Departure Time

in ,

 

            A few days later Jannet accompanied her family to Sergeant MacDonald's presentation at the mill. The sergeant described Lord Selkirk's dream of a settlement on the Red River in North America. To this end he had purchased five thousand square miles of prairie land from the Hudson's Bay Company. Under questioning, MacDonald admitted neither he nor His Grace had ever been there.

            In the crowd Jannet shifted from foot to foot. Her inner voice screamed, Where exactly is the Red River? How do we get there? She was too timid to holler aloud, but someone else did.

            In response MacDonald unscrolled a crude map, marking the sailing route across the Atlantic to the southwest shore of Hudson's Bay. This map did not reassure Jannet. She knew the fate of Henry Hudson, set adrift in a skiff after his crew mutinied in the frozen wasteland. Besides, MacDonald's map did not pinpoint the location of the Red River.

            In the days that followed one thousand people enrolled as prospective settlers. Jannet couldn't believe so many people trusted an emigration plan with so few details attached. Such as....how do we reach the Red River? MacDonald admitted there were no roads, not even trails—just hundreds of miles of dense forests and wild rivers. Even thinking about the journey made her head ache.

            In mid-May Lord Selkirk installed himself at the Helmsdale Inn for a week. Da and Mr. Sage were summoned to confer with him. Several days later, while Jannet was eating supper, their cottage door burst open. Da stood there beaming, looking ten years younger. He had helped His Grace whittle down that long list to ninety stalwart souls. Gave character references, Da said.

            The lucky ninety included their family plus Angus and Jean and their neighbours the Gunns. They would leave on a Hudson's Bay ship in mid-June. Jannet didn't feel at all lucky. Nevertheless, the next morning she was sucked into a vortex of frenzied activity.

            Sent to retrieve their sheep from the high meadow, Jannet trudged across the family garden plot. She recalled how comforting the soil had felt a year ago when she planted seed potatoes. Last May when she still belonged here...before her entire parish was torn from their ancestral land. The ache in her heart threatened to explode.

            She crouched to sift the dark loam, enriched with hundreds of years of cattle droppings. An image flitted though her mind. She was a wee child tagging behind Da, while he tucked potato eyes into the ground. She patted the soil over each chunk, as Da related stories about their farm.

            This plot had sustained her ancestors with turnips and kale since St. Donan brought the first Scots here. Her own grandfather had intoduced potatoes to this valley. Some neighbours were loathe to plant them, being supicious of all things Irish. Da always laughed at this point. They came round after hearing how nourishing they were.

            Jannet's body ached to begin the planting dance: dig, plant, cover, step forward, repeat. The spring dance to tuck seeds onto God's good earth and reap the bounty for winter survival. She stood up with a sigh. Only weeds will grow here now.

            She remembered her mission to bring down the sheep. Straightening her back, she strode across the soft earth onto the rocky path.

            As she passed the rigs she noticed a few farmers sowing barley and oats. Jannet felt a twinge of envy. Some families were allowed to stay until Lord Selkirk could arrange further passage next spring—a reprieve granted by Lady Stafford after shaming lectures in the southern press.

            Just postponing the heartbreak till next year, Jannet reminded herself.

            She plodded uphill where a stream gurgled over rocks and bubbled through stretches of young grass. She laboured up the switch-back trail she had climbed with Ian Gordon during that snowstorm in February. When the ground leveled out she was at the high measdow.

            At the broad flat top of Coimhead Creag  Jannet spread her arms wide. My last chance to stand atop our famous lookout rock. The day was so clear she could see miles up the valley. Near Kinbrace her eyes lit upon the castle ruins she and Da had explored once. Da had lifted her up to a window seat in a half-collapsed wall. She posed on its wide ledge pretending to be the beautiful daughter of a laird. The last time I'll ever see this castle. A sob caught in her throat.

            Jannet rounded up the six sheep and paused at the top of the switch-back trail. Her eyes followed the Helmsdale River as it broadened and flowed into the North Sea. In the clear air she spotted Granny's cottage nestled in the seaside village.

            My last view of Kildonan strath from this height. The next truth sliced through her mind like a dagger.  From now on everything I do will be the last time!  

            With a heavy heart Jannet herded the sheep downhill to their barn. For the next week Ma kept her busy shearing, cleaning, carding and spinning the wool. Already a capable knitter, Jannet sat by the window for another week, clicking wooden needles. Every hour she stood and arched her aching back as the wool became scarves and mitts. Ma used her skill to create high-necked sweaters. All big and loose to begin, but felted and windproof after they were waulked in hot water. Parted from their woolly coats, the sheep were sold for meat.

 

            Shortly before emigration day, Jannet and her mother visited their parish church for the last time. Sitting in their family pew, Jannet whispered farewell to the Chiefs of Clann Gunn sleeping beneath the altar. She studied each corner of Reverend Sage's church, trying to fix it in her mind.

            When Ma rose to leave, Jannet hurried to hold open the heavy door. She willed her feet to follow her mother home, but they would not budge. Her hand stuck to the brass doorlatch. Silent tears rolled down her face.

            Ma turned around with a scowl. “Whatever is wrong, Jannet?”

            Collapsing on the front step of the church, Jannet exhaled a long gutteral moan. The throat muscles that suppressed her anguish failed her completely. “'Tis is the last time I'll ever see this church,” she wailed. “I have to leave behind everything I love.”

            In the most unlikely miracle of love, her mother softened, sat on the stoop beside her daughter. “Ye will not leave everything behind,” she soothed. “Ye'll carry yer memories and these memories will always comfort ye.” Jannet looked into Ma's eyes and felt comforted.

             The day of departure arrived. The wagon was packed and George perched on the seat, reins in hand. The wagon box was crammed with trunks and food supplies. Da helped Ma settle on the bench beside her son. Her face was rigid, revealing no emotion.

            Jannet knew she had to walk to Helmsdale, a journey she used to enjoy. But not today. Now her legs felt so weak, her chest so constricted, her stomach so nauseous, she didn't think she could manage a single step, let alone ten miles. She clutched the side of the wagon.

            Nobody spoke. They waited...supended in time. For Da...but he had vanished. Finally he appeared on the path from the barn, holding aloft two blazing torches. Whatever..? Jannet thought. Before she could form a complete question, the answer was clear.

            With a mighty heave Da hurled one torch onto the thatched roof of their home. He walked forward and heaved the other torch onto the far end of the roof. As Jannet stood there, rooted in horror,  tendrils of acrid smoke coiled through the trees. Da had set the barn ablaze too.

            Da turned a grim face to his family and hollered through the crackling fire, “We're not leaving anything for that bastard Sellar to use.” He flipped his Sutherland plaid over his shoulder like the proud Highland warrior he was and strode up to George. “Let's go, man.”

            The heavily-laden wagon creaked forward, inching away from the monstrous bonfire that their cottage had become. The Sutherland family was on the way to their new life.

            All except Jannet. She stood still as stone, transfixed by the enormity of her loss. This must be how Noah felt after the flood. Everything familiar is destroyed. She imagined mud oozing down the mountain as Noah abandoned the ark and led his animals into a land completely altered and foreign.    

            Suddenly Jannet's mother let out a sustained lament. Ma's high-pitched wail unhinged Jannet even more than the spitting flames devouring her cottage. If Màmag has lost her strength, how will I survive this ordeal?

            Still in a stupor, Jannet turned toward the cart lumbering away from her and began to shuffle in the same direction. Da walked back and clasped her hand.

            “Head up, lass. Remember the strength of yer people. Highlanders have been beaten to the ground many times. We have always risen again. We will build a better life in a new world.”

            Jannet tried fervently to believe this. The sorry parade of refugees grew as more carts fell in behind the Sutherlands. They stopped for Jean and Angus who threw their packs atop Da's cart and joined the walkers. Jannet managed a rushed hug with Aunt Nessie before the procession moved on.

            It was then that Jannet heard the sound that would sustain her. Gordon McKay emerged from Nessie's cottage playing his bagpipes as he had never played before. First the sprightly tunes of the Highlander's Farewell and Lochiel's Farewell.

            He's trying to instill heart in us, Jannet thought. As the procession travelled on and the sound wove through the trees, the tunes became more haunting, spilling over with heartbreak and loss. Lochaber No More, then Loch Lomond. The last tune Jannet strained to hear was the Skye Boat Song. The slow mournful notes hung in the air long after Gordon finished playing. 

            Beyond the village of Kildonan, Reverend Sage stood at the crossroads with his heavy church bible. He blessed each family as they passed. When Jannet stopped to receive his benediction he looked straight into her eyes and spoke only to her. “Go with God, young woman. You have Highland strength in your bones. You will rise again.”

            “Thank ye, sir,” Jannet whispered. “I'll ne'er forget ye.”

             She plodded on with the parade of evicted farmers, headed to Helmsdale to await the ferry to Stromness where a ship would sail them to the end of the known world. With every footstep Jannet mulled over Mr. Sage's parting words.

            She felt taller. She held her back straight and lifted her chin. I carry childhood memories with me, but I go into the world as a strong Highland woman.

The Things We Carry

in ,

The things we carry

shoved hastily into drawers that stick

hidden in the back of the closet

in the basement 

under the stairs

in the pockets of pants

we refuse to wear


If we can’t see them,

maybe they’ll disappear?


They lie there nudging us

a whiff of mildew

something unattended

tossing our night dreams

like sand in our socks


I was reminded of my mother today

my inner voice, her assessing tone

I am a woman grown

and yet…


The things we carry

those we go digging for,

those that offer themselves unannounced


The way a kingfisher spins me

into childhood wonder,

the shape of a cloud recalling picnics

scratchy red wool blanket 

covering still wet grass

the family, side by each

gazing up, open palms sun warmed



That first dandelion

sharp tang of milky sap

peeled stem curling

ringlets around our fingers

daisy chains gracing our crowns


I hold all memories

soft as cattail flower heads

and sharp as gravel

We can’t choose what we carry


We can choose to haul out

those things we’d rather not

air them 

to the wide sky

watch them sail like kites

refold them again when they return

as they must


They too have clothed us

though the fit restrictive, uncomfortable

the colours garish, embarrassing


The things we carry

transform

with how they are held

My Favourite Jesus Story

in ,

I like the Bible stories:

Jesus being born,

The straw, a big star,

Sheep watching, probably lambs licking his forehead,

more probably goats;

folks coming by. Presents.

That’s nice, but it’s the desert I like.

Forty days and Forty nights.

Wandering. But not wandering looking

at all the cool shit God created.

No, I don’t think so, and not just days,

Forty nights.

Sit-up sweaty anxious bad sleep nights.

Did he remember to thank the wise men:

really appreciate his mother; honestly Jesus?

that time with Paul, arrogant? the money lender thing:

all of it slithering out endlessly in the wilderness,

and listening hard to hear:

It’s ok, you’re good person.

Yeah I like to think he suffered.

Then walked out.

Who built these minds…

Jesus we suffer.

The Interview

in ,

I’m in the chair next to beloved CBC host David Greirson - we’re on air, talking about songwriting. My palms are damp, the air is electric. David asks, “Do you have compatriots the way other writers have their groups, people who love to talk about craft, who support and challenge you as a songwriter?”

I’m about to say no, not really - I don’t have an enviable social life full of eccentric and passionate creators. My heart is sinking. This is why I’ll never be great on radio - I can’t think on my feet. But David is still talking. I wish … and then, there in my mind’s eye, I see P, who lives far away in California. We’ve kept our songwriting friendship alive for years with handwritten letters and hour-long phone calls, talking over our lives and our work-in-progress. David looks straight into my eyes as he wraps up his question: “Who puts your feet to the fire?”

Panic. Flames crackling dark and bright hands behind my back rough bark pressing coarse ropes - I'm in the fire. Faces flicker, people I know - their eyes bright. Mouths open. I can’t recant. I burn.

Blink. David. CBC. He’s simply asking about being held to account. I rally. Enthuse about P and me, our empowering songwriting group of two, while my heart pounds. In no time the interview is over and we are off the air.

What. Just. Happened?

The Year We Lived in Seattle

in ,

I discovered how it felt to miss someone the year we lived in Seattle. We had driven the green station wagon all the way across the country so Dad could study oceanography. I was nine. Lying in my bunk at night, I’d imagine the face of Mary, or Jane, my best friends from Waterloo, and I would yearn for them. This new, twangy feeling fascinated me; I knew I was growing up, just a little.


My school, Olympic View, had a band program and Mom and Dad were excited for me - all they had to do was find an instrument. Dad thought I should play french horn, but when they located a second-hand clarinet for cheap, that was that. The smell of the cork grease, the stale taste of the reed, the pain in the side of my right thumb, the tickle in my lips, the pressure in my cheeks, none of it mattered when my first squawks gave way to fuzzy dark tones. Suddenly I had a new, deeper voice, like unsweetened cocoa mixed into spaghetti sauce. It didn’t take much practice to be the best in the class and I loved Mrs. Ryker our band teacher. We played Little Red Caboose and My Country Tis of Thee, but best of all was Arabian Dance. Mrs. Ryker explained that it sounded different because it was in a minor key. All I knew was that when I played it I felt exotic and, for the first time, musical. It didn’t occur to me to tell anyone.


Out on the rough-paved street with no sidewalks that ran past our house, I made friends with Florence. Florence had that fluffy, coiling kind of almost-white hair and she was nice and she said I should come to Campfire Girls. My Mom met with her Mom, and they agreed that I could, so I did. I liked the name of it better than Brownies. Campfire meant staring into flames, cooking potatoes in tinfoil, being outside in the dark night and singing.


Meetings were held in Florence's basement. We glued small vases into towers and glazed them with a green chemical that made frost patterns all over the glass. We earned painted beads and sewed them into patterns all over the felt of our matching navy vests. The other girls had been Bluebirds the previous year so almost right away we were getting ready to ‘fly up’ to Campfire Girls. There was a ceremony and everything - I was going to graduate! When the moment came, we stood up tall and said together the words we had memorized, the Trailseeker’s Pledge:


I desire to seek the way

which has become a delight to my feet

for it shall lead me to the fires of human kindness

lighted by those who have gone before me

on the campfire trail.


It filled my heart to imagine that kindness was ahead, just up the way. I savoured this new idea of me: I was a seeker. I was on a trail, moving toward fire.


Of all the songs we must have sung in Florence’s basement, only one stayed with me:


Peace I ask of thee oh river

Peace Peace Peace

When I learn to live serenely

Cares will cease.


From the hills I gather courage

Visions of the day to be

Friends and faith for me to follow

All are given unto me

Peace I ask of thee oh river

Peace Peace Peace.


I loved how the opening lines rose like a question. I loved the idea that you could talk to a river. Could I learn to live serenely? Really? It didn’t make any sense to me that courage could be gathered in the hills. And faith, that was a word we didn’t use in my family - faith was all about church, which my parents had little use for, though we knew enough not to say so. This whole middle part of the song had me drawing a blank. But then came the end, just like the beginning, except instead of climbing, the notes went down and settled, and when I sang it I felt quiet inside. Like a deep dark river.


So much else happened the year we lived in Seattle. I got a magic kit for Christmas. My baby brother was born. There was an earthquake. I learned what fuck meant. But my re-membering circles around these three: singing as supplication, embracing a vision of being a seeker but not a loner; and bearing down on a mouthful of wood and bamboo to make not just sounds but music. I want a word, now, for what these have in common, a word with the weight and colour of what these moments evoked in me. It is a word I’ve never owned. Soul. I felt soulful.

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Chapter Eleven: Farewell to Scotland

in ,

It was late April. Spring leaves cast a green mist through the trees. It was time for George to lead sheep and cattle to the high meadow to feed on tender young grass. But George's father had sold most of their livestock. His parents were irritable—waiting to hear back from Lord Selkirk. Waiting for news of London from Sergeant MacDonald.

George busied himself away from his family. Anywhere but home became his motto. He helped move Angus's father in with his sister Jessie. Together George and Angus hoed Aunt Jessie's garden plot and sowed barley in the rig farmed by the McKay family. 

One afternoon Angus spared time to tutor George in the games of competition. He pointed to a long straight log lying at the edge of their rig. “Since the time of Robert the Bruce, clan chiefs have used such logs to judge our readiness for battle.” Angus shrugged out of his leather jacket. “Push this caber upright and hold it fer me.”  

George looked askance at his brother-in-law. Is Angus trying to make a fool of me? He had been working at the mill part-time—chopping logs with a heavy axe. He knew his upper body was gaining strength—but not enough for this task. Cautiously, George lifted the narrow end of the log.

“Nae, laddie,” said Angus. “See how I've whittled the bottom to make it the right size to grip. This end stands on the ground.” 

George already felt foolish. He had never noticed this detail in any caber at the clan games. He raised the wider end, got under it and pushed the heavy pole upward. Angus corrected the angle. Fascinated, George watched Angus squat and wrap his large hands around the whittled base. 

“Stand aside, lad.” Angus grunted and pulled himself upright with the caber nestled against his shoulder. He ran forward and tossed it. The caber flipped mid air—landed twenty feet straight in front of him. “I'm getting better,” he puffed. “But nae good enough fer competition yet.” He smiled at George. “Wanna have a go?”

God's breath! I feared he'd ask that! I can't possibly toss that caber. George tried to muster a confident smile. “Of course,” he said, pulling off his work jacket. 

Together they raised the log. George wiped his sweating hands on his trews, squatted and clasped the whittled base. “Make sure the caber leans a bit against yer shoulder,” Angus advised. “Else it will tumble forward afore yer ready.”

George expelled his breath in a mighty grunt. Pulled himself up. Staggered forward. Hefted the log, which rose in an arc and landed splat in the dirt. It did not flip in the air. George's cheeks flamed with the shame of failure.

“Mo bhràthair,” exclaimed Angus. “'Twas a mighty fine toss fer a first turn.”

George couldn't contain his grin. Angus just called him brother—and complimented him to boot. “Mo bhràthair,” he asked, “why are ye training fer the games? Aren't ye coming to Lord Selkirk's settlement?”

Angus brushed his dark curly hair back from his eyes. “I wrote His Grace asking to join, but I didna hear anything yet.” He shrugged. “The muscles I'm developing will stand me in good stead in the New World also.” Angus squeezed George's arm. “I'm planning to build up yer strength too.”

Together they walked back along the footpath to Kildonan. At George's cottage they parted and George reluctantly went inside for dinner. His mother had just removed a heavy pot from the pommel hook and was lugging it to the table. 

“That pot's too heavy fer ye, Màmag,” he said, wondering why Da had not carried it for her. On closer inspection, Ma's face was tear-stained. Da stood at the window with his back toward George.

“Son,” his father said gruffly, “Tomorra ye'll take the milk cows into Helmsdale. The innkeeper offered to buy them.”

Ma laid the pot on the floor. One glance at her slumped shouders and George knew what the argument had been about. Ma could not publicly challenge her husband. But he could—he was a man now. “Shouldn't we keep them until the last minute, Dadaith? Don't we use the milk every day?” 

Da swung around, huffing like a bull. “And where would we sell them at the last minute? The innkeeper is buying now. If we dinna take his offer, he'll buy elsewhere.” Da strode up to George's face and hissed, “Dinna contradict me in front of yer mother, ever again.” 

Bile rose in George's throat. “I am not a child now,” he spit through clenched teeth.

Ma stepped up— put a hand on each shoulder. “Settle down, men. Ye both have sound points. But the sale is settled and ye'll take them tomorra, George.”

Da set the pot on the table and Ma scooped out three bowls of stew. George swallowed a bite of the thick broth, swimming with chunks of turnip and potato. Then he announced, “Angus showed me how to toss the caber today.” His parents both laughed—the tense moment was over.


The next morning Ma milked Moira and Millie, then handed their ropes to George. “Dinna go past Jessie's cottage. Jean loved these wee beasties like her own children. I dinna want her to rush outside all upset and fuss over them. Best she should find out later.” 

George led the cows out of the barn. Their trusting eyes gazed at him through long fringes of black wavy hair. On their short stocky legs, Moira and Millie sauntered behind George. As he turned to wave, Ma stood at the door staring at their hindquarters. Two shaggy tails swished contentedly. 

George took the back way through the village. Everyone he met nodded in sympathy. Many other folks were dismantling their farms. Three hours later George led the cows into the stable behind the Helmsdale Inn. He was securing them in a stall, when he heard a rider dismount at the stable door.

“Lad, can you feed and water my horse? We've ridden far.” That voice sounded familiar. George pivoted around⸺stared at the travel-weary, dishevelled man. “Sergeant MacDonald! We've been waiting fer news of ye!”

“George Sutherland. Forgive me. I mistood you for the stable boy.”

“I dinna reckon this inn has a stable boy. I'll be glad to tend to yer mount.”

“Thank you, man.” Sergeant MacDonald slapped him on the shoulder. “I'm going inside to procure a room. When you're done, come and join me for a dram. I have much news for you.”

George settled the sergeant's steed in a stall, found water and hay—no oats available. Probably have to buy a bag inside, he thought. George did find a homespun cloth and a brush. He towelled off the lathered horse and groomed him to a shine. 

He was thrilled the sergeant had invited him for a drink—but nervous to converse in a public inn like a social equal. Finally George removed his bonnet, smoothed down his hair and brushed off his clothes. He squared his shoulders, marched to the front of the building and climbed the steps.

It was unsettling to stand on the porch where KcKid and Sellar had tried to arrest the leaders of the Kildonan resistance. With a deep breath George supressed his unease. As he opened the front door, he rubbed his hand across the unicorn engraved into the heavy oak plank. The fiercly independent unicorn who preferred death to capture—emblem of Scotland since ancient times.

In front of a wide staircase, a balding man perched on a stool behind a counter. He dipped his quill in an inkwell and started writing in a ledger book. His other hand was in his lap.

“I've brought two milk cows from John Sutherland of Kildonan,” George announced. His eyes wandered to the stairs the deputies had climbed with rifles in their hands.

The innkeeper's voice broke into George's reverie. “Ye must be young George Sutherland. Sergeant Macdonald said ye'd be in shortly.  Go sit ye in the public room and I'll bring ye a wee dram, courtesy of the esteemed Sergeant.”

George had never been in a public room. There were ten small tables crammed close together. Being mid-afternoon there were only two other customers. Judging by their handsome capes, they were travelling gentlemen of some sort. George chose a table as far from them as possible. 

Soon the innkeeper brought a small tray. He placed two glasses of whisky and a leather pouch on the table. “'Tis payment for the cows.” George nodded but his attention was distracted by the hand setting down the pouch. That hand was badly scarred and had only two fingers.

The innkeeper nodded grimly. “I was a soldier in Ireland in '98. Took the king's shilling from Seargeant MacDonald himself. Sent me home after a Paddy mangled me hand. I got off luckier than the rest of me company—dead every one.” 

“James Duncan of the Sutherland Fencibles, are ye still fighting those Fenian rogues?” Sergeant MacDonald cuffed the innkeeper on the shoulder—lowered his hefty body onto a chair next to George. He lifted one of the glasses. “To you, my friend, the best soldier I ever dispatched to Ireland.” Guzzling the contents in one gulp, he added, “Who lived to tell the tale.”

As soon as the innkeeper refilled his glass, MacDonald turned to George. “And now a toast to you, young man. The best Highlander I shall ever send off to America.”

George felt his heart soar. “Is it really happening? Has Lord Selkirk arranged a ship fer us?”

“Well, now, you have a nip of that whisky while I get these broadsheets out of my satchel.”   

Tentatively George sipped the whisky. This drink was smooth, easy to swallow—not the burning bite of his da's homebrew. He downed the rest in one gulp, feeling like an experienced soldier.  MacDonald stacked three newspapers on the table. Noticing George's empty glass, he called for a refill.

“'Tis true, young man. Lord Selkirk is negotiating with the Hudson's Bay Company to send a contingent of settlers on their next supply ship. There's much indignation in London at the moment over the way the tenant farmers of Sutherland have been treated.”

MacDonald flipped to an inside page of the first paper. “Here, young man, is the March 16th edition of The Star of London. A letter mocking the Marquis and Marchioness for their heartless evictions in Sutherlandshire.” MacDonald pointed to the letter which occupied almost an entire column. “Written by an anonymous Highlander—actually my cousin Alexander.”     

George pored over the letter. The print was small, so he moved his finger to keep to the correct line. “He calls us brave and loyal people and says 'tis a national calamity that we have been threatened with removal.” 

Macdonald chuckled. “And he concludes with the most biting irony.” He scanned to the end of the letter. “I should be glad to know what had been the fate of Russia, in the momentous struggle she is maintaining to oppose the most pugitious tyrant with which mankind has ever been visited, if instead of a brave and loyal peasantry, she had to oppose him only flocks of sheep.”  

George had no idea what a 'pugitious tyrant' was but he grinned at the sarcasm. 

The sergeant opened the next newspaper. “Without doubt the marquis and marchioness were humiliated because they pressured a friend to write a rebuttal. Then my cousin tore apart the so-called eminent naturalist's flimsy arguments.” He was just opening the third paper when a hand tore it away.

“Are you spreading those wicked lies to the treasonous savages of Kildonan?” Patrick Sellar stood there, his sneering face red with rage. Sellar glared down at Sergeant MacDonald then turned to George. “And you! I've a mind to arrest you right now for complicancy with rebels.”   

George leapt to his feet and pulled his dirk from its sheath. Sergeant MacDonald rose at the same time, placing a hand on George's arm. “Steady, man. I'll handle this.” 

MacDonald unsheathed his own dirk. “You will do no such thing, sir. This young man is a fine specimen of the best troops to ever fight for King George.” He glanced at George. “Time for you to be going. Head home over the uplands. Tell your father I'll be there tomotrrow.” 

George replaced his bonnet and swung his Sutherland plaid over his shoulder. He scowled at Sellar who had stolen his moment of joy and turned it inwards to a place where George felt only rage. 

“Yer an evil man, Mr. Sellar, and Highlanders will remember ye as such.” 

With his head held high, George marched out the door. 


Stillness

in ,


Woman on the meridian, panhandling, sneakers collapsed, face shuttered.

November chilled cement

Outside the liquor store, man with his head down. Is he weeping?

His body a curled comma, head covered by an ugly toque

Unlikely pom pom dandling.

A cuff of dirty skin where bony knees jut through filthy fabric

I walk by, chance a look back. He doesn’t unfold.

Change jangles in my pocket unannounced 

Head home 

Under ominous skies


Outside a howling rattles the windows, parties with the wind chimes, slinks down the chimney with a whistle howl.

Glass and curtain muffled

The dog snores

The furnace hums

I am curled like a half question mark

A pause of stillness


An intersection of inadequate awareness

Gaze returning to the unsheltered

Dark side of the glass

Imagining the weary

Waiting 

Stillness

Five Angry Women, or How to be a Father

in ,

To properly set the scene for this anecdote, we need to start a year or so previously.  My business partner and I had sold our thriving provincial government relations consulting firm to one of the big federal outfits in Ottawa.

 

It was one of those typical agreements where the intellectual property of the principals of the company is its chief asset.  To ensure its value to the new owners, the purchase agreement included a two-year transition period, or “earn-out”.  What it means is that to receive full payment of sale agreement, we had to keep the company operating at full capacity and maintain the monthly billings to a level set out in the contract for the next 24 months.  What it meant for me in reality was that I was an indentured slave for two years – I could neither quit my job nor be fired.  It made for a difficult time. 

 

The Ottawa boys sent out a hot-shot kid 20 years my junior to head up their newly acquired operation, and I no longer had any input in the decision-making.  Unfortunately the new boss brought with him two large pieces of baggage – the Eastern business arrogance that that failed to recognize British Columbians do things differently, and youthful arrogance.  He strutted around with a chip on his shoulder so big it must have given him a back ache.  Needless to say we locked horns right from the get-go.  “You guys are under billing your clients,” “Your employees aren’t working hard enough,” “You gotta get this place ship-shape to keep the head office happy.”  And it got worse.  They implemented a strict dress code.  Jacket and tie at all times, not even a casual Friday.  Bow ties were verboten.  As was long hair and face jewelry on men.  Women could not wear slacks, they had to wear skirts and pantyhose (and this was in the mid 1990s for heaven’s sake).  And they added a half hour to the work day with the added expectation late hours and weekends would be routine with no extra pay of course.

 

Within six or eight months all my entire staff had either quit or been forced out, and of course I had no say in the hiring that replaced them.  By the end of the two years at least half our clients had slipped away, making it challenging to keep our billings to the level needed to receive our buy-out.  

 

I was mad as hell virtually every day I went to work, but there was little I could do but hang on and survive the best I could until the two years was up.  On the QT I’d begun my silent protest.  And although it was a pain in the ass to keep neat, I stopped getting my hair cut and let it grow for well over a year.  Finally, on the penultimate weekend I got my ear pierced and showed up for work the following Monday with a large hoop in my ear and my hair in a pony tail, both of which I wore with pride all that last week of exmployment.

 

Shock and awe.  It was great.  I knew I’d struck a nerve when the kid running the Victoria arm of the company didn’t say a word, although most everyone else slyly commented on how cool I looked.

 

The following week I was unemployed and it felt great.  My young son had just turned three and his mother had just finished her Master’s degree and I had plans to be the stay-at-home Dad while Mom worked.  I’d turned 50 that year and still hadn’t fully let go of the way the new owners had treated my business.  Which I guess is why I kept my greying hair in a pony tail along with an earring.  It made me feel a bit like the rebel I’d always wanted to be.  And it also got me into trouble in a most unexpected way one mid-week day when I took my little guy to the park. 

 

The playground was a ways away, so we jumped into our Westphalia van and drove down.  The parking area was a soccer pitch width from the play area, so we hoofed across the grass and son Riley headed straight for the kiddie swings.  These are the ones designed for the small kids that are shaped liked large plastic diapers that make sure the little ones can’t fall out.

 

I popped him in and began pushing him.  A dad pushing his boy on the swings. How cute I thought, thinking all the young Moms around the playground must be watching and wising their husbands weren’t spending so much time at the office so they could spend quality time pushing their children on the swings.  I was a shoe-in for Best Daddy of the Year.  However, reality wasn’t living up to the fantasy and things weren’t going so smoothly.  For some inexplicable reason Riley wasn’t happy.  I knew he was a bit of a dare-devil so maybe I wasn’t pushing hard enough.  So I added a huge underpush with me shouting out “Wheeeeeeee!” 

 

“Nooooooo Daddy!” 

 

“Okay, okay, what do you want.”

 

Eventually with angry body language and hand gestures and the limited vocabulary of a frustrated child, I got the picture; he wanted me to spin the chair like a corkscrew and let it go so he would go spinning crazily around.  So twist and twist I did, convinced this would make him happy and stop the temper tantrum that was right on the edge of breaking loose.  I let the wound-up swing go and stepped back watching this dizzying performance, while waiting for the shouts of glee.

 

Wrong again.  The tantrum started boiling over.  I freed him from the swing and suddenly he took off, storming for the road at the edge of the playground in the direction of home.  I stood there paralyzed – frozen in a  lose-lose situation.  If I chased after him, he would have a classic meltdown tantrum right there on the spot.  By meltdown I mean a rip-snorting ring-tailed doozer – on his back, legs and arms flailing, all the while screaming bloody murder.  Yes, they’d happened before and I wasn’t’ sure I could go through with humiliation of yet another one in front of all these mothers with their sweet, well-behaved children. 

 

The other option was to retrieve the van and pop him inside where at least we could have some privacy while the tantrum ran its course.  I opted for the latter despite the fact he was getting close and closer to the street and I had a whole soccer pitch to get across.  But off I went and it was like running on soft sand in a dream. Oh-so-slowly. And my brain is screaming at me “You idiot.  What if he runs right into the middle of the street?  Does an angry three-year-old have any concept of the dangers of a road with moving cars?”

 

Eventually I got to the parking lot, fumbled with keys and got the van fired up and heading up the road to where I’d last seen him.

 

Ah, Whew! There he was, still safely on the sidewalk charging toward home as fast as his little legs could carry him.  I pulled up beside him, stopped the van and slid open the side door.  But as soon as he saw me, he took off like a mini rocket ship into someone’s garden.  The chase was on.  Up the path, around the side of the house, through the hedge and jumping over rose bushes and finally capture!  And to be completely frank, by now I was totally pissed as I hoisted him on my hip football style and stormed back to the van legs and arms akimbo.  I hip-checked him into the van, followed him in and slammed the door shut.  The wild child scrambled across the floor and flipped onto his back in front of the driver’s seat and began pummeling the steering column with his feet.  I slipped into the passenger seat and was carefully deflecting his kicks to protect the turn signal indicator and windshield wiper arm from being sheared off, knowing from experience that the tantrum would soon abate.

 

Those VW vans, as everyone knows, don’t have an engine hood or front fenders, so you can walk right up to the windshield.  I thought I noticed a movement and turned to look and nearly jumped out of my skin.  About three inches from my face was a woman’s face pressed against the glass peering inside. I pulled back planning my escape but quickly discovered my entire van was surrounded by five angry women – the ring-leader in front, another in back, one at the driver’s door, and two at the sliding door at the curb.  The roar in my ears was the adrenal glands blasting open once again.  Spinning around, I caught myself in the rear-view mirror.  Not a pretty sight.  In the middle of a weekday when every other man in the neighbourhood was at work, here was this older guy with long grey hair pulled back in a pony tail, a hippie earring dangling from one ear and a deranged look on his face who’d been chasing down a child, grabbing him and tossing him into his van.  Not exactly the poster boy for a kind, gentle father taking his young son to the playground.

 

Fortunately I was struck by a brilliant idea.  I would pre-empt whatever judgements the five angry women had and invite them in.  I slid the sliding door wide open, and the leader immediately put one foot in and leaned forward, not daring to come any further.

 

“Little boy,” she called out in a way-too-soft a voice.  Riley didn’t hear her, so I stepped in and in a much louder, firmer voice said, “Riley.  Someone wants to talk to you.”

 

“Who?”  he shouted back, head tilted so he was looking towards the door upside down.

 

“I don’t know.  A lady.”

 

“Make her go away.”

 

Yes! That’s my boy!  my inside voice said to me.  But I was sure the angry women would need more, so I said, “No, son.  I think you should talk to her.”

 

“Little boy, do you know who this man is,” the ringleader asked.

 

“He’s my Daddy,”

 

Adrenal glands calming down once again.

 

Reluctantly it seemed, the five angry women started peeling away.  And Riley, right on cue and with one last shudder, began letting the air out of his tantrum.  Within moments I’d gently buckled him into his car seat and we made the short drive up the hill and home.  Safe at last.

 

As I was unbuckling him, the tears started.  I lifted him into my arms as he blubbered and sobbed into my shoulder at the very moment the police cruiser pulled into the driveway, strategically blocking my van.

 

As the policeman walked toward us I wordlessly turned so Riley was facing him knowing who the questions would be directed to.

 

“Little boy, do you know who this man is?” the policemen asked.

 

“Ye-e-s-s,” sob, sob, “He’s my Daddy.

 

Ahhhhhh, adrenal glands closing.

 

“Was he hurting you?”

 

“Ye-e-s-s.”

 

Adrenal glans blowing wide open.  Oh dear god.  What do I do now? Who will believe the word of this long-haired aging hippie over an innocent child’s.

 

But fortune struck my way once again as the policeman knew what follow-up questions to ask: “What was he doing to you?”

 

“He was chasing me.”

 

“Why was he chasing you?”

 

“I was running away…”

 

“It’s not a good idea to run away.  You could get hurt.  Are you okay now?”

 

“Yes.  I want to go in.”

 

When my wife got back home, I told her the story.

 

“No wonder he was frustrated,” she said matter-of-factly.  “You put him in his runners and tied the laces.  When we went to the park last week, it was wet so I slipped his rubber boots on.  When I had the swing all wound up and let it go, he swirled round and round and his boots came flying off and he laughed and laughed.  I assume his runners didn’t fly off.”

 

My adrenalin headache lasted a week, but all else was good.

Tuesday Morning

in ,

I woke

this morning

listening to the rain

knocking on my roof

Gently, insistently,

tap tap taping

on the sky light, on the windows.

Perhaps my neighbours heard it

On their roof, at their door

While getting coffee, while watching news,

While praying

on a Tuesday morning in November

gently, insistently.

All over the city,

Up north, down south

Tap tap taping

Everybody listening to the rain.

Goodbye to the Garden

in ,

It was May. The sun was warming the earth.

            Jannet bent down to feel the dark earth of their garden plot, enriched with hundreds of years of cattle droppings. Sifting the loam through her fingers, she remembered how comforting the garden had felt last year in May when she planted the seed potatoes.

            An image flitted though her mind. She was a wee child tagging behind Da, while he tucked  potato eyes into the ground. She patted the soil over each piece, as Da told her stories about their farm.

            Jannet knew the stories well. This plot had sustained her ancestors with turnips and kale since ancient times when St. Donan brought the first Scots here. And her own grandfather had been the first to intoduce potatoes. Some neighbours were loathe to plant them, being supicious of all things Irish.  But they came around after hearing how delicious they were. Da always laughed at this point.

            With a sigh Jannet stood up. Her body knew the planting dance and ached to begin: dig, plant, cover, step forward, repeat. This year there was no point―they would be gone in a few weeks. Only weeds would grow here now.

            She straightened her back and strode across the soft earth onto the rocky path.

Seldom Stuck

in ,

I am seldom stuck,

though the words that pour forth

through pen and unleashed mind babble,

race like ponies in the field

tossing frantic manes and tails

the whites of their eyes rolling,

their nostrils dilated

like the peach clamshells I gather in summer


I want to hold my hands up and out,

hush now, it's okay

the lullaby unwinding

To place my hand upon the sweat soaked neck,
gentle, gentle,

stroke the kitten soft muzzle


I do not want to saddle words,

to rein them in,

a sharp bit between the teeth

I want to settle,

let the head dip,

munch the sweet damp grass,

honey scented summer

warm upon my shoulders


A pause then,

a breath drawn from the belly,

deep then deeper still

filling like a swollen creek

rich and cool, and then

the release


a ribbon unfurled

a kite unbound,

a cresting wave

the pen, a shadow dancer


unstuck

yet...inadequate

I wonder about babes before

language creates the topography

the map of their knowing

so finely attuned to senses

the brush of a hand upon the cheek,

the hum of a voice against the belly

the language of life

buzzing through

the unquestioning

soles of their tender toes


they are

seldom stuck














Pair

in

The evening before us,

and uncoupled we drift

into otherness,

strangers on our shadowed shores


The afternoon, untethered

I ride to a small cafe

am seated at the counter

to observe unobserved


Couples wander by

the percussions of their footfalls

perfectly paired alignment


There is beauty in symmetry,

the blades of shoulders

learning together

paired rib cages sheltering

paired lungs


I watch two crows knocking beaks

and then alighting

wingtip to wingtip,

swooping alignment


they carve the skyline

with the knife edges

of their blue black wings


Grateful for the ebb and flow

the tides we share,

grateful for the spaces

between our union


Knowing and mystery

informing our love.

Adolescence

in , ,

I was planning to skip this segment altogether. I mean, really, who among us has anything positive to say about school after Grade 6?  Pain and loneliness come to mind, mainly emotional, but physical as well.  That period of pudginess, aching bones from growth spurts, teeth-straightening braces, awkwardness, girls who made fun of your gawkiness, best friends turning away from you as they became cool and you didn’t, trying desperately to fit in, somewhere, anywhere. And heaven help the truly lost ones who don’t find some place to land even if it’s with a group they had to keep secret from their mothers.  Of promises kept and broken, of secrets leaked out by those you thought you could trust.  If there’s one thing I do know, Beethoven didn’t have adolescence in mind when he wrote Ode to Joy.

 

I think for me, the teenage angst driven by the conflict of wanting to conform and wanting to be different, tossed with a dash of raging hormones, is most vividly illustrated by a pair of red corduroy pants.

 

It was Grade 8 and I was 14 and was obsessively mesmerized by Diane Olsen (or more specifically her breasts) and who, by dint of an unimaginative homeroom teacher’s solution to student seating, sat directly behind me in perfect alphabetical order.  Sometimes I wished she sat in front of me so I could stare at her unabashed, but then I wouldn’t be able to see those perfect aforementioned objects of my desire, which were compellingly prominent whenever I turned around.  I say prominent, but they weren’t particularly large, for despite stereotypical profiling of teenage boys, size was not my preoccupation.  No, it was a conviction hers were round and soft and hinted of sensual delights behind the fortress of her bra.  She must have thought me a squirmy little thing, for turn around I did.  A lot.  With the slightest pretense.  A dropped pencil that would strategically bounce off my foot in a well-practiced arc that caused it to skitter into the aisle behind my desk.  Or a student at the back of the class answering teacher’s question and I would twist in my seat as if to politely show my interest in my classmate’s wisdom, when actually I was impolitely celebrating the heady victory of yet another lingering glimpse at those perfect puppies.  (Making a glimpse linger is no mean feat, by the way, perfected perhaps only by teenage boys.)

 

Those were the days, too, when my Mom was loosening the parental strings, giving me added responsibilities which included buying my own clothes.  This freedom was commensurate with the dawning – echoed years later by ZZ Top -- that the sharp-dressed guys seemed to have much better luck in gaining the attention of the girls.  (I think it also helped that they were good-looking jocks while I was a geeky-looking klutz, but I preferred to think it was the threads, and I began to become more conscious of the need to look a bit cooler.)

 

I began shopping, looking for ways to be noticed by the lust of my life; she of the heavenly orbs, sweet Diane Olsen.  This obsession was at a time, of course, when I’d yet to lay a hand on any breast, let alone those special treasures that graced my classmate. Nonetheless, my imagination told me how soft and sensuous they would be in my palm were I ever to be granted tactile access to that holy grail.

 

I had an Eaton’s card in my name, and became an ardent shopper for the first time in my life.  The mall was only a few blocks from my junior high school, and noon hours soon found me in the men’s department, looking for the new duds that would make me a hit with the lovely Miss Olsen.  Early purchases were fairly conservative… a shirt with a button-down collar, a super-thin black tie, pleated slacks, leather shoes rather than tenny-runners.  Undoubtedly I looked significantly more acceptable to my mother, but it wasn’t my mother I was trying to impress.

 

Then one day I saw them.  A pair of red corduroy pants.  They beckoned to me from the rack, and told me this was the hot ticket to paradise.  Now this red wasn’t a rich Cordovan red, or port-wine-dark red, or a red muted in any other way.  No, these were crimson.  Bright red.  Fire-engine red.  A leap-out-and-bite-you red.  I hesitated.  This wasn’t my style.  This was a bit too close to the edge.  But nothing else had worked.  I didn’t stand out in a crowd and was never invited to hang out with the cool kids.  Maybe with these red-hot numbers girding my loins as I swashbuckled down the corridors of the musty old school, things would be different.

 

My older brother’s histrionics were easy to discount.  He thought I was a nerd and that everything I did was nerdy.  Dad grunted behind a puff of pipe smoke; his indifference another unreliable signpost.  But when the ever-supportive Mom inquired gingerly if I was sure I wanted to keep them, the red corduroy pants became a red flag.   Had I gone overboard?

 

Nonetheless, the next morning with a contradictory mix of excitement and anxiety, I dressed – pale-blue button-down shirt, brand spanking new red corduroy pants, polished penny loafers.  Nervous but determined, the chrysalis had gelled and the new and colourful me had emerged and was winging his way to brighten the dark, gloomy hallways of Junior High.

 

Sometimes bold adventures have happy endings.  Mine was more like the Franklin expedition, doomed to failure from the start.  Bad judgment, total unfamiliarity with the terrain, complete naivety of just how hostile the environment was.  First a couple of raised eyebrows while waiting at the bus stop.  Then as I climbed on board, the bus for one brief moment was frozen like one of Franklin’s ships in the northern ice.  Spring break-up came in a matter of seconds -- snickers building to finger-pointing and then to outright guffaws and belly holding ridicule.

 

The homeroom teacher, a drab, homely creature, undoubtedly jealous of my sartorial courage, made some mocking reference to the Elizabethan court which delighted the entire class, though I’m convinced not a single one of those vacuous dullards had the slightest inkling what the allusion meant.  For once I kept still in my seat, staring straight ahead in hopes that Diane couldn’t see the rising crimson in my face like a mirrored reflection of my new corduroy pants.

 

I somehow survived the day.  With much grimacing, Mom managed to stifle the I-tried-to-warn-you-and-we-can’t-take-them-back-now-you’ve-worn-them, and she tried dying the pants navy but they turned purple. 

this was in the days before the Beatles and psychedelics and Carnaby Street, so purple was just as bad, if not worse, as bright red. I found as many excuses not to wear them as I did to spin around in my seat to make sure Diane Olsen still packed the perfect pair.  But even that sport had faded.  The light of my life had not only laughed along with the others, but she began dating a Grade 10 with a driver’s licence.  The following September, we were put into different classes, and our paths seldom crossed after that.  Eventually I got a girlfriend and I do remember the first time I unhooked a bra… but that’s another story (although one with a somewhat more gratifying ending).

 

 

Didn't I?

in ,

Rabbits, gathering around a hole,

Foxes tumbling near the den,

They are aware we are watching them.

You, in the street,

Your gait – a whispering limp but,

You’re out with a purpose!

To get milk

Attend to your friend

Your child

Your case

I’m over here, in the wild

Observing,

The ocean, a screen between us

Observing with short, shallow breaths

Watching it all unfold like

A Netflix series.

Rabbits gathering around a hole

Foxes tumbling near the den

I am watching you, like I watched the bear,

That ran alongside the van on the Dempster

Fascinated. Curious. Alive

Seeing what I can, while I can.

The rabbits went into their hole (at least I think they did)

The foxes skittered off (they won’t show you where they live)

That bear ran alongside us (for a surprisingly long time)

then down into the gully, out of sight.

When will you?

Memoir excerpt

in ,

Camp Wabinaki, 1967. I’m lying on my bunk, on my back, in the dark, listening to our counsellor, Monica, read us a story, when she gasps, “Oh! Look! It’s the Cross!”. Monica points to the cabin window and we all wriggle to sit up without unzipping our sleeping bags. Whoa, there is a cross, a cross of white light coming out of the moon. How come I’ve never seen that before? It’s not magic, it’s … spiritual. 

Except. I move my head, and the cross moves too. I tip to one side and that’s when I notice the screen. We’re looking at the moon through a screen. It keeps the moths and mosquitoes from getting in. It’s the screen that makes the light stream out that way, not Jesus.

I have to say something. Because, I think they need to know. To not be fooled. "You guys,” I start, and even though the cabin is the same size as always, my cabin-mates on their bunks suddenly feel very far away. My voice goes small, like a wind-up toy winding down. And then I’m done. There’s no argument. Monica sighs. “Aww, Susan. You spoiled the feeling.”

The next day I see everyone being nicer to Linda B., Linda who has stringy hair, who used to be the outcast. Now, the outcast is me.

All Day

in ,

All day I worked in a basement

All day I stretched my yellow tape

All day I laided down lines, blue, red and straight.

(All at 90… though some, needed a tweek)

 

All day I looked at walls to be, a bedroom, a kitchen, a home

All day I wrote short hand with my pen, DW CP FR

And All day I looked out the window … sometimes.

 

At lunch I sat in a chair, in the sun

And I had my phone all day

But I stopped, I put it down, so I could stop

because

 

All day I half listened to myself

And all day I listened to the radio

CBC

 all day

the morning in english, the afternoon in French,

(it’s just better that way).

 

After my all day I went to the store

And talked about doors and ratings and code

But not about clouds.

Who was looking at the clouds?

 

So,

 after all day in the basement with lines

And after all day at the store with doors

I looked at clouds, at their colour and shape,

The way they moved with the sun

 on their bottoms.

 

It seemed like my neck was pleased now

 looking up

instead of down

All day

   

Dog Poem #2

in ,

Two wolves are coming for you

along the stony beach

 a remote place, all loneliness and hunger.

You are not prepared,

all you have is a frisbee

your mother’s gift.

Each night they circle the fire.

Eyes watching, gold and steel.

The deep forest behind holds secrets

and sweet berries.

Once, on an unfamiliar trail

they ran past you

brushing your hand with the soft fur

of a happy dog.

You mark the trail 

with shared bread. 

Walter & Grace part 2

in ,

Walter’s heightened agitation at the thought of the impending picnic seemed completely out of proportion, but it was also unfathomably unshakable. He went to bed even earlier, watching the red illuminated numbers of the clock scroll so slowly they seemed to blur, defying the laws of physics. In the early hours , dull eyed and unsettled he hauled himself out of bed, facing the blue grey dawn edgily. He took his dog for uncharacteristically long walks through the bush. She was nine now and though at first she’d been eagerly amazed, by Wednesday she was clearly objecting, lagging behind, tail drooping disconsolately. When Walter snarled at her, she threw him such a wounded look that he was immediately furious with himself.

Once daily work obligations were complete, Walter tried to lose himself in books, a strategy that had never failed to distract and comfort him. But he lost his reading glasses every time he set them down, stalking in and out of each room, tossing aside books, pillows, and coffee cups. Curses he’d never before uttered spit from his mouth like the hulls of sunflower seeds from a seasoned long haul trucker.

He found himself trying to imagine what the hell he’d bring to to the potluck. Walter, never much of a cook, was stymied. When he perused the local grocery store to see if they had anything ready made that he could pass off as home cooked, it was slim pickings indeed. Frozen mini quiches and veggie plates with limp looking celery, still green tomatoes, browning cauliflower and a dip that had a suspiciously vague ingredient list. He berated himself for spending any time thinking about it at all, and could not seem to stem the flood of his wildly circular thoughts.

He tried calling Sarah, just in case Margaret had spun some story that he could unravel, could set right. Three times the phone went to message and finally, on Thursday Derek answered. Usually Walter would hang up at this juncture but he was that concerned.

“Derek, I’m trying to get ahold of Sarah, is she there”? It was the most words he’d every exchanged with Derek. It left his stomach knotted and his throat constricted.

“She’s not here”, came the grunted response. Walter felt the flush of heat roll through his body.

“Well where is she?”

“She’s gone. I expect she’ll be home sooner than later”.

“Sooner than later, what the hell kind of answer is that”? The dial tone buzzed, Walter’s question dangling like a pulled plug. By Saturday, Walter had decided to just bag up some offerings from the garden, baby carrots, new peas and strawberries that were just ripe enough to pass. It would have to do. He’d slide the bag unobtrusively onto one of the tables and hope one of the women would deal with it appropriately, place it on a fancy plate with a nasturtium for garnish. He imagined he’d stay just long enough to run interference with Sarah, let her know she didn’t need to be there, and neither did he. Maybe they’d both end up at his place, just the two of them sitting on the swing chair on the front porch, sipping cold beer and laughing about the way they’d avoided the barely concealed rivalry, the sly measuring glances to see who had brought what, whose children were ill mannered, whose dress was a little too short for decorum. The physicality of church seemed to restrict that kind of nonsense, but out in the open air, who knew how unravelled things might become.