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.
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.”
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 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, 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…
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.
Sources for story ideas can be found everywhere. As a way to jumpstart our group’s creativity, I thought ‘filling out’ the stories behind obituaries might be a good place to begin. Some were local people, but most were found online. I Googled a few key words like military, immigrant, beloved, humour, and found ten beautiful people who had excelled at life. From there I erased all names, funeral homes and hospitals, leaving blank spaces to fill in with our made-up names.
I encouraged the group to do a bit of research into the history of what was left in our outlines. A woman who fled Eastern Europe, a mother growing up in the south, a Winnipeg orphan and so on. Life was to be added back into our obituary outline.
The results speak for themselves. A journalist meeting a famous Canadian on a kibbutz, a doctor who dedicated his life to restoring sight around the world, a train aficionado ruled by his tomato harvest, a young ambulance driver who met the love of her life in a time of war, and a young woman rescuing her boyfriend from his mother’s claws.
Obituary Stories
Obituary Memory (Madeleine Horton)
Sand was whipping around the bus as Randy Kerr prepared to board. She reminded herself through the stark light that fitfully shone through the sand, that she had wanted an adventure. Her plan, if she had a plan, seemed more and more absurd.
She could see through the shadowy windows the outline of many figures. The bus was nearly full. A couple of soldiers, clearly late comers, stepped back to allow her to board. She stood at the front, quickly glancing at the passengers and the two empty seats at the front. No one would think it strange if she moved to the back and sat in one of the two seats with a single passenger.
She had been here in Israel before. Twelve years ago when she was still an idealistic younger journalist. She had scored a much desired assignment to write a long article on kibbutz life. It had probably been the piece that really ignited her career and set off the stream of prestigious awards that followed. She was here now for a different reason. She had felt for some time that she was coasting, taking cosy domestic assignments, being paid to stay in posh hotels and given unquestioned expense accounts. After all, she was Miranda ‘Randy’ Kerr.
This would change everything. A war had started. The Yom Kippur War they were calling it and she had a scoop. Leonard Cohen was here secretly to entertain troops. That was the payoff from keeping in touch for all these years. A tip from a friend in a kibbutz, a call to the commander the friend knew and here she was boarding a troop bus to the camp Cohen was going to.
Her plan, if she had a plan, was to wander around the camp. If questioned she would show her press credentials and use the chutzpah she hoped she still possessed. She stood at the front of the bus. She was the only woman. No one stared up at her. With her loose beige shirt and baggy cargo pants and long hair tucked under a floppy sun hat, she drew no approving glances. And the dozen more years on her face, middle-aged, she reflected. She knew at once where she would sit. She couldn’t believe her luck.
“I had forgotten the sandstorms. Maybe because I was at a kibbutz, indoors a lot.” She sat down. “Will the sand affect your guitar playing?” she said with no introduction and the presumption she knew who he was.
She had already heard he had called a soldier his brother, cementing his ties to the tribe. It was all they talked about at the kibbutz.
“I called a man my brother,” he said, as if he were reading her thoughts. “He wept and grasped my hands. ‘You, you understand us’ he said. I told him we are all brothers, I have many brothers, across many borders. His hand went limp and fell from mine. I’m not sure why I am here. Forge a bond with those like me….” He looked at her, “May you find what you seek.”
Randy sat in the silence for a long time. This alone could make a sensational piece. More came as she free floated from topic to topic without the questioning she’d heard he abhorred. Later she watched him sing surrounded by men, no stage, no barriers. Such good details for a story.
He was not on the bus she took back. In her room, she jotted quick notes for her story. “I am here and not here.” She thought of his crushed identity, never really to have a tribe, a people. The true artist, always the outsider. And herself, an undercover scavenger gnawing on his torment. She grasped her notes and tore them up.
Obituary Project (Cathy Sartor)
October 22, 1921 – October 7, 2023 – Doctor John Alexander Campbell
A routine “turn around the sun” ended abruptly after 102 rotations which was a goal achieved by “Doc. J” as he loved to be called. He would be especially pleased to know that his passing coincided with the Canadian Thanksgiving weekend of October 7, 2023. John’s mother was a Canadian at birth and she launched the family tradition of celebrating both Canadian and American Thanksgivings which John celebrated throughout his life.
Enjoying life to the fullest and in the face of challenge was a preference John embraced wholeheartedly. His partner in life for seventy-four years was his awesome wife Matty who supported him during his academic years while qulifiying to practice optometry. John and Matty met when they were high school students in Hudson, New York.
John was the devoted father and father-in-law of Neil and Shirley Smith, Robert and Mary Brown, Douglas and Margaret Matthews and Ronald. Adored grandfather of Jacob, Cameron, and Lara. Dear brother of Michael and the late Mary Jones, and brother- in-law of the late Ronald and the late Elizabeth Hewitt, brother of the late James and Johanna Caughlin. Cherished uncle of Peter, Susan, Camilla, the late Judith, and the late Teresa.
In recent years, his love of jazz sustained him while in palliative care. Born in 1921, Jazz was ingrained in his upbringing and throughout his young adult years. Performers like Count Basie, Duke Ellington and Louis Armstrong influenced his love of jazz from a very early age. He and Matty enjoyed years of wintering in Palm Springs where he riffed and jammed with many jazz performers that he met during his extensive travels. During his winters in Palm Springs with Matty at his side, Dr. John continued to enjoy and fine tune his jazz repertoire. Sadly, Matty predeceased John. Following her passing and in his remaining years he was able to maintain his well-being and enthusiasm for life by sharing his love of music with fellow long term care friends.
Jazz was not Dr. J’s only passion. Dr. J’s career passion to provide eye care followed him into retirement. With the conclusion of his practice of Optometry, he volunteered travelling into remote areas of Canada providing support and diagnostic eye care for residents living in remote Canadian locations. He was especially proud of his work with ORBIS. Over the past four decades, ORBIS the Flying Eye Hospital has flown world-class professionalsto provideeye care in over 95 countries and has been a call-to-action for better eye care around the world. Wherever ORBIS lands, specialists raise awareness, create change, and ralley support from local governments, global organizations, and philanthropists in an effort to contribute to the global fight of ending “avoidable blindness” particularly in children. (can.orbis.org) John’s enthusiasm and determination to engage will be missed by all who knew him, those he diagnosed and those who may have benefited from his expertise and connections.
The family wishes to thank his wonderful caregivers, Mary, Matthew, Danielle, James, and William for their years of compassion and loving care. Their dedication touched us profoundly. The family is also very grateful to the Palliative Care Unit at the St. Joseph’s Hospital. Funeral service took place from St Peter’s Basilica on Monday, October 9th 2023 at 2pm.
Obituary Reflection (Catherine Campbell)
Obituary – Henry Nichols – Sept 22, 1946 – Nov 19, 2022
It is with great sadness that we announce the death of Henry Nichols on Nov 19, 2022 after a two year battle with cancer. Henry is survived by his loving wife Thea and his sons Brendan (Leslie), Jeffrey (Rachel), Derek (Laura) and daughter Deirdre (John) as well as his loving grandchildren Francis, Serena, Elsa, Daniel, Stephen, Indra, David and Richard. Henry was predeceased by his parents, Andrew and Emily. He was born and raised in Richmond, attended Vancouver College and graduated from UBC. His love of travel began with a backpacking trip through Europe and the Middle East in 1969. Henry was a great provider for his children and coached many of their sports teams – football, baseball, lacrosse and soccer. He began working in Prince Rupert Pulp Mill’s technical department as well as serving in production, marketing, management in various other BC mills.
After retirement, Henry and Thea pursued a life of travel visiting 138+ countries in all seven continents. Travel also comprised of train trips in South Africa, Zimbabwe, Egypt, Morocco, Peru, Europe, India, China and Mongolia. His passion was collecting model trains especially those made for the Canadian market culminating in a published book. He also loved to work in his vegetable garden each year providing great crops for the family. We would never leave on vacation until the tomatoes were harvested!
A Mass of Christian Burial will be held at St. Mark’s. Rest in peace, Henry.
Reflection on a life
Rest in peace, Henry.
Rest would certainly seem to be needed. Filling a couple of paragraphs with a lifetime of activity. Can’t help but look at the selfless presentation and question how it was possible.
I had known Henry in his younger years – ironically he got involved in smuggling. Perhaps that unmentioned past is reflective of his fondness for travel.
Although I hadn’t spent a lot of time with him over recent years I remember his joie de vivre with fondness. Then he packed up and headed out west.
So I headed to googling several of the details in his obituary. Only Henry’s name shows up (not his wife or family) – reflects the uniqueness of his life’s passions.
Henry and Thea certainly didn’t have reservations about a big family and that aspect of the obituary suggests a real family-based life. Let me work it out – Henry’s travel started in 1969. A typical backpacking post university jaunt – 23 years old. Then back to British Columbia to marry, work, coach multiple sports. I am going to assume he retired at 65. And I am going to assume that his children were born in the 1970’s, grew up, went to university, married and produced grandchildren in short order. During this period Henry seems to have taken up gardening (and provided generously) and developed a passion for model trains. He had the time to write a book. I have a friend who is infected with that train passion. It is an intensely time-consuming activity. Without writing a book.
Given his focus was Canadian trains it is surprising all the travel references are elsewhere. Train trips were still a focus. Planning and organizing a series of tours through Zimbabwe and South Africa to see the falls and safaris is time consuming not to mention the actual trips.
All the other locations mentioned for the travel are stand alone. Exotic. Add them up though and the total is a long way from 138 countries on seven continents. Maybe cruising – no suggestion he and Thea chose that mode of travel.
It doesn’t feel credible.
Impose the growing season of tomatoes, the social and sports activities of children and grand-children Henry and Thea must have spent zero time at home during some key events in the years.
Who was this obituary written for or by? No intimate anecdotes about activities with his family, friends, workmates. No memories of coaching the sports teams – winners or losers. Was it written by a grandchild impressed by ticking off the numbers and not missing a relationship with his/her grandfather.
Perhaps the absence of reflections on a deceased’s personality, uniqueness, is common in obituaries. It is uncomfortable to dwell on the loss. But it reads like a Wikipedia post. Cold. Unreflective. No recognition of the deceased’s personal essence.
I don’t care about 138 countries and harvesting tomatoes. I remember the young, vibrant Henry. Laughing over a glass of wine. Talking about the backpacking adventures. Making his friends feel special.
That Henry – rest in peace.
Obituary (Diane Chartrand)
NAMES FOR OBIT 8 WRITING
OBIT PERSON-
Amelia Brook Kirk
HUSBAND-
Noah Kirk
CHILDREN-
Sadie (Daughter) and Christoper (Son)
GRANDMOTHER OF-
Tilly, Pearson, Arthur, Petunia, and Elroy
PREDECEASED BY-
Husband: Noah -Sister: Mazzie – Brothers: Max, Donald, Stuart, Allen, David, Nathan, and Michael
OBIT SCENE FOR AMELIA
A year before her passing, Amelia contacted her remaining family members and asked them to come to the house for a special dinner. She wanted to show them a secret she had been keeping. Amelia just got several copies of the memoir she recently published. She wanted to read portions of it to them.
Amelia selected specific sections and marked each one with a sticky note. Her children Sadie and Christoper knew some of how she had met their father, but Amelia and Noah never talked about their lives in England before and during the war.
In the memoir, Amelia revealed her entire life, starting with growing up in England with her older sister Mazzie and her seven brothers Max, Donald, Stuart, Allen David, and Nathan, who always were her protectors since she was the baby of the family.
There are sections telling about the painful times during the war and her work as an ambulance driver while serving in the Women’s Auxiliary Force of the RAF. Her job was how she met the wonderful man she married in 1946.
Amelia wanted them to each have a copy and read about her life, but she needed to tell them about a special time for her that created the family they have become. It was time her children and grandchildren knew how she had met Noah that terrible day.
After everyone had taken their assigned place at the nursing home dining room table, Amelia brought in a box and set it in the middle of the table, taking her book off the top and sitting down.
“I’ve summoned you all here for a surprise. In my hand is a copy of my memoir that I published. Before giving you each a copy, I need to read a section to all of you.”
“Mom,” said Sadie. “You wrote a book? How did you hide this from us?”
“I had a lot of help from the staff who typed it up for me and helped to get it up to the publishing site.”
Amelia opened the book to the page she had marked. “For years, a story was told about how I met my beloved husband Noah, the father to Sadie and Christoper and grandfather to the rest of you. That tale wasn’t completely true.”
“What are you saying, Mom,” said Christoper.
“Your father and I didn’t want to revisit that terrible time during the war, but now, since I’ve put it in the book for the world to know, I thought it was only fair that you hear it first from me.”
The room was so quiet you could hear the rain hitting the two windows next to the table. Amelia looked around the room and began to read.
As the sound of guns and explosions could be heard, I drove my ambulance to a location given to me. I found a young man lying on the ground with a lot of blood flowing from his chest area. My assistant and I did what we could to stop the bleeding. We loaded the young man into the back of the vehicle and drove at high speed to the field hospital a few miles away. For some reason, I couldn’t leave this patient and waited to see if he’d make it or not…..
Obituary – Lila and the Ladder (Marian Bron)
Process: I first googled Ooltewah, Tennessee to find out its history and if anything, interesting had happened that would affect my character’s life. It was a Union stronghold during the civil war which I found interesting since it was in the traditional south. Her parents are mentioned but not her late husband’s, only a sister-in-law. That gave me a reason for her elopement in October of 1960. I made her the descendant of a rebel, something her mother-in-law could hold against her family. From there I had fun.
The twelve-foot wooden ladder I had lugged from my parent’s house thudded against the second-story windowsill of a white clapboard house two streets over, making more noise than wanted. Wesley Freichuk had always been a sound sleeper, his mother not so much. My luck she would find me standing beneath her pride-and-joy’s bedroom window in the middle of the night and spoil my plans. Squatting next to the leafless lilac bushes beneath the kitchen window, I waited until I was sure she hadn’t heard me.
Wesley’s very manhood needed saving. If Mrs. Freichuk had her way, those apron strings of hers would never be cut. Especially for the likes of me, the great-great-granddaughter of a rebel. But I loved Wesley, and he loved me, so there was no way ancient hostilities were going to ruin my happiness. His sister Melinda liked to joke that those strings were tied tight around her brother’s neck. He couldn’t breathe without his mother’s say so. Mrs. Freichuk was a force to be reckoned with, and I was up to the task.
The Freichuk house was locked tighter than Fort Knox. There were no spare keys hidden under flowerpots, especially since flowers were sentimental wastes of money according to Mrs. Freichuk, and no windows cracked open to catch the mountain breeze. Since no lights came on, I started my climb up my father’s rickety ladder, avoiding the rotten third rung. The seventh rung was also a bit punky. I stood on the tenth and tapped on Wesley’s window.
He slept on.
I tapped a bit louder.
Still, he slept on.
The window wouldn’t budge. Knowing, Mrs. Freichuk she had nailed her son’s window shut to preserve his chastity. No gold-digging princesses were going to get at her boy and ruin his virtue.
I tapped louder yet.
The window one room over flew open. I pressed myself against the wall.
“Lila?” Melinda whispered. “What the blazes are you doing?”
“Shh!” I whispered, finger to my lips, almost losing my balance. “Your mother will hear you.”
She shook her head and shut her window. Moments later, Wesley’s window opened.
“The dope’s still asleep.” She tip-toed to his bed and plugged his nose.
His eyes whipped open in a panic. He looked from his sister to me at the window. Melinda put a finger to her lips. He nodded in understanding.
“You are crazy,” was all he said as he started to dress. He filled a paper sack with clean underwear and socks. The family’s only suitcase was in Mrs. Freichuk’s bedroom closet.
Before her brother could climb out the window, Melinda said, “Wait.” She slid from the room and came back moment’s later with the keys to her brand-new Chevy Bel Air. “Don’t scratch it and don’t eat in it.”
“Thanks Sis,” Wesley said as he pocketed the keys and kissed her cheek.
The seventh rung snapped under his weight, and he crashed through six and five on his way down to four.
“Shh!” Melinda and I hissed in unison.
He rolled his eyes and reached for the third rung with his foot. He crashed to the ground, taking two lilac branches with him.
He dusted himself off. “Who knew eloping with you would be so dangerous? I take it that is the reason for all this subterfuge?”
As a young man, my grandfather Walter Freidrich Karl Ernest (anglicized from the original Ernst) spent much of his life in Africa, from about 1895-1910. His apparent facility learning languages led to employment as an interpreter with the native labourers building the railway in British East Africa. He was also a keen amateur photographer.
My Aunt Dorothy, my mother’s older sister, seventeen years her senior, had many albums of his photos, which she dramatically called the Safari Books. On an early visit to Canada, she brought one. It cemented my fascination with this branch of my family which seemed then so much more exotic and interesting than my farming grandparents who lived down the road, a mere half mile from my family. All this was, of course, before words like colonialist and settler had taken on the negative connotations they have today. Interestingly though, in the early eighties my Aunt Dorothy said she would not be offering the Safari Books to Africa House in London. She was aware, with the many newly independent nations in Africa, photos taken by a dead white man from England might not be welcome.
When I made my first trip to England, my aunt offered to let me choose an album. It was the nicest gift she could give me. I felt honoured that I was being entrusted with a piece of family history.
So for a long time now, I have felt an ongoing sense of guilt. Somehow I have lost my Safari Book.
I did not lose it during my travels. Nor on the way home. For many years, it was in the same place on my bookshelf in my den. Periodically I took it out, always amazed at the enduring quality of the sepia photographs. Others in my family enjoyed seeing it. I remember only once taking it to my school to show an art teacher who had travelled to Africa. I remain sure I brought it home and remember packing it up to clear the room when the den ceiling needed major renovation. I have turned out every box and scoured all the places where I squirrel away papers. I have looked under beds and taken apart closets. All to no avail. I regret bitterly that I did not have the foresight to scan the photos.
For myself, I seem to remember the photos clearly, their sepia tones ever bold. Though, as time goes on, I wonder how many I have already forgotten. The pages seem to flip before my eyes ~ two views of the forbidding Zambesi River flowing into impenetrable jungle ~ a small building, dwarfed by the jungle behind it, seemingly set on stilts, captioned in my grandfather’s flowing cursive “Hotel, Umtali” ~ a very tall man in a flowing white robe in front of an arched and carved doorway framed by the two huge elephant tusks he holds. The building a mosque, the man perhaps a Somali or Ethiopian from his features ~ a panorama of the port at Mombasa, the end point of the railway ~ several photos of the railway being constructed in British East Africa. Men dwarfed by the giant jungle trees on the slopes behind them. Wielding pickaxes behind the trains in front of them. Perhaps clearing land for a small settlement ~ my favourite, a Black youth standing on the front of a locomotive. (I’m not sure why. I never asked myself if he was posed.) He isn’t smiling. He just looks like a young boy who has scrambled to a cool position to get his photo taken ~ a portrait of a priest, presumed Anglican or Catholic, formal, unsmiling. (One wonders about this context too.) ~ a room titled someone’s office. The desk, a table really, covered with a fancy linen cloth, draping to the floor. A coal oil lamp. an inkwell and fountain pen in a stand. Papers. On the wall, several animal skins. Zebra, leopard, some kind of antelope, horns ~
I wish I could see it once more. Though I feel differently now about pinning the skins of animals to walls for decor. I still have the feeling of the room. It feels stuffed and stolid. As if the walls could be wood panelled with a fireplace. Perhaps an attempt to conjure up faraway home. But is it not simply a hut?
~ a group of men dressed in suits. The background now unclear. But I remember the caption “The Ananias Club” and then a strange quote about wood and water which I can no longer remember but never did understand ~
I have discovered what may be the origins of “Ananias Club.” It is apparently an expression, used as a euphemism by Teddy Roosevelt, for the word “Liar.” In my imagination, it is ironic or perhaps ironically accurate. A Club where men got together and told of their exploits in those lands. I recognize the short man with the trim moustache, my grandfather.
~ finally, three grave markers: simple slabs of stone etched with names and the stark details. One died of malaria, one was killed by natives, one was killed by a lion ~
Are their gravestones too now lost?
I confess I have shed tears over the loss of that album. I am not sure why its loss has bothered me so much. The world it showed is itself lost and most would say good riddance.
On a personal level, I never met that grandfather, who was over sixty when my mother was born. But I do remember my formidable Aunt Dorothy who still had some memories of her early childhood in Africa and how her stories nourished my imagination. She entrusted me with the album which had endured so long and travelled so far.
Social conventions dictate a polite opening sentence. I’d ask how you are but I don’t care. You are still here, have been for quite a long time in fact, so I know how you are. Persistent, annoying, ever-present, relentless.
It’s time we parted ways. I need the sense of accomplishment that comes with finishing a story, a chapter or even a well-written paragraph. I need to lose myself in a fictional creation, another life that isn’t mine. I need the escape.
You see the sameness of life is getting to me and you are to blame. I miss those productive two hours surrounded by books, sitting at my old secretary desk. The one I spent a summer refinishing in my teens. A desk that connects me to my youth and more stories.
To be fair, writer’s block, you aren’t completely to blame. My insecurities are part of the problem. In capital letters they scream, “YOU SUCK! YOU’RE NOT A REAL WRITER!” But I write, therefore I am. So there. I may not have the ten-thousand hours or whatever is needed to perfect a skill, however I am getting there.
Let me throw myself into a good story. Let me create. Let me cry and giggle as I write. Don’t block me with your presence. Scram, get lost, let me be.
I am a storyteller. I come from storytellers. It’s in my genes. It’s who I am.
I’d ask you to go bug someone else but I don’t wish you on anyone. Disappear, vanish. Don’t take the high road, just get lost!
Wait on second thought, I know where you can go. There’s a guy named Donald down in the U.S. that I’d like you to visit.
Across the street Teagan comes out of his house. Plaid hat, snow pants, large gloves, swimming in his coat. The lawn is covered with snow. The boulevard is banked high with huge chunks of snow after yesterday’s storm. Teagan begins to carry chunks of snow to the lawn. He is choosy. Sometimes walking further down the street to find the perfect chunks. He is building, not a snowman, a snow fort. Some of the chunks are so large he struggles to carry them, until one overcomes him, and he falls. Face down in the snow he lies for long seconds until he rises, snow covered, shakes himself, and trudges over to a smooth piece of snowy lawn. He lies down and makes a snow angel. Refreshed, he arises and goes back to finding the next perfect chunk. Refreshed, I turn from my window to do an adult task.
