Friday, December 16, 2011
Mom and dad are inside the cabin talking to the other grown-ups. I’m outside with my cousins. They are almost grown-ups too. They are lots taller than me. Sometimes they say swear words and tell me I’d better not tell anyone or they won’t let me go with them anymore. Sometimes I get to go with them for walks up the beach and they smoke cigarettes, but I’m not supposed to see that, cause they pretend to see squirrels. “Look, Krissy!” They yell and point, but I don’t see any squirrels. All I see is smoke coming out of their noses when I turn around, and they tuck the smokes under their arm. I know its smoking cause dad does it too. Sometimes he blows smoke rings, but you can’t put your finger in them cause they disappear. I won’t tell the grown-ups that my cousins smoke, because I like going for walks with them. They are funner than grown-ups cause they never make me go to bed, and they let me hear bad words, and they tell each other stories about all the things that they do that they get in trouble for and that they get away with, and they let me eat lots of ketchup chips. I like hearing about teenager things.
But right now my cousins are being boring and they’re whispering and won’t let me hear what they’re talking about, so it must be something really good. I try to hear, but they are good at whispering. Instead I pick blueberries from the bushes around the cabin. They aren’t really blueberries yet though, cause they’re still green. Do you call them green berries if they’re still green? I put one in my mouth and crunch it between my teeth. It isn’t soft like a blueberry and it tastes yucky, like grass, or when you accidentally put your sandwich down on the table that mom just sprayed with cleaner. I chew it up a little bit and make a face and spit it out on the sand, then I try it with another one and another one, but they all taste yucky.
Kenny and Mark walk over by me. They aren't very much older than me, but they are still big kids. “What’re you doin’, Krissy, b’y! You’re not supposed to eat the green ones, ya goose!” Mark says.
“I likes to. I likes to pick berries.” I say, putting more green berries in my cupped hand.
“If you pick them all now, there won’t be any to pick later when they’re supposed to turn blue.” Kenny says.
“I wants to pick them now though.” I say. I drop the few berries in my hand when I see there’s a tiny spider crawling on them.
“Hey, Kenny? Do you know how Bandit died?” Mark asks. I turn around and look curiously at them. Bandit was our uncle Pat’s big German shepherd dog. He was a pretty dog, but I was afraid of him, cause I’m afraid of dogs. I got bit two times by dogs and it hurts a lot and I cried, so I don’t like to go close to them.
“Nope.” Kenny replies.
“He ate green blueberries and it poisoned him.” Mark says.
All of a sudden I feel like the ground is wobbly and my chest is tight like when mom makes me wear party dresses. “No!” I yell at them. “blueberries aren’t poison! I eats them all the time. Nanny says only dog berries and choke cherries are bad for you!”
“that’s blueberries, not green ones.” Mark says. Kenny is smiling. I think they might be joking, but I don’t know, cause sometimes teenagers laugh at things that aren’t funny, like tying your socks together while they’re still on your feet.
I throw the green berry in my hand away into the trees and run into the cabin to find my mom and dad. I don’t tell them I ate green blueberries cause I’m afraid they will get mad at me. They told me to stay away from poison things and we put “Officer Ugg” stickers on all the things in our house that I’m not supposed to touch.
For the next few days I think that I might die at any time from the poison berries. After a while I realize that I must be okay cause I’m still alive and okay, but I don’t ever eat green blueberries ever again, I don’t even touch them, and I always make sure that my blueberries are super blue and ripe all over.
Monday, November 14, 2011
“Mom and dad got mad at her cause she was always singing all the time.” Danny replied. “First they liked it, but after a while it started to drive everyone crazy.”
Now maybe this wasn’t the most believable thing I could have come up with, but you have to remember that Jenna was just four years old at the time. In her world, a purple dinosaur hung out with a bunch of kids after school, Santa Claus, The Easter Bunny and the Tooth fairy were somewhere out there in the world probably enjoying latte’s together, there were monsters of unspeakable evil under the bed that could be kept away by pulling a blanket over your head, and “Ballerina-Skater-Nurse” was a viable future profession…
Of course she wasn’t going to believe it without question.
The fact that at age nine, he said this with such an utterly flat expression, no hint of a giggle, no smile, just as if he was reminiscing on a particularly delicious meal, dug the shovel in deeper.
I think they thought it was just unreal enough, that they let us have it. They let us keep our story. They didn’t shut it down by saying “No Jenna, there is no Katie, You’re brother and sister are being mean.” Once Jenna got thoroughly flustered they would stop us by simply saying “Okay guys, that’s enough.” And we’d stop talking about Katie, the cannibalized fourth Lee child, but at no time did they ever EXPRESSLY State “There is no Katie, there never was a Katie, Katie is not real” or any such statement, leaving the window of belief open just enough of a crack for us.
So on the day that we created Katie, we managed not only to horrify my little sister, but she stopped dancing in front of the TV and fled from the living room.
Nan looked up at the picture and smiled “Oh, that’s Katie!” she replied.
Thursday, October 20, 2011
It is cool and dark in the tiny room, but through her sleep blurred eyes she can see a bright blue sky through the slit in the dark blue curtains. It’s a nice day. Today she can go wading in the water to catch pin fish in her new plastic beach bucket.
Across the room her father is snoring lightly, her mother curled gently into his back, sleeping away the beer and wine of last night’s card game. Her baby brother, cheeks flushed pink, is sleeping soundly in his playpen nestled between the two beds. His arms are thrown above his head, his straw blonde hair sticking straight up at the crown of his head. His stuffed giraffe at the crook of his neck and his blue satin bound blanket kicked around his tiny pyjamaed feet.
She can hear them awake in the kitchen. A tinny old metal radio plays a commercial for the Valley mall, the CFCB call sign, then the voice of a morning dj sends out a song request and a caterwauling Newfoundland country song plays. She can hear a kettle whistle for a moment before the metallic clunk of it being set on a different burner. The acrid smell of coffee and burnt toast. She hears him curse under his breath, then the familiar sound of him scraping toast over the garbage can. She can hear their voices idly chatting to each other. The tinkling sound of a spoon in a china mug.
She blinks her sleep clouded eyes and sits up, throwing back the covers on her cot. She kicks her feet out from under the floral sheets and multi-coloured plaid sleeping bags that cradled her during the night. She stands on the mattress, bouncing on the bed for a moment, looking for her doll, notices him pinned between the bed and the wood paneled wall, and bounces down to pull him out. Her mother rolls over in her sleep, disturbed by the noise she is making. She is careful to be quieter as she slides off the mattress, her toes touching the cold linoleum floor, Albert, the doll, tucked tightly under her arm. She sucks in her little pot-belly as she slides between the worn and heavy wooden dresser and her brother’s play pen. Pauses for a moment to stand on tiptoe and peer in at him, kiss the tip of her finger and poke it into the warm pink flesh of his cheek. He doesn’t even stir, just heaves a sleep filled sigh. She reaches up to turn the glass doorknob and as she opens the door she squints into the sunshine filled living room.
“You’re up already my little dolly!” Poppy says as he chews his jam covered toast.
“Yup. I wants breakfast. Can I have tea too?” She asks, pulling out the scuffed painted chair between the two of them.
“Yis, you can have a cup of tea my love.” Nanny says as she pulls a mug out of the cupboard with a Carebear face on the side. She throws a square teabag into the bottom of it and half fills it with water from the kettle, and then cold water from a jug. She stirs it and puts the cup in front of the little girl who stands on the chair, leaning over the table to reach the sugar dish and the can of Carnation milk. Albert the doll sits propped on the edge of the table, hunched and grinning as always, at his feet.
She digs her spoon into the dish and granules of sugar spill on the green checked table cloth, she does this again, and is going for a third when Nanny says “Getouttadat! Getouttadat! Das enough now, my goodness! You’ll lose all your teeth you keeps puttin’ dat much sugar in your tea!” The little one screws up her face, but goes about pouring milk from the punctured holes in the top of the milk can. It slops over the side of the mug to pool in a ring around the cup that is so full that instead of picking it up, she lowers her head to slurp the tea from the top.
“What are you going to have for breakfast dolly?” Nanny asks. “Do you want toast like Pop, or cereal, like Nan?”
“I wants Special K, and I wants strawberries too!” She says exuberantly, hopping on the seat of the chair.
“Alright” Nan says. “But there’s no strawberries in the fridge so we’ve got to go out to the garden to get them. Don’t go jumpin’ now.” She picks the little one up underneath the arms and sets her on the floor.
The little girl skips around the table and across the living room, running her hand along the scratchy knit blankets covering the worn couches. Nan opens the screen door opening out onto the front patio deck. The morning is already warm. Sun glistens off the lake where Poppy’s little green fibreglass boat is tied to the sun-bleached wharf, bobbing on the gentle waves. Everything is so bright that it appears to be radiating its own light. The brown planks of the deck are warm, almost hot, under her bare feet. She climbs up onto the wooden bench surrounding the patio deck, her thin cotton night dress covered in dancing teddy bears catching and pulling on a knot in the wood. Flakes of old paint rub off and stick to her knees as she knees on the bench, elbows resting on the railing and chin in her hands, watching as Nan roams about the strawberry patch keeping a keen eye out for early berries.
She bends to a plant, pulls a weed alongside it and turns a few berries in her hand. Some of them are bright red on one side, but still green on the other. She pulls one and puts it in the empty yellow Eversweet margarine container she brought with her, moving about to different parts of the patch, placing her feet carefully amongst the plants so as not to step on any of them.
“Oh, I got a big one here! Bet it’ll be some good!”
“Yay!” The little one says, clapping her hands together. A robin lets out a long whistle blast call from the nearby trees and another one answers almost immediately. Her eye is caught by the rainbow coloured, flower shaped pin-wheels in the nearby flower patch, catching the light breeze and spinning amongst the lupins and tiger lillies.
“Look how many we got. We’ll be able to pick some for jam next week.” Nan says as she stands in front of her down in the garden. She holds out the butter container, half full, picks up a berry and pulls the leafy top from it and passes it to the little girl who takes it and pops it in her mouth.
The taste is sun warmed and sweet, full of sugars and juices from the early summer rains. “Let’s go cut them up and put them in your cereal now.”
Tuesday, October 20, 2009
The youngster just left for school. Not even the end of October yet and already wearing his winter coat, one dropped mitten still in the porch.
I routes through the cupboard looking for the bottle of Cheez Whiz, remembers that they've changed the recipe and now you got to keep it in the fridge whether you likes it cold or not, elsewise it goes fousty.
Jesus Christ, changing the recipe of Cheez Whiz...
I'm cursing the decision makers at Kraft foods as I digs around the bottom of the jar with a butter knife produces a big shockin' gob of near neon orange covered in a weeks worth of toast crumbs.
The toast isn't poppped yet. I licks the knife clean.
A buddy of mine always makes a point of telling anyone who'll listen how much he hates Cheez Whiz. Now everytime I even sees the bottle I hears his voice:
"That stuff is only two molecules away from plastic sure!"
He'll say that as he sucks back on a cigarette, washes the taste out of his mouth by pouring a gallon of coffee down his guts.
But thats just the way, hey? The world wants to make you feel like a fuckin' jerk for getting any enjoyment out of anything. You can't have a drink cause you'll ruin your liver, can't enjoy a meal or else you'll get fat, this, that, and the other thing are gonna give you cancer, and Cheez Whiz is just a bottle of tasty plastic, you knows.
My father always says "You know when someone dies and everyone says 'Oh my, what a sin, so young and never smoked a day or drank a drop and exercised all the time...'? Well they won't say that about me."
I used to think "Jesus, dad..." But now, now I waits for my slice of white home-made bread (Fuck the multi-grains) to finish burning in the toaster while I eats Cheez Whiz off a knife.
Saturday, January 24, 2009
Eight feet press tracks into wet sand,
attempt to race
waves that lick salt water tongues
at tiny toes
and the boy’s shoes are already soaked.
Sneakers kicked errantly into
piles of sun-dried seaweed,
the girls are skipping up the beach.
Her blonde hair flies out in disarray,
strands stuck to her mist dampened face.
An overcast day, cold for late June.
But she doesn’t feel the weather;
the scent of ocean.
The smallest stumbles
over sea worn driftwood.
Runs to catch up
kicking sand backwards in golden arcs.
The oldest stops,
crouches to examine tidal tokens
The purple blue of muscle shells,
the spine covered fragility of sea urchins.
Barefooted they wade into waves,
catch breath in their throats
as the cold of sea
prickles warm skin,
drifts over sand to erase footprints.
The boy has kicked off his wet sneakers,
now walks in damp socks that collect sand
as he collects rocks and shells.
They fill jacket pockets,
make pouches of their shirts
to fill with mementos of this experience
to place amongst their child’s treasures at home.
Thursday, October 30, 2008
Cinna-berry… She says.
You have a Cinna-berry car freshener.
He always had one of those, Marco.
He told me that whenever I smelled that smell
I’d think of him.
What a cunt. I say.
Thinking of the scents
Intertwined with memory.
How blueberry lip-gloss makes me think
of a blonde haired boy at age fourteen.
The aroma of buttered pop-corn in a dark movie theatre
and his breath, hot
and smelling of red liquorice.
At sixteen, the boy who smelled of sweat, aftershave,
and cheap cologne,
strong enough to stop your breath.
How I cannot smell the scent of Aqua-Velva
without feeling young and naiive.
Twenty and the odour of night-clubs, hot and stagnant,
two hundred moving bodies, writhing.
The stale odour of spilled alcohol,
pot being smoked secretly in corners and bathrooms,
the blue cloud of cigarette smoke
hanging in the damp, dark, air.
Notes of vanilla, orchids and sandalwood
emanating from girls on the dance-floor.
Whiskey and lust perspired through the pores
of the drunk old men who watch from the bar.
Beer on the breath of the guys who shout
At twenty-five the scent of the one I loved,
like a fingerprint, hidden underneath the scent
of his shampoo, aftershave and soap.
I breathed it in, could not fill my lungs enough.
How when he left
I slept curled in a pile of his shirts pulled from the laundry.
How as time wore on that same lingering scent
became torturous, invading my place of recovery.
The scent of strawberry Glade to mask it
can now take me to dark places.
how I can’t help but be tricked
by men who smell of cigarettes.
Feel a stirring as I watch them inhale
carcinogenic-sex through pursed lips,
exhale clouds of smoke that
cling to their clothes and hair.
I assume they’ll be kind and caring.
They carry the scent of the only man
who’s never hurt me.
Wednesday, October 29, 2008
When I get up you aren’t on the couch watching cartoons.
The front door is ajar and you are outside
digging with a kitchen spoon,
still clad in cartoon pyjamas,
an apple core in your little hand.
Your kindergarten class is learning about seeds.
Bean sprouts grow tall out of a Styrofoam cup with
“Caleb” printed in blue crayon across the side.
You pick up all the pinecones you see and tell me that
trees will grow from them.
You tell me you are planting the seeds from your apple.
I tell you that apple seeds might not grow in the shade of the house,
from earth more rock and clay.
You tell me you don’t mind,
there are always apples in the fridge.
What you want is the tree.
You explain plans for a luxurious tree house.
Later that day we sit at a table for two.
You drink root-beer from a child-sized paper cup
and we eat hamburgers and fries covered in ketchup.
You pick the sesame seeds off the bun,
and with a flash of excitement in your eyes,
clench your fist around them.
Staring intently into my face
If I plant these seeds will a hamburger tree grow?
I am careful not to laugh.
You hate not being taken seriously,
and your face is too earnest in its wonder.
I take a sip of my cola,
pondering your question.
I don’t want to lie to you,
but looking into your eyes
I have entered your world,
and maybe hamburgers can grow on trees.
I tell you that I don’t really know,
that maybe we should plant the seeds.
You wonder whether the tree will produce
Cheese burgers or regular hamburgers.
You’re pretty sure that you’ll have to add your own ketchup.
At home you drop the seeds in a hole you scratch
in the dirt next to where you planted
your apple seeds this morning,
your pinecones yesterday,
your peach pit last week.
I hope that hamburger seeds are resilient,
that they will sprout through this tough and rocky soil,
that they are able to germinate
in this harsh