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.
Category: General
Maybe in Another Life (Diane Chartrand)
As I was drifting off a thought came about. Maybe in a different life. A world appeared with a young high school girl. She was popular and smiled all the time. As I looked closer I could see that girl was me.
I was taken through her time in high school and then to university where she became a teacher. She, that girl, was me. What a wonderful happy life was happening right before my eyes.
The other me was happy, accomplished, and had so many friends. Somehow my dream cycle was now doing a comparison of the current me and the different life me. What was it trying to get me to see?
My time went back to watching a life of joy, fulfillment, and moving forward. There was love, marriage, and a couple of children now growing up in a happy environment. I felt good there and hoped that maybe that could be my life now.
How can I swap that one for the one I am in now. I did ask but no one answered any of my questions. I now knew that we could have and experience a different life but only in our dreams. The life we have is the one we have, or maybe, just maybe I can do something to make changes and fulfill myself with what I saw and experienced in that different life.
Abruptly, I jumped up in bed shaking. I took a drink of water and calmed myself now being able to remember what just happened and where it took me. The rest of the day my head kept telling me, “Do it, do it, you can do it.”
Grief is…..(Muriel Allingham)
The thing with feathers is grief, it
rises on lofty currents, before
gliding through tomorrow’s womb.
It is a thing of mathematical characteristics, it
can be mapped and charted;
the whole equalling the sum of parts, its
diagram; a view of sacred geometry.
And grief is the thing of words,
stripping each phrase for export, able to
fight the theatrical battle against language, and
be the bedfellow of poetry.
Grief is the thing bearing leaves; like
the mighty oak, its
season stilled by December’s cull, and
spring’s breath of birth travels a predictable course.
Grief is the thing of romance, the
songs of unrequited love, of
beauty through curtains of lace, it
holds its masters in temptation, and
wilts even the most tormented heart.
Grief knows ill-fated companionship, as
the wretched beast that
cooks the books, and
storms the castle—it
sits in evening light, and
turns the sheets to ice.
But it is the thing I live with,
it carves its notes upon my soul,
it writes my chapters, and
wrestles me home—grief is
the thing with feathers, so
airy, so faint, so eternal.
Cross-Fit (Muriel Allingham)
Be savage not average, it
glared from the white board, in
bold red marker!
Yes! And
while succumbing to the pain
of torturous lunges, those
words clamped my attention.
I want that!
I want my idea of a revenge body, where
I emerge from mist with a glinting cross bow, as
fletchings quiver over my shoulder, I am
ripped—pumped, the form of Artemis!
Sore today, and
probably sore tomorrow, another
quote weakly scribbled in blue;
my thighs burn in the brutal
tearing and shredding of muscle, all for
an image of perfectly timed vengeance,
oh, but how sweet it will be
that moment when the
universe aligns, and
in that view, it is the makings of glory
an offering of hope to unrelenting torture.
But search me, and try me
know my thoughts as they morph,
from bones of imagination, with
each primitive motion—strength grows, and
power no longer hungers to rage against a ghost.
Less do I squeeze an image of vengeance into
a final pull or push of weight;
the apparitions of a life ago remain, but
the power of Artemis is in me;
I am savage not average.
Prompt Writing Christmas Lunch – December 8 2022
Prompts included:
Letter to Santa… (Catherine Campbell)
Letter to Santa (Cathy Sartor)
“The Cover-Up and How I Learned the Hard Truth About Santa” (Catherine Richards)
Letter to Santa – December 8 (Diane Chartrand)
How Christmas Has Changed over the last decades! (Marian Bron)
Christmas Letter (Muriel Allingham)
Gratitude (Mary Ann Colihan)
Writers, solitary by nature, may have gotten off lighter in the pandemic. We were quick to ZOOM and share work online. But I regret that in-person classes, the ones that forged the Wordwrights, may be gone forever.
It is impossible to replace human contact. For this literary group, road trips to Hillsdale for pie and a gander at the vista of Lake Erie from the old and now lavishly refurbished homestead, were postponed with Alison in regular lockdown. Libraries removed furniture and did not want anyone lingering, let alone talking about books and writing in quiet corners. Covid made our existence all high tech when we yearned for more high touch.
So today, we are grateful beyond measure to Catherine for gathering us, once again at Christmas, in this beautiful space. A private club where we are free to be ourselves, together – a luxury to meet as colleagues and friends. Over the many years we have been together, the Wordwrights are about much more than writing. I am grateful that Catherine also provides leadership for technology and task mastering. But there is a secret sauce here. Recently, with members passing on and punching out to deal with family matters, new members were welcomed into this tradition of shared writing and support. This may be the single most important thing you do to get words on paper. I am thankful for each one of you in my life and hope these new writing sessions will yield more prize winners.
Letter to Santa… (Catherine Campbell)
I don’t remember writing a letter to Santa. I believed in Santa – sort of. I mean we moved every year so maybe a letter making sure he knew where to find me would have been an excellent strategy. But I don’t remember…
If I were to write a letter to Santa today it would have to start with apologies. This year the tree is not up and nor was it the last two years. I couldn’t get psyched to pretend we were welcoming the “joy” of Christmas when everything was locked down and no visits, gifts were delivered online to distant recipients. Phone calls seemed alienating. Reluctant to hang up but nothing really to say.
I did take a picture with my favourite snow bear sitting on the piano – I wore my Campbell tartan kilt – floor length. I took a picture with Kohl admiring that same bear but, in the sunroom, not the top of the piano. Kohl’s place is under the piano. No playing of Christmas carols on the piano. Not the year before either. My fingers stumbled over the notes on the couple I tried to play today.
So back to writing a letter – worth a try.
Dear Santa:
I was actually close to you, maybe one of your first stops. Goose Bay, Labrador. You did well by my sister and I that year – 1960, I think. A beautiful doll for each of us and handmade cradles. But we figured it out. Our father had hidden in the basement making the cradles and had brought the dolls back from a trip to “civilization”. All the hokey stuff on TV about your progress across the world was just that – hokey.
Like many families ours scattered. Personal visits became rarer. The holiday lost its importance. Guilt about forgetting to phone my mother on Xmas. She didn’t call me either, but I found out she had been quite sick. Three weeks later she was dead in a car crash.
I wish you were real, Santa, and that you could gift me a do-over.
I am being a little misleading. I say that fat, jolly man in red is not real, but Saint Nicholas was real. We viewed his coffin in a church in a small village in Turkey. Who would believe that Nick originated in Turkey. Connecting that saint to the Christmas hype over the centuries requires real imagination.
Maybe that is my problem. Christmas is not “joy” but belief in fairy tales and ceremony and pageantry. And most important wanting and needing to share the magic with others.
Perhaps a sign, Santa, to restore that magic.
Letter to Santa (Cathy Sartor)
Sunday, December 25th, 2022 @ 2:45 am
Dear Cathy,
Thank you for your Holiday Greetings and for the delicious carrot cake and thermos of fresh coffee. I trust the coffee and your delightful snack will fortify me onward during this long, cold night on my mission to fulfill most Christmas wishes.
About your Christmas Wish…I understand the possible need but I fear my inability to grant it. Most Christmas Wishes are tangible and my elves are readily able to make them possible. Granting traditional wishes like a toy truck for a little boy or a doll to fill hours of enjoyable play time for a little girl is my job. Granting an intangible wish for a grandmother is a challenge beyond my pay grade.
In Santa’s workshop, the elves labour tirelessly all year to produce gifts for me to deliver. Over time, I have enjoyed many experiences and requests for wishes. Your wish requires the wisdom and insight that only Father Christmas can muster and provide. Delivery requires no searching or wrapping but instead it demands a lifetime of expertise and a loving heart.
Cathy, your Christmas Wish for “Inspiration” is impossible to wrap and deliver. I am aware that retirement, relocation, a pandemic and the unthinkable world events since February following knee replacement surgery and recovery have caused the world to seem out of balance. As with Alice in Oz, you are feeling confused and frettful not knowing which way is up or how to find down.
Rather than remainng stuck while enduring this period of uncertainty, imagine life differently. This should be a period of remaining strong, of taking stock and of preparing to move on. Buck up buttercup. Define your hopes and dreams. Decide your priorities and preferences. Stay focused and keep busy. Hold joy and gratitude in your heart. Trust that your “Christmas Wish” will be granted. In due time, you will be inspired and ready to move on.
My job is done. Now it is your job to do the work in your search of “inspiration”.
Our sincere wishes for an inspired future!
Santa and his buddy Father Christmas
“The Cover-Up and How I Learned the Hard Truth About Santa” (Catherine Richards)
It was Christmas morning, me and my bowl cut hair style were wide awake. We had a rule in our house that you couldn’t open or touch anything under the tree until Mom and Dad had had their first cup of coffee. So, my brother and I would wait.
We would get up and look at the tree and the stockings while our little bodies teemed with excitement. When Ian got a bit older, he would make the first pot of coffee which was likely terrible. Ian was almost four years older than me so he was wiser, more accomplished in life and could spell his whole name, so he was in charge of coffee. Ian would also turn on the outside Christmas lights, a signal to the neighbours that we were up. A competition between the two houses to see who was awake first.
On Christmas morning when I was 7, I couldn’t help but notice that some of the presents from Santa were wrapped in the same paper as presents from Mom and Dad. A curious kid who was always encouraged to ask questions – I asked: why is the wrapping paper the same? Mom quickly answered something along the lines of isn’t that special that the wrapping paper we picked is the same as Santa! Must mean you were extra good this year! This seemed like a reasonable answer as I had been very good that year.
The following Christmas we were opening presents, and to my surprise, there were some price tags on some gifts. I asked: why are there price tags on these gifts from Santa? Mom quickly answered that sometimes Santa asks the Elves to pick up items at local shops because there are so many children around the world, and he can’t always make all the presents. It seemed a reasonable answer and it really didn’t make sense for Santa to make all the presents when they were already available elsewhere.
The next year we were opening presents, and Mom jumped up and said Santa forgot something! I thought this was extremely weird as she raced into another room and came back with two presents, one for Ian and one for me. As we were opening them, I asked: why did Santa forget these and why were they in the other room? Mom quickly answered that sometimes Santa gets startled when putting everything under the tree and drops presents in places they shouldn’t be. Again, this was a reasonable answer and something my primitive brain could imagine.
But my suspicion was increasing and the following year I asked: Mom, is Santa real? Mom quickly answered: “well I believe in Santa because there are presents under that tree that I didn’t put there”. I bought that answer too. And went on my merry way with the full belief that Santa was real, and my mom wouldn’t lie to me.
I was at least 10 years old when I learned the hard truth. I was at a new school, and it was the period when the class would go to the library. We were sitting in “the pit”, the carpeted story reading area. As I looked down at the beige-grey carpet, perfect for hiding the residue that comes off the sticky and dirty hands of children, a classmate made some passing comment about Santa not being real. I couldn’t believe it and kept staring at the carpet. All the other kids started to nod their heads and shared how they couldn’t believe kids our age still believed in Santa and that they had known for years. I was in shock. On the way home from school, I asked my brother. As you know he was wiser, in high school now and could do complex math problems so he would tell me the truth. He replied: “Yeah I’ve known for a while, but Mom asked me not to tell you to not ruin Christmas for you”. I couldn’t believe that for years my family, possibly my friends, had all been in on the cover-up. It all started to make sense – the identical wrapping paper, the price tags, “Santa forgetting” and obviously there would be presents under that tree that my mom hadn’t put there.
I don’t recall what happened next, if I told my parents or not. I don’t recall if I was upset for longer than an hour or a day, but I don’t carry any resentment towards them for the cover-up or how I found out (officially and very very late). I’m only thankful. My Mom believed in continuing with the magic for years and that is precious to me. She and my Dad would have been exhausted at Christmas time. They both were working, getting me and my brother to school, participating in seasonal activities and having to do the never-ending task of feeding us daily so no wonder on Christmas morning after a marathon evening of wrapping presents there would be price tags. As a thank you, and now that I can spell my whole name, I will make their first cup of coffee on Christmas morning.
Letter to Santa – December 8 (Diane Chartrand)
Dear Santa,
I know it’s been a long time since you’ve heard from me. The last several years have been hard, but I got through them. I usually don’t write and ask for things, but I need your help this year.
I have a special request that I hope you can help with. A special person in my life needs a unique gift this year. I don’t know if you can take care of it, but I’m still going to ask.
My youngest granddaughter is due to have her fourth son in March of the new year. I don’t think she’s ready for so much responsibility yet. She gave birth to her third son only a year ago. So far, she has found a way to manage day by day most times, but the stress of being alone to take care of everything must be difficult.
My ask, if you think it could be possible, is to have her husband home more to help out. I know being in the service fighting for your country is commendable, but he’s always gone. Each time he returns, it takes the family a long time to adjust then he leaves again.
I’m putting this request in your hands and praying that you can find a way to grant it, if only for a short time, until the older children can help Mom with the younger ones.
Worried Grandma, Diane
How Christmas Has Changed over the last decades! (Marian Bron)
I blame love. Possibly hormones. The change started when the cousins and my brother started pairing up more almost forty years ago. Never mind that it left me as the odd wheel out, it was bigger than that.
On their own I had no problem with the individuals they paired off, they were friends from our own social circle, but why couldn’t things be left as they were? The Christmas shopping expeditions of our tweens where we set off on foot and met downtown Strathroy and spent the afternoon together or the trips to the town fair where my oldest cousin lied and said she was under twelve to get in free like the rest of us, gone forever.
Christmases together with the two families and occasionally cousins from Holland, a whole other story there, was laid back, festive, fun. It was family. But with pairings came logistical problems. Christmas Eve no longer suited everyone, and it became the Saturday before or, if there were conflicts, squeezed in Tuesday after a completed work day. Christmas Eve with the extended family no longer happened.
After marriage came babies. So many babies. The two families became too large and separated. However even with our own family unit Christmas Eve gatherings was still a problem. It was my sister-in-law’s parent’s anniversary. As far as I’m concerned only selfish people get married on big holidays but that’s beside the point. Christmas Eve, the only holiday we actually celebrated as a family, was no longer ours.
As time has passed my own little odd family out has paired off too. Christmas is further complicated once again. It was time for me to become selfish. I didn’t care what anyone else did but I was spending Christmas Eve with my parents whether or not my brothers and kids could make it. Both sets of parents, the husband’s and mine, are in their eighties, I need this while I can.
And for the last two Christmases it has worked. Both sets are basically under the same roof now so it’s just a matter of meeting in one apartment. Now we sit, eat gebakjes and other assorted tasty treats, and visit. There are no gifts exchanged because we’ve all outgrown that. None of us need more stuff.
As for the cousins? My aunt and Uncle are five units down from my parents. A knock on the door and an exchange of Merry Christmases works. Christmas Day whoever is free can come for dinner at our place. Simple.
Christmas Letter (Muriel Allingham)
Today, I’m reminded of the last Christmas lunch we shared, and would have to say that probably no one could have predicted the bizarre route our lives would take in early 2020. For me, looking back on our gathering that December, in this exact room, enjoying great food and company, I was blissfully unaware that I was soon to be drop kicked through the goal posts of life. And while the world wrestled with Covid, my life took on another challenge that made the fear of infection almost something to look forward to.
That which does not kill us………..makes us want to kill ourselves, and often times during the following months, I contemplated on long sleepless nights, a particularly heinous form of hari-kari, leaving me gorgeously pale in a black lace negligee; of course, never to be found until my rotting corpse ruined the whole Juliet effect.
And I had to accept that after twenty some odd years of a life partnership, mine crumbled in moments. An unpredictable and misfortunate betrayal that left me more vulnerable and wounded than if I had been dismembered.
Faced with property management alone, aging and grieving dogs, loss and failure, I had to put away my bicycle, my hikes, writing and my life of ease. I was left to pay our home equity loan and my income diminished by two thirds, but my expenses expanded.
Would some future movie scene portray me emerging from the mist, in combat gear, dishevelled, and dirty, but victorious? Certainly!
I did some epic shit—I know that now. Chain sawing and retaining all limbs, caring for the dogs, the property, and the house. I sold it all, disposing of Blair’s existence into landfills and goodwills. I relocated into a highrise (a story unto itself). I fought and won a legal battle, said a sorrowful goodbye to my beloved Jasper, who for all his quirks and disobedience was the most amazing creature that ever wore poodle attire.
Presently, Zola and I live in Blackfriar’s Estate, where a variety of eccentric residents entertain and delight us. And, we enjoy the presence of ghosts that slip up and down stairs and around corners unexpectedly. What could be finer? Except for the two chihuahuas that wear pearl necklaces and indulge in vodka in the afternoon, or the dashounds that bark incessantly. Or the parrot named Joey that likes to imitate the back up alarm on a garbage truck—first thing in the morning. “Joey, shut the fuck up,” I hear from my open bedroom window.
It takes three years to heal; five years to heal, and I’ve also been told ten years to heal, as though time is infinite. I don’t think I will ever heal, not completely. When I drive country roads from my past, I feel strangely detached, but also shaken by the familiarity of a bridge I have crossed hundreds of times, and I can still anticipate that bump in the road. I know those beautiful country homes that changed season by season; artistry of nature and decor. Often the sky over the horizon brings brutal nostalgic beauty. Was that the same cloud formation that would drift slowly by, as we ventured on our Sunday tours of the countryside? The driving rain—the same as when we drove to the airport. I will be haunted forever, but that is something I must come to love and cherish.
I have learned how to be alone. I can handle anything, and my motto has become ‘what’s the next logical step?’ A mantra that unravels the complexities of yet the latest disaster. I look forward to my future, to adventure and am quite happy in my solitude—mostly content and free. I am fortunate that I have wonderful, and not so wonderful friends (the latter makes it all so interesting). At the end of my life, I can say with certainty that I did not take the easy road. I did not back down. But more importantly, I did what was right.
Sometimes it feels as though my heart is stuck between zipper teeth, tugging and pulling will only result in more seizures and pain, so I am resigned to live with my damaged heart, because I know my soul is one of brilliance and light.
This Christmas, we are once again together. We are all different people after three years of isolation, separation, and tragedy. And I could say something cliché about living in the moment, caring for those we love, or getting hit by the proverbial bus—wait, my mother did get hit by a bus, so I’ll leave that one out. We are lucky, even when we are not. We are walking each other home. It is all we are doing—we have no claim to anything, I have learned that well. Anything can happen and it likely will.
So, here’s a suggestion for the new year; let’s all take out our damaged hearts, our pieced together with duct tape, shoe laces and packaging twined hearts. Take them out, put them on the table and let everyone admire them. We are all heroic to be standing in this difficult world.
Let everything happen to us, the beauty, the magic, the horror and let’s keep standing against it to let it fall around us, like rain.
July 11, 2021 – Concetta (Rian Elliott)
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.
A Summer Trip on the Ottawa River (Madeleine Horton)
I am not a water person. Growing up on a farm in the Fifties, my experience with water was limited to the once or twice Sunday trips each summer to Port Stanley where I would venture out only far enough beyond the discouraging stones to splash a little and then float.
In my late twenties, with little water in between, two friends and I took a short camping holiday in Algonquin Park. My two friends were both experienced canoeists and parked me in the middle of the craft. I enjoyed canoeing small lakes joined by rivers. The rivers I liked best for the sense of being able to almost reach out and touch the branches of overhanging trees on either side. For the sense of being in nature, to my mind. And probably for the sense of security.
On the last day of our holiday, Elsie proposed we drive to the Ottawa area and go white water rafting. It would be the highlight of the holiday for her. Sheila in her always soft and firm voice at once said she would not go. She would happily wait for us on shore. My first impulse was to decline also. But Elsie did not want to inconvenience us both. I said I would go.
White water rafting was still rather new at that time. Elsie had heard of one outfit, probably the least expensive. I knew absolutely nothing of the different rafts used nor of the different reputations of the different companies. The company we went to turned out to be one with a reputation for being the wildest. The rafts were like large rubber dinghies with no fixed oars—a feature I was later told made for a larger, safer raft.
We were issued life jackets of a sort. I spied some helmets which were not offered and asked about wearing one. I suppose this caution came from always being required to wear a helmet when riding. I asked about having one. I was given one, with a bemused smile. No one else asked for one.
The leader for our trip was a young French Canadian, not a large man but wiry and well-muscled. He spoke little, gestured extravagantly, and used the expression “it’s a real rush, man” frequently. That perhaps should have been a warning.
We were led to to see the first set of rapids. I looked down at churning, rushing waters forced through what seemed a narrow canyon. The guide said these were the strongest rapids and where people most often were flipped off the raft. Usually two or three per trip. With twelve trippers, the dreaded thirteen counting the guide, the odds did not sound great. We could choose not to do this part. Instead, cross a stream he pointed out, and meet the raft at a point a short distance away. My hand went up. He casually pointed to the stream some distance away and left with the group.
The stream flowed down a sharp incline. It was like a chute. Around two hundred yards from where I stood, it emptied into the river. I stood and looked down at it. .The water was crystal clear, several feet deep, and rushing. I looked across it. It did not look that wide. Perhaps three feet across. It must have been stepped over by others than me. The Guide had been offhand as he waved me towards it.
I did not make the opposite bank. I was swept away.
I remember that with absolute clarity. My life did not flash before me. I was on my back. My eyes were open. I remember seeing how crystal clear the water was above me. How far I was from the surface. I did nothing. It was so fast. I felt no pain. I made no struggle. I felt no fear. It was just sensation. Me and the clear water above me.
I did not think then of those many in Greek mythology who sought to confound their fate, only to be forced to endure it.
I surfaced in the river, further than I could ever swim. There were two canoes near me at once. I would not want a recording of my struggle to get into the canoe. They (I have no sense of my helpers) rowed me to the shore where the raft had pulled up. No one had flipped from the raft.
The Guide was enthusiastic in his effort to convince me to continue the trip. The rest of the rapids would be easier. He really wanted me to do it. It would be a rush.
Reader, I went. The Guide was more or less correct. Most of the rapids I do not recall. Except for one when the front of the raft went so high in the air I thought it was going to completely turn head over heels. (Would that be keel?) At the last second, the front bent forward and we continued on our way.
Later, as my friends and I drove to find our last campsite I assessed the damage. I had lost a pair of prescription sunglasses. My left shoe had been sucked off my foot. That foot was swollen and bruised. It was only when I was at home late the next day and looked in a mirror, that I saw a chain of large purple bruises down my spine that must have been caused by hitting rocks. I thought of my head and the helmet. A reluctant trip to a Walk-in Clinic confirmed a sprained ankle.
Sometimes I think of the lessons I took from that experience. I wonder if they are the right ones.
Dark Night (Diane Chartrand)
Needing a distraction, I rolled open a blind and looked out the window into the dark night. It was two in the morning, and all was quiet in the complex. I woke up with so many thoughts and worries going on in my head and couldn’t get them to stop.
Soon we will be coming out of a terrible situation, and where I go next haunts me. As I keep looking out the window, I realize it’s not what I see in front of me that is dark, but I am personally experiencing what is known as ‘Dark Night.’ It’s listed as an internal condition where you become lost to the world you once knew.
As my eyes adjust, I see in front of me my worries all lined up farther than the eye can see. The first one that approaches me is uncertainty. It reminds me of all the risks that are out in the world if I go out there. “Yes,” I say. “But, at some point, I’ll have to venture out and try to find the person I once was so many months ago.”
Uncertainty just shakes its head and walks away.
Next in line is ego. I am reminded about all the things done just to please him. I don’t want to be that person anymore who relies only on ego. I want to be someone who does things with a purpose in mind, not what I can gain only for myself.
“I’m done with you and your reckless ways,” I say.
Ego just laughs and reminds me that everyone always comes back because it’s the way of the world. He bellows out as he disappears, “All for one and more for me.”
I lean my hand on my chin. My mind is lost and empty. Where did I go? Where did my ability to plan my future go? Having spent so many months at home all alone has caused me to lose myself.
Joy stands in front of me with a happy face plastered on her chest. “I am your every day and night, so smile, “ she says.
“Sorry, Joy. You are no longer a part of me, and I have no idea how to get you back, so leave.”
Joy tries over and over to get me to smile, but nothing causes me to do that, and she leaves.
Several memories started to emerge from my past—the birth of my children, bad marriages, learning for new careers, and hundreds more. Unfortunately, none of them impressed me. All of those items from my life are so far behind me and no longer important.
The final thing in line said, “Hi. I’m your new path.” She handed me a blank page with New Path written at the top.
“So, what am I supposed to do with this?”
“Write on it anything you want to do from this moment on.”
“I don’t know what exactly I want to do going forward, but I am sure it is nothing that I have done so far.”
“Maybe start at the top with I want to and then just write what is in your soul.”
I backed away from the window and sat down with the paper in front of me. I kept telling myself, you can do this, just start. Then I took up a pen and wrote at the top as New Path instructed.
I want to…..
Looking to the Future (Diane Chartrand)
Life has been so grim since March 2019, causing Brianna to stop dwelling on now and envision what is to come in her future.
She closes her eyes and lets her body relax, focusing on what she can see in her mind. The first thing that comes up is the downtown core with people walking around and talking to others they meet. No one has a mask on or standing far apart. They at times hug or kiss.
The next thing that comes up is Brianna sitting at her computer creating a video for her next book to be published. In the past, it was possible to go out and read portions of your book to a crowd of people or go to conventions to promote a new book.
She sees herself signing copies of her book in several local bookstores. The line is long and goes on forever all the way out the door, and someone said even down the street.
Tired from signing her name, she now looks further in the future to a vacation. Water lapping on the shore and a cool drink in her hand as she watches the surfers maneuver the waves. Yes, this is the future she wants.
Opening her eyes, Brianna now knows the direction she will be taking for the next couple of years. First, she will finish the two books already started and arrange with the local bookstores to have signing events and meet her fans.
Next, she will give herself that vacation she has always wanted to Hawaii, where she can sit on the beach with a special drink in her hand and watch everyone with joy. Then, she would visit the volcano and maybe all the other islands before going home.
Brianna can now see an ending to all that has depressed her over the past months. Once everyone is safe and unable to transmit the virus, she will be free to have a future. Unfortunately, she has gotten to the point that the only place she can experience a future is in her mind, but it will all become real one day.
Going again to work at the library, visiting family who are far away. That is the future she seeks, and she knows that it will all happen with a plan. Won’t It?
She knows that planning a future is the only way to get through the now and move forward. Pleasant thoughts, happy places are all there in the future, just to spend time with and breathe.
She knows taking precautions now will give everyone a future. Yes, it will probably be a different one than everyone imagined a year ago, but it will be a future.
Brianna knows in her heart that everything will get better and all her visions will happen. She just has to believe that in order to move on. She will put everything that has happened over the past year and just focus on her future plan.
As like Brianna, we all need to look to the future and plan what we want to do or accomplish when we get there. So everyone, pick up a notepad and start planning what you want to do in your future—Good Luck from Brianna.
Green Thumb: The tomato which inspired a contest, kept a family in touch, and eased a pandemic. (Madeleine Horton)
Several years ago, I stopped at a Pick Ur Own vegetable farm. I picked some tomatoes on a row marked Heritage Varieties: Sicilian Saucers. They proved to be, to my mind, the most flavourful tomatoes I had ever tasted both for cooking and for fresh eating. The next year, to my dismay, the farmer turned his land to cash crops and planted soybeans and corn. I decided I wanted these tomatoes but cannot grow them myself in my shady yard. So I announced a Tomato Contest to my family in hopes that most of them could deliver their entries in person. For the two brothers in the West, photos were the only option. The cash incentive attracted my competition loving family, including this year both my nephews.
The Sicilian Saucer tomato is as the name suggests one that can grow very large, thus making it good for a contest. The central prize has been for largest tomato. That continues this year. Contestants have been reminded that the margins of victory can be close. Last year’s winner, my nephew in Drayton, Ontario edged out his mother by only six grams. My brother in Hope, B.C. has for the past two years submitted a photo of an impressive looking Sicilian posed beside an egg. Regrettably, the concrete scale of his rivals has overruled his subjective egg; it has been suggested he borrow a scale this year if possible.
Sicilian Saucers are the workhorses of tomatoes. Because of their large and irregular size, they do not fit neatly into commercial containers which favour a one size for all, a one shape for all. They are not a pretty face; they will never be celebrated at the Royal Winter Fair where the flashy Beefsteak tomato flaunts itself. They will never grace the cover of Gourmet magazine. They are rough and robust, the proletarians of the tomato world, never to be relegated to the regimens of a greenhouse. But they have a noble heritage, the sunny fields of Sicily, the renowned pots of masters of tomato cuisine in the Mediterranean.
But, they are a challenge to grow. Sicilian Saucers are not a hybrid tomato with all their inherent quirks engineered out of them. They are prone to blight. Because of their size, they easily crack and split. They need a longer growing season than some others.
The first year of the contest, my youngest sister, an avid and usually successful gardener discovered the difficulties. She, however, is nothing if not an optimist and in late October she appeared on my doorstep, and held out her hand holding one, small, hard, green, Sicilian Saucer, perhaps in hopes that her siblings had had even less success. We have laughed about that since then. Last year a nephew who had never gardened before produced the winner of the largest tomato. This year he emailed me in February asking about the contest because his two children were keen to help again.
This year, the third year, and perhaps the Grande Finale of the contest, some new categories have been announced and others expanded. The unassuming Sicilian Saucer will not mind and the changes will promote good will, dispelling any feelings of disgruntlement in the West that the contest favours the climate conditions of the East. Hence, there will be a new category- A Medley of Three Varieties of Tomatoes. For this the Sicilian Saucer may be called to step aside, if needed, mindful that they also serve, who only remain on their stake.
Another new category opens equal opportunity for all vegetables- A Medley of Any Three Different Vegetables. For those whose Sicilians are substantial but not the biggest, the popular Pair of Sicilian Saucers class returns. For those who have an artistic eye, there are now two prizes for Photo Presentation of Your Produce- one to include a Sicilian Saucer. Last year the sister who appeared the first year with the hard, green tomatoes presented a photo worthy of a poster- her ample Sicilian posed with rustic pottery and vintage tins.
So, what started as a simple who can grow the biggest tomato challenge has morphed into something more. Last year, with the bigger challenge of the pandemic, and already this year, as the pandemic stubbornly hangs on, this little contest has brought good natured ribbing, laughs, new interests, and a little relief to me and my family. Nice work for a modest tomato, the Sicilian Saucer.