Author: Rian Elliott

July 11, 2021 – Concetta (Rian Elliott)

~ Rian Elliott ~ Leave a comment

July 11, 2021, is the second anniversary when one of our treasured writers Rian Elliott passed away. We all miss our dear friend and want her writings to be her legacy.

From her large volume of unread works below is one for you to enjoy.

Concetta

Concetta drifted to the kitchen window at the sound of a tap, seeing two startled sparrows lift and flutter away from the branch beyond. The piercing eyes and stillness of the larger bird perched on the sill held her motionless until the sudden sway of the treetop in the breeze signaled his flight to her left. He rose, circled the marble crown of St. Michael across the street, and continued past the church and the parish hall, the priest’s house, towards the busy intersection not more than a few minutes away. She placed her coffee cup carefully in the sink.

Taking the flight as a harbinger of early mass, she hurried to the front hall, donned her coat, and set out towards St. Michael. He was, she noted, still gazing downward. Were his armies daunted by the world he found himself in? Or was he plotting a course through enemies found even within? She listened carefully, but that other world of bustle and traffic was barely audible, more a fence surrounding the quiet of this neighbourhood at this hour, Italian by determination, though mingled by village origin and date of arrival and aspiration. The husbands had left for work, but it was early yet for the wives to be standing on their verandas and shaking rugs and mops and dust cloths.

She paused at the marble plinth only to wish him well for the recruitment of his heavenly host, then walked with calm determination to let herself in with her eyes focused and movements carefully timed to satisfy the stern eye of Father Anselmo, should he be watching. With information on her surroundings limited to her ears and minimal eye movements, she was satisfied at least that he could find nothing in her movements noteworthy for the report. Her ears picked out only the regular voices, and she left the service with a lighter step than entering. Crossing the street, she looked straight ahead and saw only the slightest movement of the curtain to her left as she reached her own front door. She walked through the house to the back, taking up the small bag of garbage, and carefully placed it in the bin. 

Gazing downward but intent on peripheral vision for any sign of scrutiny, she bent over to pick a weed or two, her path angling forward to the gloomy line of cypress marking the back of the lot. Satisfied, she turned half-sideways at a bare opening, gathered her coat tight, and slid through. 

A narrow strip of small trees and scrub lay between her and Black Creek, more a culvert at that point in its twisted trail from Vaughan northwest of Toronto to its southern manifestation as an eastern tributary of the mouth of the Humber River. She followed the bank to the left and up a slight rise. The sounds of traffic interrupted then overpowered the early morning birdsong, increasing until she came to some steps that brought her to the parking lot of an apartment building. Her journey brought her some three blocks north and three blocks west of her house without seeing another person. Although she had looked carefully, she saw no mushrooms, only some lichen and some soggy spots of undigested plant material. On the whole, it was not hard walking and not unpleasant.

There was no comparison, of course, with the pine forest immediately behind her parent’s house in her native village. There, a carpet of needles, though sharp, formed a dry and comforting bed to walk on and search for wild mushrooms. The careful tutelage of her sisters, Anna and Bianca, and her grandmother, had made her fungi foraging reputation noteworthy in the whole village. 

But there, her mind was wandering, and it was a very public street. This particular block was safe enough as she headed south. There was a laundromat used only by those who lived in the rental apartments further north and along the more major side streets. None of her neighbours would be there. It would be a sure sign of family embarrassment for laundry to not be done at home. To be sure, when they first arrived and lived just off Dufferin, there were some neighbours who hung laundry in their backyards. Very soon, though, as distinctions were made in the butchers and greengrocers in the area, this was designated as very ‘old-country.’

By the time they had moved to “Italy North,” and basements were floored in porcelain and had full kitchens and laundry rooms, twice the size at least of those left behind, newlyweds were set up with households fully equipped. Certainly, all those who were part of St. Michaels, all those whose jobs stemmed from that man, the scarecrow. 

Here she had passed the laundromat, the animal hospital, a hospital for dogs and cats, but what was it really. True, most in her community went to a hospital even to give birth, but still, dogs. Cats. There was also a dentist and an accountant, then she crossed into the next block, and there was a pizza parlour. Again, no one from her community went there, but they delivered cardboard boxes to the apartment buildings. 

Beside it was a shop supported by the community. They had plates and tablecloths just beyond the window, all brought in from Italy. But in the window, there was always a changing display of special occasion goods, sometimes a christening gown, special formal dresses for children, and for first communion, ah, the dresses. 

Even for boys, especially for her boys, she would have been happy to see Tonio or Enzo dressed for their First Communion like this. She was not allowed to choose, of course. Nothing had been her choice since her Tonio approached his tenth birthday. It was judged that living with a crazy mother was not suitable for her children. Whether her husband or that man chose, she wasn’t aware. She was allowed to sit with her husband and see them, and she was clever and quick. When the other parents claimed their children at the end of the service, she slid between the bulk of Antonio, her husband, and his brother. Before either could move, she was down to the level of her boys,  looking into the eyes of Enzo, the younger but with Antonio’s build the physical equal of his brother Tonio. Carefully she told him how well he had done and how proud she was before turning and locking into Tonio’s bright gaze beneath his soft curls and repeating the words, eyes never leaving his. 

That was the end of her afternoon, of course. She was delivered back to their home, what had been their home, where she now lived alone. Antonio said there would be a family celebration. As they left, though, Antonio steering her firmly through the assembled parents who parted before him, she thought she saw the scarecrow.  What could there be to celebrate when the scarecrow was around. 

She wasn’t sure he was the scarecrow. She had seen him first when her sisters and other children of the village had walked along the road, further than they had ever gone, climbing up and then down to see fields of grapevines, and on the uppermost field a stick figure dressed in black. Her sisters had laughed at her, but Emilio explained that it was there to scare the birds away. 

There was no fixed time that she had seen the scarecrow in the village square for the first time. It only slowly came to her that whenever he was there, black coat flapping below his white hair and black hat, the square emptied of all but the men her father’s age. They sat quietly, smoking and playing cards. One by one, they greeted him as he came up. Usually, his son walked with him, in the beginning, a stocky figure half his height, slowly reaching the same height as the scarecrow and revealing himself as his father’s son. 

She looked up cautiously to see Fabio’s, the large greengrocers, before her. Most of the women in the neighbourhood stopped here regularly, but it was a bit early to find them here. She watched. Fabio and his son were going back and forth, lining up cartons of vegetables on the counter outside. Timing herself carefully, she avoided both of them, reaching Niki’s Bridal, the largest shop in this block with no confrontation. 

Here she walked slowly, the wondrous clouds of satin and tulle suggesting garb for angels but for the flashing sparks from jeweled tiaras. Angels, she knew, would have no need of jewels. The light of their being, that glorious light, came from them and needed no outside assistance. Still, she could have wished at least one of these dresses, even the simplest, had been a choice her sister Anna had.

Their house turned upside down preparing for her wedding, but not one smile or pleasant word from Anna for the whole of it, not for her, Concetta, at any rate. Only weeks after their house was upside down preparing and celebrating their sister Bianca’s sixteenth birthday, their father had called them in, one by one. Anna, the eldest, was already less than eager to share their usual time together. She seemed to feel a need for some increased time in the company of their mother to emphasize her superior maturity, and Bianca had shown signs of joining them as her birthday approached. Without Emilio and their mushroom foraging expeditions, she would not have known what to do with herself.

Day by day, she did her chores and sat by the kitchen door, waiting for instructions or an invitation to join her mother and sisters, but their voices always changed timbre in her presence. Emilio’s slim form and keen eyes found mushrooms in the deepest shade. Dividing down to a bed of pine needles, his tousled curls turned, and a smile announced the unlikeliest treasure.

Bianca’s birthday had been a happy time, and one the whole village celebrated. Anna had been happy, not least, Concetta thought, when Alberto, Emilio’s older brother, seemed to be always in her vicinity. Bianca, meanwhile, was happily modest to have all eyes on her. 

Concetta herself was only a little unhappy when it was over. It meant that there was just over a year, and her turn would come, and she would become the center of attention. But that had never happened, or not like that.

And only weeks after, their father called them in, one by one. First, Anna went to sit in the front room with their parents and came out bewildered but silent some minutes later. Bianca went next, but here the unexpected happened. There were cries, and foot-stomping, and shushing, and finally, Bianca exited, her face a white mask. She motioned to Concetta to enter in her place, and as she looked back, both sisters seemed to her to be staring in horror.

She saw their eyes forevermore when she remembered them. Only by singing her grandmother’s favourite song over and over under her breath could she bring them to the top of her mind as children, the three of them joining others in the village or going with Grandmother into the pine forest to learn its mysteries.

At the time, only her father’s words wiped the sight from her mind.

She could see the day like a curtain. The sun shone on the kitchen tiles as she entered the cooler darkness of the front room with the curtains pulled. Her mother’s eyes were fastened on the red carpet throughout, while her father’s words fell like the careful hammer strokes when he fastened shelves. Her sister Anna would be married very soon, and the household would be engaged in preparing for this major celebration. Also, as it happened, Bianca was to be married soon after to one Andreas from the next village. She knew who he was; they all did. He was a cousin of the scarecrow’s son.

But the main thing, the finishing sharp stroke of the hammer, was that she herself was to be wed due to the very honourable representations, very honourable, of the scarecrow, on behalf of his son. So it came to pass that she became the bride of Antonio Bartolomeo, but not before her sister Anna was wed to Emilio, her Emilio, and Bianca, white-faced, going to the altar, seeking reassurance from her parents that she was welcome in their house whenever she was in need of them. She was told that was so whenever it was her husband’s pleasure.

Neither sister would look into her eyes from the time their father spoke to them. Indeed, the only breath she took for the whole time was when both families lined up for mutual greetings at Anna’s wedding, and she found herself looking into Emilio’s eyes.

She left the bridal show in the window and passed to Tetsu’s small grocery store, vegetables proud in their neat stacks and glistening with spray on his outdoor counter. Startled, she reached toward a tray of mushrooms but withdrew before contact and went on to the corner pot. The small pine stood dense and dark and seemed to be waiting for her warm fingers to waft over the bark. She withdrew her hand and rubbed them together before allowing them to cup briefly around her nose.

Turning, she crossed the street. Passing the bank, the accountant, the shoe store, she came to Mario and the bakery. She fancied, looking toward the corner, that she saw the scarecrow in the far corner of the parking lot. Taking a deep breath, she entered the bakery, the smell of morning bread still alive. She waited, head half turned, while a couple of women from the neighbourhood gathered their daily supply. As they left, she hesitantly approached Mario himself. 

They both knew her husband would settle any account between them. It was the size of the absent scowl they calculated silently between them. Mario broke the silence, decision made, saying that perhaps she would like some spinach or mushroom tarts, just coming fresh. Concetta’s eyes widened. Then she smiled, pointed at the mushroom tarts, and announced to Mario that the Pope was speaking through him, the Pope being a very wise man who would undoubtedly take care of all earthy things less worthy persons could understand, herself being the least, the very least of these. She heard the door open, and two women enter behind her as Mario smiled and tied her parcel. She raised her hand to indicate her lack of money, but he gestured toward the notebook beside his cash register.

With a light step, she opened the door to see Elydia di Pentima, a stalwart supporter at St. Michaels Parish Hall, for many a coffee party. In fact, she barely hesitated before inviting Concetta herself for coffee then and there, virtually inviting her. But Concetta, being a considerate person, told her also of the stellar properties of the Pope.

She smiled and bowed Elydia into the bakery before stepping into the parking lot. She stepped briskly now, parcel tucked unobtrusively under one arm, as she passed the corner. Pleased to see no sign of the scarecrow, she crossed the busy intersection when the light turned green. Her step was light, but she was almost determinedly staring straight ahead the whole walk home. No one could say there was anything untoward in her appearance.

Even when she reached her own front walk and the curtain next door took a sudden hard twitch when she appeared, there could be nothing of note. Feeling the box under her arm, she raised the other arm, stuck one finger in her ear, and wiggled the fingers as she stuck her tongue out and waggled it before continuing to her own front door.

How to Cry (Rian Elliott – 2019)

~ Rian Elliott ~ Leave a comment

The community room filled up rapidly. Transport routes mattered in this borough, where car ownership was not a given and the timing and routes of buses mattered to almost everyone. A small room beside the main hall served for junior children to play while their parents could listen, question and comment. A large window in the wall between allowed parents and children to see each other without opening the door while the red light above it was on. The moderator controlled this. Carol Jenkins was at one end where a puppet theatre stood beside an open area with trucks and building blocks and I was at the other at a line of three tables, one set up as a doll station and one as an art centre with poster paints and between them a sandbox on a table some few inches deep.

She was an early arrival, this first girl. Her mother barely had time to speak to her two older brothers who may have been school age before they spotted a train engine and sped off. She stood, small and resolute, black hair smoothed back in two neat pigtails, eyes fastened to hear every parting word from her mother, not English from the few that reached me. It might have been Albanian or one of any South American. Several outreach offices were sprinkled along Weston Road.

Her mother turned and we nodded as I guided the girl around until she seemed to have some interest at the doll table. She selected from a pile of fist-sized yarn creations to circle around a toy table. Meanwhile the room next door filled and the background hum of voices grew and one by one a new arrival peeled off to enter our smaller room.

In minutes the several tables with playhouse and dolls and the train station and track and building blocks grew busy with young hands. The sound volume expanded on both sides of the window. I spent some time persuading a toddler left in a stroller he didn’t have to throw his plush toy away and scream when it disappeared. Then came the sound of a disturbance at the sand table.

I went over to see two or three girls led by one sharp-faced brunette with ringlets dancing, hands on hips and voice raised in vigorous denunciation. First girl stood, looking from side to side, confused and on the point of tears. She lowered her braided black hair and regarded the attack troop in consternation. From her demeanour she understood enough English to know the sense of what was being said. The general gist of the tirade was that she had no right to jump in and take space already claimed. Ringlets spoke with confidence that she would be confirmed. When challenged by adult authority, mine, she stopped, turn back to the table with a toss of the ringlets and announced to her followers that there was more room at the other end of the sand table. Her sotto voice announcement as I turned to comfort any incipient tears rang clear however.

“It’s not as if she can help being dirty.” 

First girl’s shoulders squared as she took one breath. Her deep brown eyes, on the point of overflowing, blinked twice then focused on the dwelling taking shape in the sand before her. Ringlets and her cohorts carried on behind and beside her, going from sand table to art table to dolls, making it clear with loud pronouncements that they had found the most desirable spot.

At last the meeting drew to a close, and the girl’s mother was one of the first through the door to gather her brood. Without a word or glance at her tormentors, first girl turned and stationed herself before her mother and in one fluid motion looked up, howled and shared her tears.

The whole scenario was a standard repeated a thousand times every September and at countless other offspring reunions.

Replaying it my memory bank went into overdrive searching for relevant experience on the walk home. My own mother was anything but unemotional, but when I thought of her crying I can remember only once. I was under five, and sat between my parents in the back seat of a car, a ride unique from any other time in a car.

Sometimes we would be church-dressed and ready to behave in my paternal Grandma Edith’s living room. No grandfather was present. My father had explained that his father died in the great flu epidemic when young. The visit started in trepidation pending permission to explore the lower shelf of the banker’s bookcase in the front room which held a whole row of National Geographic magazines and worlds wondrous and awesome.  The following food and drink, whether tea and cookies or a whole meal, stole time better spent here. How could chomping cookies while keeping your dress unwrinkled compete with butterflies and maps and colours unfolding from page to page.

Other times we dressed in overalls, or I did, and went to my mother’s parents. Often when there we went to the backyard which was mostly vegetable rows while they decided, in animated Polish, what needed doing that day and where. They would point first at the pile set up for weeds and then along one row or another with dubious glances at the water can. My mother translated, one word for every twenty of theirs.

On that crying day we dressed for Grandma Edith but went to church, and then outside to a field with standing stones which I later learned was a cemetery where I had to wait in the car. But as I say, it was the only time I can remember my mother crying and when I asked why, and where my younger brother was, she stopped and said she cried because he was happy now and sleeping with the angels.

I didn’t grasp what she meant then, and for sure I don’t now. So what I learned from my mother about crying wouldn’t take space in a day planner. Like most girls there must have been a few tears shed over boys, boys you liked who did or didn’t like you back, and boys who liked you and you couldn’t like them back. Oddly, the ones who didn’t like you back and let you know it caused the least anguish. Even with tears involved, I remember the opportunity for drama. In particular one weekend stood out, with a couple of female friends aiding in recovery over too much wine and an introduction to Galois cigarettes with Edith Piaf playing non-stop and an interesting gravelly voice for a week after. If suffering isn’t interesting, what is the point? 

Tears never came when you couldn’t like someone. Later I realized this may have been practice for Lesson Two, but just thinking it through left you tied in knots. I remember living next door to a woman who, being five or six times divorced, made perfect sense. Saying goodbye to someone there’s no reason not to like does not come easy.
Crying Lesson Number One was my mother’s gift though she never knew it. My father and I sat with a box of tissue between us at her memorial service, barely able to listen, exhaustion the only remedy for tears that could not stop.

Lesson Number Two presented that no-tear zone for crying when my adult brother died. Younger than me by five years, he had no business leaving so I tried to feel only anger, but his whole lifetime formed an ice block of tears that lodged somewhere in my centre and never left.

The third track for tears, ah woe. My good friend Eileen left us far too young after a brief but devastating illness. I can’t dignify this by calling it a lesson. We had served on committees and volunteered to clean parks and plant trees and serve dinners to little Cubs and large Scouts. So when, some time after the service proper, her family planned a Memorial service and requested that I speak it came as no surprise. We stood at the front, six of us including Reverend Wilkie. As the others spoke I remembered times past, in particular our last celebration. We had planned a retirement lunch for another member which included a cake with special message in the icing dictated and decorated cake by one bossy member. As we prepared the trays of food, we placed the cake on top of a long freezer in the kitchen, one with only the slightest slope. Who could think such a slight slope could serve as a slide. We stood there, steps away, unable to move as our doom unfolded. As this recollection replayed itself, Reverend Wilkie thanked the previous speaker and introduced me, just as Eileen’s little hooting laugh sounded in my ear, gasping out her comment, “More than one way to enjoy a cake.” And I started laughing. I could not stop. Biting my tongue, holding my breath, did not help. Reverend Wilkie stood aside for ten seconds waiting, then returned to the center to close the service. 

Most of First Girl’s experience that night would fade, I hoped. But words can stay and sting, unlike a scorpion, over and over.

Dirt and dirty as adjective and noun are in common use and few of us dodge its negative side growing up. For most our parents, grandparents and great-grandparents wore the label as they arrived, wave after wave, using it in turn for those who came after and for the first inhabitants of the continent.

Both sides of my family knew this in different forms. My father’s side started as farmers and found dirt and dirty cause for joy. They were right. City life was and is more conducive adding the ‘dirty’ to whatever, hunkies, Polacks, Chinks, even the Brits had their turn. The added factors of internecine squabbles from religion, politic or language make for a constantly bubbling stew. My maternal grandparents’ fair share of ‘dirty Polacks’ was tempered by their imperfect grasp of English, possibly by the back garden.

Going through my mother’s things after the service we found her ‘special’ jewellery box with no jewellery. It held five envelopes, each labelled with month and age containing one snippet of baby hair. A sixth larger envelope held a ribbon and pressed flower with my baby brother’s name, medical notice of death stating ‘diphtheria’ and newspaper notice with a date which must have been that of the car ride. A smaller envelope held a letter sent the day after in Grandma Edith’s neat writing. She expressed her sadness at the death. She stated how necessary it was to sterilize all things surrounding the young and to maintain cleanliness at all times.

I’d like to think my mother read it and remembered Grandma Edith’s husband died of flu. I’d like to think she meant well. I’d really like not to feel like crying three ways at once.

12 Days of Christmas (Rian Elliott)

~ Rian Elliott ~ 1 Comment

Sorry for the delay in posting – expect everyone to CATCH UP by the next meeting!!!

TWELFTH

The Great Writing Guru gave to me: TWELVE Paper Clips:

(See Catherine Campbell “Interconnected” for instructions)

 

 

 

ELEVENTH

Sites for that “something to read”:

www.librovox.org, The Literature Network, www.authorama.com, Project Gutenberg, Questia Public Library, Bibliomania, The Open Library, Sacred Texts, SlideShare, World Public Library, www.FullBooks.com

TEN

Sites to explore if you haven’t already:

CBC Books, www.techwalla.com, www.babble.com/baby-names, www.surnames.behindthename.com, www.thecanadianencyclopedia.ca, www.indy100.com, www.domesdaybook.co.uk, www.onthisday.com, www.usnews.com, www.historic-newspapers.co.uk

NINE

Rediscover the book! Start here with a list of 25 “page turners”. Maybe find out when Brian Henry’s next workshop is to learn about the 9 “d”s of writing a page turner.

EIGHT

Rs for writers:

Remember, Rigour, Relish, Reflect, Ribaldry, Reticence, Rascalry, Revise plus your own favourites.

SEVEN

Exercises for those days (250 words only):

  • A dream
  • A historical event or character
  • The weather
  • Someone in the coffee shop
  • A teacher
  • Describe a piece of art
  • Pick a photo from the paper and just write!

SIX

Questions to answer in any story (5 Ws and an H):

Who, What, Where, When, Why and How

FIVE

Golden senses to include in any story:

Feel, Taste, Smell, Hear, See

FOUR

Personality outline sites:

www.myersbriggs.org, www.ongoingworlds.com, www.liveboldandbloom.com, www.socialmettle.com

THREE

Writing aid sites:

www.grammerly.com, www.prowritingaid.com, www.storymind.com

TWO

Highliters:

When revising go through printout and highlight anything to be removed or changed in one colour, then go through with second colour for keepers

ONE

Old Tyme storage device (aka a notebook):

For frivolous thoughts – deathless prose – ideas wild, wonderful and woeful – snippets – reminders of any sort

 

Stranger at the Door (Rian Elliott)

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Elise said goodbye to her second daughter-in-law, sighed, paused, amended the thought to younger daughter-in-law, or rather younger son’s wife. Did that make her the younger daughter-in-law although technically older than both sons and her other daughter-in-law? In any case Bella was a very forthright young woman, not put off by any such distinction of age or rank.

She reviewed her Christmas plans. It would seem no Bella and David, certainly not unless she was prepared to bar Carla and Daniel unequivocally. Possibly Daniel alone as the younger son would be acceptable but that wasn’t going to happen.

First Christmas memories at her grandparents’ table rose unbidden. It held the two of them, their five children and spouses plus a growing number of grandchildren along with neighbours from time to time. She had been in the first group of three grandchildren, so there were over a dozen at the table always, and always one extra place. Her grandparents explained to her each and every year that on this day there must always be a place for a stranger at the door. Over time this became an acknowledgement of those no longer with us, but when alive George resisted even this interpretation and it never became their practice.

But that didn’t address the source or solution to the Bella and Carla dilemna. This couldn’t have happened at her grandparents’ table. Strong feelings often, yes, but never abandonment. She donned coat and hat, grabbed her bag and set out for the supermarket. She arrived to find a police officer standing with the store manager on either side of a youngish man with a cardboard sign announcing his homelessness. She continued inside and proceeded with her few supplies to her favourite checkout. To a friendly ‘Hello, dear,’ she smiled and nodded at the door.

‘Didn’t I see him here on the weekend?”

‘Yes, he hides a bike around the corner and lives in that three-storey walk-up two blocks over.” Her voice lowered. “But the manager allows no panhandling.’

Elise pondered the question of being homeless versus foodless on the way to the seniors’ centre to visit her friend Mona who would be going to her daughter’s for Christmas. Mona expounded on her guilt for leaving three or four fellow residents who had no family. Elise shared hers over argumentative daughters-in-law and grandparents who coped with more boisterous acrimony which didn’t result in anyone leaving. She ended with ‘even an extra place for the stranger at the door’.

“But perhaps,” she ended, “that was just a cultural thing with our family.”

“Oh, no,” Mona jumped in. “Scrooge’s nephew.” But just then they were joined by fellow card players.

Elise thought on the way home that they didn’t warn you when you were having sons or daughters. Daughters tended to be around all your life. Sons followed wives.

She thought about all this overnight through tossing and turning and dreaming of Alistair, the only real Scrooge, finally reaching a Eureka moment in the early hours. Hah, Scrooge’s nephew indeed, making a versa from vice, or family from strangers, and formed a plan.

The next day she called on Mona first and saw the manager, making arrangements to have Mona’s friends delivered to her place on Christmas day.  On her way back she spotted the bike rider from the day before and flagged him down to issue her invitation.

Her afternoon was spent telephoning, first Daniel’s in-laws, then David’s, announcing that she would be hosting a Christmas buffet between 2 and 5. Only then did she call Daniel and Carla though it was Carla who answered and carefully expressed doubts that her family would attend.

Then it was Bella, whose reply to the announcement was a repetition.

Steeling herself, Elise said only,

‘Well, just to let you know you are all welcome. I do have a couple of special guests, but whatever works for you.”

She spent the rest of the week unpacking inherited china which hadn’t been used since it arrived in her basement, reviewing the neighbourhood and issuing invitations. There were cautious commitments, startled silences and a few offers to bring one thing or another.

By Christmas Day the fridge was full, table set and plates stacked beside the microwave. She was, she thought, as prepared as her grandparents had been those many years ago.

The doorbell rang, and there stood bike rider and one young female companion, expecting. Very expecting..

SANTA CLAUSE (Rian Elliott)

~ Rian Elliott ~ Leave a comment

The day was cold and the wind capricious as it whipped around the five children leaving the schoolyard and setting out northward, then west toward the river a block later, leaving their schoolmates to find their different paths.

Three of the five were boys, six years old and from Miss Grady’s Grade One class. The fourth  boy was two or three years older, the brother of one of the Grade Ones. He joined them with some reluctance, expressed by whoops and yells between his departing classmates and himself. Carolanne Wexler, the oldest at eleven, almost ready for Junior High and the only girl, started to shiver as they neared the river. This older boy, Ralph, bounded from side to side with a knowing bragadaccio while the three youngsters gazed uneasily. He commanded the sidewalk and increasingly the conversation. Her shiver owed more to Ralph than the wind as she watched one of the three youngest, her brother Thomas. Ralph went on and on in his sing-songy voice, telling of an outing with his cronies where they had to pretend, due to the presence of a parent, to still believe in Santa Claus. The younger three voiced a boisterous astonishment that this duplicity was necessary. Ralph ended with, “Well, it’s worth it if you let them know what you want.”

She set as fast a pace as she could while the younger three danced around Ralph but took some  solace from seeing Thomas was not, she thought, as enthusiastic or admiring as the others. At the others peeled off, leaving Thomas and Carolanne to go a further block.  For half the distance Carolanne concentrated ferociously on the ground before her, finally pausing mid-stride and lifting her chin. Looking straight at Thomas, she said,

“Well, even for a little show-off that was a nasty way to get attention. And in front of his own little brother!”

Thomas gaped at her, then shrugged.

“Well,” he looked at the ground as one foot traced circles on the sidewalk, “I guess everyone knows it’s your parents who fill the stockings.” Gathering confidence in the pronouncement he expanded on his knowledge. “If there were any Santa, they’d have stockings too.”

She struggled with this the rest of the way home, thankful that it was Friday and there would only be two days of school the following week. Deciding how to deal with this threatened to take the whole weekend.

After changing from their school clothes Thomas went down to the basement declaring his intention to check for a clear space to make a sled. He was, Carolanne and their mother observed, increasingly taken with this plan as the possibility of snow and Christmas grew closer.

The next day their visit to the mall around the corner introduced their younger brother, Peter, aged three, to Santa Claus. And yes, Carolanne took Peter’s hand and Thomas went ahead to show him the satisfying action of sitting on a strange knee and telling the man in red what you wanted. Peter was not reticent in this regard. Anyone in hearing distance knew his immediate, long-term and Plan B wants.

As they climbed in the car to drive off however, Thomas made a point of announcing off-handedly that if he and his father were to build a sled before snowfall the stocking delivery would have to include both tools and basic materials. He laughed at only slightly higher a pitch than normal, announcing that he hoped Santa would choose sled components that would fit on the delivery sleigh. His father merely commented that an assembled sled would probably take up less room, while Carolanne and her mother kept their faces stiff during the whole of this exchange. When they reached home and their mother announced lunch would be ready in fifteen minutes, Thomas turned to his father.

“Do we have time to look at the basement and decide where there would be room to put a sled together? Just in case?”

“Well,” his father paused at a fixed glare from their mother. “It’s good to hear you thinking ahead. Right now I have to do a little of that.” He nodded to their mother. “That Bartley contract I’ve been working on needs a couple of extra clauses and I may have to go in to the office after lunch to get that roughed out.”

Carolanne collected cutlery and started setting the table as their mother turned to the stove.

When seated, Carolanne took one sip of milk before speaking. “What are extra clauses and why do they have to go in to what you’re doing?”

“A good question,” their father sighed. “It’s like when you and someone else agree on something, say like you and Thomas taking turns to set the table and you draw up a schedule. But when you think about it, you realize there may be a time we either go out to lunch or out to a picnic and the table doesn’t need setting. The clause will say how the schedule is adjusted because you still agree on taking turns and how that will still happen. Do you see?” He looked at Thomas and Carolanne in turn.

“Yeees,” Thomas tossed the thought around along with a bite of cheese sandwich. “But you said a contract was made for court, like having to tell only the truth in court, so if you said what you meant in the first place why would it need a clause?”

Their father laughed. “As a lawyer I can only say it’s judges who think like that who keep the whole thing going.”

After lunch Thomas and Carolanne did the dishes while their mother put Peter up for his nap and their father left for the office.

As he wiped the last dish and Carolanne reached to put it in the cupboard Thomas looked at her and said, “I won’t tell him.”

“Tell who what?”

“I don’t have to show off. I won’t tell Peter there’s no Santa Claus.”

“I know you’re not.”

Just then their mother came in. “Thank you both. Peter could hardly keep his eyes open, but he kept trying because he knows Santa comes when he’s asleep. I’m afraid we’re in for some disappointing nights.”

Thomas pointed to the calendar on the basement door with the month of December blocked off below a pair of deer in a forest. “Maybe you could show him how to cross off the days.”

Mother and Carolanne exchanged a look. “What a good idea. Maybe if I hold him up right before bedtime you can show him how.”

Thomas went to his room to plot snow runs with an inspired arrangement of towels and pillows draped over boxes allowing a virtual unending circular run with careful manoeuvring of the empty match box which served as his model sled.

Carolanne watched in wonder before entering her room and carefully, quietly closing her door. She then arranged the blanket at the end of her bed in a half-circle. Taking the black china Scottie dog bank from her dresser she unscrewed the bottom and coin by coin, bill by bill, emptied the contents. Counting each pile she noted on an envelope the number and final total before placing the whole in the envelope. This she placed in the bottom of her ‘Sunday’ purse and Scottie back on the dresser.

Leaving her room she paused in Thomas’s doorway.

“What space were you planning to use in the basement? Do we have to move any of the summer things to make room?”

“I don’t think so. It’s sort of neat already. Do you want to see?”

“Yes, okay. We can check on what else can be moved.”

They went down and Thomas outlined to Carolanne the minor adjustments that could be made to clear the workbench, presently used as a stand for the laundry baskets. While Thomas walked back and forth, demonstrating the actions needed to produce a sled, Carolanne found a new spot for the laundry basket on the other side of the washing machine. When Thomas was turned away she fished two socks from the basket and stuffed them down the back of her jeans before he once again faced her.

“You have it all worked out, I think. You could probably build anything.”

“Sure, Dad could build anything he wanted to,” Thomas was only minimally taken aback. Girls said weird things sometimes.

The next day after church and Sunday School Carolanne asked her mother if she could walk home with one of her friends rather than riding with the rest of the family. Permission granted, she joined Sally from two doors down and they set out on a route that passed the drug store. Sally watched as Carolanne traced a methodical path past magazines and toiletries and in mere minutes was standing at the checkout, mission accomplished.

As they continued along the street Sally glanced and did a double-take as Carolanne stopped at the corner and tucked the contents of her foray under her sweater and consigned the shopping bag to the trash can.

“Are you sure this is a good idea?”

“If you had a younger brother you wouldn’t ask.”

“Well, no, but I have an older sister.”

“But not a brother. And definitely not one named Ralph. Or something like that. So yes, I think it’s a good idea.”

They parted at Sally’s house, with plans to meet on Christmas morning after breakfast, now only four days away.

The following day  after school, Carolanne gritted her teeth when it came time for their little group to set out for home together. But Ralph joined them and with one whoop commandeered the airwaves with the proceedings of the day in his classroom. There had been, apparently, no work done. The whole day consisted of a review of work done in that term and there had been lots of interruptions and ad hoc comments having nothing to do with the work at hand. There had even been a reference to his teacher as a ‘doofus’.

When Carolanne spontaneously burst forth with, “And how do you get smart enough to know a doofus when you see one?” Ralph was silent for all of two seconds, then started an outline of what he expected to do on the soccer field the next day. She was pleased to note the three younger ones did not rise to his defence. So she and Thomas left for the final lap with no further aggravation.

On their way home after that last day of school before the holidays, Ralph was somewhat subdued and the younger three chatted among themselves. When they approached some state of excitement over the coming events and Ralph looked ready to speak, Carolanne stepped to cut him off from the others. Looking him in the eye she asked, “And what will you be doing for the holidays?” Giving her a blank stare he started a rundown on what would happen if snow did or did not show up. As the others peeled off, Thomas sank into a deeper and deeper silence, barely stopping to greet their mother before going up to his room.

Their father worked late that night, so even the dinner table was relatively silent. The bright spot of the evening was Peter marking the day unaided, after help from Thomas on the previous nights. He chortled with glee as they looked at the two blank squares yet to be filled in the calendar. Even Thomas came out of his silence at Peter’s antics. To calm him down his mother suggested all four of them share his story time, so they took turns reading from Peter’s choices.

The following day their father came home early to their mother’s relief, and all five set out to collect their Christmas tree. It would be a small one this year, to sit in a corner of the living room where it could be fenced off so Peter couldn’t dive into it and pull it down on top of himself.

Dinner over and the tree set up, the evening was spent unpacking ornaments and separating them for destination to higher branches to father and lower to Carolanne and Thomas, while mother and Peter re-arranged any Peter considered awry.

Then it was time for Peter’s bath with father while mother prepared cocoa for the story time. This was enticement for Peter. Tonight the sight of the one remaining blank on the calendar made turning away a near impossibility, but finally they gathered around the tree to see the lights come on.

The following day was filled with ‘mother’ errands to prepare for dinner the next day. Their grandparents would be there, and neighbours would drop in to wish them well. Carolanne and Thomas both helped at times in the kitchen, stirring this and licking that and washing dishes. Carolanne looked at Thomas from time to time, but if he was wondering when their parents had time to fill stockings he didn’t show it. She herself helped her mother by cleaning her room unaided, vacuum and everything. She offered to help Thomas as well. After some thought she was allowed to vacuum after he had disassembled the snow trail and placed it for safety on his bed.

At last it was ‘the’ calendar moment. Peter was lifted up and ready to yelp the house down at the sight of the last square, but Thomas gazed sternly, holding the crayon inches from his fingers until silence reigned. With a truly amazing sense of occasion, Peter took his cue and slowly, deliberately, the last red V appeared in the box labelled ‘24’.

This night they hung their stockings by the fireplace, and Peter did not get to choose the story. Father took him on his knee and ‘Twas the Night Before Christmas’ rolled with quiet drama, and with as much solemnity as possible Peter was taken upstairs.

If Thomas was awake deliberately or otherwise later in the night, Carolanne was unable to discover it. So the next morning as he and Peter were first to the fireplace she was pleased to hear what she hoped was a yelp of surprise and joy. Very soon all five were gathered round and Peter was handed his large red woolen sock with a P, Carolanne her striped sock with a C, and Thomas his polka dot sock with a T. This left two dark green socks. They stared in silence for all of five seconds before Thomas made an announcement.

“Probably Santa thinks parents know who they are without the letters.” He peered inside, then handed one to their mother and the other to their father, looking gravely at Carolanne as he passed her going back to his place on the floor. When the contents had been emptied they were all happy with their usual complement of nuts and oranges. Thomas seemed pleased with a couple of real tools in his, Peter delighted with the box that held his puzzle set, mother carefully not astonished at the magazine and scented soap in hers, and father tongue-in-cheek as he gazed at a woodworking magazine with instructions on building a sled. And Carolanne was certainly happy with her new bookbag.

They sat down to breakfast before opening other presents so it was some little while before Carolanne saw Thomas open the one large present from their parents, a carefully wrapped sled. As father later explained to Thomas, they thought Santa would realize father wasn’t up to snuff in the sled-building department, but, as he waved the woodworking magazine, he thought Thomas and he between them could manage a storage shelf or two.

Later still, when Carolanne was ready for sleep that night, she gazed at her empty china Scottie dog bank with satisfaction and lifted it to pat its head. Surprised, there was a clunk. When she opened the bottom out fell assorted change, about a tenth of what was there before. Leaping out of bed she took the few steps to Thomas door to see him packing away his indoor “snow run”. He looked up and gave her a grin, falling snow in the window behind him..

Chip Shot (Rian Elliott)

~ Rian Elliott ~ 2 Comments

“He will be missed.” The pastor’s voice rang out in declaration or command. Looking down, his voice softened in repetition.

“He will be missed by his wife Laura, and his precious daughter Barbara.”

Barbara half-turned and flicked her auburn waves and granite eyes over me.

Indeed, I always knew I’d miss Mel and a tear wound down my cheek unbidden. Barbara sniffed. Well, she had two parents, but she was her father’s girl.

As agreed we had a small gathering with refreshment in the church hall after the last prayer. It seemed more appropriate.

Not that I didn’t have my place in our family. Even when Barbara was very young he would only golf nine holes on the weekend, setting himself obstacles to practice chip shots in the backyard as she watched from her playpen or sandbox. Later they always enjoyed the dinner I had waiting after her soccer, basketball, volleyball games, and the snacks before practice, golf and piano and skating and sailing. Mel insisted on the sailing. Barbara was not to miss out on water sports as I did. In fact, almost half the backyard was devoted to a swimming pool when Barbara reached her teens, leaving a small section for his golf shots and less room for a shrub and plant surround. Admittedly, this served us well in her teenage years.

No wandering around shopping malls, she was in the backyard along with anyone considered suitable by Mel. My contribution was to see that he too had a usable share of the yard and to this end I tried to see that he had the tools to keep the yard in shape.

It took some continuous thought. On Father’s Day when the pool was put in I bought him a skimmer. Barbara gave him a model frog that same year. It sat on his desk till the day he died, or possibly the next. Barbara rescued it, she announced, just before the service. Though I can’t imagine what she thought would happen to it.

For every holiday, birthday, celebration thereafter I added to his repertoire kept in a small service shed between the pool and ‘his’ side yard. Increasingly, since the pool was hers and the green was his, servicing that fringe was left to me. But I did not give in.

From that Father’s Day forward I added clippers, little hoes, even a workshop on garden design at one point. He was happy enough to try each out at the beginning, but there was always some interruption from Barbara to see this, help someone do a somersault. So the yard work fell to me.

This took us through Barbara’s wedding at age 19, where the number of guests made garden upkeep a necessity. Even with a year’s warning outlining the circular path and the walkway to the reception area at the back was full-time effort every weekend. Mel did manage to cart the weeds and lay the bricks where outlined. To be fair, he also did a bit more when Barbara was gone. I was perfectly willing to encourage this with equipment that he did use, regardless of Barbara’s comments.

And on the last Father’s Day she gave a withering glance as I presented the crème de la crème for our garden upkeep. She had bought him a Golf Package which would involve touring ten top of the line courses within a day’s drive. That would hardly leave him time for chip shots on our small green square amidst the Japanese maples which were my one victory in yard planning. The woodchipper I presented to help keep his green space free excited no interest.

So I always knew I’d miss him, but then he returned. Even then if he had reappeared in total the first time I could have coped. Possibly even if he’d started with a mid-air smile. He and Barbara read Alice and the Cheshire Cat so many times it would have been a bit of a chuckle, maybe. But what anyone would make of a stray knee or a dangling ear lobe I can’t imagine.

I did try when his hand appeared close to mine while unlocking the side door. With a deep breath I reached out for what I hoped would be recognized as a reassuring pat. But it slipped quickly past and behind me.

Over time it seemed daylight was not a happy option. As we went along his parameters seemed to set themselves. Body parts and location never matched precisely but it did seem the uppermost portions were likelier when I was seated and reading, or sometimes having a morning coffee in the kitchen. Indeed one morning there was a glimpse of his right eye and I could have sworn he gave a wink, a ‘have a nice day’ nod to me if any message was intended.

The knees, feet and hands were more likely to appear when I was standing or walking around. I thought once when I saw a foot tapping in the middle of the living room he might be reminding me of how we used to dance. Ridiculous though I felt I found music for the tape deck and when the jive started I showed willing and held a hand out and open and head to the side, inviting him to join me. But this took too long perhaps, for he faded sadly rather than blinked away after one feeble turn.

Oddly, although he might appear in any of the downstairs rooms or windows, there was no glimpse outdoors either by the pool or the green.

From then on he appeared mostly near doorways. On that last day his hand appeared beside me when I opened the basement door, only to disappear as the door swung back.

I felt his foot firmly in my back and my equilibrium vanish as I pitched down the stairs. I barely had time to think that for once Barbara had it dead right. The woodchipper was a step too far.

Last Dance (Rian Elliott)

~ Rian Elliott ~ 1 Comment

He slid through the side entrance of the men’s long care unit seconds after the last bed check. Hauling the skateboard from the bushes where he had stashed it the previous afternoon he charged around the building to the women’s side, bathrobe flapping around his patterned pyjama bottoms in the light drizzle.

Taking one deep breath before turning the corner he let out a low whoop of joy at the sight of her, white umbrella protecting her bathrobe and pink nightie with the only footwear she could grab, blue flipflops. Seeing him, she joined in his laughter as he placed the skateboard on the ground before her while holding his hand out in invitation.

“Stop laughing. I told you I’d save the last dance for you.”

“You did. But not that you’d get there yourself whether I had wheels or not,” he held her hand more firmly with one foot blocking the board while she placed one foot on.

“Pshaw. They can take your licence but there’s always wheels somewhere. And I meant any and every last dance. So here we are with no dance hall and no ball but we’re still singing in the rain on a lovely wide terracotta pathway.”

He guided the board and supported her with one arm around her waist as she stroked the ground on the other side. “They’ll never look for us here. With any luck we’ll make it to the pavilion on the other side of the grounds.”

“Let ‘em save their idiot wheel chairs for the gullible.”

“We’ll dance the night away and if we don’t manage to catch pneumonia by morning we’ll take a piggyback run down the slope on the other side and land on the freeway. If we time it right we can grab the back of a passing rig and ride till the next midnight or dance through the next county, whichever comes first.”

“You lost me at pneumonia. No one seems willing to let us have anything else.” Her breath was coming slow and shallow at this point. He slowed their pace

“Are those shoes up to all this?” He cast a concerned look at her flipflops, ignoring his own slippers

“Not with anyone else. But open toes are fine with you. Even in your logging boots I knew my tootsies were safe.”

“Not everyone would say that.”

“But no one else knows what I’m talking about. Wouldn’t you like a turn on the board? It’s better than biking.”

“I always knew you weren’t happy about the back seat of the Harley.”

“The back seat was fine,” she chuckled. “I just didn’t like seeing the road come up. Wouldn’t have wanted the last dance to be spent on crutches or splints for either of us. Hey!”

“Hey yourself.”

“There’s the pavilion. I knew we’d make it. Do you have your music thingy in your pocket?”

“I do, not that we need it. We make our own music, celebration or not. But by the way, Happy Anniversary!”