Firefly Creative Writing

“Two Sides One Perspective” and “Fall Walk by the Water”

Chris — Mon, 06 Feb 2012 15:52:05 +0000

Afraid to leave work and now afraid to go back. Which is the bigger accomplishment?

I participated in some research recently and one of the open-ended questions asked what my single biggest worry was with my diagnosis of Ulcerative Colitis [UC] and Primary Sclerosing Cholangitis [PSC]. The words “single biggest” intrigued me. I found myself thinking further beyond the day-to-day guideposts that I navigate while living my life along side chronic illness. I found my answer in the word “options” and the fear of not having them. At the end of the day, yes, that was my single biggest worry. If you had asked me that 3 years ago, my answer would most certainly have been different.

When I was diagnosed with UC in 1978, I was told that it could be managed with medication and some day may require surgery. I finished high-school, went off to university and then joined our family business. In 1984 my large bowel was removed and replaced with a pelvic pouch. I was within the first 80 patients in Canada to benefit from this surgery. Six years later, it needed to be reconstructed because of lingering complications. I don’t begrudge having lived the ups and downs of that disease knowing that medical gurus were busying themselves perfecting my options. When diagnosed with PSC, I was told that within 7 – 10 years I might need a liver transplant. I finished my MBA and then joined the Bank. I moved in and out of very different and rewarding careers, finding a passion for product management. Sharing in the hands of many, the building, rebuilding, wrapping and then putting out product, is an incredible journey. So many “Woo-hoo’s”! My two most passionate words for “YES” to success! They would become my signature at work.

Twenty years in to my career, I knew that it was time to step aside. My body was working too hard to keep up with my life at work, leaving little for home and for me. I needed a couple of months to deal with the crushing fatigue. Then I would be back. I was told I needed a plan. I didn’t have one and I didn’t even know where to begin. I first needed some rest. It wasn’t long before I was diagnosed with gallbladder cancer. After processing this, my conclusion was simply that this was all just plain stupid. I had a progressive liver disease, and yah maybe someday it would need to be replaced, or maybe it wouldn’t. But gallbladder cancer? I didn’t have the usual symptoms, only a lump in my gut that poked itself out as I rested my tired yogi body in shavasana.

As I had grown to appreciate through the years, there were surgical options for that too! It involved the slicing and dicing of my liver and more bowel…FCUK! It took some major “you go girl” cheering from the sidelines but ok sure, I was up for that. My colleagues’ voices were part of that cheer. I have their picture imprinted on a white t-shirt, holding up letters that spell out “Team Julie-Anne”! I got through it all right, one milestone at a time…like everyone knew, hoped or prayed that I would.

It wasn’t long before my mind started processing… “What if…what about though” the liver transplant that my body might sooner then later ask for? Never in my wildest imagination did I ever think that it would be trumped by cancer. I tried to argue their cancer milestone of “5 years clear” for 3, unsuccessfully. I understand the ‘two candidates side by side, one without cancer” argument. But I had made my greatest pick as a people manager by choosing a candidate that on paper, didn’t quite shine. I couldn’t believe that I might not have an option.

“Believing in options” was a core driver of my accomplishments. It was the most important lesson I learned from my gastroenterologist, a wise man who has helped me navigate around and through illness for 33 years. Sitting comfortably on the other side of that has been “believing in myself”, the most precious gift my parents could ever have given me. These beliefs have powered in me the confidence to pursue my passions, and a mind to say “back-off” to illness… I’ll do what I want. Here I am today reflecting on all of this, against a backdrop of “now moments”, a new layer of guideposts that I respectfully travel within.

I am pretty good at creating and managing a plan in a 9 to 5 world, and at getting others to do the same. I relish my memory of woo-hoo moments laughed out loud for the accomplishments we shared as individuals and as a team. Now my woo-hoo moments are quieter and they look different. I know I have found one when a hidden smile finds my lips and a silent tear springs to my eyes. Maybe I don’t have a plan anymore that most of the outside world understands. But I do have one. It has only one real milestone, and its sparkle is the most brilliant and clear of any I have ever seen in all of my years…

Each morning I wake-up, I pull back the curtain, I roll up the blind, and I take in the beauty of my new day, rain or shine. I ask my heart what or who is calling that day, and as I listen I create my plan. It’s different from what I did for 20 years, yet kind of the same. Every day I build, rebuild, wrap and put ‘me’ out there. I keep my promise to continue setting my sights high. I try to be patient with the ‘ups then downs’, knowing that medical miracle workers are busy perfecting my options. I stay true to my heart and use the precious energy that I have, for doing what finds in me, the tear that softens the corner of my eyes.

Afraid to leave work, and now afraid to go back. Which is my “single biggest” accomplishment? There may always be two sides, but only the perspective of one individual that really matters.

Be faithful to that which exists nowhere but in yourself. -Andre Gide

Fall walk by the water

Crisp.

There is

sweet smell.

radiates…

from the crimsoning green

of the oak leaves,

that twitter,

twitter,

in delicate clouds

of sparkling sand…

fine

crystals…

clam shell pearl dust

floating in circles…

of slender breezes,

around these changing summer hands.

They wave goodbye,

but for hello…

to the Fall’s

blanket of cooling winds.

Roots

Chris — Mon, 06 Feb 2012 14:29:17 +0000

I live a decidedly urban life. With my sushi-eating, theatre-season-subscribing, skirt-wearing-while-bicycle-commuting ways, I’m completely at home in my downtown milieu. I can mow my entire lawn with a push-mower in 10 minutes. If you walk out of my front door, the first food-selling establishment you pass will be the Bubblicity Bubble Tea Shop. I love vegetarian dinner parties. I love my little row-house with the shared driveway. I love my skirts and my bicycle and my book clubs that read nothing but post-colonial literature and non-fiction about the fact that we’re all post-colonial-literature-reading yuppies who are busily appropriating bubble tea and sushi.

But while I love the world I live in, my roots are in another world – separated by seven hours of highway winding first through lakes rocks and trees, and then corn and cattle; and by a completely different set of norms, traditions, and assumptions about how life is lived. In the farming community where I was born and raised, I went to piano lessons, Brownies, and Sunday School at the United Church with all the same kids that I saw every day at school. My father is a local boy who left home just long enough for the education required to practice law at a firm on the main street beside the Home Hardware. He knows everyone, their dad, and their uncle’s wife. My mom plays bridge with my kindergarten teacher and my dentist’s wife. The doctor who delivered me used to curl with my grandpa. It’s that kind of town.

When I moved away to go to University, I had to learn how to take the bus. There was no public transit where I come from, so my world-wise friend, Bryan, who’d made the transition from small-town to city a few years before me, showed me how to step up at the stop and let the driver know I wanted to get on his bus, or step back and look away if the bus approaching was the wrong route. I had never eaten Thai, Indian, or Japanese food, and the smallest amount of spice burnt my tongue and destroyed my ability to taste anything else. I was amazed by the kids from “the city” (various suburbs of Toronto) who had actually been to clubs before and all seemed to own specific clothes for the express purpose of going out dancing. It was new and exciting and I often felt like a complete bumpkin.

Fifteen years after that first introduction to city living, I can merge on the highway with little effort, get the occasional craving for Ethiopian food (and have no problems with the spice level) and own the appropriate shoes, coats, and bags to finish off any outfit. But I still can (and will, given the opportunity) sing every word to Nitty Gritty Dirt Band’s Fishin’ in the Dark. I remain more of a gourmand than a gourmet where wine is concerned, but I have strong opinions about what makes good corn on the cob (rule number one: it should be eaten the day it’s picked). And while I know that, compared to Toronto and Montreal, my current hometown of Ottawa is small; I have a different perspective on relative city size, coming from a place where we measure the size of a town by two simple metrics: how many stoplights do you have, and when did you get your first Tim Hortons?

So, sure, I am in many ways fully urbanized and, with my career path and my fondness for bicycle commuting and sushi, will probably live in a city for the rest of my life. But the bumpkin in me can still feel out of place at a fancy restaurant or overwhelmed in a big store, and misses actually being able to see the Milky Way. And sometimes when I’m driving dad’s truck through the back roads at just the right time of evening, at just the right time of year, when the fields are golden and full and the light makes the colours look super-saturated and everything appears a bit unreal – the rolling hills are so beautiful that they bring tears to my eyes, and I know that a part of me will always call that home.

Piece #1

Chris — Mon, 06 Feb 2012 14:27:04 +0000

Home is a very interesting concept. I’ve struggled with it for a long time. I lived at 29 rue Henri Barbusse, 93120 La Courneuve, France for over 16 years, give or take. This is the place where I rebelled a lot against pretty much everything. I did not want the life God gave me; I did not want to be part of this family; God had made a mistake. How could I be related to them? A mistake had to have been made after I returned from a one year stay at a hospital at 2 and half years old. Since I did not recognize anyone in my family, I was convinced they gave me to the wrong family and that somebody would realize and correct it. Well… that did not come to be. I grew up in La Courneuve and had two separate lives. One inside the home and one outside. The two worlds were so different that I started to rebel against my reality.

Why was I living in France from parents from North Africa? I did not look like my friends; my name was different, my mom was loud, did not speak the same language, wore a lot of henna, had tattoos on her face and neck, and had never gone to school.

Every year on the first day of school, I would be asked how to say my name and where I was from. Every time, my throat would just close and I could hardly speak, and every time, I was asked to repeat: Djoura and I am from Algeria. But I was born in Paris? I did not feel Algerian at all. I was struggling with who I was and where I belonged. Where was I from? Where was home?

In France I was an immigrant- somebody who was not in the right place. In Algeria I was an emigrant- somebody who left and was living in far better conditions than a lot of people still leaving there; although, it was not me who left but my parents. During the school year, I felt like an outcast; in the summer, I felt like an outcast. During the school year, I struggled to fit in and fought racism; in the summer, I struggled to fit in and fought jealousy and envy. In France I felt below my friends who were all French and in Algeria, I felt different. So in both countries, I was not like them; whether it was physically (France) or morally (Algeria).

In France my body reminded me that I was not home – I had black curly hair, darker skin, big dark eyes, and a weird name. In Algeria, my body was similar to all others, but I was wearing pants, had shoes on all the time, ate well, but most importantly spoke French all the time, and disagree on pretty much everything I was told to feel and think. So I did not feel welcomed.

In my head and heart my home was at 29 rue Henri Barbusse, but my world at home, my parents and my brothers who came to France after spending their childhood in Algeria were saying “No, your home is the village we came from”. In the village, my parents and brothers came from, I did not feel connected to their lifestyle, ideas, and most importantly how they treated girls. Although, my body indicated quite clearly I was from there, I simply refused it to be home for me.

Now looking back and since this piece makes me revisit this topic, I realized that the lack of feeling at home or being welcomed in the country I was born into and the willingness of my family to make me say my home was Algeria was at the base of a lot of my suffering.

My French friends accepted me the way I was, my teachers liked me but the children/neighbors born from parents who immigrated from Algeria like mine did not like me because I did not feel like them and I did not want to hang out with them.

I really did not want to be Algerian, I wanted to be French, but my name, body, and family made it impossible.

So where was I home? When was I home? I figured it out in my teenage years… I was home on the plane over the Mediterranean Sea, which meant no-where.

In my twenties, I was tricked and taken against my will to Algeria and I had to marry someone I did not know. I lived at “La maison forestiere de Bainem” Alger, Algeria with my husband. I had to call it home. But again, I was a woman who did not veil, who refused to veil, who was educated and planning on going back (luckily my husband agreed to that!!!). There again, I was told that this was my home for ever and after I started to have children, I thought I was stuck there forever. The place I did not want to be my home since I could think and speak was becoming my home.

Then Civil war started and it became very unsafe so my husband decided to move to Canada. I became a single mother with two young children shortly after, living in south of New Brunswick with no family. I did not speak English, and I had to go back to school.

My body was the same and certainly indicated that I was not from Canada. But now….my accent was betraying me too! I did not speak like Saint Johners do. Interestingly, nobody put me from Africa; though. Spanish, Italian, Greek, even Indian were some guesses but not Algerian (or a handful, only because they knew people from Montreal or another big center).

After studying English, studying business and accounting, and making great friends, I bought a house at 537 young Street, Saint John, NB. I became who I am today there. And I learned to see that my body was ok, my origins were ok, my name was ok, I had my own value system and that was ok…AND FOR THE FIRST TIME, I felt home. Nobody was trying to tell me where my home was; nobody was telling me I did not belong; I found myself and I am well adjusted.

So when I thought in my teenage years that I figured out that my home was nowhere, I now know (and have for a few years now) that home is where we make it, where we feel accepted. I would never have thought that I would come all the way to Canada, that I would not want to change my name when I had the opportunity, that I would be at peace with my origins, that my throat would not shut itself down every time I said Djoura or Algeria, that I could speak of my mother’s values, tattoos, hands full of henna, and my past without hurting (at least not as much). It is a blessing!!!!

I still have black curly hair, darker skin, and my name is still Djoura…I love my life and I love my Home…. Here in Canada.

I Have a Tattoo at the Base of My Back

Chris — Mon, 06 Feb 2012 14:25:25 +0000

I have a tattoo at the base of my back. It is a ying/yang signifying balance and it has roots swirling around and descending from it.

I come from resilient roots.

I am rooted in strength and I am rooted in moments.

Through times of chaos and change I remember that I am strength and I am moments.

Change is constant and is the only predictability of life. But stability is what we most strive for. It is an illusion. It does not exist for anyone. Ever. In order to ride the waves of this one reality we must rely on the strength and wholeness that comes from deep, ever reaching roots.

I had finished university, my undergraduate degree, my bachelor of social work. I was going to be a social worker. 22 years old, and I was supposed to be able to help people during some of the most challenging moments of their lives. I was unemployed, and house sitting for four months while my aunt and uncle spend the fall in France. Although reserved and quiet, I am a happy and upbeat person. But it was a time of questioning and a time of turmoil. Entire days and nights disappeared in the glow of the television. My weight crept up. I cried. I was alone in a foreign house. The house was the house of a couple who never had any children. And in turn it was a house of beauty, but not a house of comfort. The beauty sat in stark contrast to my feelings of despair. It felt cold, where I needed warmth. And it was a gloomy fall.

Clouds seemed to settle above the house—no winds to push them forward.

The stories of my family’s deep roots of resilience did not reveal themselves in long stories, or in lectures, or in any particular hope to instill wisdom or lessons. They were morsels that were passed on during moments of sadness. They were observations of deep courage during tragic events. They were glimpses of pure love and pure compassion. Through the moments, through the observations and through the witnessing they were passed on. They shone the importance of not fighting the wave, but riding the pain. But still living. And still loving.

And moving on to the next wonderous moments.

These roots were nourished. And even in the moments of deepest sadness, they silently and without fanfare, did their job. My roots began to spread deep and they spread wide. But they began small and relied on the nourishment that was supplied to them. In silence and without my knowing they grew. They awaited moments to show their strength. When the waves of change and uncertainty strived to break them apart from me, they showed their flexibility. They allowed me to ride those winds while holding me in a place of peace and grounding.

Bit by bit that autumn things changed. The clouds were still there. But my roots held firm. They grew despite the darkness. And above ground, I began to stand taller. I noticed moments of light and love. And I move forward with the knowledge that my roots would allow me to enjoy the wonderous moments to come.

I got my first social work job. I walked down Yonge street and into a tattoo shop. My tattoo will never let me forget that I come from resilient roots.

Chapter 12

Chris — Mon, 06 Feb 2012 14:02:35 +0000

Things went as they do when a woman is pregnant, and in due time she gave birth to another boy. Ab was away at sea for the birth, but returned a few months after his birth. They had decided on the name Aldert Jilke- Aldert after his father; Jilke after his grandfather- Ab’s father. He was a calm and happy baby, and Nel felt much more capable of loving him than she had with Jaap. He smiled easily and seemed to love nothing more than making people laugh. He was contented with small things and didn’t cry much. Life felt good. And so the time went- with Ab gone and back and gone again. She got letters from Ab, which were descriptive and loving, from Bets, which were always breathless and excited, and she was grounded by her time with Emma. Nel practiced her meditation as she knitted or embroidered and she grew right along with her sons.

She missed Ab most at special times, birthdays and their anniversary and of course Christmas. Her mother would tell her to accept that when you marry a man of the sea you have to get used to being alone. Her father was more sympathetic and said he could imagine how lonely she could feel at times. And he’d write to Ab as well letting him know that he was missed and loved.

December 17, 1925

Dear Ab:

The paper reported that you are more than half way there and that you have now turned your back to the East. That’s why this hasty letter comes your way- otherwise you would have already entered the Mediterranean and it wouldn’t catch you in time. Many thanks for your birthday greetings on December 7. The army lost a sharpshooter in you, I think, because your letter landed in my mailbox on December 9 exactly! But you didn’t quite get it right with Everdien- your letter was just one day late.

As you can imagine, it was quite busy on that day. The Bussum part of the family was all there- the only thing missing was you. We had a very good time, but I think that Mother had done too much. During the night she became unwell- her stomach and intestines were acting up again and we struggled with that until 4 a.m. But after a few days she was quite well again. Of course she was very happy to have Nel here and that allowed her to stay in bed and rest.

However, it’s true that Mother doesn’t have the same vibrancy anymore. And as a result of all this we have changed our plans- Nel was going to come here to Amsterdam with the children for Christmas until after the New Year. But with Mother’s weakened state, and the fact that Jaap, who is so much older and bigger now and finds it rather boring in an upstairs apartment in Amsterdam where he can’t race around like he can on the streets at home, we will instead go to Bussum on the 24^th and stay there until the 27^th.

It’s very busy these days at school especially because of the exams coming up at the beginning of February. Unfortunately it’s rather quiet as far as private lessons are concerned. I only have four students left, so it doesn’t bring in all that much money. I’ll have to look for another little job that I can do after work, but so far no luck. If only I had some money then I would play the stock market. But as they say, there’s no fat in the soup. Also, the big gains in rubber, where so many people have profited, have evaporated. Oh well, we can dream, can’t we?

A few weeks ago we had an evening at school for the parents. Two weeks ago we celebrated Sinter Klaas, and this coming Saturday the parents will have a party for the staff- which is very nice. That will be between 5 and 7 pm and then again from 8-10. And then before Christmas we’ll attend a matinee at the Palace with all the children- and I think that will be the last of it. On Wednesday at 12 noon holidays will start- and I’ll be happy about that- I hope to read and relax.

It’s been nice having Joh and Everdien living close by- you have a very charming sister! Of course Joh is away a lot just like you are, and they’re thinking that now that Coos is a little older, they might all go and live in Japan for awhile. Wouldn’t that be interesting! Once in a while we enjoy an evening of playing cards with them; they have taught us how to play bridge. As soon as you come home we should teach you and Nel too. They have a radio that we all listen to, but we find that the signal doesn’t come in as clearly as our neighbours’ next door. I’m not sure what’s wrong with it- as you know Mother and I don’t have a radio yet- some day perhaps! Maybe you can look Joh and Everdien’s when you come home.

We wish you a happy New Year. We hope that in 1926 you will be able to enjoy your wife and children more. Maybe you’ll be home for Easter? If so will set aside a lot of chocolate Easter eggs for you!

Now my boy, I’ll finish this. Keep courage. It won’t be long now. Eat your porridge every day- more and more porridge. I know how much you love it. It will make you strong and beefy- just like me. Wouldn’t that be nice? People say that I’ve never looked better. And Everdien tells me says you’re starting to resemble me- you lucky fellow!

Goodbye,

A firm handshake from,

The Father

She got through the autumn and Christmas and the winter. And then Ab was home again. As always he had gifts- a wooden coat rack for the house and a Noah’s ark set for the boys, which he’d carved, and for Nel earrings to match the ring he’d given her previously. Their reunion was as passionate as it ever was, and Nel found herself pregnant again. This time she hoped it would be a girl. She loved having boys, but it would be such a wonderful thing to have a little girl. She herself had always loved being a girl, wearing pale colours, having long golden curls that everyone admired and feeling petted and protected. And she thought that a girl with two older brothers would be especially wonderful. She may have said this one too many times when a couple of months before she was due to give birth she got a letter from her Uncle Elo. He was her father’s brother- a military man- upright and a little stern, but loving all the same.

September 1926

Dear Nel:

It’s nearly one o’clock and time to go home, but before I do, I thought I’d write you a little note. We received your postcard and learned that you’re only feeling so-so and that little Jaap feels about the same. We hope that you’ll feel well again when the new “guest” is welcomed, and also that Ab’s presence will help.

It sounds like you are taking good care of yourself. Whenever you can in life, I suggest that you hold your head high, and especially now in your condition. Don’t fret or worry too much and always move forward with courage.

Now, I have to ask you and Ab something which can stay between us. Namely this: let’s hope that it will be a girl- and I know that’s your preference. But if it is a boy- do you have a name picked out yet? I would like to suggest that you consider the name Klaas.

I know that my brother, or the Father as he likes to call himself, thinks that it’s an ugly name, and that he thinks you shouldn’t choose it. But to put it bluntly, I think that’s nonsense. Besides, I don’t believe that he really means it.

Now and also when the baby grows up, your father will appreciate that his name will be live on his grandchild.

There has been so much talk about what an ugly and old fashioned name Klaas is and that you and he will get sick of it, but I predict that in later years when your father is no longer here, you will regret if you listen to that nonsensical and childish talk. Talk about beautiful names is only good for weak-kneed softies. People with a bit of backbone will say the name Klaas and it will make you and them remember your father, who slaved for us as long as there were hours in the day and beyond, and also who was such a integral part of our lives. And the baby will remember that we all adored his grandfather so much that in spite his many absences we were never lonely. Think about this for a while and discuss it with Ab, but with no one else- it is ultimately your business. it has to be first and foremost your wish as well. Don’t forget that you can always call him Klaas, but in your everyday language you can give him a nickname- calling him Co or Nico or something like that.

Perhaps this little note is totally unnecessary and everything has already been decided on. In that case, you can burn this letter immediately. Or you might have a girl, and it will not even be a decision for you to make. This letter is only inspired by my love for you my girl, not only now but forever.

Goodbye,

Uncle Elo

p.s. Don’t write back about this issue. It will stay between us.

Nel had to laugh at some of his phrasing- weak-kneed softies in particular- but his letter moved her, and made her think about how much she loved her father. To name a baby after him would honour him and ensure that he would live on- in name at least.

Her time came before she knew it. This time Ab was there and they expected things to go as smoothly as they had the other two times. The midwife was at the house, Marie was at Nel’s side and Ab waited eagerly downstairs. But as labour went on and on, hour after hour, Nel became increasingly exhausted and Marie and the midwife grew concerned.

“I don’t think that baby wants to come out. I think we need to go to the hospital.”

And Marie cried, “Oh, this isn’t be good. When that happened to me, my baby died.”

“And you will keep that to yourself,” the midwife hissed. “In this room I am the ruler, and you will do as I say. Now do something useful and call an ambulance for your daughter.”

Marie, chastened for once, did as she was told. The ambulance arrived and took the midwife and a deathly pale and frightened Nel to the hospital. Ab and Marie followed in a taxi after asking the neighbour to look after the two boys.

At the hospital the midwife and doctor had a consultation and together they decided that labour was not progressing on its own. They agreed that the baby needed to get out immediately and that a Caesarean section would be a good idea.

Nel was given an anaesthetic and Marie, who had rushed to her side, shooed from the room. She joined Ab in the waiting room, clutching his hand with white knuckles, unable to say a word.

After about an hour the midwife came out to tell them that mother and baby would be fine, but that Nel would need to rest and recover for at least a month in the hospital. And no, they wouldn’t be allowed to see Nel for a week- she needed to rest. A nurse came by a few minutes later and allowed them to peer into the nursery to see the bundled baby, but she wouldn’t let then pass the threshold of the door.

“Excuse me, Nurse,” a quiet Ab asked. “Can you tell me if it’s a boy or a girl?”

“Boy,” the nurse answered abruptly.

“His name is Klaas,” said Ab, “not Boy.”

And with that Marie hugged him fiercely. The nurse just grunted and turned her back.

They stood side by side looking at the tiny bundle in the cot, each wishing that they could hold him. Never before had mother and son-in-law felt so close.

Over the next few days the baby thrived, but Nel had a difficult recovery. Unfortunately the doctor hadn’t had much experience in Caesarean sections and in his haste to get the baby out, nicked her bladder as well. He had also decided that she needed to have a complete hysterectomy while she was under sedation. When Nel woke up from her state of semi consciousness after about a week, she was devastated to find out that she would not be able to have any more children. She sank into a depression, never asking for the baby or her other children, only asking for Ab. But as he had been instructed not to visit for the first week, she felt completely alone. Every day she would ask for him, and every day she would be told that he couldn’t see her. She tried to meditate and pray as she lay in her hospital bed, but the words and images would not come. God- and Ab- seemed very far away.

Finally, Ab was able to come to the hospital. It was as much as relief for him as it was for her. He sat beside the bed holding her hand and telling her about the children. After a while he helped her get to her feet and took her to the window. She looked at the bleak landscape with its bare trees and empty flower beds and felt her loss even more deeply.

“My darling Nel, we have three beautiful boys that we love with all our hearts. I feel blessed to have them- and to have you too. We have a wonderful life together, and one day when we retire, we will live in a magical little house on the heather, in the place where I first fell in love with you.”

Ab helped her back to bed and then talked and painted a picture for her of their future. Nel could feel her heart cracking open just a little, and tears streamed down her face.

“But we’ll never have a daughter…”

“Some day, Nel, our sons will marry girls and they will become like daughters to you. Just love what you have Nel, love what is right here in front of you.

She closed her eyes and fell asleep with his hand in hers.

Marie had moved into the house in the Regentesselaan and quickly established a firm routine. She was able to bring baby Klaas home from the hospital after about a week, and decided that the best time for him to learn about routine was right now. Jaap and Aldert missed their mother and cried in bed every night for her. She insisted that they eat their meals, do their chores and keep quiet, and that they had nothing to cry about. Ab did his best to comfort them, but even he had a hard time resisting Marie’s iron will and determination to let them tough it out. Besides, as the captain of a ship, he believed in the value of discipline and routine. And poor little Flip was relegated to the back yard. He was uncertain what he had done wrong and whimpered at the back door for hours. Marie fed him every day, but imposed on him the same rigid schedule and humourless routine as she had with everyone else in the family.

Nel came home in time for Christmas- in time to see the tree that Ab had cut and decorated with the children. Marie had gone home to Amsterdam under some protest, although Ab convinced her that her husband needed her more than they did at that point. He hired a full time housekeeper, Jetje, who would take over the running of the household. Nel had had to miss Sinterklaas, and it tore her heart a little to know that she had missed the excitement of seeing Sinterklaas and Pieter come by boat from Spain to Amsterdam, putting out the childrens’ shoes for the treats they would bring and preparing all the special food that she remembered from her childhood. So she wanted this Christmas to be special. She didn’t have a great deal of energy, but at least she could do the planning- eel on toast for starters, then roasted goose with potato stuffing, braised Belgian endive with butter, salad made with Bibb lettuce and crumbled hard cooked eggs and for dessert Jan Hagel cookies with a glass of Advocaat. She loved seeing the childrens’ eyes widen when they lit the candles on the Christmas tree and when they tasted the sweet Christmas oranges as Ab read them the story of the birth of the baby Jesus. And she started to feel that perhaps she’d be alright after all.

But not long after New Year Ab told her gently that he needed to leave for another long voyage. He’d be going to Japan, where his brother-in-law Joh was spending two years. Ab’s sister Everdien and their five year old daughter Coos would be living as well. Nel envied Everdien in that she would not only be close to her husband, but also would be exploring a new culture and country. She remembered her girlhood dreams of travel and adventure, and thought of all the places she would like to visit- Bets and Piet in Los Angeles, Hazrat Inayat Khan’s birthplace of India, the islands of Indonesia that she had learned about in school, Japan of course, and so many more places. The world seemed so big and she seemed so rooted to this one place. It was simultaneously comforting and disheartening. Maybe one day she would be able to join Ab on an adventure. But that would be far in the future. She took a deep breath and wished Ab well, knowing that he would take a piece of her heart with him.

Another little note

Chris — Mon, 06 Feb 2012 13:53:57 +0000

Nothing from me again. Strep throat, no computer, rekindled romance, Miami, where did the time go?

Please pass on my regards and apologies to the rest of the group, I’d love to still give feedback.

Phew…..sorry, disjointed, still overwhelmed here and settling in.

A Very Short Story

Chris — Mon, 06 Feb 2012 13:48:30 +0000

I’ve become weary of my short stories. They weren’t feeling fun anymore so I decided to write something else. This is a very short story that will be the basis of a slightly longer version of the same story. This is almost completely unedited so it obviously needs work. I would also like to flesh out the bit about the religions and the ending could be better. Anyways here it is so far…

It happened so gradually at first. Most everyone had at least one, or if you didn’t your neighbours did. But then there would be two, and a month later you’d see three and you’d think “huh, that’s weird” but then you’d go about your day because after all, it’s just a garden gnome right?

But after six months or so it seemed like in one shared moment all of humankind looked up and went “Holy shit!” because now there was no denying it. They were everywhere. Thirteen behind each shed, eight on the flagstone path, nine in the bushes. All looking at you, at your house. They couldn’t be called bad neighbours, they were certainly quiet. Kept to themselves and all that. But even still, so many all at once, it gave you the willies. People started to talk. By the time it made the evening news, there was panic in the air. A group formed whose mission it was to communicate with them, ask them what they wanted. They wore special headbands and lederhosen, based on the belief that the new visitors were Bavarian in origin. There was never any proof that worked though.

By the winter they were piling up at our front windows, peering into the living rooms, watching our televisions, staring at our dogs and our children. The pundits called for new legislation, but you had to ask, what were they legislating? They didn’t do anything except multiply and no one even knew when they did that. It was so frightening and absurd you really didn’t know what to do, or think. I suppose that’s where things went off the rails.

New pro-human groups formed like the Anti-Gnome Defense Consortium and the Militiamen for Non-Ceramic Peoples. One night it got really ugly, the MNCP gathered their membership and after midnight they went out with their bats and steel-toed boots and smashed every single gnome they could find. There were shards of gnome everywhere. They claimed victory, and honestly a lot of people celebrated with them, but one by one, the gnomes came back, possibly more numerous than before. It was hard to tell. They all looked so similar.

There were rumours that some people on Victoria Island had started worshipping them as a superior species. Quick as lightening the idea spread to most urban areas. Believers in long red and blue robes would make offerings of a small snack of cheese curds and beer in the mornings or seasonally appropriate knit-wear. They had meetings and sang songs. Of course it sounds silly in retrospect, but you couldn’t help but notice that people were being nicer to each other. There was a feeling of camaraderie in the air.

And then one day they were gone. Just gone. Not a trace of them left, not one cap or beard of little jacket to be seen. We assumed they’d come back but time went by and they hadn’t. People gradually stopped attending Garden Services. Robes went out of fashion and the crime rate rose again. I’ve heard rumblings that there is still a sect of gnomes living on the western edge of Kuala Lampur but, I don’t know. If they were there, why wouldn’t they make themselves known? Anyways, that’s all water under the bridge as they say. I guess things are back to normal now. I have to say though, it feels lonely, not having them there, watching over us.

Welcome

Chris — Wed, 25 Jan 2012 15:24:10 +0000

Welcome to the Memoirs By Mail meeting place!

This is where you — Carolyn, Stephanie and Djoura — will have your work posted after each deadline, and where you can comment on each other’s work.

Here is how it goes… When you send a piece in (on time) I’ll post it here, unless you tell me not to. I’ll send you all a quick email to let you know it’s up. Then YOU can come, read and leave comments.

* Late pieces won’t be posted. (Creativity needs structure.)

* Please give feedback to at least one other piece per round. (Creativity needs community.)

* All feedback should be encouraging, supportive and kind. (Creativity needs sweetness.) Here’s that “Vocabulary For Feedback” handout again if you want some inspiration.

Thanks for being here & being you!

space

Sarah, Julie-Anne, Marieke and Jill’s Secret Page

Chris — Mon, 23 Jan 2012 18:42:42 +0000

Welcome Jill, Julie-Anne, Marieke and Sarah!

This is your secret little corner of the internet, where your precious words will be kept, and where you’ll come to leave each other feedback.

I’ll also publish your upcoming lifelines (what the rest of the world calls “deadlines”) so that you can see what each other are working on as you go.

So, read on! And remember…

1. I won’t publish anything that doesn’t come in by midnight on the Sunday before the deadline.

2. 2,000 words max

3. Give feedback to (at least) one other person per round. For the first one, let’s go alphabetical, so Jill, you comment on Julie-Anne’s, Julie-Anne, you comment on Marieke’s, Marieke, you comment on Sarah’s and Sarah, you comment on Jill’s. For next time, just switch to the other person. Repeat. If you’d like to give feedback to more than one person, of course you are welcome to!

The Friendly Vegan

Chris — Mon, 23 Jan 2012 18:33:57 +0000

Oh my goodness!

I’ve spent the last hour reading bits and pieces of your work and I’m totally hooked. Each of you tells your story in such a different way. It’s incredible to read it all together. I read about Nel and ache for her and then I’m pulled into the quick, modern, funny world that Jill describes and then dipped into the slow, languid descriptions of Julie-Ann’s, punctuated with bits of hard, but tenderly-told truth, and then it starts again. Thank you so much for welcoming me into your group.

Below is a short story I wrote about a year ago. I’ve done a little editing but it definitely needs more. I’m writing two other short stories (to be submitted later) that are meant to connect with this story.
Thanks.

The Friendly Vegan

Destiny came for Michael on a Thursday. It arrived in the form of a handmade pink flyer and waited patiently for him on his shop’s doorstep in the rain. Dazed and a little grumpy after his mid-day nap, Michael shuffled to the door in his faux-tweed slippers and voila, there it was: destiny. What a waste of a tree, he tsked, snatching it up by a lone dry corner. He would have recycled the paper without another thought had his eye not been drawn to its thick, bolded font.

SUZANNE’S DELI and BUTCHERY
GRAND OPENING FRIDAY
BEST MEAT IN THE CITY
Great sales on lamb, chicken, beef and bison
Come check us out at 44 Bellevue Square

Horrified, Michael groaned as his long thin frame slumped, creaking into his refurbished rattan chair.

In its heyday Bellevue Square had been known for its 1960’s peace and love values. Since then the neighbourhood had inevitably evolved and the hippies and sit-ins had been replaced by tourists and Starbucks. Nevertheless, the area still managed to maintain much of its original character and was now home to some of the finest vegan and vegetarian food stores in the city. Michael was a fixture in the community, having been proprietor and resident of The Friendly Vegan, a bulk food store on the north side of the Square, for decades. The store had never been a huge financial success, but it and a small inheritance provided a decent life for him and allowed him the luxury of rarely having to leave his beloved community. Living in the Square meant everything to Michael and the thought of an animal butcher coming into its sphere made him nauseous and angry. Unsure of how to manage this situation Michael did what he always did when he was upset: he walked. Pacing the the three aisles of his tiny store, Michael ruminated until a customer came in looking for a rare species of quinoa and spent the better part of the next hour discussing the endless benefits of the world’s healthiest food.

Later that night, after a good stiff cleaning of his kitchen countertops and a light supper, Michael prepared for his evening chanting practice. Tonight’s meditation would be dedicated to discovering why the Butcher had been sent into his personal vortex and then, more practically, he would ask the universe how to best expel her from it. Settling himself onto his favourite Peruvian prayer rug and inhaling the calming sandalwood incense, Michael gently closed his eyes and let the reverberations of the mantra steady his nerves and his thoughts for over an hour. For the first time ever, the universe offered him nothing; no solution at all, not even a helpful suggestion. He felt abandoned. In desperation Michael fired up his aging laptop and consulted the Internet. It took him until after midnight but he finally figured out how to post his problem to a vegan chat group. He did not have to wait long for an answer.

Quinoa_rocks386 : Outrageous! I heart Bellevue Square. Boycott??

125Meatismurder125 : F-in burn the motherf-in place down. DO ITTTTTTTTTT!

PLUR1977 : Bummer! You gotta pray to the universe dude. Peace and love trump hate and beef any day of the week. You just gotta believe it enough man.

Cheisgod_Godische : Better to die standing then live on your knees. This is your home. Fight for it!

Veganlover69 : Hey I’d love to help. Let’s hook up. Send me a pic?

Scully_loves_Mulder : Animl eatin is a govt conspiracy to mak us dum and dead. Watch yr bk.

Grateful for, but confused by much of the response, Michael politely sent off his photo as requested and gave each potential solution the consideration it was due. He took strength from his fellow vegans and decided that what they were collectively saying was that he needed to take action, to be his own hero. To quote Gandhi, he could “be the change he wished to see in the world”. Delighted with his new role, Michael spent the rest of the night in his pyjamas, snacking on rice crackers and crafting a concise five-paragraph letter letting the local BIA, the City, his MPP and the major daily newspapers know exactly what was going on. Bleary eyed, he finally hit the send button at 7am giving him just enough time to shower, eat and clean the crumbs off his keyboard with organic vinegar, before heading out to work.

The next afternoon, after receiving no response to his letters, Michael decided that he had to speak to the butcher in person and convince her that this wasn’t the place for her to set up shop. He slugged back an invigorating shot of wheatgrass and trooped his way over to the butchery. Rounding the corner, the stench of cooked flesh stopped him in his tracks. He tried breathing through his mouth but the image of dead cow particles landing on his tongue unnerved him. He looked longingly across the Square towards home, squared his shoulders and resolutely strode past the grand opening balloons and into the deli. To his dismay, the place was heaving with people. “Pastrami on rye!” hollered a sweaty server above the din, long stringy hair swinging freely across her back. A man in leather leapt forward to claim the sandwich, shouldering his way past the other carnivores. Michael shuddered and fingered an antiseptic wipe in his pocket. He waited his turn. “NEXT!,” she screamed. Michael stepped forward. She flew from food station to cash register to counter and back again, her stained apron revealing a t-shirt with “Suzanne” printed underneath. She landed back at the counter and looked at Michael expectantly. He could smell her body odour.

“YescanIhelpyou?,” she asked.
“Yes. Yes you can.” Michael carefully pulled brochures out of his bag and slid them across the counter. “Miss… may I call you Suzanne? Suzanne, I’ve come to talk to you about the inappropriateness of your deli in this community. Bellevue Square is a peaceful, loving place and one where no creature should be afraid of being mulched and put into a sandwich. I think that if you read my pamphlets and listen to what I have to say, you will agree that you and this community are out of sync and you will leave….just as soon as is convenient, of course.“ Michael had more to say however as he paused for breath it came to his attention that the crowded shop had become oddly silent. The back of his head felt itchy. He looked into Suzanne’s eyes to see if he had gotten through to her.

He had not.

Flinging the brochures back at Michael, Suzanne let off a string of expletives that left even the most hardened customers blushing. Startled and frightened by her reaction, Michael panicked and ran, tripping over feet and tables as he bolted for the door. He ran two blocks, passing his own store, before stopping to catch his breath. His face burned as he thought about what had happened, the uproarious laughter of the bystanders echoing in his head. He didn’t feel like a hero at all. He felt humiliated and dejected. He walked in circles for hours, stopping only at the local farmer’s market to pick up his vegetable box before going home.

Over a dinner of roasted eggplant and spicy tofu fish fingers, Michael nursed his damaged pride and contemplated the situation. He poked at his food. The tofu had clearly gone off. He spat out a hunk of it into his cloth napkin and instantly a plan came to him. He thanked the universe for its divine guidance and spent the next three hours assembling tools and working out a plan that would surely get the butcher out of his square.

That night, after dark, an exhilarated Michael crossed the grassy square, a backpack hanging off his shoulders. He quickly reached the deli and slipped into the adjacent alley, pressing his back against the wall. What had been a tidy façade gave way to a crumbling brick laneway teeming with overflowing garbage bins and rank rotting meat smells. The bricks felt slimy underneath his shirt. Shuddering, Michael pushed on, slithering sideways until he was within reach of the door. Carefully lifting his backpack off of his shoulder, he reached in and pulled out a crowbar. One swift tug was all it took. Michael stepped into the store. Immediately to his right he noticed the cold freezer and metal shelving, to his left were boxes of supplies, two microwave ovens and his intended target, the large meat fridge. While sifting through his bag to find his baggy of diseased poultry he offered up a silent thank you to the noble bird that gave up its life for the greater good. Grimacing with disgust, he dangled the salmonella tainted fowl over the plastic bin when a glint of light caught his eye. Bathed in the moonlight, the deli shop’s shiny, metal meat slicer appeared like a vision. Michael was dizzy with inspiration. He felt the universe falling into place around him. The poultry in his hands hit the floor with a splat as he glided towards the machine, pulling off his gloves as he went.

*****************

Within the week Suzanne’s Deli and Butchery was shut down by public health amid scandal and the threat of a police investigation. It was rumoured that the discovery was the secret ingredient in her very popular Meatloaf Surprise. The Square was full of media and the newly vegetarian for weeks. With all the hoopla, The Friendly Vegan started to do quite well and soon enough Michael was able to purchase the former deli’s building and turn it into an organic coffee house. That’s where you can find Michael most mornings, looking over the books, sipping his soy cappuccino and using the hot mug to warm his nine fingers and one, well-healed nub.