New Ride!

On a whim, I jumped in the car Sunday around 2:00 pm and headed to Buffalo. My mission? To buy a new bicycle.

I had heard from my ex-husband that he got a good deal on a bike for his son and that if I wanted one, it would be worth the drive and time because the deals were very good.

After looking at Wal-Mart, K-Mart and Target, I decided that he was right. I didn't think I was going to do it this weekend though. I was thinking I would go maybe next weekend or the weekend after that, and then suddenly it dawned on me that there was no reason to delay and why would I put off something that will ultimately get me moving again?

So that was all I needed to convince myself to get off the sofa and hit the road. With the sun roof open, the tunes blasting, I felt like a free bird. It was exhilarating.

I went to the K-Mart right across from Walden Galleria and in no time the Manager was packing it into the back of my car. Because it was the last one there and had suffered a few scratches, he knocked another $20.00 off the already reduced price.

It's a pink Schwinn, Ladies, Windwood Model. It's a pale pink with flowers on the frame. Nice wide seat, lovely high handle bars for upright riding and matching fenders!

I got back home at 6:30 PM, pulled it out of the trunk and took it for a 15 min spin around the neighbourhood. I couldn't believe how much energy I had to put into it because it is a single speed. I figure it will be better for me, since my goal is to lose weight.

The time went extremely slow all day at work while I waited to get home and take a spin. I just got back and managed to do 20 mins tonight. I'll just keep at it until I can do an hour. 

There are so many places to explore with my bike. The city looks different from a bicycle than it does from a car and there is nothing like the wind blowing in your face.

I hope to get to know my bicycle very well this summer!

Altered

"You're different", he said, in a matter of fact tone of voice.

I stood looking at him with a pain in my heart like I've never experienced before and I thought but didn't say, you think?  The tears hadn't started yet.  I had held it in for the arrangements, the writing of the eulogy, the actual memorial service and we had just come back to the house from the funeral.  I was standing in the kitchen trying to figure out what I was doing.  Was I putting the left over booze in the fridge or taking it out to the garage?  Where would I put all this food? Why in the hell did my mother have to die?

He was asking me questions about my future.  Questions I hadn't had time to consider or think about yet.  Questions that I didn't want to think about, a part of me still in denial of what had just happened.  Questions that would have to be answered, but later.  Much later.  I needed to cry first.

I didn't know that those questions, the ones I couldn't answer would be the beginning of our end.  I couldn't know that then, in my numb state.  I didn't have one ounce of emotion left for anyone or anything.  I was robbed of all my energy and just wanted to crawl into bed and sleep for a long, long time.  The six weeks sleeping in the hospital at my mother's side had taken a toll on me.

I didn't care at that moment that I seemed different.  I was.  I had just lost one of the most important people in my life and I would forever be different because of that.

But I didn't believe that after all the support and care I had given to him over the past 10 years that he would not be there for me.  I couldn't imagine that he wouldn't be patient and allow me the time I needed to sort through my new reality and come to terms with my loss.  That's why I didn't force myself to try and answer his questions, or comfort him and make him know that it would be OK, because I couldn't.

And because I was so low, I started to stay home on weekends, sorting through the belongings and trying to put order in my house.  I thought, we are both adults. People who love one another understand and will wait patiently.

I was wrong.  Or maybe I was right, and it didn't happen that way because there was no love on his part.  I didn't stop loving or caring.  But I was neglectful.  I wasn't doing the things I used to do.  I wasn't pushing myself to do all my chores after work and before sleep so that I could be available to go to his country estate on the weekends.

Instead I was sleeping in my own bed and laying in late every day, even work days.  I was struggling with all the basic things in life, such as the following:

• getting out of bed
• getting dressed
• eating
• focusing on my job
• not crying 
• keeping my voice strong when some caring soul asked how I was doing  
• cooking 
• cleaning 
• leaving the house 
• paying my bills
• and just living

We were in touch every day by telephone and more often on weekends.  It was a big change for us both.  So we tried to stay connected as much as possible.  I tried to go to the estate when his son would be there because he is like a son to me and I didn't want to disappoint him.

I couldn't always do that though, because to pretend that I was happy and cheerful was too hard.  It was something that I couldn't muster and I didn't want to bring everyone else down, so some weekends even when he was there, I stayed home.

I did get there for bf's birthday weekend and brought my friends along to celebrate.  I made a big deal of it and it felt good.  I was also available for his son's birthday, even though it was the day after my mother's and it was the first birthday without my mom, I didn't let that spoil his day.

He had informed me in March that I was not his gf.  I thought he was just angry because of my absence.  I still didn't have the energy to do what I needed to keep it together.  So I accepted that it was over, but deep down inside, I thought that once I got myself together, we would possibly be able to fix things.  I would be able to dance again, just as fast as I once did, and he would be happy.  He continued to call me on a regular basis and invite me to dinner with him and his son.  It didn't really seem like anything had changed except that he didn't talk to me as much on weekends anymore.

I thought that in my absence, he would have time to reflect on our relationship and in the end he would realize that he had a good thing.  I never really felt appreciated or loved.  When he called on Tuesday night and started to tell me what a wonderful person I was, I thought that I was right.  I have a hard time accepting compliments.  It makes me uncomfortable.  I'm more at ease, giving than receiving.  But I listened to it.  My face blushing and a smile from ear to ear, until he touched my heart with how much he misses me.  Then I started to cry.  I miss him too, but I can't see any other way right now.  I have to get my house in order.  I have to prepare for the possibility that I may have to rent a room to hang onto it.  That means sorting and getting rid of boxes that my mother and I had been carrying around with us for years.

He continued with the touching words, telling me how much his son loves me and that he hopes I will always be in his life, no matter what, and I started to cry even more as memories of his son and I snorkelling for hours in the shallow waters looking for fish and treasures flashed through my mind and the thought that I would not have that anymore seemed unbearable.  He knew I was crying.  I couldn't hold back the tears any longer.  He kept telling me that he hoped I would feel better after we talked.  He said that more than once, and I couldn't understand what he was about to tell me that would make the pain I was experiencing disappear.  Then he told me that I am a great catch and that he hoped that one day some man would fall madly in love with me and treat me like the Queen I was.  

I'm not sure what was mentioned next, but I mustered up a question.  I asked if he had told his son.  He said he had and then he moved right into "I'm seeing someone else".  I almost didn't hear him.  I was thinking about what his son's reaction was.  I had to confirm that I had heard right.  

"Did you just say you are seeing someone else?"

He said yes, and then let me know that he had already introduced his son to her and that he didn't really like her.  I was stunned.  No I was floored.  I was in his life for a few years before I ever met his son, or he met my family - because it was casual in the beginning.  

Of course my mind jumps to when did he start to see her?  If he is already introducing her to his son he must be serious.  He must have been seeing her for quite some time.  Maybe that is why we were having such a difficult time of things for the last year.  

I muttered that I thought he had been seeing someone and he said, I knew you did.  I asked the question.  As hard as it was, I needed to know.

"Did you start seeing her before we broke up?"

"No.  It's not serious, it's really just to get over us."  

I guess that last comment was meant to make me feel better.

Not sure what his date for our "breakup" would be.  I know for me it wasn't officially over until this phone call, but I realize that for him, it could have been when I was staying with my dying mother, or maybe just after she passed and I wasn't available every weekend, I'm not really sure but it doesn't matter, it's over.

And so another new beginning.

I Had A Dream...

Last night I had a great dream.  I always ask my mom a question before I fall asleep.  I tell her that I love her and I hope she is happy and well in the afterlife and then I ask her where she put her will.  The accountant insists that it will be easier to deal with the tax agency if I can find it but other than that, I don't really need it.

Every morning I expect to wake up with the information and each morning I feel as though I may have received something but I can't remember.

This morning I woke up with my head full of details.  It was so clear in my mind I could close my eyes and see it just like a photograph.  I'm sure it was from my mother.  Before her passing, one of our favourite topics of conversation would be about our dream kitchen.  We have talked about it since we moved into our new home 5 years ago.  

We had most of the details figured out except one area that we did not agree on and the solution came to me in my dream.  It is the best of what my mom and I had envisioned.  It was a complete melding of both of our ideas and it would be perfect!

I live in a townhouse.  The building is about 40 years old and the kitchen is quite small.  That doesn't bother me but it is closed off from the living room/dining room except for the two entrances.  Why you would need two doors into such a small space is beyond me.  My original idea was to open the kitchen completely to the dining room by removing the wall that divides it.  My mom wasn't convinced of that.

She dreamt about having a counter with upper cupboards on the other small wall that opens to the living room.  

In my dream, instead of removing the wall to the dining room, we closed the doorway in halfway up and then opened a section in the middle so that there was a generous cut out, overlooking the dining area.  A bar on the dining room side with a couple chairs and a nice bar top.  The sink would be repositioned underneath the cut out so that the dish cleaner would have something to look at.

There is a wall of counter and upper cupboards to replace the current blank wall.  The stove is closer to the fridge, where the current sink is.  Of course, the dishwasher would move under the sink or beside it.  All the cupboards, fridge, stove, and flooring would be replaced.

Task lights are strategically placed around the perimeter of the workspace so that the light is where you need it and there are separate switches so you can have them all on or just a couple.

It's white and the counter top is dark but I am not sure what material it is.  I guess I shouldn't have said that all the details were provided because I can't remember the flooring or the countertop.  However, I do remember that I have a baking area, with drawers that hold all the baking materials with additional drawers for pots and pans.

Everything has a place and it is perfect!

The Weight Game

I already mentioned that this is a new chapter in my life and as with all new chapters, they begin with change.  I get inspired by change.  I always have.  So my new inspiration for this journey is finally tackling my weight for once and for all.  I am like any other addict, I try to stop, am successful for a while and then fall down.      The amount of time between falling and getting back up can be as short as a day or two or as long as 5 years.  There is no telling how long the fall will be.  It doesn't matter.  What does matter is that I never give up.  I will win this game.  I am determined.  And just like when I quit smoking, this time feels like it is IT!

So I joined Weight Watchers Online, again.  The last time I joined it was a half -hearted attempt at getting on track.  Mentally, I wasn't there and I thought that if I went through the motions that I would suddenly be struck with the inspiration and I would be off to the races.  It didn't work out that way.  A year later, I was heavier than when I started.  I decided it was not financially responsible to pay to gain weight so I quit.  That wasn't the brightest idea either.  I slowly managed to gain enough weight to make life difficult.  Climbing up and down the stairs was an effort.  Walking a short distance hurt my knees.  My fat was getting in the way of life.  I wanted to get out and hike to take some pictures but I knew that physically I would tucker out before the shot I was looking for would be found.

I didn't want to get together with my distant friends, who were calling because then they would notice how fat I had become.  I was embarrassed with the way I looked and tired with how I felt.  So finally, I did the right thing and got back on the weight watchers band wagon.

I totally love the online tools.  I can't believe how much they have improved their site.  The best tool though is the recipe builder.  You can enter three ingredients you have in your fridge or cupboard and it will present you with a variety of different recipes along with the nutritional values (points).  It couldn't be easier.

So this is a warning to anyone who stumbles upon this blog.  It used to be just a rambling of random things that I found interesting or funny, but now it is going to shift into events that occur on my path to a more fit Suzy!

New Chapter

2011 was a nightmare.  A living nightmare.  My dear mother was diagnosed with stage 4 lung cancer at the end of January and optimistically embarked on the radiation treatment band wagon.  We were certain that she was going to rally and continue on for a few more years.  She was such a fighter.

Unfortunately, for myself and my family, she either didn't get her treatment quick enough (it managed to move to her brain, which meant additional treatments in the fall) or we were in denial about how strong she was because she contracted pneumonia in October and was not able to beat it.

For most of the last 17 years, my mother, daughter and I have lived together so her absence in our lives is huge.  We were in a groove.  For some, in particular, my good friend A., our groove was perhaps more like a dysfunctional rut than a groove.  Regardless, we loved each other and we had a routine.

Now my daughter and I are learning to live without.  For everyone that has experienced the loss of a close relative, you know what I am talking about.  It's a new chapter in our lives and as with all books, the plot and story is a mystery.

To keep some continuity and make the transition for us easier, I have chosen to preserve my mother's obsession of feeding the birds and have taken on her role as the neighbourhood wildlife caretaker.  I'm astonished at how much time this task takes.  I didn't realize that keeping up with our acreage would mean that I would either have to change my alarm for an earlier wake up in the morning, or that I would turn into a habitually tardy employee.  I really don't like getting up early so, now I have a bit of an issue with my boss.  He doesn't like people who are not punctual.  We'll work it out - somehow, but in the meantime, the birds, squirrels, raccoon and possums are all very happy.  Best of all, I am overwhelmed with a warm sense of satisfaction and fulfillment every time I look out at our garden and see the birds and animals enjoying the same gourmet offerings and they have not had to suffer the pain from the loss of my mother as we have.

Happy Mother's Day!

Happy Mother's Day to all the mother's out there.  I hope you have a beautiful day and that your children express their gratitude for all the sacrifices you have made.  My day has been exceptional so far and I am very lucky to have such a beautiful, caring daughter.  She gave me a heart-tugging card, a bouquet of flowers and prepared a three course brunch.  Blueberry scones, yogurt and fruit parfait, followed by a Martha Stewart dish of eggs and bacon baked in a muffin tin lined with bread and pan fried potatoes.

This is our first Mother's day without my mom who passed away on November 28th, 2011 and my daughter went above and beyond to make it special for me and as a tribute to her grandmother.

My mother was such a big part of our lives that it is very difficult to get over the void she has left with her departure, but each day we get a little bit stronger and I know she is with us.  I can't help but smile as I clean the bird bath and feed the birds about how much joy she got from having these things in our small backyard and I know she is very happy to know that I am carrying on her chores so that the feathered friends do not notice that she has departed.

I used to take great pleasure in teasing her about her obsession with feeding all the wildlife but I can't fathom not continuing in her absence.  In the days following her death, I wrote a eulogy in her honour and read this at her funeral.  I thought it would be fitting to share it with you today on Mother's Day.

3 December 2011

Eulogy for Mom

My mother recently ruminated about how she felt as though she had lived several lifetimes in the span of one.  She felt this way after sharing memories from her past with me.

That was an enjoyable afternoon.  It confirmed something that I have always known, something that my mother, herself, often forgot, and that is, that she was a very strong woman. 

Some of the events or circumstances that built her strength were:

·        Survived a difficult childhood

·        Married a disabled man

·        was a woman “bread-winner” during a time when women stayed home to raise their children

·        Decided to move her family, to Collingwood in 1967 to provide a better life, even though this meant moving away from her own family and friends

·        She was one of the first women hired by Goodyear Rubber in 1967 Collingwood; she worked alongside the men on the line, earning less than they did and without benefits

·        Worked two and three jobs at a time to provide for the family of four

·        searched and obtained affordable shelter when rent increases dictated another move – hence performing 10 moves by the time I was 16

·        She kept money problems to herself – we did not know how difficult times were for our parents.  We knew that we did not have the things that other children had and wondered why she always had to work but were oblivious to the stress she was under

·        Told a prospective employer that she was a bookkeeper and then studied accounting at night so that she could be proficient at her new job

·        She never bad mouthed my father when their relationship ended and remained amicable

·        Returned to school in her late 40’s or early 50’s to obtain her real estate licence and succeeded

·        Worked as a superintendant of a large apartment building in Oshawa which was a very physical job (mid 50’s)

·        continued on a trip by herself from Calgary to British Columbia when Melissa and I had to return home

·        Learned how to drive a school bus in her late 50’s and drove a rural route during hard winters in the Collingwood area

·        Went to work in the cafeteria at Goodyear just prior to turning 60

·        Lived with the pain of arthritis for years without being able to take anti-inflammatory drugs due to allergies

·        And in the end survived for more than two weeks without food or water, after making the decision that the cancer was stronger than her and requesting that treatment stop

These life events built her strength, but they also made her wise, gave her a wonderful sense of humour, and gave her compassion.

I would be remiss if I didn’t mention at this point that my mother’s life was not all challenges and struggles.  She was fortunate to meet a wonderful man at my uncles wedding, Stewart Linton.  Stew and my mother married a couple of years after meeting and he provided a life for my mother that previously she only dreamed about.  Together they bought houses, new cars and travelled.  They spent a wonderful 20 years together before they grew apart, as many people do, but they never stopped caring for one another.  Stew ensured that my mother would never have to return to the worries or struggles that she lived through in the beginning of her life and for that, she was thankful, we are all thankful.

My mother loved animals.  We sometimes joked that the animals were more important to her than anyone else was and in some ways, they were because in her eyes they were helpless and needed her care.  My boyfriend’s son came up with the perfect nickname for my mother – “Mother Nature”.  It describes her to a T.  All animals in the Pinedale vicinity were well fed on my mom’s watch.  If a cat walked up to the door and meowed, she would be right out there with a bowl of water or food.  Moreover, she treated them all equally; the birds, squirrels, raccoons, possums, and skunks – she made sure there was enough food and water for all.

However, her caring personality was not restricted to animals alone, she became pseudo mothers to all my friends, my sister’s friends, my stepbrothers, my cousin and his friends, my daughter and her friends, my nephews and their friends and the people in our neighborhood.  She was never too busy to lend an ear and give you her opinion – but the opinion would be exactly what she wanted to say which was not always, what you wanted to hear.  She didn’t mince words.  She was brutally honest but not malicious and she spoke from her heart, which most people respected.

She could laugh at herself, which was one of my favourite qualities about her, and I took pleasure in teasing her and making her laugh.  One funny memory I have was when my sister and I were teenagers, helping my mother shop for new clothes because she was starting a new job in an office. 

We were upstairs of Geraldine’s, a woman’s clothing store in Collingwood.  The upstairs was a loft overlooking the store.  There was a change room located near the racks of clothes.  My sister and I both had our backs to the change rooms.  I’m not sure how long she was standing in the middle of the room wearing only her bra and underwear before we noticed her.  I told mom to get back in the change room before someone saw her.  Her response was, “Who’s going to see me, this is a ladies clothing store – I don’t care if a woman comes up here!”  I must mention here that her underwear had seen better days.  She was notorious for wearing her underclothes out before replacing because she thought there were uses that were more important for her money.  I turned to look towards the stairs when I heard footsteps approaching, my mother continued looking at the clothes, not worried.  I’ll never forget the look of shock on the man’s face as his eyes took in the sight of my mother, ripped panties, scraggly bra, holding up a dress trying to decide if she liked it or not.  He exclaimed “Oh my” and scurried back downstairs.  We were unable to contain our laughter.  We were practically rolling around on the floor trying not to wet our pants just thinking about the look of shock on his face and remembering how adamant my mother was just moments before that it was a ladies store and she didn’t care.  Debbie and I had to get outside in order to stop laughing and because we were so embarrassed.  My mother refused to show embarrassment and continued to do what she had come out to accomplish and that was to buy a new dress.

All I can say is thank you.  Thank you for being a kind, compassionate, caring, strong woman.  Thank you for giving yourself to those who knew you and thank you for being the special person you were.  You were loved more than you knew and we will truly miss you.

First Winter Storm 2008

PB150067
Originally uploaded by Suzy Snow

The morning after our first winter storm, Nov 16, 2008. The hydro was out and everything was very quiet, peaceful!

Punch of Colour!

begonia
Originally uploaded by Suzy Snow

Final Days of Summer

Tonight's Sunset!

Looking for Dinner!

That's Just Ducky!

Flight Pattern

Click on image for full view!

Perch!

This was the scene last weekend (April 28th, 2007) of fisherman trying to snag some perch. I was standing on the Atherley Narrows Bridge in Orillia Ontario. There is a Perch Festival in Orillia. I didn't know about it until today but I was amazed at the number of boats on the lake. It was an overcast, slightly foggy morning. By the time I returned to take these pics the fog had lifted but the day was really gray. I was amused by the bright slickers against the dreary water and sky.

Here is another pic from the same location but without the zoom.

Spring Thaw

Criminal Surrender

Life is too short. That’s what everyone always says. How many people really believe that though? I know I said it myself many times throughout my life, but now that I am nearer to the end, I do believe it. I believe it whole-heartedly. It is that firm belief that has placed me here, right now, in this predicament or adventure. I prefer to look at this as an adventure. If I didn’t, I would still be sitting in that chair by the window, sweating in the heat of that stuffy nursing home waiting for death.

This is not how I had pictured living my final days when I was young, full of piss and vinegar, indestructible and hardly able to harness my energy. Even then, I liked to live life on the edge. I was never the criminal type, but I enjoyed challenging convention.

The clink of the guards keys moving toward me interrupt my reverie. He stops at my cell. There is a look of pity in his eyes and his voice is almost soft when he speaks. Those two things are in direct contrast to his physical appearance; big bulky muscles fighting against the cotton fabric of his uniform, short blond hair, hacked off near the root, tips standing out in defiance at the sides of his head-the balance hidden by his hat, thick legs anchored by heavy, highly polished black boots.

“You have a visitor, Mr. Carmichael. Come this way please.”

“A visitor? I wasn’t expecting anyone. I don’t have many friends left or family, for that matter. You know that is the problem with living too long, young man, you end up alone, outliving everyone. It’s not that much fun.”

Again, I see that look as I pass him. It’s starting to make me angry. I don’t need sympathy from anyone.

I hear the clink of the cell door close. A sound that I am sure, I will become accustomed to, like the sound of the clicking wheel on the nurse’s trolley as it passed my room, on the nightly journey up and down the halls of the nursing home. In the beginning, I never thought I would get a night’s sleep from that sound, but soon enough it faded into the background, faintly audible.

I stop and wait for the guard to unlock the next set of barred doors. Not knowing exactly where we are heading, I feel a hesitation in my normally steady gait. I fear that it will be yet another symbol of my weakness to the steroid Hercules behind me and my irritation is mounting. I yearn to keep it under control. A snap, right now, here in this place would not be wise.

The final door opens and I walk into a small, grey coloured room with a simple wooden table in the middle. A middle-aged man, in bad need of a shave sits at one of the chairs, papers spread across the top of the table in a haphazard fashion and he hardly looks up as I walk in and take a seat across from him.

It takes what seems forever, for him to raise his head and look at me. I stare at him straight in the eye, willing him to do the same. He can’t, his eyes shift from the papers, to the door, to the floor, to the ceiling and all over the room, each time they meet mine, they quickly move as if my gaze is too strong to handle, searing.

I know he introduced himself and I heard lawyer, but I didn’t hear anything that he was saying because he is so nervous. It’s bordering on ridiculous. Where did he come from? How did he ever pass a bar exam? Maybe he has just returned to work after a lengthy illness and he is realizing he cannot do it.

“….as I said Mr. Carmichael, these charges are quite serious. It could mean that you may never see freedom again. I need to know everything that happened. It’s the only way I can hope to find a way to defend you. The evidence is very incriminating. They have you on video camera, your voice on a tape recording of a conversation with one of the other suspects, and they have a statement from one of the bank tellers who gave a very detailed description of you. I’m curious about one thing, Mr. Carmichael. Did you know what you were doing? Did you know that you were committing a serious federal offence by committing a bank robbery? If you realized all of that, why in heaven’s name did you use your own name?”

His eyes are on mine now and I can see the frustration in them as well as hear it in his voice. I almost feel sorry for him. I feel badly that because of my follies, he is now challenged with the task of getting me off. It is not going to be easy. He is frustrated because he cannot figure out my motive. He is probably thinking right now, “What would motivate a man at his age, 83 years, living a comfortable life in a safe, sterile environment, to rob a bank and risk ending up rotting in a cell?” He has his job cut out and for that, I am sorry.

I make no apology for living though. I do not have the time or the desire to tell him why. He will know himself one day. The past five years of excitement are worth, however many more years that I have to live, in what others may view as misery. Misery was my life before I met Donald. Because of Donald, I can honestly say that I have lived the life of a king. All that money, the trips, the food, the wine, it helped me forget about my loss for a while.

My dear Marjorie, god bless her soul, is probably angrier than a hornets nest. However, she must know the loneliness I have felt since her death. Surely, a love like ours does not end when one of the partners dies. I won’t believe that. I know she is waiting and soon enough I will join her.

“….as you can see Mr. Carmichael, it’s going to be very, very difficult to defend you and hope to get you off without having to serve any time. However, my hope is that the Judge will be sympathetic to your age, health and up until this string of bank robberies, an exemplary, clean record.”

“Thank you, Mister, uhmmm I’m sorry, I’ve forgotten your name.”

“Mr. Jones.”

“Yes, thank you for everything Mr. Jones. I appreciate you coming to see me and anything that you can do will be just fine.”

“I really don’t think you comprehend the seriousness of the situation Mr. Carmichael.”

“No? I don’t want to sound flippant Mr. Jones, but I do understand. I understand everything. The problem is that you do not understand. That is your job and your journey. Mine is over.”

My First Kiss...

My first kiss was with little Bobby from across the street. He was five, the same age as me. We were also around the same height. Bobby had curly brown hair, was pudgy in a cuddly sort of way and very cute (or so I thought).

I tricked Bobby into that first kiss by talking him into participating in a new game of "pretend". My idea was to re-enact Snow White. I would pretend to be Snow White and he could pretend to be the Prince. We really didn't need the dwarves because they do not enhance the 'kiss' scene but Bobby didn't know that was the only part of Snow White that we were going to play and I did not tell him.

Since it was my idea, I got to be the director. Bobby had to do whatever he was told. He was very co-operative. Before play could begin we needed to find the perfect spot. We were playing outside the basement apartment that my family lived in on Brookside Dr in Toronto.

Bobby really didn't know what we were going to re-enact so he thought that we could commence just anywhere. I turned down his suggestions because I was looking for something that could double as Snow White's bed (coffin).

The ground was covered with snow and it was a beautiful sunny day. Bobby was standing in the middle of the driveway bugging me to make a snowman. Turning around and walking back towards the house, I suddenly could see exactly what I had been looking for. The window well was the perfect size and shape.

I jumped into it and laid down. Bobby was looking at me and asking what he was supposed to do.

I explained that I had just eaten a poisonous apple and that I was dead. He would come along and find me and because I was so beautiful, he would decide to give me a kiss.

Bobby hesitated but did agree to play along. When it came time to kiss me, he never even stooped to get close. I never felt his lips on mine. He just stood there telling me to stand up, that he had kissed me and it was over. He was anxious to play something different.

I refused. That was a ripoff. I wanted to feel his lips on mine. The kiss had to be real, otherwise what was the point in playing?

After a few moments of debate, Bobby finally agreed. He knelt down beside me and planted a big kiss right on my lips. I remember the excitement and fear that someone might have seen us.

Those lofty emotions were short lived. My father almost immediately, yelled out the door for Bobby to go home and for me to come inside. He would not relent even with my loudest protests.

Inside the apartment, my father wanted me to explain what we were doing outside. I started to make up something and he cut me off. Before I got through the first sentence of the second lie, he cut me off again and warned me that I would be punished for lying.

I can still feel my burning cheeks as I stood telling my father that Bobby and I had been playing Snow White and that he had kissed me.

With a straight face, my father told me that he knew that and turned to look at the window where the reenactment had taken place.

I burst into tears and ran to my room.

The next time I fooled Bobby into kissing me, I made sure that we were in the park behind my apartment and not within view of any of our windows.

Assignment Number 1

*The assignment instructions were to write about a significant event in your life and to try to evoke an emotional response from the reader. We were instructed to use all of our senses when writing e.g. smell, taste, hearing, seeing, feeling*




Through the shrieks and screams of the kids racing around the park, I could hear the distant clang of the town clock. Beads of sweat covered my forehead and I stopped to wipe it while I counted the rings. One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, it was already seven o’clock.

I’ll have to leave in half an hour or I won’t make it home by 8:00. I hope Jackie and Anne will come home too. They promised they would on the way over here. I don’t want to walk all the way by myself. Where are they?

Searching through the crowd, I finally found Jackie and Anne sitting in the Gazebo, the home-free zone with a couple of boys I did not know. They reluctantly came down the stairs to where I was standing to find out what I wanted.

“I have to get going soon, are you going to leave with me?”

“You’re leaving already? What time is it?”

“It’s just past 7:00 but I have to leave around 7:30.”

“I don’t want to go yet, do you Jackie?”

“No. My mom said I could stay out until 9:00.”

“Shelly just stay and go home when we do. You won’t get in trouble.”

“Yes I will. I will be grounded if I show up late one more time and how can I call home, there isn’t a pay phone around here. Besides, I’m not supposed to be over here. Dad thought I was going to your house, Anne.”

“Oh alright then, I’ll go with you, come and get me when you’re leaving.”

Anne raced off to join in the game of war. I stood where I was, watching, not wanting to lose track of time.

In retaliation for my friends deserting me at the last minute, I visualized their faces on any small pebbles or stones that lay in my path, before my foot propelled them high into the air.

I could smell a hint of winter in the air and my shoes made loud echoing noises as I stomped down the sidewalk toward home. Now I was sure to be late because I spent too much time trying to convince them to leave with me.

I picked up the pace as I mulled over our friendship. My sense of betrayal and abandonment left me distracted and oblivious to everything else. I had no idea how far I had walked.

Surprisingly, I was almost halfway home when I finally took notice of the darkening sky. Small stars twinkled against the indigo night sky directly above, while ahead in distance the sky was still a beautiful turquoise shade with streaks of red from the sinking sun. Dark silhouettes swooped wildly around the steeped pitch roof of the Presbyterian Church on the next corner.

It would take more than bats to scare me into the roadway tonight though. My emotions were running rampant and I was not in the mood for feeling like a wimp. I was twelve, not a child. I held my breath and almost broke out into a run as I skipped quickly past the dark shadows of the Church. A sense of relief and accomplishment filled me when I was past the danger zone, unharmed.

I turned to glance at the neon clock in the window of Charlie’s Variety. My timing was perfect; it was only 7:45 p.m. Fifteen more minutes and I would be home.

I can’t wait to tell Mom and Dad how Anne and Jackie wouldn’t come home with me because they said I had a baby’s curfew. Maybe then, they will let me stay out until 9:00, like all the other kids. It is so stupid to have to be home by 8:00pm. I am the only kid in Senior Public that has to be home at that time.

Oh, oh, there’s the haunted Gowan home. I’d better cross the street or maybe I should walk out in the middle of the road. It’s so dark and creepy here. All these trees and this tall hedge, anyone could sneak up and wait for you, you wouldn’t even know it. I have a creepy feeling that someone is going to jump out at me when I get to the driveway. I bet someone I know has seen me walking and they’ll try to scare me because all the kids talk about this place being haunted. Anne never walks on the sidewalk. We always cross the street. It’s not haunted, it’s a vacant house. I shouldn’t listen to all those silly, stupid stories from kids. What do they know?

Okay, I’m staying on the sidewalk. I’ll just walk straight. I won’t turn and look when I pass the opening in the hedge. There isn’t anyone there. Look straight ahead. Don’t look. Keep walking. Walk faster. Here it comes. The driveway is just ahead. I still have time to cross the street and nobody would know. No. I should be able to walk past this house without being afraid. Nobody would ever know I was afraid. I should cross the street. I have time. The driveway is getting closer. Cross now. No, I’m not crossing the street. Here it is. Do not turn your head. Don’t look. Do not look.

“ARGGGHHHHHH! WARREN YOU SCARED ME! What are you doing? Waaaait, who are, what are you doing? Who ARE YOU?! ”

Oh my God! What does he want. Why is this happening? I don’t believe this, why is he grabbing my arm…NO, YOU’RE NOT PULLING ME BEHIND THOSE BUSHES…STOP…RUN SHELLY, PUSH HIM AND RUN!!

“HELP, SOMEONE PLEASE HELP, HEEEELLLLLLP…I’M BEING ATTACKED, HELPPPP, ARRRRRRRGGHHHHHHHH, HELLLLLLLLLLLP, HELLLLLLLLLLLLP ME”

Let go of me… oh my God. Where are all the people? Don’t they hear me screaming? Why isn’t anyone coming outside to see what is going on. I have to get away.

“HELP, SOMEONE PLEASE HELP, HEEEELLLLLLP… ARRRRRRRGGHHHHHHHH, HELLLLLLLLLLLP, HELLLLLLLLLLLLP ME”

Stay away from me… Let me go…who are you? Why are you doing this? Get your hands off my neck!! Oh my god! What is he doing? What does he want? LET GO OF ME!! …oooooompf, ohhhhhh…he pushed me…oh no, NO, NOOOOOO… FIGHT Shelly! Don’t let him do anything to you. Don’t let him TOUCH you…

“HELP, HELP, HEEEELLLLLLP… HELPPPP, HELLLLLLLLLLLP, HELLLLLLLLLLLLP”

He’s coming down on top of you Shelly…do something, do anything, MOVE IT. This could be it…You’re going to die! Get HIM OFF OF YOU! NOW!

TAKE THAT! Holy shit I think I got him in the balls! Get up! Run away before he attacks again! Hurry, get up…RUN Shelly, RUN …Where is he?! Whaaat? He’s running away! He’s running away! He’s running away from me! Oh my god! I have to get out of here! Get out in the road! Scream…Keep screaming until someone comes out of their house! Oh my God, I was just attacked, oh my god…

Here comes a car…Flag it down, wave your arms…scream louder! You have to stop this car to be safe…he might still be there!

“Shelly?!? Is that you? What the hell happened to you? Shelly?! Get in the car, calm down, slow down Shelly, I can’t understand what you are saying!”

I couldn’t believe my eyes when the car stopped and Jim, my crush, rolled down his window. The look of concern in his eyes made me burst into tears and for what seemed like a very long time, I tried to get control of my vocal chords so that I could tell him what happened. Jim managed to decipher my broken speech through my sobs, by yelling out a barrage of questions, that I could answer by shaking my head no, or nodding yes. The minute that it became clear to Jim that I had been attacked, he jumped out of the car with instructions for me to stay put, quickly disappeared into the darkness in the same direction that my attacker had fled. I couldn’t stop shaking and crying. It seemed like hours before he returned.

“Did you find him?”

“No…he’s gone. There was nobody there. Are you sure he went that way?”

“Yes, but he was on a ten speed.”

“I’m going to take you home and then I’ll come back and drive around to see if I can find him.”

My father thanked Jim profusely for saving me. Jim denied doing anything and yelled for my father to call the Police as he jumped into his car to go back to the area of the attack in search of the creep.

The Police questioned me until late into the night about what he looked like, what he was wearing, what I was wearing, why I was walking alone, did I always dress like that when I was out, where had I been, who had I been with, on and on and on.

After the gruelling questioning, they insisted that I look at hundreds of mug shots to see if I recognized him. After awhile, all of the pictures began to look the same, they all blurred into one another with no one looking unique. His face that had been in my memory bank was gone. The only thing that I could see when I replayed the scene over in my mind was a faceless man. The faceless man, as I first saw him, standing behind the hedge, waiting. I could see the faceless man grabbing my arm and pulling me towards the dark yard behind the bushes. He was still faceless as he started to come down on top of me after he had thrown me to the ground. Even the shock on his face when I kicked him in the balls, was gone.

Thirty-three years later, I still have no idea what he looks like or who he was. I don’t know if I went to school with him, if he watched me throughout the years while I lived in that town, if I dated him, or worked with him, or ordered dinner from a restaurant from him.

I have had to come to terms with that, not knowing and I hate NOT knowing.

Right Write!

14/01/2007 11:35 AM

I received a call from the college, on the Thursday prior to my first class which was to begin on Tuesday January 9th. They had decided that three people did not warrant running Writing the Short Story.

My disappointment was evident and the person on the other end of the line quickly suggested another class that I might find interesting. The alternative, titled Creative Writing had eight people enrolled and would be run if a few more signed up. Without reading the description, I instructed her to transfer my enrolment to the other class.

My new writing class is on Thursday evenings. After hanging up the phone, I pulled out the college calendar to read the description:

Explore the technique, style and craft of major writing categories, including fiction, non-fiction and poetry. This introduction to the many genres of creative writing emphasizes personal creativity. Learn how to approach editors and market a manuscript. Take this opportunity to develop ideas and receive feedback from the instructor and other members of the class.

The description of Writing the Short Story is as follows:

Enter the gateway of great fiction through its most challenging form, the short story. Establish your writer’s voice and learn the discipline of developing plot, character, dialogue, scene construction and theme in under 5,000 words. Understand the Canadian market for short stories and how to leverage your short story craftsmanship for other literary forms.

I decided that this twist of fate might work out for the better. Instead of working on one type of writing, I will be opening myself up to other options that perhaps I had never considered.

Still I had a hard time on Thursday keeping my eyes open because of another restless sleep night (possibly from snoring) and I fleetingly considered missing the class. When my alarm had gone off in the morning, I had just fallen back into a deep sleep and I struggled to get dressed and make my way to work.

During the morning at work, I tried to re-energize myself by closing my eyes and leaning back in my chair during an hour-long telephone conference call. My boss kept calling out for me to wake up. I growled that if he hears snoring, then he can be worried, otherwise, I am awake.

I was at the west office that day, so it made no sense to go home first, as the class was a short 20 min drive from there. Well let me re-phrase that, it should have been a short 20 min drive. I forgot that it was a dark night and that I had not been to that campus in more than two years, so my idea of how far along the road it was, ended up being a little skewed.

After a few wrong rights and subsequent u-turns, I did finally find myself in the parking lot of the campus and with help from the volunteers, entered class 225.

My first impression of my new teacher was positive. She is an attractive woman (possibly close to my age) with a British accent! I was thrilled because I am in love with British accents and could listen to it for hours without ever becoming bored. I do not even care what is being said. It makes no difference, the only thing that matters is how it sounds and to my ear, that is wonderful.

My body snapped out of its sleepy state and my mind was suddenly alert. Her name is Rachael Preston. She hails from Yorkshire. I have subsequently learned from Google this morning that she moved to Canada when she was 16 and she has lived in many parts of the world as well as a couple of different provinces in Canada.

She has published two novels and is currently working on a third. The class opened with Rachael handing out five pages of course description and then telling us to turn to page three because she never reads the first two. On page three was the evaluation section for the course and Rachael gave us her version of the evaluation. It was quite different from the college description.

It turns out that we are in a “fiction writing” course. Other than the first assignment, we will not be writing non-fiction and from the sounds of things, I doubt that we will have to write any poetry. I am over the top with enthusiasm. I cannot wait until Thursday to go back.

Besides having a wonderful teacher, the class is relatively small with two older gentlemen, another woman around my age and six kids in their early twenties (or so they look). There was one person missing.

The woman that was around my age sat next to me and she is a hoot! I think I may have made a new friend.

Our introductory exercise was to answer several different questions: What do you do (for a living)? What do you like to read? Why do you write? What do you expect to get out of the course?

My answer to what do I like to read was Historical Fiction and I explained that I particularly enjoy sagas where the characters affect each other’s lives.

Near the end of the class, my teacher looked at me, winked and stated, by the way, I write Historical Fiction.

Wake up Lil’ Suzy, Wake Up!

“Just hold still while I finish plugging in your wires.”

I stared down at my green moccasins with the rabbit fur trim and wondered if the technician noticed how the colour seemed to clash with my flashy, new, pink pyjamas with the psychedelic design. My cheeks started to turn red thinking of how ridiculous I must look.

It was good that he could not see my embarrassment. He may have sensed it, but our eyes could not physically meet at this moment because he was behind me, which gave me the opportunity to pretend that I was not embarrassed and he could pretend that he did not know I was embarrassed. If our eyes had met, we would both know that I was embarrassed, then there would be no use in pretending, and he might get embarrassed because I was embarrassed. Hence, it would have been more embarrassing then it was.

Therefore, I pretended not to mind sitting in a chair with my clashing outfit and a complete stranger poking a stick through my long, thick hair, rubbing my scalp with a moistened tissue, smacking a glob of goop on that spot and then squishing an end of the electrode into the substance.

There were thirteen wires applied to my head, face, shoulders, legs and arms in this fashion. Next, he gathered up the other ends and connected them to a tiny black box that I held in my left hand for him.

“There all done. Are you ready to go to bed?”

I glanced at my wristwatch and said, “No. I think I’ll read for a little while yet.”

“Alright, but be careful. Don’t move around too much or you’ll become unplugged; I have you on a short leash. Oh yeah, one more thing, don’t fall asleep.”

I attempted to slide into bed as gracefully and carefully as I possibly could. However, when I sensed that I was about to fall on the floor with the wires exploding all over the place, I quickly flopped down on my back landing on an angle. I grabbed my magazine and attempted to look nonchalant as though I was quite comfortable.

If I was lucky, I would get tired quickly so that when it was time for lights out, I would fall asleep immediately and then this whole nightmare would be over. The words I was reading from the article were soon interspersed with my thoughts about how stupid I must look until I finally gave up. Nothing was sinking in and I was getting tired of reading the same lines repeatedly.

I could hear a small tapping of the computer keyboard on the other side of the wall behind my bed, so I knew he was near.

“Hello. I’m ready to go to sleep.”

“Ok. I’m going to connect the box to the computer and I will ask you to do some movements so that I can make sure it is connected properly. It shouldn’t take too long.”

I kicked off my green slippers and he covered me with the thin, slippery bedspread. The room was pleasantly cool. I like to sleep in a cold room and without any windows to open; it may have been a problem. I closed my eyes against the glaring fluorescent lights while I waited for the technician to complete the programming. I had already listened to him do it for the other two patients (both male) so I was ready for the instructions.

“Close your eyes and while keeping them closed, look to the left, now to the right, back to the left. Good. You can open your eyes. Now breathe through your nose. Hold your breath. Continue holding, now breathe through your nose again. Move your left leg from side to side, now move your right leg. Good. We are all done. Have a good sleep.”

He turned out the light and pulled the door shut. It was very dark and I was relieved. I wondered how long it would take me to drift off to sleep. I worried about unplugging the electrodes with my movement. Normally I toss and turn all night long. I tried to imagine how short the leash actually was and estimate if it was possibly long enough to allow me to roll all the way over onto my left side and then shift onto my stomach if I so desired (which I usually do). I decided it was probably too short and I should attempt to stay in the same position for as long as possible.

At home, I can be in a deep sleep within moments of hitting the pillow. I am certain that I never slept an hour during the whole night of the sleep study and I am wondering how much they learned studying my sleep when I never slept. I am most certain that I never snored during this restless night and that was the reason for being there in the first place.

I can hardly wait for my follow up appointment on the 23rd to find out.