Prompt # 34 - Easter

Prompt # 34 - Easter


Knife 

She didn't want to keep breaking that promise. But her reach is robotic. With its serrated edge, on both sides, its rounded tip, the gentle curve of its shaft. The grapefruit knife will do nicely. The sleek efficiency of it . Specialized. Customized. One purpose and one purpose only.

She weighs its heft in her left hand. The hand closest to the heart. Cross your heart. Hope to die. She points the blade at the left eye. Inserts the tip under the yellow button eyeball. Twists her wrist imperceptibly. The eye pops up and out neatly.

She shifts the knife to her other hand. Measures its heft anew. Aims at the remaining lemon dot eye, and twists this wrist in turn. The second pop is just as satisfying. The eye's trajectory high and arced. Like an inept player's tiddley wink. Wink. Not wink. Eye. Not eye. Not I. Not I.

She didn't want to keep breaking that promise. But there is still the sunflower pasty blooming cyclopic from the navel. This eye is monstrous Not the place an eye should be. The tip slides under more easily. Amputate. Corrective surgery. Pluck it out.

But this pop is unsatisfactory. Weighed down. The flight line low and sluggish. The rounded belly is scarred where the flower once grew. Maybe the scar is a sign. Is this where the knife is meant to enter? The stab to pouf into the hollow belly? To let the air out. Or in? It almost seems too easy. Maybe it's a diversion. Maybe the protruding belly is not the place to begin.

She turns the milky carcass over. The back gives no clues. Forelimbs like arms. Attention! She picks up a foot between forefinger and thumbtip and drops the body face-up again. The foot is supposed to be good luck. Good luck is not the goal. She aims instead for the opposite extremity. With her right hand on the handle and her left at the end of the blade, she presses the knife down, rocks it as if it were a cleaver, at the spot between the top of the skull and the base of the ears. If the skull cracks, she vows, she will not look in.

The ears separate from the head easily. Severed appendages scattered on the board. Nothing oozes. No splatters or drips. Small brown scraps edge a bleeding line where the serrated blade sawed the block. She picks up one ear with the tips of her fingers and plops it whole into her mouth. She pushes the second ear past her sticky lips like cabbage into the hopper, carrot into the grinder. They shouldn't have lain like that. It wasn't right. They didn't know I could see. As she tongues the melting ears, she cleaves the head and adds it whole to her mouth. Her spittle runs red brown. The feet are next. The belly is last. It is hollow and breaks at the final cut. She brushes the pieces into her left hand and tosses them in. She lets it melt. Drip. Warm. Ooze. Before she swallows. She didn't want to keep breaking that promise. There is no pleasure left in the conquest.

Her feet are heavy as she shuffles herself to the bathroom. Chocolate is the worst. She always has to wash her fingers afterward. Always wash her fingers. The emptiness is not triumphant. It's sick. Hollow. She didn't want to keep breaking that promise. But they lay in each other's arms. They lay in each other's arms.

© jmb

Prompt # 33 - Regrets

Prompt # 33 – Regrets

Regrets. Well, I usually try to avoid thinking negatively. Choices I have made may not have worked out as positively as I may have hoped, but C'est la vie. A learning experience.

If I must, I guess my first regret would be that I didn't understand my mother, where she was coming from, what made her the way she was, before it was too late and she was already gone.

I guess a second regret would be about blanks, gaps, in my education, specifically emotional intelligence, and self-knowledge, self-awareness, especially before I entered the workforce. More self-awareness might have meant that I didn't have to learn so many lessons the hard way. And it may have prevented me from choosing life partners for the wrong reasons, thus dooming relationships to failure.

Prompt # 32 - De-Stressing

Prompt # 32 - De-Stressing

My most frequent de-stresser is coffee. My favourite stress reducer is walking. And taking my camera for a walk. Nature. The colour green. My default stress reducer is food. This is not good. Plus I find cooking and baking relaxing. Maybe there's still hope. I used to enjoy beer and wine, but I don't do either any more.

I also watch television to relax, but I'm usually doing something else at the same time, like crocheting, or writing my genealogy prompts, or playing Scrabble or Solitaire on my laptop. My favourite show is Coronation Street and I hate when the CBC moves the time around without warning. I also watch the weekly re-runs every Sunday morning for two and a half hours. It's like having the illusion of community. And it gives us permission to gossip, because these people aren't real, so our judgments are not hurting anyone. Right? Like, you want to shake Tina and say No! No! Don't! (pursue a married man) because we like her, and because we know so much more about Peter Barlow (and about married men) than she does. When I watch the re-runs Sunday morning, that's when I do my ironing. (Sorry, Grandma. I am damned.) Ironing is another way for me to relax. It's one of those chores that allows you to see your progress. One pile goes down, the other pile goes up, and you can see what you have achieved in the end.

I know I need to de-stress when I am restless and when I cannot concentrate. Or, infrequently, before I fly and cannot sleep. I cope with this irrational fear, of change, of dying, by a bit of cognitive therapy.

What triggers my stress? Interruptions. My most frequent rant is “I'm working!” In other words, How dare you interrupt me? Advertisements on television are a trigger. Push the mute button, or stick to the Knowledge Network and PBS. Listening to the news too often. Big bills, especially taxes and insurance. Mess. Waste. Destruction, especially of nature, trees, living creatures. And bullying. Abuse. Meanness. I react. Even at this late stage, I haven't learned the “appropriate” response to someone who is being mean or abusive. Ignoring it, it seems to me, just enables the bully. What does work? I'd like to know. 

Prompt # 31 - Pride

Prompt # 31 – Pride

Pride. Well, first of all, I'm a Canadian and proud to be. Lucky to be born here, lucky that my grandmothers and great-grandfather and many mysterious greats before that chose to move here and make a new life for themselves. But one of the things about being Canadian is that we are sort of expected to be self-effacing, not to try to stand out, to try not to stand out. And not to intrude. You know the title of that early Alice Munro book - Who Do You Think You Are? - that's a phrase every Canadian child hears, especially when they've done or said something that made him or her sound “too big for your britches,” or “too proud.” So, what can I say?

I was always proud of my father for being a veteran and a farmer. I have always been proud of being a farmer's daughter. I was proud of my mother for being such an enthusiastic athlete (which I could never be). And of my brothers for becoming a nurse and a teacher/principal.

I always enjoyed school and school work and achieved good marks. I won a free trip to summer camp, and a free trip to Montreal in high school. I'm also proud of my MA thesis which received an Honourable Mention as best thesis of the year. It is titled The Indian, the 'Other,' in the Canadian Quest for Identity: Four Prairie Novels of the 1970s (University of Manitoba 1981) and is available on line. I'm also quite satisfied with my many published articles, reviews, blogs, and my book.

I'm also “houseproud.” I guess some people think this is not a good thing, but I love my house and I worked hard to achieve it and sacrificed a lot in order to keep it (being “house poor”). It allows me the luxury of working at home and being able to entertain when I so desire.

I am proud of my ability to travel alone and to have worked in non-traditional employment which enabled me to be self-supporting and independent while helping some people change their lives for the better. I also work hard to focus and to maintain a positive and optimistic attitude towards life. I attempt to transform empathy and compassion into action through my writing about human rights and spirituality, and through my passion for Canada and Canadian literature. And I'm proud of my eye for beauty and my ability to celebrate it in photography and visual arts.

Of course, I have a lot of things I cannot do, and am not proud of, but we don't talk about those.

Links:

My Dancing With Ghosts: A Cross-Cultural Education is available through the Canadian Museum For Human Rights website http://share.humanrightsmuseum.ca/writing/dancing-with-ghosts-a-cross-cultural-education/ and also on my own blog http://www.dancingwithghostsaneducation.blogspot.ca/ along with my other attempts Imagine Canada 2017 http://www.imaginecanada2017.blogspot.ca/
We Are All Accomplices http://weareallaccomplices.blogspot.ca/2013/03/good-things-about-nanaimo-letter-to.html 
Human Writes Activist (Amnesty International Book Club responses) http://www.humanwritesactivist.blogspot.ca/
CanLit: A Passion For Place http://canlitplace.blogspot.ca/2013/10/reading-list.html
Earthabridge http://www.earthabridge.blogspot.ca/

Prompt # 30 – First Day of School

Prompt # 30 - First Day of School

When I started school I was five years eight and one-half months old and I was SO ready. I couldn't wait to learn to read. I was the oldest. I was the first to go. Even my best friends, the twins across the road, were born four months after me so they had to wait another year before they could start. That meant that when I got there, to the Grade One and Two room in Oak River Elementary School in Manitoba (this was before kindergarten was invented) I only knew one other person in the room, my cousin Ken who was in Grade Two, and maybe Brian and Gerald whose parents were friends of my parents.

I don't remember what I wore but I would have carried a book bag filled with all the supplies which had been on the list given out in August-pencils, sharpener, erasers, Hilroy scribblers, ruler. And I would have carried the beautiful wine-coloured enameled tin lunch box with the picture of the new Queen Elizabeth II wearing a blue dress and diamond crown. The lunch kit was a gift from my BC grandmother. I remember my Dad asked me when I got home “Did you sing God Save the King?” and I answered, “No, silly, God Save the Queen (and O Canada).”

The school van would have picked me up at our front door at 8:25 am and driven us into town. School must have started at 9 but there were other stops on the way of the four mile trip. Private cars were contracted as school vans, different drivers each year, from someone along our route-Blacks, Brays, Burts, Haggertys, Bridgemans, Browns, Powers, Thompsons, and sometime others, usually those with fathers who worked at the military base ten miles away and their families were renting empty farmhouses along our road. We were often nine or ten children in the car with the driver, the little ones sitting on the knees of the older ones. This was also before seatbelts were invented. In twelve years I never heard of one school van accident. The vans picked us up again at the school at 3:30 and we were home by 3:55.

My first day of school was a day of happy surprises. The school used to invite future Grade Ones to attend one day of school in the spring, so that we could observe the classroom routine, find out where the washrooms were, meet the teachers. I was thrilled by the Grade One teacher who hosted me on my prep day. She was beautiful-Miss B-and she charmed me by telling me her name was Joan too, the same as mine. I was so sad over the summer when I learned that my Grade One teacher in September was going to be Mrs S. But when I got there, who could believe my good luck! Mrs S was Miss B. She had just married over the summer, but her name was still Joan. It was my lucky day.

Mrs S is in our class picture for that first year, but you can tell, she didn't come back for my Grade Two year. The photo also tells me what I wore. I forgot that we wore tunic uniforms that first year. Navy blue, with a white blouse. Of all the kids in this photo, I can still name each one. Of the ten Grade Ones, only four graduated with me twelve years later, along with some of the Grade Twos and others from Cardale, a nearby smaller town. Walter, Ricky, Ken, Carol, and Gordon moved away. Their fathers worked in town jobs—municipal clerk, hotel operator, construction, garage operator, mechanic. John and Harriet, centre row, L1 and L3, only spoke Dutch when they arrived that year. The tallest boy, Pond, was sixteen years old and had just arrived from China. He was only in our room for a short while, until he learned enough English to move to the next grades. This was before ESL was invented too, but Pond did get English immersion. He finished school and was working in Brandon before the rest of us finished Grade Twelve.

To the best of my knowledge, all these kids are still alive, but I don't hear a lot of news from Oak River as I have no family still living there, and none of us stayed. We left for post-secondary education or employment opportunities. Only about two still live in the district. The farms are bigger than they used to be, but they require fewer workers, fewer farm families. The old elementary school is gone now. The kids go to school in the “new” high school building, opened in 1961. The high school kids are bused to Rivers. The town is smaller too, so small that when I try to list it as my hometown, Facebook won't even accept it, as if it no longer exists. But I know it's still there. Also, note to genealogists. The date on this photograph is incorrect. My first day of school was in September 1954 and the photo was taken in May 1955. Honest. I am sitting front row L5, with the centre part. 

Prompt # 29 - Carry All - What's In Your Bag?

Prompt # 29 - Carry All - What's In Your Bag?

I never leave the house without my bag, even if I'm just going for a walk. I have several, which I change for the seasons. Always a shoulder bag. Often received as gifts. The winter black, from Molly. The feathered blue, from Candace. The striped blue, from Karen. The gold one I found at a garage sale. I prefer fabric or leather.

I carry a shoulder bag in order to keep all the things I need together and accessible. My keys for house, car, mailboxes are in an outside pocket or attached to the handle by a safety hook. My billfold wallet with cash, drivers licence, ID, health card, bank cards, credit cards, business cards, numbers, etc. My blue beaded heart change purse found at a garage sale. Cell phone. Calendar. Pen and note pad. Hairbrush and comb. Cough drops and/or breath mints. Lip balm. A flashdrive. Can't remember if it is my trip pics or my CanLit presentation. My digital camera. Extra batteries and memory card. My tablet which I use mainly for taking photos. (There is free wi-fi up town.) Each of these in pink paisley quilted cases made by my friend Joyce. Gloves. Toque or beret. Sunglasses. Sun screen. Umbrella. This is BC. We have “Irish” weather, when it is not snowing. On longer trips, I'll include a thermos of water, and a skinny pocket book to read if I have to wait (or I can download books on my tablet). On Thursdays, my Scrabble dictionary. A quick check reveals: car insurance documents, coupons, shopping lists, map, and a metal art trading card case. Forgot about that. It did cause some concern the last time I went through the airport scanner.

I do hate having to dig around in the dark trying to retrieve something in the bottom of the bag. But, as an exercise in personal archaeology, what does this inventory reveal? Lifestyle and concerns. Security. Transportation. Communication. A sense of identity—who I am, what interests me. Words. Images. Ideas. Travel. And a circle of generous friends. I've said this before too. I am blessed.

Prompt # 28 - Parents

Prompt # 28 – Parents

My father, Donald Albert Bridgeman, was born in Brandon, Manitoba, June 24, 1920, and grew up on his parents' farm near Bradwardine, MB, the third of fourteen children. Although he liked school, when he finished Grade 8 he had to go out to work, usually for other local farmers. It was the Depression so he and friends including his brother Jim took the train to BC looking for better prospects. He was hired on at the Harpur Ranch in Rock Creek. He loved working there and forever after called Mrs. Harpur “Mum” which was a shock to me, that he would call another woman besides Grandma “Mum.” Although they didn't get together until after the war, Dad met my mother on the Harpur Ranch when he was eighteen and she was thirteen. A group of teens were at the swimming hole. Mum was there with her sister Betty who was closer to Dad's age. Mum wrote about the day in her journal. Mum's mother and Mrs. Harpur were the best of friends.

Dad joined up in 1940 in Brandon, spent many long months training in England, and then went with Canadian forces on the invasion of Italy. At the end of fighting, he was wounded in Italy and spent a couple of weeks in hospital, joining a different group for the final weeks of the war in Europe. He returned home in November, 1945. He bought a farm with the assistance of the Veterans Land Act. His farm, in Oak River district, the old Henderson place, was three miles from his parents' farm. He had asked to buy land in BC but was told that the economy was too depressed and Manitoba would be a better prospect. He farmed for approximately thirty years before selling the land and retiring back to BC. In Manitoba, his pastimes included curling in the winter, fishing in the summer, and poker every week. When he retired, he continued these activities and added lawn bowling and bridge. He would play any card game if there was a nickel riding on it, but bridge and poker were his passions. He died of cancer in Vernon on May 16,1984.

Dad was always called Don. His nickname in the army was Dinty, it think, not sure why. When he used to manage my brothers' baseball and hockey teams, I heard others call him “Chief” but I think that was because he used to stand tall and walk proud as soldiers are trained to do. Once when my little brother was about four, I watched him and Dad walk from the woodpile to the house. They marched in perfect step, arms swinging, and my little brother's right shoulder was sloped down at the exact angle in imitation of my Dad's, a result of the damage to the neck and shoulder muscle he sustained when wounded.

My mother, Margaret Norah Bubar, was born in Greenwood, BC, December 26, 1925, the fourth of six children. She grew up on her parents' ranch in Kettle Valley, BC. Her nickname was Bunty, given to her when she arrived home from hospital all bundled up and her three-year-old brother George said “bye, baby Bunting,” a popular English nursery rhyme. She was called Bunty all her life by family and close friends. To newer acquaintances, she was Marg. She and Dad married in Kettle Valley, BC, on Easter Monday,1948. Their honeymoon trip was the drive home to Dad's farm in Manitoba, from buttercups to mountains of snow.

Although she was a great housekeeper and loved knitting, most of Mum's favourite activities were outdoors. She was an avid swimmer, having learned from her mother in the Kettle River. She could beat most men who were foolish enough to accept the challenge of a race. She also lived for baseball and later took up curling and bowling. She pressured her children for grandchildren so that she would be eligible to curl in the Granny bonspeil. Luckily, the younger of my two brothers complied. Mum had walls of trophys. She also loved to fish and to play bingo. In their retirement years, they enjoyed travelling to visit family and to places like Reno and Las Vegas. As a widow, she travelled with a friend on a cruise to Australia. When she was diagnosed with Parkinsons, most of her pleasures were no longer attainable. She died in Vernon, BC, August 8, 1993.