Finally, after 3 years some of the writing group were able to gather for a Christmas lunch. This was special not only because it celebrated the return to a level of normality but also because Alison was celebrating her 90th year and we welcomed a new member, in-person.
Hopefully in 2023 our monthly meetings will be reinstated – in-person.
This birthday was too important to acknowledge only virtually! Alison looks like she is holding court!
Many visitors with her schedule carefully managed. It was a beautiful day and several visits took advantage of the patio. There were birthday cards galore, balloons, banners – it was impossible to miss the importance of the occasion.
And the creative member of the group – Diane Chartrand.
Happy Birthday Alison.
July 11, 2021, is the second anniversary when one of our treasured writers Rian Elliott passed away. We all miss our dear friend and want her writings to be her legacy.
From her large volume of unread works below is one for you to enjoy.
Concetta drifted to the kitchen window at the sound of a tap, seeing two startled sparrows lift and flutter away from the branch beyond. The piercing eyes and stillness of the larger bird perched on the sill held her motionless until the sudden sway of the treetop in the breeze signaled his flight to her left. He rose, circled the marble crown of St. Michael across the street, and continued past the church and the parish hall, the priest’s house, towards the busy intersection not more than a few minutes away. She placed her coffee cup carefully in the sink.
Taking the flight as a harbinger of early mass, she hurried to the front hall, donned her coat, and set out towards St. Michael. He was, she noted, still gazing downward. Were his armies daunted by the world he found himself in? Or was he plotting a course through enemies found even within? She listened carefully, but that other world of bustle and traffic was barely audible, more a fence surrounding the quiet of this neighbourhood at this hour, Italian by determination, though mingled by village origin and date of arrival and aspiration. The husbands had left for work, but it was early yet for the wives to be standing on their verandas and shaking rugs and mops and dust cloths.
She paused at the marble plinth only to wish him well for the recruitment of his heavenly host, then walked with calm determination to let herself in with her eyes focused and movements carefully timed to satisfy the stern eye of Father Anselmo, should he be watching. With information on her surroundings limited to her ears and minimal eye movements, she was satisfied at least that he could find nothing in her movements noteworthy for the report. Her ears picked out only the regular voices, and she left the service with a lighter step than entering. Crossing the street, she looked straight ahead and saw only the slightest movement of the curtain to her left as she reached her own front door. She walked through the house to the back, taking up the small bag of garbage, and carefully placed it in the bin.
Gazing downward but intent on peripheral vision for any sign of scrutiny, she bent over to pick a weed or two, her path angling forward to the gloomy line of cypress marking the back of the lot. Satisfied, she turned half-sideways at a bare opening, gathered her coat tight, and slid through.
A narrow strip of small trees and scrub lay between her and Black Creek, more a culvert at that point in its twisted trail from Vaughan northwest of Toronto to its southern manifestation as an eastern tributary of the mouth of the Humber River. She followed the bank to the left and up a slight rise. The sounds of traffic interrupted then overpowered the early morning birdsong, increasing until she came to some steps that brought her to the parking lot of an apartment building. Her journey brought her some three blocks north and three blocks west of her house without seeing another person. Although she had looked carefully, she saw no mushrooms, only some lichen and some soggy spots of undigested plant material. On the whole, it was not hard walking and not unpleasant.
There was no comparison, of course, with the pine forest immediately behind her parent’s house in her native village. There, a carpet of needles, though sharp, formed a dry and comforting bed to walk on and search for wild mushrooms. The careful tutelage of her sisters, Anna and Bianca, and her grandmother, had made her fungi foraging reputation noteworthy in the whole village.
But there, her mind was wandering, and it was a very public street. This particular block was safe enough as she headed south. There was a laundromat used only by those who lived in the rental apartments further north and along the more major side streets. None of her neighbours would be there. It would be a sure sign of family embarrassment for laundry to not be done at home. To be sure, when they first arrived and lived just off Dufferin, there were some neighbours who hung laundry in their backyards. Very soon, though, as distinctions were made in the butchers and greengrocers in the area, this was designated as very ‘old-country.’
By the time they had moved to “Italy North,” and basements were floored in porcelain and had full kitchens and laundry rooms, twice the size at least of those left behind, newlyweds were set up with households fully equipped. Certainly, all those who were part of St. Michaels, all those whose jobs stemmed from that man, the scarecrow.
Here she had passed the laundromat, the animal hospital, a hospital for dogs and cats, but what was it really. True, most in her community went to a hospital even to give birth, but still, dogs. Cats. There was also a dentist and an accountant, then she crossed into the next block, and there was a pizza parlour. Again, no one from her community went there, but they delivered cardboard boxes to the apartment buildings.
Beside it was a shop supported by the community. They had plates and tablecloths just beyond the window, all brought in from Italy. But in the window, there was always a changing display of special occasion goods, sometimes a christening gown, special formal dresses for children, and for first communion, ah, the dresses.
Even for boys, especially for her boys, she would have been happy to see Tonio or Enzo dressed for their First Communion like this. She was not allowed to choose, of course. Nothing had been her choice since her Tonio approached his tenth birthday. It was judged that living with a crazy mother was not suitable for her children. Whether her husband or that man chose, she wasn’t aware. She was allowed to sit with her husband and see them, and she was clever and quick. When the other parents claimed their children at the end of the service, she slid between the bulk of Antonio, her husband, and his brother. Before either could move, she was down to the level of her boys, looking into the eyes of Enzo, the younger but with Antonio’s build the physical equal of his brother Tonio. Carefully she told him how well he had done and how proud she was before turning and locking into Tonio’s bright gaze beneath his soft curls and repeating the words, eyes never leaving his.
That was the end of her afternoon, of course. She was delivered back to their home, what had been their home, where she now lived alone. Antonio said there would be a family celebration. As they left, though, Antonio steering her firmly through the assembled parents who parted before him, she thought she saw the scarecrow. What could there be to celebrate when the scarecrow was around.
She wasn’t sure he was the scarecrow. She had seen him first when her sisters and other children of the village had walked along the road, further than they had ever gone, climbing up and then down to see fields of grapevines, and on the uppermost field a stick figure dressed in black. Her sisters had laughed at her, but Emilio explained that it was there to scare the birds away.
There was no fixed time that she had seen the scarecrow in the village square for the first time. It only slowly came to her that whenever he was there, black coat flapping below his white hair and black hat, the square emptied of all but the men her father’s age. They sat quietly, smoking and playing cards. One by one, they greeted him as he came up. Usually, his son walked with him, in the beginning, a stocky figure half his height, slowly reaching the same height as the scarecrow and revealing himself as his father’s son.
She looked up cautiously to see Fabio’s, the large greengrocers, before her. Most of the women in the neighbourhood stopped here regularly, but it was a bit early to find them here. She watched. Fabio and his son were going back and forth, lining up cartons of vegetables on the counter outside. Timing herself carefully, she avoided both of them, reaching Niki’s Bridal, the largest shop in this block with no confrontation.
Here she walked slowly, the wondrous clouds of satin and tulle suggesting garb for angels but for the flashing sparks from jeweled tiaras. Angels, she knew, would have no need of jewels. The light of their being, that glorious light, came from them and needed no outside assistance. Still, she could have wished at least one of these dresses, even the simplest, had been a choice her sister Anna had.
Their house turned upside down preparing for her wedding, but not one smile or pleasant word from Anna for the whole of it, not for her, Concetta, at any rate. Only weeks after their house was upside down preparing and celebrating their sister Bianca’s sixteenth birthday, their father had called them in, one by one. Anna, the eldest, was already less than eager to share their usual time together. She seemed to feel a need for some increased time in the company of their mother to emphasize her superior maturity, and Bianca had shown signs of joining them as her birthday approached. Without Emilio and their mushroom foraging expeditions, she would not have known what to do with herself.
Day by day, she did her chores and sat by the kitchen door, waiting for instructions or an invitation to join her mother and sisters, but their voices always changed timbre in her presence. Emilio’s slim form and keen eyes found mushrooms in the deepest shade. Dividing down to a bed of pine needles, his tousled curls turned, and a smile announced the unlikeliest treasure.
Bianca’s birthday had been a happy time, and one the whole village celebrated. Anna had been happy, not least, Concetta thought, when Alberto, Emilio’s older brother, seemed to be always in her vicinity. Bianca, meanwhile, was happily modest to have all eyes on her.
Concetta herself was only a little unhappy when it was over. It meant that there was just over a year, and her turn would come, and she would become the center of attention. But that had never happened, or not like that.
And only weeks after, their father called them in, one by one. First, Anna went to sit in the front room with their parents and came out bewildered but silent some minutes later. Bianca went next, but here the unexpected happened. There were cries, and foot-stomping, and shushing, and finally, Bianca exited, her face a white mask. She motioned to Concetta to enter in her place, and as she looked back, both sisters seemed to her to be staring in horror.
She saw their eyes forevermore when she remembered them. Only by singing her grandmother’s favourite song over and over under her breath could she bring them to the top of her mind as children, the three of them joining others in the village or going with Grandmother into the pine forest to learn its mysteries.
At the time, only her father’s words wiped the sight from her mind.
She could see the day like a curtain. The sun shone on the kitchen tiles as she entered the cooler darkness of the front room with the curtains pulled. Her mother’s eyes were fastened on the red carpet throughout, while her father’s words fell like the careful hammer strokes when he fastened shelves. Her sister Anna would be married very soon, and the household would be engaged in preparing for this major celebration. Also, as it happened, Bianca was to be married soon after to one Andreas from the next village. She knew who he was; they all did. He was a cousin of the scarecrow’s son.
But the main thing, the finishing sharp stroke of the hammer, was that she herself was to be wed due to the very honourable representations, very honourable, of the scarecrow, on behalf of his son. So it came to pass that she became the bride of Antonio Bartolomeo, but not before her sister Anna was wed to Emilio, her Emilio, and Bianca, white-faced, going to the altar, seeking reassurance from her parents that she was welcome in their house whenever she was in need of them. She was told that was so whenever it was her husband’s pleasure.
Neither sister would look into her eyes from the time their father spoke to them. Indeed, the only breath she took for the whole time was when both families lined up for mutual greetings at Anna’s wedding, and she found herself looking into Emilio’s eyes.
She left the bridal show in the window and passed to Tetsu’s small grocery store, vegetables proud in their neat stacks and glistening with spray on his outdoor counter. Startled, she reached toward a tray of mushrooms but withdrew before contact and went on to the corner pot. The small pine stood dense and dark and seemed to be waiting for her warm fingers to waft over the bark. She withdrew her hand and rubbed them together before allowing them to cup briefly around her nose.
Turning, she crossed the street. Passing the bank, the accountant, the shoe store, she came to Mario and the bakery. She fancied, looking toward the corner, that she saw the scarecrow in the far corner of the parking lot. Taking a deep breath, she entered the bakery, the smell of morning bread still alive. She waited, head half turned, while a couple of women from the neighbourhood gathered their daily supply. As they left, she hesitantly approached Mario himself.
They both knew her husband would settle any account between them. It was the size of the absent scowl they calculated silently between them. Mario broke the silence, decision made, saying that perhaps she would like some spinach or mushroom tarts, just coming fresh. Concetta’s eyes widened. Then she smiled, pointed at the mushroom tarts, and announced to Mario that the Pope was speaking through him, the Pope being a very wise man who would undoubtedly take care of all earthy things less worthy persons could understand, herself being the least, the very least of these. She heard the door open, and two women enter behind her as Mario smiled and tied her parcel. She raised her hand to indicate her lack of money, but he gestured toward the notebook beside his cash register.
With a light step, she opened the door to see Elydia di Pentima, a stalwart supporter at St. Michaels Parish Hall, for many a coffee party. In fact, she barely hesitated before inviting Concetta herself for coffee then and there, virtually inviting her. But Concetta, being a considerate person, told her also of the stellar properties of the Pope.
She smiled and bowed Elydia into the bakery before stepping into the parking lot. She stepped briskly now, parcel tucked unobtrusively under one arm, as she passed the corner. Pleased to see no sign of the scarecrow, she crossed the busy intersection when the light turned green. Her step was light, but she was almost determinedly staring straight ahead the whole walk home. No one could say there was anything untoward in her appearance.
Even when she reached her own front walk and the curtain next door took a sudden hard twitch when she appeared, there could be nothing of note. Feeling the box under her arm, she raised the other arm, stuck one finger in her ear, and wiggled the fingers as she stuck her tongue out and waggled it before continuing to her own front door.
I am not a water person. Growing up on a farm in the Fifties, my experience with water was limited to the once or twice Sunday trips each summer to Port Stanley where I would venture out only far enough beyond the discouraging stones to splash a little and then float.
In my late twenties, with little water in between, two friends and I took a short camping holiday in Algonquin Park. My two friends were both experienced canoeists and parked me in the middle of the craft. I enjoyed canoeing small lakes joined by rivers. The rivers I liked best for the sense of being able to almost reach out and touch the branches of overhanging trees on either side. For the sense of being in nature, to my mind. And probably for the sense of security.
On the last day of our holiday, Elsie proposed we drive to the Ottawa area and go white water rafting. It would be the highlight of the holiday for her. Sheila in her always soft and firm voice at once said she would not go. She would happily wait for us on shore. My first impulse was to decline also. But Elsie did not want to inconvenience us both. I said I would go.
White water rafting was still rather new at that time. Elsie had heard of one outfit, probably the least expensive. I knew absolutely nothing of the different rafts used nor of the different reputations of the different companies. The company we went to turned out to be one with a reputation for being the wildest. The rafts were like large rubber dinghies with no fixed oars—a feature I was later told made for a larger, safer raft.
We were issued life jackets of a sort. I spied some helmets which were not offered and asked about wearing one. I suppose this caution came from always being required to wear a helmet when riding. I asked about having one. I was given one, with a bemused smile. No one else asked for one.
The leader for our trip was a young French Canadian, not a large man but wiry and well-muscled. He spoke little, gestured extravagantly, and used the expression “it’s a real rush, man” frequently. That perhaps should have been a warning.
We were led to to see the first set of rapids. I looked down at churning, rushing waters forced through what seemed a narrow canyon. The guide said these were the strongest rapids and where people most often were flipped off the raft. Usually two or three per trip. With twelve trippers, the dreaded thirteen counting the guide, the odds did not sound great. We could choose not to do this part. Instead, cross a stream he pointed out, and meet the raft at a point a short distance away. My hand went up. He casually pointed to the stream some distance away and left with the group.
The stream flowed down a sharp incline. It was like a chute. Around two hundred yards from where I stood, it emptied into the river. I stood and looked down at it. .The water was crystal clear, several feet deep, and rushing. I looked across it. It did not look that wide. Perhaps three feet across. It must have been stepped over by others than me. The Guide had been offhand as he waved me towards it.
I did not make the opposite bank. I was swept away.
I remember that with absolute clarity. My life did not flash before me. I was on my back. My eyes were open. I remember seeing how crystal clear the water was above me. How far I was from the surface. I did nothing. It was so fast. I felt no pain. I made no struggle. I felt no fear. It was just sensation. Me and the clear water above me.
I did not think then of those many in Greek mythology who sought to confound their fate, only to be forced to endure it.
I surfaced in the river, further than I could ever swim. There were two canoes near me at once. I would not want a recording of my struggle to get into the canoe. They (I have no sense of my helpers) rowed me to the shore where the raft had pulled up. No one had flipped from the raft.
The Guide was enthusiastic in his effort to convince me to continue the trip. The rest of the rapids would be easier. He really wanted me to do it. It would be a rush.
Reader, I went. The Guide was more or less correct. Most of the rapids I do not recall. Except for one when the front of the raft went so high in the air I thought it was going to completely turn head over heels. (Would that be keel?) At the last second, the front bent forward and we continued on our way.
Later, as my friends and I drove to find our last campsite I assessed the damage. I had lost a pair of prescription sunglasses. My left shoe had been sucked off my foot. That foot was swollen and bruised. It was only when I was at home late the next day and looked in a mirror, that I saw a chain of large purple bruises down my spine that must have been caused by hitting rocks. I thought of my head and the helmet. A reluctant trip to a Walk-in Clinic confirmed a sprained ankle.
Sometimes I think of the lessons I took from that experience. I wonder if they are the right ones.
Needing a distraction, I rolled open a blind and looked out the window into the dark night. It was two in the morning, and all was quiet in the complex. I woke up with so many thoughts and worries going on in my head and couldn’t get them to stop.
Soon we will be coming out of a terrible situation, and where I go next haunts me. As I keep looking out the window, I realize it’s not what I see in front of me that is dark, but I am personally experiencing what is known as ‘Dark Night.’ It’s listed as an internal condition where you become lost to the world you once knew.
As my eyes adjust, I see in front of me my worries all lined up farther than the eye can see. The first one that approaches me is uncertainty. It reminds me of all the risks that are out in the world if I go out there. “Yes,” I say. “But, at some point, I’ll have to venture out and try to find the person I once was so many months ago.”
Uncertainty just shakes its head and walks away.
Next in line is ego. I am reminded about all the things done just to please him. I don’t want to be that person anymore who relies only on ego. I want to be someone who does things with a purpose in mind, not what I can gain only for myself.
“I’m done with you and your reckless ways,” I say.
Ego just laughs and reminds me that everyone always comes back because it’s the way of the world. He bellows out as he disappears, “All for one and more for me.”
I lean my hand on my chin. My mind is lost and empty. Where did I go? Where did my ability to plan my future go? Having spent so many months at home all alone has caused me to lose myself.
Joy stands in front of me with a happy face plastered on her chest. “I am your every day and night, so smile, “ she says.
“Sorry, Joy. You are no longer a part of me, and I have no idea how to get you back, so leave.”
Joy tries over and over to get me to smile, but nothing causes me to do that, and she leaves.
Several memories started to emerge from my past—the birth of my children, bad marriages, learning for new careers, and hundreds more. Unfortunately, none of them impressed me. All of those items from my life are so far behind me and no longer important.
The final thing in line said, “Hi. I’m your new path.” She handed me a blank page with New Path written at the top.
“So, what am I supposed to do with this?”
“Write on it anything you want to do from this moment on.”
“I don’t know what exactly I want to do going forward, but I am sure it is nothing that I have done so far.”
“Maybe start at the top with I want to and then just write what is in your soul.”
I backed away from the window and sat down with the paper in front of me. I kept telling myself, you can do this, just start. Then I took up a pen and wrote at the top as New Path instructed.
I want to…..
Grandma Anna has just died. Bless her! It was May, 1943.
Thank goodness she had presence of mind to plan her expiration date in the springtime. Had it been January, the locals may not have been able to master the snowdrifts that often filled the country roads in winter. They would have been disappointed had they not been able to see who had come to pay their respects. For everyone goes to all the funerals in the country, you know. It is simply the thing to do.
But this was a special funeral and no doubt it would be a big one. Grandma Anna was in her nineties and was the last of her generation to go. She was 3rd generation on my father’s side of the family but she was still considered a pioneer. She was the only one left who knew full well what had come before. If anyone in the area needed to “know” something, they came to Grandma Anna. There would be an emptiness with her gone for there was no one who could fill her place now.
Grandma Anna had been born in 1850, the year that her father had built that beautiful Georgian brick house on the lake road. It was the first brick house to be built in the county. And less than a mile the other way on the lake road was the home where her husband, Leonard, had been born. His father had built that home in 1874 and it was even more elegant than the house in which Grandma Anna had been born. Leonard’s house had seventeen rooms to fill it.
Leonard, Grandma Anna’s husband had not been a physically strong man, but he provided for Anna as best he could. Theirs was a frame gingerbread house with an outdoor privy and though Anna may have longed for the bricks and mortar of the home in which she had been brought up, no one ever knew. She held her head high. Her home was her castle and she expected everyone to treat her as the queen she was, who lived in it. And they did!
Her sons Edwin and James, who rarely saw eye to eye, had agreed on one thing. Their mother would have the best casket that money could buy. Made of polished oak with brass handles, it had a quilted satin interior and satin pillow on which to lay Grandma Anna’s head. Too large for the parlour, the casket had been brought into the house through the back kitchen door and into the living room where it remained throughout the visitation. Grandma Anna’s bible, always opened on a stand in the parlour, was open to “The Beatitudes” on a stand beside the casket now. An air of peace and holiness almost seemed to prevail.
Edwin and James knew there would be a lot of people. Anna’s lane was narrow and was flanked by huge jack pines on either side. The visitor’s vehicles were to continue on down a side lane, through James’ property and out to the main road. On the day of the funeral, the procession would follow the country road down to St. Peter’s Church for the service and on to the cemetery for burial, where lay Grandma Anna’s final resting place.
On the day of the visitation, the first person to arrive was Jacob Dinsmore and his wife Effie Cusack. Everyone assumed they were husband and wife for they had lived together for years on the town’s main street. Jacob, the only townsfolk gentleman who had a horse now, kept it on the property behind his house. He came early to Grandma Anna’s house, hoping to avoid the frightening noises of the automobiles, especially that dreadful Ford car of Ernie McKillop’s. “Why he does not get his engine checked, I will never know!” said Jacob.
Just as he and Effie were about to climb into their buggy to leave, who should drive in but Ernie himself. And wouldn’t you know? Ernie drove his car and parked right up beside the post where Jacob had hitched his horse. Muttering under his breath, Jacob was forced to step back until the churning noise of McKillop’s car had ceased and his horse Prince had calmed down. “Why he does not get his engine checked, I will never know!” said Jacob.
Along with Edwin and James, Anna’s two widowed daughters, Norah and Beatrice who both lived up the road in Wallacetown, were there at their mother’s home to receive guests. as well. A number of the ladies from the Dorcas Society began to filter in and could be heard talking amongst themselves.
“Oh, haven’t they done a great job on her hair!” remarked Verna as the girls wandered over to the coffin. Some of them peered in at Grandma Anna’s peaceful face.
“She didn’t have much to work with in the beginning”, said Doris.
“And there she is, wearing her purple beads. Aren’t they the same ones that she wore every day,” chimed in Mabel.
“Don’t you like her knit dress,” remarked Grace. “I don’t think I’ve seen it before.”
At that moment Beatrice stepped over. “Mother bought this dress almost twenty years ago.” she said. “She wanted to be ready for the day when she would need it.”
Just then the girls turned around to see who was sobbing. Doris walked over and put her arm around Marion who was crying her eyes out. “We won’t have her any longer,” she sobbed, “to lead us in prayer at any of our meetings. Who’s going to do it now?”
“Well let’s get her buried first before we think about that” chirped in Mona.
“Come on Marion! Anna would not be pleased to know you are crying so much. Remember she always told us that we should rejoice in death because it’s only through death that each of us will truly meet our Maker”.
“Well, she’s surely with Him now”, Tina announced as Marion struggled to wipe away her tears.
The living room was beginning to fill up with people coming and going all afternoon. Men and women who hadn’t seen Grandma Anna, some for two or three years, came from far and wide to pay their respects. They had come to say good-bye to Grandma Anna and to catch up on local news at the same time. There was something about Grandma Anna that one could never forget once you had met her. She had a deep and abiding faith and an aura of spirituality that seemed to envelop every person who came in contact with her. She was a lady for whom deep respect was afforded by everyone who knew her
The ladies of the Dorcas Society were about to leave just as John B arrived. He wasted no time in making his presence known and was soon heard to say in his booming voice, “I wonder how much she’s left the family”. No one bothered to turn around. Everyone knew John B’s voice. He was the town bachelor who rode about on his bicycle helping the farmers when they needed him. He was a good worker but other than that, social “know-how” was not part of John B’s make-up. He always knew where he could get a good meal. On his way home from work he would often “conveniently” drop in to a home at supper time. Nothing would do but, that he had to be invited to join the family.
Disgusted, the neighbour standing beside him started to walk away but not before the minister who had heard John B’s questioning remark came over to silence him. It was not unusual for John B to speak out as he did. He had never learned to keep his mouth shut at the appropriate time.
Just then the Reverend raised his right hand and asked everyone in the room to remember Anna, each with their own silent prayers after which he pronounced a blessing of his own. “Amen” he said, as the group followed together with a second “Amen”.
The following day at noon hour, the cars were lined up on the roadside waiting to follow the hearse down the road to the cemetery. It was a lengthy procession, for it seemed as though everyone in the neighbourhood had come to bid a final farewell to this lovely old lady, the last old timer of the community.
Since her husband’s death, Grandma Anna had always sat in the front pew of the church. Now her two sons, Waltham, who had come from Halifax and Reginald from Alberta, occupied it. The remaining members of her family sat behind them.
The church which could barely seat a hundred people was filled. So was the balcony. People were standing at the back of the church and in the aisles. A few were gathered outside on the lawn, one or two of the farmers still in their work clothes since they had not had time to go home to change.
This was the church that Grandma Anna’s forebears had built over a century earlier. St. Peters’ Anglican Church which was known for its splendor and elegance had seen many visitors during the course of each year. Though money may have been scarce for a number of things in those early days, one could see upon entering this beautiful edifice that the early settlers had spared nothing to make their house of worship, a House of lasting beauty.
Several large stained-glass windows depicting biblical scenes such as “The Sower” or “Behold, I Stand at the Door and Knock”, caught one’s eye the minute one walked in. These windows were monuments of great beauty and had been dedicated to a number of the early pioneers. And the pews of solid polished oak spoke loudly of the reverence that these people held in their hearts for the wood and trees of their forests. Small wonder that the boys had chosen an oak casket for their mother.
The congregation stood when the casket was rolled up to the front of the church by the pallbearers. As the minister took his place, the choir began to softly sing “Abide with Me”. Reverend Craven’s eulogy was not long for that was the way Grandma Anna had wanted it. She was, after all, a humble woman and had told him when she was alive that whatever he had to say, it was not to be lengthy. As the service came to an end the bell began to toll. It continued ringing while the mourners filed out and followed the hearse on foot, up the road and over to the cemetery where they spread out circling the grave site of Grandma Anna.
As the minister pronounced that final blessing to the dead and the casket was slowly being lowered within the freshly dug grave, a pair of yellow warblers flew onto one of the branches of a nearby tulip tree. They began to warble so loudly that their song brought nothing but joy to all standing around, a song that seemed to be a heavenly benediction to Grandma Anna, one grand old lady and the last of the pioneers.
I was 11 years old when Grandmother died and I remember well her funeral. I am sorry that her house no longer exists. A cousin lived in it for a few years and it was eventually torn down. But it holds many memories – the row of Jack pines that grew tall along one side of the laneway- and the eerie sound when you heard the wind blowing through them.
I did not like going to Sunday School or church and I used to disappear when it was time to get ready. I would high tail it up the gravel road around the corner to Grandmas on when it was time to get ready for church on the Sundays in springtime-The first pine tree inside the gate had a bough that came straight out for a few feet. I could hoist myself up on it and sit with my legs dangling, a perfect place to observe blue sky the buttercups dancing in the breeze. As I communed with God and nature this ritual fed my soul far more than listening to a stuffy old minister- But too soon I heard my name being called as I was told that it was time to get ready..
Life has been so grim since March 2019, causing Brianna to stop dwelling on now and envision what is to come in her future.
She closes her eyes and lets her body relax, focusing on what she can see in her mind. The first thing that comes up is the downtown core with people walking around and talking to others they meet. No one has a mask on or standing far apart. They at times hug or kiss.
The next thing that comes up is Brianna sitting at her computer creating a video for her next book to be published. In the past, it was possible to go out and read portions of your book to a crowd of people or go to conventions to promote a new book.
She sees herself signing copies of her book in several local bookstores. The line is long and goes on forever all the way out the door, and someone said even down the street.
Tired from signing her name, she now looks further in the future to a vacation. Water lapping on the shore and a cool drink in her hand as she watches the surfers maneuver the waves. Yes, this is the future she wants.
Opening her eyes, Brianna now knows the direction she will be taking for the next couple of years. First, she will finish the two books already started and arrange with the local bookstores to have signing events and meet her fans.
Next, she will give herself that vacation she has always wanted to Hawaii, where she can sit on the beach with a special drink in her hand and watch everyone with joy. Then, she would visit the volcano and maybe all the other islands before going home.
Brianna can now see an ending to all that has depressed her over the past months. Once everyone is safe and unable to transmit the virus, she will be free to have a future. Unfortunately, she has gotten to the point that the only place she can experience a future is in her mind, but it will all become real one day.
Going again to work at the library, visiting family who are far away. That is the future she seeks, and she knows that it will all happen with a plan. Won’t It?
She knows that planning a future is the only way to get through the now and move forward. Pleasant thoughts, happy places are all there in the future, just to spend time with and breathe.
She knows taking precautions now will give everyone a future. Yes, it will probably be a different one than everyone imagined a year ago, but it will be a future.
Brianna knows in her heart that everything will get better and all her visions will happen. She just has to believe that in order to move on. She will put everything that has happened over the past year and just focus on her future plan.
As like Brianna, we all need to look to the future and plan what we want to do or accomplish when we get there. So everyone, pick up a notepad and start planning what you want to do in your future—Good Luck from Brianna.
Several years ago, I stopped at a Pick Ur Own vegetable farm. I picked some tomatoes on a row marked Heritage Varieties: Sicilian Saucers. They proved to be, to my mind, the most flavourful tomatoes I had ever tasted both for cooking and for fresh eating. The next year, to my dismay, the farmer turned his land to cash crops and planted soybeans and corn. I decided I wanted these tomatoes but cannot grow them myself in my shady yard. So I announced a Tomato Contest to my family in hopes that most of them could deliver their entries in person. For the two brothers in the West, photos were the only option. The cash incentive attracted my competition loving family, including this year both my nephews.
The Sicilian Saucer tomato is as the name suggests one that can grow very large, thus making it good for a contest. The central prize has been for largest tomato. That continues this year. Contestants have been reminded that the margins of victory can be close. Last year’s winner, my nephew in Drayton, Ontario edged out his mother by only six grams. My brother in Hope, B.C. has for the past two years submitted a photo of an impressive looking Sicilian posed beside an egg. Regrettably, the concrete scale of his rivals has overruled his subjective egg; it has been suggested he borrow a scale this year if possible.
Sicilian Saucers are the workhorses of tomatoes. Because of their large and irregular size, they do not fit neatly into commercial containers which favour a one size for all, a one shape for all. They are not a pretty face; they will never be celebrated at the Royal Winter Fair where the flashy Beefsteak tomato flaunts itself. They will never grace the cover of Gourmet magazine. They are rough and robust, the proletarians of the tomato world, never to be relegated to the regimens of a greenhouse. But they have a noble heritage, the sunny fields of Sicily, the renowned pots of masters of tomato cuisine in the Mediterranean.
But, they are a challenge to grow. Sicilian Saucers are not a hybrid tomato with all their inherent quirks engineered out of them. They are prone to blight. Because of their size, they easily crack and split. They need a longer growing season than some others.
The first year of the contest, my youngest sister, an avid and usually successful gardener discovered the difficulties. She, however, is nothing if not an optimist and in late October she appeared on my doorstep, and held out her hand holding one, small, hard, green, Sicilian Saucer, perhaps in hopes that her siblings had had even less success. We have laughed about that since then. Last year a nephew who had never gardened before produced the winner of the largest tomato. This year he emailed me in February asking about the contest because his two children were keen to help again.
This year, the third year, and perhaps the Grande Finale of the contest, some new categories have been announced and others expanded. The unassuming Sicilian Saucer will not mind and the changes will promote good will, dispelling any feelings of disgruntlement in the West that the contest favours the climate conditions of the East. Hence, there will be a new category- A Medley of Three Varieties of Tomatoes. For this the Sicilian Saucer may be called to step aside, if needed, mindful that they also serve, who only remain on their stake.
Another new category opens equal opportunity for all vegetables- A Medley of Any Three Different Vegetables. For those whose Sicilians are substantial but not the biggest, the popular Pair of Sicilian Saucers class returns. For those who have an artistic eye, there are now two prizes for Photo Presentation of Your Produce- one to include a Sicilian Saucer. Last year the sister who appeared the first year with the hard, green tomatoes presented a photo worthy of a poster- her ample Sicilian posed with rustic pottery and vintage tins.
So, what started as a simple who can grow the biggest tomato challenge has morphed into something more. Last year, with the bigger challenge of the pandemic, and already this year, as the pandemic stubbornly hangs on, this little contest has brought good natured ribbing, laughs, new interests, and a little relief to me and my family. Nice work for a modest tomato, the Sicilian Saucer.
In the year two thousand and two, I worked as a production Supervisor in the automotive industry here in London.
I had the best crew. A group of thirty hardworking and caring people. Four good Team Leaders and the best maintenance Millwright. I am going to call him Tom to protect his identity.
I still picture Tom walking down the hallway with a cup of coffee in one hand, his tool belt in the other, either whistling or humming a tune. It didn’t matter how busy he was; he kept singing like a robin. I used to tell him he was a born cheerleader.
There were days when multiple machines broke down all at once. The disarray of the breakdown could not burn the passion Tom had for his job. Never once lost his cool. He assessed the problem with a big grin on his face, prioritized it according to our schedule.
He never missed a day of work or refused overtime. When my department wasn’t running during the weekend, Tom usually volunteered to help the other departments in the plant.
Tom and the area team leader Angela had a good working relationship. When Angela became frustrated with a machine set up, she would go and ask Tom for advice. In multiple occasions I saw Tom training Angela while struggling with new set ups and breakdowns. Tom was not afraid or jealous in sharing his knowledge, he did it voluntarily and pleasantly. They made a powerful team, the department was thriving
Things were good until Tom and Angela became romantically involved. The romance between them both blossomed, to the point that Tom asked Angela to move in with him in his respectful little house. They seemed to be a beautiful couple, complementing each other in every way.
The good times and the happiness did not last very long.
During working hours, I noticed a change in their behaviour. Angela was constantly nagging Tom. The jolly Tom was no longer cheery. Upon returning from lunching together Tom expression reflected a different personality, as though something was weighing him down.
Little arguments were noticeable between Tom and Angela. I assumed it was work-related. With time even my team began question their arguments, the expression on their faces and body language come across as being personal.
As the months passed since they moved in together Tom showed more and more sign of stress and fatigue. His eyes sunk into his skull, and dark circles were noticeably from a distance. It was as though a cloudy sky had swallowed him, draining the light from his eyes and smile. The jolly robin wasn’t singing anymore.
First there were late days which turned into missing days.
Work became a battlefield without Tom. No one knew the job as well as he did. I missed his knowledge and his patience, to the point of regretting going to work. Without saying it out loud, I blamed the woman in his life. I asked myself in search of clarity. “What did you do to Tom, Angela.”
A few weeks passed with Tom not reporting for work. I got a call from the Human Resource department to give me a heads up. “Tom is going on an extended sick leave,” she said. At this point, it was me who changed colour. I went from hopeful to bitter disappointment, nauseated and unprepared for the negative news.
The H.R. department and the maintenance manager assigned me a new Millwright replacement. He was a trainee. My stress level went over the roof in the following weeks. I exploded like a volcano, resenting my job even more. The department downtime was outrageous.
Most of my department employees were wondering about Tom’s wellbeing and when his return would be. On the other side of the production plant rumours were floating from person to person, saying that Tom had hepatitis C. The news shocked us all, leaving everyone with an opinion of their own, assuming the worst. It seemed that the same people that once loved and respected Tom created a criminal case against him.
One Sunday afternoon, I received a call from Michela, my other team leader and Angela’s best friend.
“Tom is dead,” she said abruptly.
My jaw dropped. I think that for a second, my heart stopped beating. The news left me numb and speechless. Regaining my composure, I asked what happened.
” He shot himself,” she said.
I was in shock and disbelief that Tom, our jolly robin, was capable of doing that horrible act to himself. My friend had just taken his own life.
Michela asked if she and Angela could come over to my house while the cleaning crew was picking parts of my friend’s brain off the walls and couch. The visit from the girls explained the arguments Tom and Angela were having. The missing days, most of all, the sadness.
Tom was at his best while injecting heroin.
During the time of Angela and Tom living together, Angela discovered the real Tom, the addict. She loved and cared for him deeply, pleading with Tom to stop using.
Angela was unaware of how many demons Tom was fighting. The addiction, the pain from hepatitis C. The loss of respect from all his peers and his own family. The heartache he had caused Angela while living together.
Unable to cope with his guilt, Tom retrieved his gun from its hiding place, sat on the sofa, placed the barrel in his mouth. One-click. Boom.
The shot vibrating each room of the tiny house. Blood and brain are all over the couch, pillows and walls. It is like a clip out of a horror movie. Has the devil recruited a new servant?
Today I just hope and pray that Tom has found peace in the heavens, and he is still singing and whistling like a robin.
R.I.P., my friend.
The meeting began under a tall umbrella of rust-colored leaves high up in the middle of Peachview State Park.
“First to Mrs. Blackbear,” Delia said to the group gathered. “Can you update us on the humans causing trouble around your winter cave?”
Shaking her head to flick off a bee, Mrs. Blackbear addressed the large group. “It was terrible, so, so terrible. They woke up the children, and Marvin and I had to try and find food for them from the slim pickings this time of year.”
With Mrs. Blackbear not able to go on, Delia turned to the rabbit family and inquired about the damage to their holes. It seemed the humans entering the forest illegally brought shovels and filled in the top of the rabbit’s homes.
They had to dig for a long time to get them cleared again. The elders reported they were glad to have found all their family and friends.
“Miss Delia, why is it that you can hear what we say to you?”
Looking at the young fox, she told him it was a special gift she was born with, just like the one he is born with to search for food.
Delia looked out over the series of woodland creatures before her. They had stopped running away from her once they realized she could hear them as they spoke. Over the past year, she visits every morning as the sun is coming up. She has conversations with the birds flying by on their way to find food for their young.
When she was very young, her mother would take her for long walks in the woods that were on the edge of their farm. They would sit in the very spot where the meeting is being held today and just remained still when the animals went by. At first, she was afraid, and then it became a game to see if any of them would sit next to them.
“Okay, everyone. Back to the problems at hand so I can get them taken care of. Who is next?”
“Me,” said the beautiful doe with her twins at her side. “I want to tell you about how those bad humans tried to steal one of the twins. If it wasn’t for my husband showing up in time, Pascal would be gone, and who knows what they would have done to him.”
“Oh, that is not a good thing. I’m so sorry that happened to you. I’m sure all of you were very frightened. I’m going to have another meeting this afternoon with the park ranger to see if we can find out who these bad people are and make it stop.”
“Miss Delia, Miss Delia, I have a question,” a red-headed woodpecker called out.
“What is your question?”
“How do I stop those bad ones from raiding my nest? Every time I lay new eggs the next day when I get back from finding food, they’re gone.”
“Have you ever seen anyone around when you fly off? It could be one of the bad woodland creatures, like some squirrels, we know about who also steal eggs from nests to eat.”
The woodpecker didn’t know and has never seen anyone around as she flew up into the sky. Delia knew about a few creatures who would steal eggs to eat or just to break open. She did speak with them, but it is difficult to change old habits.
“I hope there is no one here guilty of doing that to Mrs. Woodpecker. I will have the ranger put a protection cage around your nest until you are ready to sit on the eggs.”
Delia assured her that the hole to get in and out of the cage is too small for even a small squirrel to get into, and besides, the eggs would be too big to pull them out.
Having written down all the complaints, Delia said goodbye to all her woodland friends and went to her meeting with the ranger. He indicated putting the cage over the woodpecker’s hole in the tree would be done before dark. As for the humans causing chaos to the animal world, he had no news yet.
The following day on her way to go sit in the woods, Delia heard something happening a few yards in front of her. She slowed down her pace and approached as quietly as possible.
In the clearing, she saw two teenagers carrying backpacks that had small folding shovels attached. Hiding behind a tree, she listened as they carried on a conversation while sitting on a log.
“Mistie, we sure got those foxes this time. I bet they will never get back out of their tunnels for hours.”
“Henry, that was so much fun, but it is getting later than usual, and we don’t want anyone to see us here, so we best head for home and not miss breakfast.”
Delia watched as the two got up and walked down the path that went back to the village. She followed them from a distance. She had never seen the two before, having lived here all her life.
When they got to the visitors’ parking lot, the two climbed into a dark green jeep and drove away. Delia memorized the license plate and headed for the ranger station to write it down and have him find out who the jeep belonged to.
When Delia got to the ranger station, no one was there. On the door, there was a note, ‘Will be back at 3 p.m.’ There was a notepad nearby for people to leave messages. She quickly wrote down MITE-394 and tore off the page putting it into her jean pocket.
She was desperate to find out who the jeep belonged to but how. Maybe she could ask around town at the coffee shop and see if anyone has seen the teenagers named Mistie and Henry or might have seen the dark green jeep.
First, though, Delia went back to her house, got a shovel, and headed for the closest fox den to see if she could dig them out before the babies died without enough air. Once she got one cleared, she could ask where all the other dens were located.
As the mother fox came out of the den, she just sat for a minute, appearing exhausted. “How are your babies doing, Daisy?”
“They will be better now that they can get some air. Thank you.”
“Do you know where all the other dens are located? I heard the teens say they cover several of them with dirt and branches.”
After checking the babies first, Daisy took her to the other three locations, and she freed them. Putting down her shovel she Delia sat on the ground next to it to regain her strength and then headed back to the ranger station.
She walked and pulled out the paper she wrote the license number on and placed it on the counter in front of the ranger.
“Can you check this plate number out and see who it belongs to. I saw the teenagers very early this morning and listened to a conversation between the two of them. Afterward, I followed them to a Dark Green Jeep in the parking lot, and this is the plate number from it.”
He looked at her intently when she mentioned the two teenagers’ names and then glanced down at what she had written on the paper.
“It will take me a little while for them to do a search on this, so I will let you know later today by phone once I have a result.”
Delia thanked him and went back to check that all the animals were okay.
After Delia left, the ranger took a deep breath, knowing who this Mistie and Henry were and who the jeep belonged to. He needed to go home for a bit and speak with his sister about what her children have been up to and the damage they may have done to the animals.
His sister was visiting him and his wife and had brought along her son and daughter so they could take classes on conservation in the forest. Well, he guessed they have decided to do more before attending those such classes at the high school.
“Martha, are you home? I need to speak with you about Mistie and Henry.”
“What’s up, Mark? You sound so official.”
“The kids have been wreaking havoc on the animals in the woodland areas. Before breakfast, they went out there and buried the fox entrances with dirt so they couldn’t get out. Luckily, a special friend of the animals heard them talking and undid the damage.”
“What? How do you know it was my children?”
The ranger handed his sister the paper with the license plate number on it. “Does this look familiar?”
“My jeep has this plate number. So you’re saying that my two have also been driving the jeep without a driver’s license?”
He told her it looked that way and wanted to know where they were right now. He did see the jeep parked in the driveway when he pulled up.
“Mark, I promise you this will be handled by me as soon as they get home from class.”
Satisfied, he went back to the ranger station. He now needed to decide how to explain to Delia who those teenagers are and what was being done to keep them from never terrorized the animals again.
