This morning life has led me astray ... but once again, everything gets shoveled into the mix ...
November 7, 2009 Day 7 ... end of first week of Nanowrimo
I dreamed last night of stripping painted furniture with a palm sander, not of women dead for the past many years, women who worked and played and wandered the streets of Montreal in the twenties. My night life is reminding me that I should likely be working and playing with old chairs and other furniture, not trying to solve a mystery for an irascible old ghost, a murder that is almost a century old.
But I keep being drawn back to the computer where I have found as many clues as I have been given in dreams, so the sanding will just have to wait a while.
This morning the first thing I found, though, was an email that shattered me, making me unfit for much of anything. My dearest friend, a woman I have known since we were silly fifteen year olds, sent a message telling me that she was in hospital; that a primary cancer has spread and she is undergoing radiation.
We have spent surprisingly large amounts of time together since Pat moved to England in the sixties, most of those days and weeks and sometimes months when I have stayed with her in London. Hundreds of thin blue aerograms,. her almost indecipherable writing scrawled across them, have crossed the Atlantic in the past fifty years. And now there is email. She got sick in June but in the more than 50 emails we've exchanged in these past five months, we've discussed my children, her grandchildren, art shows, the illnesses and health scares of a mutual friend and of two of my children, one of whom is her godchild, and the illness and deaths of friends we didn't share but whose lives mattered to us.
The only mention of her own illness was in the newsy, cheerful email she sent me September 25th. Embedded in the happy news and chatter was a hint of what has now downed her. Her back was causing her problems and her husband was doing the heavy lifting jobs for now. I never suspected a thing. Perhaps she didn't either.
On Thursday while I was hiking and later limping all around Montreal, I thought of Pat often.
This might seem prescient, but it wasn't really. I often think of Pat. Many things remind me of her, especially trips to Montreal.
This had been her old stomping ground when she was a student at McGill, when she wore long dark clothing, frequented dark intimate places lit by candles stuffed into wine bottles; coffee houses where bearded men read poetry, drank, and flirted with long haired girls wearing black leotards, long skirts and no make-up or bras.
This is where she lived with Tom when they and Peter were my good friends. My thoughts as I tramped around moving my briefcase from one hand to the other were about grungey student digs, and about the meals Pat managed to prepare in the worst possible kitchens, meals in which stewed chicken, hamburger and green peppers figured prominently. Tom had arrived in 1956 from Hungary, a poet who began his Canadian life as a student at Acadia University. It was there that he met Peter. They came to Montreal together when they were kicked out of Acadia for writing about chastity belts in the school paper.
Tom and Pat have lived apart for for waht seems centuries now. Peter committed suicide in 1964. And now Pat is very ill and too far away for me to hug her.
The ghosts who accompanied me as I wandered up St. Laurence Main past Lorne and then returned and mingled with impossibly young McGill students on Sherbrooke, were my friends, not my grandather's.
In Pat's latest email, the one sent by someone close to her from her home computer, likely by Nolan, she mentioned the brilliance of the fall leaves seen from the ambulance that ferries her back and forth between hospitals for radiation treatments. She wrote of the fiery red of the single maple, the one that reminds her of Canada and me. I look out at the shriveled brown leaf remnants that still cling to tree skeletons and think of those who have fallen, and those who are left.
I think I am beginning to understand why Grandpa wants the peace of having history remembered and put to rest, why it is important to him that I, his own flesh and blood, know his story, the story no one really knew while he was alive. Peter remains alive because Pat and I remember, because his sister knew his story. His story will become history when all of us who loved him die. But our children, the ones who never knew him, will still remember the stories we told.
Grandpa was loved by his mother and her husband, I am sure, but his daughter never knew him, and he squandered the love he received from women just as recklessly as he frittered away the money his parents showered on him. He wants to be remembered. He wants his life to have been more than simply a flashy reputation as a playboy.
I decided to find his story. The manner of his death mattered less to me now than the life that has remained so shrouded in mystery because he loved no one enough for them to tell that story.
11ish ... time to stop for a while ...
Saturday, 7 November 2009
Friday, 6 November 2009
Nanowrimo Day 6
The characters are leading me astray ... but that's okay ...
November 6, 2009
7 a.m.
Day 6 of Nanowrimo
6,999/50,000 words so far.
The First Montreal Research Trip
That man has no concept of old age. Or of having to live within your means. He arrived in the middle of the night bellowing like a bloody calf caught in a roll of barbed wire. "Good lord, woman, you spent an entire day in Montreal and you accomplished nothing."
I pointed out that that I left home at 7:30 in the morning and didn't arrive in Montreal till almost noon; that I couldn't get to his work until after my appointment at 1:30.
Then the barrage started. Why hadn't I taken taxis instead of walking for miles on end lugging a heavy briefcase?
"You looked like an idiot switching it from one hand to the other all afternoon."
"No one walks from Mansfield and Dorchester to Amherst ... "
" ... and then back to the Main and up past Sherbrooke, past Moishe's, past god knows what else ... and then backtracks back to Sherbrooke, past McGill, to Mansfield and down to Dorchester again. What were you thinking?"
"It's Rene Levesque .."
"What is?"
"Dorchester."
"Why in hell would they give a perfectly good street a peas soup name?
I started to explain, but he cut me off. "No bloody wonder you were tired. You walked about ten miles going nowhere."
"And what in the name of god were you doing with that old man and the dogs?"
I tried to push him away but my hand encountered cold air. I snuggled back in under the duvet.
"Well?" came the relentless voice.
"I walked," I said evenly, " because I see more when I am on foot. And I had time to kill before the appointment."
"But, coming b..."
I broke in, "I don't have money for taxis, Grandpa. And I knew I wanted to stop on St. Laurent to see what was left of the tenderloin. I wanted to see Cleopatra's."
"You wasted about ten minutes with that filthy old man and those smelly creatures," he retorted.
"I stopped to give him some money to help feed them. You wouldn't get that either, I guess. He has seven dogs and a cat living with him. And they are all healthy. He's begging for money to keep them that way."
"I noticed that you didn't look any too clean yourself on the train going home. It was probably because you kept touching that yellow cur. I was embarrasssed to be seen with you."
" No one saw you," I said through teeth clenched so hard my jaw ached almost as much as my knees.
"Why didn't you ask to go into the Cleopatra? You were so damned close to finding some answers and you were too stupid to realize it."
If I'd been sitting up, I'd have hung my head. He was right. One of the aging "girls" was right there talking to the door man. I asked them how long the Cleopatra had been there and learned that it had started in 1975; that it replaced a whole series of clubs dating back to the late nineteenth century. They were friendly, especially the woman, and more than willing to talk to me.
But I didn't ask to go inside. And I didn't ask any personal questions. I shied away from the hard parts. Fine detective I was revealing myself to be.
"I know," I said. "I'm sorry about that. Really I am."
Instead of giving me any slack, the old man kept on badgering me.
Why had I turned back before I got to the fashion district, the Chez Paree, the art museum? Any one of those might have given me some leads, some insights into his life in Montreal.
Why, for god's sakes had I eaten at the station and taken an earlier train home?
"I was fucking tired, that's why," I yelled. Kenya stood up and came over to the bed on sleepy legs. I stroked her head. "And I was hungry and my knee was aching." I was beginning to whine.
"When are you going back?" he asked coldly.
When was I? Was I? If there was a next time, I'd plan it better than this trip. Bill was going to Montreal in a few weeks. Maybe he could do some of my research. He'd have fun doing the Cleopatra part. And it was the part I couldn't imagine doing myself. I'd ask him and provide him with the questions I wanted answers to. Bill always wanted to be a reporter. Here was his chance.
Grandpa must have been satisfied by my decision because he disappeared, allowing me to sleep.
.
In the morning, I emptied the briefcase I'd carted around all day on the bed. Its contents spilled over the duvet: a novel, a pencil case, an art magazine I'd bought but not opened, a hair brush that was just as unused, a camera, a calendar, a case containing documents, more documents, a brown envelope, and two black journals, one enormous and heavy, the other small and likely the only one I should have brought. Last to tumble out was the only colourful offering, a splash of yellows and orange — an almost finished pair of socks for a big footed grandson. i hadn't touched it all day.
I opened the enormous journal, the one fom my sketchbooking class. In it I had recorded two horoscopes from two different papers, some advice for writers from a CBC interview with Arthur Black I'd heard enroute to the station (carry a glue pen), a couple of ragged clippings including 2 photos, one of a sad hairless bear in a German zoo, the other of John Crosbie with Prince Charles and Camilla ... Crosbie making a political statement by wearing a sealskin coat. I made a mental note to carry a glue stick in my pencil case from now on. Most of the news in both the Globe and the Citizen focused on the dismantling of the gun registry and H1N1. I've decided not to bother. Get the shot that is ... I hate guns.
My itinerary was neatly printed on the right hand side of the page. The rest was an untidy hodge podge of notes and sketches. My sketchbooking teacher would not have been impressed.
The next page was more pleasing to the eye ... and about half of it related to the train trip ... a house with peeling paint where we stopped on a siding ... a graveyard ... graffiti ... the city skyscape on the north side of the tracks ... notes about the cluttered neighbourhoods on the other side. The rest dealt with Montreal on foot ... the smells of cigarette smoke and chocolate ... the statue of Mary wearing a crown of Christmas lights that looked as if they were as prickly as thorns ... the old man and his passel of mixed breed dogs ... the rounded statue of hugs at the corner of Amherst and Rene Levesque ... lunch at the pudding cafe on Amherst ... a map of my circuitous and torturous route ... and complaints about my weariness as I ate supper at the Planet Deli. The last time I ate there, my daughter was with me ... it was years and years ago.
And then there was the phrase: Collins Funeral Home 1975. Irrelevant. Misplaced. An orphan.
That's where my mother's funeral was held. My husband and two daughters. A handful of people I didn't know. A closed coffin. Johnny, her second husband, seeming lost. Grant, the 25 year old half brother I didn't know, being charming and competent. Not much of a send-off.
And you, my dear grandfather, the one who is now so determined to impose on family, where were you all her life? You didn't even live with her mother ... and her mother passed on the responsibility of giving your daughter a home to your parents.
"No one could have lived with that woman," he said. I hadn't realized till I heard his voice that he was in the room.
"She was older than I was, and more experienced. She tricked me into marriage by getting pregnant and going to my parents. They insisted that I marry her."
"What did you want to do?" I asked. "Have her get a back alley abortion?"
There was no answer.
I continued. "Is that what you did with all your floozies when you impregnated them?
"Of course. They knew what to do. And I was generous."
"Just think," I mused, "I could have had all kinds of aunts and uncles. Instead of sodden masses of dead fetuses."
"Don't be disgusting."
"You're disgusting," I said. "How many of those women died as a result, or do you know?"
"One died. One became infertile." His voice was unusually subdued.
"How fortunate for you," I sneered. "Why didn't my grandmother have an abortion?"
"She said she wanted a child."
"But she never looked after my mother. And she couldn't stand me."
"She tricked me. And my parents. She was a bitch. I told you."
"I think you two deserved each other."
"Maybe we did, maybe we did ..." His voice, suddenly tired, floated away, and I was left alone looking at the messy clutter on the bed.
The next page in the journal was all text. My final notes on the trip. Everything on the street except for the Cleopatra is abandoned, boarded up, being prepared for gentrification. Grandpa's right. I don't have much time before they will have cleaned up all the remnants of the ghosts who used to play on this street. There are some notes on the people I talked to. He had a hacking smoker's cough. She smoked too but she kept her face made up, looked hardened, but not unhealthy. Of course, make-up gives the illusion of healthy colour. Then there were some figures. The whole trip cost me $139 even without taking taxis.
But I am glad I saw the outside of the Cleopatra, and that I had even a brief conversation with the people who work there.
Funny that Grandpa couldn't understand my spending a few minutes having a real conversation with a destitute old man and his dogs, but he spent most of his adult life with people society has always labeled as trash.
I'm ticked off with myself for not really talking to them the way I talked to the old man, for feeling shy about intruding by having a real conversation about what matters to them. Surely to god my own morals are not getting in the way ... or are they?
Who decides whether a nurse who tricks a man into marriage and then abandons her child is better or worse morally than a whore who risks her life having an abortion to prevent the birth of an unwanted child?
Would my mother have been any unhappier if she'd been born to someone like the warm woman I just spoke to?
Would I have been if I had been descended from such a woman?
One thing is sure, though. I am here because my mother was not aborted. If my grandfather had had his way he'd have nobody to bug about getting revenge for his murder.
It is almost 10 and I have eaten breakfast, fed Kenya, greeted Peter, and logged almost 2000 more words ... and now I am going to take a shower and get dressed.
November 6, 2009
7 a.m.
Day 6 of Nanowrimo
6,999/50,000 words so far.
The First Montreal Research Trip
That man has no concept of old age. Or of having to live within your means. He arrived in the middle of the night bellowing like a bloody calf caught in a roll of barbed wire. "Good lord, woman, you spent an entire day in Montreal and you accomplished nothing."
I pointed out that that I left home at 7:30 in the morning and didn't arrive in Montreal till almost noon; that I couldn't get to his work until after my appointment at 1:30.
Then the barrage started. Why hadn't I taken taxis instead of walking for miles on end lugging a heavy briefcase?
"You looked like an idiot switching it from one hand to the other all afternoon."
"No one walks from Mansfield and Dorchester to Amherst ... "
" ... and then back to the Main and up past Sherbrooke, past Moishe's, past god knows what else ... and then backtracks back to Sherbrooke, past McGill, to Mansfield and down to Dorchester again. What were you thinking?"
"It's Rene Levesque .."
"What is?"
"Dorchester."
"Why in hell would they give a perfectly good street a peas soup name?
I started to explain, but he cut me off. "No bloody wonder you were tired. You walked about ten miles going nowhere."
"And what in the name of god were you doing with that old man and the dogs?"
I tried to push him away but my hand encountered cold air. I snuggled back in under the duvet.
"Well?" came the relentless voice.
"I walked," I said evenly, " because I see more when I am on foot. And I had time to kill before the appointment."
"But, coming b..."
I broke in, "I don't have money for taxis, Grandpa. And I knew I wanted to stop on St. Laurent to see what was left of the tenderloin. I wanted to see Cleopatra's."
"You wasted about ten minutes with that filthy old man and those smelly creatures," he retorted.
"I stopped to give him some money to help feed them. You wouldn't get that either, I guess. He has seven dogs and a cat living with him. And they are all healthy. He's begging for money to keep them that way."
"I noticed that you didn't look any too clean yourself on the train going home. It was probably because you kept touching that yellow cur. I was embarrasssed to be seen with you."
" No one saw you," I said through teeth clenched so hard my jaw ached almost as much as my knees.
"Why didn't you ask to go into the Cleopatra? You were so damned close to finding some answers and you were too stupid to realize it."
If I'd been sitting up, I'd have hung my head. He was right. One of the aging "girls" was right there talking to the door man. I asked them how long the Cleopatra had been there and learned that it had started in 1975; that it replaced a whole series of clubs dating back to the late nineteenth century. They were friendly, especially the woman, and more than willing to talk to me.
But I didn't ask to go inside. And I didn't ask any personal questions. I shied away from the hard parts. Fine detective I was revealing myself to be.
"I know," I said. "I'm sorry about that. Really I am."
Instead of giving me any slack, the old man kept on badgering me.
Why had I turned back before I got to the fashion district, the Chez Paree, the art museum? Any one of those might have given me some leads, some insights into his life in Montreal.
Why, for god's sakes had I eaten at the station and taken an earlier train home?
"I was fucking tired, that's why," I yelled. Kenya stood up and came over to the bed on sleepy legs. I stroked her head. "And I was hungry and my knee was aching." I was beginning to whine.
"When are you going back?" he asked coldly.
When was I? Was I? If there was a next time, I'd plan it better than this trip. Bill was going to Montreal in a few weeks. Maybe he could do some of my research. He'd have fun doing the Cleopatra part. And it was the part I couldn't imagine doing myself. I'd ask him and provide him with the questions I wanted answers to. Bill always wanted to be a reporter. Here was his chance.
Grandpa must have been satisfied by my decision because he disappeared, allowing me to sleep.
.
In the morning, I emptied the briefcase I'd carted around all day on the bed. Its contents spilled over the duvet: a novel, a pencil case, an art magazine I'd bought but not opened, a hair brush that was just as unused, a camera, a calendar, a case containing documents, more documents, a brown envelope, and two black journals, one enormous and heavy, the other small and likely the only one I should have brought. Last to tumble out was the only colourful offering, a splash of yellows and orange — an almost finished pair of socks for a big footed grandson. i hadn't touched it all day.
I opened the enormous journal, the one fom my sketchbooking class. In it I had recorded two horoscopes from two different papers, some advice for writers from a CBC interview with Arthur Black I'd heard enroute to the station (carry a glue pen), a couple of ragged clippings including 2 photos, one of a sad hairless bear in a German zoo, the other of John Crosbie with Prince Charles and Camilla ... Crosbie making a political statement by wearing a sealskin coat. I made a mental note to carry a glue stick in my pencil case from now on. Most of the news in both the Globe and the Citizen focused on the dismantling of the gun registry and H1N1. I've decided not to bother. Get the shot that is ... I hate guns.
My itinerary was neatly printed on the right hand side of the page. The rest was an untidy hodge podge of notes and sketches. My sketchbooking teacher would not have been impressed.
The next page was more pleasing to the eye ... and about half of it related to the train trip ... a house with peeling paint where we stopped on a siding ... a graveyard ... graffiti ... the city skyscape on the north side of the tracks ... notes about the cluttered neighbourhoods on the other side. The rest dealt with Montreal on foot ... the smells of cigarette smoke and chocolate ... the statue of Mary wearing a crown of Christmas lights that looked as if they were as prickly as thorns ... the old man and his passel of mixed breed dogs ... the rounded statue of hugs at the corner of Amherst and Rene Levesque ... lunch at the pudding cafe on Amherst ... a map of my circuitous and torturous route ... and complaints about my weariness as I ate supper at the Planet Deli. The last time I ate there, my daughter was with me ... it was years and years ago.
And then there was the phrase: Collins Funeral Home 1975. Irrelevant. Misplaced. An orphan.
That's where my mother's funeral was held. My husband and two daughters. A handful of people I didn't know. A closed coffin. Johnny, her second husband, seeming lost. Grant, the 25 year old half brother I didn't know, being charming and competent. Not much of a send-off.
And you, my dear grandfather, the one who is now so determined to impose on family, where were you all her life? You didn't even live with her mother ... and her mother passed on the responsibility of giving your daughter a home to your parents.
"No one could have lived with that woman," he said. I hadn't realized till I heard his voice that he was in the room.
"She was older than I was, and more experienced. She tricked me into marriage by getting pregnant and going to my parents. They insisted that I marry her."
"What did you want to do?" I asked. "Have her get a back alley abortion?"
There was no answer.
I continued. "Is that what you did with all your floozies when you impregnated them?
"Of course. They knew what to do. And I was generous."
"Just think," I mused, "I could have had all kinds of aunts and uncles. Instead of sodden masses of dead fetuses."
"Don't be disgusting."
"You're disgusting," I said. "How many of those women died as a result, or do you know?"
"One died. One became infertile." His voice was unusually subdued.
"How fortunate for you," I sneered. "Why didn't my grandmother have an abortion?"
"She said she wanted a child."
"But she never looked after my mother. And she couldn't stand me."
"She tricked me. And my parents. She was a bitch. I told you."
"I think you two deserved each other."
"Maybe we did, maybe we did ..." His voice, suddenly tired, floated away, and I was left alone looking at the messy clutter on the bed.
The next page in the journal was all text. My final notes on the trip. Everything on the street except for the Cleopatra is abandoned, boarded up, being prepared for gentrification. Grandpa's right. I don't have much time before they will have cleaned up all the remnants of the ghosts who used to play on this street. There are some notes on the people I talked to. He had a hacking smoker's cough. She smoked too but she kept her face made up, looked hardened, but not unhealthy. Of course, make-up gives the illusion of healthy colour. Then there were some figures. The whole trip cost me $139 even without taking taxis.
But I am glad I saw the outside of the Cleopatra, and that I had even a brief conversation with the people who work there.
Funny that Grandpa couldn't understand my spending a few minutes having a real conversation with a destitute old man and his dogs, but he spent most of his adult life with people society has always labeled as trash.
I'm ticked off with myself for not really talking to them the way I talked to the old man, for feeling shy about intruding by having a real conversation about what matters to them. Surely to god my own morals are not getting in the way ... or are they?
Who decides whether a nurse who tricks a man into marriage and then abandons her child is better or worse morally than a whore who risks her life having an abortion to prevent the birth of an unwanted child?
Would my mother have been any unhappier if she'd been born to someone like the warm woman I just spoke to?
Would I have been if I had been descended from such a woman?
One thing is sure, though. I am here because my mother was not aborted. If my grandfather had had his way he'd have nobody to bug about getting revenge for his murder.
It is almost 10 and I have eaten breakfast, fed Kenya, greeted Peter, and logged almost 2000 more words ... and now I am going to take a shower and get dressed.
Wednesday, 4 November 2009
Wednesday's Very Short Nanowrimo Offering ( Day 4)
Just a shortie today ... I was hiking and teaching and sharing a lunch ... and then too tired to do much more than play with my sketch book and prepare for tomorrow's trip to Montreal. I hope that friday and the weekend witll be more productive ...
November 4, 2009 6 a.m.
No Dreams ...
A weird thing happens when a quest of any kind becomes the focal point of life. It happens when I begin to follow any interest. It used to happen all the time when I was still working. It always happens when I am immersed in writing or my newest hobby: painting funky furniture. Everything I do begins to relate in some way to my obsession.
I lose my own life, and instead begin to follow leads. Life becomes a bit like following maze paths. If I am lucky I will discover that I'm in a labyrinth, not a maze.
My grandfather's quest for justice has become my quest for the truth, my newest obsession. And I feel as if I am lost in his maze.
Fortunately or unfortunately, I also have a life of my own that demands my attention, and so occasionally I escape from the maze.
Last night provided me with one such psychic escape; I slept dreamlessly ... at least I think I did. The old goat will likely haunt me at some time today, but I have a busy morning planned, so perhaps he will wait until afternoon when I return from the hike/English lesson/closing luncheon.
Providing English language training to a man a few years younger than myself, one who is charming and would rather play than work on his vacation, seems to be a very decadent way to earn money. I know that Klaus will likely learn at least as much English from talking to people as he would from a formal lesson, so I don't feel nearly as guilty as I might.
I am beginning to sound like Grandpa.
Grandpa's philosophy was based on being good company, having a good time himself, and sharing his joie de vivre with the ladies. Did he harm them? Not if they understood that during the short time he was here he would flit from flower to flower displaying his colourful charm to all who were lucky enough to be touched by him. A butterfly, not an elephant.
I thought of a walk I took once while traveling. I sauntered along a path following the erratic movements of a bright blue butterfly. I remember the torturous climb to the path. I remember the crowds that thinned once I got there. I remember the vendors selling junk on the way up and the ones selling drinks at intervals along the road. I remember Peggy's demands that I photograph her on yet another marathon physical challenge after she'd jogged ahead. But I also remember the beauty of the view beyond the wall.
Most often though, I remember that butterfly. Every other butterfly I have seen since then has reminded me of the glorious landscape through which we passed as we made our purposeless way along the cobbled road of the Great Wall of China.
If I discovered who killed my Grandpa, what would I do? Whoever did it would be just as dead as he is now. It was beginning to seem a very silly undertaking.
"No quest is silly, woman," rumbled that now familiar voice.
I looked around for the source. I sniffed the air. Nothing.
"Good grief, have you decided to haunt my waking hours like some vile ear worm?"
There was no response.
"A quest is supposed to help you find the courage you lack," I said aloud. "I don't think I am cowardly."
"A quest is a journey in which the adventurer discovers something far more important than the treasure he seeks," he finally answered.
"What did you learn on your own quest?" I asked.
He laughed, "What quest? I was a butterfly, remember?"
7:14 ... another hour another 600 words.
November 4, 2009 6 a.m.
No Dreams ...
A weird thing happens when a quest of any kind becomes the focal point of life. It happens when I begin to follow any interest. It used to happen all the time when I was still working. It always happens when I am immersed in writing or my newest hobby: painting funky furniture. Everything I do begins to relate in some way to my obsession.
I lose my own life, and instead begin to follow leads. Life becomes a bit like following maze paths. If I am lucky I will discover that I'm in a labyrinth, not a maze.
My grandfather's quest for justice has become my quest for the truth, my newest obsession. And I feel as if I am lost in his maze.
Fortunately or unfortunately, I also have a life of my own that demands my attention, and so occasionally I escape from the maze.
Last night provided me with one such psychic escape; I slept dreamlessly ... at least I think I did. The old goat will likely haunt me at some time today, but I have a busy morning planned, so perhaps he will wait until afternoon when I return from the hike/English lesson/closing luncheon.
Providing English language training to a man a few years younger than myself, one who is charming and would rather play than work on his vacation, seems to be a very decadent way to earn money. I know that Klaus will likely learn at least as much English from talking to people as he would from a formal lesson, so I don't feel nearly as guilty as I might.
I am beginning to sound like Grandpa.
Grandpa's philosophy was based on being good company, having a good time himself, and sharing his joie de vivre with the ladies. Did he harm them? Not if they understood that during the short time he was here he would flit from flower to flower displaying his colourful charm to all who were lucky enough to be touched by him. A butterfly, not an elephant.
I thought of a walk I took once while traveling. I sauntered along a path following the erratic movements of a bright blue butterfly. I remember the torturous climb to the path. I remember the crowds that thinned once I got there. I remember the vendors selling junk on the way up and the ones selling drinks at intervals along the road. I remember Peggy's demands that I photograph her on yet another marathon physical challenge after she'd jogged ahead. But I also remember the beauty of the view beyond the wall.
Most often though, I remember that butterfly. Every other butterfly I have seen since then has reminded me of the glorious landscape through which we passed as we made our purposeless way along the cobbled road of the Great Wall of China.
If I discovered who killed my Grandpa, what would I do? Whoever did it would be just as dead as he is now. It was beginning to seem a very silly undertaking.
"No quest is silly, woman," rumbled that now familiar voice.
I looked around for the source. I sniffed the air. Nothing.
"Good grief, have you decided to haunt my waking hours like some vile ear worm?"
There was no response.
"A quest is supposed to help you find the courage you lack," I said aloud. "I don't think I am cowardly."
"A quest is a journey in which the adventurer discovers something far more important than the treasure he seeks," he finally answered.
"What did you learn on your own quest?" I asked.
He laughed, "What quest? I was a butterfly, remember?"
7:14 ... another hour another 600 words.
Tuesday, 3 November 2009
It's been a slow Nanowrimo day ... sorry
Day 3 ... Tuesday, November 3 ... 3:29 a.m.
Chapter 5 The Women Come on their Own ...
For years I wished I could remember my dreams. Everyone dreams most nights, but I remember scraps of about two a year. Now my night visitors seem to come regularly, and not only do I remember the dreams, but they wake me up and my days now start at 2 or 3 a.m.
On Monday night a procession of women started to arrive. Not in a parade, not together ... but in sequence. They were my grandfather's discarded bimbos ... and they were as anxious to set me straight as he was to set me on a quest to avenge his murder.
The first to arrive was Mitzi, a woman about fifty but remarkably well preserved.. She wore an outfit Hedy Lamarr would have loved. Leopard skin body suit with a long swirling hooded cape of creamy wolf fur. Her hair was a bouffant pouff of toasted meringue that matched perfectly. I was impressed.
"Where did you find it," I asked in amazement.
"In Montreal, of course. People think you have to go to New York or Paris, but everything's there in Montreal. You just have to know where to look."
"I'm going on Thursday," I said. "Maybe I could find something for a wedding I'm going to."
"Better go on Saturday when the whole Chabanal is open to the public," Mitzi said. "But you won't have time for shopping anyway. You have a job to do.
"They're changing St. Laurence Main so fast these days you probably won't even be able to find the Cleopatra, and you really need to try to get in there before they clean up the whole red light district."
"Why?" I asked. "Why is that important?"
"It's the oldest strip joint in Sin City, and the girls there are all ages, some nearly as old as you. Someone will be able to help you."
"Help me what?"
"Find the truth."
"I was going to visit the big art gallery on Sherbrooke. He liked art."
Mitzi laughed. "Paul liked flesh and blood women way more than he liked pictures of them, Doll. And I hear you ain't allowed to touch those pictures ... and besides, the nudes in those frames don't kiss back."
She started to fade, and I pulled her back with a question. "What happened to you after he died?"
Mitzi gave me a wink. "I married one of my rich Johns. I was one of the lucky ones whose dream came true ... saved by Prince Charming."
Before I could ask whether her afterlife was one big shopping spree, she had disappeared.
As I dozed off I could see a decrepit wraith emerging from a tunnel. I was instantly awake. "Who the hell are you," I asked trembling. She was filthy. No sugar daddy in her lifetime and no fashion district in her hereafter.
"Helen," she said. "I was one of your grandpa's piano girls."
"What happened to you? Your hair ..." I began. I looked at the greasy straggle of grey that clung to her scalp.
"I lived on the street ... no need to keep up appearances there."
"Which street?" I asked. I know, stupid question. What did it matter which street. No street in Montreal in the thirties would have provided her with a chance to bathe.
"I haven't got a lot of time for chit chat. They ration time out, you know."
"Who does?"
A hint of exasperation raised one eyebrow and she emitted a hissing click as her tongue flitted behind blackened front teeth. "Just listen," she sighed. "You have to go to Stanley Street, just below Ste. Catherine. The Chez Paree."
"Isn't that where they used to have a burlesque show?"
"Yeah. It's a high class strip joint now. No touching allowed."
"What will I find out there?"
"Talk to the girls. There's over sixty of them there and they've still got all their marbles."
"How could they know anything? They'll be young."
"There's at least one who's carrying on the family trade. Most strippers hide what they do from their kids. But there's the odd one who was lucky herself and figures the fastest way to the top is by being good on the bottom." She leered grotesquely.
"How did you end up so badly, Helen?" I asked.
"Me? I trusted the wrong guy. By the time he finished with me I'd lost most of my teeth, and couldn't hear outta one ear ... and I had the clap. Couldn't work. No one wants a broken down whore."
"It wasn't my grandfather, was it?" I had to know.
"No. Paul was a bastard in his own way, but he was good to all his girls for a couple of months. His problem was he had no staying power. Always needed a new fix, a new girl."
"Today he'd be a coke addict," I guessed.
"Not sure. He played with hashish and other drugs back then, but his addictions were women and horses, and I'm not even too sure about the gambling."
"Who do you think killed him?" I asked her.
"I know who killed him, honey."
And then she vanished leaving behind a whiff of something vile, like a terrible disease ... decades of filth and degradation ... the disease of poverty.
I opened the window to let in the frigid night air. Kenya stirred, raised her head, and then flopped back down with a deep sigh.
I checked my email, discovered the one I'd been looking for, and relaxed myself. Time to pee and go back to sleep for what was left of the night. It was 5 a.m. and I had a class at 10:30 in Ottawa.
5:02 am
3:12 p.m.
It was almost 8 when Kenya nudged me awake. I rolled out of bed straight into the shower. I fed Kenya and let her out by herself and then spent the the rest of my time looking for my keys. Nowhere. Damn, I hate getting old. Those keys evade me on a daily basis and I always manage to avoid the one pocket in which they are lurking. Yes, yes, I know, if I'd just hang them up on the hook by the front door, get into the habit, I'd stop losing them and I wouldn't have to deal with the damned hot flash that suffuses my entire body every time I panic. At nine, I gave up the search, took the extra car key out of its secret place, gulped down half a cup of tepid tea and headed off to my class.
Five minutes from home I was stopped by a traffic collision. A white car was in the ditch on the other side of the road, its nose down and its rear end pointing straight up. Metal bits and pieces were scattered all over the road on my side, and there were six vehicles with flashing lights parked higgledy piggledy all over the highway. After about three minutes of listening to Anna Maria Tremonti interviewing Armed Forces recruitment officers who skirted her questions with that infuriating obtuseness all bureaucrats manage. You know, where they avoid the question and keep repeating whatever party line has been agreed upon, the traffic started to move. A cop motioned our line forward, and I saw the truck for the first time. It was lying on its side in the field on the same side of the road as the car. It looked as if someone had to have been injured, if not killed, but all the emergency vehicles were from the fire and police departments. I guess the ambulance had come and gone already. The rest of the drive passed quickly. The Current featured an interview with the man who just published his secret conversations with Bill Clinton, and then I saw the first sign of Christmas in Ottawa. Some men in a truck were beginning to string lights on the trees near the Canal. I love Ottawa at Christmas.
The sketchbooking class was fun. We received gifts, watched a slide show, looked at a collection of journals and resources Michelle had brought, and did our very first drawing in our pristine sketchbooks. I tried out one of the ideas I'd seen in the most beautiful sketchbook on display. Mine fell somewhat short of its goal, but it was a definite improvement on any attempts I'd made before this class. I sat beside an old friend I hadn't seen for a long time. Had no idea she was taking the course. We arranged to go for lunch next week.
You know you are in a Learning in Retirement class when several people arrive pushing walkers or brandishing canes, the man in the row ahead of you farts loudly and no one laughs, and the vast majority of students are cheery women with white hair.
I had met Michelle before the course and she had photographed some pages from my journal to use in her slide show. I was glad she showed my amateurish first attempts before showing the truly accomplished sketchbooks of artists and landscapers. They were works of art. She also showed slides of some of the chairs I have in Art de la Paix. Several women had seen my funky furniture, and a few asked me how they could paint the chairs languishing in their basements.
On my way home I stopped to make arrangements to pick up my language student the next morning, passed a hazardous waste truck which was cleaning up after this morning's accident, and then I was home. Both Kenya and Peter, the carpenter working on my house, were as delighted to see me as I was to see them. It was a good day, and one in which I hadn't thought about Grandpa at all. I like days when I have a manageable schedule. As I age I find myself wanting to limit the number of things on my to do list each day, and a trip to town with only one or two stops suits me just fine.
I began a calm search for the missing keys, and found them in my yellow rain slicker. Then I gathered up the recycling, took it up the hill and opened the car trunk where I knew I had a couple of large items from my last overwhelming shopping trip. When I picked up the laundry detergent and the green garbage bags I discovered the now mouldy raspberries I'd forgotten four days before. I hate getting old.
And of course Grandpa has no concept of old. He was under forty when he bought it. He thinks it will be easy for me to discover all the details about his death. But I'm no Nancy Drew, and the family history, like our family, is very sparse, and all the leads are as cold as corpses.
I don't have a clue when he died. I can make an educated guess that it was somewhere between 1929 and 1932, but it was pure luck that I figured out that it happened in Montreal. Or was it? I wonder if they have some kind of rule book wherever he and the bimbos are now? Not allowed to tell anyone here on earth anything directly or something. Or what?
And he has no concept of tight money either. A day trip to Montreal by train is going to set me back over a hundred bucks. I won't be making many of those trips, especially at this time of year when I have to take my twelve year old car to the station, the car that can't make it all the way up my road once snow falls.
I think I should be getting more sleep. And, anyway, that's when the visitors seem to arrive with clues.
Chapter 5 The Women Come on their Own ...
For years I wished I could remember my dreams. Everyone dreams most nights, but I remember scraps of about two a year. Now my night visitors seem to come regularly, and not only do I remember the dreams, but they wake me up and my days now start at 2 or 3 a.m.
On Monday night a procession of women started to arrive. Not in a parade, not together ... but in sequence. They were my grandfather's discarded bimbos ... and they were as anxious to set me straight as he was to set me on a quest to avenge his murder.
The first to arrive was Mitzi, a woman about fifty but remarkably well preserved.. She wore an outfit Hedy Lamarr would have loved. Leopard skin body suit with a long swirling hooded cape of creamy wolf fur. Her hair was a bouffant pouff of toasted meringue that matched perfectly. I was impressed.
"Where did you find it," I asked in amazement.
"In Montreal, of course. People think you have to go to New York or Paris, but everything's there in Montreal. You just have to know where to look."
"I'm going on Thursday," I said. "Maybe I could find something for a wedding I'm going to."
"Better go on Saturday when the whole Chabanal is open to the public," Mitzi said. "But you won't have time for shopping anyway. You have a job to do.
"They're changing St. Laurence Main so fast these days you probably won't even be able to find the Cleopatra, and you really need to try to get in there before they clean up the whole red light district."
"Why?" I asked. "Why is that important?"
"It's the oldest strip joint in Sin City, and the girls there are all ages, some nearly as old as you. Someone will be able to help you."
"Help me what?"
"Find the truth."
"I was going to visit the big art gallery on Sherbrooke. He liked art."
Mitzi laughed. "Paul liked flesh and blood women way more than he liked pictures of them, Doll. And I hear you ain't allowed to touch those pictures ... and besides, the nudes in those frames don't kiss back."
She started to fade, and I pulled her back with a question. "What happened to you after he died?"
Mitzi gave me a wink. "I married one of my rich Johns. I was one of the lucky ones whose dream came true ... saved by Prince Charming."
Before I could ask whether her afterlife was one big shopping spree, she had disappeared.
As I dozed off I could see a decrepit wraith emerging from a tunnel. I was instantly awake. "Who the hell are you," I asked trembling. She was filthy. No sugar daddy in her lifetime and no fashion district in her hereafter.
"Helen," she said. "I was one of your grandpa's piano girls."
"What happened to you? Your hair ..." I began. I looked at the greasy straggle of grey that clung to her scalp.
"I lived on the street ... no need to keep up appearances there."
"Which street?" I asked. I know, stupid question. What did it matter which street. No street in Montreal in the thirties would have provided her with a chance to bathe.
"I haven't got a lot of time for chit chat. They ration time out, you know."
"Who does?"
A hint of exasperation raised one eyebrow and she emitted a hissing click as her tongue flitted behind blackened front teeth. "Just listen," she sighed. "You have to go to Stanley Street, just below Ste. Catherine. The Chez Paree."
"Isn't that where they used to have a burlesque show?"
"Yeah. It's a high class strip joint now. No touching allowed."
"What will I find out there?"
"Talk to the girls. There's over sixty of them there and they've still got all their marbles."
"How could they know anything? They'll be young."
"There's at least one who's carrying on the family trade. Most strippers hide what they do from their kids. But there's the odd one who was lucky herself and figures the fastest way to the top is by being good on the bottom." She leered grotesquely.
"How did you end up so badly, Helen?" I asked.
"Me? I trusted the wrong guy. By the time he finished with me I'd lost most of my teeth, and couldn't hear outta one ear ... and I had the clap. Couldn't work. No one wants a broken down whore."
"It wasn't my grandfather, was it?" I had to know.
"No. Paul was a bastard in his own way, but he was good to all his girls for a couple of months. His problem was he had no staying power. Always needed a new fix, a new girl."
"Today he'd be a coke addict," I guessed.
"Not sure. He played with hashish and other drugs back then, but his addictions were women and horses, and I'm not even too sure about the gambling."
"Who do you think killed him?" I asked her.
"I know who killed him, honey."
And then she vanished leaving behind a whiff of something vile, like a terrible disease ... decades of filth and degradation ... the disease of poverty.
I opened the window to let in the frigid night air. Kenya stirred, raised her head, and then flopped back down with a deep sigh.
I checked my email, discovered the one I'd been looking for, and relaxed myself. Time to pee and go back to sleep for what was left of the night. It was 5 a.m. and I had a class at 10:30 in Ottawa.
5:02 am
3:12 p.m.
It was almost 8 when Kenya nudged me awake. I rolled out of bed straight into the shower. I fed Kenya and let her out by herself and then spent the the rest of my time looking for my keys. Nowhere. Damn, I hate getting old. Those keys evade me on a daily basis and I always manage to avoid the one pocket in which they are lurking. Yes, yes, I know, if I'd just hang them up on the hook by the front door, get into the habit, I'd stop losing them and I wouldn't have to deal with the damned hot flash that suffuses my entire body every time I panic. At nine, I gave up the search, took the extra car key out of its secret place, gulped down half a cup of tepid tea and headed off to my class.
Five minutes from home I was stopped by a traffic collision. A white car was in the ditch on the other side of the road, its nose down and its rear end pointing straight up. Metal bits and pieces were scattered all over the road on my side, and there were six vehicles with flashing lights parked higgledy piggledy all over the highway. After about three minutes of listening to Anna Maria Tremonti interviewing Armed Forces recruitment officers who skirted her questions with that infuriating obtuseness all bureaucrats manage. You know, where they avoid the question and keep repeating whatever party line has been agreed upon, the traffic started to move. A cop motioned our line forward, and I saw the truck for the first time. It was lying on its side in the field on the same side of the road as the car. It looked as if someone had to have been injured, if not killed, but all the emergency vehicles were from the fire and police departments. I guess the ambulance had come and gone already. The rest of the drive passed quickly. The Current featured an interview with the man who just published his secret conversations with Bill Clinton, and then I saw the first sign of Christmas in Ottawa. Some men in a truck were beginning to string lights on the trees near the Canal. I love Ottawa at Christmas.
The sketchbooking class was fun. We received gifts, watched a slide show, looked at a collection of journals and resources Michelle had brought, and did our very first drawing in our pristine sketchbooks. I tried out one of the ideas I'd seen in the most beautiful sketchbook on display. Mine fell somewhat short of its goal, but it was a definite improvement on any attempts I'd made before this class. I sat beside an old friend I hadn't seen for a long time. Had no idea she was taking the course. We arranged to go for lunch next week.
You know you are in a Learning in Retirement class when several people arrive pushing walkers or brandishing canes, the man in the row ahead of you farts loudly and no one laughs, and the vast majority of students are cheery women with white hair.
I had met Michelle before the course and she had photographed some pages from my journal to use in her slide show. I was glad she showed my amateurish first attempts before showing the truly accomplished sketchbooks of artists and landscapers. They were works of art. She also showed slides of some of the chairs I have in Art de la Paix. Several women had seen my funky furniture, and a few asked me how they could paint the chairs languishing in their basements.
On my way home I stopped to make arrangements to pick up my language student the next morning, passed a hazardous waste truck which was cleaning up after this morning's accident, and then I was home. Both Kenya and Peter, the carpenter working on my house, were as delighted to see me as I was to see them. It was a good day, and one in which I hadn't thought about Grandpa at all. I like days when I have a manageable schedule. As I age I find myself wanting to limit the number of things on my to do list each day, and a trip to town with only one or two stops suits me just fine.
I began a calm search for the missing keys, and found them in my yellow rain slicker. Then I gathered up the recycling, took it up the hill and opened the car trunk where I knew I had a couple of large items from my last overwhelming shopping trip. When I picked up the laundry detergent and the green garbage bags I discovered the now mouldy raspberries I'd forgotten four days before. I hate getting old.
And of course Grandpa has no concept of old. He was under forty when he bought it. He thinks it will be easy for me to discover all the details about his death. But I'm no Nancy Drew, and the family history, like our family, is very sparse, and all the leads are as cold as corpses.
I don't have a clue when he died. I can make an educated guess that it was somewhere between 1929 and 1932, but it was pure luck that I figured out that it happened in Montreal. Or was it? I wonder if they have some kind of rule book wherever he and the bimbos are now? Not allowed to tell anyone here on earth anything directly or something. Or what?
And he has no concept of tight money either. A day trip to Montreal by train is going to set me back over a hundred bucks. I won't be making many of those trips, especially at this time of year when I have to take my twelve year old car to the station, the car that can't make it all the way up my road once snow falls.
I think I should be getting more sleep. And, anyway, that's when the visitors seem to arrive with clues.
Monday, 2 November 2009
nanowrimo Day 2 Post 2
Day 2 ... 7ish
Chapter 3. The Real Reason Grandpa Visits So Often
I hadn't been asleep for more than an hour when Kenya began to keen. I groaned and asked her if she were sick. She felt fine ... cool wet nose ... paws and ears normal ... but she was huddled up against my bed shivering, her hair standing straight up like a thick black Mohawk. I tried to get her up on the bed so she could cuddle and get over her night terror but she was having none of it. She cringed almost as if the bed were the problem.
I was too sleepy to spend any more time than it took to find a cookie and put her in the walk-in closet where she prefers sleeping on blustery stormy nights, and we both went back to sleep.
But not for long. Grandpa decided to pay another visit. I smelled his hair pommade first.
"You were just here a couple of nights ago," I said. "Are you planning to make this a nightly occurrence?"
His brilliant blue eyes pierced the darkness, and he responded by smoothing his already slick hair, giving the small moustache a couple of pats, and saying through thin lips that did not look friendly, "This is the first time I've come myself. It seems you inherited your grandmother's inability to understand subtlety."
"What are you talking about?" I asked sleepily. "I dreamed about your escapades with women, about how you treated them shamefully. I got it. You were a scoundrel."
‘No one bothers to make this trip just to blacken his reputation, woman. Couldn't you guess why I came into your life?"
"Not really, Grandpa. Sorry."
"And don't call me Grandpa. It sounds ridiculous for a woman of nearly seventy to call a man half her age Grandpa."
"Okay, Paul. So what's the message, eh? Are you trying to warn me about men who take advantage of women?"
"Don't be ridiculous. You're old enough to take care of yourself. And you don't have all that much time left to play."
"So, what then? You want me to immortalize you by writing about your philandering?"
Kenya's wet nose nudged in under my duvet and dampened my pyjama leg. "It's all right Girl. It's just a dream. Go back to bed."
"I want you to do your duty as the only living member of my immediate family," Grandpa muttered. "And get that dog away from the bed. She smells."
"If she can put up with you, you'll have to put up with her. She lives here; you don't." I hesitated, and then added, "Although you seem to be moving in."
"Well, will you help me or not?" he asked brusquely.
"Tell me what you want me to do," I muttered. "I need to get some sleep."
"I was murdered and I want you to make sure that ... " His voice trailed off, and we were left with a lingering smell of attar of roses, and yet another question.
Did he want me expose his murderers or to avenge his death? Either seemed irrelevant now almost a century after his death.
One thing was sure. He had no interest in helping me. Why was that no surprise? I called Kenya up onto the bed and we slept until a frozen pink dawn brightened the morning sky.
7:49 am ... another 600 words8 a.m.
Chapter 4 ... The Quest Begins
I gave Kenya her Dentistik, made a pot of weak tea, put the pot, a mug and a creamer on the round silver tray and turned on the computer.
Two hours later (I have dial-up up here in these hills) I had uncovered very little I didn't already know. I was looking for something in the Detroit papers about a shooting death in the twenties. The first site demanded payment of $10 a month. It didn't seem important enough to spend that much money.
I decided to try Chicago. Another hour and I was still no closer to the truth.
New York was no better and there were between 30,000 and 100,00 speakeasy clubs in New York City alone during prohibition according Wikipedia.
I broke for a while to bake some banana bread and turned on the radio in the kitchen. In the middle of the regular CBC morning programming, the radio screwed up. I began getting some other signal and a fragmented song came in amid the static and Jian Ghomeshi's voice. It was an old Irving Berlin number called "Hello Montreal". Good bye Broadway, Hello Montreal ...
Of course ... Montreal was known as Sin City, and, between 1920 and 1933, it was the largest wet city on the East Coast.
I'll bet the old coot didn't bother with the American cities at all. I bet he headed off to Montreal where he could have a feast of everything decadent without leaving Canada.
A whiff of smoke floated past my nostrils, and I checked the oven. The banana bread was fine. And then the smell became stronger ... cigar smoke ... expensive cigar smoke ... maybe even a Havana Panatela Supreme Deluxe, the one favoured by Al Capone, which sold for the equivalent of 2 ½ hours wages during the Depression.
"Finally," said a now familiar voice.
"This is a non-smoking house," I said wearily.
"Thank God you inherited some of my brains. Good thing you're not such a prig about sex."
He laughed, a throaty smoker's laugh, and then he was gone again.
Something weird just happened in real time. I heard a noise that sounded like a small animal ... but nothing gets into this house, and certainly not into my den bedroom. No smell of cigar smoke ... just the rattling noise ... but I shivered.
Well now I knew where I should start looking for answers. I decided to visit Sin City.
8:58 a.m. another 370 words ... and now I am really going to make banana bread and have breakfast.
Chapter 3. The Real Reason Grandpa Visits So Often
I hadn't been asleep for more than an hour when Kenya began to keen. I groaned and asked her if she were sick. She felt fine ... cool wet nose ... paws and ears normal ... but she was huddled up against my bed shivering, her hair standing straight up like a thick black Mohawk. I tried to get her up on the bed so she could cuddle and get over her night terror but she was having none of it. She cringed almost as if the bed were the problem.
I was too sleepy to spend any more time than it took to find a cookie and put her in the walk-in closet where she prefers sleeping on blustery stormy nights, and we both went back to sleep.
But not for long. Grandpa decided to pay another visit. I smelled his hair pommade first.
"You were just here a couple of nights ago," I said. "Are you planning to make this a nightly occurrence?"
His brilliant blue eyes pierced the darkness, and he responded by smoothing his already slick hair, giving the small moustache a couple of pats, and saying through thin lips that did not look friendly, "This is the first time I've come myself. It seems you inherited your grandmother's inability to understand subtlety."
"What are you talking about?" I asked sleepily. "I dreamed about your escapades with women, about how you treated them shamefully. I got it. You were a scoundrel."
‘No one bothers to make this trip just to blacken his reputation, woman. Couldn't you guess why I came into your life?"
"Not really, Grandpa. Sorry."
"And don't call me Grandpa. It sounds ridiculous for a woman of nearly seventy to call a man half her age Grandpa."
"Okay, Paul. So what's the message, eh? Are you trying to warn me about men who take advantage of women?"
"Don't be ridiculous. You're old enough to take care of yourself. And you don't have all that much time left to play."
"So, what then? You want me to immortalize you by writing about your philandering?"
Kenya's wet nose nudged in under my duvet and dampened my pyjama leg. "It's all right Girl. It's just a dream. Go back to bed."
"I want you to do your duty as the only living member of my immediate family," Grandpa muttered. "And get that dog away from the bed. She smells."
"If she can put up with you, you'll have to put up with her. She lives here; you don't." I hesitated, and then added, "Although you seem to be moving in."
"Well, will you help me or not?" he asked brusquely.
"Tell me what you want me to do," I muttered. "I need to get some sleep."
"I was murdered and I want you to make sure that ... " His voice trailed off, and we were left with a lingering smell of attar of roses, and yet another question.
Did he want me expose his murderers or to avenge his death? Either seemed irrelevant now almost a century after his death.
One thing was sure. He had no interest in helping me. Why was that no surprise? I called Kenya up onto the bed and we slept until a frozen pink dawn brightened the morning sky.
7:49 am ... another 600 words8 a.m.
Chapter 4 ... The Quest Begins
I gave Kenya her Dentistik, made a pot of weak tea, put the pot, a mug and a creamer on the round silver tray and turned on the computer.
Two hours later (I have dial-up up here in these hills) I had uncovered very little I didn't already know. I was looking for something in the Detroit papers about a shooting death in the twenties. The first site demanded payment of $10 a month. It didn't seem important enough to spend that much money.
I decided to try Chicago. Another hour and I was still no closer to the truth.
New York was no better and there were between 30,000 and 100,00 speakeasy clubs in New York City alone during prohibition according Wikipedia.
I broke for a while to bake some banana bread and turned on the radio in the kitchen. In the middle of the regular CBC morning programming, the radio screwed up. I began getting some other signal and a fragmented song came in amid the static and Jian Ghomeshi's voice. It was an old Irving Berlin number called "Hello Montreal". Good bye Broadway, Hello Montreal ...
Of course ... Montreal was known as Sin City, and, between 1920 and 1933, it was the largest wet city on the East Coast.
I'll bet the old coot didn't bother with the American cities at all. I bet he headed off to Montreal where he could have a feast of everything decadent without leaving Canada.
A whiff of smoke floated past my nostrils, and I checked the oven. The banana bread was fine. And then the smell became stronger ... cigar smoke ... expensive cigar smoke ... maybe even a Havana Panatela Supreme Deluxe, the one favoured by Al Capone, which sold for the equivalent of 2 ½ hours wages during the Depression.
"Finally," said a now familiar voice.
"This is a non-smoking house," I said wearily.
"Thank God you inherited some of my brains. Good thing you're not such a prig about sex."
He laughed, a throaty smoker's laugh, and then he was gone again.
Something weird just happened in real time. I heard a noise that sounded like a small animal ... but nothing gets into this house, and certainly not into my den bedroom. No smell of cigar smoke ... just the rattling noise ... but I shivered.
Well now I knew where I should start looking for answers. I decided to visit Sin City.
8:58 a.m. another 370 words ... and now I am really going to make banana bread and have breakfast.
Nanowrimo Day 2
Well, I have found my title, The Men of My Dreams, and I have some idea of where the storyline might lead, but I am still writing dreams ...
Here is the last hour's work ...
Danny Returns With Another Message
I awoke with a start when he left. He had been telling me about his Hungarian mistress — the woman with whom he had his one great passion. The attraction was immediate and reciprocal and they had an affair that lasted for a few years. Eventually she left him, but the memory remained indelible. They made love recklessly and in all kinds of dangerous places. They flirted with detection, not at all like my affair with Armand. Was it because they had more courage or because they had less to lose?
Danny was married to his childhood sweetheart, a country girl who bloomed early and then became blowsy, a girl who rebuffed his somewhat adventurous sexual advances, calling them dirty. The Hungarian woman was not as pretty as his wife, but she was hot.
"Don't you remember?" he scolded me tonight. "I told you that the Hungarian woman kept my marriage viable for an extra five years. If I hadn't been having that affair I'd have made life miserable for Marie."
No roller blading; no lovemaking; just a lecture on the benefits of extramarital affairs.
I thought about how I had provided the same service for Armand; how every married man's mistress gives him what is missing in a dead marriage so that he never has to leave the stagnant pond. The pond is a haven for the cowardly. Even Danny had his moments of cowardice. He couldn't leave his pond until the one person he respected most had died. He couldn't disappoint his father. O'Grady's were responsible men who looked after their women. O'Grady's did not believ in divorce. Of course Danny's father had a wonderful marriage in which all his needs were met.
And what about the Hungarian woman? Was exciting sex enough for her? Maybe it was. She and Danny worked together so they were able to see one another daily, to skip out for an occasional afternoon delight by the river, to flirt at office parties ... it was more than just the odd encounter. They fed the flame daily, just as Armand and I had. And ... like me ... she likely left when she decided she wanted more — weekends, holidays, children perhaps — or the respectability of a wedding ring.
When she left, Danny replaced her with another highly sexual co-worker willing to risk losing her husband for the feeling of being alive that Danny provided.
I sigh. He was very good at making a woman feel alive, but when he wasn't getting everything he needed he simply flitted on to the next woman. He always said there are thousands of women you can love; none of this one love stuff for him. Probably a more practical approach than the romantic alternative, actually, but when he pulled it on me I left. No regrets about our years together ... and none about moving on when it stopped being good.
I lay in bed for awhile thinking about my life with my dog. It's a pretty good life. No one ever calls up while I'm writing to tell me it's noon and lunch should be on the table. The dog asks me to play sometimes when I don't feel like it, but she accepts "Later" far better than any man ever did. She has to be fed and watered, but kibble with yogurt twice a day is a lot easier than cooking for a man, especially if the man believes that pasta is something fit only for lunch; that eggs are a breakfast food; and that a real dinner consists of the kinds of things his mother always produced in her kitchen, one in which hamburger and all other less expensive cuts of meat were absent.
So, no regrets ... but why the hell had he started showing up in the middle of the night? It was fun to roller blade with him again, but really, who needs lectures at 2 a..m.?
Too wide awake to sleep, I made myself cocoa.
The dog asked to go out and I considered joining her. The moon was full and the sky so clear I wouldn't need a flashlight. It was tempting, but it was also November and I'd need to get dressed ... so I drank my cocoa and then we both snuggled in for the rest of the night.
I dunno, Grandpa. I think life with a dog is not as bad as you might think. Of course I'm a lot older than you ever were.
2:34 a.m ... another 700 words
Here is the last hour's work ...
Danny Returns With Another Message
I awoke with a start when he left. He had been telling me about his Hungarian mistress — the woman with whom he had his one great passion. The attraction was immediate and reciprocal and they had an affair that lasted for a few years. Eventually she left him, but the memory remained indelible. They made love recklessly and in all kinds of dangerous places. They flirted with detection, not at all like my affair with Armand. Was it because they had more courage or because they had less to lose?
Danny was married to his childhood sweetheart, a country girl who bloomed early and then became blowsy, a girl who rebuffed his somewhat adventurous sexual advances, calling them dirty. The Hungarian woman was not as pretty as his wife, but she was hot.
"Don't you remember?" he scolded me tonight. "I told you that the Hungarian woman kept my marriage viable for an extra five years. If I hadn't been having that affair I'd have made life miserable for Marie."
No roller blading; no lovemaking; just a lecture on the benefits of extramarital affairs.
I thought about how I had provided the same service for Armand; how every married man's mistress gives him what is missing in a dead marriage so that he never has to leave the stagnant pond. The pond is a haven for the cowardly. Even Danny had his moments of cowardice. He couldn't leave his pond until the one person he respected most had died. He couldn't disappoint his father. O'Grady's were responsible men who looked after their women. O'Grady's did not believ in divorce. Of course Danny's father had a wonderful marriage in which all his needs were met.
And what about the Hungarian woman? Was exciting sex enough for her? Maybe it was. She and Danny worked together so they were able to see one another daily, to skip out for an occasional afternoon delight by the river, to flirt at office parties ... it was more than just the odd encounter. They fed the flame daily, just as Armand and I had. And ... like me ... she likely left when she decided she wanted more — weekends, holidays, children perhaps — or the respectability of a wedding ring.
When she left, Danny replaced her with another highly sexual co-worker willing to risk losing her husband for the feeling of being alive that Danny provided.
I sigh. He was very good at making a woman feel alive, but when he wasn't getting everything he needed he simply flitted on to the next woman. He always said there are thousands of women you can love; none of this one love stuff for him. Probably a more practical approach than the romantic alternative, actually, but when he pulled it on me I left. No regrets about our years together ... and none about moving on when it stopped being good.
I lay in bed for awhile thinking about my life with my dog. It's a pretty good life. No one ever calls up while I'm writing to tell me it's noon and lunch should be on the table. The dog asks me to play sometimes when I don't feel like it, but she accepts "Later" far better than any man ever did. She has to be fed and watered, but kibble with yogurt twice a day is a lot easier than cooking for a man, especially if the man believes that pasta is something fit only for lunch; that eggs are a breakfast food; and that a real dinner consists of the kinds of things his mother always produced in her kitchen, one in which hamburger and all other less expensive cuts of meat were absent.
So, no regrets ... but why the hell had he started showing up in the middle of the night? It was fun to roller blade with him again, but really, who needs lectures at 2 a..m.?
Too wide awake to sleep, I made myself cocoa.
The dog asked to go out and I considered joining her. The moon was full and the sky so clear I wouldn't need a flashlight. It was tempting, but it was also November and I'd need to get dressed ... so I drank my cocoa and then we both snuggled in for the rest of the night.
I dunno, Grandpa. I think life with a dog is not as bad as you might think. Of course I'm a lot older than you ever were.
2:34 a.m ... another 700 words
Sunday, 1 November 2009
Nanowrimo Post 2 Day 1
Armand Comes Calling After Fifty Years ...
One night a couple of weeks ago, Armand showed up ... after more than fifty years. I know the dream probably occurred because my second husband had been insanely jealous of him and had nailed his photo to the floor boards during a renovation, a photo I had come across recently while searching for our divorce papers. He'd defaced it before mailing it to me with one of his vituperative frightening letters.
Armand would be nearly ninety now, but in the dream he was my handsome, if a little portly, lover who was almost twice my age when we began our affair. Yes ... a five year affair with my boss. I was a twenty-one year old single mom. He was thirty-nine. Almost fatherly.
We loved one another but affairs with married men are sordid. Everything has to be sneaky. I had to meet him away from home, crouch down in the front seat until we were past the area where there was any real possibility of detection, and, except for one wonderful weekend camping trip, all our shared moments occurred under cover of darkness.
My father suspected, because Armand showed up at his door one night very drunk asking to see me, but my father, like my grandfather, was a worldly man, and besides he avoided confrontations and conversations in which I might have been forced to lie. He preferred to allow sleeping dogs to lie there, to hide dirt under the rug, to pretend that our own very empty relationship was as pretty as it appeared on the surface, like the confections my grandfather's bimbos sported on their heads. So all he said was that Armand had arrived the night before drunk and had tiptoed through the tulips singing. No questions. No need for evasions.
But the other night when Armand visited my bed in the middle of the night, we simply made love, in much the same way we made love every week at that little Laurentian motel. This time we didn't even talk, and this time he didn't shower away the smell of our sex before leaving. And there was no Chinese food at the next door restaurant either. He just drifted away.
After he left I lay there wondering why he'd come. Had he died recently? Maybe I'd conjured him with that photo with the nail through his heart? Maybe he thought I must never forget how terrible it is to be married to an insanely jealous man. Perhaps he was simply an embodiment of all men in stale sexless marriages ... men who seek gratification of all kinds elsewhere but who remain married? Or was this a warning about losing good years when you might have found someone to make a real life with? Maybe it was to remind me that I should stay clear of cowards.
I wonder if all those bimbos had dreams about my profligate grandfather.
Dreams of My Father ...
After Dad died I had recurring dreams about his coming back demanding that I return my inheritance; that he needed it. They started when I bought a car using his money. In all the dreams I thought of the money as his, never mine, probably because in my waking life I still think of anything I inherited as being his, not mine. These dreams are frightening because I can't give the money back to him because I have spent it. I awake from these nightmares icy cold and trembling. It takes me a long time to go back to sleep.
Just the other night, my father arrived, not alone in a nightmare, but with two women, one on either side of him, holding his hands.
The one on the left was very like one of my grandfather's bimbos. I recognized her from a photo he kept from the early fifties. She was white blonde and glamourous. She signed it "All my love, Kippy". She was his New York girlfriend. He traveled to New York several times a year on business. Kippy would have looked great on his arm, sitting across from him at dinner in a smart restaurant eating expense account meals, and making passionate love in the bedroom of his upscale hotel. I think she was a call girl who had several out of town visitors she played with ... for a price. But I might be wrong. I never asked. He never told me.
The other woman was Adele, frumpy, overweight, her dark greying hair cut and styled ineptly. Adele was a dietitian from Halifax. I loved her and wished she were the mother I never had. My father said she had an unpleasant smell.
Where were all the others, I wondered. Joanie who refused to marry him because he was a divorced man and she was Catholic. Mary who sewed beautiful clothes to try to win my cold little jealous heart. The Czech woman he brought to Canada, married and divorced within a couple of years when he realized he'd been used as a passport to the West. Lizzie who was his last partner, the one he never married, the one who said they were shacking up and then giggled at the audacity of having said that.
Why just those two? The two extremes, perhaps? To show what men want, but not enough to make a commitment, and what they shun even though the woman's heart is warm and loving?
10:34 ... another 1 1/4 hours ... if I am right on track that should be another 1000 words ... 2400... almost 2300 ... I am going to shower and go out for a walk to clear my head ... maybe my story will find me.
One night a couple of weeks ago, Armand showed up ... after more than fifty years. I know the dream probably occurred because my second husband had been insanely jealous of him and had nailed his photo to the floor boards during a renovation, a photo I had come across recently while searching for our divorce papers. He'd defaced it before mailing it to me with one of his vituperative frightening letters.
Armand would be nearly ninety now, but in the dream he was my handsome, if a little portly, lover who was almost twice my age when we began our affair. Yes ... a five year affair with my boss. I was a twenty-one year old single mom. He was thirty-nine. Almost fatherly.
We loved one another but affairs with married men are sordid. Everything has to be sneaky. I had to meet him away from home, crouch down in the front seat until we were past the area where there was any real possibility of detection, and, except for one wonderful weekend camping trip, all our shared moments occurred under cover of darkness.
My father suspected, because Armand showed up at his door one night very drunk asking to see me, but my father, like my grandfather, was a worldly man, and besides he avoided confrontations and conversations in which I might have been forced to lie. He preferred to allow sleeping dogs to lie there, to hide dirt under the rug, to pretend that our own very empty relationship was as pretty as it appeared on the surface, like the confections my grandfather's bimbos sported on their heads. So all he said was that Armand had arrived the night before drunk and had tiptoed through the tulips singing. No questions. No need for evasions.
But the other night when Armand visited my bed in the middle of the night, we simply made love, in much the same way we made love every week at that little Laurentian motel. This time we didn't even talk, and this time he didn't shower away the smell of our sex before leaving. And there was no Chinese food at the next door restaurant either. He just drifted away.
After he left I lay there wondering why he'd come. Had he died recently? Maybe I'd conjured him with that photo with the nail through his heart? Maybe he thought I must never forget how terrible it is to be married to an insanely jealous man. Perhaps he was simply an embodiment of all men in stale sexless marriages ... men who seek gratification of all kinds elsewhere but who remain married? Or was this a warning about losing good years when you might have found someone to make a real life with? Maybe it was to remind me that I should stay clear of cowards.
I wonder if all those bimbos had dreams about my profligate grandfather.
Dreams of My Father ...
After Dad died I had recurring dreams about his coming back demanding that I return my inheritance; that he needed it. They started when I bought a car using his money. In all the dreams I thought of the money as his, never mine, probably because in my waking life I still think of anything I inherited as being his, not mine. These dreams are frightening because I can't give the money back to him because I have spent it. I awake from these nightmares icy cold and trembling. It takes me a long time to go back to sleep.
Just the other night, my father arrived, not alone in a nightmare, but with two women, one on either side of him, holding his hands.
The one on the left was very like one of my grandfather's bimbos. I recognized her from a photo he kept from the early fifties. She was white blonde and glamourous. She signed it "All my love, Kippy". She was his New York girlfriend. He traveled to New York several times a year on business. Kippy would have looked great on his arm, sitting across from him at dinner in a smart restaurant eating expense account meals, and making passionate love in the bedroom of his upscale hotel. I think she was a call girl who had several out of town visitors she played with ... for a price. But I might be wrong. I never asked. He never told me.
The other woman was Adele, frumpy, overweight, her dark greying hair cut and styled ineptly. Adele was a dietitian from Halifax. I loved her and wished she were the mother I never had. My father said she had an unpleasant smell.
Where were all the others, I wondered. Joanie who refused to marry him because he was a divorced man and she was Catholic. Mary who sewed beautiful clothes to try to win my cold little jealous heart. The Czech woman he brought to Canada, married and divorced within a couple of years when he realized he'd been used as a passport to the West. Lizzie who was his last partner, the one he never married, the one who said they were shacking up and then giggled at the audacity of having said that.
Why just those two? The two extremes, perhaps? To show what men want, but not enough to make a commitment, and what they shun even though the woman's heart is warm and loving?
10:34 ... another 1 1/4 hours ... if I am right on track that should be another 1000 words ... 2400... almost 2300 ... I am going to shower and go out for a walk to clear my head ... maybe my story will find me.
I Never Promised You a Rose Garden
November 1, 2009
Day 1 of Nanowrimo
2:48 a.m.
Chapter 1 ... The Recurring Dream of the Rake and the Bimbo
"But ya can't take the piano," she wailed.
Like all the others, she was a bimbo. She wore a trailing negligee, circa 1920, even though it was afternoon.. Her hair looked like the 7 minute icing kids in the fifties liked on their birthday cakes. Sometimes these women appeared with hair that looked more like cotton candy or a Barbie's spun plastic do. Not one of these dream women had ever ever appeared with hair a natural colour or texture, and certainly none of them ever had bed head.
The two men who had emerged from the truck parked on the street below, the one with the sign on the side reading "Two Nice Guys and a Truck" (yes I know that's an anachronism), looked uncomfortable. The shorter, heavier one said, "Aw Miss, we're sorry, but we got a job to do, ya know?"
"But it's mine," she sobbed. "He gave it to me. It's all I have left of him now."
"Lady," said the taller mover, "Our orders come from the store where your friend bought the piano. It's a re-possession."
She looked uncomprehending ... like a modern power saving light bulb ... the ones that throw too little light to read by. "Whattaya mean?"
Shorty patted her arm. "It means, honey, that your friend bought the piano on time and stopped the payments when you and him split."
"But why?" she protested. "He's rich."
"That's how he hangs on to his money, doll. This is the third one this guy's had re-possessed this year."
The woman suddenly turned murderous. The plastic beauty drained out of her face, and she began to yank at her hair. "That bastard. That lying prick. I'm gonna kill him."
It was my grandfather she was talking about. He was a womanizer, a playboy ... married to my grandmother in name only ... father to my mother ... also in name only. He was very rich, and very amusing ... good company ... for a time. Word has it that his short flashy life ended in a speakeasy in Detroit. Was it one of the floozies he'd given a piano to? Or was it one of the underworld characters he liked to play with? Or did his luck just run out and he happened to be in the wrong place when the bullet found him? I don't know. No one seems to, or if someone does, she took the secret to her own grave.
I think it was one of the duped women who did the dirty deed. And good for her.
But what I really want to know is why I keep dreaming about the rake and all his bimbos.
The grandfather I never knew seems to be haunting me now. Is he trying to give me grandfatherly advice? Warn me away from womanizers? Show me that you can't trust any man who stays married but doesn't stay home? To avoid looking gift horses in the mouth? To beware of charmers?
Or maybe I'm not supposed to be empathising with the woman, but learning something from him. Maybe he's telling me how to survive in a dog-eat-dog world. Except he didn't survive, and I don't believe the world is a place where people are happier when they are ripping people off.
I've had this dream or some version of it about once a month for the past year, and I still wake up wondering. I've been having other dreams too, all of them about men, most of them about old lovers I've discarded for good reason. I wonder why I am dreaming about them too.
Once again, I get up, turn on the computer, look at the time, shake my head in disbelief, and go downstairs to make tea, before starting to write. The dog lifts her head off her pillow and decides that I am not going anywhere interesting and goes back to sleep. It is two in the morning, and she knows she needs her beauty sleep.
By the time I look at myself in the mirror, I know I do too. Unlike the dream babes, I do have bed head ... and greying brown hair that seldom sees a hair stylist or a blow dryer. My hair just grows.
Maybe Grandpa is telling me I need to do something about myself if I don't want to spend the rest of my life married to a dog.
3:49 700 words in the first hour ...
Chapter 2 ... Other Dreams ... that need to be integrated into a story ... god I hope I find a story!
Tonight it was Danny who arrived. As always he was full of energy and this time it energized me. He spoke in cliches ... homilies ... pasting together the quotes of other people to create the conversations he found so difficult unless he scripted them first.
I remember being absolutely charmed by him when we were first lovers. We were living at the farm, and had spent the morning biking. Afterwards we bathed under the outdoor sprinkler shower he had invented. It was early summer, that time when the eastern Canadian world is bright green with promise. We spread our towels and dried off on the grass under an endless blue sky. Danny got up and picked a wild rose. When he came back he sprinkled the petals all over me and then moved them away with his mouth one by one. We made beautiful love that sunny afternoon. Years later after we had broken up and he was attempting to win his next woman, he told me that she was really hard to pin down. He'd "done the petals thing" and even that didn't work. I laughed ... it was long enough ago ... and if you have a winning script, why change it, eh?
Tonight he reminded me of his courage. We roller bladed together through the night, and once again he saved me from flying straight into the river or into a busy street.
I woke up laughing from a terrifying re-play of a time when Dan headed down the hill from the Experimental Farm and turned in at one of the government buildings, calling to me to follow him. I started down the potholed asphalt road, my wheels catching on the rough surface, all my focus on staying upright. Then, as my speed increased, and I began to go faster, and still faster, I realized I was in serious trouble. There was no way I would be able to make the turn. I had few choices. I could just try to keep my balance, zoom past the turn and hope that the road would even out. I could throw myself to the right where there was grass. Or I could splatter myself on the pavement. None were appealing.
And then there was a car behind me. The car stopped and the driver watched as things played out.
Dan moved into the roadway, planted his skate brake firmly on the pavement, and stuck his arm out. He yelled, "Grab hold as you come by." I did as I was told. We spun around and around like demented square dancers, but his brake held firm. The driver of the car resumed his trip, and I noticed as he passed us that he was smiling and shaking his head. My laughter may have been hysteria ... but I laughed.
Dan was very good at making me laugh. And he always looked after me. When my courage failed, his own bumped up a notch.
He was the second lover who helped me to have fun doing dangerous things because he was so solidly there and I knew that I was safe with him; that he would be brave enough for both of us.
Was Danny sent tonight or did he come on his own because he thought I needed him? Did he know that I needed to be reminded that the best partners are solidly there, that they play together, that they take risks, and they protect one another because they are strong and brave?
Or was he sent as a warning to me to avoid men who never get un-married, because they can only make a partial commitment? That they are protecting their freedom or their money or something by remaining married in name only.
Or perhaps he was reminding me that I should value what a man can share with me, even if it would nice to have the whole enchilada.
two hours ... 1400 words
I too hope it improves! Hope you had a happy Hallowe'en and that the rest of the weekend is great ... in all ways ...
Day 1 of Nanowrimo
2:48 a.m.
Chapter 1 ... The Recurring Dream of the Rake and the Bimbo
"But ya can't take the piano," she wailed.
Like all the others, she was a bimbo. She wore a trailing negligee, circa 1920, even though it was afternoon.. Her hair looked like the 7 minute icing kids in the fifties liked on their birthday cakes. Sometimes these women appeared with hair that looked more like cotton candy or a Barbie's spun plastic do. Not one of these dream women had ever ever appeared with hair a natural colour or texture, and certainly none of them ever had bed head.
The two men who had emerged from the truck parked on the street below, the one with the sign on the side reading "Two Nice Guys and a Truck" (yes I know that's an anachronism), looked uncomfortable. The shorter, heavier one said, "Aw Miss, we're sorry, but we got a job to do, ya know?"
"But it's mine," she sobbed. "He gave it to me. It's all I have left of him now."
"Lady," said the taller mover, "Our orders come from the store where your friend bought the piano. It's a re-possession."
She looked uncomprehending ... like a modern power saving light bulb ... the ones that throw too little light to read by. "Whattaya mean?"
Shorty patted her arm. "It means, honey, that your friend bought the piano on time and stopped the payments when you and him split."
"But why?" she protested. "He's rich."
"That's how he hangs on to his money, doll. This is the third one this guy's had re-possessed this year."
The woman suddenly turned murderous. The plastic beauty drained out of her face, and she began to yank at her hair. "That bastard. That lying prick. I'm gonna kill him."
It was my grandfather she was talking about. He was a womanizer, a playboy ... married to my grandmother in name only ... father to my mother ... also in name only. He was very rich, and very amusing ... good company ... for a time. Word has it that his short flashy life ended in a speakeasy in Detroit. Was it one of the floozies he'd given a piano to? Or was it one of the underworld characters he liked to play with? Or did his luck just run out and he happened to be in the wrong place when the bullet found him? I don't know. No one seems to, or if someone does, she took the secret to her own grave.
I think it was one of the duped women who did the dirty deed. And good for her.
But what I really want to know is why I keep dreaming about the rake and all his bimbos.
The grandfather I never knew seems to be haunting me now. Is he trying to give me grandfatherly advice? Warn me away from womanizers? Show me that you can't trust any man who stays married but doesn't stay home? To avoid looking gift horses in the mouth? To beware of charmers?
Or maybe I'm not supposed to be empathising with the woman, but learning something from him. Maybe he's telling me how to survive in a dog-eat-dog world. Except he didn't survive, and I don't believe the world is a place where people are happier when they are ripping people off.
I've had this dream or some version of it about once a month for the past year, and I still wake up wondering. I've been having other dreams too, all of them about men, most of them about old lovers I've discarded for good reason. I wonder why I am dreaming about them too.
Once again, I get up, turn on the computer, look at the time, shake my head in disbelief, and go downstairs to make tea, before starting to write. The dog lifts her head off her pillow and decides that I am not going anywhere interesting and goes back to sleep. It is two in the morning, and she knows she needs her beauty sleep.
By the time I look at myself in the mirror, I know I do too. Unlike the dream babes, I do have bed head ... and greying brown hair that seldom sees a hair stylist or a blow dryer. My hair just grows.
Maybe Grandpa is telling me I need to do something about myself if I don't want to spend the rest of my life married to a dog.
3:49 700 words in the first hour ...
Chapter 2 ... Other Dreams ... that need to be integrated into a story ... god I hope I find a story!
Tonight it was Danny who arrived. As always he was full of energy and this time it energized me. He spoke in cliches ... homilies ... pasting together the quotes of other people to create the conversations he found so difficult unless he scripted them first.
I remember being absolutely charmed by him when we were first lovers. We were living at the farm, and had spent the morning biking. Afterwards we bathed under the outdoor sprinkler shower he had invented. It was early summer, that time when the eastern Canadian world is bright green with promise. We spread our towels and dried off on the grass under an endless blue sky. Danny got up and picked a wild rose. When he came back he sprinkled the petals all over me and then moved them away with his mouth one by one. We made beautiful love that sunny afternoon. Years later after we had broken up and he was attempting to win his next woman, he told me that she was really hard to pin down. He'd "done the petals thing" and even that didn't work. I laughed ... it was long enough ago ... and if you have a winning script, why change it, eh?
Tonight he reminded me of his courage. We roller bladed together through the night, and once again he saved me from flying straight into the river or into a busy street.
I woke up laughing from a terrifying re-play of a time when Dan headed down the hill from the Experimental Farm and turned in at one of the government buildings, calling to me to follow him. I started down the potholed asphalt road, my wheels catching on the rough surface, all my focus on staying upright. Then, as my speed increased, and I began to go faster, and still faster, I realized I was in serious trouble. There was no way I would be able to make the turn. I had few choices. I could just try to keep my balance, zoom past the turn and hope that the road would even out. I could throw myself to the right where there was grass. Or I could splatter myself on the pavement. None were appealing.
And then there was a car behind me. The car stopped and the driver watched as things played out.
Dan moved into the roadway, planted his skate brake firmly on the pavement, and stuck his arm out. He yelled, "Grab hold as you come by." I did as I was told. We spun around and around like demented square dancers, but his brake held firm. The driver of the car resumed his trip, and I noticed as he passed us that he was smiling and shaking his head. My laughter may have been hysteria ... but I laughed.
Dan was very good at making me laugh. And he always looked after me. When my courage failed, his own bumped up a notch.
He was the second lover who helped me to have fun doing dangerous things because he was so solidly there and I knew that I was safe with him; that he would be brave enough for both of us.
Was Danny sent tonight or did he come on his own because he thought I needed him? Did he know that I needed to be reminded that the best partners are solidly there, that they play together, that they take risks, and they protect one another because they are strong and brave?
Or was he sent as a warning to me to avoid men who never get un-married, because they can only make a partial commitment? That they are protecting their freedom or their money or something by remaining married in name only.
Or perhaps he was reminding me that I should value what a man can share with me, even if it would nice to have the whole enchilada.
two hours ... 1400 words
I too hope it improves! Hope you had a happy Hallowe'en and that the rest of the weekend is great ... in all ways ...
Friday, 30 October 2009
Nanowrimo
I have decided that my blog posts for the months of November will be my daily writing for the novel writing contest; that you can all witness my messes and first draft scribblings ... and perhaps my fall from grace as I fail to balance all the elements of life: teaching, painting, writing, house building, dogs, social obligations, and medical appointments. I expect November to become a strange juggling act in which writing is the least important activity, but the activity that could be the only sane and centering one.
I will start on Sunday morning. During the first week I have a class at Carleton, three hours of teaching, a trip to Montreal, an appointment to get my hair cut, and a wedding to attend. For those of you who live in the city, have jobs, and are not almost seventy, all this may seem inconsequential ... but for me this week looms as ridiculously full. Stay tuned.
I will start on Sunday morning. During the first week I have a class at Carleton, three hours of teaching, a trip to Montreal, an appointment to get my hair cut, and a wedding to attend. For those of you who live in the city, have jobs, and are not almost seventy, all this may seem inconsequential ... but for me this week looms as ridiculously full. Stay tuned.
Tuesday, 27 October 2009
Update on Chaos
My life continues to be overloaded ... not unpleasantly ... but I do not deal well with overload.
I have decided to hang on to my old Toyota and have scheduled her next oil and tire change. Must deal with a couple of bodywork things before winter as well.
I have accompanied Yashiko on two excursions, the second one to the lake where we had coffee and banana bread and took Kenya for a walk around the lake. Beforehand we photographed tourists on the steam train and wandered through the cars. I found myself (with a Japanese camera) photographing an old Japanese tourist taking photos with her cell phone of Canadian tourists. I loved my time with Yashiko.
Tomorrow I start work (9 hours over three weeks) with Eberhart, a German student who is determined to learn English because he can no longer count on the language proficiency of his wife since they have recently separated. We will hike with the Wakefield hikers tomorrow. Kenya will be pleased. I hope Eberhart likes dogs.
Tomorrow evening I will have a couple of neighbours for dinner. Tom (Clare's widower) needs such breaks from his solitary existence. He goes daily to the cemetery.
Today I messed up the amphibious chair I am doing for the silent auction donation and so have been fixing the mistakes off and on all day. I also did a run to Reno Depot to buy an outdoor lamp for Peter to install. I hope that Thursday, Friday and the weekend are peaceful days because the following week is going to be hectic.
Sketchbooking on Tuesday, Eberhart on Wednesday, a trip to Montreal on Thursday, Julie and Pat's wedding (and so a hair appointment beforehand) on Saturday ... and, of course, Nanowrimo all of November!
It is becoming increasingly clear to me that Nanowrimo may fall off the rails ... or my sanity will.
Oh ... forgot to mention ... I have been asked to produce a custom chair for La Source/The Well on Somerset ... the Anglican day centre for women ... to accompany the two wonky women they have already purchased ... one that incorporates their name and logo ... I am really looking forward to working with them ... after Christmas!
I have decided to hang on to my old Toyota and have scheduled her next oil and tire change. Must deal with a couple of bodywork things before winter as well.
I have accompanied Yashiko on two excursions, the second one to the lake where we had coffee and banana bread and took Kenya for a walk around the lake. Beforehand we photographed tourists on the steam train and wandered through the cars. I found myself (with a Japanese camera) photographing an old Japanese tourist taking photos with her cell phone of Canadian tourists. I loved my time with Yashiko.
Tomorrow I start work (9 hours over three weeks) with Eberhart, a German student who is determined to learn English because he can no longer count on the language proficiency of his wife since they have recently separated. We will hike with the Wakefield hikers tomorrow. Kenya will be pleased. I hope Eberhart likes dogs.
Tomorrow evening I will have a couple of neighbours for dinner. Tom (Clare's widower) needs such breaks from his solitary existence. He goes daily to the cemetery.
Today I messed up the amphibious chair I am doing for the silent auction donation and so have been fixing the mistakes off and on all day. I also did a run to Reno Depot to buy an outdoor lamp for Peter to install. I hope that Thursday, Friday and the weekend are peaceful days because the following week is going to be hectic.
Sketchbooking on Tuesday, Eberhart on Wednesday, a trip to Montreal on Thursday, Julie and Pat's wedding (and so a hair appointment beforehand) on Saturday ... and, of course, Nanowrimo all of November!
It is becoming increasingly clear to me that Nanowrimo may fall off the rails ... or my sanity will.
Oh ... forgot to mention ... I have been asked to produce a custom chair for La Source/The Well on Somerset ... the Anglican day centre for women ... to accompany the two wonky women they have already purchased ... one that incorporates their name and logo ... I am really looking forward to working with them ... after Christmas!
Friday, 23 October 2009
Too Too Busy ... but Wired
Two days ago the straw that breaks backs fluttered into view and settled on our lake. Rowboat Flo's daughter's Honda CRV with a For Sale sign on it is parked at Flo's cottage. I need a 4WD vehicle. The make of choice is the Honda CRV. She is asking a reasonable price for a vehicle in very good shape. I liked test driving it, even though I had to dust off my hot rodding standard shift skills as I took it over rough roads with steep hills and sharp corners. Unfortunately my old Toyota is still running fine. It is now ugly and dusty and filled with dog hair and sand, and it has a few bumps and bruises caused by my ineptitude when I park, one skid on ice, and the suicidal tendencies of a local doe, but generally speaking it works well. However; my road demands far more of a vehicle in the bad seasons than this low slung Toyota sedan can muster. I still have not decided.
On Wednesday evening the language school called ... I have some teaching gigs ... the first happened yesterday. My task was to entertain Yoshika, an 84 year old Japanese woman who puts most of us to shame physically (she still skiis, hikes, and dives ... and is a tireless traveler). She proved to be a really interesting companion. She is an artist and calligrapher whose work hangs in Japan's national galleries as well as in European museums and galleries. We visited artists and potters and then settled in at Le Hibou for coffee where we enjoyed wonderful service, food and ambiance. Our coffee table which was an old door painted with flowers on the panels sat between two comfortable old couches. We hope to see one another once more this weekend when I bring her up to the lake for tea.
While we were gadding about in the rain we went to Art de la Paix where Kelly informed me that she has been asked to donate something for a silent auction in Chelsea. She wants to donate one of my chairs, but she wants to keep a constant supply in the shop. I promised to paint a little faster ... stupid promise, I know.
I am feeling overwhelmed by the car decisions, by Kelly's insistence on MORE and still MORE, by the money-gobbling habits of this house and the ever-presence of Peter (can't even use my upstairs bathroom while he is around because the scaffolding climbs the front wall of the house), by the new demands of River Echo (isn't that a lovely name?), and by my reckless decision to accept the Nanowrimo challenge of producing a 50,000 word first draft of a novel in the month of November ... the same month I begin my sketchbooking course. I awaken from nightmares about having accidents with cars I am test driving to musings about chair designs. Last night I was up at 2 drinking cocoa with French stick pieces dunked in it in the vain hope that I would be able to return to bed to sleep till morning.
Kenya accompanied me downstairs, accepted a bit of turkey as a middle-of-the-night snack, and then sleepily followed me back upstairs. She was sound asleep while I pecked away here at the keyboard, absolutely wired.
On Wednesday evening the language school called ... I have some teaching gigs ... the first happened yesterday. My task was to entertain Yoshika, an 84 year old Japanese woman who puts most of us to shame physically (she still skiis, hikes, and dives ... and is a tireless traveler). She proved to be a really interesting companion. She is an artist and calligrapher whose work hangs in Japan's national galleries as well as in European museums and galleries. We visited artists and potters and then settled in at Le Hibou for coffee where we enjoyed wonderful service, food and ambiance. Our coffee table which was an old door painted with flowers on the panels sat between two comfortable old couches. We hope to see one another once more this weekend when I bring her up to the lake for tea.
While we were gadding about in the rain we went to Art de la Paix where Kelly informed me that she has been asked to donate something for a silent auction in Chelsea. She wants to donate one of my chairs, but she wants to keep a constant supply in the shop. I promised to paint a little faster ... stupid promise, I know.
I am feeling overwhelmed by the car decisions, by Kelly's insistence on MORE and still MORE, by the money-gobbling habits of this house and the ever-presence of Peter (can't even use my upstairs bathroom while he is around because the scaffolding climbs the front wall of the house), by the new demands of River Echo (isn't that a lovely name?), and by my reckless decision to accept the Nanowrimo challenge of producing a 50,000 word first draft of a novel in the month of November ... the same month I begin my sketchbooking course. I awaken from nightmares about having accidents with cars I am test driving to musings about chair designs. Last night I was up at 2 drinking cocoa with French stick pieces dunked in it in the vain hope that I would be able to return to bed to sleep till morning.
Kenya accompanied me downstairs, accepted a bit of turkey as a middle-of-the-night snack, and then sleepily followed me back upstairs. She was sound asleep while I pecked away here at the keyboard, absolutely wired.
In spite of all my protestations about feeling overwhelmed by life, it is also exhiliarating to be meeting artists and travelers, to be attending storytelling performances by the best in the business (I did tell you about Ivan Coyote's performance on Monday evening, didn't I?) and to eat in a restaurant that combines the best of everything a restaurant should offer. I feel very alive ... if exhausted.
And it is gratifying to be in demand ... and appreciated. Imagine! Kelly has a whole store filled with beautiful things by real artists ... and she wants to showcase one of my pieces. But I have to be careful ... I don't have skill ... just a beginner's enthusiasm ... and that could be destroyed by being pressured to become an assembly line producer, especially now that I cannot work outdoors so cannot use alkyd primer as a base on the difficult chairs.
In the midst of all this turmoil, my first great grand daughter arrived. She is Lindsay and Johnnie's first child, Deb's first grandchild, and the first great niece for Zoom, Mud Mama and Techwood (and that's just a fraction of the family this baby has joined) ~TA DA~ a big welcome to little Chelsea Katherine ~TA DA~ who was born two nights ago. There is a wonderful welcome on Zoom's blog (knitnut.net) for this tiny little soul (5 pounds 9 ounces) with the long legs and arms and red hair. I can only add my genuine delight and echo Zoom's feelings ... and vow, as she has, to get my own baby sweater pieces sewn together.
And it is gratifying to be in demand ... and appreciated. Imagine! Kelly has a whole store filled with beautiful things by real artists ... and she wants to showcase one of my pieces. But I have to be careful ... I don't have skill ... just a beginner's enthusiasm ... and that could be destroyed by being pressured to become an assembly line producer, especially now that I cannot work outdoors so cannot use alkyd primer as a base on the difficult chairs.
In the midst of all this turmoil, my first great grand daughter arrived. She is Lindsay and Johnnie's first child, Deb's first grandchild, and the first great niece for Zoom, Mud Mama and Techwood (and that's just a fraction of the family this baby has joined) ~TA DA~ a big welcome to little Chelsea Katherine ~TA DA~ who was born two nights ago. There is a wonderful welcome on Zoom's blog (knitnut.net) for this tiny little soul (5 pounds 9 ounces) with the long legs and arms and red hair. I can only add my genuine delight and echo Zoom's feelings ... and vow, as she has, to get my own baby sweater pieces sewn together.
Tuesday, 20 October 2009
Madness ...
I think I may be mad ... November is looking like the busiest month of my life ... and I have just signed up for NaNoWriMo (http://www.nanowrimo.org) ... the crazy marathon writing spree in which one contracts to write 50,000 words in a month. I don't even have any idea what I will write ... I don't want to cheat and use something I've already worked on ... but this is completely insane ... I don't have a single idea about characters, plot, setting or plot!
I think I will likely write in a variety of places ... here at my regular computer ... on my laptop at different cafes like Le Hibou ... in my writing journal ... dunno where else.
I am pike-lake-oma if you are looking for a writing buddy ...
Today I had a pleasant lunch with a former student ... from way back in the seventies ... and then I bought a case of wine and picked up furniture Carlos and Tamarak have been collecting for me, and groceries. By the time I got home, unloaded the car, loaded the wheelbarrow and got everything put away I had had it for the day.
Tomorow I will make a cake and a special dinner for Zoom's birthday ... it will be fun to see Zoom, GC and James ... it has been a while since they have been here at the lake and they will have a chance to see the cedar board and batten as far as it has progressed.
I think I will likely write in a variety of places ... here at my regular computer ... on my laptop at different cafes like Le Hibou ... in my writing journal ... dunno where else.
I am pike-lake-oma if you are looking for a writing buddy ...
Today I had a pleasant lunch with a former student ... from way back in the seventies ... and then I bought a case of wine and picked up furniture Carlos and Tamarak have been collecting for me, and groceries. By the time I got home, unloaded the car, loaded the wheelbarrow and got everything put away I had had it for the day.
Tomorow I will make a cake and a special dinner for Zoom's birthday ... it will be fun to see Zoom, GC and James ... it has been a while since they have been here at the lake and they will have a chance to see the cedar board and batten as far as it has progressed.
Ivan E. Coyote
Wow!!! What a great storytelling performance! Two hours of personal narrative by Ivan Coyote, a storyteller, creative writing teacher, short story writer and novelist from the Yukon. She was funny, provocative, and honest ... and Tamarak, Carlos and I had a great evening. If you ever have the chance to watch her perform ... drop everything and go!
And now I must shovel some more gravel away from the house so that the wood can breathe and stop getting wet ... in the spot where "The Perfect Man" (you remember him perhaps from my writing blog ...) installed the stoop for the clothesline. He spent an inordinate amount of time filling in the gravel that is going to cause my house to rot if I don't move it now. Such is perfection.
And now I must shovel some more gravel away from the house so that the wood can breathe and stop getting wet ... in the spot where "The Perfect Man" (you remember him perhaps from my writing blog ...) installed the stoop for the clothesline. He spent an inordinate amount of time filling in the gravel that is going to cause my house to rot if I don't move it now. Such is perfection.
Monday, 19 October 2009
Messy Scenes
1. This morning the lake looked like the witches' cauldron scene from Macbeth. Our little lake usually looks like a placid cup of tea reflecting faithfully the landscape cradling it. This morning, with the mist rising in clouds from its surface, the surface seemed to boil and bubble within the encircling gold.
2. Up here at the house, the scenes are even more chaotic. Peter has his saw set up outdoors on the stone path between the lumber-piled yard and the porch. The clothesline has been taken down and rests in a tangle near the woods that frame the yard. Scaffolding climbs the front face of the house where Peter is currently working, and bits of construction debris settle everywhere as he works and discards until evening clean-up.
3. Indoors things are not much better. I have tidied the bathroom and cleaned up the worst mess caused when Peter had to take out the window (spilling a quart or so of water on the floor). He turned it right side up, set it back in and re-foamed. Yes ... the original incompetents installed it upside down with no place for drainage. (And there are other windows where they did the same thing.) But until Peter has finished framing this one again, its bits are leaning up against walls. When he completes the work I will re-hang curtains and clean thoroughly. (And repeat the process in the bedroom where the other two upside down windows are.)
4. My bedroom which is usually very tidy has become a storage place for pieces I want to work on this winter: a high chair, another toddler's chair, a doll cradle, a child's table and chair set, some little shelves and tables ... the list goes on.
5. The rest of the chairs and other larger pieces are still in the screened-in porch which is another messy scene.
6. Then there is the dining room/kitchen area ... every horizontal surface is covered in paint tins, papers, and work in various stages of completion ... and will remain like that until I have finished all the works in progress, or until Wednesday when I will have guests for dinner.
7. I have tidied up the deck area and put things away. Still have to move the canoe ... a two person portage ... but the chairs, paddles, umbrella and kayak are now stored where they will live for the winter.
8. When I ran a couple of errands with Kenya this morning I discovered a really sad scene on the road. Blood stained dirt marks the spot where the newest puppy on the lake was struck by a car on Sunday. It was a gentle little soul that Kenya really liked. She spent a good deal of time at the spot this morning; she seemed to be making sense of it. Apparently the driver was so busy watching that he didn't hit the white terrier, he didn't notice the puppy that ran under his rear wheel.
9. The dogs' owner is a new neighbour who seems to lack good sense. In the less three weeks since he moved in, his place has become the eyesore of the lake. It wouldn't matter so much if he were up here in the woods, but he is smack dab in the middle of the tidy community. He burns couches, scatters furniture, boats and golf clubs all over the lawn, parks several vehicles helter skelter on the lawn and road, leaves his garbage pail lying in one spot, its lid in another for days and days, and lets his dogs run loose. Nothing ever gets put away. The dog who is still alive is very aggressive and does not stay on the property. Perhaps the death of the puppy will make the owner more careful about keeping him tied.
10. But it is his failure to get a permit to deal with his septic waste that is really bothering the neighbours. He has a handkerchief sized lot and a holding tank ... and seems to be allowing his grey water to just be pumped into the front yard ... 30 feet from each of three wells ... his own and those of his neighbours on either side. And there is another drainage pipe that leads out onto the road all ready to create a giant ice patch right at the bottom of a hill that is already difficult to manoeuvre in winter, and at a place where everyone has to stop ... by the mailboxes.
My messes should be cleaned up within a month; I hope my neighbour's will be too. After that, of course, winter snow will cover a multitude of sins and scenes.
2. Up here at the house, the scenes are even more chaotic. Peter has his saw set up outdoors on the stone path between the lumber-piled yard and the porch. The clothesline has been taken down and rests in a tangle near the woods that frame the yard. Scaffolding climbs the front face of the house where Peter is currently working, and bits of construction debris settle everywhere as he works and discards until evening clean-up.
3. Indoors things are not much better. I have tidied the bathroom and cleaned up the worst mess caused when Peter had to take out the window (spilling a quart or so of water on the floor). He turned it right side up, set it back in and re-foamed. Yes ... the original incompetents installed it upside down with no place for drainage. (And there are other windows where they did the same thing.) But until Peter has finished framing this one again, its bits are leaning up against walls. When he completes the work I will re-hang curtains and clean thoroughly. (And repeat the process in the bedroom where the other two upside down windows are.)
4. My bedroom which is usually very tidy has become a storage place for pieces I want to work on this winter: a high chair, another toddler's chair, a doll cradle, a child's table and chair set, some little shelves and tables ... the list goes on.
5. The rest of the chairs and other larger pieces are still in the screened-in porch which is another messy scene.
6. Then there is the dining room/kitchen area ... every horizontal surface is covered in paint tins, papers, and work in various stages of completion ... and will remain like that until I have finished all the works in progress, or until Wednesday when I will have guests for dinner.
7. I have tidied up the deck area and put things away. Still have to move the canoe ... a two person portage ... but the chairs, paddles, umbrella and kayak are now stored where they will live for the winter.
8. When I ran a couple of errands with Kenya this morning I discovered a really sad scene on the road. Blood stained dirt marks the spot where the newest puppy on the lake was struck by a car on Sunday. It was a gentle little soul that Kenya really liked. She spent a good deal of time at the spot this morning; she seemed to be making sense of it. Apparently the driver was so busy watching that he didn't hit the white terrier, he didn't notice the puppy that ran under his rear wheel.
9. The dogs' owner is a new neighbour who seems to lack good sense. In the less three weeks since he moved in, his place has become the eyesore of the lake. It wouldn't matter so much if he were up here in the woods, but he is smack dab in the middle of the tidy community. He burns couches, scatters furniture, boats and golf clubs all over the lawn, parks several vehicles helter skelter on the lawn and road, leaves his garbage pail lying in one spot, its lid in another for days and days, and lets his dogs run loose. Nothing ever gets put away. The dog who is still alive is very aggressive and does not stay on the property. Perhaps the death of the puppy will make the owner more careful about keeping him tied.
10. But it is his failure to get a permit to deal with his septic waste that is really bothering the neighbours. He has a handkerchief sized lot and a holding tank ... and seems to be allowing his grey water to just be pumped into the front yard ... 30 feet from each of three wells ... his own and those of his neighbours on either side. And there is another drainage pipe that leads out onto the road all ready to create a giant ice patch right at the bottom of a hill that is already difficult to manoeuvre in winter, and at a place where everyone has to stop ... by the mailboxes.
My messes should be cleaned up within a month; I hope my neighbour's will be too. After that, of course, winter snow will cover a multitude of sins and scenes.
Saturday, 17 October 2009
Achey -- Fluey -- More another day
I have posted the Felena chair and table photos ... for Irish Girl especially ...
I had been wondering what to do with my old oak coffee table that I wanted to play with ... and now that I see what happens when you paint on raw oak, I have decided to do mine in a similar way.
I have done lizards on a child's chair ... and whenever I see a gecko when I am traveling I think of the sense of safety I felt in Malawi where we had a resident gecko which kept ugly things from falling on us as we slept. So I might do a lizard ...
Does anyone have other ideas for the single image?
I had been wondering what to do with my old oak coffee table that I wanted to play with ... and now that I see what happens when you paint on raw oak, I have decided to do mine in a similar way.
I have done lizards on a child's chair ... and whenever I see a gecko when I am traveling I think of the sense of safety I felt in Malawi where we had a resident gecko which kept ugly things from falling on us as we slept. So I might do a lizard ...
Does anyone have other ideas for the single image?
Thursday, 15 October 2009
Middle of October
October 15, 2009
Happy Birthday, Zoom! I hope you have a wonderful day, week, year, and the rest of your life!
Yesterday was a jam-packed day ... too full for someone who is getting creaky!
Peter started working on the house, setting up scaffolding and replacing the Typar.
The Sears man arrived, unlocked the washer, and told me that this model is a dud ... needing far too many repairs to the electronic systems. He told me a trick not mentioned in the manual for unlocking it myself.
I went out with Tamarack in the afternoon. We saw John Benn's show at the Snapdragon Gallery in the Glebe ... wonderful ... love what he does with sunshine in the woods.
Then we stopped at The Papery and made some fun purchases.
Afterwards, we were frozen so we went to Felina's for hot spicy black bean soup. The soup was great but even more impressive were the table and chairs in the corner that had just been freshly painted in wonderful jewel colours and decorated with chameleon-like lizards. I took photos and talked to the creators. Mmmmn! A Yummy stop.
The next part is a rant ... I hope you won't stop reading, though!
Sears Canada phoned and we had a circular conversation in which I said that Sears should stand behind the products it sells especially those they sell under the Kenmore brand name, and perhaps they would consider replacing this machine with a a lower cost, simpler top loader; and she said (over and over again) that Sears policy is to repair machines covered by extended warantees; and that the manufacturer had not issued a recall on this machine so Sears policy was that it could not be replaced. Finally I said we were going in circles and getting nowhere. I said that Sears policy was not a good one and that I and my family and friends were all bloggers, and that the electronic word of mouth discussion of everything that had gone wrong with these very expensive machines in such a short time would not be good publicity for either Sears or the Kenmore line.
She said she could offer me an extended warranty ... two years of worry-free service and one inspection each year. I said I would take it ... not because I think it was fair but rather because I think I am dealing with a large corporation which doesn't give a damn about the kind of junk they are selling or about the customers they inconvenience.
We have moved away from an honest market in which the consumer could expect decent quality appliances that would last for many years, one in which the companies that sold those appliances would stand behind their products. The new reality is that appliances are just one more example of shoddy workmanship in a throw- away world. we live in a market in which insurance has to be purchased because the products are junk.
My pocket is feeling the strain of this reality, but so is our environment.
We purchase expensive green machines that conserve energy and water, but they cost the planet huge amounts of both to produce, and then, because the workmanship and materials are so shoddy, they end up in landfill far sooner than the less expensive machines they have replaced.
The Sears repairman advised me not to purchase anything but the simplest non-electronic machines from now on. His own washing machine is the simplest model available ... and it washes clothes faithfully. He likely paid $400 for his washer which is the same age as mine. I paid over $1000 with taxes. He has not had any problems. I have had almost $400 worth of problems with this one machine.
I definitely would not buy a front loading machine with electronic components again.
Would I buy from Sears again? I don't think so. The people who are on the front line ... the sales people ... the delivery personnel ... the technicians who do the repairs ... are all fine people trying to do their jobs as well as they can. I have not had a problem with any of them ... but the faceless corporation that makes the policies and never sees a customer or experiences the frustration ... the people making the really big bucks and the bad decisions ... are impossible to deal with.
The problem is that it is becoming harder and harder to find local retailers selling Canadian made products they can stand behind, but that is what I will be looking for the next time I buy anything as important as a washing machine.
Sorry for the rant ... but I think I finally understand in my deepest self now why it is so important not to buy from the places that don't care a whit about sustainability ... of the planet ... or of local industries. Before Sears bought up Robert Simpson's, we could depend on that retailer. Simpson's hired people ... lots of them ... who tried to give good service. Simpson's sold products that were most often manufactured here in Canada by people who cared about quality. Canadians had jobs and quality products. We need to begin supporting Canadian industry and retailers or we will lose what little we have left.
Happy Birthday, Zoom! I hope you have a wonderful day, week, year, and the rest of your life!
Yesterday was a jam-packed day ... too full for someone who is getting creaky!
Peter started working on the house, setting up scaffolding and replacing the Typar.
The Sears man arrived, unlocked the washer, and told me that this model is a dud ... needing far too many repairs to the electronic systems. He told me a trick not mentioned in the manual for unlocking it myself.
I went out with Tamarack in the afternoon. We saw John Benn's show at the Snapdragon Gallery in the Glebe ... wonderful ... love what he does with sunshine in the woods.
Then we stopped at The Papery and made some fun purchases.
Afterwards, we were frozen so we went to Felina's for hot spicy black bean soup. The soup was great but even more impressive were the table and chairs in the corner that had just been freshly painted in wonderful jewel colours and decorated with chameleon-like lizards. I took photos and talked to the creators. Mmmmn! A Yummy stop.
The next part is a rant ... I hope you won't stop reading, though!
Sears Canada phoned and we had a circular conversation in which I said that Sears should stand behind the products it sells especially those they sell under the Kenmore brand name, and perhaps they would consider replacing this machine with a a lower cost, simpler top loader; and she said (over and over again) that Sears policy is to repair machines covered by extended warantees; and that the manufacturer had not issued a recall on this machine so Sears policy was that it could not be replaced. Finally I said we were going in circles and getting nowhere. I said that Sears policy was not a good one and that I and my family and friends were all bloggers, and that the electronic word of mouth discussion of everything that had gone wrong with these very expensive machines in such a short time would not be good publicity for either Sears or the Kenmore line.
She said she could offer me an extended warranty ... two years of worry-free service and one inspection each year. I said I would take it ... not because I think it was fair but rather because I think I am dealing with a large corporation which doesn't give a damn about the kind of junk they are selling or about the customers they inconvenience.
We have moved away from an honest market in which the consumer could expect decent quality appliances that would last for many years, one in which the companies that sold those appliances would stand behind their products. The new reality is that appliances are just one more example of shoddy workmanship in a throw- away world. we live in a market in which insurance has to be purchased because the products are junk.
My pocket is feeling the strain of this reality, but so is our environment.
We purchase expensive green machines that conserve energy and water, but they cost the planet huge amounts of both to produce, and then, because the workmanship and materials are so shoddy, they end up in landfill far sooner than the less expensive machines they have replaced.
The Sears repairman advised me not to purchase anything but the simplest non-electronic machines from now on. His own washing machine is the simplest model available ... and it washes clothes faithfully. He likely paid $400 for his washer which is the same age as mine. I paid over $1000 with taxes. He has not had any problems. I have had almost $400 worth of problems with this one machine.
I definitely would not buy a front loading machine with electronic components again.
Would I buy from Sears again? I don't think so. The people who are on the front line ... the sales people ... the delivery personnel ... the technicians who do the repairs ... are all fine people trying to do their jobs as well as they can. I have not had a problem with any of them ... but the faceless corporation that makes the policies and never sees a customer or experiences the frustration ... the people making the really big bucks and the bad decisions ... are impossible to deal with.
The problem is that it is becoming harder and harder to find local retailers selling Canadian made products they can stand behind, but that is what I will be looking for the next time I buy anything as important as a washing machine.
Sorry for the rant ... but I think I finally understand in my deepest self now why it is so important not to buy from the places that don't care a whit about sustainability ... of the planet ... or of local industries. Before Sears bought up Robert Simpson's, we could depend on that retailer. Simpson's hired people ... lots of them ... who tried to give good service. Simpson's sold products that were most often manufactured here in Canada by people who cared about quality. Canadians had jobs and quality products. We need to begin supporting Canadian industry and retailers or we will lose what little we have left.
Wednesday, 14 October 2009
Giving Thanks
Playing Catch-up again ...
A busy time again ... TheOr and Ralph came out and worked for several hours moving the cedar down the hill on Thursday, and then the weekend was jam packed with friends staying and sharing meals. It culminated in a turkey dinner on Monday. We delivered dinner to Barry who is recuperating from knee replacement surgery and then feasted ourselves ... Sean, Ying and Chen Chen were lovely dinner guests. Cheng Cheng has the most infectious laugh and irrepressible sense of humour imaginable. And he thinks I am a riot, especially when I imitate Kenya. He's twelve.
During the weekend two untoward occurences: the washer broke down again on Saturday; and the power went out during Sunday night.
I had a wonderful time when the power went out ... discovered an odd little internet cafe in the village where I can have a coffee or tea, read the Globe and Mail and play with my laptop whenever I so choose.
Perhaps both problems will turn out to be providential. After all, how many times will the washer konk out before they realize it is a defective machine and replace it?
Yesterday, I was kept prisoner by an unkept Sears appointment. It meant that Sarah and I were unable to go for a walk with Lucas and the dogs, but it also allowed me the time to play with an idea I got from something Sean said after dinner. When the piece is completed I will post a photo and tell you about it ... but likely not till next week because it will have to be a secret till then.
The scaffolding arrived this morning and the actual work will begin tomorrow. It will be a messy bothersome time, but I think it will be worth it to finally see this house looking as if it is complete. Houses never are, of course; there is always something that needs doing ... but this is the last of the huge expensive tasks. And the last one that needs doing without any more delay. There are closets to complete and repairs to be made because of the water damage that occurred when the roof failed ... but these feel manageable. And projects like the garden will be fun to work on.
I hope your Thanksgiving was as pleasant as mine. This year it was easy to feel thankful that I live on a beautiful lake, that I have funky furniture to play with, and that so many good people (and dogs) make up my circle of family and friends.
A busy time again ... TheOr and Ralph came out and worked for several hours moving the cedar down the hill on Thursday, and then the weekend was jam packed with friends staying and sharing meals. It culminated in a turkey dinner on Monday. We delivered dinner to Barry who is recuperating from knee replacement surgery and then feasted ourselves ... Sean, Ying and Chen Chen were lovely dinner guests. Cheng Cheng has the most infectious laugh and irrepressible sense of humour imaginable. And he thinks I am a riot, especially when I imitate Kenya. He's twelve.
During the weekend two untoward occurences: the washer broke down again on Saturday; and the power went out during Sunday night.
I had a wonderful time when the power went out ... discovered an odd little internet cafe in the village where I can have a coffee or tea, read the Globe and Mail and play with my laptop whenever I so choose.
Perhaps both problems will turn out to be providential. After all, how many times will the washer konk out before they realize it is a defective machine and replace it?
Yesterday, I was kept prisoner by an unkept Sears appointment. It meant that Sarah and I were unable to go for a walk with Lucas and the dogs, but it also allowed me the time to play with an idea I got from something Sean said after dinner. When the piece is completed I will post a photo and tell you about it ... but likely not till next week because it will have to be a secret till then.
The scaffolding arrived this morning and the actual work will begin tomorrow. It will be a messy bothersome time, but I think it will be worth it to finally see this house looking as if it is complete. Houses never are, of course; there is always something that needs doing ... but this is the last of the huge expensive tasks. And the last one that needs doing without any more delay. There are closets to complete and repairs to be made because of the water damage that occurred when the roof failed ... but these feel manageable. And projects like the garden will be fun to work on.
I hope your Thanksgiving was as pleasant as mine. This year it was easy to feel thankful that I live on a beautiful lake, that I have funky furniture to play with, and that so many good people (and dogs) make up my circle of family and friends.
Saturday, 10 October 2009
Tuesday, 6 October 2009
Monday, 5 October 2009
Just the facts, ma'am, just the facts ...
For you young folks, that comes from a long ago detective show called "Dragnet". Since this post will contain no metaphors or philosophical wanderings, the title seemed appropriate ...
October is going to be a very busy month for me.
1. My gravel and rock for the garden will start arriving and being spread today. That means that my laneway will be clear of the pile that already sits there, and that I will be able to start gardening in earnest next spring ... and that all the toxic stuff and glass shards will finally be covered once and for all.
2. My daughter's radiation appointments begin this week ... and I want to help out as much as possible.
3. Then there is Thanksgiving weekend and then ... the work on installing the cedar board and batten starts. The cedar is here already as well as the strapping, and I have to set up an account for the bits and pieces as well as the rental of the scaffolding. That job will take about 2 weeks.
4. One daughter will be celebrating her 51st birthday on the 15th. This birthday is special for our whole family, and while she may not be up to a big celebration this year, I want to do something special for her.
5. I am starting work on a sign for the shop today ... Kelly paid for a huge sign to be done and it appears the guy has taken off with the money with no intention of producing the sign. I offered to make a smaller sign in the meantime.
6. This is also the last month that it will be warm enough to work outside preparing furniture for painting so I intend to take advantage of any warm days to clean, sand, and prime with an alkyd primer.
7. It is also likely the last month in which to find odds and ends at garage sales and the like.
8. At the end of the month, two old dogs will arrive for four or five days ... and then we are into November which a month filled with weddings, births, and birthdays to celebrate.
October is going to be a very busy month for me.
1. My gravel and rock for the garden will start arriving and being spread today. That means that my laneway will be clear of the pile that already sits there, and that I will be able to start gardening in earnest next spring ... and that all the toxic stuff and glass shards will finally be covered once and for all.
2. My daughter's radiation appointments begin this week ... and I want to help out as much as possible.
3. Then there is Thanksgiving weekend and then ... the work on installing the cedar board and batten starts. The cedar is here already as well as the strapping, and I have to set up an account for the bits and pieces as well as the rental of the scaffolding. That job will take about 2 weeks.
4. One daughter will be celebrating her 51st birthday on the 15th. This birthday is special for our whole family, and while she may not be up to a big celebration this year, I want to do something special for her.
5. I am starting work on a sign for the shop today ... Kelly paid for a huge sign to be done and it appears the guy has taken off with the money with no intention of producing the sign. I offered to make a smaller sign in the meantime.
6. This is also the last month that it will be warm enough to work outside preparing furniture for painting so I intend to take advantage of any warm days to clean, sand, and prime with an alkyd primer.
7. It is also likely the last month in which to find odds and ends at garage sales and the like.
8. At the end of the month, two old dogs will arrive for four or five days ... and then we are into November which a month filled with weddings, births, and birthdays to celebrate.
Sunday, 4 October 2009
N Degrees of Separation
My life has been filled to brimming lately, and many of the experiences have come full circle and pulled bits of my past into the present, and allowed the present to chase the tail of the future.
When I took the bus trip to St. Sauveur, I mentioned to Rowboat Flo that the last time I had traveled along the north side of the river, I had been on a train trip with my North American Literature class. A few days later I received an email from a neighbour to whom I had forwarded a request about re- homing dogs telling me that one of the people who worked in her building had received the same email from another source, and, when they discussed it, he thought he knew me. Sean was one of my former students, one who had taken that train trip with me 31 years ago. He, his sister and I have been in touch via email ever since.
Then yesterday, at the Saturday Market in the village, I tried to buy fresh farm eggs at one of the booths and the farmer told me he knew me; that I had been his grade 8 English teacher in 1978 (also 31 years ago). It was Walter Last.
But it hasn't just been former students re-surfacing in my life after over 30 years.
Last week I learned of a sketchbooking course from a comment on Zoom's blog (http://knitnut.net). I checked it out and began the sign-up procedure for it. The following day a notice appeared in the Wakefield Newsletter asking for people who kept sketchbooks to share theirs with Michelle, the instructor. Yesterday I met her for coffee, decided definitely to take the course, and learned that another person whose sketchbook will be used is also connected with my daughter's blog.
After that meeting I went to a garage sale. It turned out to be at a house Mud Mama had rented at Christmas a couple of years ago. There I met Taz ... T-A-Z-Taz, as he informed me. He was about six or seven and he was selling toys. I loved the little pine chairs I saw first and asked him how much they were. He told me to make an offer ... maybe a dollar. I said okay, and was the table for sale too? Yes. I dug in my purse and pulled out all the money I had: $8.50, and said that was what I could give him for everything. We agreed and I told him that I really liked the set, that I liked it so much I was giving him all my money. He looked dismayed and tried to give some back. As I was leaving I told his mother what a lovely little boy he was, and she told me he wasn't for sale. I have posted a bad photo of the set ... but when I got it home I realized it was hand made and solid pine as well as having a lovely shape. Thank you T-A-Z-Taz. I will do my best to live up to this project ... and to you.
Then there was the chair artist, Alice Hinther, whose work I saw at WEST. I emailed her to tell her that the little centre where Le Hibou will be located had opened (she had asked me about it when I visited her home during WEST). Turns out that Zoom had visited shortly after I had and left her our blog addresses so that she could check out my chairs, and Alice had misplaced the addresses. When I told Zoom I had been in touch with Alice, she already knew because GC had been also been corresponding with Alice. If you are reading this, Alice, the centre is open, but Le Hibou is not yet.
In other news I just received my second cheque ... and was very pleasantly surprised! And I have started work on the bread box I got from Fraulein ... also a blog reader ... who delivered it to me via the step-mom of Mud Mama's kids ... It will feature a fat hen sitting on a nest containing one egg ... a hen I sketched a few days before I met up with Walter at the market.
I think the world just became a whole lot smaller.
Enjoy the rest of your weekend. I will be painting.
When I took the bus trip to St. Sauveur, I mentioned to Rowboat Flo that the last time I had traveled along the north side of the river, I had been on a train trip with my North American Literature class. A few days later I received an email from a neighbour to whom I had forwarded a request about re- homing dogs telling me that one of the people who worked in her building had received the same email from another source, and, when they discussed it, he thought he knew me. Sean was one of my former students, one who had taken that train trip with me 31 years ago. He, his sister and I have been in touch via email ever since.
Then yesterday, at the Saturday Market in the village, I tried to buy fresh farm eggs at one of the booths and the farmer told me he knew me; that I had been his grade 8 English teacher in 1978 (also 31 years ago). It was Walter Last.
But it hasn't just been former students re-surfacing in my life after over 30 years.
Last week I learned of a sketchbooking course from a comment on Zoom's blog (http://knitnut.net). I checked it out and began the sign-up procedure for it. The following day a notice appeared in the Wakefield Newsletter asking for people who kept sketchbooks to share theirs with Michelle, the instructor. Yesterday I met her for coffee, decided definitely to take the course, and learned that another person whose sketchbook will be used is also connected with my daughter's blog.
After that meeting I went to a garage sale. It turned out to be at a house Mud Mama had rented at Christmas a couple of years ago. There I met Taz ... T-A-Z-Taz, as he informed me. He was about six or seven and he was selling toys. I loved the little pine chairs I saw first and asked him how much they were. He told me to make an offer ... maybe a dollar. I said okay, and was the table for sale too? Yes. I dug in my purse and pulled out all the money I had: $8.50, and said that was what I could give him for everything. We agreed and I told him that I really liked the set, that I liked it so much I was giving him all my money. He looked dismayed and tried to give some back. As I was leaving I told his mother what a lovely little boy he was, and she told me he wasn't for sale. I have posted a bad photo of the set ... but when I got it home I realized it was hand made and solid pine as well as having a lovely shape. Thank you T-A-Z-Taz. I will do my best to live up to this project ... and to you.
Then there was the chair artist, Alice Hinther, whose work I saw at WEST. I emailed her to tell her that the little centre where Le Hibou will be located had opened (she had asked me about it when I visited her home during WEST). Turns out that Zoom had visited shortly after I had and left her our blog addresses so that she could check out my chairs, and Alice had misplaced the addresses. When I told Zoom I had been in touch with Alice, she already knew because GC had been also been corresponding with Alice. If you are reading this, Alice, the centre is open, but Le Hibou is not yet.
In other news I just received my second cheque ... and was very pleasantly surprised! And I have started work on the bread box I got from Fraulein ... also a blog reader ... who delivered it to me via the step-mom of Mud Mama's kids ... It will feature a fat hen sitting on a nest containing one egg ... a hen I sketched a few days before I met up with Walter at the market.
I think the world just became a whole lot smaller.
Enjoy the rest of your weekend. I will be painting.
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