety or high blood pressure. I may have to use “…” more frequently, but that is a “thinking…” or “program loading…” signpost, so it’s o.k.

Part of my self-guided treatment plan will be a reread of Liz Truss’ “Eats Shoots and Leaves”, “The Elements of Style” (Strunk and White), and “The Practical Stylist” (Baker). I’m sure there are more current books about the latest in grammar and punctuation, but I figure these are the go-to references for any responsible punctuation rehab. A note: I will continue using two spaces between sentences. Baby steps, baby steps.

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Moira Pankhurst walked gingerly into Dignity’s stylish waiting room. Was this the right place? Twenty-five years earlier she and her mother Dolores came here to bury her father. Back then, it was “Oceanside Cemetery”. Now, it was “Oceanside Burial Park”, hinting at a fun stopover instead of a final resting place.

The cemetery’s humble office/bungalow had been replaced with an angular glass and chrome structure that looked like a bank.  Gleaming silver letters at the entrance spelled out “Dignity”, the name of the conglomerate that swallowed Oceanside Cemetery whole. The stylishly somber reception area smelled of cedar with a hint of lavendar.  Anonymous piano music softly wafted from unseen speakers.  Moira sat gingerly on the shiny corporate leather couch which creaked embarrassingly.  

A young woman seemed to appear from nowhere, introducing herself to Moira as Angela, one of Dignity’s “Bereavement Counsellors”.  She wore designer black and dangerously high heels. Her sleek black hair was pulled into a high ponytail that swayed slightly when she walked. Angela offered friendly condolences and guided Moira into a nearby office. As soon as they were seated, Moira quickly produced the paperwork her mother had given her for the plots. She hoped to wrap everything up before rush hour.

The $2000.00 outstanding balance briefly threw Moira into a panic. Why had no one contacted her mother about this before she needed the spot?  Dolores was clear that the bill was fully paid thirty years ago. She would have been outraged at this “cheap cash grab”.  But Dolores wasn’t here anymore, it was Friday and Moira was exhausted. She produced her credit card.

The following Monday, Moira arrived for the burial fifteen minutes early.  Her mother always complained she was late for everything. She held Dolores’ precious Cloissone urn with her ashes in one arm and a bouquet of yellow roses in the other. She wore her navy Ralph Lauren suit with her Ann Klein heels. Her hair was in a French Twist. Dolores would have appreciated the effort. She always complained Moira never made enough of an effort. 

Angela greeted her, then lowered her voice, “Miss Pankhurst, I am afraid your credit card was declined.” Moira knew she’d paid the card down but to avoid any fuss produced her emergency card.

Angela happily took away the new card and the urn.  She returned several minutes later with the urn in a beautiful red velvet bag.  Moira wondered if it was a take-home item; it looked perfect for shoes in the winter. She didn’t ask though because Angela looked concerned again. She placed the bag gently on the glass coffee table and sat close to Moira. “Miss Pankhurst, unfortunately, your second credit card was declined”.  “You can’t be serious,” Moira blurted, “Why didn't all this come up on Friday?”  The young woman murmured that Dignity didn’t process credit card payments on weekends. Moira finally stood and said “Look, I’ll just take my mother away and regroup.”, reaching for the bagged urn. But Angela got there first, “Oh, you can’t take the ashes now.  They’ve been tagged.”  “Tagged??!! What the f---" 

“Angela your 2:30 family is here,” The receptionist sang out.

Moira rummaged in her handbag and produced a blue ring box.  She opened it to show Angela her mother’s 1.5 carat rose cut diamond. It was going to be appraised later that day, but plans had changed.  Angela looked at the diamond, sucking air in through her teeth, “cash or credit only”. Moira’s face started to blotch and quiver; Angela produced Dignified tissues and Dignified bottled water. She kept repeating “I am so sorry” and “We can’t go ahead with the burial until payment has been made.” But Moira wasn’t listening. She lay her cheek on the cool granite surface of the high reception desk, sobbing “I just need to bury my mother!!” while her tears pooled on the polished stone.

The 2:30 family was large and quickly overflowed the reception area. A blousy woman in a white pantsuit sobbed loudly. Several younger ones gathered around her, dabbing their eyes in sympathy. For a moment, Angela was distracted by crowd control and Moira seized the opportunity - with the red velvet bag - to make a run for it.

When she got to her mother’s gravesite, a grizzled man in jeans and a t-shirt was leaning on a shovel near the gaping hole, shouting into his cell. “Georgy, I don’t know where the plunger is, just call the plumb…”  Moira interrupted, extending the box with the diamond towards him. “Excuse me, could you help me? It’s an emergency. I have to bury my mother right now.” The man glanced at the ring and then shook his head.  “Sorry, I’d lose my job.”  Moira put the ring away and said she completely understood. But could he please see what the holdup was up at the office? The man dropped his shovel and loped back toward the building.

When he was out of sight, Moira quickly unfastened the velvet bag and took out her mother’s urn. She placed it into the open hole, pushing down on it - it was a bit too tall - and grabbed the man’s shovel to refill the hole from a waiting pile of dirt.

When she was done, she put the nearby square of turf on top, patting it tenderly into place. She scattered what was left of the roses over her parents’ graves, kicked off her shoes, and sank, exhausted, onto the grass between them. 

A robin hopped by and stopped to stare. "That's right, just us," Moira told him. He flew into the nearby maple tree. A light breeze swayed its leaves, making shadow dances over them all.

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Photo Credit: Chase Kennedy on Unsplash: https://unsplash.com/@chase1211

When I moved to Toronto for work in the early 1990s, I shared a rental house on Howard Park Avenue with several other actors and artists.  The others were often away, touring or working on contracts in another city so most of the time I had the place to myself. 

The College streetcar ran by our house every fifteen minutes. As it neared our place, all the windows and dishware rattled and clacked in a disturbing symphony that crescendoed in a brain-numbing screech as the car took the corner to its destination in nearby High Park. The longer I lived there, the more the noise faded into the background and just became part of the house’s charm, like the flocked pink wallpaper in the bathroom.

The house was full of odds and ends left behind over the years by its variously talented tenants.  There was a tiny beautiful pottery cup, a poster for the Mikado, a plate of varnished muffins (my friend nearly broke a tooth on one before I could tell her they were art). There was an abstract watercolour that was either a couple embracing or a cat scrambling out of a canoe.  The artist was long gone; no one could decipher it.   

The beautiful old bookshelf in the dining room also told a story of all the house’s past occupants.  Agatha Christie, Mario Puzo, Ram Dass, and the Bible propped up “I’m Ok, You’re OK” and “The Joy of Sex”.  Shakespeare and Noel Coward squeezed in between Bukowski and Annie Lebowitz. 

Beside the bookshelf stood a small cupboard full of booze; mostly remnants of opening night celebrations or occasional house parties. There was pepper vodka, Jamiesons, and Cabernet Sauvignon, Bailey’s, Peach Schnapps, and Crème de Menthe – all waiting to be finished off.  If I missed hitting the liquor store on Roncesvalles before it closed at 6 p.m., that little cupboard was my backup. I expected my housemates to miss their Kahlua or figure out the Smirnoff’s was ninety percent water, but no one said anything.  The others didn’t seem to drink much.  They certainly didn’t drink like I did.

Mrs. Stulac, our elderly landlady, lived next door with two adult sons and her really elderly husband.  She loved to tell us about the six nuns who had lived in our house in the 1950s. Every Sunday and Wednesday, she said, they held mass in the dining room for all the neighbourhood Catholics. Every time she talked about The Sisters, Mrs. S’s eyes misted over.

I claimed a dark musty little basement room where I could write, undisturbed.  No one else wanted to go in there. One late night after work, as I sat drinking and thinking - I called this “research” - I felt a soft presence with me.  Were Mrs. S’s long-ago nuns in that dank little room, their habits gently rustling?  I waited for a sign that it was them. But nothing came.  If I scrunched up my eyes I could make out smoky forms around me, four or five of them, just hanging out.  Mrs. S said there had been six altogether.  “Where’s your other sister?”  I whispered.  No answer.

Some nights, I wrote into the early morning. Most of the stuff was stream-of-consciousness babble that didn’t make a lot of sense when I read it later. On other nights, I made hazy long-distance calls that I found out about when the phone bill arrived in the mail a few weeks later. I’d regularly pass out on the old wooden desk in the Sisters’ Room - I called this “falling asleep” - coming to in a dusky pre-dawn netherworld.  Then I’d stumble back upstairs to shower off the smell of regret and grab an hour’s sleep before heading back to work.

Two years on, I got sober. I didn’t go down to the Sisters’ Room anymore. Others hovered around me; broken angels with reconstituted spirits and a willingness to share their recovery stories over endless cups of coffee. Now, I sat in new basements, all over the city, learning how to live without alcohol. Some folks I met in recovery had lived rough, some sold real estate; we had all sold our spirits for booze to drown our demons.  Some were priests and sisters. I thought of the Howard Park Sisters shimmering quietly beside me as I drank and wrote and cried.  They stayed with me till I could crawl out of that dark basement.  

Just before I sobered up, I was in the living room on a night off, reading “The Stand” and drinking the last of the Dubonnet when I heard a loud thump on the front porch. I peered outside to see a man’s shape slumped heavily against the front door, passed out.  I ran through my options: if I confronted him, he might be violent. If I called the police, they’d dismiss me because I was drunk.  I slid onto the hall floor, my back leaning against the solid front door. Gradually, my breath slowed and a calm settled over me. The thought came that the guy on the porch just needed to be out of the weather for the night, getting some rest.  I felt that Gentle Presence from the dark basement room shimmering around us – me and this total stranger sleeping it off on my porch.  I went upstairs to bed.  The next morning, the man was gone. 

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