Category: General

A WORLD THAT HAS LOST ALL COLOUR (Diane Chartrand)

~ Diane Chartrand ~ Leave a comment

Mary got out of bed and when she turned into the kitchen all her beautiful plates and cups were grey. She couldn’t believe what happened to all the beautiful reds, greens, and blues.

She called for her son to come. When he went into the kitchen and asked her what she wanted Mary showed him the dishes.

“Mom, did you also see the walls are grey and the floors?”

Disturbed by his comments, Mary looked around and saw he was right. The two went out the back door and saw the grass wasn’t green and all her beautiful flowers were also grey.

“Oh my,” Mary said. “It seems that the entire world, at least ours, has lost all its colour.”

Mary’s son went into the house and came back with his laptop. He turned it on and immediately saw an articlethat said, “Sad day. The entire world has lost all colour. Everywhere only the colour grey is present.”

Mary wondered what that could mean. Is the world about to end or has something taken over the atmosphere that caused this change.

“Mom the article says they think this is happening because there is too much sadness in the world.”

Mary thought about that but how could that be true. She didn’t understand how sadness would remove the colour in the entire world. She hoped it had to be something chemical that was causing this change.

Wells (Madeleine Horton)

~ Madeleine Horton ~ Leave a comment

Wells to me have always been a source of fascination, mystery, and fear. Places where an unsuspecting walker deviating from the usual path stumbles into an abandoned well, where a child on a dare looks too close and tumbles forward, where a wandering dog disappears forever, where a body is thrown with disregard.

The well of my childhood was old but in use. Its cover was wood, easy to remove one supposes. With its aged, cracked boards, I remember feeling anxious around it though it was perhaps no more dangerous than the holes in the floor of the hay mow or walking home from public school, alone, along the half mile plus gravel road while my two brothers ran ahead.

The cover of the well came off only when there was a lack of water. This could happen in summer or winter and my father would stand and lower a bucket on a rope down, down to draw up water. My brothers and I were allowed to step in for a look, to see the dank dripping brick walls and its seemingly impenetrable bottom. To my child’s mind, it was bottomless. To my adult mind, it is still unknowable. How was it dug out and bricked? Do the bricks go all the way to the bottom? Cover the floor? How does the water get in and out? And stay in?

Years later, a new well was drilled. This was when my brother who lived at home as a young adult saw fit to throw a pile of rocks down the old well, for what purpose I remain unclear. However, it has created an enduring family legend. Another brother is convinced that one of the rocks, disregarded for years as it sat beside the barn, is in fact a meteorite. Worth, of course, considerable money.

We will never know. The well was finally capped with concrete, covered in sod, and surprisingly, the little fir tree planted on the top, took root and flourished. Those who own the property now are doubtless unaware of the site of the well.

The new well is in essence a very long pipe within a cylinder, measuring only six inches in diameter.  It goes down an impressive two hundred and sixty-five feet. No one will ever talk about the new well.

But the old forty foot well lives on in my memories and imagination. Now awe and gratitude sit beside fear. That well watered a barn full of cattle and a few pigs. It serviced our large household for many years and let us down relatively seldom. One time, perhaps not surprisingly, was the winter my father welcomed an old army buddy and his family to share the upper floor of the house until they found permanent shelter, after making a disasterous and failed trip to start a new  life in Mississippi. Family photos show the two men hauling water, standing over the well, covered with snow. It speaks much about my father.

            I like the mystery of the well. I suppose I could research its construction but I prefer to think of men over a hundred years ago digging with hope in search of water, life sustaining, part of a long history of human need and symbolic endeavour.

There must be many of these old wells, hidden, water still ebbing and flowing into them, breathing like a pair of lungs, destined to play out their secret lives for another hundred years or more.

She Forgot (Krista Vanderhoeven)

~ Krista Vanderhoeven ~ Leave a comment

The next thing I knew was how the sound of the crunch of the snow felt beneath my boots.  I didn’t plan on stopping.  That would be an utter failure.  Everything is wrong.  The world is wrong.  My self is wrong.

I could only see two feet ahead of me.  The sounds of the road reverberated into my brain.  I couldn’t think, or remember, or realize.  I was definitely awake.  I could manage to move my legs to walk, my head completely covered with the hood of my winter coat.

My gait was akin to my own heartbeat.  I was definitely in the zone, being somewhat habitual.  I knew that I existed.  I did.  However, my thoughts were clouded, and my world was a dream.

Hours went by and still I walked.  I walked and I walked, steady and absentmindedly.  I didn’t pay much attention to the road; however, I felt somewhat secure with the humming in the background.

I was essentially among the public but very alone.  There was no past, no present and no future.  For me what was left was a meager existence.  I had a lost sense of self.  There was just nothing there.  Nothing inside.

The ground was solid beneath her feet.  She felt secure in that.  The matter of the world still solid around her.  It was the intangible part of life that troubled her the most.  What can be felt in the heart and mind. 

Where am I, she thought.  What is this world?  Who am I?  What can I do?

The struggle was real. 

She walked and walked.  And walked some more.

She didn’t even know that she had thoughts, she didn’t have any insight into that. 

After all, she was sixteen years old.

And the only thing different about her day is that she was skipping school today to walk.  To her it was a compelling act.  Something moved her to do it.  Again, she didn’t know why.

She felt sorry.  Guilt over something.  She didn’t know what about, or why, she was overwhelmed with the impulse to just go, go somewhere else, just escape this town, these people.

No one was to blame, that was the surprising thing.  She just suddenly switched into a ghost of some kind, in a human form.  Her self-drained out through her toes, who she knew herself to be.

She looked up for a moment up the street and discovered that she was so out of her neighbourhood.  She had no one.  And she was alone.

How did she get here?  She had no hindsight.  She wanted to give herself a reason to emotionally “check out”.  It was an emptiness’ that took over.  Like the Nothing that infiltrated the world in The Neverending Story.  Sucked right out.

She thought that she was alone, but she wasn’t.  She expertly hid behind her winter hat and hood, but maybe someone might recognize the green colour. 

Hours went by and she continued to walk and walk.  Seemingly going in circles.  It eventually got dark.  then the streetlights went on.  The slush was turning into ice underfoot, she could hear the crunch, crunch, crunch.

How could she sum up her feelings?  She in fact didn’t have them.  They have all gone away.

Herself, was gone.

Where did she go?

In the midst of it all, not knowing what time it was, she fell asleep on the snowy sidewalk after falling from knees to hips to head.

Opening her eyes after some time away in the dark, she noticed that she was in a hospital bedroom. It was private, the door was closed. It was just her.  The sun was just coming out it seemed through the singular window to her left.     

How long has she been there?

She felt very tired and worn out.  Her muscles were aching, her legs especially.

She remembered the walk.  But she couldn’t remember where she ended up or where she was.  It must have been last night, right?

The door clicked open, and a woman came in.  She gave me a warm smile for a moment, seeming to be pleased to see me awake.

“What is your name, Hun?”

I swallowed and then said I didn’t know.

“I’ll be right back,”

She turned and left the room very quietly to me.

It was just me.

The doctor came in followed by the woman a moment later.  A long white lab coat.  a stethoscope around his neck, and a clip board.

She hovered by the door as the doctor approached the bed.

“We are looking into your identity.  The police picked you up two nights ago on the corner of Blithe and Clarence near the 670 highways.  It’s a wonder that you were found at that time of night.  Young girls are vulnerable to attacks and trafficking over by the highway.”

“Where do you live,” asked the woman as she walked to the other side of the bed.

“I don’t know.”

She and the doctor gave each other a concerned look, then their gaze floated back to me.

“I am Mellisa, the floor nurse, you are here to be assessed by the physician on duty right here: Doctor Rosen.”

The doctor had flashed a smile and said: “We will do our best to find your family, that way we can call you something other than Jane Doe,”

He was a nice person, she thought.  He had a bright smile and an animated face.  I felt like I didn’t deserve to know him, for some reason.  And maybe I didn’t.  After all he was just my doctor, he was being his kind self, I was here for it, I don’t know.

The TV just above my bed was on.  It was the news down on very low volume.  There was a fire, as it turned out on the other side of town, I started to remember.  A small ranch bungalow house.

Why was this so familiar?  It was just TV, not the reality of my life.  But I tell you, the red bricks I know I had seen before, I felt it, I know it.

I had fallen down the stairs at my house.  Apparently.  I think that I hit my head.

The Doberman and I barreled down together.  Smoke everywhere.  I kept instinctively low bending down and sprinting the stairs two at a time.  His name was Chuck.

Wow I can remember!

Mellisa said: “Are you okay Jane Doe?  Is it something on the news?”

She winked at me as she witnessed my first real smile since I got to the hospital.  I think that what I was feeling was happy.

“I know now, Mellissa and Dr Rosen!  I know now!”

“Well, enlighten us,” the doctor said attentively leaning forward.

It was a fire, a fire, that was my house the one on the TV, help me help me I am so confused”

Her sudden passion and sensitivity were deeply felt by the two, though they couldn’t help but be hopeful enough to help this very young, troubled woman. 

Then came the question: “Who are you?”

Then she drew a blank, and it went dark.

She woke up during the night.  She could see the crescent moon through the window to her left, it made her room look hauntingly ominous.  The room itself was quiet.  I was alone.  For how long I didn’t know.

 What was I to do here in the dark all alone?  I remember that I was in a hospital room, but I don’t know why for how long or what my name was.  All I knew was that I existed.

I felt very peaceful inside, relaxed.  I felt surprisingly secure cooped up in this room.  There was nothing I could do, nowhere to go, no one to see.  I was lost.

What was the world, what was my world?  Home, where is my home?  People who are my people?

She fumbled around the sides of her bed and found a button and came to sit up.  Then felt around for something else.  She clicked another button, and a red light went on.

The next moment a short stout woman came in after knocking on the door gently.  “Hello Jane Doe” she had a warm smile.

I had no idea who or what or where I was.  But this woman could very well be a family member, she seemed happy to see me.

“Who are you?”

“I ama Jacqui,” she reached out to gently pat my hand.  Must be a nurse.

“Where am I?”

“You are in Mount Springs General Hospital.  You have an appointment with our psychiatrist Doctor Reeve.  We are concerned about you not seeming to have a home or a name or family members.  From an anonymous 911 call, the police were directed to a snowy sidewalk near the highway.  They couldn’t believe what they found.  A young girl passed out cold.  Good thing that you had on a green coat and a yellow hat.  The person was out walking their dog and noticed you lying there.”

“I was just lying there?”

  “Yes. They figure you were sleeping or passed out at the time, so they transported you from the ambulance to here to assess what had gone on with you.”

“What did you learn?”

“You didn’t have any ID on you, or anything identifying who you were.  How old are you?”

“I think that I am 14 years old,” How did she know?  It just popped into her head, oh no, what was happening?  What does this mean?

Jacqui’s eyes lit up and she said: “Excellent.  What school do you go to?”

“I don’t know.”

“The thing is that where the police found you there were no schools nearby.  Where were you walking from?”

“My legs really hurt,” I said.  It was one sure thing I knew.  But why?

“Who is your homeroom teacher?”

“Mrs. Alvarez, I think”

How did I suddenly know?  And what else could I remember?

Suddenly I saw the faces of my grade nine classmates in my imagination or should I say memory.  Familiar faces.  My friends Jude and Lexy in particular.  Riding their bikes on the Neighborhood roads.  She in particular remembered as many summer afternoons doing this very thing with the warm sun on our backs.  We wore sunglasses and felt like we were cool.  Even if it was not the case, it made vision better and served a purpose.

COFFEE AND INK (Diane Chartrand)

~ Diane Chartrand ~ 1 Comment

It was now January, and the weather had turned cold, so I headed to the local Tim Horton’s to get a much-needed coffee and something to eat.

The crowded tables were filled with several customers slowly sipping coffee and writing something in a notebook with a Paper-Mate style pen.

I was now curious about what kind of things they might be writing in their notebooks, but I hadn’t yet gotten up the courage to ask.

Finally, not able to wait any longer, I walked over to a woman who looked about thirty with short blonde hair and dressed in attire for an office and said, “If I’m not being too nosey, would you be willing to tell me what you’re writing about in your notebook?”

The woman looked up at me and said, “Sure. It’s just my journal, and every day when I have my coffee break, I sit here quietly and write about all the things that happened yesterday.”

“So why do you come here to write instead of at home after work?”

“Well, life is pretty busy at my house during the evenings as I have five children and a husband who needs my attention more,” the woman replied.

“Well, thank you for talking with me,” I said, returning to my seat where I had left my coffee and notebook.

That was interesting. Now, I’m even more curious about several others, especially the men, as I don’t believe they would be writing journal entries.

I sat and wrote in my notebook about my talk with the woman, then decided there seemed to be more to this concept. I got up after gaining enough courage to talk to one of the men in the room.

I approached a man with silver streaks in his short, nicely groomed hair and said, “Excuse me, but could I be so bold as to ask what you’re writing about in your notebook?”

He looked at me with a large grin on his face and said, “I’m writing a letter to my wife, who is away on a business trip in Japan for the month.”

Curious now, I asked, “Why don’t you just e-mail your wife or talk to her on the phone?”

“I find it more intriguing to write long letters to her, being able to share all my love in a manner she can see over and over as many times as she wants instead of just a quick casual moment in life,” he replied.

“That’s an interesting way to put it,” I thanked him for his time and honesty.

Returning back to my table I took a sip of my coffee, which had now turned cold. I concluded that people had found a unique way to share their coffee with their ink.

For me, this would be a great way to write down short stories or ideas that I could use to develop a complete story for a book. The bonus is that I get to have coffee and a quiet place to enjoy doing it.

For all who are stuck with their writing or just want to journal or write letters to others, I recommend buying a small notebook and a Paper-Mate type pen and getting to work. I guarantee it will be a rewarding experience.

”Imagine all the people…living life in peace” (Cathy Sartor)

~ Cathy Sartor ~ 1 Comment

John Lennon hoped to inspire the world through the lyrics of his song “Imagine”.

In 2024, these lyrics are most fitting. Imagine, all the people living in countries torn apart by hate and violence. Imagine, all the people living in the midst of gun fire, bomb blasts and explosions.   Imagine, all the people in war torn countries imagining how they will make it through the night.  Imagine, all the children searching the rubble to locate their possessions or even members of their family.  Imagine, the struggle to find food, to access medical supplies or medical care for injured family members. Imagine, all the institutions struggling to remain supportive; schools struggling to remain open, hospitals over-crowded and challenged to provide care in the midst of constant bombing, supply shortages, confusion, sobbing, or the tension created by persons demanding care or shrieking from the pain.  Imagine, doctors providing care for the injured in the midst of confusion, angst and supply shortages.  Imagine, market places struggling to provide much needed food, while managing confusion and hysterial hunger competing for access.  Imagine, volunteers driving medical supplies into a war zone from England to Kiev.   Imagine, the angst of volunteers and their families over the safety of these missions.  Imagine, the courage required to fight, to volunteer, to support or to survive in the midst of the many deadly conflicts around the world.  Imagine, a time when all people everywhere will be able to live in peace.

MAKING A WISH BY BLOWING ON A DANDELION PUFF (Diane Chartrand)

~ Diane Chartrand ~ 2 Comments

Dora and her friend Max were sitting on the front porch just talking. Dora told him she couldn’t wait for her birthday to come so she could blow out her candles after making a wish.

“Dora, my Mom showed me a different way to make a wish any time we want to.”

“How do you do that, Max?”

He told her that since they were both too young to light matches to light a candle in order to make a wish, his mother showed him a safe way to make a wish any time he wanted to.

“So, How Max? You didn’t say how?”

Max grabbed Dora’s hand and took her out to the backyard. He told her to look for some dandelions that weren’t yellow anymore. The two walked slowly around the yard, going in a different direction with their search. After a short while, Dora yelled out, “Found some Max, come quick.”

Max made his way to where the swing set was and sat on the grass next to Dora, looking down at a bunch of dandelions that had large white tops.

“Good job, kid.”

“So now, what do we do now, Max?”

He instructed Dora to carefully pick one of the dandelions without losing the ball of white stuff on the top.

Dora took in a deep, deep breath as she carefully broke off the stem from its roots and held it in front of her.

“Now what, Max?”

He told her to make a quiet wish and then gently blow on the dandelions white top.

Dora closed her eyes and made a wish. Then she blew all of the white puff balls off the dandelion. She watched as they blew all over the yard.

“Do you think my wish will come true, Max?”

Wait and see. My Mom says it really works. “Now, my turn.”

 Reflections on a Pond – Madeleine Horton

~ Madeleine Horton ~ 4 Comments

When I was a child, my English Mother told me about the fish pond in the back garden of her childhood home. No one I knew had a fish pond and it added to the exotic appeal her home, which even had a name, Icona, had to me. I wished when I grew up to have a house with a fish pond.  

When I eventually bought my home, I was delighted to discover it had a fish pond, a concrete fish pond, probably built with the house in 1949. Well, it probably was not built as a fish pond exactly, as I slowly figured out. It was large and kidney shaped, measuring at least  fifteen feet long and at points, six feet across. However, it had sloping sides so parts were shallow and no part was deeper than two feet. I think it was originally designed as a lily pond. And rather than a natural concrete colour, it was the aquamarine of a swimming pool.

There is a saying, “Be careful what you wish for,” the implication being the wish might not be exactly what you hoped for. I had wished for a fish pond, but strangely I had never owned fish, never thought about fish, knew nothing about fish. It took a while to dawn on me that if I had a pond fish, the pond was not deep enough to winter fish over. I would need an indoor aquarium with all the trimmings and some time to keep the fish clean and healthy. Still, in the early years, I was undaunted, even by the dreadful aquamarine paint, as besides a few fish, I planted water lilies whose lovely flowers and spreading leaves distracted from the swimming pool colour.

I did overwinter fish in a tank in the basement, surprisingly to me, with little fish loss. With spring, there was always a lot of cleaning to do after the winter had filled the pond with snow water and leaves that appeared despite a fall raking. Over some years too, the water lilies bloomed less and less as the surrounding trees grew more and more. I had to give up on the lilies which made me more  aware of the dreaded colour of the pond. There followed a series of attempts, too painful and too boring to recount, to change the colour of the pond until I discovered a product called rubber cement for ponds. It changed the pond to a satisfying black colour, but the wonder product itself  was not without issues of needing continued renewal, again too boring to recount.

With all this, you might wonder why I didn’t just have the pond filled in. Sometimes I wonder if it’s more the idea of having a fish pond than the reality. But ultimately, I think not.

It brings me joy to sit quietly and watch the fish swim freely. The pond is big enough that they seem to be exploring it, leisurely, alone or in a group. If fish can be happy, my fish are happy in the pond. I have replaced the water lilies with water hyacinths and pots of impatience in small pots that float in a styrofoam ring. There are no frogs around but dragonflies. Several kinds of birds come to the pond to drink and bathe.  Robins particularly seem to like a good bath and will spend several moments wetting themselves and then fluttering off the water. The squirrels and the couple of resident chipmunks come to drink.

Recently I have had to rehome eight of my fish as they have grown, over the past five years, too big for the indoor tank. I knew this coming winter, they would be shoulder to shoulder for those long winter months. When I left the aquarium store where I was able to take them, I felt sadder than I ever thought I would.

The ancient sage, Aesop, advised to be careful what you wish for because you may get it- and get unexpected consequences. I truly get the unintended consequences. Though my pond may be no Walden Pond, it gives me lovely reflections.

HOPE (Diane Chartrand)

~ Diane Chartrand ~ 1 Comment

Hope means to cherish a desire with anticipation or to want something to happen or be true.

The other night, I was having a conversation with my oldest daughter about age. She got into how so many people are living until they are 100 or farther. I told her that I hoped to live at least to 100.

She asked how old she would be then, so I reminded her of my age and how many years I had to then. I told her to take her age and add that number. She decided that wouldn’t be too bad.

I have a lot of things to have hope about. First, that I live a long and productive life. Second, that I accomplish many more things in that time. I know now that I’m mostly healthy and hope for that to remain for many more years.

I have another hope that can happen soon. I want to meet some of my newest great-grandchildren now that they live closer to the Canadian border, and that hope is to accomplish that this summer before the newest baby is born in August.

I hope that this year, there will be a period where I can visit my two younger sisters in Massachusett for a while. I used to take Greyhound buses everywhere, but now they have left Canada for the most part. I did find out that there is one that goes from Toronto to the United States again, so that is good but not great.

I did find out recently that there’s a train that goes from Toronto to New York City, and that is a great discovery. There is also an Amtrack train that goes from New York City to Boston and a few places in between that will help me fulfill my hope to go home for a week or so.

My biggest hope is to find a way to spend time with my daughters, who all live in different places in the United States. I miss them so much, especially the oldest one, whom I would visit every year and who has been going through so many things without me there.

As for my writing work, there is a hope to get back to the pace I had before Covid showed up, as now, for the most part, I have lost my way. I question if this is what I want to be doing or should my path be different. Is there something more for me? If so, I hope that it will be revealed to me soon.

For now, my only hope is to work every day on my current books and make progress in the right direction. I need to go forward with a lot of anticipation for it to become great.

To all of you who are listening to me read this or who are reading this on their own one question. What do you hope for?

I’ll Be Home for Christmas (Annie Carpenter)

~ Annie Carpenter ~ Leave a comment

I’ll be home for Christmas, you can count on it, I’ve been dreaming of it all year.

The quiet thump of a heartbeat engine, the brush of feather wings – so surrounding.

Woosh…

Take off…the most peaceful sound I have heard…

The landing…I still don’t feel like I have touched down it is so soft…the view? I can’t believe my eyes!

You should see how bright it is here…The Christmas tree ornaments – are pure shimmering crystals!  There are real Angels here! Wow!  Wait… the ones that sang to the shepherds on that Christmas Eve- are here! Yep…I’m supposed to tell you they’re all on Key! It’s true!

I can’t feel a thing here but peace, warmth, love- unimaginable love! I’ve never known anything like this.

 Christmas in Heaven is something beyond anything you could ever fathom.

Wish you could see this place…you’ll just have to trust me…Search it out you won’t regret it.

Don’t be sad for me…if you could see and feel what I am now…you’d understand!  

Take a second and look up tonight and find the brightest star…I’ll be sitting on it! I’ll give you a little twinkle….

You can count on it…

For the heart that never felt love on earth…you have found love everlasting …great joy has been brought to you this day…

Tuesday, December 12, 2023.

Christmas Concert – Anne of Green Gables (Madeleine Horton)

~ Madeleine Horton ~ Leave a comment

This piece owes its first three lines to Anne of Green Gables and references a concert put on by Anne and her classmates for Christmas.

We had recitations this afternoon. Our last practice.  I just put my whole soul into it. And now…

            I am standing on the stage, holding my cardboard letter turned into me. My letter is M. I turn my letter to the audience and speak. My voice is loud, clear, and stilted. M is for magical- Santa coming down the chimney. Relief, I’ve said it all and now can look down the line as each classmate in turn flips over a cardboard letter, -E R R-, down the line, some yelling out their piece- C is for Christ, the reason for the season- or whispering- H is for holy, Oh holy night- some shocked into silence until loudly prompted behind the curtain- T is for turkey, roasted and stuffed- some giggle, some shuffle, some look down at their feet, until the final card is flipped, a large exclamation mark to signal everyone to shout, “Merry Christmas” and to allow little Evalina to take part. Evalina who is in grade two and who would be in grade two when I graduated from grade eight in that one room school, Evalina still in the same desk, still the same size, with her face like a rubber doll and her hair ever wispy and white like an old woman’s.

            We are grade 2’s and 3’s at S.S.11 Public School and we are the closing act of the annual Christmas concert held in the basement of the United Church (established 1873) and this is the culmination of our weeks of preparation. It starts on the Friday afternoon after Hallowe’en when we begin the walk to the church, a stone’s throw away from the school and a blessed relief from the dreaded reading to an older student, possibly a boy, maybe dour Jacob Liemann, the oral math genius, reading that marked long afternoons.

            The concert is of course more ambitious than the presentation of my junior classmates. The serious Irene Black who is not allowed to play baseball for fear of injuring her fingers plays a classical piano piece. Three Grade 8 girls sing their song with harmony, the one prepared for the Rotary Music Festival. Shirley Gough plays her accordion. Two of the big boys give a comic recitation. As we prepared, there was an unstated message from our formidable teacher that somehow our work here will be evaluated, hence no writing of our short recitation on the back of our cardboard letters. I am in awe of the bigger kids, those who have a role in the two marquee presentations of the evening- Dickens’ A Christmas Carol and the always required retelling of the Christmas story. I am unaware that our twenty minute version of the Dickens’ classic is greatly abridged but am impressed because I have a part in the play. I am one of the Cratchit children though admittedly I have no real lines. Instead, as we play on the floor, we have been instructed by Mrs. McKenzie to say “rhubarb” over and over again which will make it seem as if we are having conversations. We have learned that this is what professional actors do in crowd scenes so feel disproportionately important. But my real awe is reserved for the grade eight boy who plays Scrooge who has many lines and never stumbles.       

            The retelling of the Christmas story is required every year and never varies much. The central figures, Mary, Joseph, and the Christ child doll take centre stage. Mary has nothing to say but has mastered her look of wide-eyed adoration as she leans over the manger and beholds the Christ doll. I am dimly aware that the girl chosen to be Mary is the prettiest of the senior girls, a slim girl with long wavy blonde hair and no trace of pubescent imperfection in her creamy skin. She seems as serene and elevated as a fairy tale princess awaiting a troop of suitors. Joseph is the dark haired captain of his bantam hockey team and already marked as cool. The angels come and go, the shepherds guard their stuffed toy sheep, the Wise Men trek across the stage to deliver their three gifts and few words to the holy couple, and circling this tableau, the massed choir of the rest of the school sing carols artfully chosen by Mrs. McKenzie to link the story together. There is huge applause at the end of the presentation.

            I look out from my place at the side of the stage near the front where the smaller students sit to sing. I can see my mother and my father. They are sitting in a row with Evalina’s parents and grandparents, the only people in that row. My father is right next to the grandfather, the scary Mr. McVicar with the sunken face and the jaw that looks all eaten away. “Cancer,” my mother has said and it is rude to stare at him. Evalina’s parents are there, her mother looking almost as old as my grandmother, her father looking as if he has just come in from the barn, still wearing a denim smock coat. I have asked my mother why they look so different from everyone else. “They are poor,” my mother said, “but Evalina has such a pretty name.” My mother is most impressed with names and has saddled me with a name I greatly dislike at this time. I am Briony and I will not hear that name given to any other girl until I am an adult of some years.

            The basement is overflowing. Every pupil’s parents and many grandparents are there along with younger siblings. There may be over one hundred people. So many that some are standing at the back. These are mainly youths as old as seventeen or eighteen, all young men, all tall and gangly, looking uncomfortable in starched shirts and dress jackets, hair freshly combed and brylcreamed, young men who have just finished the evening’s milking. They are both awkward and intimidating standing there, sometimes laughing together for a moment between acts of the concert. They are intimidating but not so much as they will be in a few years when I am on the cusp of being a teenager and am a large girl in a pink taffeta dress, tragically the same dress as a grade eight girl who has recently lost many pounds of weight from a magic pill her doctor gave her, and we must make our exit from the stage, down the aisle, and past that clutch of perennially looming youths.

            But this night is one of great happiness. I have remembered my words. I have been a Cratchit child. Santa has come at the end of the program. And I do know already that he is just pretend, that the thin man with the skimpy beard is Mr. Hipley the Sunday school teacher and that the present he handed to me is the scarf I saw my mother accidentally leave in a bag on the table. I do not yet know how much I will later think about my mother and my father sitting with Evalina’s parents nor how the mysteries of early memory shape us and visit us especially at Christmas.