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.
Friday, February 19, 2010
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!)
(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.
“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.
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.
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!
“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.
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.
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