Bibbidi-Bobbidi-Boo

Bibbidi-Bobbidi-Boo

The first and only vacation I took out of Nova Scotia with Father Mine and Step Mum was in the spring of 1988. With bulging suitcase in toe (I still have not learned how to pack light), I gleefully bid my gang adieu (except LP who came with me as my plus one), boarded an airplane for the first time in my life, a plane Orlando bound. Disney World or bust. I felt super worldly sitting next to the window, a brand new-to-me pair of sunglasses atop my head (pinched from Rock Star Brother but shush don’t tell him), and a carry-on full of snacks and a fancy bottle of Evian water. I was cool as a cucumber until the plane started to ascend, its nose pointing in a Heavenly direction. I almost choked on the complimentary peanuts I popped in my mouth as we gained speed and rose higher into the air. I was quite certain I was going to have a heart attack and end up in the wrong Magic Kingdom. Once we leveled out amid a mirage of billowing clouds, my stomach returned to its rightful place and my heart slid back into place after almost coming out of my mouth. And, for the next few hours everything was right with the world. Smooth sailing.

Landing in Florida was like something out of a beauteous reverie, even better than the daydreams I’d been conjuring up pre-departure. We left the chill of early spring in Nova Scotia behind for an easy breezy dry delightful heat. So long dampness, my old friend! Upon arrival, the glorious sun was slowly starting to sink into the Orlando horizon painting everything with a buttery haze that shone through the languid palm trees. Anyone who knows me knows I love palms, and, that was the exact moment I fell in love with them. A short stint inside the busy airport to retrieve our baggage, acquire our rental car, and we were on our way to home for the next week. Our hotel reminded me of a larger scale ‘Melrose Place’. And the pool, a curvy blue lagoon lined with uniform white long lazy lawn chairs. It was an intense thrill for a nerdy kid from Cow Bay to be in such exquisite surroundings.

One of our first adventures was Sea World. Father Mine, who refused to ask for directions when he got us lost in the middle of an orange grove, I mean deep in an orange grove. So much so that the farmer dude who flagged us down to politely tell us to get lost, offered to let us pick an orange each to take with us. Father Mine, his pride a little bruised, declined and hightailed it out of there lickety split. Our trip to Sea World really made me miss Way Cooler Big Sister who was back home working. I felt a little guilty seeing whales in person without her even though we found their being in captivity cruel. I won’t lie, while waiting for Shamu’s show to begin, thoughts of the movie ‘Orca’ crossed my mind. You remember it, the gritty film about a callous profiteering fisherman who unwittingly kills the pregnant mate of a clever killer whale. The fisherman then becomes the target of the enraged, grief-stricken creature. It’s ‘Jaws’ meets ‘Moby Dick’. That pivotal scene where the Mama Orca is strung up on the boat and miscarries Baby Orca traumatized me for life. No scene in any horror movie ever disturbed me as much. The sound of the Mama Orca screaming out in pain, the Papa Orca replying with deafening rage, and the sight and plop of Baby Orca on the ship’s deck. I plead with you, do not Google the scene. Nope. Don’t do it. I am happy to report there was no screeching from the pool, nothing put playfulness expert whale acrobatics. It was awe-inspiring. Their size, their smarts, their style.

We got some serious shopping done in the greater Orlando area. I hit the mall hard. I bought myself a bright blue California Raisin tee, peach shorts, Rick Astley’s ‘Wherever You Are’ and Pebbles’ self-titled cassettes, and a new Walkman for the plane ride home. As a side note, who didn’t own the Rick Astley!? And, I only bought the Pebbles tape because I kept missing being able to dub ‘Mercedes Boy’ from the radio. Not that I need to explain myself, I’m not ashamed! Our shopping day is kind of a blur. Step Mum probably bought new fluffy towels and LP bought Lip Smackers and a kitschy Florida tee. Of course, Father Mine was nowhere to be found until we met up for a quick supper and a ride on a riverboat.

Next stop, Walt’s World. Walt Disney. Me and Walt, we share the same birthday, which is also the date Mozart died but I digress.

Disney was, for lack of a better word, magical. In every sense of the word. I got goosebumps when I passed through the entrance to Epcot Center. They were still working on it so we weren’t as thrilled as we could have been had we gone ten years later. I did love the World Pavilions, especially France boasting a replica of the Eiffel Tower. Much like palm trees, I fell head over heals with Paris during my Florida trip. I loved the Haunted Mansion, a New Orleans antebellum manse that was more comical than scary. I particularly enjoyed when the little cart exited the house and if you looked in the mirrored walls alongside of you, it looked as though a ghoul had hitched a ride with us. I stood in the long line for Space Mountain but as soon as it was our turn to hunker down and buckle up in one of the buckets I chickened out. LP shot off into the rollercoaster abyss with a total stranger and when she emerged from the other side her face was a brilliant shade of alien green. She said it went so fast one of her hair combs blew out of the side of her head. Father Mine and Step Mum accompanied us for the Pirates of the Caribbean ride. The tiny vessel chugged along the canal and then did an ungodly drop. Father Mine cursed. And, when it dropped the second time down into the main caves of the attraction, he cursed more, “Is this a god damn roller coaster!? Jesus Christ.” We busted, “Dead men tell no tales, Dad.” He sucked his teeth and shook his head remaining quiet as our little boat floated by a slew of animatronic pirates and pillaging.

One of my favorite days was the day LP and I got to stay behind at the hotel for the day while the parentals went off on their own. We lounged by the pool like two starlets awaiting Oscar noms. I wore my favorite maroon strapless one-piece bathing suit and my John Taylor tee (circa ‘Sing Blue Silver’) over top to hide my back fat while I floated around on a flutter board. While I fluttered, I watched an oh so glamorous fashion show circle around the deluxe oasis. I started to get prune-like so I made my way to our lawn chairs and asked my bud if she could share sunscreen. She happily agreed since she had just bought something new from the vendors’ poolside, so she tossed me the goop she brought from home. I bravely shucked John from my glut and slathered myself head to toe with the silky lotion, got horizontal in my swanky chair, and loafed. Unbeknownst to me, LP shared her lotion that was SPF ZERO while what she bought poolside and coated her own self in was like SPF TWO MILLION. I noticed I was a little pink in the mirror as we got ready for the parentals to come back and pick us up for a dinner outing. I felt a little queasy on the ride over. On the small walk to the non-descript restaurant, Father Mine stopped to say hello to folks he knew. It boggled the mind he could be in a whole other country and still bump into people he knew for a longwinded chin wag. There was a bit of a wait to be seated. I leaned on the wall to hold myself up due to the fact the world was slowly started swirling like a pastel kaleidoscope, voices slurred, my eyes rolled. I attempted to straighten myself up, talk myself back but grabbed hold of Father Mine’s arm instead, startling him. Sun stroke. A bad case. Mad as a Hatter, he drove LP and I back to the hotel, chewing me out for not being more careful in the sun. The more he moaned the deeper the burn sunk into my teenage flesh. That’s when LP confessed and told me the SPF she gave me was sub-zero.  Father Mine was not impressed and scolded me again for not noticing. LP was spared a tongue lashing because she was holding the guest card. Heck, I trusted my bud to not give me sunscreen that would brand me. Father Mine squealed the car tires as he and Step Mum drove off to dinner, “Order room service. Make sure you eat. Get some water and hydrate. We’ll be back later.” Still Mad as a Hatter.

I made the grave mistake of taking a cool shower in a feeble attempt to calm down. It bolded my burn blazing red. From my hair line to the tips of my toes, just on the front side of me, I was covered. It felt like my body was one giant bee sting. My skin was tight and aflame. I laid on my bed in cool pajamas, arms and legs outstretched and I didn’t move until our Cokes and generous plates of stir-fry arrived. There was a knock our door, “Ello, room service.” The young man who wheeled our grub in was a lovely and quick-witted Jamaican. He took one look at me and in his heavy accent said, “O my girl, when you are finished with dat sunburn you’ll be as black as me!” I confess, I wasn’t exactly sure I was supposed to laugh but when he threw his head back in it, I joined in. He took pity on my amateurish Floridian stance and told me if I needed anything, a medic, an aloe plant, to let him know. How embarrassing, eh?

The plane ride home was hell. I was sat between LP and Father Mine. To add insult to injury, he wouldn’t let me have the aisle seat even though it’d be more comfortable for me to rest my crispy limbs. It was the most painful few hours of my life. Father Mine would occasionally nudge my charred flesh with the rough elbow of his sweater and grin when I winced. It may have been the only time in my whole life that I felt any kind of contempt for him. My Mother was waiting for me when I got home. I knew she’d lavish the kind of support and comfort I required. The bends of my arms were bubbled by the time I reached my bed, my bed with cold soft cotton sheets my Mother had rolled down for me to slip into. The blisters were sore and raised, threatening to burst. A one week vacation to Florida turned into two weeks off from school. It took good few days to be able to not hurt and be able to put socks on my feet.

While I recuperated from my burn, LP stopped taking my calls. She hugged me gently due to my third degree burns and thanked us all for a wonderful trip and said she’d call me later. We waited until she was safely inside her apartment building with her Mom. I should mention that before we went on our trip, she moved into the city and started going to another school. She never called. I tried her a bunch of times, but she wouldn’t return any of my calls, even when I left messages with her Mom. It was the strangest thing. I couldn’t understand after all the fun we had singing and dancing at the Country Bear Jamboree, buying Goofy tees, and a stuffed Donald Duck for Way Cooler Big Sister, eating greasy hamburgers and fries, having our picture taken with various Disney characters – I couldn’t understand her silence. That was 1987 and we haven’t spoken since. Not all friendships are meant to last, not even with the awe of the spectacular Magic Kingdom fireworks display overhead. It was a heartbreak as much as it was an excellent adventure.

***

It has always been important to me, even from a young age, to foster positive and healthy relationships – both with my family and friends. Our trip to the US was so much fun and even as an adult I’m perplexed by the gaslighting behavior of my then friend. There were no signs of discord (aside from the sunscreen fiasco but we mostly laughed about it on the drive between the airport and her house). There were no warnings. I was a child with abandonment issues (which I haven’t written much about yet) so the mysterious loss of my friend, the only one who has memories of any of the above, was crushing. I’m a lesson learner. And, from her clear and present rejection, fully realized the only constant in life is change and that her behavior was more of a reflection on her character than on mine. Heavy stuff for a kid, pure gold for an adult to keep in mind.

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

I’ve Gotten Used to It

I’ve Gotten Used to It

            it’s

true

I have

gotten used to it

the blatant absence

& chaos of starlight

            it’s

            true

            I have

been interned by

a radiant seraph &

I have touched his

hands

            during an

un-hoped for eventide

a light wind rummaged

our union

            it’s

            true

            I have

gotten used to it

vanished arms & legs

the tearing out of my

heart

            I

wash

each                

            evening

with invisible water

to

fill

the

void

until

I can

find him

somewhere

else

some

other

day

***

The title of this poem is intentionally misleading for poetry’s sake. I will never be used to being without my Dad.

Ain't gonna lie, the barrage of Father's Day displays, sales, and mentions this time around is tightening it's grip around my lonely heart. I try and not let it get me, I really do. I face holidays, especially the ones that celebrate him, with fondness and love and I always try and partake in an activity or have a meal he'd enjoy. I haven't quite formulated a plan for Sunday as yet but I do have one teeny idea to incorporate. I just need a trinket and it'll all come together.

If you’re lucky enough to still have yours, be kind to him. Love him and tell him so. And, more importantly, if you've fallen out with your Pa, consider forgiveness. It's a superpower we all employ.

In propinquity,

Nic

Ghostly Tricks in Eastern Passage

I have been digging back into the archives, reading some of the stories that I wrote way back when for a local newspaper. I was tasked with writing ‘stories from the past’ for the Eastern Passage and surrounding areas. Some of the stories came to me by way of my Dad. I want to preserve some of them here and with Halloween coming, I thought this one would be appropriate to begin with.

**

Ghostly Tricks in Eastern Passage

Are you superstitious?  Panic when you see an owl in daylight?  Knock on wood?  Shrink when a black cat crosses your path, your heart skips a beat when you break mirror so you tie your handkerchief in a knot to ward off evil?  If you're one of those people who avoids walking under ladders or counts crows this story of a prank played on an old Eastern Passage resident who was superstitious will appeal to you.  Leo had an active imagination and was genuinely spooked by ghosts.

Ghost is a word derived from the Saxon word gaste, meaning spirit. In common usage, a ghost is the soul of a dead person that becomes visible to the living. Psychic researchers refer to a ghost as a recurring apparition.  A ghost does not inter react with the living but rather repeats the same action over and over, like a tape being replayed again and again.  Leo was well aware of the activity of ghosts and it sent him into a tizzy just thinking about it.

In the 1940s, the young men of Eastern Passage could often be found hanging out at the Myers Pool Hall on Quigley's Corner.  Leo was one of the usual suspects.  You could spot him easily by his wild tuft of curly hair fopping about while making his way around in his bare feet on his trusty bicycle.  Not a fan of the washtub, his idea of 'cleaning up' was applying a little powder and he was ready to go.   He was a comic sort, often a casualty of horseplay.

Al and the other guys in the pool hall were notorious storytellers.  Devising antics of tomfoolery and telling harebrained fibs while chalking up their cues.   He knew Leo was scared of the dark and particularly of ghosts.  At nightfall, Leo would always rush home, passing the graveyard at St. Andrew's Church. He would pedal fast, his heart racing until he was safely by without incident.  Al knew this and used it to his advantage.

One evening, Al was in the mood to rile up a little mischief.  Night fell to a black hush and Leo mounted his bicycle giving himself a push start off home down the dirt road.  As usual, the closer he came to the graveyard, the quicker his pulse raced.  St. Andrew's cemetery sent chills down his spine especially in the dark. Al, being good with detail knew all of this and decided he would treat Leo to the fright of his life.  Leo pedaled with a fevered pace evading all that goes bump in the night, stiff on top of his bike, focusing straight ahead.  Al was waiting for him behind one of the larger headstones in the cemetery with a ghastly white sheet draped over his head.  When Leo approached, sweaty and nervous Al, in his clever disguise jumped out at the wiry haired man aping the sounds that we imagine ghosts make.  “WOOWWWHOAAAA!”  Leo's eyes widened with sudden fear and jumped ten feet in the air nearly throwing himself off of his bicycle.  He jerked his pedals so hard he snapped the chain spinning his dirty feet creating a billowing cloud of dust behind him.  Al watched Leo, spooked to his core race off pushing his bike with his feet all the way home.  All Al could do was laugh.  He returned to the pool hall to recount his caper to the boys.

The next evening Leo told the story of how he was attacked by an aggressive spirit rising out of the cemetery.  He had every man in the pool hall in stitches, standing in the middle of the room replaying the scene, his hair still wild, and his eyes popping.  Al chuckled and confessed to Leo it was him dressed up in a sheet trying to fool him but Leo wouldn't hear any of it, he knew better than to believe anything that came out of his mouth.  He went on believing that there was in fact a ghost out for revenge and pedaled quicker every night after on his way home.

**

I miss my Dad telling me stories, especially after being afforded the opportunity to tour through the Myers homestead yesterday with family. The walls vibrate with history and stories and shenanigans. I wish I knew every single one of them so I could write them down.

I’ve got a few more ghost stories from the area I used in those news stories to share here in the coming week. It’s so much fun re-reading them now.

In propinquity,

Nic

Mourning Moon

Mourning Moon

autumn’s close

winter’s beginning

a luminous full moon

ample with assertion

it is the time of fruition

the perfect time to let go

of all that weighs on you

&

value the fertility of gratitude

autumn’s goodbye

winter’s introduction

a radiant abundant moon

the mourning moon

it rises for your serenity

**

On this day, one year ago, it was the last time I’d see my father alive. I went to his house after work with my niece and had a quiet cup of tea with my step-mom. We almost hadn’t gone as she told us he wasn’t doing so well during the daytime but changed her mind. I was always glad she did otherwise I’d never have gotten to say one last I love you.  Chelsey and I left the apartment and had a somber dinner together before we both went home and fell into our beds, feeling the deepest weight of sadness.

At the time, my cellphone was on 24/7 and that night before I went to bed I changed my ringtone to something that would be loud enough to jar me out of my sleep if it could even find me: Billy Idol’s ‘Dancing With Myself’.  I had just succumbed to a light sleep before Billy was wrestling me from it well into the early hours of November 27th. The news I feared would come any minute. He was gone.

One year today was the last time I saw my Dad alive. It has been a year of confusion and heartbreak and bereavement but in all of that I have held tight to the happiness he brought to my 40 odd years on this planet. That kept me going, the good memories of which there are many. I still miss him, with every fiber of my being. I wish I could call him up, have him yell at me, bark at me, anything: just one more time.

Today, one year later to the day of the last time I saw my Dad breathing, there will be a full moon. Not just an ordinary full moon but one called the mourning moon. I found peace in this coincidence: that one full year later a moon would hang brilliantly overhead as a symbol of culminations, commencements, and letting go. It is to be thought of like this: imagine it to be illuminating the darkest moments of your past year so you can visit them one last time before turning away from them. This can apply to so much of the past year for me but it is certain that I will likely never turn completely away from the loss of my father.

I took a vacation day for tomorrow. I don’t know what I will do on the 1^st anniversary of his passing but the idea is to be off the grid, move through the day on my own, free of chatter and responsibility, so I can breathe.

I miss you, Dad.

In propinquity,

Nic

De Profundus

I have spent my day thinking about loss. My Dad, Erica’s Mom (it’s her birthday today), love, friendships, jobs: all of the big ones that shuffled the pieces of my insides around enough that some of the pieces simply disappeared. I thought of Mom Jackson’s crazy laugh and about all of the people she loved most gathering at her resting place, adorning it with flowers, tears and the deepest love. I thought of my last exchange with her and then I thought of my Dad. My last I love you to him, whispered inside his bedroom door where he lay in dim light, his chest heaving, close to his earthly exit. I was vacuuming the floors, thoughtfully until I was sobbing uncontrollably.  I relayed it a bit to Erica in a text, how I have found this to be an incredibly hard year and was feeling that weight today just a little too heavily from thinking and feeling and longing for things I no longer have, people. It opened so many wounds and conjured my sorrows, ones I deserved, ones I didn’t, and ones I still to this day do not understand.  And then there’s death. Who can ever fully comprehend that kind of loss? It is one thing to lose someone to life’s circumstances and know that somewhere in the world they are still looking up at the same stars but to try and resolve that someone you love is looking down at you from them? Well, that is another can of worms entirely.

In that vein, and from sitting here staring the cover of the book cover Ruthie and Terri sent me to accompany my early birthday surprise, I wrote a wee poem:

De Profundus

I used to smother

under the burden

of barely breathing

in a weighted life

but one daring day

I reached down deep

into my chest where

my heart used to be

found a fist full of nerve

and told myself to exhale

&

out of the depths

I climbed

**

Time for a cup of tea, a few pages of my book until my evening errands commence.

However you spent your Sunday, I hope it soothed you somehow.

In propinquity,

Nic

Make It Sing

So, I didn't make the long list for the Creative Non-Fiction Literary Prize this time around. And, that's ok. The fact that I was able to write this little piece about my Dad so soon after his passing felt like a win in and of itself. I think I'll try again for the next round. I have plenty of time to pick a moment and expound on it in a creative non-fictiony way.

I kept this piece close to my chest, allowing few people to read in the event it was chosen. But, now that I know I've not been short-listed, I can share it here. It makes me smile when I read it and perhaps the reason for my non-success is because I can tell I wrote it with a broken heart. It really isn't CBC worthy and I can see that clearly now.

That evening is one I will cherish all my days.

I hope you enjoy this little glimpse of my Dad:

**

Make It Sing

Dalhousie Arts Centre, Halifax, NS

June 2007

It is no small matter to see my father perform his comedy act for the first time. He is in his 76^th year, and I am just now being afforded the opportunity to experience his hilarious hijinks and his dry, side-splitting jokes in the presence of strangers. Throughout my life, I have been a victim to his pranks, gags and quips; it is officially time to see him onstage, performing his screwball routine for an audience who has loved him longer than I have known him.

The crowd convening inside the Rebecca Cohen is an old-fashioned sea of bright, summery coat sweaters resting on rounded female shoulders, crowned with perfectly-coiffed white curls to complement their male counterparts, sporting haphazard comb-overs and dusty suit jackets. A devout crowd has collected for the Nova Scotia Classic Country Concert, a benefit for the Special Olympics, to reminisce, to return for a few hours to their formative years, to raucous kitchen parties and pool hall dances by way of a familiar roster of singers from the era, the fiddlers and performers who provided the soundtrack to their youthful shenanigans. The air is heavy with anticipation and a hint of impatience, married with a faint bouquet of floral talc and stale cigars. I bypass them all and slip backstage in search of Dad.

I find him in his dressing area, fussing in front of a mirror. His zany get-up includes a pair of old tattered overalls, a black felt Hillbilly hat with an arrow shot through the crown, bare feet, and his Ovation guitar strapped in place, with his joke prompts taped carefully to its curve. He is examining his face closely, adjusting his glasses under the brim of the humorous hat, muttering jokes beneath his breath. He catches my reflection in the mirror and spins on his heel, his arms open wide in exaggerated presentation.

“Ta da!”

“You look amazing and ridiculous.”

We both laugh.

“Are you nervous?” I ask in awe, sizing him up in his wacky ensemble.

“Piece of cake,” he says, confidently.

“I am so excited to finally see you on stage.”

His face tints and he fidgets. “What?”

“I said, I am excited to finally see you perform on stage.”

“That’s twice you said that,” he smirks.

I shake my head. He is always on, and I fall for it every single time.

Dad is given his curtain call: “Five minutes!” I snap a few pictures of his comedic form, give him a brisk hug, and rush to take my seat near the front of the auditorium. When I stop and look back at him, he’s adjusting his guitar and straightening his posture.

“Hey, Dad!” I give him a proud two-thumbs’ up. “Make it sing!”

He chuckles charmingly and nods. “You got it, Pontiac.”

The five minute curtain call turns out to be a lark. An hour later I am anxious, shifting in my seat as I wait for him to appear. I scan the auditorium to see scores of almost-snoring seniors, seconds away from nodding off. In the span of ninety minutes, the mood in the room has gone from jubilant to borderline comatose. The band launches into their next song, slow and deliberate: “Send me the pillow that you dream on …”

We are doomed. For the next two and a half minutes, at least.

My own eyes are getting heavy when the MC returns to the microphone. “This man doesn’t need any introduction. You know him, you love him, and he is here to entertain you. Put your hands together for the funny man himself, the Ben Colder of the Maritimes … Lawrence Myers!”

The seemingly pedestrian introduction upends itself to the swell of sleepy seniors rising to offer thunderous applause. Dad slides onto the stage, in character, ready to deliver. There he is, my Dad, rocking on his bare heels, cradling his guitar, grinning like a Cheshire cat. Farce is about to become force. My heart is in my throat and I’m on the edge of my seat. Dad launches in effortlessly.

“You know what they call a funeral where you can smell your own flowers? A wedding.”

The room is alive again. He immediately has them in the palm of his hand. The guys and dolls are alert, hanging on every zinger that rolls off the Joker’s quick tongue.

“A friend of mine opened up a dry-cleaners next to a convent. He knocked on the door and asked the Mother Superior if she had any dirty habits.”

He is a real pro: at home in the spotlight, inviting the adoration, feeding off it, reveling in it.

“A blind man walks into a bar … and a chair … and a table.”

Dulcet giggles morph into boisterous merriment. Witticisms, anecdotes and yarns pour out of him with ease; gags cringe-worthy and ridiculously silly induce rib-tickling laughter. He tells whole stories in a single sentence, striking creaky old funny bones so hard they are howling in the aisles. My cheeks twinge from smiling, a direct result of the pride I am experiencing from seeing him engage a room. So this is what all the fuss is about. He is a luminary, so revered. I was so unaware of just how much.

He rounds out five superb minutes of rip-snorting comedy with an impassioned rendition of “Green Green Grass of Home”. The grateful crowd sings along with him; some are even on their feet, swaying. “The old town looks the same, as I step down from the train, and there to meet me is my Mama and my Papa …”

        As he exits the stage, the applause and whistles are almost deafening. I spring from my seat and sneak backstage. This time I find him surrounded by his peers, shaking his hand, slapping his back, bantering and congratulating him on another job well done. It is a marvel to see the man, whom I know as a regular old Dad and affluent car salesman, turned into a beloved comedic superman.

I wait patiently for the crowd around him to subside and move toward him, a bashful fan.

“You were incredible up there,” I blurt.

“Thank you,” he says. “I’m happy you are here.”

“They were drowsy and then the energy was frenetic when you came out,” I muse. “It was amazing.”

“Did I make it sing?” he asks.

“Did you ever!”

He laughs. “Give me a few minutes to change and I’ll come find you, okay?”

Dad is not an affectionate man; not one to show a lot of emotion or bask in adulation, but this night I watch the next few songs at stage left with him. Without a word, he reaches, puts his arm around my shoulders, and squeezes. In his 76^th year, he embraces me, his youngest of six children, backstage at a benefit where he volunteered his time to help raise money for special athletes to fulfill their dreams in Beijing. The poignancy of this moment is that he made another young woman’s dream come true: mine.

I glance up at him, my heart brimming with pride. He is out of costume, back into his usual “Dad uniform” of slacks and a short-sleeved shirt, his glasses resting on the bridge of his nose, singing softly along with the folks now occupying the stage. I want to turn to him and tell him that I, too, have benefitted from his performance and from our close proximity right at this moment. I want to tell him how proud I am of him, proud and in awe of how he filled the room with joy.

I keep quiet and appreciate the moment. I think he knows. I hope he does.

He made it sing.

**

Hmmmm ... what to write about for the next literary prize?

Suggestions welcome!

In propinquity,

Nic 

Red Wine Weather

It’s Easter. Another first without my Dad.  It is cold out today but the sun is shining and after a really fun night out with my buds at The Carleton, I woke up lucid and refreshed, ready for coffee and some writing. I am longing for my family today though. I suppose that is a direct reaction of it being the first Easter without Dad. I wish we were together somewhere eating dinner and spending time. I can’t even recall the last time we were all in the same place for a happy occasion. Makes me sad but I know wherever they all are today, they are happy and doing what they want to be doing. I wish that for each of them. Always.

So, the writing: I brewed myself a fragrant cup of Joe, set my playlist, donned my headphones and went to it. Somewhere on the interwebs, I once heard Joel Plaskett say something about ‘red wine weather’. I promptly wrote it down in my notebook because the bones of a poem immediately appeared in my noodle. Today’s mission was to organize those thoughts. I love how a phrase can inspire a piece of work, whether it is a poem or a song or a feature film. Inspiration can crop up at any time. Grateful to JP for uttering .. er .. typing the words.

The poem, ‘Red Wine Weather’ is an ode to some of my favorite things: wine, art, experience, longing and indifference.  Sarcasm intended.

Check it:

Red Wine Weather

I lay here beside you

beside myself in reminiscence

this red wine weather has me

exercising my right to sullen art

on spindrift wages of ambition

                     

I lay here beside you                  

beside myself in rumination

sipping a ruby red merlot reciting the

calmness of your sleeping expression

overwhelmed by the crimson bouquet

the complex layers of plump bing cherries

fragrant baked plums pressed into hints of mocha

it is delicate, almost luxurious in texture and truth

its staying power pursed in long raspberry

and cocoa powder finish            

I lay here beside you

beside myself in trepidation

this red wine weather has me

staying still despite my artfulness

heavy and gold in its bountiful harvest

sipping sipping and then you sigh

**

However and with whomever you spend your day with, be kind and grateful.

Happy Easter, friends. And, a happy Easter to you Dad. Give my love to the stars.

In propinquity,

Nic

Save A Prayer

Today marks the first wedding anniversary that my step-mom is enduring without my Dad. I called her this evening to say hi, to check in, to give my love. She cried openly and so full of sorrow, tears coming straight up and out of her broken heart into mine. The firsts, holidays, occasions, will be the toughest, I know but I'm not sure the pain will ever truly subside.

I miss my Dad. I still reach for the telephone when there's something I want to share. I still have yet to cry. After tonight, talking with her and doing my best to be comforting, I can feel it there just under the surface. I'm due. I wish I could just let it out.

I am posting this song tonight in lieu of a writing blog post. A friend of mine shared 'Save A Prayer' on Facebook tonight and it led me to listen to this version she also reminded me of. It holds a special place in my heart and is just so beautiful. It seems a fitting song for the day.

Saving a prayer, for the morning after - forever and ever and ever.

In propinquity,

Nic

Where The Heart Finds Rest

Where the Heart Finds Rest

the heart finds rest in random illuminations

in minute ceremonies of ordinary miracles

it is a marvel to be conscious of courage

wade in the sweetness of acceptable silence

revel in the looseness of peaceful prose poems

the heart finds rest in accidental happenstance

in small increments of clarity and welcome whimsy

it is a pleasure to be unabashedly redeemed by love

to be augmented by firmly shaped acts of imaginative thinking

to understand the eminent shorthand of binding kinship

where the heart finds rest is in the little things

elegantly plotted stars and a grain of fine sand

where the heart finds rest is in the kindest things

the knightly things the brightly shining things

turning a narrative into a realized dream

                is where the heart finds rest

 **

The theme of this weekend was everything to do with the marvel and beauty of children. I spent a little time with good friends and their little guy on Friday night. It was a lovely way to decompress after a long work. I don’t get to see them often enough and I was in awe of his smallness which is truly his greatness. All of that wonder in his sweet little face, his curiosity, his innocence, his peacefulness; all astonishing. It did my heart to sit on the floor with him and play toys and to dole out quick kisses to his soft little cheek and hear his laughter. When the world is upside down, the sound of baby giggles, is the best thing in the world.

On the same night, I received a text message from my best friend that her daughter’s water broke. Baby Britton was on her way! After a long labour, the brave and exhausted Mama delivered a gorgeous baby girl into the world. I got meet Baby Britton today, barely 24 hours old, and fell madly in love. She felt like a little miracle in my arms. I look forward to watching her grow and become one of the fierce and wonderful women that make up her amazing family. In the aftermath of losing my Dad, seeing new promising life swaddled up in my arms put so much into perspective. It took everything to suck in the tears but if any had fallen they would have been happy ones. Another friend of mine had her baby boy this week as well. My FB newsfeed is currently full of joy and baby love and I couldn’t be happier.

I always insisted I didn’t want children. It was one of those things, being from a large family, being the baby, all of my siblings brought wonderful creatures into my life and I always maintained that they were enough for me, they all own my heart, every single piece of it, and now even some of those kids aren’t kids anymore and have babies of their own that I love just as much. The only time I truly fell in love with a man, it caused me to re-think my thoughts about having a family. Loving another person can do that, can alter your map. It was a short-lived thought of course, as the love failed but I always appreciate that it opened my heart up enough to consider changing my heart. It left me with some painful regrets, especially knowing that there won’t be a little person to carry me into the world, through their eyes and their dreams and in their own children. It makes my heart ache but it is constantly healed on days like today when I am given the privilege to inhale that intoxicating newborn smell and to be part of a support system and watch them grow up and move through this world. Blessings.

I also designated this weekend to a new writing project. I started to work on a creative non-fiction piece for the CBC competition. My goal is to have it finished by next weekend, the rough draft anyway. It has to be postmarked by March 1^st. I’m confident in myself in that I will meet my writing deadline and get it in in plenty of time.

Without giving too much away, I am writing about my Dad. It took some time to narrow down my options but I found something that I think will appeal to those who knew and loved him. It is a memory of mine and I look forward to sharing it. I just want to do him justice. I said the same when I penned his eulogy and I received good feedback so I know I’ve got this.

It was a productive day. I managed to finish the enclosed poem. To spend a little time alone in my writing room with my headphones on, the window cracked just a touch because it’s mild tonight, to write. And now, after this post, while the laundry is in, I’ll light a candle, sit quiet and count all of the things I’m grateful for. Good things happened today. Good things will happen tomorrow. They will because my life is full, it is rich, not with things or in money, but in people, in poems, in peace.

I hope whatever you did it today, it brought you joy.

In propinquity,

Nic

All The Poets In Heaven

Yesterday I took myself out and framed a childhood photo of me and my Dad. It was one of those photos that I hadn’t seen before from the day we did the memory boards for his ‘life celebration’. It is housed now in a crisp white frame, sitting on my writing desk. I sat myself down this morning to write and my insides sunk looking at it. I am really missing him today. Wishing I could pick the phone up and check in to see how he is and what he’s up to, have him make me repeat myself just so he can say, ‘That’s twice you said that!’.  It escapes me a lot of the time that he’s really gone. It feels like he’s just wintering in Florida, hanging out with his pals, raising heck. The popular kid on the block, the fan favorite. Turns out I can’t call him but I can still talk to him. It’s a comfort but nothing beats the sound of his voice booming back at me and his jokey tone.

I watched ‘Heaven Is For Real’ yesterday and since I’ve been thinking a lot about Heaven. I would like to think it is for real and that my Dad is young and able again, happy, with his loved ones, in a place that is beautiful. When you lose someone you love, it raises questions and worries. I watched that film, read about the family and the boy’s experience and it made me hopeful. I want that for him, for Joe and for those I have lost along the way. I want that peace and that wondrousness for them.

Dad showed up in a recent dream I had. I was sitting in a movie theatre, the second seat in with someone, I can’t remember who it was. The seat next to the aisle was empty when we settled in with popcorn and treats. At one point I looked to my right, at the empty seat. It was no longer empty. There was my Dad, sitting next to me with his big winter coat on, unzipped, and his ball hat. He was smiling. I did a double take, I felt relief to see him and said, ‘Dad, I really miss you.’ Then I woke up. There was no time for him to reply. It was nice to see him but it made me that much lonelier for his company, his thoughts, his advice, his wit and his presence. I know he is always with me, logically I know that and can turn to him any old time I like but emotionally it is a strange denial.

So I write poems. This one, especially for him:

All the Poets in Heaven

the one who gave me life rests in a darkened room

my Father impatiently awaiting the end of his days

I capture his weakened hand with both of mine

move gently to him and  whisper softly in his ear

I ask him kind-heartedly that whenever he arrives

to please give my love too all the Poets in Heaven

**

It’s a stormy Sunday here in Halifax. Our first notable snowfall that has now given way to freezing rain and then rain. In a word, messy. It’s a good day for hunkering down with books and films. I’m grateful to return back to my regular routine tomorrow, work, gym, rinse, wash, repeat. Winter is a downer but I am going to try to make the best of it instead of complaining about it but I really do detest winter. I don’t like to shovel snow. I don’t mind the scarves and hats and accessories but the commuting and clean-up are hindrances. I was born in the wrong climate. I need to move somewhere where it’s sweater weather all year round. Dare to dream, dare to dream.

In propinquity,

Nic