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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My Start in Writing

What starts a person writing?  Is it having something they want to say?  I’ve always had something to say which, if they could, my now deceased parents would agree.  It took more than that for me.  I owe my start in writing to a pigeon we named Homer.

It was during the most difficult of child-rearing years for me when I needed some sense of achievement other than trying to be a good mother.  I prayed about it and wouldn’t you know a pigeon came to my rescue?  He landed in our yard one day, absolutely exhausted.  We discovered from his tags and putting in a call to his owner that he was a homing pigeon on a return flight from the far north to his home still a distance from us.  All homer needed was a good rest away from harm. 

Michael had devised a system for rescuing birds, a necessity at the time with nine cats living next door to our Port Perry home.  He built an enormous cage, fed them a diet of worm-like strips of bologna and grapes until they recovered and then we’d set them free.  Homer, I felt, was different and I saw in him my chance to write his story for our local paper. 

The call was made and the morning a photographer was to come for a photo, Homer escaped.  I can still see Michael, feet straddled either side of the peak of the garage roof, hands cupped in trap mode, slightly bent and creeping up from behind in an effort to nab a squab for me.  I’d cooked my plan to ask if I could write the story but there would be no story without the bird.  As Michael went from roof to ground and back to roof in order to capture my future as a writer, I whined out complaints. 

“You’re moving too fast.  You’re scaring him.  Don’t make so much noise.”  All of this from my safe spot on the ground.    

Ah, he did it, my hero!  With Homer back in his cage Michael headed off to work, I got the kids off to school and start rehearsing my pitch to the editor of the Scugog Citizen.  Camera in hand he arrived at the appointed hour. 

“Will you get him out of the cage so I can take a picture”?  Ouch!  Problem!  I couldn’t do it!  I’m skittish when it comes to creatures of all kinds.  I agreed to open the cage but assigned the task of picking the bird up to Mr. Newsman.  Having had a taste of freedom after the much-needed rest, Homer saw his opportunity and started a walkabout in the yard.  When he realized he was being pursued by the man with the camera he sped up to a hop, a jump and short flights.  I don’t suppose it helped that the photographer was being closely followed by the aspiring writer who was giving her I-wanna-write-the-story-and-be-a-writer pitch.  Not quite back to full strength, Homer was caught, returned to his cage and all breathed a sigh of relief. 

It was agreed I would write the story and the photographer would return to snap his shot with Michael, who could hold Homer.   It was set for that evening when my Braveheart returned from work.  And so, a writer was born.  I wrote for the newspaper a year starting in August of ’91.  A line was crossed into selling ads as well.  As a salesperson, unlike dear old Dad, I’m a better dancer and I can’t dance, don’t ask me.  The paper eventually folded … no, my writing had nothing to do with it.   

            Having saved a clipping book of all those columns I walked into the Erin Advocate office some years later to meet the editor, Joan Murray.  She looked through my binder and decided to give me a chance.  My first column hit the stands on March 5^th, 2003 and I’m still going strong … sporadically at best, but strong.  Twenty columns were written under the heading Writer’s Blocks as my column in Port Perry was called.  A quilt block appeared with each write-up that tied into what was being portrayed by my words.  That was my shtick at the time it eventually changed to Marlene Chats which I’ve happily continued.  I like meeting new people, getting their story and then having them printed so those reading my column get to know the people their community.

            Later it became about memoirs so, let’s start sharing, shall we? 

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