English Channel no. 5

What with the storm outside and its contents of soggy-mac’d Septuagenarians, our tour bus windows steamed up like a hammam. Once inside, the vehicle held a particular scent: A bridge-mix of waxed coats, Cadburys, peppermint chewing gum and warm genealogists’ heads. A singular perfume called Leger Tour or simply Remembrance. Did it intensify with collective tension as we three relatively youthful Canadians alighted to visit the German graves at Langemark? We were the only ones to do so. Was it the pelting rain, the exhaustion of touring dozens of battlefields and cemeteries? Or something else? I can still smell it. 

Image from the Nova Scotia Archives. Inspired by Remembrance.

Remembrance

Dad talked little about the war, though the bits of shrapnel that erupted periodically from his arm spoke volumes. He told me two sanitized close call stories. Once, riding messages back from the OP, a German sniper targeted him. Dad slew his Norton into a ditch and scrambled for cover. Soon the infantry came up, he recovered his motorbike, and carried on, lah-di-dah. Later, his CP took a direct hit. Dad crawled out, saw his pal pinned under a massive rafter, and lifted it off. His lieutenant stared open-jawed at his strongman feat. It was adrenaline, Dad confided to me.

Inspired by Veterans and this Remembrance Day. The image is of my father as a young gunner, 15th Field Regiment, RCA.

I am so tired of politics

It was close to eleven, when he came into the room. I had gone to bed early, trying to avoid the repetitive media coverage, the on-air pundits yammering away. I roused when he turned on his bedside light.
     “Did he win?” I murmured.
     “Yeah, it wasn’t even close.” He began undressing.
     “Ugh.” I pulled the covers over my face, pondering the news coverage and social media trolling that would come. “Wake me up in four years.”
     “I just don’t understand how stupid people can be—” He began to rant. I grabbed a pillow and hit him over the head.

Inspired by Nick’s Son? Photo by Roy Schulze.

Nick’s son?

To get some idea of how much a seven-year-old cares about politics, I think back to 1968 when I—having recently moved to the States—confidently told one of my new friends that Canada’s Prime Minister had the very same name as his President. John-son and Pear-son, after all, were close enough to make no difference, and—although still in the thrall of expo67—I’d clearly missed the whole Trudeamania thing.
     Then, as if to make things worse, I voted for Nixon in our pretend class election . . . though not nearly as worse as the one kid who voted for Wallace.

Inspired by Vote for Peanut. Images from Getty by way of New York magazine.

Vote for Peanut

My political career began and ended in Grade Four with a bid for class president. My contenders were Suzanne—the monied vote; Suzy—the affable Donny Osmond fangirl; and Anne. Precociously large and favouring yellow pantsuits, Anne was a fellow trailer park kid. While Suzanne and Suzy huckstered, Anne and I forged a pact to vote for one another.
     Suzanne was a 14-vote landslide, Suzy got 7, Anne had 2. And me? Nada!
     “We were supposed to vote for each other!!” I shrieked as she walked away . . . her gargantuan head two dissembling ponytails separated by a pale line of mendacity.

Inspired by Trickle-Down Comeuppance. Image by Roy Schulze.

Trickle-Down Comeuppance

Poor Liz Truss
Begat a fuss
So certain, she
In ideology
She went all-in for the pedigreed
To pay for it— “Well, there’s no need,
Trickle-down will work!”
Hmmph. Indeed.
From get-go, it appeared demented
Her program’s dead now, unlamented
And with tight smile and lame excuse
Poor Liz endures the House abuse.

But soon that cabal of Brexiteers,
Those liars, inbred toffs and peers
Will move to cut their political loss
By offering up another boss
And Charles as King will host to tea
another inept mediocrity.

Pound down, rates up, prices surging—
Starmer's smiling, so too is Sturgeon.

Image by James Ferguson. This drabble was written October 18th, which made it rather prophetic; it was alas “overtaken by events” by publication day.

Doug when I first met him

I arrived a little early for the job interview. He bounded down the stairs to meet me at reception. He had a Woodward and Bernstein vibe. Not too tall. Slim. Pencil behind his ear. Carrot-coloured wavy hair. Red beard. Wide glasses. A firm handshake. There was something in his brown eyes that spoke of an openness, a willingness to see the best in the world, to believe everyone he encountered was a potential friend. I don’t possess that quality, but I recognized its worth immediately. I smiled. He smiled back. I got the job. We celebrated his 63rd birthday yesterday.

Inspired by Close Enough to Spanish.

Close Enough to Spanish

Heading home, one of the guys from the construction crew offered me twenty bucks for my English-to-Spanish phrasebook, specifically because he wanted to write a letter in Spanish to let down the girl he’d picked up in Buenos Aires the Friday before.
     Lucky for them, Italian is close enough to Spanish that he and his pals had had no problem finding dates that weekend, including this particular law student with whom he’d stayed until Sunday afternoon.
     I had to wonder how much she could possibly have cared about their weekend fling.
     Still, he cared enough to be worried she might.

Inspired by Fate and Luck. Photo and fridge-magnet from the author’s collection.

Fate and Luck

September’s storms reminded me of my own month of tropical traumas, in 1999—a year I basically lived in a boardroom or on a plane. First, I was stranded in Sint Maarten for a week when Hurricane Lenny slammed the Antilles, settling over us for two days and dumping 700 mm of rain. Ten days later, I flew Curacao to Costa Rica via San Juan; my suitcase didn’t make it. I spent a week in negotiations in San José in the same suit and shirt. A comical interlude, because two weeks later I got kidnapped in Venezuela. My luck held.

Image of Hurricane Lenny over the Caribbean from the National Oceanic and Atmospheric Administration, with data superimposed by CooperScience.

Her Only Family Portrait

“My father’s holding his breath so he doesn’t give it to me,” says Mom, pointing to an old photo. I'm sitting in her dining room, where family pictures, decked out in a mishmash of dollar-store frames, adorn the walls.
     Was Mom told this by her mother Alma—here in that same picture holding Mom as a baby? Yes, he has his mouth closed, but he doesn’t look like he’s dying of tuberculosis. Though why else would they spend all that money at the photographer’s?
     “He was very ill,” she says, gently touching the face of the father she doesn’t remember.

Inspired by 100 Words for Stephen.

100 Words for Stephen

Yesterday we said goodbye to another wonderful human. I listened to the eulogy, engaged in trying to subtle-cry, my tears indulgent and my sorrow insignificant and showy compared to that of his young family. But here’s a short list of who he was; a marvellous combination that made up this precious man:

Husband — Father — Friend
Neighbour — Artist — Wit
Musician — Animal guy
Raconteur — Reader
Designer of dog rescue logos and banners
Painter — Stick-thrower — Child-schlepper
My kid’s employer — Energy-giver
Confidence booster
Volunteer — Scooter wrangler
Porch sitter — Naturalist — Pundit
Best “my boy as one of the lost capybaras” Hallowe’en costume-maker
Humble
Important
  · · ·
Missed

Inspired by Traumatic Times. The image is an unfinished sketch of Nim and Holly by Stephen Dutcheshe.

Traumatic Times

I will remember the Queen as gracious and dutiful, a reassuring symbol of honour and stability. She was a link with the past, but wisely adaptable too.
     Now, her subjects mourn. As global media speculate about her funeral and the royal succession, thousands gather to pay their respects.

Meanwhile, one-third of Pakistan lies under water. Thirty-three million people are affected, 1.7 million homes are damaged, and hundreds of thousands squat in improvised refugee camps while their crops rot.
     The rumble of a caisson is drowning out their cries.

All countries need their touchstones. Today, though, Pakistan needs a life-raft more.

Inspired by the week’s headlines. Images by Loïc Venance and Fayaz Aziz. Both the Red Cross and Global Medic are collecting for relief efforts in Pakistan.

You may not remember me…

I finally got to talking with one of the other fathers waiting in the schoolyard, and it turned out we’d both attended the same school. We talked about the things we remembered, the teachers we’d shared, and figured that we couldn’t have been more than one year apart.
     “I really should remember you,” I said. “But I don’t.”
     “Don’t be sorry,” he said. “I tried to be as invisible as possible. I’d be more upset if you had remembered.”
     Today, he was sitting away from the other parents, reading and wearing his don’t-talk-to-me headphones—and I walked right past him.

Inspired by Silver Ghost. Image by craiyon.

Silver Ghost

At first it was a slight reduction in brilliance as she walked down a busy street. Shortly afterwards there was a palpable dimming caused perhaps by bad lighting at the back of the restaurant. Then it became necessary to speak a little louder and develop a sort of shimmering patience when she stood her ground in line. Over the years changes to her teeth, hair, limbs and guts became too faint, too spectral, to catch the attention of professionals. Finally, all that was left was a lengthening shadow cast over an empty hospital bed and an indeterminate whiff of pee.

Image by Laurie Leclair. Inspired by Progress #3.

Inspired by Hare Brained Ideas

It’s good to have the CNE back. It’s also good to have reminders of being “Canadian,” like the Ex itself. It was also good to see the Canadian Armed Forces recruitment exhibit. There is nothing wrong with reminding young people of opportunities to serve their countries. Part of it made me wonder “how young?” There were opportunities to chat with members of the armed forces, pick up display material, and climb into a vehicle. There was a mock shooting area, with people of all ages lined up. It was chilling to see soldiers instructing pre-school children how to kill people.

Inspired Hare Remover. Image by aleks223 on iStock.

Rodent Land

You’d think the squirrels would get the message. The minefield of barriers, the chicken wire around the tulips. All ineffective. They are very well fed. They adore bulbs, but just nip and leave flowers, a show of their disdain.
     Raccoons maraud freely, chittering loudly, leaving their berry-spangled poop. I fill rat burrows as soon as I find them; new ones appear immediately. The other day, I glanced up to find a skunk foraging in the flowerbed next to me. I carefully cleared my throat. He casually raised his tail. Check mate.
     These animals haven’t invaded my garden. I’ve invaded theirs.

Inspired by Hare Remover.  Image from Science with Ms. Seitz.  

Hare Remover

“So, in this one Elmer Fudd’s a Mountie, and he sees Bugs on a wanted poster, and they end up doing a bunch of chase gags through the snow.”
     “Sounds great. We’ll call it Fresh Hare . . . What else you got?”
     “Okay, an old lady lets Bugs in from the cold, but there’s a dog, see? And they keep tricking each other into running outside, until they finally just throw the lady out.”
     “We’ll call it Hare Force!”
     “But Mr. Schlesigner . . .”
     “Listen, Fritz, you just keep moving your little paper dollies around for the camera, and leave the rest to me.”

Inspired by Carnaubic Jars. Image by Warner Brothers.

Carnaubic Jars

“It’s a thing?” I asked the person preparing to wax my schnozzle.
     “Oh yeah, you’ll love it. I do mine all the time.” She pressed tiny Tiki Torches of molten goo to the sides of each nostril.
      Seconds later, the feeling like someone was pulling my brain out through my nose, resulting in two fuzz-free passageways into my inner thoughts and dreams.
      She was right, my snout was perfectly nubile! Breezy. But now every time I do something like put the milk into the cupboard or forget a word, Rich says, “You know, ancient Egyptians did that with crochet hooks . . .”

Inspired by Progress. Image by Craiyon.

Thank You, My Friend

Tiny baby, eyes closed, snuggling against Mummy,

Little puppy, wide eyed, rolls for rubs on tummy, 

Bouncy puppy, running at rabbits, peeing on carpets,
chewing the shoes,

Happy dog, finding the leash, and carrying it to me,

Cautious friend, warning intruders to stay away,

Loving dog, at my feet while I read or watch TV, 

Playful dog, approaching children with wagging tail,

Aging dog, mature and quiet, easy on the leash, 

Old dog, quiet friend, beside me in the garden, 

Aged dog, climbing stairs so slowly,

Sick dog, no longer enjoying life,

A sad goodbye to my beloved friend.

Photo by Olga Bilevich. Inspired by Baa-Maa-Pii, and dedicated to all the dogs we have loved.

Progress #4

Loudly lamenting the plight of the bees
We ban single-use plastic and plant a few trees
Recycle our bottles, compost our corn husks
Then demand cheaper gas for our 4-by-4 trucks 

We avoid throwing out by donating old things
(Which we duly replace with new Amazon bling)
Declaring our virtue, we promise to change
(Though a patch on our jeans seems decidedly strange) 

The fires, the floods, yes we’ve got to take action
But we aren’t going to follow some radical faction
So sure, let’s commit: let's do more with less—
Ride our e-bikes to Costco and call that progress 

Inspired by Progress #3. Photo by John Henderson on Flickr. Some rights reserved.

Baa-Maa-Pii

Siko’s death was peaceful but profoundly sad. As we do for everyone close to us who passes, we lit a candle and kept it burning. Afterwards I dreamt about lightening frizzling in the night sky. One bolt entered my body through my left eye. It was such a vivid and strangely painful dream that I asked my friend, an Oshkaabewis, for his interpretation. He thought about it for a few days, then told me he believed that my constant companion was still constant, but he had found his way home. I checked on the candle and it had stopped burning.

Photo by L. Leclair. Portrait of Siko by Yvonne Boothroyd. Inspired by Flying Home.

Progress #3

Night shirt plastered to clammy skin, thinning hair askew, she places her shaky hands in mine. I pull her up from her bed. Past midnight, the room is in shadows. With heavy breath, she shuffles one gnarled foot forward. Then another. Like teaching a toddler to walk, I hold her upright, keep her balanced. Her grip tightens. One more step. Then another. “Making progress,” I whisper. One more step. Then another. Avoiding her eyes, I look down, ensuring the path is clear to the toilet. “Hold on,” I say. One more step. Then another. I can see our destination ahead.

Inspired by Progress and Progress. Photo by Dmytro Varavin.

Progress

Here’s how it works . . .
     The first blade pulls the whisker away from your skin, allowing the second blade to cut it even closer, before it snaps back.

The third blade scrapes away the years that have passed since you could still sport a few days’ growth and not be mistaken for someone who lives on the street and shaves when he can.
     And the fourth blade is for everyone who needs to shave four times faster than their grandfather did, one-third closer than those poor three-blade schmucks, and anyone who upgraded to the five-blade system the moment Gillette released it.

Inspired by another story entitled Progress. Image from this Trac II commercial from the early 1970s.

“I have to post this.” (1517)

“Martin, you're just sitting there, thumbing through their horrible comments. Go outside and get some air.”
     “I will, Kath, in a while . . . almost done . . . I have to post something. These ‘influencers’ drive me crazy. They take people’s money and don’t care what hell they unleash. They try to monetize absolutely everything. It burns me so—”
     “Martin. Calm down.”
     “No! I won’t tolerate their indulgences a second longer. I’m going to post my reply, today, consequence be damned . . . Have you seen my hammer?”
     Thus Martin Luther set out to nail his Ninety-five Theses to the door of the church in Wittenberg.

Inspired by Progress. Image from Luther und dessen Reformation by Baron von Löwenstern, 1830.

Progress

Written storage of knowledge began on clay tablets, which can still be read. Ancient Egyptians used papyrus scrolls, which can still be read. Ancient Romans used scrolls of parchment, which can still be read. Ancient China used bamboo, which can still be read. Rome left the codex, parchment sheets between pieces of wood, which can still be read. Gutenberg’s books can still be read. Old paperbacks can still be read. Then the Internet was developed, making collective knowledge available to everyone. Then it failed, leaving no communication of the knowledge. That was because of maintenance. How far we have come!

Inspired by History Class. Image from the Penn Museum.

Dancer

Delia will tell you she doesn’t dance anymore—her body broken by wear and tear. Yet her every move is liquid grace. Her ugly feet are grounded on the earth, but the rest of her glides through the world, never too fast or slow, never jerky, but also never staying in one place for too long. The most still part of her anatomy is her shielded face—not a trace of what she’s thinking or feeling—merely a slight lift of her chin, as she surveys, like a Queen, the scene around her with benign disdain, or is it fear?

Inspired by The Quarters All Dancing. Photo by sankla on FreeImages.

The Quarters All Bouncing

Perhaps the last story my father ever told me was of the poker he’d played on a deep-sea fishing trip off the Jersey Shore, pushing through the waves to where the fish were, with the quarters all bouncing around on the table.

He’d come to Toronto for his first visit in years, and though I was still too young to share a beer with him, I must’ve told him of the penny-ante games I’d play with my friends.
     I’d like to think now I could drink him under the table.
     I’d like to think now I could whip his ass.

Inspired by History Class. Image by the craiyon AI.

History Class

Tell me the stories, the stories of old,
Of arrows in eyes, and conquerors bold,
Of far away lands, with spices and gold.
Tell me the stories of Ethiopia's Queen,
Who visited Solomon, tribute to bring.
Tell me the stories of ships on the sea,
And beacons on hills, and wind blowing hard.
Tell me the stories of mountains to climb,
And challenges met, and challenges failed.
Tell me the stories of places yet to explore.
Tell me the stories, the stories of today,
Tell me of tragedy, tell me of joy,
Tell me the stories of all that has been.

Inspired by Brentrance. Image from the Bayeaux Museum.

Casey and Finnegan and Davey and Goliath

Casey was happy in the early years of their residence at the Home for Retired Child Puppet and Claymation Performers. At first they and Finnegan made fast friends with Davey and Goliath, but tensions soon arose between the two children. Davey objected to the veggie treats Casey fed Goliath; indeed, to vegetarianism in general. And he never took to Finnegan, who was a silent farter. Eventually, Casey and Davey quarrelled over everything—identity issues, gender rights, Roe v. Wade, and Davey’s stubborn denial of who he was. Casey moved back to the city. They had to be true to themself.

Inspired by Mr. Wind-down. Images: CBC for Mister Dressup’s Casey and Finnegan, IMDB for Davey and Goliath.

Mr. Wind-down

No matter how long I stayed on the night shift, I’d always have trouble getting to sleep the next day. Beer helped a little, even if it did catch me drinking at 9:00 in the morning, in front of the very same television I’d grown up on: the Friendly Giant and his bigger chair for two more to curl up in, or Mr. Dressup gently guiding Casey and Finnegan through the same fears I’d had as a six-year-old . . . a lifetime of make-believe away from that cold neon room full of terminals and tape-drives and the same dreary job every night.

Inspired by Eye eye, Captain Gerry. The 1965 photo of Rod Coneybeare just doing his job is buried somewhere in the CBC Still Photos Collection, but I could not find the link.

Eye eye, Captain Gerry.

Dad had a false eye. It usually pained him. So after a long day at Chryslers, after he donned those beige Phentex slippers, while he cracked open that Molson Ex, and before the first cigar, he’d plop his eye out. And because as a family we were impervious to social niceties that dictated we be discrete with things like false teeth and glass eyes, Old Wally spent his evenings decanted in a shot glass and bobbling on the rim of the bathroom sink. One brown eye, staring up at unsuspecting visitors, daring them to scoff that bottle of Old Spice.

Inspired by Brentrance. Image of “Wally” generated by DALL·E mini.

Brentrance

In 1065, the European Union brought King Harold of Little England and William of Normandy to Brussels to discuss their dispute.
     “We won’t have your smelly garlic or your fizzy champagne,” Harold huffed. “Little Englanders are happy with turnips and beer.”
     “Suit yourself,” William said.
     “We don’t want your snivelly continental measurements. We will live and die with sturdy pounds and pints.”
     William shrugged.
     “Finally. We don’t want any of you people coming across. England is closed to foreigners.”
     Hmph, William thought. We’ll see about that. Mon Dieu, this guy really needs a poke in the eye with a stick.

Inspired by Propaganda. Image of King Harold, struck in the eye, from the Bayeux Tapestry.

Flying Home

Fly home now,
not with metal, and bolted bits,
but wings of wind and sunbeam.
Go home, in full flight,
like the birds you envied.
Another Tower has control,
and orders your direction.
Your instruments are set,
and you are going home.
You radioed to land,
not knowing that last landing
would end as it did.
It was the plane lost control,
and you were taken away,
following the orders of another Tower.
Did you look back?
Did you look down?
Don't look back, don't look down.
Fly on, toward the stars,
Toward the final freedom,
On your final flight.

Inspired by Eridanus. Photo by Simon Alvinge (Dreamland Media).