Tag: Short Story

 Reflections on a Pond – Madeleine Horton

~ Madeleine Horton ~ 4 Comments

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“O Christmas Tree, O Christmas Tree” (Catherine Campbell)

~ Catherine Campbell ~ Leave a comment

When it comes to Christmas for most people the main symbol of Christmas is a decorated tree – I reflect on that symbol and other Christmas events when the Christmas celebration is “relocated”.

Carlux. One of the most memorable was a return trip to France to our friends living in the Dordogne, in a small village, Carlux, in a property called Le Fournil.

We arrived before Christmas. It was 1999 and the millennial was on the horizon.

We purchased two little trees at the market and decorated them with red balls and Santa hats. Since it was also the millennium a lovely stuffed bear was acquired with a celebratory banner. Our little trees got planted in the garden above the Le Fournil – they are now 8 feet tall!

Millenours 2000 (my white bear) has gone a little yellow – I have gone a lot grey!

Tanzania – our Christmas tree was an artistic creation of pastel branches on sheets of paper – my mother was an artist and evergreens were not one of the native plants.

Indonesia – no Christmas tree but a special invite to a wedding (Christmas wasn’t part of the culture). The guests were seated facing the bride and groom and a meal was served to all. Unfortunately, the green beans were actually outrageously hot peppers. Tears streamed down my face while I tried not to interrupt the ceremony.

Palm Springs, the Ingleside Inn. We were without our son at Christmas so we took a trip to fill the holiday. Christmas decoration here consisted of a nude sculpture in the garden that had been graced with a Santa hat. Mini trees, decorated, about 8” high, were in every room. Echoing the near forgotten era of the piano lounge there was a pianist (Canadian co-incidentally) tickling the ivories on a grand piano, the food was excellent, classic tableside favourites, as was the wine – a Duckhorn Merlot.

Home and Christmas Tree Evolving – Aurora – London. The Christmas tree became “artificial” since our son was allergic to pine. It was graced with decorations that we had acquired from almost every place we visited. Nothing stylish about our tree but lots of memories. It has not been unboxed and “dressed” in five years. Just seems like a lot of effort when there is no one to share it with. Although, a visit including the grandkid is planned just after Christmas so I may have to take a deep breath and decorate.

 As our focal point of Christmas, the tree has been displaced, replaced by a piano recital mid-December (since 2011) and a writing group lunch. COVID was hard on both off these get togethers. No piano recital 2020, one in 2021 and nothing since. This year is particularly hard because the MC of the recital, our piano coach, is still recovering from a serious motorcycle accident. The adult student participants have lost touch with each other and, to some extent, lost focus on the performance objectives. The writing group lunch lost a year to the pandemic and suffered the loss of two of the original group, Alison and Rian. They are missed.

Santa Claus The fantasy of Santa Claus permeates Christmas. Of course, gifts under the tree are a big part of Santa’s role. In Goose Bay, at 6 years old, I guess I was a believer. CBC tracked Santa’s route from the North Pole. Gifts from Santa materialized from the basement (we never questioned why but now know my father made cradles and brought dolls home from a trip – no Santa involved). The requisite photo of our grandson in Santa’s lap was taken when he was a toddler.  None since and no gifts from Santa under his tree.

Fascinating was discovering the grave of the real Santa – St. Nicholas. We visited that grave in Antalya, Turkey. The stories of this saint’s life and good deeds seem so far removed from our bearded, classically attired in red and white, jolly old man with his reindeer and his elves.

As we move through the “silly season”

A Toast to Christmas

 To the memories past and memories yet to be made.

From our Carlux hosts and the 8’ Christmas trees,

“standing in verdant beauty”

Bonne Fetes.

Eldorado (Madeleine Horton)

~ Madeleine Horton ~ 1 Comment

My sister thinks I have a lot of crackpot theories. Not that she would use a word like that. She says in an even voice, “You might want to not broadcast those ideas too loudly.” That would be her theory about our trip to Red Butte.

I was working at a small stable. In the middle of nowhere or what passes for nowhere in that part of southern Ontario. I was doing massage on an older mare. I used to do people too, but I got tired of it. Too much complaining about my fees and come-ons from older guys.

Janis was standing at the head of the mare in case it got antsy. An excuse. Janis is a real talker and there aren’t many people around in the daytime. Most of her boarders are working so they can pay for these massages.

I’ve known Janis for years. She’s on the wrong side of forty and looks it. Too much sun. Her arms are real sinewy, ropey-like. Her hands are always calloused and raw, almost every finger crooked, from making a living wrangling rebellious horses at the end of a line. Still attractive at a glance though. She wears her hair long – lucky because it’s dead straight. I had to shorten my curly hair years ago. I knew it had the blowsy look.

I met Janis at a stable. She was one for the dramatic scene from the beginning. She married a pilot and on the wedding day, he parachuted onto the cross-country field and she picked him up in a two-horse carriage she borrowed.

I lost track of her for a few years until she started her stable. She told me she had kicked the bum, the pilot, out because his layovers were, well, lay overs. After that I saw her occasionally with an assortment of men at horse shows, usually guys looking baffled and doing her bidding. Carrying water and such. I had to admire how she made her little stable work.

So, I was stunned when she was holding that horse and said, “Ellen, I’ve got big news. I’m selling up and moving to live with my boyfriend.” I had not even seen a man lurking around there for a while.

I took my hands off the mare’s haunches and stepped closer to her. “You have got to be kidding.” I saw right away that was wrong and felt bad. “Tell me all about him.” That got me off the hook.

“His name is Colton” – I forget the last name – “and he owns a ranch that breeds and trains cutting horses.”

She met him on-line. I must have had a sceptical look because she laughed. “Oh, Ellen, come on. Everyone does it now.”

He was near her age. Divorced, of course. No kids. Had sold horses to Robert Redford and that media guy, Jane Fonda’s ex. Liked western sunsets, loved to barbeque, preferred sitting around the fireplace to bars. I was tempted to ask about quiet walks along the beach but held back. Instead, “When will I meet him?”

Her voice softened and she spoke in that tone young, untested brides do. Not like her at all. “I don’t think you will. Unless you come visit. Which I’d love for you to do. In South Dakota.”

“South-frigging-Dakota. You’ve got to be kidding. You read about women doing such things.”

She was set on it. Business was down, dealing with spoilt horses was getting harder. This was a chance for a real future.

She wouldn’t take her horse.

“No, it will be just Tucker-dog and me.”

She admitted Colton hadn’t mentioned a dog. “You can usually trust a man with a dog.” I said.

She settled up quickly. Turned out she only rented the land. Gave her horse to a friend. Sent most of her possessions to Goodwill. She gave me a wrought iron hitching post with a horse’s head I had admired. The day I went to pick it up she gave me a piece of paper with her address. I stared at it as if deciphering hieroglyphics. It read:

Eldorado, nr. Red Butte, South Dakota 37558

“Keep in touch,” she said.

Janis isn’t a hugger and nor am I. We looked at each other, quiet. “See you,” I said as if I’d be back in a month.

I waited to let her settle in. I phoned first. Number no longer in service. Unsurprising now she was stateside. The letter was not returned so I assumed she had it. No response. But at Christmas a strange postcard arrived. A black and white photo of three early settlers, a man and two women standing outside a cabin, more like a shed. Where they stood was a nowhere, not a tree or shrub or rise of land for a location. I turned it over. The postmark was illegible. The faded pencil scrawls were inked over with my address and a wobbly heart and ‘Janis’ printed in the large unruly letters a first grader might produce. I knew I had to visit Janis.

My sister and I were driving along the Needle Highway in South Dakota. A scenic detour she wanted to make. Thankfully she agreed to make the three-day trip from Phoenix with me. I think she gets bored. Her husband is retired but does a lot of contract work.

Peggy was excited about the rock formations she knew we would see. I think people who like rock formations are the same people who like abstract art. Peggy has a lot of that in her house. Myself, I could never settle in a place without real trees. Oak, ash, maple. Not the scrawny trees we saw there. I told Peggy about the mystery man Janis met over the internet, the quick move, and the long silence. Nothing of my suspicions or the post card.

“You always have strange friends.” I let that comment pass. It did irk me though. Peggy’s life has been highly conventional. Her husband is an on-the-move-research scientist. Their two daughters are high achievers. All their friends are doctors and lawyers and such, as the song says.

I decided I might as well tell her about what I thought was really going on. “I don’t want to alarm you but I suspect we might not see Janis. I have a feeling she is being held captive.”

 “Good God, Ellen, then what are we doing here? And what do you mean a feeling? A feeling or a theory?” You might know she was a linguistics major.

As I said, she thinks I am always promoting some cockeyed views about events. Not conspiracy theories, of course. “What do I mean?”

“Yes. Like your idea that violence and rioting in some places are explained by dehydration because no one has enough water to drink and dehydration causes irrational behaviour.”

I did happen to think that. Too many men running amok without water bottles. But I ignored that dig. “As it happens, I do have some thoughts on missing women. Don’t you notice how many aren’t found? It’s not easy to move and conceal a body. I think a lot of them are being held captive. I’ll bet it’s way more common than you think.”

“That is so disturbing. I don’t know how you can think about things like that.” She changed the subject to more of her research on South Dakota vegetation.

We reached Red Butte late afternoon. A faded sign announced, Home of the Pheasant Festival. “Must be the ringed neck pheasant. The state bird.” I wanted to show I knew something.

Peggy laughed. “You must mean the ring-necked pheasant. Though possibly true at the festival.” She took her hands off the steering wheel, twisted both hands on her neck and mimed breaking it.

Sometimes she breaks out in weird humour.

We pulled into the only motel in town. A six-cabin affair. The Pheasant Motel- surprise. A worn-out looking man booked us in. He seemed uninterested in our business there.

We set out for the Post Office where I hoped to get directions. Closed. Open three days a week for two hours according to the window sign. Next door another older man sat behind the counter of the hardware store, reading a Bible. I made some small talk about the pheasant festival but the man said it was mostly a local affair.

I was looking for directions to a place our GPS would not track I said. “The Post Office is closed,” I added as if this would be news.

“They don’t know much anyways. It’s all cluster mailboxes out there now. Some folks they never see.” I heard Peggy’s muttered, “Good God.”

“We’re looking for a place called Eldorado.”

He looked up now with interest and fixed his eyes on me. “I know about it on account of the name. Some like to dream big.”

He had never been there. Didn’t know anyone who had. But drew a map to an old logging road. It was about twenty miles away. I figured the kilometres roughly in my head.

“Hope you got a decent truck.” He nodded when I said I was from Canada.

My sister says she doesn’t care about vehicles as long as they run. I could sense otherwise. She was tense with all the jarring and bumping given to her SUV. She clutched the steering wheel with both hands and looked straight ahead.

“At least we aren’t on a mountain road.” Outside nothing but phallic-like rocks – her words from earlier – struggling aspen trees and in the distance ponderosa pines. Her research again.

The road ended abruptly in a turnaround and small clearing. An old trailer curved and shaped like an egg huddled alone in dry weeds. Amidst its rust, I could make out the original maroon and gold colour. “Do you know it’s called a teardrop trailer?”

“I suppose you think that makes it an omen.” I’ll say this. Peggy is often good at reading me.

No one was there. No one had bothered to shut the door properly. Inside, scarcely room for two people to move around. Peggy started going through the cupboards. I slid by her to the sleeping area. The mattresses were thin and dirty. I was leery of mice. I can’t abide a mouse inside.

“Nothing much here,” Peggy said. “A few mugs, a part of a jar of instant coffee, a can opener, cutlery, two cans of chili, matches.”

I looked under the mattresses as if expecting some big revelation. Nothing. There wasn’t much else to inspect. An oil lamp, a couple of musty pillows, a brown towel, no blood. “I think that’s it. I’ll take a quick look around the outside of the trailer.”

Peggy was already out the door.

I opened the cupboards again. One mug had a hunting scene with a horse and hounds coursing a fox. I put it in my jacket pocket.

I walked around the front of the trailer. Looking for I knew not what. Above the tiny front window was a chrome name plate: Eldorado. The brand of the trailer. Not even an original name for the place then. Behind the trailer was yet more untidy. Several empty oil barrels, a couple of tires, a broken webbed chair, all partly visible in the scrubby grass and weeds. Two more folding chairs, upended, around a fire pit filled with ashes and poked through by shards of grass. Something hung around the arm of one chair. Closer, I could see it was a dog’s collar, Tucker’s braided leather collar, and in the fire pit bones and some bits of charred black fur. “Fuck,” I said, and ran.

You know how the drive back from a place can seem shorter than the drive to the place. Not this time. I wanted to tell Peggy to drive faster but I didn’t want to scare her. Besides what were we running from? It was dark when we got to Red Butte. I couldn’t face staying there again. We drove to the nearest city, three hours away.

“What did you hope to find?” Peggy asked after a long shower in the security of a national brand hotel. I sat in a comfortable chair with the mug in my hand turning it around and around, looking at the hounds coursing the lone fox. There wasn’t much to say. Janis, of course. A ranch, maybe a struggling business. Maybe the guy would be a lot older than Janis but still it would all be good. Tucker would come out to greet me the way he always did.

“It was Eldorado.” Peggy looked up from the phone that now engrossed her. “I saw the name on the trailer, Eldorado, a brand plate. And Janis was there. I’m pretty sure.” I paused. “Didn’t you notice this mug with the hunt scene? That’s not the kind of mug a man out here would have. It’s fine china.

English made. English scene. The kind Janis would bring. The others were thick, dollar store junk.” “Shouldn’t we call the police or something?” Peggy would like that much drama.

Maybe I should have told her about finding that collar. I don’t know why I didn’t. Everything seemed to become more unreal when I saw that fire pit. It wasn’t the sort of thing that happens to Peggy and me. “There’s not much to go on. An adult woman, from out of the country, hooks up with a guy over the internet. Last name unknown. First name probably common here. Said by another woman, also from out of the country, to have disappeared. Oh, and the mug. What cop is going to understand about the mug?”

It wasn’t like we could go searching for Janis. Where would you begin in that vast emptiness? Peggy looked at me but said nothing. I don’t usually get this worked up. I walked over to her, bent down, and even hugged her. “Thanks for being such a good sport with all the driving and everything.”

At the window I looked into the dark. I wanted to go home. To my home, not Peggy’s. To see real trees. Pick up Ranger from the boarding kennel. Settle in on our couch. Make a real cup of tea. Why can’t the Americans make a proper cup of tea? Dishwater. Damn Janis. After all, I tried to warn her about him. What else could I do?

“You know,” I said more to myself than Peggy, “that was just the kind of place where someone like Janis could walk into a hardware store one day and announce she escaped years, say seven years, of being held in an abandoned cold war bunker.” Things like that happen. I tried picturing it all out.

Instead I kept seeing that collar. Such a shame about the dog.

Grandma Anna’s Funeral (Alison Pearce)

~ Alison Pearce ~ 1 Comment

Grandma Anna has just died. Bless her! It was May, 1943. 

Thank goodness she had presence of mind to plan her expiration date in the springtime. Had it been January, the locals may not have been able to master the snowdrifts that often filled the country roads in winter. They would have been disappointed had they not been able to see who had come to pay their respects. For everyone goes to all the funerals in the country, you know.  It is simply the thing to do.

But this was a special funeral and no doubt it would be a big one. Grandma Anna was in her nineties and was the last of her generation to go. She was 3rd generation on my father’s side of the family but she was still considered a pioneer. She was the only one left who knew full well what had come before. If anyone in the area needed to “know” something, they came to Grandma Anna. There would be an emptiness with her gone for there was no one who could fill her place now. 

Grandma Anna had been born in 1850, the year that her father had built that beautiful Georgian brick house on the lake road. It was the first brick house to be built in the county. And less than a mile the other way on the lake road was the home where her husband, Leonard, had been born. His father had built that home in 1874 and it was even more elegant than the house in which Grandma Anna had been born. Leonard’s house had seventeen rooms to fill it.

Leonard, Grandma Anna’s husband had not been a physically strong man, but he provided for Anna as best he could. Theirs was a frame gingerbread house with an outdoor privy and though Anna may have longed for the bricks and mortar of the home in which she had been brought up, no one ever knew. She held her head high. Her home was her castle and she expected everyone to treat her as the queen she was, who lived in it. And they did!

Her sons Edwin and James, who rarely saw eye to eye, had agreed on one thing. Their mother would have the best casket that money could buy. Made of polished oak with brass handles, it had a quilted satin interior and satin pillow on which to lay Grandma Anna’s head. Too large for the parlour, the casket had been brought into the house through the back kitchen door and into the living room where it remained throughout the visitation. Grandma Anna’s bible, always opened on a stand in the parlour, was open to “The Beatitudes” on a stand beside the casket now. An air of peace and holiness almost seemed to prevail.

Edwin and James knew there would be a lot of people. Anna’s lane was narrow and was flanked by huge jack pines on either side. The visitor’s vehicles were to continue on down a side lane, through James’ property and out to the main road. On the day of the funeral, the procession would follow the country road down to St. Peter’s Church for the service and on to the cemetery for burial, where lay Grandma Anna’s final resting place. 

On the day of the visitation, the first person to arrive was Jacob Dinsmore and his wife Effie Cusack. Everyone assumed they were husband and wife for they had lived together for years on the town’s main street. Jacob, the only townsfolk gentleman who had a horse now, kept it on the property behind his house. He came early to Grandma Anna’s house, hoping to avoid the frightening noises of the automobiles, especially that dreadful Ford car of Ernie McKillop’s. “Why he does not get his engine checked, I will never know!” said Jacob.

Just as he and Effie were about to climb into their buggy to leave, who should drive in but Ernie himself. And wouldn’t you know?  Ernie drove his car and parked right up beside the post where Jacob had hitched his horse.  Muttering under his breath, Jacob was forced to step back until the churning noise of McKillop’s car had ceased and his horse Prince had calmed down. “Why he does not get his engine checked, I will never know!” said Jacob.

Along with Edwin and James, Anna’s two widowed daughters, Norah and Beatrice who both lived up the road in Wallacetown, were there at their mother’s home to receive guests. as well. A number of the ladies from the Dorcas Society began to filter in and could be heard talking amongst themselves.

“Oh, haven’t they done a great job on her hair!” remarked Verna as the girls wandered over to the coffin. Some of them peered in at Grandma Anna’s peaceful face. 

“She didn’t have much to work with in the beginning”, said Doris. 

“And there she is, wearing her purple beads. Aren’t they the same ones that she wore every day,” chimed in Mabel. 

“Don’t you like her knit dress,” remarked Grace.  “I don’t think I’ve seen it before.” 

At that moment Beatrice stepped over. “Mother bought this dress almost twenty years ago.” she said. “She wanted to be ready for the day when she would need it.” 

Just then the girls turned around to see who was sobbing. Doris walked over and put her arm around Marion who was crying her eyes out. “We won’t have her any longer,” she sobbed, “to lead us in prayer at any of our meetings. Who’s going to do it now?” 

“Well let’s get her buried first before we think about that” chirped in Mona.

“Come on Marion! Anna would not be pleased to know you are crying so much. Remember she always told us that we should rejoice in death because it’s only through death that each of us will truly meet our Maker”.

“Well, she’s surely with Him now”, Tina announced as Marion struggled to wipe away her tears.

The living room was beginning to fill up with people coming and going all afternoon. Men and women who hadn’t seen Grandma Anna, some for two or three years, came from far and wide to pay their respects. They had come to say good-bye to Grandma Anna and to catch up on local news at the same time. There was something about Grandma Anna that one could never forget once you had met her. She had a deep and abiding faith and an aura of spirituality that seemed to envelop every person who came in contact with her. She was a lady for whom deep respect was afforded by everyone who knew her

The ladies of the Dorcas Society were about to leave just as John B arrived. He wasted no time in making his presence known and was soon heard to say in his booming voice, “I wonder how much she’s left the family”. No one bothered to turn around. Everyone knew John B’s voice. He was the town bachelor who rode about on his bicycle helping the farmers when they needed him. He was a good worker but other than that, social “know-how” was not part of John B’s make-up.  He always knew where he could get a good meal. On his way home from work he would often “conveniently” drop in to a home at supper time. Nothing would do but, that he had to be invited to join the family.

Disgusted, the neighbour standing beside him started to walk away but not before the minister who had heard John B’s questioning remark came over to silence him. It was not unusual for John B to speak out as he did. He had never learned to keep his mouth shut at the appropriate time.

Just then the Reverend raised his right hand and asked everyone in the room to remember Anna, each with their own silent prayers after which he pronounced a blessing of his own. “Amen” he said, as the group followed together with a second “Amen”. 

The following day at noon hour, the cars were lined up on the roadside waiting to follow the hearse down the road to the cemetery. It was a lengthy procession, for it seemed as though everyone in the neighbourhood had come to bid a final farewell to this lovely old lady, the last old timer of the community.

Since her husband’s death, Grandma Anna had always sat in the front pew of the church. Now her two sons, Waltham, who had come from Halifax and Reginald from Alberta, occupied it. The remaining members of her family sat behind them. 

The church which could barely seat a hundred people was filled. So was the balcony. People were standing at the back of the church and in the aisles. A few were gathered outside on the lawn, one or two of the farmers still in their work clothes since they had not had time to go home to change.  

This was the church that Grandma Anna’s forebears had built over a century earlier. St. Peters’ Anglican Church which was known for its splendor and elegance had seen many visitors during the course of each year. Though money may have been scarce for a number of things in those early days, one could see upon entering this beautiful edifice that the early settlers had spared nothing to make their house of worship, a House of lasting beauty. 

Several large stained-glass windows depicting biblical scenes such as “The Sower” or “Behold, I Stand at the Door and Knock”, caught one’s eye the minute one walked in. These windows were monuments of great beauty and had been dedicated to a number of the early pioneers. And the pews of solid polished oak spoke loudly of the reverence that these people held in their hearts for the wood and trees of their forests. Small wonder that the boys had chosen an oak casket for their mother.

The congregation stood when the casket was rolled up to the front of the church by the pallbearers. As the minister took his place, the choir began to softly sing “Abide with Me”. Reverend Craven’s eulogy was not long for that was the way Grandma Anna had wanted it.  She was, after all, a humble woman and had told him when she was alive that whatever he had to say, it was not to be lengthy. As the service came to an end the bell began to toll.  It continued ringing while the mourners filed out and followed the hearse on foot, up the road and over to the cemetery where they spread out circling the grave site of Grandma Anna.

As the minister pronounced that final blessing to the dead and the casket was slowly being lowered within the freshly dug grave, a pair of yellow warblers flew onto one of the branches of a nearby tulip tree. They began to warble so loudly that their song brought nothing but joy to all standing around, a song that seemed to be a heavenly benediction to Grandma Anna, one grand old lady and the last of the pioneers.

Note:

I was 11 years old when Grandmother died and I remember well her funeral. I am sorry that her house no longer exists. A cousin lived in it for a few years and it was eventually torn  down. But it holds many memories – the row of Jack pines that grew tall along one side of the laneway- and the eerie sound when you heard the wind blowing through them. 

I did not like going to Sunday School or church and I used to disappear when it was time to get ready. I would high tail it up the gravel road around the corner to Grandmas on   when it was time to get ready for church on the Sundays in springtime-The first pine tree inside the gate had a bough that came straight out for a few feet. I could hoist myself up  on it and  sit with my legs dangling, a perfect  place to observe  blue sky the buttercups dancing in the breeze.  As I communed with God and nature this  ritual fed my soul far more than listening to a stuffy old minister- But  too soon I heard my name being called as I was told that it was  time to get ready..

My First Boyfriend and My Father (Diane Chartrand)

~ Diane Chartrand ~ Leave a comment

It was 1958, I was thirteen, and had just started high school where I met a boy that I really liked, his name was Walter Dudek.

We started spending time together at school then progressed to the movie theatre so that we could kiss in the dark, and no one would object.

When my father found out who I was spending time with, he was furious, telling me he was no good and came from the wrong side of town.

One night Walter came to pick me up at the house. It wasn’t funny at the time but amuses me now.

All I remember is my father chasing Walter through back yards, over fences, and down several hills.  As they kept running, my father was yelling, “You  stay away from my daughter, you stay far, far away from her, or it will be hell to pay.”

This is the picture I still see in my head.  My father was four foot, eleven inches tall, and Walter was five foot, six inches in height.  I never realized my father could run so far or jump so high.

I didn’t stop seeing Walter for several months afterward, but he never did he come to pick me up at home again.

How to Start a Fire (Marian Bron)

~ Marian Bron ~ Leave a comment

Part 1 Ava

Sabine always wore black. Along with the opera length cigarette holder perpetually in her hand, it was her trademark. If one ignored the wild carrot coloured hair leaping around her pale face in untamed abandon, one would say she was classy. The hair, along with the constantly flashing green eyes, eyes that were angry and agitated, and not filled with youthful passion like our peers, kept her from achieving any status among our classmates. Like me, the foreigner, she was relegated to the rank of wannabee. 

            Seeing her dressed in a form hugging deep forest green cocktail dress, her hair smoothed into a respectable chignon at the nape of the neck and her eyes resting on my face as I approached the door of her building for our study session, was a shock. This was not Sabine the student I knew.

            I had come over from Canada in September to study French literature in the City of Lights for a year at the Sorbonne. A flight home for Christmas had been out of the question. While the bedsit I rented was affordable, it was the not being able to cook for myself that had blown my budget. If I wanted to finish my year abroad, I had to make some heavy handed changes. Mooching meals off Sabine twice a week was a start. Her snacks were not the chips and grease-filled treats of my high school and early university days. They were meals in themselves. Cheeses, raw vegetables, grapes and berries, spicy sausages when she received a package from home, and never anything fattening. I’d lost more than my freshman fifteen, pounds I had doubled second year, by the end of December. Unbelievably, I was almost back to my fourteen-year-old weight. The clothes I’d brought from home hung on me, but I couldn’t afford new ones. Unfortunate considering I was living in the fashion capitol of the world, so with needle and thread, I took in what I could. Forever marked as the uncouth American.

            “Cherie,” Sabine said as she locked the door behind her. “I forgot I have an appointment. Can we do this tomorrow?”

            A long black car idled at the curb. Its liveried driver stood with his hand on the rear passenger door. 

            “Sure, I guess, we have a week,” I replied as I followed her to the car.

            “Mademoiselle,” the driver nodded, opening the door.

            Sabine slid gracefully from sight. “I’ll text.”

            The driver closed the door and with a quick nod he turned on his heels, rounded the car and got in. The black car and Sabine disappeared around the corner.

No longer wowed by the ever present subway music, I made my way home. A long night alone in a box of a room all I had to look forward to. Like the sycamores outside my window it had lost its colour. What was once cute was now a cage. The peeling wallpaper  no longer historic and the water stained ceiling decrepit. I had wanted to spend the evening in Sabine’s apartment not just for the food. It was elegant. It was classy. It was truly Parisian. How she could afford it was a secret she kept. In late October, I had spent a weekend with her at her parent’s house near Dijon and knew they were not rich. Like me, they stretched every Euro as far as it would go. Sabine wouldn’t know how to stretch a Euro if it was made of elastic.

Part 2 – Sabine

Blonde sunshine. Big North American blonde upbeat sunshine. It was annoying. She’s old enough to know life isn’t like that. Regardless, I smiled a smile of welcome as I let her into my apartment. Doing what I do, these last two years I’ve become a master at faking it. This friendship was no different. 

Of course, it had its benefits. Despite not being a native speaker, she was smart. She knew how to write and because she read word by word, she was an excellent editor. Collaborating with her was never a mistake. It was an academic contact worth nurturing and, by extension, feeding. Her eyes lit up at the appetizers I had set out on my kitchen table. Ava didn’t think I noticed the literal hunger in her eyes. She thought she was playing it cool. Her face was too open and her heart too trusting. Those without scruples could easily take advantage of her.

We sat down and began studying. Ava discreetly eating almost everything on the table in front of her. But she wasn’t focussed today, not like most days. There was a question hanging over the table that she wasn’t asking. Her eyes kept travelling around the lovely apartment I had been allowed to live in.

Finally, I asked, “Cherie, what is it?”

She blushed. “It’s none of my business.”

It probably wasn’t, but I urged her to continue.

“This,” she said, a sweep of her hand taking in our surroundings. “Your apartment. It’s not like our other classmates’ apartments.”

I shrugged.

“How do you afford it?” Her big innocent blue eyes widened as she waited for my answer.

I settled back into my chair.  “I’m frugal. My parents taught me how to stretch a Euro.”

She shook her head. “I don’t believe it. They live nothing like this.” Her eyes settled on a signed print hanging over the fireplace. One of only twelve and a gift from a client. “How do you afford to live like this?”

Madame would love her. She was always on the look out for girls to book. She especially liked long-limbed blonde Americans, but I wasn’t going to share. As the oldest of five, I’ve done enough sharing in my twenty-three years. This side gig paid for the schooling I had waited far too long for, and it was mine alone. Besides, Ava didn’t have what it took to be one of Madame’s girls. Like I said, she was too open.

I shrugged again. “Student loans from a generous banker.”

Ava’s eyes narrowed. “But the dress and the limo last night? What was that about?”

It had been an unfortunate mistake. She was not supposed to see the car and driver or the dress. For years the cultivated persona was my shield and she saw behind it. Today I was back in my student uniform, but it didn’t protect me from her questions. She had glimpsed my private second persona. 

“An uncle called for me, a well do-to uncle so I had to dress up. He took me out to dinner.” I leaned forward. “I would appreciate it if you told no one about it. My reputation, you know. The other students don’t need to know.”

Her eyes narrowed as she sat back. “I didn’t think you cared what others thought of you?”

I shrugged again. “I do, to a degree. They are my peers.”

Ava’s eyes swung around the room. Taking in the furnishings and artwork Madame had provided. 

It was her turn to lean forward as she whispered, “Are you a prostitute?”

“Don’t be foolish.” Prostitute was so bourgeoisie. 

“A Special Mother’s Gift” (Diane Chartrand)

~ Diane Chartrand ~ Leave a comment

“It was just here!” Maggie shouted as she searched her pockets for the missing item.  Patting down her jacket first.

“I had it when I arrived at Walmart because before going in, I took them off from around my neck.”

Maggie had held the rosary close to her heart since the day her Mom gave them to her, just before she passed.  They were a gift given to her mother on the day of her first communion by her parents. Frazzled, Maggie started to slip her hands into every pocket of her jeans.  Nothing.

Panic set in thinking maybe they dropped out of the small hole in her top jacket pocket, but she had never heard anything hit the ground.  Of course, when she was in the parking lot, there was a lot of noise from all the cars racing back and forth, trying to find a place to park.

There was nothing in any of her pockets.  The rosary wasn’t anywhere.  Maggie started to cry. Her daughter heard her and came into the room, asking what was wrong.

“I can’t find Grandma’s rosary.  You know how I take it off from around my neck when in the stores after what that nasty lady said to me one time.  I put it in a pocket, and now it isn’t in any of them.”

“Mom, it will be okay.  Maybe we should drive back to the store and look for it.”

“Okay, but first, I have to put away the groceries that go in the freezer and fridge, so nothing spoils.”

The two of them did that together, leaving the other bags on the counter and headed for the car.  The Walmart was only a few blocks away, so they were there in a flash.

“Mom, you go look in the store and mall area.  I will check the parking lot.”

They parked in the same exact spot where Maggie had been the first time.  The two of them looked all around that area first.

“Okay, you keep looking here.  I took the buggy back to that area across from the car.  I will go inside and search.  Meet me in twenty minutes by the doors or come find me if you have the rosary.”

Maggie started her search as she walked through the mall doors and traced her path to the store entrance and all around the areas she had shopped, including the check-out she used.  Nothing, just nothing.

Maggie went to customer service and asked if anyone had returned a rosary.  “It has clear pieces on it with a silver cross.”  The lady said not while she was there and inquired how long ago she had lost it.

Tears started down Maggie’s face again as she left to go meet her daughter.  “Did you find anything?”

“Sorry, Mom. Nothing in the parking lot, and I went four rows over and back.  Let’s go back home and finish putting the groceries away.  Maybe someone will find it and turn it in. We can check tomorrow.”

The two drove back to the house.  Maggie started unpacking the canned goods and cereals.

“Mom, Mom.  I found Grandma’s rosary.”

Maggie ran over to the open door.  “Where was it?”

“Grandma’s rosary was on the floor in the back of the car.  It must have slipped out of your pocket when you were putting the groceries in.”

Maggie’s daughter slipped her Grandmother’s rosary over her mother’s head and onto her neck.

“Mom.  Please don’t take it off again, no matter what people say.  Grandma would want to be close to you all the time.”

Spontaneous Combustion (Madeleine Horton)

~ Madeleine Horton ~ Leave a comment

Nothing seemed unusual that day at school. Mrs. McColgan flared up after low sounds of cows and pigs and sheep arose around the room during mental arithmetic. I knew from my younger brother that older boys who hated standing up and computing numbers had planned the disruption. It was a favourite one among rural boys. No one would own up to the noises. Recesses were cancelled. Everyone had to sit and read or draw. We were kept indoors at lunch and restricted to quiet talking or crokinole for amusement. After lunch, the teacher read Lassie Come Home to us for much longer than usual. It did not seem strange that she read for so long or that all were punished for the misdeeds of a few. She was mercurial. I had heard older boys released from one of these days running to the road say she must be on the rag. I did not know what it meant but understood its dismissive tone. This day she looked down from her desk on the platform and asked my brother and I to stay after class dismissed. I sat while the other students left and stared at the print of the young Queen Elizabeth, the only picture on the walls. I dreaded being asked if I knew who made the noises. Mrs. McColgan had a way of detecting the most compliant students.

She came down to my desk and said, “Your barn burned down today.” That was it. Nothing else. No hug, no hands on a shoulder. No offer of a ride home. Unlikely as she herself waited for her husband to pick her up later. I felt embarrassed as if I had drawn this attention to myself. I reached into my desk and got my reader and my lunch bag. No one came for us. My brother ran ahead of me and I walked the half mile home alone. I could see nothing but the fir trees that lined the driveway and the empty space where the barn had risen. I thought of her, standing on that platform, looking out the high set windows that seemed designed to prevent young minds from wandering from their tasks. She must have seen it all, from bursting flames to lingering smoke, without as much as a telltale grimace as my family’s animals burnt alive. For a long time I hated her in that heated way of being nine and thinking I understood her behaviour, hated that she was so placid, a word I learned from my word obsessed mother.

My grandparents had come from their nearby farm. My grandmother met me in the driveway, wheezing more than usual from her asthma in the cold. A couple of neighbours lingered under the willow with my grandfather halfway to the barn. I looked but could see nothing of the horror behind the high cement walls and gaping window cavities. Some charred remains of the collapsed great timbers still smouldered and poked into the air. The smell of heavy smoke lingered. The firetruck had left.

In the house, my mother seemed bewildered and kept looking out the window that faced the barn. She repeated, “It was engulfed in flames when I saw it. Engulfed in flames.” I looked out the window and wondered if she had been reading. Her reading was already a small sore point and my mild-mannered grandmother had said to me more than once, “Your mother likes to read,” as if it were an affliction. My grandmother busied herself making my brother and me hot cocoa. She fretted about my father. He could not be contacted directly as he was at a service call to fix a tractor but would come home directly. I sat beside Jack who sat on the lounge by the wood stove, his pipe in his mouth unlit. He said nothing to me and there was nothing for us to do.

Jack was our hired man though my father never called him that. He was thin and seemed very old. He was a relative of a neighbouring farmer who had an abattoir. I knew this meant he was a butcher. Jack came to live with us because the butcher had no room for him and nothing to do. We did not really need a hired man. But since my father now worked off the farm so he could keep the farm and because, as I later realized, my father was kind, Jack came to us. He came with the smallest of suitcases and minimal desires. He smoked a pipe in the evening. He would not hear of my brother and I sharing a room so he could have one. Instead he slept on the lounge and was up so early it was like he had never slept there. Jack and I always started the evening chores before my father got home.

Having a hired man ranked high among the boys at school. Somehow, they knew about Jack but not from me for I was terrified of these older boys who took any bit of my lunch that suited them. A couple had been held back for two years in a time of no social promotion to the next grade. They seemed privy to all the talk of their fathers and had already embarrassed me by asking if my father couldn’t pay his taxes. They were well versed in who counted as a real hired man and said Jack was just some old guy, probably a drunk, that nobody wanted. “Your dad don’t pay him,” one told me.

I liked Jack. He was clean, he called me Miss, and he gave me a jackknife. “You’ll be needing this, Miss,” he said, “to cut the twine on the bales.” I was not yet strong enough to break the hay bales apart with my knees. It was the first time I had been given something that admitted me into a corner of the male world, a place I was beginning to realize would be separate and special. Already my brother, Tom, was talking about when he would be able to help other farmers with haying and get paid so he could buy a geared bike. I had asked my father about such work only to be told bluntly, “Girls don’t work off the farm like that.”

It was almost dark when my father got home. He was often late. The neighbours had left. I could only imagine the shock as he drove in the driveway and saw the silhouette of the barn, as he met his father, as they walked to the barn shell. When they came into the house, my father was silent as he sat down at the table where my grandmother laid out a plate of food for him. I sat in the background and watched him eat mechanically.

“It had to be spontaneous combustion according to the fire fellows, Ed,” my grandfather said. My mother jumped in, almost lit up. This was something she thought she knew about. She put my youngest brother down from her knee where she had busied herself keeping his toddler enthusiasms at bay. “It means huge pressure builds up in the hay and it heats and when it reaches a certain temperature, it bursts into flames. People can combust too.” At this, my grandmother looked at her with alarm. My mother continued, more directly to me. “Freud knew about it and said it happened when people were under pressure. They were consumed with anxiety and burned from the inside out. Dickens knew about it too and put it in a book.” I did not know who Freud was but I knew of Dickens and Scrooge and I knew my mother was smart. I saw my grandmother exchange a glance with my grandfather about the Freud comment. My father continued to sit at the table, his head in his hands, quiet.

I crept off to bed. I dreaded going to school the next day knowing I’d be circled by boys questioning me like a court, weighing in with their theories of what happened. I thought about what my mother said. The spontaneous combustion. It made sense. I worried for a moment that it would happen to my father but decided he was too sensible to combust. Then it struck me. If people could combust, cows could too. The cows or maybe just one cow must have burst into flames from being locked up all winter in their stanchions. In the kitchen, I could hear my parents, now alone, talking. “You make too much of things. You’ll give her wild ideas.”

I was beginning to feel that my family was different. Neighbouring families had lived there for generations. Many farms had two houses, a couple three. The generations shifted between the houses as elders died, as parents moved into the smaller house, as a son took over the central house. Century farms would be designated in the centennial year with plaques. The families married closely. My mother was a war bride. My father had served overseas. He was the only one in the neighbourhood except for a bachelor family of four boys. Two had gone to war. One came back with a leg missing and the other odd. I was given to theories at a young age and had decided that our family’s unsteady financial state could be explained by my father’s going to war unlike any of my classmates’ fathers. When I mentioned this once at supper, my father would have none of it. “You don’t know what you are talking about. The men on the farms were needed to produce food for the war effort.” My mother looked at me reproachfully as I had earlier raised the idea with her. She said it would not be a popular one. She had heard there were many young men from farms who served and died.

As soon as I returned to school, I was surrounded by boys. I felt sick when they asked if I had looked at the dead stuff. I was spared from replying. “Probably not,” one said to another. “She’s a girl. Wouldn’t be allowed.” They launched into their interrogation with all the presumed authority of well-groomed heirs. “Was it faulty wiring? Did your dad try to do it himself?” “Have you got rats? They chew wiring you know.” “Was it that guy who lives with you? Was he smoking in the barn?” “My dad says he” – here a hand mimed a bottle being drunk and boys snickered – “likes the bottle.”

“It was spontaneous combustion,” I said proudly. “It wasn’t our fault.”

“My dad said it wasn’t spontaneous combustion. February’s too late for hay to combust.”

This dogged certainty, the echoes of his father’s voice picking over my family’s tragedy, enraged me and made me reckless. “It wasn’t the hay. It was the cows or maybe just one cow.”

The boys all laughed. I saw some girls looking over from their circle but none came over. I did not leave it there. Their laughter egged me on to more outrageous assertions. “The cows wanted to get out. They were upset at being in the barn for so long. They got so upset one of them just blew up in flames. My mother told me so. And there is a guy called Floyd who knows about it too.”

This completely set the boys off. “You’re nuts. Like your mother. She should’ve stayed in England. My mother says she don’t know a thing about farming.”

“Most likely the old guy.” The oldest of the boys said this with a finality that convinced them and they lost interest in me and went back to their snow fort.

Where had Jack been? In yesterday’s confusion I had not considered Jack. I remembered him sitting in his usual place by the wood stove, head down, not smoking his pipe. After school I asked my mother.

“He was out in the woods checking his rabbit snares for most of the morning. He couldn’t hear or see anything. The fire truck didn’t use a siren. No need on these roads.”

I was relieved. Now I could clear Jack from suspicion. And distressed. Since he came, we had eaten rabbit frequently. My father was pleased with the free meat and even my mother who had eaten it during the war did not object. I was embarrassed about it. I had heard boys ask Henrik the immigrant from Holland whose father worked as a hired hand if they ate squirrels. I knew eating rabbit would be no better. But Jack was not to blame for the fire. Tomorrow I would face the boys and tell them the truth.

That evening I sat at the little table in my room and drew two pictures. My mother made sure I always had drawing paper. She believed in art. I wanted to remember the barn and the way everything was. I drew its layout with each of the stanchions for the cows, the three calves’ places beside their mothers, the pens at the rear for the sows and their piglets, the stairs to the hay mow, the room for the pig chop and chicken feed, the place for hanging the forks and shovels, the taps and opening where the hay came down from above. I drew another picture with the cows’ heads in their stanchions, their large liquid eyes facing me. I labelled the cow with the white heart-shaped marking in the middle of her black forehead that I named Valentine. I showed some chickens roosting on the bar above the cows.

When I was finished, I took my drawings to the kitchen where Jack lay asleep on the lounge and my father sat at the table examining sheets of important looking papers. I showed him the drawings. He held onto the one with the cows in their stanchions facing out and stared at it for moments until I felt uncomfortable, sad. “They wouldn’t suffer,” he said. “The smoke would get them first.” I wondered if this was one of the lies adults told children but knew I should not ask. I leaned over and kissed him. It was the first time I had done this for some time, feeling I was too old for such a nightly ritual. I took the drawings and retreated to my room. I locked them in my treasure chest. They would stay there – comforting, enduring, kindling for memories. Memories locked away, waiting to combust.

Revenge – Part One (Marian Bron)

~ Marian Bron ~ Leave a comment

The citronella candle sputtered in its terracotta pot as another popcorn dud landed next to the flame.

“Bull’s-eye,” Liza shouted. “Drink up Ladies!”

We drained our wine glasses.

Kernels littered the teak tabletop’s surface. As a group our aim was horrendous, Liza’s the first successful shot in quite awhile. If we kept this up, there wasn’t a chance in Hades that any of us would be going home drunk tonight.

“Fill ‘em up,” Erin said passing the bottle around, everyone except Marnie pouring the cheap chardonnay into glasses. She refilled hers with sparkling water, alcohol a sin she didn’t allow herself.

Mimi, her dog, and the popcorn bowl sat in her lap. The dog’s nose shoved deep into the bowl snuffling up what she could.  Marnie fished out a kernel and passed the bowl to Samantha. Holding Mimi close, she carefully aimed for the pot. It jumped off the pot’s edge, landing in the puddle of melted wax.

“Thank you, Lord,” she declared throwing her hands up in victory. She tipped her glass, guzzling it in one smooth gulp. A lady-like burp escaping as she set the glass down. The rest downed another glass of wine. Things were looking up.

Samantha was next. The force of her shot bounced the dry kernel off the table top and into Liza’s glass.

“I’ll get you a fresh one,” Erin laughed. “It’ll be covered in Mimi goobers.”

“Bring another bottle, too,” Samantha said. “This one’s just about done.”

Our men were inside watching the NHL playoffs. Besides being married to five high school friends, a love of hockey was all they had in common. Most girls’ nights they stayed home, but Erin and Ted had a new state-of-the-art home theatre room complete with a loaded beer fridge. Naturally, tonight the boys tagged along.

For us five girls, life had gotten dull. We’d become popcorn duds ourselves. Not one of us had any sizzle left, let alone the energy to pop. Liza and Barry were the only ones busy with small kids. Marnie and Frank had no kids, just that ugly Shih Tzu with its unfortunate orthodontia. The rest had teenagers who didn’t need us anymore. All five of us looked forward to these monthly get togethers. Sometimes we went to the movies, occasionally dinner but usually we met at each other’s homes. Everyone brought wine, except for Marnie, she drank nothing but sparkling water. We all brought junk food except for Liza. Since meeting Barry, she was off sugar. Her vegetable tray sat untouched next to a nearly finished plate of decadent brownies, empty chip bowl and platter of nachos and cheese. Mind you she was in amazing shape. Barry demanded it.

Liza adored him, we did not. He was a pretentious twat. A loaded twat with a gold touch. After college he got into banking and moved steadily up the ranks until he was managing the biggest bank in town. They’d purred up to Erin’s house in a Maserati, his newest toy, while the rest of us poked up in mini-vans. Tonight, however Barry seemed to have lost some of his glitter. It was small things. Liza’s comment about the new car and ladies. His never-ending meetings. Little jabs all evening long. Normally Barry only allowed one glass of wine, tonight she was on her fifth. Her aim was spot on, but her speech had started to slur.

“You know what, ladies?” she asked, pulling the pan of brownies towards her.

We watched as three brownies made their way into her mouth, her expression as she swallowed bordering on orgasmic.

“How I’ve missed you,” she said as she corralled the crumbs into a neat pile. She bent, vacuuming the pan empty with her mouth, wiping her face clean with the back of her hand.

“Barry?” Marnie whispered, quickly glancing over her shoulder. Disobedience was a sin.

“Hah! Barry the saint,” Liza slurred. “Lipstick on your collar’s gonna’ tell on you.”

We didn’t know what to say. Had Barry cheated? They had little kids. How dare he!

She raised her wine glass, sloshing half the contents onto her blouse. “Here’s to Missy Gillespie, home wrecker.”

“His receptionist?” I asked.

Liza sniggered, nodding. “He’s such a cliché.”

“What are you going to do?” Erin asked. We pulled our chairs closer, as everyone’s voice lowered. The men were still downstairs.

“Revenge. Get him where it hurts most.” Liza refilled her glass.

“An eye for an eye? It’s Biblical.” Samantha shrugged. “Why not?”

“I don’t think, the Lord meant literally,” Marnie said. “You can’t sin, too.”

“No, girls,” Liza said, her articulation perfect, eyes sparkling. Thoughts of revenge clearing her system of alcohol. “I’m going to rob his bank. You in?”

Christmas Memory 1999 (Diane Chartrand)

~ Diane Chartrand ~ Leave a comment

I stood freezing in the long line, at the Toronto Greyhound Terminal, for over two hours at Bay 6 with my bag beside me.  The bays were outside, and the wind and snow were blowing directly into us.

Being just a few days before Christmas, everyone appeared tired and ready to board their bus and sleep.  The time was closing in on midnight, but I was wide awake and anxious to see my six grandchildren in Ohio and their beautiful mother, my first-born daughter.

Finally, the bus had arrived.   I won’t have to change buses until we cross the border in about two hours and enter at the Buffalo Terminal.  I’m excited, and sleep doesn’t come.  I look out as the night has changed to a bright full moon and millions of stars.  As we go south, the snow is left behind us.

I envision the scene, I’ll hopefully see, in the next few days.  Getting to watch the kids open the presents I shipped down.  There will be joy on their faces along with a lot of noise as the children range in age from two to thirteen.

 As we arrive at customs, the driver says, “Make sure you take all your belongings off the bus.  Pick up your bags from under the bus and take them with you through that door to the left.  Make sure you have all your identification ready.”

I grab my backpack and a small bag from under the bus and make my way into line.  A customs agent calls up one person every twenty minutes.  At this rate, I’ll never make my connection in Buffalo.  After about forty minutes it’s finally my turn.

“ID please.  Where are you going and for how long?”

“To visit my daughter and six Grandchildren in Dayton, Ohio and will be there for five days.”

“Are you declaring anything into the country?”

“No.  I already sent my gifts to their house a couple of weeks ago.”

“Okay move on to the other officers to get your bags checked.”

Customs hadn’t started using screening machines yet, so our bags were checked manually.  This process always left a mess inside.

“Okay, you’re good to move on.  Take your bags and go back to the bus and wait with the driver.”

I was overjoyed that was over.  There were others, though, who didn’t get through as quickly.  One lady had packed sliced meat and oranges, both items not allowed to cross the border.  This caused a delay for over an hour while one of the customs agents searched for an interpreter because this lady, nor anyone in her family, spoke English.

After several more transfers along the way, I finally arrived in downtown Dayton.  I was so relieved to see my daughter and son-in-law sitting in the waiting room.  After a short drive, we arrived at the house.   All the children came up and gave me a big hug.

My Christmas in 1999 was the first I had spent with my family in many, many years.  It will always be the one I treasure the most.  It was the beginning of many more years of special occasions with them.