uncle ford

Uncle Ford was grinning at Clary when I came into the kitchen, bumping her shoulder all friendly-like and leaning in to whisper. She shoved him away when she heard my step on the stairs and turned to me. "Kitty! What are you up to today?"

Yes, it was strange having my friend date my uncle.  Aunt Maud would never let Ford forget that he was thirteen years older than that Johnson chippy. After all, (disapproving sniff) what would the neighbors say? I think if she didn't have such a broad and obvious sweet spot for Ford, Maud would have hassled him until he agreed to give up the foolishness of dating a local girl. But he was the son of her favorite son, so she grumbled and tight-lipped and yet did nothing concrete to stop his budding romance. If she'd cut off his allowance, he'd have straightened up. Uncle Ford was very comfortable having his life financed.

After all, what was worth more - independence, or free room and board?

I smiled at Clary. "Just finishing up the dishes, then I might have a walk down to the wharf.  There might be some bluefish in."

Uncle Ford mugged at Clary, winking at me. "Never mind her, Clara. Let's take a drive."

I dumped the dishes in the waiting water, trying not to be a little hurt that I wasn't the one Ford wanted to take for a spin (I loved riding in his convertible!) and blocking out most of the noise they made giggling at each other before they left.

Finished at last, I took my book into the front parlour and was just getting comfortable when Aunt Maud's bell went off. It wasn't three seconds later that I heard her call for me. (Maud was never a patient person.)

Grumbling a little, I got up. It wasn't until I was right outside her door that I remembered I'd forgotten the tea. On the off chance that she wanted something else, I stuck my head in. She was scowling down at her mail and barely looked up. "Tea, Katherine. My tea. Stanton will be home soon, and he doesn't have time to wait."

I made a face at her grey curly head and went back for her cup.

The front door slammed just as I got back upstairs. Grand-dad's voice boomed along the halls. "Where's my girl?"

"Just a second, Grand-Dad. I'm up with Maud."

A minute later, he pushed the door open himself. "Hello, Maudie." His voice was soft. Grand-Dad was always very gentle with his sister, even when she was being her worst cantankerous self. I'd only heard him raise his voice to her once. He winked when he saw me.

"What are you doing inside on such a beautiful day, Katie-girl?"

Aunt Maud harrumphed. "Katherine is finishing up in the kitchen, and then she is taking me to my bridge club. As she usually does on Wednesday afternoons, Stanton."

Grand-Dad coughed and sent her a chiding look. "I thought Katie might like to come out with me this afternoon. I don't have any appointments this afternoon, so I thought she and I'd get a breath of fresh air. Perhaps Ford would take you to the club."

Maud grumbled, but agreed. I hurried to change out of my dungarees and jerk a quick comb through my hair. Where were we going to go today?

My grandfather knew everyone in town. As we strolled along, he'd point to a house and tell me stories about the people that lived there. Or, even better, stories about the people that used to live there and how things were when the town was thriving and new.

And sometimes - sometimes, I could get him to talk about my mother.

auntie maud

'What?' she said, looking up from her ledger, blinking at me over her half-spectacles.
'Nothing', I shrugged, 'Just wanted to see what you were up to.'

She gestured at the half-eaten lunch there among the blankets. 'You can take that away, Kitty. I'm finished."

I wanted to scold, to tell her she should eat more, that her doctor and my grandfather and her friends said she should eat more, but I held my tongue. Some things just aren't worth fighting with your great-aunt about.
Besides, she would eat, sooner or later. She was just in a snit (although she'd never admit to it) about Uncle Ford courting 'that woman'. And I hovered on the fence, afraid to comment for fear I'd piss her off, since she owned the house I lived in - and 'that woman' was my best friend.

Clary and I didn't meet under the best of circumstances. I spent a few years wishing she would just move away, since she and I both picked out Daniel Randall for our beaus. (A mistake I quickly rectified when Dover came home the first day of seventh grade and told us his new pals' nickname at school was 'Dandy Randy.' Maud did NOT approve.)Still, he was a hero at school (my brother included) because he could spit all the way across the cafeteria, and he had a habit of leaving frogs around for Miss Venie to find, usually with great screaming and flapping (even for a teacher used to boys and their tricks.)

One night at the Grange Hall we both ended up in the bathroom at the same time. She asked if she could borrow my lipstick (I said no, of course, it was my favourite one, the perfect pale pink to go with my dress) and was totally disarmed when she cheerfully plopped her purse down in the sink and said 'I didn't figure you'd let me, but no harm in tryin'. Can you believe that Eddie Myers? I'm almost certain he put his hand on my butt.' I couldn't help it. I leaned over and said, full of scorn, 'Don't you know if someone's hand is on your behind? I'd slap Eddie Myers, if I that was me.' Clary brushed some wisps of hair back behind her ears. 'Weeeell,' she said, looking intently in the mirror, 'I'm sure somebody touched my butt. I'm not sure, though, if it was Eddie. Could have been (she cut her eyes up at me) Danny Randall.' I sucked in my breath. "You are rude, Clary Johnson! I shouldn't even be talking to you."
I turned to flounce away and she reached out and grabbed my arm.
"Don't be mad, Kitty. I was jus' playin'. Besides, everyone knows he's been looking for you all night."
She was lying but I ate it up. "You think so?"
Clary nodded. "Sure. You gonna kiss him?"

Great-Aunt Maud cleared her throat. "Kitty, why are you standing there? I asked you to clear this away! Now run on and go find your Uncle Ford. I need him to do something for me."
More like making sure he wasn't out on the porch kissing Clary Johnson, I thought, but just nodded. 'Of course, Aunt Maudie. Want me to bring up some cookies later with your tea?' She hemmed for a moment. "Who baked them?"

 I grinned at her. "Mrs. Johnson."

small town, big lights

Right now I'm sitting on a car hood, watching a drive in movie. This in itself isn't spectacular (although with the scarcity of drive-ins, it kinda is) but I'm sitting on a car hood, watching The Lorax at the drive in movie at the school. 

My childrens' school is so conscious of the families nearby and what would draw us all together, that they began showing drive-in movies in the heart of our community - the school. 

(Literally - the screen is up on the building!)

There are no stars tonight - it's actually spitting a little, but for the families sitting in their cars and trucks it matters little - they're cozy, full of popcorn and nachos from the concession stand, and watching a movie.  Little ones curl in the backseats, pillowed heads just peeping up over the headrests, while the adults grin at the memories of Saturday nights spent at drive-ins when they were young.

The village school - this same place that's drawing families and the community as a whole together is on the review list. It's becoming harder and harder not to express my frustration with this.

But on nights like tonight, watching the delighted faces and hearing an owl far off in the woods? It doesn't seem to matter. This is good and lasting and making memories. This school is doing what schools all over the country should be doing - working hard to keep their communities  interested and involved. 

This is worth it. 

This is worth it.

juris doctor

The candles were guttering out in the pale light when I found him, head down on the table, an empty bottle clutched in his hand. There was a wrapper stuck to his cheek, pizza boxes thrown on the floor, and his buddy Travis was raising the roof with his snores on the half-broken daybed in the corner. It must have been a great night.

Not that I blamed him for cutting loose. It had been a long winter, and an even more tedious spring, tests and exams and study study study, punctuated every once in awhile with pop quizzes and fits of bleak black depression where he insisted that he'd never make to graduation, never ever never, and what kind of man was he that he'd let his girl get a job and put him through school? Never mind that I wanted him to succeed, was sure that he would make an incredible lawyer, loved his fight and his grit and his unbending sense of justice and fairness, was awed by his determination and the solid good core of him.

But now....now it was time to get him up. I moved around to his side. 'Ry? Wake up, honey.'

He spluttered something and re-settled. I shook his shoulder, which got me a 'hmmmmm?' and a fluttering of his eyelids. Okay. Time to pull out the big guns.

I bent down and said loudly into his ear "Ryan! The baby's coming!' and stepped back a few paces when he almost hit the roof. He was on his feet, his eyes wide with shock. 'Wha? Wha? Dory, you can't be.....' his words slowed when he realized I wasn't rushing out the door or showing any kind of discomfort. Instead, I was grinning at him.

'No, I can't be. Honey, I'm only five months along. But here....I got the mail. And....this is addressed to you.'

I handed over the plain white envelope that held our futures and watched as he held it in his hands, then shrugged a little and opened the seam.  He read for a moment, then the the sun came out in his face as he smiled.

'I sit the bar in July.'

shine less

I see her walking by and I wonder if she's seeing me.

No, she's not made eye contact or done a half-wave or any of the other furtive motions we make when you spy someone you're not sure about. Just the quick, quick of her heels clicking on the pavement and  the whoosh of the stroller in front of her. The child inside looks bored.  He's clutching what looks like a dirty doughnut (or it's a....dog toy?) and a sippy cup.  I only see him quickly, though, long enough to register his long eyelashes curling down on his cheeks, and then they turn the corner and are gone.

I put down my cup and lean in to talk to the man across from me, knowing that she'll be back. She walks the town every day, and where we sit is on the loop.

The coffee shop is busy, and smells like raisins and danish. When the front door opens, a blast of scent eddies out into the street and you can see passersby blink and smile, snorting in the sudden goodness. The bells tinkle on the door and the waitresses pour good coffee and chat about the weather and the local goings-on. It's a great place to see your neighbors and figure out what the latest scuttlebutt is. Or just people watch.

My companion is droning on about health care (on a bright sunny day like today it's hard to take dire statistics and Department of Health pseudo-scandals seriously, so I'm only half-paying attention) and I watch as the woman with the bright blonde hair approaches again, this time on the other side of the street. She stops in front of the post office, adjusts the still-sleeping boy's shirt, and turns the other corner, her hair flicking out like a metronome.

I've never asked why she walks - if she's running from (or to) something, if she's escaping demons or merely has a colicky babe.We've spoken, and we know each other's names, but we're not close enough to do anything more than wave or grin if we catch sight of each other. She appears then is gone again down the alley. Does she think about me and wonder why I would choose to stay so tethered to a chair? Why we're not all out wandering and exploring town? And I wonder - whose way is better?

hurry scurry, time will flurry

The end of the school year is always a bittersweet time. The kids are longing to get it all over with, but there's still that little part of them that doesn't really believe that it will ever end and is horrified when it does.
The school building itself must feel the excitement. (It does, after all, frankly hum in the air.)

This month is crazy at school. There is a bike rodeo and the release of small salmon that the kids have raised from eggs. (One class will also be setting monarch butterflies free.) There will be drive-in movies (see, I told you the village school was magical!) beginning this Saturday night, and a huge weekend camping trip for the older grades. There will be a beach day for all the students. (See, when you grow up near the ocean (and have fearless teachers) the whole school gets to go on field trips to the Atlantic.)

There will be a graduation held for our sixth graders and goodbyes to the vice-principal.

And then there will be silence. The doors will be locked, and for three months the only sounds will be from the community groups that use the building.

Kinda a shock to the old weathered school, but I like to think it dozes in the sunshine, waiting for fall to make it come alive again.

Waiting, happily, for the children.

They grow up too fast

 This morning during the whole 'Ahh! Must leave for work NOW!' madness, Bear was hollering for his shoes and I, half-paying-attention and on my way to the bedroom from a swooping run for the dryer and the sock bucket, was pointing out 'There, there, do you see them THERE' and was stopped by B's puzzled "Those aren't mine."

 

"What? Of course they're yours. I wore them yesterday when I was tromping around."

 

(I have big feet.)

Bear grabbed out another pair. "No, mine are here. See? Different colour."

 

"Well then whose are....." there was a pause before our eyes met in horrified realization.

 

Yesterday, I wore my son's shoes. All day. Comfortably.

 

Cass is TEN, and apparently going to be tall like his grandfather.

 

I am in so much trouble. I also need bigger bricks.

 

stories everywhere

I am surrounded by stories.

Books, yes, fables and fairies and cows and vampires and zombies and puppies and star-crossed lovers and winding country lanes and immigrant grandmothers and jockeys crashing over the finish line and pat the bunny and zorro drew his sword and there were three wise men wandering and junie b, world pioneer and yellow and blue make green and woodworking for the new century and my friend flicka and under a spreading chestnut tree, the village smithy stands and a quiet old lady, whispering hush.

And it's not just the books. My things tells stories, stories that I tell to my children in vain hopes they'll remember some of what I say, stories about Nana's charm bracelets and Neenaw's letter and the cabinet that my parents dragged in from a dumpster in a Chicago alley and refinished. How Mama came over the border to be here. How Gram would sing songs in the hallways in the middle of the night when it thunder stormed so her kids wouldn't be afraid and how their Papa always had treats in his pockets. How Granddad introduced you to Wallace and Grommit. How the first night we stayed here I woke up in the middle of the night and your fathers arm was over me and I thought huh. This is how it's supposed to be and went back to sleep.

Stories.

People tell stories, too - not only with their words or by making sentences but by how they are. Often their actions speak louder than their words ever could.  And when I see a head tilt, a flashing grin, a palm slid slowly along a countertop, I make note. I see the regret, the exultations, the sorrows, the hiding away.  I see.

People are stories too.

I've been writing lately, scribbling thoughts down (pen and paper! can you believe??) about a situation, a character that won't leave me, her thoughts and background and friends and what her grandfather wore to work each day

and nothing will probably come of it. I am a master at leaving my stories gasping and half-written.

But in the meantime, I'm having fun discovering her life and what she thinks. As you would,


if you'd only stop to see some of the stories around you.

walls of stink

I realized tonight my house is full of scent. Not the usual 'mmm what's for supper' stuff, but scent.

My dishwasher - and hence, the dishes -  smell like lavender.
B bought new laundry detergent, Apple Mango (Madness?) Something, and it makes our clothes smell like bubble gum.

The kids' shampoo smells like peonies, while mine is a blend of erm... musk and chrysanthemum green, and B's is minty and cool.

The dog smells like dog, at least, although his ear meds make him smell a little fruity. And we'll be polite and not talk about his back end. It too smells like....dog.

The cats litter is almost too scented (mm! Overly-perfumed clay!), but since I have three cats, frankly the stuff could be asbestos and rhino toe-clippings, and I wouldn't care.

The downstairs reeks of Swiffer fluid and Pine Sol and oil soap and Fantastik and oven cleaner (okay, for tonight, anyway) and the bathroom smells like scrubbing bubbles and soapy steam.

Tonight, I'll go to bed on my Apple Mango Bubblegum  sheets and wish it was warm enough to sleep with a window open, and wonder....just why is it that we're all so afraid of just smelling like....ourselves?

may the circlet be unbroken

He wore his wedding ring tonight.

We had to hunt to find it - years of working as a paramedic and having it tucked away in a 'safe'place made it an odyssey to find - but now it's back on his finger and it's funny, how something so small, so inconsequential, so unimportant in day-to-day life makes me flood with love and fondness.

He's never really worn it. For special occasions, and whenever we go back over the border, sure. But Wednesday-night-to-watch-the-hockey-game? Never.

And it surprises me how good it makes me feel to see it.

Random, random, random

Damn, I love living here.

Spent the day carousing with my friend while B sawed huge trees down (yay for forestry!) and our children ran wild and free. They went swimming again (in May! Loons, all of them) and came home , happy and saturated with the joy of it all.

My friend and I are planning a Mothers Day event for the school, and so we've been sorting tea services, finding appropriate costumes, and finding props. (Hey, it can be hard to disguise a gym, especially without the benefits of crepe paper or the gentle blurring of dusk) so it'll be props. Props a'plenty. We're practically rummaging through attics, shouldering aside the elderly. "You don't mind if I borrow your precioussssssssssssssssss, do you?"

I kid, of course. But this 'do is going to be a very cool thing.

I'm watching a show on tv called ER Vets. Reality tv featuring sad, hurting animals that come in, are treated, and (mostly) bound off at the end, happy owners and doctors smiling  while they gambol off into the sunset.
My question is WHO are these owners that don't BLINK when the vet cocks her head and says 'I think he'll need an MRI then some Xrays, and maybe some exploratory surgery before we do that root canal.'

And (I swear) the people trip all over themselves to nod, nod, yes, yes, where do I sign, not at ALL huddling in the corner of the exam rooms weeping and caressing their Mastercards (which is probably where I'd be.)
Not that I don't love my pets. ('Cause I do.) But I love eating, too. And making house payments.

The school fight grinds on. grumble grumble grumble. This may be one of those things where waiting to see what happens next is hard but necessary. And I'm not a patient person.

I've been playing Words With Friends a lot lately. I may actually  gather up the nerve to challenge my grandfather to a game soon. (Maybe. Grandpa likes to play with words. And he's crafty.)

Told you this was random.....