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The Words of Christmas 2 (Madeleine Horton)

~ Madeleine Horton ~ Leave a comment

 One year my sister gave me a gift I have continued to treasure. It is a gift of words. She gave it at a time when she had two young children and little money. However, she has always been resourceful.

She gave me a photocopied page from my Grandmother’s journals set in a gilded wooden frame. It has become a touchstone of Christmas, set out as early as possible.

My Grandmother’s journals are written in a flowing script with elegant capital letters. I first became aware of them as a child when I saw her writing in a scribbler and asked about it. She told me she recorded such information, as when the first and last frost came, when crops were planted and harvested, the price the geese and pigs brought, for Grandpa. I later have learned they contain more than that, but they are never confessional, not often reflective but they show the daily life of my rural grandparents in my Grandmother’s voice I remember well.

My frame has entries from December 23- December 25, 1945. As always the weather hovers about like a background character determined to take the front of stage. On the twenty-third and fourth, it is 20F below. Molly, a cow, freshened Sunday Dec 23rd, (they) are calling it Mary. Small farmers like my grandparents who would have no more than a dozen cows typically named each one. A sow had birthed a dozen piglets. That Saturday night friends, the Yoeman’s, dropped in after we were to bed, but we got up and had a cup of tea together and when they departed we gave them the 3 pigs we had in the house to see if they could have any luck with them. Friends dropping in without calling is usual and acceptable, newborn pigs at risk are brought into the house, and my Grandparents went to bed early. Best to draw a curtain on that. By the next day we just have four baby pigs now all told, I guess it was too cold for them to move and the sow laid on them. gosh it sure is bum luck. Sows lying on their young is an all too common trope. In the daytime, my Grandmother goes into London, about ten miles, to her sister-in-law Beatrice to help prepare for the next day’s dinner.

Christmas Day, 1945. My Grandparents’ two eldest sons are still overseas in the army. For my Grandmother, here’s the day all the kids look for, but oh gosh what a day it has been. Rain and sleet, we could not get to Beat’s too darn icy. George (her husband) and Vernon , (the youngest son who stays home on the farm), went up to Dales to phone her and got soaked it was raining so hard  and had an awful time to keep from falling it was so icy, they couldn’t get (through) to her, guess the wires were either busy or down, but we had a chicken picked (plucked) so we had chicken for Christmas dinner steamed pudding and a mincemeat pie. Vernon got the dime out of the pudding and George the nickel. George gave me a lovely pair of ornaments. Lady and Gentleman, in blue and gold, they are real good china not Woolworth’s goods. I gave him an Oddfellow’s (his Lodge) pin and a steel measuring tape he had been wanting. Vernon got a pair of skates from the baker. So we’re all happy. 

 I read the words of my Grandmother and I am there magically seeing her younger self and I am at the same time in that house, where she wrote her words, at many later Christmas gatherings with my family and cousins. Now I read and smile about the Yoemans, wonder at a heifer called Mary, at pigs kept around the wood stove, and the joy of real good china. I am humbled by the simplicity. So we’re all happy. I am remembering my Grandmother, a small woman with little education who came to Canada as a Home child from England, who raised five boys and buried her only daughter at three, who married another like her from England, who worked nine years as tenant farmers before they bought their own fifty acre farm. The many Christmases at my Grandparents blend into one happy memory of sledding down the hill in the pasture, skating on the creek, presents from the cedar tree, angel hair, mittens knitted for every child, and once lovely horse head bookends from Kingsmill’s, not Woolworth’s. Grace before the food imagined for weeks. The bird, of course, and all the trimmings. Then the desserts. Christmas pudding with its special caramel sauce. Mincemeat pie, completely homemade like everything else. In the evening the adults played cards, children played crokinole or with some present, perhaps read. In the evening, the Christmas cake is brought out, admired and sliced. The chocolates with the cherry in the middle I had helped make are passed around. Adults glare at children to let them know to only take one. So we’re all happy.  

Summer Music

~ Catherine Campbell ~ Leave a comment

Bayfield was one of our go-to places for several years after we moved to London. We discovered Bayfield and the Little Inn of Bayfield as attendees at chef dinner/wine tasting events. The weekend stay was a treat – relaxing.

This town just vibrates “summer”. The streets crawl with visitors enjoying the sun, the patios, just steps to the lake. Numerous restaurants and bars line the main street. And businesses like the Village Bookshop grace the side streets. This shop reflects decades of dedication to the classic book business – welcoming to casual browsers and bibliophiles alike – defying the trend to online blogs and podcasts.

So why a visit on a hot summer day when weather forecasts threatened thunderstorms and even tornadoes?

The Village Bookshop had announced an event on Facebook. The plan was to host a Jazz Daze performance in the garden behind the store. Their promotion introduced the quartet performers. Two of them I knew. The percussionist was a Londoner and the husband of a creative writing instructor from Western. His wife had shared the event posting with me. I had been introduced to the percussionist’s obsession for music from jazz to classical. Their London home chock-a-block with musical instruments and music collections. The trumpet player we had heard several times in more classical venues, playing classical music. He performed a concert in a Baptist church accompanied by the piano and another in a United church joined by an organist. The piano and the organ were played by the same man who happens to be my piano coach.

This was not an event to miss. We decided that it would be well worth the 1 ½ hours drive even if we had to take refuge from rain. My husband and I arrived in Bayfield to the news that the performance was now indoors in the lounge at the Little Inn in deference to the weather forecast. (Of course, not a drop of rain fell.)

The performers were just warming up as we coasted in. Let me introduce all the musicians.

“Jazz Daze” is a quartet consisting of the trumpet (Ken Baldwin), the double bass (Steve Harris), percussion (Paul Adams) and keyboard (David Lee).

Paul Adams handled introductions and entertained the attendees with an explanation of the musical roots of the Bossa Nova. Clearly passionate about the art of drumming in jazz Paul demonstrated the use of brushes as well as sticks. For us, new to the brushes, it was interesting to hear the unique, jazzy sound. Paul also spoke about his custom Ayotte snare drum. Ken commented on the difference between the trumpet and the fugelhorn and showed the mutes he used.

No programs but Paul very generously forwarded me a list of pieces performed so that I could share. The extensive selection was familiar to many in the audience – among the songs were Summertime, Fly me to the Moon, Girl from Ipanema, I Loves you Porgy, Cheek to Cheek, Moon River, Song for my Father. All had been performed in years gone by by great musicians, singers as well as instrumentalists. An afternoon immersed in a jazz legacy.

The atmosphere was casual, intimate. Locals and visitors wandered in enticed by the resonating tones – and stayed. They filled the few seats, other lining the walls. A little wine and beer. Laughter, conversation and applause.

The musicians performed two lengthy sets. We bid them adieu and headed back to London. Not as fortunate as Bayfield with the weather, London had torrential rain the whole afternoon and, further east, Ayr was hit by a tornado.

The Spinning Wheel of Sarah Ann Backus – her Spinning Wheel Legacy (Alison Pearce)

~ Catherine Campbell ~ Leave a comment

This is the spinning wheel that belonged to my grandmother, Sarah Ann (Backus) Pearce. It was small too, just as Grandmother who was less than five feet tall was small.  Her short legs comfortably reached the treadle on the wheel.

As I look back now in my eighties, II recall how mesmerized I was as I watched my grandmother treadle for hours. Her feet and legs moved ever so evenly, up down, as she guided the rough wool onto the wheel, her hands and feet moving in different rhythms, forming one long unbroken woolen thread and ball of yarn. 

 For grandmother, spinning was more than a skill. For her it was an art and one which began in early spring. Each year my father or my uncle took turns putting aside a fleece for Grandma. And when summer time came Grandma began the act of preparation. I can see her yet, sitting out on her lawn, fleece spread over her lap as she pulled out the oily tats one by one.

 Then came the job of washing the fleece. Out came the large galvanized bucket to the lawn which she filled with warm water that she had heated on top of her stove. After several washes and rinses Grandma spread the fleece out on the lawn to bleach and dry in the days that lay ahead.

Finally she determined that the wool was ready for spinning. She gathered up the bundle and carried it into her living room where her spinning wheel was ready and waiting. I watched as she tore off large chunks of the fleece, piece by piece which she rolled into rough threads. Then she would place, one end onto the wheel, as she began to treadle. She kept this up until she had enough to form one large ball of yarn.

She loved to knit socks   for her sons and woolen mitts for her grandchildren   my birthday at the end of May.

Spinning 

The Spinning Wheel

This spinning wheel belonged to my grandmother, Sarah Ann (Backus) Pearce. Grandma was less than five feet tall and a special spinning wheel had to be made for her.  It’s well over 80 years now since I stood, as a wee child, mesmerized, watching her hands and feet working the wheel and treadle in their own rhythms. 

She was a 3rd generation pioneer and the last one in the community to carry out such a task, which she performed from beginning to end.

Each spring one of her sons, Ernest or John, would give her a fleece following the shearing of the sheep. Grandma would prepare and wash it in her yard and when bleached and dry she would bring it into the house where the spinning wheel was waiting. With her balls and skeins of yarn she would knit socks for the men and mittens for her grandchildren .She purchased her packets of dye from Hockins in Dutton. In May of each year I could count on a pair of mittens for my birthday, navy one year – burgundy the following year.

The Gifts of Love  (A true story) (Alison Pearce)

~ Catherine Campbell ~ Leave a comment

Excitement continued to mount throughout the whole month of December. Each day brought something new and the boxes kept filling up as the month crept on. Yesterday four boys brought in gifts for Michael age 10 and Steven the baby, 14 months. The presents for Karen, age 11 and Jennifer who was 4, were piling up too, all nicely wrapped for Christmas, all tagged with the name for each family child on it and the name of the child who gave the gift. The children in the class had drawn names. In that way each child would receive the same number of presents.

As the days rolled on the food boxes were filling up too; cereals, hot chocolate, jams and peanut butter, canned foods and other food gifts that would not spoil. The class had voted that two children would accompany Mrs. Bernstien, the class mother, and me to take our gifts of Christmas love to our family of four.

With the car all packed, we set off after school the day before holidays were to begin. Neither Mrs. Bernstein nor I had been to this part of the city before.

What a shocking surprise! This whole area had been expropriated, awaiting the city’s decision over the building of the Allan Expressway. It was an area of small flat-roofed shacks, with their hydro and telephone wires strung from one crudely built cabin to the next. I pushed the thought from my mind of what might happen if one of them suddenly caught fire. Surely this was Toronto’s social housing at its worst. At best, it was a far cry from the beautiful homes of Forest Hill, less than five miles from where we had just come.

Nevertheless we parked in front of a door bearing the number we had been given and heaved a sigh of hope that we would be welcomed and not turned away.

We knocked. “Hello”, I said to the lady as she timidly looked us over. “The boys and girls in my class would like to give you and your children some presents for Christmas. May we bring them in?”

The mother stood speechless as she nodded and her eyes filled with tears.

By the time we had finished carrying in all the boxes her children had huddled around her, Jennifer tugging on her skirt. Baby Steven, awakened by the noise and chatter, was beginning to fuss. While Mrs. Bernstein and I were laying out some candy canes, fruit and nuts, Susan and Allan were each holding up a present and showing the mother the names of the children.

“Oh!” said the mother in a faint voice. “I can’t believe it!” and as she gathered her children around her even more closely, she pointed to the boxes. “How can I ever thank you? We had nothing and you have made our Christmas!” she said, struggling to hold back even more tears.

“And you have made ours too”, said Suzy and Allan together.

As we drove quietly back to the school I could hear Suzy whisper to Allan. “I wish I could take them all home with me,” she said, and he whispered back, “Me too.”

William Charles Frederick Keeler (Alison Pearce)

~ Catherine Campbell ~ Leave a comment

Bill Keeler has been in my life for 9 years and when I look back on those years I can’t think of what my life would have been like without him in it. I have been truly blessed and at a time in my life when I had not expected such blessings. Bill and I had a common interest in genealogy and family history. We each went to the monthly Middlesex Genealogical meetings when we first came to London.

So you see! We didn’t meet on-line as so many young people do today. Had we gone on line we would have had to give a personal profile – a sketch of ourselves. They might have read something like this.

Bill Keeler: widower, age 82 -have had 56 years of marriage – doesn’t like to listen to classical music; independent – strong minded – used to setting the rules 

Alison Pearce: spinster, age 75: single all these years; doesn’t like to watch John Wayne movies; independent – strong minded – used to setting the rules

Well there we have it. The perfect match!

But there was so much more to Bill’s personal profile. He had a real sense of humility and though he was neither spiritual, nor religious, he truly lived, “The Golden Rule”­—”Do unto others, as you would have them do unto you.” In all the years I knew Bill I never heard him once say an unkind word about one person. He was a true gentleman, kind and considerate and anyone who met him could sense these qualities about him. Always impeccably dressed and always with his long-sleeved shirts and trousers pressed just so. 

Bill had a great sense of humour too and believe it or not we laughed together many times during this past year.

I don’t know of any person who could be as kind and thoughtful as Bill. I had just met him at the time that my sister Mary, who lived in St. Thomas, had died. When Bill asked me if he could help me in any way- such as driving me to St. Thomas for the visitation or the funeral – I thanked him and said I would be fine. Then within minutes I realized what I had just done and I quickly picked up the phone. Thus began a long series of Bill doing things with me and for me. He helped me to arrange birthday parties for one sister when she was in the McCormick Home. He drove me to Aurora every month to visit my oldest sister Norine in her retirement home, before her death three years ago. As the oldest in the family, Bill and Norine were very much alike. They were both the role models for their younger siblings.

One time when I received an invitation to a book launch, from a former pupil, that was to be held in Casa Loma, it was Bill who said, “Well, what’s holding us up?” Down we went to Toronto. Four years later we attended Andrew’s wedding, as well.

In 2000, I had moved from Toronto to London to research and write the history of my Elgin County family and to have it published in time for our 200th anniversary in July 2009. That was a little more than two years down the road -from the time that I had met Bill. Although he had already written and printed his own family history, mine was still underway. I had no idea that putting all the historical chapters, data and family pictures in book form, was as complicated as it was. With Bill’s knowledge and many hours of working together, our excitement eventually rose to fever pitch. We headed down to Milton to pick up the printed copies two months prior to the July reunion taking place. And yes, Bill was every bit as pleased as I was, with our labours.

Later on we had two wonderful trips – the first to the West Coast in 2010 where we visited Bill’s brother Don and his wife Shirley; a year later out to the East Coast and to the very tip of Newfoundland.

But it was the little things that Bill did that counted so much too; driving out into the country for brown eggs, or picking up some maple syrup; over to Port Stanley for a perch dinner, or to the Pearce Park in the fall to hear the crunch of leaves underfoot.

As time went on, our outings became fewer and farther between because of Bill’s oxygen needs. He would work in his basement on his stamps for hours at a time when he said, “I don’t think of my breathing then.” But there are times when cabin fever can set in for any one of us. Bill loved to get in his car and just GO!

One misty Saturday last October he called me early in the morning. His first, and I think his only words were, “I’m taking you for a drive up north”. I knew he hadn’t the foggiest idea of where we were going, and I also knew we had three hours of oxygen. After I made some calls and plans off we went through the country to Grand Bend, saw a few coloured leaves in the rain around Parkhill, had a fantastic lunch in a restaurant called F.I.N.E. – and arrived back in London just under the wire. That was our last “out of city” outing.

These last two or three years in particular, have not been easy for Bill. I know, and I became quietly anxious, as I saw him requiring more and more oxygen just to keep going. What courage and determination he had.

But he lived to celebrate his 90th last August. Although he gave me a wonderful party for my 80th, Bill did not wish to have a 90th party. Part of it may have been that he was finding it just too tiring to be around people, but part of it was Bill’s own nature. He would rather do for others than have others do for him.

I believe that we all have lessons to learn as we journey through life. So what lessons did Bill teach me?

Well #1 I’ve learned never to use a comma where there should be a semi-colon. #2 I’ve learned I could be quiet for at least 10 seconds when riding in Bill’s car. #3 And I know that when I get up, I must first get dressed – no sitting around in your pajamas having breakfast just because you’re retired.

BUT most important of all. I’ve learned that if you’ve had a bad day with someone close — or anyone, for that matter — learn to let it go. Don’t continue to have regrets about yesterday’s ills. The next day is a “new day”. Make it count. Bill tried so hard to monitor and control his breathing needs so that he could have as many “new days” as possible with all of us. But his final “new day” came on February 24th. How fortunate we were, that all of us, his family, could be there together in his room sharing our love with him on this, his last “new day” here on earth.

I shall miss you Bill.Thank you for being such a wonderful part of my life, for just being you – for doing things for me and with me over these many years. And thank you too, for making me such a part of your caring and loving family.

The Road Ahead – the GPS is Always Right (Alison Pearce)

~ Alison Pearce ~ Leave a comment

What a fabulous trip we were on. 

When Bill (Keeler) was in his eighties, and with me not far behind, we both decided that age would be no obstacle to our love of travel. So, with our route well-mapped and our food cooler filled, we set out at the end of July on our journey to the West. 

Bill was so proud of his shiny white Mercury Milan. There weren’t many in Canada, and its previous owner had managed to bring it across the border the year before. Bill snapped it up from the lot of his Ford Dealership the day he had to leave his Crown Vic behind. Sadly, for him, the Crown Vic had seen better days. Bill loved his cars, and he treated each one like a personal friend.

Bill was an excellent driver, and with as many turns at the wheel, I matched him. Along the northern shores of Lake Superior, across the prairies, south to the mountains of Alberta, through the Crowsnest Pass, to the coast, and finally by ferry over to Victoria, we traveled, visiting relatives along the way.

After six wonderful weeks of sights, we were finally heading home. We had one more destination, which Bill insisted on visiting. He had found a town marked Keeler, a dot on the road map of southern Saskatchewan. A little village, Bill thought, where he might find some more relatives to add to his family history. He had found a number of Keelers in Manitoba, and Saskatchewan was not that far away, was it? And so, we planned to visit Keeler(ville) on our way home.

As we sped along the Trans Canada through the bleak prairie land of southern Saskatchewan, we found ourselves traveling beside railway track after railway track. They seemed never-ending, and the whole scene was actually quite depressing to us. There were no signs of human habitation for miles along the way. However, the very thought of finding live Keelers in Keelerville lifted Bill’s spirits. He hoped that he might find another relative whom he could add to his clan’s history. 

It was early afternoon. “Maybe we should get a motel room before we turn off,” I suggested. “At least we will have a room to drive back to.” Bill agreed, and with that, several miles on down the road, I pulled up to a small, gray building that had five or six rooms. It was not terribly inviting from the outside, but motels were few and far between. It was my task to choose our motel accommodations along the way, so I hopped out and went in.

“No,” I said to Bill as I came back to the car. “It won’t do. Why don’t we visit Keelerville first and then go on to White City for the night? There’s a hotel there. Do you remember the fabulous breakfast we had in it that Sunday morning on our way out?”

What a great time we were having! Neither our GPS nor Bill’s car had let us down these thousands of miles along the way. 

Bill agreed with my plan, and so on I drove down the highway until the GPS told us to turn south for 20 kms, and then I reckoned, having studied the map, we would turn right for a bit. And this was exactly what the GPS told us to do. As I turned onto a narrow, dark laneway of a road, I could vaguely see in the distance what might be some buildings amidst a clump of trees. Keelerville, I thought! But I hadn’t gone fifty feet before I could feel the car sinking into what appeared to be a thick, dark, clay-like loam. The car had completely lost traction and stopped dead.

“I can’t move,” I said to Bill. “I’m stuck.” I could move neither forward nor backward. “I don’t know what to do,” I cried out helplessly.

With that, Bill opened his door and was already part way out on his way to exchange seats. I did the same. But the black, thick muck clung to our running shoes, more and more of it with each step we took. My feet began to feel like heavy wooden blocks. Bill was experiencing the same difficulty. I was able to grab a stick, and both of us removed some of that heavy stuff from our shoes before we each got back into the car.

Now! As I said, Bill was an excellent driver, and I was relieved to see him once again behind the wheel. He tried and tried to go forward and then backward, but the wheels just kept spinning, and with each spin, a little more black guck flew into the air and onto his precious white Mercury Milan.

“Merde,” said Bill. “Merde, Merde, Merde!” I suddenly became aware for the first time that Bill could speak French. Then I soon heard him muttering under his breath, “Damn you bugger.” 

I sat in silence, and so did Bill as he kept studying all the buttons on the panel in front of him. But what to do? Finally, out came the manual from the glove compartment. After studying it carefully, Bill had another try. And yes! Would you believe it? He had discovered a hitherto unknown button. He tried it! With pressure on the pedal and in reverse, we eventually inched our way backward, wheels spinning and mud flying in all directions until we had covered the 50 feet or so back to the main road. What a relief! We were once again on firm ground.

We spotted a man in a huge yellow grader coming down the road, so we drove toward him to make an inquiry. I’m certain he wondered if all Ontarians were this crazy. He stopped and turned his engine off. Yes, indeed, there had been a place called Keelerville down that road a ways back. “You must have crossed it,” he told us. “I believe there’s only one person living there now. You’ll find him in the schoolhouse. Let me take you there.” And with that, he switched his engine on, made an abrupt turn, and beckoned us to follow. We crept along slowly behind until he stopped in front of several old, abandoned buildings. Bill was anxious to reimburse him for his troubles, but he would have no part of it, and as he turned around, gave us a smile and waved goodbye.

We pulled up a little farther in front of a dirty, gray, stucco building that had the name “Keeler Community Centre” clearly etched along the top of it. After a few moments, an unshaven man came out of the weedy growth to greet us. Yes, he was a Keeler, the last one to remain here, he said. No, his Keeler family was not from Norwich, where Bill’s had come from in England. His were from Aylesbury. After several minutes of discussing their family backgrounds, the two men agreed they had no family ties.

Then the conversation turned to Keelersville itself. In the midst of wheat land, it had been a centre for grain storage for years and had once been a thriving Keeler community. At one time, there had been over a hundred children attending the three elementary and secondary classrooms. The remaining Keeler dweller, whom we had just now met, was living in one of these deserted classrooms. 

It seems that when the railroad came in forty years ago, the grain elevators had all disappeared, and the townsfolk soon left the area. Our newfound Keeler friend was the only Keeler living there now.

Both the Community Centre, which had been named after the family, and the village hotel had been left to decay. The doorways were open, and I wandered in to explore. The bar arm tables were still standing on the first floor of the hotel, but the customer tables and chairs had long since disappeared. One would not venture up the aging staircase to the second floor, which housed the bedrooms. In my imagination, I envisioned the layout of the rooms above, probably quite barren and with just the essentials that travelers would need as they passed through. 

Sensing Bill’s desire to move on, I climbed back into the car, mud still clinging to the soles of my shoes. The shiny Mercury Milan, Bill’s pride and joy, was covered in black polka dots. Anxious to locate a car wash, Bill was relieved to find one in White City. Once the car had been restored to its normal pristine state, our attention turned toward ourselves. It began feet first with me. What a relief to see the mud disappearing from my shoes as I held them, one by one, under the washroom tap.

 By this time, it was heading on to six o’clock and long past our regular stopping time. We headed over to the White City Hotel, ready to retire for the day. 

“We’re filled right up,” said the woman at the front desk in the White City Hotel.

 My jaw dropped, “Every room gone?” I asked in a raised voice and much to my dismay.

“Yes,” she said, “All seventy of them gone. We’re really busy right now. Try the motel on the next street”. And so we did. But it, too, was filled.

“I don’t know what we are going to do. We need a room for the night, and the hotel is filled, too,” I told the man.

“Why don’t I call the nearest motel?” said the desk clerk, and to our joy, it had one room left. “Please tell him to hold it, I urged. We can give him our Master Card number,” but he shook his head and told us it would be fine. They would hold it for certain. With that, he gave us directions to the motel, which was quite a piece back from the way we had come. Well over an hour later, we arrived. 

“Doesn’t this look familiar?” I said to Bill. When I went to the office, there sat the same man whose room I had turned down earlier in the day. Not surprisingly, it was still vacant! But at this point, neither of us cared. We were dead tired, and it was close to five hours past our stopping time. 

The tiny air conditioner sat perched high up on a triangular shelf in one corner of the room while a lamp with a pink shade and 25 Watt bulb on our night table was the only light we had. 

As we sat on the side of our beds, each holding a glass of wine while we munched our cheese and crackers, we laughed aloud as we recounted the day’s events. We had had an adventure that we could never have planned. 

“The GPS is always right!” I said. And shortly after that, we both fell sound asleep.

Prompt Writing Christmas Lunch – December 8 2022

~ Catherine Campbell ~ Leave a comment

Prompts included:

Gratitude      (Mary Ann Colihan)

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.    

Alison’s 90th Birthday

~ Catherine Campbell ~ Leave a comment

This birthday was too important to acknowledge only virtually! Alison looks like she is holding court!

Many visitors with her schedule carefully managed. It was a beautiful day and several visits took advantage of the patio. There were birthday cards galore, balloons, banners – it was impossible to miss the importance of the occasion.

And the creative member of the group – Diane Chartrand.

Happy Birthday Alison.

July 11, 2021 – Concetta (Rian Elliott)

~ Rian Elliott ~ Leave a comment

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

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

Concetta

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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