Tecumseh Summer's (Part 2 of 2)

Dear Reader,
My apologies for taking so long between posts.  I've been run off my feet getting ready for our 4-weeks in China.  Stay tuned to read all about it.  Marlene
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Following is the final chapter on Tecumseh Summers ...

Great Aunties Kit and Edie lived on Lake St. Clair.  We spent days on their beach modelling a never-ending supply of clay ashtrays for our parents and other smoking relatives.  We didn’t stop at small items, oh no, we girls would fashion furniture that we sat upon once dried.  We’d turn the beach into our play house taking turns being mother, father or child.  Gina, being the eldest, was the clay diver.  The lake bottom held an abundant supply.  Our beach toys were stored in the garage where we also changed into our bathing suits.  I remember the smell from Auntie Edie’s old black car with the rumble seat.   

            I don’t recall the make of the car only that I never got the relished rumble in that special seat.  I was, at that time, ‘the little one’.  I was however, allowed to lie along the back shelf to watch my giggling sister’s take pleasure from their joy ride.  Who knew seat belts would come along to curb such car antics. 

            When weather did not allow for beach play we’d be found in the auntie’s sun room.  I still have a plan to make an afghan just like the one that sat on the glider we loved to ride by the hour.  I’ve also had the desire to have my own creaking glider.  If I ever find one, that’s when the crochet hook will be called into action to use up stashes of yarn on the black and brightly coloured granny squares.  I never quite got as a kid why the granny squares were at the aunties’ house.  In the same way I never understood what to say when Grannie’s eiderdown slipped to the bottom of the bed.  “Pull the eider up?”

            One memory of a stormy afternoon on the auntie’s porch remains vivid.  I sensed Mum and Dad were worried and were whispering something about taking cover and no, they did not mean that favourite afghan.  We all watched out steamed windows as the storm grew fiercer over the darkened waves that washed away not only our clay furnishings but the entire beach.  The waves had reached the edge of their grass and were advancing towards the house. 

            One roaring gust of wind blew their garden swing up the yard to be stopped only when it met the house.  The kids loved the event not knowing what there was to fear.  The adults were relieved that a bump on the side of the house was the only damage.  Years later, I suppose in an effort to recapture happy childhood memories, I bought a garden swing and my singing voice, I’m happy to report, still sounded pretty good in it.  Perhaps the swing-breeze forced much-needed air into my lungs.  Don’t ask me if I ever stood up and swung it as I had as a kid and belted out that Mario Lanza tune.  Of course I did.    

            A favourite afternoon treat, served by Auntie Kit and Edie, were cinnamon buns and a glass of ginger ale.  There we would be, the three sisters lined in a row along the favoured porch glider with the beautiful afghan when the question would come. 

            “Gina, would you like a glass of ginger ale?”

            “No, thank you.”

            “Jackie, what about you, would you like a glass of ginger ale?”

            “No, thank you.”

            Being the youngest I’m certain the older sisters hoped I would crack and say, “Yes, please”.  Don’t ask me why but Mum taught us to say no to a first offer of refreshment.  Eventually, one of us would give in allowing all of us to relieve our thirst for the sweet and sticky treats.  The aunties also liked to serve ‘pink tea’.  It was regular tea with a lot of milk and sugar in it.  That was really special.  Whilst we pretended to be all grown up drinking our tea the real grown ups enjoyed their gin with Lime Rickey.  Given the choice to have Lime Rickey, rather than the standard ginger ale, made a kid feel very mature.  Whatever happened to Lime Rickey?

       A short walk from the auntie’s along Riverside Drive took us to Auntie Ruby and Uncle Reg’s.  Being Auntie Ruby’s favourite (she called me Pixie) I loved visiting for the attention she lavished on me.  I’ve never forgotten watching Auntie Ruby peel potatoes, not with the usual potato peeler but with a paring knife.  She’d carve the spuds into perfect tiny round balls using only a fraction of the potato.  Her sink piled sky high with thick peels.  The waste was incredible.  Ruby had a sister – Irma.  The only thing I remember about Irma was her flaming dyed red hair and that it all fell out one day when she was washing it.  They said it was from over-dying.  Could it be the reason my purple hair phase was so short-lived?

            Ruby and Reg’s house had two sets of stairs which added greatly to our indoor games of hide-and-go-seek.  The portrait of Uncle Reg sitting on his white wicker porch chair with his binoculars on the wicker table beside him under the tiffany lamp and beside the ashtray with his pipe sending out curls of white smoke is one, given an artistic talent, I could paint.  The cement floor was red … probably Ruby red.  If the sound of tamp-tamping tobacco into his pipe’s bowl and the lip-smacking puff, puff, puff to re-light could be added you’d have the complete picture.  He also smoked cigarettes and had a special way, after retrieving the pack from his left breast shirt pocket, of tapping them out.  I can hear the click of the lighter now.  Was I surprised to learn he lost a lung to cancer?  No.  I am shocked however, to learn he lost that blackened lung long before we kids were born to witness what I perceived to be an idyllic scene.        

            When our parents arrived with our baby brother for their vacation all the relatives got together and we girls entertained with a story, poem, magic trick or song.  My best songs were Al Jolson impressions.  I’d go for the gusto by getting down on one knee, spreading my hands and belting out, in the deepest voice I could muster, “Mammy!  How I love ya, how I love ya, my dear old Mammy!”  I’d walk a million miles for one of those smiles today from the Tecumseh relatives.   

After our performances the aunties and uncles would give us quarters.  I got in trouble with Dad when, after a Turner Trio performance, the money was slow to appear and I blurted out, “Where are the quarters?”

Sister Dale, having arrived on the scene ten years after me, detested dancing her way through those performances and was not as fond of her trips to Tecumseh.  It wasn’t until her ballet piece was over and the butterflies in her stomach had fluttered away that she could relax and try to enjoy herself.  Owning enough quarters herself she would have gladly paid the aunties and uncles if only they wouldn’t ask her to dance.  Was it the lack of ‘ham’ in her that has had Dale turn out to be ‘the thin one’?

Bonfires were always at Reg and Ruby’s.  It wasn’t until I was older that I understood my mother’s tears the night they burned ‘Smokey Joe’.  There they sat, Dad with his arm around Mum while she leaned her head against his shoulder.  All we kids wanted was for the flames to turn to embers so we could toast our marshmallows.  So what was it about that broken down old canoe that made my mother’s cheeks glisten in the light of the crackling fire?  ‘Smokey Joe’ was my parents’ courting canoe. They must have spent hours getting to know each another while afloat.  Thankfully, for the well-being and existence of their six kids, they had indeed progressed from an apparently disastrous first date to paddling the shores of Lake Ontario in their own little love boat.    

            Auntie Kit, the more rambunctious of the Pratt sisters that I knew (Grannie, Kit and Edie) was apparently ‘in her cups’ that eventful bonfire evening and gave us a rather raucous rendition of Barnacle Bill the Sailor.  She’d be reminded of this from time to time at future family get-togethers.  I can still see her kicking up an aging leg on one such re-enactment.          

When all the relatives gathered at Grannie’s home to enjoy a meal she’d pull out a small wide chair that was broad enough to allow two kid-sized bums to share the space.  I have that chair now and seeing it evokes many memories already captured by my words.  Let’s not mention what single bum has trouble perching on that special seat today. 

I was never very fond of circling the room and kissing the old relatives goodnight when we had to leave the gathered family for bed.  It might have had something to do with the prickly whiskers on the chins of the uncles AND the aunts.  The very same kind of whiskers I now spend hours trying to pluck from my own chinny, chin, chin.    

The memories are too numerous to mention but flow back on perfect summer days when a smell, a taste or even a breeze carries me back to childhood summers.  Memories come at a moments notice much like our paper doll cut-outs.  We’d leave them in the drawer of an old table under a special tree in Grannie’s garden and find them again the following year.  They’d be a little bubbled by the damp but survived and were ready and always willing to play with us. 

Today I savour opening my memory drawer to find the sweet images of a childhood summer ready and waiting to be taken out to play on my mind.  Now I’m making efforts to fill my grandkids heads and hearts with memories they’ll one day visit and remember just how special they felt back in the good old days when they stayed with Gramma at “the little red house” in Erin. 

 

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Tecumseh Summers (Part 1)

What is it about a childhood summer that evokes the sweetest of memories?  Often, when we visited our Grannie in Tecumseh, the journey started with the three oldest daughters running around the block to the magazine section of Fryer’s, our local variety store on Kingston Road, to pick up the latest copy of hit parade favourites.  Those weekly newsprint lovelies, always in a different pastel colour, contained all the words to the songs that were currently topping the charts.

            If you were ready early for the road trip you had the honour of accompanying Dad to the station to gas-up for the trip.  I still get the feeling an adventure is about to unfold when noxious fill-up fumes waft my way. 

I can’t imagine why our parents liked us taking our song books along on a road trip because we three (Gina, Jacqueline and Marlene) would belt out those tunes for most of the seven-hour journey along Old Highway #2.  Highway 401 did not exist in those days. 

A stop at the White Horse Inn in Paris for my then favourite burgundy cherry ice cream cone always eased the pain of the long drive.  Dad wasn’t very fond of stopping and often feigned our pleas to pee did not give him enough warning.  “I can’t turn off that fast”, he’d say, “It would be dangerous.”  We’d strain our eyes and wear out the seat springs bouncing until we located the next possible stop.  It often took more than a couple of us making the same request to deem the stop necessary in Dad’s eyes.       

I guess our singing in the car was preferable for our parents to the arguing that often ensued when personal space was invaded.  Frank Sinatra’s, “… running across the meadow, picking up lots of forget-me-nots” was more enjoyable than a whined, “Mum, Gina is touching me with her feet, again!”  Sweaty and tightly crammed into our old brown Hudson led to arguments even while enjoying an ‘Old Blue Eyes’ tune.  Gina, or I, noticed Jacqueline (we switched to Jac in later years) had the words wrong when she vocalized, “… trade them for a pack of gum, sunshine and flowers”.  We would chortle and chide … “pack of gum?” … “pack of gum? … It’s package of sunshine and flowers” … Ha!  All this at our sadly mistaken sister’s expense.

We’d also sing songs to other cars as foot-to-the-floor-Art, which would be our Dad, passed them.  Once when we spotted Texas plates we quickly rolled down the windows and sang out, “The stars at night are big and bright, (bum-bum, bum-bum) deep in the heart of Texas”.  We’d accompany our rendition with the appropriate four thumps on the outside of the car. 

            The game Mum liked us playing most on those long car rides to Windsor was one she had invented herself, perhaps out of desperation.  She called it ‘The Can’t Talk Game’.  Necessity had to be the reason for this mother’s invention.  She plied us with sweet treats for the winner.  With candy dangling as our carrot she’d get quite a few games out of us but once the first kid made a slip-of-the-tongue they made it their job to get others to join the loser ranks.  I guess a few minutes of quiet here and there helped save the parents’ sanity.

Dad had family in Tecumseh (near Windsor, Ontario) and we three oldest girls spent weeks there.  Our Grannie, Auntie Nellie, Great Uncle Reg and wife Aunt Ruby, Great Aunts Kit and Edie, Uncle Bill with wife May and eventually Glenn, our only cousin on our father’s side, all lived there. 

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Mostly we stayed at Grannie’s home.  She was the only person who called our dad Arthur.  It sounded strange to our ears and only helped to enhance her image as the stern Baptist.  Our totally ‘cool’ Auntie Nellie also lived there.  (Sorry young ones using ‘cool’ in 2010, ‘cool’ was our word back in the day.  I’ve updated the expression by adding ‘totally’.)

            Auntie Nellie did things with us Grannie would not allow.  One night she sneaked me out of bed to behind a locked bathroom door – her makeshift developing room.  There, in that ‘dark room’ with my older sisters, it was enchantment.  Nellie’s hobby was photography and we her willing subjects.  I loved watching an image magically appear on an immersed eight by ten.  The magic evaporated when we heard the clunk, clunk, clunk of Grannie’s approaching shoot-me-if-I-ever-start-wearing-those-old-lady-black-shoes.  Grannie’s hall clump was soon followed by a loud knock and the not-so-gentle enquiry, “Nellie!  Have you got that girl in there?”

            Grannie would give us “just a little longer” with Nellie’s plea, “I can’t open the door, Mum.  My photos will be ruined”.  We’d catch the twinkle and a wink from our Auntie’s eye in the bathroom’s warm red glow.

            Before I leave the thought and sound of Grannie’s shoes the story of them coming through the ceiling with Grannie’s legs attached needs a mention.  We don’t actually remember if we were there to witness the momentous occasion or if the story was told so many times we feel like we were.  I swear I saw those legs, with the seamed stockings she would mend with her hair and those black clunkers come through the rafters to a startled, plaster-covered aunt who could not move to help her mother because she was doubled over in laughter. 

            Grannie must have been fitter than the proverbial fiddle.  She survived her half fall into the living room with nary a scratch.  The stockings, of course, were simply ruined.  In spite of her long, sausage-rolled and hair-netted tresses, Grannie never could have saved the amount of hair required to bring the remaining shreds together.  Gina fondly remembers how Grannie would let her pull old stockings apart … while they were still on her legs.  To say this grandmother was feisty just doesn’t cover it.  Grannie shingled the roof on her shed when she was a spunky sixty-eight-year-old.      

Staying at Grannie’s was like magic to us.  From taking our cereal bowls out into her plentiful garden in search of raspberries for our morning Corn Flakes to singing and swaying on her garden swing and bellowing our mother’s favourite Mario Lanza tune … “When you are in love, it’s the loveliest night of the year”.  And, who can ever forget the infestation of shad flies  Tecumseh had one year.  We called them fish flies.  It was our job to pick them off the screens and sweep them into piles.  Dad had to tip-toe on the gas pedal to keep a snails pace if we drove through them at night.  The crunch they made under the Goodyear treads will never be forgotten. 

There was one thing about our paternal grandmother that scared the living daylights out of us.  It was what she said when we coughed.  “Choke up chicken, you’ll soon be dead”.  Needless to say, we hated going there if we had a cold.  To this day however, I repeat her words when my grandkids cough, but only, “Choke up chicken!”  I leave the death declarations to a higher being.

... to be continued ...

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Drawing the Line with My Darling

            When I saw Michael pouring over the ‘Continuing Education’ booklet that arrived in January of ought nine, my yearning-for-learning juices started to flow.  I’m happy to say I still possess a voracious craving for knowledge … it’s a thirst yet to be quenched.  This hunger for information has led me to many a night school class over the years.  Although the yen to attend classes has never left me, a long drive in winter months, alone at the wheel, has stopped me in my tutored tracks.  Wiping out a ‘Welcome to Caledon’ sign a few years back didn’t help.  It only made me feel meeker about motoring, especially in snow, sleet, hail, freezing rain, thunder storms, regular rain or when the sun is extra squinty bright.  You get the picture?

            When my darling husband took out a pen and circled an item in the education roster I could barely contain my excitement.  When finally I got my anxious hands on the bulletin I tore through looking for something … anything on the same day and around the same time as his chosen … oh, yawn, oh, boring … ‘Financial Planning for Retirement’. 

EUREKA!  Drawing and Dry Pastels was scheduled in the morning of Michael’s afternoon class.  So, the plan was set, he would hang out in Guelph in the morning, we’d meet for lunch and I’d get to hang while he nodded off during his afternoon class.  I pictured my Guelph afternoons spent sipping lattés and reading a novel while assimilating what was learned in the morning.     

            Next we went off to the art store for dry pastels and my bag was packed in readiness for a new adventure.  My escapades into extra-curricular classes has taken me far and wide in my creative mind.  Here’s most of my learning list – Tai Chi, speed reading, shorthand (my only tedious class taken to improve my job position – as I didn’t stick with it, my hand remains long especially when not in touch with the keyboard of my computer).  Then there was oil painting with my mother.  For the most part I like to attend classes alone. 

Continuing on, I’ve taken a World Religions Course, American Sign Language, creative writing and running a small business.  Commerce is a fairly right-brained place to place one’s attention … or is it left?  (Note to myself.  Look for a course on how the brain works.)  At any rate, a decision was made to start my own business after attending a slew of sewing sessions.  I hung out my shingle as workshop leader in quilty items such as bears, bunnies, wall-hangings, quick quilts, vests, dolls and other assorted items.  Said items spent years packed in boxes until Value Village was the lucky recipient of stuffed items that filled our small cottage to overflowing. 

Meanwhile back at the learning list … there was a cooking class with Bonnie Stern when I lived in Leaside and just across the street I learned how to smock.  Let’s not forget pu-pu-public sp-sp-sp-speak-ing at Durham College when we lived in Port Perry.  During the public speaking course I gave a five minute talk on procrastination that I never actually gave.  Remind me to tell you about that some time.  Finally, let us not forget Memoir Writing workshops in Erin and at Five Oaks in Paris. 

            As mentioned, I normally take these classes alone but Michael and I did sign up for water colours in Guelph a few years back.  You may have realized from my list that I like to be creative with my hands.  Well, the water colours kind of got away on me.  I’m not certain if it was the sorry excuse for a teacher who got in my way or just me who could not conquer the craft.  The teacher would continually grab my brush out of my hand to correct where he thought I’d gone wrong.  He would splash about on my very expensive water colour paper and wreck my latest attempt.  The most annoying part came when he would then proceed along the line to Michael; pat him on the back and say, “I can see by your work that you have done this before”.

When I came to accept this teacher was not the right match for me I went off to purchase an instruction book on water colours.  I followed the directions as best I could and was working on a landscape when the very much alive but deadly teacher came along and questioned, “Why are you using yellow in the sky?  The sky is not yellow”.

I really wanted to respond with, “Because the book I was forced to buy, since I’m not learning a darned thing from you, has instructions for using yellow in the sky”. 

Of course, I’m too polite to say such a thing so; again my brush was absconded while I was forced to watch my lovely sunny sky turn to grey, both literally and metaphorically.  Then, on he’d go to Michael. 

“Oh, now, this is what a sky should look like.” 

We would laugh when we got to the car, Michael and I.  The ride home would be filled with teasing the ‘teacher’s pet’ accompanied by my unbecoming snorts and spurts.    

As luck would have it, I had to quit water colour classes before completion when I was elected onto the Bahá'í Council of Ontario and instantly spun in another direction with plenty to do on my plate.

            Michael continued on.  Well, wouldn’t you if your head was swelling with pride from the splendid work you were putting on paper?  Each night the teacher would put brush to his own pricey piece of paper while the class looked on to learn what they could by watching a work in progress.  On the last night of class he sent his final demo painting home with Michael as a gift for me.  It was a sunset landscape.  Can you guess the colour of the sky?  That’s right; it was a yellow that did not make me feel at all mellow.  I burned that painting along with my own attempts.  If this teacher, whose name I’ve forgotten anyway, ever becomes famous I’ve burned my bridge to the bank.

            Now, back to January of aught nine!  The day before classes were to begin I retrieved a phone message informing Michael … “Due to lack of interest, your class in Financial Planning for Retirement has been cancelled”.  I’ll admit it brought a sinister smile to my face that was immediately wiped away with the realization I’d lost my chauffeur.     

            It was back to the course booklet for Michael who finally decided to join me, to my delight I might add, in the drawing class.  After completing our first session the teacher displayed all of our drawings which were studies in shadowing and direction of the light source.  When Michael’s drawing was held up the whole class, with the exception of the artist’s wife, let out a loud and long … W-W-W-O-O--O-O-W-W-W-W … accompanied by an exuberant round of applause.  A classmate, turning to Michael said, “I can see you’re going to be the teacher’s pet”.

            It still makes me laugh to think of a possible repeat performance in art class with my lovely husband however, I know from the start this teacher is different.  A student wanted her to demonstrate a technique adding to the student’s effort. 

“Oh no, I must respect what you’ve accomplished”.  Happily, I can only blame my crumby work on my own pitiful hand.    

She’s also a lot of fun, this new teacher.  When asked for her best advice about using the very messy, chalk pastels responded, “Don’t scratch your nose”. 

 So, you ask, what have I learned from all of this?  Lots, if you consider my long list of courses but nothing when it comes to drawing the line with my darling husband partaking in the same class. 

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Bookmarks

I have a thing about bookmarks.  It would naturally follow having a fondness for books.  If you like to read as much as I, then you may have the same love and your own collection of these novel little items.  Please don’t tell me you turn the corners over to mark your place.  Tsk! Tsk!  I say to that.

Bookmarks are like little treasures to me.  I buy bookmarks when I travel so that when I come upon them memories of places I’ve been come flooding back.  What else do you use when you cannot put your hand on a proper book mark?  On one of my ventures I lost my train ticket.  The conductor patiently pointed to my book.  I must have treasured that ticket because treasures are the only non-bookmarks I’ll use in my books.

CBC Radio Canada recently featured a story about items found in old books.  It was fascinating.  Of course, loads of money was found.  I’ve used money, too, but only when I wanted to remember to put it safely away in my wallet at the first opportunity.  Having said that, I’ll be flipping through my shelved books the next time I’m low on cash.   

I assume other avid readers have the same love of these little slips of memory and artwork.  I’ve given more bookmarks away than one can imagine.  I’ve lost count of the number I’ve given to my friend, Irene.  She and I love to read and share book recommendations … even books.  We like to meet for lunch too but, that’s another story.  We meet on a bench outside a bookstore.  Where else?

                Here’s the thing.  Loving to read books, it was only natural that Irene and I would move to electronic readers.  So, what’s to become of all our little bookmark gems?  Does Irene have a special spot to store her collection?  I do!  They are all tucked neatly away in my night table drawer.  I talked about this recently with my sister, Gina.  What can I say, we’re sisters.  In many ways we are the same.  Both avid readers, both with bookmark collections and yes, we both keep our miniature markers in the same spot – our night table drawers.  I expect, after Irene has read this, to hear where she keeps her private collection.  Irene?    

                Another thing we sisters do when we’re together is to make what we call a “Same-same”[1], purchase.  The items we buy work like the bookmarks, they remind us of our time together and each other when we’re apart.  With a sister in Michigan and another in Germany our sister’s ‘same-same’ takes some thought.  They must be transportable.  I’ve found something here on The Bruce Peninsula that I can mail to Germany and to Michigan.  It gives me great joy to know my sisters are thinking about me as I hope they feel my many warm thoughts about them. 

                As much as I love my electronic readers … yes, I have more than one.  In fact I now number three since I’ve also discovered the iPad has a reader as well; none of them can replace the smell of paper.  I still like to hold a hard copy book in my hand.  What’s absolutely fabulous about a reader is that they hold hundreds of books.  Great for travel!  Great for reading in bed too, no rolling over to turn pages on a heavy book.  With their own little light they’re great for the husband.  No light shining in his eyes.  They also do not attract bugs to their light so, also great for summer reads in bed.

                Finally, to my same-same sisters, I have the item you will receive by mail, too.  I’m already looking at it and thinking of the both of you and October.  We’ll be together again for the Brigden Reunion.  I wonder just what will be added to our remembrance relics.  

So, tell me dear reader, what treasures do you mark your place with?

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[1] “Same-same” is my grandson’s invention.  He was in his twos when he noticed we were wearing similar jackets.  His pudgy little hand pointed to mine, “Same”, and then to his, “Same”.  It’s one of those sayings that stick for life. 

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The Little Red Paint Can

I’m on the Bruce Peninsula in Ontario.  I’m here to write.  A friend has allowed me the use of her beautiful cottage overlooking Lake Huron.  I wanted a place free of the distractions of home.  Are there distractions here?  YES!  Among them are … the water, the trees, the sky, the birds and the chipmunk that arrives at the same time every evening to await his daily ration of peanuts.  I just wish he wouldn’t jump on my leg to get my attention.  Now THAT’S distracting.

Let us not forget sunset.  It’s a ‘must see’ every evening.  How many places are there in the world that one can watch a great orange ball of fire slowly sink into a vast body of water?  When Kaenoa, my seven-year-old grandson heard from his mother a few nights ago that I was watching the sunset on Lake Huron he asked, “What channel is that on?”  This would be the same grandson who asked when I was reading him a bedtime story, "Can we pause this, Gramma?  I have to go to the bathroom.  The electronic age is upon us.   

We discovered the moon does the same thing.  It also is a spectacular sight but one that takes a little more ambition to observe.  It happens in the middle of the night.  It was this insomniac’s bonus.  I awakened my husband, Michael, out of a deep sleep to see this wonder.  We crept down to the gazebo to enjoy the spectacle, but, as the timing seems to differ each night, this may remain a once-in-a-life-time event.  So glad we savoured the moment when the silvery moon turns to orange and makes a magnificent descent into the once moonlit water. 

There is another something that beckons to me.  My friend has a wonderful sense with her décor.  Her space beautifully represents places in the world she has seen.  There is a ‘paddy hat’ from her time in China, some brightly painted items from Poland and another hat that looks rather Turkish.  These special items are among a beautiful array of treasures.

 Then, I spot, atop an antique chest a tin can, the kind that once held food.  It has been painted red.  Sitting straight up out of the coloured can is the brown handle of a paint brush.  The bristle end is stuck in a solid mass of dried red paint.  It seems out of place at first but, it draws me in.  Why do I feel tears well when I look at this old can?  I have no idea where and why it evokes so much emotion.

It’s much like when I listen to Maria Callas sing La Mamma Morta.  It’s on the soundtrack from the movie Philadelphia.  Each and every time it plays I well up in tears that come from deep within.  My daughter, Emma, said to me when she witnessed this phenomenon, “But, Mum!  You don’t even know what the words are.  She’s singing in another language.”  I know!  Don’t ask me why, but it does it to me every time.

Now, I find the same thing happening with this curious little can.  I’m continually drawn to it and when I look at it, I well up with emotion.  If only it could talk, I know it has a story and I’d have some answers.  What could it be?  It doesn’t seem to fit and yet, I think, this could be the most important item in the room.  Beside the can is a picture of a white-haired man in a red, plaid jacket.  Lake Huron sparkles behind him.  This, I’m pretty certain, is my friend’s father.  He built this cottage. 

There is not a speck of red paint anywhere in Lady Slipper Cottage.  This must be from times gone by.  I want the story.  I’ll see my friend when we travel to China in November.  Can you guess what my burning questions might be about?  

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The Call of the Lonesome Mousse

'The Call of the Lonesome Mousse' first appeared in the Scugog Citizen and has been updated for my regular column in The Erin Advocate.  It appeared there back in 2003 ... and the mousse still calls.  Enjoy!

 

          I’m thinking of having a soundproof cupboard installed in my home to contain a selection of noisy nourishment.  Some of you are scratching your heads.  You’re the ones who don’t hear the call of the wild rice pudding or the chocolate mousse when it’s begging to be consumed.

            It mainly attacks at night after everyone is asleep, and always strikes when there is leftover dessert.  Something will suddenly jerk me back from a deep sleep.  I sit bolt upright in bed, pull the covers up to my nose and listen intently.  It starts quietly at first, just a sinister little whisper.

            “Marlene, I’m here … Marlene, I’m waiting for you.”

            Adrenaline courses through my veins.  I resist the instinct to run.  Not a muscle moves as I pray it will stop taunting and let me sleep, but, oh no, it gets louder and more demanding.

            “Marlene, get down here, I’m still fresh and very creamy, I won’t be this good tomorrow and you know it”.

            Wiping the drool from my chin, I fold my pillow over my head to plug my ears and I dive under the covers.

            It’s no use, it won’t stop.  I must stop it before the clamour awakens the sleeping clan.

            There is only one way to silence a merciless chocolate mousse.  Hastening to the kitchen, I grab some artillery.  Spoons are the quickest, cleanest and leave no trace.  With my weaponless hand, I fling open the refrigerator door and launch an immediate attack.  It is not a pretty sight; I’ll spare you the details.  Suffice it to say that when the bowl is perfectly clean, I know the monster has been licked.

            I’ve met others who suffer the same affliction.  One dinner guest, when forced (at spoon point) to remain until all the dessert was consumed, and told why, said “Chocolate has a much deeper voice where I come from.  It doesn’t beg, ‘Eat me, eat me.’  It demands, ‘EAT ME, EAT ME!’”

            Mother Nature, bless her heart, is coming to my rescue.  The passage of years has caused my snoring to become so loud and my hearing so poor, the nocturnal rumblings can barely be heard.

            When my niece Kim was not quite five years old, her mother, my sister Gina, asked, “Kim, can you hear that doughnut calling my name?”  Poor little girl, she was afraid for some time to be left alone in a room where there may be talking doughnuts.

            Michael and I visited the Bahá'í World Center in Haifa, Israel in 1984 during our pilgrimage.  After an introductory session a woman crossed the floor and came to me proclaiming, “You’re the woman who makes the chocolate mousse!”  Who knew the call of the mousse would make its way around the world.   

            I once made the recipe, which originally came from my sister Jac, for a chocolate bake-off contest held by Deborah’s Chocolates in the village of Erin.  I couldn’t find the recipe so did what I thought was right.  With only three ingredients, how could I go too far wrong?  Of course, we had to buy the chocolate for our recipes from Deborah’s.  I knew the recipe called for semi-sweet chocolate chips but what would equal a large bag of chips threw me right off.  So, I guesstimated how large a junk was needed.  That proved to be a huge mistake.  Once set, my mousse was hard to dig into.  I wanted to peek into the window of the shop as the judges tried to get their spoons into the almost hard lump in their dishes.  I never heard but always wondered what was said and what they were thinking as they chowed down on the almost solid mass of mousse.  I guess I’d have heard if anyone broke a tooth? 

            The recipe follows for those who are brave enough to chance ‘mousse’ calls disturbing their sleep.  Good luck to you, I say.

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Sister Jac’s Perfect Chocolate Mousse

Serves 8-10 (day or night, awake or asleep). 

Ingredients

 

• 12 oz bag of semi-sweet chocolate chips (or equal weight in a really good chocolate)
• 5 eggs
• ½ pint of whipped whipping cream

Directions

1.      Melt chocolate in the top of a double boiler set over hot water.

2.     When using a hunk of chocolate cut into smaller pieces.

3.     Let the chocolate cool until it’s no longer hot but warm. 

4.     Stir in 5 beaten egg yolks. 

5.     In a separate bowl, beat 5 egg whites until stiff and stir 1/3 of them into the chocolate/egg mixture.

6.     Fold the chocolate/egg mixture into the remaining egg whites.

7.     Fold in ½ pint of whipped whipping cream. 

8.      Spoon the mousse into a serving bowl or individual dessert dishes.

9.      Chill for 1 hour.

Leftovers?  Wear earplugs to bed. 

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Be the Pencil

In 2007 my sister, Gina and I went on a memoir writing cruise through the Carribbean.  For one of our writing exercises Nora Zylstra-Savage, our workshop leader, asked us to "write a story and be the pencil".  This was what came out.

And Your Point Would Be?

            I’m peeking out the top of my home – a pencil holder.  Thank goodness I’ve been sharpened only a few times so I can still peer over the top, unlike some of the stubbies in here.  They’re completely in the dark.

            I can see Marlene and Artie.  They’re playing with Artie’s tricycle and laughing.  It looks like fun – this is good.

            She’s five years older than he is.  It’s 1951 so he’s three and she’s eight – old enough to know a bit more than smarty Artie … one would hope.

            I’m not brand new, you know.  When I was new, boy-oh-boy, did I feel spiffy.  There’s thousands, no millions, out there who look just like me but I’ve always felt special, as though a part of me would last for a very long time.

            Some would say I’m standard issue – yellow, HP, with a gold ring running around my red rubbery head.  My head is an eraser and it’s used to rub out errors made by stupid human mistakes.  They do that a lot and when they do, it hurts like hell!

            How would you like to be turned upside-down and rubbed into the ground until the tracks you’ve made have disappeared?  Do you know what a noogie feels like?  Well, imagine that feeling multiplied a hundred times and you’ll know what life as a pencil can be … VERY PAINFUL!

            Wait just a minute, here comes Artie.  Damn, this boy’s a chewer.  I’m shrinking … I’m scrunching … down … down … down.  Please let him pick that hot looking red number four.

            He’s coming closer … closer … he’s twirling us one by one – damn – he’s saying, “This one is good!”  Now he’s got me.  He’s being way too rough on me.

            “Watch it buster!” I yell, “Can’t you see I’ve been freshly sharpened.  Mind my point!” 

            Whew!  I made it out, point intact.

            Oh, no!  I’m looking at Artie’s tonsils.  This can’t be good.

            Bite!

            “Ow-w!” 

            Chomp!

            “Ow-w-w-w!”

            Chew!

            “Ow-w-w-w-w-w!”

            CRUNCH!

            “OW-W-W-W-W-W-CH!”

            His mother has told him time and time again NOT to walk or run with anything in his mouth.  She likes to accompany that command with, “You know the actor Andy Devine?  He plays Jingles on Wild Bill Hickok’s Show.  Well, the reason he has that raspy voice is because he ran with a sucker in his mouth as a kid and choked on the stick when he fell”.

            But, I digress – I’m getting really scared.  He may have taken me out of his mouth but he’s getting a little too close to the wheel Marlene is spinning.  They’ve turned the trike over in order to crank the wheel.

            I’m getting closer … and closer … yikes, too close to that spinning wheel … so close I can feel the breeze … I can hear a squeak that needs oil … I … I … I … eye … yi … YI!

            Click … click … click … click … click … click … click … click … click … click … click … click … click …

            What could be worse than this?  I’m being used as a noise maker.  “Hey, you two!  Don’t you know the hockey card and clothes pin trick?”  I guess not!  I don’t know how much more I can take of this.

            Marlene’s whining.  What is it?  I can barely hear it over the click … click … click … click … click … click …  “Awe come on Artie, it’s my turn.”

            Finally!  The spinning stops, Marlene takes me in her left hand and like Artie touches me to a spoke.  The little brother yells out, “I’ll spin the wheel!” and here we go again!

            Rat   a   tat    tat   …   rat    a    tat    tat   …   rat    a    tat    tat   …

            faster!

            Rat  a  tat  tat … rat   a   tat   tat … rat   a   tat   tat …

            Faster!                 

            Rat a tat tat … rat a tat tat … rat a tat tat …

            FASTER!

            Ratatattat…ratatattat…ratatattat …

            BANG!  STOP!  JAB!  OUCH!

            That little Artie, he put the brakes on!  I feel my point break off.  Marlene is screaming and clutching her hand.

            Nana Brigden, who is babysitting, takes a look to find my broken lead imbedded in Marlene’s palm.

            “No blood”, the Nana says, “it can’t be too serious.”  The screaming stops.  But where am I?  It’s very dark and dusty.  Once I’ve adjusted to the lack of light I see I’m in the company of seventeen dust bunnies, eight coins, four candy wrappers, a half eaten grape lollipop and a broken orange crayon.  I sure hope it’s not the crayon Marlene shoved up her nose a few years back … YUCK!!!

            I must have rolled under the chesterfield when she dropped me and started squealing like a stuck pig.

            Well, that’s about all I have to say about that particular incident except I think it interesting that Marlene has been so drawn to writing.  I like to think I had something to do with that.  You see, she still carries a piece of me in her left hand.

            And, that’s MY point!

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