Cinderella gets another kick at the can

The yellow taxicab screeched to a halt. Cindy handed the driver a twenty-dollar bill and jumped out. Wow! New York!  She searched for her fairy godmother’s location on the address board.  The elevator took her to the fortieth floor. Goldie Maxi-Mum, Romance Counsellor in large gold letters. This must be the place!   

The receptionist greeted her with a red lipstick smile and ushered her into the office. Was that really her old benefactor behind the desk? Gone was the white gauzy gown, the rhinestone tiara and the flowing golden hair. Instead, a well-coiffed brunette in a tailored black suit rose and wrapped Cindy in a warm embrace.

“Dear girl, it has been so long. I got your email. So it didn’t work out?”

“Fairy godmother! I hardly recognised you! I always thought of you as being the traditional type. The real McCoy.”

“Cindy, please call me Goldie. I have moved on. This is the twenty-first century and I have discovered Prada, the only way to dress for success. Now how can I help you?”

“I was devastated to find Beauregard’s single-shoe collection in his dresser’s secret drawer.  Souvenirs from his many affairs.”

Golda keyed in Beauregard:  his file came up.  “Yes, Cindy, he has an incurable foot fetish. You are going to have to go independent. Seek a career. It‘s your best choice.”

“I had hoped to find a new partner. I thought that you could help me. You got me into this mess in the first place.”

“Cindy, I only did my part. You were a willing participant. A naive young girl who believed that the Prince would bring you everlasting joy. Fortunately, the myth lives on. And you can turn it to your advantage!"

“I am flat broke. Beauregard squandered his money on his lady loves.”

“Cindy, the experience made you wiser. I see possibilities in you; it just so happens that I need an executive assistant. Now first, you will need a complete makeover. You have let yourself go. I am shocked with your appearance.”

“I fell into a depression when I discovered the awful truth.”

“We are going to change all that.  I am willing to finance your makeover and provide you with a suitable wardrobe. Then we will take it from there.”

“I knew that I could count on you.  They didn’t call you “fairy godmother” for nothing.”

“Please, my dear, Goldie is the name. Take a look at these files. All these women are searching for true romance.”

“Amazing!  I mean like thousands of them!”

“Yes, Cindy, the magical belief in Prince Charming never goes out of style. Clients can connect with us via Facebook, Twitter or through our website.  Hey girl, have you caught my midnight special on Fox?  Technology makes it easy. No need to wander around in the dark looking for a rotting pumpkin to transform into a glass coach. Glass slippers are so passé. A click of the mouse has taken on a different meaning.  Not the real live ones, often so reluctant to be coachmen. Dear Cinderella, the times, they are a-changin’. Glad to have you on our team. This new partnership calls for martinis—nothing but Grey Goose will do.”

Noblesse oblige

Bea Nevis was excited when she arrived at school on that bright sunny morning. Her mother was giving a tea party for Lord Belmore. He was the fifth earl to hold the title since it had been created in the eighteenth century. Bea’s mum was a special favourite of his because he was partial to redheads. He had long served on the board of the Girl’s Collegiate school. Bea had three invitations for her very best friends Jayne, Catherine and Peggy. All four girls had just turned fourteen.
At recess, the friends gathered together under the old oak tree and Bea passed out the invitations. She had expected cries of delight but all she got were looks of shock before her friends collapsed into helpless laughter.
 Jayne was incredulous as she said, “I don’t believe that your mum can be throwing a tea party for that obese old man!” 
Peggy chimed in, “I would feel like an idiot. I hear that he expects schoolgirls to sit on his lap and that he is into a bit of snuggling. Yuck!” 
Catherine raised her eyebrows as she remarked, “Bea, your mum has to realise that this is a different generation. We are no longer prepared to be lap dogs for the local aristocrat. It is indecent!"
 Bea frowned and shook her finger at her friends, as she launched into her speech. Bea’s best subject was history and she had all the facts at her fingertips: 
“Okay, he was born in Australia where his dad was governor of New South Wales. He went to Winchester College in England. For your information, that was Winston Churchill’s school. He is a graduate of Oxford, was a barrister in London and in Ireland he has served as High Sherriff in two counties. Also, was a captain in the Royal Inniskilling Fusiliers. How about that? And he lives at Castle Coole!”
The girls shrugged their shoulders and chorused, “So what?" 
Bea stamped her foot and continued to press her case; by now, her face was flushed and her eyes were full of tears.
In shrill tones, she cried out,” Don’t you know Castle Coole is an eighteenth-century mansion? There is even a special bedroom where King George the Sixth slept.” 
Catherine remarked,”Yeah, I have heard that  his lordship lives there with his dotty old maid sisters and that he is not on speaking terms with any of them.” 
Bea cried out in exasperation,”You girls have no respect for a true gentleman who has done so much for the people of Ireland. Haven’t you ever heard of noblesse oblige?”
Jayne  retorted,”Sure have. The term means that the nobleman cares for the community. This doesn’t give him the right to fondle nubile schoolgirls.”
 Peggy got the last word as she said, ‘I hear that he can wolf down a whole platter of sandwiches and can polish off an entire fruit cake while he does his bouncy-bounce. Sorry, Bea, tell your mum that we won’t be in attendance.”
 The girls walked away, laughing loudly, as Bea retrieved the invitations from where they lay on the grass. She muttered to herself, “Mum will be furious. I know just what she will say. Something like, “this country is going to the dogs. What’s the matter with schoolgirls who have no respect for the traditions of the past?”

Come Dine with Me

            Amanda checked the meat thermometer. The lamb was almost done. Humming softly, she centered the vase of spring flowers on the coffee table.  Her aunts were coming for dinner, eager to see her renovations. She inherited the gardener’s old cottage, along with a small sum of money, from Uncle Roger. He brought her up after her parents died in a car accident.   Aunts Sarah and Bessie had never married and also made their home with their brother.  Amanda had known nothing but love in the big Victorian mansion.  After her marriage broke up, she came back to help nurse her uncle through his final illness. She narrowed her eyes and clenched her fists for her inheritance had not met with her expectations.

The door bell rang and she ran to greet her aunts. She ushered them in with cries of delight:
 “Dearest dearest aunties, so happy to see you. Come in and make yourselves comfortable.  Try the loveseat. Had it re-upholstered? Like my decor?  Still a lot to be done. It takes money!”
 Sarah and Bessie sat down and Amanda marvelled afresh on how different they were in appearance. Sarah, the elder sister, had an angular build and a pale complexion. Always composed, she now sat with her ankles neatly crossed. Bessie had a short rotund figure and a cheerful face with rosy cheeks. She smiled with ease, her brown eyes sparkling. It was typical of Bessie to get the conversational ball rolling:

“Mandy, I love the way you kept the country look with the flowered upholstery and I see that you did Roger’s chair over in green suede. That old brown leather armchair once was our father’s favourite chair.”  Her eyes brimmed with tears.
 “Auntie Bessie, please no tears. Uncle Roger wouldn’t want it. Spring is here. A time for renewal. I cooked lamb and new potatoes, garden peas. I made fresh mint sauce. Our favourite springtime dinner. Right?”
 Sarah nodded thoughtfully and spoke quietly:
 “Amanda, do you miss your old home? You lived there, on and off, since you were five. Your bedroom is filled with your girlhood treasures. Even your first evening gown and the mink wrap that Roger gave you. Don’t you want them in your new house?”
 “No. no, Auntie Sarah, leave them be. They belong where they are.”
 Bessie chimed in:
 “My love, soon enough the house will be yours, along with a sizable sum of money. Our brother provided well for us, may God rest his soul. But our days are numbered.”
 “Please, please, Auntie, don’t speak of sad things. Only recently, I dried my eyes from weeping for my uncle. I cannot bear the thought of more losses.”
 “Dear girl, I didn’t mean to...” Bessie stammered.
 Sarah raised her hand as she softly said:
“No more grief. Let’s talk of something cheerful.”
 Amanda cried out as she ran to the antique buffet:
 “Aunties, look over here.  Mother’s crystal glasses and a fine sauterne in the decanter!”
 Sarah and Bessie smacked their lips for they loved nothing more than a good white wine. As Amanda approached them, with two brimming glasses, she asked herself:                                                       “Which one will I poison first?”

           

 

 

It takes a dog to know a tree

She and I do the morning walk. I do my business--you know what I mean. We are pleased to get that stuff  done and now I can sit under the red maple tree in front of the house. I am not much for the back yard. So dull, no people, no doggie pals. Nothing to hold one's interest. I spend all summer under my tree, watching the world go by.
On this summer morning, I hear scuffling on the roof. I look up and see a fat smug black squirrel with bright eyes and an impressive tail. He leaps over onto my tree and chatters down at me. I ignore him. When it comes to squirrels, I give up. I call this maturity. In the past  I would chase squirrels. But they run away. I guess that they don't want my friendship.
The tree is my friend. She also likes the tree and sits in a chair reading, all the summer long.Neighbours pass by and discuss the history of the tree. It replaces a birch tree that succumbs to an ice storm many years ago. At first, she didn't take to the red maple. It is a newcomer, but when it is small, she can grow flowers that love the sunshine. As it grows, it provides shade so she has to rethink her gardening. This summer, things work out. Geraniums turn black but revive as fall approaches. Brilliant reds and pinks. In fact, spectacular. She is happy about that. Especially as they make a great background for moi. I am black and white- -what a photograph. One for the album!
The tree starts to shed leaves. Soon I will be an indoor dog with no outside company. I will miss the man who calls me Tiger and asks me if I am protecting the property. He is joking. I weigh thirteen pounds. But I wag my tail anyway. I do love humans like the mailman who thanks me for not biting him. I will miss the conversations. One lady has a white dog called Maggie. An indoor dog. If one leaf lands on her, her mistress flicks it off. Although the lady is interesting. She is into American politics and is convinced that Obama will be a one-term president. She gets worked up like you wouldn't believe. Humans and their problems.
I am content under my tree. I have a pal next door, one of my breed.We tussle a bit. Get our leads tangled. She moans that soon she will be raking leaves. Where will I be without my tree? I am not much for TV or getting salt on my paws. Too much of that when the snow falls. The tree will stand dark and bare, its icy branches tapping on the bedroom window. I'll look wistfuly up at the tree and long for another glorious summer.

Emma's Headache

Emma slammed down her copy of Wuthering Heights and raised her hand.

“Yes, Emma?” Miss Walmsley turned from the blackboard, chalk in hand.

“Teacher, may I be excused? I have a splitting headache.” The English teacher raised her eyebrows. This wasn’t like Emma. She was one of her better students. The poor girl must be ill.

“Emma, go down to the nurse’s office. Maybe she can give you something.” Emma gathered her belongings and wandered down the hall.

“Hi. Can I go home? I have an awful headache. Miss Walmsley sent me down.”

“Emma, go home and rest. Maybe Mom should take you to the doctor.”

Emma let herself in the front door and made for the kitchen. Her parents were both at work. She grabbed a bag of chips and opened the frig. Then she hit the butterscotch ice cream, spooned it into a bowl and topped it with a banana. She threw the whole thing into a plastic bowl and climbed upon her bedroom duvet. Shivering, she pulled the duvet over her. She ate her snack and got chip crumbs all over the duvet. She brushed them onto the floor, along with the banana skin. She lay down and closed her eyes. Maybe, if she lay very still, the headache would go away.

But when Emma closed her eyes, all she could see was Jeff and Lori kissing in the school library. She had caught them there this morning. Jeff and she had been close for at least a week. He had kissed her under the shade of a chestnut tree that was in full bloom. She was thrilled by his kiss—her first real kiss. But her heart had turned to stone when she saw him with Lori. At the memory, her tears welled up and her nose started to run. She wiped it with the edge of the pillow case.

She heard the sound of a key in the front door. Emma staggered out of bed and went out into the hall. Mom stood at the bottom of the stairs with a concerned look on her face.

“Whatever is wrong? You look terrible!” Mom ran upstairs and put her arms around her distraught daughter. Emma laid her head on Mom’s shoulder and sobbed her heart out.
“It’s Jeff, Mom. He has left me for another woman.”

Mom rubbed Emma’s back. “Dry your eyes, darling. I am going to go and turn the Jacuzzi on. You can relax while I cook dinner. We have butterscotch ice cream for dessert. You love that. Maybe we should do a girls’ night out? We could take in a movie, just the two of us.”

Emma sat next to her Mom in the darkened theatre. She loved the movie, about a female vampire that made short work of her unfaithful boyfriend. Emma found herself seeing Jeff’s tortured face replacing that of the male actor. The fact that she watched Jeff expire, even if only in her imagination, cheered her up no end. With a sigh of relief, she realised that her headache was gone.

aspects of witchcraft

hallow e’en

whispery wind

full harvest moon

candle-lit

carved pumpkins

small witches

wee clowns

winged fairies

pass down the street

vigilant parents

check the candies

are they wrapped

old woman

with candied apples

must be fifty on that tray

she smiles in welcome

but is her smile suspicious

one tooth is missing

drab black dress

straggly hair

dry fluttering nervous hands

hand out apples

momma wags her finger

move along

maybe razor blades

batman and cinderella

crestfallen faces

old lady shudders

mutters

what a witch

that mother is

likely sucks up bad media

old lady shouts

“candied apples, home- made

come and get ‘em.”

Points of View

The Life of the Party

        

         The bride of two months loved the snowstorm.  She had arrived to a grey Canadian November. But New Year’s Eve would fulfill her dreams; as she danced to the band in her blue gown, outside the world was turning white, white, and white as the gardenias that she wore on her wrist and in her hair.

         She was stunned by the buffet. Rationing I was still in effect in Britain so the array of roast turkey, whole salmon. Baked ham, served with assorted salads and followed by sherry trifle, was mind-boggling. She also was sampling champagne for the first time so all in all, her delighted giddiness knew no bounds.

         She was impervious to the problems of guests who had left young children in the care of teen-age baby sitters and were dismayed when they stepped out into a blinding blizzard. She staggered through deep snow to get to the narrow single bed where she and her husband spent the night.  Being more than a little tipsy, she fell down a couple of times, giggling madly. Her dress was a sodden mess.

         By morning, the dress has had a good night’s sleep and looked as good as new. She stuck the gardenias back in her hair and on her wrist. A snowy return to the Mess to breakfast on orange juice, scrambled eggs and bacon, toast and coffee. The chef served breakfast. Poor man—he looked weary with those dark shadows under his eyes.  But he winked at her and gave her a broad smile. He made the cake for her wedding eight weeks before. He came out of the kitchen to wish the young couple good luck.

         Somebody put on the record player and everybody danced. They sang — like it was hilarious.  Some kind friends drove the newly -weds home. The coal furnace had gone out. She climbed into bed and piled on every blanket and coat that she could find.  Finally, the furnace got going and soon the house was warm and cozy. What a fun New Year! Simply hilarious.

The Chef’s Burden

         Don’t get me wrong. I love my job for I am le chef extraordinaire from la Belle Provence. So I get the job at Camp Borden. It is Ontario and they like plain fare, no lapin or tortiere. But one goes where the job is.  That New Year’s, I prepare the buffet.

         It is 2 am before the staff wash and dry and put away the dishes. At last, the kitchen is tidy and I hang up my apron and take off my chef’s hat. The storm outside is bad. I call Anne-Marie, my wife:

          “Happy New Year, cherie.  Wild out there. Home as soon as I can.  Embrace les enfants for me.”

         Guests were quartered here and there on the base.  Myself and the staff, we sleep in the Officer’s Mess.  Lotta sofas -we cover ourselves with our coats.  Not good but we manage.

 I was awakened by Flying-Officer Jones. Messing officer; I take my orders from him.

         “Hi, Joe.  Looks like you are still on duty. There are a bunch of bods who need to be fed. Do the best you can, chum.  And by the way, Happy New Year.”

         We drag ourselves back to the kitchen. Soon, we have a crowd of hungry people in the dining hall. It seem a festive occasion.  Lots of laughter.  Maybe for them but not for me. The young bride in her pretty blue gown is laughing a lot. I think that, on her wedding day, she seem shy but bolder now. These people get happy as the day progress—will they never stop eating and drinking?

         It is past six in the evening when I make it home.  Anne-Marie makes special Quebecois dishes—I never cook at home.  I stagger up the driveway, open the door and see my happy family.

         Anne-Marie urges me towards the table.  “Non, non!  I see you tomorrow.”

         As I drift off to sleep, I think: “Mon Dieu, the worse New Year’s of my life.”

Whatever happened to Agatha Christie?

   Mysterious and more mysterious! Agatha Christie vanished from the public eye for eleven days.  Where did  she go, what did she do and why did she do it?  Still a mystery!  This is my guess—enjoy!

 December, 1926:  Sidney, third Earl of Barchester, sank deep into his leather chair. It had been a rough day at the London Stock Exchange. The family fortunes had been sadly depleted by his grandfather, the first Earl, who was part of the infamous Prince of Wales in-group.  How Victoria must have grieved over her frivolous son, so different from her dear and faithful Albert.  No sense in going back for it would only break the heart.  Sidney’s father had made sure that his son had had business training.  Of course, the estate in Yorkshire was long gone due to death duties but financially, Sidney was hanging in there. 
He sat enjoying his Scotch and soda; Bertha his wife had departed for her parents’ stately home in Kent with servants and children in tow. His eyes misted over as he imagined his children rejoicing in the Yuletide preparations.  He envisioned them dragging in the Yule log, watching the servants baking mince pies, plum puddings and fruit cakes. Margaret, his mother-in-law, she of the imperious blue eyes and arched eyebrows, ruled her servants with a rod of iron. She had picked this habit up in India where she had spent her childhood; her English boarding school had further enforced her imperialistic attitude.

 The phone rang, “Barchester here.”
 “Sidney, tis I, Agatha and I am devastated.”

 “Agatha, you and your amazing imagination. You know that you are now a household name with the publication of your mystery novel The Murder of Roger Ackroyd, the literary event of 1926. What could possibly be disturbing you, my clever precious?”

“It is that bastard Archie.  After twelve years of marriage, he has told me that he is going to leave me, in spite of our darling daughter.  He is taking off with his secretary and is seeking a divorce. You know how much I dislike the idea of divorce. I wanted to talk to you—you have been so supportive.”

 “Agatha, what do you expect of me? I am anticipating the Yuletide season with Bertha’s family in Kent so it will have to be a short sojourn.  Does sound intriguing though and you are my favourite mystery woman. Drive to Guildford, south west of London. Abandon the car but leave your fur coat and driver’s license in the car.  The police will suspect foul play and this will give us time. Call me from the nearest phone booth and I will pick you up. You and I are about to embark on the perfect lovers’ tryst and it will be our secret for all time.”

 Sidney, forty years later:

 “Had I known then that she would amass a fortune, I think that I would have had her stay for more than eleven days. But what a magical eleven days.  I cancelled all deliveries including newspapers, bread and milk. I had the phone service discontinued until further notice. She didn’t write, she barely cooked and when she did cook, she did it barely. Others know her as that magnificent mystery writer but I still see her shapely posterior as she stirred the humble porridge pot. Oh Agatha, my Agatha, I will carry the memory to my grave.  But I do resent the fact that later, she glossed over those eleven days as if they had never happened. But that’s my girl—the mystery writer. Where would the world be today without Miss Marple and the Vicar downing a good pot of tea and solving it all? Long live mystery—it certainly livens up the village green.”

Reflections by the lake

I am the Viking statue in Gimli, Manitoba, born in 1967 to commemorate the upcoming Centennial. Before that, I was a ghost or a spirit from the past and humans were barely aware of me. But here I stand, fifteen feet tall with my back to the lake. I hold my axe and the general idea is that I have just landed on the shore and am checking the place out for new opportunities. I don’t like this great thundering axe because it looks so threatening. I realise that my race acquired a reputation for plundering but I always tried to avoid it, only plundering when it was absolutely necessary. I don’t like having my back to the lake because my heritage is the sea. I would much rather have been depicted with a dolphin or two, those intelligent mammals that used to follow my boat in those happy faraway times.

            Since 1967, I have seen many changes. This town of five thousand swells to fifteen thousand in the summer months with many cottagers and visitors enjoying pleasure-boating and fishing. Icelanders came here in the late nineteenth century and took up fishing and farming. I was part of their heritage having sailed to Iceland hundreds of years before. Many Vikings were merchants or farmers in Iceland and of course, they loved to fish. Lake Winnipeg teams with fish, the Winnipeg Gold eye being a great delicacy and the pickerel is so delectable that it defies description.

Gimli has changed in the past fifty years and some think for the better but I feel a nostalgia for the old wooden cottages. Those old buildings have been replaced by modern summer homes. Gazebos abound and this probably a good idea because the mosquito season is fierce. Before screened gazebos became common, there was much cursing and swatting in the early summer. It was at times like that, that I was glad to be made of fibre glass, marble dust and resin, thus impervious to mosquitoes. Did I mention that I was designed by Gisseur Eliasson, a professor at the University of Manitoba and that I was sculpted by a gifted sculptor, George Barone? How about that for an illustrious rebirth?

To my right is the sea wall and on this moody Manitoba morning, artists are touching up their sea wall paintings that take a beating from stormy waters. Some paintings don’t quite fit the scene—they portray the wrong history. For example, there is one painting that mystifies me—elegant women in picture hats carrying parasols, flanked by little girls in beribboned dresses and little boys in sailor suits. What does this art have to do with a nineteenth-century Icelandic community that built its reputation on commercial fishing?

Over there to my left, people sit under umbrellas on the hotel patio enjoying the pan-fried pickerel, served with crisp salad and herbed buns. People now refer to Gimli as a charming little area of Manitoba with hotels and restaurants to please the many visitors. I guess we Vikings have made it into the modern world. But in spirit, I wander backwards towards the old seafaring days and I miss my close communication with those dear darling dolphins.

Surviving the Fifties

Libby gave the kitchen floor a final swipe, emptied the pail of sticky water in the kitchen sink, grabbed the white garbage bag, opened the back door and clattered down the wooden steps. She always wore high heels even with short shorts. And short shorts she was wearing on this beautiful prairie summer morning. They were white and looked great with her tan. She took the lid off the metal garbage can and threw the bag inside.  Clang went the lid. As she climbed the steps, she was aware that her neighbour Estelle was watching from her apartment balcony. Estelle was doing her tanning routine. Estelle had a routine for everything. Libby cringed.

            'Oh, she will notice that I have been crying. Why do I have to live next door to Mrs. Canada -Perfect? Nothing goes wrong in her house. She still makes her daughters’ pants from flour sacks and this is 1951. She is a survivor of the Great Depression and can’t break the thrifty habit. She survived as a brave wife, while her husband was overseas fighting the Second World War. She even survived her husband’s failure at chicken farming. She is an expert on waxing floors and does the budget thing. She thinks that I read so much. Meanwhile, I wonder if she ever went to school.'

            Libby composed herself after the morning crisis. Her enfants  terrible were now taking their afternoon naps. She checked them as they slumbered peacefully in their cribs. Her children with their blonde hair and flushed cheeks, perfect angels in repose, a dear daughter and son, born thirteen months apart.  Libby then reflected in a state of near panic.

            'Estelle does not think much of my timing when it comes to birthing children. She engages me with her steady brown eyes and quietly reminds me that her two daughters are four years apart. Therefore, they received  the necessary love and attention from her and the failed chicken farmer at an appropriate time in their childhood and will ultimately turn out to be wonderful fulfilled human beings. I will likely raise monsters and after this morning, I think that it may be entirely possible! Well, I am only twenty-one with a lifetime of learning in front of me!'

Lost in this philosophical reverie, Libby heard a gentle tap on the door. Libby was not surprised. Estelle had a nose for trouble. The Betty Crocker Queen was dressed in her afternoon outfit. Pink and white checked gingham—what else? Libby caught a whiff of Yardley’s lavender. Estelle had a compact little figure and her red hair was perfectly coiffed. She had brought Libby an upside down cake. Canned pineapple, cherries, brown sugar and all that jazz. Her bright brown eyes were inquisitive under her penciled raised eyebrows.

“Libby, I dropped over to see if you were okay. Saw you going down to the garbage and you seemed teary. Oh my goodness, the kitchen floor is sticky. Good job that your mother doesn’t live nearby. She would be upset. My mother was a perfect housekeeper. Her floors shone. You could see your face in them. She dedicated her life to her floors. All that waxing and polishing and then the stripping of the wax and the whole ritual of starting all over again. A true labour of love. What brand of floor wax are you using?"

 “Estelle, it was a bad morning. I made an angel food cake and inverted it in the cake pan as the recipe advised. Then I changed my son’s diaper on the kitchen table and you know what, when baby boys pee, they are not good with their aim. He pissed all over the cake and the cake couldn’t handle the pee. So the cake collapsed on the floor and ruined my wax job. I threw the cake in the garbage. It may be my last angel food cake ever. All those egg whites gone to waste!  No wonder that you gave up on chicken farming!”

Among my shoebox souvenirs

I closed my eyes and reached into the shoebox. I pulled out a picture of a smiling little girl in a cotton dress and sunbonnet standing in front of a 1947 Chevrolet. Our daughter Lois.  She was not yet two but she had survived her first trip with Dad and his obsession with cars, mostly old cars. Dad turned out to be handy with fixer-uppers and our cars were to last for years and years and years; a great driver and mechanic and an exciting navigator. It was a thrill a minute. But these facts had not yet been revealed to us. It all came with time.

Now about the first car. We were living in Edmonton in an apartment with two kids and no car. Life was pretty good—lots of walks. Babies in prams, fresh air and exercise. Lois had a placid baby brother called Bobby. One fateful morning, we didn’t hear the alarm and woke up in a panic. We were slated to fly from Edmonton to Winnipeg. Those kids were quickly bundled, we called a taxi and off we went. Then we bought a car and made the return journey.  Do you remember the ad—see the USA in your Chevrolet? No USA for us right then but a lot of prairie. We rolled into North Battleford—no room at the inn. The circus was in town. The baby must have perked up his ears. Maybe, this was why he later became a carny. We had no choice but to keep on driving. I was fascinated by Saskatchewan at night—huge sky with millions of stars. Sometimes a light glimmered from far away; farmhouses were so far apart. My connection with the universe and the big sky was sadly disturbed about four o’clock in the morning when a dark shape loomed in front of the car. My hero made this brilliant comment:

            “ Hey, I think that was a horse!”

We parked in the ditch and slept fitfully for maybe three hours. We were close to Saskatoon and we rolled in early in the morning. We went to see his aunt; she served us coffee and cookies. Maybe Lois got cereal and fresh milk for Baby Bobby—I don’t remember. It was all couth and polite. After all, it was the Fifties!  Why did I not demand a bath and a hearty breakfast—I was sadly in need of both and so were my kids. But we pressed on towards Edmonton. This was 1951 and the Trans Canada Highway was under construction. It was a wet summer—it took us three hours to travel forty miles sloshing along a muddy road. We sang a lot to keep us awake and we rolled into Edmonton late at night. There had been a dust storm and our apartment windows did not fit well.  Dust on the window sills and in the bath tub. I thought about bathing my kids. But they were zonked out, exhausted from their first car trip with Daddy. The first of many adventures; I repeat that this man was,fated to keep us in suspense. We treasure his memory and his sense of adventure.

The Christening

D-Day (June 6,1944): I piloted my Sunderland aircraft over the Bay of Biscay.  June 7th: I met my future wife in the Officers' Mess at Castle Archdale, Northern Ireland. From the beginning, I knew that she was blonde, blue-eyed and besotted by me. When we married, Libby was not yet twenty and I was nine years older. We never sat down and discussed how many children we wanted and we never discussed spiritual values. I had no idea of her fervent desire to mother children. In fact, she was devastated because it took her four months to get pregnant. Then we had a little daughter, followed by a little brother thirteen months later. She suggested a christening but I was not a church person. So she let it slide—no big problem. In a couple of years, we had a third child and indeed, to my consternation, we ended up with five.

I was one of five and I did not want to repeat the experience. As a child of the 30’s Depression, my experience had not been good. Five kids need a lot of financial support. When I accused her of being careless, she simply told me that I should have spoken up because children are not the result of immaculate conceptions with one possible historical exception.

She sometimes conceived, simply because we passed each other in the hall. She had fabulous pregnancies with nary a problem.  Her doctors complimented her, saying that it was a pleasure to have had her as a maternity patient. She was thrilled with the birth experience. She waxed poetic on this subject. I began to think that she would breed the twelve tribes of Israel. I was a simple lad from Manitoba with no desire to be a patriarch who would lead anyone into any promised land. Too much!

Then Libby had a spiritual awakening of a serious nature. She was loaded with guilt because her children had never been christened. She was so uptight about it that she had difficulty phoning the minister and asking him to drop by. She remembered her mother discussing that Libby’s own christening had been delayed until she was six months old and how the ceremony had taken place at home. Thus her mother kept it as a secret that the baby had been heathen  for a full six months old.

The minister was obliging and gently assured her of a painless christening. But still, she didn’t want the secret to leak out. There might be gossip that her children had lived for years in danger of eternal damnation. Not so the fifth child—the baby was only five months old. Her brief period of being sinful was relatively short, compared to the state of her ten year-old sister Lois who had long lived  in a state of non-grace.

The date was set for a Sunday afternoon in May. Two weeks before Mother’s Day. Libby could fully enjoy the meaning of that day as all her children would be Christians!! O joyful day at last!! In the meantime, the children had to be appropriately clothed and there was much buying of sports coats for the boys and a baby dress for infant Jo-Ann. Libby nervously avoided discussing the subject except with a few trusted friends that would be attending the service. It did not help when she heard that her nine-year-old son Bobby was inviting his whole class to his christening. Fortunately, they didn’t show.

The big day dawned sunny and bright and the children piled into the car, scrubbed clean and neatly dressed. Our seven-year-old son Mike asked if they could go swimming afterwards. I replied that they might as well have the complete immersion. My mother had been Baptist but I don’t think any of her kids ever got immersed. My wife glared at me. She was shocked that I would be frivolous on this momentous occasion.

So we arranged ourselves in front of the altar. All went well until Jo-Ann started to stuff her mouth with her pink organdie skirt. I gave a faint chuckle—under my breath but I could feel my wife stiffen in horror. Then the sanctity of the whole thing fell apart when Mike started to giggle. Bobby nudged him in an attempt to smarten him up. Mike lurched to one side and knocked off five-year-old Elizabeth’s hat. Libby retrieved the hat and plunked it back on Elizabeth’s head. Libby had turned scarlet in the face and was shaking violently.

It proved to be too much for the group of friends that Libby had selected to attend the service, based on their degree of spirituality. Their unseemly laughter rang out loud and clear. Even the minister was breaking up.

We returned to the house for refreshments and Libby told us all off in no uncertain terms. It took her some time to recover but eventually, she came around and admitted that, although it hadn’t turned out as she expected, it still had been a good idea. That is how she summed it up.  How am I to argue when she gets a notion into her head? She’s got all the answers.

Whatever happened to Jane Eyre?

Jane preferred to take her johns to the brothel’s attic room. Somehow, she still bonded  with  Roch’s first wife, Bertha. She had taken to wearing a wild unkempt hair-do. The bangs were tangled and thick and she could hardly see through them. Bertha had popularised this style as the Mad Woman coiffure. Such a daring change from Jane’s demure governess ringlets.  Her johns never failed to get turned on when she peered through that matted fringe with her purple-glitter  shadowed eyes.

She found many imaginative uses for the attic chains. She recalled the early days of cuddling with Roch in their four -poster canopied bed.  Jane often had heard strange clanking noises from above that aroused her curiosity. Roch urged her to relax, explaining that old houses were full of strange noises and that some of the roof tiles needed replacing. Then, there had been the tragedy of the fire and her flight away from Roch and ultimately, their joyous reunion.

 In time, Roch’s ardour cooled; Jane realised that, at heart , he was nothing but a stuffed shirt and she could not tolerate his prudish side. She had been banished to the corner to wear the dunce’s hat often in her early years of schooling. No more!

Roch took to dozing by the fire after dinner and ceased to be the life of her party. She knew a thing or two about arsenic having gotten rid of a few rats in her time. God knows, that school dormitory had been full of them.  She spiked his dinner wine night after night ; Roch’s naps got more frequent and one morning, he didn’t wake up.

His death was attributed to the trauma that he had suffered from his former wife and the fact that he had barely survived the house fire in which Bertha had perished.  Jane stood by his graveside wiping away many a salty tear. The servants blubbered loudly and even his horse looked sad-eyed. Adele, his daughter, was visiting with her French Maman and missed the sad occasion.

Liberated at last, Jane found the right profession. In her working hours, she insisted on a huge roaring fire in the fireplace. Sparks flew everywhere, recalling that fatal night, when Bertha met her demise.  Jane habitually stood, silhouetted against the firelight, cracking her whip to the delight of her current gentleman caller.

Why hadn’t she gotten into this line of work years ago? She had loathed the mealy-mouthed little brats that she tutored. Especially Adele, who was so far ahead of her in French that it was positively embarrassing.  The brat inherited her language skills from her mother, Roch’s French mistress.

Roch could hardly string two words together, even in his own language, beyond “yoicks “ and "tally-ho”.  Hunting terms and even at that, he had managed to fall off his horse: probably his most exciting adventure. She finally had had the good sense to realise that he was no match for a spirited woman like herself. Nodding sagely, she festooned her whip with bright ribbons in anticipation of yet another entertaining evening.

Whatever happened to Madame Ranevsky?

1922: A farmhouse, fifty miles from Paris, France. The scene: An attic room sparsely furnished with a daybed, a table and two chairs. A small fire smoulders in the fireplace. Above the fireplace, there hangs a picture of Madame as a young woman. She is standing amid blossoming cherry trees, dressed in white muslin, carrying a white parasol. There is another painting on the wall, depicting playing cards fanned out on a table, two flutes of champagne, half-empty; a crystal bowl full of ripe cherries and a gold and amber necklace. Madame wears an artist’s smock and stand before her easel, paintbrush in hand. The half-finished painting depicts a cherry orchard in spring.

Madame: White, white, white. Can’t quite recapture that white denseness. Then came the years when I returned to Paris and the manic spending of Auntie’s money with Marcel’s help. The opera, the theatre, to say nothing of la ballet Russe, champagne, caviar, my gowns, my hats, my fans, my jewels and his gambling! It was when I discovered that he had pawned my amber necklace that I threw him out. Anya moved in with me; she was apprenticed to a Paris milliner and she trimmed my hats. At least, I looked fashionable from the neck up for my gowns were shabby.

Then, Pyotor turned up and he had come a long way from his student days. Those years on the Russian front had taken a toll on him. He told us how the new railway carried soldiers to their death in battle. The old house had served as a military hospital during the hostilities and was later taken over as headquarters for the Reds. He told us how Lopakhin had become wealthy through his dealings on the Black Market. Pyotor managed to scrape enough money together to buy this chicken farm. What a struggle it has been! I never realised that chickens were prone to so many diseases. Last year, we lost the entire flock and had to start again.

Anya is a good wife to him and a good mother to me. Although  she does have an obsession with making cherry pies. Unfortunately, she lacks that special touch that makes for flaky pastry. I never thought that I would end up in my daughter’s attic, putting up with her bad cooking.

Sad tales continued to flow out of Russia. Saddest of all was the news that the Czar and his family were executed by the Reds. I remembered charming pictures of the four daughters in their white dresses and shady hats. Then the heir to the throne—poor boy and is family’s fear of death from his haemophilia. It reminded me of my own little son who died early in life. The Czarina was desperate with anxiety. She was widely criticised for her association with Rasputin, known as the Rascal Monk. She was convinced that he possessed curative powers that would heal her son. She would do anything to save her child, the heir to the throne. Ah well, when the Czar and his family were murdered, we knew the old Russia was no more.

(The door opens and Anya appears. She is a stout woman, dressed in a dark dress covered by a white apron. She carries a dish of cherry preserves).

Anya: Mama, I have brought you a treat!

Madame: Anya, mydarling, the cherries have all gone sour. The recipe was lost when the trees were cut down.

The Lady Talks Back

Alfred, Lord Tennyson:
your rhyme
and mine
that room
that loom
that plume
my doom
that boat
afloat
how sad
too bad
how trite
not right

I did well on that loom. How did I know then that my tapestries would become renowned and would be exhibited in all the museums of Europe? You certainly made me a victim of my times. You locked me up in a tower and put a curse upon me; I couldn’t even look out the window and had to observe everything in that stupid mirror. Why me, Alfred, why me? Sometimes, in my mirror, I would see reflected a shepherd and his pretty lass; I would hear the sounds of their laughter. Well, of course, I noticed the helmet. There was talk about Lancelot; servants gossip a lot. He was the ultimate knight in shining armour, according to them.

So you cracked the mirror. What a good idea since I was getting pretty tired of it anyway. I waited until nightfall and walked down the creaky wooden steps. With furtive glances, I made it across the drawbridge. All the guards were snoring at their posts. Poor things; they did have a boring job. Can you imagine their thoughts about protecting me, that weird woman in the tower?

Then, of course, Alfred, you came up with that boat. Why did you put me in a boat? I never had had a sailing lesson. Then came the unkindest cut of all—they heard me singing my last song? Lance seated on his sturdy steed high on dry land, muttered platitudes over my dead body. Alfred, I pondered the manner of my death. I did not drown: was it starvation? Maybe, I should have packed a picnic lunch.

The truth is that, in spite of my inexperience, I did navigate that river well. I heard whispers of how Lancelot, true to type, got cozy with the Queen. King Arthur was devastated that his best knight betrayed him. The knights, sitting at that famed Round Table, were thrown into a state of confusion. They could not attend to everyday business and as a result, Camelot collapsed. One would have thought that they could have come up with some solution. But it had been the male belief, ever since Eve, when Paradise falls, the fault lies with a woman.

 As for me, I found that I had a natural affinity with the river. I swam in those cool clear waters with tiny silver fish nibbling at my toes. I drank from fresh flowing springs and ate nuts and berries that grew in profusion by the riverside. Early one morning, just as the sun was rising, I stood knee-high in the water beneath the willow trees. Then I heard a husky male voice fervently murmuring September Morn. Thus, I found the man who would be my lifelong love.

Alfred, would that I could have invited you to my humble riverside home. You could have met the stalwart boatman who became my husband. We had six children, all of whom were well aware of the caprices of the river. I have but one confession: I did name my eldest son Lance.

Dead poet

I know it 
about that song
you were wrong
the river ran wild 
much like a child
in spite of meandering
it was my understanding
Me now free
with no hesitation
learned navigation
so ebbed and flowed
the rest of my life.

The Three Bear Rap

Once upon a time in a nursery rhyme

There are three bears

One is the Poppa Bear, one is the Momma Bear and one is the Wee Bear.

Chucka-boom, chucka-boom, chucka-boom-boom-boom

And they all go a-walking

In the green woods a-talking

Along comes a maiden fair

With long flowing golden hair

Goldilocks, Goldilocks

Knocks, knocks, knocks

Nobody home, nobody home

She goes right in, has herself a ball

The story so far but that ain’t all

Chucka-boom, chucka-boom, chucka-boom-boom-boom

The bears come home, see a terrible mess

And they all cry out in great distress

 Who’s been eating my porridge says the Poppa Bear, says the Poppa Bear

 Who’s been eating my porridge says the Momma Bear, says the Momma Bear

Who has eaten my porridge says the Wee Bear, says the Wee Bear

Chucka-boom, chucka-boom, chucka-boom-boom-boom

Who’s been sitting in my chair says the Poppa Bear, says the Poppa Bear

Who’s been sitting in my chair says the Momma Bear, says the Momma Bear

 Who has broken my chair says the Wee Bear, says the Wee Bear

Up those stairs chuck- a- boom- boom-boom

The bears go up to their room-room-room

Who’s been sleeping in my bed says the Poppa Bear, says the Poppa Bear

Who’s been sleeping in my bed says the Momma Bear, says the Momma Bear

Who is sleeping in my bed says the Wee Bear, says the Wee Bear

Chucka-boom, chucka-boom, chucka-boom-boom-boom

Goldilocks wakes in a horrible fright

She wishes those bears were out of sight

 Did you have a good rest says the Poppa Bear, says the Poppa Bear

 Glad you’re our guest says the Momma Bear, says the Momma Bear

 Was my porridge the best says the Wee Bear, says the Wee Bear

 She hugs those bears one, two, and three

And she gets to stay on for tea-tea-tea

Chucka-boom, chucka-boom, chucka-boom-boom-boom

Breaking the silence

I have borrowed here from the title of Ted Barris’s new book on war veterans who long have kept their experiences to themselves.  Barris certainly raises the question if veterans have wisely put these experiences in their proper perspective as part of the past. Are they to be admired for moving on and forgetting the horror of war? Yet, there must have been another side to this lasting bond between a band of brothers. War must have had a profound effect on them. They were and still are so very young to lose comrades in combat. I think that survivors may never have completely escaped the trauma of near-death for themselves or for the deaths of comrades. Barris suggests that we would all benefit from sharing some of this human trauma and that it would put us more in touch with where we are today.

Win Birch was my husband who served with 423 Squadron in Coastal Command in Fermanagh, Northern Ireland in the Second World War. He piloted the Sunderlands that flew over the Atlantic in search of submarines, out to get the convoys that were bringing arms and supplies to Britain.

He crashed once, delivering a damaged plane to Belfast for repairs. He related the story to me as a report, just as it was written in his log book Very matter-of-fact as to time and place etc. His log book, incidentally, I have since donated to the air force museum that exists at Castle Archdale , where the seaplanes once were based.

It was hard to write about this brush with death because I could not get inside his head.  But I reached his emotional side when he spoke of how he thought of his mother as he sank forty feet down in the water. That she would receive the telegram from the War Department or two service men would appear at her door, bringing the news. I thought that empathy with her spurred him on in his effort to survive.  So here is my tribute to Win and his mom:

Air crash

answered the call

trained as a pilot

Mom!  After only eight hours,

I soloed!

flew blue prairie skies

then they sent me to Ireland

miserable Ireland

it rains all the time

rain rattling on Nissan huts

rats in the corners

squealing and scuttling

flying boats floated

on gray choppy waters

rocks under the surface

ripped up one aircraft

needed some mending

flew up to Belfast

over that land

that tapestry land

forty green shades

white needle point sheep

sea smooth and peaceful

then the landing went wrong

plane cracked asunder

ice water rushed in

Jesus H.Christ

This is the end!

going down fast

right to the bottom

the green murky bottom

Mom! That grief on your face

“sad to regret

... died doing his duty”

Not Yet!

kicked off my flight boots

window was gone

swan up in the sea

cold, cold sea

lungs ready to burst

‘til my head broke the surface

still flaunting the scars

and telling the story

but...

when dark clouds scud across the moon

Mom

...that was one long cold trip to the bottom