Tree Hugger

A figure in a long denim coat, the external seams bleeding off-white fleece, strode confidently along the concrete drenched avenue. The sun was pouring down, reflecting off the papered over windows of the strip mall. Drawn like a magnet to the only greenery, the now discernibly female figure stepped over the corrugated barrier to meet the tree. Without a word, she spread her arms wide like a child imitating an airplane and embraced the old giant; the last of its kind in this constantly reconstructed city. Her face laid against the rough bark, an eyepatch on her right side concealed me from her view. She stood in communion with the tree, a cold drink in her hand on this false summer day and a blue toque pulled down low on her forehead. Her ankles were visible in that vulnerable spot where sneakers and leggings fail to converge. For its part the tree stood sentinel, a testament to what had come before. Sporting a crown of wide and welcoming branches, leaves not yet dried and withered by October frost, a living relic; the king of Quinpool Road. 

If this house were a woman

If this house were a woman,

She’d be told,

She looks good for her age,
Not really old.

Heading into her second century,

She’s got a few wrinkles,

A few joints that creak.

She suffers from incontinence,

Under the kitchen sink.

The plaster carries scars,

From a ladder of years,

Evidence of movement and growth,

The legacy of child-sized mountaineers.

She’s got good bones,

And a strong foundation.

But neglect and patchwork fixes,

Detract from her reputation.

If this house were a woman,

She’d fetch few winning offers,

For nothing depreciates more than a woman,

When time's an unwelcome stalker.

Thoughts of an older gentleman

I see,

Newly formed breasts,

A well-developed flank,

And the deliciously plump backside.

The glow of ripening fruit.

But I mustn’t.

Distinguished gentlemen such as myself,

Mustn’t see these things.

We must play our role in the charade,

Appear blind to the allure of youth.

The absurdity of age,

Leaves you wanting when,

You’re no longer wanted.

The neighbour’s daughter,

Feels the whisper of my attention,

Dismisses it with the flick of a finger.

It’s not for me that she prances,

Although she’s accustomed to my gaze,

Just one more unwanted witness.

Dirty old man.

I admit it freely,

That I am.

Age classifies me as such,

But for the wrack of time,

A would-be admirer.

In truth,

We never stop seeing.

We live closeted,

In our forbidden sight.

God,

Strike me blind,

That would be a kindness;

Because I can’t stop seeing.

An undated era

We are of a certain age
Where hair thins and greys,
Skin wrinkles and sags,
Waistlines are lost to time.

We find attraction in conversation, companionship;
Aligned beliefs and politics.

Your preference in Sunday morning radio hosts and non-fiction authors,
Lure women to bed now.

A night on the town in your 20s;
A few drinks, some well-chosen lines,
Were enough to pull the ladies,
And replenish a little black book full of-
Potential late-night companions.

Years pass, the pages of that book wrinkle and fray,
A reflection of your own metamorphosis.

Until finally, there's no book;
Only the occasional line tossed out,
On the sea of virtual romance,
Where one word stands for a night's worth of banter.

isthisevenworthit81

"Hi"

It's the least you can do ---really.

Those that can, teach

This past week was Teacher Appreciation Week. I only know this because someone posted on Facebook asking for the most memorable quotes from a teacher in your life. Typically, I would probably have known it was Teacher Appreciation Week because my kids would be in school, but this year, due to the COVID-19 shutdown, they are not. And I am betting a lot of newly minted homeschooling parents are really appreciating the job teachers do right about now.

But that is not what I wanted to write about. My homeschooling experience is generally going well. I have been a teacher for many years but as I have always known; teaching your own kids is not the same as teaching a class—I am much less patient with my own kids than I ever was with my students.

What the aforementioned request for quotes made me think about was all the teachers that have made a significant impact in my life; all for the better.

To start off the list would be my Grade Primary teacher Hope Wright. I don’t remember much about that year, but I do remember being happy in school. I always have a warm feeling when I think about Mrs. Wright. I have a vague memory of her at that time as a tall, thin figure in an A-line skirt. I think we had a Reader with a character named Ted and definitely a dog – probably Spot. It was a good start to my school career that year in Grade Primary.

Surprisingly Mrs. Wright now lives just down the hill from me and I get to take my children trick-or-treating at her door every year. She still has the classic elegance I remember from when she taught me at age five, when she struck me as a slightly better version of Mary Poppins.  

Next up Ms. Gloria Day, now Wesley. Grade 2. Ms. Day was strict but kind and fair. I was not always the easiest student; had a hard time sitting in my seat. She once told me that she didn’t know if she should put a bomb under my seat to get me to work faster or glue me to it—so I would sit still.

I remember her as a beauty too, with elegance and grace. Along with all that, she was a writer, with a book that had her name on the cover. That fact always stayed with me in the years to come. I knew a writer. They weren’t impossible people that lived in a different dimension—they were real, and you could be one. She was the first teacher that showed me what I could be.

There was a dry patch, with not much inspiration for a few years and then I found Mr. Peter Humphries. He was my Grade 7 teacher in North Vancouver. Every morning we started class by writing in our journals for twenty minutes. The best twenty minutes of the day.

On Fridays he would take our journals home and correct them. I don’t know what type of feedback other students got but I got long notes discussing my work and what he liked about it. He pointed out my use of metaphor, interesting interpretations of life events, strange opinions, and unique expressions—reading those notes was the best part of every Monday. He was the first person who ever told me I was a good writer.

And last, but not least, was Mr. Fred Olthius who taught me English for several years at Victoria Composite High School in Edmonton. I wrote good essays for this teacher and he taught me how to make them better; focus an argument, maintain flow and select words for impact as well as style.

All of these teachers had a hand in helping me find my way to the profession and pastime I love - writing.

When I am not writing for a living I am teaching. I can only hope I have left a similar legacy in the hearts and minds of some of my students.

Mother's Day Gift

I may have been given the best gift ever for Mother’s Day this year—time with my kids.

When my kids were toddlers and needed my attention almost every minute of the day-and night-older moms would tell me, ‘enjoy this time, it’s gone too soon.’

And it turns out that’s true, that time did seem to fly by, when I looked at it in the rear-view mirror. But while I was in the throes of babydom and toddlerhood, I had not a minute to contemplate how this time with my kids would soon be gone—because they were so much work.

It was exhausting-there were not enough joyful moments woven into the day of unending personal care; feeding, clothing, bathing, toileting—it was never-ending. And then there was the guilt I experienced for wishing the day would come to an end, wishing the kids would finally be able to go to school, wishing I could have a moment to myself.

I was fortunate that I got to spend those early years with my kids. I wouldn’t have wanted to leave them in the hands of others. But it was tough, and when I look back at those years, I don’t remember a great deal because I was so tired.

Then came the school years and with each grade, the year seemed to fly by faster and faster. The first day of school and the last seemed to happen in the blink of an eye.

The past few years, as my oldest child edges closer and closer to high school, I find myself thinking too much about what life will be like when she leaves home. And it makes me very anxious. I can’t imagine life without seeing her every day. There will only be two of us, and then only one—and the thought of that induces a small degree of terror in my heart.

That is why this year, I consider the COVID-19 shutdown a gift. I have not spent this much time with my kids since they started pre-kindergarden. And the time we share now, is not the same as the time we spent together then. Now we discuss the news, whose making supper tonight and what we’ll watch for our next movie night. There are no diapers, no temper tantrums, and no endless hours of oversight and care.

We end almost every day with a chat in my bed—the three of us talking about nothing for an hour or more.

The best gift I’ll ever get for Mother’s Day is this uninterrupted time with my kids when they are becoming young adults. While many horrible things have been happening, especially in this province, I have much to be thankful for and the best part is that I know it.  

Choose one

Each morning I wake up and for a moment I feel the joy of a new day. But all too quickly my throat tightens, and I remember what is happening here. Many people don’t have the grace of that moment. They can’t for a second forget the loss they have suffered this week.

What we know about this mass shooting is bad enough, but what’s worse, is that every day we find out more people have died. There is no digesting this news when more and more grief is added to this meal of sorrow.

Whether you have a connection to the tragedy or not, you feel this tightening, this sense of helplessness that hangs like a shroud over your eyes and heart when death and loss fill every day.

Everyone is looking for something they can do to help. It’s not within our power to bring back the people that have died but we can honour their memory. There are a lot of suggestions on what we can do to move through the grieving process —social media tributes, candles in the window, and monetary donations to the families left behind.

But one thing I know from life experience, is that no matter how much we want to help, for those of us not directly impacted by this tragedy, in the months and years to come, this tragedy will fade. And although now we say we want to remember the names of the victims, not the perpetrator, it is his name we will remember when we think of this horrible event in the years to come.

That is not because we want to remember the shooter but because the human mind can’t remember so many separate pieces of information—not without trying. Phone numbers are seven digits long because seven discrete pieces of information is what our brains can handle. We can’t remember all the names of those lost to this tragedy.

Recently I read something that, at the time, I thought I had no use for—it was a suggestion that in the instance of some mass shooting, natural disaster or terrorist attack- you choose one name to remember. When there are 10s, 100s or 1000s of victims it is difficult to remember the people behind the numbers, so choose one and remember them every day.

Choose one name and say it, write it, read it each day. Pick a time, perhaps when you first wake up, your first coffee of the day, or when you lay down to sleep—but choose a time to remember and do it every day.

I will choose one person and find out one fact about this person to remember them by. I will repeat it every day and I will not think of this person as a victim, because surely that is not how they would like to be remembered. I will think of them as the person who embodied this fact—did this job, played this instrument, was a daughter, son, mother, or father.

I will say the name, read the name, write the name --of a person I never knew. That person will be who I always remember when the anniversary of this horrible tragedy comes around year after year.

I will remember them every day and keep their name alive because it’s the one thing I can do.

Emily Tuck—fiddle player.