Truths and Half Truths

Who Loves Ya, Baby ...?

Through one of those things where you read a comment on a blog you love, and the comment has a link to it and you click on the link because hey, otherwise there is work to do and really, we can't have that, I found an essay by a blogger who calls herself Chicky Chicky Baby.  The post talks about bloggers who have decided to pack it in (and haven't we all felt like that at one time or another), and it has this little gem of an idea:

What has depressed me the most, however, is the idea that people are pulling out cardboard boxes and newspaper to pack it up and others are picking this time, when the person is saying 'See Ya Later', to tell the blogger how much they've loved their writing and that they're really going to miss them. Why do we wait until the end to tell other's how much we really enjoyed having them around? Why do we wait for that final post, or the one threatening to end it all, to say "No! Don't go! I love having you around! Your writing means something to me."?

Why don't we tell someone that we care about them, or dare I say "love" them, before they're walking out the door?

People who know me - and some of you know me well - know that I am very forthcoming with my appreciation.  It's a decision I made some years back, when I was feeling underappreciated: I resolved then to make sure people who I respect, enjoy, and yes, "love" are aware of how much they mean to me.

I'm relentless about it, and I have found it to be one of the most rewarding changes I have made in my life and my way of thinking.  It never fails to bring me joy to tell someone how much they add to my life.  It really is a gift I give to myself, and what's lovely is that it is always appreciated by those who I share it with.

Allison was at a slumber party recently with a bunch of students in her Education faculty, and they played a game where one by one, each of the people at the party would sit in a chair (sometimes, I'm sure, uncomfortably), and every other person in the room would point out one positive quality about the person in the hot seat.  It didn't have to be a big thing - one person told Allison "I love how you get excited to be sitting next to a person in class who you've never sat beside before".  That seemingly insignificant quality speaks to a larger facet of her personality that is utterly engaging and wonderful - her interest in other people and her joy in discovering new friends.

As I say, I make a point of privately telling people I care about them, so I don't need to do that here.  What I think might be fun, though, is every now and again (perhaps every Friday?) to pick out five people whose blogs I enjoy and tell them so.  In doing so, I hope to encourage you to go discover how terrific these people are.

My selections will be more or less random, so no fair sooking if you don't see your name this week - chances are it will be there next week.  Trust me - if you're on my blogroll, you're there because I like what you do and how you do it.  That said, I need to start somewhere ...

... and Doc Ern is as good a place as any.  Erin's posts are always filled with humour and life, and I adore reading about her adventures in birding.  She is a self-avowed "nerd" (even owning a shirt that reads "Talk nerdy to me") ... but I think that she's actually pretty cool.  Erin loves the outdoors and loves animals (this is starting to sound like her Playboy centrefold Profile, isn't it?) and spends her days in a lab where she is a research scientist.  So yeah ... nerd.  But definitely not the kind of nerd we used to have at my school..

Speaking of cool nerds, Kelly is about the coolest.  Her writing often takes my breath away - crisp images, clever references, and such a positive, healthy outlook on life and relationships and all things trivial and not.  I don't check every blog on my blogroll every day.  But hers, I do.  And I have never been disappointed.  Allison and I have both said "Doesn't she sound like somebody you could really be friends with?"  Allison is 22.  I'm ... not.  I think it says something about Kelly that we both think she'd be a good pal..

Also on my list of bloggers whose writing has never disappointed me is William.   When I need to laugh, that's where I go.  This is one very talented, very funny guy.  He writes about his relationships - with his wife and his kids and his brothers and parents -  in a very honest, open, and kind way and weaves in lovely, self-deprecating humour to make sure nobody gets hurt.

Speaking of honest writing - and for good measure, some pretty damn fine photography - I can't do this first piece without mentioning one of my oldest and dearest friends on the internet,  Laura.   Laura's writing - especially some of her stream-of-consciousness rambles - never fails to make me smile.  And she takes some killer pictures of the place she lives on the Gulf Coast of Florida and the shorebirds and animals she encounters.   Plus - smartest dog around.

And finally (for this week), go visit Wordgirl.  I don't read any better writing, online or in books, than she routinely - and, it seems, effortlessly - spills into her posts.  She is brilliant and funny and thoughtful and writes incisively and articulately about things that matter, and there is a very good reason she's been seconded to write a regular piece for a parenting blog called The Imperfect Parent.   She writes with sparkling wit and an elegance to which we should all aspire.

So there you are.  This week's Friday Five.  I think they're terrific, and I want them to know that and I want you to know that and go visit them and later on we can all gather on a hilltop and raise our Cokes in one hand and our candles in the other and it will be a big ol' love fest.  Or else go for a beer.

More next Friday, unless I forget.

In Which (Unless You Have A Heart Of Stone) You WIll Quietly Weep For A Little Boy

My friend Wordgirl has some lovely reflections on her favourite time of year, Hallowe'en.  I shared a somewhat sad (but kinda funny in retrospect) story about one Hallowe'en where I got a ride home in a cop car.

But I have a much sadder story:

I was six, i think.  Possibly five years old.  I had (and still have) a somewhat wonky eye - the muscles behind the eye are lax, and when i get tired my right eye will sort of wander off on its own, so that you don't know if I'm looking at you or looking at something over your shoulder.  The name eye surgeons give this affliction is a "squint" ... and I don't know what it has to do with squinting, but hey, they're the doctors.

When one of my kids notices my eye is wandering, she'll say "Dad, your eye is going wonky.  Go to bed."  And after a good sleep, it's fine.  But when I was five, it would happen even when I wasn't tired, and it would cause double vision.  Of course my parents were alarmed, so they took me to an eye doctor.  He scheduled me for elective surgery, but it was months and months down the road.

On October 29th, Mom got a phone call.  They eye doctor was on the line, telling her that there had been a cancellation and that they could get me in on Thursday, two days hence.  My mom was delighted.  I was less so.

Thursday was Hallowe'en..

I wasn't so much upset about the not dressing up.  My costumes were always crap anyway - fifth of six kids, so by the time I got to the costume box it was a black towel for my neck, a crappy plastic Lone Ranger mask, and I could go as my brother "Zorro's" sidekick, "Zero".  Yay.  Plus, my older brother?  Armed with a curtain rod for a sword?  Always fun.  Yeah.  Good times. (twitch)

So I could do without dressing up, and coming home with welts all over my legs from being slashed at by Zorro, and dodging cars in my all-black costume (reflective tape?  Hah!).  What I didn't want to do without was the candy.  But once my mom assured me I could have one-fifth of everybody else's haul (and didn't my brother love that little piece of news!) I was okay to go in for surgery.

I went in on the night before.  I had a bed in a public ward - eight beds, all of them empty except mine.  The nurses were all very attentive, checking on me, making sure I wasn't scared or lonely all by myself in the dark.  Hey, coming from a small house with five brothers and sisters, I was thrilled with having a choice of beds and quite enjoyed having someone to bring me juice or ice cream at the yank of a cord pinned to my pillow.

In the morning, they prepped me for surgery.  I didn't like the needle in my bum very much, but it was over and done with before I could even cry.  My mom was there, which was comforting.  She showed me these cool cuffs they were going to put on my arms, right at my elbows.  They were much like the cuffs they use to test blood pressure, except not flexible at all.

"Here," said Mom.  "I'll put one on you.  They have popsicle sticks inside them.  I betcha can't bend your elbows when you have this on."

I tried, and sure enough, she was right.  The cuff had popsicle sticks inside, running down my arm so that when I tried to bend my elbow, I couldn't.  I giggled.  I never knew popsicle sticks were that strong.

"Here," said Mom.  "Let's try the other one on." 

I did, and pretended I was the Frankenstein Monster, lumbering along, swinging my arms stiffly out.  My nose was itchy and I couldn't scratch it.  Mom scratched it for me.  I was getting sleepy, anyway.

Mom walked alongside as I was rolled down to surgery, still wearing those cuffs.  It was okay.  I didn't feel like moving my arms.  We got into surgery and the doctor said "OK, now you'll feel a little pinch." (I did, and winced, but it wasn't that bad)," ... and I want you to see if you can count backwards from ten for me."

Well.  Easy peasy.  Ten ... nine ... eight ... the light overhead suddenly flared a brilliant white ...

                                                      ***********************

I woke up in blackness.  I called for my Mom.  She was right there.

"I can't see," I said.  I was scared.  So scared.

"It's just bandages," said my Mom.  "They operated on your eyes and now you have bandages on them.  Just close your eyes, rest them a bit.  They'll take the bandages off in a day or two."

But I wanted them off now.  So I reached up to tear them off ... and discovered what the cuffs were for.

Mom soothed me.  She sang to me, rubbed my chest, talked to me in that low, honeyed, mellifluous voice she had.  After a while, I nodded off.

And Mom went home.  Dad was away, flying.  She had kids to get ready.

For Hallowe'en.

                                                           ******************

I woke up to the sound of a child's screams.  A boy?  A girl?  Couldn't tell.  The cries were high pitched, pained, mixed with gurgling, wracking sobs.  I reached for the bandages, to tear them off, to see what horrible thing had happened to this child.   My stiff arms flailed and my hands scrabbled at thin air.  I tried to get at the calling cord, pinned to the pillow, and couldn't reach it, either.

Was this a little boy who fell off the monkey bars and broke his neck?  A little girl who was loading the muzzle of her Daisy Air Rifle with a wad of mud and shooting it and put her eye out?  I knew that breaking your neck and putting your eye out were the two most common childhood injuries, because of all the warnings from my Mom.  But this somehow sounded worse.

Moments later, another child was wheeled in.  Who knows what had happened to him - running from house to house and not looking both ways?  Darting out between parked cars?  His agonized screams drowned out the first kid's. 

I lay there, in blackness, small and terrified and confused, surrounded by the sounds of unseen, unknown horror.  I couldn't speak or cry out, didn't want to draw attention to myself, such easy prey for whatever beast was skulking, slavering nearby.  I lay still and quiet and if the tears stung my useless eyes you would never know it.

Another hurt child came in, and another.  A typical Hallowe'en night for a kids' ward in a hospital, I suppose, but as the other seven beds around me filled with crying, screaming, frightened children my head filled with grotesque images inspired by their wails.  I imagined missing limbs, bodies torn and rendered and shattered, faces turned to bloody pulp ... all of that and far worse, and all within an arms reach of this tiny little boy with no eyes but an imagination so incredibly vivid I could hear the blood dripping onto the floor from the cleaver raised over my head.

I cannot ever be terrified for myself again, after that night.  I have never had, and cannot imagine, a night so filled with galloping, raging fear.  It gripped me and held me for hour after hour.  I don't remember sleeping that night - I may have.  But if I did, I promise the fear never let up for one moment even in my dreams.

My Mom came in the next morning, as early as she could after getting my brothers and sisters off to school.  I can only imagine what she must have felt to find me cowering, sobbing soundlessly, so tiny and helpless and afraid.  I remember that she took the Head Nurse out into the corridor and I heard her voice - not calming and honeyed but whip sharp and acid bathed.  She gathered me up into her arms when she returned, and in the blackness I could hear a nurse start to protest ... and the protest gurgle and die in infancy, the victim of my Mom's venomous glance.

They took the bandages off that morning.  The doctor was reluctant but my Mom promised him that either he could do it or she would but this child would not be blind any more.  She tore the cuffs off my arms and I can still hear her apologies, mouthed against my ear as she wrapped me up in her arms and the doctor unwound the bandages.

I was fine.  My vision was blurred for a few days, I'm not sure how many - that part isn't clear.  Some details you forget.

Some, you never do.

So, Hallowe'en means something a little different to me than it does to some people.  I remember the fun.  I remember dressing up, and playing pranks, and that one year there was an early snowfall and my brother and I were the only two kids to brave the blizzard and how we came home with pillowcases bulging with impossible quantities of candy - good candy, not those disgusting popcorn balls or stupid apples or black licorice but Wagon Wheels and Smarties and Kit Kat bars and Jersey Milk and Crispy Crunch and Lik-M-Aid and Hershey's kisses by the pound.

But I remember the dark, too.  It doesn't keep me awake or anything.  In fact, I don't think about it very much at all.

But it's always there. 

I sleep with a light on somewhere - in the hall, or a bathroom, perhaps the glow from a television; not enought to disturb anybody else, but enough to keep it from being totally black in the room.

Just a little light.  You understand.

Chapter 15 - Eva's Story

June, 1945 - Vancouver, B.C.

Eva Carvell's shoulders sagged as she took the crumpled envelope from Paul's hand.  She recognized the handwriting as Justin's.  She knew instantly that inside the envelope was heartbreak.

Paul shifted awkwardly from foot to foot, unsure of whether to go or stay.  She looked up into his homely, anguished face and offered a wan smile.

"It's okay, Paul," she said.  "You go with your mom and dad.  I'll be fine."

Paul tried his best to soften the blow.  "Eva, it's Justin," he said.  "You know him.  He can be a little bit crazy.  He'll be back soon, and ..."

But she had already turned her attention to the envelope, only now noticing that her hand was shaking.  She opened it and read, "Dear Eva ..."

Paul, God love the poor bugger, stayed right there as she read the short letter, willing to take the bullet for his best friend.  She finished reading, folded the thin paper neatly, put it carefully back in the envelope, and slipped it into her purse.

"Paul, look at your mom and dad," she said gamely.  "They've missed you.  Why don't you go with them?"

"I guess I should," he said, already edging away.  "Look, Eva, maybe when he comes home ..."

"It's okay," she said.  She patted him on the shoulder affectionately.  "Go."

"No, wait," she said, as he took a step.  She tugged at the ring on her left hand.  "Take this.  Have it."

"Me?  But ... what will I do with it?"

"Does it matter?"

She turned and hurried out of the station.  Paul watched until she was swallowed up by the crush of reuniting familes and embracing lovers.  He tucked the ring in the breast pocket of his uniform, patted it twice to reassure himself it was safe, and rejoined his mom and dad.

                                                    ********************

October, 1946 - Vancouver, B.C.

The church was crowded; that was a relief, at any rate.

Eva ducked in the side door, avoiding the ushers who would, of course, have asked her if she was a friend of the bride or the groom.

"Friend of the groom," she thought, with just a tinge of bitterness.

She found a place on a pew far in the back and, like everyone else, rose and turned as the organist began the Wedding March.

The woman beside her leaned in close.  "Isn't she beautiful?"  she said breathlessly.

Eva nodded, her thoughts her own, and settled in with everyone else to witness the ceremony.  When the minister asked if anyone could show cause why this man and this woman should not be joined in Holy Matrimony, she looked down at her hands folded neatly in her lap, closed her eyes, then stood with everyone else as the happy couple were introduced.

Neither Mary nor Justin ever learned she was at the church that day.  If Paul had noticed her as the bride came up the aisle, he never said a word to anyone.  When the ceremony was finished, Eva slipped quietly out the door she had come in and closed the book on that chapter of her life.

                                                         ***********************

August, 1971 - Falcon Lake, Manitoba

Manitoba gets hot in the summer.  It's a dry, prairie heat that sears your lungs, makes the hair on your arms feel crispy and brittle, and conjures up a nostalgia for January (until you remember how the bone-chilling cold would sear your lungs and make the hair on your arms feel crispy and brittle).

It's a land of extremes.

Winnipeg rises up from the parched, sun-baked prairie, its downtown highrises visible from the horizon.  The city perches on a land so flat you can sit on your porch and watch your dog run away for four days.

90 miles east of Winnipeg, the Canadian Shield bursts out of the earth, craggy and rugged with its granite outcroppings and impenetrable pine, spruce and hardwood forest.  The Shield is prime cottage country, its hundreds of sparkling fresh-water lakes and staggering 75,000 miles of coastline liberally dotted with vacation homes both grand and modest.

On a hot August day in cottage country, there's little else to do but sit on the dock in a deck chair, listen to the water lapping at the pilings underneath you and the loons calling out on the water, read a good book and sip from a tall, cool glass.

Which is what Eva Jespersen was doing that afternoon.

She'd come to Winnipeg from her home in B.C. to visit an old friend, Olive MacGregor.  Since the death of her huband Lars two years before, Eva took a couple of trips a year.  When Eva's plane landed and Olive suggested they spend the weekend at the cottage to escape the city heat, Eva was relieved.

Olive's teenaged son Gary was already there, and he had brought along his new girlfriend, a stunning girl, white-blonde hair, athletic and tanned and full of life.  The two lovebirds were already out in the canoe when Olive and Eva arrived, but once the drinks were poured and the two old friends settled into a conversation, she could see the canoe heading back. 

The prow of the canoe bumped the dock and Gary scrambled out, stopping to help his girlfriend.  He hugged his "Aunt" Eva and introduced the sweetie he'd brought to the cottage for the weekend.

"Auntie Eva, this is Andrea Ling," he said.

When the young girl smiled, Eva knew.  In her suddenly rapidly-beating heart, she knew.

"Ling," she said.  "That's an unusual name."

Andrea grinned and said, "Most people expect me to be Chinese."

"But you're not," said Eva.  "Unless that's the best dye job I'll ever see."  Andrea giggled.

"It's Swedish," she said.

"And are you from Sweden?"

"Oh, no," said Andrea.  "My grandfather was.  His name was Nils Ling.  We're from here.  Winnipeg, I mean.  Well, all over.  Dad was in the Air Force."

Eva nodded thoughtfully.  "She's so sweet," she thought.  Then:  "She looks so much like him.  So much like his sister Barbara ...".

Then Eva thought about Carol, three weeks from starting her final year of business school.  A rocky few years as a teenager, but the most adorable child she could ever imagine and now a mature, thoughtful young woman, and the image of Eva as a young girl. 

They'd had lunch just the week before,  Carol had been her rock when Lars had died.  No: they'd been that for each other.

And in those moments she realized that whatever ill she might have wished Justin in the past 25 years (and she'd had some vicious thoughts, for sure), she couldn't help but see that her life had turned out just fine without him.  "She's a lovely girl, his daughter," thought Eva.  "But I wouldn't have had Carol." 

And that, she knew, would have been too high a price to pay.

And finally, she was at peace with that so-secret part of her previous life.  Roads not taken were finally left to grow over and turn to forest. 

She was at peace ... but not without a sly sense of mischief.

"Can you do me a favour?" said Eva.  "Can you tell your father that Eva Carvell says "Hello"?  We're old friends."  She smiled sweetly at this adorable blonde, and thought,  "There you go, Justin;  a bird has come home to roost."

Eva took a sip of her gin and tonic.  It tasted wonderful.  Olive really did know how to mix a drink.

                                                         ****************

August, 1971 - Winnipeg, Manitoba

Justin's fork paused in mid-air.

"Eva Carvell ...?"

"Yeah.  She says "Hi".  That she was an old friend.  She's from B.C."

Justin glanced up at Mary.  She was watching him with a glint of amusement in her eyes.  He rolled his eyes at her and she giggled.  "Wasn't Eva an old high school friend?" she asked, all innocence and sweetness.

The kids were all curious, wrapping their heads around the idea that their father may have actually been young enough to attend high school.

"She was very pretty," Andrea gushed.  "And really nice."

It was Justin's turn to grin as Mary's face darkened.  "Yes, I remember Eva as being very beautiful," he said, straight-faced.  "And she was one of the nicest girls you'd ever meet."

"Bastard," Mary muttered, and Justin burst out laughing.

Over dinner the story came out.  They'd been young kids; the engagement had been an impulse; in the end, it was better for everyone how it turned out.

Four kids around the table.  Four jaws agape.  A flood of questions asked.

"Who is she?" asked Andrea.

"How did you meet her?"  Barb wondered.

"When did you get engaged?"  Kathy wanted to know.

"Can somebody pass the ketchup?" pleaded Nils.  Relationship talk.  With a table full of good food.  No-brainer.

Finally, from Andrea:  "How did you tell her it was over?"

Mary snorted.  "A letter.  He wrote her a letter."

The three girls turned as one to their father.  "A letter?  You broke off your engagement in a letter?"

Nils said, "Is there any more garlic bread?"

"I saw her when I got back.  She agreed it was best.  We were young."

"But a letter?"

"I was young.  I was foolish.  It wasn't the right thing to do.  But in the end, it turned out best for everyone."

"Garlic bread?  Was that the last piece ... ?"

It was an interesting conversation that night.  And the garlic bread was delicious.  And that's the thing.

The course of love may wind and meander. 

But you can always count on garlic bread.

                                          

Looking Cool

Note:  This is not a golf story.  I know non-golfers don't really enjoy golf stories - in fact, you can see their eyes glaze over within a sentence or two.  And if you are a non-golfer, that may happen to you in the first few paragraphs.  Grab some coffee and stick with it.  This story has a larger point.  I hope.

The other day I stood on the 13th tee of the golf course I play at and surveyed the shot facing me. 

It was a shot demanding considerable precision and more than a little courage, especially if you have a relatively good score going and it's getting towards the end of the round.  You don't want to generate yet another of those pathetic stories golfers always inflict on one another ("God ... I was going along so well.  It was one of those games where everything finally came together when dammit, I put four balls into the water on 13."  "Ah, been there, pal ... did I ever tell you about the time I yanked my drive on 17 into the bushes and it took me seven strokes to get it back on the fairway?"  "Well, that's nothing, what about the time ...")

It's not a long hole - a 146 yard par-3.  But the green juts out into the water, forming an enticing but relatively tiny emerald peninsula.  Any shot that catches a gust of wind and strays left; or has to fight the wind too hard, loses, and comes up short; or is struck unexpectedly purely and takes off just as the wind abates and sails long, ends up making a loud and humiliating splash, the kind of splash that causes golfers on the fairways all around you to glance over and think, "Poor bastard.  He should take some lessons."

I got up on the tee, selected my club, then felt a gust of wind, re-considered, and chose a different club.  I took a couple of practice swings that felt right, addressed the ball ("OK, you little white bastard, don't you try anything funny."), and launched my shot.

It was - and I don't think I'm being overly kind to myself here - one of the most beautiful shots ever played in the history of the game of golf.  At the moment of impact I knew in every cell of my body that it was going to be a great shot - it felt so buttery soft coming off the face of the club.  We watched as it soared in a picture-perfect arc, bounced three times on the green, and rolled ... rolled ... rolled ... till it stopped three inches from the cup - very nearly a Hole in One.

My playing partners were in awe.  "Wow.  GREAT shot."  "Perfect."  "God, I thought it was in, terrific shot."  People who were waiting behind us (the course was busy that day, and play was slow) were equally effusive in their praise.  "Amazing."  "Wow."

I leaned down, picked up the broken tee, tossed it aside, slipped my club back into my bag, gave a soft, self-deprecating smile, and said "Well, I imagine we'll be able to find that one."

So cool, so nonchalant for someone whose heart was pounding like a jack-hammer and who wanted to scream "Oh, my God, did you SEE that, with the perfect swing and the flight of the ball and the bounce and the roll and the almost going in the goddamn hole and Christ all it needed was one or two more rolls and I've been golfing for forty-three frigging years, thousands of rounds, too many to even count and I've never had a hole in one and jaysus Mary Mother of God I thought that was it!"

But I didn't.  I just gave a little shrug and smiled what I hoped was a calm, crooked, self-satisfied smile and waited for the lesser mortals to hit their shots, for which I duly (and generously) complimented them, even though theirs were so painfully inferior to the shot we'd all so admired.

"Try to make it look like you've been there before and fully expect to be back."

There's the key to cool.

I used to coach football (oh, yeah - I was a passably good minor football coach for fifteen years.  Not many championships to show for it, but years later grown men have stopped me on the street and - even though I can barely recognize them dressed in a sports jacket and tie and all grown up and pushing a baby stroller - have told me that the time they spent playing for me was the most fun they ever had on a football field.  Rewards delayed are not rewards denied).  My players learned early on that their coach frowned upon the classless celebrations that are so much a part of the game now - the touchdown dances, the posing, the self-aggrandizement that so many athletes engage in to taunt and further humiliate their opponents.

In the first game of every year one new kid would score a touchdown, or block a punt or make a tackle and leap up, do some dance inspired by his heroes (!) on TV.  And his teammates who had played for me in years past would shake their heads and calm him down and know that when he got back to the bench (often a bit surprised to be pulled out of the game when he had done something so utterly magnificent), he would  be beckoned over and told "We don't do that.  When you get into the endzone, you make it look like you've been there before and fully expect to be back.  Be cool."

Be cool.

Sometimes it's not easy to remember to be cool. 

One time I was pitching in a slow-pitch softball game against a rival radio station.  Some friends had come to watch the game, and had arrived just in time to see the other team's most imposing batter step into the box.  (It occurs to me that I am drawing a lot of this from my experiences in sports.  Odd.  I'm not an exceptionally gifted athlete, nor a particularly sporty guy.  But we find inspiration where it presents itself, I suppose.  At any rate ...)

This guy was huge.  6'5", maybe 250.  He was the guy on every team who causes your outfielders to slump resignedly back to the fence in preparation for climbing it to fetch the inevitable home run.

I released the ball, he swung, and it came back to me at a speed I can only estimate at 6000 MPH.  A laser, directly at me.  Well, to be more accurate, directly at my glove, which had, in my natural pitching motion, dropped to my hip.

CRACKTHWAP.  That's as close as I can approximate the sound as the bat hit the ball and the ball hit my glove square in the palm.  One sound.  In fact, so fast was this ball coming back at me that it's quite possible the THWAP part of the sound came first.

I did not so much catch the ball as look down, astonished to realize it was imbedded in my palm.  There was no twitch of reflexes.  It appeared, in the palm of my glove, with no independent action required from me. 

And note, I said "in the palm of my glove".  Not "in the pocket".

The palm of a baseball glove, especially one as old and well-worn as mine, is nothing more than a thin layer of supple leather, offering approximately the same cushioning effect as, say, silk.  When a softball travelling fast enough to penetrate an armoured personnel carrier meets this thin layer of leather, the kinetic energy is transferred directly into the hand underneath.

My hand.

This kinetic energy is transformed into neurological impulses, which send subtle messages to your brain that "Oh, my dear GOD, something terrible has happened!  Arooogah, arooooogah, commence the humiliatingly dorky maneuver where you let the glove fall off your hand and leap up and down, shaking the hand to prove to yourself it still exists, and screaming "JESUSFUCKDAMNSHITOWCHRISTGODDAMNITSHIT!"

Which, you know, I did.

The batter was nice about it.  "Sorry," he said, as if that made it all better.  He hadn't meant to hurt me, but as he trotted back to his dugout, you could tell he was more than a little self-satisfied.  Which stung all the more.

After a while, the third baseman, a nice guy named Steve, walked over to the mound.  He put his hand on my shoulder and said "You OK?"

"Yeah.  Shit.  Ow.  Yeah, I'm OK, just give me a second."

"Sure, sure," he said.  Then added.  "You know what would have been really cool?"

"What's that."

"Nothing, I guess.  But maybe if you'd just thrown the ball over to first and picked off the runner, and nailed the double play, it might have been a bit cooler than what you did."

"Yeah, OK.  I'll keep that in mind for next time."

So, next time that happens, I'll be cool.

We pretend that being cool doesn't matter to us.  Life isn't a show for the rest of the world.  Who cares what people think?  Screw 'em, right?

But in fact, being cool - or acting cool - is important to all of us.  It helps us feel more together, more with it, more prepared for life's curve balls (or line drives).

I act cool when I'm really not.  When something is happening in my life that is important to me, when I don't want to open myself to looking pathetic or desperate or needy or scared ... I do what I can to act cool.  I try not to do the happy dance after victories (too much) and try not to look fazed when things don't go my way.

People I know, people I respect, people I love don't need another opportunity to see me at my worst.  They see enough of that from me anyway.  If I act cool, then somehow I figure if things don't go my way I'll be able to BE cool about it.

It's a thin veneer.  Like the leather on the palm of a baseball glove.  Line drives still hurt like hell.

But at the very least, if I act cool, I'll be the only one who knows how much it stings.

Chapter Fourteen - Loose Ends

Hugh Henry Houtton nodded to Nestor Danyluk as they passed by one another, Hugh Henry on his walk home from the railway office, Nestor ambling home from his job with the city's Department of Road Maintenance (which consisted, as far as Hugh Henry could tell, of leaning on a shovel, smoking cigarettes with a group of fellows named Alec and Metro and watching a lone worker fill up and empty out the same pothole for eight hours a day.  The thought never failed to irritate Hugh Henry, whose contempt for labour unions was matched only by his deep suspicion of Catholics. )

He swung up the sidewalk of the brownstone bungalow, the western exposure bathed in sunlight, the tiny porch (how he missed the giant old verandah they used to have!) crowded with a pair of deep green Muskoka chairs.  As he opened the front door, he glanced to his left - in the corner of the porch, behind one of the chairs, was a khaki duffle bag.  Stencilled on the kit was: Ling, J.A.  Flt. Lt.

Hugh Henry paused and regarded the kit thoughtfully, then nodded to himself and carried on.  Helen was bustling around the kitchen.  He dropped his black lunch box on the sideboard as he passed by on his way down to the back bedroom.  There,  he took off his narrow black tie, draped it over the closet doorknob, exchanged his short-sleeved white work shirt for a virtually identical short-sleeved white evening shirt, and came back to the kitchen.

"So ...," he said, as Helen pecked him on the cheek.

"How was your day, my darlin'?" asked Helen, her face all innocence save for the sparkle of amusement in her eyes.

Hugh Henry played along.  "It was lovely, dear.  The Prime Minister dropped by for lunch.  I shared my sandwich with him.  Asked me what he should do to put all these young fellows back to work now they're coming home from over.  I told him I'd talk to you and call him in the morning.  So, just a day.  Anything unusual happen around here?"

Helen grinned.  "Nothing out of the ordinary.  Got the laundry out on the line - lovely to see the sun, it dried so quickly.  Your Mary Lou stopped by, to say her interview went well.  And ... oh, let me think ..."

" ... and she had a visitor?" added Hugh Henry, ever so helpfully.

"Ah, yes.  Nice young man stopped over.  They've gone for a wee walk."  Helen dropped the last few pieces of beef in the stewing pot, to swim with the quartered potatoes and cut vegetables.

Hugh Henry sat at the kitchen table as Helen took some lemonade from the ice box and poured two glasses.  "And how did she --"

The front door burst open and Vera barrelled into the room.  "Where are they?"

"They've gone for a walk, dear," said Helen, reaching for another glass from the cupboard.  "I expect they'll be back for supper."

"Did she yell at him?  Cry?  What did she say?" 

Helen smiled.  "She seemed quite ... pleased.  Excited.  And they went for a walk.  Let's all go sit on the porch.  It's such a lovely evening.  We'll know soon enough."

"I can only imagine what she's saying to him right now," said Vera, rubbing her hands with a savage glee.  "I wouldn't like to be in his shoes.  Not with Mary's temper.  I bet he's wishing he'd gone home to Vancouver.  Can't you just see the look in her eyes as she gives him what for ...?"

Hugh Henry nodded.  He'd spent the last quarter of a century with women who had, one by one, mastered that look.  He'd seen it before.

                                                     ******************************

Mary stole another adoring glance at Justin as they rode the bus in thoughtful silence, their hands intertwined.  "My fiancée," she thought.  Then: "Take that, Verna Hextall."  She giggled.

"What?"

"Nothing."

They stepped off the bus a block from her parents' place.  She took his arm as they walked, now and again stretching out her left arm and admiring the ring he had given her, how it caught the sun and sparkled and looked utterly perfect on her hand, more perfect than any ring she had ever seen, tried on, or even imagined.

They had been engaged for about one hour.

They had spent, in total, twelve hours together.  Twelve hours.

Neither felt that this was crazy.  In fact, to both it felt like the sanest thing they had ever done.  But they were under no illusions that everybody would share their view.

"How are we going to do this?"  Justin asked Mary.  "I mean, we can't just blurt it out to them."

"I haven't quite worked it out," said Mary.  "I'll come up with something."

"You might want to move that forward on your 'to-do' list.  There they are.  On the porch."

"Don't worry, silly.  My dad doesn't own a gun,"  Mary said with a giggle, quickly slipping her left hand into her jacket pocket.  She didn't add "... but he does have an impressive collection of antique hunting knives."

                                                               *************************

'You remember Justin," she said as they stopped on the porch.  Hugh Henry had stood immediately, shuffling awkwardly as he waited for them.

"Of course,"  said Hugh Henry, stiffly.  "Good to see you home safe."

"Thank you, sir," said Justin.  He smiled at Helen, who beamed back at him happily.  He turned to Mary's sister.

"Hi, Vera," he said.

Vera hoped she struck the perfect balance between dismissive and correct.  "Hello, Justin," she said.  "Welcome home."

It was Mary who tied the bell to the cat. 

"Justin and I talked about a lot of things," she said.  "Including about why he didn't write to me.  He says he didn't think I'd wait around for him, that if he wrote me it would never work out, that instead he thought he'd wait till he got home and we could do this right.  I've thought about it and I think it was the right way to go.  If I were mad at him, I'd expect you all to be.  But I'm not.  Is that okay with everybody?"

Of course they all deferred to Mary's challenging posture, as she knew they would.  She smiled inwardly.  "Here we go ..." she thought.

"In fact, Justin and I have talked about it and decided that we're in love.  And that we ought to be married," she said, simply. 

She took her hand out of her pocket, intending to casually let it dangle at her hip, but Vera was on it like a jungle cat on a wounded gazelle.  Mary winced as Vera squeezed her hand, inspecting the ring. 

For once Vera had nothing to say.  She slowly turned to Hugh Henry.  Mary and Justin turned to Hugh Henry.  And finally Helen turned to Hugh Henry, her delight and excitement barely hidden.

For his part, Hugh Henry could not take his eyes from Mary Lou's face.  She had always been a joy of a child - his bright shiny penny.  He knew he allowed her latitude the other girls would never have, but he found it utterly impossible to resist her smile, her giggle, the way her eyes shone when he could do something that made her happy.

And now this.

Mary turned to look at Justin, and the expression of happiness and love on her face made it all so easy.

Hugh Henry cleared his throat, looked at his wife, wiped his hands on his pants, and thrust his right hand towards Justin.  "Well, young fellow, Mary Lou has said it's all clear between you, and if she's of a mind to forgive, then who am I to question it?  I guess she's thought this through a bit, and I reckon you have as well.  So congratulations, and over supper maybe we can talk some more about how this will all unfold."

Vera gaped, open-mouthed.  She'd seen Mary get away with murder in the past, but this ... this was insanity.  She drew a breath  to say something, but felt a sharp pain as Helen's fingers dug into the soft flesh above her elbow.

"Come, Vera," Helen whispered.  "I'll be needin' some help in the kitchen.  So you just come with me.  Now."

                              ****************************************

That night over an Irish stew, Justin regaled the family with stories of life in wartime Britain, of air raids and dogfights and the privations he witnessed and the spirit he so admired in the Brits. 

He talked, too, about his plans for the future - about the bakery in Haney, B.C. that his father was ready to turn over to him, about his plans to prepare a place for Mary out there and how they would build a life together.  He spoke plainly and honestly, from the heart, and if Hugh Henry had doubts in this young man they quickly fell away.  Helen beamed, her smile the smile of a woman who knew something all along.

Even Vera found herself won over by evening's end.  When Helen offered Justin the use of their sofa that night (the girls would share their old room), she had no objection; in fact, it was she who kept him up long after he was bleary-eyed, asking for yet one more story about his adventures overseas.

Soon, though, even Vera had reached her limit of stories and wandered off to bed.  Helen had long since retired, leaving Justin, Mary, and Hugh Henry in the tiny living room.

"I suppose Mary Lou and I ought to let you sleep," said Hugh Henry, pointedly but good-naturedly.

"I'm fair beat," Justin admitted.  "It's been quite a day."  He squeezed Mary's hand gently.

"I'll be off then," said Hugh Henry.  "Mary, I'll be done in the washroom in about ... two minutes."  No doubt hung in the air about when Mary was expected to join Vera in the back bedroom.  Hugh Henry wandered off down the hall, leaving the two of them alone.

Mary admired the way the light from the table lamp danced off her ring.  "How did you know I would love this ring?" she asked.

Justin took her hand in his.  "Some things you just know," he said. 

For sixty years and more, that has been his answer to questions of the heart.  "Some things you just know."  He just knew that this woman he'd only spent twelve hours with would be the love of his life.  He just knew it was right to ask her to marry him.  He just knew, the first moment he laid eyes on it, that this particular ring was perfect.

"Some things you just know."

                                                  ******************

As Mary wandered off to bed, Justin lay on the sofa, covered by a drably coloured woollen blanket, his head still buzzing with the events of the day.  He made a note to call his mom and dad the next afternoon; they'd want to know.  They would tell his sisters.  Maybe he'd call Paul to give him the news.

It was just as he was drifting off into sleep that he remembered.  He winced, awake again. 

"Eva," he thought. 

He drifted off.  Plenty of time to tie up that particular loose end, he supposed.

But he never did get around to it.  In fact, she remained a loose end for 27 years.

                                                    ******************

Winnipeg, Manitoba - August, 1971

Sunday dinner was always important in Justin and Mary's house.  It was, as much as anything, the best way to keep tabs on the comings and goings of their two sons and four daughters.

Six kids in nine years (the running joke was the nurses at the Maternity Hospital had, after a while, suggested he stop visiting).  The bakery fell by the wayside early on and Justin had stepped easily back into the military.  He and Mary and the family had bounced from post to post around Western Canada, finally ending the journey with his retirement in Winnipeg.

Mary glanced out the window at Justin, sweating in the August heat as he pushed the ancient rotary mower around the yard.  She shook her head once again at his stubbornness.  "Cheap bastard," she thought with an affectionate grin. 

She had been after him for years to buy a gas mower (or one of those new electric ones!) but he insisted he preferred to wrestle with the rotary.  He pointed to the exercise it provided him, but she knew it was more about the money;  specifically, that he would never stretch the budget to buy a luxury for himself.  Luxuries for her were a different matter; she'd long since despaired of talking him out of buying her anything she wanted.  He was relentless in trying to please her.  He always had been, and she knew he always would be.  There were, she suspected, worse faults a husband could have.

Mary checked the steaks as she walked past the charcoal grille.  Almost done.  She poked Justin, who was muttering under his breath as he tried to un-jam the locked blades of the mower ("Goddamn twigs") and handed him an ice-cold bottle of Carling Black Label Beer ("Yoo-hoo, Mabel!  Black Label!"). 

Justin touched the stubby bottle to his forehead, letting the condensation mix with the sweat, and blessed her with a grateful, loving grin.  All these years and his eyes still made her weak in the knees.

By the summer of 1971, the two oldest daughters had left the house, but with the inevitable boyfriends, girlfriends, and hangers-on their kids attracted, that still meant a good-sized crowd would be gathered around the giant table in the dining room.  As Mary unwrapped the foil around the carrots fresh off the barbecue, the youngest of the clan burst through the front door, a tornado in reverse, strewing clothing and sandals and a wet bathing suit and towel and other effects from her weekend up at a new boyfriend's cottage across the foyer and down the hall.  Mary rolled her eyes.

Dinner was, as always, chaotic and noisy.  The rest of the family listened, amused, as their baby sister chattered on about her new beau, about waterskiing and swimming and the palatial cottage in an exclusive resort area.  Halfway through the main course, she suddenly remembered:

"Oh, Dad.  There was this nice lady there, visiting from B.C., a friend of Greg's parents.  When I told her my name she got really interested.  And when I told her your name, she just smiled a weird kind of smile and said "Tell your father "Hi" from Eva C --."  But the funny thing is, that wasn't her name.  Greg introduced her as Mrs. Anderson or somethng like that.  Anyway, she says "Hi"."

Justin's fork stopped in mid-air.  He became suddenly aware that every eye in the room had turned to him.

Including Mary's.

Grammar Nazis Redux

"I shall try to correct errors when shown to be errors and I shall adopt new views so fast as they shall appear to be true views." - Abraham Lincoln

Yesterday I wrote a post wherein I took advantage of a quirky news story to point out once again the value of learning and using good grammar.  I tend to be harsh and unforgiving of bad grammar in myself and, truth be told, less than completely patient with bad grammar in other people's writing.

I've always been comfortable with this - and in fact, you could, if you squinted, almost detect an air of ... superiority?  Smugness?  Arrogance?  All of the above?

But that's the thing about good friends.  They never let you wander too far down that path.  And one of my best friends in the world, Laura, took me to task.

She pointed out that it's easy to be unforgiving about grammar if we assume that everybody starts at the same point - that we all have access to the same quality of education; that we all learn in exactly the same way; that we all have the same level of dedication in our teachers or parents; that we all have access to the same books; and that we all face the same physical, psychological, and emotional challenges ... in short (if the ship has not already sailed on that), that we are on a level playing field.

And of course, we're not. 

I come from a Canadian public school education, as do my kids.  It's a high standard of education, relatively speaking.  I was never in a classroom with more than 25 other kids till I reached University.  While not all my teachers were top drawer, a lot were - and I include several English teachers among those who inspired me to do what I do.  Their dedication and their encouragement made a huge difference to my life.

Unlike my brother, who fought dyslexia, I never had a serious learning disability.  I wore glasses, but that just meant I didn't get laid - it didn't interfere with my education (probably the opposite).  I had perfect hearing.  I could walk, and speak properly, and other than being a bit homely, I wasn't disfigured and scarred emotionally by classmates' taunts.  I had it easy.

So yes, I was taught grammar, and taught it well, and was inspired to care about it.  The affected, illiterate, text-message/faux Ebonics/cool dude style of writing you find so often today is as fingernails on my psychic blackboard. ( I'll tell you what, Prince/Artist Formerly Known As /Prince:  I hold U personally responsible for UR share of this.)

But Laura - who hails from Florida -  writes: 

I volunteered for years with the schools here, where I'd take individual kids out of the classroom and work with them on their reading.. and I still see some of those kids on a daily basis.  There were always kids who succeeded and some who just plain didn't care at all.  But then there were the kids who, no matter how much help they got, they just couldnt "get" it.  I had one boy throw his chair at me, he was so frusturated.  These people grow up to be adults. 

And that's an excellent point.  When we - some of us - get to feeling all superior about grammar, it's important for us all (and I am among the worst) to remember that flawless grammar is often a telltale sign of advantages that some people just didn't have.

Not everybody who was disadvantaged has bad grammar - many can and do overcome their challenges.  And not everybody who has it easy goes on in life to spill out flawlessly grammatical prose.  There are lots of factors.  Some are in our control; others aren't.  I forget that, and can sometimes say hurtful things about people who really don't deserve it.

So while I'll try to maintain my own standards when it comes to grammar, I'm going to try being a little less judgmental of others.  Be tough on myself and forgiving of other people.

God, I hate it when I have to be a better person.  Damn you, Laura.  (g)

Why Grammar Nazis Are Important

Back to our story in a jiffy (I reserve the right to define "jiffy") but first:

I know what yez all say about me. 

"Oh, he's such a Grammar Nazi,"; " He's always calling me on using "your" instead of "you're", or not putting my apostrophe's in the right place's, or not having commas ..."; "Doesn't he understand that language is a living thing, that it changes and flows with the development of our culture?".  Oh, all that and "What an asshole."

Well, yes, yes, yes, and I suppose, sometimes, yes.

But look at what can happen when we forget that rules are there for a reason.  Two point one three million dollars, people. 

Now everybody can go back to thinking this doesn't matter to them (sic).  That its (sic) not important to learn and use proper grammar.  And that I may just be a little sic.

Your (sic) wrong.

Chapter Thirteen - Face to Face

Justin stopped with his foot on the bottom step and he looked up into Mary's face, framed by the screen door. 

Mary opened the door, stepped out onto the porch, and stood there, wondering if the shaking she felt was just on her insides or whether he could see she was trembling like a leaf. 

The silence between them stretched as taut as a banjo string.

It was Mary who broke it. 

"If you're here with Watkins' products, we have a regular salesman," she said.

Justin grinned and dropped his kit on the lawn.  "Hi," he said.

Mary smiled cautiously.  "Hi."

Two steps and he was beside her, and then she was in his arms.  And then he kissed her.

The kiss lasted perhaps five seconds.  Just that long.  Count Mississippis: One ... two ... three ... four ... five.

In those five Mississippis, Justin made the two best decisions of his life.

                                                   *****************************

Mary's head was spinning.  For some reason, she suddenly remembered a girl at school named Shirley Sinclair who, if she got very excited, would keel over and pass out.  She guessed she was as close to that feeling now as she'd ever been in her life. 

So, while Justin was savouring their first kiss in two years, all Mary could think was:

"Please, God, just don't let me faint ...."

She didn't.

                                            ***************************************

The kiss ended before either of them wanted it to.  Mary pushed herself back to look up into his face and catch her breath.  She was sure she must be blushing - her face felt on fire - and she was grateful his arms were still around her. 

"Pull yourself together," she thought.

"Welcome home," she said.

"I finally feel home," said Justin. 

He could not take his eyes off her.  In the two years they'd been apart, he thought he had kept alive a clear picture of her face.  His memory was superb, and in fact he'd been worried that he might have idealized her beauty, that he might have remembered her as being far more gorgeous than she really was.

"What?  You're doing that thing again.  Staring.  I hate that," said Mary.

"I thought you couldn't be as beautiful as I remembered, but you really are.  More, in fact."

"That's nice of you to say, but stop staring."  She didn't think she'd tell him just yet how well she'd remembered those blue eyes and how two years hadn't dimmed the colour one bit.

"So ... umm ... do you want to go for a walk?" 

"I'll check with my mother," said Mary, and went back inside.  Justin sat down on the steps and lit a cigarette. 

"This wasn't how things were supposed to go," he thought..  "Nothing like this at all."

                                                           *****************************

Helen was in the kitchen,  She'd heard the front door open, but thought little of it - travelling salesmen were always about and Mary could more than handle saying "No" to any smooth talker.

Mary came through the doorway and Helen looked up into her face - and immediately began drying her hands on her apron.  "Mary Lou?  What is it, dear?"

"It's Justin.  He came home.  He came ... here."

Helen stopped wiping and looked closely into her daughter's face.  Then, carefully:  "So ... ."

"So he wants to go for a walk."

Helen nodded.  "I suppose you should go, then.  I'm sure you'll have lots to talk about."

"I won't be long," Mary promised.

Helen smiled softly.  "You take the time you need, dear.  Are we expecting him for supper?"

"I don't know.  I suppose it depends."

"I suppose it does," nodded Helen.  "You can tell me when you come back from your walk."

"Will Daddy be home ...?"

"You don't worry about your father.  I'll speak with him.  Now, go.  Goodness knows you've both waited long enough for this."

                                                           ************

Arnie Carson paused to check his camera bag for film.  Four packs left.  He might still make something out of this day.  He paid for his tuna sandwich and tomato soup and left the downtown Edmonton diner.

It was a crummy way to make a buck, taking snaps of likely-looking passersby and flogging the photos to them, unseen and undeveloped.  Most folks just dusted him off; some swore at him.  One lady had hit him with her pocketbook and demanded he give her the film pack from his camera or she'd call the cops.  He'd had to do it - he didn't have a business license.  That little encounter had cost him a couple of bucks.

He headed down to Jasper Avenue, the heart of downtown.  His photographer's eye swept the street, looking for the sure bet - a young guy with a beautiful dame, some sap who wouldn't want to look like a cheapskate in front of the lady.

Someone would come along, sooner or later.  He settled in, sitting on the bumper of a parked car, and waited.

                                                           **************

Mary pulled the charcoal half-jacket over her white blouse and did up the middle button, suddenly grateful for the earlier job interview; she looked her best.  She smoothed the puckers in her blouse, checked her hair in the mirror, and added a tiny matching charcoal hat to the ensemble; it was jaunty, almost (but not quite) a beret.  A "Tam", they called it.  She grabbed her pocketbook off the chair in the hall and opened the front door.

"My mother says she doesn't need my help, and to go with you if I want.  So where do you want to go?"

"You're from here.  You pick."

"Well, there's nothing much to see around this neighbourhood.  It's getting all built up, and they've run the highway through so a lot of old houses and trees disappeared.  So I'll tell you what:  Let's go downtown and window shop."

"Fine by me," said Justin.

The two headed towards the bus stop.  Somewhere along the way, her hand fell into his, and she smiled inwardly.

"His palms are all sweaty," she thought.  Then:  "Good."

                                                  ***************

Considering the question that hung unanswered in the air, the conversation on the trip downtown was inconsequential: what she'd been doing, where she was living, his train trip across Canada to get here, her parents' move.  Everything, and nothing.

They got off the bus at a park near the North Saskatchewan River and walked down to a path near the water.  There were benches along the way for young lovers to sit and whisper to one another or old people to perch and feed the ducks and geese.  They found an empty one and sat.

A few ducks swam idly over, waited, saw there would be no reward, lost interest, and paddled off in search of an old woman in a babuschka or an old man in a fedora with brown paper bags full of breadcrumbs.

"Time to bell the cat," thought Justin.

"Here it comes," thought Mary.

                                             *********************

"So, I didn't write," said Justin.

"Really?" Mary grinned feebly.  "Who notices these things?  But yes, now you mention it, you didn't write.  At all."

"The thing is ..."  Justin began.  His rehearsed story was so convincing: Top Secret assignment ... no chance of communicating ... wish I'd been able to ...

... but in that earlier kiss, the first decision he'd made was to tell the truth.

" ... I could have and just didn't.  And it wasn't because I didn't want to and it wasn't because I didn't think of you every day - I did."

"So ..."  Mary was relieved that he hadn't come up with the "Top Secret" story that Meryl Pasternak had gotten from her Jimmy, and which had exploded in his face.  Mary would have been out of the park and back on the bus home so fast he'd have needed one of his airplanes to catch her.

"So the thing is ... I never imagined you'd wait for me.  Or that you cared, at all.  Or that you'd want to hear from me."

"But you came for dinner.  We went for ice cream.  I let you kiss me.  Why would you think I didn't care?"

"Well, lots of girls let the boys kiss them on the way overseas.  Some guys collected them - called them "Farewell Kisses".  You know, "Let's go, boys, see who can get the most "Farewell Kisses"!"  That kinda thing.  I'm not saying you're easy or anything --," Justin stopped and spread his hands, in a "... you understand?" gesture.

But Mary didn't.  "So you thought I was just being ... what, kind?"  Mary was mystified.

"Well, yeah.  I mean, look at you.  You're beautiful.  You're smart.  You're funny.  I bet you walk into a room and every guy turns to look ..."

"Oh, come on ..." the protest was automatic, but the truth was, it had happened, and she couldn't fail to be aware of it.

"I've seen it, just walking down the street.  And the thing is ... girls like you don't end up with guys like me.  You end up with the rich guy, or the tall, dark, and handsome type.  I'm none of those things.  I'm a baker's son from Vancouver,"  he said, simply.  And to Justin, that said it all.  "Don't you get it?"

"No, I certainly don't get it," Mary snapped.  "Who makes this "decision" about who I end up with?  When does it happen?  On my birthday?  Which one?  And do I get my choice of several tall, dark, handsome, rich fellows?  Because I'd like to have some say in the matter. "

Justin waded in cautiously.  "So ... you'd have picked me?"

"I did pick you, silly.  Two years ago."

"Why?"  Sincerely baffled.

"Why did you pick me?  Why did you come all the way here instead of Vancouver, and go to all the trouble of finding my parents' new house -- .  How did you find their new house, by the way?"

"Verna."

"Ah.  And here you are.  Why?"

"Well ... I guess ... because I love you."

"And I guess I love you, too."

"Oh."

"Yeah.  Oh."

They both sat on the bench, Justin staring at the ground, Mary out at the ducks on the river, an awkward silence growing as they realized the enormity of what they had just admitted.  Finally, Justin had to say something.  Anything.

" So, uh ... do you want to go window shopping now?"

"Oh.  Okay.  Sure."

                                                ************************

Arnie looked East on Jasper Avenue.  Early afternoon shoppers, mostly.  It was getting a bit brisk - the sun had ducked in behind some clouds.  Great for shooting, if only he could find someone to shoot.

He saw them about a block away, a young fellow in a light blue shirt, obviously ex-military from how he carried himself, and a gorgeous babe in a charcoal suit.  Perfect.  He leaned back against the mail truck at the curb and steadied his hand, following them in his viewfinder as they got nearer.  He waited until they filled the frame, and just as the young guy looked at his girl, Arnie tripped the shutter.

                                                      ***********************************

"Ho-ho-hey, young fella, hold up a second.  I have just taken what I guarantee will be a beautiful picture of you and this gorgeous young lady.  A keepsake of your afternoon together, a snapshot of this lovely day and this handsome couple.  How about it?  Would you like to purchase a copy of this photograph for posterity?"

"How much ...?"

"Well, now, I wouldn't think with a beautiful young woman like this, price would be much of an obect.  But even if it was, you're in luck.  It's Monday afternoon, I'm tired and it's getting chilly and I'll give you a deal.  Two dollars."

"Two dollars?"

"A buck fifty.  I have to pay for the film, and then there's the chemicals and the darkroom and ..."

"Okay.  A buck fifty."  Justin peeled a one dollar bill off a fairly thin roll, then fished around for a couple of quarters.  He dropped them into the photographer's hand and said, "Now, how do we get this picture?"

Arnie gave Justin a pen and a notebook and told him to write down his address.  "I'll send it to you the second it's dry," he promised.

"Sure," said Justin, and he winked at Mary.  "You do that."

As he walked away, Justin said to her, "There's a buck and a half I'll never see again.  He probably never even had film in that camera."

But Arnie Carson was an honest man.

                                                    ********************

They walked on for about an hour after that, looking in store windows , not really saying much of anything.  There was a television in the window of an appliance store, a giant, flashy display with the appliance itself hulking in the centre, a massive mahogany cabinet around a glass screen that looked for all the world like the lens from a giant's spectacles.  In the display, a black and white photo was taped to the screen to simulate what the picture might be like, had Edmonton had a broadcast signal.

Mary admired some dresses, new for the summer season; Justin got distracted over a display of fishing rods in a sporting goods store window.  They stopped for ice cream.

A spot of chocolate dripped down the front of Justin's shirt.  Mary saw it and dabbed at it with her napkin.  Justin looked down at her.  Here was the second decision he'd made in that kiss:

"So, I guess we ... should get married ..."

Mary nodded.   "I guess so."

"I have a ring.  Would you ... like to try it on?"

"You carry a ring with you?"

"I bought it this morning.  I didn't know how this was all going to go.  But I thought I needed one.  In case I did.  You know, ask you.  To marry me."

Mary nodded, as if such a thing made perfect sense.  Justin reached into his pocket. 

The box was black velvet.  He opened it and held the box out to her.

It was, she always said, the most exquisite ring she ever saw.  It wasn't fancy, but that wasn't Mary.  It was white gold, with a single diamond in a simple, plain setting.

"May I?" she asked.

"It's for you," he said.

Mary slipped her friendship ring off, and this ring on. 

It fit perfectly.  (It has always fit perfectly.  It has never once been off her left hand since that day in 1945, not even for a moment.)

"It's beautiful," she said.  "It's perfect."

They kissed, and walked arm in arm in silence for awhile.  Now and again, she would fan her fingers in front and admire the ring, sometimes with a sigh, sometimes with a disbelieving giggle.

Finally Mary spoke.

"I guess we have something else to do," she said.

"Your family?"

Mary nodded. 

"I guess when I made you unhappy, I made them unhappy," Justin said.

Mary nodded again.

Justin said, "Well, let's go home.  If I can make it right with you, I can make it right with them."

Mary smiled.  "Okay.  I'm sure they'll be fine."  But she looked worried.

Chapter Twelve - Truth? Or Consequences ...?

Justin counted down the numbers on the street signs as the bus rolled along.  Fifty blocks to go.  Forty-five.  Forty.  He began to fidget.  Thirty-five.  Thirty ...

Justin fanned himself - was it getting awfully close in this bus?  Nobody else semed to notice.  Did the windows open?

Twenty-five.  Twenty.  Fifteen ...

Justin wrestled with the window, but a wicked Edmonton winter had welded the windows shut, and nothing would budge the damn thing.

Fourteen.  Thirteen.  Twel --

Justin yanked on the bell cord and the driver guided the slowing bus up to the next stop.  It coasted to a halt with a grunt and a hiss, and Justin pushed on the exit door, trying to will it open, and stumbled forward off-balance when it finally did.  He gasped in some fresh air,  slung his kit onto the grassy boulevard, plopped down on it, and lit a smoke.

"Christ.  What am I doing?" he thought.  "What am I going to say to her?"

Verna Hextall's words echoed in his head.  "I can only imagine her heartbreak,"  Verna had said.  "I would have thought the Christian thing to do would have been to write the occasional letter.  Do you know how long that silly girl mooned over you, young man?  She may be mooning still.  I think she's well shed of you ..."

Now, even allowing for the old bat's meddling and exaggeration, she did have a point.  He should have written.  He'd thought of writing, dozens, scores, hundreds of times.  Anybody else would have.  But he hadn't written a single letter in more than two years.

He'd received lots of letters.  Dozens  (although none from Mary ...).  All had gone unanswered.

He didn't suppose it would matter that he hadn't written his Mom or Dad, or his sisters, or Eva.  (He winced, and thought "Until two days ago ...").  That wasn't going to be a good enough reason.  Other guys had written their sweethearts; he'd seen them in the barracks, hunkered over their bunks, scribbling, using clipboards and cookie tins from home and whatever was to hand as a writing surface. 

Paul had written his parents religiously every Sunday (if you could call skipping Mass to write a letter "religiously").  And since Paul's parents and his were friends, Justin knew that the two families would talk, and his parents would call on Eva's folks, so everybody would know things were fine and nobody would be unduly worried.  His Mom had even said she didn't expect him to write.  Eva's letters had started off plaintively begging for - then sulkily demanding - replies, but had settled into pouting resignation on the subject. 

He just wasn't the kind of guy who wrote letters.  Ever.  "Until two days ago ..." . Another wince.

"What can I say that would make her understand?" he wondered as he stood, slung his kit over his shoulder, and started walking the ten blocks to her parents' street.

"First things first," he thought. "Her mom is going to hate me.  And her dad.  If I can make them understand, maybe they can help with Mary.  And if not, they'll never give me her new address anyway.  So I'll deal with them, and that will give me time to figure out what I'm gonna say to her."

Satisfied with this orderly, sensible plan, Justin picked up his pace along the quiet thoroughfare.  The sun was doing its best to come out, and as he walked briskly along he became warm enough to stop, stow his jacket in his kit, and check in a store window for wrinkles in his shirt. 

(It was the only really nice shirt he had - a light blue Oxford weave he'd bought in Liverpool.  He'd carefully tucked it away against the day he arrived home.  A quck shower at the YMCA in Calgary was all he'd been able to manage, and that had been yesterday.  So the best he could hope for in terms of how he looked was "not dishevelled".)

Eight blocks.  Five.  Two.

What would he say?  How could he convince them there was a good reason to not write their daughter? 

He stopped short as an idea hit him.

"Brilliant," he thought.

Lots of servicemen went overseas and found themselves in sensitive assignments.  Top secret.  Unable to write home.  It was a war, after all.  So, maybe that was it.  He would love to tell them why he didn't write, but he was still not at liberty to say.  All whispered with a knowing wink and a finger alongside the nose.  Top secret, don'tcha know?  And by the time everybody realized there was no need for it to be Top Secret anymore, either they'd have forgotten the whole matter or it wouldn't seem all that important.

And wouldn't that same little ruse work for Mary, too?  I mean, he'd been at a small base in Wales.  He didn't recall any guys from Edmonton.  And even if there had been, what were the odds she'd have run into anybody who'd met him overseas?

"Brilliant," he told himself again, and rounded the corner onto a tree-lined street as a mother walked past pushing a squawking child in a stroller.  Two kids barrelled along the sidewalk on bikes; he executed a nmble side-step to miss them.

Justin checked the numbers as he walked.  10173 ... 10175 ... and there it was.  10177.  He wondered if he'd even remember what Mary's mom looked like.  He was just hoping it wouldn't be her dad to answer the door ...

"Top Secret," he thought.  "That's the key."

His foot hit the bottom step and the door opened.

. 

Chapter Eleven - On the Sidewalk

Verna's heels clicked crisply on the sidewalk.  She rounded the hedge on two wheels, and Justin suppressed a grin at the fleeting image of a siren and a red flashing light on the top of Verna's straw summer hat.

"Imagine that.  Look who's home from over across," said Verna.  "Well, not home, I guess.  Home is ... where, again?  Somewhere in BC?  Katzenjammer?"

"Kitsilano.  Hi, Mrs. Hextall," said Justin, pleasantly.  "More flies with honey than with vinegar ... " he thought, and smiled politely.

"Hello, Verna," said the woman who now lived in Mary's house.

"Alice," sniffed Verna, dismissively. "I suppose you've heard of this young man.  Fancy him showing up on your doorstep.  And wasn't Alice a bit of a surprise for you?"  This last to Justin.

"Well, yes, I suppose --"

"Might not have been, if you'd kept in touch with poor Mary Lou.  Dear, sweet thing.  I can only imagine her heartbreak."  Verna was a force of nature when provoked to umbrage on behalf of others.   "Still, I suppose that's how you young people do things now.  Flit in and out of one anothers' lives, toying with affections, taking advantage.  Shameful, I say.  And now you've come crawling back."

"Actually, I think he took the bus, Verna," said Alice.  Justin sensed an ally and was warmed after Verna's wilting first assault.

"I took the train up from Calgary," he corrected Alice, and glimpsed a twinkle in her eye that matched his own.  "But the bus got me here from the station.  I just landed back in Canada a week ago.  Troop ship from Liverpool."

Verna sniffed.  "Don't matter to me how you came to be here.  As you've seen, they're gone.  Moved away, they did.  Shame.  They were good neighbours ..."  Verna left a delicate but palpable pause before adding a perfunctory " ... as are you folks, Alice.  But of course, they were here for years."

"So you've said, many times," observed Alice, drily.  "I imagine the young man is looking to find the Houttons.  I suggested that he talk to you, Verna, since you seem to know so much about everything that goes on in this neighbourhood."  She smiled innocently, and Justin marvelled at the surgical precision.  "That one drew blood, and the old bat never even felt it," he thought.

"Won't do you much good," said Verna.  "Poor Mary went off to live in a girl's residence downtown.  I have no idea where.  She may still be there, or perhaps she got married for all I know.  She never wanted for young men, that one.  Moths to a flame."

"I'm sure you'd have been invited to a wedding, wouldn't you, Verna?  You've always said the Houttons were such good friends ... ,"  said Alice, neatly trumping the larger woman in front of her.  Justin saw a flicker of annoyance in Verna's eyes.  Something told him that Alice would pay for this conversation through skilfully placed tidbits of gossip in the years to come.   

For her part, Alice seemed not to care.  "I think the Christian thing to do is help this young man find who he's looking for, don't you?  Wouldn't want to stand in the path of romance."

Verna snorted, but her fight was gone.  "I would have thought the Christian thing to do would have been to write the occasional letter.  Do you know how long that silly girl mooned over you, young man?  She may be mooning still.  I think she's well shed of you, but it's her decision, I suppose."

Verna grudgingly gave him the Houtton's new address - from memory, no less - spun on her heel with a barely polite nod to Alice, and Justin could almost hear the steam engine inside Verna roar to life as she chugged back down the sidewalk, round the hedge, and on her way.

Alice watched her untill she was out of earshot, rolled her eyes, then turned back to Justin and examined him afresh.  "So, you're the dashing young pilot we've all heard so much about, are you?"

"I guess, ma'am.  Kinda felt like dashing when she started in on me."

"Well, you'd best get on the bus before Verna gets home, has a moment to think, and comes barelling back to offer more pieces of her mind.  Honestly.  It's a miracle the woman has any left to give." 

Alice offered Justin a firm handshake and a wink.  "Off you go.  And good luck to you."

As Justin reached the corner, his kit slung on his shoulder, he turned back to look one last time at the street; a quiet, treelined street of immaculately kept older houses, a street where families grew, where people sat on their verandahs on summer evenings and smiled at their neighbours as they walked past and all the women agreed that Monday was the day you hung your clothes on the line and all the men agreed that Saturday was the day you mowed your lawn.

"One day I'm going to live on a street like this," he thought.

Then Verna burst out her front door and Justin turned and stepped quickly to the bus stop.  The bus roared up and he was on board before she'd even reached the corner.

                                                                **********************************

The truth was, Mary had mooned over Justin for a long time and would still think of him from time to time with a real sadness. But life did go on.  There were dances, and days at the beach and a succession of young fellows, some duds, some with promise, but none who could make any real headway against the memory of her "dashing young pilot".

Vera would roll her eyes as Mary dismissed suitor after suitor.  "Oh, for cripes sake, kiddo," she'd say.  "You're not wearing black.  You're not a war widow.  Time to find a new fella.  Maybe one who actually cares enough to write."

Gradually, Mary was coming around to Vera's way of thinking, and yesterday's trip to Sylvan Lake was another step along the path.  A handsome boy from St. Albert, a few miles north of the city, had asked for the phone number at her block, and Mary had obliged.  Ken something.  MacDonald?  McGregor?  Something Scottish.

"Maybe he'll call," thought Mary as she looked out the bus window.  She smiled to herself as she pulled on the signal cord indicating her stop was approaching.  "Oh, come on," she thought, "He'll call.  No maybe about it."

They always called.

Mary got off the bus and walked the two blocks to her parents' new home, a smallish, red brick bungalow that always reminded Mary of a poem about a young woman with extravagant tastes:

Little I want, my needs are few,

All I want is a simple house

(A simple Brownstone house will do) ...

She would often tease her mother about living in their fancy brownstone mansion, now that the kids were gone and they could finally open up the hidden safe filled with all the money they never spent on ponies and summer homes in the Rockies.  Helen and Hugh Henry would be the toast of the town, attending elegant soirees wearing shimmering evening gowns and top hat and tails.  Helen would giggle as Mary Lou would waltz her around the tiny kitchen.

No waltzing today, though, as Mary added her hamper with a week's worth of laundry to the pile in front of the wringer-washer.  She helped Helen take the sheets off the line (skilfully clipped on the line inside each sheet were Helen's "unmentionables".  Helen had once had a neighbour who had actually hung those out in plain view of passersby, including children.  That had been straightened out very quickly.).  The two women chattered away happily, more like sisters than mother and daughter.

Mary cranked as her mother fed the soggy, soapy clothes through the wringer.  Helen was glad of the help, and the company.  She'd missed having her Mary Lou around, but that was what happened, wasn't it?  Birds do finally leave the nest, as God intended.

Her laundry on the line, Mary went inside to wait for it to dry.  With Hugh Henry out for the morning, she took his chair by the window - the light was better for reading.  She opened her book and as always, fell inside it.  Now and again she'd glance up as something outside would catch the corner of her eye - a dog patrolling for cats, two boys on bikes, a pregnant woman pushing a stroller, shushing her squealing child.

She first saw him quite a distance up the block.  She'd looked out, absently noted a young man walking along carrying something on his shoulder, then returned to her reading.  She looked up a few minutes later - the young man was still quite a ways away, but now it was clear that the "something" he was carrying was a soldiers' duffel - anyone could recognize that.  She cast her eyes back to her page, but the words suddenly weren't making any sense. 

It was like reading a Jumble.

She looked up one more time, slowly, knowing exactly who she would see.  Knowing.

How many times had she played this scene out in her imagination?  How many times had she rushed into his arms and into a magical, neverending kiss?  Or stood stolidly, coldly resolute and unforgiving as he grovelled and begged forgiveness?  Or walked boldly up to him and slapped his face?

How many times had she rehearsed what she would say, how she would spit venom at him for the misery he'd inflicted on her; or stand regally silent and force him to explain himself; or collapse into tears ...?

And now, he was here.

Mary pushed herself out of Hugh Henry's chair, stood still for a moment to will her knees to stop shaking, and opened the front door at the same instant that Justin's foot hit the bottom step.