Last Dance (Rian Elliott)

He slid through the side entrance of the men’s long care unit seconds after the last bed check. Hauling the skateboard from the bushes where he had stashed it the previous afternoon he charged around the building to the women’s side, bathrobe flapping around his patterned pyjama bottoms in the light drizzle.

Taking one deep breath before turning the corner he let out a low whoop of joy at the sight of her, white umbrella protecting her bathrobe and pink nightie with the only footwear she could grab, blue flipflops. Seeing him, she joined in his laughter as he placed the skateboard on the ground before her while holding his hand out in invitation.

“Stop laughing. I told you I’d save the last dance for you.”

“You did. But not that you’d get there yourself whether I had wheels or not,” he held her hand more firmly with one foot blocking the board while she placed one foot on.

“Pshaw. They can take your licence but there’s always wheels somewhere. And I meant any and every last dance. So here we are with no dance hall and no ball but we’re still singing in the rain on a lovely wide terracotta pathway.”

He guided the board and supported her with one arm around her waist as she stroked the ground on the other side. “They’ll never look for us here. With any luck we’ll make it to the pavilion on the other side of the grounds.”

“Let ‘em save their idiot wheel chairs for the gullible.”

“We’ll dance the night away and if we don’t manage to catch pneumonia by morning we’ll take a piggyback run down the slope on the other side and land on the freeway. If we time it right we can grab the back of a passing rig and ride till the next midnight or dance through the next county, whichever comes first.”

“You lost me at pneumonia. No one seems willing to let us have anything else.” Her breath was coming slow and shallow at this point. He slowed their pace

“Are those shoes up to all this?” He cast a concerned look at her flipflops, ignoring his own slippers

“Not with anyone else. But open toes are fine with you. Even in your logging boots I knew my tootsies were safe.”

“Not everyone would say that.”

“But no one else knows what I’m talking about. Wouldn’t you like a turn on the board? It’s better than biking.”

“I always knew you weren’t happy about the back seat of the Harley.”

“The back seat was fine,” she chuckled. “I just didn’t like seeing the road come up. Wouldn’t have wanted the last dance to be spent on crutches or splints for either of us. Hey!”

“Hey yourself.”

“There’s the pavilion. I knew we’d make it. Do you have your music thingy in your pocket?”

“I do, not that we need it. We make our own music, celebration or not. But by the way, Happy Anniversary!”

Tower Lights (Marian Bron)

I have no life, and the entire town knows it. Every year, I sit home the night of the big Halloween Dance at the community center. Everyone has a date for the dance, even old Mr. Ellis from up the street. He’s ninety-four and hasn’t had teeth since he was forty-two. I have teeth and still can’t get a date.

The upside is that everyone needs a babysitter and you don’t need a degree in economics to figure out I can make a fortune. I charge twenty-five dollars an hour and don’t change diapers. This year I am booked to babysit for Mrs. Westenraugh. She and her family are new to the area and I have been recommended by a neighbour of hers.

Drizzle hangs in the air, finding its way up coat sleeves and down rubber boots. To say I’m cold is an understatement. Orange auras, floating on light posts, hum in the misty gloom, singing me down the dead-end street to my newest employer’s home.

Stone pillars flank an eight-foot-high wrought iron gate that bars the path of would-be intruders. A rusty screech and the subterranean whir of motors and the gates creak open. Silently, they shut behind me. Slick with rain, a cobbled driveway disappears under hunched willow trees. Their feathered branches sway back and forth, reaching to stroke my cheeks. Long-fingered leaves trail over my face, their moribund digits kneading and slithering, pawing. I whip them away with the sweep of an arm.

Through the mist, looms a moldering Gothic mansion. Eavestroughs swinging loose, hang by long rain silvered spikes, screech in the gloom. Shutters, rusty hinges oiled by the vile elements, tap an eerie tempo against brick walls. My steps slow. I should have checked this woman out before agreeing to sit for her. I shake my head and square my shoulders. For twenty-five dollars an hour, I can tough it out.

Crumbling stone steps lead up to the front door. I lift the brass lion head shaped doorknocker by its chin and let it fall. There is no friendly clack as it hits the strike plate. A dolorous moan echoes through the gloom. No footsteps approach, no tapping of heels crossing floors, just a groan as the wooden door opens.

A witch stands before me. More precisely, a woman dressed as a witch stands before me. Mrs. Westenraugh with her jet-black hair, peeked hat and broom in hand, is dressed to party.

“The babysitter is here,” she calls over her shoulder.

My knees knock as I step over the threshold and follow her into the depths of the house. I really should have checked this place out beforehand. Suits of armour wielding polished poleaxes stand guard while old bespeckled men scowl from portraits lining the hallway’s walls.

“The television is in the den through there,” the witch says pointing down the hall. “And there are snacks in the kitchen. Help yourself.”

I nod my head. I can do this. Remember,  twenty-five tax-free dollars.

“We’ll be back just after midnight. Dr”—a thunderclap shakes the house—“won’t give you any trouble. He’s in his bed. Do not under any circumstance disturb him. Do not check on him. Leave him be.” Each ‘do not’ weighted with a glare.

My employer disappears into the shadows, leaving me alone. This should be an easy hundred bucks. Sounds like the kid, Drew, Drake or whatever his name is, is down for the night.

A spider stands guard over the remote sitting on the coffee table in the den. I flick him away and turn the television on. It’s not long before my stomach starts to rumble.

Mrs. Westenraugh deserves props for embracing the whole Halloween thing. In the kitchen, an enormous cauldron hangs over the open fireplace, a foul-smelling stew lazily bubbling away. As I give the green mess a stir, black blobs rise to the surface and break free, hovering above me, bumping against the ceiling. The fire’s snake-eyed reflection glistens in each orb.

Going by the jars of dried herbs and odd-looking vegetables in the cupboards, the Westenraughs must be health nuts. Each jar is labelled in Latin. Make that educated health nuts. There are no chips or cake in sight, and no soda. I don’t trust the tea. Tap water and a lint-covered mint, hiding beneath a used tissue in the pocket of my raincoat will have to do.

Back in the den, I surf the channels. It’s the usual Halloween fare. Every horror movie ever made is on television tonight. The opening credits to “Dracula Visits America” scrolls across the screen. I’m sitting all alone in a creepy house; I’m not going to watch anything scary. I leave the TV on the local community cable station, its elevator music playing as I read the announcements. I should have brought a book.

It doesn’t take long for boredom to set in. I start to wander. First around the den, opening drawers and looking into urns, before moving out into the hall. This house would be a great place for a game of Sardines. There are so many great hiding places. Cupboards under stairs, deep deep closets, and nooks and crannies galore. The Westenraughs should rent the place out, it’d make an incredible haunted house. I take the staircase to the next floor and enter what can only be a torture chamber. A bed of nails, a guillotine, a rack, and even a coffin. I reverse and step back out of the room. Mrs. Westenraugh let her imagination take her a bit too far.

Ten o’clock sounds. Two hours to go.

From a bedroom window, I can see the east wing of the house, where a four-storied tower rises from its roofline. A light blinks on in the top window. Drake, Drew or whoever is awake and pacing. His dark figure moves back and forth across the lit window.

He stops, raises a hand, pressing his palm to the window pane. I step back, ducking behind the drapes, not sure if he saw me. He moves away from the window. Seconds later he’s back, only to disappear again. The lights go off but not for long. On and off they go, again and again. The boy is playing with the lights.

There are no electric light switches anywhere near the bottom of the tower’s staircase. The space above a bituminous void, too dangerous to attempt without illumination. A candelabra and box of wooden matches are the only source of light. Slowly, one hand clamped to the railing and the other holding the lit candelabra out in front of me. My foot too long for each ancient rung, I tiptoe, circling my way up the twisted staircase. Each tread creaking under my weight. The wind picks up, keening in the dark, drafty fingers of cold working through the brick. The candles flicker, burn bright, before almost sputtering out, inviting ghostly shadows.

“Please don’t go out,” I mutter. My breath fanning the flames, once again lighting my way.

Drew/Drake’s door is shut. I should have asked the witch to repeat her child’s name. It puts me at a disadvantage. Across the door’s wooden face is a faded golden inscription. My fingers trace the Latin words.

“Pray-ee-monty-us pram-unit-us,” I sound out, having no idea what Praemonitus pramunitus meant. Hesitatingly, I push the door open. Traces of incense wafts past me. The hairs on the back of my neck rise. A man, not a child, stands in the center of the room, his hand rests on the side of an open coffin. His ruby lips turn up, the smile not reaching his eyes. His long blue-tinged fingers push a satin-lined black cloak off his shoulders.

“Good evening.” His white canines glow in the candlelight. Their points glisten red.

I am out the door, down the stairs, shoving my feet into my rainboots, grabbing my raincoat and pushing out the front door in seconds. Dashing out into the rain, I pinch myself. I must be dreaming. There is no way that woman said Dracula. Willow branches grab for me as I race down the driveway, throw my coat over the gate, clambering after it with simian speed. I am home in no time.

The front door slams behind me. Leaning against it, I try to catch my breath. I am home. My warm modern, lovely normal home.

“Hey?” my mother pops her head out of the family room. “You’re early?”

I sink to the floor.

“What’s wrong?”

If I tell her, she’ll have me committed.

“Neighbour’s dog.”

The Painted Smile (Maria Melillo Jones)

The painted smile on his face was abruptly wiped away when he saw his best friend kissing his girlfriend.  Through the double panel glass doors, he sees all three of them resembling a perfect family having a quick glance at his best friend holding his newborn baby girl.

Enraged, and heartbroken he continues to watch the ungrateful scene.  What a fool I have been in believing that she loved me, or that she was loyal to me while I was away serving our country.  I don’t even know if Isabella is my daughter.

He walks into the room with a teddy bear and flowers in his hand.  His girlfriend and his best friend are surprised and shocked by his presence.

“Aren’t you supposed to work today?” she asks.

“Wouldn’t you like that.”

Throwing the flowers in her face he asks, “Is that his child?  Tell me?”

Her head tilted down.  She is not looking at him or responding.

“Damn it, answer me?”

He grabs her arm.   “Look me in the eye.”

She is still quiet with her eyes looking down.  It seems obvious to him now, Isabella is not his child.

He is furious and takes off in a hurry.  His red truck speeding down the road sending a blaze of dust behind it. A few meters away he can hear the whistle of a train coming. He put his foot on the gas and gives it all. His truck came to a skewed standstill only feet on the other side of the train track. He coughed and said, “Hell with Her.”

THE LAST GOODBYE (Maria Melillo Jones)

It wasn’t real.

It wasn’t real until the call arrived that David has passed on.

A little over a year he fought the beast* that took over his life.  David had the hunger to live, with every last breath he fought, a battle that was meant for him to win.  My beautiful Angel lost his fight on Family Day, February 20, 2011, eighteen days away from his 30th birthday.  Out of all the days, he lost his fight on family day. A day to remember, to celebrate with family, was he sending us a message? I wish I knew.

I let out a scream, a painful excruciating scream. it’s hard to describe the agony I felt.  My heart had just been shattered and ripped out of my chest. I felt as though the Devil had my heart in his own hand squeezing as hard as he could in his ugly fist,

I could not get a breath of air into me. Every so often I would take a big gulp, I had the feeling of drowning without being under water.  Just the thought of my sweet nephew not being around anymore, it was a raw, aching pain.

I brought up the little rascal from the time he turned one. I knew what he liked and what he didn’t. I remember all the funny things he did, and said, what made David laugh and what made him cry. He had a real sense of humor. Most of all he had a beautiful smile and a gentle personality. He loved to help and give. When he smiled, his entire soul smiled, his eyes sparkled like stars.

I was not able to hug him or tell him that Aunt Maria loved him before he passed, due to family quarrels. That was one of the saddest things besides his passing. I couldn’t let go of the thought that, perhaps, he didn’t believe in my love for him anymore. I wanted him to know that I loved him more than life. If I could switch lives with him, I would have done it in an instant, without thinking twice. My nephew, David, had a full life ahead of him, a life full of joy, laughter, and good deeds. A life with a family of his own, and a woman that loved him deeply.

Losing my nephew was the hardest thing that ever had happened to me, I cried for a month. I fell into the black hole called depression. It was dark and lonely, no one understood my desperation. I was alone. It was very hard climbing back out of that big dark hole. God stood beside me and reached for my hand. Little by little I found the courage.  I pushed myself a little at a time.   After many long waking nights, I admitted to myself that David was really gone.

Towards the last critical months of his life, I was no longer welcome near him, as per his mother and father (my brother) because of those family quarrels.  The day of the funeral I went to the church, to give my nephew my last goodbye. I began to cry the minute the casket entered the church. My heart was aching so much. I never experienced that kind of pain before, not even when my own father passed away. That pain was real, it was poignant.

As the casket passed by me, I followed it outside the doors. Seeing him taken away forever, I collapsed in the arms of my husband. Still thinking “it’s not real he will come home.” Something inside me didn’t want to accept his departure, I kept the hope alive, the hope to hear him knocking on my door and calling my name, “Hello Zia**, how are you?” he used to say.

After a couple of years, I came to realize and accept that my beautiful and handsome nephew was no longer walking among us. I know for sure he is helping in the Heavens. He is with me every day; the beautiful memories are locked, and will forever be cherished, within my heart.

“Rest in peace, my Angel – until we meet again.”

 

Beast* – Cancer

Zia** – Aunt

The Recital (Catherine A. Campbell)

The buzz in the audience subsided as the lights dimmed.

The introductions had informed the audience that the recital pieces were part of the performer’s piano associateship program – astonishing for a 14-year old. A concert grand dominated the low stage. The hall was intimate, set up with round tables, encouraging a relaxed interactive experience. A bar at the top of the stairs welcomed the audience with a respectable selection of Niagara wines. A number of paintings were displayed on easels – the creations of the pianist. A very talented young lady!

The audience chatted, sipping on drinks, awaiting the start of the recital. Numerous friends and family had collected, and young children chattered, running in and out. Parents tried to tone down their enthusiasm before the playing began but not entirely successfully.

The tall, lanky Asian girl stepped up to the concert grand piano, turned to face the audience and bowed stiffly. A ringlet of hair hung down her face, the rest was piled tidily on her head. Big glasses, dark rimmed, accented her face. Her look was serious, lips slightly pouted. She was elegantly dressed, a black evening number that belied her age. The back was open, the skirt short. Tan brown sandals, high-heeled and laced half-way up her shin, finished the outfit.

She sat down on the bench, adjusting it slightly, placed her hands over the keys – a momentary pause, her right foot hovering over the pedal. The pianist stroked the keys, breathing life into an exquisitely dynamic performance – technically impressive but also emotional – forceful, lyrical. Just the right use of rubato. She wrapped – hands poised briefly where she had finished the piece, dropping into her lap as she turned to acknowledge the applause.

Sitting sideways on the piano bench, knees touching awkwardly, she looked out at the room.

“Thank you. That was one of my favorite composers, the great pianist and composer, Chopin. One of his “heroes” is the composer of the next piece, Johann Sebastian Bach.”

She tucked her short skirt against her bare legs as she reseated herself for the next piece. This one didn’t reflect the same passion as the Chopin. Her playing seemed wooden. Her execution of the Fugue never captured the intricacies of the theme, the right-hand parts persistently dominant. The youth of the pianist perhaps, not able to internalize and then execute the complex voicing.

A couple of the younger audience members fussed audibly but the performer appeared oblivious. More intrusive, a police siren whined and echoed from the street. The building, nearly 150 years old, was not sound proof and the neighborhood was not the most desirable. Family sat at the front row tables, applauding enthusiastically. Dad had a video camera on a tripod. Minutes into the Bach, Dad’s car keys fell out of his pocket, clattering noisily on the floor.

The pianist picked up the microphone again and introduced her next work, a piece by a relatively unknown composer and performer from France, Pierre Sancan. She commented on its similarity to Debussy’s work. “Pierre Sancan was a great admirer of Debussy’s harmonies and frequently performed Debussy works. I hope you enjoy this composition of Sancan’s, Toccata.” Turning back to the keyboard the young performer delivered a smooth, emotive interpretation of the piece.

Then the performance did the changeup. The pianist’s instructor had told the audience that a young singer would also be part of the evening. Stepping onto the stage, an electric guitar cradled in her arms, the singer nodded to the audience, long blonde hair trailing down her back and over the strings of the electric guitar, reminiscent of Joni Mitchell. The program indicated that she and the pianist were band members. Apparently, the blonde usually played the drums and sang. The pianist played the guitar.

Tonight, the singer played her own guitar. The pianist provided additional accompaniment on the piano. The singer’s voice was soft, folksy. Unfortunately, the tones of the electric guitar were jarring, the amplification edgy in the acoustics of the hall, drowning out her words. She sang three songs – an eclectic collection. First was a contemporary piece “The Magician” composed by Andy Shauf, a Canadian. Second, “Zombie” by the Irish band, The Cranberries.  The last song, composed by the pianist, was the most successful and resonant – no guitar, just the piano.

The contemporary “Joni Mitchell” bowed, thanked the audience and retreated to a front row seat joining a group that looked like classmates.

The noise level in the audience increased after the applause for the singer ended.

The pianist stood quietly in front of the bench waiting for the crowd to settle. “The next piece is 25 minutes and there will be no break – so hang in. It is one of Beethoven’s best-known sonatas, the Tempest.”

Turning again to the keys, she tucked her skirt tightly around her thighs. Her foot rested gently on the pedal. She tackled the piece with energy and musicality. Until the last movement when a memory hiccup momentarily interrupted the flow. The audience was largely oblivious.

She took the opportunity to regain her composure by a few calm breaths at the end, her hands still touching the keys. Turning, she addressed the room.  “Thank you. Except for the blooper in the last movement….”. A wry smiled touched her lips. Several members of the audience cringed – don’t apologize – you recovered – no performance is perfect.

“The next piece is…” She hesitated. Her instructor called out from the back of the room. “Jazz”. Looking myopically through her glasses towards her coach she said “Whatever! Right. The piece is a mix of jazz and…. polytonality. Actually the composer, Francois Morel, died quite recently.”

Members of the audience stirred, looking puzzled. Polytonality? As the pianist charged through the piece it became obvious the extent to which major and minor keys were overlaid. Technical, somewhat jazzy, very modern.

The final piece. “This is another of my favourite composers. Sergei Rachmaninoff. A romantic and dramatic.” She soared through the piece – her affinity for this era of music very obvious.

The audience clapped enthusiastically. She stood, bowing several times, and then walked off the stage, joining the table of classmates, giggling and waving her hands.

A protégé, maybe even a genius and still a “kid”.

Edinburgh, Scotland – Holy Corners (Catherine A. Campbell)

My husband and I arrived in Leith, Scotland, July 15, 2015. The port for Edinburgh, an interesting town – we had time to walk around and lunch. Good to be off the ship. Tomorrow was ostensibly the highlight of the cruise – The Open at St. Andrews, on the other side of the link.

The real highlight for me was the opportunity, on a free day in Edinburgh, to find my boarding house and school close onto 50 years after attending – Cranley School for Girls – 1967-1968. Volunteers at the pier provided maps and directions for the usual tourist spots. No doubt the woman we spoke to was taken aback when I gave a specific residential address that I wanted to “get to”. About to send us to City Centre with multiple bus transfers she lit up and said “Over there. No 8. Tell the driver to let you off at Holy Corners.”

Holy Corners – right by the Edinburgh Hospital. A place burned into my memories of that year at boarding school.

We left the bus as directed, at Holy Corners. No surprise as to how it came by its name. The churches butted the sidewalk on each corner of Gillsland and Morningside, ergo Holy Corners. The stained-glass windows were dark with grime of decades of vehicles belching smoke into the air. Iron fences barricaded the grounds of the Edinburgh Hospital, lining the sidewalk, pinning the walkers between them and the busy street.

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Gillsland was the quieter of the two roads. Old, stately homes stood well back on the lots, narrow gates opening from the low stone walls by the street. They had been built in an era where there were few cars and no need for driveways or access for vehicles. My boarding house was number 8.

A plaque with the street name was nailed into the wall at the corner, right next to one of the churches.

A gentle place with the sun shining, a dreary place in the drizzle of Scottish winters and an eerie place in the gloom of the evening. That is the memory I have of Holy Corners. A memory of the churches ill-lit and their shadows darkening the street even more than the dusk. Street lights were grimy and glowing dimly. The wet streets flickered with the reflection of car headlights. The whole of Holy Corners seemed to swirl like a living, breathing thing – crooked fingers reaching out to block the way.

Why was I trying to negotiate the way from the Edinburgh Hospital, past Holy Corners, to my boarding house on Gillsland Road on such a dark and dreary evening?

………………

Sally was older than I was, Scottish-born and bred. I had been assigned to her dorm room. There were four of us. Sally, of course, and Louise and Ellen. As the youngest (and newest) I got all the cruddy jobs like getting up on a freezing morning to turn on the space heater to take the edge off the unheated room. I was also the only non-Scot. Sally’s parents lived in or near Edinburgh but Louise and Ellen’s parents were elsewhere in the world. My parents, too, were thousands of miles away – in Dar es Salaam, Tanzania – I was very lonely.

Sally loved horses, as did I. However, Sally walked with canes, legs braced – a victim of polio at a very young age. The bones didn’t grow properly so every year her legs were broken, the bones stretched apart to create a gap and pinned in place so that the gap could fill with new bone. Every year! This year her parents had promised her a respite.

Sally had been encouraged to ride woolly ponies at a nearby stable – very staid. She was easily infected with the desire to up the ante. We found a lovely stable to try with the help of our young house mistress. The horses were trained in basic dressage, point-to-point steeplechasing and jumping and rides were available at all levels.

Our Headmistress, Miss Porteous, into her 60’s and less than fit and active (aka “Porky” – children are cruel), had some trepidation but she bowed to our pressure. Sally’s parents also caved to her pleading. Our first couple of visits were uneventful. Compared to the ponies this equestrian centre made us feel like real horsewomen. The stable hand was cautious with Sally and had put her on a big, slow-moving gelding – definitely part draft horse – a real sweetheart. His fetlocks were hairy right down to his big, flat hooves. This day he was tacked up ready to go, reins draped over his neck. The attendant had stepped away to help another rider. Sally’s parents had come to watch and no doubt showing off, Sally, in a burst of independence, decided she would mount the horse unsupervised. Crazy! Her head didn’t even reach his withers and there was no mounting block. She lifted one foot to the stirrup, hand gripping the front of the saddle.

In absolute slow motion I saw the rear hoof of that easy-going horse shift and saw him flick it forward as if to knock off a fly. Sally was right in its path. She went down like a rag doll.

I raced to her. She was sobbing in shock. Her mother scrambled over screaming Sally’s name. The stable hand whipped around and grabbed the horse, getting him out of the way. It was quickly apparent that Sally’s leg had snapped.

We lifted Sally very carefully and ensconced her in the back seat of her parent’s car. I crawled in to the same seat and supported her head in my lap. I was trembling. Sally was whimpering and I was soothing her. “It’s OK. We don’t have far to go. Just stay still.” She managed a nod. Staying still was easier said than done. Her dad, white as a sheet, was driving like a maniac. To the Edinburgh hospital right by Holy Corners.

I was left standing alone in the Emergency Room. Sally had been rushed into x-ray and her parents with a quick squeeze of my shoulder went with her. At this point I couldn’t process where I was or how to get back to the boarding house. It was now quite dark. I found a pay phone and called the house. Mrs. Todd, senior headmistress, answered. In her firm, no nonsense voice. “I understand. Sally is being looked after. Now let’s get you home.” She calmly directed me to the exit out of the hospital, past Holy Corners back to the big stone boarding house at 8 Gillsland Road.

Mrs. Todd greeted me at the lobby door. I was ushered into the Headmistress’ sitting room, across from our dining room. Several boarders were hovering at the door, Sally’s accident had already become known. The sitting room was full of over-stuffed chairs, throw rugs, cushions and a cozy gas fire (most of the rooms in the boarding house were unheated).  I felt chilled to my core. I slid into a big chair that enveloped me. Mrs. Todd was stiff upper lip – “You are OK, dear. Home safe.” Miss Porteous – “You poor dear. And poor Sally. We should never have let her take the risk. Do you know – did she break the leg again?” “I think so. I didn’t get to go with her to the exam room at the hospital. She was in so much pain.” I hiccupped with the start of a sob. Both Mrs. Todd and Miss Porteous hugged me. Nauseatingly sweet, milky tea was poured into my cup. It cloyed on my tongue, the honey thick in the bitter liquid. I burst into tears.

There was no more riding for Sally and she spent that Christmas, yet again, in leg casts.

……………

And here my husband and I were at Holy Corners, walking down the road to 8 Gillsland Road and I remembered that long ago day like it had happened yesterday.

The Young Girl and The Math Teacher (Diane Chartrand)

Please tell me that isn’t my high school math teacher who played the piano for the young girl? It was a horrible rendition.  I think he should stick to what he knows best. That would be Math. Someone should give him piano lessons.  Then maybe, just maybe, it would not make my ears hurt when he plays.

I know a way they could help each other. The young girl is having a challenging time understanding math, so he could tutor her. Knowing that the math teacher isn’t any good on the piano, and seeing the young girl perform once before, she could teach him how to play at least this one song correctly and in tune.

Today the young girl will be entering her first Math Competition after several months of being tutored. We all wish her well, and Mr. Brand will be sitting in the front row watching.

Principal Davis asks the young girl, “What is five times five?”

She promptly answers with a smile, “That would be twenty-five.”

When it was all done, the young girl had won Second Prize.  Mr. Brand was so proud of her that he took her and her parents out for a treat at the local coffee shop.

One month later, Mr. Brand was scheduled to play a piece on the piano for the same local Community Group. The young girl had taught him to correctly play ‘Twinkle, Twinkle Little Star, the song he tried and failed to do last time. The young girl was so happy that Mr. Brand did it correctly and in tune. Everyone clapped afterward. The young girl was scheduled to perform next.

She sat down on the bench, all of ten years old, flexed her long fingers and began to play Claude Debussy’s Arabesque No. 1 with conviction.  Mr. Brand, having never heard her play, was mesmerized by her talent.  Had he known she was so accomplished, he would never have tried to shield her from the embarrassment that day. Him believing that someone so young would never be able to play the piano well.

Always stick to what you know best and never assume anyone is less accomplished in what they are attempting to do. The young girl will never become a wiz at math, but that is okay. Mr. Brand will never become a great pianist, but that too is okay. We all have our own unique skills and age should never be seen as a barrier.

Vivian Dall’Armi, resident of London and a renaissance woman…. (Catherine A. Campbell)

At age 8 Dall’Armi built a crystal radio from instructions in a book. Fascinated by science and electronics she has avidly pursued a wide range of interests – engineering, design, aviation (flying – and owning – planes) as well as studying piano and making wine. Dall’Armi has packed her life with these diverse achievements. She is the epitomy of a renaissance woman.

Over a glass of wine, she relates her life story in her slightly accented English, pausing to seek the perfect words. She talks with her hands and laughs often. It is a deep, guttural laugh – absolutely contagious.

Dall’Armi’s life began in post-war Italy in a small town, Avezzano, west of Rome. Her father drove trucks, moving gravel to construction sites. Her mother and aunt were both seamstresses.

So, as a young girl, did she do “girly” things?

“There were dolls, but they were so static. They didn’t do anything.” Looking for more active pursuits, she discovered that she was good with her hands, proficient at drawing, persistent with challenges when other kids lost patience.

At her father’s construction sites Dall’Armi took careful mental note of the activities. At home she drew and then built houses out of cardboard from shoeboxes; making roofs, cutting windows so they opened and closed. “We didn’t have scotch tape back then. Glue was not available, and I didn’t have the patience for glue. My mom was a dressmaker. She had straight pins. I would put things together like this. Two pieces of shoebox cardboard and I would pin them… to make 3-dimensional objects so they would stand.”

She and her brother, Carlo, scrounged for everything to create three-dimensional models – the straight pins – wood from the firewood bin – rope for wire – nails purchased with sparse savings.“Most of my creations came from the fact that I didn’t have them. We didn’t have the money to buy them so if I really wanted something I had to make it.”

The family moved to Milan. Dall’Armi borrowed a book on how to make a radio. She chuckles, “Of course, I had to try to make a radio. I was looking for components trying to make the first radio, twisting wire together. It was a crystal radio so didn’t need a power source. The radio never did any more than crackle in sound but for me that was something.This was what sparked my life-long interest in science and electronics.”

Career options for women were very limited in Italy. Dall’Armi says, “I went by default to a course that tried to make a secretary out of me…knew there was another direction that I could go but girls weren’t doing that.”  She described her fascination with technical “stuff”, describing a room at her school set up for teaching electricals – all the desks had knobs and needles and power supplies – for the boys.

At this point in her education the Dall’Armi family emigrated to Canada – London, Ontario. Getting a start here didn’t happen overnight – there were hurdles, language and money. “I had taken three years of French in middle school and one year of English in the technical institute. I was the translator for the whole family.”

Formal education was unaffordable. Dall’Armi, still interested in electricity/electronics, took correspondence courses. Pragmatically, she concluded that with her rudimentary grasp of English, she would do better in programs where the material could be read in advance with the help of the dictionary.

Her mechanical talents and ingenuity quickly became evident when she started to work. Her first job was spraying paint on novelties made of plaster. If the spray gun stopped working or if the compressor failed, she fixed them. She took on engineering projects including designing an assembly line for polyurethane molding and presses. “I learned all this stuff on my own, just reading books, doing math and it got better and better.” That job lasted fifteen years.

Without a degree, Dall’Armi struggled to get recognition of her expertise in engineering and design. She attempted photography – unsuccessfully. “I wasn’t very good at photography. Good technically but didn’t have the creativity. Sometimes people see this tree in the middle of the field and they take a picture and it is a piece of artwork. That wasn’t me.”

Trojan Technologies, looking for somebody with electrical knowledge for an engineering job, interviewed and hired Dall’Armi. Here she worked on ultraviolet technology, learned about microbiology, designed test equipment, learned how to calculate the applications and dosages. One of her designs is patented and itenhanced Trojan Technologies’ competitiveness in ultraviolet technology.

To put Dall’Armi’s accomplishment in context – only 12% of practicing engineers in Canada today are women (2016 stat from Engineers Canada). What Dall’Armi achieved through pure tenacity and native talent is extraordinary!

She continued her studies – math at Fanshawe College. “I was always afraid of what I didn’t know.” She wanted to pursue an engineering degree. The CEO at Trojan Technologies insisted that a degree in business management would be better for her career. “UWO was offering a 4-year degree program in business management. The company was willing to pay for it in full. So, for the next 4 years I worked on my Certificate in Management and graduated in 1995.”Dall’Armi worked for Trojan for 16 years.

As if work and studies were not fulfilling enough Dall’Armi devoted spare time (and money) to hobbies.

“I can fly…”

As a young child, on the train to Rome with her mother, Dall’Armi passed an airfield. She was entranced by the planes Dreaming that someday she would fly, she started building model airplanes – from scratch.

“We were living on the 7thfloor. There was an empty field behind – lots of space. I would build the planes out of shoe boxes again and I would fly them out of the balcony. Some … flew so well I had to go and get them to fly them again.

“I never give up on anything that is the thing…. what do you have to lose. Just try…. how is this thing made?”

Dall’Armi never did get to fly in Italy. Her gender dictated against the military and money was scarce. However, once in Canada, she had a demonstration ride in a Cessna. She asked what it would cost to learn to fly – $1200 – too much.

Years passed. Dall’Armi recalled that her manager at Trojan took her aside. “Vivian, every time you talk about airplanes your eyes twinkle. You are not getting any younger. You are making good money now. You have to do it now. Go do it now.”

In 1993 she went to a flying club for lessons.  Unfortunately, she had myopia and wore contact lenses. An over-zealous ophthalmologist stalled her plans, saying she had problems with her eyes. It was two years before she found an ophthalmologist who cleared her, so she could pass her medical to solo. She took her flight test in 1996 and got her pilot’s licence.

The same year she bought her first plane. She had invested in her employer’s company and when it went public, she had money to buy a plane. A Piper Cherokee – $30K.was located in Portage la Prairie, Manitoba. She took a commercial flight there with a friend and they flew the plane back.

A couple of years later she bought another plane. She briefly had a “fleet” – two airplanes. Unfortunately, her first plane required costly engine repair in order to sell it. But she was addicted. “You lose touch with the value of money. You still complain because a beer is $7 but blow $30K just like nothing or $1500 on a repair without even thinking. It didn’t make any sense.”

This was glaringly evident when she had an accident with her new plane. This plane had cost $100K. The nose wheel collapsed on landing. “The propeller was like moustaches, all curled up, and then there was damage on the body.” A pilot had to have 25 hours of experience on that model for the insurance to be fully effective. An instructor was working with her at the time.  “We did a landing at a different speed and the gear didn’t lock. No warning that it hadn’t. As soon as the nose wheel touches….” Dall’Armi throws her hands in the air to finish the sentence. She had to pay for the repairs out of her own pocket – mortgaged her house.

And, she is still flying, although questioning the sanity, but it is an important part of her life.

How about a hobby she could work with year-round? Well, why not model trains? A friend asked her help to put a model train under his Christmas tree. She bought one for herself.

A co-worker and a friend offered to work on a layout and did all the heavy work. Dall’Armi supervised. Her town has a train station, a gas station, an oil refinery, a mine (that fills the train cars with coal), a vineyard. A church is in the plan.

Often, after working for a couple of hours, the guys run the trains. Dall’Armi’s satisfaction is in building things. There is, of course, the train station. There is a bar with flashing lights, an appliance shop with appliances and a sales rep and customer, a music store with a grand piano – all made from scratch.

Wine making had been a family tradition. Dall’Armi’s father thought that Canadian wine was terrible – when they arrived in Canada in 1967, it probably was. All the Italians made wine. The grapes were ordered from California in September and picked up at the railyard in London. Her father made the wine at home with his daughter’s help. Dall’Armi said, “I wasn’t going to stomp on the grapes. I designed a press to crush the grapes.” She bottles her own wine now from juice. Falling back on her work expertise she uses ultraviolet light to disinfect the bottles. She says her wine is getting better.

In Italy music was a big part of family gatherings. A violinist mesmerised Dall’Armi. The violin was magic – the bow caressed the strings and made all these beautiful sounds. A student violin was 8,000 liras so her mother told Dall’Armi that she would have to put off a purchase and lessons. Dall’Armi then tried to make a guitar. “I had a piece of flat stick – cut a front and a back out of cardboard – put strings – and a bridge – strings were made of yellow rope that wasn’t the usual twine – nailed. I didn’t know about frets. If tightened enough the strings would actually make a sound.” It wasn’t really music but Dall’Armi was delighted that she had figured out how a guitar worked.

She had started clarinet in a school program so could at least read notes on the treble clef! New neighbours in Milan had a beat-up upright piano. Dall’Armi looked for every excuse to visit and try to play. The piano was completely out of tune. “I fixed some keys that weren’t working properly. I took apart the whole thing and I found out why ….. some were because people lifted the stoppers and they came out of the little hole. Some of them the little leather strap was broken so I made a strap out of rope. It worked.”

Dall’Armi has never lost her dream of making music. Now a baby grand piano graces her living room. Reading music is still a challenge for her. She painstakingly learns the pieces like Chopin Mazurkas and waltzes by memory. It is a passion. “Sometimes we are all guilty of not playing for fun. This little waltz I am working on is not very well known. I just like it.”

Her music is an essential part of her life – a neighbour complained about her playing the piano in the evening.  She sold that house and moved.


Beyond doubt, Dall’Armi will continue to explore and experiment. The common threads to her many interests – curiosity, determination, never say die – if you want something, make it happen!

A Happy Time (Madeleine Horton)

I had been enticed by the photo of a group of trail riders wending their way through a verdant valley following a crystal-clear river surrounded by imposing mountains. The text for the ad promised home cooked food, evening campfires and singsongs, led by an experienced guide in the company of travellers drawn to the Rocky Mountains from everywhere. Despite not being able to convince my sister or a friend to make the trip, I decided to go. It was my first real holiday as a young adult after getting settled in my first teaching job. It turned out much different than I expected but even better.

When I was picked up in Banff, I was told that because I was there the week before the Calgary Stampede, no group rides had yet been scheduled. I was asked if I would consider riding alone with the guide who was checking out the trails. There would still be the two campsites to return to at night, there would still be breakfast and dinners and packed lunch for the rides as the campsites were gearing up for the following week. I would have one of the large shared tents to myself and we would do as much riding as the regular trips did. So, it was to be just the guide and me.

The situation suited me as one who is more introvert than extravert. And no this is not a romance story though it did have a handsome hero- one who could wear a cowboy hat without it looking like a costume, who sat a horse with ease and grace, and who spoke as befitted someone who grew up as one of the younger siblings in a family of seven on a rural Saskatchewan farm. He was probably younger than I realized then.

It helped that I could saddle up myself and knew my way around a horse in a comfortable if not expert manner. For six days after breakfast, we saddled up and rode for many hours, stopping at noon for lunch and a break for the horses. A simple cheese sandwich on hearty bread, brand name biscuits or cornbread soaked in maple syrup eaten with instant coffee, made from water taken from the stream we rested the horses by, never tasted so good.

And, here I was on a horse, a sturdy bay gelding, nothing to look at but honest and sure-footed and tireless and I was riding through mountains, mountains on both sides off me, mountains behind me, and mountains ahead of me as far as I could see. Sometimes we were negotiating switchbacks, my steady horse sweated up but dogged. Sometimes we were high enough a brief snow shower wetted us. Sometimes we were snaking through trees, sometimes following the path of a silver river and then splashing through it to the other side, a delight unlikely with a large group inevitably with some who had never been on a horse before. The same for a quick canter back to camp down an old lumber road- an unexpected treat. I cannot deny that I felt lucky to be asked if I was game for doing some scouting of a new trail. Throughout those days on horseback, I never heard any traffic, saw a single plane overhead, and only once in the distance saw another group of riders going the opposite direction.

Every evening after a full dinner usually with some cut of local beef, I was invited to sit around a fire. I still remember these fires as a time when I laughed more and harder than I have ever since. I find many things funny, yet I do not laugh easily but I remember laughing so much then that my jaws ached. It turned out that the local park ranger who was stationed on fire watch all day came over to the camp in the evening. He was a natural story teller and my guide a keen acolyte, and they had a well of stories. Most concerned bears and tourists, tourists and bears, and among tourists the most amusing to them were the hikers, usually assumed to be some type of hippy. I remember them waxing on like ancient philosophers about the theories of what to do if confronted by a bear. As in the telling of all good stories, it was in the manner of it, the art of it. The park ranger was gifted in this and perhaps he spent his solitary days honing his stories for the night.

When I withdrew to my tent, I looked up at the stars, so many and so bright, felt embraced by the darkness so deep and a blanket of quiet that lured me into heavy untroubled sleep. No wavers signed, no GPS tracking systems on alert, no cell phones near for comfort. No fear, none.

Bearly’s Obituary (Muriel Allingham)

If you have seen my spirit,

As it passed beyond your door,

Whisper gently what I meant to you,

I am off now to explore.

Bearly

January 30, 2012—January 30, 2018

Bearly; also known as Bear, Bear-Bear, Bear-Bear In his Underwear and Mr. Big Butt, enjoyed a great journey on this planet. He has left us for greater things; although, all who knew him believe wholly that it was far too early.  Bear will be remembered forever as the great kind and generous being that he was and is anticipated to be in his new role.

So many lives were touched by Bear.   To Marcelle he was a special companion, challenging at times, but always filled with love—and copious amounts of drool.  He will be missed by Aaron and Brooke and all his extended family who had the pleasure of leaving after every visit, covered in Bear hair.

He will be missed by Muriel, Jasper, Zola and Blair.  The “out of my kitchen,” admonishment rang out loudly on Christmas, when Bear came for brunch; always a welcome guest to share in the treats.

Larry and Foxy will miss Bear on morning walks through the forest.  As was Bear’s style he charmed everyone.

Bear witnessed many great places and things, while he was visiting in this realm. He could be found every Friday in the special places that he, Zola, Jasper and their two humans ventured.  Known to all as Fast-Food-Friday, where baked treats, dog goodies and tea were the anticipated event of a three or four-hour hike.

Six years of Fast Food Fridays have gone so quickly.

Sadness, joy, deep philosophical issues, failures and successes, much craziness and laughter, and companionship were all shared on these walks, and lest we forget—the food.

Bear loved chocolate; really, he loved everything, but oh how he loved chocolate (no dogs were hurt in the distribution of large quantities of chocolate, on our hikes).  Baking skills were always rated on drool-worthiness, and Zola often went home with a seriously Rasta inspired topknot thanks to Bear’s excessive drool over a particularly delicious offering.

But Bear was so much more than just a friend and companion, he was truly a gifted and luminous being.  He was deeply loyal, and protective.  He was the joker, and the philosopher in water.  His reflection will ripple in all the streams, rivers and creeks that he ever plopped his big butt into.

If you have ever looked outside your window in anticipation of someone who was or had a flash of memory so vivid and real that you are transported in time, then you are lucky.

Here’s to Bear, a truly genuine spirit, who never left anyone untouched by drool, or Bear hair.

We will miss you ‘Sweet Potato.”

This obituary was written without the input of Bear’s cat, Wiggles, who could only add that she will miss tormenting Bear daily.