Treasures in the Attic -- Your Memoirs

The Squirrel Whisperer © by adrian Episode two: Peanuts Part 1 of 2

2008-02-17T17:23:00.000-08:00

I get on the subway car, sit down and put my hand into my jacket pocket. Just another kid, really. I’m almost thirteen years old and no one has even noticed me come into the car. Not yet, anyway. I reach further into my pocket and scoop my hand underneath the warm little fur ball I find there. I pull it out of my pocket and the ball of fur I’m now holding in my hand begins to stir. The little grey squirrel I’ve named Peanuts, who accompanies me almost everywhere, drowsily looks up at me and yawns.

We met a year and a half ago, and have been inseparable ever since.

I'm playing on my porch one day in early Spring, and across the street from me I hear a commotion and know something is definitely wrong in the local animal kingdom. Just down the street I locate the cause of the ruckus.

Three baby squirrels are huddled together in the corner of a porch roof, and a large grey squirrel with huge teats is fighting with a fourth baby squirrel. She's chasing him off the roof, squawking and being very aggressive towards him. He crawls back up, wailing all the while, and she attacks him again. It seems that she's trying to kill him.

If you have read my story titled, "My Mother, the Sister", you will understand how easy it was for me to immediately identify with this baby squirrel. What I saw happening was not a mystery to me. This squirrel's mother, for whatever reason, did not want the little fellow around anymore. The others were obviously not being threatened by her right now, this was exclusively between him and her, and the others knew it. After his fourth time of being chased and thrown from the roof by his mother, I intervened. I went over and hesitantly picked him up off the ground. I had no idea if he would bite me, or if the mother would attack me now. She was in a hysterical rage, and I realized very unpredictable. Well, the mother instantly stopped squawking, calmly walked over to the remaining litter, called at them, and they followed her around the corner of the roof, and out of sight. The little guy just stared at me. I didn't know if he was frightened or not, but at the time I felt he definitely knew that whatever was going to happen, was going to be a hell of a lot better than what had just happened.

I decided immediately that he would be my pet, we would be motherless buddies together. From this moment on, it was going to be him and me behind the tree. I would teach him to be strong, and he would teach me the squirrels' secret ways. He would show me the proper way to bury and hoard, so that everywhere we went all we would need to do is scratch the ground and there would be the possibility of discovering buried treasure under our feet. We would fly from tree to tree together, and take on the world...

Then I remembered I was late for dinner.

This realization presented itself rather urgently, because with that thought, I remembered that I also had a set of parents. I knew it would be pretty hard to sneak to the dinner table without someone noticing this new addition, and that they were probably going to play a figural role in any possibility of my being able to keep and care for this guy. There was something else I couldn't quite put my finger on, and then it dawned on me. I already had a pet. I was currently responsible for a five year old beagle dog named Towser whose full time hobby, (I'm sure he thought of it as a vocation,) was chasing squirrels.

I figured through stealth, cajoling, or promising to put out the coal furnace ashes for a month next winter, I might be able to sway the parents. I did, however, have some misgiving about my ability to convince Towser that this squirrel was not to be chased, and would be living in the house, just like him. I felt that no matter how upbeat and positively I tried to explain that to him, it was going to be a tough sell. I foresaw that I had a long night ahead of me.

As soon as I entered the house, Towser knew my secret. He ran towards me and jumped up, gaily barking. He knew I had brought him a treat that was better than anything I had ever given him before. Finally, he would have his very own squirrel to maul. He knew the other dogs on the block would be so envious of him.

I held my new ward above my head and called for someone to help pull Towser off me. One of my sisters rushed to my aid and pulled Towser back. The hallway we were in quickly filled, because added to this mix of dog, sister, squirrel and me, the parents rushed into the hallway to see what the commotion was. Their hysterical yelling along with the barking of the dog was quite a combination. I had single handedly pulled off the biggest family shit disturb of this month, and I wondered if the little fellow I was still holding above my head was reconsidering his options.

It didn't come about easily, but eventually the parents forgo their determined resistance and agree to let me try to look after him. We acknowledge that Towser will be a huge disadvantage to the squirrels well being, but I convince them I will be able to train him to look the other way when the squirrel is around.

I am the youngest in the family, but because I am a boy and must be kept away from my three older sisters as much as possible in order to protect my morals, I have always had my own bedroom. It's negotiated that as long as I keep my bedroom door closed whenever I'm at school or not at home, the squirrel can live in my room with me until he is old enough to fend for himself and be set free.

I name my new companion Peanuts.

The Squirrel Whisperer © by adrian Episode two: Peanuts Part 2 of 2

2008-02-17T17:10:00.000-08:00

Checking at the library determines that Peanuts is probably between six to eight weeks old. He did have his fur, but not a full coat yet. He still didn't know what to do with solid food, (nuts or whatever,) so I mostly fed him from an eyedropper or gave him mashed up food or peanut butter I would spread on the end of my finger. He would lick it off, or gently nibble my finger to get at it. I got a huge box and placed tree branches, bits of cloth and hamster wood shavings in it so that he would have a room of his own. After a few days he dismissed the idea of his own area and decided to always get on the bed with me whenever I was in my room. I would put him in his box at night when it was time for lights out, but in a few minutes I would feel him crawling up the side of the bed and then he would snuggle up to me. He quickly got into the habit of curling up at my neck and sleeping in bed with me every night.

After a few weeks, we started to stumble through a form of semi satisfactory communication. Peanuts would make little grunting or what sounded like chirping noises when he wanted or needed any attention, and he started to come to me when I called him. Towser, of course was not amused by any of this. Amazingly though, Towser did quickly soften to Peanut's presence. Sometimes when Towser would go and lie down on his doggie bed Peanuts would march over to him and curl up on Towser's stomach and go to sleep. If Towser had ever been able to learn how to use a can opener, so that he could feed himself, I'm sure he would never have put up with such indignity. Peanuts simply became part of the household.

I soon started to take Peanuts outside to the backyard. He was still too young to look after himself, but I wanted him to at least have a sense of the outdoors. I never had any intention of keeping him permanently as an indoor pet, and felt he would go free as soon as he was more mature. I always assumed that when he was free to roam, he would drop by for visits on occasion if he felt like it.

About a month after I started living with him, he had his first attack. I realized he was sick, and at the time, I thought he was dying. Perhaps this explained why his mother had been trying to get rid of him.

Some squirrels have an illness with symptoms that seem to be similar to epilepsy. They occasionally have seizures where they go completely rigid and/or tremble, and stay in that state for a few minutes whenever this occurs. Peanuts was afflicted with this illness.

The Secord Animal Clinic was near Ramsden Park on Yonge Street in Toronto, close to where I lived. The doctor's name was Alan Secord, and over time I became very indebted to him. I took Peanuts there right after his first attack. Naturally I was scared and had no idea what was wrong with him. Because I was eleven years old, I had no money. When I explained that to Dr. Alan, as he became known to me, he said it didn't matter, and he would do what he could to help. I don't remember if he gave Peanuts any medication, but he certainly gave me hope that Peanuts was generally healthy, except for this flaw. During the year and a half that Peanuts and I were together, he had about six more seizures, and Dr. Alan ministered to him without ever charging me a penny.

Back on the home front, on one of our ventures in the back yard, his mother came into the yard. Of course, I had no idea what to expect (that seems to be a constant theme in my life, even back then).

If you don't know much about squirrels, you might find it hard to believe they are individually identifiable, but they definitely are. In a city environment as they run frantically about, that fact might be hard to accept, but they all do have their very own discernable personality traits. Apart from looks they definitely interact with the world as individuals. The way they forage, approach, squawk or even flick their tail, makes them easy to identify.

I offered his mother a nut and she came closer to us. She totally ignored Peanuts, and he ignored her. Of course I was relieved. When I first saw her I thought she would either attack him again, or he would go off with her. Over the next few months, whenever she came by, I would stand in the middle of the yard with Peanuts on my shoulder, and I trained her to jump from the fence to my other shoulder to get a treat. She would sit there and eat it and then the two of them would run up and down my back and around my torso and sort of play with each other. In those interludes, I was their scratching post and tree trunk.

At various times during the next year and a half I would leave Peanuts alone in the yard in the belief that he was ready to go out on his own. He would run and play in the trees, sometimes even with his mother and then when he had enough, he would come to the back door and lie down or just sit there until I let him in. He would scamper in, and run past me up to our room. Towser would watch, and I'm sure he wondered how everything could have gone so wrong in his life.

If I took him to the park and put him down, he would follow along, just like we were going for a walk together. When he got tired, he would squawk and I would wait for him to jump up on my leg and then I would pick him up and put him in my jacket pocket where he would curl up and go to sleep.

Back in the Subway car, I put Peanuts on the window sill behind us and he romps back and forth while a crowd gathers around. Not surprisingly, people are excited, amazed, and have many questions. When we arrive near our stop I call him to come to me and pick him up and slip him back in my pocket. He will quickly nod off to sleep, and I leave the car full of childhood feelings of importance.

About a year and a half after I rescued him, Peanuts had a final seizure and died. I was devastated, but I had always known that sooner or later he would be gone. It's the price you have to pay if you befriend animals from the wild. We had a wondrous and magical time together, and I learned almost all the secrets of the squirrels from him. Little did I know then that I would need to call on those secrets later on as other squirrels passed through my life.

Your Memoirs

2008-02-04T03:33:00.000-08:00

Dear Allyson,
It's Monday morning, and the first thing I did was to get on your blog. I do have problem with getting into your program but
with Walt's help I manage. Waiting for your response to my note.
Jane

My Birthday. 2007.

2007-12-23T09:15:00.000-08:00

My Birthday.

This year my birthday claimed world wide attention. It appeared to me that every time I read a newspaper, turned on the radio or the television, someone was talking about it. They were referring to the fact, that throughout most of the universe, this date was revered and cherished.

Well, if it is such a momentous and lucky date, why wasn’t anybody happy when I arrived, and, as far as I can understand, my birth was treated as a disaster by the my whole family?

Over the years my mother never tired of telling me, that when she gave birth to my sister - several years previously - she had suffered through such a terrible pregnancy, extreme nausea for the entire nine months and several days of dreadful labour, so she had decided she never wanted to repeat this agony. It was only after incessant pleading letters from her mother, in England, - my parents were living in South Africa at that time - begging her not to have an only child, she eventually, reluctantly agreed. Carrying me, she once more suffered the indignities of a horrendous nine months of vomiting, and an even worse delivery - so she definitely wasn’t happy. Also, to make things worse, (I am just repeating what was told to me ) there was a fairground outside the hospital, and the carousel played, non-stop of course - Happy Days are Here Again.

Things were no better for my father as he had set his heart on a son, so after he took one disappointed look at me, described as dark and wrinkled and noticed that I didn’t have the required appendage, he sent off a cable (these were the days of very difficult international telephonic communication) to the families in England saying Another Bloody Girl. My parents used to repeat these stories to me often, with obviously no concern for my young psyche.

The only other member of this family was my afore-mentioned sister. She too had an auspicious birthday, she was a New Year’s Day baby, and as far as she was concerned, my arrival was definitely not good news. She had been the adored, pampered, precocious spoiled apple of our parents collective eyes, - the only grandchild and niece for my mother’s large enthusiastic family, and was the only granddaughter on the paternal side. She always knew how to use her feminine wiles and charming personality to get exactly what she wanted. She was smart enough not to voice her displeasure when I moved in, however, and it took a while for my parents to figure out that, when she cooed and leant over my cot or crib and said “What a lovely baby, my dear little sister”, and I would scream in agony or terror, she was actually busy pinching or scratching me. But eventually the bruises, marks and scars would reveal that it wasn’t just that I was a cranky infant - I was suffering at the hands of my sister.

So this year my birthday ,the 7th day of the 7th month - regarded by most cultures as a very fortuitous sign -and was selected by millions of brides around the world as the happiest day to get married that is because this year was 07/07/07 - it was quite momentous for me, too, as this year I turned 77!!

.

Another Christmas, Hurrah

2007-12-22T09:05:00.000-08:00

Another Christmas, Hurrah

I’m about to embark on another Christmas with Mr. Wonderful and his seasonal joy. For the next few weeks I’ll hear his annual protestations:

Why are you buying the grandkids so many gifts? You give them stuff all year long.
Not shortbread again! Do you realize how many calories they have?
You’re not decorating the stair rail, are you? It takes forever to put that stuff away after Christmas.
Oh no, please not the Santa collection. How many do you have now, about three hundred?
I don’t think we need a tree this year. The kids are getting pretty old and it’s so much work for such a short time.

When he complained about the problems involved with cutting the bottom off a fresh tree and how the holder leaked water and Tree Fresh on the carpet I gave in and bought a huge artificial one with lights already wound around the metal branches and silver sparkle dust glued on the greenery. It comes apart in three sections but John keeps it set up in the basement all year round. I try to hide its hulking form under bed sheets so there will be an element of surprise in December.

I wish I could hide my Christmas shopping bills from him but it’s no use. He tracks me with his own brand of radar. Every day he sits in his office in front of the computer and it’s tuned into VISA Central. He can see every store I’ve been in and Ka-ching…how much I have spent.

We used to have an annual Christmas Open House a week before the twenty-fifth but he was never happy about it. While I baked special treats and delicious dips he sulked around the house, not speaking unless it was to complain about why we were inviting certain people. “We haven’t spoken to them for a couple of years. Why are they coming? You know he drinks like a fish.” One year a guest took off with John’s toe rubbers and left a pair, two sizes smaller. It took John about fifteen minutes of struggling to get his size eleven brogues in a size nine before he realized what must have happened.

That wasn’t a great party because when he wasn’t bar tending he was jockeying cars around in the driveway to let the early arrivers out before the late comers were ready to leave. One lady had us go through the pile of coats on our bed looking for her cashmere lined leather gloves. We never did find them but she kept saying they would probably show up the next day. I swore to myself that if they did, I’d run them through the garburator.

I’ve had to give up our Open House since the fire. I was toasting almonds under the broiler and the oil in them ignited and burst into flame. I called John to help but he just stood there and told me the fire would go out itself, so I called the fire department. I stressed to them that there was no emergency but my oven was on fire. I asked if they thought the fire could burn through the back of the stove and set the kitchen aflame. When I think about it now, I realize that no sensible fire fighter is going to sit on the phone and debate the likelihood of my house burning down or not. The line went dead and in five minutes we heard sirens on the street. John glared at me and said, “Now you’ve done it. Those guys are going to come in here with their big boots on.” I said, “Well you can’t ask fire fighters to take off their boots.” Sure enough, they came in and dragged our stove outside where a small crowd of curious neighbours gathered to watch as the appliance smoldered away in our driveway. Then we had to figure out how to get it back inside before the evening festivities.

I’ve given up a lot of things for John:
He thought the artificial snow on the windows was too messy.
No outdoor holiday lights for us. It’s too cold to hang them and half the bulbs are broken anyway. That’s okay though. He was so frugal about the electricity, he set the timer to come on at 9pm and off at 10pm. One year I didn’t make it out in that hour and missed the cheery display altogether.

By now I’m sure you can guess how he feels about a showy, crimson poinsettia plant. “It’ll be dead in a month. Why get one?”

Last December I saw a display of real live mistletoe in a flower shop window. I couldn’t resist buying some. That night when John came home from work I tried to kiss him. He looked up at the doorframe and said, “What did that set you back?”

I celebrate Christmas as best as I can but it’s not easy with my husband. He’s sure no Jimmy Stewart. If you ever hear a bell ring in our house on Christmas Eve, you can be sure it’s not an angel getting his wings; it’s only our doorbell.

Mr. Wonderful does have “wonderful” qualities at other times of the year but
honestly, I don’t know how a Christmas loving girl, got stuck with a man who runs stiff competition with Ebenezer Scrooge in December.

Special note:
In case you are moved to tears for my eccetric husband and his complaining wife, I'd like to say that he is not upset and really enjoyed being the star of my story.

From Austerity to a Different World, by Sonia Goodman

2007-12-21T10:44:00.000-08:00

It all started because my sister had a boyfriend that they didn’t like. There were constant arguments in the family on this topic. My father thought there was only one way in life - his way - and my mother had learned to go along with this, but my sister, recently demobbed from the Wrens, had lived an independent and dangerous life, installing RADAR on ships, and felt that she was old enough, and wise enough, to make her own choices.

Along came a solution, at least to temporarily let some of the steam out of the pressure cooker of family tensions, in the form of my father’s sister, Aunt Becky, who was living in South Africa. “Send Riva over to stay with me for a few weeks, it will be a lovely holiday for her, and my two sons have tons of friends, she will have a good time, and hopefully she will ‘get over’ this man,” she said. My sister was less than pleased but she eventually begrudgingly agreed to go, “But I will soon be back, and I will lead my own life.”

My mother always told me that Riva left without saying goodbye - but my sister denies this - anyway she did leave, destination Durban, in a flying-boat! This was in 1946, just after the armistice, and the austerity and deprivations were even more stringent than during wartime. This was a really difficult time in Britain as the spirit that had kept everyone buoyed up and patriotic in the war years had gone, and the reality was that food was even scarcer, people were trying to get jobs and attempting to find their place in this new society, and the families, confused and strangers to each other, were trying to settle down and learn to live together again. So this trip to a foreign country, one more or less untouched by conflict, sounded amazingly exciting to me, but I wasn’t really consulted in this drama - too young I suppose - so I was just an interested onlooker.

My sister’s journey was supposed to start in Southampton, but a large Victory Parade was going on in London at that time, and it was doubtful that she could have got down to the coast in time. So she was able to board a plane to Cairo, almost totally filled with young RAF men who were being sent to train as pilots in Rhodesia (Zimbabwe today). There was some delay with the plane so they were ‘billeted’ in the famous Shepherd’s Hotel in Cairo and she spent 3 days in unaccustomed luxury there, visiting the country clubs and generally being feted, before finally boarding the flying-boat. Many stopovers were necessary as the fuel tanks were small, and one day she landed on Lake Victoria. The plane had to fly very low so game-watching was a delightful pastime, and the contrast to the life left behind was overwhelming.

Over in South Africa my aunt was busy making plans, looking over all her sons’ friends and deciding which one would be most suitable to distract a young woman from her love, and perhaps offer her another choice. Many of these young men had volunteered and served in the forces, army, air force and navy, they, too, were recently demobbed and ready to begin a new life, presumably with a new wife! My cousins, Cyril and Leon, were both very popular and their small home was always packed with these handsome young men, full of life, good health and testosterone. A reluctant Cyril, being the elder son and one year older than my sister, was told that he had to travel to Durban by train to meet her and bring her back, and then his obligations would be over. He was not looking forward to the journey down, but he was even more displeased about having to spend several days staying with family friends and then travelling back with a stranger. (Well, not a complete stranger as they had played as children when we still lived in South Africa - I think Riva was 6 and Cyril 7 the last time they had seen each other. At that time they used to go to the bioscope (cinema) to see cowboy and Indian serial films, and when reenacting these, Riva was always the heroine. Cyril made sure he was the handsome cowboy and therefore his younger brother Leon had to take the part of the villain. The perks of this arrangement were that the hero always saved the girl, and was rewarded with a thank-you kiss!) She was, Cyril decided on the way to Durban, obviously going to be grumpy and bad-tempered and longing for her boyfriend back in London, and worse, Cyril had to leave his current girlfriend behind whilst off on this family mission, so he was not very happy with this arrangement.

Back in London my parents and I were waiting anxiously to hear how things were going, my aunt telling us about a series of parties she was planning to throw to give Riva a good time, and to introduce her to Johannesburg’s finest young men. Well, it didn’t quite work out that way! Since I wasn’t there and don’t know what happened, I can only report that by the time that Cyril brought Riva back to his home, they had fallen madly in love, and he had no intention of letting anyone else even meet her!

Within a few days there was talk of marriage and my parents were bewildered and stunned - “Who would ever marry a first cousin? And how did this all happen, so fast?” Hurried talks were scheduled with doctors, who assured them that there was nothing wrong with first cousins marrying, as long as there wasn’t any major hereditary illness, and also it was safer if they weren’t sisters’ children. And then it seemed that everyone we knew had married their first cousin - our neighbours, my parents' friends - the list grew every day.

So now the wedding was scheduled for 10th November 1946, and, naturally, my parents and I were expected to be there. My father’s business was with Government surplus goods, e.g., coats, uniforms, boots and in fact anything that was no longer required. He had a factory that mended, remade and did whatever was necessary to these items, and they were then shipped out all over the world. It was very difficult to find any transport at that time, so my father had to use all his contacts and connections to find a way to convey us over to Johannesburg - but he was eventually successful, my mother and I would fly and he would follow, just before the wedding. There was a flurry of activity, my mother begging her siblings, or anyone she knew, for clothing coupons for me, as I had just left school and grown alarmingly tall, and literally had nothing to wear. Eventually she had enough to buy me two austerity dresses, and I thought I was a princess! The excitement grew - we were leaving cold, dark (we were always having power cuts), depressed London and we were off on this wonderful adventure. The plane we left on was a converted York bomber, seating 12, and as these planes could only fly during the day because they didn’t have landing equipment for night-time flying and they then had to refuel for the next leg of the flight, the journey was incredibly long, 5 days. We were scheduled to stop at Marseilles, Cairo, Khartoum, Salisbury and finally land at Palmietfontein airport, just outside Johannesburg.

The bomber wasn’t pressurised, had very hard seats, with no room for my long skinny legs, and a vent directed hot air onto my neck. So this wonderful trip to paradise turned to hell - I was horribly air-sick before we had even reached our first destination, and from then on everything was a blur. I remember beseeching my mother to leave me behind at every stop as I retched for the whole journey. There were no pills or remedies in those days, and I grew weaker and weaker. The nights were blessed relief, staying in hotels in these exotic stops, but it still felt as if we were flying and I was absolutely miserable (on reflection, it couldn’t have been much fun for my mother either!). In Cairo we were taken in open trucks, like the ones used for cattle, and there was such anti-British feeling at that time that everyone passing would spit at us and throw stones. I have vague memories of the pyramids and the Sphinkies (I remember that is how they referred to the Sphinx) and the red-fezzed men with their white long coats and red sashes - I think in Khartoum - but after what seemed like an eternity we arrived in South Africa into the arms of our waiting family.

All I wanted was to lie still, and did so for about 2 weeks, with my aunt trying to tempt my non-existent appetite with grapes, lichis, and various tropical delicacies that I had never heard of, and definitely never seen. When I finally mustered enough strength to look outside I was nearly blinded! The sky was the brightest blue I had ever seen, the sun was pouring down, the trees were covered in blossoms - the marvellous jacarandas with their huge purple/mauve flowers. My whole world was now in Techicolor and the contrast from the grey, dreary, sad world I had left just days ago to this paradise was almost too much for this sheltered teenager to comprehend. It had the same wonderment that happens when you paint those special colouring books with water, and all the different colours emerge.

And all these gorgeous young men . . . I had just spent 5 years in a private British girls' school, with no boys in our lives, other than the one that lived next door and used to gather his chums and they would cheekily stare into one of our three bathrooms - all, conveniently for them, facing onto his house. I had noticed them doing this one day, rallied all the 36 girls in our house, and on a count of 3 we all covered our 3 bathroom windows with screaming, annoyed and spirited faces - and that was the end of the boys' cheap thrills! But now I was fascinated by studying this species up close. They were so different from us and it was an incredible education for this naive schoolgirl. The house next door was quite close to my aunt’s, and my cousin (not the engaged one, of course) and his buddies spent quite a lot of time looking out the window and admiring the beautiful girl next door. She had a stunning figure, wore very short shorts that showed off her perfect pair of legs, and seemed amazingly sexy. She lived there with her "mother and father and brother" - they were recent immigrants from England, the parents both hairdressers. The goddess had been left an orphan by a bombing raid and was taken into this family as their daughter - she was about 18, I think, and the boy of the family about 11. So they had opened a beauty salon nearby, and were re-establishing themselves. The mother was a typical British housewife, a little dumpy, very pleasant but ordinary, and the father was youthful looking and slim, and seemed several years his wife’s junior. The "boys" at my establishment marvelled that the husband seemed quite content with his wife, whilst living under the same roof with this object of their lust! Some weeks later my aunt saw this lady on the street, and while they were chatting about nothing in particular, she told my aunt, “Oh, by the way, my husband and I are getting divorced.” When Aunt Becky relayed this news to us all, no-one was surprised, and the ‘boys’ were vindicated in their evaluations! They assumed that the husband and the siren were finally going to team up. However, it was not quite like that - the charmer picked the frumpy mother as her partner! What a surprise and shock!

I realised then how innocent and unworldly I still was, and how much growing up was ahead of me.

(A short note: My sister married our cousin - they have 4 wonderful children, eight incredible grandchildren and recently welcomed their first great-grandson into the family. And on 10th November 2007, they celebrated their 61st wedding anniversary.)

Of Nomads and Amazons © by adrian Part 1 of 2

2007-11-30T10:26:00.000-08:00

I want you to know right off, I'm about 5 feet 9½ inches tall, I have no idea what that translates to in those other measurement number thingies that Prime Minister Trudeau bequeathed to us Canadians, but let's just say, I'm average height. I've pretty well stayed that height since my teens. When I bend over I'm a bit shorter, but when I stand up straight, I don't get any taller. I have a slim build, and since my teens I've weighed in at about 150 pounds. When I bend over, my weight doesn't change a bit.

There's something else I need to explain, but I want your help on this. You don't need to get up or anything, I'll get it myself, but I need you to believe me on this one (if not, for the sake of my story, just pretend you do). Women in general, are taller now than they used to be. In the fifties, sixties and seventies, if a woman was tall, she often stooped to minimize the impact of her height. It was rare indeed to find a woman who carried herself with the full grandeur her height would allow.

Damn, I just remembered something else. Cigarette Girls. If you're older, you might remember them. Some of you young whippersnappers might know them from old movies, or even parties. They became quite campy a few years back, so you may have seen them, or at least pictures of them. These women did tend to be a little taller than average, and often wore brightly coloured tight tunics with black fishnet stockings. Inevitably, high heeled spike shoes were added for more effect. They carried, and balanced in front of them, huge trays of cigarettes and cigars that hung from large straps that went around their necks and came down to their waists. They were hired to walk around in fancier bars selling, you guessed it, cigars and cigarettes.

When I was a puppy, I used to hang around in a bar called The Regency Towers, on Avenue Road near Bloor Street in Toronto. The legal drinking age in Ontario was twenty-one at the time. I was only twenty, but as long as you acted civilized no one ever questioned you or asked for ID in classy joints. This was a classy joint.

At that time, I was going out with my former brother-in-law's housemate. I met her when he invited me to a party at their place. She had a voracious sexual appetite and was driving him crazy with what he felt were unreasonable sexual demands. He reasoned that she might find me attractive, and I probably wouldn't think her enormous sexual appetite was something that needed to be avoided. Well, he got that right on both counts. She lived across the street from the Regency Towers and was fifteen years older than me. There is no question that lady was certainly a great experience in my life, but this is not her story. This is the story of me and my first wife, the beautiful nomadic Amazon I married.

I was sitting at a table in the Regency waiting for my girlfriend, when from behind my chair I heard a young lady walking towards me with the familiar chant of "Cigars? Cigarettes?", "Cigars? Cigarettes?".

I turned around in my chair to buy a pack (yes, I did smoke back then), and all I could see were legs. Above my head and obstructing my view of the rest of her, was the tray full of cigarettes. I could see nothing else, just legs and thighs. Unbelievably long legs, in black fishnet stockings and high heels, asking me if I wanted to buy any cigars or cigarettes. Now, I want you to know, I was a leg man back then, a true connoisseur of legs. I favour rear ends now, but at that time, I thought legs were the most beautiful body part that any women had (that was before I understood about minds). My present wife, Linda, occasionally reminds me that she doubts I've ever met a female body part I didn't think was my favourite. She does have a valid point. This though, was the most spectacular set of legs and thighs I had ever seen; lord forgive me, we called them "gams" in those days.

I remember asking those legs if they could step back a bit so I could have the pleasure of meeting their owner, and they did. She was gorgeous! Fine lovely features, slim, with long hair flowing almost to her waist, and she was about my age. I fell instantly in lust. If you have read any of my previous ruminations, you may have noticed I don't have much hesitation in being direct, and didn't back then either.

I told her I was in lust with her, that I would like to marry her, but if she couldn't make up her mind right away, then maybe we could do something else in the meantime. She said she was sorry, but she didn't go out with her customers, and if she ever did, the bar would fire her. So I explained that if that was the case, then I would never buy any cigarettes from her. I didn't, and we left it at that.

Over the next few months while we flirted with each other in the bar, I learned quite a bit about her and we became playfully friendly with each other. I discovered she was single, and didn't often have much success with men. You see, she was six feet three and one half inches tall, and also extremely independent. Most men, even the tall ones, were intimidated by her height. It seemed that everybody she met didn't quite know how to treat her. Female independence was not usually enjoyed or encouraged in days of yore either.

I have always been a great fan of strong, independent women. Among other things, it's always seemed obvious to me that if I was with a capable women, on the occasions that my brain stops working (which it does from time to time) my capable companion could guide our ship for us. I'm also fearless and not prone to intimidation. I don't mean to give you the impression that my thoughts were pure though. My god, when I was twenty I couldn't possibly ignore how good it would look on my resume if I was able to bed the tallest chick on the block. Well, I didn't bed her, but the flirting continued.

One day when I dropped into the bar she announced she was going to Europe in a few days. She planned on buying a scooter when she got there, and was going to travel around the country for a year or so. She gave me a forwarding address to write her if I wanted, and I gave her my address. We kissed each other goodbye hesitantly. This was our first kiss, and I don't think either of us thought we would ever see the other again.

Of Nomads and Amazons © by adrian Part 2 of 2

2007-11-30T10:20:00.000-08:00

A few months later I received a letter from her. She wrote that she missed me! I wrote back immediately, and we began an ongoing, increasingly intimate, communication. Seduction by mail is an easy road to travel, you don't even need to get up and wash afterwards. You can write majestic things, and they slide into the body with far more ease than the mechanics of sex allows. On the strength of our one kiss we became lovers by mail. It was extremely horny and exciting and went on until her return a year and a half later.

We got together as soon as she came back and acted like inexperienced teenagers with each other. We had consummated our relationship a hundred different ways by mail, and yet had only kissed each other once.

There was much fumbling about. It was so bad and amateurish that at one point we joked that perhaps we would have more success if we went to separate rooms and just slipped notes back and forth under the door. Eventually our bodies found their own way of communicating and we glided together. We were both very proud of ourselves, and became, as they used to say "an item".

Lord, we were a sight! As I said, women were rarely as tall as her, so when people saw us together it was cognitively difficult to understand that I was average height, and she was very tall. We were always referred to as "that lady with the really short man." I used to occasionally wear a beret, and if we were out together, I have to admit that standing beside her, with my beret on, I looked like I was about four feet tall. It was great fun; it added to our individuality as a couple, and we always enjoyed the gaping stares of others. I was way too young to be a sugar daddy, so others were forced to imagine all sorts of reasons what this gorgeous creature could see in a perceived little runt like me. It added immensely to what others thought must be my enormous sexual prowess.

We continued to enjoy being with each other, and a year or so later, we moved in together.

In 1965 we decided to move to California and look for the proverbial pot of gold at the end of the rainbow. We also hated the cold Canadian winters. As soon as we got our American immigration papers, we shipped our belongings to Monterey, California, got in our little British two-seater MGA convertible and drove off to greener pastures. Upon arrival, we rented a house in Pacific Grove, California and settled in. I started a photo-finishing company for other photographers, shot weddings and did jobs for the local Chamber of Commerce. She got a job as a switchboard operator.

California dreaming: At that time the singing duo of Sonny and Cher were just becoming famous. Cher has an average female height of about five foot six inches, but because she wore heels all the time, she always appeared to be much taller than Sonny. Whenever we went out, because of our height differences, people often mistook us for Sonny and Cher and wanted our autographs. Initially we protested and insisted we weren't them, but that just pissed people off and they would become verbally abusive. It didn't take long to figure out it was just easier to reach for our pens and get ready to sign away whenever we saw people running toward us. If you're a collector of autographs, I'd recommend you check the authenticity of any Sonny and Cher ones you might be interested in buying.

California was good for us, but that "it's cold, and it's damp" line from the Frank Sinatra song rings true. We went to be warm, and ended up unhappy with the mid California climate. After a year, it was time to move on. We still wanted warmth, so Houston, Texas became our next target. We didn't understand that although Texas is indeed warm, someone forgot to add air flow to the State, so unfortunately, breathing is rather difficult. I was also just beginning to notice that the nomadic life didn't appeal to me as much as I thought it might.

We hated Houston when we got there. It was a city that was intolerant of almost everything unusual, and we were certainly unusual. Among other oddities, I was probably one of only four people in the whole state who had a goatee. Eventually I got a job with Gittings Studios, a very upscale high society photographer. I soon became a novelty item for the rich and famous and started getting many requests to attend and photograph important functions. I was always encouraged to bring my girlfriend along. We weren't signing autographs, but we were once again in demand. During this high rolling period of success we decided it was time to make plans for marriage.

We had wedding rings inscribed with a Latin expression that roughly translates into "We can, because we think we can". In San Antonio, we found an accommodating United Church minister who agreed to remove the U.S. flag that was flown in his chapel, and he let us write our own words for the service (unusual in those days). We were married in a delightful and very private ceremony. A couple we knew joined us at the church to act as witnesses, and I had a friend from work join in to take pictures. After the service they left and we drove to Mexico for a two week honeymoon.

We eventually tired of America. In the States, it seemed that we constantly needed to explain ourselves, whereas in Canada, we found that people generally didn't care what you did as long as it didn't hinder them. Longing for this ideological freedom, we moved back to Toronto.

We didn't live happily ever after though, but we did have a great time that spanned ten exciting and wonderful years together. Over those years we both changed dramatically, me certainly more than her, (check the Image in the mirror story on my Blog) and we became incompatible. We still occasionally see each other, but long ago decided being good friends was a better deal for us than marriage.

Through all of the years that we shared a wanderlust together, her need to travel was much greater than mine, and she often went away on her own to exotic places to explore new experiences. She has spent her life searching for something. I found what I was looking for a long time ago.

Maybe it's more accurate to say that she always went out looking to find life, and I always preferred to wait and let life come and find me. It certainly always has!

Ancestors in the Attic - History Television

2007-11-14T10:47:00.000-08:00

I went to a meeting of TUGG (Toronto Ukrainian Genealogical Group) last night and Paul McGrath was the speaker. He is the resident genealogist on the History channel's Ancestors in the Attic program (Canadian Version). He said they were actively looking for stories so I thought I would post this notice for all of you interested in genealogy as well as memoir writing. Check it out at:

http://wwww.history.ca/ancestorsintheattic/story.aspx

Ruth Zaryski Jackson

Ruth Zaryski Jackson's story accepted for anthology

2007-11-12T12:04:00.000-08:00

Ruth Zaryski Jackson, who has taken part in my online courses, received news today that her submission to the Hidden Brook Press anthology on "Grandmothers" has been accepted for publication.

The photo that accompanied her story appears above.

Congratulations, Ruth!

Memoir: Mania's Wish, by Jane Boruszewski

2007-11-09T06:56:00.000-08:00

Christmas was nearing and eight-year-old Mania had a wish. She wanted a Polish Christmas in Siberia. Soon she was obsessed with the unrealistic dream and she even made a plan to help it come true. The plan covered ways of getting extra food and splitting logs, and a tree with decorations. How was she to get these precious things while living in a poverty of the lowest kind?
Until now she had paid very little attention to the old trunk with belongings standing underneath the only window in the one-room shelter. But suddenly she not only looked into it but also kept dreaming of things inside of it. Things brought from Poland.
One morning she watched Mama eating her breakfast across the old table. Mama ate her piece of bread very slowly, washing it down with a black “coffee.” It was hot water darkened by burned bread pounded into a powder. As soon as Stas was done with his meager portion of bread, Mama pushed her unfinished slice toward him. Stas was Mania’s little brother. He snatched and wolfed down the bread. Normally Mania would be mad at the selfishness of the boy who should have known that Mama needed to eat too. But today she was preoccupied with her own special thoughts to care.
“Mama, can we talk?” she asked in a slightly trembling voice.
“What about?” Mama was in hurry to be done with the meal, Mania knew. Mama had to walk Stas to his sitter and then go to work in the forest where she and Tata cut trees all day for Russians.
“Some of our people exchange things for food with Russian women,” Mania said, and Mama nodded. “Christmas is coming, but we have nothing to celebrate it with. So, please, Mama, exchange something nice you have in the trunk for food.”
“I wish we had things to spare, but – but we need all of our eiderdown beddings and clothes to keep us from freezing at nights.”
“How about the lacy white shawl? You can’t wear it to work.”
“Your grandma gave it to me just before the war, and that’s the only thing I have to remember her by.”
But Mania wouldn’t be discouraged. “Please, Mama.” Mama shook her head but there were two lines between her eyes, getting deeper. Mania smiled at the bottom of her emptied cup. Mama was thinking about the exchanging something, and that was as good as if she said yes. Mania then began to think of how to persuade Tata to keep her plan going.
In the evening, she set her mind and eyes on him, starting the fire in the small badly chipped built-in brick stove. “This kind of wood isn’t good for heating,” she said, squatting on the earthen floor by him. He, sitting down on the stool made by him, blew into the stove that smoked and spitted angry sparks. Mania got up and jumped up and down for warmth. “It’s always soooo cooold in here.”
Tata blew some more. “If only we had something better to burn than branches we pick off the ground on the way from work. If only Russians let us cut trees to heat our shelters, but they don’t. And we don’t want to do anything that would send us to jail.”
“The branches and sticks burn too fast to keep us warm,” said Mania, watching Tata blowing harder yet into the stove. This time he managed to make flames lick the wood. “Split logs would burn just fine.” She stopped her jumping and came closer to the fire so that she could see Tata’s reaction to her last words. But he sighed and kept on blowing some more until the wood fully caught on fire and she waited.
“You know that logs cost money which we don’t have,” he finally said, grinning at the fire burning and giving off warmth. And then he stood up. “We work for meager food alone as you know, Mania. For once-a day soup and some bread.”
“I know how you could earn some rubles,” she mumbled, getting closer to Tata and putting her arms about his waist.
“How?” he patted the top of her blond head.
“You are very good with hands,” Mama says. “You know, Marek’s uncle does house repairs for Russian women and they give him rubles. You can fix thing for them in evenings. Mania raised her eyes up to Tata’s face. “Please, Tata, please make some money to buy logs for Christmas Eve.”
“This is a huge order,” he said, pushing her gently away.
Mania let go of him and walked away into the depth of the room, grinning secretly, for somehow she knew that she would be crossing SPLIT LOGS off of her list.
The following morning, she walked to Russian school in a good mood and full of hope. It was so easy to daydream of the traditional Christmas Eve dinner she and her family had in Poland just a year ago. There was barszcz (sour soup} with mushrooms and onions, pierogies with potato, cabbage or cheese stuffing, baked fish, and marinated fish (sledzie), baskets of rolls and croissants and more all placed on the table covered with linen. The food gave out the dominating aroma of fried pieces of salted pork and onions. Mania was almost drooling when reaching the building.
“If your dream won’t …” something whispered inside of her. She shrugged the thoughts away and walked in and sat down at her desk. And then she remembered that she needed a tree. She would ask her good friend Bocian to cut her a small pine from the woods by the Irish River. She did the asking that day on the way home from school and he said yes. All that was left of her plans then were the decorations.
Mania approached her teacher one noon. “Miss Tolskowa, I want to ask you something.” The teacher nodded, biting into her sandwich, which looked heavenly delicious. It reminded Mania how hungry she always was. But she swallowed hard and continued, “You know that my cursive writing isn’t good—”
“It is not bad.”
“I want to make it perfect.” Mania’s heart pounded in her ears now. “I could practice more at home. But – but I don’t have enough paper.”
Miss Tolskowa finished her lunch and smiled, crumbling up the brown paper which had covered her sandwich. Mania wondered if there were any crumbs left inside of it that she would love to lick.
“I appreciate students who want to improve.” The woman threw the wrapper into the basket, pulled out her desk drawer and took out a huge handful of loose sheets. They were brand new and white like snow. She handed them to Mania from across the desk.
“Thank you,” Mania managed to say. She wasn’t proud of having to lie, yet couldn’t help but be happy to have the material for her decorations.
The same day and right after school, she began her special project .She started to make a paper chain, draw and color angels and clowns and cut them out, using her school colored pencils and Mama’s scissors. For two weeks she worked secretly, for she had decided to surprise her family with a tree. Her parents would provide meal and warmth. She hadn’t seen any preparations done by them so far, but she didn’t worry, believing that they worked on it on the sly like she did. But did they?
Christmas Eve came cold and snowy, but Mania was smiling while walking to school.
She was in a great mood, expecting nothing but good coming to her today.
“Our tree will look like the one we had back home,” she said into her breath steaming into freezing air. “I made so many things to put on it. It would be great if I had candles to put on its branches. But then she thought of her box with the hand-made -decorations and smiled full smile, for she already saw how her family would celebrate Polish Christmas Eve. “Tonight, we’ll be happy,” she said to the school building now before opening its big red door. The door was the only thing she liked about her Russian school.
She was grinning while sitting down at her desk too. But soon she found out that Bocian was sick, didn’t come to school, and that meant that she had no tree. Her heart sunk to the floor, but it didn’t stay down for long. She still could look forward to the good meal and the burning logs.
Later, on the way home, Mania imagined seeing her shelter full of good surprises such as a pile of split logs by the fireplace and already made pierogie dough lying on the table, waiting for Mama to fill it.
But when she walked in, she stopped breathing for while because there was nothing, not a sign of her parents’ preparation for the traditional meal. Bunks were unmade as usual and the floor begged to be swept. There was not even a stick of wood to be burned in the fireplace full of cold gray ashes. Mania swallowed a hard lump coming up her throat, dropping her books to the floor. Silent tears fogged up her eyes. “I’m foolish and I hate myself for thinking that I can have a Polish Christmas in Siberia,” she whispered into the silence of the room, shaking her shoulders and sobbing.
She walked to her bunk and pulled out the box with the decorations from under it. Squatting by it she hissed, “I will start the fire with one of my school books and burn you in it. I will, I will,” she repeated, but did not move from the spot. Without even knowing it, she slid the box back under the bunk.
Still in her outdoor wraps she climbed onto it and lay there crying even harder until finally she fell asleep. When her parents and Stas returned home, they awoke her. She got up but said not a word to anyone until Mama had made soup that was much thicker and tastier than usual.
Tata started the fire in the oven, which warmed up the room, making it possible to remove her coat and hat. She noticed that there was extra firewood piled up now on the floor and knew that it would last at least an hour longer than usual. The soup and the fire crackling warmed up Mania’s heart and turned her thoughts to Stas. He was now licking his stupid empty bowl. In the light of kerosene lamp she saw how thin and pale he was. Something painful stirred in her chest. Did her little brother remember Poland? Did he think of the past happy Christmases? She now felt guilty and ashamed for sulking. What could she do to make it up to her parents and Stas? She could kneel down on the floor and pray for a miracle, so that God returned her and them home even if it was just for Christmas. But she realized that her prayers would be said for nothing. Thus, she just sat there thinking, thinking, thinking.
Suddenly she knew! She bounded for the box of decorations, pulled it out for the second time today. Smiling, she placed it on the table in front of Stas. With widened eyes he stared at it without moving, and she knew why. For weeks she had kept the box away from him, threatening to hit him if he as much as touched her decorations or told their parents about it. But tonight she pushed the box toward him and sang out, “Play, play, play.”
He turned the box upside down and spilled the decorations all over the table. He made angels fly above his head. “Wee, weee, weeee. Swooooosh.” Then he ordered clowns to jump up and down. “He, hee, heeee. Ha, ha, ha.” After he wrapped his head with the chain, Mania picked up an angel and made it fly. Mama and Tata chose clowns and made them laugh. Soon everyone was giggling and laughing. When Mama started to hum a Christmas carol, the whole family began to sing. The caroling brought out vivid scenes from the happy past and filled the dreary room with joy. The joy of remembering. It flooded Mania’s heart with warmth and good feeling which comes from giving, receiving and sharing.
And it was almost as if Mania’s dream of having a polish Christmas Eve, in Siberia, came true.

From Bernie: WALRUS Club - 2

2007-11-05T10:37:00.000-08:00

WALRUS CLUB - 2

Hello again to you all!

This is a follow-up to my first article on the above topic, which I posted on August 24, 07 in the "Treasures in the Attic" blog. We started our writing club in July and have been meeting roughly every 3 weeks for about 3 months now. (We meet in Sonia's spacious and sunny condo - she spoils us with wonderful goodies to eat and drink, including fruit compote when I last checked, but that's another story! Many thanks, Sonia - we never take you for granted!!!)

We still have our original 5 great members and excellent attendances. We all have different goals, skills, personalities, backgrounds and experiences, which makes for a high level of interest, motivation and synergy (1+1+1+1+1 = 6!) As we get to know and trust each other more, we tend to be more open and honest with each other. We haven't even come to blows...REALLY!

Talking of motivation, 2 of our members attended a one-night "Writer-in-Residence" seminar and another member is now doing Allyson's advanced course.

In summary, we think our club is a very worthwhile and enjoyable institution and there's no royalty involved if anyone out there would like to emulate the concept!!! (We have even been known to work "overtime" when we're on a roll...)

"Many thanks again" go out to Allyson and Sonia for inspiration and hostessing of the highest order respectively.

Sincerely, Bernie.

Kory Shillam Self-Publishes!

2007-11-05T08:43:00.001-08:00

Two-time former online course participant Kory Shillam, 90, has self-published a children's novel based on some of her memoirs (see cover above).

Says Kory: "Under the Lilacs began as a story for young people, but by the time it was finished I discovered that people of all ages enjoyed its humour and pathos. The book, which was originally written as two novellas, is presented in two parts beginning in 1929 and ending in 1932.

The story is about Milly and her little brother, Freddie, who live with their mother in Kitsilano, a portion of Vancouver. Milly is desperate to find her father whom she has never seen. Her life becomes even more complicated when the man in the felt hat moves into the house next door. The two story parts take Milly from age thirteen to sixteen."

My recent interview with Kory on her self-publishing experience is part of my advanced online workshop.

The book will be available in mid- to late November. To purchase a copy of Under the Lilacs ($21.95) from the author, please contact her at the following email address:

underthelilacs@shaw.ca

Chris Hazelgrove Does It Again

2007-10-13T15:03:00.001-07:00

Some of you will remember former online course participant Chris Hazelgrove. Chris lives in England, and while she was a member of my workshop, entered a Canadian writing contest and came in in the top 10 of 400 entrants. She subsequently entered a writing contest back in England, and won that. And now, she's done it again: come in second in a BBC-sponsored writing contest!

Chris posted a message here on Treasures in the Attic after her last win, encouraging aspiring writers to look for contests and similar opportunities to write toward a goal. She's proof that it's worth the effort.

You can read her latest work of short fiction (based on memoir) on the BBC Southern Counties Radio site, by clicking "End of Summer by Chris Hazelgrove" under Links. Here's what she has to say about it:

Yes -- 'tis part of the Guildford Book Festival, various components of which are sponsored by BBC (Southern Radio) or other august bodies. The writing 'stars' of their firmament are considerable, so I feel particularly buoyant about this. And haven't they presented the story beautifully, with that picture of a lone child on the beach?

It HAS taken me about five years so far learning the craft of writing through courses, books and application, but once the nuts and bolts are learned I found i became far more fluent and found it more gratifying. My debt to you is enormous; thank you SO much for the encouragement you gave me.

There are loads of contests about, but I suspect many organisations are just in it for the entry fee and then choose a friend as winner -- in fact met someone who runs just such a website! DO encourage your wonderful group to go for the Big Ones! What is there to lose -- and you might just be what they are looking for.

If you'd like to send a comment to Chris about her story, please email it to me at lattamemoirs@gmail.com and I'll be happy to forward it on to her.

Memoir: I was ..., by SisTeam

2007-10-03T10:33:00.000-07:00

I was thinking about my mother in the early morning hours after her birthday had passed without celebration for the third time. I was feeling a little blue, saddened by the thought that I never got the chance to be a real daughter to her … whatever that meant. I was filled with regret that life, living and circumstance had forced me to be so many things to her, but a real daughter?

I began to daydream, (a skill my grandmother, her mother, taught me to use and appreciate when I was just a little girl) about what being her real daughter would have felt like, might have been like between her and I.

And then these incredible thoughts began to pour, gush, force their way out of me, cathartic and insightful … and in free verse! From some source so deep inside me it could only be from the soul they came surging, rushing, demanding to be recorded. And when done I finally understood, and am so grateful for this writing … this gift.
_____

I was her surrogate when she had to work, nanny, babysitter, the one ‘in charge’.
I was her ego when her esteem stumbled; she was so beautiful.
I was her groomer, perched on the back of the sofa; 100 strokes.
I was her cook, confidant, maid, errand girl and fan.

I was her weapon, her assassin when she could not take the killing shot to make way for a better life.
I was her burden, her guilt and humiliation.
I was her scapegoat, foe and challenger.
I was her spy, stool pigeon, and snitch.

I was her whipping boy, her brute, and tyrant.
I was her bully when she needed to get her way but couldn’t bear the blame, the shame.
I was her chauffeur and her conscience
I was her nurse, her alchemist and coach.

I was her messenger, her dark angel of bad news, sad news, and harsh words.
I was her mediator and go between, her sounding board and hostess.
I was her vicarious existence, her connection to a life envied and desired.
I was her stooge, her ear to hidden truths, secrets shared.

I was her muse and her music; I made her tea.
I was her teacher, wisdom and wanderer.
I was her caregiver, comfort, friend and pal.
I was her truth, her student; innocence destroyed.

I was her voice, creativity, and joy.
I was her warrior, her light, sun, moon and stars.
I was her eyes, her vision and view of inner and outer worlds.
I was her interpreter and cultural monitor

I was her harbour, keeping her safe from the ravages of her own doing.
I was her servant, tutor and counselor
I was the benefactor early ethics, scruples, and values before life wore her down.
I was her brave girl, “too stupid to be afraid of anything”.

I was her “sweet little klutz”, uncoordinated, gangly, morbidly shy.
I was her tempo and temperament.
I was her moral compass and code.
I was her champion, negotiator, solver of disputes.

I was her smoother and soother, her laughter and clown.
I was her unwitting accomplice, her fawn.
I was her partner in crime, her provoker.
I was her ambition, her justice and peace.

I was her intimate, one source of her powerful love.
I was her cup and sponge, catching and absorbing rare tears.
I was her magic, her pathway, adventurer and seeker
I was her guardian, her focus, her hands.

I was her companion in sadness, joy and mischief; in bewilderment, confusion and despair; in celebration and awe
I was her link to things mysterious and spiritual;
I was the one who placed her in the ground.
I was the vehicle for her leaving on a beautiful song.

A Legacy of Lines, by Dolores Kivi

2007-09-18T17:38:00.002-07:00

This article was written by columnist and memoir course participant Dolores Kivi and published in the December 2006 edition of the Thunder Bay Chronicle-Journal. Click on the image to enlarge.

Marathon Man

2007-09-13T09:32:00.000-07:00

Marathon Man

Tracy and Peter’s first “baby” was covered with brown curly hair, and his name was “Courtney”. John and I had offered to baby-sit him for a weekend and there was a polite list of instructions that came along with this 12-pound heart breaker and his dog food. Tracy had enlightened us on which stuffed animal her precious pet needed to sleep with, what his favourite snack was and what to say to him, “Go pee” to get him to piddle.

You can understand why I was watching over him like a mother hen when we left for the North Country on this sunny June day.

I asked John to take a detour into a field south of Elgin Mills so I could pick a bouquet of lilacs for the cottage. He wasn’t very happy with this time-wasting effort.

We left our own two little dogs in the car but brought Tracy and Peter’s cherished brown poodle and the snippers with us as we walked through the acres of grass and weeds towards the bushes.

John helped me struggle with the branches and eventually I ended up with an armload of purple blossoms. On the long stretch back to our car, we passed a rather large stand of pine trees and there seemed to be a driveway in the middle. I was curious because this was smack in the middle of nowhere so I ventured up it about 10 feet to see where it led.

Without warning, 2 ferocious pit bulls with saliva dripping from their fangs and sporting studded collars tore down the lane kicking up a cloud of dust behind them.
I envisioned them grabbing Court by the neck and shaking him until his little spinal column cracked.

All I could think about was saving his furry life so I impulsively threw my body down onto the ground over my little charge. The hackles on the backs of these monsters were standing straight up on their necks. They were growling and drooling.

My only possible salvation was John. Hopefully he had found a stick or some weapon and could fight them off his terrified wife. I looked up from the ground to see where he was. My heart nearly stopped when I spotted a tiny dot of navy blue, off in the distance. It was moving away from me about as fast as a baseball pitched by Jackie Robinson. I suddenly realized that that dot was John’s jacket and he must be in it.

As I prepared to be ripped into by these ferocious beasts I heard a stern voice command, “Off Fang, Off Killer” and then a frantic, “Leave it!” He repeated the “Leave it!” command several times, sounding more desperate with each order. Enough to make me think he wasn’t too sure this was going to work. It didn’t occur to me to be offended by the “It” comment. I had too many other concerns.

Finally the dogs heard their master but they clearly weren’t going to let me off that easily. They pranced in circles around me, stomping my lovely lilacs into the ground as they snarled and bared their ivory incisors to further panic me.

The man finally caught up with his dogs and me on my haunches.
He said, “It’s okay, they won’t hurt you. You can stand up.”
I was so anxious to get out of there but when I tried to put weight on my legs, they just quivered. It was like there were no bones, only gelatinous tissue.
“I can’t get up.”
He came over to me and helped lift me to my feet.

The dogs looked disappointed if I read their expression correctly.
Then I saw John walking nonchalantly back towards us, his hands in his pockets.
I waited impatiently for an explanation of his desertion. How could he possibly save face?

He spoke.“Don’t forget your lilacs.”

THE RATS TOOK OVER by: john Lee

2007-09-06T22:34:00.000-07:00

THE RATS TAKE OVER by John Lee

Our pig barn was taken over by rats. The finest pig barn in the township had become an embarrassing eyesore. Everyone had to know the Lee’s had rats.

Frosts had heaved the pen floors leaving open crevices for rats to hole. They removed dirt from under the foundations so the cement walls lost their plumb and leaned in all directions. As they weakened, the prevailing West winds tilted the upper story to the East; only the stout mortised timbers and roof allowed the upper -story straw loft to remain intact. The rats chose this warm- dry spot to nest their young. On the ground floor in the feed alley was a covered-over well. Unused for years it was full of rotten wood cribbing and stinking refuse, making it an ideal accommodation for pack of rats. Their diet could not be finer for along with the swine they got swill from the house, oat-barley chop and as a treat - skim milk from the cream separator.

I’ve never conquered my fear of rats. It was my duty to carry the barn lantern for my father during night chores and I was scared stiff. Often rats plunged and leaped down the feed alley. My father seemed to have made peace with them so I asked. “Why don’t you set traps, get cats, club them - do something?”

“I’ve had big Toms,” he said, “but they got chewed up. Rats learn to avoid leg traps and if caught chew their legs off, and as for clubbing ask your grandfather.”

The pig chop was in an upright piano- shipping crate. The rats entered by chewing a hole in the end side. One day, Grandpa while tending a farrowing sow heard rat squealings in the chop box so he closed it’s heavy lid and nailed a shingle over the hole. “You should have waited for help,” I said.

“I never expected the whole pack, DY’See. I clubbed them to death with the scoop shovel in just a half hour.” Then he told me how they had snarled and shrieked and bared ferocious teeth as they jumped up to bite him. He and Dad fished out fifteen of all sizes shapes and colors. The Editor of the Bradford Witness showed up when my grandparents were taking afternoon tea. “My Word, Johnny,” Grandma said as she poured, “We’re not going to advertise, are we?” They’ll say we’re dirty.”

“Dan, Charlotte’s right, what’s said is true, my words good enough, no write-up, D’Y’ See.” The deed was never recorded. My grandmother saved her pride, my grandfather added charisma.

………………………………………

My grandparents retired to Bradford in 1928 which had neither running water nor sewers at the time. Behnd their house was a small barn, not uncommon for big houses built in horse and buggy days. It contained the outhouse as well as Grandma’s henhouse which had roosts, nests and a fenced run. She had an all-purpose flock of Plymouth Rocks; pullets, layers, capons, setters and a rooster. I’ve heard that when friends came up the walk she’d rouse Johnny to stall them long enough for to get a chicken in the oven. By the time they had hung their coats, sat down and had a glass of Sherry, a burned-out layer moved from perch to pot - dumplings again. Grandpa loathed dumplings. “Smells like a chicken coop, D’Y’See.”

Nothing was too good for Grandma’s Johnny. She combed his black curly hair and tied his tie. If she cooked him an egg, it had to be large and freshly laid so I’d be sent to get one. I was scared to death since rats infested the village chicken houses. Once while lifting a chicken a tiny warm egg slipped from her vent, Excited, I ran into the house. “My Word, Johnny, do you see this,” said Grandma.

“It’s time your pullets started to lay,” he said. Go back and lift a big hen with the reddest comb and yellowiest leg. They’re the big layers, “D’Y’see,”

“Grandpa,” I said. “I’m afraid of rats, don’t send me back again.”

“Take the scoop shovel, D’Y see, and when you come back I’ll tell story of my reputation in killing rats.

(Later in the year)

One day Grandma reached in the gunny sack to get a handful of feed wheat. A huge

long-tailed rat up her arm leaving a deep bleeding scratch from her wrist to her armpit.

She fainted dead away coming too only after the doctor worked on her. Grandma was

high strung with high blood pressure as well so it took sedatives, a case of porter and a

week of bedtime to settle her nerves. Only close family should be told. “My Word,

Johnny, we don’t hang out soiled linen.” I was privileged to be the only grandchild to see

that cruddy scab of congealed blood and iodine. I told it all over the place.

From her bed, she still refused to give up what was hers, close at hand. My grandfather

was not all that quick when it came to cleaning the stinking hen pens - once a year with

encouragement - or wakened daily by a crowing cock. Right away he sold the lot to

somebody in lower town, then pricked the doctor to spare Mrs. Lee’s nerves by telling

her - the birds must go. A few days later, a municipal bylaw was passed: No live

poultry of any kind shall be housed within Bradford’s village limits. These were

Depression years and it hurt familys badly needing meat and eggs. The village chicken

market fell apart so most of the chicken owners ate or pickled their birds, begged eggs

from country friends and grumbled, except for Grandpa who put it about, “I knew it was

coming, D’Y’See? I moved mine at the long price ages ago.”

(Years later)

I first saw third-world poverty in 1958 while working on a freighter off loading cargo in the Port of Trujillo, then the capital of the Dominican Republic. Packs of rats, dozens of them, ran up and down the wharf totally ignored by the stevedores walking among them.

I was mesmerized - shocked beyond belief. The wharf was a flim flam of warped planks resting on crooked-post pilings braced with a rickety of bamboo poles fronting sheds sided with salvaged crate lumber, patched with rusted steel roofing and rotting canvass. The warehouse roofs were a crude thatch of palm fronds and swail hay, bound to bamboo rafters with plaited grass ropes. Ugly black turkey vultures perched at the roofline, the first of their kind, I’d ever seen.

. At daybreak a cadaverous – looking crowd came begging work. Eventually, an old -model Jaguar pulled up. A fat red-faced man in a dirty- white Panama suit squeezed out, a union boss I would think. He wore large dark sunglasses with a pith helmet, cowboy boots on his feet. He was some dude! He bit and spat out the end of a cigar, lit up and faced the pushing mob. He pulled about twenty aside; then sent half on board and the rest to the wharf and warehouses. The losers silently idled away. Some of the stevedores went to the hold to load sacks in a sling net, then winched them overboard to the backpackers who lugged the sacks into the warehouses. The rats scurried about the backpacker’s feet, picking up wheat leaking from the sacking. They were almost barefoot wearing tire-tread soles thonged between their splayed toes. .

After fifteen days at sea, I longed to get off. To put in time, I recited aloud:

Great rats, small rats, lean rats, brawny rats,

Brown rats, black rats, grey rats, tawny rats

They fought the dogs and killed the cats,

And bit …………… (Voice from behind)

“The babies in their cradles - Browning, isn’t it?”

I turned and quipped, “You must be the Pied Piper?”

“Naw! I’se just the bosun, boss of the crew.”

“Where did you study Browning?”

“Kings College, Port of Spain, Trinidad.”

“ If I take a stick can I run those rats?”

“You be crazy Man! Threaten those beasts and they’d rush you. We doan vex rats and they doan vex us. It’s peaceful nowadays. The rats took over before I was born.”

“How do you know?”

“Man! --- I was born here. Wait about, I’ll get my double twelve and some bird shot.”

Back he came. I made shore without looking down. No gunshot.

(A year later)

At a seminar in Ed. Psych., a rat- psychology professor was ratting on about the

astonishing experiments with rats in stimulus- response research which had brought about

new teaching methods - Skinner’s stuff, trendy back then. Not me; I’d tried a

programmed-book package, saw it fail and chucked it. Faking profundity, I invented: “In

my opinion the research design for rat experiments is faulty because it fails factoring in

That rats are naturally smart and can think logically. Logic is not learned,

it’s already there. From your rat experiments, have you ever considered this?”

“I have never done rat experiments myself but I’ve read a lot. Have you studied rats?” he

said.

“Since I was a pup. All my life, but only in wild - only in the wild.” Then I proceeded

to tell my story about the wharf rats of Trujillo. The class was mine for the rest of the

lecture period. On my way out I felt a clap on my shoulder.

“Mr. Lee, you’re talking through your hat, but you’re a dammed fine story teller.

2007-09-03T08:27:00.000-07:00

I can't think of any easy way to tell you this, I've twisted it about in my mind for days trying to find the words that could even come close to explaining it. I can think of nothing to prepare you. You've heard the expression "horse whisperer", there was a book, followed by a movie. Well, this is so much worse. Here it is then, do with it as you will.

I am a squirrel whisperer!

Really, everything is fine, I've taken my meds today, no need to worry, it's simply not that big a deal. It just happens that's what I am. Lord knows, I didn't choose this, it's just been there all my life. I found this out when I was very young. The discovery was sort of like when your trying to explain something to someone who doesn't speak your language, there is always much gesturing and carrying on, and all of a sudden everybody "gets it". There are smiles all around, sometimes even laughter, and everybody feels good... same thing, just like that, that's exactly how it happened.

Listen to this...

I am known in the squirrel population as Big Grey, I have occasionally heard them refer to me behind muffled snickers as Big Grey Two Legs, I assure you, squirrels are not without humour.

I have lived with three different squirrels in my lifetime. If you don't understand, you may think I mean three squirrels have lived with me. You are confused, if there are squirrels in your house, apartment, or life, you live with them, not the other way round. I don't jump from branch to branch, but even lately I have spent time up ladders in trees, feeding and talking to a few of them.

This story is about Lurch. I did not live with Lurch, but we eventually became unbelievable friends.

I was cutting some wood in the backyard when I saw my bride Linda coming down the driveway. She was in obvious distress and crying. Before I could ask, she cried out, "It's Todd, he's been hit by a car." Todd was the name we had given one of the local young grey squirrels that frequent our back porch for peanut handouts. "He's lying in the middle of the road." she said. I comforted her as best I could, got some gloves and a bag and suggested we should pick him up and bury him.

We went down the block to where he lay, and I realized as we got closer it wasn't Todd, but an older grey squirrel we had never seen before. His back end had been crushed and he was still alive. I put on the gloves, went over, picked him up and put him in the bag, we then walked home with him. I didn't look at him closely until we got home. He was a mess. Not only his back, but his jaw was also damaged. My original thought was to finish him off to stop him from suffering more. In theory, that's always a good plan, but much harder to do in actual practice. However, he didn't seem to be in actual pain, just numb and in shock.

I ended up wrapping him in blankets, putting him in a container and leaving him in our garden shed for the night. It was early November, still warm, so the weather was not a factor. He was only able to lie on his side, and I went out to him frequently in the night, petted him and fed him bits of liquid food from an eyedropper. Eventually I went to bed, assuming that in the morning I would find him dead and that would be the end of it.

Next morning he was alert and still very much alive, but still only able to lie on his side.

In Toronto, and many other cities, we have an amazing volunteer animal rescue hospital that will take in injured wild animals and care for them. I arranged to bring this squirrel there. When we arrived, there were many questions about where he was found etc., because if an animal recovers they like to release them near where they originally lived. They also offered to call me and let me know if he didn't make it if I wanted, I didn't, and was done with it.

In late December during a snow storm, I looked out in the backyard and saw an old grey squirrel stumbling across my porch. I grabbed some peanuts, slipped on a jacket and went out. I crouched down to see if he would take a peanut and he looked at me for a moment and then staggered over, crawled up my pant leg and snuggled into my lap for protection from the storm. I could see that most of the fur on his back and belly had been shaved off, and what seemed to be stitches ran down his back. This squirrel looked as if he had just come back from a surgical procedure. He stayed in my lap about ten minutes, eating and warming up and then crawled off and went out into the storm.

Linda tried to convince me this had to be the same squirrel we had taken to the hospital, but I refused to believe it. The chance that squirrel had even lived was beyond possibility as far as I was concerned. I could not offer any reasonable explanation for this experience, but St. Francis of the elders didn’t fit my profile either. The next five days were bitterly cold, and we assumed a squirrel with little fur wouldn't have much chance of survival.