Colour Me… but never in orange

Never ask me what my favourite is in any category.  You will wind up with entirely too much information.

My best friend asked me this morning what my favourite colour is.  Here is my answer:

well…. are you talking to wear?  I like soft blue.  Not baby blue, not robin’s egg, but more like an early morning looking out over the lake blue.  I also wear purple, grey, black, sometimes ivory (although that never goes well when I’m eating spaghetti) and, well, that’s about it.  Khaki pants a lot in the summer….

 or are you talking about colours to surround me, like paint colours in a house?  BIG BOLD colours like Manadarin Red!  Midnight Blue!  Royal Purple!  although I also love the mediterranean look of sunshine yellow, navy blue & bright white.

 or are you talking about colours in a garden?  Our annuals this year will be pink & white.  While I love red too, red against the awful blue of this house would be wrong, wrong, wrong.  I never mix pink & red – it makes me anxious – but I like pink & white, red & white, red & yellow (weird, I know, but there you are), pink & yellow (well, some yellows, nothing too strong), yellow & purple, pink & purple, and I adore dark purple pansies, I mean almost black-dark-purple pansies, with little yellow middles.

and, just so you know, orange is a colour best reserved for the fruit, never near or around me.  Also, while I admire the concept of the colour green, I’m extremely picky about my greens.  For example, I love dark emerald green and a certain range of khaki/olive greens, but if you need the words “lime” or “mint” or “pistachio” to elucidate the green, then you have lost me.

 

 

The Richest Woman in The World: Me!

About a month ago – and I’m very late in responding to her – I received a lovely, lovely email from the eldest daughter of our “first daughter”.  Hana found some things I had written & posted about her mother, Julie, here in my blog and wanted to say hello and maybe work out way to being friends, which I very much hope we do.  Assuming I really do keep my resolution to be a better correspondent around the world.

And as it happens, writing to Hana was on my list of letters for this week when, in today’s post, I received a parcel from our “second daughter”, mailed just before she set off on her Great Adventure to Asia.  So now I’m contemplating two remarkable young women Jeff & I had the great privilege of hosting, making them part of our family, learning to love them – which for both Julie & Durita was wonderfully, happily, easy.

Actually, I’ve been thinking a lot about my past, and past lives, a lot, for about a month or so now.  Several post-Christmas letters trickled in during February, filled with lots of news and photos of friends from days gone by.  My “oldest serving friend” now has three grandchildren and it took her 10 pages to fill me in on the entire family!  An old employer/friend from when we lived & worked in Boston, always a much pithier woman than Sandra, found me on LinkedIn and immediately sent a letter with photos of her grown sons and grandchildren.  Another friend from Navy days in Jacksonville is about to become a grandmother (someone else I MUST write to this week).  A sweet, dear friend from Meaford sent a post-Christmas letter with news her husband has retired to become a gentleman farmer.  And then I discover that a “boy” on whom I had a giant crush in university recently left his job (retired, sort of, I think) and describes his life as being in the 4th Quarter, while The Boyfriend in Australia is leaving HIS job for his 4th Quarter (or do cricketers say “last innings”?) at the end of March.

And on top of all that happy personal news, I received a letter from someone in Stirling, someone I never thought of hearing from, with regrets over what happened there.  Talk about a basis for contemplation…!!

I absolutely love hearing from all these people and I want to keep on hearing from them, thus the urge to write and keep writing letters and emails but here’s the thing that makes me happiest:  I am so rich.  I have friends, dear, wonderful, kind, loving, funny, bright, sweet friends around the world who enrich my life, hold me up, keep me steady, kick my butt, remind me I’m also smart and funny, and who welcome my friendship almost as much as I welcome theirs… which is deeply and endlessly.

Below is the farewell I wrote for Durita when she left Ontario to return home to her original parents after her exchange – I thought she might enjoy reading it again one quiet morning on her adventure.  As for the rest of you… watch your mail boxes!

DARLING GIRL

I had heard that when mothers first see their newborn babies, they ‘fall in love’ with that child. Not in a romantic way, but in a protective, encompassing, you’re mine sort of way. I’ve never had a baby, but I can tell you truthfully, I’m in love with my kid.
Durita a Brugv was 16 years old when she moved in with my husband and me, a five foot, two inch blond bundle of energy, enthusiasm, intelligence, laughter, insight and beauty who, from the moment she arrived, filled up our lives with activity, joy and a very messy bedroom.
Durita is from the Faeroe Islands, an archipelago of islands north of Scotland and east of Iceland, where there are 48,000 people and 100,000 sheep. And because of the sheep, there aren’t a lot of trees. So when Durita arrived in Ontario last August 10th (2008), that was pretty much the first thing she noticed – we have a lot of trees, a lot of tall trees, in this country. Since that day, of course, there is much more that she’s noticed, seen and done, but first impressions are pretty long-lasting. I suspect when she makes her ‘Rebound Student’ speech to her host Rotary Club, our trees will be the first thing that she mentions.
She has spent the past year (August 2008 – July 2009) here as a Rotary International Exchange Student, studying a range of subjects in Grade 11 at OSCVI that she wouldn’t be able to study at home, things like music theatre and photography. She did very well at her studies, which is nice, but the important part about being an exchange student, to my mind anyway, is the learning that comes from making new friends and living a new life.
I speak from experience. I am a Rebound Rotary Student; I spent my exchange year in Bundaberg, Queensland, Australia. I tell everyone I meet that my year as a Rotary student in Australia gave me the skills and confidence to accomplish the things in life that I have. It was because of my belief in the value of this program that my husband and I put our names up to be host parents, and that’s how Durita came into our lives.
But you don’t have to be a former exchange student to be a host parent. There are just three basic things you need to think about before taking on the best volunteer job you’ll ever have.
First, you really have to like and respect kids and be prepared to live with, if not necessarily like, all the stuff that comes with them. I mean the literal stuff (in the case of girls, that probably includes a LOT of shoes) but also the figurative stuff, like occasional homesickness, or maybe some language difficulties. I should point out that Durita says she always missed her family, but she was too busy to be sick over missing them, and her English – one of four languages she speaks – was outstanding from the day she arrived.
Second, you need to be willing to find that balance between parent and friend. These students have parents, and you’re not there to replace them. Yes, sometimes you do parental things (Durita is still mad at me for making her stay home for a morning when she had a rehearsal for her play; she had a fever, I was right, she was wrong.) but often you’re a friend and a confidante in a way that sometimes parents can’t be and friends don’t know how to be. It’s important to be a good role model, but it’s certainly not expected you’ll be perfect. My inability to get Durita to school on time certainly proves that!
Third, and most importantly, you must love laughing. In the nearly five months Durita lived with us, each day started with laughter and ended the same way, as we shared stories about the people she was meeting, the new adventures she was going on, schoolwork, Rotary obligations, her family back home. The echoes of laughter still ring in our house.
While she lived with us, I taught Durita how to bake a pie (apparently, there is no such thing as pie in the Faeroe Islands!) and Jeffrey taught her how to ice skate and ski. At midnight one night just before Christmas, we stood outside in the falling snow while Durita made snow angels and marvelled at snow piles that came up to her shoulder. As a family, we played cribbage and Wizard, and for ‘girl time’ we watched chick flicks and endless episodes of “Friends”. She spent Christmas with us at Jeffrey’s family home in Buffalo and March break took us all by train to spend a few days with friends in Montreal.
It was a wonderfully full five months, and hard enough to say good-bye to her when she moved to her third and final host family. Now we’re saying good-bye for real, as she leaves next week for home, and honestly I’m a mess just writing about it. Her luggage will be filled with mementos from this year, along with many packages of strawberry Twizzlers. And I hope her heart is filled with as much love for this place, for this family, as we have for her.
My darling girl, you are going to be missed so much… and loved always.

 

Past Imperfect

This past Saturday, I took part in a one hour writing marathon with a couple of buddies from my writers’ group.  It went so well, we kind of took a deep breath at the end of sixty minutes, and went back in for 30 more!  Now, after spending the past couple of days going through the finished product, here’s the story, part of the RIVERDALE collection.  I’ll be submitting it to the group to read and for comments (I hope next week) but you’re the first to see this “polished first draft”.  

Just a couple of things before you begin to read – these stories are all interconnected, but I do not think you must read them all to understand them all.  Any references I make one from another I try to keep non-specific. Of course, not all the stories which are at the “pfd” stage have been posted, and there are some which are not even at that point yet.  And the stories which HAVE been posted are not necessarily in chronological order – mostly because I don’t know what that order would be yet!!!  If you have questions because you don’t understand a reference, do ask.

As always, please let me know what you think (there’s a comment section below) and thank you, thank you for reading my blog!

PAST IMPERFECT

The buzz in town those first few days was so persistent even Mare noticed it enough to ask Daddy what he knew about a guy named Henry Martin.  Daddy shrugged his shoulders and said while he’d never met him he had heard a few stories about what a great athlete he was in high school. Why was Mare asking?  Mare said there’d been so much talk in the barber shop yesterday that, even though he didn’t like gossip, he couldn’t help hearing the name.  Apparently, Henry Martin had moved back to town.

Daddy whistled, and looked thoughtfully out the window and down High Street.  You can’t exactly see the library from the cafe, but that’s the direction in which he was looking.

Most of those stories Daddy would have heard about Henry Martin were stories my mother told him, stories about watching football games in the afternoon and climbing the Kissing Rock in the evening and maybe coming home before dawn after a very long date.

Henry Martin was my mother’s high school boyfriend, and the perfect choice for her first romantic conquest.  He was the big athlete on campus — football in the fall, track in the spring, hockey when he could, loved a pick-up baseball game if he could find one — and he was, according to my mother, very cute and drove a nice car.  At 15-going-on-27,  I’m not sure which mattered most to my mother but as a complete package, Henry Martin was it.

Not that being a cute athlete who drove was all Henry was, because he was also an outstanding student which is where Miss Elizabeth comes in.  Before she was the librarian, Elizabeth was of course a student, and a very good one.  As a result, she and Henry were thrown together for a lot of school projects, class work, and extra study credits.

It wasn’t so much Henry-asStar-Athlete that put the cracks in the friendship between my mother and Miss Elizabeth as it was, well, puberty I guess is the nicest way to put it.  Once the closest of friends, the kind of friends I think only girls make, the kind of friend who is more sister than anything, the kind of friend with whom you share every secret, every feeling, every hope, it all began to change when Henry and Elizabeth were learning trigonometry at the same time Henry and my mother were learning basic biology.

Things might not have changed so drastically between the two girls however if Elizabeth hadn’t fallen in love with Henry.  I mean, really in love.  Where my mother cared about status and power and — we should be perfectly frank even if she is my mother — sex, Elizabeth cared about feelings and romance and having a relationship with one person, forever.  At 15, it might have been a little too early to say “forever”.  Still, the way Elizabeth and my mother both considered life and considered Henry it seemed inevitable that their friendship was going to change.

My mother was never someone who kept her feelings to herself nor even a whispers and confidences sort of person who shared only with her closest friends.  Even when I was a very little child, she would talk to me about the men in her life: my biological father, the man she married after my father died, then her relationship with the man I call Daddy.  And even after she left town, popping back in and again for visits, I would hear more stories, and understand them more fully, about the newest fellow in her life.

So I think that in some way I have always been aware that it was the difference between lust and love that drove my mother and Miss Elizabeth apart, but it wasn’t until he came back to Riverdale that I understood that these were also the reasons why Henry Martin left town for university on the east coast, and only now, some twenty years on, could come back.

The stories about Henry’s return and what he was doing came flowing into the cafe as such information will.  Henry was back to help his mother take care of his dad, who was in the early stages of Alzheimer’s.  Henry had brought his company with him, some sort of design business, so he was looking for a house he could live in and use for an office for him and two other people who were also moving to Riverdale.  Henry was buying a house, on the road leading to the old mill.  Henry had a girlfriend.  No, wait, Henry had two women working with him and they were each other’s girlfriend!  Henry was joining the Kiwanis Club.  Henry was looking forward to playing baseball in the spring, and he wanted to start fishing again too, as he hadn’t had much chance to fish living in the city.

And then one day, it wasn’t just information about Henry, but he himself who came into the cafe. He’d been back for maybe a couple of weeks and seemed to have gotten a lot done, putting his roots back in our ground.  He got the place buzzing a little that morning, with the customers who knew him offering welcomes home and shaking his hand and the ones who didn’t know him frankly looking as if they’d like to.

Henry Martin was indeed a good looking man with the build and assurance of the still-popular athlete.  He was wearing jeans and a henley jersey and looked comfortable in his skin, aware of the eyes watching him but seemingly not caring.  Daddy introduced himself, letting Henry do the same.  It was an odd moment, like Henry knew Daddy had been my mother’s, well, with my mother.  Of course he did because we don’t keep a lot of secrets in Riverdale, and Henry’s mother would have been sure to tell him some of ours.

Daddy is also a man of great assurance.  His body may be failing him a little, but he knows where his strengths truly lie and uses them.  The two men exchanged small talk, sizing each other up, but I could see that they were enough alike that they were liable to become buddies, maybe even friends.  Of course, like most men, they didn’t engage in sharing mutual experiences, as it were, which made the road to friendship easier.  And too, the fact that my mother wasn’t around probably helped although at the back of my mind, I wondered if their friendship would come as easily if their shared history was still in town, was Miss Elizabeth.

You know, the funny thing about Daddy and Henry becoming friends is that I saw Daddy in a new light.  Henry was the first person to become part of our world who only knew Daddy as a man with physical challenges, sometimes in a wheelchair, sometimes with very weak arms and hands.  Henry accepted Daddy just as he was and the chair like it was normal.  And if sometimes he had to pour his own coffee like other cafe customers, that was just fine with Henry.  It’s not like I have ever babied Daddy really, because he wouldn’t’ve let me, but I always walk a fine line, trying to keep the heaviest and bulkiest work out of his way.  Seeing how Henry just accepted Daddy’s life as his normal made me see I probably should too and let him carry as much more of the burden of the cafe as he can, while he can.

During the first few weeks Henry was back in town, I made my usual semi-weekly trips to the library to borrow books and visit with Miss Elizabeth and never once did we talk about Henry Martin.  I waited for her to bring up the subject, but she never did.  She had to have known that Henry was in town but just as always, refused to join in the gossip herself even as the chatter would have gone on all around her.  At the very least, she’d know that just like everyone else in town, Henry would have been coming in at least to the cafe occasionally for coffee and pie because you cannot live in Riverdale without enjoying pie sometimes but she never asked me about him.

Anyway, for weeks you could tell the whole town was waiting for Henry to meet up with Miss Elizabeth, but probably no one more than Jake Riley.

Jake was the assistant football coach at the high school when my mother, Elizabeth and Henry were there.  Not too many years older than his players, Jake got to  know them all pretty well, he understood them in ways that the married, father of three, Coach Byers just didn’t get any more.  Jake saw with very clear eyes the triangle that was developing between my mother, Henry and Elizabeth and then had to sit back and watch it all blow up, wait for what pieces might come falling to the ground and see if he could pick them up, maybe put them back together.  As it turns out, there wasn’t so much of an explosion as a long exhale of very hot air, as my mother ran away for the first time, and Elizabeth and Henry changed study partners.  Even after my mother came back to town the summer before their class graduated there were no fights, no nasty scenes but then neither were there any real friendships left.

Now it’s time for the Lions Club annual barbecue which raises money for the skate park and the library, and that meant Miss Elizabeth was there pouring lemonade and serving salads and generally helping out on behalf the library.  As a Lion in good standing, Jake was part of the group of men huddled around the smoky grills trying to look like they weren’t going to burn much this year.  Everyone in town seems to come out to these events, supporting each other’s fundraisers, having a good time with friends and neighbours, so it made perfect sense that Henry came too.

If you know what the word frisson means, it is the perfect word to describe the feeling in the crowd watching Henry as he got out of his SUV, walked past the skate park at the end of the Lions’ field, towards the picnic area under the big red maple trees.  It was as if we all took a collective breath and could only slowly let it out as Henry approached.

No one could figure out who to look at first – Miss Elizabeth or Henry.  Daddy and I, along with Mrs Busy, had the best viewpoint I think, working the pie tables. They were set on an angle to salads and lemonade table, where Miss Elizabeth and Mrs Busy’s sister were, and directly opposite the grills which meant that I could also see Jake, watch his face when Henry and Miss Elizabeth finally said hello.

Henry walked up to the Lions’ wives running the cash table and paid for the barbecue.  He chatted with the women sitting there, nonchalant and apparently completely unaware of the looking, the whispering from the picnic tables behind us, then went to get his food, exchanging greetings with a couple of people along the way, waving to a few more already seated and enjoying their meals almost as much as the floor show.

I knew that Henry and Jake had already had their first meeting since Henry’s return.  They apparently had bumped into each other at the Riley Brothers’ store a few days before and had had a good chat according to Mrs Busy whose sister’s eldest daughter’s boyfriend worked there.  Mrs Busy told Daddy and I that the boyfriend reported much talking about football and fishing but nothing about either my mother or Miss Elizabeth.  So when the two men met up over a plated hamburger, extra onions, their handshake and smiles were warm and friendly, much as we had expected.

If it had been a movie, you would’ve heard the romantic music building up in a suspenseful way but there’s no question that Jim Allerbeck’s sound system playing  Elvis’s “Hound Dog” gave its own special meaning to the moment.

Taking his tray on down the line, Henry slathered a lot of mustard on his burger, picked up his utensils, and slid down to salads and lemonade.  I don’t know if we all were expecting fireworks or what.  Well, I wasn’t, because fireworks is just not Miss Elizabeth but even I thought there would be something when they first laid eyes on each other.  But it was, well, nice.  They were both maybe a little awkward for a moment or too, like do you offer to shake hands or should there be a hug or something.  For a moment, it was neither, as they just stood there and smiled.  Then Henry seemed to make up his mind, and started to walk around to Elizabeth’s side of the table.  She met him half way, at the short end, and those of us just watching got our sort-of-romantic-movie-moment when they hugged each other, warm and full-bodied and very friendly.  Emphasis on friend.

I turned my head away from them and watched Jake for a moment and knew I’d been right about him all along.  He suddenly turned his head and caught me staring at him and smiled at me.  I know I sometimes spook Jake but this time he didn’t seem to care.  Maybe he knew that Miss Elizabeth and I sometimes talk about things other than books.  He just shrugged his shoulders and offered me a half wave with his spatula, took another quick look at Elizabeth, and went back to his grill.

I have often thought that Jake was a changeling in the Riley family, sort of like I  sometimes thought about Darby.  Sure they did the manly Riley things like hunting and fishing, watching sports and drinking beer, hanging out over endless fix-it projects that were hardly ever actually finished.  But Darby was the true loner amongst his family, often preferring to head out on his own, maybe to swim in the river, maybe to read a book on the riverbank.  Jake too likes books and movies that don’t feature heavy ordinance and not all of his meals have to feature something he caught and cleaned himself.  Sometimes he even asks for extra vegetables!

This side of Coach Jake might not have been visible to his football players, but it was the side of him that noticed when one of those players was breaking the heart of the smartest and one of the prettiest girls in the school.  It was the side of him that noticed her making her way through the last year and a half of high school, followed her university career through judicious run-ins with her parents, followed her new career when she returned to Riverdale to run the library.

Although I believe that the worst regrets are for those things we have left undone, there can be pretty powerful regrets for those things done.  In this four-sided triangle, it seems to me my mother had her regrets and ran away from them while Miss Elizabeth stayed to face hers.  And while Henry also ran, when he was ready to face his imperfect past he came home for family and himself and seems to be proving himself a stayer.

It’s Jake though who I think avoided the worst regrets because he neither did something which would have lead to hurt and damage, nor left undone what he wanted most to do.  You don’t have to see people the way I do to know that Jake gave away his heart to Miss Elizabeth a long time ago, back when he could not act on it.  And now that he can, does.

Living in a small town there are indeed few secrets so of course lots of people know sometimes Jake asks Miss Elizabeth to have dinner with him and she likes to share her favourite books with him but no one seems to have thought there was too much more about an apparently confirmed bachelor and the spinster librarian having the occasional evening together.  But I know both Miss Elizabeth and Jake Riley very well and that these two stretch out the meaning of occasional quite liberally, so I watched them at that barbecue.

Whatever reasons there may be for living single lives since high school, there was a look about Jake and Miss Elizabeth that spoke of being together, not just two people sharing a space at a picnic table.  Even without a romantic music cue.

 

Of Resolutions and Revelations, Of Friends and Family

January 1 is not my only New Year.  Having been a student for so long and sometimes also a teacher, I also treat Labour Day and that Tuesday, the First Day of School, as a New Year.  I use both for making inner resolutions and taking stock.  I rarely keep the resolutions for long but the stock taking… That’s different.  That seems to settle into my bones, slowly maybe but there, helping secure and direct where and how I go next.

I have been considering many things in the past few weeks – RIVERDALE, my collection of short stories; my family and how I miss being near them and how they influence my life even from a distance; my relationship with my in-law family and how that’s been changing since we moved back here; even my political/social beliefs seem to be not changing perhaps but certainly solidifying.  Mostly though, I have been thinking most about the people who are in me but not with me.

We have been so lucky to have friendships from many places, many times, many situations and a lot of those friendships have continued on however rickety a basis – sometimes a matter of just birthday and Christmas cards, sometimes more frequents communication and, if I’m really fortunate, with time spent together.  I was particularly struck by this late last month when my niece, Lauren, was in town with her husband Geoff.  I really don’t know him; he was a hug & a handshake at their wedding a couple of years ago but he seems rather nice and is definitely a very bright young man.  Nor have I had the chance to spend a lot of time with Lauren since she was a girl, although I have always admired her quick mind and faith in herself and her beliefs.  Still, the couple of hours we had together were a revelation: family is family.  You can ignore it or you can embrace it or you figure out something in between that works for  you but family is always with you in some fashion.

Friends, however, are different.  Friends, I think, need to be encouraged.  They need to be reminded sometimes that they are fundamental to your well-being and you are grateful for that.  You need their kindness, their support, their laughter, their ability to pick you and kick you in the butt when you need that and hug you when you don’t. You need the generosity of friends to see you through the hard times.  You need friends their wit to share a point of view and their voice to help you sharpen your argument.  You need friends to borrow their pots & pans, their books, their eggs and 3 minutes of their time.  You need friends to kick back and share a bottle of wine, a pound of cheese and insight into the world of reality tv.  You need friends to be a better you.

Because what you take out of friendship, you need to give back.  You need to be a friend to offer a shoulder to cry on and practical advice when the shoulder’s damp. You need to be a friend to agree that he’s an idiot and she’s been unkind and that movie is amazing, always without burning any bridges in your comments.  You need to be a friend to offer a bed, a meal, a light at the end of the tunnel, and to help dig that tunnel sometimes.  You need to be a friend let the venting happen, just like you feel safe to vent on your friends.

I also want to remind us all about friendships that seem too big for the word friend.  These are the people who have put you on a path that changed your life.  Or who tell you “yes you can” when you think you can’t.  Or who simply just show up when it feels like very knock on door is more bad news because this person knocking has no agenda, except friendship.

I have friends in several different countries, of varying ages and backgrounds, of many different occupations and avocations, of competing and complementing passions and paths.  I have friends with whom I swear I share a brain and a heart, we think so much alike and I have friends who are my polar opposite. I have friends whom I love as much as family and friends I really barely know and yearn to find out more about them.

My stock taking this month includes reviewing all my friendships.  Going through my address books and my journals, reading my facebook page, sifting through old – written – correspondence.  This is my mental and emotional “Pensieve”, my gift to myself and also, I hope, to my friends who mean so much to me.

My resolution, which comes out of this stock taking, is write more letters, send more cards, be more available to reach out to and be reached by my friends because, as Helen Keller said, it is better to walk in the dark with a friend than to walk alone in the light.

friendship-circle-clip-art.jpg

One More For Christmas

The Buffalo News runs a short story contest around Christmas every year.  They supply the first few lines (the BN bit ends with “You don’t want it?”) and you carry on.  To be perfectly honest – I hate this opening. I think anyone who has ever owned a dog will say, “What? You’re rewarding a dog for growling???” to start with, and then there are other issues.  However, this year I decided to take up the challenge and write a story with a bad beginning.  

I did not win.  The story that did win was lovely; I prefer mine.  The runners-up were… not mine.  Anyway, I thought I would share with you what I wrote and you can make your own snarky remarks about this, failed, entry.

 

“At least the table looks good.”

It did – everything was shiny and perfect.  The other preparations were coming along, too, though there was much still to do.  With luck, they would have it ready in time.

And then: “Grrrrrr – GRRRRR!” loud and louder!  What on earth was upsetting the dog?

“Here’s a biscuit… What’s the matter? You don’t want it?”

The growling continued. The hair on the dog’s back stood on end as she glared at, but did not approach, the door.

Skye was used to the dog growling at what most people would think was nothing, but she and Smoke were very well aware that there was something there, something that had no substance but much energy, something that might be called ghosts but Skye called spirits.  Her spirit friends.

Skye had had one or more spirit friend since she was an infant.  Her mother used to say that she talked before she could talk, that even as a toddler Skye would be obviously chatting away with an invisible someone – or something – before she had words.  Those chats continued throughout her childhood, into some rather difficult teenage years and now, as a young woman settled into her own home, well into her 20s.

Smoke was a rescue dog, found at a no-kill shelter about 8 months ago.  Of indeterminate breed, with a skinny build and a hugely intelligent face, the two of them had bonded upon sight.  Looking at the matted gray fur around that face, Skye slipped to her knees to talk with the dog she knew would be coming home with her.

“Here’s the thing, beautiful girl,” she whispered. “I see spirits.  They come into my home, they follow me around.  They like to tell me things.”

Skye reached between the bars to scratch the dog’s ears.  “They don’t scare me.  Actually, they seem to need me to tell their stories to family and friends. But,” Skye looked right into those warm and trusting eyes. “But, it’s important you don’t scare them.  Think you can get along with spirits?”

It seemed Smoke, as she was quickly named, could get along with spirits.  There were a few nights over the months when it seemed to Skye that, in fact, they were all getting along so well, rousing games of catch were being played at three in the morning, while the one, living, human was trying to sleep!

This growling, however, and the cockles raised were different.  Skye looked around the room, trying to feel her friendlier spirits. Despite the glowing lamps, the pretty table, the smell of pine and roasting chicken for supper, the room felt peculiarly empty. She looked again at Smoke, now in a tense crouch, facing the door, quiet now but ready to move and bark at the slightest provocation.

“What do you think, girl?  Shall we open the door, check it out?”

Smoke yipped, and walked toward the door, staying even with Skye’s slow but easy steps.  Skye turned the key in the deadbolt and carefully opened the door.  A small gust of wind pushed the last of the autumn leaves past the doorstep but it was only leaves Skye saw.  Smoke poked her head around the door frame and took a look from her height.  Nothing there, either.

And yet… Skye shivered.  Smoke looked up at her and waited for the signal to go back into the house.  It was the faint ringing of bells which pulled Skye, and Smoke, back into the house behind the closed front door.

That was Uncle Cuthbert, always announcing his presence.  Her grandmother made herself known with a whiff of apples and Mrs Brooker, from down the street, never came into the room quietly, always tripping over a small piece of furniture, or knocking a picture askew on the wall.  Uncle Bertie, meanwhile, would ring his church bells to tell Skye he was here.

“Are we having the Carol Service here tonight, Uncle Bertie?”

Skye’s tone was light as she walked slowly through dining room, looking around for some other sign spirits were here and warm.  Smoke was slower to leave the hall, keen still to watch the door, aware that not all was as it seemed but uncertain how it was different.  The bells sounded again and this time Smoke heard them too.  She trotted up to her human and sat down beside her, both of them watchful, listening with all their senses to what was, and was not, there.

“Dear Uncle Bertie, I have friends coming for supper tonight, and so much still to do in the kitchen before they arrive.” Skye was patient.  “What do you need from…”

She was interrupted by Smoke growling again, facing the front door again, anxious and defensive.  Skye crouched down to reassure the dog, scratching at her ears, whispering that it just seemed to be Uncle Bertie when the picture of St. Anselms, over the hall desk, was knocked askew, and from the kitchen where once Skye could smell roasting chicken, came the distinctive odor of crisp fall apples.  All this, and at the same time, in her inner ear, was the murmuring of her cousins, the twins who had been born together and died together, talking together, sharing what they were feeling. “Christmas is coming,” said one voice, while the other said, “The spirit is alone.”

Skye stood up.  This was too much.  “Stop it all of you, right now!” The voices stopped talking, the bells stopping ringing, and the room was once again filled with the tantalizing smell of stuffed chicken crisping up.  The only continuing sign of spirits still present was the decided knock against the table, causing the glasses to tinkle.

“Alright, Mrs Brooker.  What is it?  Do you have something special to say?”

Skye’s mind started to fill with images, of Mrs Brooker standing by the window, watching the neighbourhood children playing in the snow.  And of the three Brooker boys, middle-aged men now with at least two grandchildren between them, but in these pictures still boys, excitedly opening Christmas presents.  And of Mrs Brooker, again by the window, this time sitting in her Queen Anne chair with a warm afghan settled on her knees, excited to see at least one of her “boys” arrive soon for a Christmas visit.

Skye’s inner ear heard one of the twins, Edwina she thought, “This spirit is alone…. oh, alone.”  Smoke went to the door again, this time scratching at the bottom, as she did some mornings when Skye was just a little slow coming downstairs.  So Skye also went again to the door, and opened it.  The rush of air that filled her hall was cold, yes, but also remarkably grateful.  Smoke still growled but not like before, more in the way of reminding whoever had come in that this was still Smoke’s house and introductions still needed to be made.

“Hello.  Merry Christmas!”  Skye was sure that someone was waiting.  “Do I know you?  I think you must be new here but I hope you know you’re welcome.”

Skye’s mind was now filled with Frances Goode, her friend Tina’s mother.  Tina was coming for supper.  Skye knew mother and daughter both were looking forward to sharing this holiday meal together with friends in both worlds.  It was odd of Mrs Goode to show up early, before Tina arrived.  Still, she was there, all motherly hugs and warm snicker doodles.  Now Skye saw her grandmother with a blue afghan in her hands, while Mrs Brooker proffered a ball and glove.  It seemed the spirit was a boy.

A very lonely boy, Skye realized.  And scared.  Skye had never felt a spirit to be so completely alone like this boy, a sentiment echoed by Mrs Brooker.  “Alone. All alone,” rang in her ears.

Smoke left Skye’s side finally and went to the bottom of the stairs where she sat down and looked up, for all the world as if waiting to have her ears scratched and her head patted.

“Looks like you’ve made one new friend already.”  Skye looked at Smoke who seemed quite content to stay there with this boy.  “Can you see the others?  Can you see my grandmother?  And Mrs Goode and Mrs Brooker?  My Uncle Cuthbert is here too, but don’t let the collar fool you.  He was a bishop but not a stuffy one.  If you like baseball, the two of you will have lots to talk about.”  Skye heard her grandmother say, “You don’t have to talk about baseball, dear. Bertie will tell you everything about it!”

“Is… is your name ‘Daniel’?”  The warmth of a positive answer filled Skye’s mind.

“Well, welcome to Birch Cottage.  I live here with Smoke,” who in turn barked hello.  “And of course, with my spirit friends who,” she interrupted the chorus. “Who will introduce themselves in an orderly fashion.”

The warming feeling grew as Daniel was welcomed.  “Are you alone, Daniel? Do you have family?”

Skye felt a drop in temperature, and a desperate sense of loneliness.  “Not any more, Daniel, not with us.  Is that why you’re here?  Did you know you would find… family here?”

There was nothing at first.  No response from Daniel, no ideas or feelings from the others.  Even Smoke was quiet but watchful.  Then Skye felt her cheeks dampen although there were no tears.

“Do you know, Daniel, Mrs Brooker loves boys.  She would play catch with her sons all the time, and they would make snow angels in the front yard together.  Her son, James, and her grandson, JB, will be here at the cottage for Christmas dinner with me and a few others.  You’ll see them all playing then, and I’m sure you’ll be welcome to join them.”

Skye went about lighting all the candles in the dining room, adding to the light and warmth already filling her heart and head

“And my friends who are coming for supper? They will have family and friends there with you soon.  Frances, Mrs Goode, is already here, waiting for Tina.  Ask her about Tina’s doll collection!”

Skye bent down to scratch Smoke’s ears again.  “We’ve found the Christmas spirit a little early this year, haven’t we, girl?” She stood up and walked into the kitchen to finish up dinner.

“But that’s a good thing. Being filled with the joy of Christmas, wherever we are, and sharing the love of the season, is a very good thing.”

Fire And Ice

I tried.  Seriously, I tried.

At first, when autumn seemed so balmy, so not prelude-to-winter sort of thing, I was good.  Jeff didn’t notice that the thermostat was set at 61F/16C because it still felt comfortable inside.  He was happy, I was happy, and best of all, I was sleeping well because the bedroom wasn’t warm.  And then came a cold snap and with that, constant inspection of what the current temperature in the house was.

We’re heated with forced hot water and, if I have to live with central heating, this is the best kind.  It’s efficient and it’s better for an aging complexion, certainly not as drying of air (and fragile skin) as forced hot air.  This house is about a thousand years old and so is the furnace, so the pipes make the damnedest noises when the water is first pushing up from the basement.  It’s actually sort of fun, if a little Munsters-meet-Joe-the-Plumber.

Home alone, I keep the house cool-ish.  I don’t like being hot, and I don’t like paying for the privilege of being hot.  When Jeff’s home, the house is warm to hell-ish.  He likes being hot, and we have equalized billed to help spread out the joy of being hot.  And when winter begin in this new-to-us home, Jeff asked me to  please, please try to live with an overnight temperature of 65F/18C.  At first, he wanted it to be even warmer than that  but he backed off from that once I stopped crying.

So for two weeks, the house was warm – to me – at night.  Jeff is still sleeping under a flannel sheet and a fluffy warm duvet, with his feet covered by a Hudson Bay Blanket, and he’s trying to use me as a third blanket.  The problem with that is that I’m lying ON TOP of the blanket, the duvet and most of the flannel sheet so my personal BTUs aren’t getting through to him as well as he would like.  I’m on top of all these covers because I’m hot.  I mean, really hot.  Not in a menopausal way but in a completely normal – to me – way.  I simply run hot and have all my life.  And when I say I cannot sleep in a warm room, I mean I cannot sleep in a warm room!

Oh, I may fall asleep, uneasily, but I wake up.  Frequently.  Usually with a sheen of fine sweat and a headache.  For the two, three weeks leading up to and through the holiday period, I might have gotten two hours of sleep at a stretch each night, and gave up trying to sleep after 6 or so hours in bed.  I would catch up on sleep in the afternoons, when Jeff was at work, by napping in a very cool house.  I look forward to autumn and winter after a long, hot, sweaty, sleepless summer because I will be sleeping!  I will be sleeping in a cool, dark room without fear of sweat and headaches!  Only, but not at the start of this winter, things were a little different.

Until I got a little pissed at NOT sleeping for another, different, season.  So I turned down the thermostat a few nights ago before I went to bed.  Bliss!  Joy!  Sleep, glorious sleep!!!  I even slept under the flannel sheet – just not the duvet or blanket.  It was wonderful, and because I was up first & could adjust the thermostat again, it was foolproof!  Only, after a few nights of this, Jeff woke up before I did and wandered out to the living room to see why he felt so cold.

There is nothing lovelier than waking up to a discussion about the perfidy of a wife’s actions leading to the freezing to death in a man’s own bed.

We’ve agreed to an uneasy truce: The thermostat goes down just before bedtime and comes up whenever Jeff is at home.  And Jeff is now sleeping with a brick. Really.  A brick, that he heats up for 20 minutes or so, then wraps in newspaper and takes to bed (leaving it at the foot of the bed, on his side).  He also sleeps with the HBC blanket pulled all the way up around his neck.  And he’s still trying to suck every available BTU out of me.  It’s so romantic….

Of course, in the summer, when the room is  hot enough for him (because we don’t have a/c) and my body temperature is the equivalent of the sun’s surface, I’m banished.  Not just to the far side of the bed… He suggests I might be more comfortable in Yellowknife.

“… for better, for worse; for richer, for poorer; in winter’s cool and summer’s heat….”

Night Owl, Meet Morning Lark

I woke up this morning, completely and totally sure that it was Sunday morning.

Recently, the Other Half changed jobs.  So recently, that he hasn’t actually started working there yet, although he’s done the paperwork and will be going in for some flexibility and strength testing later this week.  This change in his work means a change in our sleeping and eating patterns.  Where once he worked from 15:30 to midnight, he’ll now be working from 07:30 to… probably 16:30 or so most days, including travel time.  He’s very excited about this – he’ll be doing the kind of work he likes, he’ll be earning more money, and we’ll have our evenings together back again.

My body is not adapting well to this change.  Whereas for the past 16 months we’ve been getting up at 10:00 or even later, eating our big meal of the day at 14:00 and having cereal for supper (well, I did; either that or leftovers.  I always packed Jeff a three-course lunch. Just call me Betty Crocker!).  When Jeff would come home, he’d have his after work beer and eat some cheese & crackers, and we would play cribbage or watch a movie, and go to bed at 02:00 or even later.

These were my hours, baby!  I’m a night owl.  I think better in the dark.  I see better in the dark!  (This, by the way, is absolutely true.  I have always seen better in the dark than anyone else I’ve ever met, and am actually quite comfortable getting around in minimal to no light.  Used to be my eyes adjusted pretty much immediately to a suddenly darkened room; not quite so much now, but I still have great night vision.)  This being alert and functioning in more daylight hours than not… taking a lot of getting used to.  Again!

See, for eleven and a half years I worked in morning radio.  Most people who want to work in radio kill to become part of the morning show – it’s the place to aim for if you’re aiming for a career in radio.  I started there.  I never aimed at a career in radio – it just sort of happened – nor did I especially consider morning radio.  I was offered a job, and I took it, and I sort of grew with it, and managed to have quite a bit of fun (and some angst) along the way.  But I would also like to say – getting up at 03:30 to be at work at 04:30 or so is not all it’s cracked up to be.  For eleven and a half years, I got by on very little sleep, consuming a huge amount of caffeine and by generally annoying my co-workers in the morning by talking & laughing too loudly.

A girl has to do something to keep herself awake!

Now, I’m not saying that getting up at 06:45 is the same thing… really.  But.  But.

I’m beginning to think that this is the one reason why people look forward to retiring: they can let their body determine when to sleep and eat, not their clock.  In the meantime, I’m learning to look at the calendar before deciding what day it is.  I’m learning to set up the coffee maker the night before (god, that helps. hot coffee immediately upon walking into the kitchen…). And I’m learning that there is a different kind of peace to be found in a quiet house when the sky is lightening, not darkening, and there is the possibility of a wide-awake world out there, waiting for you.

By the way, it’s Tuesday.

 

The Weird, Wild & Mildly Wicked Way in Which My Mind Works….

Today is my uncle’s birthday.  I went to bed last night thinking “remember to call Uncle Bruce.  remember to call Uncle Bruce”.  I woke up this morning thinking… “whose birthday is it today?” I’m calling him at supper time… Shall I offer your good wishes as well??

Also last night, or rather early this morning, I had a dream that I was back living at home & going to university (yes, I was one of those kids — who graduated with no debt and had the absolutely free use of a car through her entire undergraduate career; mama didn’t raise no financial dummies!).  John Wayne was in my hometown either making or promoting a new film; I’m not sure which.  Anyway, he walks into the bar where I’m pouring beer and making really good martinis and over the course of the evening, tries to seduce me.  Well, seduced me.  Yes, I know. John Wayne!  There could have been other movie stars my mind would choose… but nooooo.  I went with John Wayne.  And I didn’t mind one bit :-)  (Are you singing ‘Save A Horse, Ride A Cowboy”  yet??)

But here’s the best part of that dream — well, second best.  When I came home from John Wayne’s hotel, I looked across the street at our neighbour’s house to see Mrs Kramer sitting on the front lawn in a big, beautiful, puffy chair with Tim Conway and Betty White, also in big, puffy chairs, having a loud argument about who was funnier:  Carol Burnett or Mary Tyler Moore.  The thing is, when I woke up, and stopped laughing at the fact that I had a sort of sex dream about John Wayne for god’s sake… I started arguing with myself about who was funnier:  Carol Burnett or Mary Tyler Moore??!!

Grocery shopping over the past few weeks has been expeditionary. Before heading out, I read the flyers, I cut the coupons, I plan the meals for the week, and I go shopping.  As Jeff puts it, we’re poor but we’re eating rich because I do this planning and careful shopping.  And maybe it’s because shopping is so restrained that my mind wanders a little as I make my way up & down the aisles but last week, while I was out, I got to thinking about how wonderful it would be to just fly down the aisles and shovel things into my cart and not worry one whit about the cents per litre.  And wouldn’t you know it — that night I dreamt I won a radio contest that let me do just that!  Helping with rolling the empty carts into my life and the full ones up to the cash register line were all my nieces and nephews in the “second” generation (those 18 and under; the “first” generation is 23 plus) except for Miss Emily Anne who was reading somewhere.  Lukas, my godson and nephew, was particularly helpful, hollering at me “Aunt Dia!  Aunt Dia!  There are steaks left in the fridge!!  Don’t forget the steaks!”  I shovelled so much food into the multiple carts that Jeff had to go out and buy a giant freezer!!  Now that was a fun dream, John Wayne!!

Back to waking life: same shopping trip, popped into the drug store to pick up one thing and waited in line for, oh gosh, 2 years.  While I was waiting, I was greatly amused by the two small children squashed into the cart in front of me.  The boy was sucking a hard candy of some sort, which he would pull out of his mouth every now & again to look at, and then pop right back in.  And to clean his hands of sweet saliva?  He would rub his sister’s cheek… and hair… and sweater.  Both sister & mother were completely oblivious to this behaviour although I’m not sure why my strangled, choking laughter didn’t at least catch the mother’s attention!

Perhaps this also happens to you… but every now & then I will discover a book on my shelves, or on a table top, or sometimes on the floor that I haven’t read yet.  It’s sitting there, I recognize the cover, I know it’s been kicking around for a while and still somehow, it has escaped my reading habit.  Last night, shelved amongst the Simon Winchester books I found “The Map That Changed The World”.  Read about three chapters before nodding off and anxious to get back to it this evening.   I know I should have thought of geology as a science that needed to be “invented” before now but somehow… Anyway, like all Simon Winchester books, I am delighted to be reading his work.

Having watched the 60 second trailer for the newest Star Trek movie (coming out in May) about 20 times now, I have decided to name my next companion animal Benedict Cumberbatch.  My blog & twitter friend, ADogABroadAYear, informs me that there is a loosely organized group of women around the world called “Cumberbitches” — uber-fans of the British actor.  If you don’t recognize that incredibly wonderful & slightly bizarre name, he’s Holmes in the BBC incarnation of the Conan Doyle books that made such a huge splash a couple of years ago.  I have all six episodes in iTunes on my computer and whenever I feel… bitchy…. I will watch one. Or two. Or six.  Very odd looking really but, oh my. Very sexy, too.  Like all good Cumberbitches, I’m dying for the next round of Holmes stories to come out – sometime late in 2013.

Ah, back to real work now.  Thanks for the therapy of sharing…

 

 

 

 

 

 

Riverdale

It’s just an ordinary town in the middle of the county in the middle of the province.  It has a beautiful river on the south-west side, a river which once marked that edge of town, although the bridge built in 1918 changed that.  The river is wide and not terribly deep, grass on the banks, rocks in the bed.  Everyone who fishes tells me that makes it a superior trout stream and as I have eaten quite a bit of trout taken from the river, I will believe them.

It’s not a well-laid out town, I have to admit.  The first roads were simple cart tracks, but as the town grew, the next generation of roads seem to have been cut out between where the first business owners had their places of business and the lots where their wives wanted to build a decent house and live.  After that, well, let’s just say town planning was a way off in our future.

So many of those decent houses, now a century or more old, are made of yellow brick with interesting cornices and beautiful stained glass windows, along with open, welcoming porches.  They’ve been updated through the years, with indoor plumbing and electrical wiring, and even new energy efficiencies, but they are still graceful examples of what simple middle-class dreams used to look like. Today, of course, the houses in town come in a variety of materials and shapes, but people who visit do tend to remark on the beauty and grace of those windows and porches.

Thanks to our horse and buggy past, we have very wide main street running north-east to south-west, with shop fronts that offer all the goods and services one could need on a day-to-day basis.  We have small businesses like Bricker’s Five And Ten that sells everything you need for your home and some you didn’t know you had to have; there are two clothing stores and a combination office supply and bookstore; there’s a Chinese restaurant just like in every small town in Ontario, plus the pub and of course the Rose Cafe; and the Riley brothers emporium on the edge of town continues to grow every year.

There are professionals like lawyers and accountants, not to mention about 23 people employed at the three banks located at what we call Money Corner, and of course the people who work for the town and the county.  The county is filled with fine farms raising a variety of crops including a few I didn’t know were actually things that could be raised, and of course there are the businesses in town dedicated to support farming. It is, as you can see, a town that’s well-enough-to-do with the usual mix of past challenges and future opportunities.

People often say there are not a lot of opportunities for our young people here.  They finish high school, go off to university or college and don’t come home again because there’s no work.  I think they mean no high-paying office jobs in tall buildings.  I myself know four business owners and two farmers who would hire the right person this afternoon if they could find him or her, and the money wouldn’t be too bad either.  But it wouldn’t be exciting, and horizons wouldn’t be expanded, and everybody would know when you’re dating someone and who they used to date and after a month, be trying to figure if a wedding was coming or not, so I can see why the city calls.

Just like your town, there are scandals stuck in the back of some closets and maybe a few out in the open as well, but we try not to dwell on them too much.  Some of our former residents have gone on to achieve outstanding honours and glory while some are quite content to have the best they can right here, and for 5,688 of us, not counting the farm population and the two hundred or so souls living around Mill Hamlet, that’s quite a bit.

Not everyone is a Happy Jones but very few truly have the troubles of Job either and all told, this is where I happily call home.

It’s interesting to think about how a place can dig itself into your heart.  I cannot imagine living anywhere else, or maybe I should say I can imagine it, and I don’t like it.  I used to think a lot about being one of those young people who leave to find something else, but somehow I never could convince myself to pack my suitcase and go. My roots run deep here, being fourth generation on my mother’s side, and I know how this town breathes.

I know my town very well because I spend time walking around, down to the river, out to the mill, and around again to the Riley brothers’ place. I check out the shop windows, and take peeks into the living room windows lit for the evening when I walk past on my way to the river.  And I know the banks of the river in every season; I could easily walk from my front door to the Double Rocks at the big bend in the dark without a light and not get lost or trip and fall.

I know every street, and I would think most of the people who live on them, at least by their faces if not their names, in every house.  I know who drinks and who is a righteous abstainer; I know who spends too much money on clothes and not enough on food; I know who loves their children and I know the kids who are desperate to get away from home; I know who’s sick and who is sick at heart.  Some of this I know because of the cafe.  Everyone comes to have coffee or a meal pretty regularly and I see their stories come in with them.  And I listen to them.

Listening seems to be a lost art these days unless you’re being paid to practise it, like a counsellor or a minister.  It’s true that social media has made us able to communicate more, and more often.  But throwing out a few pithy comments on how pretty someone looked at a wedding or telling everyone that you’re headed to Florida for two weeks is not the same as talking and listening.

People don’t just talk with their words.  They talk with their faces, so if someone is looking strained even as they say ‘everything’s fine and how are you?’ should mean asking the question again.  When someone who normally doesn’t care how they dress suddenly starts showing up in brand new jeans and a freshly pressed shirt, you can be pretty sure the answer to ‘what’s new’ is not ‘nothing much’.  And if you’re watching a man clench and unclench his fists while watching another man across the room, be prepared if something bad happens later that night.

Jake Reilly says that I know all these things about people because I’m kind of spooky.  He means my second sight, an unknowable awareness of things that seem to be about to happen to people.  And I suppose there is something to that.  GeeGee had the sight, and everyone says I’m getting to be more and more like her every day.  But it’s not necessary to have this gift to listen to someone’s story, to share their pain and their joy.  Maybe if I tell some part of some of the stories I have seen over the years, you might find a moral, be entertained, fall in love with my town the way I have.

NB:  This is a first draft of what I think will be the intro to the collection of short stories, a collection which seems to have named itself RIVERDALE.  There are a few other short stories from the collection on this blog; do feel free to go the “Reading & Writing” and/or “Short Story” categories to find them.  And please tell me what you think!