personal stories – Page 3 – Aremyfeetofftheground

A face, a fate

I am in a band that plays the odd local date. Churches, bars, gatherings and the like.
A couple of months ago, after we had finished our setting up to play for an evening in the town tavern, we sat down for dinner and a drink. When the waitress came to our table, I felt a strong sense of deja vu. I knew her face from somewhere, and had interacted with her in some way. Feeling embarrassed, I told her these things, and asked her where she had worked in the past. She looked at me strangely for a second, reddened a little, and said “well, nowhere around here”. That was the end of our chat for the evening, and, within a half hour, our band was up on stage playing. During breaks, I stole glances at her, and was surprised to see her return the looks. It felt peculiar, and coloured the rest of the night for me.

Two weeks ago, we played there again, on our usual Thursday night. When we were part way through the third set, and the bar was fairly crowded, two of the waitresses approached us. They were crying and signalling us to stop playing. One of them asked for a microphone and she said “We are sorry, but we have to close right away. Something has happened.” Word got around quickly that one of their staff had been killed in a crash. We did not know who. Nor did we ask questions, but packed up our stuff quickly and left.

The next day, I read something of her eulogy on the tavern’s website. It was my deja vu girl. She had been one of their very first employees. Her name was Rachel. I still do not know why she had been in my mind, but the feeling had been very strong and immediate. Strangely, I felt a kind of grief, for someone I thought I knew. For someone that I would have liked to have known.

Haraview Burgers (July 3)

Hello all…

I stopped again today at the mysterious Haraview Burgers on Highway 11 north, a restaurant that has stood empty for more than 40 years. As mentioned in previous stories, it still appears to be unoccupied but nonetheless in good repair.

This time, I came armed with a letter I had prepared asking the owners if they would enlighten me as to the history of the place. After knocking several times without any response, I managed to squeeze the note behind the locked front door.

The place is overgrown with weeds and there is a Beware of the Dog sign that I had not previously noticed. I proceeded with caution around the perimeter, but saw no dog and no evidence of habitation.

Readers have mentioned to me that they had seen people there recently, notably an older couple driving a Jaguar.

I am hoping that they will return and perhaps answer my note.

Why

There must be some mistake,I think,
but it’s been days now.
These messages from you,
a thirty four year old stranger.
And I say,
and I say to myself
there are lots of crazies on the internet.
Lots of gold diggers.
People who will say anything
under cover of anonymity.
And so, you started with Hello,
um, how’s your day going?
And I, not used to DM’s,
responded just as awkwardly.
You told me how old you were.
Exactly half my age.
Sent me a picture (not a nudie).
I told you exactly how old I am,
and that I am married.
And I said what’s someone like you
want with someone like me?
(I can write a story well enough
to see where someone else’s is going)
And you said that you could not find anyone your age
to love you.
They are all jerks, you said.
Can we just talk?
You said.
I have been through a lot in my life,
you said.
Please, you said.

In my mind, I think cynically that you are after
a rich old man. A sugar daddy.
Or, you’re looking for me to tell you some
private things about my life,
or ask you for sex,
or praise you with compliments
so you can say that I harassed you or stalked you.
But, it’s going on a week now,
and I don’t see you approaching paydirt any time soon.
And, I haven’t said this to you yet,
but any improprieties of mine are already known to my family.
Today, I wished you all the best, but made it clear
that I would never meet you or seek you out.
You said “don’t you want to talk to me any more?”
And I said “sure I will, I just thought you would not
talk to me any more, once you knew how things were”.
And you said “I look forward to talking. Will you
text me later, or whenever you get a chance?”
I say yes, because I get this feeling, Cathy,
that you just might be someone in desperation.
That you want to tell me things I don’t want to know.
And I think, in the words of a sad and desperate song,*
“You can use my skin. To bury secrets in.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
* “I know….by Fiona Apple

Haraview Burgers and highway 11

I’ve been making trips to north central Ontario for nearly 50 years, almost all of them via highway 11. During that time, I have passed by a curious anomaly that remains to this day: A burger place that was in business for a short time in the early to mid seventies. It shut down after two to three years, I think, but was never demolished or replaced by another business. On the contrary, all of its signs still remain in good repair, and the building itself has not been allowed to deteriorate. Within the last couple of years, it’s been graced with a new paint job (true to original colours), and occasionally shows signs of occupation.

For the back story to this, and some pictures, visit https://secret-lifeof.com/2018/07/16/haraview-burgers/

I have stopped there a couple of times, but have not seen anyone about. I plan to try once more, and soon, as several readers have exhibited curiosity about it and one person in particular has offered his own excellent theory as to its history. He also requested that if I knew anything further, or could give him any kind of a back story relating to the area, he would appreciate it. And so, here goes:

In the early 70’s, a group consisting of myself and a few friends began camping on the weekends at a secluded resort by the name of Kahshe Motel and Trailer Park. It was just a few minutes up the highway from Haraview. On the highway between these two locations was a restaurant known as The Suomi. It was there that I met the girl who was to be my future wife. She was a waitress, and, unbeknownst to me, was staying in a cabin at Kahshe. I will spare you the details until another time, but will simply say that we were married within three months of meeting each other. She left her job there, and we made our first home in Mississauga. That was nearly 43 years ago.

In the first years of our marriage, we returned occasionally to Kahshe and camped there, for the park was still beautiful and well kept and we had some fond memories of it. Some years after that, The Suomi Restaurant changed hands, and became The Grand. Sadly, within a very short time, a gas leak caused the whole building to explode. It was completely demolished. No one was hurt, as it was closed at the time.

Many businesses have come and gone along the highway during those forty odd years. The Sundial restaurant was always a favourite. It was shuttered for many years, but has been rebuilt and opened up under new ownership. For a long time, highway 11 was not divided, and businesses were more prosperous, being as they got traffic from both directions. But, with increasing volume, the undivided highway became the site of many terrible crashes resulting from vehicles attempting to make left turns. And so, the barriers went up. I am sure that lives were saved, but sadly some of the highway businesses did not survive.

As to Haraview Burgers, my plan is to stop there once again, and, if no one is about, I will leave a prepared note to the owners, letting them know that I have written somewhat of a story about the place, and giving them my contact details in case they see fit to communicate.

Thanks for reading, and I will be sure to publish any updates as I receive them.

Furry ventriloquism

I never knew what cats were thinking, until my teenaged daughter started “rescuing” them, one by one, and bringing them home. In one case, it was a clandestine operation involving a smuggle under her jacket, and a fait accompli when we arrived.

Like many Dads, I found it hard to stay mad for very long, and actually was secretly amused by the lengths to which she would go to get these fleabags in the door.
Ahem, one of them actually was a fleabag. This was the smuggled one, and it came from her aunt’s place, who once (when asked how many cats she had) said “several”. Really, it was about 30, so this was classified as a rescue. Apparently, her Mom knew about it beforehand, and was in cahoots. When produced from inside her jacket, it was already scratching and had sores on its chin…..vet visit the very next day.

Once we had domesticated these things, it became my daughter’s habit to amuse everyone by devising clever things that she thought each cat would say in a given situation, then (with a straight face) speak the lines in a voice which was a dead ringer for the Gingerbread Man from Shrek.

It nearly made me pee myself, and, of course, this encouraged her. So, for the few more years that she lived at home, I got so used to it that I almost found myself wanting to have a conversation with the silly things.

When it finally came time for her to go on her own, she left them with us.
We were standing at the door to see her off, and my tears started to roll.
All I could think of to say was “Now, how am I going to know what the cats are thinking?”

What did you expect?

The arborite of tabletop is smooth and cool and even.
Reach now for the shining phone. Feel its warm monolith, tented over in your pocket. For extra reassurance, stroke the disagreeable cat. It is deep velvet, simmering skin, removable whiskers. Only you can elicit its purr, calm its condescending glare. Don’t you dare stop, or forget the filaments of the ear.

Push up, now, from your chair by the fire. Feel and hear the sharp crack of the ankle. The protesting knee, surely out of warranty. Shuffling’s horizon. Whiskers follow you to the kitchen. Treat time for the Terrible Two. Vet says four each. You say “What!? They will kill me in my sleep!” Aha. Four. Not fourteen for these crack addicts. Keep your bedroom door closed tonight, and wear earplugs.

Grip the smooth silver of the fridge door handle. Pull to open. You must be losing weight, ’cause inertia’s not enough now. There. Ahh. Hear the sucking door seal, note the frail flicker of the light. There’s a last bottle of Heineken. It is smooth and cool and even. Sit you down, father. Rest you. Take care not to cut yourself when that twist off cap doesn’t work.

Sweeping changes

at fifteen, I think,
friend said “I hear you got a job”
“whaddya do?”
“I sweep”, I said,
and Buddy laughed his donkey laugh.
I felt a little small.
“You’ll be climbin’ the ladder real quick, har har!”
But, self taught I was,
minimal supervision. Wounded pride and all.

At thirty,
sweeping changes came to my life.
I now wore ten hats,
took home a briefcase full of work some nights.
Guess I had climbed the ladder a bit.
Still I swept.
When deadlines hung over us,
we worked until the bell, and after.
I sent the guys home,
and I swept.

I had a boss
who had big responsibilities,
for our plant and for others.
He came out back once,
saw some of our guys sweeping,
grabbed one of their brooms,
showed them the correct way,
embarrassed everyone, including himself.
Yelling, waving his arms.
As fate would have it,
our company president witnessed the show,
made as if he didn’t see it.
After that, Captain Queeg was sacked.

The worst thing I ever swept up
was a cocoon of dead kittens,
all stiff,
born in a pile of skids.
Thrown onto the floor.

And now, today, I sweep the back hallway,
where my own kittens do their business.
Finally I have learned to use the knees,
not the back.
Trouble is, the knees are going.
Soon now, soon, I will have to hand over the broom to another.
Maybe sweeping will change them, too.

There was once

Old Maggie.
You lived here, and to this day it stands, guarded by posterity. A testament, at least, to the spring steel backbones of your times. Not a curve to its roof, or a lean to its timbers. As upright as you always were, I reckon.

I’ll be seventy next year. When I was one tenth of that, my mother took me to see you for the first time. There were no smiles or caresses, only a stern sizing-up with your raven-like gaze. At mother’s instructions, I was not to call you Granny or Grandma or names of such ilk. And certainly not Maggie. It was to be Grand Mother, and that was the end of it.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
While Mum and Grand Mother spoke in quiet tones, or went out to the garden, I was left to play with the ancient piano, and was told not to touch anything else in the house. Grand Mother had one of those little yappy dogs, and when it wasn’t vocalizing, it was doing circuits of the house, seemingly trying to get me to follow. I did take a curious look around the place, avoiding the touching of anything but the floor. Lots of small dark tables with doilies on them. Pictures on the walls (all straight), of Sons in the Army and Air Force. All of perfect posture and grim aspect. Curiously, an old rag doll sat on the kitchen counter. And, in the back mudroom, some animal skins tacked to the walls, next to a rack of rifles and shotguns. Grand Mother was a widow by that time, but Grand Dad’s effects were never disturbed.

[Why was Mum afraid of you? My little boy’s instinct told me that, right away. In our short time there, she seemed to always be wanting your approval, and your stern expression never changed.]

We stayed long enough for a silent dinner, and then Grand Mother went to her bedroom and brought out an old leather change purse. I remember it being heavily bound with elastic bands. She took from it a rolled wad of paper (more elastics) and gave it to Mum. And then, it was time to go home.

When we got to Toronto, Mum solemnly gave me the first paper money I had ever had of my own. It was five dollars, on the instruction of Grand Mother. A fortune to me. The last time I saw her was three years later, at her funeral.

Upon Mum’s death, some forty years later, we had to clean out her apartment. In her old trunk, wrapped in tissue, was Raggedy Ann.

No rush, no rush.

On the old dirt road,
all is calm,
all is bright.
A stand of cat-tails recovers from yesterday’s bent,
telling me which way the wind went.
Browning fronds dip down,
drawing degrees of their deaths from the snow.
Nothing here for anyone, really.
Nor for feather, fur, or fin.
Here I stopped for an insistent bladder.
With that taken care of, I turn to go,
but stay instead, for a moment or two.
If my party friends could see me now,
they might say
“there he goes with his mooning daydreams”.
It’s a peculiar time, a pausing time, a settling time.
All that has been, and all that will be
seem to have met at this nexus.
A thing, put off through doubt,
is affirmed, and I nod,
to no one in particular.
From my backseat toolbox, I grab some scissors.
Cat-tails.
She always liked them.
But these are not the pencil ones.
And they are dead.

In the waiting room

With the exception of an elderly couple, and a young couple with a toddler, I think everyone in the X-Ray waiting room, other than me, was staring at their phone.
It was the “please take a number” system, and I lucked out by having mine called about two minutes after I sat down. It was, however, just a preliminary registration, and you still had to wait for your attendant to call you in.

To pass the time, I normally just people watch, hopefully without being too obtrusive. If someone makes eye contact (increasingly unlikely these days), I smile and say a couple of pleasantries, perhaps remarking on their cute baby. Today, there was silence, except for the old man and woman speaking in low tones, and the woman behind the desk, who would call out every few minutes “number eighteen? Is there a number eighteen?” After the third or fourth repetition of this, I suggested she could take a coffee break.

A man and woman walked in with a seven or eight year old boy. They sat down without taking a number. The boy amused himself by picking up books, dropping them on the floor, running around the room , trying on another kid’s hat, and…..you get the picture. His parents sat looking at their phones, and finally, after some glances of displeasure from across the room, the dad grabbed him by the arm, shook him, yelled at him, and plunked him down in a chair, whereupon he started to wail. “Number eighteen, number eighteen?” sounded again, and they realized they needed to get up and grab the ticket.

The young couple with the toddler, who was remarkably well behaved, had him sit on his Mom’s knee, and she began to read quietly to him, from a Dr. Seuss book. She made each character come alive, and her child was in rapt attention, his glance going from the book, to his mother’s eyes, and back. It struck me that this scene made a little tableau that was like something out of a Christmas card, or a child’s storybook. I was so taken, that the woman looked up and caught me staring. I reddened a little, and smiled. She smiled back, and continued with the reading.

I am nothing if not a sentimentalist, and this seemingly blissful family brought me back to the days when I used to read or sing my own children to sleep, and I thought “if they remember nothing else, I hope at least that they remember that.”