And so. Just so.

Lines of vines
cling to string.
A swooping tree
dangles hard round fruit,
so green.
Rhubarb, tended,
raises its flower flags.
All this, in the brash and beautiful
life of July.

In a late afternoon cruise
I come, by chance,
to the scene of a sad and early death.
Bouquets by the roadside.
A styrofoam cross.
Tattooed tire marks, black on grey.
Fresh and smooth asphalt
covers that which was melted away.
The stains of her blazing death can’t be scrubbed.

In the small silence of an out of place town
I slow, scolded by the flashing speed sign.
Things cry out for paint.
A little care is all they ask.
A pair of toddlers pursue one another,
tan knees all scabbed.
Will they see a good life,
or seep into this stolid realm
of used-to-be.

Tonight, I tell you truly

A man walks to his usual crossroads, all right turns until he completes the simple square that brings him home.  Tonight, he goes out late because of the hot sun, something to avoid with these new meds.  As a trade off for the cool and pleasant breeze, someone has provided intermittent clouds of mosquitos.  No matter.  Without even breaking stride, he plucks up some hobbit courage and decides to take the long way home.  All left turns. She’s sleeping anyway, won’t even notice.  And besides, I have my phone and it’s still daylight.  Hey Google, play The Beatles.

He wants to hear what’s going on around him as well, so he slips the phone into his back pocket and goes without the earbuds.  The first thing that Spotify thinks of is “Yesterday”.
He knows that this route is exactly three times longer than the old one, and feels for a second that he has jumped in with both feet.  There’s a moment of doubt.  He stops and considers turning around, but stubborn pride spurs him on.  After all, you’ll be 70 next year.  Just easy…take it easy, you’ll get there.  The numb knee still works, and it’s still numb, so that’s a bonus.

Ever since, as a kid, he had found the green edge of a twenty waving at him from the melting snow of spring, he had kept his nose to the ground whenever he could.  No such luck tonight, of course.  Just the expected litter of a sad society.  His mind wandered stupidly, trying to picture what might be going on in people’s heads as they chucked things from car windows, smashed beer bottles in the ditch, crushed pop cans in a ritual showing of strength.  What if, what if all of this could be gathered somehow, from every street in the neighbourhood?  He would direct, yes he would, with his creative talent, a crew of say a hundred willing workers.  He would design, and they would construct it, a massive sculpture of a muscular man, kneeling on one knee, shouldering the great sphere of Earth.  All integrated, and all made of collected detritus.  A name?
“Atlas, the Collossus of Roads”…..Well.  Poof.  That daydream had occupied his mind for a good kilometer.  Now it was back to the slow scanning of sidewalk cracks.

And there, at the entrance to the church parking lot, a dirty spiral-bound notebook.  It looked as if it had been run over one time too many.  The metal binding was crushed, and the lined pages were splayed out like a bridge hand.  What a find, he thought, as he picked it up and brushed the mud off it.  Several of the drivers who were waiting at the stoplight got an eyeful, and one smiled and shook his head.  Must have thought look at the old bum picking up whatever he comes across.  The first page had stickers on it, saying such things as “Stay Rad!”  and “You are capable of great things!”img_20190709_220649

Most other pages were blank.  One appeared to be notes taken during a class on the abuse of pharmaceuticals.  Their effects.  Their routes of entry into the body.  Memorize this.  There will be a test.00000img_00000_burst20190709220910838_cover

On the dark blue cover of the book, someone had written in fine black marker, barely visible, the names of drugs that were commonly sold on the street:  Oxycodone, tranquilizers, amphetamines.  Underneath that, in the same handwriting:  “Hey Dylan!  These are really cool.  I can get you some.”  Spotify said TURN OFF YOUR MIND.  RELAX, AND FLOAT DOWNSTREAM.  IT IS NOT DYING.  IT IS NOT DYING.

One last page, in pencil, bore the legend “I am sure, Ace, it is best for Wags to stay home”

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Our man could see the stoplight of his destination, far off now, and uphill.  His pace slowed.  It was still pretty warm, and he took off his hat.  Damn the mosquitos.  Now, as three teenage girls approached him, the strains of A Hard Day’s Night were playing.  They giggled, as teenage girls are prone to do, whispering asides to one another, hands covering painted lips.  Just when the man thought they were having their sport at his expense, one of the girls did a fist pump and sang along with Lennon as he keened
“You know, I feel alright!”

Home.  Finally.  And none the worse for wear.  He would sleep well tonight.  In one hand was the notebook, and the other held a poor man’s bouquet of what he thought were wildflowers, but could have been partly weeds.

“For you”.

“Well, get that stuff outa here.  It’s probably got bugs!”

 

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.

Alliteration bugs in the garden

I dug the whole hole for that last scrubby shrub.
Busted birchy bones to get in.
Warm wiggly worms waggled their surprise.
Put peat partly into the mix,
Tamped the topsoil tightly down.
Aggravated army of ants on the march
On skin they tickle
like drops that trickle.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
At last, with a drench,
and pardon my French,
I curse with the worst malediction.
And, swatting the ants
that have crawled up my pants,
I perform it-
A shrub’s benediction.

 

 

Acting my age

From decades of borrowed wakefulness
and broken sleep,
this body gives way.
The hated alarm faces the wall.
Last night’s dreams of peace
unfolded over fourteen unmedicated hours.


This afternoon, with morning coffee,
I take the two steps down to the garden,
descending into green rest.
I understand fewer things now.
I repeat small stories, so I am told.
It makes me timid to tell what I think is a new one.


When I start, I see people’s eyes dart to one another,
and so I know now what is meant, perhaps, by second childhood.
To be seen and not heard.
Without much of importance to say, I quiet down.
Give short answers. Sleepy, Dopey, and Grumpy are me.


And, you know, I try to do things the way I always did them,
then surprise myself when I can’t.
Or hurt myself out of stubbornness.
This is the way of it.
I cannot bear longish reads anymore,
though I thirst for the great writers.
I am almost bereft of Random Accessible Memory.
Perhaps I will pay for an audiobook.
War and Peace might be a bargain.


Although, my sweet,
I would dearly love to have you by my bedside
to read me into the night,
as I did for you, so long ago.
Ah well, I console myself with the belief
that I was not altogether wicked,
because we know there is no rest for them.

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

Passings

It’s a slow down zone, and, in today’s tiny town, a little girl with scabby knees dawdles along the sidewalk.  Her chin and part of her white T shirt are stained dark purple from the grape popsicle she’s licking.  As she passes a picket fence, she puts out a pudgy hand as the slats go by.  She likes the soft suggestive sounds and the roughness of the old wood. The rhythmic ta-TAT-ta-TAT-ta-TAT as her small fingers brush along the boards.

Soon, the fence gives way to the clipped green lawn of the local Legion.  Celia had first seen the rusty army tank from the swaddling blankets of her stroller.  Mommy had taken her for an outing on the prelude to a winter’s day, some eight years ago.  Today, she wants to climb up and sit on the gun turret, even though there’s a sign that says
Keep Off, and even though Mommy has said “don’t let me catch you”.  Up and down the street she looks, then reaches for one of the fenders to hoist herself up….but it’s no good.  All at once, she’s reminded that she’s late, she’s late, for a very important date.  The oversize wristwatch, strapped to her wrist by Mom, tells her she had better get going. They’re going to see Aunt Daphne, and she has to get cleaned up and dressed up.

In a few minutes, Celia is climbing the steps to her front porch.  Mommy is sitting there with her arms crossed, a bad sign.  “What on earth were you doing?”  Celia, covered in dirt, has a purple face  and a runny nose into the mix.  Oddly, as her Mom stands up, Celia just hugs her waist and says “It’s alright.  It’s alright.”  Mom takes her by the hand into the house.  “Girl, it’s bath time, and God knows how I’m going to get that purple off of you.”  Celia sticks out her tongue, which is also purple.

This day, as they ease into November, the darkness is coming on sooner, so Mom wants to get the drive over with before nightfall.  When by herself, she is prone to speeding a little, but tonight she has Celia in the back seat (where she has always made her sit for safety reasons).  As they pass the last traffic light in town and head onto the open road, a Police car happens to pull in behind them.  She keeps, of course, to the speed limit, and the Officer keeps a respectful distance back.   “Celia, keep your eyes open.  We’re coming to the big curve.  You might see some deer up there.”  As they’re about to enter the wide curve,  Mom notices a huge tandem trailer of logs approaching them, just straightening out from the corner.  She slows down a little, out of instinct.  Sometimes these big rigs stray over the centre line by a foot or two.  At that exact moment, a car pulls out from behind him and floors it, trying to pass.  Mom slams on the brakes, steers too sharply, and hits the steel guardrail.  Their car catapults and rolls down a slope towards the lake.

Officer Remy had steered in the opposite direction and had hit the rock cut on the left.
As luck would have it, he had grazed it sidewise, but at considerable speed.  His cruiser was a write off, but his injuries amounted to a sore shoulder and neck together with some broken ribs.  He was able to summon help.

Celia wakes up in hospital with her Aunt Daphne sitting at her bedside.  Celia has a plaster cast on one arm and one leg.  Her vision is blurred, but she can tell that her Aunt has very red eyes.  When Daphne sees that her niece is conscious, all she does is hug her tightly and cry as she has never cried before.  Their lives have changed, and the future has turned as cold and as grey as the bleak November sky.