Home Left the Dog (Catherine A. Campbell)

July 4, 2023 ~ Catherine Campbell ~ 1 Comment

A dog stood, motionless, in the middle of the sidewalk. A busy sidewalk, many walkers, along a road with many cars.

“Where was she?”

His head swivelled; his tail wagged gently – then drooped. He sank to the ground. It wasn’t very far because his legs were short. His long body stretched along the wet pavement.

“Where was she?”

The dog, a dachshund, had been pushed out of a car several hours ago. It had sped off down the road. He had been standing in the same spot all that time. So, she would find him.

His head sank onto his paws, his eyes closing.

Startled awake he looked straight at the toes of polished boots. So polished his nose and eyes reflected in the gleam. A hand touched his head.

“What are you doing here, buddy? No leash, no collar. Did you run away from home?”

No, home had run away from him. “Where was she?”

“Buddy, maybe you should come with me.”

Pulling his ears back, hesitating. She might come back!

“Don’t think so, buddy.”

The dog looked up at the voice, up the pressed trouser leg, the leather belt, the uniformed jacket. A kind face with a 5 o’clock shadow. The brim of a cap shielded the eyes from the setting sun.

Setting sun! Where was she? His home had run away. The day was waning. She was gone.

Gentle hands lifted him to his feet.

“Come with me, buddy. We will figure this out.”

Eldorado (Madeleine Horton)

July 4, 2023July 4, 2023 ~ Madeleine Horton ~ 1 Comment

My sister thinks I have a lot of crackpot theories. Not that she would use a word like that. She says in an even voice, “You might want to not broadcast those ideas too loudly.” That would be her theory about our trip to Red Butte.

I was working at a small stable. In the middle of nowhere or what passes for nowhere in that part of southern Ontario. I was doing massage on an older mare. I used to do people too, but I got tired of it. Too much complaining about my fees and come-ons from older guys.

Janis was standing at the head of the mare in case it got antsy. An excuse. Janis is a real talker and there aren’t many people around in the daytime. Most of her boarders are working so they can pay for these massages.

I’ve known Janis for years. She’s on the wrong side of forty and looks it. Too much sun. Her arms are real sinewy, ropey-like. Her hands are always calloused and raw, almost every finger crooked, from making a living wrangling rebellious horses at the end of a line. Still attractive at a glance though. She wears her hair long – lucky because it’s dead straight. I had to shorten my curly hair years ago. I knew it had the blowsy look.

I met Janis at a stable. She was one for the dramatic scene from the beginning. She married a pilot and on the wedding day, he parachuted onto the cross-country field and she picked him up in a two-horse carriage she borrowed.

I lost track of her for a few years until she started her stable. She told me she had kicked the bum, the pilot, out because his layovers were, well, lay overs. After that I saw her occasionally with an assortment of men at horse shows, usually guys looking baffled and doing her bidding. Carrying water and such. I had to admire how she made her little stable work.

So, I was stunned when she was holding that horse and said, “Ellen, I’ve got big news. I’m selling up and moving to live with my boyfriend.” I had not even seen a man lurking around there for a while.

I took my hands off the mare’s haunches and stepped closer to her. “You have got to be kidding.” I saw right away that was wrong and felt bad. “Tell me all about him.” That got me off the hook.

“His name is Colton” – I forget the last name – “and he owns a ranch that breeds and trains cutting horses.”

She met him on-line. I must have had a sceptical look because she laughed. “Oh, Ellen, come on. Everyone does it now.”

He was near her age. Divorced, of course. No kids. Had sold horses to Robert Redford and that media guy, Jane Fonda’s ex. Liked western sunsets, loved to barbeque, preferred sitting around the fireplace to bars. I was tempted to ask about quiet walks along the beach but held back. Instead, “When will I meet him?”

Her voice softened and she spoke in that tone young, untested brides do. Not like her at all. “I don’t think you will. Unless you come visit. Which I’d love for you to do. In South Dakota.”

“South-frigging-Dakota. You’ve got to be kidding. You read about women doing such things.”

She was set on it. Business was down, dealing with spoilt horses was getting harder. This was a chance for a real future.

She wouldn’t take her horse.

“No, it will be just Tucker-dog and me.”

She admitted Colton hadn’t mentioned a dog. “You can usually trust a man with a dog.” I said.

She settled up quickly. Turned out she only rented the land. Gave her horse to a friend. Sent most of her possessions to Goodwill. She gave me a wrought iron hitching post with a horse’s head I had admired. The day I went to pick it up she gave me a piece of paper with her address. I stared at it as if deciphering hieroglyphics. It read:

Eldorado, nr. Red Butte, South Dakota 37558

“Keep in touch,” she said.

Janis isn’t a hugger and nor am I. We looked at each other, quiet. “See you,” I said as if I’d be back in a month.

I waited to let her settle in. I phoned first. Number no longer in service. Unsurprising now she was stateside. The letter was not returned so I assumed she had it. No response. But at Christmas a strange postcard arrived. A black and white photo of three early settlers, a man and two women standing outside a cabin, more like a shed. Where they stood was a nowhere, not a tree or shrub or rise of land for a location. I turned it over. The postmark was illegible. The faded pencil scrawls were inked over with my address and a wobbly heart and ‘Janis’ printed in the large unruly letters a first grader might produce. I knew I had to visit Janis.

My sister and I were driving along the Needle Highway in South Dakota. A scenic detour she wanted to make. Thankfully she agreed to make the three-day trip from Phoenix with me. I think she gets bored. Her husband is retired but does a lot of contract work.

Peggy was excited about the rock formations she knew we would see. I think people who like rock formations are the same people who like abstract art. Peggy has a lot of that in her house. Myself, I could never settle in a place without real trees. Oak, ash, maple. Not the scrawny trees we saw there. I told Peggy about the mystery man Janis met over the internet, the quick move, and the long silence. Nothing of my suspicions or the post card.

“You always have strange friends.” I let that comment pass. It did irk me though. Peggy’s life has been highly conventional. Her husband is an on-the-move-research scientist. Their two daughters are high achievers. All their friends are doctors and lawyers and such, as the song says.

I decided I might as well tell her about what I thought was really going on. “I don’t want to alarm you but I suspect we might not see Janis. I have a feeling she is being held captive.”

“Good God, Ellen, then what are we doing here? And what do you mean a feeling? A feeling or a theory?” You might know she was a linguistics major.

As I said, she thinks I am always promoting some cockeyed views about events. Not conspiracy theories, of course. “What do I mean?”

“Yes. Like your idea that violence and rioting in some places are explained by dehydration because no one has enough water to drink and dehydration causes irrational behaviour.”

I did happen to think that. Too many men running amok without water bottles. But I ignored that dig. “As it happens, I do have some thoughts on missing women. Don’t you notice how many aren’t found? It’s not easy to move and conceal a body. I think a lot of them are being held captive. I’ll bet it’s way more common than you think.”

“That is so disturbing. I don’t know how you can think about things like that.” She changed the subject to more of her research on South Dakota vegetation.

We reached Red Butte late afternoon. A faded sign announced, Home of the Pheasant Festival. “Must be the ringed neck pheasant. The state bird.” I wanted to show I knew something.

Peggy laughed. “You must mean the ring-necked pheasant. Though possibly true at the festival.” She took her hands off the steering wheel, twisted both hands on her neck and mimed breaking it.

Sometimes she breaks out in weird humour.

We pulled into the only motel in town. A six-cabin affair. The Pheasant Motel- surprise. A worn-out looking man booked us in. He seemed uninterested in our business there.

We set out for the Post Office where I hoped to get directions. Closed. Open three days a week for two hours according to the window sign. Next door another older man sat behind the counter of the hardware store, reading a Bible. I made some small talk about the pheasant festival but the man said it was mostly a local affair.

I was looking for directions to a place our GPS would not track I said. “The Post Office is closed,” I added as if this would be news.

“They don’t know much anyways. It’s all cluster mailboxes out there now. Some folks they never see.” I heard Peggy’s muttered, “Good God.”

“We’re looking for a place called Eldorado.”

He looked up now with interest and fixed his eyes on me. “I know about it on account of the name. Some like to dream big.”

He had never been there. Didn’t know anyone who had. But drew a map to an old logging road. It was about twenty miles away. I figured the kilometres roughly in my head.

“Hope you got a decent truck.” He nodded when I said I was from Canada.

My sister says she doesn’t care about vehicles as long as they run. I could sense otherwise. She was tense with all the jarring and bumping given to her SUV. She clutched the steering wheel with both hands and looked straight ahead.

“At least we aren’t on a mountain road.” Outside nothing but phallic-like rocks – her words from earlier – struggling aspen trees and in the distance ponderosa pines. Her research again.

The road ended abruptly in a turnaround and small clearing. An old trailer curved and shaped like an egg huddled alone in dry weeds. Amidst its rust, I could make out the original maroon and gold colour. “Do you know it’s called a teardrop trailer?”

“I suppose you think that makes it an omen.” I’ll say this. Peggy is often good at reading me.

No one was there. No one had bothered to shut the door properly. Inside, scarcely room for two people to move around. Peggy started going through the cupboards. I slid by her to the sleeping area. The mattresses were thin and dirty. I was leery of mice. I can’t abide a mouse inside.

“Nothing much here,” Peggy said. “A few mugs, a part of a jar of instant coffee, a can opener, cutlery, two cans of chili, matches.”

I looked under the mattresses as if expecting some big revelation. Nothing. There wasn’t much else to inspect. An oil lamp, a couple of musty pillows, a brown towel, no blood. “I think that’s it. I’ll take a quick look around the outside of the trailer.”

Peggy was already out the door.

I opened the cupboards again. One mug had a hunting scene with a horse and hounds coursing a fox. I put it in my jacket pocket.

I walked around the front of the trailer. Looking for I knew not what. Above the tiny front window was a chrome name plate: Eldorado. The brand of the trailer. Not even an original name for the place then. Behind the trailer was yet more untidy. Several empty oil barrels, a couple of tires, a broken webbed chair, all partly visible in the scrubby grass and weeds. Two more folding chairs, upended, around a fire pit filled with ashes and poked through by shards of grass. Something hung around the arm of one chair. Closer, I could see it was a dog’s collar, Tucker’s braided leather collar, and in the fire pit bones and some bits of charred black fur. “Fuck,” I said, and ran.

You know how the drive back from a place can seem shorter than the drive to the place. Not this time. I wanted to tell Peggy to drive faster but I didn’t want to scare her. Besides what were we running from? It was dark when we got to Red Butte. I couldn’t face staying there again. We drove to the nearest city, three hours away.

“What did you hope to find?” Peggy asked after a long shower in the security of a national brand hotel. I sat in a comfortable chair with the mug in my hand turning it around and around, looking at the hounds coursing the lone fox. There wasn’t much to say. Janis, of course. A ranch, maybe a struggling business. Maybe the guy would be a lot older than Janis but still it would all be good. Tucker would come out to greet me the way he always did.

“It was Eldorado.” Peggy looked up from the phone that now engrossed her. “I saw the name on the trailer, Eldorado, a brand plate. And Janis was there. I’m pretty sure.” I paused. “Didn’t you notice this mug with the hunt scene? That’s not the kind of mug a man out here would have. It’s fine china.

English made. English scene. The kind Janis would bring. The others were thick, dollar store junk.” “Shouldn’t we call the police or something?” Peggy would like that much drama.

Maybe I should have told her about finding that collar. I don’t know why I didn’t. Everything seemed to become more unreal when I saw that fire pit. It wasn’t the sort of thing that happens to Peggy and me. “There’s not much to go on. An adult woman, from out of the country, hooks up with a guy over the internet. Last name unknown. First name probably common here. Said by another woman, also from out of the country, to have disappeared. Oh, and the mug. What cop is going to understand about the mug?”

It wasn’t like we could go searching for Janis. Where would you begin in that vast emptiness? Peggy looked at me but said nothing. I don’t usually get this worked up. I walked over to her, bent down, and even hugged her. “Thanks for being such a good sport with all the driving and everything.”

At the window I looked into the dark. I wanted to go home. To my home, not Peggy’s. To see real trees. Pick up Ranger from the boarding kennel. Settle in on our couch. Make a real cup of tea. Why can’t the Americans make a proper cup of tea? Dishwater. Damn Janis. After all, I tried to warn her about him. What else could I do?

“You know,” I said more to myself than Peggy, “that was just the kind of place where someone like Janis could walk into a hardware store one day and announce she escaped years, say seven years, of being held in an abandoned cold war bunker.” Things like that happen. I tried picturing it all out.

Instead I kept seeing that collar. Such a shame about the dog.

Policeman buying a doughnut in a coffee shop (Catherine Richards)

June 13, 2023 ~ Catherine Richards ~ Leave a comment

Quiet afternoons made Officer Lincolnton bored and lonely. And maybe even a bit sad. In Spark Harbour, with its population of 500 people, these dull days were often the norm and so he made his way to The Crueller Stop at exactly 3:25 in the afternoon like he did every day.

The Crueller Stop had been the meeting place for the town for many years. Uncle Stan had opened it up on a whim in 1974 when he won $8,000 at the bingo and didn’t have any other ideas on what to do with the cash other than he wanted a doughnut and the closest place to get one was 2 hours away. Since that day, he’s perfected his doughnut recipe but the décor hasn’t changed a bit. Yellow-striped, but faded wallpaper, folding chairs and plastic tables that have somehow survived since 1974.

Officer Lincolnton pulled up in the parking lot and noticed the black ford focus with the License plate BZW 8L2. Not from around here, he thought. Officer Lincolnton knew all the license plates and their associated owners in town. It was a fun game that the handful of local kids would play with him when they saw him, they’d yell out “Hey BYLJ 2MN!!” and Officer Lincolnton would holler back “Arnie Stevens. 235 Amber Road North!”.

Officer Lincolnton strolled up to the front of The Crueller Stop and opened the door.

Inside, the stranger was wearing black Doc Marten boots, a black Adidas tracksuit set and a black Stetson hat. It was a real mish-mash of fashion choices. The stranger sat at the folding chair eating a Boston Cream doughnut, a dollop of cream slowly falling out and landing smack on the plastic table. Uncle Stan was behind the counter his hands clenching the edge of the countertop and his eyes were darting back and forth from the Stranger to Officer Lincolnton. Officer Lincolnton wanted to have his double chocolate doughnut in peace. He walked slowly up to the counter, put his order in and noticed that Uncle Stan’s brow was sweating furiously, strange for someone who had never exercised a day in his life, and his knuckles were slowly getting whiter the harder he gripped that counter.

The Spinning Wheel of Sarah Ann Backus – her Spinning Wheel Legacy (Alison Pearce)

March 26, 2023 ~ Catherine Campbell ~ Leave a comment

This is the spinning wheel that belonged to my grandmother, Sarah Ann (Backus) Pearce. It was small too, just as Grandmother who was less than five feet tall was small. Her short legs comfortably reached the treadle on the wheel.

As I look back now in my eighties, II recall how mesmerized I was as I watched my grandmother treadle for hours. Her feet and legs moved ever so evenly, up down, as she guided the rough wool onto the wheel, her hands and feet moving in different rhythms, forming one long unbroken woolen thread and ball of yarn.

For grandmother, spinning was more than a skill. For her it was an art and one which began in early spring. Each year my father or my uncle took turns putting aside a fleece for Grandma. And when summer time came Grandma began the act of preparation. I can see her yet, sitting out on her lawn, fleece spread over her lap as she pulled out the oily tats one by one.

Then came the job of washing the fleece. Out came the large galvanized bucket to the lawn which she filled with warm water that she had heated on top of her stove. After several washes and rinses Grandma spread the fleece out on the lawn to bleach and dry in the days that lay ahead.

Finally she determined that the wool was ready for spinning. She gathered up the bundle and carried it into her living room where her spinning wheel was ready and waiting. I watched as she tore off large chunks of the fleece, piece by piece which she rolled into rough threads. Then she would place, one end onto the wheel, as she began to treadle. She kept this up until she had enough to form one large ball of yarn.

She loved to knit socks for her sons and woolen mitts for her grandchildren my birthday at the end of May.

Spinning

The Spinning Wheel

This spinning wheel belonged to my grandmother, Sarah Ann (Backus) Pearce. Grandma was less than five feet tall and a special spinning wheel had to be made for her. It’s well over 80 years now since I stood, as a wee child, mesmerized, watching her hands and feet working the wheel and treadle in their own rhythms.

She was a 3^rdgeneration pioneer and the last one in the community to carry out such a task, which she performed from beginning to end.

Each spring one of her sons, Ernest or John, would give her a fleece following the shearing of the sheep. Grandma would prepare and wash it in her yard and when bleached and dry she would bring it into the house where the spinning wheel was waiting. With her balls and skeins of yarn she would knit socks for the men and mittens for her grandchildren .She purchased her packets of dye from Hockins in Dutton. In May of each year I could count on a pair of mittens for my birthday, navy one year – burgundy the following year.

The Gifts of Love (A true story) (Alison Pearce)

March 26, 2023 ~ Catherine Campbell ~ Leave a comment

Excitement continued to mount throughout the whole month of December. Each day brought something new and the boxes kept filling up as the month crept on. Yesterday four boys brought in gifts for Michael age 10 and Steven the baby, 14 months. The presents for Karen, age 11 and Jennifer who was 4, were piling up too, all nicely wrapped for Christmas, all tagged with the name for each family child on it and the name of the child who gave the gift. The children in the class had drawn names. In that way each child would receive the same number of presents.

As the days rolled on the food boxes were filling up too; cereals, hot chocolate, jams and peanut butter, canned foods and other food gifts that would not spoil. The class had voted that two children would accompany Mrs. Bernstien, the class mother, and me to take our gifts of Christmas love to our family of four.

With the car all packed, we set off after school the day before holidays were to begin. Neither Mrs. Bernstein nor I had been to this part of the city before.

What a shocking surprise! This whole area had been expropriated, awaiting the city’s decision over the building of the Allan Expressway. It was an area of small flat-roofed shacks, with their hydro and telephone wires strung from one crudely built cabin to the next. I pushed the thought from my mind of what might happen if one of them suddenly caught fire. Surely this was Toronto’s social housing at its worst. At best, it was a far cry from the beautiful homes of Forest Hill, less than five miles from where we had just come.

Nevertheless we parked in front of a door bearing the number we had been given and heaved a sigh of hope that we would be welcomed and not turned away.

We knocked. “Hello”, I said to the lady as she timidly looked us over. “The boys and girls in my class would like to give you and your children some presents for Christmas. May we bring them in?”

The mother stood speechless as she nodded and her eyes filled with tears.

By the time we had finished carrying in all the boxes her children had huddled around her, Jennifer tugging on her skirt. Baby Steven, awakened by the noise and chatter, was beginning to fuss. While Mrs. Bernstein and I were laying out some candy canes, fruit and nuts, Susan and Allan were each holding up a present and showing the mother the names of the children.

“Oh!” said the mother in a faint voice. “I can’t believe it!” and as she gathered her children around her even more closely, she pointed to the boxes. “How can I ever thank you? We had nothing and you have made our Christmas!” she said, struggling to hold back even more tears.

“And you have made ours too”, said Suzy and Allan together.

As we drove quietly back to the school I could hear Suzy whisper to Allan. “I wish I could take them all home with me,” she said, and he whispered back, “Me too.”

William Charles Frederick Keeler (Alison Pearce)

March 26, 2023 ~ Catherine Campbell ~ Leave a comment

Bill Keeler has been in my life for 9 years and when I look back on those years I can’t think of what my life would have been like without him in it. I have been truly blessed and at a time in my life when I had not expected such blessings. Bill and I had a common interest in genealogy and family history. We each went to the monthly Middlesex Genealogical meetings when we first came to London.

So you see! We didn’t meet on-line as so many young people do today. Had we gone on line we would have had to give a personal profile – a sketch of ourselves. They might have read something like this.

Bill Keeler: widower, age 82 -have had 56 years of marriage – doesn’t like to listen to classical music; independent – strong minded – used to setting the rules

Alison Pearce: spinster, age 75: single all these years; doesn’t like to watch John Wayne movies; independent – strong minded – used to setting the rules

Well there we have it. The perfect match!

But there was so much more to Bill’s personal profile. He had a real sense of humility and though he was neither spiritual, nor religious, he truly lived, “The Golden Rule”—”Do unto others, as you would have them do unto you.” In all the years I knew Bill I never heard him once say an unkind word about one person. He was a true gentleman, kind and considerate and anyone who met him could sense these qualities about him. Always impeccably dressed and always with his long-sleeved shirts and trousers pressed just so.

Bill had a great sense of humour too and believe it or not we laughed together many times during this past year.

I don’t know of any person who could be as kind and thoughtful as Bill. I had just met him at the time that my sister Mary, who lived in St. Thomas, had died. When Bill asked me if he could help me in any way- such as driving me to St. Thomas for the visitation or the funeral – I thanked him and said I would be fine. Then within minutes I realized what I had just done and I quickly picked up the phone. Thus began a long series of Bill doing things with me and for me. He helped me to arrange birthday parties for one sister when she was in the McCormick Home. He drove me to Aurora every month to visit my oldest sister Norine in her retirement home, before her death three years ago. As the oldest in the family, Bill and Norine were very much alike. They were both the role models for their younger siblings.

One time when I received an invitation to a book launch, from a former pupil, that was to be held in Casa Loma, it was Bill who said, “Well, what’s holding us up?” Down we went to Toronto. Four years later we attended Andrew’s wedding, as well.

In 2000, I had moved from Toronto to London to research and write the history of my Elgin County family and to have it published in time for our 200th anniversary in July 2009. That was a little more than two years down the road -from the time that I had met Bill. Although he had already written and printed his own family history, mine was still underway. I had no idea that putting all the historical chapters, data and family pictures in book form, was as complicated as it was. With Bill’s knowledge and many hours of working together, our excitement eventually rose to fever pitch. We headed down to Milton to pick up the printed copies two months prior to the July reunion taking place. And yes, Bill was every bit as pleased as I was, with our labours.

Later on we had two wonderful trips – the first to the West Coast in 2010 where we visited Bill’s brother Don and his wife Shirley; a year later out to the East Coast and to the very tip of Newfoundland.

But it was the little things that Bill did that counted so much too; driving out into the country for brown eggs, or picking up some maple syrup; over to Port Stanley for a perch dinner, or to the Pearce Park in the fall to hear the crunch of leaves underfoot.

As time went on, our outings became fewer and farther between because of Bill’s oxygen needs. He would work in his basement on his stamps for hours at a time when he said, “I don’t think of my breathing then.” But there are times when cabin fever can set in for any one of us. Bill loved to get in his car and just GO!

One misty Saturday last October he called me early in the morning. His first, and I think his only words were, “I’m taking you for a drive up north”. I knew he hadn’t the foggiest idea of where we were going, and I also knew we had three hours of oxygen. After I made some calls and plans off we went through the country to Grand Bend, saw a few coloured leaves in the rain around Parkhill, had a fantastic lunch in a restaurant called F.I.N.E. – and arrived back in London just under the wire. That was our last “out of city” outing.

These last two or three years in particular, have not been easy for Bill. I know, and I became quietly anxious, as I saw him requiring more and more oxygen just to keep going. What courage and determination he had.

But he lived to celebrate his 90th last August. Although he gave me a wonderful party for my 80th, Bill did not wish to have a 90th party. Part of it may have been that he was finding it just too tiring to be around people, but part of it was Bill’s own nature. He would rather do for others than have others do for him.

I believe that we all have lessons to learn as we journey through life. So what lessons did Bill teach me?

Well #1 I’ve learned never to use a comma where there should be a semi-colon. #2 I’ve learned I could be quiet for at least 10 seconds when riding in Bill’s car. #3 And I know that when I get up, I must first get dressed – no sitting around in your pajamas having breakfast just because you’re retired.

BUT most important of all. I’ve learned that if you’ve had a bad day with someone close — or anyone, for that matter — learn to let it go. Don’t continue to have regrets about yesterday’s ills. The next day is a “new day”. Make it count. Bill tried so hard to monitor and control his breathing needs so that he could have as many “new days” as possible with all of us. But his final “new day” came on February 24th. How fortunate we were, that all of us, his family, could be there together in his room sharing our love with him on this, his last “new day” here on earth.

I shall miss you Bill.Thank you for being such a wonderful part of my life, for just being you – for doing things for me and with me over these many years. And thank you too, for making me such a part of your caring and loving family.

Alison Pearce – RIP – February 13, 2023 – 91st year

March 26, 2023March 29, 2023 ~ Catherine Campbell ~ Leave a comment

Some of our memories…

Diane Chartrand

KNOWING ALISON PEARCE

The first time I met Alison was in the fall of 2014, both attending Mary Ann’s Introduction to Fiction Class at Western Continuing Studies downtown in Citi Plaza. The class was large but a few of us seemed to gravitate to each other, Alison among them. We attended several Creative Writing Classes together over the next couple of years.

Mary Ann suggested that we start a writers’ group. We ended up with nine people participating, rotating our meetings in each other’s homes. Friendships grew.

For me, it was time at Alison’s apartment. It was only a ten-minute bus ride from my house to hers and she would ask me to come over and help her with computer stuff. Alison was a whiz with education things but over her life, she had shied away from computers and never learned how to use them correctly. She always had issues trying to find where her writing had gone. In her words, “It just always seems to disappear into thin air.”

I would go over and sometimes we would go out for lunch, or she would have made something at the apartment for us to enjoy. Yes, there always was wine and if she didn’t have any we would get in her car and go get a bottle. Then we would go into the room where her computer lived. Watching Alison fluster over her issues seemed funny to me but I’m sure was very frustrating for her.

She would open Microsoft Word and type up some things, like the address book she was trying to create with all her friends and acquaintances’ addresses, emails, and phone numbers. I think over the years it got lost many times, but we always seem to find it somewhere in a file folder that had nothing to do with addresses.

I pinned the files she wanted to work on at the bottom of her main screen to help her find something quicker including how to access her email account. Sometimes that helped but it always seemed that she would either forget where they were or accidentally unpin them and had no idea where they had gone to.

At times we would mostly just sit and talk about everything from upcoming classes to other members of the group and their writings. Alison had a lot of great stories but most times she was unable to get them down entirely unless she put them into emails for us to read. I had kept a few of her stories that we went over during group meetings that were printed out and you will see them along with our memories.

I think being able to make it into your 90s is a great feat and one I’m striving for. Knowing Alison helped make me a better and more informed person. Anyone who knew this fine lady definitely would agree.

Marian Bron

The twinkle in Alison’s eye and the little knowing smile is what drew me to her. It was as if you and her were the only ones in on a delicious secret. I bet that’s what made her such a great teacher and principal. She knew how to captivate and disarm.

Her storytelling was epic. Her warm voice, an arc of an eyebrow, the irrepressible smile and a chuckle, all hallmarks of a true raconteur. The listener was stuck in the mud with her on a road trip through the prairies or helped pack and lug a steam-trunk as she set sail for England.

I am honoured to have known her and to have been part of her circle.

Alison, you will be missed.

Mary Ann Colihan

Alison was remarkable. Age 80, she joined my writing classes at Western Continuing Studies. This gave confidence to everyone else that no matter what your stage of life, it was possible to take up the craft of writing. She then quietly shared that she had written a 600 plus page family history. I always told her she should be the one teaching. Of course, she was an educator through and through and was proud of her years in Toronto, especially at the Bishop Strachan School. She lived near me and I enjoyed driving her to class, She shared many family stories, told with sharp clarity, and tales of her career. She formed a writer’s group with others from the class and that was a successful model of team work and mutual support. We were invited down to visit her ancestral part of Ontario in West Elgin County. We toured the Backus Page Museum, the beautiful Pearce Park overlooking Lake Erie, St. Peter’s Anglican Church circa 1827 and cemetery in Tyrconnell where Col. Thomas Talbot is buried. The Pearce family was part of the Talbot Settlement. Alison was a gifted storyteller and we were lucky to be invited to her old family homestead nearby, a truly remarkable farm with stunning lakefront views. She loved to share all she knew about the people and events that shaped Wallacetown. As a consequence, the owners of the home always made time for her and became friends. And we never left without eating local pie from Tall Tales. She will be greatly missed by many, especially our literary group, the Wordwrights. But we know she will continue to inspire our rewrites.

Annie Carpenter

I remember quite vividly the face of dear Alison the first night I showed up for my very first Creative writing class. She was the first smile directed my nervous way. I scanned the room anxiously… and one by one the faces I would come to treasure over the next few years looked up at me. Alison held the most senior in the class title. She inspired me with her thirst for knowledge beyond the time most people seek new waters. She would stand and sway a little at many a class with lower back pain. She would say she just couldn’t write sometimes…and I would think… your words and your life already had made quite a statement.

I miss the special moments with her and the writing group. I miss the Creative Creation that class inspired. Catherine… hands down kept this group afloat… by persistently being consistent . Mary Ann and Catherine’s bond with Alison is a testament. I can’t think of Alison without thinking of the unique part each and everyone in the group played…wrote… in this story we’re in. Where writing-joins souls from every walk of life. It’s a very unique thing that joins people who, by all means, may never have connected without the love of writing…. Dearest Alison, how brave you were…and so touched to have known you.

Muriel Allingham

Everyone has captured Alison’s incredible spirit, her resilience, her love of life and her sweet nature.

Maria Melillo Jones

In memory of our beloved Alison, our little firecracker.

Alison was in her early eighties when she joined the Western Continues Education program.

She sat at the back of the class; her perfect silver hair caught my attention.

“Well, it’s never too late to learn,” I mumbled.

Alison shared personal stories regarding her life journey; I felt that I was on the expedition with her.

She brought part of her past to the present by scheduling a visit to her previous family estate in the town of Wallacetown, Ontario.

The estate is a gem with a stunning landscape heading to the shores of Lake Erie; we visited the John E Pearce Provincial Park, a charming little church, and the cemetery, where she chose her eternal rest.

I feel privileged to have had a glimpse into her culture and traditions.

At times I would pick her up to go to our scheduled group writing meeting. Along the way, we joked and laughed with Diane and our dearly missed Rian.

I had many talks with Alison most of them were to check in on each-other, where in other occasion she gave me good advice.

She was a strong-willed, independent woman. She lived most of her life on her own, then towards her late eighties, I noticed her health and mobility decline.

One day in a friendly and concerned way, I asked Alison if she had thought about moving to a retirement facility.

Her tenacious personality snapped back at me like a flashing light.

“Why don’t you?”

I smiled and apologized, knowing I had offended her independence.

Rest in Heavenly peace, my friend.

Madeleine Horton

I’ve thought if Alison were born in much earlier times when names signalled desired virtues, she might well have been called ‘Patience’ or ‘Honor,’ both fitting what I know about her reputation as an educator and her dedication and respect for local history and her family’s role in it. In this vein, I might call her ‘Modesty,’ fitting the unassuming and humble person I was fortunate to know. This was brought home to me very sharply at her Visitation when I was awed by the scope and detail of the book she had written about her family’s history, researching the earliest settlers, and reaching into the present. It is a book of so much more than genealogy; it is filled with personal accounts and anecdotes along with photos and diagrams. She had mentioned it briefly, and in an off-handed manner, as if it were nothing of significance.

At the same time, she was effusive in her praise of my writing when we did critiques of members’ writings at our Wordwrights meetings. She would often preface her comments by saying how much better all the other writers in the group were than she was. Definitely not true. I have kept an email she sent about one of my writings because it was both incisive and encouraging.

Alison’s rural roots meant so much to her and as I also grew up in the country, we shared some chat about that. She had such interesting stories; I only wish I had met her earlier.

Catherine Campbell

I recall a vibrant lady with a captivating, warm smile and a self-deprecating manner. The writing she shared with us, her writing group friends, radiated her wit and humour.

Alison, I regret that I never got an opportunity to play that grand piano at OakCrossing for you thanks to the pandemic.

The Forest City Wordwrights did get to share coffee and special treats at our meetings and a glass of wine or two at our Christmas lunches. We were so privileged that Alison was able to join us at our first post-pandemic Christmas lunch this last December. We presented a screening of pictures from our last visit to the Pearson homestead that Alison had been unable to attend. This was all especially poignant when we lost her so soon afterwards.

I will certainly toast her often!

The Road Ahead – the GPS is Always Right (Alison Pearce)

March 19, 2023March 26, 2023 ~ Alison Pearce ~ Leave a comment

What a fabulous trip we were on.

When Bill (Keeler) was in his eighties, and with me not far behind, we both decided that age would be no obstacle to our love of travel. So, with our route well-mapped and our food cooler filled, we set out at the end of July on our journey to the West.

Bill was so proud of his shiny white Mercury Milan. There weren’t many in Canada, and its previous owner had managed to bring it across the border the year before. Bill snapped it up from the lot of his Ford Dealership the day he had to leave his Crown Vic behind. Sadly, for him, the Crown Vic had seen better days. Bill loved his cars, and he treated each one like a personal friend.

Bill was an excellent driver, and with as many turns at the wheel, I matched him. Along the northern shores of Lake Superior, across the prairies, south to the mountains of Alberta, through the Crowsnest Pass, to the coast, and finally by ferry over to Victoria, we traveled, visiting relatives along the way.

After six wonderful weeks of sights, we were finally heading home. We had one more destination, which Bill insisted on visiting. He had found a town marked Keeler, a dot on the road map of southern Saskatchewan. A little village, Bill thought, where he might find some more relatives to add to his family history. He had found a number of Keelers in Manitoba, and Saskatchewan was not that far away, was it? And so, we planned to visit Keeler(ville) on our way home.

As we sped along the Trans Canada through the bleak prairie land of southern Saskatchewan, we found ourselves traveling beside railway track after railway track. They seemed never-ending, and the whole scene was actually quite depressing to us. There were no signs of human habitation for miles along the way. However, the very thought of finding live Keelers in Keelerville lifted Bill’s spirits. He hoped that he might find another relative whom he could add to his clan’s history.

It was early afternoon. “Maybe we should get a motel room before we turn off,” I suggested. “At least we will have a room to drive back to.” Bill agreed, and with that, several miles on down the road, I pulled up to a small, gray building that had five or six rooms. It was not terribly inviting from the outside, but motels were few and far between. It was my task to choose our motel accommodations along the way, so I hopped out and went in.

“No,” I said to Bill as I came back to the car. “It won’t do. Why don’t we visit Keelerville first and then go on to White City for the night? There’s a hotel there. Do you remember the fabulous breakfast we had in it that Sunday morning on our way out?”

What a great time we were having! Neither our GPS nor Bill’s car had let us down these thousands of miles along the way.

Bill agreed with my plan, and so on I drove down the highway until the GPS told us to turn south for 20 kms, and then I reckoned, having studied the map, we would turn right for a bit. And this was exactly what the GPS told us to do. As I turned onto a narrow, dark laneway of a road, I could vaguely see in the distance what might be some buildings amidst a clump of trees. Keelerville, I thought! But I hadn’t gone fifty feet before I could feel the car sinking into what appeared to be a thick, dark, clay-like loam. The car had completely lost traction and stopped dead.

“I can’t move,” I said to Bill. “I’m stuck.” I could move neither forward nor backward. “I don’t know what to do,” I cried out helplessly.

With that, Bill opened his door and was already part way out on his way to exchange seats. I did the same. But the black, thick muck clung to our running shoes, more and more of it with each step we took. My feet began to feel like heavy wooden blocks. Bill was experiencing the same difficulty. I was able to grab a stick, and both of us removed some of that heavy stuff from our shoes before we each got back into the car.

Now! As I said, Bill was an excellent driver, and I was relieved to see him once again behind the wheel. He tried and tried to go forward and then backward, but the wheels just kept spinning, and with each spin, a little more black guck flew into the air and onto his precious white Mercury Milan.

“Merde,” said Bill. “Merde, Merde, Merde!” I suddenly became aware for the first time that Bill could speak French. Then I soon heard him muttering under his breath, “Damn you bugger.”

I sat in silence, and so did Bill as he kept studying all the buttons on the panel in front of him. But what to do? Finally, out came the manual from the glove compartment. After studying it carefully, Bill had another try. And yes! Would you believe it? He had discovered a hitherto unknown button. He tried it! With pressure on the pedal and in reverse, we eventually inched our way backward, wheels spinning and mud flying in all directions until we had covered the 50 feet or so back to the main road. What a relief! We were once again on firm ground.

We spotted a man in a huge yellow grader coming down the road, so we drove toward him to make an inquiry. I’m certain he wondered if all Ontarians were this crazy. He stopped and turned his engine off. Yes, indeed, there had been a place called Keelerville down that road a ways back. “You must have crossed it,” he told us. “I believe there’s only one person living there now. You’ll find him in the schoolhouse. Let me take you there.” And with that, he switched his engine on, made an abrupt turn, and beckoned us to follow. We crept along slowly behind until he stopped in front of several old, abandoned buildings. Bill was anxious to reimburse him for his troubles, but he would have no part of it, and as he turned around, gave us a smile and waved goodbye.

We pulled up a little farther in front of a dirty, gray, stucco building that had the name “Keeler Community Centre” clearly etched along the top of it. After a few moments, an unshaven man came out of the weedy growth to greet us. Yes, he was a Keeler, the last one to remain here, he said. No, his Keeler family was not from Norwich, where Bill’s had come from in England. His were from Aylesbury. After several minutes of discussing their family backgrounds, the two men agreed they had no family ties.

Then the conversation turned to Keelersville itself. In the midst of wheat land, it had been a centre for grain storage for years and had once been a thriving Keeler community. At one time, there had been over a hundred children attending the three elementary and secondary classrooms. The remaining Keeler dweller, whom we had just now met, was living in one of these deserted classrooms.

It seems that when the railroad came in forty years ago, the grain elevators had all disappeared, and the townsfolk soon left the area. Our newfound Keeler friend was the only Keeler living there now.

Both the Community Centre, which had been named after the family, and the village hotel had been left to decay. The doorways were open, and I wandered in to explore. The bar arm tables were still standing on the first floor of the hotel, but the customer tables and chairs had long since disappeared. One would not venture up the aging staircase to the second floor, which housed the bedrooms. In my imagination, I envisioned the layout of the rooms above, probably quite barren and with just the essentials that travelers would need as they passed through.

Sensing Bill’s desire to move on, I climbed back into the car, mud still clinging to the soles of my shoes. The shiny Mercury Milan, Bill’s pride and joy, was covered in black polka dots. Anxious to locate a car wash, Bill was relieved to find one in White City. Once the car had been restored to its normal pristine state, our attention turned toward ourselves. It began feet first with me. What a relief to see the mud disappearing from my shoes as I held them, one by one, under the washroom tap.

By this time, it was heading on to six o’clock and long past our regular stopping time. We headed over to the White City Hotel, ready to retire for the day.

“We’re filled right up,” said the woman at the front desk in the White City Hotel.

My jaw dropped, “Every room gone?” I asked in a raised voice and much to my dismay.

“Yes,” she said, “All seventy of them gone. We’re really busy right now. Try the motel on the next street”. And so we did. But it, too, was filled.

“I don’t know what we are going to do. We need a room for the night, and the hotel is filled, too,” I told the man.

“Why don’t I call the nearest motel?” said the desk clerk, and to our joy, it had one room left. “Please tell him to hold it, I urged. We can give him our Master Card number,” but he shook his head and told us it would be fine. They would hold it for certain. With that, he gave us directions to the motel, which was quite a piece back from the way we had come. Well over an hour later, we arrived.

“Doesn’t this look familiar?” I said to Bill. When I went to the office, there sat the same man whose room I had turned down earlier in the day. Not surprisingly, it was still vacant! But at this point, neither of us cared. We were dead tired, and it was close to five hours past our stopping time.

The tiny air conditioner sat perched high up on a triangular shelf in one corner of the room while a lamp with a pink shade and 25 Watt bulb on our night table was the only light we had.

As we sat on the side of our beds, each holding a glass of wine while we munched our cheese and crackers, we laughed aloud as we recounted the day’s events. We had had an adventure that we could never have planned.

“The GPS is always right!” I said. And shortly after that, we both fell sound asleep.

Bartlett (Marian Bron)

March 6, 2023 ~ Marian Bron ~ Leave a comment

Bartlett handed me a sword. A strange thing to be handed at eight in the morning, but then this wasn’t unusual for him. Besides, it matched the get-up he was wearing. A suit of armour.

“I need your help,” he said. “Your family’s life depends on it.”

“My family’s?” I asked. The last communique from my mother and brother was about the chocolate covered crickets my brother was eating in Mexico. All was well in the world as far as I knew.

“Yes,” he replied. His tone suggesting that I should have expected it. “The sorcerer has cast a spell.”

He pushed past me and made his way towards the kitchen.

“Barlett,” I called trailing after him. “What are you talking about? Sorcerer?”

“Salt. Lots of it.” He grabbed the mostly full box from my pantry. “Stand still.”

He poured a circle of salt around me and tossed the empty box onto the counter.

“Don’t move until the threat has been neutralized.” He reached in and took the sword back from me. “You should be safe.”

“Isn’t a salt circle used for demons not sorcerers?”

His jaw dropped; his eyes went wide. “Right. Sorry. But it can’t hurt.”

He headed for the front door.

“Barlett,” I called after him. “What is going on? Is my mother okay? Do I have to warn my brother.”

“Too late. He—” an ominous weight added to he “—knows where they are.”

I stepped out of the salt circle. “This is ridiculous.”

It was obvious one of his role-playing games had gotten out of hand. He had slipped from reality into make believe.

“Go home Bartlett,” I ordered him. “Get some sleep.”

With a creak of a squeaky knee hinge he turned and opened the front door.

“Eek!” he shrieked.

A cloud of smoke, crackling with lightening, had settled on my front stoop. A mythical sorcerer, complete with peaked hat and midnight black robes stepped forward.“Is this the wench?” he asked the trembling Bartlett.

Prompt Writing Christmas Lunch – December 8 2022

December 13, 2022 ~ Catherine Campbell ~ Leave a comment

Prompts included:

Gratitude (Mary Ann Colihan)

Letter to Santa… (Catherine Campbell)

Letter to Santa (Cathy Sartor)

“The Cover-Up and How I Learned the Hard Truth About Santa” (Catherine Richards)

Letter to Santa – December 8 (Diane Chartrand)

How Christmas Has Changed over the last decades! (Marian Bron)

Christmas Letter (Muriel Allingham)

Gratitude (Mary Ann Colihan)

Writers, solitary by nature, may have gotten off lighter in the pandemic. We were quick to ZOOM and share work online. But I regret that in-person classes, the ones that forged the Wordwrights, may be gone forever.

It is impossible to replace human contact. For this literary group, road trips to Hillsdale for pie and a gander at the vista of Lake Erie from the old and now lavishly refurbished homestead, were postponed with Alison in regular lockdown. Libraries removed furniture and did not want anyone lingering, let alone talking about books and writing in quiet corners. Covid made our existence all high tech when we yearned for more high touch.

So today, we are grateful beyond measure to Catherine for gathering us, once again at Christmas, in this beautiful space. A private club where we are free to be ourselves, together – a luxury to meet as colleagues and friends. Over the many years we have been together, the Wordwrights are about much more than writing. I am grateful that Catherine also provides leadership for technology and task mastering. But there is a secret sauce here. Recently, with members passing on and punching out to deal with family matters, new members were welcomed into this tradition of shared writing and support. This may be the single most important thing you do to get words on paper. I am thankful for each one of you in my life and hope these new writing sessions will yield more prize winners.

Letter to Santa… (Catherine Campbell)

I don’t remember writing a letter to Santa. I believed in Santa – sort of. I mean we moved every year so maybe a letter making sure he knew where to find me would have been an excellent strategy. But I don’t remember…

If I were to write a letter to Santa today it would have to start with apologies. This year the tree is not up and nor was it the last two years. I couldn’t get psyched to pretend we were welcoming the “joy” of Christmas when everything was locked down and no visits, gifts were delivered online to distant recipients. Phone calls seemed alienating. Reluctant to hang up but nothing really to say.

I did take a picture with my favourite snow bear sitting on the piano – I wore my Campbell tartan kilt – floor length. I took a picture with Kohl admiring that same bear but, in the sunroom, not the top of the piano. Kohl’s place is under the piano. No playing of Christmas carols on the piano. Not the year before either. My fingers stumbled over the notes on the couple I tried to play today.

So back to writing a letter – worth a try.

Dear Santa:

I was actually close to you, maybe one of your first stops. Goose Bay, Labrador. You did well by my sister and I that year – 1960, I think. A beautiful doll for each of us and handmade cradles. But we figured it out. Our father had hidden in the basement making the cradles and had brought the dolls back from a trip to “civilization”. All the hokey stuff on TV about your progress across the world was just that – hokey.

Like many families ours scattered. Personal visits became rarer. The holiday lost its importance. Guilt about forgetting to phone my mother on Xmas. She didn’t call me either, but I found out she had been quite sick. Three weeks later she was dead in a car crash.

I wish you were real, Santa, and that you could gift me a do-over.

I am being a little misleading. I say that fat, jolly man in red is not real, but Saint Nicholas was real. We viewed his coffin in a church in a small village in Turkey. Who would believe that Nick originated in Turkey. Connecting that saint to the Christmas hype over the centuries requires real imagination.

Maybe that is my problem. Christmas is not “joy” but belief in fairy tales and ceremony and pageantry. And most important wanting and needing to share the magic with others.

Perhaps a sign, Santa, to restore that magic.

Letter to Santa (Cathy Sartor)

Sunday, December 25^th, 2022 @ 2:45 am

Dear Cathy,

Thank you for your Holiday Greetings and for the delicious carrot cake and thermos of fresh coffee. I trust the coffee and your delightful snack will fortify me onward during this long, cold night on my mission to fulfill most Christmas wishes.

About your Christmas Wish…I understand the possible need but I fear my inability to grant it. Most Christmas Wishes are tangible and my elves are readily able to make them possible. Granting traditional wishes like a toy truck for a little boy or a doll to fill hours of enjoyable play time for a little girl is my job. Granting an intangible wish for a grandmother is a challenge beyond my pay grade.

In Santa’s workshop, the elves labour tirelessly all year to produce gifts for me to deliver. Over time, I have enjoyed many experiences and requests for wishes. Your wish requires the wisdom and insight that only Father Christmas can muster and provide. Delivery requires no searching or wrapping but instead it demands a lifetime of expertise and a loving heart.

Cathy, your Christmas Wish for “Inspiration” is impossible to wrap and deliver. I am aware that retirement, relocation, a pandemic and the unthinkable world events since February following knee replacement surgery and recovery have caused the world to seem out of balance. As with Alice in Oz, you are feeling confused and frettful not knowing which way is up or how to find down.

Rather than remainng stuck while enduring this period of uncertainty, imagine life differently. This should be a period of remaining strong, of taking stock and of preparing to move on. Buck up buttercup. Define your hopes and dreams. Decide your priorities and preferences. Stay focused and keep busy. Hold joy and gratitude in your heart. Trust that your “Christmas Wish” will be granted. In due time, you will be inspired and ready to move on.

My job is done. Now it is your job to do the work in your search of “inspiration”.

Our sincere wishes for an inspired future!

Santa and his buddy Father Christmas

“The Cover-Up and How I Learned the Hard Truth About Santa” (Catherine Richards)

It was Christmas morning, me and my bowl cut hair style were wide awake. We had a rule in our house that you couldn’t open or touch anything under the tree until Mom and Dad had had their first cup of coffee. So, my brother and I would wait.

We would get up and look at the tree and the stockings while our little bodies teemed with excitement. When Ian got a bit older, he would make the first pot of coffee which was likely terrible. Ian was almost four years older than me so he was wiser, more accomplished in life and could spell his whole name, so he was in charge of coffee. Ian would also turn on the outside Christmas lights, a signal to the neighbours that we were up. A competition between the two houses to see who was awake first.

On Christmas morning when I was 7, I couldn’t help but notice that some of the presents from Santa were wrapped in the same paper as presents from Mom and Dad. A curious kid who was always encouraged to ask questions – I asked: why is the wrapping paper the same? Mom quickly answered something along the lines of isn’t that special that the wrapping paper we picked is the same as Santa! Must mean you were extra good this year! This seemed like a reasonable answer as I had been very good that year.

The following Christmas we were opening presents, and to my surprise, there were some price tags on some gifts. I asked: why are there price tags on these gifts from Santa? Mom quickly answered that sometimes Santa asks the Elves to pick up items at local shops because there are so many children around the world, and he can’t always make all the presents. It seemed a reasonable answer and it really didn’t make sense for Santa to make all the presents when they were already available elsewhere.

The next year we were opening presents, and Mom jumped up and said Santa forgot something! I thought this was extremely weird as she raced into another room and came back with two presents, one for Ian and one for me. As we were opening them, I asked: why did Santa forget these and why were they in the other room? Mom quickly answered that sometimes Santa gets startled when putting everything under the tree and drops presents in places they shouldn’t be. Again, this was a reasonable answer and something my primitive brain could imagine.

But my suspicion was increasing and the following year I asked: Mom, is Santa real? Mom quickly answered: “well I believe in Santa because there are presents under that tree that I didn’t put there”. I bought that answer too. And went on my merry way with the full belief that Santa was real, and my mom wouldn’t lie to me.

I was at least 10 years old when I learned the hard truth. I was at a new school, and it was the period when the class would go to the library. We were sitting in “the pit”, the carpeted story reading area. As I looked down at the beige-grey carpet, perfect for hiding the residue that comes off the sticky and dirty hands of children, a classmate made some passing comment about Santa not being real. I couldn’t believe it and kept staring at the carpet. All the other kids started to nod their heads and shared how they couldn’t believe kids our age still believed in Santa and that they had known for years. I was in shock. On the way home from school, I asked my brother. As you know he was wiser, in high school now and could do complex math problems so he would tell me the truth. He replied: “Yeah I’ve known for a while, but Mom asked me not to tell you to not ruin Christmas for you”. I couldn’t believe that for years my family, possibly my friends, had all been in on the cover-up. It all started to make sense – the identical wrapping paper, the price tags, “Santa forgetting” and obviously there would be presents under that tree that my mom hadn’t put there.

I don’t recall what happened next, if I told my parents or not. I don’t recall if I was upset for longer than an hour or a day, but I don’t carry any resentment towards them for the cover-up or how I found out (officially and very very late). I’m only thankful. My Mom believed in continuing with the magic for years and that is precious to me. She and my Dad would have been exhausted at Christmas time. They both were working, getting me and my brother to school, participating in seasonal activities and having to do the never-ending task of feeding us daily so no wonder on Christmas morning after a marathon evening of wrapping presents there would be price tags. As a thank you, and now that I can spell my whole name, I will make their first cup of coffee on Christmas morning.

Letter to Santa – December 8 (Diane Chartrand)

Dear Santa,

I know it’s been a long time since you’ve heard from me. The last several years have been hard, but I got through them. I usually don’t write and ask for things, but I need your help this year.

I have a special request that I hope you can help with. A special person in my life needs a unique gift this year. I don’t know if you can take care of it, but I’m still going to ask.

My youngest granddaughter is due to have her fourth son in March of the new year. I don’t think she’s ready for so much responsibility yet. She gave birth to her third son only a year ago. So far, she has found a way to manage day by day most times, but the stress of being alone to take care of everything must be difficult.

My ask, if you think it could be possible, is to have her husband home more to help out. I know being in the service fighting for your country is commendable, but he’s always gone. Each time he returns, it takes the family a long time to adjust then he leaves again.

I’m putting this request in your hands and praying that you can find a way to grant it, if only for a short time, until the older children can help Mom with the younger ones.

Worried Grandma, Diane

How Christmas Has Changed over the last decades! (Marian Bron)

I blame love. Possibly hormones. The change started when the cousins and my brother started pairing up more almost forty years ago. Never mind that it left me as the odd wheel out, it was bigger than that.

On their own I had no problem with the individuals they paired off, they were friends from our own social circle, but why couldn’t things be left as they were? The Christmas shopping expeditions of our tweens where we set off on foot and met downtown Strathroy and spent the afternoon together or the trips to the town fair where my oldest cousin lied and said she was under twelve to get in free like the rest of us, gone forever.

Christmases together with the two families and occasionally cousins from Holland, a whole other story there, was laid back, festive, fun. It was family. But with pairings came logistical problems. Christmas Eve no longer suited everyone, and it became the Saturday before or, if there were conflicts, squeezed in Tuesday after a completed work day. Christmas Eve with the extended family no longer happened.

After marriage came babies. So many babies. The two families became too large and separated. However even with our own family unit Christmas Eve gatherings was still a problem. It was my sister-in-law’s parent’s anniversary. As far as I’m concerned only selfish people get married on big holidays but that’s beside the point. Christmas Eve, the only holiday we actually celebrated as a family, was no longer ours.

As time has passed my own little odd family out has paired off too. Christmas is further complicated once again. It was time for me to become selfish. I didn’t care what anyone else did but I was spending Christmas Eve with my parents whether or not my brothers and kids could make it. Both sets of parents, the husband’s and mine, are in their eighties, I need this while I can.

And for the last two Christmases it has worked. Both sets are basically under the same roof now so it’s just a matter of meeting in one apartment. Now we sit, eat gebakjes and other assorted tasty treats, and visit. There are no gifts exchanged because we’ve all outgrown that. None of us need more stuff.

As for the cousins? My aunt and Uncle are five units down from my parents. A knock on the door and an exchange of Merry Christmases works. Christmas Day whoever is free can come for dinner at our place. Simple.

Christmas Letter (Muriel Allingham)

Today, I’m reminded of the last Christmas lunch we shared, and would have to say that probably no one could have predicted the bizarre route our lives would take in early 2020. For me, looking back on our gathering that December, in this exact room, enjoying great food and company, I was blissfully unaware that I was soon to be drop kicked through the goal posts of life. And while the world wrestled with Covid, my life took on another challenge that made the fear of infection almost something to look forward to.

That which does not kill us………..makes us want to kill ourselves, and often times during the following months, I contemplated on long sleepless nights, a particularly heinous form of hari-kari, leaving me gorgeously pale in a black lace negligee; of course, never to be found until my rotting corpse ruined the whole Juliet effect.

And I had to accept that after twenty some odd years of a life partnership, mine crumbled in moments. An unpredictable and misfortunate betrayal that left me more vulnerable and wounded than if I had been dismembered.

Faced with property management alone, aging and grieving dogs, loss and failure, I had to put away my bicycle, my hikes, writing and my life of ease. I was left to pay our home equity loan and my income diminished by two thirds, but my expenses expanded.

Would some future movie scene portray me emerging from the mist, in combat gear, dishevelled, and dirty, but victorious? Certainly!

I did some epic shit—I know that now. Chain sawing and retaining all limbs, caring for the dogs, the property, and the house. I sold it all, disposing of Blair’s existence into landfills and goodwills. I relocated into a highrise (a story unto itself). I fought and won a legal battle, said a sorrowful goodbye to my beloved Jasper, who for all his quirks and disobedience was the most amazing creature that ever wore poodle attire.

Presently, Zola and I live in Blackfriar’s Estate, where a variety of eccentric residents entertain and delight us. And, we enjoy the presence of ghosts that slip up and down stairs and around corners unexpectedly. What could be finer? Except for the two chihuahuas that wear pearl necklaces and indulge in vodka in the afternoon, or the dashounds that bark incessantly. Or the parrot named Joey that likes to imitate the back up alarm on a garbage truck—first thing in the morning. “Joey, shut the fuck up,” I hear from my open bedroom window.

It takes three years to heal; five years to heal, and I’ve also been told ten years to heal, as though time is infinite. I don’t think I will ever heal, not completely. When I drive country roads from my past, I feel strangely detached, but also shaken by the familiarity of a bridge I have crossed hundreds of times, and I can still anticipate that bump in the road. I know those beautiful country homes that changed season by season; artistry of nature and decor. Often the sky over the horizon brings brutal nostalgic beauty. Was that the same cloud formation that would drift slowly by, as we ventured on our Sunday tours of the countryside? The driving rain—the same as when we drove to the airport. I will be haunted forever, but that is something I must come to love and cherish.

I have learned how to be alone. I can handle anything, and my motto has become ‘what’s the next logical step?’ A mantra that unravels the complexities of yet the latest disaster. I look forward to my future, to adventure and am quite happy in my solitude—mostly content and free. I am fortunate that I have wonderful, and not so wonderful friends (the latter makes it all so interesting). At the end of my life, I can say with certainty that I did not take the easy road. I did not back down. But more importantly, I did what was right.

Sometimes it feels as though my heart is stuck between zipper teeth, tugging and pulling will only result in more seizures and pain, so I am resigned to live with my damaged heart, because I know my soul is one of brilliance and light.

This Christmas, we are once again together. We are all different people after three years of isolation, separation, and tragedy. And I could say something cliché about living in the moment, caring for those we love, or getting hit by the proverbial bus—wait, my mother did get hit by a bus, so I’ll leave that one out. We are lucky, even when we are not. We are walking each other home. It is all we are doing—we have no claim to anything, I have learned that well. Anything can happen and it likely will.

So, here’s a suggestion for the new year; let’s all take out our damaged hearts, our pieced together with duct tape, shoe laces and packaging twined hearts. Take them out, put them on the table and let everyone admire them. We are all heroic to be standing in this difficult world.

Let everything happen to us, the beauty, the magic, the horror and let’s keep standing against it to let it fall around us, like rain.