On the radio, Willy Nelson sang about sons growing up to be cowboys.  It sounded like a bad idea.  “No thanks”, Jason said to the car interior.  Keeping one hand at the ten position, he reached over to the CD player and hit a button.  The sound track from Dream Girls wasn’t right either, so he tried the next button.  “Hmmmm”. Finally, third time lucky, he made a choice.  “When did eighties music start to become ‘retro’?, he wondered.  The B52’s wailed out of the speakers and he settled back into position. 

The highway was busy, but moving steady.  He was driving in the right lane, just at the speed limit and in no particular hurry to get to The Clinic.  He wasn’t heading to a clinic because he was sick or anything.  In fact, if he wasn’t in great health, he wouldn’t be heading to this particular clinic at all.  This particular afternoon his destination was to hand over his sperm in a little cup so his sister’s girlfriend could have a baby.  

“Yeah, and then all live happily ever after in a well groomed Cabbagetown semi with perfect lattice work, a ‘no flyers please’ sign by the door, four recycling boxes and a well behaved bitch sleeping on the porch in the sun.”   

“Bitter much?, he laughed. 

If he was honest with himself, his sister, Janice and her other half, Linda had been together for twelve years at this point, and that was a lot longer than any of his relationships had lasted, by about eleven years, four months, if the truth be known.  Not that he didn’t want a relationship, but the right guy hadn’t come along and in the meantime, what was wrong with a little fun? 

Maybe it was the fact his older sister was going to be forty next year, but they had decided that something was ‘missing’, a child.  Now, two lesbians might be great at fixing just about anything, but even they needed a man for this one, he thought.  Jason’s little swimmers would ensure that the kid looked much like his sister (they were practically identical, although five years apart).  All he was being asked to do was to provide a few million sperm, sign away his parental rights and promise to never reveal his role in the matter.  Sounded easy. 

 “Really, Jason”, his sister had explained in her usual straight-forward way “just cut back on the sex for a little while, ok, save up a bit.  You just have to jerk off a few times in a cup. We’re doing all the hard work”.   

They had both laughed at that little ‘freudian slip’.   

“You know what I mean, smart ass!”   

She had handed him with the address of the clinic, his schedule of appointments and tests and a legal document her lawyer had put together regarding the ‘relinquishing of parental rights’, as it was politely called.  “Show up, unload and leave. No big deal” she had finished by saying. 

“Yeah, no big deal, I guess”, he replied. 

Off the highway now and onto the main road, it wasn’t more than ten minutes until he was pulling into the metered parking lot of the Campbell Fertility Clinic and looking for a nice clear spot with no cars on either side.  Parking neatly between the lines, he got out of the Volvo.  Putting on his sun glasses and checking his reflection in the driver’s door window he thought “what does one wear to an occasion like this?”  Nothing special, it seemed.  He was just wearing what he usually wore to work, a button down dress shirt, khakis and a pair of white runners.  He was lucky enough to work at a place where the dress code matched most of his wardrobe, casual and cheap. Double checking the car was locked, he headed up the stoned walkway and into the Clinic.   

As he looked around, he noticed that the main office wasn’t that big.  The waiting area consisted of half a dozen pine chairs upholstered with baby blue polyester in an L shaped pattern in the corner.  There was also the customary matching coffee table with a variety of out date magazines. In this case, with titles like  “New Baby” and “Mother” and a copy of “What to Expect When You’re Expecting”.  “Well, they’re optimistic here at least”, he thought.  Behind the reception desk worked a couple of conservatively dressed women, their eyes focused on forms and computer screens. The bell on the counter seemed unnecessary in such a small space, although he was tempted to ring it just for fun.  Walking up to the counter, the closest woman looked up and inquired politely “May I help you?”  “Yes.  My name is Jason Wilkins and I have a two o’clock appointment”, his voice trailing at bit at the end.  Looking conscientiously at the schedule on the desk she said “Yes, Mr. Wilkins, I have you right here.  You’re a little early, so if you’ll just have a seat in the waiting area, the nurse will come get you shortly”.  “Thanks”, Jason replied.  Turning to find a seat he thought “well, that was better than hearing “so, Jason, you’re here to give us some sperm, are you?” 

He grabbed a seat a comfortable distance from a couple in the corner and looked over the magazines to see if there was any of interest.  “Now where is that sperm donors, Quarterly”? the little sarcastic voice in his head grinned.  Sifting through the pile, finally settling on a reasonably benign Newsweek from last April, he settled in to wait.  The couple in the corner, most likely husband and wife based on the rings on their fingers and the way they held each others hands, talked quietly to one another.  He wondered why they were here.  ‘Plumbing’ problems, he imagined.  Maybe the husband’s not firing on all cylinders.  He’s cute though.  Did they wonder why a single guy would be sitting in a waiting room like this?  That thought didn’t make him any more comfortable and he returned his glance to the article he was barely scanning.

“Mr. Wilkins?” He looked up towards the front desk at the sound of his name, momentarily expecting to hear his Father say “Yes?”  No one ever called him Mr. Wilkins.  “I’m Nurse Choi, we’re ready for you now.  First, though, we’ll need to see some identification for our records.  You understand, of course”. “Of course”, he replied. 

He walked up to the desk, opened up his wallet and began pulling items out, searching for some decent photo ID.  He found his gym membership, two credit cards, a discount card and more than a few slips of paper with a first name and phone number … he spread them all over the counter, looking for something suitable.  Suddenly, he spotted “Randy” and smiled.   Randy Raccoon, card number A4 from the old Animal Rummy game he had as a kid.  He remembered that one particular day, he was probably barely seven and his Mom was away from the house on some errand or other. Bored and needing attention, as kids are at the age, he had come up to his Father and asked if he’d play a game.  To his surprise, his Father had said ‘sure’ and they’d played the Rummy game for hours, just the two of them, laughing.  It had been … special.  He’d won that last game with the raccoon card and afterwards, he’d taken the card from the deck and hid it in his secret treasure box.  Over the years, he had held onto it.  Now it was a ragged-edged, faded orange in his wallet.  That had been a good day, just he and his Dad. 

Nurse Choi lead him to the back of the clinic, down a beige hallway lined with pictures of drooling babys and happy mothers faces into a small, dim (or was that supposed to be relaxing) little room.  Patient Room 4, it was called.  To say it was decorated would be an insult to decorators everywhere.  It had one vinyl chair, a small side table with some magazines and a tiny lamp.  Against the wall a counter and a small sink, with sanitizing soap in a pump and various plastic containers.   

“You’ll find everything you need in here”, the nurse piped in handing him a rather intimidating large cup.  “There are magazines on the table to assist you, if you need it and soap and paper towels by the sink.  Take as much time as you like and when you’re completed, please just leave the sample in the holding tray to your left.  Good luck!”, she finished cheerily.  Closing the door, she left him to the silence of the room and the dreariness of the décor. 

Looking at the cup, which seemed to him to be large enough to fit a good sized martini, he slouched down on the stiff chair and picked up the magazines.  With titles like “Boobs” and “Vixen” he knew there wasn’t going to be much ‘help’ here.  He flipped through the magazines hoping, maybe, to spot a good looking guy, but no luck.  Maybe these guys were selected on purpose in order to make the woman look more attractive in comparison.  Either way, there wasn’t going to be any stimulus provided by those pictures.  Trying to calm his anxiety (talk about performance pressure!), he slowly undid his belt, lowered his zipper and let his mind wander hoping to find an image that might help.   

Well, there was that hottie last week who he’d met at the bar on Saturday night, killer body, but the sex had turned out to be a bit of a bust, the guy having a fetish for spanking that Jason couldn’t deliver on.  Hmm, then there was that hot Asian he’d cruised while at the grocery store the Wednesday before that. Four bags of groceries and twenty minutes later, they’d been pulling each others clothes off in the guys loft, while the Haagen-Dazs melted in the container.  “Ok, that might work” he thought. 

He tried closing his eyes and envisioning that particular erotic encounter, but it felt like recalling a dream after you’ve woken up.  Vague images, impressions, but no real clear image.  This just wasn’t working.  What was wrong?  It’s not that he wasn’t a full blooded young(ish) perpetually horny guy.  One indecent look his way at the ‘Y’ and he had to consciously control himself.  The plumbing worked just fine, but something …  maybe it was the atmosphere, not exactly conducive to hot fantasy.  Maybe it was the pressure of responsibility his sister had put him under.  Maybe it was just the thought of bringing a child into the world and severing all bounds to him or her.  It’s not like commitment had been high in his lifestyle.  His sister had known what he was like and figured that this would be the perfect solution, just another one-night stand, except in a cup.  But screwing the guy you met in the baked goods aisle was different than helping someone make a baby, and even he felt it. 

It went back to that little card, didn’t it?  Seeing it again had just reinforced all of the doubts he’d been having.  He thought of he and his Dad playing cards that afternoon.  How something so simple had made such an impact on him.  How from a child to a teenager to an adult he had held onto that card.   Held onto a memory, really, of one shining perfect moment.  So here he was, asked to bring another child into the world and being asked to forever give away any chance at their one shining perfect moment, at least with their Dad.  He looked down at the empty piece of plastic in his hand, the white child proof cap, the clear cylinder partially covered by the label reading:  

Name

Date

Best Before 

Putting down the container, zipping up and adjusting his pants, he walked out of Patient Room 4, down the hallway and back to reception. 

“Finished already? Nurse Choi asked in supressed surprise. 

“Yes.  I’m done. Thank you.  I’m afraid I won’t be making a donation today.  My sister will have to find another anonymous sperm bank.  I’m afraid it just won’t be me.” 

And with that, he walked out of the clinic.

As she emerged, her calves pulled taught and hard, as if two 300 pound sumo wrestlers were attached to her ankles and her knees and pulling in opposite directions.  The left knee, ever since that stumble late yesterday, throbbed with pain.  She hadn’t thrown up since the third day, but her stomach was still constantly in turmoil. It was the last day of a five day trek that had taken her from rainforest to moors and finally to the winter ice near the peak. Standing there in front of the tent, 5,000 feet above sea level, under a dark clear star filled sky and a full moon, she thought again about the things that had brought her here. Whatever possessed, she wondered, a fourty-four year old married woman to ever think she could climb Mount Kilimanjaro.   

That first day in Africa, staring up at the mountain that the local Masai people call the “House of God”, she had felt more alive than ever before, almost bigger than herself, as if the mountain was almost making her taller  Here they were: two stay-at-home moms, two doctors, a lawyer, an entrepreneur, a writer, a public relations executive and three others; twelve woman in total, mounting a 58-kilometre expedition to reach the summit of Kilimanjaro in Tanzania, Africa.  Together, they were part of a fundraising effort organized to raise money for the Amani Children’s Home in Tanzania, a facility that houses, feeds and teaches street kids.  Everyone seemed to be in their only private little worlds that first while, perhaps wondering, as she was, why they were truly there or perhaps just overwhelmed by the foreign sensations, smells and sights around them.  Setting out that first morning, the exhilaration made the 23kg duffel bag seem light and her legs felt strong.

Starting out in a virtual rain forest, the beginning journey had been a pleasant hike, nothing she hadn’t done with her husband more than once, before they’d had the kids.  Walking in groups of two or three, they had talked incessantly, buoyed by the excitement and eager to get to know one another.  She and Janet, a lawyer from Burlington, talked about their common experiences and through the course of the day, opened up to each other about the reasons they were there.  The charity objective of the climb was important, of course, no one lost sight of that.  Yet, when Janet said to her “I needed to break out of my mold, not just break it, but obliterate it beyond recognition”, she knew exactly what she meant.  It’s not that Susan wasn’t satisfied with her life to date.  She loved her husband and adored her kids.  She had a career she enjoyed, close friends and for all intents and purposes, more than she had dreamed to expect.  There was nothing missing.  But this was just between her and herself.  It was the chance to extend beyond anything she had ever done before. An experience that would affirm, or she feared deny, that she had the strength to do the extraordinary, not just the ordinary.  “Climbing Mount Kilamanjaro!”  Yes, it was crazy, nuts, bonkers, insane … whatever you wanted to call it.  But it was her crazy.  No one could make the next step for her.  No one else could lift the pack onto her back.  It was an internal battle as much as anything else.  On one side, her body and that little voice in her head that whispered ‘you can’t … you’re not good enough … you’re too old’.  On the other, the need to reach out with all the passion she possessed and all the determination she could muster.  For once, not to be afraid of the consequences, not to fear the unknown, or worry what someone might think or how they might judge.  To be completely in control of the situation, make her own choices and ‘go for it!’ 

At present, however, this choice seemed to be deliriously bad judgement on her part.  After a brief bite and plenty of water, the twelve woman and three guides were on there way again, higher and higher, one painful heavy step at a time.  The wind swept around the peaks, a chill barely cooling the heat they generated from the strain.  They were walking on packed ice now, the glare almost blinding after a time.  The time for talk was over.  Susan had retreated into her own thoughts and struggles.  It was one step at a time, each one an achievement.  The peak was visible, but frustratingly far.  It was better to look down, that way the distances didn’t seem so long.  If she looked up and imagine the whole rest of the way, she felt it would sap any energy she had left.  The peak that had filled her with so much wonder and excitement, at the beginning, now towered oppressively, seeming to push her back by sheer size.  She was fifth in line and her whole concentration was focused on the boots in front of her.  It was Janet, she thought.  Even above the wind invading her hood and swirling around her ears, she could make out Janet’s laborous breathing.  Inhale … step … exhale … step.

Over the previous four days it seemed that they had ventured across continents.   The warm mugginess of the rain forest had given away to the cooler moorlands, then the terrain had become arid, more rugged and steeper.  The strain began to show and some of the woman had throw up, Susan included.  To Susan, it felt like child birth again.  The growing heaviness, the pain in her lower back, the nausea, the strain she was putting her body through each day and the incessant fatigue.  If she had wanted to push herself, to find out ‘what she was made of’ she was certainly doing that.  Near the end of the fourth day, her mind had begun to waver, not quite delirious, but not quite all together there either, like walking in a haze.  Stepping up to a ledge she had misjudged the distance and her toe had slipped, sending her knee slamming into the rock.  Off balance, the weight of the pack had pushed her forward, her hands reaching out to brace her fall.  Luckily, she had not hit her face or head into the cold stone, but had instead ended up sliding, finally rolling onto her back.  As she had laid there, the concerned cries of her companions getting closer, her eyes moistened, not just with pain, but frustration.  If she hadn’t grabbed onto that anger at that moment, used the power and rage, she might not have been able to get up at all.  As the guide examined her scrapped and bleeding knee, she pulled herself up.  “I’m good. I’m fine. Just give me a minute.”

Inhale … step … exhale … step.  She was on the final legs now, in more ways than one.  As she plodded on, some murmuring from the other women, some excitement in the voices of the guides entered her scope of awareness.  Where they really reaching the top?  No, her inner thoughts yelled! Focus!  She concentrated even more on her boots, on the every indentation in the glaring ice and snow, on the footprints of her comrade in front, on anything else but the fatigue and the pain and the whispering voice inside, just wanting to sit down.  Damn, it would be so easy to stop now, she thought.  She’d proved enough, hadn’t she? She’d made it this far?  What did it matter if there were only a few hundred feet or a few kilometres left.  Look at what she had done so far.  More so than the weight of the pack, were the weight of what she considered cowardly thoughts, at this moment.  She felt isolated, surrounded by enemies on all sides … the cold, the glare, the aching and most of all, the overwhelming feeling to give up.  She so wanted to give up. “No. Push it all aside. Ignore the pain. Quiet the voice”, she thought to herself. “Just … keep … going!”  Suddenly, it seemed like the mountain was pushing back even harder, not only pushing her down, but back.  “Keep going, please!” she pleaded. The mountain pushed back even harder “Keep going!” That last thought was out loud, to no one in particular it seemed. “Go!” she yelled, her voice hoarse.

“Susan!”

Wait.  That was Janet’s voice, wasn’t it?  The alarm in the voice pulled Susan back from wherever she had been, and slowly reality and her surroundings imposed themselves again over her inner focus.  It was Janet.  She had her hands against Susan’s chest … pushing her, stopping her.  What was she saying?

“Susan.  Stop walking! You’re done, we made it, girl, We’re at the top!”

“The top? They had made it?  She had made it?”

Back in the present, Susan looked around.  There was no fear of ‘looking up’ anymore, the views were only down.  Here at the top of the ‘House of God’ stood Susan Armstrong.  Weight seemed to lift from her shoulders then and she began to joyously cry.  “Your crazy woman”! she laughed … and then she sat down.

For this class we were given a random picture and asked to write a story within the setting. 

“Hello! Is anyone around?  I need help. My car’s broken down and my cell phone’s dead.  Hello?”  Nothing.  “… and these heels are killing me”, Susan added into the still emptiness.  From the look of the two enfeebled farm buildings in front of her, Susan wasn’t honestly expecting an answer.  The idea for the short cut seemed good at the time.  The sooner she was home and this afternoon was over, the better.  Even on the drive, she kept thinking ahead to getting off these painfully fashionable shoes, taking off the respectfully somber charcoal outfit she had on, turning on the sound system and sinking into the jacuzzi with a glass of Chardonnay and the Sunday New York Times crossword puzzle.  The outfit seemed like a good idea at the time.  Considering her present circumstances, something more functional might be more in place.  “Yes, like an apron and a pitchfork”, she mused.  

She could almost make out the steam rising out of the car hood if she looked back over that last hill.  The BMW was just over the second ridge … or was it the third?  All these hills seemed to look the same after awhile.   Miles and miles of rippled green topped with oak and birch.  At first, she had had to cross a large field of corn. Nothing but vast fields of pastoral stalks, like a giant country shag carpet.  If she remembered correctly, they would be harvested in the next couple of weeks.  It’s destination, undoubtedly some road side shelter with the sign that read: 

Corn $4/doz

Blueberry Pies

Fresh Vegetables

 She had left her car sweating on the side of the gravel road, politely called RR#4.  She hadn’t seen a single vehicle for hours, that last one, just before she turned off the paved road and decided on this ill fated cross-country shortcut.  It was supposed to take at least an hour and a half off the trip and at the time, a choppy twenty minutes seemed like a reasonable price to pay for an earlier bubble bath.  Now she was going to need more than just a bubble bath.  “I’ll have to call and make an appointment with the RMT for a massage, after this … and probably the hairdresser”, she sighed, as her hair grow limp and the perspiration made it stick flattened against her scalp. 

Her Mother would have laughed at the sight of her now.  Well, perhaps not laughed at her, as gentle a soul as her Mother had been, she would never have found humour in someone’s misfortune.  She would have just smiled and said something like “my big city girl is back in the country, I see”.  ‘Big City girl” Her Mother always used to call her that and somehow it always made her feel a little of that old burden.  Like in some ways it was Big City versus country goodness.  It was always said with affection, but Susan felt that there was a little sadness associated with it as well.  Like her Mother knew how distant she felt from her country roots.  How, although she never would admit it, she felt better than the rest of the family and most of her friends who had stayed behind. “Why would you ever want to live in the city?” they had all asked naively.  “All that noise, and the cars and the smog.  So crowded!  And the traffic!”   

Yes, so crowded, she had thought to herself, and so alive!  She could walk down Yonge Steet in downtown Toronto at any time of night, and there were people around, coming out of clubs, going to all night coffee shops, hopping into cabs or just hanging around.  What would she be doing here on a Saturday night?  Probably sipping the last of her chamomile tea before bed, maybe a game of Canasta with the distant neighbours, or perhaps just outside at a place very much like this one, watching the stars and listening to the crickets chirp.  She had to give the country credit for that, at least, you could really see the stars out here.  But what did she need with stars when she had the lights? 

The things she found in the city that made her alive were the very things her Mother could never relate to.  She and Dad had tried to visit from time to time, of course, but never for too long.  Susan always made sure the visits couldn’t last too long.  There was always work to do, or a function to attend.  An afternoon visit, perhaps a dinner, was about as much as she could handle.  Each minute she spent with them seemed forced and the more forced it was, the further she pushed her feelings inside.  How cold she must have seemed.  Would it have taken that much from her to spend a little more time with them?  Perhaps, try to share with them the side of the City that captured her, maybe they’d understand why she couldn’t live anywhere else.  But no, she just didn’t have it in her and every time they left, almost resigned that they had received all the affection they were going to receive, there was the usual “don’t forget to call” and “we love you” or “we understand how busy you are, but if you could make it up for Christmas this year, that would be great.  Aunt Jean asks about you all the time”. 

Well, there would be no more Christmas’ now.  “Susan?  It’s about Mom” her bother had started the call four days ago, his voice cracking on the phone, “she’s gone.  Heart attack, they think, right in the middle of making dinner”.  The rest of the conversation had been a bit of a blur.  Details passed back and forth, arrangements made, polite condolences shared.  Dad had gone ten years earlier, way too young at 58.  Cancer.  Now she and Ted really were orphans.  Putting the phone down, she could barely move.  An almost nauseous wave swept through her, and she had to go sit on the couch, envelop herself in the cool calm of zero degree emotion.  Holding it tight, like a clenched fist around her eye ducts, she sat like that for minutes, until she was sure that she had pushed everything back down deep.  Calmer, she occupied herself with making arrangements for someone to keep an eye on the condo, made a few calls to close friends and then started to pack. 

The drive up had been impatiently long.  Each kilometer a test of her endurance, each the last leg of a marathon.  Along the ten lane 400 series expess to the four lane highway to the two lane rural route gently rolling over small hills, her car looking like a miniature sailboat cresting the waves in a pool, she continued on.  The funeral had gone as expected.  She had made her appearance, accepted the familial comfort from relatives she could barely remember and stayed long enough that she could use the excuse of the long drive home to leave.  Even so, it felt to her that wrapped in the kind words of comfort and “it was so lovely to see you, do you have to leave?” was the disapproving tone asking her “Where have you been?  This was your Mother.  How can you be so heartless?”  Maybe it was just her imagination or perhaps, her own guilt.  Either way, she had said her goodbyes and returned to the car, gripping the steering wheel as she abandoned the funeral parlor. 

And now here she was, in some ways home, and yet as far away from what she considered her home as anyone could feel.  They’d had buildings like this on the farm where she grew up.  Structures held together with cut trees, rusty nails and clay for mortar.  The one of the left was just a small single story, probably used at one time for supplies, feed, various assortments of small implements, hoses hanging from large hooks on the walls.  The hostas, she hadn’t forgotten everything, she knew they were hostas, grew all around the base of the building, like a wreath. The plants were of all varieties, Large variegated leaves of different green hues, sometimes yellow, sometime white, adoring the shade offered by the wall at this time of day. 

The other building, about a hundred feet further across a small field of flat unruly grass, was two storey.  That one, with its large double doors and second story exit, would have been used for larger equipment, tractors, motors and filled to the rafters with hay, likely.  She decided to head towards that one.  At least it would offer some respite from this damn blazing heat.  If she wasn’t going to be lucky enough to have at least a little breeze, the best she could do was find some shelter in the shade.  It would give here a chance to relax for a bit and have to time to consider her options.  Taking off her shoes, her feet sinking into the thick grass like she was putting on slippers, she walked across the yard to the tall double doors.  

Yanking the door with all her strength, and even then, only managing to open it wide enough to fit her still slim figure through, she was instantly overwhelmed with the essence of the place.   Parched hay filled her senses, mixed with old oil, leather harnesses and dried animal manure.  The air was heavy and stale, sealed in and built up from the summer’s heat.  The scarred wood rafters and beams, forming elongated ‘A’s above her head, appeared brittle, like arthritic bones.  Other than a few bales of hay left in the centre, the hard clay-like floor was empty.  As she stepped further inside, the dust rose from her footsteps, seeming to fill the air with a gentle arid mist.  Light streaming in from small holes in the mortar seemed to pick up the airborne particles, pulling them gently, but insistently, upwards. Taking off her sunglasses, her eyes followed the same path, finally noticing the loft above. 

The loft space was covered in loose hay, some hanging over the edges like ivy.  Unconsciously, a small smile reluctantly loosened her resolute lips.  She had spent many an afternoon playing in just such a place.  Throwing herself haphazardly through the air to land in a pile of soft hay, acting out battles of epic proportions, imagining tales of love and rescue and handsome princes.  Sharing secret passions with those special intimate friends, other times, just imagining by herself what adventures life might bring.  Her first kiss had happened, nestled into a secret refuge just like that.  It hadn’t been a prince, of course, but a rather homely Billy Martin, a barely pubescent childhood playmate from two farms over.  It had been awkward and disappointingly wet, their awkward tongues and his new braces dampening whatever passion she might have imagined. When did it happen, she wondered? 

When did she go from the playful girl who parachuted from rafters and harassed reluctant boys into sloppy puckering to the girl who wouldn’t’ say good night anymore, the one who didn’t kiss her parents before bed because she was too ‘old’.  When did the hugs become forced, the space between conversations, measurable gaps?  When did she begin to wear a layer around her, like a parka in the winter keeping out the cold? In this case, it wasn’t the cold she was protected from, but the warmth she rejected.  Maybe it was natural, she mollified herself.  That when a girl reaches a certain age and begins to think of herself as a woman she pulls back, wanting to define herself in her own way and by her own rules.  Now here she was, standing alone in this empty barn without even an echo for company. 

She’d always remember that one particular night.  Her Mother had come up to her room, as always before bed, to kiss her goodnight.  Susan had turned out the lights earlier and rolled over in bed.  She could hear her Mother open the door, felt her standing there watching the apparently sleeping figure.  Susan had clenched her eyes even tighter and seemingly tried to will her Mother to leave, the presence she felt in the door pressing a mixture of guilt and resentment and shame into her like a weight.  Finally, her voice shaky, she had heard her Mother say “I guess you can’t even say good night anymore”.  It wasn’t a question, but rather a resigned acknowledgement mixed with regret and lack of understanding and pain.  Her Mother had gently closed the door then and thereafter, she had never again been obligated to say goodnight and kiss them before bed.  She’d won, right?  Right? 

The mist had begun to settle as she’d stood there, tiny flecks landing on ebony cotton.  Attracted to the new source of moisture, the particles gripped the streams of saline flowing down her cheeks, or fell along with them to the thirsty dirt below.

 “Mom?  Good night.”

As the story goes, this couple have spent in excess of $25,000 to repair the damage done by the roots of a Norway Maple that sits in front of their house (on city property, I might add).  The roots of this apparently evasive tree have been weakening the foundation and causing flood and other damage. 

Do we need a better example of how badly this City is run by our left wing ‘comrades’ down at Nathan Phillips?  Well, ok, the recent budget is another, but let’s stick with this one for now. 

Some of my favourite quotes that I read online: 

From Coun. Joe Pantalone: “We’re not going to be paying for that as a city and the same way as you’re not going to be paying as a property owner for the oxygen that we’re providing to you for that city-owned tree.” 

So … because the city provides the tree which provides the oxygen which they don’t charge us for (yet), they shouldn’t have to pay for taking the tree down.  Love the logic! 

From the Staff Report: “Staff are of the opinion that any further repairs to the house can be undertaken that include the protection and retention of the tree“ 

Of course the repairs can be undertaken!  The couple could undertake so many repairs they’d lose their house!  

I had a problem with a tree one time also causing damage and flooding.  A city staff person came out to investigate. He stood on the sidewalk, nodded his head up and down knowingly, turned to me and said “can’t help you” and left. 

Seems to me our Council just did the same thing to this couple.  It just took more meetings! 

Idiots!

For this week, the setting is a 40^th birthday party; someone has locked themselves in the bathroom; tell a story:

Coming Out of the Bathroom

 “Thomas Andrew Reynolds.  You come out of that bathroom and you come out of that bathroom right … this … minute! “Do you hear me?”

“Honey, perhaps we better give him a little more time”

“Don’t ‘honey’ me, Andrew.  It’s my 40th birthday party, I have twenty-seven uncomfortable guests in the living room, I have a five year old niece now in need of therapy, our Son has locked himself in the bathroom and on top of all that … I need to pee”.

“Well, yes, but look on the bright side, the birthday cake turned out so well”.

Even hiding from this family behind the door, Thomas suspected that his Mother was now probably staring at his Father, one eye raised, with the expression she probably used at the office when one of her employees brought her an incredibly stupid idea.  His Mother was a very well placed Account Executive with a large Public Relations company in town.  She tried, she really did, sometimes, but she showed little patience when things didn’t go exactly as planned and today was definitely not according to plan.  

His Dad on the other hand was the Yin to her Yang.  Being a part time writer, albeit not the most financially successful of careers, meant that he was pretty much a stay-at-home Dad.  In their relationship, they had turned the ‘traditional’ roles upside down but he always knew his Dad was doing exactly what he wanted to in life.

“Perhaps Andrew is right, Helen.  Maybe we just need to give Thomas some time with his thoughts”

“Mother, you’re not helping.  Just because you coddled your son, doesn’t mean I’m going to coddle mine.  If Thomas would just leave the bathroom, we can all deal with this like mature adults. We’ll forget it ever happened and continue on with my happy little celebration”.

It had been his Dad’s idea, of course, to throw the party for his Mom.  But it had been apparent when she walked through the door and came face to face with a household full of distant relatives, including no less than four hyper children under the age of seven,  a Mother and Father in-law, her Boss and various co-workers, that this was not going to be ‘happy little celebration’.

“Thomas, this is Grandpa.  You just take as much time as you like, son.  Your Mother can pee next door at the neighbours. We’ll just go back to the party.  The cake was pretty good, actually,and I think I’ll have another piece.  Why doesn’t everyone just move away from the door and give him some time to himself.  Helen?  Why don’t you come help me clean up the little mess we have out in the living room”

Thomas could always count on his Grandfather to try to settle down the situation and approach things in an easy going way.  He was the kind of Grandpa who’s lap you always wanted to sit on as a kid.  I guess that’s why his Dad approached things in the same calm way.  During his disaster that had occurred just ten minutes ago, at least two people had dropped their cake and one glass had shattered on the hardwoods creating a bit of a mess, which was about where Thomas saw his life right now.  If only he could bring out the broom and sweep this afternoon clean like it had never happened. That would help.

“I’m not going anywhere, Dad, not until Thomas ends all this nonsense”

“Bro!  It’s Sarah, your sister” as if the fact that being behind the bathroom door and out of view made it suddenly impossible to recognize her voice  “I just want you to know that I think it’s really cool. I think we’ll have a lot more in common now, don’t you?.  Maybe we could like, double date sometime.”

“Double date?  Just where is the single date coming from, young lady?  You’re way too young to date at thirteen.  Like I’ve always said, there’s nothing wrong with waiting until you’re in your twenties to meet a nice man and settle down, like me and your Father did.”

“Oh Mom!  Ed and I have been dating for months.  We’re in love.”

“Ed? Love? Who’s Ed?  Are you telling me that you have a boyfriend?  Who is this boy? How old is he? What does his Father do?  Andrew, did you know about this?”

“Well, hmm, I might have heard something or other about it.  Don’t forget, Helen, you work late a lot and sometimes these things just slip my mind by the time you get home”.

“Slip your mind?”

“Mom, don’t worry.  Ed is a wonderful guy and we’re very committed to one another.  I know because he had my name tattooed on his bum Remember,  I’m not a little girl anymore, I’m a woman. I know all about contraception and STDs and all that stuff.  You don’t have to worry about me getting pregnant, cause …”

“Well, thank heaven for small mercies!  But that doesn’t mean …”

“ … we’re just having oral sex now”

Like many of the guests earlier, Thomas suspected his Mother was standing there with her mouth open right now, but all he could think at that moment was’ his younger sister was having oral sex’?  His younger sister?  Here he was, four years older, practically a full grown man, but apparently, he was stuck having late night fantasy sessions with the same lousy magazine time after time, and his sister was actually having sex? Oral or otherwise.  His Mother bounced back fast though.  Her usual response to a crisis was to make lists, get organized and, generally, boss around whoever was in the immediate vicinity. He could hear her saying ….

“All right, all right.  Let’s just settle down.  Sarah, you will stop seeing this boy immediately.  Thomas, you will come out of that bathroom right now.  Andrew, you will organize the clean up crew.  Wallace, I mean Dad, go …. just go have some more cake.   There’s no crisis that can’t be solved with a little organization.  Mother, you … Mother! What are you doing with that filthy magazine?”

“Oh, I’ve just never … well, you know, never seen pictures like this before.  It’s quite fascinating.”

“Fascinating?  What’s fascinating about steroid filled neandrathals, with under developed brains, and over developed  members, performing gymnastic acts of copulation in the back of a pickup truck?”

“It’s called a penis, dear”

“What?”

“You said ‘over developed members’.  It’s called a penis, dear”

“I know what it’s called, Mother, but I see no need to go into graphic anatomical detail in front of the children.”

“Well, it’s just a word, you know, nothing to be ashamed of.  Your father in law has one, and so does your husband, or at least he did before marriage, and …”

“Can we just skip this conversation, Mother?”

“and I don’t see why you call it ‘over developed’.  I’m only ever seen your Grandfather’s of course. In my day we didn’t go in for all this sex before marriage and alternative lifestyles., We waited until the wedding night and what you saw was what you got  But his is bigger than that.”

“It’s bigger? Than that?” and in his mind, Thomas could picture his Mother ‘s gaze drawn to the centrefold.  The model was lying stretched out on his back, hand behind his head, legs provocatively spread.  He may have been sitting on a few bales of hay, but Thomas couldn’t quite recall those details.  He wished they would just put the magazine away, forget this afternoon ever, ever happened and move on.

“Aren’t they all?” his Grandmother replied innocently.

“Andrew, would you please explain to your Mother the concept of ‘too much information’.  Are there NO secrets anymore?  Let’s please just get this little family situation dealt with.  Thomas?  I know you can hear me in there.”

“Jessica, no need to speak to me in the third person, I’m standing right behind you.  Thomas, it’s Grandma, would you please at least let us know you’re alive and haven’t fallen in the shower or cracked your skull on the tiles.”

“Yes, do what your Grandmother says.  Those are brand new tiles in there!”T

homas was alive, although he perhaps wished he wasn’t at the moment, and he hadn’t cracked anything on the imported Italian tiles, he had in fact been sitting on the edge of the bathtub, unmoving, staring at those same tiles for the last 15 minutes.  To him, it seemed that if he didn’t move a muscle, didn’t quiver even an eyelash, if he just kept very, very still, he could hold everything the way it was.  Outside the door was hot and loud and busy, but the door was his protection, and behind it, all was calm and cool and serene and, well, normal.   

Right now, that door was the only thing between Thomas and the reality that had just slammed into his life when his niece had walked back into the party. She had obviously been looking around and snooping in his bedroom, but how she found it, hidden under the mattress, he would never know.  As innocent as asking ‘Where’s Waldo?’ she had brought out the magazine into the middle of the party, held it up to him for all to see and asked, as only a five year old could ask, “why is that naked man on top of the other one?”.

At that moment, every eye in the room had turned towards Thomas like blazing spotlights.  Like the proverbial ‘deer in the headlights’, he had just frozen, the whole room seemed to get instantly quiet.  Without a word, and as calmly as can be, he had placed his drink on the cabinet, ensuring that he was using a coaster, of course, so as not to upset his Mother.  Looking up, he could see that the close exits were blocked by all the partygoers.  There was only one option.  Slowly turning out of the room, he proceeded into the bathroom, locked the door and sat down on the bathtub edge … and he hadn’t moved since.

“Well, this is getting us no where.  Andrew, would you please talk to your Son, he doesn’t appear to be listening to me and I’ve just about run out of patience.”

“When did you have any?  All right, let me talk to him.  Thomas, it’s Dad.  I can only imagine how upset you are right now, but I just want you to know that your Mother and I still love you and there’s absolutely no reason to be embarrassed or ashamed by all of this. It’s perfectly normal to have these urges at your age and it doesn’t mean a thing and even if it does, so what?  You should be the person you want to be.”

“Now dear, don’t encourage him too much.  You’re making it sound all so ‘normal’’.”

“What do you mean by that, Helen?”

“Well, I just mean, that it’s, well, not normal”

“Uh huh. You seem to have a short memory, my dear”.

“What?”

“I’m sure you remember, don’t you?“

I’m sure I don’t!”

“You seem to have conveniently forgotten what you disclosed to me once.  I’m sure you can remember, hmmm?  University? Sorority party? 1987? Her name was Susan”

“Andrew! I told you that in strictest confidence!  And we’d had two bottles of wine that night and it was just between the two of us, I see no reason to …”

“Well, your Son is locked in the bathroom because of a gay magazine, while his Mother, who in a drunken stupor twenty years ago made out with her Sorority sister one evening, his out here talking about ‘normal’. Don’t you think this is a good time to share?”

Inside the bathroom, Thomas looked up.  For the first time, outside the door was actually as quiet as inside.  He listened.  Still nothing.  He could only imagine what was happening on the other side.  He looked around the bathroom then, at how clean it was, how orderly everything appeared.  Everything in its place and a place for everything.  What a joke that seemed now!

Before he knew it, he stood up, went over to the sink, turned on the water and quickly washed his hands and face.  Drying, he held the soft towel up to his cheeks and pressed the warmth into his face.  A deep breath and sigh escaped his breath.  Finished drying, he neatly folded up the towel, and placed it back on the rack, not exactly as it had been before, but good enough.

Grabbing hold of the knob, he pulled open the door.  Greeting him were the faces of his family.  His Sister’s smile, his Father’s stern but loving grin, his Mother’s blushed cheeks.  No one moved or said a thing as he stood in the doorway looking at them all one by one.  Finally, with another sigh, he said …

“So?  Let me get this straight.  My thirteen year old sister is having sex with a guy who has her name tattooed on his butt, my Grandfather has a freakishly large penis and my Mother had a lesbian experience as a University student.  Did I get all that?” 

There was no response.  

“Seems to me I have very little reason to hide in this bathroom all afternoon because I’m gay.  Where’s the rest of the birthday cake … I’m coming out”. 

The Smile 

Lisa Gherardini, beloved wife of Francesco del Giocondo, devoted mother of Piero and little Andrea sits upright in the stiff wooden chair, her left arm resting on the edge, her right arm covering the left, fingers gently splayed.  She faces the Artist, body slightly off centre to the right, head erect.  Her dark dangling hair, gently curling at the long base, rests on her shoulders.  Leo says he is almost finished the work.  Only the mouth is left to do.  Lisa’s thoughts turn to the journey of the last few years and her anticipation nearly releases a grin that begs to escape from her lips.  “Foolish, woman” she muses to herself, “you should know better by now”!  She almost laughs at the thought of the smile she conceals.  It had been so much different all those three years ago. 

… 

It was the year of our lord 1503 when they had first begun.  She had been introduced weeks earlier to Leo’s father, Ser Piero da Vinci, by her husband Francesco.  The two had known each other for many years, Francesco being a socially prominent merchant in the silk trade and a frequent participant in Italian society. As a gift to her and her husband on the birth of their second son, Andrea, Ser Piero had commissioned the portrait to sit in their new home.  The men had been sitting in the dining room when she had been called in.  A woman by then of twenty-four years, a mother for four, she had been married since sixteen and had been, by all views, a ‘good’ proper wife.  She managed the household during the many frequent business trips of her husband.  She dressed appropriately, suiting a mother and a wife.  She performed all her duties without complaint, her two healthy sons were evidence of that.  Presenting herself there in front of her husband and his dear friend, her sight kneeling on the floor, Ser Piero had looked her up and down as if assessing the quality of a fabric or a piece of furniture.  “Yes, this will work” he had declared, “I shall make the appropriate arrangements for next week”!  And with that announcement, she was dismissed. 

She had shown up as requested at Leo’s studio ten days later.  Her dress, an unadorned black robe draping gently off her shoulders, masked any figure underneath.  The body concealed underneath showed little affects of the two sons she had brought into the world, but the robes hid all that, the top revealing but a shadow of the bosom underneath.  He wasn’t Leo in that first awkward meeting, of course, he was just, politely, Signore da Vinci.  Without any exchange of social pleasantries, he had requested she sit in the chair directly in front of the blank canvass.  They spent hours it seemed, positioning her properly, moving her hands this way and that, like you might arrange flowers in a vase or a painting on a wall.  That first sitting she had frustrated him, as she glanced compliantly downward and he was forced to raise her chin time and time again.  But she could do nothing less.   He was already a well regarded artist at that time and Lisa couldn’t help but be cowed by his stature.  He, by contrast, was the gusting wind buffeting against a door.  Even his gentle, subtle adjustments of her positioning seemed to be filled with grand design.  Every movement calculated, like he searched frantically for perfection, a maestro conducting the various instruments of a symphony.  This intensity beneath his surface frightened her, causing her to wither even more.  She had not felt such fire around her before, such passion.  Hers was not a life of feeling the beauty of the world. Hers was a life of quiet duty, proper behavior, social constraint and he, this man in front of her, was everything she was not … loud to her quiet, indecent to her proper, swaggering to her constrained.  

Those first few sittings were daunting, as he flung canvas after canvas across the room, none meeting his expectations, the vision that he struggled to achieve.  It was a vision that, at first, she could scarcely see, like a figure walking in a valley far below, concealed by darkness and fog.  Finally he begrudgingly seemed content by the beginning of one frame, and they had begun in earnest.  Hour after hour she had sat composed, her back aching, but making no comment or complaint.  He, at times, would remain motionless, staring at the canvass, or worse staring directly at her, seemingly, through her.  They were the worst times in those early days.  For she felt he could not only see through her, but into her, to the little girl, to all those secret places and dreams long ago abandoned. 

Over time, watching him engaged by the canvas, surrounded by bottles and brushes and paints and rags, become her only bright moments.  The energy coming from behind the canvass was at times blinding, so unlike her own neutral beige life.   She became slowly accustomed to the sittings and the feelings that arose within her.  While she still seemed to hold them at a distance, like a guilty pleasure, his passion scared her less and less and the weeks moved on, the months passed.  Her shoulders began to loosen just slightly, her neck not quite so unpermissive, her breasts that she had held back, uplifted ever so slightly, exhibiting a quiet confidence, as if her lungs were filled with more air than usual. 

He, in her eyes, seemed to be responding to this change within her.   With each day, her security grew and he appeared to sense this.  His grumbling became less frequent, his frustrations, less evident.  He seemed to relax, himself, no longer struggling with the brushes and paints and canvass, but becoming part of them, like they were an extension of his own hands and arms and eyes.  Like two brothers who, at first, bickered and then came to realize the bonds they shared as family and moved forward, stronger together than separate. 

One special day he had approached her for the first time and offered water.  Bringing the chalice up to her lips created the first physical connection between the subject and the Artist and the pink flush arising in her face seemed to outweigh the cool liquid poured down her throat.  “Grazie”, she thanked him politely.  “Prego, Signora del Giocondo” he replied, his manner softening.  No longer just a landscape or a sculpture or an anatomical drawing, he appeared to see the woman emerging in front of him.  Perhaps he sensed the growth in her, inching up each day like a tulip bulb after the spring thaw, edged on by the rays of the sun.   

Day after day, month after month, she returned to the studio.  Each time the glow she felt seemed to saturate her, strengthen her, like the Spring blossoming a bud, then the small tip of a petal, then the stem.  After he concealed the canvass each night, she would return home, and the feeling would be dimmed nearly to black, like someone had extinguished the candles in the room, like the turn of the day to night.  But even then, it couldn’t be totally smothered, as if each time, however small, the light became stronger and no matter how much grey existed outside the studio, it could no longer totally diminish it.  The guilt she had initially felt was replaced a little bit at a time with a quiet strength, as if she had placed a treasure in an air tight container and hidden it away, only to be unlocked in His presence.  Outside, in the real world, it was cloaked, like her body underneath the robes.  

… 

“Lisa”? She dimly heard him call her name, his voice pulling her away from the memories.  “Si, Leo”?, she said as she returned to the present, only her eyes moving to his, her body trained to remain still.  “Finiti. We’re finished”, he said.  He stepped back from the canvas.  Her body took this as a sign and she slowly relaxed and stepped away from the chair.  The anticipation as she walked around the edge of the studio to see the picture for the first time made her heart pound, her skin perspire, her legs languid.   The closer she came to the painting, the faster her heart beat, her throat constricted.  At the moment she first glimpsed her true reflection in the canvas, the floodgates burst open and she felt filled with warm, bright, coloured light. 

There she was, finally.  On the surface, the subdued black robe, the dark flattened hair against her scalp, the gloomy, nondescript background.  Her hands chastely settled on the chair edge, her back straight.  It was the perfect image of the proper Italian wife.  But here and there, she could see what made him such a Master.  The eyes, that when you moved, seemed to follow you with the vaguest hint of sparkle.  The light, hitting the top of her bosom, subtly exposed her rising breasts. And finally, the shadows on the edges of her lips, the mouth, expressing an almost conspiratorial grin, almost … a smile.

I chose the memory of biking to Lake Ramsey in Sudbury one summer afternoon.  

Stompin’ Tom Connors may have sung about  “Sudbury Saturday Night”s,  but at fourteen years old, I only lived for Sudbury summer days.  Ninety five degrees in the shade (my Dad would have said it was a dry heat), crisp clear sky, little wind and a month away from my first year of High School, what could be better? 

It was going to be the usual gang of four.   Myself, James, Dora and Doug, we all seemed inseparable that summer, perhaps for the last time. I was your usual geeky, ninety six pound ‘boy growing into a man’ at an agonizingly slow pace.  I would later hit ninety eight pounds for the school physical, making me the guy in the Joe Weider ads who got sand kicked in his face.   James was only a year older, which meant he’d still hang around with us.  Tall and lanky at that age, his body hadn’t nearly filled out yet. Black hair and dark olive complexion, you could believe his parents hailed from Palermo.  His sister Dora was in my grade and had no problem hanging out with the boys. She was what we used to call a ‘tomboy’, back when it seemed necessary to have a label for a girl who enjoyed sports and the outdoors more than dresses and makeup. Having two older brothers in the family meant she could take care of herself.  The presently tardy member of our little gang was Doug.  Stocky build, fairly muscular for that age from working on cars and bikes, he was the type who dreamed of having his own motor cycle as soon as he was legal, and probably riding off on it, never to return.  But on that particular day, we were just four kids looking for some shade, the cool lake and a few unsupervised hours. 

“Hey, Doug! Come on! We’re leaving!” 

We were all standing around in the back yard waiting for Doug.  My house was your standard two story, red brick family dwelling.  I’m not sure if you’d call it ‘attached’, exactly, but we were butt against a triplex next door.  In fact, where we were waiting was underneath those balconies, which made it much easier for me to yell like I did than to actually go into the building and knock on the door.  There wasn’t much in the yard.  A cement walk way, which ran parallel to the apartment building, then ran up behind and beside our house to the driveway in the front.  No real lawn to speak of, or if there had been, we had warm it out.  The only other things in the backyard were one of those old metal swing sets that made your Father swear when he put it together, now a rusted shade of red.   

As was our habit, we were taking our bikes down to Lake Ramsey and heading to our familiar hangout on the east side, where there was this little rock outcrop that we felt we had ownership of.  It was on the other side of the lake, away from the families and children, neither of which we wanted a part of.  A little more secluded, it offered reasonable blue berry picking in the bush nearby, some flat places for fitting a few towels and a nice little ledge about five feet off the water, which was perfect for casually flinging yourself off of in a manner that your Mother would not appreciate.  The water was also clear enough and the boats far enough away, that you could dive for any number of treasures, usually comprising of old fashioned Coke bottles and the occasional license plate. 

I was all set to go.  I had a ten speed at the time, a Christmas present, if I recall, which I had made endless use of that summer.   The usual Lake uniform was on … a nondescript tshirt,cut off  jean shorts, with my bathing suit underneath and a pair of white sweat socks and runners.  I’m afraid to admit, that I think my runners were a red velour material, but you have to remember, that this was a different time.  With hindsight, I think I was probably the only one who thought they were cool.  

Doug, panting a bit from running from the apartment, joined us around the back and we were ready to go.  Ready in this case, also meant having the perquisite summer Lake supplies.  Mine consisted of a small towel and my snorkel and mask, needed for that treasure hunting.  All of this was stuffed into a plastic bag from Dominion Store, the local grocery shopping place in town, which hung down the side of the handle bars, just resting on the top of the front brake of the bike.  It seemed we were finally set to go. 

The back of our house met up with a gravel lane way which ran most of the length of the block we were on.  On the other side of that lane, was an auto repair place who’s length was almost seven or eight houses long with a big rounded tar roof.  We had to ride along the gravel laneway, out the back and onto Cedar Street, down the quick steep hill running underneath the Caruso Club, a local Italian social club, across killers crossing and then down the mini highway out to the Lake.  Now, I should probably explain that ‘killers crossing’ designation.  Where Cedar ended was an intersection that was infamous for the number of accidents and reputably, deaths that occurred.   It seemed to have been created when City planners were out for one of Tom’s Saturday Nights, because not only did Cedar end there, but Elm and Larch Streets, three other minor streets, two semi major highways, and a set of train tracks.  All in all, there were about eight different streets and a set of tracks within a few hundred feet, all controlled by about 4 different sets of lights in different directions.  A recipe for transportation and pedestrian disaster, if you ask me. 

Riding along gravel with a ten spend isn’t the easiest thing, what with the heavy stones and large potholes created by the rains and the usual havoc that harsh winters can wreck on ground in general in a Northern town.  My insufficiently padded butt bounced up and down on the seat as I did my best to avoid the rough terrain.  Holding on tight, with my bag bouncing up and down nervously along the front of the bike, we made out way slowly out the back way. 

Finally on the paved street, we headed down the hill underneath the Club.  Like many things in Sudbury, it was set up upon a harsh piece of Northern Shield that looked like it had been carved out with a large mallet.  The street ran right up against a jagged face of grey rock with flecks of white quartz running diagonally from the base, up thirty feet to the mortar upon which a metal fence prevented anyone from accidently having a little too much home made Italian wine and hurtling off the edge.  I’m sure it also prevented the occasional boce ball from crashing through a travelling car windshield as well.  On the right of us, was actually a small cemetery, nestled between the rear of the auto body building and the street.   Ahead, we could see the heavy traffic on the mini highway we needed to bike briefly along before making out way across the entangled intersection and over the tracks beyond which laid our wet relief. 

With a good pedal or two, the four of us managed to build up some speed as the pull of the hill worked on our collectively weaving weights.   Plans were already being made, diving expeditions envisioned, rock skipping competitions laid out and we were all looking forward to a few hours of fun and relaxation away from homes and parents and authority in general.  The talk went back and forth without much care or concern.  “I hope the rock is empty when we get there”, James said.  “Well, we’ll just kick the buggers off if it ain’t”. Actually, I’m sure Doug didn’t use buggers exactly, but it sounded something like that anyway.  As we careened down the hill, I was in the front, playing at leader, Dora behind to my right, Doug gaining on the left and James bringing up the rear.   

Thinking back now, turning to the left to respond to Doug with an equally testosterone filled comment was probably what did it.  Had I just kept my eyes forward and watched the road in front of me, perhaps what happened next would never have occurred. As I turned to the left, my right side naturally lowered to keep balance.  At the same time, the wheel shifted to the right pulled by the left side of my body.  At that instant, the bag caught in the spokes and was whipped around, jamming instantly against the bike fork.  Physics and gravity took over.  The front wheel instantly stopped, jammed by the bag’s contents.  At that speed and on that particular incline the back wheel decided to keep its forward momentum.  In order to do that, of course, it required me to go head first over the handle bars, like I was attempting a front wheely.  I often wondered what it looked like for my friends from the back.  But for me, it was instant. One second speeding, the next flying, like those images you see of car tests in slow motion where the dummies without seatbelts plow through the windshield as the air bags explode, except rather than in slow motion, someone speeded up the film.  The next thing I knew, the bike was on top of me and I was scrapping along the pavement underneath it.  Do you know what a cheese grater does to a hard piece of parmesan?  Well, I wasn’t the grater.  

It wasn’t a long ride and the next thing I remember is untangling myself from the bike and standing up, jolted and more in shock than I realized.  Brushing some red wet sand off my elbow, I looked down at the bike and made some comment about getting going again.  Doug, who’d obviously slammed on his brakes in a safer way and practically jumped off his bike to come over gave me such a look.  I don’t know if his mouth was open, but I know his eyes were wide. “No.  We have to go back”, and with that, he picked up the bike, put it atop his shoulders and started walking back to the house.  I reluctantly dragged myself behind, picking up the ripped bag which now barely held together the towel and assorted supplies.  The walk back wasn’t that far, but I was strangely numb and if I felt anything, it was the annoyance of having to delay our plans.  

Up the cement walk way and around the back of the house, it seemed like we had just left.  I came up to the side entrance, the one that lead either down to the basement, where my room was, or up the stairs into the kitchen and adjoin dining room.  At the dining room table sat my mother, with her usual cigarette and coffee (she always claimed that hot drinks made you cooler in the summer).  Now, I’d hear my Mother yell at me many times, but never actually scream, or in this case, I guess what a shriek is supposed to sound like.  My Mother’s voice drew my Dad out of the living room with a “My gawd, what happened!”.  Whether it was the shock, the annoyance or just that perceived teenage invincibility that prevented me from seeing what I looked like, but my parents were getting the view that Doug had obviously seen before hoisting my battered bike.  It seemed like I had scrapped up the entire right side of my body as I had ground along the road under the bike.  My right ear, chin, shoulder, elbow, hand and knee, pretty much anything that had been exposed, was scraped raw and bleeding.  I only then seemed to notice the rivers and eddies of blood flowing down one side of me.  I was like that Batman villain.  What was his name? Oh right, Scar Face.  One side perfect, the other grotesquely deformed by acid in a freak nightmarish accident which caused him to go insane and ravage Gotham City. 

Well, needless to say, we didn’t make it to the Lake that particular day.  I spent the rest of the afternoon, after many painful applications of water, soap, ointments, bandages and maternal care in front of my friends, lying on the couch with some comic books and ice cream.  The bike, not quite so lucky, rested in the basement, the front wheel seemingly trying to make a right turn while the rest of the bike appeared to be going left.  That would be it for bike riding for a little while.  For both of us.

For some people, this might mean sports or meditation or just the occasional heart to heart with a good friend who will dutifully nod and mumble “uh huh, uh huh, you’re right … that’s terrible, uh huh”.

 Well, I’ve decided that, rather than subject my friends to my moanings, I’d just put them down in print!  This section will contain both the good (the Raves) and the bad (the Rants) of life in general.  Riding the Toronto Transit? Neighbours? (good and bad) Municipal politics? Charities? Sunday Drivers? Nothing is safe!

I hope you enjoy (and perhaps even nod your head from time to time … uh huh).

It felt different.  From the moment the stewardess thanked us for flying Air Canada and welcomed us to Laguardia.  It felt different. 

It was June in New York City, or more accurately, Queens, I should say.  Eleven months since I had been down here on business.  Nine months since the world had stopped and the dust had blanketed 14^th Street and nothing was ever the same. 

After all the times I had flown here, sometimes alone, sometimes with a colleague, everything should have been routine.  There had been times I think I left the plane, picked up my luggage, got in line for the cab and was saying ”6^th and 46^th, please” (in that polite Canadian way, of course, probably lost on the New York cabby) before I was barely awake.  But even though this flight was just as early as many of those before, I was wide awake and nothing felt ‘routine’ at all. 

What was I feeling, getting into that cab, giving the same instructions as fifty times before?  As I think back now, I do know what it felt like,  a funeral procession.  But this time, I wasn’t the pedestrian on the outside watching the large black hearse roll solemnly by, perhaps followed by similarly somber-coloured vehicles, like some sort of goth toy train set.  No.  This time, I was the widow inside that hearse; I was the father holding his sons hand; the mother holding her husbands.  This time I was the one grieving. 

Luggage loaded; safety message by some well know (in New York circles anyway) Broadway star dutifully listened to and seatbelt securely fastened, the cab lurched us into the long procession of commuters heading into Manhattan. 

Perhaps some things hadn’t changed, after all, because we found ourselves crawling alongside the construction, weaving in and out, back and forth, seeking that perfect lane, w here everything moves smoothly, that doesn’t actually exist.