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

Making Big Magic

Making Big Magic

(w/ Elizabeth Gilbert)

Big Magic by Elizabeth Gilbert is, for lack of a better word, my Bible. It, along with a few other important creative resources, is my go-to when I find myself facing a dry well, blocked, too sad or overwhelmed to write or send a handwritten letter, even compose a grocery list. My hard cover copy, to the dismay of some of my dear hearts, is dog-eared, littered with underlined passages, margin scribbles, and stuck with Post-It Notes. You can imagine my utter delight when I heard she’d be coming to town to workshop said book. Overjoyed. Sign me up! I counted sleeps for months until the fateful day arrived.

Friday, the last work day before a long weekend had me busy as a bee. With my 4pm departure looming, I hurried and toiled until the eleventh hour but hadn’t noticed a colossal mistake I’d made. A mistake that would cause someone else extra work, someone who didn’t need something else added to her plate. I deflated. My joy turned to guilt, my guilt turned to pain. I do not like to make mistakes, especially ones that cause someone else work and/or worry. That’s how my Making Big Magic weekend started. With a giant flub that sat on my chest like an elephant. Even my ferry ride across the Halifax Harbour didn’t help. I stared out across the grey expanse with the sick feeling that in my rush to joy, I let someone down. And, I didn’t know how to shake it off.

I checked into my room at Hotel Halifax with about forty minutes until the Scotia Square mall closed. I decided to venture up to quickly browse the shops and grab a muffin and orange juice to store in my room’s mini-fridge. Still feeling like a loser, I made my way through the lobby and started up the stairs to the mall. Elizabeth Gilbert, at the very same time, was descending. She was clad warm gear (which makes sense because not long before she posted on her Instagram she was on the very cold Halifax Waterfront), she was looking down at her phone. Whatever she was watching/reading warmed her. Because I was feeling like I was, I almost let the opportunity to say hello go by. It is my common practice when I see someone of note to let them go quietly and smile to myself. I’m not one to bother folks. But, it was Elizabeth Gilbert. I said, “Hi, Liz Gilbert.” She looked up from her phone with happy eyes and a smile that enveloped me. “Hi, Sweetheart,” she replied in kind. We chatted only moments and somehow my bad day came up but I am convinced I mentioned it because I was so close to tears. I thought at least if she is aware of the day, she won’t think I’m crying because I was in front of her. I suppose it did have something to do with it. Our meet cute, in my mind, was cosmic. I was meant to run into her on those very stairs. Having the chance to say hello, was the Universe’s antidote to my day. Her hug was a salve. I bid hear adieu, feeling more like a million bucks and told her I was really looking forward to work-shopping with her in the morning. She said, “It’s going to be beautiful. See you there!” I found my goodies for breakfast and impulse bought a cozy coat sweater from Reitmans and then it was time to find dinner. I made my way across the pedway to Casino NS, parked myself at the loud crowded bar and had a bite. Rock Star Brother was playing at 9pm so I lingered long enough for a quick check-in, a hug, a few songs, and I was back in my room to do my gratitude homework. I shared with Liz I had created a gratitude bomb, something she invented for journaling. She was pleased as punch! To follow it up, I did a Thanksgiving list while sprawled out on my very own King size bed with Spotify on low. Before long, with the giant video screen on the side of the Scotia Bank Center as my night light, I drifted off with my good thoughts until my 7am alarm sounded.

One of the things on my Thanksgiving list was hotel showers. I enjoyed a long luxurious shower (so sorry Mother Earth, I know water is precious but I do conserve otherwise!) and prepared for the day. I registered for the workshop at the Convention Center, up on the 5^th floor, mingled and made friends while waiting for the doors to open. Elizabeth Gilbert stood at the entrance and hugged each and every person who passed through the door. Including me. Two hugs! I moved swiftly so she could keep up the pace and found my seat. Once in, I said hello to the lovely strangers to my left and right. Strangers I spent the day with, sharing some super intimate stuff. We may or may not cross paths again but I’ll always be grateful to them for their tender attention and their trust in me with their own intimate details.

The workshop was set up in a series of letters. We were required to write deep, detailed letters to our Fear, Enchantment, Persistence, Trust, and a series of Permission Slips. I won’t share all of my letters here because much of what I composed and shared with my soul sister counterparts is private. Some of the work was difficult. Some of it was joyful. All of it was enlightening.

I want to share my letter to Fear with you. It goes like this:

Dear Nicole,

This is your Fear. This is what I want to say to you.

I am afraid that I am not enough. Not good enough. Smart enough. I am afraid I am no worthy of romantic love. I am afraid I will be alone and not know what it is to walk side by side with a partner regards me with kindness and respect.

I am afraid I am too obese to be touched. Scared my body will prevent someone from wanting me, all of me.

I am afraid to fail. Every damn day.

I am afraid that in taking care of everyone else I’ll have nothing else left for me when I really need it.

I am afraid of confrontation.

I am scared of gas-lighting.

I am afraid of losing those I love from death, from speaking my mind, from having a differing opinion.

I am afraid of conforming to other people’s moods.

I am afraid of being too cautious, enough to miss real opportunities.

I am afraid of being so strong all the time I might fall apart at the worst possible time.

I am afraid of my own infinite potential because I am aware of it and know I can soar.

I am, sometimes, afraid to die,

Thank you for listening.

Yours,

Fear

I read this aloud to my Lovely Stranger. My voice cracked. I stuttered once or twice, I paused for a hard swallow. She was no different. We were both in tears. We smiled to each other. And then, for the big sob.

Liz invited another Lovely Stranger to come forth, put her back to the room, and read what she wrote aloud. Once she was finished, she asked her to repeat the first line of her letter again, I am afraid I am not enough. Ahem. Liz then regarded us, asked anyone who said something similar to stand up. All at once, the entire room rose. Liz then asked Lovely Stranger to turn and face her peers. The moment she did, there was a collective sob. The memory of it as I type brings tears to my eyes. It was a heavy exercise. It was hard but liberating. The rest of the letters especially that to our Enchantment, was amazing. It started: Dear Nicole, I am your Enchantment. This is what I want to tell you. I love when we have artist dates … essentially, I gorgeous letter full of all the things that enchant, bring joy, fulfillment. I could have written that one for days.

Elizabeth Gilbert is a beautiful human being. An enlightened teacher who still carries her own burdens and isn’t afraid to admit she is still a work in progress. The things I learned from her I will carry with me my whole life. It’ll show up in my creative endeavors, it’ll appear in my relationships, at my workplace, in the streets, in the comfort of my own home. It was a day full of goodness, kindness, bonding, sharing, honesty, heart-rending joy. Liz put me in touch with myself. Taught me about my brain, my Spirit, my whole self. In a way that made the world crack wide open so Light could flood forth. If you ever have the chance to hear her speak, to take part in a workshop, please do. Do not hesitate. It was one of the most profound experiences of my adult life. It was a gratitude bomb personified.

I was so blessed to have been there. Grateful to have taken away so much that I will apply to my life and my writing.

In propinquity,

Nic

We Talk

We Talk

            hunched & huddled together

we talk rock ‘n’ roll in battered leather jackets

& weathered boots over strong cups of coffee

            in covert agreement

we talk Los Angeles & the New York sound

but mostly we just shoot the shit about nothing

opulence to squalor

            in unspooled metaphors

            for countless hours

we talk between bites of day-old stale confections

two rapid minds hatching conspiracies strange &

verbose in detail, what some might dare refer to as  

            grievous triumphs

            combined wounds bound & sacred

we talk about traveling through twisted mountains

to reach bright lights & big cities & small towns to

loud crowded gigs

            spit, smoke & spurs – an unfettered blur       

a wild flood of accrued backseat/stage memories

we talk

            with ease, mapping out the trajectory of

                        collective electrified blues

***

Just a poem. Written on a Friday morning commute when I wanted to read my book, the Universe thought better and that I should be writing. So, I did.

I’m hitting up a rock show at The Marquee tomorrow night. Perhaps that’s where it was culled from. Wherever the particles materialized from, I was just happy, as always, to write something down.

Getting closer to the date too I get to workshop Big Magic with Elizabeth Gilbert. Counting sleeps. I am grateful the workshop is coming at the same time I’m working on the creative non-fiction pieces for Family Ties. I think it’s going to be an asset in that regard in addition to a salve for my soul.

Happy Friday, peeps!

In propinquity,

Nic

           

                                     

           

These Boots

These Boots

I’m not sure how or why the sweetest poodle terrier we named Boots became a member of our family during my Pre-K years but I’m awfully glad she did. She was one of the best friends I’ve ever had. Wherever I was, she was too. If I was watching TV on my bell on the floor, she’d be laying across the back of my legs, if me and my shower cap were in the bathtub, she’d sit on the bath matt and wait for me to finish. She was my shadow. It was my job to feed her. Twice daily we’d walk together to the cupboard, I’d take down the box red and blue box of Gaines Burgers, unwrap the hamburger-like patty and crumble it up into her bowl, all the while she’s looking up at me lovingly and expectantly, tail wagging. I am of the mind that families with young children should have pets. Kids can learn valuable life lessons early on just from having a furry sidekick. They inspire confident feelings and can boost self-esteem. I can tell you, for a kid with a mixed bag of abandonment issues mounting by the second, having Boots to focus on gave me somewhere to put my trust. And, in that, I grew to be compassionate, empathic – that’ll happen when you learn early on what it is to care for a living breathing thing. When I think of her now, those are the things I think of and thank her for. Nerdy but true.

Boots was with me the day I swore I’d never speak to Father Mine again. I planted sunflowers in the back yard, choosing the far-left corner of the fence so they could grow in peace and in direct sunlight as suggested on the seedling packet. Father Mine arrived while I was at Pre-K to mow the endless lawn on our Cow Bay property. He was gone by the time I got home. I grabbed a cookie for myself, slipped Boots an extra Milk Bone treat while my Mother’s back was turned, grabbed my watering can, and we set off to ‘sunflower corner’. When we reached the sweet spot, I stopped dead in my tracks. The young green stems that had sprouted so proudly from the well-tended plot were gone. Leveled. History. An angry spray of tears flew out of my face as I stomped my sneakers toward the house, Boots trotting along beside me. I stood before my Mother, heartbroken, defeated, I threw my hands up dramatically, “What happened to my sunflowers!?” She was drying dishes, her hair rolled up in curlers setting under a favorite kerchief when I accosted her with my plight. Her face fell. She stopped drying the large dinner plate in her hands, the expression on her face read as oh shit, “Your father mowed the lawn earlier, he must have forgotten they were there.” My eyes bulged, “Yeah well, see how fast I forget HIM! I told him to be careful on the phone last night! He promised he would!” I flew to my room and threw myself face first into a pillow and screamed into it. There was Boots, right up beside me like, I know girl, I got your back. At least up to the point where I cried all over her silky fur and then I’m sure, based on her doggy body language, her thoughts were more like, ok slow your roll, they’re just flowers. The after-supper phone call with Father Mine was a quiet one. I still wasn’t in a forgiving mood. He apologized and said he forgot me telling him about the flowers. And, then I got myself in big doggy doo-doo because I barked something brazen that he forgot because he only thinks about himself. Out of the mouths of babes, eh?

Boots was such a fun pup. Both of us garnered endless hours of entertainment from a simple towel. I twirled a towel above her once and she grabbed hold of it and pulled. Kept pulling until I was in a fit of giggles. We quickly graduated to the floor. We’d run off to a long hallway, I’d get down flat on my belly, Boots would grab the other end with her teeth which had to be hard as knockers because she’d pulled all the way down the hall from Way Cooler Big Sister’s bedroom door to my Mother’s. We’d do this until we were both tuckered. Some days it went on for ages and either of us minded. My Mother, on the other hand.

Somewhere along the way, Boots learned how to run around the wide circumference of our front lawn carrying a ball on the tip of her nose. And, the only time she’d perform, was when Father Mine would visit. I remember countless days where he’d stand on the cement walk way in his long tan trench coat, suit, and shiny shoes (his work clothes), I’d be next to him, Boots down below, tale just wagging, waiting for him to drop the ball, “Ready, Boots? Show Daddy how you put the ball on your nose.”  Father Mine would drop the ball. Boots, in her expert way would maneuver her snout between the fresh cut grass and the ball, flick it up in the air, catch it on the end of her wet nose, run the whole way around the lawn, and fast. It was a marvel. She’d return the ball back to Father Mine like a prize and wait for the treat he always had in his coat pocket. We’d show off her circus act any chance we could and joke that she’s really a seal disguised as a dog.

The one thing about Boots, she never left the yard. She’d bark at passers-by, but her paws never left the driveway or fence edge. This one day I was busy drawing a very Salvador Dali-shaped hopscotch in the driveway and Boots started barking at one of the neighborhood bullies driving by on his bike. This bully, with his shaggy hair, furrowed brow, pinched lips, and bad manners, without so much as a thought, flung his gangly leg way from the rusted petal and sideswiped Boots hard in the ribs with his rotten sneaker, “Shut the fuck up, you mangy mutt!” So much venom in his voice. Boots recoiled and squealed in pain and fear. I ran to her and shouted down the road, “Pick on something your own size, ya big dummy!” It so happens that Bookend Brother was visiting that day. He saw everything from the kitchen window and flew out of the side door and down to where me and the dog were, “Who was that!? Where does he live!?” Tell me right now so help me God!” I had no problem coughing up the information. I was so mad I could have spit nails. Bookend Brother bound down the road and disappeared around the curvy bend of the Bay stretch. I sat on the lawn with Boots, consoling and hugging her. She shivered. Bookend Brother was back before I could even blink. He was followed by the bully and his mother who walked him all the way to our yard by his ear. No joke. When she forcibly let go, his ear lobe was blood read unwilling to bend back to its normal shape, “You apologize to these people RIGHT NOW! No son of mine goes around kicking god damn animals …” I’m paraphrasing because she was losing her marbles, so I didn’t catch every ghastly word that came out of her mouth, just bits and pieces. The bully took his grand ol’ time coughing up an apology, but it came. Bookend Brother nodded reproachfully, “I ever hear tell of you bothering this dog again or my baby sister and I’ll snap you like a twig, do you understand me, son?” Bookend Brother’s nostrils flared, the bully shrugged in agreement and he and his mother left. She screamed and kicked at him the whole back around the curvy bend of the Bay stretch.

So, Boots was raped. I woke up early one morning to this God-awful noise coming from the back yard. Like, someone was being murdered. I bolted out of my blankets and peered out the window. And, there she was, my best fur friend, being overpowered by some old lab. To be clear, at my tender age, I had no idea that they were fornicating. I just knew that my dog was in trouble. I ran out of my room, tripped over the hem of my nightdress and wiped out, knees full of carpet burn, all the while yelling for my Mother, “Mommmmmm, something is murdering the dog!!”  I startled her out of a dead sleep. Way Cooler Big Sister emerged from her room too, also started out of a dead sleep, “What’s all the bellaring for!?” I forced them to look out my bedroom window to see. The three of us gawking out into the back yard. I was frustrated that either of them made a move to go save her. I insisted they try. Way Cooler Big Sister shook her head and said, “Those puppies are locked, no getting them apart now until they are done.” I was so confused, “Done what?” My elders exchanged funny looks and my Mother said, “I hope she doesn’t get pregnant.” Ohhhh. Yikes. And, guess what. She did.

Boots gave birth to a single puppy. A soft chocolate brown mass she refused to feed. The newest member of our family, named Brandy after a dearly departed stuffy of mine, looked like a little deformed alien. Boots, immediately after giving birth, hid under the living room chesterfield and stayed there for days. She wouldn’t eat or go pee. Nothing. And, if we so much as thought of putting Brandy near her, she’d growl. A first. She barked some but never growled. At anything. I was terrified the little alien muffin might die. I told my Mother that if she did, I’d bury her where I tried to grow my sunflowers. Luckily that didn’t happen. Brandy, hungrier than a hippo, found sustenance in teeny tiny baby bottles. It was my joy to hold her in my hand and watch her suckle the milk from the bottle. A few days of that and we tried laying her next to Boots’ belly. This time, Boots didn’t resist. They slowly started to bond.

Brandy grew into hyper little thing. Father Mine said she was bonkers because she was the only pup Boots had and her birth was unpleasant. She didn’t like the Gaines Burgers so we bought her something wet from a can, feeding her was also my responsibility. The crazy thing would pretty much have the food swallowed by the time the dish hit the floor. Brandy quickly became my other shadow. She got big and fat and an even deeper chocolate brown with dark blue eyes. She lolled around like a pot-bellied pig. Boots didn’t mind her as much once she grew more independent. Boots was brooding and watchful while Brandy gallivanted without a care in the world.

My world came crumbling down when Boots fell ill. I was sick with worry the day Father Mine took her to the vet for a check-up.  And, he figured since Boots was going, he’d take Brandy too. He came back later that evening with either of my furry friends. He told me Boots needed special care and because the dogs loved each other he sent Boots with a doctor who could provide the care she needed, and Brandy went with her so she wouldn’t be lonely which made since because Boots was her mother. I cried and cried and cried and cried. I still cry sometimes when I recall that vicious hole that tore through my chest to know I’d never see them again.

Years later, at a Sunday dinner at Father Mine’s and Step Mum’s house, the subject of Boots and Brandy came up. It was revealed that he had actually put Boots down because she was gravely ill and sent Brandy off with good friends of his who had a tons of farm land for her to run. I wanted to be mad, like I was about the sunflowers, but I understood. The truth would have hurt me more. The lesson, sometimes the things we don’t know won’t hurt us. And, the people who love us most, no matter our perception, always have our best interests at heart.

***

I would never have been able to do this project without dedicating a few pages to my fur babes. Family is family is family.

In propinquity,

Nic

Sing Blue Silver

Sing Blue Silver

It’s true, Way Cooler Big Sister and I were what the internet folk refer to these days as Duranies. Ask anyone who knew us then and they’ll tell you our bedroom was peppered with posters and glossy magazine pages, just the walls though, I drew the line at the ceiling. I still know all their birthdays; it was that kind of love. Wild Boys always shine.

In the heyday of our fandom, we lived for weekends.  Early Saturday morning, Father Mine would drop by the video store across from the food court in Penhorn Mall and rent us the VHS of Duran Duran’s first eleven videos, swing by and grab McDonalds – the Big Mac combo with chocolate milkshakes and visit us in Cow Bay by noonish. And, by visit I mean, pop in the side door, yell for one or both of us, hand over the goods, peck our cheeks and then was gone again. Way Cooler Big Sister would grab the greasy brown bags and head straight to the living room to get everything going. I always lingered inside the door watching Father Mine pull away. I’d stay put until the taillights disappeared, a little part of my heart with him every single time. Ever grateful for a sighting and his treats, always sad to see him go in such a hurry.

This one Saturday, Way Cooler Big Sister, a creature of habit, was already sitting cross-legged on the floor in front of our space age TV impatiently waiting for me to press play on the VCR, “Hurry up, food’s getting cold!” I hustled, threw a semi-cold fry into my mouth, sat next to her, and performed my McDonald’s ritual – open up the Styrofoam burger container, pour fries into the empty side, stuff one of the six hundred napkins from the brown bag into the neck of my shirt and wipe the condensation off of my milkshake cup. I took too long for her liking, so she reached up and dramatically pressed play, “They’ll be doing a reunion tour by the time you finish fussing with your food.” Once the tape was rolling, we started to chow down. Two seconds into the video, we were half choking in contempt, it was the wrong tape and were wholeheartedly miffed. She looked at me mid-chew and said, “What the hell is this shit!? Don’t tell me he rented the wrong one?” I checked the spine of the VHS case and looked at her wide-eyed, “It says Sing Blue Silver. Maybe they put the wrong tape in the wrong case?” Fortunately, in our ire, we spent an inappropriate amount of time being outraged and arguing about how and why we ended up with the wrong video. It took a few to realize that our swapped tape was a frickin’ goldmine. Father Mine did rent the wrong video but it was worth the flub because what he got for us instead was a brand spanking new documentary of Duran’s 1983/1984 World Tour. We’re talking never-before-seen-by-us performances, candid shenanigans, interviews – insight! Forget schlepping the pickles out of my Big Mac, we were going around the world with Duran Duran.

Needless to say, no one had access to the TV until the video went back to the store. We logged countless ravenous hours, memorizing every line, the details in every scene, every note they played, like it was the last thing we’d ever do. We were, in a word, mesmerized. I mean it wasn’t without some educational merit. We did learn a lot about how music tours work, how important it is to obey backstage riders to include Stolichnaya vodka, things about the FBI, and – what the word contrived means. Contrived: ADJECTIVE – having unnatural or false appearance or quality, artificial, labored. My fellow Duranies reading this will understand, they’ve probably already said it aloud. The best nasally quote of all Nick Rhodes quotes. Ever. Nick, the keyboardist, born June 8^th, 1962, shoulder shimmy wizard of the band in case you’re not familiar and didn’t believe that even to this day, I know their birth dates better than about a third of my own family.

Sing Blue Silver, for us fans, was most quotable. From the opening scene to the bitter end. In that opening scene, the band are sat behind a long table being blinded by flashing cameras and bombarded with questions. A reporter asks Andy Taylor, guitar player (was always my least favorite member but Way Cooler Big Sister dug him), born February 16^th, 1961, when he learned an instrument. Uproarious laughter ensured after his salacious quip. Simon LeBon, singer, born October 27^th, 1958, piped up and said, “I was born with my instrument.” More riotous laugher erupted. I won’t bore you with all the band details, but the best was when it came time for Roger Taylor, drummer, born April 26^th, 1960, to answer. Bashful and at a loss for words, he tries but fails. Simon jumps in and saves the day and says, “Roger needs two hands for his!” And the crowd goes wild. We keeled over with stitches. And, for days and weeks and years to come, those few lines were part of our vernacular. Along with another promo gig the band had with Coca Cola and one of the corporate bigwigs called a very dashing John Taylor, bassist, born June 20^th, 1960, to the podium to speak on behalf of the band. What does he say after all the fine remarks made about the band and the soft drink’s partnership? “I prefer Pepsi myself.” I can’t tell you how many times we uttered that back then, even in recent years. One of us would be having or see something about Coke and come right out with it. Funny how that happens, eh?

The band, in the most quotable scene for us, were preparing for their now famous Francesco Scavullo photoshoot. Simon described the dangers of undressing with press and cameras around, “Cause if you take your trousers off in front of people, they’ll say things like, ‘Simon LeBon wears yellow underwear and they’ll accuse you of having chubby legs and a gut’” When we folded laundry or any other random reason we’d give it up, “Simon LeBon wears yellow underwear.”

Father Mine ended up buying the copy from the video store for us so he didn’t have to keep renting it. It was the right thing to do. It cut down on the time he spent going to the mall, and the gas. It was amazing to have it at our disposal day and night. The only drawback was, since the trips to the video store stopped, we saw Father Mine less and less on weekends. I found myself many a time, like clockwork, going to the side door to wait for him then would remember when he didn’t’ come that he wasn’t. I held on to those weekend days for as long as I could. And, now, I hold on tight to the memories of sitting on the floor with Way Cooler Big Sister, glued to the screen, elbowing each other to make sure we don’t miss the good parts when in fact we were the good parts.

***

Finding the accompanying photo is what prompted this little piece about Kel and I. It all flooded back. And, maybe it isn’t as funny as some of the others I wrote, seeing us in my mind’s eye losing our holy shit because Dad brought down the wrong tape is hilarious. I mean, just look at us. Who do we think we are?! Ahaha! We thought we were the shit. No doubt. We bonded so deeply over our love for the band and learned so much. We discovered fashion and books and art and other music. We found friends we’d otherwise never met. One more Saturday on the floor gnawing a cold Big Mac would be a dream come true.

In propinquity,

Nic

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

Whiz/Bang

Whiz/Bang

blindsided

by his one-line rebuke

me

who is

always irrepressibly

cheerful

is now reduced to

a character in conflict

watching him drive away

w/o sufficient explanation

the dust kicking up a cloud

under the threadbare tires of 

his clattering camper van

                        whiz/bang

***

I know, I know. Another small poem. I couldn’t help myself!

In propinquity,

Nic