Aunt Gayle's Mysterious Visit

This story is a memory from my childhood. My family was living in a small trailer my dad built for us to live in while he built what turned out to be a very large house, which made up for this tiny place we shared for a couple years! I would have been around eight years old . . . Good times!


Most likely it was the squeaks of the rocking chair that broke my deep sleep, my vision now alert to my aunt’s back and forth movements in the chair. The whole event from start to finish took only a minute or two, but the story retold innumerable times has wedged itself firmly in place in the family memory album. As I read my aunt’s recent email message with snippets of the story, my memory lingered on the details of that night in our small house trailer.

It was the timing of the visit. Aunt Gayle was always a welcomed visitor in our home, but her unusual and peculiar desire to drop in on us in the middle of the night didn’t make it easy for us to crawl out of bed for a chat.

There was only a small stove between the chair and the davenport on which I was sleeping. Her blurry outline through my half opened eyes revealed her relaxed sort of manner. It was all very mysterious. My aunt Gayle was calm and sweet in personality and didn’t do particularly strange things on a regular basis. I sat up and spoke to her hoping she had a good reason for her untimely visit. She then called out to Mom in the next room. As I remember it, I wasn’t shocked so much as bewildered. Mom’s voice bespoke shock.

“Gayle, what do you want? Why are you here?” Mom got to the point, but who wouldn’t considering the circumstances? Before Mom got her answers, Gayle ended the visit, the door thudding to a close behind her.

In the aftermath, Mom convinced Dad to leave the coziness of his abode and slip out into the night to follow his sister, to ensure she did arrive back home safe and sound. My grandparents were in a state of peaceful slumber when Dad showed up declaring that Gayle had been roaming the neighbourhood. Gayle apparently did find her room and snuggled back in her bed leaving Grammy and Grampy to wonder if it was Dad who was the real “midnight wanderer.” Upon an explanation from Grampy that Gayle had been sick the day before, thus being the probable reason behind her sleepwalking, Dad returned home allowing us to fall into sleep once again.

It was spring. As discovered the next day, the mud on Aunt Gayle’s socks produced the evidence that it had been she, indeed, who had been the real midnight wanderer and had come through Grammy’s garden as a shortcut. And in Gayle-like fashion, she enjoyed the story of her mysterious midnight journey as much as the rest of us.

The Mystery of a New Year (2011)

It's New Years - that is in a couple days. I'm looking forward to this year's mysteries along with its predictabilities.

What I Want for New Years

Christmas and New Years - two holidays, so close together, same season, delivering on completely different revelings. For some of us, just as Christmas takes us back, New Year pushes us forward. Christmas reminds of ancient history, New Years - our recent comings and goings. Here’s one - Christmas is for families, New Years is for friends!

The very thought of New Years’ resolutions makes my best friend shiver. Not me. I linger over each potential plan, customizing as I ruminate. Some ideas do get tossed, but those that give hope of a fresh new start or inspire creativity excite me!

Thus, I want my new start - again. Let the bygones be bygones. With a moment to reflect, I’ll take that step forward and reach out for the future and its mystery.

Alterations

If the subway engineer could have heard my shrieking thoughts, he would have slammed on the breaks, I’m sure. How did I miss such a detail? The seamstress had moved? She was recommended by Becker’s Bridal on the Danforth, but had obviously neglected to update the bridal shop with her new address? I was having a bridezilla moment - me, the mother-of-the-bride.

The mix up must have been generated in the very first call. Her accent was strong and I obviously missed the part that “she was no longer at the location,” as indicated on the list.

I spread the well worn list of ‘alterations specialists’ on the kitchen counter as if it was gold leaf instead of the scrap of paper I had been pushing around in my purse. It would be a long shot that someone would take us on such unbelievably short notice - tonight, but I’d try. My daughter said she would rather wait for another date than take a family field trip to the far reaches of the city. She did not demand a lot of explanation on the quick change of plans, as she too wanted to spend our moments finding another solution. The “what-happened” could come later - and did.

“Yes, you can come tonight if you want, but I do close at 7:00.” Well then, we had two hours. The rush hour traffic slowed us, but we arrived with an hour for the fitting. We had ourselves a new seamstress and a cancellation with the first one, who probably wondered why we had said we would come so far in the first place.

Sewing boxes, plastic cases of colourful fabrics, machines for sewing multiple layers and heavy fabrics sat muted for the next hour, as their owner made exclusive use of the pin cushion.

The seamstress parted the dressing room curtain and the bride-to-be stepped inside to enter The Dress. I reached down to pick up already-dropped straight pins stuck in the worn carpet and applied them back to the magnetic pin-infested apparatus. Whatever happened to the soft kind into which one pushed more beady pins?

The bride wriggled inside the dress, moving “the two of them” out to the work area and settled in front of us. The bride was beautiful and we were stunned to silence. The bride’s dad grinned with his all time best smirk - the one he is known for. The sigh of relief from the  seamstress broke the moment. “I’m so glad there is none of those “criss-crosses” in the back. Then they were off with the proceedings of tugging and pinning.

Madame Seamstress quickly brought to the attention of the bride that the hem would need to be addressed - it was definitely too long. The bride then snatched from her bag the shoes she brought for the very purpose. Feeling for them with her feet in close proximity to where she dropped them, she mentioned that no, these aren’t the shoes she will be wearing on her day, but the height is right. Her dad then broke in with a reckless suggestion of purchasing bright yellow Crocs for the occasion.

In response to that remark, the bridesmaids felt it their duty to make sure “Dad” was distracted from further unprofitable comments, hence they offered up the bride’s iPhone for a game of Tetrus or Fruit Ninja, of his own choice.
We all fidgeted for something to occupy our time. The moments ticked away with suggestions of “a little more here and not so much there,” each interrupting the pin sticking process. The bride’s dad took pictures with the iPhone and teasingly threatened to send them to the groom, blatantly taking advantage of the electronic device being lent to him to alleviate any twitch of boredom he might encounter.

Final decisions were made for the pre-final fitting, leaving payment to the future - the final-final fitting. We stepped back out into November’s cold with anticipation of the sunny week in January on our minds.

Steak and Cheese, Please!

I broke away from the meeting that went twenty-six minutes past lunch time. With one arm in a sleeve of my jacket, I reached for the elevator’s down button with my other hand. The late meeting eliminated the option of the lunch truck, which shows up sharply at noon on any given work day.

It was Friday and I was ready for a break after the week I had just had. I had pulled off a confirmation from my boss for a go ahead on a new project that I had been working toward for the last year. After a year of orientation in a new industry, I could move into the work I wanted to do.

I stepped up into the bus and out of the November cold. The warmth instantly penetrated to my cold limbs giving relief. Two stops along Wilson and I entered the cold blast again. I all but skipped into the familiar sandwich shop.

The young guy with the cute hair greeted me with a “good to see you again” look. The smell of meats and sweet spices as I moved closer to the selection buffet made me hungrier.

“Oh, you are happy today!” he remarked.  I looked at him with a tilt to my head and genuine surprise.

“Really! Yeah, I guess I am,“ I agreed.

“Did you win the lottery? No one has, actually," he continued to remark before I could. Still 22 million to be won in the draw on Saturday.”

He prattled on a bit more about how unfair and full of fraud lottery companies are and how when winners win they should be put on a list of who cannot win again giving others more of a chance. I mentally shook my head.

“Steak and cheese, please on whole grain. Tomatoes, green olives,  and sweet pickles. Oh, and a little lettuce. That’s good.”

His antsy responses indicated that he needed his break - find a new adventure. Give and take was life's balancing act; I hoped for the best new possibility to come his way.

I walked out, tying the top of my sandwich bag.

Apparently, I’m happy. Yep. I kind of am. Another day; life is good.

The Birth Certificate

The door to our apartment closed patiently behind me. I put away my purse, hung up my jacket, and clomped across the tiled floor. I moved through the solarium to the filing cabinet, kicking off my shoes to end the annoying sound. I knew I had to do an important errand right away or my mind would not free me to relax this evening.

I carefully finger-walked over the tops of the hanging files and found the "Important Documents" folder.

I can see the "aging" documents through the crinkled plastic folder. I carefully drew out the brown papers and squinted at the text on the delicate sheets. The date and time of birth were scrawled in French along with my maiden name in bold ink. My thoughts time-warped back to the event.

I remembered during one of the plateau moments in the birthing room, the mid-wife divulged that she was from Central African Republic. I remember thinking that it was such a far away country, forgetting that I too was a visitor from a land far away. The mid-wife's name was written in swirly script. As I held the document, a French colonial remnant, my mind searched, trying to remember her face. My imagination continued its trek, conjuring up blurred scenes, what was left of the memory. Thankfully, an unidentifiable sound broke the spell and halted my mind's wandering.

On one of our more and more rare visits with our daughter a couple days ago, we mentioned in a moody tone like only parents can do, it was just two months until her wedding. Her mouth popped open and the shock on her face was that of a bride when she realizes she has forgotten something vital on the special day - maybe even the date itself?

But no, she had not forgotten about her wedding. She was alerting me to the fact that I had not yet called the seamstress to set up an appointment for a fitting of the size “2” dress that resembled a super-sized bowl of whipped cream. I just don’t believe I was that many sizes larger than her when I got married. What has happened to the “sizing” chart?

Ah, yes, the certificate. The request came a few days ago in the form of a text message that essentially said she needed her birth certificate to authenticate her humanness to enable them to attain a wedding license in Mexico. That’s the way I understood it, anyway, and it makes perfect sense. The padre needs to know that they, the couple, were born to humans. I suppose a bit like how we have to verify that we are human when we sign up for a new email address, PayPal, etc. 
The bride and groom are human all right, they have the certificates to prove it; never mind that their parents might just remember the events as they happened. So, we will go to Mexico, God willing; we will board and land where the sun has priority in weather, when no doubt, it’s snowing in Toronto. The authenticating birth certificate will have been a thing already taken care of and a new certificate will accept ink, giving birth to a new celebration to be cherished.

Nine Days in South of France

Revved up with the excitement of arriving in Marseilles, France and the determination that we would make our nine day vacation ahead of us go slowly, we hurried through airport departures with a keen eye out for our rental car booth. Many informed us that nine days would hardly be worth it, but it was the time we had, and we would get the most from it - wring it for all its worth.

Brent’s hands grasped the steering wheel as if it was a thing already out of control. The map in my hands was stretched to its limit as I coaxed it for directions. “Talk to me, Little French Map,” I whispered to it. Our little British made car took off as if it had a will of its own, instigating the driver’s demands for quick decisions on route numbers from the map reader. I tried to allow myself some room for a mistake by believing that if we get lost - oh well, there would be lots to see and would probably add a little extra something to the adventure. A side look at the driver told me it was not a good idea to fail at getting us on the proper route for Beziers. Stick with the plan was my task at hand.

Quick glances at the map was all I would allow myself; I could not afford to miss anything along our scenic route - we were in South of France! Everything was noteworthy. The landscape - the sunflowers and oh la la, the vineyards.

We recognized the French signage. Memories from living in Senegal reminded us that though French directions had made sense to the ex-pats, the locals decided on more practical uses for them. Metal signs came in handy as functional pieces for covering holes or diverting rain into a barrel.

Consistency helped us catch on. When the arrows pointed slightly upward and out into a field, we figured it was the artsy French way of encouraging us to be adventurous and follow our imaginations. So we took the closest road. And the round-abouts were a re-acquaintance with an old process. We had been back in Canada for ten years, but I saw recollection take place in Brent as he drew near his first one.

“How do they do this - again? There's a trick to it; it’s really not as intimidating as it looks." But any hesitation to continue moving right and the cars took full advantage, butting in to get on the merry-go-round. It’s definitely not the place to be the polite Canadian. “Oh, do you want in? Here, I’ll let you in. Nice day, eh?” Glancing a few French faces with their disgusted, hands-in-the-air acknowledgements of our idiocy, and we figured it out. Bare right and drive.

The auto route is the best option to make your destination-on-time in the south of France. We approached the first tollbooth, our car moving as if on a car wash rail. We weren’t sure how it was going to go down, thinking it was a toll toss-in-a-coin cone shaped scoop like one of the few Canadian toll booths in our whole country. There was no scoop to catch coinage. We sat there with the locals lined up behind us, impatiently waiting their turn to pass through.

“Prend la carte! Prend la carte!” came from the car behind us. Brent finally got it. It was like parking in Canada. Take the ticket and pay with credit card at the end of the highway travelled to get the French guy off our tail.

I unfolded and rechecked, again, our hostess' emailed directions to our villa. She mentioned to turn "left" at the "twisty almond" tree. The first time I read it, I thought how personal and specific - made me feel like I was almost there. Now the rubber was meeting the road, another thought crossed my mind. "What does a twisty almond tree look like? What does a almond tree look like?" In all my travels, I have never seen an almond tree, and our hostess did not know that almond trees are not the average tree in Canada. This meant that we would have to depend on an "end of the road" type approach right to our Welcome mat. When the directions stopped, so would we.

Check in for Part II!

The Elevator Episode

To my kids:
(I know I will not have to convince you that this is the way it really happened. The characters and their responses make it all too believable :-)
It was last Monday morning and started as normal as a Monday morning has to be. I was ready for work and out the door on time. I entered the elevator and pressed "G" - not far to go, only one floor - as you all know. This story really is going somewhere.
Then "Bang!" The elevator was now my hotbox for 45 minutes. I talked myself out of pressing all the floor numbers as I've so often seen done in movies. I pressed the "bell" button - several times. Then I hear a voice.
"Hello?" from the outside and the concierge guy tells me he can see me from the video camera in the elevator. Wasn't sure how that was going to help me get to work on time, but I'd go with it for now.
I had 2 bars left on my cell phone battery icon, which made me decide to forgo calling Gramma Brawn and instead called your dad upstairs. I relayed my predicament to him and that the concierge reassured me that they "could see me in the elevator." (It was then I told myself not to pick my nose or do other dumb stuff I would regret when I did get out again.)
Your dad responded with "Oh? . . . Ah, btw, what were you planning to do with this "shredded wheat" in the bowl here? Can I eat it?" I had prepared a bowl of cereal, but left before I got the chance to eat it.
"Ahm, sure. And btw, could you ask what they are really doing at the concierge?"
"I'm coming right down, and I'll bring a book."
Oh good, a book - what a relief.
"Debbie, Debbie," the concierge guy was back.
"Yes, I'm still here," I assure him.
"I can still see you in the elevator; I just want you to know that. And help is on the way. The elevator repairman is on his way."
"Okay, but where does this guy call home?"
"Sorry?"
"Is he coming from Brampton?" I'm suspecting he doesn't live around the corner, just like the condo's plummer is from Brampton. I'm thinking, "We don't even have a leak here, it's a lady caught in the elevator watching her watch for how much time she will have to make up before leaving work at the end of day ...," but then who cares at this point. It would be nice to just go to work today.
My cell rings.
"Hi Hon. I'm just over here in one of the large black chairs and I'll read some of this book to you."
"I've got to go to the bathroom."
"Ah-oh. So, I'll keep reading where we left off last night."
"You mean in the book called, "What Got You Here, Won't Get You There?"
"Yep, that's the one." And we continue. Who cares about irony at a time like this?
Several paragraphs later ...
"Maybe, I should just kick the door."
"Ahm, what about ..., oh he's here," your dad announces over the cell phone.
"The repairman?"
"No, another guy ..., who can open it."
The door opened a hole - a way out. I was stuck up about 6 ft. off the floor. Your dad pulled me through and I was standing in front of the mirrors.
Dad didn't think it was a good idea for me to resubmerge into another closed in situation, i.e. the subway, so he drove me to work.
BTW, the same concierge guy has breathed a sigh of relief every time he has seen me successfully leave the elevator this week.
Dad's response to the story:
"Ha! I like the connection, "What got you here won’t get you there". You forgot to add about your whimpering once you got out."

As I tilted my head upward, the small needle fish came within the scope of my goggles’ view. The small yellow and white striped fish with slashes of black vertically cutting through its eye dodged back and forth in front of me, not quite sure what to make of me. The little guy made assertive efforts to pass by me, but each time backed away. He reminded me of me.

I really like to think of myself as assertive and take on my seeming adversaries in honest but non confrontational manner, but in the end my timidity voluntarily backs me off.

My new job seemed at the time to be the answer to my well worked out job hunt. Three months in and I knew I was responding like the little yellow and white striped fish. My new boss agreed to my request for a week vacation only a couple months away - we both needed it already.

We, hubby and I, booked five days at one of our favourite spots and a day on either side for exploring our way to and fro. We knew Cozumel airport to be a cakewalk compared to the brawl at Cancun. Cozumel was sane probably because those who knew better preferred bypassing the Cancun holiday-takers who typically considered vacation to start after customs clearance with alcohol as their party theme. Our daughter stated that it was the trial of her vocation as a flight attendant to serve drinks to Carribean vacationers.

It was good to arrive at our hotel, but I knew it would take a bit to relax. There would be the usual stages of highs and lows until real calm set into my soul.

The first low came along with the boiled eggs and muffins for breakfast mixed with the diversity of visitors and their cultures. I wasn't ready for the people part of nature yet. The female part of a British couple was answering everyone's questions we weren’t even thinking yet. It was immediately annoying and I was tempted to thank her, I supposed, for saving my brain the extra effort of thinking, but that her babbling was taxing my ears. It was the non-people part of nature for which I realized I was craving.

From the rooftop of our rented house, I scanned the top of the Mexican jungle. The twisted wispy clouds I had come to recognize after serveral trips to this country, as common to the Mexican sky. Our first day was ending with a pink and blue sunset, in perfect shades for a baby shower.

The shore was a mapwork of colour. A pelican broke nature's quiet with a dive and his lunch was served up and absorbed in one fell swoop. The tide swept out leaving lumps of turtle grass to endure the sun until the tide's predictable change of mind.

The grey herring stood peering, stretched against the ocean’s horizon. The green and then, blue stripes of the water made each look deeper in hue. Local fishermen in power boats buzzed by, their voices reverberating like speakers across the waters.

The horizon crested with white waves. The pelican flapped its oversized wings on either side of its oversized bill. Bands of deep green sidled up to turquoise ones and then on to indigo divided by white caps. The gold and army green turtle grass flickered making sunstars on the water. And the sky was blue – so blue. Clouds gave up and blew off to the side.

Someone reported on lion fish skulking under the pier. Even I knew they shouldn't be there so I figured they should know they are not wanted. I had been doing okay with my self inflicted challenge to snorkel in deeper water, until I was informed that lion fish as well as stingrays hung out closer to the shoreline parameters than I had expected or rather hoped for.

At dinner, the unshy British lady's sidekick wore an apologetic expression to balance her opinionated approach. To have my dinner described by another voice in real time as I ate each bite was getting unbearable. She had a way of giving her opinion, while at the same time, allowing one to believe one is coming to one's own evaluation at the same time. It is a tricky endeavour, but effective until one catches on to what is happening.

“They really like their cinnamon and nutmeg, don’t they,” she expressed at the same time we all partook of our first bite of American apple pie in our Mexican resort. She had already expressed her abhorrence of the only spice she could not abide – ginger, which had been the significant flavor of the main course. I had been enjoying the dish until the bite by bite commentary in that popularly appreciated English accent was distilling into monotone despite the lilts.

Apparently my annoyance also punctuated the atmosphere, of which I became aware the next morning at breakfast. Not that the Brit had figured it out, but the tattle-tale Southern Belle must have mentioned my eye-rolling expressions of the night before. Oh well. Way to go. I justified my actions by being tired and not in the mood for it on my first night at the place . . . Doesn't everyone need a break on vacation?

The week moved on with repetition of each day before. That was actually a good thing. The loveliness of it all penetrated my mind's callouses, flowing through to my very bones soothing and making way for the stress, which insisted on coming on the journey to kindly leave. 

Love and Crocuses

His tall frame folded down into the GO train seat and with a weary sigh, he impressed those who noticed with how glad he was to be going home. His approach to finding a seat, sitting his bag on the floor by his feet and settling in for the ride suggested that this was his regular route to work and back each day.

He reached for his ringing cell phone and I stole a longer look over the top of my magazine. His hair was thin and he wore a grey shirt to match his hair and a charcoal tie under a beige trench coat. His tired face and slouch gave away his hard day at work. A passing lady bumped him on the shoulder with her bag, but he didn't respond. His brown leather document bag was partially unzipped.

A bunch of flower-store wrapped crocuses peaked through the open end of the same bag. Crocuses. It was spring, and a gentlemen with a bouquet of flowers can make any woman's heart leap in hope and anticipation. Celebrating love is a perfect way to usher in spring.

He pressed the appropriate button on the keypad. His expression was focused.

"Hello Darlin', I'm on the 5:03 to Pickering, so it won't be long now and I'll be home."

His voice was deep and clear, not whispered. He either was oblivious to those who might hear or completely unconcerned that anyone heard his communication of love.

"Okay, I love you too."

After a quick shuffle, the cell phone disappeared into the folds of his coat. He bowed his head slightly over the newspaper lying in his lap. He closed his eyes; a quick nap and he would be home to his love.
It was a moment worth contemplation. It is not often in the run of a day that a person sees such evidence of enduring love. It was old love compared to young love. They were crocuses, not roses. It was thoughtful love infusing the atmosphere with sweet verbal incense.

The train lumbered on toward the east, to the suburbs, stopping at the regular stations. The gentlemen with the flowers continued to nap with his head bent over his lap. The engineer blew the whistle as the train arrived in Pickering. Commuters crowded toward the exits. He protected the flowers in his bag, holding them up to his chest as he queued toward the door.

The train began to pull away. The couple in each other's arms flitting by the train windows like an old movie film assured me that the love they shared was genuine and eternal. A bright yellow blur was the finishing touch on the picture as the train moved on.