BALOO - MY ALTER EGO PROWLS ONCE AGAIN

It was the night of the pale, pink moon; an uneasy mist hovering over the heavily battered snow and ice encrusted escarpment.  Several thin fires could be seen flickering in the eerie moon-lit darkness as Baloo padded quietly through a maze of twisted, bent and scorched metal; a host of grotesque dead soldiers frozen in their last death throes silently greeting him.  The stench of destruction and death assailed his sensitive nostrils as he sniffed the air; puffs of steam instantly freezing on his bristly muzzle.  This was no place for an old leopard.

Never in his entire life had Baloo seen anything remotely like this; a battle ground of sheer ugliness; raw pain, intense terror and final futility still lingering.  Although the snow was covering everything like a gigantic shroud, a light breeze blowing the final epitaph; when spring arrives, the ghastly scene will be once more renewed but the dead soldiers will not be reborn.

Shaking the snow from his large spotted-head, about to search for a way out of this clutter, this utter destruction, this utter madness, Baloo thought he heard what sounded like a moan.  He perked his ears and cocked his head slightly to the side and gazed into the gloom.  Paitiently, like the cat, the hunter he was, he listened intently for the sound but nothing could be heard.  Although the dead, if they could be heard, Baloo's ears would be bleeding profusely from their screams and agony.  About to walk away, to escape this land of lunacy, he heard the moan once again - it wasn't a figment of his imagination - it was the sound of life.  Padding softly, the mournful sound, drawing him closer and closer towards a small fire like a midnight moth, he wondered how anything could have survived this holocaust.

Arriving at the pale, flickering fire, ghostly shadows playing on the snow, Baloo indeed found life.  A soldier sitting, his right side leaning against a large metal wheel of some mechanical war-machine, its treads disappearing beneath him, was holding a pistol in his right hand and it was aimed directly at him.  The part of Baloo that was a man knew that death was a split-second away, yet neither the beast nor the man within felt any fear.  The soldier's hand slightly shook as he squinted deeply into Baloo's eyes, as if he was searching for his soul.  And then, knowing his death was eminent, he'd very soon be dead or perhaps not wanting to kill anymore, he calmly laid the pistol on the ground, the muzzle pointing into the quivering flames.

As Baloo looked more closely at the badly wounded soldier, he noticed that his blood spattered face was as pale as the surrounding snow. He sat in a pool of frozen blood, a jagged bone jutting out of cauterized blackened flesh just above the elbow was all that remained of his left arm.  Both his legs were badly shattered as well; his pant-legs stiff with blood and gore pointed in unnatural directions.  And an open wallet lay on the soldier's blood-drenched lap, a well-worn photograph of his family poking out from beneath it.

How many times the dying soldier had looked at it, he did not know and even though it gave him some comfort, some consolement of his impending death, he realized that he was all alone.  Looking up at Baloo, their eyes almost on the same level he said, "I must be halucinating.  A leopard, a creature that lives in a tropical jungle, what would you be doing out here in this frozen God-forsaken waste; this waste of humanity and dignity.  Do you know that I've soiled myself, acutally shit myself and it doesn't bother me in the least."

Baloo moved closer to the dying soldier and still he did not reach for his pistol.  Instead, with his good arm, the soldier motioned for him to come closer and said, "Come here leopard.  Let me touch you and see if you are for real or if I'm dreaming.  If you are hungry; eat me.  Perhaps then my life might account for something rather than the slayer of my fellow human beings who I was lead to believe were my enemies."

Baloo moved next to the man and crouched down beside him, his long tail swishing back and forth like a pendulum.

The soldier's body spasmed uncontrolably as he put his arm around Baloo's neck and gently pulled his head across his lap.  Running his hand through Baloo's thick spotted-fur he uttered, "You are real my friend.  I feel your warmth, the beating of your heart, your strength, none of which I have remaining.  Are you an angel in disguise?  Have you come to comfort me in my last moments?  Whether you are beast or angel, I thank you for coming.  To feel some compasion from another living being for the last time has been worth my lingering death.  To have died instantly by a bullet to the brain or a bayonet to the heart, although merciful, would now have been very wasteful - not everyone gets to experience a miracle."

Spasming violently once again, the dying soldier coughed, spraying the leopard's coat with blood and gasped, words trying to form on his bluish lips, but none came forth, only a gurgle deep down in his throat was heard.

Baloo remained by the dead soldier for a short while and gazed into the firelight.  He was a predator, an eater of flesh and even though he killed mostly animals that were either old or ailing, he was not a scavenger and in this case, the man within him was not a cannibal.

Baloo stood up and peered into the purple haze, gentle snowflakes falling lightly about him.  And, as silently as he had arrived amidst this place of destruction, horror and sadness, he began padding away, his furry spots, sharp claws and twitching tail morphing into a man - and then - into nothing.

BLIZZARD, "BUDDY", BENT MOOSE-PUSHER & BUDDING SPRING

  

I sometimes speak of my art studio and looking out the window on this Blog - well yesterday, during the blizzard, this is pretty much what I saw through the flying snow - oh - and it was cold too - colder than my wife's tootsies when we crawl into bed at night.  I should also mention that it's not very warm in my studio either.  It feels real warm when you first come in from the freezing cold outside but after I sit for awhile at the computer, my body and especially my hands and feet soon cool off.  Although the studio is quite small (200sq. ft., if that) inside the old garage and a small airtight stove is located in the centre of it, the space is kept heated with a small electric heater.  I shouldn't complain about the lack of warmth because at least my beer is cold.

The first time I lit the woodstove, the heat was so unbearable I was forced to open the windows and doors.  However, even though I've since controlled the heat, the last time it was lit, creosote began running like the sticky boogers in my nose, down the new pipe I'd installed to the chimney.  I can't risk a chimney fire or any kind of a fire for that matter because if the building ever began to burn, all our stacked firewood in the attached woodshed, which we use to heat the house, would go up in flames as well.  So, until I'm safely able to climb up on the snow and ice encrusted metal roof without sliding off so I can clean the flue, I'll just have to blow on my hands and wiggle my toes to keep them warm.   

When I built the studio last summer, because of the badly busted up concrete floor and none of the walls were square, it was a rather creative endeavor for an amateur carpenter.  And sadly, because of the last brutal rain storm, the water gushed off the road onto the driveway and into the garage, which I suppose, before too long, will rot the flooring joists; all my cussing and cursing will have been for naught.  And, if for some miraculous reason the rain hasn't destroyed the floor, when I look at all the snow surrounding the building and know that there is more snow on the way, my mind refuses to think about what will happen when all that beautiful, white fluffy stuff begins to melt - I knew there was a reason why I brought my dinghy all the way out here to the base of Green Mountain from the west coast of BC - I may have to attach a sail to it if the rivers and lakes rise to our level, so we can get the hell out of here.   

I hadn't been planning on building such a small studio but "Buddy", our big, old metallic green, 4x4 diesel truck had to have a place to get out of the cold, come winter.  I don't know how many times I measured the length of that truck but when it came time to put it in the garage, the space allotted was 3" too bloody short.  If anyone had heard me cursing like a foul-mouthed lumber-jack in the summer, their ears I'm sure would have been bleeding profusely when they heard the language which spewed out of my mouth then.  In the above photo you will see a small reddish addition on the front of the garage.  It's a temporary entrance way, which I built so the truck would fit.  I have never spent so much moolah on a vehicle before - damned near could have paid off our mortgage for the money we spent on it this year. And the hell of it is, we'd just replaced the bent moose-pusher on the front of the truck about two months ago, which cost about $1,400.00, when my wife, while backing out old "Buddy", the truck suddenly slid on the ice and caught  the pusher on the edge of the doorway.  I would have thought the truck would have tore the addition off the building, which would have been an inexpensive fix - but no - the truck bent and broke the sturdy metal moose-pusher instead. 

As odd as it seems, even though the sun has been hiding out behind the heavy dark grey clouds for quite some time now, the temperature bone-chilling and below zero, the wind blowing like snot out of an ox's nose and the snow drifts up to my bulging waist, I have to admit that I like this old place near the base of Green Mountain.  I've never been a fan of winter; I like summers best or nice, warm, colourful autumns.  Spring is a time for rebirth and although there's nothing about me that's being reborn - cripes everything is sagging south towards a big, dark hole in the ground like a mud slide rushing down a bare hillside - I still really look forward to the new buds and seedlings poking their heads out of the moist soil.  I realize work out here in the country never really ends; I'll have to trade the snow shovel for a garden spade come Spring but somehow a spade just seems more productive.  Raising my beer above my head, "Here's to winter's end - only four more months or so to go!"

Cheers -eh!

     

ONLY 363 DAYS TO CHRISTMAS

Christmas is over and so is Boxing Day - dang- I missed out on the biggest sale of the year!  Don't you just love it when you receive a Boxing Day flyer giving the sale price of what you're about to purchase for a Christmas present while you stand in an endless line of jostling people loaded down with gifts, waiting their turn at the cash register, and the price is 50% less.  I like the booze store best - doesn't matter what day it is, even if the line to the cash register is a little longer than usual, the price is always the same.

As I look out my studio window, a full-blown blizzard is taking place. The ravaging storm, at times, is swirling, twirling and whirling the snow round and round at a furiuos pace, and earlier, when I pushed my way through the deep drifts from the house to the studio, it actually curled my hair, such is its intesity.  Many years have passed since I was in a snow blizzrd.  Even though the wind outside is howling, screaming sometimes even whistling through the cracks and down the chimney and the thick snow is mostly flying horizontally, it's not as severe as the one I experienced while driving down the highway near Prince George, BC with my mother one winter night.  I haven't seen a whiteout yet today, although the distant ridge has disappeared, but back then on that deserted, treacherous highway, I had to get out of the car and walk a short distance in front, so we wouldn't drive off the deeply-rutted road and over a cliff.

Since we live rather remotely, the power possibly going down at any moment, we've taken some necessary precautions.  The bathtub is filled with water for flushing the toilets and there are a couple of 5 gal. containers filled with drinking water.   The oil lamp and candles are ready to be lit and there are several flashlights on hand.  Also, a lot of firewood is stacked in the enclosed porch just outside the kitchen to feed the hungry woodstove, which keeps us cozy and warm throughout the day and night.  Our house, although quite large, is hardly a mansion but it comes equipped with an electric stove, fridge and most of the other modcoms, so surviving a winter storm is hardly life threatening.  However, since I'm not a mountain man, I'd hate to think what the chances for survival would be if I was in the forest and couldn't find my way out.  Unlike the animals, although even the odds for their survival must be harsh, I'd most likely freeze solid under a big tree before too long.

Although a neighbour plowed the driveway and a good chunk of the yard early this morning, I've shoveled the walkways three times, and from the depth of the snow, which has just fallen within the last hour, it appears that before too long, I'll be out shoveling snow once again.  The cold wind is biting, instantly freezing the moisture of my breath so my mustache gets caked in ice whenever I have to go outside.  Hopefully the freezing blizzard will abate before nightfall otherwise I have no idea how deep the snow will be by tomorrow morning.  One of the locals told me he's seen the snow piled up until it was 17' deep, which is about the height of the building where my art studio is located - I won't be shoveling snow to the studio and woodshed then; I'll be tunneling through the snow instead.

At least it's the time of Ho, Ho, Ho, so the cupboards, fridge and freezer are well-stocked; the booze shelf is loaded (no pun intended). Nothing like waking up in the morning to a hot cup of coffee satisfactorily punctuated with home-made Bailey's.  Also, left-over turkey, stuffing, gravy and all the trimmings is nothing to turn up your nose at either.  Why, we even went to a Christmas event, which was held in a very small church: the seating capacity not much more than 50 people.  The harmonious hymns, the simple prayers, the comedic skit and the general composure of the congenial congregation was quite heartfelt; I hardly felt like a new-comer.   I'm enjoying being snowed in; this old time country Christmas flavour is really refreshing - takes me back to my younger years when life didn't seem so bloody busy and stressful.  We've been playing games, singing carols, visiting with the neighbours; just plain knocking back and enjoying some of the simpler things, which often isn't the case when we were living in the city.  Although there's an abundance of extreme coldness, the warmth I've experienced thus far has not been from the kitchen woodstove but from our friendly neighbours who we just met this past summer.

Time for a hot toddy - cheers - eh!

FIRST CHRISTMAS IN NEW BRUNSWICK

'Tis Christmas morning; the sun is shining and the New Brunswick sky is as blue as a Jamaican, Caribbean sky.  However, the temperature is a different story; it's -7 degrees Celcius.  And speaking of blue, since my dad died on Christmas day, 1969, I sometimes feel a touch of sadness.  Thinking back to that particular Christmas, I've always remembered how glad I am that my dad kept trying to phone me on Christmas eve even though I don't recall our very last conversation.  At the time of his death, I was living in Lethbridge, Alberta; it was my first Christmas with my first wife, whom I'd married on August 29th - not the happy Christmas day we'd planned - instead of tears of happiness, tears of sadness flowed.  But enough said about my personal sadness. 

Christmas is a special day for me and even though I wouldn't call myself a Christian because my belief in Christianity or  for that matter, any other type of man-made religious faith falls very short - too many people have been killed and maimed, too much blood has been shed and is still being shed as these words hit the monitor screen because of some religious or political fanatic with strong religious or non-religious beliefs exclaiming that only their way is the right way to salvation - whatever the hell that means.  I shudder every time a nation claims they're going to war because it's holy, God's will, righteous or some other bullshit religious reason because it is then, the masses collect like mindless sheep and follow each other over the cliff of oblivion and ignorance.  However, that being said, to me, Jesus Christ was a live man, breathed the same air and actually walked this earth the same as you and I.  And from what I've read and has been passed down from one generation to the next - He is a man to admire, respect and look up to in every way possible - He is the ultimate mentor and emulating our lives after such a person would definitely do no harm.  I bow to such a man for He is greater than I and see nothing wrong with celebrating the days of His birth and His demise.

So far, I've written about my own personal sadness and have spouted off my philosophical views pertaining to Christmas, and, since I'm on a roll, I might as well continue with the joy that Christmas day brings to little children.  Jesus must roll over in his grave when we, especially the well-to-do of the world, go on the ultimate buying spree, dashing throughout the malls and stores like some fat guy's reindeer, filling our sleighs (big shiny automobiles) with stuff for kids who often have exorbitantly more than they already need and are supposed to be nice; not naughty.  I imagine anyone reading this might call me a cynic or a pessimist and I say to them, Bah!  Humbug!" for I'm neither Dicken's "Scrooge" or the "Grinch that stole Christmas".  I'm pretty much the same as everyone else, I buy gifts for little children (enjoy seeing the way their faces light up when they open a present) and I tout the fat guy who lives at the North Pole even though I know he's a fake (sometimes it's important to believe in magic and make-believe) because reality is often very difficult to bear.

I should mention that before I end this Blog, although Santa has some very amazing reindeer, my favourite one is Rudolf.  He's sitting here with me right now along with Santa - we're knocking back the case of beer they dropped off - Rudolf didn't get that red nose from sniffing Blitzen's bum and Santa didn't get that big gut from eating too many sweets - we love our beer!

Cheers - eh!

PINK SNEAKERS - Final Episode of 2 Parts

Her step mother winked slyly and slowly sauntered across the room to where her husband lay dying, her svelte body moving as sensually as a cobra being wooed by a New Delhi Indian flute player.  At 42 years of age, she had a body that would still be enviable to a well endowed 20-year old woman.   She was very young in comparison to the old man and smiled to herself as she thought, you old prick!  I've been waiting a long time, almost 20 years for you to drop dead.  Although she found it revolting, she took his old withered hand in hers, stroked it tenderly, leaned over his emaciated body and lightly kissed him on the forehead.

The old man's blue eyes fluttered open once again; an ugly rattle easily heard within his wrinkled throat.  He gazed at his pretty wife as she wiped away the drool with the corner of the bed sheet and mumbled, "I've regretted a lot of things in my life, but marrying you isn’t one of them."

Her smile flashed triumphantly on hearing his words and she replied, "I feel the same way.  I’ve loved you almost since the first time I ever laid eyes on you and it’s only grown stronger over the past twenty years."

The old man continued looking at his wife and when he asked her to lean nearer so she could hear him better, his son and daughter moved in closer as well – they didn’t want to be left out should he divulge the map’s whereabouts.  However, instead of saying anything about the map’s location, much to the bewilderment of his wife, her smiling face suddenly turning into a state of shock, he quickly slid his hand inside the top of his wife's low-cut dress and began fondling one of her large, firm breasts.  Straining for breath, his lungs on the verge of playing out, he uttered, "I'm sure going to miss these big tits."

His wife almost pulled away from her dying husband in disgust but quickly determined, one last feel couldn't hurt as long as he gives up the map’s location.  "Yeah," he croaked.  "I sure don't regret marrying you.  You were a great piece of ass.  I lied about only having a short time to live and about my age too.  I wasn’t 92; I was only 72 when we got married in Vegas.  And that terminal disease – no disease – I was as healthy and horny as an over-sexed ox.”

His wife gasped, jerked his hand away from her breast and tossed it angrily onto his bony chest like a damp worn-out dishrag, "Well, aren't you quite the old guy?” she snidely remarked.  “You really are what you said you were a long time ago; just a dirty old man; a dirty, disgusting old man!  And to think I gave you the best years of my life!”

A wisp of a smile creased the old man's purplish tinged lips and his blue eyes sparkled even more than before as he quietly murmured, “I had to lie; a beautiful young gold-digger like you, with a hot, sexy body to enjoy whenever I felt the urge, would never have married the likes of me if they knew I wasn’t an old man on the verge of dying.  You thought you were real smart, I didn't have too much time left but I fooled you, didn't I?" 

When he began chuckling, almost laughing loudly, he suddenly gagged, grimaced in pain and squeezed his eyes shut. As he choked for a lung full of air, another long rattle from deep within his throat escaped his gaping maw. 

His wife, her temper flaring hotter than the flames of hell yelled at him, "Don't you die yet you old prick!  I gave you 20 years of the best fucking you ever had, the least you can do is tell me where the god-damned map is.  You owe me that much!"

The old man's eyes fluttered open, tears cascading down his deeply creased cheeks and jeeringly spluttered, "You...didn’t...give me...the best fucking...ever.  But…I sup…pose…I owe you… that much.” 

His mouth straining to form words, he gasped, “You'll...find...the map...inside your...”

Desperatly waiting for him to continue, afraid he was going to die before he told his secret, his wife yelled at him as if he had suddenly became deaf, “Come on!  Don’t quit on me now old man,” his wife harshly yelled.  “Hurry up; tell me where you hid the map!  The map!  The map!  Where’s the fucking map?”

“Pink...sneakers," he gasped.  And upon saying that, his gaping toothless mouth desperately struggling for one last suck of sweet air, his wife, son and daughter heard the final death rattle sounding his demise within the damp depths of his old throat.

His wife stared down at her dead husband lying on the bed, then looked at his son and daughter in disbelief and quizzically declared, "What the fuck was the demented, crazy old bugger jabbering about?  I don't have and never have owned a pair of god-damned, pink sneakers - I HATE fucking pink!"

I hope anyone who has read Pink Sneakers had a little chuckle or a good guffaw out of my little tale - I know I did.  I'll post other short little stories as they come to me - cheers - eh!  

PINK SNEAKERS - Episode 1

The old man was lying in a large bed with two big soft pillows propped under his head; sunlight streaming through a half open window added warmth to the heavy duvet covering his aged, worn out body.  He was rich; actually, for lack of a better word, filthy rich.  However, since he didn’t believe in banks, retirement plans and other investment programs, he'd carefully hidden his money away - only a map existed, explaining the exact location of his hoarded treasure.  His much younger third wife and his son and daughter from his first marriage were standing side by side near the bedroom door listening to his rasping breathing; the expressions on their faces looking more bored rather than worried as the doctor standing near the corner of the room leaned towards them and quietly whispered, "It won't be long now."

His son, long graying dreadnaughts braided together and carefully bound with a red lace ribbon drew closer to the bed.  Not a single tear slid down his corpulent countenance as he crossed his arms over his pot-bellied gut, bent slightly over, smiled and looked down at the dying man.  Not wanting to upset his father, choosing his words carefully he said, "Father, I love you."  When there was no response, he continued, “Father, don't you want your family to be well looked after when you’re gone?”  When there was still no answer, with the patience of a child and a voice somewhat harsher, he quickly added, “Where did you hide your map?"

The old man slowly opened one eye and looked up at his son.  Clearing his throat, his voice barely audible to the others, he said, "Get a haircut and get a job.  You're damned near fifty – be a man - don’t you think it's bloody time you grew up and started looking after yourself?  How many times have I told you over the years, I won't be around forever?"

The son's face grew very red; hatred bristling through his eyes as sharp as porcupine quills.  He threw up his hands in disgust and shaking his head, looked up at the ceiling before stomping over to his sister and angrily whispering in her ear, "You try.  He always did like you best."

The old man's daughter looked at her angry brother, cocked a heavily mascara drawn eyebrow and nodded her head as if to say, leave it to me.  She waddled confidently to the edge of the bed in her shiny red, stiletto high heel shoes and reached for one of her father's boney hands; the skin so transparent, a large pulsating blue vein could be clearly seen.  Gently stroking his knobby knuckles with her hot, pudgy, sweaty fingers, she bent down and looked at the withered old man, who at one time had been very virile and physically active.  Thinking about what she would say to her father, she took a deep breath and exhaled very slowly.  Leaning even closer, her severely short, straight fluorescent chartreuse hair, a large bright purple streak slicing through the bangs caused the barb wire, which was tattooed across her forehead to be barely visible.  She wore a black leather skirt cut almost to the crotch and a black leather vest, which fit snugly over a velvet, red short-sleeved blouse that exposed much of her big round breasts and another tattoo shaped like red flames that raged up her arm and exploded into a fiery skull at the base of her jaw.  Her voice sounded rather babyish as the silver, diamond studded safety pin, which was pierced through her nose bounced up and down when she uttered through her pouty lips, "It's me; daddy's little girl.  I love you.  Yes I do.  I love you very much." 

Her father appeared to be sleeping.  However, when his blue eyes slowly fluttered open, striving to focus from the blinding bright sunlight pouring through the lavender coloured lacey bedroom curtains, his head suddenly jerked back into the thick pillows and he gasped, "My gosh!  You almost scared me to death!  I hardly recognize you!  Quit dying your hair and take that ugly safety pin out of your nose.  Stop wearing such ridiculous clothes too.  Get a job - you're almost 52 now – don’t you think it’s about time you started looking after yourself and acting your age."

The old man’s daughter glared at him and if looks could kill, he wouldn't be dying naturally very soon.  You fucking old man, she almost said but then caught herself.  "I will daddy.  I promise.  But my brother's right, you really should tell us where you've hidden your map.  You wouldn't want a total stranger to find it and then get all the money that you’ve hidden away over the years would you?"

As the old man shut his eyes, he blew a puff of air through his pursed lips, which caused a large bubble of yellowish drool to slide from the corner of his mouth and slowly make its way down a deep wrinkle, then drip off his stubbly jowl onto the side of his neck.  Realizing it was probably useless talking to him any longer, his daughter dropped his hand like a hot rock and wobbled off towards the others, her 267 lbs of rolling fat bending but not quite breaking the heels off her shoes.  As she stood fuming with rage beside her brother, her huge breats threatening to burst the leather vest, she looked sideways at her stepmother and whispered in her ear, so her father couldn't hear, "You've always had your own way with him.  Maybe you can get the old bastard to tell you where he hid that fucking map of his."

If you've enjoyed or not enjoyed this Part 1 of a 2 Part episode of Pink Sneakers, don't be shy; leave a comment at the bottom of the posting - it is encouraging to write more posts - Cheers - eh! 

THE GHOST

When I stepped out the back door of my art studio earlier last night, no stars or moon could be seen; the clouds had compressed the rolling hills into a very thin horizon and a few twinkling lights shining through the windows of distant houses reminded me that I wasn’t alone.  Recently arriving from a busy city to the rolling mountains of the Appalachian wilderness, I’m still not used to the quietness, the stillness that fills the air.  As I scanned the darkness surrounding my studio, the deep shadows of the trees perhaps playing tricks with my eyes, it felt as if a gnarled bony hand with sharp, filthy nails or claws was about to reach out of the eerie darkness and snatch my soul.  An uncanny chill sent shivers up and down my spine as if whatever I sensed out in the darkness was very close and breathing on the back of my neck.  I stood very still; all my senses on high alert as I listened.  It was deathly quiet, not even a whisper of a breeze could be heard soughing through the trees.  The only sound I could hear was the beating of my heart; it clanged as loud as a morning church bell summoning Sunday morning services.  I didn’t want to turn around but I had no choice.  On the verge of panicking, I couldn’t go running off without any direction, stumbling about in the snow and getting lost in the woods, which were just a few steps away.  Many wild animals live in the forest; in the daytime I’ve seen their tracks in the snow very close to the studio and house.  However, if indeed something was lurking in the darkness, toying with my mind, I was certain it wasn’t a wild animal.  After I took a deep breath and tried to steady my nerves, determined to face whatever was causing the shivers to race up and down my backbone like a pianist playing Rossini’s William Tell overture but there wasn’t anything behind me – only a dark empty space – as empty as my courage.

I’m not sure if I believe in ghosts; supernatural specters, fanatical phantoms or atoning apparitions dressed in see-through gossamer sheets floating about a house or out in the yard.  However, something made the hairs on the nape of my neck stand at attention, but then again, perhaps it was just the cold stillness of a dark winter night that caused this sensation – this peculiar phenomenon to occur.  The reason I mentioned ghosts is because not only have I had this feeling before since we moved into this old house at the base of Green Mountain but I caught a glimpse of something in the upstairs bedrooms.  Yes, as odd as it seems; one afternoon as the sun was settling down behind the autumn coloured leaves tenaciously cleaning to the trees growing along the edge of the road that winds past the house, while I was renovating a bedroom, my peripheral vision caught a sudden movement as if someone had suddenly and soundlessly ducked into one of the other bedrooms.  I remember furrowing my brows and wondering, since nobody was home; did I or didn’t I see something.  Curiosity got the best of me, and, as I cautiously walked towards the bedroom door, the closer I got to the doorway, the colder I began to feel; the hairs on the nape of my neck rising and tingling.

The bedroom wasn’t dark by any means; night was still a good hour away when I stepped through the doorway and looked around.  I didn’t see anything except some of my tools and materials for renovating the room and the closet was empty.  And yet, the room felt extremely cold; as cold as a Siberian mausoleum in the dead of winter.  If something or someone other than me was still in the room, it was definitely dead.  Like I said, I’m not sure if I believe in ghosts, perhaps it was just a trick of the eye, a playful shadow cast across the bedroom doorway or my creative imagination but I was certainly startled and the coldness I felt was real.  But just for argument’s sake, since I seem to be arguing with myself, was it or wasn’t it a ghost, I didn’t feel afraid of whatever I sensed was there because other than the cold sensations, I never felt the least bit threatened.

I can’t be positive that my family and I are the only residents in this old house at the base of Green Mountain, because just this morning around 6:00am, I heard a loud thump upstairs in one of the empty bedrooms, and it just wasn’t my imagination, because my wife quietly whispered, “Did you hear that?”

“Yeah” I responded, “It’s just the ghost.  It must have bumped into one of the walls.” 

Cheers - eh!

My First Winter in Fosterville, NB

Winter has arrived at the base of Green Mountain – colder than the stare of a jilted lover – but I love it here.  The winding road leading to North Grand Lake, although covered with deep snow and difficult to trudge at times, is more than worth the excursion.  If I were without a warm home to return to, I would most likely think differently because it wouldn’t be a take-my-time hike but instead a venture in search of shelter and sustenance like the forest creatures have to do on a daily basis.  Fortunately, I have the luxury of returning to a modern den with all the latest modcoms, unlike our forefathers before who covered their naked bodies with skins and gathered around an open fire for warmth.  And yet, because few of us here in the western world have ever had to endure any real hardships, many complain about their abodes and all the other things they supposedly need to make their lives more comfortable. 

During my younger days, I occasionally lived in tack rooms at the racetrack in Vancouver; BC; hardened dirt for floors, which after I swept the dust away, actually had a slight sheen.  Like most individuals, I’m not very fond of bugs, spiders and other little crawly insects that bite.  However, the first below-zero winter night, the small electric heater turned to its highest notch; when I turned out the light and jumped into my sleeping bag, I suddenly heard small plopping noises.  Curious about what was happening throughout the small room, I turned on the light – well holy crap – hundreds of little grey bugs about the size of a very tiny button were dropping through the narrow cracks in the ceiling and landing everywhere!  It was like a WWII invasion, except they weren’t wearing parachutes or carrying weapons.  Stay warm or leave – that was the question?  Warmth being definitely a rare commodity on this particular winter night, I figured the little heat that was in the tack room was enough to share; so I leaped back into bed, pulled my head inside the sleeping bag and went sound to sleep – time enough in the morning to deal with the pesky little critters.

I’ve written romantic poems about winter but in reality, there’s nothing romantic about being cold and hungry.  Since I enjoy writing Haiku, perhaps this little poem I’ve just written will be more truthful: 

 snow gently falling  

covering the frozen land 

kills with cold silence

Although there are many little cottages tucked into the trees along the edge of the lake; most of the fair-weather owners have fled to warmer climes, only a few hardy ones remain.  But I enjoy walking the roadway leading to and from the lake when there are no other tracks except mine and the moose, the deer, the coyote, the rabbit and the squirrel – the bears are hopefully hibernating – because even an old bony guy like me might make a decent snack to a hungry black bear in the middle of winter.  I have to admit as I look at the trees heavenly laden with snow and bent over as if in prayer, the truest cathedral a person could worship in would be a natural setting amidst the trees and streams.  Our man-made cathedrals gilded with gold and jewels, although beautiful works of art, to me, pale in comparison. 

Today’s morning walk, as I retraced my footsteps of yesterday, was as per usual, very refreshing - it’s been awhile since ice has formed on my mustache.  Judging by the tracks that sometimes followed my own sunken footsteps, a small band of coyotes visited the deserted cottages overnight.  And, once when I stopped walking and stood in the middle of the road, amidst the silence surrounding me, checking out their crisscrossing trails, I heard the mournful howl of a coyote in the distance.  Perhaps it was the alpha male because at times I could see where the coyotes had traveled single file along the road and then splitting off.

It’s quite inspiring to casually trudge through the deep snow and realize that wild animals are very near, that some have actually walked in my footsteps and mine in theirs.  During autumn, while walking the same roadway, I heard some crashing noises in the woods.  It was a deer, a soft-eyed doe.  She was bounding and leaping over bushes and fallen trees as if something was after her.  She wasn’t very far away but what I found simply amazing is that after she ran by, she ran back again and then came out to where I was standing.  I could see her chest heaving as she stood at the edge of the road looking at me.  At first I thought she wasn’t aware of me when she was dashing through the forest but when she casually began eating the grass growing along the edge of the road, I knew it wasn’t me she was afraid of and I sometimes wonder if whatever spooked her caused her to run to me for protection – foolish soft-eyed doe – she’s most likely wound up on someone’s dinner plate.

Yes, I love it here.  My home in Fosterville, NB (Canada) may not be an intricately adorned mansion or palace but I can afford it, and that’s important.  But, perhaps even more importantly, I am bonding with our somewhat wilderness surroundings. 

My Last Letter to My Mom - Final Episode of 3 Parts

After that wild episode in the hospital, the years just seemed to slip by; I’m sorry I didn’t see you very often or write as many letters.  My life had suddenly gone from being busy to just downright chaotic – my graphic business, properties (including my home) and 17-year marriage seemed to quickly vanish.  After the experience of being almost a millionaire and then living on a sailboat, I’m sure, must have had some sort of an affect on my mental condition.  A series of girlfriends also seemed to slip through my fingers as easily as sand through an hour glass, which probably didn’t help either.  Through all my losses, mostly brought on by my immature attitude, I also realized that things weren’t going that well for you either, your physical condition was deteriorating – you often complained about an increasing pain in your hip and having difficulty walking at times.  When you were eventually diagnosed with lung cancer, I believe I went into self-denial.  Although dad had passed away on Christmas day almost 25 years earlier – now maybe you too – this just wasn’t acceptable.  I could scarce believe that while I was hoping things would get better for you, your husband was suddenly diagnosed with cancer as well. 

            I remember when I came for a short visit, I was quite shocked by your deterioration; how thin you had become.  However, even though your husband was in worse condition, I was very impressed and touched with how he fussed over you – it was plain to see that he was just as much in love with you as he probably was when the two of you first met.  Although it’s kind of strange thinking back, still to this day, I sometimes wonder how you really felt about him – if you truly loved him.  Do you remember when you baked him his favourite chocolate cake but neglected to tell him that the icing was made from Ex-lax (chocolate laxative)?  You sure giggled when you told me; you’d never seen a man run to the toilet so fast or so often.  Shortly after I returned home, I received a phone call from my sister informing me that her dad was on his deathbed but it wasn’t necessary for me to come and see him one last time because he was basically incoherent and probably wouldn’t know who I was.  Although I never once thought of him as a step-dad, I did regard him as a very good friend – you know how much we enjoyed playing Scrabble over the years. 

I still remember helping out with your husband’s funeral arrangements and thinking how he looked so peaceful lying in his coffin.  The funeral director had placed his well-worn, somewhat crushed, brown felt fedora alongside his bald head and he almost looked as if he was suddenly going to open his eyes and say good-bye.  The last mental snapshot I have of that sad time was when you watched me being driven off to the bus station – even though I knew you were in severe pain and how difficult it was for you to stand in front of your picture window; I can still see your affectionate smile as you waved good-bye. 

Because of your deteriorating condition, the cancer quickly spreading from your lungs into your bones, my brother, sister and I decided that since I was just sort of floating on a sailboat, single without any real obligations, it would be best if I looked after you during your final days.  Strange, even then, I was still in denial; I figured you would somehow miraculously rally and regain your health.  I found it very difficult watching you gradually grow weaker and weaker.  It was great that my sister helped out along with some palliative-care women who visited every few days. 

I don’t suppose you remember me lighting your cigarettes or your bed catching fire a couple of times when you fell asleep with a lit smoke in your hand!  You know, I almost started smoking again after so many years because I’d often enjoy an occasional cigarette along with my cold beer when I took a break after digging in the garden under the hot summer sun.  For the most part, I’m sure the cigarette was purely therapeutic; it wasn’t easy watching you die mom.

  I guess you had your reasons why you really didn’t talk very much while laying in your bed, which I had moved downstairs into the living room so you could see the kids playing in the park across the street and the mountains in the distance.  Fortunately, you weren’t in much pain, just not very talkative.  Even though things seemed to be steadily digressing, I wasn’t surprised at your tenacity when much to the astonishment of the caregivers you said, “Leonard, take me to the park.  I want to have a shower.”  You were quite a sight dressed in your long white nightgown and black rubber boots as I half carried you outside to the stairs leading down to the front yard.  I guess you must have realized, since you were already out of breath after just a few steps, that you didn’t have the strength to walk across the street to the park because you said, “I’m tired; can we just sit on the steps for a bit?”  I can honestly tell you mom, it felt real good sitting on the doorstep with my arm around you, even though I knew it would be the very last time you’d be going outside.

            The hot summer days passed slowly; I kept lighting your cigarettes and working in the garden.  As the seeds began growing and poking their heads out of the warm earth, I think I was fooling myself that the nourishment and care I was providing for them would somehow carry over to you and your bony old body would suddenly begin to heal. However, on the morning of July 3, 1991, while my sister and our aunt were visiting, my aunt yelled to me while I was pulling weeds in the garden, “Hurry!  Come inside!  I think your mom is going!” 

It was heartbreaking to watch you lying there gasping for a breath of air, your tired emaciated body struggling to survive.  When you finally became silent; unmoving; your mouth gaping for one final breath of air, I looked into your bright blue eyes, which were still wide open.  I hope you didn’t mind mom but I thought it only fitting that I should close your eyes for the very last time, especially since you watched me open mine for the very first time.

Well mom, I’m sad to say, this is the last letter I’ll be writing to you, even though I know how important our letter correspondence has meant to us.  I’ve no idea what the postage will cost or where I should send this letter, so I think I’ll just hold onto it and perhaps one day in the future, I may get the chance to sit down beside you on a door step across from a playground and look into your sparkling, vivid blue eyes and read it to you.

As always and forever, your loving son…Leonard xoxoxoxoxoxo       

My Last Letter to My Mom - Episode II

I also remember when I was a young boy around the age of eight, dad telling me that you were in New Westminster and staying at a hotel.  When we went to visit you, transferring from one streetcar to the next, it seemed to take forever to get there.  And, I have to admit; I was really amazed to see such a huge hotel overlooking the undulating, well-manicured, green lawns that surrounded it; I must have thought you were really rich.  I have no recollection of what was said during our short visit, sitting on what seemed to be a park bench under a large shady tree but you have no idea how shocked I was, when as a young man, I came to visit you there again.  This time, a bus instead of a streetcar stopped in front of the same wooden park bench and extensive green lawns.  However, it wasn’t a hotel you were staying at, but Riverview/Essondale, a place for mentally disturbed people and for me, it was like a giant step back into time.  I was troubled to learn from your psychiatrist that you had been there many times before, and sadly, as the years went by, how often you would return.

I don’t recall specifically when I began taking mental snapshots, something special to hold onto, but over the many years of visiting you mom, I took many.  To this day when I bring them into view, some bring a smile to my face and often as not, others bring tears as well.  Now, that I’m definitely in the autumn of my years, only footsteps away from the snowline, I still think and cherish our times together.  Not sure if I am just like you, which you once mentioned, but mom, without a doubt there is a big part of you that is a big part of me.  You certainly had a wicked smile and how your vivid blue eyes sparkled; even with age, you were still a beautiful woman to behold.  People often tell me that I look younger than my age and I guess I have you to thank for that trait.

I’m not sure if you know how I’ve been doing over the years, and to be honest mom, at times, I’m not all that certain myself.  Some would say and some have even related that I don’t count in society – perhaps living on the edge and not having similar or so-called normal endeavours has something to do with it.  Being an artist, I like to think of myself as a rather colourful individual, even if I am a wee bit of a reject.  Not sure if my personality or somewhat different growing up patterns over the years has been a problem but I’ve definitely made some bad choices and mistakes.  Perhaps, like you, I’m somewhat of a free spirit marching out of step; at least that’s my excuse for being a touch different.

Like I mentioned a little earlier in the letter about taking mental snapshots – some of the most amazing ones were taken before and after we left Nanaimo early one morning and proceeded driving to Prince George, where you were living at the time.  I sometimes wonder if you remember visiting me and my family after you quit taking your medication, which was meant to keep you mentally stabilized.  I can still see you when you somehow magically transformed from being a paranoid, vicious cave-like woman wielding a chunk of firewood like a club threatening my kids into a sophisticated and charming southern belle, complete with a southern drawl.  You promised me a mansion and oil wells that night; even servants.  It was wonderful to see your happy smile and twinkling blue eyes as you twirled and danced to some imaginary music that only you could hear; you seemed so sprightly agile and oblivious to your surroundings, it was as if you were young again; your prominent limp, aches and pains miraculously cured. 

To me, the drive back to Prince George will always be a memorable highlight and to this day, I still thank my lucky stars that we actually survived the journey, at least as far as we got anyway.  The scene you caused on the ferry ride to Vancouver was slightly tamer than at the Chilliwack gas station but when we arrived at Hope - well, what can I say - you were really getting out of hand, much to the chagrin of the waitress and the restaurant customers.  I never knew you could swear like a beer-swilling lumberjack.       During our cat and mouse drive along the Fraser canyon traveling at dangerously high speeds and then at a snail’s crawl down the highway’s gravel shoulder overlooking the edge of a cliff, at times bumper to bumper with a blue van, which you were convinced was out to get us; I wonder if you recall nonchalantly saying, “Leonard, I’m surprised you’re not asleep; you usually fall asleep when you’re in the car.” 
If you only knew mother; without a doubt, it was probably the scariest and weirdest car trip I ever experienced; I expect my fingerprints are still on the dashboard and anything else that I could hold onto.  How we managed to get as far as Cache Creek I’ll never know but that stop proved to be your starring moment of our journey!  However, instead of the people in the restaurant giving you a standing ovation – I heard snide remarks like, “Look at that lady; I’ll bet she’s drunk,” and “She’s whacko!”  I’m sorry mom, but up until you threw yourself down on the hot pavement in front of the semi that was attempting to leave the parking lot, I was still on your side.  However, when I bent over you on that summer day and looked down at you lying on the hot pavement, your blonde hair glowing, eyes mischievously glinting in the sunlight and your arms defiantly crossed over your chest, I had no other alternative except to call for an ambulance.  If I’d been able to drive a car, I most likely would have simply dragged you into your car, strapped you into the seat and then drove you home.  When we arrived at the Ashcroft Hospital via ambulance (they didn’t need a siren, your screams were loud enough to clear the highway) and before a doctor was able to stick a huge needle into your arm filled to the brim with a sedative to knock you out, you managed to cause yet another huge scene. This was perhaps your crowning encore – I have no idea how that old man struggling with his wheelchair felt when this wild and crazy woman broke away from the ambulance attendants and suddenly leaped onto his lap, planting a big wet kiss on his shriveled lips – perhaps he couldn’t believe his luck at his age that some hot woman still found him desirable.

To my valued readers - I hope you're enjoying this intimate letter about my mom and I - don't be shy to leave a comment or become a follower so you don't miss out on the final episode of My Last Letter to My Mom.  Cheers - eh!

My Last Letter to My Mom

Misty, our little dog died a few years ago and the whole family, needless to say, was extremely sad.  Sooner or later, everyone experiences a death in the family; even a pet can often times be an integral family member.  Each of us, although we hug and try to comfort one another when a death occurs, we eventually have to deal with it in our own way.  Being quite a bit older than my wife and her two daughters, death has visited me on numerous occasions – many close relatives and friends having passed on – some of them very tragic and sudden.  What I’ve discovered to help me through these sad and emotional times is a little camera, which I keep stored away inside my mind.  Over the years, it’s snapped many photos of people I cherish, so that the little moments werecaptured and can be replayed whenever I want to relive that time with them again.  Although sometimes the tears flow when I relive those moments, there are far more smiles and sometimes I even break out in laughter.

My father and mother divorced when I was very young.  Since I didn’t live with my mother, only saw her on holidays while growing up, it was always somewhat of an emotional experience for me to say good-bye when the time came for me to return home.  Unlike now, with everyday use of emails and cell phones, for me, the main source of communication was primarily hand-written letters, especially if any long distance was involved and this was how I mainly kept in touch with my mother. 

            One day, shortly after my mother’s death, while I was going through some of my personal stuff, I came across a letter I’d written to her and for one reason or another had forgotten to post it.  After reading the letter, I was prompted to write her once again as I visualized some of the moments my little mind’s-eye camera had captured of her.  I guess in a way, this letter is my way of dealing with her death, not so much in saying a final good-bye but perhaps more importantly, hopefully saying hello to her sometime in the future.

              

Dear Mom

I don’t know where the time has gone; a great many years have passed since we were last in touch.  It’s not that you haven’t been on my mind mom nor missed, because seldom does a day go by that I don’t think about you and what you mean to me. 

I remember when I was just a boy, five years of age; I went to live with my dad (something unusual for that era, since the kids mainly remained with their mothers rather than the fathers after a divorce).  Although my new surroundings would soon be very different from the one room log cabin we were living in at Woodpecker, BC, I’ve never forgotten that little cabin or the day my dad arrived.  I was outside playing in the melting snow, the narrow roadway leading to the cabin, muddy and rutted, when I saw my dad, wearing a heavy overcoat and a cocked fedora, crouch down, smile and begin clapping his hands, beckoning me towards him.  I remember feeling very happy as I ran towards him and how good it felt when he lifted me up in his strong arms.  Of course I was very young and unaware of the reason he came, most likely just thought he was coming home from work after being away for a long time.  It felt strange later that day, when my dad and I were on a Greyhound bus destined for Vancouver, when he said, “You’ll have a new mother and you can call her mom if you like?  (What was wrong with the mom I had, I wondered?).  Also, you’ll have two new sisters to play with.” 

To this day, I can still see my step mom and her two girls standing in the living room beside the front door when we walked into the house.  They were all smiling but I still felt the awkwardness of the situation. 

You have no idea how much I missed you mom and the many nights I silently cried myself to sleep over the years.  But what I remember most is feeling so excited when I came home from school and found an envelope addressed to me; of course a shiny dime or a quarter always arrived with the letter.  To be honest mom, during those early years of growing up, I’m not sure if your letters or the money I received with them gave me more incentive to write back, but regardless, we exchanged many letters over my childhood years.

Although we never lived together again, I want you to know mom that I loved you very much and the excitement I felt when summer holidays arrived was indescribable.  Because it was then that we went to my grand folk’s wilderness homestead along the Fraser River, which wasn’t too far from the little cabin where we had once lived together.  I loved those summer interludes, tromping through the forest with a .22 rifle in my hand, grouse and rabbits fluttering and scurrying for cover.  It still amazes me to this day, how I stomped about with no substantial trails to follow and never got lost – maybe the reason was King, the part collie dog accompanying me; he of course knew the way home and, I just naturally followed.  I was basically a Vancouver city boy by then – hardly a country lad.  I can’t say I ever felt worried wandering around in the bush except maybe the time I came across a bog because the black mud and water were still dripping off the branches and leaves - it had obviously just been used as a bathtub that hot summer day to cool off a  big old bear.  I remember being very alert; eyes and ears wide open as I carefully made my way back to the big, two-story log house overlooking the river.  Yes, being with you those summers mom were some of the best times of my life and if it were at all possible, I would love to return, if only for one day.

To be continued...cheers, eh!

RAIN, RAIN, GO AWAY

And to think I sold my sailboat and moved to New Brunswick; this torrential downpour we’re experiencing, should it keep up for 40 days and 40 nights, I’ll be wishing I was still living on it – I’ll bet the animals are climbing aboard it right now; two by two – Mt. Ararat, here we come.   I kept the dinghy; thoughts of taking it down to the lake and doing a little fishing are quickly vanishing; at this rate, I’ll just wait for the lake to come to me.  It’s so sopping wet here in Fosterville, I thought I saw a fish, instead of a squirrel, leaping from branch to branch on a big old birch tree.  Up till a day ago we had about a foot of snow and the lake was frozen solid.  However, at the rate the rain is pelting us; it wouldn’t surprise me if the Atlantic Ocean and Grand Lake were to meet, even though they’re situated quite a distance apart.

One good thing about the rain (that is, if it’s a good thing) I’m discovering where all the leaks are in the house and the shop.  As I was lying on the bed reading a book, trying to get warm after digging a trench around the shop to keep the water from pouring under the large double doorway and flood my newly built art studio, I happened to look up at the ceiling.  Good thing too, because since the paint was beginning to bubble, it gave us a chance to move the bed and some other things in case it bursts and we have a freezing midnight shower while we’re sleeping – now that would be one rude awakening!  Tonight, instead of pajamas, I think we’ll wear life preservers and maybe tie the dinghy to the foot of the bed – might be good enough to float us into the kitchen next to the woodstove, where we can brew us a hot cup of tea or hot chocolate.

Off and on through the day, I thought the ghost, who resides in our 80 year old, fixer-upper house was thumping around upstairs but it was just the snow and the huge icicles falling off the roof and eaves.  When I go outside, I make a quick dash for it; could get impaled by a chunk of ice or smothered in the wet snow should it happen to fall off and hit me.  Up till about five days ago, I was enjoying my customary morning walks to the lake and back (about a mile round trip) until the snow got too deep to trudge the unplowed roadway.  Too bad this wasn’t a tropical downpour, I could most likely swim my way there and back but the way it is, I’m afraid I’d freeze my little gonads off and some squirrel would tuck them away for a winter treat.

Not quite like the poem, “The Ancient Mariner” – water, water everywhere, and all the boards did shrink – water, water everywhere - but we’ve got a hell of a lot to drink!  It’s odd, last summer our well almost went dry – wasn’t sure if it was the elephant sized spider that was living in its damp darkness or a shortage of water that was causing the problem.  Well I guess I know now, it was the thirsty spider because there’s enough water spurting out of the belligerent, cloudy sky and streaming down the grumpy Green Mountain to keep the well filled to the brim for the next ten years – geesh – the New Brunswickian spiders, like the rain, are something to beware. 

If it wasn’t so dark right now, I’d go a hunting for Noah; see if I could swap him for a two week old 649 Lotto ticket for a bunk on his Ark – why hell, I’d even muck out the animal’s stalls and bring them tubs of water and feed – and of course, I’d keep especially good care of the doves – they’ll know when the land eventually pokes its head up out of the deluge.

Cheers – eh!