Yarns Amongst The Weave - Chapters 2 - 5

TWO
As she crouched beside the banister with her gangly legs folded up to her chin, her red braids hanging loosely over her knees, and her white bunny slippers looking over the top step, Gilda could barely hear the discussion downstairs over the loud ticking of the grandfather clock. She knew that making an appointment with a tea leaf reader wasn’t unusual. Her aunts Abigail and Mathilda had read tea leaves for many years, but mostly for fun. The readings of Cassandra Hotchkiss, on the other hand, Ridgeville’s newest forecaster of fortunes and fears, were taken much more seriously.
“I know what you are saying, Carlton,” Abigail replied, after she’d returned from leaving a phone message for Gilda’s mother, Helen. “This china cup has the power to change a person’s life forever.” Abigail gathered Gilda’s new teacup in her hands while Mathilda placed a pot of tea and a plate of freshly baked cookies on the coffee table in

front of Mr.Humphreys. She’d made them as a treat for Gilda’s lunch which wouldn’t be necessary now.
“There’s no ways we can lets this happen to our Gilda,” he stated. “She’s jus’ a child. Donts you agree?”
Abigail turned to Mathilda. “Gilda’s the same age now that we were when Father taught us to read tea leaves. You remember that, don’t you, Tilly?”
“Sure, but Abby, we haven’t read tea leaves in years.” Mathilda said, placing the cookies closer to Mr. Humphreys who proceeded to take them two at a time. “And Cassandra Hotchkiss has the entire town’s business these days.”
“For now, she does. It’s the perfect time to hand over the tea leaf reading reins to Gilda. Father documented everything, and we’ve got all his journals here in the house.” Abigail pointed to the leather bound books shelved behind the light blue wingback chair by the reading lamp. “But we’ll talk later ‘bout all that.”
Mr. Humphreys set his mug on the crocheted doily on the coffee table. He looked to his left and to his right as though he’d been tapped on both shoulders.
“What’s the matter, Carlton?” Abigail asked.
“Yous can’t tells nobody I tol’ you.” He wiped both palms in one solid motion from his lap to his knees, leaving streaks of perspiration on his blue polyester trousers.
“What’s got you all nervous, Carlton?” Mathilda asked.
“I saws Charles leaving Ida Schmidt’s house jus’ last month, too! When I calleds on Ida laters that day, she had that sames purple complexion as lasts time somebody’s tea


leaves was disturbin’.” Abigail moved to the edge of her seat. Mr. Humphreys looked her straight in the eye. “Miss Abigail, you’s gots to do’s somethin’s, and fast.”
“But why would Charles Khurser be seeking out fortune tellers?” Abigail asked. She curled a stray grey hair around her ear and straightened the strings on her red-rimmed bifocals hanging about her neck.
“Seems he’s gots somethin’ he needs to know,” he answered, that extra ‘s’ always sliding its way into his responses. His stare became more pronounced. “Hey, those there glasses is new, aren’t they?”
“Why yes, they are, Carlton,” Abigail replied with a blush, placing them on her nose.
“I’s like ‘em. Makes those green eyes of yours sparkles,” he added with a wink.
Abigail blushed even brighter.
“Good heavens,” Mathilda muttered. “A grade school crush, right before my eyes. Yuck.”
“Mathilda here picked them out,” Abigail added. “Said I needed more pizzazz in my wardrobe. Really! At my age, I just need a decent pair of spectacles, snazzy or otherwise.”
“And maybe some good eyes to really see what this man is getting at,” Mathilda muttered.
Abigail took off the glasses, let them swing on their strings, and then primped her hair. “But getting back to Charles.” Mathilda interjected. “Do you think it’s something from his past?”

“Coulds be,” he said, bending to take another sip of his tea, “but he beings a banker an’ all, it donts fit his personality.”
“There’s a lot we don’t know about this man my niece has married,” Abigail said, handing her guest the china plate. “Another cookie, Carlton?”
“Nope, better gets goin’ on my route,” he answered as he walked to the front door to pick up his navy canvas bag. Abigail and Mathilda followed. He turned his head towards Abigail and whispered. “Though I’s be keepin’ my ears open for any more news ‘bout you-knows-who.” Gilda, still in eavesdropping mode at the top landing, stood up and smoothed the creases out of her brown corduroy bell bottom pants, the hems of which never quite reached her ankles.
It’s true, she thought, we don’t know much about Charles’ life before he arrived in Ridgeville. She moved from the staircase to her bedroom at the top of the stairs. She glanced at the wedding photograph of her new family in the white frame on the dresser. Charles was holding Helen’s gloved hand in his, while Gilda and her brother Malcolm stood on each side of the newlyweds. Everyone was smiling on that sunny September Saturday, but she’d just now noticed how Charles’ smile was especially wide, wider than she’d seen in the last couple of months since he’d come to live at 29 Main Street East. Charles didn’t smile at all these days. Nevertheless, she believed Charles loved her mother. Her mother’s happiness was all that really mattered to her.
A pleasant, melodious ring, like the sound of joyous wedding bells, interrupted her thoughts. Abigail called up the stairs before she answered the telephone.

“It’s for you, Gilda. It’s your mum.” Abigail then picked up the phone. “Why hello, Helen. How are you and Charles this fine Monday morning? Glad to hear it. And young Malcolm?
As Gilda descended all thirteen stairs from her bedroom to the living room, she discovered something unusual about her aunts’ phone. She’d never questioned it before now, but it suddenly occurred to her that her aunts never answered the phone on the first ring, even if they were sitting in the same room, and they knew exactly who was calling before they’d even heard the caller’s voice on the other end of the line.
“Fine, dandy,” Abigail replied. “Well, here she is. Talk to you soon, Helen.” Abigail handed Gilda the phone.
Gilda pulled the long, ringletted cord into the kitchen so she wouldn’t interrupt the goodbyes between her aunts and Mr. Humphreys. The kitchen door closed behind her.
“Hi Mommy,” she said in a calm, quiet voice.
Helen’s voice quavered. “Is everything all right, Gildy? I just picked up my voice mail and heard Aunt Abigail’s message. Why didn’t you make it to school this morning? Aunt Mathilda’s car didn’t break down again, did it?”
Gilda didn’t answer right away. She couldn’t give her mother the real reason for her absence. After all, she hadn’t figured it out for herself. The news of Charles’
appointment with a tea leaf reader wasn’t enough of an excuse to miss school.
“I’m fine, Mommy. Just wasn’t feeling quite myself this morning.” It wasn’t a full-blown lie; her response did have some truth to it. How could she feel the same about herself if she didn’t know how she felt about her new stepfather?

“Do you need me to come over?” her mother asked with sincerity. “I can, you know. It’s not a problem. I’ll just ask Lottie to drive me.”
“I know, but I’m fine. Honest.”
“Are you sure everything’s all right, honey?” Helen asked. Gilda didn’t need to think about her response to that remark.
“It’s all good here, Mommy. Really. In fact, it’s great.” Gilda’s eyes filled with tears. She couldn’t tell her mother anything about the tea leaves, but holding it inside was harder than she thought.
“We can talk about it tonight if you’d like, after Aunt Mathilda and Aunt Abigail drop you off in town. You are coming home tonight, aren’t you, Gilda?”
“How ‘bout I let you talk to Aunt Mathilda about that?” Gilda answered.
“Ummm, sure sweetie,” Helen replied hesitantly, not really wanting to surrender the communication line with her daughter who, obviously, was not fine. “I’ll see you later tonight then,” Helen answered with a pause, filling the silent spaces in-between with a silent sigh. “Love you.”
“Love you too, Mommy. Bye.” Gilda leaned over to give Mathilda the phone. A tear rolled down her cheek before she had time to wipe it away with the sleeve of her woolen sweater. She quickly left the kitchen and stood in a hide-and-seek stance against the living room side of the kitchen door, not really knowing who or what she was hiding from.



THREE
The scent of stale tobacco lingered in the living room, haunting Gilda with the morning’s earlier events. Mr. Humphreys had just gone on his way to deliver the daily mail. Gilda watched Abigail as she stood near the front door, staring and talking into the oval picture frame by the deacon’s bench in the hallway. Gilda would often find her aunts conversing with their father’s photograph when they needed a little advice.
“I know you’re thinking what I’m thinking, Father,” Abigail whispered into the glass, “so we’re going to need your help, Nicholas Culpeper.”
Gilda said nothing; her mother and stepfather still on her mind.
Abigail turned to see Gilda outside the kitchen door.
“Oh hello, Gildy. Didn’t hear you come in. Everything all right with your mother?”
“Uh-uh.”
“And how are you doing?” she asked, taking the strings of her glasses and positioning their plastic red arms over her ears to study the tear stain on her niece’s cheek. Abigail held out an open hand. “Not very well, I can see.” She grabbed hold of Gilda’s hand and squeezed it tight.
“What do you say we do something fun today, hmmm? A day off school is special, and shouldn’t be wasted.” Abigail wiped the dampness from Gilda’s cheeks.
Gilda nodded. “Aunt Abigail?” she asked in a quiet voice.
“Yes, Gildy?” Abigail whispered back.
“I kinda overheard your conversation with Mr. Humphreys.”

“Oh, you did, did you?”
“Yes, and I was wondering, well, thinking really…”
“Spit it out, child.” Abigail removed her glasses. “What are you trying to say, dear?”
“Ok,” she said, then took a deep breath and pushed the air and the words out of her mouth in one solid, straight-forward question. “Where are we going to find out more about Charles?” Gilda asked, happy to have her thoughts out in the open.
“So, we’re on the same page, I see,” Abigail replied with a smile. She motioned Gilda to the kitchen. “We’ll just start at the beginning, my dear, the very beginning.” She called to Mathilda in the kitchen. “Tilly, did you find the book I asked about last night?” she shouted.
“Oh! Is that what you asked me?” Mathilda answered.
“What did you think I’d said?” Abigail asked.
“I thought you said to mind the chook.”
“Oh Tilly, now why would I say such a thing? We didn’t have chicken last night for dinner, for heaven’s sake,” she added.
“Yes, we did,” Mathilda replied.
“That was chicken?”
“Yes, pureed papaya chicken with roasted gizzard and spinach stuffing, it was,” Mathilda defended.
“An honest mistake,” Abigail laughed. “I could’ve sworn it was meatloaf. Oh, well, goodness golly,” she huffed, “we’ll have to get it ourselves then,” motioning to

Gilda as she pushed open the kitchen door. Her glasses trapezed across the mountainous terrain hidden beneath her white blouse and blue knitted vest. Meanwhile, Mathilda stood by the sink with her left ear to her left shoulder. Her right hand held a tiny eye dropper just above her right ear.
“Better take a double dose of those special ear drops, Mathilda dear,” Abigail muttered. “Then you’ll know what I’m saying next time.”
Mathilda used her father’s herbal remedy, almond oil extract, to clean the peanut butter out of her ears, as he liked to say. Her hearing was getting poorer, not because she was seventy-two years old, but because her ears produced more wax than most people’s ears. Of course she didn’t hear her sister’s final comment, for she had already made her way to the bathroom mirror to reposition the now-very-lopsided grey bun atop her head.
“And could you put the kettle on, please? Abigail called out even louder.
“Sisters!” Mathilda mumbled.
“Let’s jus’ take a gander up here, shall we?” Abigail whispered to Gilda. Like a secret passage, the attic door was hidden inside the pantry closet of the kitchen. Abigail donned her glasses, and picked up an old broom handle hanging from a hook inside the pantry door. She pointed the hook on the broom handle to a metal ring on the ceiling and pulled twice as though she was ringing the Sunday morning church bell. The ceiling door swung open. A dust-filled cloud and a musty scent escaped from the opening. Gilda wrinkled her nose and covered it with her hands.
“Smells like a hamster cage up there,” she said.


“Cedar chips, my dear, to keep away those long-tailed-four-legged interlopers, although my preference would be dried sweet woodruff,” Abigail explained. She reached above her head to the hinged wooden ladder folded inside the attic door and straightened it to the closet’s floor. “After you, Gildy,” she motioned with her hand. Gilda grabbed the supports and climbed the ladder. The ears of her bunny slippers bent under the rungs like the pages of her favourite novel. She studied the blackness of the hole in the ceiling and took a long breath.
“Pretty dark up here, Aunt Abigail.” Gilda paused on the top rung of the ladder.
Abigail grabbed a flashlight from the pantry shelf. “Here y’go.” She shone the night lamp to the right of the ladder. “See that string hangin’ off to the side?”
Gilda’s right arm flailed above her head. “Over here?” she asked.
“Yep, right-e-o!” Abigail cheered. “Now give a tug.”
“Got it,” Gilda answered. A naked light bulb hanging from the rafters illuminated a wall of books in the attic. Gilda crawled onto the attic floor, batting away a gallery of spidery artwork in her path. The filmy threads along the library shelves clung to her bangs like a baker’s hairnet. Gilda straightened her tall frame to a stand under the peak of the roofline.
“See anything?” Abigail called. “A book called Bright Beginnings, perhaps?”
Gilda uncorked a jar of dry green leaves on the top shelf. “Nothing yet,” she answered. She sniffed inside the jar. “Jus’ some dusty ol’ spices,” she said with a cough.
The whistling squeal of the kettle wailed from the kitchen.


“Tilly, will you get that, please?” Abigail called from behind the pantry door. No response. “Tilly? Tilly! Oh, Sheila’s sassafras,” she muttered. “Where is that woman?” She called up the attic stairs.
“Gilda? I’ll be right back!” Abigail hurried to the stove, then called once again back to Gilda. “On second thought, c’mon down, sweetie. We’ll get the book another time.”
“All right,” she answered. Tufts of grey dust collected on Gilda’s pant legs as she made her way back to the stairs. She brushed them off, creating a breeze that blew tiny tumbleweeds around the attic. A billowy blue and white scarf floated to the side of the attic opening, revealing a square, dark wooden box. Gilda hadn’t noticed the scarf on her way up the stairs. Sequins and embroidered threads were sewn in whimsical patterns of leaves and flowers along its edges. Gilda was intrigued by the exotic fabric, more so than the contents of the box beneath it.
Why would Great-Grandfather Culpeper keep such a frilly fabric to hide this box? Gilda asked herself. Had he traded it for tea or herbs on one of his trips to India? Or was it a gift for Great-Grandmother? The colours reminded Gilda of the blue oceans she’d seen surrounding the Caribbean Islands in the National Geographic magazines her father used to collect. He scrapbooked these pictures to plan their next big adventure.
“One day Gildy, I’m going to take us all to one of these tropical paradises,” he’d tell her after she’d said her bedtime prayers. “Just like the places in these pictures. Where do your dreams take you, Gildy?” he’d ask.


Gilda’s heart ached when she remembered her father’s dreams, the dreams he never fulfilled.
She gathered the blousy material between her hands as though it were a bouquet of spring flowers, full, fragile and fragrant, and placed it to the side. The brown wooden box hidden beneath it revealed nothing of its contents. It was perfectly square, matching the size of her English binder at school, and perfectly ordinary too, aside from the fancy script embossed along the sides in gold ink. Her great-grandfather’s full Christian name, Nicholas Sebastian Culpeper, was printed on all four edges in the most elegant font she’d ever seen.
It could even have been a gift from a King, she thought. As Gilda proceeded to lift the box’s thick wooden lid, the scent of cinnamon sticks and orange blossoms filled the attic. These were familiar aromas, having spent many Saturday afternoons with her nose in the tea jars at her aunts’ herb and tea shop. Spicy and heavy, these smells made her think of camel rides and snake charmers, like the stories of the Arabian Nights. She removed the lid, only to discover a smaller box within. The initials, GML, appeared on the top. She smoothed her fingers across the monogram.
“These are my initials,” she whispered. She lifted the lid to find a brown leather-bound journal. The words, Culpeper Curiosities, were printed on the cover. Before she could look into the book any further, Mathilda called to her from the bottom of the attic stairs.
“Gildy, I’ve made some tea. Would you like some?”


Gilda leaned over to the opening in the attic.
“Be right there,” she called. Gilda couldn’t leave now, not before discovering the contents of this book. She couldn’t let her tea get cold either, for that wasn’t polite. She replaced the lids on their respective boxes, gathered them in the scarf, and headed down the ladder for a cup of Culpeper tea and an explanation.

FOUR
As she entered the kitchen, Mathilda was taking her nearly famous cranberry and cauliflower muffins out of the oven.
“Oh my stars, Gilda,” she said all in a fluster, dropping the muffin tray onto the floor. “What on earth have you got there?”
Gilda bent down, setting the scarfed box to the side, as she collected the scattered baked goods rolling around on the checkerboard linoleum. “I found this box under this scarf in the attic. Do you know what it is?”
“Do I know? Why, of course I know.” Mathilda replied while handing Gilda a wicker basket for the muffins. “But do you know?”
“I know there’s a book inside,” Gilda answered. She stood up to carry the basket and the box to the dining room table where Abigail was already seated. “It all seems a bit mysterious.” Gilda and Mathilda took their seats at the pine harvest table, the same antique table that hosted all of their family gatherings. Gilda always sat to the left of Abigail and across the table from Mathilda.


“Just as it was meant to be,” Abigail smiled, placing a white linen napkin on her lap. She gently lifted the tea cozy off the teapot placed in the center of the table and began to pour the peach-coloured water into the teacups. “I can see you’ve already noticed the familiar monogram on the cover. Exquisite, isn’t it? As was your great-great grandmother.”
Mathilda held the sugar bowl and the honey pot close enough for Abigail to choose between the two sweeteners.
“Honey, please,” Abigail ordered, as though she were being served high tea at the Empress Hotel.
Mathilda frowned at the insult. “You can get it yourself, can you not?” She moved the honey closer to her own cup. “Or is her majesty now too tired to command her royal subjects any further?”
“You are in a snit, are you not, Miss Tilly?” Abigail moved the honey pot back to her cup, pushed the honey dripper into the golden pool, taking her time to make sure that every swirl was coated with the sugary treat. Mathilda stomped back to the cupboard in the kitchen, grabbed an even larger honey pot, and placed it beside her cup with a “so there” sort of gesture to her sister. Abigail shifted her knees and her attention solely to Gilda, purposely excluding her sister from the conversation.
“Now, what were we saying? Ah yes, your initials.” Abigail moved her honey pot and her teacup closer to her new position, and added even more honey to her tea, giving her sister an extra snub at the same time.


“They are the same as those on the box, Gilda, because your great-grandfather was very aware of the similarities between you and your great-great grandmother, his mother, even at your young age. Not only
physical characteristics, like your eye and hair colour, but the calm and intuitive look you gave him as a newborn. It was Father’s request that you have the same initials as his mother, Geraldine, GML.”
“But if Great-Grandfather was a Culpeper,” Gilda asked, “wouldn’t Great-Great Grandmother be a Culpeper too?” Thinking she was asking the obvious.
Mathilda moved her chair around the table and closer to Gilda’s, taking over the explanation by forcing Gilda to turn her back to Abigail.
“Strangely enough, my dear, your great-great grandmother kept her birth name. She was christened Geraldine Margarite Lundrum,” Mathilda explained. “She signed her name that way even after marrying Thomas Earl Culpeper in order to keep the Lundrum name alive. That Lundrum surname carried a strong reputation in these parts in the late 1800’s and early 1900’s. Her father was a very wealthy and an extremely influential man in Ridgeling County. He made certain his five daughters kept their maiden names, as unusual as this practice was at that time.” Gilda wasn’t sure what all this meant.
Mathilda reached across the table for the covered basket and offered it to Gilda. “Muffin?” The invitation was not presented to Abigail, but she declined nevertheless.
“No, no, nothing for me, Tilly. I’m watching my waistline,” she smirked.


Gilda attempted to soften the sarcasm in the room. “Yes, please,” she answered ever so politely. “But I’m a Lundrum. How can that be?”
“Yes you are,” Abigail said, adding her third tablespoon of honey to her tea. Mathilda was unable to answer; she had already stuffed her mouth with one of the morning’s hot muffins. Abigail redirected Gilda’s attention to her end of the table by turning her chair towards her and away from Mathilda.
“When Benjamin Lundrum, no relation to Geraldine Margarite Lundrum, arrived on the scene from Saskatoon to marry your mother, there was no doubt he would be accepted into the family with open arms with a name like that one.”
“That’s a cool coincidence,” Gilda said.
Mathilda turned Gilda’s shoulders to face her own.
“Nothing in this world is a coincidence, Gildy,” Mathilda added, her mouth now empty. “Now I have a question for you.” She paused, giving Gilda enough time to reposition herself for the umpteenth time, pour herself some more tea, add her own teaspoon of sugar to avoid the treacle truce, and butter the warm muffin on her plate. “What’s an eleven-letter word for magic?” Mathilda asked.
“Can you give me a hint, Aunt Mathilda?” Gilda lowered her eyes to think about the question. She looked up from the table and stared into the snow-covered garden outside the dining room window. The Monday morning breakfast table welcomed citrus sunshine through the window’s lace curtains. It was a warmth Gilda savoured in this beloved country setting. In the western sky, pewter clouds loomed over the town of Ridgeville, reminding Gilda that her time in the country was drawing to a close.

Abigail appreciated the shift in Gilda’s disposition and attempted to lighten the mood. She rested her wrinkled cheek against Gilda’s and Mathilda did the same, quietly ending their quarrel.
“Look inside the teapot for your clue,” Abigail said. Gilda moved the teapot closer to her placemat and removed the lid. An infusion of mint, ginger and rose geranium tea leaves had steeped inside the Brown Betty, with only a few teaspoons of liquid left in the bottom.
“I don’t see anything but loose tea leaves, Aunt Abigail,” Gilda said.
“Look closely. Do they make a pattern of any kind?”
“Well, maybe. Those leaves over there,” she pointed, “are in the shape of Abraham Lincoln’s face, I guess.”
“Really? Quite the imagination too. Ok, what else?” Abigail asked.
“And these look a bit like a platypus,” Gilda pointed. “But I still don’t know an eleven-letter word for magic, Aunt Mathilda.”
“Tasseomancy, my dear. You’ve just had your first tea-leaf reading lesson,” she answered.
Abigail shifted Gilda’s box to the middle of the table and opened it. “I knew a smart girl like you would discover this box sooner or later. It was what Father liked to call his Herbal Bible. Let me show you something your great grandpa Culpeper showed me when I was your age.” She opened the leather bound journal to a messy collage of seed packets, pressed leaves, and hand-written notes taped willy-nilly across the page. “Now, where did I see that? Ah, yes, here it is.”

“So you’ve known all along about this book,” Gilda interjected, “but planted it for me to find? You’re quite the actor, Aunt Mathilda.”
“Thank you, my dear,” she said with a wink and a smile. “I do try my best.”
“It certainly got your attention, didn’t it?” Abigail turned two more brittle pages, using both hands to cradle one after the other until the book rested comfortably open to a translucent envelope with the pouch side facing out. A small rectangular paper, half the size of the envelope, stood tall inside. “Go ahead, Gildy. See what it says.”
Gilda removed the paper, noticing right away its unusual texture. “This paper feels weird… thin, almost slippery,” she said, shifting it between her fingers as it crinkled loudly with very little effort. “And it sounds like a candy wrapper.”
“Very good deduction, Gilda.” Abigail answered. “That’s what’s known as onion skin. When people wrote letters to anyone overseas, they used especially-light writing paper so it weighed very little and cost much less than regular stationery. Posting letters overseas was very expensive,” Abigail explained.
“This letter was from someone named Anwar in India!” Gilda said with surprise.
“Yes, Anwar was a very good friend of your great grandfather’s. He supplied the herbs and teas he needed for his business That beautiful scarf was a lovely added touch, don’t you think?” Abigail picked it up and wrapped it around Gilda’s shoulders.
Gilda started to read the letter. Dear Mr. Culpeper. She stopped. “If he was such a good friend, then why wouldn’t he say, Dear Nicholas?”
“Another very good question. Business partners addressed one another in a very formal manner back then, and do so even today, using Mr. Humphreys or even your

teachers as an example. Addressing people by Mr. or Mrs. maintains their professionalism and acknowledges respect. Friendly relations lead to foul relations in business,” Abigail said, the strings of her glasses now laced fondly around her fingers as she recalled Carlton’s earlier compliment.
Gilda continued reading.
I am sorry to inform you that our business dealings have come to an end. My father’s recent death has created some difficulties within my family, namely the successful selection of a suitor for my youngest sister. She now requires my assistance in finding a husband which places a great deal of pressure on me and my business. I have always valued our relationship in the past, and know that you will understand my predicament at this time. In the next couple of days I will be forwarding the name of another very reliable merchant in the area in hopes that his expertise will assist you in maintaining your business in Canada.
All the best to you and your family.
Sincerely, Anwar Punjab.
“So what happened after that?” Gilda asked. “Did Great Grandpa Culpeper find another supplier?”
“Afraid not, my dear,” Abigail said. “Father had decided to retire that same year, before knowing about Mr. Punjab’s situation, so when your aunt and I took over the business we needed to look elsewhere for teas. Not an easy task, let me tell you, all the way from Canada.”
“Some of your teas still come from India, don’t they?” Gilda asked.

“They do,” she answered, “and China and Ceylon as well. When we needed to source out a new supplier, we came across many other tea wholesalers. Now we have a
wider variety of teas than Father ever had in his store. If his business arrangement with Mr. Punjab had continued, we wouldn’t have thought to look elsewhere for herbs and teas. The letter came at just the right time. Again, you see, nothing is ever a coincidence in this world, my dear. Nothing. Remember that.”
Mathilda, now tired of listening while her freshly baked muffins sat neglected before her eyes, interrupted the history lesson. “Is anyone going to have anymore muffins here?”
“No, thank you, Aunt Mathilda,” Gilda replied.
“No thanks, Tilly,” Abigail answered. “Wouldn’t have considered cranberries and cauliflower. Your imagination is really something else when it comes to cooking,” she added.
Mathilda got up from the table, and proceeded to the kitchen, muffin basket in hand. “Then I’ll start the eggs and brussel sprouts for our real breakfast.”
“Splendid,” Abigail whispered to Gilda. “Not hard to understand why there’s no meat on these bones of mine,” she mocked, patting her thighs. “Think I’ll pass on the sprouts omelette, Tilly,” she called out to the kitchen. “But you go on ahead.”
Gilda got up from the table with the book, feeling badly about Abigail’s ill treatment, and followed Mathilda to the kitchen.



“Aunt Mathilda?” she asked. “Would I be able to take this book home with me for the week?” She replaced the letter within the envelope and closed the book, pulling the scarf closer around her neck.
“By all means, my dear. Go ahead. It’s yours now. But what will Charles say when he sees it?”
“Oh, I’m keeping this book hidden. No one will ever know it’s even in the apartment,” Gilda vowed.
“All right then. Now that the tutoring session is over, I’m taking orders. Two eggs and a side order of sprouts for you, right Gilda?”
“I’ll try,” Gilda answered. “but there’s already been a lot for me to digest this morning.”

FIVE
After breakfast, Gilda headed back to her room to pack up her things. Abigail peered into her room with a wide smile across her face.
“May I come in?” she asked. “I thought we could have another gander at that magic book of yours. Shall we?” The book was sitting wide open on Gilda’s bed. “You asked how we might find out more about Charles. And I see you’ve been studying some on your own.” Abigail commented on her great niece’s reading habits. “That’s good, but do remember to close the book once you’ve finished. There’s no telling what may slip out,” she replied. Gilda gave her aunt a peculiar look, not fully understanding what she’d meant. Abigail promptly returned her glasses to her nose, sat herself upon the bed with a

slap on the space beside her for Gilda to do the same, and turned to the index of Culpeper Curiosities. Halfway down the page, after LINTEL LISTENINGS and before NIGGLING NOTIONS was a chapter entitled, MINDFUL MEDITATIONS with ‘X3” in parentheses beside it.
“What does Mindful Meditations mean, Aunt Abigail?” Gilda asked.
“Oh, Father had some words of inspiration he liked to chant, just to get his sensory juices flowing, so to speak. He read passages aloud whenever there was something puzzling him. Casting the words into the air, he liked to say, attracted answers.”
“So what does ‘X3’ signify?” Gilda asked. “Does it mean we say it three times?”
“Not exactly,” Abigail answered, her eyelids closing slightly as though she was about to sneeze.
“It means we need three people to energize the chant.” Again, Gilda gave a curious look to her aunt whose expression was even more curious. Abigail stood up and called downstairs to Mathilda in such a way that her sister’s good ear could pick up the signal. “Thrice the chant, sister dear.”
Mathilda echoed, “By us three, all is clear.” Mathilda wasn’t quick on her feet or nimble like her lanky sister. She liked to say her bones were bigger than most, so it took her a little longer to get them moving, but it was Gilda’s nose that sensed her presence. Mathilda’s signature scent of almond oil extract made its way to the bedroom a few seconds before Mathilda did.


“Whoa, Aunt Mathilda,” Gilda remarked, now standing straight up with strands of her red hair blown into her face by her aunt’s windy and wondrous arrival. “Where’d you come from?” Gilda rubbed her eyes, then took another long look at the situation.
Mathilda shook out the folded edges of her long floral skirt and straightened the sleeves on its matching blouse.
“Just a wee bit of magic, my dear,” she answered in half breaths. “Nothing to be afraid of.” She looked to her sister. “Phew, that spell could use a bit of fine tuning, sister. It’s too quick for my liking. Maybe we could add another verse to slow down the travel time just a tad, hmm?” Mathilda bent over to wipe her brow with her apron and readjusted once again the lopsided grey bun on top of her head.
“No time for that now, Silly Tilly,” Abigail retorted. “Finish putting yourself together and stand here beside Gilda, will you?”
Mathilda scowled at her sister’s impatience, especially after her Silly Tilly comment. She despised being called Silly Tilly, but she didn’t say a word. Abigail quickly continued on.
The aunts carried on as though the act of instantly appearing at a predetermined location was as commonplace as taking the bus from one city to another. Abigail positioned Gilda’s book where everyone could read it, and stood on the other side of Gilda. “Now, when I say three, we’ll begin. Ready? One, two, three.”

Juniper, Ginger, Jonquils and Jasmine,
Send us the details of this gentleman’s passion,



Before the sisters had an opportunity to start into verse three, Gilda interrupted, holding her arms straight out like a school crossing guard in front of Abigail and Mathilda.
“H-h-hold on here a minute,” she announced. In her aunts’ house, she felt comfortable asking questions, no matter how ridiculous they may have seemed, whereas at the apartment, Gilda never questioned her stepfather’s actions, no matter the circumstances.
“Isn’t anyone going to explain all this? Gilda pointed at Mathilda, “First, you appear out of nowhere after I’d just left you in the kitchen,” she accused, “and you, Aunt Abigail, start us with an incantation like we’re witches or something? I mean, wh-where is all of this coming from? And why haven’t I seen these powers before now?”
Abigail and Mathilda took each of Gilda’s hands and answered in unison.
“Because it’s the power of three that sets the magic free,” they sang in perfect harmony. Gilda’s mouth gaped open and stayed that way. The sisters continued.
“Your discovery of the Culpeper Curiosities…,” sang Mathilda in high C.
“…and your weekend living properties…” Abigail finished in low C.
“…brought about these specialitieeeeeees!” they wheezed. Both sisters, while holding their sides as though they’d just completed Ave Maria, stopped to catch their respective breaths.
“So… you’re…saying…,” Gilda paused to think, “that if I hadn’t found Culpeper Curiosities and hadn’t been spending my weekends here in the country that the magic wouldn’t have happened?” Gilda squeezed her aunts’ hands.

“Precisely, my dear.” Mathilda answered. “We’re just sorry it took us so long to get you to this point.” She patted Gilda’s hand with her free one. “Any clearer?”
“Not really,” Gilda answered, her eyes all wide, “but I’m sure you’ll show me.”
“So,” Abigail started, “shall we continue, Sisters Three? Times a wastin’. Hands still joined? All eyes on the page? Ready? One, two, three.”

Colours of the universe, show us here,
The answers we seek for the questions we fear.


With the final word of the chant, the morning’s dull November clouds parted over 313 Ridgeville County Road.
“Look at that,” Gilda pointed to the window. “The sky has turned green.”
“Well, wouldn’t that jar your mother’s pickles,” Mathilda answered in amazement.
“Fine dandy, it’s just the answer we’re looking for,” Abigail gloated. “Thank you, Father.”
“But, I don’t get it. What does it all mean?” Gilda continued to stare at the chunk of green sky sandwiched between the grey clouds.
“It’s never good,” Abigail warned.
“But it’s unmistakably green,” Mathilda added as she peered through the window. “There’s never a doubt when the sky comes up green.”



“You see, Gilda,” Abigail began to explain, “colours have meanings of their own. For instance, black can mean death or confusion of the mind. Orange can mean birth or clarity of thought. But green…” She took a breath. “Green always means greed.”
“I don’t understand, then.” Gilda sat down on the bed beside the Culpeper Curiosities journal. She smoothed her hand across the white popcorn puffs on the bedcover. Mathilda joined her on the bed, creating a deep dip in the mattress that strained the bedsprings with a mournful groan. Abigail’s descent to the small space beside her sister was less noticeable.
“It would appear that Charles’ motivation in life is money,” Abigail said matter-of-factly. “It makes perfect sense, given he came to Ridgeville as a banker. Don’t you agree?”
“No… I mean,” Gilda stammered, “m-maybe, I mean, yes, that’s the present, but how does that give us a clue about his past?”
“This is where your great-grandfather’s journal comes in,” Mathilda patted the book. “Just look for the chapter about colour, then find green.”
Gilda opened the table of contents, scanning titles like ARTICHOKE AND AARDVARKS, and BELLY BUTTON BIZARRE, to the chapter on CHARACTER COLOURS. She flipped to page thirty-seven and skimmed the list.
“Here it is,” she pointed. “It says, those found under the colour green are likely to be the product of a mixed marriage?” Gilda looked to Abigail. “A mixed marriage? What does that mean?”
Abigail brushed her fingers across the page. “Read on, read on.”

“Green comes from combining red and blue. Red parentage denotes followings of the red planet, Mars. Blue parentage indicates a direction towards the ways of the moon.” It was then that Gilda stopped reading. “Oh no,” she exclaimed.
“What’s the trouble, Gildy?” Mathilda asked with only a smidgeon of concern in her voice.
“Well, you see,” she squinted, “there’s a note at the bottom of the page in teeny tiny print.”
Mathilda pulled an enormous magnifying glass from her apron pocket.
“Here you go. Now what does it say?” She looked to her sister who was giving her the look. “What?”
“Why, I’ve been looking for that magnifying glass for weeks,” Abigail whined. “And what do you need it for? Your eyesight is perfect.”
Mathilda chuckled to herself. “I was well aware you were looking for it,” she smirked. “All the more reason for not telling you where it was. Continue reading, Gilda.”
“It says, ‘If this is not the case, then the individual is just plain rotten.’”
Gilda closed the book.
Mathilda looked to Abigail. Abigail looked to Gilda. Gilda looked to Mathilda. They all got up from the bed.
“Oh my,” they all sighed, “there really is no time to lose.”

Hiking Margaret River - the Cape to Cape Track

Hiking Margaret River - the Cape to Cape Track




I lived in Mt. Helena, W.A. for a year when I was on my teacher exchange, and spent a great deal of time in Margaret River.
There's nothing like it in the world. How amazing is the beauty of this Aussie coast, one most travelers don't bother to explore because the East Coast is more popular.
I think my most memorable spot was our trek through the Karri forest. Incredible trees, they are. Australia is definitely a must-see for its flora, and, of course, its fauna.

Laurel Karry

Yarns Amongst The Weave- Chapter One

PROLOGUE
When Ben and Helen Lundrum were selecting a name for their baby girl, they wanted one that represented the women who had influenced their lives the most, namely, Helen’s great aunts Abigail and Mathilda Culpeper. Some combinations, such as Abilda and Matigail, weren’t very appealing, until they finally decided upon the perfect name, Gilda.
Now, at twelve years of age, Gilda Mae Lundrum was beginning to dream of far away places, any place far, far away from her stepfather and her family’s tiny apartment at 29 Main Street East. She soon blossomed into a girl with lofty aspirations. Her great aunts Abigail and Mathilda planted every one of those seeds.

ONE
The package arrived Monday morning. With one hand resting on his mailbag and a toothpick sticking out of his mouth, Carlton Humphreys stood on the porch and rapped on the glass panels of the farmhouse door. His bicycle, tailored with snow tires and Par Avion stamps stuck along the cross bar and front fender, waited patiently beside the driveway, its bulging saddle bags distributed evenly across the rack on the back fender.
Gilda was just on her way to her Aunt Mathilda’s car, fondly referred to as Frankie, for her ride to school after a weekend’s stay in the country with her two favourite aunts. She exchanged an especially cheerful greeting with Mr. Humphreys as soon as she noticed the parcel in his hands.
“Good morning, Mr. Humphreys. How are you today?”

“Fine, Miss Gilda, jus’ thankful to be’s on this side of the grave marker,” he answered.

“Oh, that graveyard humour of yours, Mr. Humphreys,” Mathilda replied. “Please, come in.”
In addition to his day job with Canada Post, Mr. Humphreys worked at Ridgeville Memorial Gardens as the grounds keeper.

“Can’t stays long, though.” The toothpick shifted from one side of his mouth to the other with one sweep of his tongue. An extra “s” followed verbs, nouns and even pronouns, giving his words a chance to slither from one to the next. “Pastor Simmons needs the last of these here invites for December’s Spaghetti Dinner,” he said in his most business-like voice, “and delivered by three, or else theres won’t be enough time to place the orders for Mrs. Marchese’s famous meatballs. Needs a good month or so to prepares ‘em. They’s the reasons everyone in Ridgeville comes out, you know.”
He shook the snow of his boots on the front mat, stepped further into the front hallway under the globe-shaped ceiling fixture for better light, and thumbed over the stack of rubber-banded envelopes in the large inner pocket of his bag before closing the storm door behind him.

“Oh, and this fancy parcel’s addressed to you, little lady.” Mr. Humphreys’ long, wrinkled digits poked out of his knitted finger mittens to present a perfectly square box to Gilda. The eau-d’ Export A wafting from his blue uniform explained the yellow stains on his teeth and the middle finger on his left hand. He pointed out the box’s red stamps and stickers. “Says fragile, so yous gotta be extra careful op’nin’ it. Bein’ an experienced mail carrier and all, I’s knows alls about safely deliverin’ precious parcels.” He stood with his hazy blue eyes fixed on the box.

“Thank you, Mr.Humphreys.” Gilda looked at her watch. Mr. Humphreys did not blink. He didn’t even seem to be breathing save for the two stray white nose hairs that stirred every three seconds. He was not in a hurry to leave, at least not before he witnessed the contents of that box. No news got past the postman, not in Ridgeville.
Gilda looked to Mathilda. Mathilda checked the pendant watch hanging flatly against her chest on its thick gold chain.

“We’ve got time, Gilda,” she said. “Open it up!” She couldn’t stand the suspense, either. Her eyes were glued to the box. She could never keep a secret, nor could she stand having one kept from her. “Who do you think it’s from?” she asked. With Mathilda’s poor hearing she couldn’t hear the sweeping sound of Abigail’s suede moccasins across the hardwood floor, but she sensed her sister’s presence, and moved closer to the box as if it was her secret, too.

“A parcel for Gilda?” Abigail rubbed her hands together. “Fine dandy. Who could that be from, I wonder?” Her eyes shifted from Mathilda to Mr. Humphreys and back again. “I don’t remember you orderin’ anything, Tilly. I know I didn’t,” she said. An inquisitive look appeared on Gilda’s face, while a satisfying grin crossed Abigail’s lips.
Gilda studied the box for clues of its origins, slid her thumbnail across the layers of clear tape along its seams and unfolded the cardboard flaps. A black and red-edged leaflet with
thick black lettering sat atop the many layers of tissue paper and bubble wrap protecting the contents within.

“Thomas J. Lipton Ltd?” she read aloud. The name of the popular tea company meant nothing to her as she skimmed over the ten-page booklet with little interest.

“I’ll hold it for you, Gildy,” Mathilda offered, while Gilda carried on with the box. Once she’d peeled away all the wrapping, she looped her forefinger though the handle of the object, and held it up as though making a toast.

“It’s a … teacup,” Gilda replied without much enthusiasm. “Uh, I don’t get it. Who would send me a teacup?” From the outside it looked like an ordinary teacup with hand-painted wild briar roses on the front and back. Decorating the inside was an entire deck of miniature playing cards, filling the bowl in a scattered fifty-two pick-up sort of style. The words, The Cup of Knowledge, were inscribed in old English text along the lip.

“Ho-ley mo-ley, Miss Gilda,” Mr. Humphreys replied as the corners of his eyes and lips began to twitch. “Do you knows what thats is?” He snatched the cup from Gilda’s finger before she had time to answer. “Now wha’s would a good girl like you needs with a thing like that? I’s seen Cassandra Hotchkiss with one of those. Donts needs to says much else now, does I?” Mr. Humphreys may not have been highly educated in English conjugation, but he certainly knew a great deal about the language of witchcraft, especially when that business involved Cassandra S. Hotchkiss. “You knows whats the “S” stands for, donts you?”

“Yes, Mr. Humphreys,” Abigail answered, rolling her eyes. “We know all about Cassandra S. Hotchkiss. You mention her name every time you’ve delivered an intriguing parcel to her door.”
Mathilda disguised her voice to sound as though her throat was full of cigarette smoke.

“It’s Madame Sorceress to you,” she sniggered.
Gilda provided an involuntary snort to further illustrate the absurdity of the claim.

“Oops, pardon me,” she giggled.

“It’s no’s laughin’ matter.” Mr. Humphreys’s facial tics became more pronounced. “Remember whens we learnt about all the happenings. On’y things left on her last client’s saucer was those tea leaves in the shapes of a snake. ” Abigail glared at Mathilda while Mathilda’s eyes shifted from Abigail to Gilda and back again. Gilda’s head played monkey in the middle between her two aunts, trying to understand their silent dialogue.

“What’s the matter?” Gilda asked. “What does that mean? A snake at the bottom of a tea cup? Why are you looking at me that way?” Gilda opened her hands for Mr. Humphreys to return her tea cup. Abigail cleared her throat.

“We can talk about this later, Gilda. You’re going to be late for school.”

“There’s still time, Aunt Abigail,” Gilda replied. She wasn’t leaving this juicy conversation. “Who was Cassandra Hotchkiss’s last client, Mr. Humphreys?” Gilda asked impatiently.
Mr. Humphreys paused, turned his head towards the window on the storm door behind him and scanned both ends of the porch. He shifted his mailbag forward and then closed the heavy wooden door behind him. His eyes caught the attention of Abigail and Mathilda who seemed to be holding their respective breaths.

“Her lasts client, I’ms afraid to say, Miss Gilda, was yours stepdaddy, Charles Khurser.”
Without making eye contact with anyone, Gilda politely excused herself from the hallway, handed the tea cup to Abigail, and headed towards the second floor staircase. Mathilda made a bee-line for the kitchen as Abigail placed the teacup on the coffee table in the front room and made her way to the telephone.

“Would you excuse me, Mr. Humphreys? I think I’d better make a call.”

In a pickle

Our relationship began thirty years ago in my mother’s pantry. With paper towels in hand, my sister and I would disen”cu”cumber the Twinkie-sized vegetable trapped within its pressurized glass chamber in search of a snack. Pickle retrieval can be a difficult task. In fact, a man’s strength is often measured by his ability to open pickle jars with his bare hands, but the challenge only made the prize more desirable. Now that I am old enough to make a mess in my own kitchen, my mother has handed over the dill pickling baton.
The journey is the same every year: obtain large quantities of dill seed, garlic, coarse salt, vinegar, mason jars, pickling cukes and prepare for a full day of steam-thick nostril-burning brine. Some years I have grown my own cucumbers and dill; other years I have depended on my grocers or local vegetable stands for the main ingredients, but this year was different. This year I visited Shelton’s Farms where I picked a peck of my own cucumbers to pickle. I even invited some of my pickle-loving friends to share the joy. Only one taker: thank you, Marianne. (No pickles for the rest of you this year.)
There they were, sleeping in straight rows upon their sandy beds under leafy Velcro textured canopies, joined together by a prickly green umbilical cord like preschoolers on a walking trip to Memorial Park, unaware that their lives were about to change. A bushel basket announced its arrival, standing just off to the side of the open air dormitory ready to collect this year’s class. I examined my prospective students before the selection process began knowing I could only select the students whose complexions were free of blemishes and whose bodies were properly proportioned. Two’s and three’s were the most desirable. The one’s were too small and the four’s were too big, according to Bernardin standards, but for Miss Bick these standards were too restrictive. The task had become much more personal somehow. I was in a real pickle.

“But if I don’t pick them, who will? I can’t choose some and leave others. Where would they go?”
To separate them from their friends and family was unconscionable. I loved them all. I knew Miss Vlasic and the Klaussen twins were equal opportunity picklers, finding other ways to use their talents as spears or slices. I, too, would do the same.

Fifty Nifty Things To Do At Fifty

FIFTY NIFTY THINGS TO DO AT FIFTY
(and not necessarily in this order)

1. PAY MORE ATTENTION TO YOURSELF
2. SAY NO MORE OFTEN
3. LAUGH OUT LOUD (you’re already there, Marion! And you do it so well! CARRY ON.)
4. EAT MORE CHOCOLATE
5. SPEND MORE TIME WITH GIRLFRIENDS
6. BUY A DOG (he’ll love you no matter what you feed him for supper, no matter if you’ve forgotten to feed him supper, no matter how your hair looks in the morning)
7. READ MORE COMICS
8. EAT MORE CHOCOLATE
9. BUY PRETTY UNDERWEAR
10. THROW AWAY GRANNY UNDIES
11. GET MORE SLEEP
12. TAKE BUBBLE BATHS
13. DANCE IN THE MIRROR LIKE “SO YOU THINK YOU CAN DANCE” CONTESTANTS
14. DON’T WEAR A WATCH ON WEEKENDS
15. PLAN A SLUMBER PARTY WITH YOUR GIRLFRIENDS
16. LEARN A NEW HOBBY
17. DEMAND MORE HUGS
18. GET LOST ON PURPOSE
19. ENJOY A MAGAZINE FROM COVER TO COVER UNINTERRUPTED
20. SPLASH IN THE PUDDLES
21. HAVE LUNCH AT COSTCO BY EATING ALL THE SAMPLES
22. GET YOUR PICTURE TAKEN WITH GIRLFRIENDS AT THE PHOTO BOOTH AT THE MALL
23. EAT DESSERT FIRST
24. TRY ON SHOES WITH NO INTENTION OF BUYING THEM
25. TRY A NEW HAIR COLOUR
26. BLOW MORE BUBBLES
27. LOOK FOR SEA GLASS AT THE BEACH
28. MAKE MORE SNOW ANGELS
29. CONQUER ONE OF YOUR FEARS EACH MONTH FOR A YEAR (do you have twelve?)
30. INCLUDE PEOPLE IN YOUR LIFE WHO REALLY MATTER; EXCLUDE THE OTHERS
31. PLANT A SEED AND WATCH IT GROW
32. WRITE A LETTER USING A PEN AND PAPER AND SEND IT BY SNAIL MAIL
33. COLOUR WHENEVER YOU CAN
34. TREAT YOURSELF TO NEW LIPSTICK
35. STROKE “IMPOSSIBLE” FROM YOUR VOCABULARY
36. HAVE A TEA PARTY
37. FLOSS
38. DON’T SAY FINE WHEN YOU’RE NOT FINE – IT’S O.K. (the person who asked you such a question probably isn’t listening anyways!)
39. SING LOUDLY, AND BADLY
40. EAT MORE CHOCOLATE
41. LET YOUR FRIENDS SEE YOU WITHOUT YOUR MAKE-UP
42. TAKE UP THE KAZOO
43. LEARN HOW TO RIDE A UNICYCLE
44. MAKE MORE BAKED BEANS FOR YOUR FRIENDS
45. SURROUND YOURSELF WITH GARDEN GNOMES
46. EAT MORE CHOCOLATE
47. SKINNY DIP/CHUNKY DUNK MORE OFTEN
48. WEAR SOMETHING REALLY HIDEOUS AND SEE IF YOUR FRIENDS NOTICE
49. PRACTICE MORE MUD WRESTLING
50. CELEBRATE YOUR LIFE (you’re worth it!)

Tea Reading

I came into the experience with a light-hearted attitude in search of knowledge alone. I drank the tea, swirled the cup counterclockwise, and turned it over onto the saucer.
“Now place your left hand over the teacup and concentrate,” she said with the stare of her blue eyes clearing my mind of any distractions.
“Yes?” she smiled.
I nodded yes. She righted the cup and directed her attention inside the bowl.
“Hmmm…,” she responded.
An uncomfortable heat, traveled from my heart to my ears. Oh no, what does that mean? I asked myself. Or does she save the same spiel for all of her most gullible clients?
“I see luminescent angels. That’s good. You are protected by many.”
Nothing to worry about, I thought. She continued.
“I see the face of a Frenchman with a goatee wearing a seed-beaded tricorne hat. There will be travel,” she added.
I smiled. She continued.
“I see…” she paused. “Ohhhh,” she breathed, looking up from my cup and removing her glasses.
I said nothing.
“Oh dear, I see a snake…, a hideous, venomous serpent wrapped around the letter ‘S’.”
Now I was worried. I knew what snakes meant.
“Do you know a Steve or Stephen?”
I nodded no.
“Then you must watch. He is dangerous, poisonous even.”
I smiled inside. Yeah right. This can’t be true.
Upon leaving her salon, I stopped to grab a newspaper from one of the ubiquitous kiosks along the street. On the front page it read,
Harper for P.M.

On The Line

Let him think I am more man than I am and I will be so.

The Old Man and the Sea,
Ernest Hemingway


Suspended in rain, snow, and sunshine, they swung from their strings along the hydro lines at the intersection of Barclay and Newton. Some were made of canvas, others of leather. Just the sight of them made Clayton wonder how far these shoes had journeyed, and where they had dreamed of traveling before this final destination.


He noticed the abandoned shoes for the first time on his way back to Lou’s Oil and Lube to pick up a fire-engine red ’65 Ford Mustang. It had once been his father Sam’s car, but belonged to Clayton now. The thought never crossed his mind to find a garage in his own neighbourhood. Lou still serviced it as he did when Sam owned it and could no longer look after the repairs himself. Good mechanics are like good doctors, his dad used to say. Count your blessings when you are fortunate to find both.
Every Saturday morning, when Clayton was young, he and his father would stroll through their west end neighbourhood and talk to the guys working on their cars in their driveways. They never talked about anything other than cars. And fishing. Clayton took it all in. With no brothers or sisters, and friends who preferred sports over sparkplugs, he wanted to do everything his father did. Samuel Zimmerman had worked in a garage all his life, repairing everything from faulty transmissions to punctured tires. That was a respectable job in the 1940’s for a young guy with a grade ten education. As farmers, his parents struggled to raise four sons. With more Holsteins than grass, especially in the drier months of July and August, the Zimmermans depended on any extra money the boys brought in from their after-school jobs in town to carry them through the season. Even though Sam had wistful aspirations of becoming a doctor, and the math and science marks to support it, university was never an option. He vowed, when he became a father, that his son would have the opportunity to attend college or university for a better career, no matter the sacrifice.


Sam and Clayton would end their weekend walk with a visit to Chapman’s Bookstore. Sam loved the crisp pages of new books, even though he could never afford to buy them. He splurged when Clayton graduated from medical school, surprising him with a copy of The Old Man and the Sea by Ernest Hemingway.
“Oh, how your mother wanted to be here, Clay…” Tears pooled inside Sam’s eyelids. Clayton’s mother died just as he was finishing up his residency. He paused to take a breath. “…but I know she’s lookin’ over us.” Sam handed Clayton the book.
“Let him think I am more man than I am and I will be so” was inscribed on the first page. Clayton knew it was his father’s dream to study medicine, but whether it was his or not, he wasn’t certain.
Clayton returned to the same childhood haunts every three months, or five thousand kilometres, whichever came first. He always saved until last his visit to the bookstore. With a practice of his own, he could afford new books. They were usually about Mustangs or muskies, just as his father would have chosen. Today, however, his purchase was different. He spotted the shoes as he was heading south on Newton Street from King. He thought about the children they belonged to, and the precarious way they dangled from their laces, and then he thought about his dad. In Clayton’s mind, these shoes had been left behind, unable to fend for themselves, no longer young and free, but old and imprisoned, just like his father after his stroke. Although graceful in their carefree sway, they exposed man’s vulnerabilities. Five pairs of shoes, stranded high above the street like tight-rope walkers without a net.
“Interesting, don’t you think?”

Clayton lowered his eyes to connect the gentle voice to a face. The silver-haired gentleman’s smile lines extended outwards into his tanned cheeks like the creases around the hide-covered buttons sewn into Clayton’s brown leather club chair. His hand-knitted white scarf peeked out from under the collar of his pewter overcoat. The man pointed to the shoes; the tip of his forefinger poked through the loose weave of his woollen glove.
“Most of those belong to the Westdale kids. After exams they come down here and toss their shoes into the sky in hopes of landing a line. One lad told me they call it line dancing. Brilliant, aren’t they? Life is all about living in the moment.”
The sweetness of a butterscotch pastille coated his words. Clayton studied the shoes a second time, searching for genius as the man stretched his knitted toque over his earlobes, nodded politely, and hobbled up the newly shovelled sidewalk with his hands in his pockets. The squeak of the man’s overshoes on the skiff of fresh snow brought a smile to Clayton’s face. They were the same galoshes his father wore in inclement weather. The boots’ industrial-sized center zipper supported its thin rubber fabric like the spine of a yellow perch. Clayton studied the faint geometric patterns, noticing the slur of the man’s left foot as if it were heavier than his right. It reminded Clayton of his father’s exaggerated gait. Surrendering his driver’s license was hard enough, but Sam refused to carry a cane, making him more susceptible to stutters and stumbles, and frustrating his son to no end. Trips to the grocery store took two hours instead of one; strolls in the garden presented new hazards of uneven ground and cobble-stone footpaths. Like a new parent watching his toddler’s first steps, Clayton never strayed too far from his father in anticipation of a fall. It was the reason he chose Green Meadows Retirement Residence in the first place. Its two-hundred-and-fifty acre property was anything but restrictive, and the trout-stocked lake provided all the fishing an angler desired. His father could go for walks whenever he liked, provided he had assistance, and the kitchen served fish and chips every Friday. A veritable fisherman’s heaven on earth. It satisfied all his father’s needs and wishes, or so he thought. The call from Green Meadows came just as a heavy snow was blanketing the city in a white shroud.
“Dr. Zimmerman, there’s been an accident at the residence. Your father fell after wandering off after lunch without his coat or his boots. You’ll need to come down here right away.” Not one day passed that he didn’t think about his father, and his own negligence.
“If I can’t look after the health of my own father, what good am I looking after anyone else’s?”
A snow squall interrupted the moment, dusting the sidewalk with the precision of icing sugar. Clayton redirected his focus to the dangling shoes. Their youthful dance quelled the vision of his father’s laboured strides. Clayton cast his eyes down Barclay Street; the gentleman was nowhere to be seen. The white powder had concealed every evidence of any man’s tread. A gentler shower of snowflakes fluttered from the sky, lighting on Clayton’s prominent nose and blond lashes. He wiped the wetness off his face and continued his walk in the direction of Lou’s garage.
The envelope-thin paper bag rustled against the sleeve of Clayton’s black leather coat with his purposeful stride. He slid the paperback deeper into his pocket and made his way up the street in a mindful daze, unaware of the sidewalk’s uneven slope. He stumbled as though in slow motion, catching the sole of his boot on the crack in the cement. As he lowered his head to correct his step, he spotted a gold chain snaked out across his path. Clayton retrieved the treasure concealed beneath the snow and a handsome reward emerged: a gold pocket watch. Drying the time piece on his pant leg he noticed the cursive lines of a faded inscription.
Emmanuel C. Alvarez
Class of ’39
It reminded him of the line his father inscribed inside his copy of The Old Man and the Sea. Words of pride. Words of achievement. Words he hadn’t lived up to. Hastening up the street, he scanned every veranda in hopes of spying the tails of the gentleman’s communist-grey overcoat loitering in the extended pause of an aluminum door. The twelve-thirty sunshine made a brief but warming appearance, tiring his eyelids to near closure. He loosened his yellow flannel scarf, allowing the fringe to flutter outside his collar, unbuttoned his waistcoat halfway, and removed his gloves, all in mid-stride. In a blink of time, the clouds smothered the January brightness, enabling Clayton to widen his gaze. He reached the end of the street without seeing any sign of the man. Panting to a stop, just leeward of the concrete light standard, Clayton depressed the spongy black pedestrian button. He slapped the stiff leather gloves across his pant leg, and inhaled to a taller stance. How could I have lost him? he thought.
The biting gust of wind pierced his eyes and blurred his vision before he could shelter his face. As he turned his head away from the deafening howl, he heard a faint and feeble cry for help. There on the curb, some ten metres away, he recognized the sleeve of the gentleman’s overcoat extended beyond a pile of frozen snow.

Clayton’s feet locked as though anchored to the ground. He clutched the bottom seam of his left pocket, to secure the jiggling time piece inside, and ran towards the site, oblivious to the strayed contents of his other pocket. Clayton did not break his pace until he had reached the fallen man.
The heavy grey fabric dwarfed his body like a tarpaulin on a pile of kindling. The old man was slumped over and still. Clayton kneeled as gently as a minister in prayer.
Thoughts of his father’s fatal fall flooded his mind.
“I’m Doctor Zimmerman,” he said, looking into the man’s pale face. His eyes were clear and bright, but he uttered no verbal response. “Now don’t move.” He lifted the gentleman’s arm, then pressed two fingers to his wrist. Clayton looked to his watch to assess the pulse, but his wrist was bare. His fingers fumbled inside his pocket to retrieve the found pocket watch. Smile lines grew wide around the gentleman’s brown eyes as he followed the movements of the prize within Clayton’s hand. “Pulse is normal,” he said, checking beneath the man’s toque, “and just a bump on the head to take care of. You may have a headache for a little while, but nothing serious.” Clayton could read the gentleman’s delight as the colour returned to his cheeks, but it wasn’t his diagnosis that was making him smile. “And I believe this may be yours, Mr. Alvarez?” He handed him the watch.
“Oh, bless you sir,” he whispered as Clayton placed the watch in his gloved hand. His speech was slow and laboured. “It was a graduation gift… from my father… just after his duty in the Spanish Civil War. Once I noticed it was missing, I began to retrace my steps from the post office. It must’ve been the wind that pushed me over.” Mr. Alvarez paused to catch his breath. He looked down at the watch.
“He spent all his savings on this watch… so I would never let a minute go by without counting my blessings.” Clayton bowed his head, and thought about his own father’s sacrifices. The two men sat quietly for a moment, then Clayton helped Mr. Alvarez to his feet.
“I think I’m fine now,” said Mr. Alvarez as he stretched his hat over his earlobes. “Yes, I’m definitely better. Thank you.” His balance improved with each step. He cupped his hand into the air as a final gesture of thanks as he passed Clayton in the direction he’d just come. Clayton buttoned his coat, and slipped his hand into his pocket. His fingers searched the silk lining in vain. He wouldn’t have time to find his gloves or his book without returning late to the office after picking up his car. It wasn’t the gloves he was concerned about, but the loss of the book. He needed some Hemingway inspiration more than ever after the journey his thoughts had taken this afternoon. Clayton shoved his hands into his empty pockets and sighed.
The squeaking of wet rubber galoshes filled his ears. He noticed Mr. Alvarez coming towards him.
“Are you all right?” Clayton placed his hand on the man’s shoulder to calm his pace and looked into his eyes. Mr. Alvarez was out of breath.
“Oh, yes Dr. Zimmerman, everything …is perfect,” he panted, “except I believe… these may… be yours?” His words were heavy, and the same butterscotch sweetness filled the air. He handed Clayton a pair of leather gloves and a thin wet paper bag.

“Why, thank you very much, Mr. Alvarez,” Clayton replied.
“I see you like Ernest Hemingway,” the old man said as he slipped his gloved hands into his pockets. “He was also my father’s favourite author. He had his books on loan from the library more times than I can remember.” Clayton removed the paperback from its damp sheath and dried the cover on his pant leg.
“Here.” Clayton handed the book to Mr. Alvarez. “My father would have wanted you to have it.”
“You have been so generous, thank you. Your father must be very proud of you, Doctor.” The old man accepted the gift, nodded politely, and continued on his way. Clayton walked to the corner to cross at the lights and pick up his car. He stood still for a moment and faced north. Although he was a block away from the abandoned shoes hanging along the hydro lines at Barclay and Newton, he envisioned them swinging, colliding, and celebrating life amongst the street lights without a care in the world. They were clearly line dancing.

Kiwi Angels

I turned thirty that year. It was the experience of a lifetime: a year’s teaching contract in Western Australia. I’d completed the mountain of contracts and legal forms required to participate in the teaching exchange program and now the opportunity was coming to fruition. The Australian school year wouldn’t begin until February 1st, so now I had three weeks, all on my own, to enjoy the journey to the other side of the world. A stopover in New Zealand would be the perfect introduction to this wilderness adventure, or so I thought.
While researching my trip, I had read about the sights and experiences of Rotorua on New Zealand’s North Island: the hot springs, the geysers and the mud holes, the bungy jumping and the jet boating, the Kiwis and the Maories. I was most interested in jet boating through Shotover Canyon in Queensland, but in the event I didn’t make it that far south, Rotorua would satisfy my appetite.
As soon as I arrived in Rotorua I could almost taste the sulfur in the air. That rotten egg smell was nauseating, but my sense of adventure saw past the foul odour as I headed into town to book myself on the next Huka Jet tour. I hired B & P Shuttle, an obscenely pink-coloured minibus, to take me from Rotorua to Taupa where Lake Taupo Hukafalls Jet Boat Ride on the Waikato River promised fun and exhilaration. It had never occurred to me that getting there safely would prove the most thrilling venture of all. Little did I know that Kiwi Tours and its pink shuttle bus would be more exciting than any organized tour Downunder.
Initially, I thought Glen had missed our cutoff. I wasn’t really paying much attention to the road. That was the bus driver’s job, right? Glen wore two hats: one as the driver, and the other as the tour guide. Maybe that was the problem. I was too busy being a tourist, amazed by the curious names of the native trees lining the New Zealand roadway. Maori names like Harakeke and Akeake tickled my tongue with their aboriginal pronunciations. Perhaps it was me who distracted the driver from his job with my barrage of questions. After all, I was the only passenger on this tour. When I boarded the bus with my bulging blue backpack in hand, I took the seat at the front to the left, directly beside the driver’s seat on the right side of the vehicle (Kiwis and Aussies drive on the left side of the road) because I wanted to hear every word. Glen welcomed my questions. I’m not a typically chatty person, but this was my first trip to New Zealand and understandably, I had questions. Glen was happy to answer them. And by the way, there weren’t any of those ridiculous signs posted above the windows, Do Not Speak To The Driver, like the ones I’d seen at home, forbidding passengers to converse with the driver for fear of distraction. Was I simply justifying my right to free speech by mentioning this point, or was I dismissing my part in this catastrophe? Hard to know for certain, but whatever the case, our haunting journey from Rotorua to Taupo was about to begin with a bang.
Despite the harsh summer heat, the grey-green foliage of this wooded highway did not seem to be suffering. I had never witnessed such monster forests in Ontario. The wonder of these leviathan Kawaka sentinels had charmed me into a fairytale trance, but when our bus made a violent turn to the right at Rainbow Mountain, I started to take notice of the road, and my mortality.
Unbeknownst to me, in the midst of his explanations of the Kauri forest, Glen was using all his wits to avoid a collision with an eastbound car. Our swerve at the intersection of State Highway 38 and the Rotorua-Taupo highway saved us from a much more serious crash with the reckless oncoming vehicle, but it was not enough to spare us. Glen blanched as his Pepto-Bismol-Pink shuttle bus was shoved into a spin and then a roll fiercer than any rollercoaster ride I’d ever known. My dream of teaching abroad was only hours away, and yet in an instant the matter was quickly morphing into sentimental details for the obituary column in the Rotorua Post. I still remember thinking as the bus began to spin and roll out of control, My life can’t end here. I’ve come too far for this. I’ve got classes to teach, and places to explore. This can’t be happening. But it was. I begged God for more time.
"Oh my God," Glen exclaimed. "Hang on, Laurel." I reached out to grip the metal safety railing in front of me, the bar that is meant to steady the passengers’ stride as they board the bus. It had failed to do its duty as the vehicle continued to spin. The twirling sensation reminded me of the kiddies’ spinning strawberries ride at the local fair, only this one had some unknown crazy carnie at the controls. Its centrifugal force threw me out of my seat and onto the aisle floor. My knapsack landed in the very back, with me not far behind. Every window shattered into crystals of aquamarine confetti inside the bus. Seat cushions avalanched from every direction. I could feel the corrugated rubber floor mat imprinting a permanent tread on the back of my neck as my legs stretched out over my head in a modified yoga plough pose. My knees were resting on my nose. I prayed the bus would stand still as a tempest of pink leather upholstery toppled over me. And yet, if it hadn’t been for the seat cushions, my aerobic dismount would have been much more painful. It was clear I was now lying on the ceiling of the bus, on top of the strewn upholstery, so I mentally prepared myself to crawl out onto the dash if need be. With that decision made, the bus then righted itself, landing on two, then all four tires. I lay still to ensure the ride had come to a complete stop, and then looked around me to get my bearings. Directly in front of me were leftover shards of windshield glass jutting out of its naked steel frame. I was facing the front of the bus. Only New Zealand’s dehydrated summer countryside had witnessed the scene. I looked quickly to the right; the driver’s seat was empty and Glen was nowhere to be seen. Only moments earlier he had been identifying Rotorua’s gargantuan eucalypts along the route to my much-anticipated jet boating adventure at Huka Falls. Perhaps he had been too distracted to predict or prevent the next few minutes of terror. Whatever the case, my New Zealand experience proved to be far more costly than the fifty-nine dollars and fifty cents I paid for the shuttle ride to Lake Taupo.
With seat cushions and passengers where they shouldn’t naturally be, it was difficult to know to where to start looking for Glen. The impact of the accident had displaced the sexagenarian driver, now squeezed up against the back of his seat, his long legs resting under his chin. Blood pulsated from the laceration on the side of his partially balding head.
"Glen, are you O.K.?" I asked. I knelt down close enough and low enough for him to hear me. His eyes were closed and he wasn’t moving. I prayed he was still alive. I immediately removed my sweatshirt and pressed the navy fleece against the gash to slow down the bleeding.
"I’m s-s-so sorry about this, Laurel," he stuttered. Glen was weak and barely audible. "I l-l-lost control of the wheel. Tell me you’re O.K.?" I smiled to reassure him, and myself, that we’d be just fine.
"Here, this will help," I whispered, adding more pressure to the makeshift compress. I didn’t want to frighten Glen by telling him about the profuse bleeding, so downplaying the injury seemed to be the right response when he questioned the ache in his head. How did I have the wherewithal to react so quickly? I thought. At the time, it seemed the most natural thing in the world to do, despite the fact that this absorbent cloth was my only shirt and I was now standing in my sportsbra. Instinct is an amazing source of strength. A young Kiwi brickie called through the window frame.
"Is anyone else on the bus?” he asked. “Are y’all right, Miss?"
"Yes, yes I’m fine, but the driver is injured," I said. Now the events began to accelerate as other passersby stopped to make sure we were safe, their kiwi accents a reminder of how far away from home I really was.
It became obvious that Glen needed immediate medical attention. More cars accumulated along the highway; people were rushing to the scene to see if they could help. A doctor, apparently on her own tour of New Zealand, had stopped to examine our needs until the paramedics took over. She approached the bus, and announced with assertion.
"It’s alright, I’m a doctor," she said. I was relieved to know Glen was no longer my sole responsibility.

Colleen, originally from Britain, was taking a travel break before her practice started up in September. Two male tourists from her van were assigned to carefully remove Glen from the bus. Amazingly, there was no talk of head or spinal damage. The men simply carried Glen out of the wreckage without a thought of any further injuries that could be incurred by this transfer. His distorted body now lay on the grassy boulevard outside the bus doors. Colleen sat beside me and calmly asked all the necessary questions. I continued to talk to Glen, again instinctively remembering how crucial it was to the survival of a head injury victim to keep him alert. Frankly, I had no idea what I was doing. My main concern was keeping my own thoughts clear and calm without recognizing the gravity of the situation. I may have convinced Glen, but I knew I was just playing a role. A role I’d never played before.
By now, my navy-turned-purple sweatshirt was saturated with blood, but more importantly, Glen was still conscious, and I was thankful for my own safety. My swollen lip, my bruised ankle, and my scratched-up hands, fingers and knees were inconsequential.
"Thank goodness for Lesley’s yoga classes back in Carlisle," I joked. "That workout on the bus was nothing compared to her weekly sun salutation exercises," Glen smiled. This wee bit of comic relief was a much-needed distraction.
By now, the paramedics had arrived and a crowd of less-charitable onlookers had gathered to gawk at the crash site. The police arrived soon after to investigate the cause. Glen and I could recall only a few of the events leading up to the accident, so we were of little help. Off the road some 500 metres from our resting spot, and hidden behind the enormous New Zealand gums, a Maori family of five appeared out of the brush: three adults, a teen, and a baby. The three-month-old baby girl was crying, an indication that she was hungry, but not hurt. Thank goodness she especially was unharmed. Two of the adults appeared to be her parents. One adult was old enough to be the baby's grandmother. They were all fine. Their red Toyota Corolla, on the other hand,
had received irreparable damage. We learned much later that its brakes had apparently seized on the descent down Rainbow Mountain’s winding road. Despite the stifling New Zealand heat and the cramped conditions, no one in the car was injured. The police questioned the teenage driver as Glen was carefully placed on a stretcher and loaded into the ambulance.
"Would you come with us to the hospital, Miss, just to make sure you’re alright?" asked one of the attendants.
"No, I’m fine. Really," I said. "I am on my way to Taupo’s Huka Jet tour, and I’d really like to get going...”
I placed a small Canadian pin in the palm of the ambulance attendant’s hand; he nodded, and dropped the keepsake in the front pocket of his light blue work shirt.
“…but please take good care of Glen, and give him this memento for me. Tell Glen it’s for good luck." The ambulance sped away, and the commotion of cars soon diminished. The circus was over.
Colleen’s tour group offered to take me to the falls to meet up with the jet boating crew. The driver radioed ahead to inform the tour I was on my way:
"G'day Rob, Carl here, just collecting our gear and we’ll be there in twenty, over." Carl placed his hand on my elbow to direct me into the shuttle. I stopped at the first step.
"Oh, my backpack," I quickly remembered. "I’ll be right back."
I turned to face the crushed pink bus behind me. I hadn’t expected it to be real. There were yellow, pink and blue tour pamphlets strewn around the doors and windows of the pink tour bus. Pebbles of broken glass sparkled between the blades of brown grass on the boulevard. The roof of the bus had been crushed like an aluminum pop can. Other cars began to assemble around the site for people to take a closer look at the damage. Sky Television was on the scene taking photographs and questioning the officers and witnesses nearby. At this point, I felt strangely detached from it all, as though someone else had endured the ordeal. Mentally, I was far far away. The hollow ache just under my ribs was the only physical reminder that the memory was mine. And then it started. The tears that I’d held back all this time to appear strong for Glen were now tugging at my insides as though I hadn’t eaten in days. I hugged my stomach to pacify the pain, but I could not control the sobbing. My body went limp with exhaustion. Carl wrapped his arms around me in a strong, safe embrace until the shaking subsided.
"Laurel, you’ll be right," he said. "Glen is alive, thanks to your quick thinking. Now we’ll make sure you get safely to your tour, no worries, mate." I convinced Carl that I was fine, but after I boarded the minibus, my knees and my hands continued to shake uncontrollably on the hot vinyl seat. Carl checked over his shoulder. Colleen held my hands to calm the tremors.
"How’s about a cuppa?" Carl suggested with enthusiasm. "We can afford a couple minutes, and besides I haven’t had me tea this mornin'."
I don’t remember nodding, but it was the best decision I’d made all day. We stopped at the nearest highway rest point, then found an empty picnic table on the patio under some blooming Bottle Brush trees. Within minutes, Carl had delivered an orange cafeteria tray to our table; the single serving silver teapot steamed with the scent of peppermint tea. The tea was strong yet soothing - just what I needed.
Carl and his group escorted me to Huka Falls, then headed off to the Maori village in town to continue their own tour. I felt as though I was saying goodbye to my family for the second time. I didn't want them to go. Carl hugged me. I took a deep breath to postpone the tears.
"All the best, mate," he said.
He climbed into the right-hand side of the shuttle bus and pulled away with a wave. I was on my own. Again. This time, my independent spirit was too bruised to feel empowered by the notion. By this stage, I just wanted to go home. I’d had enough adventure for a lifetime of scrapbooks.
By now everyone at Hukafalls had learned about the accident. They had waited patiently for me to arrive in order to begin the tour and they were genuinely concerned about my safety. Nevertheless we all wanted to get on with the adventure. Yes, even me. At least on the outside I was saying yes. Chris, our jet boat driver, loaded us on the boats, then strapped us into a dinghy-like motor craft that comfortably seated eight people. A thick metal bar, much like the safety bar on a roller coaster, held us in. Within thirty seconds we were skipping across Lake Taupo.
We pirouetted in 360-degree turns to the edge of the falls, stopping just short of apparent danger. The tourists screamed as the jet boat approached the rocky shoreline, seemingly without any intention of turning away from the craggy curbs. It was fun and exhilarating, just as they’d advertised in their brochures, to sit at the base of the foaming Huka Falls while it pumped 220,000 liters per second over the cliff face toward you, then to feel the power of the 496 Chevrolet V8 as you sped through the beautiful deep green water and shallow grassy river edges, but nothing, nothing at all like B & P’s Spinning Shuttle Tour Bus Ride outside Rotorua.
By now, all the excitement I wanted was a warm bath and a soft pillow. The Huka shuttle bus took me back to Kiwi Paka Thermal Lodge on the outskirts of Rotorua where the innkeepers, Geena and Stewart Voermanek, greeted me at the gate.
"We’re so glad you’re safe, Laurel," said Stewart. "Carl told us all about the accident when he returned your sweatshirt earlier this afternoon."
Frankly, I hadn’t expected to see that sweatshirt again, and I surely didn’t need a visual reminder of the day’s events.
"Carl said he washed the shirt on the rocks by Huka Falls so you wouldn’t have to worry about it," added Geena. "He also wanted you to have this gift." Geena reached over to attach a gold kiwi bird to the collar of my T-shirt.
"It’s from Glen," said Stewart. "He referred to you as his Canadian guardian angel. He wanted to wish you well, and knew that this kiwi would keep you safe on your journey."
"Thanks to you, Glen is recovering very well," said Geena. "Now, you need to get some rest, young lady, after the day you've had."
I didn't have the energy to disagree. Geena saw me to my room, then said good night for the evening.
"See you in the morning," she said. I locked the door to my room, changed into my pyjamas, and went to bed without any thoughts about dinner.
The beams of light from the setting sun painted the hostel walls in a pinkish glow. I don’t want to think about anything pink for the rest of my life, I thought to myself. I closed my eyes, then placed the heavy feather pillow over my head for the night.
Needless to say, I had a difficult time sleeping that night. I really needed to talk to Glen to confirm a few details about the accident, just to make sure it hadn’t been a dream. Geena and Stewart assisted me the next morning in finding Glen’s home number.
"Hello, Glen? It’s Laurel. Thank you for the beautiful pin. I’m on my way to Picton this morning and I couldn’t leave without saying goodbye and good health."
The voice on the other end of the line was difficult to understand at first, but I knew he was straining to talk; Glen’s ribs had been bruised in the accident.
"Just take your time, Glen," I whispered.
"I’m so sorry to have to tell you this, Laurel, but Glen died early last night due to complications with his heart." My legs went limp. Stewart pushed the chair closer to the telephone table to where my knees had buckled.
"I’m his son, Dean. Dad told us about your kindness and we want to thank you for being there to comfort him when you did. He also said you were very brave, and that you made him smile. I hope the kiwi pin keeps you safe. May God bless you."
I didn’t really hear the last part of our conversation; my heart was racing as I thought about my own mortality. Geena gently eased the receiver out of my hand.
"Carl didn’t want you to know about Glen’s heart attack, Laurel. Both Stewart and I promised Carl that we wouldn’t tell you. You had already been through enough. We are so sorry. I wish we could do more." A thought quickly entered my mind.
"You know, I believe you can."
At noon, I boarded the southbound coach for the final leg of my tour of New Zealand. There I spied the Kiwi Tours bus terminal. It would be my last memory of Rotorua. Posted on the electronic message board outside the station was a schedule of bus arrivals and departures. Just below the schedule an image of a kiwi bird appeared. It was holding a maple leaf in one wing and an accompanying note in the other. The note read: You'll be safe on your travels for your guardian angel is never far away.
Coach #357 pulled away from the terminal. No one on the bus took much notice of the message; they all seemed more interested in their books and their iPods and their blackberries. I, on the other hand, held my gold kiwi in the palm of my hand and kept my sights on the next destination.

The Great Turkey Flood

My instructions were simple:
“Soak the bird in the laundry basin for a few hours so it can thaw.”
“No problem,” Jeff replied.
The turkey had been defrosting in the refrigerator for two days, but at this rate it wasn’t ever going to be ready for the roaster, or for my in-laws. It was Thanksgiving Eve and our turn to host the family dinner.
I thought I'd left the Butterball in good hands and set off to run errands.
Jeff would meet me in Grimsby at three o’clock for some horseback riding with our nephews. We’d have dinner at their house, and come home to prepare the turkey at ours. What could be simpler?
I arrived home first, some eight hours later, pulled into the garage and shut off the car, or so I thought I had. Still, I could hear a loud hissing sound, not like the sound of an engine really, but like the sound of water running through pipes. Must be the dishwasher, I thought. I got out of the car, carried my sleeping daughter to the door, and hoped for nothing else but a good night’s sleep before the Thanksgiving festivities the next day. It wasn’t meant to be.
I opened the garage door, the door that connects the garage to the laundry room, and there it was, treading water, bobbing and floating just above the sides of the white plastic sink in the laundry room while gallons of precious H2O poured out of the faucet and over the basin like the Niagara River over Niagara Falls: our soon-to-be Thanksgiving turkey dinner.
A stream of cold, clean tap water covered the ceramic tile flooring in a river as deep as the wall base molding and as wide as the walls would allow, making it no further than the first floor powder room, as far as I could tell.
I shut off the tap, took my daughter upstairs to bed, and thought about what I’d just seen. I rolled up my pant legs, walked back downstairs, and bravely headed into the deepest recesses of our home, the basement.
Imagine if you can, a tropical rain forest in the basement of your house. There was water everywhere, and lots of it, pouring from the ceiling like rain, saturating every cardboard box in sight. It seeped into the boxes of Christmas ornaments, tree skirts, tablecloths and napkins …into every file folder of lesson plans for Shakespeare, Austen, and Blake… … into every Scrabble, Yahtzee, and Twister game…and into every stack of old photos we owned. Every single box was a sopping mess of pulp.
Jeff soon appeared at the top of the basement stairs. He stood in disbelief, as did I, and then sheepishly grabbed the nearest mop.
“I did just as you said,” he told me as we attempted to reverse the flood. “I filled the tub with water, turned off the tap and left the room. When I came back to check on the turkey, the water had drained out of the laundry basin, so I turned on the faucet to let it fill up again and left, intending to return in a couple of minutes to turn it off before heading out to meet you at the stables. After that, I don’t know what happened. To get to the garage, I needed to walk through the laundry room, past the sink, and past the bird. For some reason, I didn’t notice the water shooting full blast out of the faucet and into the tub. But how could that be? How could that be?”
A question we will never have an answer to.
And so, the Butterball turkey had sat, and it sat, and it sat. For some eight long, wet hours that featherless fowl sat all alone atop a laundry tub full of ice cold tap water, unable to sink, or swim, or call for help. Nonetheless, the next day, our Thanksgiving dinner for twelve continued as planned. Well, sort of.
All the furniture in the family room had been pulled into the middle, making conversations quite intimate, with everyone expected to take his turn stomping across the many towels absorbing the broth-soaked carpet. Other than that, the sun shone through every window, the laundry room floor sparkled, and the turkey was exceptionally moist.
Jokes abounded, as did valuable advice.
“Now dear,” Jeff’s mom whispered to me, gesturing to the cerebellum, “you just tuck this experience way back here. For when you need it.” A smile of forty-some years of marital experience flashed across her face. Who was I to argue with that much wisdom?
The insurance company and restoration contractors arrived Monday with industrial-sized fans and dehumidifiers that ran for five days straight on the main and lower floors of the house. By the time the drying out was done, my head felt like I'd been under the hair dryer at Betty's Hair Salon for the good part of a week. The contractor’s instructions were simple: tear out the family- room carpet, throw out every cardboard box in sight, invest in Rubbermaid…and never, ever, let your husband near the turkey again!

Her Mother Calls Her Carol

Every Thursday, Diane walks from Longwood Drive to King Street West to visit with her mother. Margaret has endured sixty-two years of living as a wife, a mother, and a grandmother. Twenty-five of those years she has spent dying.
When the air is crisp and the sidewalks are damp, Diane brings her mother a batch of homemade chicken soup. Without her teeth, Margaret can’t eat much else.
When the air is warm and the sidewalks are dry, Diane prepares a lunch of mashed potatoes and vanilla pudding for an afternoon picnic in Gore Park. A flask of sherry and a menthol cigarette sooth the despair in her mother’s eyes. Mother and daughter sit and observe the pigeons scrounging for crumbs. They speak very little, but when they do, Margaret never questions why God blesses some, and tests the faith of others. Margaret’s life wasn’t always this way. She married young, bore two children, and created a family. She baked cookies, played bingo at St. Joseph’s Hall on Friday nights, and loved to dance.
At night, before it is time for her to leave, Diane makes sure her mother is tucked in with her sister’s old quilt, a Bible, and a large plastic liner for protection from the rain. Margaret would never leave her place on King Street to live with her daughter. This is her home.
“’night, Mom. See you next week.”
“Thanks for comin’, Carol. Kiss Tom and the boys for me. Tell ‘em Grandma loves them.”
On her way home, Diane stops by the cemetery. She stands in front of the granite stone marking her sister’s grave. It has been seventeen years since Carol died. Tom has remarried; Jake and Simon are grown. Everyone else has moved on, but Margaret never could.
The pedestrians on King Street West walk right past Margaret. Some will pause to drop a coin in her Tim Hortons’ cup and whisper, “God Bless You,” and she’ll answer, He always has.

Mindful

Mindful

I knew I was smack dab in the middle of it, when
amongst the asparagus,
the sweet potatoes
and the rutabagas in the produce aisle at Fortinos,
close to tears,
I could not choose
between iceberg and romaine lettuce for dinner.
Pull yourself together here. It’s grocery shopping, for Pete’s sake.
Negative chatter sabotaged every thought;
every other inadequacy flooded in:
How could you have forgotten the list? It was right there on the table.
When are you going to get organized? You’re completely useless.
Convictions of worthlessness and failure, and
a mind full of self-criticism: the root of all depression.

I would have taken cancer over depression;
folks accept physical illness.
Doctor’s appointments, and monthly treatments;
the validation of poor health.
Mental anguish shrouded in shame.
Too inadequate to be with others and yet,
too afraid to be alone.
Being alone with my thoughts
was like being alone with the devil.
I wanted to shout,
I’m being held prisoner inside here.
Somebody please help me!
Waiting for liberation was the real hell.
Anti-depressants to try, to hope on, to be disappointed by.
Six to eight weeks of treading water in the deep end with
the life ring still so far away.
It does not wait patiently.

A Writer's Dilemma

I know it’s not a simple thing,
Learning how to read.
But for children, and all readers alike,
The words let our minds run free

To faraway places,
And long ago times,
With make-believe play mates,
And animals, all kinds.

But what if that same reading
Becomes such a bore
That none of us sees books and such
As a way to explore

The many sights and sounds around us,
The people that we meet,
The cultures that collide with ours,
And make our lives more complete?

What if we’d much rather text, tweet, and twitter,
Online with MSN friends,
Than sit in a comfy reading chair
Til the story finally ends?

Yes, here is the dilemma of all new writers,
The message that we’re heeding:
How do writers write stories
That all readers enjoy reading?

Perhaps it’s the laughter, and the teachings,
The lives and the loves we’re needing
Of every storyteller on the planet
To keep all readers believing

In books that sing,
And in the books that jive,
In books that spin magic,
And in books that come alive.

Yes, those too, are the stories
That I prefer to devour
When I open up the pages
Of new worlds out there to discover.

To ponder all the histories
Of folks, young and old,
For centuries upon centuries, we know
Those stories never grow old.

So it’s up to us, the writers,
To keep those stories fresh.
Providing new perspectives
On lives we all possess.

Writing to keep the memories strong
To capture moments in time
For all generations to stop and pause
To recognize familiar climbs

That they too, must journey
To read well traveled signs
Of success and failures we endure
To become better people, no matter the designs.

But if those same readers should find
The messages in the texts
Of poets, and scribes from earlier times
In languages they cannot inspect

Then they too, must become the writers
To reword all the tales
To continue the life of the printed word
In a flavour that never grows stale.