After a long and harmonious marriage, one tends to take for granted the ability to read and interpret one's partner's thoughts. It's a little like ESP. You feel what the other is thinking deep in your bones. Generally that's true, but every once in a while the male radar stops functioning. He becomes instantly lost beyond redemption and has absolutely no idea how it happened. Well, let me give you a for instance:
Me and the Wife and Fertilizer
The other day I heard my wife muttering away in Dutch, “Dit gat kaput, en dat gat kaput! “ She doesn’t generally revert back to her mother tongue unless there is something particularly exciting, beautiful or most often, disgusting to catch her attention. I hadn’t noticed any of the above.
“What?” I asked from behind my newspaper.
“Oh, that host on morning television was just making a joke about his aging father coming to visit. Something about the old guy creaking and groaning around the house like a rusty old hinge.”
“Oh.” Obviously the morning man had touched a nerve. At least it wasn’t me.
“Well,” she said, ”young people seem to think we’re so old. They don’t believe it will ever happen to them. At that age people still figure they’re invincible. I know that’s how I felt, even in my thirties and forties. Back then I thought that my mother was really old. She was barely in her seventies at the time. And look at me now.” She rubbed arthritic her arm for emphasis, as if the guy on the other side of the TV screen would pay attention and take a lesson from it.
Obviously, the whole business either went right over his head, or he didn’t care one way or the other because he announced that they had to break for commercials and he’d be right back. So much for that, I thought.
Well, I felt duty bound to step in here with some words of wisdom. I don’t know exactly what point I was trying to make when I told the wife that the new pope was eight years older than I was and he was taking on a whole new career. I was probably trying to reassure her that people can be useful at any age. We old timers are likely tougher and have more stamina than any of these young whippersnappers anyway.
“ No, no,” she returned. “That wasn’t what I meant.”
Rats, I’d missed the point again!
“No, I was thinking about life’s ironies,” she continued wistfully. “First, babies are born and they’re so beautiful. Then they grow and grow into adults. Finally they start on the downhill slope and slowly everything starts to wear out until it all falls apart. The last blow as they age, is that they lose their minds and become like infants again. The only difference is that now instead of being tiny and beautiful, they’re just plain ugly. That’s the final insult.”
Ah vanity, only a woman would think of such things.
“Fertilizer,” I said. It was obviously not the most profound choice of replies.
“What in the world,” she gave me that disdainful, long suffering look of someone burdened with having to put up with conversations totally beneath her intelligence, “has fertilizer got to do with anything?”
“The cycle of life,” I explained philosophically. “A tiny seed sprouts out of the ground and grows into the most beautiful flower.” With the way my wife loves flowers, I thought this would be a perfect analogy.
“It blooms and blossoms into glorious color,” I continued eloquently, certain that I was tuned in to her train of thought, “producing and nurturing its seeds until they are ready to be taken by the wind to stand on their own.”
I was really getting into it now. “As a final act of love and kindness for its offspring, the flower sacrifices its own beauty, withers, dies and rots in the ground to fertilize and feed its young.”
For good measure I threw in, “it’s like martyrdom for the good of creation. Thus the cycle continues.”
The blank stare I got hinted that we were perhaps not in the same conversation, or the same planet, for that matter.
Finally the light in my brain went on. “You’re unhappy with your hair color again, aren’t you?” I suggested.
“Oh, shut up,” she explained.
Well at least it wasn’t Dutch.
If you enjoyed this story, you may consider purchasing a ebook written by Victor Epp. Introducing "TruthSeeker"
When I wrote this story, I was thinking of Clara Hughes and her incredible 5,000 meter speed skating race in the 2006 Winter Olympics. Still 200 meters away from the finish line she had burned up the last of the energy her body had to offer. There was absolutely nothing left! But somehow she reached down deep within her spirit to deliver her to victory. Crossing the finish line, Clara collapsed on the ice, unconscious.
Her senses slowly returned and she realized that she was alive. SHE WAS ALIVE! Even after her body had made the ultimate sacrifice and left her, her indomitable inner spirit had answered the call for help and carried her through to her goal.
The gold medal she won in this extraordinary race paled in comparison to the exhilaration of total 'aliveness' that washed over her. She literally beamed as she stood on the podium with Cindy Klassen, and her completeness radiated from her like an infectious beacon, sweeping the others up in her celebration.
Clara used to train at Sargent Park in Winnipeg in the early days. That was where I had last strapped on a pair of speed skates - about the time when Clara first came into this world. So I can't help but feel a certain kinship with her, although she doesn't know me from Adam.
So what started out to be a story about speed skating isn't about that at all. It's about unconquerable power of the spirit that lies within every one of us, if only we call upon it. It gives me goosebumps when I think about it.
I guess I've written another parable. Here it is.
Call the Wind
He wouldn’t even have noticed the old couple occupying the wood bench next to the track except for the old geyser's outlandish get-up. Even now he blocked them out of his mind. He needed to focus on what was probably the most important preparation before tomorrow’s big event. Everyone had his own way of mentally preparing for the race and, unorthodox as it was, this was Ethan's way.
That was the hard won deal he had made with Coach - no prying eyes, no controlled exercises or stopwatches, and no Coach. The last day before the race had to be his and his alone. After that he would be ready for whatever Coach told him. Coach didn’t like it one bit. The painstaking regimen to bring the young athlete to peak at race time could all be wiped out in one reckless day, but there was nothing he could do about it. It was the only way he could get Ethan to race for his club. The kid was a rising star and there was no way that Coach would lose him over a disagreement, so he grudgingly gave in.
Now it was just before dawn. At the only outdoor skating oval in town Ethan stood alone in the biting winter air, ignoring the old pair on the bench. He knew his strategy was risky. One fall on the less than perfect ice, one small injury and it could all be over before it even began. Nevertheless, he needed to perform the ritual to tighten every nerve in his body taut as a drawn bowstring, something like pulling back the hammer on the starting pistol.
When it fired to signal the start of the race Ethan would catapult from the starting line as though he himself was the missile. Raw nerves and hair-trigger reaction gave him his remarkable speed. The training he'd undergone under the supervision of Coach would hopefully provide the stamina.
One slow lap around the track to check for foreign objects on the ice was all he allowed himself for insurance. The ritual was always the same. Standing at an old faded starting line, Ethan closed his eyes. He forced his mind back to that day in the mountains three years ago. Slowly the terrifying imagery returned. Little by little his memory of the muted avalanche roar began to seep in to his consciousness.The old panic pangs knotted his stomach, bunched his muscles and drew his body into an involuntary crouch. Conjuring up the deafening roar of that approaching mountain of snow, Ethan exploded out of the starting line flailing his arms propel himself beyond the reach of the thundering avalanche with his imaginary ski poles, and driving his powerful legs over the track before him.Just as the combination of exhilaration and fear had given him the strength and speed to cheat the killer descending on him that day, so the resurrection of its memory now awakened his senses and unleashed the power he possessed.
Ethan would keep up this breakneck pace as long as his muscles and his lungs held out. He could only hope they would last for the whole ten thousand meters.
He would push it to the point of total fatigue and then go home to a long, luxurious hot bath and sleep until race time tomorrow. By then the muscles would have recovered enough to be fresh and taught as today. His mind would be cleared of everything but the race.
Right now though, he didn’t need any distractions. There was a lot at stake. It was a national championship and Ethan had never competed in anything more than five thousand. Still, he couldn’t help a sideways glance at the two shadowy figures at the side of the oval. They were two old people wrapped in buffalo robes.
The old man had pushed the woman’s wheelchair to the rickety old bench at the side of the track and seated himself beside her. Even in the dim lamplight Ethan caught a glimpse of the three-colored knitted skullcap pulled tightly over the man’s head. Red, white and blue stripes ran vertically down it, even to the long earflaps. Ethan pulled his focus back to his undertaking, looking straight ahead and digging his skates in even harder.
The next lap around the track found Ethan reluctantly stealing another sideways glance. The man had disappeared, leaving the woman alone under her buffalo robe. He shook his head as though to rid himself of the distraction. The smallest things could throw him off in the days leading up to a big race. He had to keep his mind on business and shut everything else out. ‘Avalanche’, he kept repeating with every stroke of his blades, ‘avalanche’.
By the fifteenth lap Ethan’s legs started to burn. Until now they had propelled him forward easily with mighty piston strokes, pumping acceleration at the corners and gliding in long easy strokes on the straight-aways. He was beginning to labor. The icy air seared his lungs like a thousand hot knives with every gasp. With ten laps to go he was fading too soon. Ethan renewed his resolve. He knew he’d outpaced himself but he didn’t care. The idea was to drive body and soul to the point of failure. He would finish the ten thousand meters at his absolute maximum speed, or collapse in the effort. Tomorrow would be the day to take a more measured pace.
The rip, rip, rip of the sharp long blades cutting into the ice gave a certain sense of raw power. It was the indescribable sound of mastery over the frozen track, commanding it to yield to the steady piston-like strokes of Ethan’s powerful legs. They sounded as strong as ever, stronger, according to the increasing sound. After a few minutes, Ethan sensed something was not right.
On instinct he swung his head around, expecting to see his phantom avalanche. There, right behind him was the old man, striding stroke for stroke like some apparition of the red baron on skates with the earflaps on his skullcap flying in the wind. The now baggy wool tights belied the power in the old man’s legs that generated long smooth strokes in time with Ethan’s own.
The sudden shock of this vision brought on a new adrenaline rush as Ethan leaned in to the corner, his right arm swinging for momentum, bending him forward for more thrust. His knees burned in protest and the powerful thigh muscles began to tremble. He was close to collapse. Air – he needed air to feed his struggling body.
Without looking back, he knew the old man was gaining on him. Ethan was confused. Was fatigue clouding his mind or was he really seeing the impossible ancient figure overtaking him? He labored on even more determinedly.
In perfect sync, the old man had gained enough to pull up beside Ethan. He must take some awful long strides. And where did this spindly cartoon character get that kind of strength anyway? It wasn’t human. Well it wouldn’t be for long anyway. The man seemed to be gasping for breath. Any minute now he’d keel over – just what Ethan needed. But then he realized that it wasn’t gasping the old man was doing. He was saying something in a raspy long breath. It sounded like he was saying ‘wiiiiiind’ in a hoarse whine.
“You’re runnin’ out of oxygen sonny”, the old man rasped. “You’ll never finish that way”.
Ethan was shocked at the calm easy voice. Even if he’d wanted to, he couldn’t answer. The man was right. Every muscle in his body was screaming for air.
“It’s all right there for the asking. You just got to ask”. The man was no longer gasping, but breathing and speaking normally. “Just call the wind. He’ll fill your lungs and you’ll skate forever – like this”. He sucked in a long breath in concert with his blade stroke, forming a deep rasping word that sounded like he was saying ‘wind’. On the next stroke he exhaled, repeating the same sound. “Do it”, he said to Ethan.
With his lungs about ready to burst and his legs failing, there was nothing else to do but try. For the length of each stroke he emulated the old one, first inhaling the word ‘wind’ and on the next stroke, exhaling it.
“Keep doing it”, said the old man and lengthened his stride, pulling away.
He needed such intense concentration to co-ordinate his breathing with his stride that Ethan didn’t notice the man and the woman in the wheelchair leave the track. He actually finished the forty laps and at the end, was skating easier, re-energized by the breathing regimen. It was true. He felt he could skate forever. Now when he wanted to thank the man, he was nowhere to be found. He’d simply vanished, leaving only wheelchair tracks in the snow.
Ethan turned in to the clubhouse to change and head for home. He never said a word about his bizarre encounter to anyone. No one would believe him anyway, especially Coach. He hardly believed it himself and there was no use getting into arguments about tactics the day before such a big event.
Still, when he bent down from the podium to receive his gold medal, Ethan’s thoughts went to the strange old man in his outlandish clothing. Had they not met, this wouldn’t be happening. He tried in vain to spot him among the crowd of spectators. This medal belonged as much to him as to Ethan.
It wasn’t until after all the presentations and the attendant hoopla were over that Coach got Ethan in a quiet corner. “Just what did you think you were doing out there?” he exploded. “With all that moaning, I thought you were going to die right there on the track! I nearly sent the medics out there after you. You scared the pants off me and everybody else out there”!
Ethan couldn’t think of a logical response. “I was calling the wind”, he said simply. It was the truth.
“Calling the wind? Calling the wind?” Coach was incredulous. “Who do you suddenly think you are, Earl Jensen”?
“Nope. Who’s Earl Jensen”?
“It doesn’t matter” Coach shot back. “The point is, we laid out a strict regimen for you to follow. That’s how you got to where you are today. If you expect me to continue coaching you, we’ll have no more of that crap”!
“Who’s Earl Jensen”?
“Just the fastest skater that ever strapped on a pair of racing skates, that’s who.
But he kind of went off his nut after his wife was paralyzed in a freak accident. Before that she could skate nearly as good as him. After she was laid up in her wheelchair he used to go flying around the ice faster than ever, howling like a banshee. Folks used to say he was skating for the both of them and howling to the wind to get her legs back.”
“So what’s wrong with that?” Ethan said out loud. “He was still flying wasn’t he”? On the inside he was getting an eerie feeling.
“Well”, said Coach, “people started to get afraid of him so he wasn’t invited to competitions anymore. The old coot even put special treads on his wife’s wheelchair. He would skate around the track pushing her in the chair until the club stopped him from doing it”.
“That doesn’t seem so crazy, Coach. Makes perfect sense to me. Whatever happened to them”?
“Well, she died in ’38, and Earl didn’t last much longer after that. Without his lady and with not being able to race anymore, I guess life just wasn’t worth it. He just sort of petered out. It’s a shame, really.”
“You got a picture of this Earl Johnson”?
“Jensen”, Coach corrected. “Hey! What’s going on in that head of yours? I don’t like it one bit. I’m your coach and I’m the one who tells you what to think. You might have done well in this race but your not nearly ready for the worlds yet. You've got a week off before we start again. You’d better have all that crap out of your head by then if you want to skate for me.”
Ethan had heard enough. “Have a nice life”, he said quietly and turned on his heel. Coach needed him more than he needed Coach. He’d come around in a day or two, but for now Ethan left the man with his mouth open, unable to speak.
Instead of going home, Ethan headed for the old clubhouse. It was late and no one was there. He threw his skates over the chain link fence and scrambled over after them. He stripped down to his tights and jersey and laced up. As he stepped on to the oval, he looked up. “This one’s for you Earl”, he said out loud as he started to stride on the ice.
‘Wiiiiiind – Wiiiiiind –Wiiiiiind – Wiiiiiind’, Ethan chanted in rhythm to his strides. Longer, ever longer grew his powerful strokes, pumping his legs through the corners like hydraulic pistons. ‘Wiiiiiind – Wiiiiiind –Wiiiiiind – Wiiiiiind’, gaining incredible speed on the straightaway, he was flying. Ethan knew he could skate forever if he wanted to.
Before I tell you about Nestor’s Canada Day celebrations, let me first introduce you to my unique and special friend. You probably know someone just like him. The son of immigrant parents, Nestor has been grounded in the morals and ethics of the old country and applied it single-mindedly to his proud Canadian-ness.
You would never suspect that people like Nestor Kropatnik PF (Retired) even exist, much less have a professional title attached to their names. Much like the military designations such as Rear Admiral (Retired) or Brigadier General (Retired), Nestor wears his title of ‘Pig Farmer (Retired)’ with a good deal of pride and justification.
Coming from a long line of pig farmers, Nestor was born to the profession. By the time he was eight years old he had more or less mastered all there was to know about pig farming and everything attendant to it. By the age of sixteen it was second nature to him. To paraphrase Wayne Gretzky commenting on countless hours of practice on the ice, if you had to think about it you wouldn't be able to do it right - something like that.
It was the way the Kropatniks operated. First you were born and then you learned things until they were second nature to you. After that, you just did what you knew how to do. It was a very simple formula. You knew what you did and you did what you knew. At the same time you automatically knew who and what you were too. There was never any question about who or what Nestor Kropatnik PF (Retired) was.
Whenever he had to sign his name to something Nestor would always write the letters PF after it. He never hesitated to explain the designation to the curious either. But the icing on the cake was when he was finally able to add the word ‘(Retired)’ in brackets to his name. It was like scraping the mixing bowl after the cake was in the oven. Now, in the comfort of his balcony chair in the cozy apartment he and his wife had retired to, Nestor finally had the time to ask all the questions and give all the advice he'd been too busy to in his active years.
It all made sense too, if you understand a thing or two about pig farming. The work is long and hard. It's lonely too. Day after day is spent working with the animals, feeding and cleaning barns, preparing chop for feed, plowing and cultivating crops for grain to make the feed - well, you get the idea.
Pigs don't necessarily make good conversationalists, and staring at the wrong end of a horse in the endless hours of fieldwork isn't all that inspiring either. Nestor's mind, active as it was had plenty of time figure many things out during these long lonely hours while his body toiled and he seems to have saved it all up in his mental silo. It all just sat there like a giant compost heap, slowly fermenting and maturing into rich, fertile wisdom. Now, with time on his hands, Nestor can ambush his unsuspecting victims with these little gems of wisdom whenever the spirit moves him, and move him it does.
Never one to leave things undone, Nestor now spends his days writing to all the people that he feels need his advice and suggestions, or occasional questions. He doesn't discriminate either. His advice is freely given to everyone, whether they like it or not. It's the least he can do, he says. So he writes letters to whomever he thinks need his advice.
There is only one tiny technicality. Nestor speaks with a little bit of a European accent. He writes that way too. While he is as good at giving advice as he is at pig farming, Nestor has really never mastered the art of spelling in the English language. It's the only thing that bothers him just a little. Grammar is fine, according to him. Well, he’s been listening to himself talk all his life and he’s used to it. But writing and spelling is a different matter. His hands are not used to holding what he would call ‘sissy pants pen’ and he is a little hesitant. But as usual, Nestor has the perfect solution. In the logical fashion that is his style, Nestor never actually mails any of the letters. Once he's written them his duty is done, but as you'll notice, he always invites the subjects of his sage advice to drop in for some of his endless supply of sausage and his son's beer. If they don't show up, well that's their loss. He, Nestor Kropatnik PF (Retired), has fulfilled his obligations.
Well, that more or less sums up Nestor Kropatnik. Now let me tell you about his thoughts on Canada Day. You might notice that he never knows the proper government department to write to, but he doesn’t care either. If he wants to write about Canada, he addresses his letter to Canada. It would eventually get to the right place (if he were to mail it that is). Here it is.
Dear Canada
Dear Canada;
It’s me, Nestor! Hoys Boys, I so embarrass early first thing in morning I don’t know should I sit down, stand up, or hide face in corner. Sun is just peeking up from under sleeping blanket when I take my coffee and little bit ham sausage on balcony for think about what to do today. Well I know I not going to do things no more – I retire – but is old habit I pick up and hard to break. Even still is nice to plan for do nothing whole day. Besides, is Canada day today. Whole country having birthday party.
Now I look up from comfy balcony chair – just like pope – and look across courtyard at other buildings. Holy Moley, I bet my big boots I jump a mile high! Lots o’ people got big Canadian flag in windows and draped over balcony – just like huge big birthday card. Hoy Boys! What a good idea! How come I never think of that? I gotta admit, sometimes city slickers not so dumb after all.
All of a sudden I get great idea myself. Maybe I got no flag so I gonna make one for sure! Quiet as a little mouse I sneak in bedroom where missus still sleeping. She so cute, purr like tiny little kitten on pillow. I find brand new pair red wool gotchies and brand new white bed sheet and tippee toe out so wife not wake up. I know I got no business in sewing basket, but I look anyway for safety pins and take whole shebang to balcony. Hoy Boys – is hard job to figure out how to make maple leaf from pair o’ gotchies. Is one part short until I remember trap door. Look at that. Trap door is good for lots o’ things. By time I all finished, tongue is all twisted from concentrating, fingers full o’ holes from safety pins, but whole thing looks pretty good, I figure out. Not so bad for old pig farmer.
Holy Moley, if I not still on hands and knees, I bet you for sure I be fall down right away quick. Right behind me cute little purring kitten turn into ferocious big tiger – roar like lion – in mother tongue! Missus lets out string o’ words, some I never even know what mean. What I think I doing showing underwear to neighbors on balcony? What people going to think of bunyak pig farmer? They gonna laugh us right out of neighborhood! Hoy Boys, I so shocked I don’t know what to say for minute. I never thought o’ that.
Finally I get tongue back and I say, ”Hey listen sweetie, calm down. I make birthday card for Canada.” Hoy Boys, big mistake! She give me ‘nother blast.
Now I got to dig heels in little bit. I tell her, “Listen here sweetie, I CEO of balcony. If I wanna say ‘Happy Birthday Canada’, I gonna do it”.
Missus shoots right back. “Maybe you CEO, but don’t forget who is Chairman of Board. Now shaddap and give me gotchies”.
Just then our Olga – she now CEO of pig farm since I retire, walks in door and wonders what is all squawking about. Missus tells her I make jackass of self and show her what I make. She says she gonna throw in Dumpster.
Daughter says, “no, no mommy, don’t throw away! Is very important to say ‘Happy Birthday Canada’. Look, I brought present”! She open big Eaton’s shopping bag and haul out huge big flag bought from store. Holy Moley I get such a big surprise! Is beautiful flag.
Missus like it too. She says, “here Mr. CEO, go hang up proper birthday card – and do it straight”.
Daughter tells mommy, “Give me daddy’s flag. I got good place for it. I hang it up in barn. Pigs will be so happy, they gonna squeal like pigs – maybe even sing ‘Oh Canada’. They see daddy’s gotchies, then they know who is Chairman of Board in barn. See, everything is hunky dory”.
Look at that! I don’t know how it happened. Missus comes and gives me little squeeze. She says I cutest little bunyak. Daughter says she gotta go show flag to pigs in barn.
Let me give you little bit friendly advice. Don’t worry, it’s free – no red tape attached. When it comes to ladies, just shaddap and do what they say. Somehow by magic, everything work out – every time.
You should drop by sometime. We could have some sausage and maybe I ask my boy who live close by if he got some extra beer. We could have nice visit. Just don’t ask for lady advice.
Your pal,
Nestor Kropatnik PF (Retire)
If you enjoyed this story, you may consider purchasing a ebook written by Victor Epp. Introducing "TruthSeeker"
Before I tell you about Nestor’s Canada Day celebrations, let me first introduce you to my unique and special friend. You probably know someone just like him. The son of immigrant parents, Nestor has been grounded in the morals and ethics of the old country and applied it single-mindedly to his proud Canadian-ness.
You would never suspect that people like Nestor Kropatnik PF (Retired) even exist, much less have a professional title attached to their names. Much like the military designations such as Rear Admiral (Retired) or Brigadier General (Retired), Nestor wears his title of ‘Pig Farmer (Retired)’ with a good deal of pride and justification.
Coming from a long line of pig farmers, Nestor was born to the profession. By the time he was eight years old he had more or less mastered all there was to know about pig farming and everything attendant to it. By the age of sixteen it was second nature to him. To paraphrase Wayne Gretzky commenting on countless hours of practice on the ice, if you had to think about it you wouldn't be able to do it right - something like that.
It was the way the Kropatniks operated. First you were born and then you learned things until they were second nature to you. After that, you just did what you knew how to do. It was a very simple formula. You knew what you did and you did what you knew. At the same time you automatically knew who and what you were too. There was never any question about who or what Nestor Kropatnik PF (Retired) was.
Whenever he had to sign his name to something Nestor would always write the letters PF after it. He never hesitated to explain the designation to the curious either. But the icing on the cake was when he was finally able to add the word ‘(Retired)’ in brackets to his name. It was like scraping the mixing bowl after the cake was in the oven. Now, in the comfort of his balcony chair in the cozy apartment he and his wife had retired to, Nestor finally had the time to ask all the questions and give all the advice he'd been too busy to in his active years.
It all made sense too, if you understand a thing or two about pig farming. The work is long and hard. It's lonely too. Day after day is spent working with the animals, feeding and cleaning barns, preparing chop for feed, plowing and cultivating crops for grain to make the feed - well, you get the idea.
Pigs don't necessarily make good conversationalists, and staring at the wrong end of a horse in the endless hours of fieldwork isn't all that inspiring either. Nestor's mind, active as it was had plenty of time figure many things out during these long lonely hours while his body toiled and he seems to have saved it all up in his mental silo. It all just sat there like a giant compost heap, slowly fermenting and maturing into rich, fertile wisdom. Now, with time on his hands, Nestor can ambush his unsuspecting victims with these little gems of wisdom whenever the spirit moves him, and move him it does.
Never one to leave things undone, Nestor now spends his days writing to all the people that he feels need his advice and suggestions, or occasional questions. He doesn't discriminate either. His advice is freely given to everyone, whether they like it or not. It's the least he can do, he says. So he writes letters to whomever he thinks need his advice.
There is only one tiny technicality. Nestor speaks with a little bit of a European accent. He writes that way too. While he is as good at giving advice as he is at pig farming, Nestor has really never mastered the art of spelling in the English language. It's the only thing that bothers him just a little. Grammar is fine, according to him. Well, he’s been listening to himself talk all his life and he’s used to it. But writing and spelling is a different matter. His hands are not used to holding what he would call ‘sissy pants pen’ and he is a little hesitant. But as usual, Nestor has the perfect solution. In the logical fashion that is his style, Nestor never actually mails any of the letters. Once he's written them his duty is done, but as you'll notice, he always invites the subjects of his sage advice to drop in for some of his endless supply of sausage and his son's beer. If they don't show up, well that's their loss. He, Nestor Kropatnik PF (Retired), has fulfilled his obligations.
Well, that more or less sums up Nestor Kropatnik. Now let me tell you about his thoughts on Canada Day. You might notice that he never knows the proper government department to write to, but he doesn’t care either. If he wants to write about Canada, he addresses his letter to Canada. It would eventually get to the right place (if he were to mail it that is). Here it is.
Dear Canada
Dear Canada;
It’s me, Nestor! Hoys Boys, I so embarrass early first thing in morning I don’t know should I sit down, stand up, or hide face in corner. Sun is just peeking up from under sleeping blanket when I take my coffee and little bit ham sausage on balcony for think about what to do today. Well I know I not going to do things no more – I retire – but is old habit I pick up and hard to break. Even still is nice to plan for do nothing whole day. Besides, is Canada day today. Whole country having birthday party.
Now I look up from comfy balcony chair – just like pope – and look across courtyard at other buildings. Holy Moley, I bet my big boots I jump a mile high! Lots o’ people got big Canadian flag in windows and draped over balcony – just like huge big birthday card. Hoy Boys! What a good idea! How come I never think of that? I gotta admit, sometimes city slickers not so dumb after all.
All of a sudden I get great idea myself. Maybe I got no flag so I gonna make one for sure! Quiet as a little mouse I sneak in bedroom where missus still sleeping. She so cute, purr like tiny little kitten on pillow. I find brand new pair red wool gotchies and brand new white bed sheet and tippee toe out so wife not wake up. I know I got no business in sewing basket, but I look anyway for safety pins and take whole shebang to balcony. Hoy Boys – is hard job to figure out how to make maple leaf from pair o’ gotchies. Is one part short until I remember trap door. Look at that. Trap door is good for lots o’ things. By time I all finished, tongue is all twisted from concentrating, fingers full o’ holes from safety pins, but whole thing looks pretty good, I figure out. Not so bad for old pig farmer.
Holy Moley, if I not still on hands and knees, I bet you for sure I be fall down right away quick. Right behind me cute little purring kitten turn into ferocious big tiger – roar like lion – in mother tongue! Missus lets out string o’ words, some I never even know what mean. What I think I doing showing underwear to neighbors on balcony? What people going to think of bunyak pig farmer? They gonna laugh us right out of neighborhood! Hoy Boys, I so shocked I don’t know what to say for minute. I never thought o’ that.
Finally I get tongue back and I say, ”Hey listen sweetie, calm down. I make birthday card for Canada.” Hoy Boys, big mistake! She give me ‘nother blast.
Now I got to dig heels in little bit. I tell her, “Listen here sweetie, I CEO of balcony. If I wanna say ‘Happy Birthday Canada’, I gonna do it”.
Missus shoots right back. “Maybe you CEO, but don’t forget who is Chairman of Board. Now shaddap and give me gotchies”.
Just then our Olga – she now CEO of pig farm since I retire, walks in door and wonders what is all squawking about. Missus tells her I make jackass of self and show her what I make. She says she gonna throw in Dumpster.
Daughter says, “no, no mommy, don’t throw away! Is very important to say ‘Happy Birthday Canada’. Look, I brought present”! She open big Eaton’s shopping bag and haul out huge big flag bought from store. Holy Moley I get such a big surprise! Is beautiful flag.
Missus like it too. She says, “here Mr. CEO, go hang up proper birthday card – and do it straight”.
Daughter tells mommy, “Give me daddy’s flag. I got good place for it. I hang it up in barn. Pigs will be so happy, they gonna squeal like pigs – maybe even sing ‘Oh Canada’. They see daddy’s gotchies, then they know who is Chairman of Board in barn. See, everything is hunky dory”.
Look at that! I don’t know how it happened. Missus comes and gives me little squeeze. She says I cutest little bunyak. Daughter says she gotta go show flag to pigs in barn.
Let me give you little bit friendly advice. Don’t worry, it’s free – no red tape attached. When it comes to ladies, just shaddap and do what they say. Somehow by magic, everything work out – every time.
You should drop by sometime. We could have some sausage and maybe I ask my boy who live close by if he got some extra beer. We could have nice visit. Just don’t ask for lady advice.
Your pal,
Nestor Kropatnik PF (Retire)
If you enjoyed this story, you may consider purchasing a ebook written by Victor Epp. Introducing "TruthSeeker"
Meagan had been down this path a thousand times, it seemed. It was her favorite place to go when she wanted to be by herself, and she wanted to be by herself quite often. Not that she was a “social-icer” as some people liked to call her. But she liked her own company. On this path she could daydream, or sort out her problems, or lick her wounds after having lost an argument.
Over the back fence and through a clump of willows just tall enough to hide her from view, beyond the tall mound of earth that had been dredged out long ago to make a pond for livestock, and there it was. The gentle breeze and brilliant sunshine brought wild flowers and grasses to life, waving softly to welcome her this afternoon.
Meagan felt better already. With the afternoon sun warming her back she made her way along the path to the giant granite boulder that sat in a clearing about a quarter mile ahead. That was her place, her thinking place – on top of the jagged ancient rock. If there was some sort of energy in it, maybe some magnetic force, Meagan couldn’t tell. But when she sat on it’s flat, warm surface after scrambling up, answers to her problems or questions seemed to appear in her head all by themselves. She thought of the great stone as a wise old grandmother telling her what she needed to know. She had even given it a name. Heather, yes Heather, mainly because of the little blue flowers growing around it. Their tiny pale blue petals would dance and sparkle, even in the shade whenever Meagan drew near. It was a lovely place that embraced her. Yes, that was it – it embraced her.
The only reason Meagan headed out today was because she just felt like it. Summer holidays still lingered, her chores at home were all done and, well, she just felt like it, that’s all. It seemed like a perfectly good idea to visit Heather and do some daydreaming and this was the very day to do it.
“Well, wise old grandmother,” she said right out loud once she had got settled comfortably on the stone, “tell me something I want to know that I didn’t know I want to know.”
She smiled. That was something different! Usually Meagan had some particular thing on her mind that she wanted to know answers to. Not today though. Heck, she didn’t even know what she wanted to know. Well, she supposed, that must be a particular thing she wanted to know, even if she didn’t know what it was.
As usual, Meagan stuck her elbows on the insides of her knees that stuck out sideways the way they do when you sit cross-legged. She made a couple of fists and poked them into her cheeks, propping up her face with the process. Then she closed her eyes and waited – and waited – and waited. Nothing was happening. Oh well, it was probably a dumb request anyway. Then something occurred to her. Where were her manners anyway?
“Please,” she said.
A sudden breeze came up out of nowhere and rustled the leaves in the trees. Was that some sort of a response? Naw, it couldn’t be. Meagan pinched her eyes shut even tighter and waited again. Still nothing. Well, this was certainly going nowhere, she thought after a while. Patience girl, she said to herself. She was here anyway and what’s more, was very comfortable, more comfortable than she would be anywhere else. Why not spend some time and think about – well, about nothing in particular, maybe even everything in general while she was at it.
Maybe the wise old grandmother was asleep or something that she didn’t respond to Meagan. Grandmothers did that sometimes, even ones that were not real. Meagan wondered why that was. Shoot, she had a grandmother she hadn’t even met. In fact she’d never even heard anything about her. That was Meagan’s mom’s mom. Strange, she thought. No one ever spoke about her. Just the very idea made Meagan curious about her real grandmother. It was as though she had never even existed.
Well, that was just wrong. Everybody had a right to a grandmother, even if she had passed away. All Meagan’s friends had grandmothers, except Marla whose grandmother had died of cancer. But even Marla had wonderful memories of her grandma that she would tell about. Meagan could only listen and wish she could do the same.
Out of the blue, Meagan’s eyes popped wide open to the size of saucers. Her chin dropped almost to her lap. She knew what she didn’t know she wanted to know!She wanted to know about her grandmother! The answer had just snuck up on her. Suddenly it became very important for Meagan to find out a few things about her grandmother. Not only that, she wanted to know why no one ever spoke about her. Was there some big secret or something? It was time mom gave her some answers.
“Thank you, wise grandmother,” she said putting both hands on the warm stone. “Thank you, Heather.”
Helen Dumas froze in her tracks. She had just heard Meagan ask about her grandmother – Helen’s own mother. No one had dared utter her name since Helen was ten and was told the terrible truth about what happened to her mother that awful night Helen was born. No one dared speak of it for fear of awakening the spirit that had consumed Maria Savage within an hour of giving birth to the tiny, fragile Helen.
“Don’t ask!” she screamed at her daughter. “Don’t ever speak of her again – in this house or any other!” She was hysterical and trembling like a leaf.
“But why, mom? What’s so terrible?” Meagan asked. She noticed her mother trembling. She’s never seen her like that before and it frightened her.
“Just don’t,” said Helen, trying to calm herself. She would say no more.
What could be such a terrible secret that it wasn’t ever to be talked about? Usually she and her mom talked about everything, but this – this was something she wasn’t used to. Confused, Meagan went to her room. She stayed there until supper and went back to it the minute she had done the dishes. The last thing she wanted to do was upset her mother again, so she ate, washed up and returned to the quiet of her bedroom to think things out.
Somewhere in the middle of her thinking, Meagan must have fallen asleep. She awoke with a start, shivering on her bed. The light was on and she was still dressed, but it was dark outside. The clock on her dresser said three-twenty. She’d slept half the night away! She quickly undressed, brushed her teeth as quietly as possible and tiptoed back to her bed. Under the warm covers, Meagan was fast asleep again before she had time to think about anything else.
At breakfast, Helen was her usual cheery self again, as though yesterday had never happened. That was a relief because Meagan’s mind was still full of it. Not the part about her mom being upset, but the mystery surrounding her grandmother. She couldn’t let go of the idea. Perhaps uncle George had been right in describing her “one-way” brain as he used to call it when she would pester him with questions and not let up until she had the answer. He would laugh and say it was easy for Meagan to get something into her head, but impossible to get out until she was satisfied.
Maybe uncle George was more right than he’d imagined. What Meagan did today was a case in point. Unfortunately though, this was not going to be a good day to go for a picnic on the rock. It was pouring cats and dogs. How disappointing. Now what? She didn’t want to risk questioning her mother again, and it was too wet to go out on the trail. Well maybe, just maybe the game that she used to play with Gidge when they were younger would give her an answer. It was worth a try.
When Helen walked into the dining room she did a double take. Sitting at the table was Meagan – stone faced, eyes closed, and each hand grasping a pencil pressed to a blank sheet of paper. She looked as though she was under a spell.
“What in the world are you up to young lady?” she puzzled.
No answer.
“Meagan, I’m speaking to you.”
Still no answer.
Helen resisted the urge to grab the pencils from her daughter and just went back into the kitchen. That worked, as it usually did. Within minutes Meagan was in the kitchen.
“Sorry mom,” she started, “but I was concentrating. You can’t lose your focus when you’re doing that.”
“Doing what?”
“Concentrating.”
“On what?”
“Automatic writing. It’s like a Ouija Board without a Ouija Board. When you do automatic writing you have to focus on what you’re thinking about and your subconscious sometimes makes your hands write something down without you knowing it. You remember. Gidge and I used to play it all the time. It’s a brain game.”
Of course Helen knew what was in her daughter’s mind, but she wasn’t going to go there. It was too horrific. She felt bad about yesterday, but Meagan had caught her off guard. She wasn’t prepared and kind of lost it for a minute. Now that she knew, she could dodge any question Meagan might have. She’d done it enough times. Better to let the girl play her little mind games and get it out of her system. “So what did your hands write then?”
“I don’t know for sure, mom. You interrupted me. I’ll have to start all over.”
“Oh.”
Meagan stared at the two pieces of paper. The pencils hadn’t moved. No, wait, the one in her left hand had started but then the lead had broken. ‘Rats,’ Meagan muttered under her breath and went to sharpen the pencil. When she sat down again she switched pencils in her hand, closed her eyes and strained her brain on her grandmother. It wasn’t until she had to go to the bathroom so bad she couldn’t wait any longer, that she opened them. When she got back to look at the paper, sure enough there had been movement in the left hand again. But the lead had broken again before anything legible could be made out. But there was definitely something there in the right hand. She was on to something. It would be foolish to give up now.
The third time Meagan replaced the pencils with ballpoint pens. She focused again, trying to visualize her grandmother – what she looked like, the clothes she wore and how her voice sounded. It was hard to tell how long she sat there, transfixed in a hypnotic state like that. It must have been a long time because her hands were cramped and aching. Meagan looked down at the pieces of paper. The left hand piece showed an absolutely straight line angled upwards. About two inches up it stopped like Meagan had pressed down very hard and broken the pen point. When she looked in her hand she found that not only had she broken the point, but the whole pen! There was ink all over her hands. No wonder they were so cramped.
The right hand paper was a whole different matter. There was writing, beautiful writing. Meagan was amazed at the even pen strokes. She was left handed and could never write so smoothly, even with her left hand. The only problem was that she couldn’t understand what it said. Oh, the alphabet was English all right, but the words certainly weren’t. Not only that, but there were so many of them that they ran right off the page and on to the table. When Meagan tried to copy them on to the other piece, her writing looked like chicken scratch against the automatic writing.
Well, now what? She was no farther ahead than when she started. In fact, she seemed to be even more confused. First she had a mystery that she didn’t even know she wanted to know about. Then, discovering her own curiosity, she came upon an even greater mystery in the handwriting. Were the two even connected? That was a third mystery. When would the questions end and the answers begin? Meagan consciously tried to calm herself. She had worked herself up too much. This was no way to get answers. Calm down first, analyze the situation and then act. Of course, Meagan knew that. It was basic detective work. She carefully finished copying the writing that had spilled over onto the table, washed the ink from it and as much as she could get off her hand, and took the papers to her room out of her mother’s sight.
Too bad Gidge wasn’t around to help her with this. Oh well, she’d just have to make do, but where to start. With the pages laid out on the bed in front of her, and squatting in her favorite position, Meagan stared from one page to the other, unable to come up with even the faintest idea what they meant. What puzzled her most of all was the neat, fluid writing on the page to her right. She couldn’t write like that to save her life. Something or someone else must have guided her hand. Could it be that whoever the writer might be was trying to communicate with her? Meagan touched her fingers lightly to the paper and felt a chill go up her arm. She was really beginning to wonder if she wanted to know anymore about what she didn’t know she wanted to know.
But then, to give up in the middle of something was not in Meagan’s nature. There would just have to be another way to get answers.First she’d have to figure out a way to ask the questions without continually being cut off, like she was by her mom. It wasn’t likely that Uncle Walt would be anymore co-operative. Uncle Walt, he was mom’s older brother by twelve years and the only other child on that side of the family. Besides, he was kind of closed mouthed and uppity with them anyway. Meagan had a feeling that he didn’t like them much. Maybe that something that made them not want to talk about grandma had something to do with mom and Uncle Walt was holding it against her.
Well, that must be it. Something must have happened, something really awful. Hm, if it was all that bad, it must have been in the news, right - but when? That gave Meagan an idea. Old Sherman Rogers, he lived about a half mile down the road. He had retired from the RCMP a number of years ago and now spent most of his time gardening in the summer and traveling in the winter. He’d been around long enough to know if anything special happened in the last forty years or so. She’d ask him. Her mom was only thirty-six but Meagan figured if she rounded it off to forty, old Sherm wouldn’t suspect what she was after. It wasn’t perfect, but it was a start. All she needed now was an excuse to go see old Sherm.
It came sooner and easier than expected. Meagan was still puzzling over the automatic writing when he phoned. He wanted to drop off some of the new potatoes and cucumbers out of his garden for Helen. He did that sometimes. There was just him and Alice at home now and way too much produce for the two of them, so he’d go around the neighborhood giving it all away. As it happened, Helen had gone out that afternoon and Meagan was by herself at home.
“Oh, that would be great Mr. Rogers,” she said happily. “Mom’s out but I’m here. I wanted to talk to you anyway about a project I just started working on.”
“What I’m trying to do,” she said after she’d put all the stuff onto the kitchen counter, “what I want to find out is, well – um, you’ve been around here a long time and I was wondering if you remembered from your police work, some of the worst things that happened in this community over the last forty years or so.”
Well, so far so good. She hadn’t told a lie yet. And Sherm fell right in line. He loved to talk about his days on the force, especially to young people for whom he could set an example. He made himself comfortable on a kitchen chair.
“Doing a project eh? Well, lets see.” Whereupon he started randomly rattling off petty thefts, domestic disputes, fires and cattle rustling and you name it. There was a lot that had gone on, but nothing that interested Meagan.
“What about natural disasters?” she asked innocently. That brought on another bunch of events including snowstorms, floods, and heat waves.
“Oh wait,” he paused, rubbing his chin as if trying to remember. “I almost forgot. Yeah, there was one thing. You might call it an unnatural disaster. It was about thirty-five years ago. No, it would be thirty-six. I remember now because I had just had my tenth anniversary on the force.”
“Darndest thing,” Sherm muttered almost to himself. “Never heard of such a phenomenon before or since. A fire it was, but not a fire you’d normally see. Actually happened not far from here as I recall. Don’t remember all the details now but they called it spontaneous human combustion. Is that too scary for you, kid?”
“Oh no!” Meagan said, trying to hide her excitement. “That’s just the kind of thing to make a good story for my project.”
“Well then, here’s what I remember. Seems there was this young woman living by herself in a little cottage. She was expecting a baby and nobody knew who the father was. It was the gossip all over town. Those days it was pretty taboo to have a child if you weren’t married. Still should be, if you ask me.
“Anyway, she more or less withdrew for everybody and holed up in her cottage the whole time until she was due to have the baby. It just happened that old Mrs. Johnson who was a well known midwife in these parts – do you know what a midwife is?”
“No, tell me.”
“It’s one of them women delivers babies when there’s no doctor around.”
Sherm was warming up to the story now. “Well, Mrs. Johnson was one of those people who had an instinct about them things and I guess she figured she’d look in on this lady, whatever her name was, to see if she was alright.
“The timing couldn’t have been better. Right then and there the woman went into labor and Mrs. Johnson delivered a bouncing healthy girl within the hour.”
Meagan could hardly contain herself. “And -,”she indicated, wanting him to continue. The name Johnson rang a bell and there might be a clue.
“Well, this is where the mystery comes in. Mrs. Johnson was just busy cleaning and tidying up. When she’d done, she took the baby into the kitchen to clean her up and make sure everything was as it should be. Suddenly she smelled smoke. It was coming from the bedroom. It wasn’t like cigarette smoke or anything like that, but the kind coming from a smoke house, smelled like burning meat.”
Meagan give a little shudder, but said nothing.
“She rushed into the bedroom and nearly passed out at what she saw. When she showed up at the station with the baby in her arms she was hysterical. We could hardly make out what she was trying to tell us. We finally got her calmed down enough to tell us where she’d been and went there as fast as we could go.
“When we got inside the smoke had more or less disappeared, but nobody was ready for what we saw. There on the bed was what was left of the woman, almost completely burned to ashes. One hand and both her legs from the knee down had fallen off the bed and were just lying there on the floor. On the bed was a pile of ashes and just a bit of her hair and her teeth. Yet the bed was hardly even burned.
“Forensics couldn’t explain what had happened, but they needed to call it something so they labeled it spontaneous human combustion. And by the time the newspapers got through with all their write-ups they had folks around here all nervous and spooked. They figured there was evil spirits around and didn’t want anything to do with them. I’ll tell you just how spooked they were. They were so spooked they got a big front-end loader and bulldozed the whole cottage down until there was nothing left. And just to make sure nothing came out of the ground they hauled over a huge boulder and plunked it down where the house had been.”
“Wow!” Meagan was hypnotized by the story. “Do you know what happened to the baby?”
“Naw, I didn’t keep track. I think at least for a while, Mrs. Johnson took care of her. Say kid. I probably shouldn’t have mentioned any of this – police business, you know. But I kind of got carried away because it was so unusual. If it’s all the same to you, well just keep this between us.”
“That’s exactly what I was thinking,” said Meagan, relieved that nothing was going to get back to her mom.
“Well, sweetie, I’d better get on my way. Was nice chatting with you. Say hi to your mom.”
“See you, and thanks – for everything.” she called after him as he drove off.
Meagan’s mind was racing now. She knew in her heart that Sherm had been talking about her grandmother, even though he didn’t realize it. He hadn’t even said her name, but Meagan knew. She just knew. He had said it was in all the papers at the time. All she had to do was find some of those papers. But how? Maybe if she phoned the paper, they might have some ideas. And then there was the automatic writing that she couldn’t decipher. What could she do with that? It was all piling up on her. There was only one thing to do.
Thankfully, the sun had come out again and it promised to be a bright, warm day. As soon as she could, Meagan took the papers with the automatic writing on them and headed for Heather. She wasn’t sure how that was going to solve anything, but she just did it. But this time nothing happened. She just had a warm feeling through her whole body when she perched herself on the stone. It was so comfortable she lingered there longer than she had intended.
What was it that Sherm had called it, spontaneous something or other? Human combustion - that was it, spontaneous human combustion. She’d look it up on the Internet. Once she did, Meagan wished she hadn’t bothered. It was grizzly. People would catch on fire for no apparent reason and just burn up, mostly just their bodies, leaving arms and legs untouched, sometimes even the heads. It wouldn’t have seemed as bad if they hadn’t shown pictures, but these were very graphic, sensationalized.
Well now Meagan was beginning to understand why her mom got hysterical when she was pushed for an explanation. Imagining her own mother being burned up like that sent goose bumps and shivers up Meagan’s spine. But she couldn’t give up now that she’d come this far. The newspapers, Sherm had said. It’d been all over the newspapers. Many of them operating at the time had closed, been sold or had become part of the main paper in town. That one had been around for nearly a hundred years. Perhaps there was a way after all.
It took a long time to explain exactly what she wanted to the Archivist at the newspaper because archivists seem to speak their own professional language, which doesn’t necessarily make any sense to a twelve-year-old. But bit-by-bit Meagan pieced it together. Yes they kept copies of each edition since the paper started, and yes she could look through them until she found what she was after, and yes, she could have a photocopy for ten cents a page. All she had to do now was figure out a way to get there without raising her mother’s suspicion.
It was weeks before the opportunity finally came, but at last she was there. Meagan had expected some sort of museum or something but instead it was just a room with a lot of file cases and files and viewers to look at the microfiche slides. It took a bit of experimenting to get the hang of it, but it wasn’t long before she knew how to find what she was after. Now then, she thought, down to business. Let’s see. Mom’s birthday was June 12th. That was a Thursday that year. One by one Meagan went through every page with no results. Strange, she thought, until it occurred to her that it wouldn’t be reported on the same day. She started to get discouraged when she had no more luck on Friday.
Meagan was getting a little worried. Maybe the whole thing was a hoax and she would find nothing. But when she opened up Saturday’s front page, there it was! The headline literally screamed at her; ‘Fire Destroys New Mother And Little Else’! Meagan’s eyes froze on the page! She couldn’t move her eyeballs! That was it! She knew that was it! But she couldn’t make herself read on. Seeing that headline staring up at her was like fifty thousand volts shooting through her body. Suddenly she understood how her mother felt. Meagan sat there staring at the headline on the screen for what seemed to be an eternity before she was able to move again.
“Are you all right?” the archivist asked, tapping Meagan on the shoulder. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”
Startled, Meagan sputtered a moment, and said, “yeah – yeah I guess so.”
“Did you find what you wanted, dear?”
“Yes. Could you make me a copy to take home, please? And could you put it in a big envelope.”
“That’ll be four dollars and eighty-three cents with the tax,” said the lady.
Meagan paid her, taking the envelope without looking inside and headed straight home. She was able to spirit the envelope to her room without her mother noticing.
“Did you have a nice time downtown honey,” Helen asked absently as Meagan breezed past her.
“Yeah, it was okay, I guess.”
“That’s nice. Do anything special?”
Naw – just kid stuff – you know.”
Everything was in Meagan’s hands now, but she didn’t have the nerve to look at it, not for another three days. Even then the only way she felt she could manage was to take the package with her to the giant rock and open it there. Somehow that gave her confidence. And it built too as she got closer to the ancient stone. The sun was bright and the little blue flowers sparkled more brightly than usual.
“Well wise grandmother,” she said out loud, clambering up to take her place, “now that I know what it is I didn’t know what it was I wanted to know, maybe I’ll get to know about it altogether.”
Then she opened the package. The headline jumped out at her again, just as stark as it had at the newspaper office. This time though, Meagan was able to read the article beneath. Most of the things in the article she already knew, either from what Sherman had told her or from the internet – until she came to the last paragraph:
‘The twenty-six year old woman was finally identified as a Heather Stone, a recent arrival from Jordan via Ireland –‘
“Heather Stone!” Meagan was so shocked that she yelled out the name. She was sitting on the stone she had named Heather. She was sitting on Heather Stone! She was sitting on her grandmother! This must be where it happened. Didn’t Sherm say it wasn’t far from their place? Didn’t he say that the people were so spooked that they demolished the house and put a huge boulder in the place where it stood to make sure the spirit that burned the woman didn’t return? Of course he did! And this was the place, and this was the stone, Meagan knew it – knew I for sure! She thought she heard the tinkling of beautiful laughter, or did she just feel it? Meagan returned her eyes to the page.
‘The newspaper has learned from documents at the Immigration office that the woman was a native Jordanian who married Irish electrical engineer Bertram Stone while he was working in Amman, Jordan. Fearing reprisals from her family for marrying other than the husband chosen for her, the couple fled to Belfast. From there they made application for immigrant status in Canada following further death threats from her father. Tragically, her husband was electrocuted in a freak accident while on board the S.S. Minnedosa on the voyage to Canada. In her statement to the immigration officials a distraught Mrs. Stone said that she would rather not live than parted from her husband. Ironically, she seems to have gotten her wish.’
The article went on with – well, Meagan’s eyes didn’t see any more. She was too awe struck. She put the article down absently.
“Wow!” she sighed. “Just wow.”
Meagan lay down on her stomach, spreading her arms and legs wide apart to take in as much of the energy as possible. She had a grandma after all. Not only that, her spirit was right here inside this boulder that people had put there to block out any spirits. They had obviously failed. Meagan had been talking to her own grandmother all this time without even knowing it – well, to her spirit anyway. That amounted to about the same thing, didn’t it? And imagine, she had even called the stone Heather. That had to be more than coincidence. And the automatic writing – if she ever got it translated, would probably contain a message. Suddenly Meagan had a warm feeling all over. For now, that was enough.
Saturday, June 12, 2010
Well, here's a biology lesson even our first nations never knew about. If we paid more attention to our plants around us, we might just possibly learn something about proper behavior.
Me and the Kid
And Cow Rushes
I guess I'd better set the scene for you first of all. You'd never get it otherwise. See, in ponds and ditches and sloughs in the country a whole lot of stuff goes on - summer and winter. There's frogs and tadpoles and little water snakes and bugs of all sorts. And the grasses and flowers and trees makes you wonder where they all came from.
Well, that's the sort of picture you get walking or driving down a country road in these parts. There's smells too, all kinds of them. And then there's always interesting pebbles on the road, enough to fill a boy's pockets in no time. Sure is different from the city these days.
So I guess by now you know where this story is going to take place. Me and the neighbor's kid, we go for long hikes down the road whenever we get the chance. Every time we go we see something we've never seen before - sure beats the pants off staying around the house to do all kinds of chores. See, I can get away with it if I tell them I'm teaching the kid about nature. It's very important you know - this nature education stuff. And the kid, well I got a notion that his mother is just happy to get him out from under foot so she can get some peace and quiet once in a while.
Well, this one hot, muggy August afternoon, me and the kid headed out to the drainage ditch south of our place by about three miles. A family of beavers had moved in there at the junction of two connecting municipal drains.
Every time we showed up we were surprised at the changes there. These beavers seemed to be an organization of full service wrecking and construction crew all rolled in to one. On the one hand they were more or less clear-cutting the poplar growth along the banks of the ditches - trees and branches scattered all over the place. The kid said it reminded him of his room. On the other, the two dams they had built were just so - not one twig out of place. If you went and moved a couple to see what would happen, sure enough the next time you came back, they were back where they belonged. Interesting creatures, these beavers.
About halfway to the dam, the road sort of narrows into more of a trail than a road. That’s where we were when both of us smelled it at the very same time. The kid wanted to know what that was. Actually, what he said was "Phooey - what stinks?"
"Cow rushes," I said. I don't know what made me say it, but I did.
"What?"
"Cow rushes."
Well, now I had to explain myself. I had the choice of describing the biodegrading of organic matter that naturally takes place as all the plants ripen and the plant seeds devour their hosts in order to prepare for the next season. Oh sure! That would be a right memorable lesson for the kid. How much of that kind of boring crap wouldn't he have to swallow once he was back in school?
No sir, he didn't need a horticultural lecture and I sure wasn’t about to give one. He should learn about nature the same way I did. After all, what I learned about things in the country more than sixty years ago came from a gnarly old geyser with a twinkle in his eye. There was adventure to be had here – real adventure, not some boring yarn out of a school textbook.
"Where?"
"Oh, you don't think you'll get to see them do you?" Things are always more exciting when there’s a mystery to solve. He took the bait and was all ears. I learned that trick from old Man McClintock too.
"Why not?"
"They're invisible when they're working."
"Then how do you know they're working?"
"Look over there." I pointed to a stand of bull rushes trailing off along the ditch. Little tufts were starting to form on the tops so that the first breeze that happened by would carry them along. "See what’s goin’ on there?"
The kid strained his eyes, wondering what he should be seeing. I kept a dead pan face, which made him look all the harder. "They're doin' the same things dandelions do,” he said. “That don't prove nothin’."
I went over with my trusty old pocketknife and sliced off one that still hadn't started to ripen. "Here," I said, handing it to him. "That feel like something what can get all soft and fluffy like a dandelion all by itself?"
"Well, no," he allowed, taking the hard cone in his hand.
"Then there you go! That proves it once and for all!" I hadn't figured out yet what it proved, but it was coming to me.
"Huh?" The kid scratched his head and squinted as if to say I'd lost my marbles.
"Just think about it a minute," I offered. "You know them cattle at your Uncle Ralph's place. There's the cows, right?"
The kid nodded. "And then there's the bull." He nodded again. “There’s cows and bulls and then there’s calves.” I saw he was starting to get what I was driving at. He'd been around Ralph's place enough to know how you ended up with a bunch of calves.
"Takes two to tango," I suggested.
Now the kid figured he had me cornered. He was just winding up to catch me in a big fat lie.
I had it all backwards, he claimed. It was the cow that had the calves, not the bull.
"Oh, I'm just passing on what I heard," I dodged, "heard it from old man McClintock's grandpa years ago."
That was the truth too. In a scene very much like this, the old geyser had led me down the garden path about cow rushes. He was an even bigger liar than I could ever hope to be, and that's going some. But he had a way about him that made you want to listen, even when you were positive sure he was lying through his teeth. The more you prodded him, the more outlandish the story.
"Shhh - listen. You hear that?" I took the kid by the shoulder. A breeze had come up and rustled the poplar trees. They made that whispering sound as only poplar trees can. The breeze died down.
"Aw, that's just the wind," said the kid. But you could tell he wasn't really sure. "Isn't it?" he asked.
I figured it was time to launch into the story before I overdid it and ruined everything. So I told the tale as I remembered it.
"Used to be that way with bull rushes and cow rushes too. A long time ago, after the last ice age, this whole area for miles and miles was under water. It was called - well it don't matter what it was called because nobody was around to call it anything anyway. About the very first plants to start growing were the bull rushes and cow rushes.
Now you got to remember in them days things was a bit different than they are now. In them days plants and animals, and even humans could talk to one another.
Anyway, as the lake started to dry up little clumps of dirt poked up here and there above the water. It didn't take long for the cow rushes to put down roots and get started spreading their seeds on the little dry spots all around, just like a regular family.
Only things were kind of different back then. The bull rushes were still free to move around. They were supposed to be scouting for suitable places to live. Well you can imagine how dreary that was. There was nothing but water for miles and miles, not a tree in sight, not another plant to talk to - nothing but shallow, mucky, murky water everywhere.
That's not exactly right either. After a while other plants found their way to the new land. So did some animals. It was like a big new wave of homesteading. Come to think of it, there must have been people here too, when the big winds came or else we wouldn't even know about it.
Fact is, there was so much migration going on that the bull rushes got caught up in it. Seeing they were the first ones here, they figured it was up to them to welcome everybody who showed up. So they flitted around the land being good will ambassadors, greeting and welcoming everything that moved. They were having such a good time they forgot all about the cow rushes back home whose roots had by now got stuck in the ground.
Of course, the cow rushes were a little peeved at their party lovin’ mates, to put it in polite terms. It's pretty clear that they needed the bull rushes if they were going to make seed. As I said, it takes two to tango.
The only one the cow rushes could get to talk to was the wind. He had been around forever - ice age or not. He'd seen it all and was getting a little bored himself. A little adventure wouldn't hurt so when the cow rushes came to him for help, he was more than willing to listen.
Well they told him about their good for nothing bulrushes flitting around like big shots and not looking after family matters. If that kept up the wind wouldn't get any seed to carry around for planting. First thing you know he'd be unemployed.
Now then, you don't really ever want to get the wind upset if you got any brains. And here the bull rushes went and done it. They were going around acting like they owned the place when he'd been here an awful lot longer than anybody. Not only that but they were going to put him out of business with no seeds to deliver.
First thing he did was to curl himself up into a raging tornado and rip out all the cow rushes from where they were stuck in the ground. He carried them with him until they spotted the bull rushes at a banquet with water lilies and muskrats and frogs. Well that was just too much for the wind. He hid the cow rushes on a piece of rock where they wouldn't have to set down roots. He'd be back when he settled the score.
The wind set to thinking about what to do. When a wind paces up and down thinking, all kinds of things happen. He ripped up and down the land so fast that he sucked up the water between Lake Manitoba and Lake Winnipeg and dumped it all into Hudson's Bay. That's how those lakes came to be, by the way. Not only that, but he figured out a way to put an end to this migration business once and for all. What he did was dump the rest of the water he'd collected on to the Bering land bridge. That’s how you got your Bering Strait' Let's see them get across that!' he muttered.
With one last giant blast he picked up the unsuspecting bull rushes and started spitting them out all along the shores of the lakes and rivers that his rampage had made. He spit so hard that they stuck in the ground like spears. The bull rushes were so shocked that by the time they recovered they had already put roots down and couldn't move.
Then he made a deal with the cow rushes that they could always be free so long as they helped to make the seeds. They jumped at the chance. Well you know how women are about muddy feet. And they could stay invisible too so the bulrushes wouldn’t know what they were up to in their spare time. The bulrushes only know when they’re around by the special whispering sound poplar trees make.
