A Year Without My Sister

A Year Without My Sister

Somewhere in between my sister’s last breath and this morning’s timid dayrise, I stopped listening. To those who told me, “Do not exalt your sorrow.” To those who cast me aside because they didn’t know what to say so they steered clear. To those who changed the subject in favor of lighter conversation when I needed their ear or their shoulder most. I stopped listening. To the opinions, the judgements, the chatter, and the deafening silence. All of it. I took care of myself. I took care of my Mother. Kept her spirits up in the very same way she did mine. That’s what my Sister would have wanted. For us to be okay, alone together. And, we are. Somewhat. We’re getting there at least. With the help of willing and gentle familial hands, healing is possible. A dear heart shared a book about sibling loss that helped quite a bit but the truth of it is, one full year later, I am still profoundly grief-stricken. The loss of a sibling, it’s like losing the ability to breathe, losing a limb. It leaves you halved. And, I have four siblings left. The mere thought of ever having to endure a similar loss, is terrifying. My Sister was my friend my whole life, and no matter the state of our relationship, her absence has forged a deficit in my life that will forever plague me. I can’t even imagine how it feels for my Mother. If the loss of sibling hurts this much, I can’t imagine how badly her heart is broken to lose a child. From the depths of such despair, we continue to recover. Frankly, it’ll take a lifetime.

I sit alone today, remembering. Her hospital room. The grey window overlooking the rain-stained sidewalks, bare tree branches drumming on the muddled pane. My Sister, after a long restless night, unhooked from everything aside from her heart monitor, held on. Her heart beat strong even though her lungs lagged. I had one moment alone with her before she died. My family made the trek for coffees and snacks. I sat vigil at her bedside, my hand wrapped around her arm just above her wrist. She was warm and still. I talked to her quietly. She moaned softly in response. I realized after a bit of time passed, I couldn’t move my hand. I knew I should let go. I tried. And still, my fingers stayed snaked protectively around her. I tried to instruct my brain to let go and yet not a muscle in my whole body moved. Not even a twitch. I didn’t fight it. It’s just that when I found the courage to slacken my grasp, a dear friend of hers breezed through her door and called my Sister’s name. The volume and nervous tenor in her voice startled me and caused my grip to tighten but my Sister’s eyes also snapped open in response to her friend’s arrival. It was a hopeful but fleeting acknowledgment. It was all she could muster, a surprised reaction to a voice she loved more than most. For the rest of the visit, her breathing rattled on, my hand still firmly in place. When my family, the faces I’d been facing the inevitable with, returned with hot Starbucks coffee and a bite, I let go of my Sister’s arm. Guilt washed over me. My fingerprints were deep in her soft skin. Unbeknownst to me, I quite literally had a death grip on her limb. I watched the color pour back into place while I sipped my coffee and listened to her heart monitor bleeping above.

There were so many moments the night before, with the faces I’d been facing the inevitable with, circled around her dimly lit bed, that caused me great anxiety. Each time she made a strange sound, or her breath shuddered I held mine and wondered if that was it. It never was. At that time, I realized her heart monitor had been turned down and away from us. When I inquired the nurse told us families find it too scary. I requested for her to turn it around and set the volume to low. After a night of fits and starts, wondering if it was her time, I needed to be fully aware of what was happening. She was more than happy to oblige. She understood exactly the reasons why. I just could not be blind-sided. Nor did I want my Sister to slip away from us without any notice.

I still cannot believe she’s gone. When they transferred her from Dartmouth to Halifax, I thought for sure she’d be okay with the proper team, who could assess what was happening with her body and provide the necessary treatment and care. It did not occur to me that she was dying. Or, maybe it did, and I was in denial. My memory, in that capacity, does not serve. I do remember feeling a pang of optimism. That first night. A Friday. My eldest Sister and I sat with her late into the night. We decorated her space with family photos, trinkets from home, and a painting my eldest Sister’s husband painted for her. Still lucid, my Sister awoke, regarded us with sadness and said, “You guys are going to be so tired. You don’t have to stay.” A ball of pain rose in my throat at her concern considering where she was, “Don’t you worry about us,” I told her, “we just want to hang out with you a little longer, we’re fine.” Either of us wanted to leave her. On the announcement she was being moved over to Halifax, she was paralyzed with fear. She didn’t want to be transported by ambulance. She was tired she said and wasn’t sure she could handle it. I did everything I could to calm her. I promised we’d be there when she was settled in her room. And, we were. It took an incredible amount of time for them to get her there, get her settled, and let us in. We waited impatiently in one of the hospital’s family rooms. The interning doctor finally came to talk to us. She asked us a series of intense and intimate questions. They were difficult to answer. We spoke candidly and carefully. The statement from the doctor, that still to this day, sticks with me, “Your sister is not going to die imminently.” Die? Where did that come from? She died a mere five days later. Which proved to me, the care, or lack thereof, she received across the harbor, in a word, was abysmal. Die? I could have died at her words. I thought we would get answers, not be planning a funeral.

Five days later. Her heart monitor is doing its deed. Keeping us abreast of what is happening inside of her while she slept peacefully, encircled by love of family. The night before, I was in Walmart with my niece. My eldest Sister and two other nieces were with her. We received a barrage of text messages telling us to drop everything and get to the hospital. By all accounts during that day, she seemed like she was almost improving. And then, the fight to detach herself from machines began. We made our way to Halifax in a hurry. Upon entering the room, my Sister’s eyes were open, her hand partially extended. I said hello to her, she looked up at me, and to each face standing guard over her, my eldest Sister, three nieces, and said, “I love you guys.” They were her last words. So sincere, peaceful. One of her biggest fears was dying alone. At least in her absence, we can take some comfort in the fact we know she wasn’t alone and was engulfed in love.

The moment it happened; it still haunts me. I am well versed in her facial expressions from a lifetime of laughing and crying and arguing and worrying. But that last expression, the one where the life left her eyes, changed the whole person I was into someone else. I was stood at the end of her bed. My eyes frightfully went between her face and the urgent activity happening on the screen of her heart monitor. It happened in the blink of an eye. One minute she’s breathing peacefully, the very next second barely breathing, and then gone. Her face. Her eyes. Her essence, gone. Her life force lifted out of her and she ceased being. Her eyes rolled and went grey. I felt my legs give out. In the strangest haze, I lowered myself down onto the stool and whispered, “Oh my God.” I covered my face with my hands in a state of disbelief, shock. I stayed only a moment and exited the room. I sat in the chair just outside her door, composed myself and started making the dreaded calls. A few of my Sister’s dearest friends started to trickle in, ones we thought might want to say goodbye. They were all too late. I watched them, one by one, arrive, and almost buckle to the floor in the despair they didn’t make it in time. It was all so surreal. So fucking sad. Too much. I just kept thinking – I don’t know what I’ll do without her.

What have I done without her? The simple answer is – live. It has been a struggle to settle into a new normal, one that doesn’t include her. I wake up, I go to work, I go home, sometimes I let loose for a bit of fun, and somewhere in between I try to understand this world without her in it – without her boisterousness, her bullheadedness, her comedy, her cursing, and her friendship. She, very much like our Dad, who bore another gaping hole in my Universe when he passed, took up a lot of air. I don’t know what to do with what they left behind – all I can manage is to celebrate what was. Some days, it’s still hard to breathe. Other days, it’s peaceful to recall her. Most days, it’s lonely. But – every day I wake up with a pulse, with those I love still with me, is a blessing. Nothing, as I’ve painfully been reminded, is promised.

I was fortunate enough, at the last minute on Saturday after my Big Magic adventure, to encounter a psychic medium. He provided me with a good dose of comfort. There were specific details about her life, personality, experiences, and otherwise he’d never have known unless she was there to share with him, unless he knew her personally. He did not. The crux of his offering was that she is always with me, around me, appreciates me talking to her, keeping her up to date on the latest news (even though she already knows he said). The most important thing he imparted was that she was safe and happy and among us. I can only hope that’s true. After speaking with him, I am certain it is.

A year without my Sister. A year today, is also a year without me. I’ve learned from losing my Dad, when the firsts come along or occasions, it’s helpful to partake in things they liked most to be close. I’m thinking enchiladas for dinner and a playlist full of her favorite music will be a good place to start. We still haven’t gone through her things, what’s left. That’s on the agenda as well. It’s also calling for a rainstorm today. Appropriate for the current feels of remembering.

I love you, Sister. I miss you like crazy.

In propinquity,

Nic

Golden Earring

Golden Earring (A Flashback)

There were many a time I could have easily given my Mother stroke when I was a youngster. It’s bad enough that I lied to beloved nuns about her giving birth to a phantom baby that kept us up all night or that I ran amok half naked all over the neighborhood (and by neighborhood I mean our sprawling front and back yard, maybe through the wooded path) but the day I got my ears pierced was what you might call a humdinger.

It was one of those glorious sunny summer days where me and my Mother piled into the car with First Niece buckled safely in the backseat and First Sister ‘n’ Law, otherwise known as Lead Foot, at the rudder. First Sister ‘n’ Law’s driving style = bat out of hell. My poor Mother, who has never developed a stomach for rapidity, always held on for dear life, her own feet practically pushing right through the floor. It may as well have been a Flintstone car! We four were out and about doing the traditional weekly errands – groceries at the Capitol on Portland Street (which always meant a new Archie comic for yours truly), Pop Shoppe refills in behind Penhorn Mall (which was always a coo because I got to pick out the flavors once my Mother’s colas were acquired and secured in the take-home crate), a quick lunch (probably at the Wooclo lunch counter with an orange Jell-O and a dollop of whipped cream for dessert), and then we hauled ass to Cole Harbour. First Niece had an appointment to get her ears pierced. Something her little heart begged for until Bookend Brother and First Sister ‘n’ Law grew tired of her nagging and relented.

My Mother opted to stay in the car for a rest and a cigarette while we three were in the salon. First Niece skipped through the front door and proudly announced she was there to get her ears pierced. The Very Nice Lady welcomed us and led First Niece to her station where she climbed up into the big chair, into the kiddie booster seat, and steadied herself while the strong scent of barbicide and hairspray invaded my airway.  The Very Nice Lady let First Niece pick out which pair of studs she wanted. Easy peasy. The Very Nice Lady, for lack of a better phrase, loaded her gun while she imparted easy cleaning techniques to First Sister ‘n’ Law. First Niece sat patiently waiting while the adults above her talked amongst themselves. I watched her carefully watching the gun. I had a feeling in my gut. It wasn’t the Jell-O. You just know when something is about to go awry. Even at that age, my instincts were razor sharp. And then, the shit hitteth the fan. The Very Nice Lady pointed her weird gun at First Niece’s left lobe and pulled the trigger. The caterwauling that ensued set First Sister ‘n’ Law sideways. First Niece went into full meltdown mode. First Sister ‘n’ Law lost her marbles. I watched the whole frenzied scene in disbelief. First Niece held onto her face like she’d been shot JFK style, flat out scream-refusing to get the other ear done. First Sister ‘n’ Law’s voice went up higher than my Alvin and the Chipmunks record. She was that exasperated at First Niece’s revolt she stormed out of the salon, got in the car, slammed the door, and cried to my Mother about how unhinged her child was. So yeah, it was just me, First Niece who writhed and wailed worse than Linda Blair in the ‘Exorcist’, and The Very Nice Lady who hadn’t moved a muscle or taken a breath since she shot the pretty gold jewelry into my kin. She attempted to try and convince First Niece to brave the other ear now that her Mother had gone outside. First Niece wasn’t having any of it. She sassed The Very Nice Lady in such a way her mouth should have been washed out with soap. And, that’s where I come in. To save the day. I made my way to stand in front of First Niece and gently consoled her. I told her that everything would be okay and that one more ear and she’d be done. She pouted and folded her arms tight up under her chin like a defensive pretzel, “I am NOT doing it! I won’t!” Sigh. She was stubborn nut to crack. I had to think quick on my feet. “How about if I get mine done and to show you that it’s not so bad?” Her face softened, she nodded. I lifted her down from the chair and sat in. The Very Nice Lady, grateful for my interception, showed me all the pretty gold studs. I picked out my birthstone, turquoise for December. She loaded her gun and took aim at my ear. First Niece stood close holding my hand. I jumped a tiny bit in the chair when The Very Nice Lady pulled the trigger. First Niece squeezed my hand in terror. It hurt like a mother but instead of reacting I smiled down to her, “One ear down, one more to go! And when you get your other ear done, we’ll match!” I saw her eye twinkle through her tears. She nodded. The Very Nice Lady shot me on the other side, and I was done. I didn’t bat an eye even though I wanted to curse a blue streak. It was enough for First Niece to get back up in the chair to brave the other ear, “Hold my hand!” I held her hand until both of her ears were successfully pieced. At that exact moment, a much calmer First Sister ‘n’ Law re-entered the salon. First Niece ran over to her and proudly displayed both ears. It was jubilant news to her ears. First Sister ‘n’ Law was taken to the cash to pay but didn’t have enough money with her to pay for mine. I ran out to the car, sidled up to my Mother in the passenger seat, exposed my ears, “I got my ears pierced!” Consider for a moment that she had just spent all that time trying to calm First Sister ‘n’ Law down, who was in bat shit hysterics, only to have me waltz up, hand out, looking for money she didn’t have to pay for my ingenuity, “Jeeeeeesus Christ, child! I don’t have money for this today! Suffering Moses!” She rifled through her purse and came up with the amount after scrounging for the change. I didn’t want my ears pierced, there was no plan or desire, but my word, someone had to take control of the situation.

First Niece and I had another similar experience when we were a little older. There was a meningitis outbreak. There was a mandatory vaccination taking place at my high school. First Sister ‘n’ Law, aka Lead Foot, sped us there for our needles. I am not a fan of needles. I wasn’t then, I’m not now. While lined up in the gymnasium, First Niece knotted her arms up like that same kind of pretzel lamenting she didn’t think she could go through with it. First Sister ‘n’ Law told her not to be so foolish and that a needle prick was worth not getting sick and dying. On cue, I volunteered to go first to show her it was no big thing. She entered the triage tent area with me. I sat dutifully on a metal stool, rolled up my sleeve, and smiled at her. She half smiled back even though she was quaking in her converse. The nurse manning our station had stepped out before I sat down so when she bound in, a large German woman in white, I was a little taken aback. She was stern and silent when I sheepishly mentioned I was little afraid of needles. She ignored my comment, snapped on rubber gloves, loaded up the vaccine and aimed toward my bicep. I took a deep breath and flashed a fake brave smile at First Niece who was ashen watching me. Nazi Nurse, instead of moderately injecting me like a sane health professional, jabbed me instead like a serial kille. Blood spurted everywhere from my arm, a violent spray that soiled her uniform and sullied the floor. First Niece shrieked. The sound that came out of her flashed me right back to the salon.

Jeeeeeesus Christ.

***

I’ve been thinking of these little memories for some time, so I thought it was time to write it down. A nice addition to the creative non-fiction project.

In propinquity,

Nic

Girl, You’ll Be a Woman Soon (A Mere Song)

Girl, You’ll Be a Woman Soon (A Mere Song)

Women with small children know full well that no business done in a bathroom is private when there are small children nipping at their heels. This was true for my Mother and sisters with the littlest version of me running around, mirroring everything they did, monkey see-monkey do. At a tender age, four years old to be exact, I knew where things were in the bathroom cupboards and drawers – shaving creams, razors, soaps, toothpaste, band-aids, towels, face cloths, feminine products. I’m sure you see where this is going.

Keep in mind, I liked to be a naked kid. At four, I liked to run around in my underwear and who didn’t at that age!? My parents, who were still together at this time, had company. Usual suspects, likely my uncles and aunts, close family friends, it was a fondue party. A typical scene of jollity in those days, folks eating, drinking, smoking, laughing, and jabbering at an earsplitting decibel (at least for a four-year-old!). In other words, a good rock’ time. In all the fun of cooking bits of meat and vegetables in hot oil on sharp skewers, no one paid much mind to me weaving through a sea of adult knees. And then someone alerted my Mother, pointing in my downward direction, “Houston, we may have a problem.” There I was, amid all the grown-ups, sporting an ungodly waddle. I am sure at first, my Mother, my poor Mother, thought I’d shit my pants in the middle of their festivity. On closer inspection, and much to her dismay, she realized I had a thick wad of maxi-pad in my drawers which caused my awkward toddle. My Mother’s face went red as a beet, “What in God’s name, child!?” Legend has it I looked up and regarded her with pride, “Just like you guys!” My poor Mother.

Way Cooler Sister was there for me when I was a mere tween when I was curious about the birds and the bees. Of course, this was after the unfortunate talking vagina incident via Brother ‘n’ Law’s filthy DVD player. My Mother, who had not known how to broach the subject of womanhood with me, provided a book from which Way Cooler Big Sister could enlighten adequately. She gathered me one afternoon after a few spirited games of tetherball and cracked the cover. She started with the parts, mine and that of the boys. Together, we read through the ins and outs of intercourse, conception, pregnancy, birth, and even sexually transmitted diseases. Eventually, they taught us a bunch of the same stuff in Health class, but it was nowhere near as edifying or as considerate as when Way Cooler Big Sister bestowed the material. I admit, I winced and squirmed from looking at all the diagrams, “Those penis things look kinda weird, don’t they? Like a hot dog with a hood.” Taking the task very seriously, she ignored all my stupid commentary. Even when I almost cried when she showed me a picture of a baby’s head crowning at birth. She maintained that it was all natural and normal. Even dicks. Her word, not mine. I said she was considerate, not subtle. To add to that, she also said there was nothing she showed me I’d ever need to be ashamed of, especially my period.

I was prepared for it. I didn’t expect to get it as early on as I did. But I was prepared. Equipped. As you already know, I knew exactly where the ‘things’ were. In the bathroom cupboard on the middle shelf in the yellow box. She told me, “Whenever the time comes, just take one from the box, stick it on your panties and the pad will catch the blood.” I asked her if it would hurt on account of knowing blood was going to come out of me from down there. She said no. I a million questions. She answered each one with a maternal calm. And because she did, I was ready to meet Aunt Flo. Sort of. 

It turns out getting your period cramps your style. Literally. I was in fifth grade. Our Most Beautiful Teacher handed out a Language Arts test I was certain to ace. It was my strongest subject, obviously. I was sat at my desk, wearing my favorite outfit of the moment, pink almost jeans (almost with a ton of stretch) with my black and white rock ‘n’ roll t-shirt. It was one of those standard tees with rockers such as the Sex Pistols and Ramones depicted in black blobs on white cotton. Probably the coolest piece of clothing I ever owned then and now. A gift from none other than Rock Star Brother. I picked up my pen to begin my test. Yes, you heard correctly, a pen. In fifth grade. My penmanship, along with few select others, was so impeccable, she permitted us to do our work in ink. It was quite an honour. Anyhow, I grabbed my pen and feasted my eyes on the quiz. I wrote my name in curly cute loops up at the top and tucked in. Mid way through the first question the words started to get a little fuzzy and that made me dizzy. I broke out into a cold sweat. My stomach started to swell in a pain that wasn’t familiar. Cramps. Bad ones. But not in my gut. In my groin. I did the best I could to complete all the questions and quickly excused myself to the washroom thinking maybe if I pooped my tummy or whatever was happening to me might stop hurting. And, then I saw it. The inaugural pink hue in my undies. In that panicked moment, I forgot every word Way Cooler Big Sister told me. I forgot about the book and the conversation entirely. As if it never happened. I couldn’t understand why I was bleeding from my bird. I stuffed a giant wad of toilet paper in there and sped to the office to call home. If I was going to die, I wasn’t going to croak at school. No one answered. I called Father Mine at work. He was unavailable. In a meeting. I was a sweaty heap of worry for the rest of the day, bitter I couldn’t get in touch with anyone to come pick me up and take me home to my death bed. I half cried at my desk until the end of day bell rang.

It was the longest bus ride home to Cow Bay. I needed my Mother. I needed a doctor, stat. And then, as the bus cornered its way around the dyke it all came flooding back. All the things Way Cooler Big Sister said. I wasn’t in fact dying, I had gotten my period. Aunt Flo came to town much earlier than I had anticipated. Even though I knew all about her, I still thought I had time. As my Mother says, guess what thought did …

The bus finally arrived at my stop, the last on the route. I hobbled off and home. At that point, in addition to cramps, I also had hunger pangs. The queasiness all day prevented me from eating my lunch. On the walk home I somehow got a small burst of energy and I just started running. I ran into the driveway, up the side stairs, busted through the door, locked myself in the bathroom and disrobed. In a clean pile of folded laundry, I found my pajamas and a clean pair of undergarments and braved the yellow box in the cupboard. I fiddle faddled forever. I knew where they were, but I didn’t know exactly how to use them. I was intimidated. And then, I solved the puzzle. Proudly poured myself out of the bathroom. I found my Mother and Way Cooler Big Sister in the kitchen making supper. Pots were hot, the delicious aroma of roast wafted in the air. And, as if I hadn’t almost had a meltdown in my desk earlier and I wasn’t mad at the universe and everyone in it because no one would answer the phone or come get me, I announced with the utmost confidence, “I started my period!”

I ruined my pink almost jeans. My Mother tried to get the stains out, but it was a lost cause. I also failed my test which should have been a breeze. Most Beautiful Teacher called home to see if everything was okay as it was unlike me to flunk at the arts of language. I am certain my Mother gave her the low down. The kicker of the whole thing though was a few weeks later when Rock Star Brother visited for Sunday dinner (oh, how I miss Sunday dinners!). He and Most Beautiful Girlfriend, who often teased me for articulating big words, arrived with hugs and smiles. And then he said the most horrendous thing to me, “I heard that you’re woooman now.”

I thought I’d die.  

***

It’s difficult for me to write these pieces and not talk about this subject. It’s a rite of passage for every girl. I remember my Kelly relaying all the details of that book like it was yesterday. I remember the way it felt sitting in my classroom feeling like I might fall out of my chair from the pain. My first made me incredibly sick. For years, I’d often miss a day of school if the that time of the month fell on a weekday. I had a terrible time with it. A lot of pain and headaches and exhaustion. Fortunately, I grew out of them and with the aid of the modern miracle that his birth control. It seems strange to be recounting this when I am at an age where my body is facing the opposite end of that spectrum. I’d be a lot more comfortable talking to my big brother about menopause than I was having him congratulate me on becoming a woman. Lord Jesus. I remember that like it was yesterday too. And, I know he didn’t say it outwardly embarrass me but since I looked up to him so much and I knew he knew, I assumed he knew all the gory details.

It’s hard being a kid. A girl.

In propinquity,

Nic

PS – I didn’t have access to my grade 5 school photo at the time of posting so the accompanying one relates more to the first half of the piece than the last.

Christmas, Nineteen Eighty Something (A Short)

Christmas, Nineteen Eighty Something (A Short)

 It was Christmas, nineteen eighty something. I was red as a beet sitting in front of the heavily tinseled tree opening my stocking. I opened a thick long package with the word ‘pads’ emblazoned on the front. May as well have been flashing neon. Rock Star brother was watching with glee, and I thought I might die. I could not believe that they’d put maxi pads in my Christmas stocking for me to open in front of him! I sort of pitched a fit, hiding the forbidden item behind the fat of my back. Way Cooler Big Sister starting roaring laughing, “You ass, they aren’t pads for your bird, they are to clean your face!” Everyone erupted in a fit of laughter then. Didn’t help. At all. It turns out my Mother did love me; she came to my rescue by diverting their attention from my imminent and dramatic self-inflicted death to a gift she had unwrapped from Biggest Little Sister. New slippers! Fuzzy warm ones.

That same Christmas Santa (aka Way Cooler Big Sister) gave me a hot pink tourmaline hair crimper. Hello, it was the eighties. Big mops were all the rage. It gave me an opportunity to catch up with all those hair band posters. After gifts and breakfast, we all dispersed from the living room for a spell and reconvened in the kitchen for turkey dinner. It was me, my Mother, Way Cooler Big Sister, Rock Star Brother, and a few others who for the life of me I cannot remember. That Christmas puts me at the height of my teenage acne epidemic as well as the brutal beginnings of my lifelong battle with the bulge. My hair was long and thick still. At least I had that.

I got The Game of Life that year. While our bellies settled from all the Yuletide fixings and before we broke the game open, Way Cooler Big Sister crimped my hair. By the time I got to the table to play with my new pleated locks, Rock Star brother and whoever else was there had imbibed, perhaps just a little. Just a wee bit. Spirits were high. My Mother was busy cleaning up after our feast while we horsed around playing the board game. Rock Star brother popped a bottle of Peach Schnapps open to mix with orange juice and lots of ice. He and Way Cooler Big Sister clanked glasses and then snuck one in front of me. Score! Certainly, it was more juice than hooch, my Mother was standing by! I was the banker in the game since I was the sanest at the table. Plus, it was my game. I was doling out everyone’s money when Rock Star Brother, out of nowhere, exploded in fit of uncontrollable laughter. His mirth was so mighty the whole of his body was shaking but not a peep was coming out of his mouth. Tears streamed down his cheeks. He fist-bumped the kitchen table to find relief. In his Schnapps haze, he looked up, took one look at my hair, which was higher than the Empire State Building, and he lost it. It is a rare occasion to see Rock Star Brother laugh in this manner. Once I got over the insecurity of his laughing directly at me, I started laughing with him. Way Cooler Big Sister had already started wheezing. And, so did my Mother. From the other side of the kitchen no less! Just from hearing him bust a gut. Shortly after his hilarious outburst, he spilled an entire glass of Schnapps and OJ all over the game. More hilarity ensued. The Game of Life as it stood was no longer feasible to play. It was sticky and bubbled. Oh, but the merriment was more than worth it.

I can tell you this much, it was a much more enjoyable holiday even with the near maxi pad scare and the ruination of my brand-new game. Years before, when I was still wide-eyed and full of childish wonder, I asked Santa Claus for a writing desk. I dreamed of something crisp white and magnificent, with deep drawers and fancy handles. I got up in the middle of the night to pee. I was sharing a room with Way Cooler Big Sister at the time. She followed me down the hall in the dark. I was supposed to make a sharp turn into the bathroom, but I could see the daylight straining from the living room. It was almost morning and I could hardly contain my excitement to see if the jolly guy made good on his promise to deliver a desk. I started rounding the corner to see if I could see straight into the living room, but I slammed into something solid and sharp that wasn’t supposed to be in the middle of the hall, “Ouuuuch!” Way Cooler Big sister rolled her eyes at my dramatic reaction. I flipped on the light and there it was, just as I had dreamed, a crisp white magnificent desk, with deep drawers, fancy gold handles on the deep drawers. I squealed in delight, looked to Way Cooler Big Sister and said, “Santa brought me my desk! Look! I wonder why he left it in the hallway.” She, surly and uninterested scoffed quite matter of factly, “Mom and Dad put it there.” Totally innocent and confused I asked her, “Why would they do that?” She rolled her eyes and emitted a deep slow sigh, “Because they are Santa Claus.” I was taken aback, “HUH!?” Stunned and even more confused, I looked at the most beautiful desk in the whole wide world and then up at her, “Santa isn’t real?” Way Cooler Big Sister pursed her lips and shrugged, “Nope. You’re getting too old to believe in him anyway. About time someone told you the truth.” I didn’t believe a word that came out of her stupid mouth. But later, after the fake surprise reaction to my desk (re)discovery, I sidled up to Father Mine and asked him if what Way Cooler Big Sister said was true. Turned out it was.

I didn’t care what any of them said, I still believed. I still might.

***

A small snapshot of a Christmas past. I have always loved moments when raucous laughter takes over. Especially with family. I been witness to my brother laughing that hard only a handful of times, and he’s a funny guy. But, when it hits that hard, it’s worth being present for. I can see us, plain as the nose on my face, at the dining room table, turning ourselves inside out laughing. Admittedly, I was intensely insecure because these were people I idolized. I wanted to look cool in front of them, not foolish. As a grown up now, I have no problem, but at that time, it was hard to swallow, primarily because I was so uncomfortable in my own skin, and so eager to be near them. But the laughter, oh. Made everything good. Doesn’t it always?

As for my Way Cooler Big Sister, it took awhile before I forgave the Santa fiasco. It goes without saying, we laughed about it often as adults.

In propinquity,

Nic

A-Tisket, A-Tasket (A Snip-It)

A-Tisket, A-Tasket (A Snip-It)

To my Mother’s absolute dismay, I rather enjoyed being a naked kid. Not butt naked, I did have a little bit of humility. I just liked to run topless when out in the wild. And, by out in the wild I mean running around our massive yard with my flat-as-pancakes boobies on display for all the squirrels and blue jays to see. She’d shake her kerchiefed head whenever I’d zoom past her out the side door. I saw my brothers do it and my next-door boy best friend baring their chests so why couldn’t I? I refused to listen to the simple reason that I shouldn’t, therefore I did. I think she gave up arguing with me and let me go since there was no one to really bother us that far into the sticks in those days. There are countless snapshots of me in the family albums bare-breasted. Having said that, it’s important to note this little quirk pre-dates my raging body image problems that I carried with me into adulthood. I’m talking the age five and under. I was free as a bird. It came to bite my Mother in the arse.

The day we got our enormous driveway paved was just as exciting as the day we got cable. I envisioned myself then with a brand-new bicycle to drive, with a fancy banana seat, handlebar tassels, and a jingly bell (all before discovering the sleek reality of a BMX courtesy of my next-door boy best friend). That day though, I was still running around on a tricycle that I was fast growing out of. I sat in the living room bay window on the lookout of the workers. Around nine in the morning, I watched a decrepit truck, full of gear, with an able crew of dark-skinned men, some much older than the others, pull into our driveway and announced happily, “The pavers are here! The pavers are here!” I ran to the side door and hung out while my Mother greeted the hard-working company trying to shove me inside and out of the way. They spoke for a few minutes. My Mother told them if they needed anything to let her now and they got down to business, the business of paving our gargantuan driveway where my future bicycle would glide. My Mother looked at me and said, “You stay in the house and leave those men alone. You can watch them out the front window but stay inside and out of their way, do you hear me?” I nodded dutifully. I watched them for the longest time from the kitchen window until my Mother booted me off the cupboard so she could get some housework done. I moved onto the front step where nearly no one ever went but it obstructed my view of their diligent albeit stinky work. The smell of the asphalt made me a little queasy, but I wanted nothing more than to be right out there in the thick of things. Pretty soon my Mother found things for me to do and I almost forgot about our friends turning our gravel driveway into a smooth mall parking lot. Almost. They went quiet. And, at the same time, my Mother was AWOL. And by AWOL, I mean she probably went for a pee or was quickly unfurling her curlers on instinct that I might get up to no good. If that were the case, her gut didn’t lie.

I escaped Alcatraz out the side door and went to make friends. My Mother offered them something cold to drink earlier. They politely declined but she left it in the fridge incase they changed their minds.  Artfully, while not under the watchful eye of the Warden, I lugged the hefty pitcher of juice (probably Tang that belonged to Brother ‘n’ Law – he was addicted to the stuff) filled to the brim with ice-cubes to be hospitable. It was the well-mannered thing to do after all. And, if my parents taught me anything at that point, it was that manners mattered.

My Mother came looking for me shortly thereafter. She found me sitting on the hill in the front yard under the willowy arms of our shady front yard tree with my new pals, scarfing down Kentucky Fried Chicken. When I went out to see if they were thirsty, they accepted. In exchange, they offered to share their lunch with me. There I was, my two long dirt brown pigtails and red shorts, sitting with Ernie and Earl, gnawing on a drumstick like it was no big thing. I told them the very same hill we were sitting on was the one my Rock Star brother used to teach me how to ride a two-wheeler. He didn’t so much teach me as gave me a swift shove and hoped for the best. His intentions were good I suppose. It was also the hill that not long ago bore a giant hole. Something to do with our well. My cousin and I were outside playing while our parents visited. Her older brother was in toe too. He was being a bit of a jerk. My cousin, his sister, same age as me, hauled off and shoved him down in the hole. It was the only time I ever saw him cry. We rolled around in the grass laughing.

My Mother came around and saw me, I beamed up at her, raised the greasy chicken bones in my slick hand, “We’re having lunch! And I brought them juice!” My new friends didn’t know what to do or think. My Mother told me it was time to come in thanked Ernie and Earl for sharing with me. It should be noted that both Ernie and Earl gave my Mother a knowing nod. They were simply minding their own business, taking a break from the grueling heat and work to nourish and cool themselves not expecting to be confronted with a shirtless five-year-old eager to ask them a million and one questions about how exactly pavement was made. I can’t recall what they said but they did a heck of a lot of awkward chuckling. Their regret was implied. I feel bad about it now since I’m sure it wasn’t exactly comfortable for a few grown men to have taken a long overdue break from paving to enjoy a bucket of chicken only to have a five-year-old shirtless kid, a stranger kid, crash their party.

My Mother gave me a bit of a what for, a gentle talking to so as not to alarm me but on the inside she was fainthearted.  She reminded me that it would be better if when we had people by to work on the house or yard, strangers, it would be preferable to wear a shirt. I’m sure in that moment she wanted to send me outside to play in a one-piece snowsuit.

And, thank the ever-loving Jesus Nan wasn’t visiting us on that day.

Father Mine would have had a stroke.

In the end, we were left with a spectacular paved driveway and a funny story to tell all these years later.

***

I was pooped last night when I went to bed. I haven’t been feeling well the last few days. A summer cold grabbed me late Saturday night and put me out of commission all day Sunday. I missed the bulk of Father’s Day aside from my annual post to Dad in Heaven and the other awesome Dads I know. I was out of order. Kaput. Yesterday, my ears were still drumming, head still pounding, throat still burning. There were a few moments I thought I might fall over in my chair but I made it through and am feeling better today aside from tiredness from being kept awake by a wash of memories flooding over me.

This piece is only small, but the day is vivid in my mind. Those wonderful guys came from Preston with their tools and equipment and turned our drab driveway into a dream come true. I tried everything I could to dodge my Mother so I could go outside and watch them work. Or, better yet, converse. Ever the observer, I needed to know about every paving detail. That and my stellar manners are what landed me on that hill with those two poor fellows who were probably crawling out of their skin, sitting with a very pale shirtless five-year-old girl. Nevertheless, they felt to me, as if I’d know them forever, trading crispy KFC for ice cold Tang. I understand the optics. From all sides. But this image of me, inserting myself like I did, leaves levity in my heart. I was fond of Ernie and Earl. I was interested in what they were doing. The same would be true today.

In propinquity,

Nic

Bookends

Bookends

My eldest brother, who I affectionately refer to as my bookend, for as long as I could remember, had long hippy dark hair and a thick bushy beard to match. The smiley squint of his warm eyes and the redness of his round nose figured prominently among the mop. Our noses could have been twins except mine has a pronounced upward turn at the tip which gives me a cartoonish side profile. My Mother, as well as the Sisters who taught me at Pre-K those two years were always after me to stop swiping my nose upwards whenever I’d get the sniffles or had a cold. Sister Sophie would scold me, “If you continue to swipe your nose like that, you’re going to drown in a rainstorm, child!” I haven’t drowned yet, but I do hate my nose. I should have listened.

Bookend Brother had a lovely girl to compliment his husky face. A sinewy figure with straight as a board brown hair, chocolaty eyes, and a brazen laugh. When they wed, I was their flower girl. The family photos are a hoot. I stuck out like a sore thumb in front with the rest of my family towering over me in my furry snow-white headband and a too-long dress. Together, they were responsible for my becoming an aunt at the tender age of eight. First Niece was a beautiful bouncing baby girl, and bald as a q-ball. She was a welcome delight. And better yet, I was no longer the youngest so yay me! Her favorite past time as a wee one was to be puttered around the house in a laundry basket while holding on to the sides, white-knuckled. Heaven forbid you stop. She’d wail for more.

Rockstar Brother had the band wagon, Brother Bear had the shaggin’ wagon, Brother ‘n’ Law had the Mini Minor, and Bookend Brother had a souped up jeep. Many a time I drove around in it with him, top down, hair blowing wildly in the wind, and rock ‘n’ roll noise pollution emanating. I at that point I thought I was lucky when the one of the neighboring boys would throw me on the back of his dirt bike and whiz along the dirt road of Jimmy’s Lane. But, when Bookend Brother came riding up with his jeep, the world became a much cooler place. I can’t even begin to describe the feeling of freedom that soared through me when we’d speed up and down the Hills in Cow Bay, strapped in tight as can be, hair lifting me up and trying to pull me out as we wound and tipped the whole way.

I fell in love with music videos in the early eighties. Bookend Brother, First Sister ‘n’ Law, my Mother, and Way Cooler Big Sister, used to convene in the living room with snacks us young punks and libations for the elders and hunker down for Fright Night Videos. I would thrown myself on the carpet with the family dog, only blinking, only breathing during commercials. I knew every single frame of my favorites, Blue Peter’s ‘Don’t Walk on Past’, UB40’s ‘Red Red Wine’, Bonnie Tyler’s ‘Total Eclipse of the Heart’, and cringe through the insect infested Yes video ‘Owner of a Lonely Heart’. Bookend Brother would heckle and hoot, getting a kick out of the sheer disgust of me, my Mother, and First Sister ‘n’ Law. It was like four-minute horror flick! Band members manically turning into birds, snakes, lizards, with scenes of scorpions and centipedes. I always tried to pay more attention to my snack than the television whenever it came on, but I was thwarted to look, it was impossible not to even though I one hundred percent did not want to. We’d all be cringing, squirming, full on grossing out and Bookend Brother would just cackle. Sister ‘n’ Law, with her intense fear of snakes, would usually leave them room. I lived for those Friday nights. They were the best.

Bookend Brother, at some point after the birth of First Niece was born, shaved his face. It was a shock. He basically went from resembling one of the members of any 70s rock outfit to one of the baby Beatles. It’s like the world fell on its like the world fell on its arse. I mean, it was him, but it wasn’t. It took a lot of getting used to. Now though, when I think back, I find it hard to picture him with a face full of fur.

I spent a lot of time in the house Bookend Brother built on Caldwell Road. Since I was eight years older than First Niece, I was tagged for babysitting. I didn’t mind because I loved their house full of the coolest things, including but not limited to the giant nature-themed mural in the living room a basement full of records, tapes and a full-size bar. Sister ‘n’ Law would pick me up at the crack of dawn. First Niece was never an early riser so when they both left for work, I’d drift into their waterbed and wade back to sleep. It was there in that wavy bed I saw my first glimpse of … ahem … porn. Bookend Brother had mounting collection of girlie magazines on the bed’s shelf. It didn’t occur to me to look at them. And then First Niece, the nosey parker she was, climbed into the ark and ripped one open. I confess, I was a little taken aback. I snapped it from her little hands instinctively, like I knew it was something we weren’t supposed be looking at considering I saw bare boobs. It reminded me of a time when Way Cooler Big Sister showed me something, I KNOW I wasn’t supposed to look at. In fact, I may still suffer a bit of PSTD from it to this day. Excuse the side bar but if I don’t tell this story now, it’ll leave my head – I almost wish it would. If you want to skip over it, I won’t be the least bit offended. In fact, I encourage you to.  Way Cooler Big Sister and I were at Biggest Little Sister and Brother ‘n’ Law’s trailer babysitting. First Nephew was tucked in good and tight. We settled in to watch a movie on Brother ‘n’ Law’s fancy new VCR with the multi-colored buttons on its front, a top loader. Way Cooler Big Sister, knowing full well what our dirty-minded Brother ‘n’ Law had been watching before we got there, it the play button instead of putting out very family friendly movie on. The screen zapped on and all I saw was a … this would be the time to skip the rest … a talking vagina.  It sounded like Linda Blair’s voice in ‘The Exorcist’ but it was fake flapping, spewing a bunch of gibberish about the Devil! I was traumatized. Way Cooler Big Sister laughed so hard she couldn’t breathe. Crying, I tried to wrestle the remote from her to turn it off. Needles to say when I discovered a stack of seventies/eighties porn movie boxes behind Bookend Brother’s bar, I wasn’t as queasy. I’d take a Burt Reynolds bush over a talking one any day.

The first rule of Babysitter’s Club at Bookend Brother’s house was do not, under any circumstances, let First Niece touch his records. And, I didn’t. I touched them for her. When she wasn’t running around outside with her friends, we’d listen to the ‘Grease’ soundtrack and throw darts. That was another rule. Do not, under any circumstances, let First Niece throw darts. Ah well, what they didn’t know then wouldn’t hurt them. First Niece almost took out a light above the board once. It was a close call. But it didn’t break. They were none the wiser. The rest of the time, I’d laze on their sectional, listen to countless records he had recently transferred over to cassette tapes and daydreamed. It was an easy gig. One I enjoyed. It was a privilege to be trusted to defend their castle and protect their young even though he would sometimes, when he’d had a little too much to drink take to mooning me and whomever else might be present. It’s like the beard was back! One trait this end of the book did not inherit.

***

My loveliest Bookend Brother, one of my dearest friends. Now that we are all grown up, there is nothing I enjoy more than I glass of red and a long conversation with him.

I think a bit more, in time, will be added here as well.

Love you all the way to the other end!

In propinquity,

Nic

High School Confidential

High School Confidential

I absolutely hated high school. Loathed every torturous second. It isn’t because I went through primary to ninth grade with the same crew, or that we’d be going to school outside of our community, or because the year before we were slated to go there was a race riot, or that on my first day of tenth grade while opening my assigned locker a pimp dropped his digits on a piece of scrap paper on my book bag and spent the first few weeks sitting dangerously close to me in Biology class – it just sucked the life out of me. Sure, the friends I’d come up with scattered like flies once we were bused out of Eastern Passage to Cole Harbour High. Most of them went on to do wonderful things and forged new friendships that have lasted them a lifetime. I decidedly did not. I was a library rat. I hung out in the hallways at lunch and talked to nerdy kids about music which I quite liked. I faked sick a lot so I could stay home. I had teachers I didn’t enjoy. I wasn’t engaged and I most certainly did not apply myself. I was one of the loners. It didn’t help that in my first Honors English class, sitting with all the popular Colby kids my teacher passed judgement on me quickly based on my appearance. He singled me out and quipped, “Where are you from? Let me guess, Eastern Passage.” I nodded, annoyed at his tone. “I thought so, you’re wearing black.” Big whoop. I had a black sweatshirt on with my jeans, the gal beside me was wearing a black sweater too. Brand name but still black. What kind of teacher says that to a new student? Any student? What kind of educator passes judgement based solely on appearance and geography? For good reason, I disliked him immediately. He did the same to fellow EPer a few rows over. He was wearing a leather jacket with an Iron Maiden patch on the back. A smart kid, with a well work copy of ‘Cather In the Rye’ in his back pocket. Our lovely teacher teased about his ‘hockey hair’ which was hilarious to me considering the meat head sitting in the desk in front of me an actual hockey player and dumb as a stump. But I digress. I was happy still have a few of my good friends from ninth grade in my corner. One of which was my wing woman the day I got in the biggest trouble of my teen years.

Music saved me during those years. Listening to it, feeling it, digesting it, dissecting it, absorbing it, wearing it, speaking it, wolfing down articles and liner notes, wallpapering my room with rock posters, and waxing poetic with anyone who would engage in lyrical discourse across all genres but in high school, I developed an affection on hair metal. It started at TC’s house watching endless hours of ‘Pepsi Power Hour’ on Much Music. She was obsessed with Faster Pussycat. And, it goes without saying that the harder and faster the music, the higher the hair got. BR was a massive Def Leppard fan who I was already familiar with because of Rock Star Brother. We all overdosed on and rocked out to a shoe-box of well-worn cassettes, GnR’s ‘Appetite For Destruction’, Crue’s ‘Shout at the Devil’, Poison’s ‘Look What the Car Dragged In’, Warrant’s ‘Dirty Rotten Filthy Stinkin Rich’, Whitesnake’s ‘Slip of the Tongue’, and of course TC’s beloved Faster Pussycat’s ‘Wake Me When it’s Over’ – the box was full of the hair metal standards. It was the one side of myself I could share with my friends, the side of them I could enjoy. I also had, at the very same time, a deep love for my new romantics and 80s pop. It was like having a split personality. I’ve always been one of those people, I like what I like, and I don’t care what anyone else thinks about it. Especially when it comes to music.

I was particularly smitten at the time with metal sty-lings of Slaughter. I ordered ‘Stick It to Ya’ from Columbia House and practically chained myself to the mailbox waiting for it. I mean I had to have it to learn every single lyric to every single song since Way Cooler Big Sister scored us tickets to see them (and Winger) open for KISS (sans make-up) in Halifax. I was impatiently counting down the days until the show, crossing them off on the calendar in my student handbook. And then our plans went down the shitter. Paul Stanley ran into a guardrail on stage in Johnstown Pennsylvania and cracked his ribs. His injury resulted in KISS’s Atlantic Canadian dates in Moncton, Halifax, and Sydney to be canceled. I’m pretty sure our hearts were more injured than his ribs. We. Were. Devastated. And then, the silver lining.

BR and I got wind that even though KISS had canceled the show, the boys from Slaughter and Winger were making a pit stop in Halifax for an in-store record sesh. It was a workday for Way Cooler Big Sister, so she couldn’t go. My Mother told me, even though it’s a school day, if Father Mine says it’s okay, I could go. Sigh. I dialed his work number with Devil horns crossed, praying to the Metal Gods he’d be agreeable. He was not, “There is NO way in HELL you’re skipping SCHOOL to go traipsing around with a bunch of god damn rock stars. You’re well too. No. You’re going to school.” I committed a sheer act of rebellion. I lied to my Mother and told her he said yes. There was no way I was missing the chance to go hang in a record store with Slaughter. I was a good egg, I never disobeyed direct orders. Odd if you think about it since I grew up with adults my whole life, you’d think I’d want to let my freak flag fly. But I respected my elders, for lack of a better word, and minded my manners. I knew early on that doing the right thing got you so much further in life than bucking the system. And really, it just wasn’t in my nature. I was a square peg tightly squeezed into a round hole.

It was a perfect day. I woke up to the sun shining. And, by some stroke of pure luck, as I was walking down my driveway to leave, Way Cooler Big Sister was walking up, hands full of mail. Guess what had arrived? At that exact moment? You guessed it, my cassette! I thought I’d have to buy a second copy for them to sign but Canada Post came to the rescue. I met BR and we bused across the bridge to Barrington Street. In those days, A&A Records and Sam the Record Man were across the street from one another. I confess, I spent far more time at Sam’s but on this day, A&A is where I needed to be. It’s where Slaughter would be, signing stuff. I wasn’t as big a fan of Winger, but they’d be at Sam’s, so we’d kill two birds with one stone. Us two teen queens parked our Jack Daniels sweatshirts in line. And waited. And waited. Like forever. Until there they were, behind a long table ready, willing, and armed with Sharpies. The first member of the band we met was the sweetest. He signed our stuff and smiled appreciatively. It went that way until we were standing before the owner of the dynamic voice who sang our favorite song at the time, ‘Fly to The Angels’. To our I guess visible dismay, he was less than gracious. He wouldn’t look up at us or reply to our kind words and request for a photo with him. Complete ignorance. Their drummer, who was sitting next to him, waiting patiently for us to come his way caught the whole disappointment and invited us around to take snap a picture. He made the day and I couldn’t wait to have it developed! We left A&A a little less impressed. Who am I kidding!? A lot less impressed. It stuck with me because when MySpace became a thing, I took advantage of the platform to tell that singer, just what I thought of him while minding my manners at the same time. BR and I popped over to Sam’s to see if we’d have better luck with that crew. The band were all there. Kip Winger, from the whispers I heard, was AWOL. We didn’t really know what to do so we fake-browsed through the records and tried to further eavesdrop on all the nervous chatter coming from the band. Kip eventually emerged. To me, he looked a creepy ass decrepit vampire in desperate need of a serious blood bath. His seedy eyes were heavily lined, his sneer insincere. Who were we kidding, he was whacked right out of his heavy metal gourd. I took note of the long fingernail on his right hand presumably used to play his bass but more likely doubled as a coke spoon. It was ghastly filthy. I didn’t approach him because he wigged me out too much, but we did enjoy the banter with his band. Super nice fellows. Much like those who frequented our basement with Rock Star Brother throughout the years.

When I got home, I excitedly imparted every detail in warp speed to Way Cooler Sister. And, then the phone rang. Father Mine found out (someone totes ratted me out) I blew off school to go to Halifax with my bud. He was livid. Never had I ever heard those kinds of words come out of his mouth. Ever! I am sure the other five did at some point, likely more than once, holy snappin’ assholes he was wild. He called me a few choice names and did the whole ‘if you EVER do that again’ speech but his voice trailed off.

It was like the opening montage of a Twisted Sister video. Imagine, the one and only time I got into riotous trouble was because of rock ‘n’ roll. I’d sold my soul, what can I say.

***

I saw something on the social media that reminded me of this day and the enclosed photo. I had to add it as a creative non-fiction piece for my project. Of course, years later, we laughed about it, Dad and me. Doesn’t mean he still didn’t shake his head and tell me he thought I had more sense. I joked with him and said, “At least I didn’t run away and go on tour with them!” Back then, I just might have. Who knows …?

In propinquity,

Nic

Death of a Salesman

Death of a Salesman

It was never easy to one-up Father Mine. He was always so quick with his witty quips, gags, jokes, and one-liners. On rare occasions when I was older, sitting around his Sunday dinner table, I’d trip him up or render him speechless and there’d be a glean of ‘ya got me’ in his grin, most times a quick red flush in his cheeks. And then, without missing a beat, he’s ten laughs ahead. Most times I think he thought me nine cents short of a dime, maybe I was. But, if I was, he was too. Apples and trees, you know? They don’t fall far.

I remember the first time I stumped him. Like it was yesterday. It wasn’t a witticism or any kind of a yarn, but a tried and true stump. As in, there had to be a blue moon hanging in the sky because he was at a loss for words. If you knew Father Mine, or of him at least, you know full well he always has something to say, about everything.

Father Mine wanted to, instead of our usual quick weekend trips to McDonalds or Lawtons to scout the magazine rack, take me overnight. I was wary of the offer at first because at that time, Father Mine didn’t have a place of his own and was staying with a friend and his family. He said he was house-sitting for someone from work so I could come and spend the night. That made more sense, so I accepted. He’d make dinner and we could see a movie together or maybe go for ice cream. He picked me up, I was armed with my brand-new rainbow book bag full of pens, paper, and other arty things to keep myself occupied in case he had work to do or something or other. Before we left Cow Bay, we made a pit stop at the Cow Bay Moose, took a few pictures and drew in the cool almost winter air. The one-bedroom apartment, situated in Woodside, a stone’s throw away from the Halifax Harbour, was bright and keenly kept. You could have eaten straight off the floor. I don’t think I had ever been in a house that was so tidy. Father Mine and I settled in at the evening’s abode after a quick casserole for supper and a random show or two on television. I had my heart set on a movie at the actual theater but as predicted, he was continually hauled away by urgent work calls. I didn’t mind so much because at least we were together. In proximity, anyway. Me in the living room scribbling in my notebook, and he, nestled in the crook of the kitchen counter with a heavy receiver to his ear, talking in a hushed voice. I missed my Mother in that moment but at the same content he was near. It’s the one thing I envy my siblings, having both parents in the same place, as a family. That isn’t something I had or what I did have I was too young to remember. Nothing stopped me from daydreaming about it though, all eight of us, in our varying ages and hairstyles, cordially passing a heavy bowl of mashed potatoes around the table while yammering on about our day.

I laid awake most of the night listening to him saw logs, missing my own bed, missing home. The next morning, I got up early and nosed around a little. The apartment looked different in the light of day. Father Mine padded sleepily into the bathroom to as he put it – shit, shower, and shave. He put the television on for me and told me to help myself to a bowl of cereal for breakfast. I sat with good ol’ Captain Crunch and listened to him sing while the shower ran. Father Mine emerged, fresh as a daisy and plugged in the kettle when I asked, “What’s your friend’s name anyway?” He stumbled a little on his heels reaching for the milk from the fridge. He muttered something but it was anything but a straight answer, “Just a friend.” I almost let it go, “Why does your friend from work only have women’s clothes in his closet?” Father Mine almost swallowed his tongue in shock. It never occurred to me the tidy pad belonged to :: gasp:: a woman. The primary occupant, with the sweet-smelling sheets, would eventually become my stepmother.

Father Mine was a car salesman. He could sell a tall ice-cold glass of water to a drowning man. I spent a lot of time at the dealership on Saturdays with him. I never did like, nor do I still enjoy, that new car smell. It makes me queasy. I attribute it to all those weekends waiting around for him to close a deal, complete paperwork, or finish long behind-closed-doors phone calls with his feet up on the desk. I only know that because he had an office just off the showroom walled in glass. His boss was the nicest man in the whole entire world. Big Boss was a white-haired distinguished gentleman, and I mean that in every sense of the world. He was warm spirited and giving. I found that out quite by accident. Father Mine told me to stay where he could see me this one day, but my ears were probably plugged and I soon found myself halfway down a long hallway, office doors on each side. Big Boss’s door was daringly propped open. I waltzed in, uninvited. Everything was made of dark wood or covered with wine covered leather. His heavy desk was grand with not an office supply out of place and the obligatory cheery family photo propped up in the corner just beyond the telephone. Brazenly, I climbed up into his high back leather chair, shoved my arse right into the back, stretched my sausage legs out straight, and wiggled my feet in victory. It felt forbidden and powerful all at once. I was so pre-occupied with play pretending I was the boss, barking orders at my make-believe employees I didn’t notice a tall figure darken the door, “And what are you doing, young lady?” Uh oh. Big Boss. I stammered to answer. Father Mine was going to tan my hide for getting into things I was told not to. Big Boss advanced into the room and lorded over me in the chair. I held my breath, convinced he was going to give me a rampant what for. Instead, he leaned down and slid one of his grand desk drawers open to reveal a treasure trove of candy, “Go on, help yourself.” From then on, I’d sneak into his office, wriggle myself comfortably in his chair, and nibble on caramels, peppermint patties, even hard rum-flavored candies. One time, he even left me a whole Oh Henry chocolate bar with a little note – a sweet for a sweetie. When I was five, before I was truly aware of his presence, he gave me a shiny white Christmas bulb with Santa faces all over. It has become most beloved heirloom and each year when we put up our Christmas tree, that is always the first ornament to go on, in homage, and with love.

I used to also love sitting behind the impressive reception desk, the nerve center of the operation. That’s where Ms. Myra sat each day and controlled the switchboard. I thought of her as sleek administrative astronaut, steering the whole ship. I used to call Father Mine at work every day after school, for years. Ms. Myra was always the one to direct my call. We formed a mutual admiration society. So much so, that if she knew I’d be coming to the showroom with Father Mine, she’d leave me a box of Smarties on her desk. She’d ask Fridays, and if I said yes, without fail, there was always a little treat waiting.

And then there was the waiting room full of fancy leather chairs where people would wait for their vehicles to be serviced. I liked it in there best. Just on the other side of the wall was the body shop where Brother Bear toiled to mend dents and scrapes. But the wall itself, it housed professional head shots of all the salesmen and women. Father Mine’s was always in or near the top right position. I don’t know if it meant he was the best that week or month, but in my books, he was always aces, a head above the rest.

And, he wasn’t just a salesman, Father Mine was a natural born entertainer. He and his musician friends would play all the kiddie Christmas parties at the Buffalo Club and his outward goofiness used to fill me with equal parts pride and jealousy. Pride because he was my father and was so incredibly impressive and jealousy because I had to share him with all those other kids when I hardly had any time with him. A few friends told me recently those parties meant the world to them because it was the closest thing to a Christmas they had. Father Mine filled them with joy, lifted them up. And, I because if only I’d been aware then, if only I hadn’t been so envious and shy, I could have linked arms with my peers and wailed my silly guts out too when they pulled out their show-stopper, “I love my rooster, my rooster loves me, I cherish my rooster beneath the old oak tree, my little rooster goes cock-a-doodle-do do-de-do-do-do-do-do-de-do-do-do-do …” For all the time I craved with Father Mine, some of the time I did get with him I was inhibited and cautious. Too afraid to embarrass myself in front of him. I idolized the ground he walked on. And yet, I felt like there were a million miles in between us. He was exceedingly good to me. To my friends. But I had a heart full of spite. I remember a cousin of mine, the same age as me, and he’d tell me he bought her a new winter coat or new sneakers. Or she’d gloat and tell me Father Mine took her for a hamburger and bought her all her school supplies. I spent so much time turning myself inside out over it only to grow up and learn it was because she didn’t have a winter coat, not even an old one and he couldn’t stand the thought of her going without a jacket. I saw his kindness in a light I aimed to emulate.

We talked at length about it near the end of his days. He in his hospital bed, me sitting on the chesterfield next to him. The conversation started with him, choked up, apologizing to me for not being there enough for me, for not doing enough, or being there when he should have. It busted me up inside. I assured him that even though I felt all those things, the confusion of him leaving when I was so young, to being shy and droopy, and jealous as hell of my cousin, I couldn’t have asked for a better person to father me, to follow. In that moment, and as I write it now, even though I wish I’d been able to be more open-hearted and fun-spirited, if I’d changed it, that beautiful conversation would never have taken place. We bore our souls to each other. Talked openly about our feelings. Laughed. Cried. Laughed a little more. It was a first for us. Except this one time, when Way Cooler Big Sister was about to make a whopper of a mistake and had Father Mine out of his mind, he came to my work and asked if I could take a break to have a coffee with him. He needed to talk. We sat on a sunny patio next to the water. I sipped a cup of hot tea while he, exasperated, spilled his guts, and then asked me, me, for my opinion. Also, a first. I’ve kept that little rare tete-a-tete to myself all these years. He sat across from me fidgeting, ringing his hands, sitting on the edge of the wire chair that gave me serious waffle butt, his leg bouncing as he talked. I had his full attention. He needed me. Finally, I had something I had always wished for.

***

This little piece, for my Dad, which in the future, will likely be extended, is his little early Father’s Day gift. I know it isn’t as funny as previous pieces but not all memories are laced with humor, right? I do still vividly remember him being aghast when I asked him why his friend’s closet was full of women’s clothes. It’s like I caught him with his hand in the cookie jar. I don’t think he thought I was observant enough to take notice. He underestimated me, the last of the litter. It’ all I did, watch. Listen. Assess.

I miss him. So very much. My heart ached while I typed away. I feel so bad because I wanted to be around him all the time and there were times when all I’d be is obstinate. It was confusing for a lot of my younger years to waver between my parents with messages. I worked through anger phases that I didn’t get to have them together like my siblings did. My entire world looked completely different than theirs. I think it’s why I’ve spent the better part of my life being a peacekeeper, standing as Switzerland, an active ear, and somewhere for the people I love to lean on. Nothing make me happier than to be around my family. Then and now.  No matter what shape it has.

If you still have your Dad with you, hug him for me. For you. For him. Talk. Reminisce. Be honest. Be loving.

In propinquity,

Nic