writingintune.com

By Michael McGrath

The blackbirds are back. I saw them first thing this morning in the back yard pecking away at lord knows what. The Ravens never leave. They are always there in the background. I admire them for their stealth and cunning. They are true survivors and can be seen in the treetops about town seemingly content and well too do even at minus thirty degrees Celsius.

Soon the Robins will appear with this early spring weather. One morning I will simply awake, lookout the back kitchen window and there will be the Robins busy gathering material to nest. They are so domesticated and hardly ever have time for any fun. The Robins are all about making and raising their young. It is a full time job because most of the time they are not all that careful in selecting a secure and safe place for their nests and that results in their neurotic flights here and there all day long trying to protect the little ones from other birds and those dreaded cats.

When the Swallows arrive that really makes it official. Spring is here. They keep coming back to that rickety little bird house perched precariously above the garage doors. Generations of this Swallow family just can’t give up on the old bird house and they return faithfully every year to put up with the run down accommodation and the regular hub bub of our comings and goings to the garage. We run cars in and out with exhaust smoke belching all around the bird house. In mid summer we are in and out of the old garage on our motorcycles which produce loud, high decibel roars. Nothing else seems to matter to the Swallows as long as they can return to their familial birdhouse.

They are ungrateful tenants in that they don’t even recognize us as the landlords. If Xavier or I are anywhere near the birdhouse they fly up in alarm and in dire resignation then they dive at us as though they were tiny little jet fighters. It is strange to be attacked by these little birds but it has become more or less common place for us during the summer months.

In reflection, it occurs to me that we two have more in common with the swallows  then we would like to admit. I have heard too many jokes about bird brains over the years. Our common trait with these streamlined fighter birds has to do with our identification with home. In my case, I have lived in the Dunn homestead for most of my life. I was raised here from the time I was a baby and only left to pursue college education and fancy jobs in journalism, public relations and advertising along the way.

I was more than happy to fly back to old Third Avenue and land in the arms of my granny, Margaret Dunn. My mom Emily and Granny shared the place and kept the home fires burning while I and my sister Pat were off having other life experiences. Patty married John, a Mohawk fellow from Six Nations near Hamilton and they were wrapped up in raising their daughter Brooke and making a life down south. Regularly, they made the trek north during the summer mostly but with visits also at Christmas.

When I flew home it was as though there was no thought involved. I had a bunch of experiences in the belly of the province and simply stopped in my tracks and headed back up north to that welcoming front door. The house felt like a cocoon for me and I let it take me in and wrap me in a cozy, safe blanket. I needed that after a ferocious decade of fighting my way to the top of nothing where I found myself holding on to thin air and falling.

Granny almost jumped for joy at the prospect of having me around the house to play with, care for and challenge. Those were the things we did best together. As is the case with the Swallows there were all kinds of good reasons for me not to return to the white clapboard house on Old Third Avenue. Similarly, as is the case with the Swallows, nothing else mattered to me at the time other than making it home. I had to make it back home.

Mom was  happy on my return too as this couple had sunken into a rather boring lifestyle that had to do mostly with Emily going back and forth to work at the main office in the Paper Mill and Granny taking care of the house and keeping mom fed and more or less grounded. With my return, Mom had more time to herself as Granny and I were like mischievous old friends that were more than willing to keep each other busy in an unlimited way that featured, lively discussions, board games, listening to music, reading to each other and at times just enjoying the comfort of each others company at the kitchen table.

Although it had been a decade since I lived at home, on my return it seemed as though I had never left. The house had not changed all that much, the neighbourhood was still pretty much the same. The town looked the same as it had thirty years before and there was something comforting and secure about that. I hated the fact that I felt as though I was living in a fish bowl but I equally loved the feeling I got when I moved around town and bumped into family, friends and neighbours I had known all my life. It always felt right to be in a place that I knew in every detail imaginable. Many people I met I had nothing in common with other than we shared the same place of birth and raising and some of them I really disliked. However, it still felt better to be in small town Iroquois Falls where I knew just about everyone, their family histories, their good points, their bad and their comings and goings. Of course as a gay person in my little town I had lots of critics but at the very least I knew exactly who they were.

As much as I hated to admit it I had enough learning and sensitivity to understand even where the bigots, racists and closed minded people were coming from. I understood that many of these poor souls had terrible lives, they were impoverished in many ways and had  been abused, many had little education for the most part and they were not entirely satisfied with hardy party lives that left them sad, confused and angry much of the time.  Most of them had never been any further from town than Timmins or Kirkland Lake. Their exposure to the outside world ended at the signpost announcing the town of Iroquois Falls out on Highway 11. I understood all that and it helped.

I grew up on the wrong side of the tracks in Iroquois Falls during the 1950s. Actually, it has been a running gag over the years between me and my friends that in fact we were fortunate to have been raised in Ansonville and Montrock. Iroquois falls proper back then was supposedly the right side of the track and more or less reserved for the upper class, tradesmen, engineers and company executives of the Abitibi company. They were mostly English.

Ansonville and Montrock developed haphazardly with second rate housing and tar paper shacks around the more affluent and engineered community of Iroquois Falls. The company town boasted a huge Hudson Bay store, mercantile building which housed shops, a police station, restaurant and gymnasium to cater to the more privileged workers at Abitibi. However, it was in Ansonville  that all the action really took place. We had a movie theatre, bowling alley, a few bars and hotels, grocery stores and all kinds of shops. You could get drunk, go bowling, watch a movie and have a hair cut all on the same day.

There was always a tension between the coming of age teens from either side of the tracks. We for the most part tolerated each other but often exciting fights broke out in front of the Silver Grill on Ambridge Drive. The English and French secondary schools both were located in Iroquois Falls and that meant that  no matter what,  we inhabitants of the far reaches of the Abitibi empire,  at some point,  had to swallow our pride and make the move to further education on the right side of the tracks. It was intimidating at times.

Ansonville and Montrock were little towns that did not see much development until the 1950s. Here we mingled in a curious and interesting mix of cultures that included Jewish, Irish, French, Russian, Ukrainian, Polish, Italian and Chinese. My friends and I felt we were lucky to have had the opportunity to mix with and learn about so many other cultures at the early stages of our lives. We were worldly in view without ever having to leave town.

There was a lot of bigotry and racism back in the 40s and 50s but for the most part people managed to get along. The hierarchy went something like this. If you were English and I mean proper English with roots to the old country you were at the top of the heap and probably looked down on everyone else. Now if you were an American and English you weren’t far off the mark.  We Irish were lucky in a way because we could fit in with the English if we had to and because of historic realities we were also at home with the French. We mixed easily with all the other cultures mostly out of our mild disdain for the English. For the most part sadly we have a history of pretty much banishing Native people from our little collection of towns. That didn’t change until the 1960s when people for a brief moment in time seemed to come to their senses.

We had a lot of fun in Ansonville and Montrock. There were dances and concerts at the old Ukrainian hall near the original Ansonville Public School. We shared special days with our Jewish neighbours and marvelled at the fantastic Easter egg decorations of the Ukrainians and Polish. Many a jig was danced with the French and Irish at the old Moose Hall on Third Avenue. We didn’t live in the English hamlet style houses of Iroquois Falls but as my grandmother pointed out many times, “We owned our own homes.” In those days most people who lived in Iroquois Falls proper rented their homes at a subsidized price from the company. They lived high on the hog until retirement day came and then it was out the door and off to find something to purchase on the other side of the tracks.

I was raised in the Dunn household. My grandfather Jack Dunn, came from the Alumette island area of Quebec near the border with Ontario in the Ottawa Valley. He married my grandmother Margaret (Mellon) Dunn in the early 1920s and promptly moved her up to the  bustling boom town of Ansonville. When they came to town granny brought along her family shamrock plant and installed herself in the community which already had a small gathering of Irish and French folk from Waltham, Quebec and Pembroke, Ontario area.

There’s a story to the shamrock. Family history handed down over a hundred years tell us that the plant came over on a ship with the Mellon family in the 1830s. It was a remembrance of Ireland to be cherished and passed on to others from the mother country. The Mellons managed all those years to keep that shamrock alive and they passed it on to family and friends. Granny Dunn, brought it to Ansonville and spread it around the Irish community. Today, you will find the lovely green weed alive and well in many homes around the community. The sharing of this plant has accounted for its survival. If one family or household loses the beauty they simply have to visit one of their clan or a friend to borrow a little starter. Soon, the resilient shamrock is well rooted and flourishing in a green glow which often pushes forth delicate little flowers. Granny Dunn often gazed at it and sighed, “Erin go bragh”  the only words she knew in Gaelic. It means, “Ireland Forever”.  So get your Danny Boy CD out and cry a tune to that one.

In the old days, if you were Irish, there was a pretty good chance that during a walk on main street, you would bump into somebody who had ties to the Emerald Isle.  There were the Devines, Harkins, O’Donnells, Spences, Russells, Corks, Wallaces, Watsons, Whelans, Turners, Stacks, Stewarts, Shallows, Sheas, Shields, Shirleys, Shannons, Purdys, Bigelows, Porters, Peevers, O’Shaughnessys, Dunns, Mellons, O’Connors, O’Maras, Murphys, Moores, McLeans, McMeekins, McEwans, McGraths, Maddens, Jones, Micks, Hopkins, Donovans, Cotnams, Corcorans, Chandlers, Carrolls, Burtons, Browns, Brandreths, Duffys, Doyles and Brindles, to name a few.

Jack and Margaret raised five incredible daughters at 463 Third Avenue in Ansonville including: Emily, Tessie, Sarah, Rita and Celia. They were true Irish colleens as pretty, kind, entertaining and curious as ever were created under the sun. Emily was my mom. She passed away in 2007.

In the late 1930s granny Dunn had to make a big decision. Jack put it before her. Did she want a proper wringer washer to make life easier for herself and the family or would she prefer a piano. Well, you know the Irish. The piano won out and one day the local delivery man big Normand Grenier appeared at the door with our upright grand piano. From that day on the house was filled with song, the wonderful acoustic sounds of the piano and much laughter.  My grandmother said many times, “If you have music in the house you will have love in the house.” She was right.

Lucky us. My sister Pat and I spent the earliest days of our lives being entertained by my grandparents, aunts and my mom. The aunts or sisters as I refer to them took us everywhere, taught us all the Irish songs, placed our fingers on the piano’s ivory keys and made our days happy. I watched them all marry and start families of their own. Tessie was betrothed to Harvey Ruddy, Sarah wedded Don Paquette, Rita became Mrs. Everett Elliot and Celia shared her life with Johnny Mercier. Although the sisters moved on we still managed to gather often around the piano to while away the day or night in song and dance. Jack died early of a heart attack most probably brought on by the steady diet of pork and beans from the time he was a boy. He was raised on a farm in the valley and then in his 20s he found work in the bush camps of Northern Ontario. He was a dapper man and never stepped out of the house without looking like he was going to a high society event or a funeral.  Granny Dunn, lived to be 100 years of age. She lived long enough to become everybody’s granny in our part of town and she could always be counted on for cookies, a cup of tea and a few kind words.

Ansonville and Montrock went the way of the dinosaurs in the 1960s when a feisty little Frenchman by the Name of Elmo Lefebvre joined with some other visionary people in the community to push for the amalgamation of the three towns into one. Iroquois Falls ended up being the name of choice in what was a hotly contested political mish mash that almost tore the communities apart. Many of the company people satisfied with the status quo of the good life in Iroquois Falls proper didn’t want anything to do with change. However, a small but vocal and dedicated group of more or less revolutionaries brought us fighting and kicking together. There were little thanks to Elmo and the forces of power made his life difficult. He left to live out most of his life in Kapuskasing although his heart no doubt remained in Iroquois Falls. It is said that the victorious and the powerful write the history books. Well, here’s one for Elmo Lefebvre another great founder of Iroquois Falls. Where is his monument in town?

Today the railway tracks that run through the heart of our town merely present a mild annoyance when a company train crosses a roadway. Gone are the days of this side and that side of the tracks. Iroquois Falls looks kind of comfortable and tidy. Thanks to the invention of aluminum and vinyl siding in the early 1960s the tar paper shacks of Ansonville and Montrock were magically transformed into shiny little homes with a disneyesque appeal to them. Our mammoth recreation/sports complex complete with hockey arena, curling rink, pool and what not facilities exists as proof of our ability to get along and do great things. The complex at one point was billed as the largest volunteer project in Canada.

We had the best neighbours in the world on old Third Avenue, which is D’Iberville Street today. There were the Poiriers, Mahers, Regimbals, Manders, Russels, McCarthys, Lavoies, Blacks (of the corner store), Larsons, Larivees, Denaults, Croatins (of Croatin’s wood yard), Brudenelles, Postivichs, Youngs, Gauthiers, Adamsons, Gervais, Berniers, Sarmientos, Pierinis, Flageoles, Charlebois, O’Donnells (writer Eddy O’Donnell), Soucys, Lachances, Bigelows, Lachapelles and Proulxs.  Many of them are gone now but in a way they are still here. That is one of the wonderful things about becoming a senior citizen as my memory banks are full of all those caring, colourful and hardworking neighbours and every time I take a drive or walk uptown I am reminded of them along my way. They all seem to be doing quite well thank you.

The End

By Michael McGrath – January 2010

In the mid 1950s, when I was just a bit of a lad, I passed many a day on the family swing. Few households in Iroquois Falls back then had the luxury of a full fledged swing. Sure, there were all sorts of basic examples of the swing hanging here and there from trees and railings in between two ropes bound around a plank but only the privileged few had the benefit of a multi person, proper chair swing that could accommodate family and friends. Ours was a beauty.

I am not sure where the Dunn family swing came from. It had always been a part of my childhood memories. I believe it was ordered through the Eaton catalogue and delivered to the door on horse and buggy by Norbert Grenier. Most finished products came from Eatons in those days and when you saw Norbert and his team of horses or later his old jalopy of a truck at a front door you immediately understood that there would be happy faces to welcome in a new piano, a stove, fridge, sofa or bed. It was pure entertainment to have a visit from Norbert. He was a big fellow with a loud sound and resounding laugh. Most of the time he managed to haul huge heavy loads on his back into the welcoming homes in Iroquois Falls, Ansonville and Montrock. Later in the 1960s all these towns were amalgamated to become Iroquois Falls. Norbert always had a story or a joke to tell and his wide smile and sparkling eyes put the finishing touches on the delivery of a much needed, anticipated and celebrated new item for the home.

Our swing was actually a platform or floor of wood like a small deck attached on the bottom to seats that were about five feet wide. There were two seats on either side of this floor and then a frame held the seats in place and hung them on two wood rails. The seats faced each other and could seat three adults on each side and a couple of children on the floor.

My most vivid memories of the old swing has to do with my granny’s network of wandering friends. I say wandering because I knew them when they had all raised their families and most of their husbands had passed away after years of hard work as lumberjacks, teamsters or paper mill workers All these ladies were in their 60s and 70s in the 1950s and most of them had a lot of time on their hands and they could only bear to sit in their little houses for so long before needing a dose of social contact. My grandmother, Margaret Dunn on the other hand, had two grandchildren at home and was more or less raising a second family. Myself and my sister Patty were lucky enough to be under her care as our mother Emily toiled through her days in the main office of the local paper mill.

I recall that on those muggy days in summer, cool but sunny autumn breaks and as the sun warmed us up after a freezing winter in the spring the swing was there to help us while away hours in friendship, a little gossip and strong, hot tea.

“Hello Mrs. Dunn,” Mrs. O’Donnell hollered at the front door on old Third Avenue in her vary man like voice. She was a tall woman and her strong and deep voice captivated my sister and I. In good weather we made our way to the swing and the visit was on. In a short while Freda Spence would arrive on the scene. Freda was a social butterfly and member of the Moose Lodge who attended mass regularly and could be seen at just about every funeral in town bidding her fond farewell. She simply liked to be around people and in small towns regretfully there are more funeral get to gathers than weddings and the like. Freda loved to clamour aboard the Dunn swing and chat with her favourite neighbours while sipping tea.

Mrs. Harkins sauntered up to the front yard and hauled herself onto the swing amidst warm welcome from the ladies and a how do you do. She knew my granny from the Ottawa Valley days as they were both born in the vicinity of Fort Coulonge and Waltham in Quebec near Pembroke, Ontario. She had a hard life and raised a large family of boys and girls in a little house just around the corner from us on Church Street. In her early years she was counted on for her experience as a midwife and she assisted granny in some of her births. Mrs. Harkins was a stocky lady and had a lot of trouble walking which resulted in a job for me once I could be trusted to find my way around the block and come home. At one point I became her walking companion and I would run around the corner and down the hill in two minutes to help her inch her way up for a half hour walk back to our place and a visit with Granny.

Mrs. Manders, often would arrive to join the group of Irish ladies. She was tall and thin and always looked as though something terrible was going happen to her at any given moment. The poor woman was old beyond her years and she counted on the kindness and understanding of familiar Ottawa Valley faces to open their doors and hearts to her. She was frantic to say the least and the very first person I ever met that gobbled up prescription medicine with her tea.

If it was a hot day Patty and I served lemonade or cold drinks on encouragement from Granny but most of the time the ladies like to have their tea and whatever biscuits Granny could come up with from the cookie jar. There they sat, happy and full of good chatter under the sun, just inside the white picket fence, on the green lawn comfortable in the swing.

Most of the time Patty and I lounged lazily around on the grass near the dragon lilies, sunflowers, bleeding hearts and roses. We watched in fascination as the bees buzzed about fixated on visiting our flowers to gather nectar. All types of bugs roamed the forest of grass leaves at ground level and often we followed them on their travels. The Robins, Starling, Sparrows and Crows floated and darted in and out of our scene there in the front yard like little punctuation marks in the day. Above, all we were comforted by the lullaby of familiar, friendly voices on the swing. The ladies gently motioned the swing back and forth as they soothed each other with words falling like little chutes of memories that flowed from early childhood on farms and from the small towns back in the Valley. They swung back and forth, sometimes in question, at times with a sharp refrain. On occasion in the heat of discussion the swing seemed to pick up on their moods and moved briskly to the rise and fall of their conversation.

With all of the ups and downs on the swing somehow the old friends managed to keep an even keel and their time moving to and throw for hours in our front yard seemed to speed by. It was like some precious commodity or treat that you wanted to preserve and keep for as long as you could but that was impossible. Friends and neighbours passed with greetings and the odd car limped by as the ladies pumped gently on the swing in a rhythm that mostly comforted them. Sometimes, they all fell silent and simply let the swing and movement fill their moments in the fresh air scented by the fragrance of the flower garden.

When the men were seen walking past on their way home from the mill with lunch buckets in hand that was the cue to wrap things up. Granny, they knew still had Emily to feed and greet on her return from her day in the office. There was supper to fix for Patty and I and a host of chores to accomplish. So, the swing finally came to a slow halt. The ladies gave thanks and praise for the grand afternoon and disembarked from the old swing. “Good Day Mrs. Dunn” they sang and headed off down the street to their own kitchens and living rooms with the joy of time well spent in the backs of their minds.

The End

by Mike McGrath (C) 1985

    A voice in the hall said it was three in the morning and he marveled to himself  at his wide awake state. It probably had something to do with the music blaring top 40 hits next door and of course the company he didn’t keep in the hall.
    Howard Munroe lay propped up against the wall on the lumpy bed with worn sheets pulled  around him and a book of short stories open at his side. He  wanted to be anonymous and alone after his three year stint in the small northern town which was home, most of the time. Now, he was indeed alone in one of the many cells that made up this Victorian vintage hotel in the heart of downtown Toronto.
    He was thankful for the contact he had made with the young man last night. He was relieved at the opportunity to lay in bed and linger in whispers and chuckles with his new friend as the hours slipped away. He was grateful that kind mind had accompanied him back to embarrassing accommodations to share a hard and trim body in tight hugs that turned quickly to heated love making.
    Tonight, Howard was on his own. It was what he had wanted, to be lost in the midst of thousands of city people, all going about their lives oblivious to his. No doubt he felt a quiet comfort and some serenity but he was nervous too as though in the eye of a storm. It did not take long this night for the peace to turn on Howard in loneliness again and to make it worse he seemed to have become acutely aware of every sound around him.
    The hall reverberated with stomping feet and crude, drunken chatter. Somehow even the laughter that drifted through the warped plaster walls was cruel and had an edge to it. This could have been a 24 hour donut place if sound were his only sense. In fact these sounds came from the hallway outside the dingy room where Howard lay listening.
    There were several sharp raps on a door in the hall and a voice followed, “It’s Brian, man. C’mon lets go,” a young man  whined. He got no answer. He knocked again and harder. “Just a beer, c’mon don’t make me wait here,” the voice was more determined. There was another pause and no answer. “Fuck,” the voice said in anger and the sound of slow steps faded down the hall and then were punctuated with a burst of disco music that drifted up from the bar below, past the shuffle of feet  and down the corridor, then they were gone with a slam of a door. 
    Next door the music blared out of a portable radio, “Life, la la la la la, life is life, la la la la la,” and his was accompanied by sensual sighs, that progressed to grunts and then laughter.
    The north still had a hold on Howard and it caught him again for a few seconds and made him writhe in pain that was a missing feeling of sickness that churned in his stomach. He thought of the old woman, fragile, thin and wrinkled. He imagined he was a boy again and was cuddled in her arms as she sat in her rocking chair at the window.
    He could almost hear her weak but still beating heart and see her glazed but still bright, dancing eyes that momentarily calmed him with deep wells of love.
    Then he wiped the scene away by rubbing his eyes so hard that it hurt. He cupped his hands over his face and a deep breath became a long and drawn out sigh.
    No, he reminded himself, he could not let the thought of home and the old woman pull too greatly or the result would find him back in the Buick and heading out of the neon night city to the expressway and the narrowing, dark road that wound back up north.
    The voice in the hall was back again on the tail end of three sharp and loud knocks, “Look. It’s me again. Just tell me your OK. You don’t have to let me in. C’mon Ken just one word. OK?” Silence was his answer and he beat on the door, “This is bullshit and you bastard you’re just going to make me wait all night,” the voice said in a mean and desperate tone and then left again with hesitant steps that did an exit with the disco beat  rushing up from the first floor and then again with the slam of the door there was silence in the hall.
    A few minutes passed and from the far end of the hall a door opened and closed in a series of knocks. Greetings were punctuated with rough  words like fuck, shit and screw and a party  stumbled back and forth between the distant room and the hall. The party grew quickly.
    From the direction of this party a young woman’s voice sliced through dull drunken sounds after two slight knocks on a door, “I’m here,” she said.   The door opened and the party spilled into the hall with heavy metal music and a sexy young male voice, “Yea, come on in.” He sounded eager.“Oh, whoa,” the girl’s voice said to what she saw. “What are those guys doing here?”
    His reply was cool, smooth and meant to be reassuring, “Oh its okay, they’ll mind their own business. Anyway in half an hour they’ll all be passed out.” 
    “No way man, it’s too crazy,” a more defiant tone spoke out of the woman. Street wisdom barked out of her, “You want me in there, get them the fuck out or forget it.”
    “I can’t babe,” he swooned and then harshly added, “What you wanna do fuck on the staircase?”
    She was blunt, “It would be a lot safer,” and her high heels kicked in with hammering clicks that faded down the hall, let in the disco beat and a door slammed.
    “Fuck you bitch,” came a frustrated retort that was obviously more for the ears in his room than the departed visitor. Grunts and roars of laughter drew him back into his world and the party was shut inside again.
    Howard shook his head in amazement. This he was not used to and it filled him with a combination of disgust and sadness. He felt disgust for the thin emotion that bounced back and forth between the voices and their seemingly desperate situations. Then he felt sadness for what he imagined was poor luck, which had taken them to a rough edge that glittered like fools gold with alcohol, drugs and fast, risky money.
    Two days, Howard thought and he could move on to a more comfortable and sane environment. He had been naive on this jaunt into the city and had settled too quickly for the huge Victorian hotel, which with its outward shell had promised much more grand accommodation. He felt a little cheated too; the advertisement he had read in the Body Politic claimed  Ernest Hemingway as a resident for a short while in his early days as a writer with the Toronto Star.      
    Howard adored Hemingway’s work and admitted to himself now that he had been pulled in by a sense of history and nostalgia and some pretentious notion that he fancied himself as a writer.
    This glamorous hook led him to a decaying cell where wall paper heaved from disfigured walls and cracked plaster mixed with the shadows cast from the dim lamp light to make crazy designs on the ceiling ten feet above his head.        
    He tried to imagine the grand state of the old hotel in the 1920s, the toast of the wealthy and high society. The red brick, castle like building would have jutted high on the city scape back then. Ornamental chandeliers, oriental wool rugs and gleaming wood staircases would have given the hotel a prominent place in Toronto. There were still enough hints of what had been and it captured Howard’s imagination.  For thirty-five dollars a night he felt he could put up with any inconveniences for a short stay  in the belly of this ragged Victorian princess.
    Bass notes came up from the disco below in dull thuds that shook through the room and rain beat, whipped by the wind on loose panes from which only the fuzzy sight of other panes in the dark could be seen lit in a building across the way.
    The pop music next door mixed with a bizarre harmony in sounds of lust, the dull disco throb from below, muffled rock beats down the hall and rain that pounded in a pulsating rhythm. These were sliced with the wail of a siren that cried in panic and distress from the suppressed but ever present roar of the city at night.
    Then he was back with the same slow leather heal to pine step sounds, “Please. Its me Brian. Please Ken I promise I’ll go away if you just say something, anything,” the voice trembled. Then he cried, “You really are a bastard .”
    There was a pounding on the door and what sounded like a bang made by the force of an entire body crashing against the door. It was quiet for a moment and then the voice groaned as the pain of love lost slipped up and out of him. “Oh Ken, Ken. I love you Ken, please.”
    As though tethered with a greater weight, the feet moved in sluggish creaks, hesitated, then continued to where the disco music came up to welcome the wounded young man back downstairs, the door slammed and it was quiet again.
    Howard looked about his room and was overwhelmed with where he was and also with the demands of his day. He shut the light out of it all with a flick of the lamp switch and then went in a drift off to sleep.
    Deep in the caverns of slumber he could hear from far away the goings on about him. From where he lay there were familiar passings and knocks and voices. They trembled in waves to him like thunder announcing a storm.
    In panic he awoke trough the layers of numbing, fluffy sleep to horrific screams that bolted him automatically up and to the door. The screams were trying to get in and Howard, in a knee-jerk reaction, unlatched the lock and pulled on the heavy oak door to reveal wild eyes in terror. Wild eyes that pushed him aside and against the wall.
    A naked young man covered in blood tore into the room and scrambled on all fours towards the far window. He was followed by a bearded fully clothed assailant that jumped on his back and in great thrusts was burying flashes of steel into his victim’s back. Blood splattered in streams up and over  everything and Howard, on impulse, lunged at the bearded assailant.         
    “Ahh, you fucking cunt,” the bearded man with the knife screamed and Howard knew it as the recurring voice in the hall. In reflex, Howard tried to overpower the flailing figure but the voice turned in the violent body with the power of ten men and put his flash of steel into Howard with a crunch that broke though his rib cage and exploded his heart. A butcher knife sucked back out and the voice with crazed eyes in a screwed up face, behind a full black beard let out a satanical laugh, then went back to hacking at the writhing form on the floor.
    Howard fell slowly against the wall. He was poised to holler for help, there was a great scream just on the edge of his tongue but he was frozen in this cry and everything slowed and then stopped and locked into one last frame of the scene that hung there before him.
    There was no breath to come, no way out, no angel of mercy, time stopped dead and Howard was cold then very warm. This last view of the murderous rampage began to melt in colors that dripped and flowed where forms had been and then he went with a sick feeling into the deepest dark there could be. He felt as though he was free falling into empty wells of blackness and then a dot of light appeared and grew.
    He came to screaming but it didn’t seem right. It was new and it was fresh and he was crying and gasping and ripping with his arms and legs at the air. There was the thick sweet odour of blood and he cried out but could not find words to speak.
    “It’s a boy. A good healthy boy,” the voice said. Howard Munroe felt his memory banks empty as he was raised in the air and gently slapped.
    He tried with all his might to hold on to his one final thought in this new world, “Oh no, not again,” this thought echoed in his mind and began to fade as air filled his lungs, images blurred with a new light and  energy burned in him like a fire in renewed  ignition after having been blown back from dull embers.

The End

When we stopped with a clunk he got on in New Liskeard,
He was tall, a bit plump and walked awkwardly up the aisle.
It could be he was a farm boy with his blond hair and freckled face.
His look was a bit out of sync as though someone else had dressed him.
He hid his eyes under a baseball cap with the Maple Leaf’s logo on it.

Travelling by rail seemed new to him as he gazed out the window.
The slow rocking of the iron horse soon sent him into slumber.
I wondered if he were off somewhere to school but that could not be.
It was the middle of February and the time frame did not fit.
All the kids had gone back to their studies long ago.

It could be he was headed to a hospital in Toronto at the end of the line.
The train had become a sort of cancer shuttle over the past decade.
People went from the north with deadly diagnosis on their minds.
Sometimes they returned but often they got lost in the cancer machine.
Much of the time they came back in a box.

He looked too healthy to be sick and there was no sign of worry on his face.
Here he was in the seat across the aisle bobbing gently with the rhythm of the train.
I watched the miles blur by him in his window and now and then he would stir.
The snow covered farm fields gave way to white clad forests and rock.
Whistle stop northern towns paused us and people came and went.

By the time the conductor had announced “Union Station 10 minutes”,
The farm boy was awake and staring intently out the window.
Trees and fields had given way to grey and brown brick and mortar.
Lives in all types of purposeful situations were displayed in our windows.
We could see them coming and going and it made me wonder who they were?

The city opened up to swallow us in great walls of concrete and structure.
More than 200 years of digging, forming, constructing and expanding welcomed us.
I knew what I was coming back to and I felt an uneasiness yet excitement.
The farm boy seemed frozen in his seat and fear spread across his face.
His eyes were wide and his mouth agape as he sensed his impending arrival.

Strangely I felt some kin to this teenager headed into the frenzy of big city life.
He shared the same pine tree, fresh water, frozen snow experience.
I wished I could have offered up more than “Well here we are” on our arrival.
The last time I saw him he was walking down the busy hall into Union Station.
He simply disappeared in the crowd that flowed further into the belly of the city.

I stopped at a coffee shop in the station to pause and reflect.
There was no mystery here at the gates of the city in the middle of winter.
On one hand here I could be myself and fit right into a vibrant and colourful patchwork.
On the other I felt uprooted, detached and in limbo.
The city hung before me in a slippery slope that offered relief but at a cost.

I thought of home and my street, the house and my neighbours.
Granny would be waiting by the phone to hear of my safe arrival.
Mom was busy at work but I knew she was thinking about me.
Barry and Linda and the kids were busy putting their day together.
Alana and Emma had opened up the store by now up the street.

A tremble went through me and I fought the urge to turn back.
I knew another rail car waited for me ready to take me back to Iroquois Falls.
Still, I realized that somehow I had to leave behind everyone and everything I loved.
A life lived in vulnerability, fear and intolerance had taken its toll on me.
The gay life in the big city held the promise of a rainbow…after the rain.

By Michael McGrath – 1986

Mama, as the locals called her, was a big busted Quebecois woman with a head piled high with blonde hair. Here in Juan Dolio she was popular with all the boys. The women were less generous in her regard and showed signs of mild disgust in asides here and there as mama strolled the rocky road along the beach.

I met her in person at Johnny’s bar one night. It was hot of course out in the open patio there on the beach facing the ocean. Thankfully, the sun was setting on another day and a cool breeze started up as though it was fanned from the relentless roar of crashing salt water on the sand. Mama was well on her way to a party night and her face was blushed with drink. She, as usual, was surrounded by a group of young men who all seemed very eager to please her every whim. They laughed at her jokes and sexual innuendos and happily ate and drank on her generous tab.

Mama, Johnny the bar owner told me, had retired from her government office job in Montreal to move to a little house in Juan Dolio. She arrived with must gusto and hope and situated her self in her place along the main road and facing the beach. I had seen mama a few times in the past week as she made her way around the little fishing village with an entourage of strong and athletic Dominican boys. She always seemed happy and no doubt life here encouraged that response in comparison to what she was accustomed to back in Montreal on Sherbrooke Street and the smothering one bedroom apartment.

Mama, was a heavy woman. She was rolly polly and her body shook in rolls as she danced with her boys to the music in Johnny’s Bar.

“Anglais, anglais,” she shouted out to me as she pointed her bouncing gaze my way. She pointed to me directly and hollered above the sound system, “Come join us. Come on don’t be alone there. Come and dance Anglais”.

Thankfully, I was not sufficiently inebriated and I managed to deflect her spotlight on me with a short wave as I shook my head no no no to her request. She just laughed very loudly and was joined by her boys in great cheer as they mocked my refusal with their heads in the air and noses pointed upwards. I laughed too.

It was fun to watch them bounce to the rhythm in the middle of the bar. Mama wore a flowing yellow cotton dress and she was covered in fake jewellery that hung around her neck and dangled from her ears. When she danced the floor shook and the boys all thought that was hilarious. The other tourists in the bar seemed to be a bit embarrassed by the mama’s antics. They huddled close over their drinks chatting while peering every so often to the spectacle of mama and her boys moving like a freight train in the middle of Johnny’s Bar.

Suddenly, a beat up old van pulled up in a cloud of dust in front of the bar. Mama and the boys responded with woops and yells. The big lady paid her bill and the group dashed out into the night to the waiting van. She turned to me and hollered, “Hey Anglais come come we go to San Pedro de Marcoris to dance the merengue. Come, come.” Her boys chimed in, “Come, come, come,” they chanted.

“No no, I go home soon but you have fun. I see you tomorrow,” I called after them as they crammed into the van and sped off into the night.

Soon after, all the lights went off as was the routine here in the Dominican. Every night at about 8 p.m. just as night fell, off went the lights. The antiquated electrical system was sufficient to provide electricity to homes across the country but when the lights went on at the ball parks then zap that was it for the rest of us. It was quaint in a way as the candles were lit, generators powered up and people became a little more friendly in the safety of groups here and there along the coast in the dark of night surrounded by jungle and the roar of the ocean.

I made my way back to my rented house a mile away. A few drinks helped to calm the fear I felt as I walked alone in the dark along the rocky and twisting road. Here and there I would pass by small shacks where I would see people huddled in the dark and watching as I made my way. A few cars passed by and I welcomed the light that momentarily provided me with an idea of where I was. I was happy to finally reach my little place on the beach and I rushed in and locked the door quickly behind me. I fumbled for the candle and lit it. Then I made my way to the table, where my portable underwood sat. I lit a cigarette, had a few good puffs and then beat the keys of that little typewriter with a story.

In the morning I awoke, as was normally the case, with the wretched crow of a frantic rooster and the squeaky braying of a donkey. The two seemed to be somehow unofficially appointed to keep the time in these parts. If it had only been a rooster I might have been able to fall back to sleep at six o’clock in the morning but that damned donkey sounded like a monster in pain. So, I was reluctantly up with the sun and cleaning up for my walk back down to Johnny’s for breakfast.

I was always eager to open up my front door and step out onto the beach in front of the ocean. This was my reason for being here. That view of sand brown, turquoise sea and a white cloud studded robin’s egg blue sky did something wonderful to my brain. Then, with that good feeling in my head I half ran my way along the road to Johnny’s Bar. The route was much more friendly in the daylight and the shade of the overhanging jungle growth made the jaunt cool and refreshing.

I could hear the commotion long before I got to the front patio of Johnny’s. Still, it did not prepare me for what I was to witness. As I entered the patio a chorus of black and brown faces turned to “hush” to me. There was a circle gathered and I made my way to the group to see what was up. There in the middle of all of this was mama. She was flat on her back on a rug and someone had put a pillow behind her head. Her face was beet read and she was screaming.

“It has me. I has me. Mon Die Je Suis Mort,” cried mama and she struggled to break free of her boys who were holding her down. A small but tough looking little Haitian who was referred to as the Voodoo Doctor was at her side. He had a live chicken in his hands and he was about to slice its neck off. He mumbled a few words I could not interpret and then off went the poor creature’s head. Then he rose up and spilled the blood of the chicken on mama from head to toe. All the while the Voodoo Doctor chanted and thrust the writhing blood spewing chicken towards mama. I could take it no more.

I found Johnny at the bar downing a shot of whiskey. “What’s up I asked?”

“Mon Dieu. They found her on the beach this morning. She was crawling in the sand and barking like a dog. The boys brought her up here and then they called for the Raphael, you know that Voodoo guy. He has been poking her, chanting at her and now you see…he’s covering her in chicken’s blood,” explained Johnny.

I ordered a coup of coffee and we sat there at the bar as the Voodoo Doctor worked on mama. Suddenly she stopped screaming. There was sighing from the crowd. Then with a bound mama drew up into a sitting position and looked around seemingly confused.

“Bien, sacrament. What’s going on?” she asked.

“We don’t know,” answered Johnny from the bar. “You were a bit sick I guess. How are you now mama?” queried Johnny.

“I am fine. The last thing I remember was that old witch at my door this morning. She said she was going to curse me. I don’t remember anything after that except of course her husband running all the way home with her following with a stick,” said mama. Then she laughed at that recollection. She laughed so hard that she shook and like an aftershock it seemed to reverberate into the entire crowd and we all fell into long and bizarre laughter.

Mama got to her feet, pushed her boys aside and headed for Johnny at the bar. “Merci tout le monde. Johnny, drinks are on me. Put on the merengue I want to dance,” she shouted.

A cheer came up from the crowd and her boys. The music blared, the whiskey flowed and mama grabbed the tiny Haitian Voodoo doctor in her arms. One could only surmise what his payment would be for services rendered. There she was in her yellow cotton dress red with chicken’s blood, she was wrapped tightly around the hard and somewhat astonished Voodoo doctor and her boys had encircled her as they all moved as though one in the sensual beat of the merengue.

The End

By Tessie Ruddy 2008

I grew up in a small “paper” town in Northern Ontario during the great depression, as they called it. Strange in way for us because although things were tight we never felt depressed. We didn’t have much in the way of marvellous furniture or possessions, but we had some marvellous times. When I was still almost a baby, I would sit on my mother’s knee in church (they had no nursery rooms) and hum along when the organ was playing. We went to halls where other cultures played their music and in particular at Christmas. We heard bag pipes from Scotland, balalaikas from Polish and Ukrainian people, the flute from our Jewish neighbours and fiddles from the French Canadians and Irish.

We had a radio and listened to the Grand Old Opry fiddlers, gospel music, the American Stallions Nashville and others. We got those signals over the radio so strongly that we could hear them playing from Nashville and other parts of the U.S.A. coming to us over hundreds of miles in distance over the frozen airwaves. It was great to hear all that country music from the likes of Roy Acuff and the Smokey Mountain Boys playing The Arkansas Traveler and other square dance tunes. I remember my father’s show was on at six o’clock in the morning. My father Jack turned the radio on in the kitchen at a very high volume so that we would here it upstairs while still in bed as we were not invited to get up yet. We were five little girls in the room awake but simply resting and listening while not making a sound. So, this went on as a routine. We also had an old wind up gramophone that played over and over Polly Wollie Doodle and Who Broke The Lock On The Hen House Door as well as many Irish songs by John McCormack.

There was no kindergarten in those days so we started right into grade one and learned to read and actually write. I recall the most outstanding thing I noticed on my first day of school was “The Piano”. I had never seen one up close before. There it was a big black carved piano being played by quite a large and robust teacher who smiled as she played tunes like English Country Garden. We sat in our seats and listened intently. Although I decided that I liked school a lot on that first day I really fell in love with “The Piano” and all of the singing we did around it.

From that time I wished and longed for a piano but of course all in vain. The depression was still on but the paper mill in town was running although only five days a week. Tim Buck was getting strong at that time and there was lots of excitement while happily my father was kept on to work at the mill. Finally somehow daddy had saved up one hundred dollars. What had that money been put away for you might wonder? Well, it was set aside for a washing machine for my mother. She always had to wash with a wash board. The decision that had to be made was left up to my mother. Did she want the new washer to make life easier or a piano for us girls? Momma decided that piano was the better choice.

We sent away for a used piano from The Family Herald and Weekly Star newspaper. It arrived on the freight train F.O.B. (freight on board) on Christmas Eve. I was fourteen by this time and the second oldest of five girls.

From the train station a man, who was a friend of my father’s delivered the piano safely packed into a wooden piano box on a very low sleigh pulled by two work horses. The piano arrived on a very cold dark Christmas Eve and the snow was actually up past the windows of our house. Alas, on arrival at our front door we discovered it was too big to move in. This created a lot of noise, fuss and swearing as the delivery men and my father looked for a solution. They decided to take off the front door, open up the crate and roll the piano in on its casters. The horses waited patiently outside in the freezing temperature and snow with frost on their manes and whiskers. Nobody cared enough to cover them with blankets or melton cloth and I wondered at that. The piano was old but magnificent, it was dark brown wood on casters and made by Bell. I t was stunning with ivory keys.

Fortunately our teachers had taught us a bit of music theory, so we were able to play with one hand to start with. So, that Christmas Eve we took turns at playing Silent Night. My father could plunk a few lines of dance tunes as well. The evening was a joy with all of us taking turns banging away at the new piano.

The next day it was Christmas. My father had invited some Italian friends from work to come over for a visit and to enjoy some Christmas cake and tea. We all sat around and listened to them admiring “The Piano”. My father claimed proudly, “Tessie can play”. Well, yes I could play alright but only one hand and a line of Silent Night so I did that to please them and hit any note to fake my way along as my sisters sang quite loudly to give me cover. The elderly Italian fellow by the name of Joe cried and clapped his hands as he was so happy at our little production of Silent Night. I knew then that we could all accomplish just about anything if we tried. I also knew that I loved the idea of performing.

As time went on we were able to take lessons for 25 cents a week from an elderly French lady that lived near by. We learned with her teaching us chords and her son accompanied us on the fiddle. Before long we could play a tune with the right hand and chord with the left. We played some popular dance tunes like Put On Your Old Grey Bonnet and Red wing as well as a few hymns like Nearer My God To Thee.

We had lots of visitors to hear us play the piano as word spread along the block. Every Sunday afternoon we all played and sang and danced as we tried to master the songs made popular by the war. My mother produced fudge for the occasion and she and my father danced around the small kitchen and living room to songs like After The Ball and To Feather Your Nest.

I will always remember “The Piano” with all of its ornate carving and yellow ivory keys. It was the centre of attraction when we growing up and then when we came home to visit with our own families. Other homes had pool and gaming tables and all sorts of entertainment but the Dunn household had “The Piano”. Thank God to Daddy and Momma for that.

A little about Tessie Ruddy. She was born and raised in Iroquois Falls, one of five daughters of Jack and Margaret Dunn. Her sisters include: Emily (McGrath), Sarah Paquette, Rita Elliott and Celia Mercier. She became a teacher and taught initially in Monteith and then Iroquois Falls. She married Harvey (Buck) Ruddy and raised a family including: Terry, Celia and Iris. Terry is a world renown doctor and heart specialist married to Cathy who is also a doctor. They have two sons Brendon and Christopher. Brendon has an interest in music and Christopher is studying computer technology. Terry and Cathy reside in Ottawa. Iris is also a medical professional and has the speciality of working in Infectious Disease Control. She lives in Kitchener/Waterloo and has one fabulous daughter, Sarah who is an accomplished dancer and currently studying in University. Sadly, Celia and Harvey have passed on. Tessie taught school for many years and it was her great joy to pass her passion for music and the creative arts on to many students through decades of her career in education in Northern and Southern Ontario. She is an accomplished pianist and at 81 years of age she is still active in her community of Cambridge where she participates with many volunteer organizations and seniors groups. Happily, she continues to this day to delight people with her skill at the piano.

Below she is seen in a photo playing the piano with her sisters Celia and Rita during the celebration of Celia and Johnny Mercier’s 50th wedding anniversary.

Eulogy For Emily McGrath by Michael McGrath May 28, 2007
Read At Her Funeral by Michael McGrath and John Elliott

Thank you all for being here today in honour of Emmy. The family wants to thank Doctor Lupien and many nurses for the wonderful care they gave mom over the many months that she was sick. We also want to thank Father Katooka for his assistance with Emmy.

Emmy did not want to be here today. She wanted to be in her living room in her house on old Third Avenue reading her newspaper and sipping her tea. The doorbell might ring and that could be Marilyn Chircoski stopping by on her walk for a visit. It could be Verna Turner or her good neighbor Nancy Breton stopping in to share some good news.

Emmy did not want to be here today. She wanted to be on the phone to Emma Sullivan, her favourite cousin in Pembroke. They would probably be talking about their fabulous trip to Ireland in 1998. Or she might be chatting on the phone with one of the many Girl Guide leaders she kept in touch with over the years.

Emmy did not want to be here today. She wanted to be in her back yard sitting in her swing surrounded by flowers, the swallows darting back and forth from the bird house over the garage and the sounds of her neighbourhood. She might wave to Viv next door or have a little visit with Gaston who would make her laugh with one of his jokes. Robert and Clara might wave from their backyard and come over for a little chat while the kids ran in the back field. The Kataquapits might drop by on their way south or while shopping in Timmins.

Emmy did not want to be here today. She wanted to be on her knees and running her hands through the soil as she planted new flowers and new beginnings in her garden. She might see Ruth and Chris Swartz as they happily walked by with Mila. Terry and Collette Madden might drop by on their way back from some interesting trip. Or she could look up and see Jimmy and Helen sitting on their front porch and sending her a wave. Music could be drifting over from the Soucki’s as they sang and played.

Emmy did not want to be here today. She wanted to be walking down to the post office where she could meet Ruth Jennings or Norma Labelle or Linda Peever and Dave Smith. She could catch up on others lives with these short meetings. She might get a letter from Brooke and Patty with pictures of Jack and Brynn and that would make her day.

Emmy did not want to be here today. She wanted to be able to make her way down to the grocery store and she might stop in at the Pink Store to visit Alana. They might share a cappuccino and make each other feel OK with kind words and a little vitamin G. On her way to the grocery store she could meet up with Rosalee and Huey Madden or Rose and Ron Bernier. She would thank Rose for the wonderful soup and muffins she brought over last week.

Emmy did not want to be here today. She wanted to be in the old truck with me and Xavier heading up to Timmins for the afternoon for a visit with Celia and Johnny. She might see a rabbit or a fox on the side of the road. Celia would have tea and cookies ready and she might even play a tune on the piano. Johnny would make her laugh as usual and Jamie and Anita could stop by with Dylan and Kyle or Graham and Pammy could stop by with Arron or Riley. Marcia and Beech might pull in with news about Nicky and Josh at school. Betty Anne might call from Ottawa with a few good jokes. Patricia might be up from Wawa with news about BJ. And Chippy would hurry in for a quick bite and some warm words and news about his Ryan and Jessie.

Emmy did not want to be here today. She wanted to be at the Iroquois Falls Art Club where she painted and drew while she chatted in comfort with her friends Verna Turner, Christie Riley, Marilyn Chircoski, Therese Bender, Hazel Derbie, Blanche Brindle and Jean Annand.

Emmy did not want to be here today. She wanted to be at a Manor Auxiliary meeting where she reported as the Treasurer. She wanted to share a few moments with other volunteers dedicated to making life better for the pioneers of our community. She might stop by for a visit with her brother in law Everett Eliott or her old neighbour Ruth Larivie, residents of the manor.

Emmy did not want to be here today. She wanted to be at a meeting at the Historical Society that I sometimes refered to as the Hysterical Society. She liked to be called upon for her great memory in assisting the board and staff with her knowledge of the community.

Emmy did not want to be here today. Well at least not like this. She would have wanted to be here on Sunday with her good friends Rhea Pike, Elsie Lowe, Irene Powers and Cec McMillan. Maybe Mrs Shey or Marion Luke would accompany her and the rest of the girls to Randy’s for breakfast after Sunday Mass.

Emmy did not want to be here today. She would rather be stopping in to see Donna McEwan at the Sears store and she might meet up with Don Paquette and his friend Bernie there and they could certainly have a great chat about the new baby Sarah and how happy Andrew and Carmen must be and of course Aunt Kathryn. She might be invited out to Chuck and Jennifer’s cottage to see Daniel, Nicky and Joey. Donna might have news about Cathy in Orillia or Dave and Marci’s daughter Allysandra.

Emmy did not want to be here today. She wanted to be heading down south and arriving at Johnny and Patty’s door where she would be joined by Brooke and Rob Vokes and Jack and Brynn. Judy and Ross would invite her for tea. John and Colleen Elliott might come over for a visit from London and if John brought his keyboard, there would be some singing. Luanne and Chris and the kids might show up with John and Norma Bradley. Lorrie and Fred could stop in with news about Russ and his family. No doubt Ron and Tanner would show up with some treats.

Emmy did not want to be here today. She wanted to be on her way to her see her sister Tessie Ruddy in Cambridge. Tessie could make life exciting as they went here and there shopping and exploring with Iris and Sarah. Terry and Cathy might call while she was visiting with news about Christopher and Brendon.

Emmy did not want to be here today. She wanted to be having a wonderful Sunday supper with Don and Dawn Elliott out at Nellie Lake. Betty and Judd Zadow, or Jane and Pat Eaton might drop in for coffee and dessert and there would be lots of stories told and times remembered.

You know the funny thing is – Emmy is not here today. As a matter of fact she has gone home. She is in the most perfect place. She might be sitting on daddy Jack Dunn’s knee listening to Rita and Sarah play the piano while granny was cooking supper in the kitchen. Uncle Jimmy Melon and his wife Little Annie and their family Jerome, Cassie, Patty and Ralph would show up. Uncle Johnny and Aunt Louisa will be telling stories about life on the farm. She might be having tea with Cec McIntyre, her best friend and her good friend Stella Frederinko. Jean Young might stop by with a new book for her to read and Jamie Bigelow could come in with a jar of Helen’s pickled beets.

Yes Emmy is in her perfect place where Barry Peever might be strumming his guitar. Mr and Mrs Maher would be on the back swing in their yard enjoying the day. Freda Spence, Irene Manders, Mrs Russell, Mrs O’Donnell or Mrs Harkins might be heard coming from a Bingo at the old Moose Hall. Emma Pierini might pull up in front of the house to take Emmy out for a ride. They might go to Tim Hortons. Harvey and Celia Ruddy might be sitting with her in the back yard and Harvey would make them all laugh and keep them busy. Aunt Mary, Agatha and Matt would be coming by to greet Emmy and Mrs Lafortune might be serving all her favourite desserts while Louie teased them all. Mrs Regimbal and Alma and Nipper Naigel would be chatting at the table. Big Jimmy and Nan will be laughing at Jimmy’s jokes along with Dalton Melon and the Lafrenier family. The Lavoies, the Manders, the Russells, the Poriers, the Proulxs, Collelas, Blacks – from the corner store and the Soucys and Tina and Robin Olaveson will be calling in to say hello.

So let’s feel happy for Emmy because she is in her perfect place. She has gone home.

by Michael McGrath (To the memory of Aurele, a kind and gentle man who hired me one summer when the papermill was on strike so that I could make enough money to attend college and study journalism.)

He drove the black Volvo over to the side of the snow bank and as close as he could get to Black’s corner store. Two half moon shapes of clear glass appeared on the ice covered windshield with the start of warm air that rose up from the defroster and his breath pumped out frosty air.

It was more out of ritual than anything else that he had ventured out into the winter night to pick up his paper. The Saturday edition of the Telegram was of special interest with a comprehensive international portion and a hefty literary section.

He collected himself, pulled his fedora tightly over his forehead, flipped his collar up, then sprang from the car into the frigid air where snow fell in waves of white fluffy dots. His movement sent squeaks up from the dry and crystallized snow. The familiar clang of the doorbell and a blast of warm air with the scent of burning birch ushered him in.

Yvette stood behind the counter, her winter-pale face lit up in a bright smile. She was slender almost frail looking, she had sharp features and her eyes sparkled sweetly. She was the oldest of seven children in the Black family and most often charged with the responsibility of running the family corner store on Third Avenue. The store actually sat on the corner right across from the Moose Lodge.

“I can’t let a day go by without my tele even if the news is a couple of days old,” the trim little man said from under the protection of his grey fedora and from inside a heavy but neatly fitted wool overcoat.

Yvette had decided that he had the air of a city man about him and she welcomed his visits and the lively conversation he brought to her .

He reminded her, in his worldly way, that it was not so far to Toronto or Ottawa. Perhaps it was not so far to another life, away from Iroquois Falls, a paper mill town separated from the rest of the world by hundreds of miles of wilderness.

“Mon Dieu, Benoit only you would fight such a storm for a newspaper,” she said while reaching for a row of wood shelving to pull a fat bundle of newsprint from its place.

“Ah it isn’t so bad. There was a time, as a boy, when I would work all day felling trees in this stuff so believe me driving a few miles is no great challenge,” he quipped in a voice soft and a little high for a man.

Clang, clang and their space was broken with the entrance of Tiboy, who stomped the snow off his feet in a bit of a jig and clapped his bulky moose hide mitts.

“Vierge, ce froid mes amis,” he hollered with great gusto showing signs of drink.

His face was red with the cold, his grin was wide and his eyes glazed as he stood unsteadily at the door.

Benoit knew him as a shy and withdrawn young man who rarely ventured out from the family living quarters on the second story of the store. Tonight Tiboy was alive, fire burned in his dark eyes under frosty brows and laughter and reckless freedom were his companions.

“Oh Tiboy,” Yvette cried out, with her hand to her cheek, as she quickly scrambled around the oak counter to the young man, who was unsteady on his feet owing to the affect of alcohol and sudden change of temperature.

“I told you not to go over to Belangers. They always get carried away and especially tonight. You are so naive. What will Mama say if she sees you like this?”

“A to hell with Mama,” he said meanly, waived his sisters gaze away and then trembled with mischievous laughter.

He stumbled toward Benoit like a tightrope artist reaching for safety.

“Benoit, hey how are you ? Merry Christmas,” slurred the burly fellow as he wrapped the frozen little man in his arms and then planted a wet kiss on his lips.

Benoit anticipated the dead weight falling upon him but the hug and then the kiss sent a shock clear through his body. He fought to stay put but it was almost too much.

“Shit, we never talk. I worked with you on the hay two years ago now and I had so much fun,” Tiboy bellowed as he staggered back and smiled at the light that was still burning brilliantly in Benoit’s wide and astonished eyes.

“Well, you must come by sometime Tiboy in the new year. It’s hard to believe 1962 is just a few days away,” Benoit answered with as much control as he could muster, as he fidgeted with his collar. “You remind me of my own party days, what fun those days were; savor each and every one of them Tiboy because I’ll tell you they don’t last long.”

Yvette, who had stood by in amazement at these mere neighbours suddenly turn long lost friends, shook question from her look and covered her embarrassment by pushing her brother towards the doorway on the other side of the oak and glass counter and out a back door.

“Maman will kill you if she sees you like this. Come, get upstairs and put yourself together. It’s only a few hours to midnight mass you know,” the young woman said seriously, hoping to add some levity to the situation.

At the door he let out a burp and then began to bellow with laughter. Yvette prodded him upstairs and his laughter dissipated with the creaks of unsteady feet on wood, to the second floor.

On her return she apologized, “That’s is not like him. I’m sorry Benoit.”

He was still reeling from the warm embrace of only moments before and said kindly to offset her concern, “ Ce n’est rien Yvette.” Then he grinned and added, “He is only having a good time: after all it is Christmas Eve.”

A half smile came back to her thin face, “Ah yes, well, that will be 25 cents please,” she spoke in her usual and familiar business way.

Benoit had enjoyed the emotion of the scene but now it was business as usual and he resisted an urge to laugh at her embarrassment and restraint saying, “Oh, I’ll need a tin of export and some rolling papers too.”

Quakes and tremors shook up and out of him and he fumbled with the bill then met her long dainty fingers with it. He wanted out quickly.

He took the brown paper bag she handed him, headed for the door, then mid way broke his hurried stride and half turned to say, “Make sure he takes a couple of aspirin and drinks about a quart of water before he goes to sleep.”

“Ah, oui mon ami and your change don’t forget it,” she called with rekindled warmth.

Benoit waved at the door and headed out, “That’s for you young lady,” he added and with the clang, clang of the door bell he found himself once again in the flurry of white fluffs that fell through the black of the night.

He moved quickly as though half his 40 years had rolled off and once inside the privacy of the idling Volvo he began to laugh and weep together at the recall of his encounter with two people he truly loved secretly. He thought how wonderful it would be to spend Christmas Eve with them. Benoit buried his face in his leather gloved hands, closed his eyes tight for a few seconds and then looked up into the frosted windshield feeling the pounding inside him that was his heart.

As he drove back out onto Main street he swore out loud with the realization he had forgotten to wish Yvette a Merry Christmas. In the confusion he had neglected his duty to be conscious of his salutations and it amazed him that here it was Christmas Eve and the only other person he had seen, other than Tiboy, he had forgotten to wish Merry Christmas.

I’m getting rusty in my old age, Benoit thought as he ploughed the heavy car through whirling snow collected in drifts on the street.

Not a soul was on the road. He imagined everyone in family groups, the young and old, laughing and singing together around food-laden tables. Suddenly he felt quite alone and moving as though in slow motion along his way. The soft glow of decorative lights looked like giant rainbows that had come down to wrap themselves around the houses that sat on either side of the road. These were homes filled with people he had known all his life. He could imagine the Lacelles, Bouchers, Girards and Lachapelles inside preparing for midnight mass.

He tried to remember the last midnight mass he had attended. It was with Memere he thought in ‘49 but he wasn’t sure. Things had changed so much since Memere had gone; he had somehow drifted away from the family and in the last few years hadn’t even exchanged gifts with oncle Gaston, tante Marie and the kids. He didn’t feel part of the town at all and he chalked a good part of that up to living alone, a few miles from town, on the farm.

I guess I’ve become quite a recluse, thought Benoit as the colorful ribbons of light were left behind at the town limits where he passed a highway sign announcing Iroquois Falls.

In the bluster, that raged all around, he drove on with caution and a skill which had developed over years of winter driving. He moved slowly over the bridge at Meadow Creek and dimmed his lights to minimize the affect of the hypnotic swirl of snow flakes that played with his sense of direction.

The road bore only a hint of the tire tracks his Volvo made on the way to Black’s Corner Store. The glow from his own sparsely lit home rose up and out of the whiteness as he followed these faint tracks to where they turned up the long drive and past the house to the barn.

These past years he had decided not to decorate with lights. Somehow, he just couldn’t feel spirited enough to pull the withering string of wire and mostly burned out bulbs from the basement. Even the thought of doing so made him sad.

Champ met him at the back porch, her tail wagging frantically and accompanied with sharp barks. She was anxious for the warmth of the wood stove and her place at Benoit’s feet in the living room.

Glad to be home, he removed his coat and set out his tobacco and the newspaper on the kitchen table. It was some comfort in this solitude to know he had his smoke and the company of news.

As he entered the kitchen, the dog was getting underfoot, sniffing with curiosity at his coat and trousers as though following his trip to town and back. Remembering his responsibility to the faithful border collie, he took a cookie from a tin then flipped it into the air.

As always, Champ was right on target, catching it in mid-air with a jump that showed her love for sugar and total disregard for the arthritis that had slowed her in recent years.

Benoit dropped to all fours and followed the dog to her corner to watch as she devoured the precious morsel, then he reached out and drew here to his chest in a hug, saying, “I saw Tiboy tonight. He gave me a big hug like this and even a kiss. You remember Tiboy, eh Champ? Yes, you remember Tiboy,” and he dog’s eyes blinked. Perhaps she did indeed remember him or at least the sound of his name from that summer at haying time, he mused.

On his back, against the cold floor, Benoit drew the dog up to lay on his chest and they gazed into each other. He half expected Memere to shout out at him to get up and leave the poor dog be. This scene was reminiscent of so many earlier days. But of course the kindly old woman was gone now and there was just the loud ticking of her clock on the kitchen wall and faint crackle of embers from the wood stove in the living room.

“It’s Christmas, another Christmas,” he said to the affectionate and responsive brown eyes and then jumped to his feet still light and thrilled with the recall of his sweet visit with Tiboy and Yvette.

Picking up his tobacco and newspaper, he went into the living room to sit at his place in Memere’s old armchair. He felt comfortable and secure there with the glow of the brass table lamp at this side. It was warm and cozy and his immediate surrounding sufficiently lit to roll his cigarettes and read the news.

He opened the tobacco tin and pulled up just the right amount of golden shreds to roll expertly in thin white paper. Content, he lit up then sank back into the soft belly of the corduroy covered sofa and sucked with great pleasure on his smoke.

“Jean-Noel Bedard would be proud of this one,” he said to only space. He remembered that first day at work, in the bush, up near camp 27, where the good natured foreman had introduced him to the delicate art of rolling. It was around a campfire he recalled and the scent of burning pine and work horses came back to him.

It wasn’t that he was thankful for the introduction to what had become an overwhelming addiction. How could he be? A nagging cough that now woke him in the night and also demanded he leave his place at his desk in the main office to empty phlegm into the toilet was not what anyone might call a healthy legacy. Yet, the comfort of this smoke had helped him through countless freezing coffee breaks in the snow, amid felled trees when he first began to work for the company as a teenager. It had stifled the hunger in his stomach and terror in his mind that filled so much of his time during his days in the second world war as an ambulance driver. Since the end of the war in ‘45, this smoke had served as a diversion in the vacuum that was life on his return to the outskirts of the small northern Ontario town and a position as a junior accountant in the pulp and paper company’s main office.

As it was with most nights, these memories and thoughts started out with a sense of soft nostalgia then rushed in and rolled around out of control inside his skull like ball bearings that threatened to wear away and at some point punch out a hole that would mean his end. Tonight, he could console those staccato visions of memory and thought with the comforting image of Yvette and Tiboy still about.

“Oh God what a beautiful young man,” Benoit spoke the words aloud, trying to accept them and the pleasure he derived from the memory of his brief encounter. A longing opened like a cavern inside him, a depth he had never been able to fill. He reasoned now, as he had always done, imposing a vision of purity when carnal feelings took hold.

This was true art, he thought. That creative and natural spontaneity had poured from the young man in his setting, on his stage, in dance and unrehearsed to the word. It was of no consequence there was no record of the moment, it only mattered that it had happened and made strong waves through short space and went deep. Benoit wished he had someone to share this realization with and then he thought of Franklin, yes Franklin was the only one who could have truly understood. Franklin would have known.

“Let’s have a nip, eh Champ? After all it is Christmas,” Benoit said to the dog at his feet, then walked to the maple buffet and poured a hefty drink of cognac into the fine crystal glass he had purchased on his last trip to New York.

At the window, he peered through thick frost designs to see periods of white dots punctuate the dark. Wind rattled at the pane and he felt good to be warm and inside.

Back in his favorite place, he picked through the layers of headlines and dissected columns of print. The paper was his crystal ball. From these pages he played his nightly game and sharpened his wit with the effort of reading between the lines to decipher the latest articles on his favorite topics. He believed that the media published only surface reports of most occurrences and this led him on a quest for the real story. Stories that lurked between the lines of so-called good journalism and truth.

The last few years had convinced Benoit that an other war was in the making and new recruits, with no memory of what terror war holds, would be ready for another go at this deadly pursuit. He worried that new fodder, wonderful young men like Tiboy, would end up a splatter of blood and guts in mud and live on only as names etched on the cenotaph in the middle of town, near the railway station. The cenotaph that people rarely ever noticed. The cenotaph where Franklin’s name was a bitter and painful reminder of what war really meant to him.

Anger built inside Benoit after reading the political beat and world news. He had grown to despise politicians and the few but powerful members of the industrial elite, who he felt really made the decisions, no matter what the words reported.

He wished there was something he could offer, something he could do or say that would make it better. It was frustrating sitting alone and reading about the world from his place in the north, far from where it all happened. This made him feel helpless, so he smoked and drank too much and mechanically went back and forth to work stuck between his own words and the facade he sometimes felt he had created.

Hours passed in cognac, smoke and print and he found himself sad with the tragedies he had witnessed in his reading. He looked into the deep wells of brown that were the eyes of his dog and said bitterly, “Christmas, some miracle eh Champ? War, murder, starvation and cheap tricks, that’s what it is all about today.”

Benoit had never really grown accustomed to being alone on Christmas Eve. Sure, there were invitations from oncle Gaston and the family in town but he felt as though he had drifted apart from the rest of the family, since the passing of Memere. It seemed difficult for him to find anyone who had time and who really understood who he was.

He found himself at the telephone and thinking. Perhaps he could call oncle Gaston. He picked up the phone and shouted into it wildly without dialing, “Hey Gaston have you prepared your kids for the coming war? Did you know three thousand people died yesterday in India in a flood?”

What could he say?

There was a Christmas once, he remembered. Here in this room the entire family would be dancing and singing a simple and crazy chanson a repondre. Mamere, was in the kitchen with the girls, surrounded by pots and pans of bubbling meats and sauces. The table was full and presents stacked under the lighted tree. Strings of Christmas cards and dangling ornaments put colour in every corner of the house. The kids played games that took them laughing from room to room, the babies cried for attention and the men made music and drank beer in the dense cigarette and pipe smoke.

On the spur of these memories, Benoit stumbled over to the oak china cabinet at the foot of the stairs and pulled a violin and bow from inside one of the drawers. One pluck of a string told him it was hopelessly out of tune but he cared little and played as though once again he were entertaining the entire family.

“Allez mon petit gars,” he could hear Papere cry as he stepped in a jig and strung out a tune. “La da deedle la da dee, la da deedle la da dum, la da deedle la da deedle, la da dee,” the violin squeaked, as Benoit stomped unsteadily about the room, whipping up dust and with Champ in hot pursuit and barking in bizarre harmony.

Benoit danced crazily, in swirls and the room went spinning about him, then everything came together in one mad flash and he fell exhausted against the back door. The yellow kitchen spun slowly to a halt and his focus returning, he cursed himself at the sink full of unwashed dishes and a stove piled high in dirty pots.

Where he lay fallen was garbage spilling out of an overflowing can. He put the fiddle and bow aside and struggled to pick up the filth. Drunkenly, he yanked open the kitchen door and against a blast of frigid air, hurled the can out into the storm.

“Aiee, aiee,” Benoit cried and with a sudden madness raced out into the swirling sea of white.

He leapt and bounded through the drifts behind the house, then lurched past the barn and out into the field, where the snow was deeper. It soon became very hard going.

There was no sense of time about him as he struggled knee deep in the freezing and blinding snow. Finally, with great gasps and starting to feel pain penetrating the numbness produced by the cognac, he lay down and could hear the exhausted gasping of his body as though it were not his own. He felt outside himself. Then a weakness came over him and his eyes became heavy. It was so peaceful now where he lay and the silence behind the storm beckoned his spirit.

He talked to himself, “It’s no use Mamere. It’s no use. I can’t go on.” Then he answered too. “Yes you must move Benoit. This is no way to die. Surely, you are made of better stuff than that.”

He shook himself free from the deep dark sleep threatening to engulf him and struggled to stand in what now he realized was a deathly environment. Where was he? Which way had he come from? Where was the house?

Then he broke down, “Franklin, Franklin,” he cried and began to fight his way through the drifts and confusion all about him. He became stuck and fell forward. Drained of his energy the snow again seemed so inviting.

With all his might, Benoit drew on an inner strength that had been built up over years of hard work in the lumber camps and on the farm, to find the spark to rise up and pull his way along on his knees.

“Be calm now, be calm. You won’t last another ten minutes in this if you don’t pull yourself together,” a voice inside told him. He then began to think of how it must have been for Franklin in the icy waters of the North Atlantic. Young, scared and doomed Franklin. He understood then for the first time just exactly how his best friend had gone. He remembered now the look in Franklin’s eyes as they shook hands, then fell into an embrace at the dockside in Liverpool.

It was too much, “Franklin help me. Please help me Franklin,” he hollered and in a mad panic rose up to thrash his way through the frozen snow that pulled him down with every move.

In the peal of this panic he fell against something and it hurt. Then he it dawned on him, “Oh my God, Oh shit, Oh God the fence,” Benoit screamed. Everything changed in that one instant. He had a chance. He felt as though he had just been thrown a life line in a violent sea, with the lightening realization that the shaky old fence would take him back to the house.

As he followed the rusty wire and rotted wood on his knees, a determination grew in him that he had not known for years. The will to survive led him on with voices calling from out of the storm, familiar voices, long gone and lights pulsated here and there, bright then dull. Finally a faint light hung still and the entire scene before him spun in circles around it. He felt as though he was being pulled into what he knew must be the porch lamp. A hand broke through what had become a raging blizzard.

“Mon Dieu Benoit. what are you doing? Are you crazy? You will die out here,” Tiboy said as he lifted the weakened and terror stricken Benoit up and into his arms. Benoit saw only Franklin in his navy blue uniform, his blond locks tussled by the storm.

“Good Lord, how I’ve missed you Franklin. I love you so much Franklin. I never did get the chance to tell you. Please don’t ever leave me again, please Franklin,” he cried as Tiboy carried him to the house with Champ barking frantically at his heals.

The End

I could smell the grass and earth beneath me. Crickets clicked in a concert all around and the sound of town hummed in the background. In the tall yellow grass in my backyard I could hide from the entire world. If a friend were around we could play war games. In hide and seek I would chase my sister Patty and our friend Sue all day until Granny called for supper. Sometimes, after eating, I managed to spend a little time laying in the grass bathed in the glow of the deep red beams of dawn in late August.

Most people in Iroquois Falls on our block had big backyards. We all kept our modest homes tidy and the grass was cut on the front lawn and often on part of the back. However, most of the backyard was allowed to grow into high grass or hay. That yellow grass was a couple of feet high by mid summer and drew myself, my sister Pat and our friends like metal to a magnet.

In the spring my grandmother chose a day to burn any dead grass in the backyard. I always loved to watch the spectacle that usually involved one or more of my uncles and sometimes a neighbour. She liked to burn grass as did all our neighbours. The sweet smell of burning grass still brings me back to those early days. Granny always did this when the water from the winter snow had finally dried up. She claimed it was to give the yard a clean look and provide the grass with a good fresh start. I always thought she just really liked the smell of burnt grass and that it reminded her of being on the farm back in Waltham.

Life Was Simple

In the mid 50s life was pretty simple for the most part in Iroquois Falls. In my case I had the challenge of the complexity of being raised by my Granny and mom with no dad around. That always kept me off balance but still I was loved, well cared for and ran and laughed with my friends up and down the street and through all the backyards and in between the rickety old garages and sheds in the neighbourhood. Inevitably we ended up in the backyard taking cover from anything and everything and sometimes just as a place where we could whisper, question and plan. We were always planning something. At times it was a refuge where I could come to sulk when I did not get my way or when I felt hurt in anyway. The long grass was always accommodating and comforting.

Most of the excitement in those days had to do with local home fires or grassfires. Those events were announced with the high pitched whine of a siren. Sometimes someone familiar would die and that always started with fright and shock and ended in grief and gloom. Life was like an ocean with the ebbs and tides. Horses still pulled wagons and carts around in 1950s Iroquois Falls although the car was well on its way to domination of the roads. Still, I would wake in the morning to the sound of the clip clop of Mike Kusmick’s milk wagon pulled by his horse. I would lay in my bed listening to the clip clops and the rattling of glass bottles starting and stopping all the way down the street.

Sometimes the Theriaults across the street would run a team of husky horses up to their place with a wagon full of wood following behind. Saws whirred and axes chopped as our neighbours readied their wood piles for winter. We had Croatins wood yard deliver our wood and coal most of the time but sometimes for reasons I could never figure out Terau and Debarge would race up to our drive way to dump a load of wood.

Like A Cyclone

Terau and Debarge were like a cyclone. I would catch glimpses of them daily racing down the narrow streets. Their horse Queen seemed to always be sweating and puffing steam from her regal nostrils. In the summer their wagon kicked up dust and kids ran as fast as they could to catch up and jump on the wobbling wooden rubber tired craft. I was forbidden from joining the neighbour hood children in their wild and free ride through the streets of Iroquois Falls courtesy of Terau, Debarge and of course the mighty Queen. Once in a while one of the kids would fall off and knock their noggins but amazingly nothing major every happened. The only time I ever got to spend with Queen was when I was with my friend Dean and we ventured out on the town limits where Queen was pastured when not hauling that quivering wagon and Terau and Debarge and a host of kids around town. She was black and had a white spot on her forehead. She was kind enough and often very approachable. Queen took our offerings of grass but if you really wanted to make her eyes light up an apple would do the trick.

I was always mystified by Terau and Debarge. It was wildly known that Debarge had come to Iroquois Falls in the 1930s from France. He looked like he should be walking the streets of some quaint French town in his beret and wool coat and pants. He was trim, organized and had the air of aristocracy about him. Still he was regarded as a sort of an outcast in some way. He always ran his business delivering wood in what seemed to be a very efficient and professional way. People seemed to like him but they kept their distance. Terau his partner, was considered slow. He was a plump fellow with a large black beard and he always wore a toque or floppy hat. He was French also but possibly from Quebec. They just seemed to arrive one day in the town’s early years. Most people had friends, family or some past to connect to but Terau and Debarge seemed to have just dropped from the sky.

Once a year I was treated to the arrival of Terau and Debarge in their rickety wagon. Queen would storm into the driveway with a dozen kids holding tight and they would all end up in the middle of our backyard. This usually happened at the end of summer when the grass was very tall. Granny and the other neighbours on old Third Avenue had a deal with the Frenchmen and they visited every summer’s end to cut the grass or hay as feed for Queen. Terau and Debarge jumped from the wagon and swathed the field with long scythes. The hangers on , mostly boys, piled the cut hay into the wagon as Queen stomped her feet and pulled her head back. In a flash they were gone in the laughter of boys and a trail of dust up the street.

A Mystery Shrouded In Time

It was many years later that I realized that Terau and Debarge were probably gay. They lived as partners in a little house on radio street. Although they seemed destitute it did not make sense. There was lots of money to be made in delivering wood and coal. It was rumoured that the duo also bootlegged whiskey in earlier years. Life must have been hard in many ways for them. Once I caught Therau helping himself to a raw broken egg on the back porch that Granny had left out for my dog Lassie. He was as surprised as I was and took off in a flash across the backyard and onto an adjacent street. I told granny but she seemed accepting. Perhaps she knew something more about the two then most.

One night in the early 1960s a fire broke out in the Frenchmens’ little house on Radio Street. It was a great blaze and although both men escaped they required some medical treatment. The rumour was that money was discovered in the walls and floorboards of that little wooden house.However, afer the fire the two moved on to Laurier Street about around the corner from our house. Debarge’s health deteriorated and he passed away in the mid 1960s. Their old house was torn down and money was discovered in the walls and floor boards. Much of it was turned over to the parish priest who committed it to good use some believe. Perhaps some of it was provided for the care of Terau. Soon after he was taken south where he was put in the care of his sister who was a nun and placed in a home. Nobody had much to say as a followup. They just seemed to have disappeared in much the same way they came to town. There was never another mention about the two Frenchmen and they slipped into the history of Iroquois Falls surrounded in mystery. They were simply two people that nobody ever talked about again. Until now.

The End

THE NATIVES ARE RESTLESS

By Michael.McGrath

9:54 PM 12/18/2001 – San Andres Island, Colombia

The All Inclusive Hotel Resort

I won’t pretend to try to make a lot of sense out of any of this. I am not surprised to be laying back in bed, a little weak after a bout of tourista after one week at San Andres all inclusive resort. I may as well be on the moon. Home seems so far away and indeed a five-hour direct flight from San Andres Island to Toronto and then an eight-hour drive up north makes for my detached reality.  The only one I could count on here is my friend Xavier, a tall Native fellow from the James Bay coast who I convinced to travel with me to paradise.  

It’s not just one thing. There are so many incidental intersections that I am making here. Like the lady I met in the ocean the other day that talked about past life regression, a shaman she met and the fact that she worked with homeless people in Mississauga. She had a large straw hat on. She said she was from Peru originally and she more or less just walked about in the ocean in front of the resort up to her neck in salt water. Most of the time, I found myself conversing with this bouncing straw hat. It wasn’t so much what she said but what her conversation drew out of me.

The lady in the straw hat made me say things as she bounced along in the ocean under the burning sun. She helped me remember a time in the old house when a friend of mine Tom showed up with an acquaintance that was either mentally unstable or had some depth of reality that most people only touch on in their dreams. Tom’s friend was some kind of expert in past life regression. I recounted to the bouncing straw what Tom’s friend had greeted me with. The fact that on entering my home she stood back a little aghast and proceeded to tell me that I was a pirate in a past life.

Somehow this bizarre notion, through this eerie memory, had been following me ever since my friend Xavier and I landed on this tiny little island in the middle of nowhere. The lady with the straw had made me admit it.

There was something familiar here for me. It’s not just what I saw around me but a combination of what I have observed and what I knew from somewhere far away. I can’t even blame it on booze or drugs. I have been clean for so long that clean almost sounds like a dirty word. The fact that this little rise of land, surrounded by coral reef, was a pirate’s lair centuries ago kept this nagging notion rippling through my mind. It seemed more and more to be evolving into some more profound idea or reality that was running its course. Wait there is more.

How is it that I stumbled upon the so-called Native shaman, political mover and islander soul just when I wanted to forget about anything being important? How much of a coincidence is it that I was visited by Storm the shaman, just as I was emailing friends back in Canada from this little dot in the ocean.

I found myself learning far more than what I wanted to about the islanders’ struggle to throw off the Colombian government’s grip in a quest for some sort of independence. None of the information was really new. It seemed as though every time I stopped to talk to an islander over the past week they were eager to tell me about this conflict.

When Storm dropped in with perfect timing to talk to myself and my buddy Xavier in the internet café, I was suspicious. He was intimidating in his stature alone. This black man was at least 6 foot 5 and although graying, he had the body of a much younger man. He looked like an athlete and was fine toned, broad shouldered and spoke with a hint of higher education in his words. In the short time I knew him I had learned that he was a political force to be dealt with and had been leading the islanders’ in their fight for justice. He was unhappy with Columbia’s approach to islanders and he felt that the government had only one thing in mind for them; their assimilation and in the worst case scenario perhaps genocide. Storm was respected by all of the powers at the resort. Everyone from the hotel security guards to the department managers acknowledged his coming and going with tolerance. He was the only outsider allowed to freely come and go. Perhaps the fact that he led the islanders in organized protest and ran a weekly radio show provided him with an elevated place, even amongst the local Colombian officials.

I didn’t censure myself in chatting with Storm, although I felt a little vulnerable, speaking in the open about such intense concepts with a nearby local sleazy destination representative soaking up our every word we let go in the Internet office. I let myself speak. I somehow felt it important to tell this tall and noble islander what I knew about changing things. I reminded him that this struggle should never become violent. For examples I picked the Weathermen and the Black Panthers of the sixties as examples of how not to protest. I assured the well spoken and dignified Storm that if his fight took on any violent means it would all be for not. We discussed the importance of communication and the media to his cause. I reminded him that a violent struggle with one of the largest and most sophisticated military powers in South America would be suicide. I also suggested to him that a true warrior lives to fight another day.

For the longest time his words deflected anything I had to say. He kept telling me of the plight of the islanders who had been turned over to Columbia by the English in the early 1800s. I just kept bouncing back my same message wrapped up in different spins. Finally, I think he got it. He thanked me for the advice at the door before he walked out with one of those funny, yet artful little birds crafted out of palm leaves dangling from his hand. I found it strange to know that such a majestic character made his living braiding palms into birds and hats. Then again, it occurred to me Jean Cretien was the son of a machinist in a paper mill in Quebec.

I first met the lady in the straw hat on an occasion when I stopped to chat with Storm under a large bamboo umbrella on the beach. I had noticed her before. She was bizarre. She looked kind of like a witch and I don’t mean that in a negative manner. She truly looked like someone who walked in that way. She had long graying hair and exotic tattoos on her shoulders. One was an eagle and the other some sort of Asian character. It was as though we already knew each other and that the words were simply an excuse to rub our souls together. Our conversation skipped along like slippery flat stones on a mirror like lake.

Somehow it didn’t really surprise me that we connected in real life too. She had been a teacher in my hometown of Iroquois Falls in the sixties. Obviously that was another life for her that she had long ago shed. Here I was resurrecting it with news of her old school and other teachers and personalities she had bumped elbows with. She seemed to have some association to Storm, which also didn’t surprise me. She brought him food and hung close to him as he braided his birds.

“Drop by anytime – my office is always open,” he said under the bamboo umbrella and laughed heartily and deep as he worked on one of his palm birds with the former teacher at his side. I visited his office often.

Proud To Be A Canadian

The latest onslaught of vacationing Canadians welled into the San Andres all inclusive hotel. They were mostly fat old men with balding heads accompanied by wives with hair permed so tight they looked like plastic dolls. They were all here to drink themselves silly, chain smoke, eat too much and to play cards. I was embarrassed to be Canadian in the wake of their arrival. Hell, they could have stayed home or gone to a local Holiday Inn to play cards and get drunk. Instead they chose to house themselves below my room in what was now fast becoming a tainted paradise. I was blessed with their shallow conversation that churned through the day until it fermented into drunken howls and laughter with the evening hours. Didn’t anybody with a brain come to these places I thought and then I realized the danger in asking the question.

I had become more or less accepting of the fact that tourista was a way of life for me on the island. With that acceptance I was less worried about the fact that whatever I ate seemed to almost immediately run through my system for deposit back into San Andres through its mysterious, yet functioning toilet and sewer system. However, I was less accepting of the fact that part of that mystery seemed to be solved in the murky ocean water just off the man made beach in front of the resort. To discover this through swimmer’s itch was no great piece of detective work.

In my research to resolve my dilemma of being itchy from head to toe, I talked with many on staff in the resort. The lady at the enfermeria didn’t feel good about lying to me about the so-called jellyfish that caused these itchy phenomena. She made up for it by cautioning me not to swim off the resort beach but instead to head out to a nearby island or the beach in town or the one at San Luis a few kilometers up the road. She had no antidote for my dilemma, after all in her eyes – it didn’t really exist. Finally, it dawned on me that the best people to talk to in seeking out a solution to this nasty itch were those who worked at the water’s edge. After two days of putting up with this itch, in ten minutes I had a solution from one of the water sport activity workers. This Colombian mainlander by the name of Gustaw told me straight off that bathing myself with vinegar would rid me of the bothersome creatures who had moved in and by now were quite comfortable living on my skin. The curly haired, brown skinned Gustaw actually provided me with two options, there was the vinegar solution and urine could also be used. I opted for the vinegar sponge bath and somehow it worked. My little buggy guests moved out.

The Watering Hole

Having been faced with the need to travel, if I wanted to swim in the ocean, the resort pool became my last retreat. It was clean enough but I got the feeling I was in a gold fish bowl every time I went for a swim. The card players were at one end and several Colombian families with kids bobbed up and down in the heavily chlorinated water. I sensed that many of the people I shared the pool with were paramilitary Colombians on some sort of leave. It did not take much to imagine these strong young studs in fatigues and carrying machine guns. Just about everybody else in the resort came and went to the poolside during the day. All eyes were on you when you entered the pool. It was as though everyone here at this spot had accepted the tight life of the all-inclusive San Andres resort hotel. No matter how much I tried to ignore it I could not over look the presence of a dozen little kids frolicking continually at the shallow end of the pool. I was pissed off in more ways then one.

The pool reminded me of those watering holes in Africa that you see on National Geographic television shows. It was like a place where every sort of animal comes to have a drink during the day. The different personalities moved here and there to provide room for each other and access to the water. Most of these animals were more or less sedated by mid afternoon through their indulgence in every alcohol drink imaginable. Many of them seemed semi comatose and lay burning under the hot equatorial sun. I spent as little time as possible at pool side and I darted in and out of the scene, making few waves in my quest for a little refreshment.

There seemed to be no happy medium here. It was either burning hot under the sun, humid as hell on a cloudy or rainy day and always freezing in our room. It was surrealistic to walk from forty degree heat into fifteen degree cold with simply the opening of the door to our room. The air conditioning had only one mode of operation which was full blast and freezing. Try as I might to turn the system down I could find no means of moderating the temperature in our room. Still, none of this really took away from the fact that I was at the very least out of boring little Iroquois Falls and the reach of several frantic people that in some way or another had continual intentions to control my life.

Xavier and I rented a scooter one day and proceeded to zoom around the island. There wasn’t much zooming to be done as we discovered that the entire circumference of San Andres could be accomplished on a rattling little 100 cc, two stroke scooter in about an hour with lots of stops along the way. Afterall it was only 12 kilometers long and three wide. Mostly, the island coast was a kind of coral rock with a couple of major sandy beach areas. Strangely enough, although I was told that the island had a population of 80,000, I didn’t see many people in the countryside. The beach at San Luis was a few kilometers long and populated with lots of tourists bobbing on the big rolling waves. The beach in town had an even higher population and there was a lot more activity.

I was surprised to find that town had no name other than ‘town’. One islander we talked to made an effort to provide me with some sort of name for the town. He suggested I call it San Andres Town or St. Andrews Town if that was more to my liking. The fact remained however, that everybody for all time referred to town as simply ‘town’.

The traffic wasn’t too bad out and away from the resorts and town and the highway was pretty smooth. However, the main artery close to and through town was like an obstacle course. The asphalt was all chopped up and traffic far too heavy for such a little place. Most of the cars were big America 1980s taxis. There were Buicks, Chevy Capris, Pontiacs and some of those sporty four wheel drive SUVs. There were tons of motorcycles and no stop signs or stoplights. Somehow, people got to where they were going.

I knew the absence of motorcycle helmets on all the motorcycle and scooter riders meant a high death rate for people here. Yet somehow I felt some false sense of security in being part of the pack. It wasn’t until after a week or so that I began to realize that every second person I met had a tragic story to tell about a brother, sister or cousin being killed on a motorcycle. It was just part of island life or death should I say.

The Other Side Of The Island

Another part of island life that I discovered, had to do with a large number of guns in San Andres and seemingly in the wrong hands. I met Franco at his post in the snack bar of the Isleno Hotel in town where he was only too happy to flush out the island experience for me.

The way he talked about the barrios described a picture of poverty, drugs and violence. He told me a story about riding his bicycle on the road one day near his home. He noticed a strong odour coming from the bushes from the side of the road and he could see thousands of flies focused on one spot. On closer examination he discovered a young man’s body, bound hands and feet with a bullet in his head. He told me this happened a lot and that he had heard about many such killings but discovering an actual body was more realistic then he wanted to deal with. He said he had been plagued by nightmares about the young man on the side of the road with the bullet through his head ever since that fateful day.

Franco painted a picture of terrible poverty and people living in shacks and huts with no running water. He described the average family as having little or no food most of the time, not much access to clean water and no real sewage system to speak of. Many of the islanders, he explained, took their baths in the ocean and drinking water for the most part was collected in large cisterns that caught the rain. He added that in the dry season the lack of drinking water becomes a real problem. He told me that he was going to school but that it was expensive and he had to work to provide himself with an education.

All of this information that came from Franco and every other islander I spoke to, we had to dissect from the language of Creole. I decided at one point that this English dialect the islanders used had originated from the African slaves brought to the island by the English. Although it has survived centuries in pretty much its original form, it seemed now to be threatened by the years of Spanish influence. I also decided that the language was in part born out of English used to describe things in the way an African slave would think. In other words the African slave thought in his original Native language and translated it into what he had learned as English. This resulted in this almost cartoonesque, quick, musical and percussive San Andres Creole. Of course all of the islanders also spoke Spanish.

Our window to the island opened a little more with a visit one night from Jose, an 19 year old cleaner for the San Andres all inclusive resort. We had learned that visitors from outside the resort compound were not tolerated and specifically those visitors who were local people. On a couple of occasions I had to meet local friends at the compound entrance and plead with the security people to allow them access. Even then, the best I could do was to sit in the reception area and chat. Later I found out that we could buy their way in for a day or for an evening at the disco. The whole thing seemed ridiculous to me. I wondered, were they trying to keep people away from tourists in an effort to protect us or were they trying to keep us away from them in an effort to limit our awareness of what life in San Andres was really all about? I decided it was probably a combination. At any rate it made the place seem more like a prison than a get away.

Jose told us about his side of island life. He mentioned the guns, the poverty and the drugs. As a matter of fact, he had a story of watching his 20 year old cousin murdered in broad daylight right in front of him in one of the nastier barrios while playing soccer. He shuddered a little when he described the scene and talked about running away to save his own life. There were no tears but I noticed that his eyes dampened up.

Jose was better off then most. He had ‘an auntie’ working in the restaurant at Marazul and a ‘black man night manager’ who helped him secure his cleaning job in the resort. He told me that there was a lot of violence on the island but that if you were not looking for it, you were probably okay. In other words, if you got close to the drug trade, you got close to the violence. Of course, there was always that remote chance that as a naive tourist you could wander into a spider’s web if you took a wrong turn in the night. Jose was slim and had very dark skin, he didn’t seem to see himself as black. He talked about people in shades. He made 11,000 pesos a day which was about $11 Canadian. He lived in a small house crammed with ten people but with the luxury of cold running water, a shower and a toilet.

Like most islanders, he peppered his sketch of poverty stricken, violent island life with religious overtones. Most of the people on this part of the island were Baptist or Pentecost of some sort. Jose spoke of his affiliation with the church as though it was just another part of the scene. Religion seemed somehow to be the glue that held the whole stinking mess together.

He told me about the whorehouses. There were several on the island. In fact, Jose, had frequented a couple of them. He talked about sex openly and seemed to have no problem that it was actively sold as merely another commodity under the hot sun.

In a detached way Jose seemed accepting of everything around him. There was no question in him what so ever. He appeared almost medicated through this acceptance of fate and had no great plans for the future. His fatalistic approach seemed to originate in his means to survive. We gave him a T-shirt and a couple of pairs of shorts. I don’t even remember him saying thanks. It was just another thing that happened to him. We were just a couple of tourists that had come in and would go out of his life at the San Andres all inclusive resort. The only thing he might have thought strange was that all we wanted was some conversation with him.

As we took off into the sky in the 757 Boeing and headed back to Canada I caught a last glimpse of the tiny little island of San Andres. It was no longer merely a few paragraphs and photos in a colour brochure I picked up from the travel agent. I saw it now through the eyes of sad and traumatized young people living day to day in a shameful existence in so called paradise. Here I was heading back to certain boredom and a familiarity that provided me with a way of life that was full and rich, sometimes to the point of ridiculousness. I was returning yet again from a third world country with a guilty and sick feeling for not doing enough to make the world a better place for everyone. I was coming back also with the accumulative knowledge that many of the people’s of the world that we use and abuse are becoming increasingly frustrated and angry. I hoped and prayed our flight would make it back safely and I wondered how long I would be able to venture out and to travel safely in this wonderful world. After all, the natives are restless.

– THE END –

by Mike McGrath (C) 1995

A voice in the hall said it was three in the morning and he marveled to himself at his wide awake state. It probably had something to do with the music blaring top 40 hits next door and of course the company he didn’t keep in the hall.

Howard Munroe lay propped up against the wall on the lumpy bed with worn sheets pulled around him and a book of short stories open at his side. He wanted to be anonymous and alone after his three year stint in the small northern town which was home, most of the time. Now, he was indeed alone in one of the many cells that made up this Victorian vintage hotel in the heart of downtown Toronto.

Tonight, Howard was on his own. It was what he had wanted, to be lost in the midst of thousands of city people, all going about their lives oblivious to his. No doubt he felt a quiet comfort and some serenity but he was nervous too as though in the eye of a storm. It did not take long this night for the peace to turn on Howard in loneliness again and to make it worse he seemed to have become acutely aware of every sound around him.

The hall reverberated with stomping feet and crude, drunken chatter. Somehow even the laughter that drifted through the warped plaster walls was cruel and had an edge to it. This could have been a 24 hour donut place if sound were his only sense. In fact these sounds came from the hallway outside the dingy room where Howard lay listening.

There were several sharp raps on a door in the hall and a voice followed, “It’s Brian, man. C’mon lets go,” a young man whined. He got no answer. He knocked again and harder. “Just a beer, c’mon don’t make me wait here,” the voice was more determined. There was another pause and no answer. “Fuck,” the voice said in anger and the sound of slow steps faded down the hall and then were punctuated with a burst of disco music that drifted up from the bar below, past the shuffle of feet and down the corridor, then they were gone with a slam of a door.

Next door the music blared out of a portable radio, “Life, la la la la la, life is life, la la la la la,” and his was accompanied by sensual sighs, that progressed to grunts and then laughter.

The north still had a hold on Howard and it caught him again for a few seconds and made him writhe in pain that was a missing feeling of sickness that churned in his stomach. He thought of the old woman, fragile, thin and wrinkled. He imagined he was a boy again and was cuddled in her arms as she sat in her rocking chair at the window.

He could almost hear her weak but still beating heart and see her glazed but still bright, dancing eyes that momentarily calmed him with deep wells of love.

Then he wiped the scene away by rubbing his eyes so hard that it hurt. He cupped his hands over his face and a deep breath became a long and drawn out sigh.

No, he reminded himself, he could not let the thought of home and the old woman pull too greatly or the result would find him back in the Buick and heading out of the neon night city to the expressway and the narrowing, dark road that wound back up north.

The voice in the hall was back again on the tail end of three sharp and loud knocks, “Look. It’s me again. Just tell me your OK. You don’t have to let me in. C’mon Ken just one word. OK?” Silence was his answer and he beat on the door, “This is bullshit and you bastard you’re just going to make me wait all night,” the voice said in a mean and desperate tone and then left again with hesitant steps that did an exit with the disco beat rushing up from the first floor and then again with the slam of the door there was silence in the hall.

A few minutes passed and from the far end of the hall a door opened and closed in a series of knocks. Greetings were punctuated with rough words like fuck, shit and screw and a party stumbled back and forth between the distant room and the hall. The party grew quickly.

From the direction of this party a young woman’s voice sliced through dull drunken sounds after two slight knocks on a door, “I’m here,” she said. The door opened and the party spilled into the hall with heavy metal music and a sexy young male voice, “Yea, come on in.” He sounded eager.“Oh, whoa,” the girl’s voice said to what she saw. “What are those guys doing here?”

His reply was cool, smooth and meant to be reassuring, “Oh its okay, they’ll mind their own business. Anyway in half an hour they’ll all be passed out.”

“No way man, it’s too crazy,” a more defiant tone spoke out of the woman. Street wisdom barked out of her, “You want me in there, get them the fuck out or forget it.”

“I can’t babe,” he swooned and then harshly added, “What you wanna do fuck on the staircase?”

She was blunt, “It would be a lot safer,” and her high heels kicked in with hammering clicks that faded down the hall, let in the disco beat and a door slammed.

“Fuck you bitch,” came a frustrated retort that was obviously more for the ears in his room than the departed visitor. Grunts and roars of laughter drew him back into his world and the party was shut inside again.

Howard shook his head in amazement. This he was not used to and it filled him with a combination of disgust and sadness. He felt disgust for the thin emotion that bounced back and forth between the voices and their seemingly desperate situations. Then he felt sadness for what he imagined was poor luck, which had taken them to a rough edge that glittered like fools gold with alcohol, drugs and fast, risky money.

Two days, Howard thought and he could move on to a more comfortable and sane environment. He had been naive on this jaunt into the city and had settled too quickly for the huge Victorian hotel, which with its outward shell had promised much more grand accommodation. He felt a little cheated too; the advertisement he had read in the Body Politic claimed Ernest Hemingway as a resident for a short while in his early days as a writer with the Toronto Star.

Howard adored Hemingway’s work and admitted to himself now that he had been pulled in by a sense of history and nostalgia and some pretentious notion that he fancied himself as a writer.

This glamorous hook led him to a decaying cell where wall paper heaved from disfigured walls and cracked plaster mixed with the shadows cast from the dim lamp light to make crazy designs on the ceiling ten feet above his head.

He tried to imagine the grand state of the old hotel in the 1920s, the toast of the wealthy and high society. The red brick, castle like building would have jutted high on the city scape back then. Ornamental chandeliers, oriental wool rugs and gleaming wood staircases would have given the hotel a prominent place in Toronto. There were still enough hints of what had been and it captured Howard’s imagination. For thirty-five dollars a night he felt he could put up with any inconveniences for a short stay in the belly of this ragged Victorian princess.

Bass notes came up from the disco below in dull thuds that shook through the room and rain beat, whipped by the wind on loose panes from which only the fuzzy sight of other panes in the dark could be seen lit in a building across the way.

The pop music next door mixed with a bizarre harmony in sounds of lust, the dull disco throb from below, muffled rock beats down the hall and rain that pounded in a pulsating rhythm. These were sliced with the wail of a siren that cried in panic and distress from the suppressed but ever present roar of the city at night.

Then he was back with the same slow leather heal to pine step sounds, “Please. Its me Brian. Please Ken I promise I’ll go away if you just say something, anything,” the voice trembled. Then he cried, “You really are a bastard .”

There was a pounding on the door and what sounded like a bang made by the force of an entire body crashing against the door. It was quiet for a moment and then the voice groaned as the pain of love lost slipped up and out of him. “Oh Ken, Ken. I love you Ken, please.”

As though tethered with a greater weight, the feet moved in sluggish creaks, hesitated, then continued to where the disco music came up to welcome the wounded young man back downstairs, the door slammed and it was quiet again.

Howard looked about his room and was overwhelmed with where he was and also with the demands of his day. He shut the light out of it all with a flick of the lamp switch and then went in a drift off to sleep.

Deep in the caverns of slumber he could hear from far away the goings on about him. From where he lay there were familiar passings and knocks and voices. They trembled in waves to him like thunder announcing a storm.

In panic he awoke trough the layers of numbing, fluffy sleep to horrific screams that bolted him automatically up and to the door. The screams were trying to get in and Howard, in a knee-jerk reaction, unlatched the lock and pulled on the heavy oak door to reveal wild eyes in terror. Wild eyes that pushed him aside and against the wall.

A naked young man covered in blood tore into the room and scrambled on all fours towards the far window. He was followed by a bearded fully clothed assailant that jumped on his back and in great thrusts was burying flashes of steel into his victim’s back. Blood splattered in streams up and over everything and Howard, on impulse, lunged at the bearded assailant.

“Ahh, you fucking cunt,” the bearded man with the knife screamed and Howard knew it as the recurring voice in the hall. In reflex, Howard tried to overpower the flailing figure but the voice turned in the violent body with the power of ten men and put his flash of steel into Howard with a crunch that broke though his rib cage and exploded his heart. The butcher knife sucked back out and the voice with crazed eyes in a screwed up face, behind a full black beard let out a satanical laugh, then went back to hacking at the writhing form on the floor.

Howard fell slowly against the wall. He was poised to holler for help, there was a great scream just on the edge of his tongue but he was frozen in this cry and everything slowed and then stopped and locked into one last frame of the scene that hung there before him.

There was no breath to come, no way out, no angel of mercy, time stopped dead and Howard was cold then very warm. This last view of the murderous rampage began to melt in colors that dripped and flowed where forms had been and then he went with a sick feeling into the deepest dark there could be. He felt as though he was free falling into empty wells of blackness and then a dot of light appeared and grew.

He came to screaming but it didn’t seem right. It was new and it was fresh and he was crying and gasping and ripping with his arms and legs at the air. There was the thick sweet odour of blood and he cried out but could not find words to speak.

“It’s a boy. A good healthy boy,” the voice said. Howard Munroe felt his memory banks empty as he was raised in the air and gently slapped.

He tried with all his might to hold on to his one final thought in this new world, “Oh no, not again,” this thought echoed in his mind and began to fade as air filled his lungs, images blurred with a new light and energy burned in him like a fire in renewed ignition after having been blown back from dull embers.

The End