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

After All These Years

In the end it didn’t matter. Annie clung to a memory of herself in a blue mini dress, dancing up a storm with Bob. So began their tempestuous romance before he took off without a word. He called yesterday and now she stressed over the fact that they were about to meet again. She should have hung up but it was too late now. The door bell rang and there he was.

             Annie gasped at the sight of his Tilley hat and hiking stick. His Biblical beard seemed at odds with his walking shorts. She half expected him to either reel off the Ten Commandments or else invite her to go hiking. Instead, he dropped the stick, tossed his hat in the air and grabbed her hand. He swung her around as he shouted:

“Annie, Annie, pretty as ever.” She caught her breath as she steadied herself, her hand on the kitchen counter.

“Don’t act crazy. Like it was nearly fifty years ago.”

“Annie, it’s always about the eyes. I would have known your eyes anywhere.”

They glanced sideways at each other across the kitchen table as she passed him a wedge of apple pie. He forked that pie vigorously. Annie sensed his hunger as she said:

 “So how goes it?  What’s with Barb and your kids?”

“Annie, we divorced years ago. I’m a travelling man. Never could resist a pretty face.” He burst into song. ‘Of all the girls I loved before, who wandered in and out my door...’  What say I grab another slice of pie? Maybe another cup of coffee? “

“Help yourself. And fill up my cup while you’re at it.  Okay, I’m curious. D’ye still see your kids?”

“We wanted the best for our children.  Alan and Brad are doing well in the computer industry but my granddaughter Angie—she is the real star of the family.  She went to private school. Drama, singing, dance lessons.  What talent --she’s got a future, Annie, she’s got a future.”

“A chip off the old block?  W sure had a blast on the dance floor.”

“With the right break, you and I could have been the Fred Astaire and Ginger Rogers of our time. But Lady Luck wasn’t with us.”

Annie raised one eyebrow as she said:

“Hmm. Anyway, what are you doing back in the old home town? “

“You are still special to me, girl. I was in awe of you. I was wild about you. But I was the frog before the princess. You were the doctor’s daughter.”

“You took off, I cried into my pillow for months. But Archie came along. We had a good life. He passed away five years ago”

“Bet Archie left you well fixed? Annie, I’m down on my luck. They always cut the high-level guys first.  Can you put me up until I get back on my feet? I have connections but it won’t happen overnight...” His voice trailed off as Annie sprang to her feet, face flushed and blue eyes blazing. She spat out the words:

“Bob, I want you to leave. I’m not that girl anymore!”

Bob grabbed his stick, shoved on his hat and strode out without a backward glance.  Annie poured herself a glass of red wine and reached for the photograph album. She studied it page by page—wedding pictures, kids growing up, grandchildren and memories of Hawaii, Europe and Bali.  Her heart ached for Archie’s presence. As for Bob, he was as irrepressible as ever. She sipped her wine as she said to herself, “Well, it seemed like a good idea at the time.”

Baby Lois

Libby came from a long line of Irish mothers who believed that babies should be plump, pink-cheeked and blue-eyed. She had heard it all her life. Fat Irish babies all dressed up in their prams, the picture of health. Slightly rain-soaked at times but radiantly rosy and most of all, plump. She was a bit doubtful about her first-born—cute but not fat enough. Not as fat as the neighbour’s baby but then Baby Lois was two months younger than the baby next door. Perhaps, with time, the desired plumpness would come. Still, she worried and wondered.

            It was her afternoon custom to dress Baby Lois in her finest, put her in the pram with the blue satin pillow with the white organdy pillow case and cover her with the pink and blue quilted cover, all gifts from the Irish grandmother far across the sea. Libby strolled with her baby every afternoon.

            She remained preoccupied with her baby’s weight. Fortunately, there was a butcher’s shop on the corner. The butcher was an obliging gentleman who was only too glad to put Baby Lois on his scales. One fateful day, Baby Lois weighed in at ten pounds ten ounces. She was two months old and had not doubled her birth weight.  Libby was filled with a sense of foreboding and could hardly contain her tears. She made the journey home and tucked her little one in her crib.

            Winston came home. He immediately saw that Libby was upset.

            “What’s wrong? You have been crying. Is Baby Lois okay?”

            “Oh, I don’t think so. The butcher put her on his scales. She is not gaining enough weight. Should we take her to emergency?” Winston was a graduate engineer. He had all the answers at his finger tips.

“There is no need for that. When she wakes up, I will find the solution to this problem.”

            Baby Lois woke up and found herself in a laundry basket, balanced on the end of a broom, competing with a pound of butter placed near the fulcrum. That was how Winston termed it. Engineers know everything. After pages of careful mathematical calculations, Winston announced that Baby Lois weighed ten pounds ten ounces. Libby looked at him in stark disbelief. Her tears flowed afresh.

My Character

Hannah Parker-Jones was born in India in 1921 to a British army officer Ralph Parker-Jones and his Dutch wife, Etta. At the age of eight, Hannah was sent home to boarding school in England. She spent her summer holidays with her aunts and uncles and loved her holidays with her many cousins. She saw her parents only when they came home on leave but she was happy enough.  When she was ten, her father died in a shooting accident and her mother returned to Holland. As Etta had only a small military pension, she relied on her Dutch relatives for financial support and Hannah continued to stay at her English boarding school. Etta eventually remarried and when war broke out, she, Jon, her new husband and Hannah’s half sister and brother moved to England.  At the age of eighteen, Hannah   joined the women’s branch of the Royal Navy. She met a Canadian army officer, Bob  Gallagher and they were married in 1942. He was badly wounded in Germany and was repatriated to Canada in 1944. Hannah and Bob then had one child, James, who was born in England.  In 1945, Hannah and James were among the first British passengers to sail to Halifax and then to make the journey to Regina, Saskatchewan. They rejoined Bob  who had recovered from his wounds. By the time I met Hannah in 2004, she was eighty-three, widowed for some time and mother to three offspring.

We found each other through her web site because she was working on a story about Canadian war brides. I had responded with my story and we exchanged several emails. Since I was visiting in Vancouver, we made a date to meet on Vancouver Island where she was then living. I got off the ferry at Nanaimo and immediately noticed a tall handsome  woman in a black rain coat . She was using a walking stick that was a bright vibrant blue. I knew that this must be Hannah. As she greeted me, I was struck by her deep sonorous voice.

Lunch with Hannah

Well, so you were one of the colonial children who were shipped back to England at the age of eight. I had four cousins who had the same experience and they spent a lot of time in our home. They seemed happy enough at the time but later, in life, they talked bitterly of the experience.

Hannah: I don’t know that I was bitter. I loved school, especially English and History and I excelled at tennis and field hockey. Besides, I had lots of boisterous playful cousins and I remember fun summer holidays, swimming in the sea. When I think back, how cold that water was!

Yes, I remember that too. Running on the beach to warm up and being taken afterwards for hot chocolate. My mother insisted on dips in the sea. She of course wore a tweed suit, a hat, a coat and sturdy brogues as she supervised us from the shore. But she thought that sea water was good for us and would protect us from winter germs. Funny I spent most winters missing a lot of school because I was prone to bronchitis and asthma.  So much for the benefits of sea water.  How about that long separation from your mother?

Hannah: Well, she was warm and loving when I did see her. She had been widowed young and had gone through quite an experience.  She was happy to return to England because she had spent some time there as an au pair girl. That is how she met my Dad. She was also happy to visit in Canada when Bob and I got settled. We lived for years in Saskatchewan. Bob was of Irish descent and I worked on his family history. They came to Canada in the eighteenth century.

So now you are working on the history of Second World War war brides?

Hannah: Yes, I started it as a hobby but I got so many responses that it has just grown and grown. I thought that I had a publisher but recently, I got a letter saying that they could not publish it because it ranked as non- academic history. I guess that I should just have put BA after my name. I doubt if they would have checked.

                Hannah’s family saw to it that her book eventually got published. Unfortunately, this event took place after she died of cancer. When I had met her, she had survived a stroke—hence the blue cane-- and cancer.  Alas, the cancer returned. We had exchanged many humorous e-mails, maybe the most amusing being how the English village midwife couldn’t make it on time for James’s birth. Seems she had spent all afternoon in the village pub. Fortunately, Hannah’s mum was on hand with boiling water, scissors, warm blankets and brave love.

The Ladies Do Lunch

Sara parked the car and ran around to help Esther alight with ease. Sara marvelled that Esther navigated on three-inch heels. They hurried into the restaurant , glad to escape a cold north wind, stirring red and gold fall leaves into a mad dance. A waiter showed them to their table and took their drink order. 

They eyed each other from across the table. Esther was surprised to see Sara in something other than her blue jeans. She wore black dress pants with a cream cashmere sweater and a bright red stole.  She looked surprisingly fresh for someone who was the mother of three.
“Sara, I love this place. Great seafood. I think that I’ll go with the halibut.”

“Sure have had some great family dinners here?  ‘Member Dad? He loved a shrimp cocktail and a bloody Caesar.”

 “Yeah, he sure did. But what made you ask me out? We usually come here for special occasions.” Esther sipped on her dry martini. Sara was surprised at the martini because Esther usually had a glass of white wine. Sara raised her glass of merlot and they clinked glasses. “Cheers,” they said in unison, guarded in their tone. They both felt the tension mount between them.

 “I have something to tell you. You won’t like it. It is about me and Roger. We are moving out to the west coast. It is a promotion for Roger.”

 “What wonderful news, Sara! Dad and I always knew that he was a bright young man who would go far. So why did you think that I would be upset? Always happy to see you kids move on.”

 “Yeah, but you can’t live on your own. Roger and I are worried about you. Now that you are getting older...” Sara’s eyes clouded with concern; Esther sensed that she was on the verge of tears. She reached out and clasped Sara’s hand.

 “Listen, don’t worry about me. Doing lots of stuff.  Getting out and about quite a bit. Sara, I have something to share with you and I believe that this is the best moment.”

 “Okay. I hope this isn’t bad news,?”

“No, no. D’ye remember Jack?  Best friends. Me and Dad, Jack and Betty.  I ran into him this spring. We hadn’t seen each for some time. He has been lonely without Betty. He loves to travel. We all went to Hawaii together. Years ago.”

 “Yeah, yeah.  Those crazy movies of you recklessly trying body-surfing when the locals wouldn’t even attempt those high waves.”  Sara chuckled at the memory.

“Yes, Jack and I were laughing about that the other day. I think that we will go back, if only to enjoy just one more wonderful Hawaiian sunset.”

Dinner at Loch Lomond

 Elaine seems on the verge of tears as we enter the hotel dining room. She is still wearing that awful hat that she wore to her nephew’s wedding. What a disaster with young Johnnie, the groom’s brother, having to be rushed to hospital because he is allergic to the trout mousse. Sometimes, I don’t get Elaine’s family. They are disorganised .I am ready for a stiff drink and a good dinner.

“Elaine, don’t you have a handkerchief? Could you please stop sniffling?”

            “Okay, Frank, are you satisfied? I know about the crisis with Johnnie.  And you don’t have to be so bloody unsympathetic. Poor kid -- such a sweetie. Anyway, we got through the wedding. Maybe my brother should never have come back to Scotland. But he had this chance with her family’s business and Maud encouraged him.”

            “Probably a mistake. Your brother was doing well in Canada.”

            “Anyway, we are on holiday now. So why don’t you just relax? I wanted to stay in that hotel down the road. You embarrassed me the hell out of me when you said ‘Let’s get out of here. Come on!’ The receptionist was flabbergasted.”

            “When she announced that they were going to pipe in the haggis, I freaked out. Remember Edmonton, that neighbour who used to practice non-stop?” 

 “The Irish got the bagpipes from the Spanish who got them from the Moors. The Irish couldn’t stand them so they gave them to the Scots who got sucked in. I came over from Canada to Scotland once and they had all these Highlanders in kilts marching through the glen playing ‘Amazing Grace.’  It was on the Hit Parade. Pretty neat.”

            “Elaine, do you mind? Men who wear skirts? Give me a break. Like you have been in Canada for years and you come over here and turn into a piece of emotional mush. You are not even Scottish. You grew up in Northern Ireland.”

            “They call us the Scots-Irish so I do have feelings for this place. And you should be aware of that if you took any interest at all in my history. Not that you have any great knowledge of your own.”

            “Okay, enough already with the emotions. Don’t you think that you should remove your hat?”

            “I paid fifty guineas for it. God knows when I will ever get a chance to wear it again.”

            “So do you want a drink? I am going to have a Scotch. One thing that the Scots do know about—how to make a good whiskey. I am thinking of a Glenlivet.”

            “Even the smell of it makes me sick. I will have a glass of dry sherry.”

The waiter took our order; he brought our drinks and presented the menu. I ordered roast beef and Elaine went for lamb, mint sauce, new potatoes and new green peas. Her eyes filled with tears as she told me how the lamb dinner made her think of her happy childhood. She was beginning to get on my nerves.

When we were first married, travelling with her was so much fun. She took everything in her stride. Everything was a huge joke. I remember driving across the prairies with her. Back then, rest stops were non-existent. If nature called, one had to keep a sharp lookout for a leafy grove. Otherwise, one could be seen peeing in the ditch from fifty miles away.   A thought that made us laugh a lot. Whatever happened to those happy carefree days? I guess we got older, ran out of patience. I hope that this is the last trip to Scotland. Driving on the other side of the road exhausts me.

Meanwhile, Elaine is going on about how our tastes in food differ.

“You are so unimaginative. Hamburger, roast beef, chicken and a roast of pork was a bit adventurous.  Now I ate liver, kidneys, lamb, goose, rabbit although I never ate rabbit again after I went to live in the country. All those darling bunnies coming out to greet the sunset.  One couldn’t eat Peter Rabbit.  Did you read Beatrice Potter as a kid?”

“Are you losing your marbles? Like I was a prairie kid. Out there with my pal Bill and our beebie guns. I tell you that we downed a few rabbits.”

“Whatever. The dinner is good and I love the wine.”

“Yeah, great. Oh-oh, don’t tell me—here comes the waiter with the twinkling candle...”

“Darling, yesterday was your birthday—I didn’t forget.”

“I wish to God you had! Birthdays are for little kids. Elaine, don’t tell me that you are going to cry again.  There, I blew out the candle. Just to cheer you up. You loved your birthdays in Mexico.”

“I know, we were there four times for my birthday. Remember how they would come to our table and serenade me?”

“Beats the bagpipes.  But Scotland--I love watching the countryside roll by. What is that song: “ take my hand and let’s go roaming, through the heather on the hill?” I think that we should order a Drambuie. Just to end this perfect dinner. Some things the Scots do well—except they fell for that Irish trick .  Bagpipes-- major mistake.”

“Drambuie—the favourite drink of Bonnie Prince Charlie. Triple distilled Scotch. Now Bonnie Prince Charlie—och, never mind, I’ll tell you about him in the morning.”

“Don’t you think it is time to remove that fifty guinea hat?”

Red Shoes

            I guess that my first red shoes were my tap shoes. My sister and I got forced into tap-dancing. Shuffle hop tap. Shuffle hop tap .We didn’t exactly like it but Mummy was giving us “opportunities”.

            She always said and she was right: open doors for your children, think of them as being flowers to be cultivated in healthy soil, feed them, expose them, water them, let them feel the sunshine but she didn’t mention manure. And that was part of it. For me, tap dancing was manure. I thought that it was the shits, especially doing it with my dumb sister. She couldn’t keep up and then she would give me baleful looks and suggest that I couldn’t keep up.

            Mummy meant well and she exuded joy watching our tap dance. I mean she was practically teary-eyed. Can you imagine? How weird can one mother get? We wore matching outfits and tapped in unison but not really because it stunk! Then I saw that movie with Moira Shearer, a great ballerina of her time, although maybe not so famous because I never heard of her again after she danced herself out doing the red shoe-shuffle-sorry, I mean classical ballet. The Red Shoe Ballet, no less. Like to die for?

            But somehow, I got stuck on red shoes so like thanks, Mummy. Pop culture always supported my desire to own red shoes. Judy Garland and the Ruby Slippers in a bodice so tight. She was already seventeen and had to look like maybe she was eleven because, if she had been thirteen, she wouldn’t have believed in fairy tale stuff like witches and how they were out to get you especially if you were like Cinderella or Snow White.

            The Ruby Slippers are in the American Museum of History in Washington, DC. The Hope Diamond is there too. YESSIR, seen them both. But the thrill of the Ruby Slippers-- you click your heels just three times. It is a wonderment, it is a wonderment, it is a wonderment.

            Last pair of red shoes that I own, I bought in Florence, Italy. Just last year.  I was looking for something tasteful that means “old-lady and conservative” but then I saw red suede shoes with glittering buckles. I bought those ruby slippers and my daughters said to me, “Good choice, Mom. They sure look like fun shoes.”