Turtles in the House...... Coming soon

 In another life, almost another century, I promised stories about the free range Mississippi Red Eared Sliders we had for several years when the youngest boys were smaller.  They were fascinating pets; in various ways we inherited a total of five of them, mostly from families whose kids had outgrown them.  If you were more than a twinkle in your daddy's eye in the middle-ish part of the 20th century, you'll remember these turtles.  They arrived at the pet shops by the thousands, each just a little bigger than a silver dollar.  Remember silver dollars?  Back before the Canadian Loonie, they really were made of silver, and worth a dollar.  Now the silver in them alone is worth about twenty bucks.  

They're pretty typical turtles, green with yellow bellies marked with more green.  Their distinguishing feature is a slash of red in the region of each eye, slanting like Alice Cooper's eye makeup, toward the back of their heads.  Related to painted turtles.  If they manage to survive, they live a long time.  Mine, sadly, didn't.  Purchased with my first babysitting money at the age of 12, they lived in a little plastic pond about a foot in diameter, with a ramp leading to an island in the centre where they could come out of the water to bask under a plastic palm tree about six inches tall.  I took them outside one fall day to enjoy the sun, and forgot to bring them in that night.  When I remembered them in a panic the next morning, before  before starting for school in my bulky new sweater and warm wooly tights, they and the water in their tropical paradise were frozen into a solid block of ice.  Something native to Mississippi doesn't survive that kind of abuse. I was inconsolable; cried all the way to school. 

After the trauma of being an accidental murderer at the age of 12, I didn't expect to ever have turtles in my life again. Life is full uf surprises.  

A Day in the Life

It's not like I was trying to get attention.  

I'm walking home. Alone. It's late at night.... well, probably early morning. After a party. I'm silent, not bothering anybody. The the paved street is dark, with intermittent deep pools of orange light at the base of  lamp posts. I'm  a mysterious figure, making my way from one spot of light to the next. In no hurry.  A few porch lights illuminate the front stoops of well maintained middle class bungalows centred precisely in well manicured lawns. There are no signs of life inside.  Everyone is resting up for church in the morning.  An occasional car navigates the long slope of the hill, headlights studiously focused on their destination. I think of the Christmas carol, and sing, "All is calm, all is bright"..... what does that mean, anyway? I can see calm on a silent night, but bright? It's dark at night, silent or no.  Maybe the stars?  I look up.  No stars here. Too many streetlamps.  Just walking home, on a calm, but not bright silent night.  It was a good party.  Lots of friends from school. All the wobbly pops a girl could drink, and then some.  Someone brought a guitar and we sang around the backyard fire pit.  Roasted hot dogs and marshmallows. Maybe too many hot dogs and marshmallows. Perhaps also too many wobbly pops.  Tummy is uneasy, and the sidewalk tilts unexpectedly sometimes.   

Oh, look! A perfectly spherical stone.  If I squint, it could be a cantaloupe. Nothing beats a good cantaloupe. You can keep your watermelons.   I'll bet if I kick it, it'll slowly roll down the hill. I wonder how far it'll go. It's not a steep hill, but has a long steady slope.  Great for coasting down on a bike or a skateboard. I sidle to the edge of the sidewalk. It's a bit tricky.... the stone is on the road, which is a good 6 or 8 inches lower than the sidewalk.  I'll stand on my left foot on the edge of the sidewalk and swing at it with my right. I'll have to crouch just a tad to get down to the level of the stone. Ready, steady, kick!   ....And miss.  How could I possibly have missed that?!  I blame the wobbly pops.  I'll back up and try again.   Ready, steady, take that!  ..... and miss again.  Well, third time's the charm.  One more try.  Shuffle back a few steps, and.... ready, steady.....

"Is everything alright, miss?"  

.... and stee - riiiike three! This time I stumble off the sidewalk onto the street.  Where the heck did that car come from?  Do I know you? Quick sideways glance. Nope.  Don't talk to strangers.  Especially in the middle of the night.  Forget the cantaloupe. Get back on the sidewalk, and keep walking down the hill.  Ignore him, and he'll go away.  Oh jeez, now the car is backing up, following me. Is that legal, driving backwards down a public road?  this guy's a menace to society. Another quick glance. Double jeez!  What difference does it make what the guy does? The menace to society is above the law; he's a cop.  Behind the wheel..... another cop. Two cops.  In a cop car.  Driving backwards. Following me.  What the freak do they want?! Is it against the law to kick rocks on the road? Doesn't matter; I didn't kick it. I missed.  Just walk.  

"Are you O.K. miss?"  Why does he keep asking that? 

 "Fine, thanksh."  Keep walking.   

The car stops, and he steps out onto the sidewalk in front of me.  A button on his shirt is exactly at my eye level.  The shirt goes on up for a while before it runs out of buttons and bumps out a collar.  He's young and holy crow he's tall, looking down at me like something he just scraped off his boot. I can smell his cologne.  Brut, I think. 

"You don't look fine.  Have you been drinking, miss?"  

"Juss on my way home, Ossifer." I don't stop moving, sidestepping him and continuing down the hill.   Coming around the back of the car, another cop steps into my path.  Not so many buttons above eye level on this one... a dwarf by comparison... but he's got a chest and arms on him like The Incredible Hulk. Better looking than Hulk, though.  I wonder how much weight he can bench press.  Do I smell Old Spice?  My dad wears Old Spice.  I try sidestepping him... the cop, not my dad.....  and I  bounce sideways off Numero Uno, who catches my elbow before I fall on my face.  Good save. 

"Why don't we give you a ride home?"

No way am I being delivered to my front door in a cop car. 

"Mama alwaysh tol' me not to take ridesh from strangersh.  No thanksh."  

I pull on my arm, but he won't let go.  Now The Hulk has my other arm. This isn't going the way I'd like it to.  I think of the wobbly pop that got spilled on my jeans.  I probably don't smell as good as they do.  

"I think a ride home is the best thing for you right now," says Tallguy. Hulk opens the back door of the cop car.  I've never ridden in a cop car, and I'd like to keep it that way.  

"I don' wanna ride home." Home is a good mile away, and I'll be sober by the time I get there if I walk.  It's a beautiful summer night. I was enjoying the walk.  What a couple of party poopers.  

"I'm afraid it's not optional, miss. Get in the car, please."  

When I balk, they lift me by my elbows, carry me to the side of the car, and set me gently down.  Hulk opens the back door with his free hand.

"In the car please, miss," says Tallguy." 

They've let go of my elbows now, but they're standing between me and escape.  The only way to go is forward, into the back of the car.  The door closes firmly behind me.  I look curiously around as the car  begins to move. Forward this time.  There are no handcuffs or restraints back here. What was I expecting?  Instruments of torture? It's a pretty unexceptional back seat of a car, really. Nothing out of the ordinary.  Tallguy is behind the wheel this time. A woman's voice comes over the dispatch radio, but I can't make out what she says.  

"So where do you live, miss? We'll give you a ride home." Tallguy Brut is in charge again.  Doesn't Hulk Old Spice ever speak?  Are you allowed to be a cop if you're mute?  

"I don' memember.  Mebbe juss lemme off at Kennucky Fried Shicken an I'll figger it out" ... which is about halfway home.  Still time to walk it off before I get there.  I've heard that you can't get out of the back of a cop car, that the doors and windows won't open from the inside.  There's a crank back here for the window, and a handle for the door. The other side is the same. Are they disconnected somehow?  I try the door handle, and the door opens, so I step out of the moving car.  It couldn't have been moving very fast, because I land firmly on my feet, without so much as a totter, and proceed on over to the sidewalk, where I continue down the hill toward home. I should probably run.... maybe cut through the yard of the nearest house and find a dark place to hide, but by the time this has occurred to me, there are two strong young men latched onto my elbows again.  I think Hulk is trying not to laugh.  Tallguy does not appear to appreciate the humour of the situation.  

"I didn't think the door would open" I explain as they insert me, less gently this time, on the back seat once more.  I hear the door latch before the tires give a little chirp, and with a lurch we're on the road again. Somebody's in a hurry.  There are no more questions about where I live.  We drive directly to the police station. It was only a few blocks away. Do not pass 'Go', do not collect $200.  Am I under arrest? Aren't they supposed to tell you these things?  

We pull up to a garage door on the side of the building. When they're both at my door, Tallguy opens it and tells me to get out.  He's not saying 'please' anymore.  He looks a little like a tall guy who's in my Taekwondo club.  This other guy thinks he's pretty hot stuff, but we're a small club so sometimes he gets stuck with one of us less hot karatkas as a sparring partner. I once got him full on to the side of the head with a roundhouse kick.  It was a lucky score, because he was so cocky he wasn't paying attention, but the roundhouse is my superpower.  It's the one Taekwondo move I do really well, and I nailed him.  Of course, he pummelled me into the ground for it, but everyone saw him take my headshot.  It was worth the pain.  So I'm looking up at Mr. Brut Tallguy, thinking he's even taller than Mr Cocky, and wondering if my roundhouse will reach that high.  Let's find out.  

The answer is a resounding 'yes!'  I'm so proud of myself; that was a long way up.  I didn't actually make contact, but I definitely got my foot up there before he smacked me and pulled my hands behind my back. He can move pretty fast for a gangly guy.  

"Wajja hit me for?" I have to say it, just because.  It wasn't a hard hit. Mostly to get me off balance so he could restrain me, I think.  

"You tried to kick me!" I can hear astonishment in his voice.  It was a good kick.  

"Yeah, well I missed. You din."

"Behave yourself, or I'll handcuff you."

Handcuffs?  What?  I'm dangerous?!  Not sure how I feel about that.

A small huddle of uniforms loafs at the man door beside the garage bay door.... pretending not to watch the show.  They disperse as we approach.  Inside is a long bleak looking hallway with extremely bright fluorescent lights.  You can't even cast a shadow in here.  People who are being arrested are taken through, here, I'll bet, to make them lose all hope.  It occurs to me that the fertilizer is about to hit the ventilator.  It occurs to me that maybe I'm in deep kaka.  How did this happen?  How does a reasonably good kid who does all her homework, and has a fan club of little kids who love it when she babysits end up in jail? Maybe the roundhouse was a bad idea.  A shame; it was a good kick.  

There's an equally bleak room at the end of the long bleak hallway.  Along two walls of it there are bleak jail cells.  I know they're jail cells because I've seen cells like them on television.  Little rooms with 3 windowless cement walls and a wall of bars open to the main room. The ones on TV usually have a barred window for the criminal to look hopelessly at freedom out of.  This one has no window, and narrow bunk bed cots.  No privacy either.  Another cop appears from somewhere to open the barred door of the smallest cell, and I stop.  Tallguy mutters "Watch her" as he steps away from my side and turns to leave. I didn't notice when Hulk left. He was behind me. Maybe he didn't even come in.  

"Lucky you. You get a private room," the new cop smirks.  "The matron will be along shortly. Take off your belt and your shoes, empty your pockets, and in you go."  

"Who's the matron? What do you want my stuff for?"

"The matron is the nice lady who's gonna search you. We need to make sure you can't hurt yourself."

"What? I'm gonna hang myself with my shoelaces?"   I'll have to sit down to take my shoes off. There's nothing in this room to sit on, so I go into the cell and sit on the bottom bunk of the bed.  There's no other furniture there either. Not anywhere. No bathroom either. Good thing I have a strong bladder.  When I have my shoes off, I ask Smirky "You after my socks too?" 

"No, you can keep them for now."  

As I rise to hand over my belt, shoes, and the worldly goods from my pockets... including some loose change and bills, my house key and a tiny, but very sharp Swiss Army knife, Smirky steps back from the cell door, closes and locks it. He holds open a large manila envelope on his side of the bars, for me to drop all but my shoes into. I have to reach through the bars to do it, which is creepy.... like I'm suddenly untouchable.  in just a few minutes I've morphed from a teenage kid happily staggering home from a party, into something dangerous or unclean. Society has to be protected from me now.  Smirky's not much taller than me. He looks through his eyebrows at me as the knife goes in the manila envelope. He must be near the end of a long, hard shift. He doesn't smell good. Kind of like the boys' locker room after a big game. It's not somewhere I spend a lot of time, but I had a part time job helping the janitor last year.  Is this always Smirkey's job, locking up the trash that's picked up off the street, or do they trade off, and sometimes he gets to ride around with a buddy in a cruiser?  

There's no sign of the matron. What kind of search is she going to do?  Will I have to take my clothes off? I'm not liking that idea.  I'm glad I listen to my Gran's advice, and always make sure my underwear isn't disreputable.  "What if you're in an accident?" she says. Yeah Gran, or what if you're taken to the police station and strip searched?   Meanwhile Tallguy and Hulk show up with a clipboard and a list of questions. As it happens, Hulk does speak. Now he does most of the talking.   I expected his voice to be deeper, but he's a mellow tenor.  I'll bet he's a good singer.  I'm a good singer too.  They used to get me to sing solos in church when I was little.... back when I still went to church.  

"What's your name, miss?"  They want to call my parents. 

Think of something ordinary. "Mary."

"What's your last name, Mary?"

Oh jeez, I dunno..... "Brown." They want to identify me so they can call my parents. No way are they calling my parents in the middle of the night.  

Tallguy and Hulk turn to each other, and, in unison, raise their eyebrows.  "Where do you live, Mary Brown?" 

"I don' memember." 

"What are you doing out so late, Mary Brown?"

"On my way home."

"On your way home from where?"

"Pardy."

"What kind of party, Mary?" 

"Friends. Fire pit, hoddogs, shmallows."  Wobbly pops, beer, shooters. How many high school kids had back yard fires tonight?  Will they be able to figure out where I was? 

"Where was the party, Mary?" 

At the dreamiest guy in town's house.... who doesn't know I exist. "Someone's house."

"Whose house?"

Sasha's house.  "Dunno; went with my friend."

"What's your friend's name?"

Charlotte's parents will ground her for life if they find out she was there.  "Jane."

"What's Jane's last name, Mary?"

Oh, jeez.... no, not Brown....  "Shmith."

There's a long pause.  Tallguy looks annoyed; Hulk is patient.  Is this the 'good cop, bad cop' schtick? 

"How old are you, Mary Brown?"

"Thurdy Shicks" 

More perfectly choreographed eye contact and eyebrow lift.  They must practice this.  

"You need to tell us your name, miss."

"Did. Call me Mary. Washhur name?"

He chooses to ignore my attempt at polite conversation."Oh yes; you're Mary Brown, and you're 36 years old, and you don't know your address. How were you planning to get home, Mary, if you don't know your address?"

"Thought I'd prolly reccanize it when I saw it."

"That might take a while."

"No hurry."

The door behind them opens, and an extremely large woman rolls in.  Large, but not tall.  She might be wider than she is tall, teetering on tiny, sensible brown slip-on loafers. I'm guessing it's a while since she's actually seen her feet, let alone been able to touch them.  She wears a dark uniform, of sorts, with shiny buttons and her name embroidered on her enormous chest.  Brigitte. If that's supposed to make her seem friendly, it's a wasted effort.  She looks about as happy as someone who was awakened in the middle of the night by the sound of the cat upchucking on the bedcovers.  I don't know what she's so cranky about. She'll get paid well for this.  She should thank me.  Brigitte nods to Smirkey, and he unlocks my cell door.  I back into the furthest corner, never taking my eyes off her.  

"Stand with your hands on the bars in front of you, and your feet apart," she barks.  Brigitte is a Brigadier General, accustomed to being obeyed. With a dark chocolate voice that could sing bass to Hulk's tenor.  I wonder if she's in a choir. Or a band.  I try to imagine her in a sequinned evening gown.  Not possible.  

I'm relieved that she doesn't seem to want me to take my clothes off.  As I grip the bars and look through them at the cops, she firmly pats my pockets, along my sides, and inside my thighs.  She grips around my ankles and wrists, and up my arms and legs.  She's efficient, thorough and impersonal.  And done in less time than it took her to get here.  Does she get paid for the trip, or just for her time in the cop shop? Seems to me that when you're on call, they have to pay you for at least a few hours, just for showing up. Nice work, if you can get it. I wonder why I've never seen 'Jailhouse Matron' listed on any of the career options at job fairs.  She steps back out, takes the clipboard and pen from Hulk, and while Smirkey turns the key in the lock, ensuring the world is safe from me, the Brigadier General makes some notes.  And without another word, she's gone.  

"Now, miss," Tallguy has taken the podium. "You need to tell us who you are, so someone can come and take you home. They're probably worried about you."  

I'm feeling chilled. I take the folded blanket from the foot of the cot, unfold it, and wrap it around myself. I look directly into his eyes.  Blue, like the sky way up there where his head lives.  I sit on the cot. "Lemme out, an' I'll go home."  

"We can't do that. You're a minor, and it's the middle of the night."

"Not a minor. I'm 36." And glad I didn't have my wallet or I.D. on me, or the game would be up.  Not that they're fooled.  I don't look a day over my 16 years.  

"Right.  Well, in that case, we'll have to take you to see the judge in the morning, and he can decide what to do with you."

"T'morrow'sh Shunday. He'll be in shursh." A wave of exhaustion forces my head to the pillow. I lift my feet from the floor to the cot, turn to face the wall, and I'm instantly asleep. 

.......

A steady chatter of conversation wakes me. I open my eyes to the underside of a bunk bed.   Not a nice bunk bed.  Institutional-minimalist.  Why would anyone put this in their home... and where the heck am I? And why do I have a splitting headache?   

"Stay away from the vanilla extract Jake. That stuff'll kill you." Deep authoritarian voice. 

"Yeah, yeah man, sure." Jake has the gravelly voice of a heavy smoker. 

"You headin' for the soup kitchen?" Slow drawl.  

"No man, it's Sunday.  They don't do soup on Sunday." Smoker Jake replies. 

"You look like shit."A fourth nasal voice... how many of them are there?  

"That ain't me man.  You lookin' in a mirror." Jake is a joker.   Raucous laughter.  

"C'mon guys, you know the drill.  Collect your stuff and clear out." Mr Authority again.  

"Hey, he's got my belt.  That's mine. Gimme my belt. " Smoker Jake wants to start something.  

"He was wearing it when he came in last night, Jake.  Sure it's yours?"  Mr Authority keeps the peace. 

"It's mine, man.  I gave you a beer for it."  Slow drawl. 

As the banter moves down the hallway of lost hope, I don't move a hair, hoping to be invisible, somehow.  In my jail cell.  That was, obviously, next to the drunk tank.  

"Sez on the roster your name is Mary Brown. I gotcha some breakfast, Mary Brown."  The deep voice of authority has passed his best-before date, with frost at his temples.  The beginning of a beer belly. And very tall.  Are all cops tall?  A paper bag rustles in his hand.  The scent of deep fried potatoes hits my nose like a blessing..... "Hope you like hash browns." 

"Oh God," I lunge for the bag. "Is there anybody in this world who doesn't like hash browns?" There's a bacon & egg sandwich in there too... with.... moan.... melted cheese squirting out its sides. His other hand passes a supersized take out cup of cola between the cell bars.  The ice rattles against the straw deliciously as I inhale about half of it.... then collapse on the cot with a groan and grab my head as my skull splits, spewing my brain into my lap. Brain freeze AND a killer headache.  Is this the hangover people talk about? Am I gonna puke all that good greasy food right back up?

"If there is, I haven't met 'em yet." He's sounding pleased with with himself.  I'm afraid if I open my eyes to look, I'll throw up.  "We got Tylenol."

"Extra strength?"

"Sure.  How many?"

"Two...... Please........ and ....... thanks for breakfast." Is this just 'good cop' strategy? "If you're trying to get Brownie points, I'm still not gonna tell you my address."

"No sweat. I'll send you a bill."  

"I'm not telling you guys where I live."

Which, of course, reminds me of where I live, and how much trouble I'm in.  "So, I guess you're letting all the drunks out now, after breakfast." I hear the key turn, and the cell door opens. There's  a nudge at my shoulder.  I crack one eye open enough to see two extra strengthTylenol on the cot beside me. The light stabs my brain like a hot needle and I grope with closed eyes for the pills. The cell door creaks closed and the key rattles in the lock again.  I cautiously wash the pills down with a small mouthful of watery soda and lay back down on the cot with my forearm over my eyes. 

"Yeah, that was the last of them a few minutes ago."

"Not all of them.  What about me?"

"You're not a drunk; you're a minor.  We can't let you go without adult supervision."

"Puh-leeze"

"It's the truth.  Unless you've got ID saying you really are Mary Brown, age 36, we can't turn you loose on your own." 

"So you'll just keep me here, feeding me junk food and Tylenol until my 18th birthday. Cool."

There's a low rumble... maybe a chuckle? "Much as we all enjoy your company, we can't do that either. Take a nap till the drugs kick in."

It's good advice. I wake to the sound of a woman's voice.

"Miss, I'd like to come in and talk to you."

I cautiously crack an eyelid ever so slightly.  There's no white-hot-needle-in-the-eyeball anymore, so I gradually open it wide.  There is a dull throb at my temples, but it's pretty low-grade.  I carefully open the other eye and turn my head toward her voice.   She's young-ish and pretty, and very fashionably dressed.               The cop with the frosted sideburns stands beside her with the keys. He looks old enough to be her dad.  He's probably somebody's dad.  I wonder if his kids like him.  What would it be like to have a dad who's a cop?

"May I come in?" she repeats.  

"Do you need my permission?"

"Yes, actually, I do." 

"You a lawyer or something?"

"No, I'm a social worker. I'd like to help get you home." 

So I give my permission.  She's polite, friendly, and officious. Dad-cop sets a chair inside the cell for her. she sits. She's Karen, and she's here to tell me 'these are the things we can do, and these are the things we can't do. We just want to get you safely home.' 

"I'm not telling you anything.  Just let me out and I'll go home.  I do know the way. You don't have any reason to keep me here. I haven't done anything illegal."  

"You're a minor; you were intoxicated."

"Well I'm not drunk now."

"we're trying to help you."

"Taking me home in a cop car would not be helpful." 

"Maybe not." She gives me a long, intense look, stands up and calls Dad-cop.  They go off somewhere together.  

I feel a little nauseated. I close my eyes against the steady throb at my temples; it seems to help.  I must doze off again, because I wake up to the sound of the key in the cell lock again.  Dad-cop opens it wide, and gestures me over the the checkout desk.  He walks behind it, reaches under and pulls out a manilla envelope labeled 'Mary Brown', empties it on the counter in front of me, then reaches down for my shoes.  I pocket my keys and money, but he takes the penknife before I have a chance to grab it, says,  "Karen'll keep this for you until she drops you off."  Walks around the desk to the door to the hallway of lost hope while I hop on  one foot at a time putting my shoes back on.  I'm threading my belt into my belt loops  as he opens the door and gestures with his head down the tunnel of Trauma.  "After you, Mary."

Karen is at the side of a car outside. She opens the back door on the passenger's side for me, says, "no funny stuff from you," and gets in the front. She's obviously been briefed about the roundhouse.  For some reason, that feels good. There's a cop at the wheel, and a little dome with a light like the ones on top of cop cars fastened to the centre of the dashboard.  It's an unmarked police car.  "Where to?" she asks.  

"I'm not telling you where I live."  

"OK.  Tell us where to drop you off."

So I tell them to take me to the south side of a school about 4 blocks from my house, and that's where they take me. She's going on about 'services available to minors at risk', hands me a bunch of pamphlets about depression and drugs and sex trafficking and family violence.  Says there's help if I need it.  She's trying to catch my eye but I won't look at her.  The car stops in front of the school.  She gets out and opens my door.  "I guess you can find your way home from here." She hands me my penknife.  

So I hightail it behind the school. I run the length of the building, back around to the front, on the other end, creep behind a cedar bush, and watch the cop car drive away.  It turns at the end of the block, in the direction I ran before I went behind the school. When it's out of sight I cross the street we came in on, and run in the opposite direction the cops went, up the driveway of a house I know doesn't have a fenced yard, through the yard, down the alley and through another yard. Sprinting, I zigzag my way through a maze of houses and yards for about a half hour, till I reach  my street. Then I slow and walk as calmly as I can to the fourth house on the south side of 109th avenue.  Though it's not yet noon, the sun is already hot, and I'm sweating.  I use the tail of my t-shirt to pat my face dry.  My long hair is tangled and lank. I try to comb out the worst with my fingers.

He's sitting in the shade on the front step, pretending to read the newspaper.  It's a beautiful summer morning, so there's no reason not to sit on the step to read the newspaper, but that's not something my dad ever does.  He's been watching for me.  I know he's seen me, because he has the paper up high, blocking his view of the sidewalk, pretending he doesn't know I'm there.  I see my stepmother through the kitchen window at his left, probably washing the breakfast dishes. I know the precise moment when she sees me; she leans to the window and slides it wide open so she doesn't miss anything. She'll be saving this all up for later.  Her eyes are slits of malice and her mouth a thin line of righteous satisfaction.   

The gravel of the driveway crunches under my sneakers.... the ones with the dangerous shoe laces.  Dad doesn't budge. I stop on the lawn a few feet away from him, pick up the scent of Old Spice. Even sitting down he's giant.  A gentle giant. "Mornin'. 

The paper rustles as he lowers it enough to look over it. Raises his eyebrows as if to say, "Oh, it's you!"   Though I often come home at 'ungodly hours', I've never been out all night before.  "Where were you?"

"In jail." 

His eyes roll to the heavens and his head shakes in disbelief. Can you believe this girl? "Right" he snorts. "where were you?"

"I was in jail." This is going well.

 He folds his paper noisily, rises to his feet, shaking his head in exasperation, turns his back to me, stalks up the cement steps and through the screened door. Communication is not one of his superpowers.... or any kind of conversation, for that matter. I hear the aluminum door slam behind him as I make my way to the side entrance.  I go straight through to the bathroom for more Tylenol, and into my bedroom, where I flop face down onto my bed for a nap.  My brain is pounding against my skull.  God, I stink.  I'll have a shower when I don't feel like puking.

I know she won't light into me when he's home. Through the rest of the day, I steel myself for her acid tongue Monday morning, after he leaves for work, but it never comes up again. To this day he doesn't believe I was in jail that night.  Who knows what she believes.  It's not entirely out of character that she's never brought it up. She likes to save things, worry them to a razor edge against her stone heart, and stab you with them when she sees an opening.   

  She's only five foot two, but demons don't need to be big.  

 

Miracles happen

 sometimes when it seems things can't possibly get worse, they find a way to do just that.  

and other times, when hope has meandered out the door without so much as a glance back over her shoulder, someone else saunters into the room... the one you were convinced you would sit in alone until everything had crumbled around you.  a moment ago it was dark in here.... but there's a glow starting off to the side there..... and, would you look at that! you weren't alone at all.  and it's not really so dark.... and hope was just stepping out to make tea.  she returns with a shy smile, and hands you a steaming cuppa.  

with a cookie for dunking.  I hope it's gluten free, and sugar free, and still delicious.  is that even possible?  

the spring leaves cautiously unfurling from their branch tips touch the hillsides with tiny flecks of soft green, like stroke of a paintbrush lightly loaded and gently applied.   It must be a wet-on-wet painting, though.  What was, at dawn, a mere hint of green is, by the end of the day, spreading and deepening across the landscape. A hint becomes a certainty, becomes insistent that a change is taking place

Changes

 It's not the end of the world, I guess.  Some days it feels like it.  After 10 years of hard work and many realized dreams, I must sell my B & B.  

I'm not ready.  There are half finished projects clamouring for attention, snagging my eye at every blink... the greenhouse, ongoing landscaping, upgrading the kitchen, egress in the attic suite.....  and dreams for the future littering the floor in every room.  This was supposed to be my legacy - a gorgeous and successful bed and breakfast, famous for its hospitality, food, and early 20th century charm.  

But, as they say, all things come to an end.  It has been a good run, and it makes my heart hurt to lose my gracious Georgian style domicile.  Thanks a whole heap, COVID 19.  With travel disallowed, no one is needing overnight stays on their journey.  At one point early in 2019 I was down to one long-term stay.  The house has never been empty since I began this adventure, but these past 2 years have been lean ones.  Music instruction income also all but disappeared.  If not for a part time job as administrator for the local arts centre, I'd have been hungry and homeless for a year already.  

So, the changes.  The finance company has refused my request for just one more deferral on my weekly mortgage payments. The fertilizer has hit the ventilator.  The house must be sold.  

My realtor, the mum of 2 former violin students, has begun to send me little lists of things I need to have in place to ready the place to sell as a turnkey business operation. I'm working on yearly financial statements - not my favourite way to pass the time.  I was at it for for 4 hours last night, after the day job. Ten years' collection of local art, old linens, glassware, furniture and heritage garden plantings will stay, hopefully for someone who wants to continue the old girl's career as a heritage B & B. There's a magnificent solid walnut dining suite, with hutch and sideboard, that was purchased when the house was built. I'm loath to part with that.  This magnificent dining set is the heart of the house.  You don't rip out someone's heart.  If I can't sell the place with contents, I've promised it to my eldest son, who's always loved working with wood, and appreciates fine craftsmanship.  There's also a hundred year old piano, that, if at all possible, will come with me.... wherever I go.  No one wants these old instruments - they're desperately heavy and hard to move.  It breaks my heart to think of it disassembled to make something cute or trendy, or left somewhere to die a dissonant, agonizing death.  And the assortment of stringed instruments and shelves filled with sheet music and books.... what's in their future?

I've begun to collect things that are personal, meaningful, that I'd like to either pass on to someone who cares for them, or take with me (again, wherever I go from here) I'll store them in the studio and garden shed.  (which must both be emptied of anything superfluous first) What will happen to my books?  My sewing equipment and fabric stash? Will I be going to somewhere they can live? So much depends on the sale of the house.  If I get what I'd like for it, purchase of a smaller home, mortgage free will be an option.  If the old girl doesn't sell and is repossessed, all bets are off.  I could be homeless this time next year.  

These are interesting times.... in the worst meaning of the phrase.  But I'll find my way through somehow. I'm resilient like that.   Meanwhile, my heart hurts, and often my head joins the sad song. Writing becomes therapy.  I have made a commitment to write daily, to alleviate anxiety, and to flex my authorial muscles for possible future use.   A laptop doesn't take up much space, and can go almost anywhere. Regardless of the final outcome, writing is something I can continue, and it's good for me.  

I'll write a new chapter in this life of adventures, upheaval and blessings. It's not the end of the world. 

A Boy and His Dog at the End of the World By C. A. Fletcher

 Yet another dystopian novel... not my usual thing. I don’t enjoy reading about wars or violent clashes. These ‘end of the world’ stories so often focus on the worst qualities in human nature. 

This one’s not all sun ripened peaches and cute puppies either, but the ‘good’ characters are fallible and believable in their goodness, ‘bad’ characters are self deluded and not always self assured in their badness. 

Dogs in a story always improve it, and there are some lovely unexpected twists. 

A New Chapter

This autumn it will be 7 years since I bought the house.  In the fall of 2012 the  yellow and brown paint was peeling, and the borders around the foundation of the house were filled with grass and weeds. The yard, 4 lots wide, was a huge expanse of grass that took 2 hours to mow. It had been a dry summer, and the trees, shrubs and lawn were heat stressed and brittle. 

                                                                                                                     My 3rd summer here, I rented a man-lift, primed the house and painted the it a lovely green.... taken from the green speckles in the shingle colour. During  the 2 weeks I had the machine I also trimmed the large maples in the front yard and on the east side.                                                                                L                                                                                              Last summer, I laid out the garden hose on the front lawn, in shapes I thought would make attractive island beds, and sprayed the resulting outlines with white paint. This gave me a rough idea how big to make them, and how wide the meandering pathways of lawn between them would be. When that was to my liking, I dug up strips of turf along the outlines, wide enough to lay bricks into, and covered the grass where the bed would be with layers of cardboard, earth, and wood chip mulch.  This took many wheelbarrow loads of soil from the hill made in the back yard where I'd had the pond dug.... and most of the summer.  

Last autumn, I dug the ancient peonies from the east side of the house, divided and planted them in the new beds, along with some some heritage irises I'd got from an old homestead and hostas I'd put between the peonies when I first bought the house.  There was an old concrete sidewalk between the peonies and the house, that had a determined tilt toward the house which encouraged spring melt and summer rain to collect against the foundation and find its way into the basement.                                                                                                     T                                                                                        This summer's project has been to break up the old sidewalk and fill the hole with soil, preparatory to planting grass where the sidewalk once was. this proved to be a bigger job than expected, as there was another sidewalk beneath. each of them was a good 8 inches thick. 3 utility trailer loads of broken concrete were delivered to the local landfill, every piece moved by hand. I have biceps to die for.                              The sidewalk that approaches the front of the house will need to be replaced 

eventually as well. Amongst the weeds and quack grass in the beds against the house were a few rugged, ancient perennials! Heritage poppies, delphiniums, columbine and icelandic poppies were barely holding their own... but with some encouragement, they now fill the beds. I planted a forsythia in there a few years ago, that I'd given up on, but it's making a comeback this year.        

The back yard, once a desolate expanse of  lawn...  (can you tell I'm not a fan of acres of manicured grass?) now has a dry creek bed filled with smooth river stones, and a pond at one end, to divert and collect water away from the house. There's a shed and a greenhouse, and the rest of the space is in the process of becoming vegetable gardens, along the back lane. 

There's a little wooden bridge across the 'creek', near the pond, which is tucked at the feet of a massive rose bush with soft pink blossoms. She loves it that the water collects there for her, and shows her appreciation with a  heavy blush of sweet scented blooms through all of June.    

My grandmother's tiger lilies and irises follow me from place to place, 

 faithfully sharing their glory with every neighborhood they travel to.   

I've added some more modern roses to the front beds. This might be Emily Carr.... or Adelaide Hoodless...... or perhaps someone else..... I've lost the tags.  

The greenhouse is in its first season of operation.... the painting wasn't quite finished before planting time. Perhaps there'll be a chance to finish it in fall.  there wasn't money for materials for proper beds, so I scrounged tubs and trash cans and an old bathtub. The tomatoes, peppers and cucumbers don't seem to mind.  There are also rosemary, lemon grass, tomatillos and gazania in pots in the greenhouse. when it's finished it will have electricity, so I can hang a chandelier and plug in a tea kettle.... and a solar heated shower in the back corner by the door connecting it to the shed. The windows on the left all hinge open from the top, on chains, for ventilation.

The star of the greenhouse is this artichoke plant. 


 Across the yard from the greenhouse is the studio (formerly a small one car garage), where I give music lessons. It's chaos right now, as I spend every available moment working on the yard, but you can see the piano, the desk, and in the foreground on the left is the table holding my painting and printmaking materials. there's a big work table just out of sight behind the painting supplies. In the basket cube front and centre are wooden Brio trains & tracks for siblings of students to play quietly with while they and Mum or Dad wait during lessons.  the studio is my happy place, especially in winter, when I can't play in the dirt. There I can make all the mess and noise I want, without bothering my B & B guests.  

The little sofa folds out into a bed. When I know I'm going to be working in the studio late, I make the bed up so Mr. Dog can get his beauty sleep. He doesn't like being up late, and he mutters and grumbles at me about it. When I finish what i'm working on, I join him there for the night. Musicians on the Home Routes circuit who stay at my home often choose to stay on the hide-a-bed in the studio rather than in the house. I used to apologize when it was the only bed available, but they often seem to prefer it.... It's never in the state of dishabille you see here when a guest is using it.....  so I've stopped apologizing.   

I came by the blog world, just to show some of what I consider the best blogs to a teen-aged violin student who loves to write, and is curious about blogging.... and was reminded of how much I enjoyed it.... got a bit nostalgic, so i'll post some pictures of my latest creative efforts.  I'm recently returned home from 2 1/2 weeks at the Puppetry Intensive at the Banff Centre for Arts and Creativity, in Banff, Alberta.  The town of Banff is in Banff National Park, in the heart of the Rocky Mountains. It's stunning.  And the Banff Centre is built on the shoulders of Sleeping Buffalo Mountain, which sits in the centre of the town of Banff.  Sleeping Buffalo Mountain is a place sacred to the first nations people here. It's a place of power.  

For 2 1/2 weeks, we studied movement, and gesture, and the subtleties of bringing inanimate objects to life.  During this time, we were never allowed to use words to bring life to our subjects.  No language to convey ideas and intentions and stories, other than the language of gesture, of movement, of focus and intent. It was magical.  A little, a small part each evening, of our time, was spent actually creating puppets, and learning the mechanics of their construction.    though I didn't manage to finish anything, I do have a few partly completed things to show for my time:

 This is the first stage of a rod puppet, yet to be paper mache'd and painted.  He's a little over a foot tall.





This one is a mask, used in exercises experimenting with spacial relationships and groupings. That's my hand behind it, for scale. 

 Here is the same mask, along with my 'puppet soul', a soft 'stuffie' used to learn to manipulate objects as we learned to give them expression and gesture, without words.  We walked our souls, interacted with other souls, explored our surroundings through them, and told stories with them, all without the spoken word.  







This fellow has a ball and socket armature in his head and neck, with a rod in the back of his head, to enable it to pivot up, down and sideways, in a realistic way. The wooden rods at his sides are the beginnings of arms, with leather hinges at the elbows. He'll have the cloth body and arms of a small child. He is destined to be an infant philosopher, I think, and tells me he wants curly hair, and a twin sister.  He's a rod puppet, so the central rod is how he is supported.  There will be one or more rods to his hands (when he gets them) to enable his hands and arms to move realistically.  

After 3 weeks away (at a very nice kennel), Maestro was extremely glad to be home. I felt the same way.  

Back to teaching music lessons four days a week, running a boarding house / B&B, and finishing an online course in property management.   And I wonder why I can't find time to finish the puppets.....?!