It is always strange to watch from our big window as a woman, and it is always a random woman, looks into our yard, and then stoops to pluck one of the six tulips that bloom near the sidewalk, imagining no one is watching. Of course it is rather funny that someone is always at the front window when the offence occurs.
I would understand and not feel badly if they picked the plentiful bluebells at the other end of the patch, but every year we see at least one woman pick at least one of the few tulips in the garden.
We puzzle over it because it is not something we would do. They are not ours and they are not in large supply.. So what compels someone to do such a thing? Six tulips are not a bunch, so removing one is quite significant. And if I am not taking them into my house, what would make someone feel that entitled to have it at theirs?
Anyway, not a big deal, it just puzzles us every year.
Luckily we have a gazillion bluebells to soothe our out-of-joint noses.
(Photos to come)
I'm feeling like I'm finally going to dust off this old thing and get it moving again. Hoping that there aren't too many of you out there, but just enough for a conversation. Will it be intense? Perhaps. My intention is to work through some bigger thoughts that have been making me feel pretty crazy, like this one: The Modern-Day Nation-State is a Cult. Too many hyphens? Perhaps so. That can be the start of the debate, but I'm hoping by the time the debate peters off, as these things generally do, we won't care one wit about hyphens, ellipses or even the carefully placed commas.
And if there is no debate, if there are no readers, truthfully it doesn't matter. Because it is time once again to get going, to practice, to find a voice.
A couple of weeks ago I started a writing class with an art therapist. It is not my first foray back into guided content creation -- for the past two Septembers I have taken a storytelling class hosted by the Vancouver Fringe Festival. While it was thrilling to have opportunity to perform again, it was also incredibly traumatizing.
"Why?" you might ask.
Well. The first year I took the class it took me almost no time to figure out how firmly planted I am in telling stories of myself that are firmly written in the "victim" narrative.
Which seemed weird to me, given that I have a pretty great life, overall.
Okay, not entirely shocking, as I had a childhood in which I was fairly victimized and not at all protected or nurtured by the adults around me.
I think I've said here before that I went to therapy instead of university, and that I hold a degree in me. I continue to practice "good mental health skills" as I go along, learning what I can from here and from there. And I've never been opposed to re-enlisting in therapy as it seems warranted. My husband and I did a bit of couples' therapy at one point, and I found it to be immensely helpful.
Last year, when I mistakenly thought a freak case of intussusception was just me being emo, I hired myself a top-notch therapist who came highly recommended by a friend and paid a fortune to see him once. I shortly thereafter visited an emergency room, and underwent emergent surgery because the big meanies in white or blue lab coats wouldn't let me leave without offering up a chunk of my large intestine. Ouch.
Anyway, back to that art therapist.
So far, two classes under my belt, the second of which I even arrived for on time. (New Leaf.) The first class was great! I had fun, let myself have at it without too much inner monologue. It was fun! I thought, "I can do this!"
Sadly, however, the art therapist asked us to explore our inner critic last week. To describe it. To give it physicality. And then to make it ridiculous.
Um ... that's a bit of a quagmire for me, it turns out. Sure, I was able to describe it: a brick wall that stands in my way. Encased in a thick steel casing so you can't chip away at it. Topped with glass, so that it is hard, cold, and any sound I make bounces back at me, amplified and distorted.
That was just the description.
To make it ridiculous I saw there were speakers attached to the wall, telling my WHY I can't do what I want to do with my abilities and talents, filling the room with noise that makes it impossible to hear a thing.
Turns out that wasn't quite what the therapist had in mind ... but my monkey brain doesn't always catch the finer details of an exercise. Turns out she expected us to make that critic funny, hard to take seriously, less harmful.
O.
Wow.
Not sure how you do that with an impenetrable wall.
I said I would work on it, but so far I got nothing. Class happens again tomorrow. Guess I will give it another go ... and I plan to be on time too. I mean, how do you slay your dragons if they get there before you?
My son, now in grade one, was punched in the face by a child from his class who is prone to sudden violent outbreaks. Two days later, I can see the stress this occasion has caused. I'm thoughtful about the fact that if this happened between two adults, one would be up on assault charges and my son would have the right to proper counselling for PTSD. I worry about the other kid. I have the full knowledge that their home life is fraught with tension, that another older sibling is as predictably unpredictable.
Two days ago, my child told me about the day's event during a quiet lazy moment out in the backyard. Never underestimate the power of being idle. These are the moments that allow the waters of communication to flow easily.
My son has asked to stay home from school today. He attended some kind of counselling session with the school counsellor and the other child that he didn't really understand. I was told he was helpful at the meeting, but I'm not convinced anyone recognised that he might also require help. I was not told about the meeting, nor informed about the strategy. I am still unsure whether it was an exercise in forcing a kid who doesn't know why they're sorry to apologise, or an attempt to practice restorative justice.
Two days on, my son is showing signs of stress, and I think he will benefit from a day of relative safety at home. His sisters can be cranky, but at least not they are not physically abusive. They've been made aware of his needs, the middle child generously has offered to play Lego and the eldest, in some funk of her own, is keeping her distance.
I worry hard for that other child, the assailant. My children have me, a person who's worked hard at having decent mental health skills and predictable behaviours, when they return home from the world. I know personally how hard it is to be a child who struggles, is not particularly valued or liked by teachers at school, and has no support system in an unsafe home. I know what it is like to be seven and to feel completely alone and unloved in the world.
My son called my daughter fat, and she ran down to tell me in sharp-eyed outrage.
I looked at my daughter, raised my eyebrows, and asked her a single question: “Are ya fat?”
Her 10 year old lips quivered and, for a moment, she looked like she’d say yes.
“No,” she replied, a sliver of insecurity gleaming through a crack in her angry demeanor.
“‘Fat’ is a fact-word,” I told her, “not an insult; it a fact. Either you are or you aren’t. If someone uses it as an insult, you can choose to be offended or reject it as a untrue. But even then ... let’s talk about this a bit.”
I called my son down and together we explored what it means to use a fact word as an insult. He’s six and the only one who’s recently attended public school, where I imagine he picked up this taunt.
“Guys, fat is a fact word,” I say. “Almost all of the people in the world have a degree of fat on their bodies. Some more than others. Some of them are fat.”
By now, my middle daughter has joined the conversation.
“Adam, when you turn a fact word like fat into an insult word, you are more likely to hurt me. I have more fat on my body than you or dad; I’m closer to actually being fat. Did you mean to insult me?”
He shook his head.
“Georgia, when you’re offended by a word like fat and you accept it as an insult you are supporting the idea that fat is something bad.”
The tension in the room eased. I pulled up the article I was saving, published on Huffington Post, showing side-by-side “Barbies”, one manufactured by Mattel and shaped by an artist to represent an average woman. As we clicked slowly through the photos, we talked about the pictures, Barbie, Lego, Archie comics, magazine images and how we hurt people by turning fact words into insults.
I've missed you, Trifecta editors; I've missed you, fellow Trifecta writers. And I see you've grown. Together and without me.
(Don't worry, I think that's exciting.)
Last year my mother died. In the wake of this event and the inevitable rippled, I decided to take the year off. In many more-traditional cultures, life stops for a while when someone close to you dies. Or is born. Or leaves. In ours, we forge on. In my writing, which is a tenuous activity at best, I couldn't do that.
And anyway, here in my muttering space, I had nothing much to say.
It was inevitable my relationship with my mother was going to be left unresolved, mine alone to sift through as opposed to being a two-way thing. My mother's relationship with herself was so intense, so all consuming, that I never really existed. I loved her, and she tried in her brokenness. Her death is a weird thing to mourn.
My mother's biggest concern was to never be "exposed". Ironically, as a mother who made that her life goal -- to the exclusion of good parenting skills, solid mental health habits, or anything reasonable -- she was bound to have at least one kid who would have a deep-seeded need to expose her, to explore the experiences in written format, if only to save myself.
Anyway, I can't promise to be back in any way regular or dependable; I'm saving that for my kids. But here I am, for this moment of time, offering you these three words to describe my (excruciating) writing process:
Read.
Agonize.
Distill.
This weekend's Trifecta challenge is to write 3 words of my own choosing to describe my writing process. You can read more about the inspiration for this challenge here. I hope you didn't mind the bonus, but just in case, I wrote those three words in bold. I'm going to the canoe races, and to a yummy salmon barbeque. I'll see you when I get back.
This weekend's Trifecta task is simple: forge an answer as to why I write. Not as easy as it sounds so I gave this one the not-over-thought treatment and am offering it in the raw:
************************************
I WRITE BECAUSE
i need to find "like" minds i have to explain myself i try to support others i worry i hurt i truly hunger to communicate
IF I DON'T I’LL DIE
************************************
Trifecta is a twice weekly writing challenge. While I haven't been that regular recently, I remain grateful for the prompts, and committed to take the challenge as often as I can manage.
I've been watching the American elections more closely than ever before. What can I tell you, it is quite entertaining. Which is not a good thing. Say anything you'd like about entertainment, it does not propel us forward. Sure I have lightbulb moments that help me with my angst and love life, but mostly I'm just trying to avoid doing stuff: Cleaning my house, weeding my gardens, teaching my kids, advocating for change.
Today on CBC Radio's daily newsmagazine, The Current, I learned something sinister: those American (inter)nationally televised presidential debates are run a private, non-profit corporation, the Commission on Presidential Debates (CPD), owned and operated entirely by the Republican and Democratic Party. I mean Parties. And their budget is courtesy of for-profit corporations and their lobby groups. Who own the television networks?
Oh.
I see.
This explains why the candidates’ parties are allowed to stage their positions and audience questions, control the moderators and the camera angles, and keep all other possible candidates far away from the podium. Seriously, how do these debates prove adequate knowledge to voters? Most Americans I know are completely engaged but can't get answers to their deep concerns about the choices being made on their behalf in their country.
The debates may well be a staged fraud, and Americans are only now waking up to realise they've been conned since the birth of their modern nation.
And why, you might ask, would this Canadian be so riveted by the manipulation of a few to continue to hold power when it is not my country?
We have it here too. The lies, the choices that don’t exist. The colonization of our minds.
In Canada as everywhere, the stakes have never seemed higher. Unlabeled GMO foods. Factory farming. Pipelines and tankers carrying bitumen oil, perhaps the most impossible thing to clean up from proposed remote riverbed, mountain range and sea paths. Global warming? Compact florescent lights, anyone?
Update: Here are three parts to a story carried on PBS about this story.
Part 1:
Part 2:
Part 3:
I said it once, and I'll say it again. Canada's election process and debates are pretty much the same disaster as those in the USA. We are in the same boat. We may have to work together to right this wrong and be governed by people who want to govern all of us, and not just control us.
These are the rules for playing at Trifecta:
Your response must be between 33 and 333 words.
You must use the 3rd definition of the given word in your post.
The word itself needs to be included in your response.
You may not use a variation of the word; it needs to be exactly as stated above.
As usual, we are using the third definition of a word selected by those crafty-but-cute Trifecta editors. I personally picture them with dancing around a cauldron.
I wear black. Not sometimes, all the time. Pants, shirts, dresses, coats, skirts, tights, socks and shoes. Black. Sure I have this one bulky hot-pink woolen scarf I knit myself for really cold days, and I did wear a red skirt once. But black is it, down to my pajamas and undergarments.
It may surprise you to know, like the childless and unmarried, one who chooses to wear black is endlessly grilled on why, when will this change, what's wrong with you. Heads shake. I would say "nothing" but that is not entirely truthful. It’s just, you know, what right have you to ask?
Listen. I am colourful enough. I spout opinions, don’t know how to keep quiet. I am loud; I call attention to myself by default. I stick out like an infected, inflamed cuticle.
I don’t need colour.
More significantly, when I was a child, another mercilessly critiqued my wardrobe misfires and the unique items that I wore -- lilac shoes, peach pants, a puffed-sleeved, pinstriped blouse that buttoned up one side of my newly-developed bosom. I still hear that kid’s taunts, others gleefully joining in. That was just the tip of my life of being bullied.
That child is now adult, and wishes I would "stop calling attention to myself" for suffering her behaviour. That was then, this is now, get over it.
But my childhood scars are no different than those of a woman who has had cancers cut from her body: scar tissue left behind hardens over time and irritates the flesh around it. The remedy is for a surgeon to score the tissue with a scalpel. My own remedies are to stand out less or to scratch at the memories 'til I bleed.
My predilection to black drives some people to distraction. On that single day I sport my scarf, they effuse over colour’s cameo in my life as if it changes the world. They present me more colourful items; my rebuff bites hard.
**********************
The rules:
Your response must be between 33 and 333 words.
You must use the 3rd definition of the given word in your post.
The word itself needs to be included in your response.
You may not use a variation of the word; it needs to be exactly as stated above.
You know how life can steal your breath away? Sometimes it's thrilling, like a super passionate and unexpected kiss and your stomach drops and you feel so light that you could soar away. But other times it's more like the wind is pummeled clean out of you and you have to struggle just to pull in that next breath and sort out which way is up.
That is what happened to me this year, and I feel like I'm just peeking out from under my turtle's shell now. Sure, occasionally I've peeked at your blogs to see how you are, but rarely have I been able to summon up the confidence or ... something ... to comment. I can't lie, sometimes I even type stuff up only to delete it and slink away.
I figured one way I can ease back into some good old muttering, if only for this (temporarily bedridden) moment, would be to Trifecta (trifecticate?).
While I've missed the camaraderie, I have not been able to read any of the often inspiring, thrilling and hilarious work that is posted twice weekly at Trifecta for forever, triste, but I'm trying to just be okay with this strange place I'm in.
I'd love to say I'm back, and better than ever, but instead I think I'm okay to say I'm popping by today with only the best of intentions to write a piece and check out everyone's work once I post this, and maybe, just maybe to hobble back again midweek.
I'm not giving up and going away, but maybe I'm gonna be unreliable for a bit. I can promise nothing better.
And so, without further ado about nothing, this weekend's Trifecta challenge:
-- 33 words of my own, building upon but not counting "On the count of three ..."
**************************************
Bang!
Shriek!
Shhhhhhhhhh ...
Okay. Stop it! ... Any moment now ... Hank, ready to light the sparklers?
I want you to meet my friend Glenda Watson Hyatt. We've been friends since she was 7 and I was 6. Or maybe 8 and 7, I can't remember. We were in Brownies (the junior British colony version of Girl Scouts) together, in the same . I'll add a photo of us when we were kids when I come across it again, but today I have to tell you a quick story about her inextinguishable will.
Yesterday, Glenda climbed the steps of the Art Gallery in Philadelphia, following in the footsteps of the semi-biographical character, Rocky Balboa. The true Rocky is a gentleman named Charles (Chuck) Wepner, a heavyweight boxer who went the distance with Muhammad Ali who joined Glenda in her triumph after her ascension.
Since the moment I met her, Glenda, brain injured at birth which left her with a "life, not death sentence" of cerebral palsy, has been a person who has chosen to say "yes" to life and opportunities. She wrote a book with one thumb, Do It Myself, about her early days, including her journey through school and university. Do it Myself is also available to read on your Kindle. If you want to feel inspired, or just get a look at what living with a disability looks like from the inside, I highly recommend it. And not just because I make a brief cameo ...
Anyway, today is about Glenda, and the challenge she set her sights upon most recently. Climbing those stairs, aided by the group, Wish Upon a Hero. She would have done it without them, I know this from experience, but they made a personal challenge a party. I've stolen Glenda's montage of this event, which was made even better by a foundation called from her FB page, so that you can celebrate her spirit too, and answer yes! to the next little (or not so little) dream you have.
Glenda and gang make the climb (photo courtesy: Wish Upon A Hero)
ps. Glenda writes and presents worldwide about Web Accessibility. If you have a blog, or develop internet software, she has compiled a wealth of information about courseware for you to use to broaden your readership by making content more widely available to those with disabilities. She asks you: Is Your Blog Disabled?
This week Joules over at LucidLotusLife completed a Weirdo Survey and then Amelia over at Searching for Amelioration did the same so I thought I would kickstart my writing career and make this jazz a microtrend by forcing myself to do the same.
I dunno why it is dubbed the Weirdo Survey, maybe some weirdo wrote it, but I'm not that fussy so here ya go:
How tall are you barefoot?
It depends. Am I pregnant? (I'm not pregnant.)
Have you ever smoked heroin?
Riiiiiight.
Listen. I freaked something awful at someone else who decided in a bar we worked that I needed to watch her snort coke in a bathroom stall late one night because THAT would be the night the joint got busted ... so you tell me. Have I ever smoked heroin?
Do you own a gun?
A water gun. Yes. But I don't allow my kids to touch it. I don't want to hear the girls yelling that the boy shot them in the eye. That bickering drives me insane.
Rehab?
Does eating-disordered loony bin count? Because it should because that's how I used it. So, yes.
Do you get nervous before
hand jobs? Sure. Doesn't everybody?
What do you think of your friends?
If by friends you mean people who read this blog, I think they are brilliant, insightful, beautiful and charming. Did I mention they are brilliant?
If by friends you mean IRL ... I'm working on that. Ha ha, joking. (Sort of). I love my friends very much.
What's your favorite Christmas song?
Have You Ever Been Mellow?
What. I have to listen to stuff like that at Christmas time. It keeps me from losing my shit.
What do you prefer to drink in the morning?
Irish whiskey in black coffee.
Whipped cream optional.
Perfection includes Irish Mist, but I haven't had that since I stopped working the business lunch shift at local Greek restaurants, completely tanked. That Irish Mist really *makes* the drink.
Do you do push-ups?
I never "do" anything that makes my chin rest on my mammary glands. It just looks silly.
Have you ever done ecstacy?
Yep. 1/2 tab. Once whilst living in Hong Kong and attending our one and only rave, in the basement of a grand hotel. We shared the tab in the cab ride over.
The hotel part made our one-and-only attempt at 90s cool pretty pitiful. The chemical merely made my hair stand on end so I never tried it again. I was disappointed I didn't get all chill and/or lovey.
Are you vegetarian?
I am an opportunist. If you feed me good food, I will eat it.
Do you like painkillers?
I haven't found one that works so ... not really. I'm mostly mad at them.
What is your secret weapon to lure in the opposite sex?
Um, yar. I totally use a secret weapon. I fix them with my death glare, and render them incapable to resist. And then I eat them.
What time did you wake up today?
7.25 am
Current worry?
It is July and my toes are cold.
Current hate?
Reality is a bitch.
Do you own slippers?
Nope.
Do you burn or tan?
Are we talking S&M here? Because I'd choose tanning someone's hide over burning them any day. I don't like the smell. Now hot wax, that might be different. But did you ever see that movie that Diana Ross was in, where she burned herself by dripping wax down her body? That was crazy. So maybe I'm going to stick with tanning.
What songs do you sing in the shower?
None. Shower is out of commission. It's a new reno, leaks into the downstairs suite like a kid's snotty nose, please don't ask. I bathe in the clawfoot bathtub we romantically installed in the kids playroom.
Don't. Ask.
How many TVs do you have in your house?
We have three TV screens, but we only watch television shows on my small laptop because we do not receive a signal on said TVs. Really, we should give those things away, don't you think?
Do you wish on stars?
Nope. But I hum the tune.
What song do/did you want played at your wedding?
Queen: I Want to Ride my Bicycle. And then we did.
What song do you want played at your funeral?
I do not want a funeral. But if others want when I go, they can do what they'd like. I don't plan on caring. I'll. Be. Dead.
But I wouldn't complain if someone played a young Liza singing Cabaret. Mostly I hope I'll have figured out how to make this song true in my life:
Do you love someone?
Uh huh. Truly madly deeply, I love my husband. I love my friends (online and off), I love my siblings and their kids. And I love my kids, wildly and without reservation.
****************
Credit where it's due:
Lisa over at Seeking Elevation started answering surveys as a Friday Fluff thing a while back ... it's good to see it revived every here and there. Her most recent fluff was completed in the run-up to her marathon solo-with-toddler+preschooler trip from Hong Kong to the Gulf of Mexico and beyond ... pretty sure she needed the distraction at that point as much as I am using this for mine now. I believe she is on the last leg of her journey (the Gulf part) and then she's home again home again jiggity jog.
I want to tell people the truth: they take and take and take and take without giving in return but still they take take take take and when there should exist nothing more to get they take some more, and they should not. Push. So. Hard. -- or -- Grab. So. Much. without considering replenishing the well that is I.
I fear the fireworks. It terrifies me so much that I cannot breathe. I imagine if I told them an ounce of how rude and horrible and mean they are, if I said anything at all ...
So I stay still, and quiet, and proffer my everything with my head bowed in the hope that they will one day see that they take too much.
Yes. I know.
I am broken too.
*******************
This is my entry for this week's Trifecta Writing Challenge, after many weeks of absence. In its way, it seems like a lifetime, but taking a small step back into the fray is, indeed, comforting. I've missed you.
As usual, we are using the third definition of a word selected by those crafty-but-cute Trifecta editors. I personally picture them with horns.
I have been absent from my blog for the month following the death of my mother. I am still sorting through my feelings and those of my family, and have felt too vulnerable to write things (even mundane things not related to her death).
Of course, it is easier to write for a cause -- especially a good one -- so I'm climbing back on my horse. After all, it is always easier to ask for something for someone else, isn't it? This may be my personal Achilles heel. I'm pretty sure most of you can relate. (I've read your blogs.)
So I have this friend, Melissa. She is my children's violin teacher and an amazing musician who inspires me to push myself to be more brave (one day, but not today). She and another musician form the group BowAntler. They are competing to secure a space on the main stage of the Vancouver Folk Music Festival, one of the original festivals to be held in Vancouver. This festival is a BIG DEAL.
To help me support BowAntler, please check out this song she and her band mate wrote specifically for the contest, Shake My Shoes, and then click the "like" link to vote for her. While you are there (and if you love Cindy Lauper like I do) check out their rendition of Time after Time (Time after time ... time after time ... time after time ...)
That's it for now. Thanks in advance for those of you who take the time to vote. For those of you that don't, I'm okay with asking and not receiving. A long time ago I learned that if I don't ask, I will never get, and that a no is just as okay an answer as yes.
I'm embedding the video here but I think you have to click like directly on FB to actually vote. (If you really like it, feel free to share with your peeps too.) If you don't "do" Facebook, you can click "like" directly on the YouTube video, I've heard rumours that this will count too ...
May I present BowAntler's Shake My Shoes:
In the meanwhile, my family grieves. My mother (Elaine) was a complicated person (aren't we all) but I can say with absolute certainty she was was an especially amazing grandma. We'll each miss her in our own way.
This is a letter I just wrote to the premier of my province as well as to other government officials with regards to c̓əsnaʔəm, the historical site at the Marpole Midden. (Their FB page has some terrific coverage of their activism too.) Whether or not you are a citizen of Canada, feel free to write to the premier et al and encourage them to assist in creating a resolution to this standoff for the Musqueam Band of Vancouver. As I argue below, if this were the western so-called Cradle of Civilization, rather than the history of the aboriginal people who's family have occupied this land for some 4000 years, this act would be a complete outrage. I mean, remember Bin Laden and the Buddhist statues?! I do. How is this so different?
Dear Premier and MLAs,
As a longtime resident of Vancouver and a lifelong resident of the lower
mainland I am writing to express my full support for the Musqueam Band
with regards to the heritage site at the Marpole Midden.
It is imperative that we show the Musqueam our understanding of their
values, especially that of their ancestry. That he remains of three
individuals were unearthed earlier this year should be reason alone to
seek a positive outcome for the Musqueam. If it is sacred to them, at
the very least we should show our respect of this belief, regardless of
our own, or our lack of belief.
I also understand this land had been a "disposal" site, which to me
suggests there exists an amazing history to the property -- a repository
if you will of invaluable artifacts that will tell us stories of an
early civilization in existence long before your family or mine arrived.
If this were Ancient Mesopotamia, we would be outraged at the
indiscriminate digging that is being attempted on the site. What is the
difference here? I believe it is this: you and I were not educated in
school about anything but the superiority of Christianity, European
culture and colonial righteousness. Whether or notyour ancestral burial
grounds or the remnants of your ancestors lives is of value to you
should not come into play in this situation: a group of people with long
ties to this land do, and this must be taken into serious
consideration.
I understand that there may exist complications with stopping this
development -- perhaps the presale of this development has begun,
perhaps the "owners" are obstinate. No matter. Conflicts such as these
are worked through all the time and can be sorted through here. This
land was earmarked nearly a century ago, and should be developed with
pride and in support of a better education for our children: Hamish,
Georgia, Korinne and Adam. Many of us believe you have no choice but to
step up and work this issue through to a fair and acceptable outcome.
Find a way to allow for the exchange of land so that the Musqueam may
develop a visitor's interpretive centre and park as they've proposed. If
you must, imagine yourself at a ribbon cutting for both sites and the
terrific press a positive outcome could have on both situations. Imagine
the legacy you will leave in your wake.
My understanding of true history is one that includes the stories of
more than the "dominant" culture that came to this land. We owe it both
to the Musqueam children and to our own to together create a more
balanced story of this land so that together we may have a cohesive and
balanced future.
Do the right thing. Work with the Musqueam and the developers to create
an improved Vancouver that reflects an irreplaceable story of its past.
Sincerely,
Karen -
Vancouver, BC
Feel free to write these people (or tweet them) yourself:
Premier Clark Twitter @christyclarkbc Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/christyclarkbc Email: premier@gov.bc.ca Constituency: 3615 West 4th Avenue Vancouver, BC V6R 1P2
Hon. Mary Polak, Minister of Aboriginal Relations and Reconciliation Twitter: @MaryPolak Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/MLAPolak E-mail: mary.polak.mla@leg.bc.ca Constituency: 102 – 20611 Fraser Highway Langley, BC V3A 4G4
Hon. Steve Thomson, Minister of Forests, Lands and Natural Resource Operations E-mail: steve.thomson.mla@leg.bc.ca Constituency: 102 – 2121 Ethel Street Kelowna, BC V1Y 2Z6
Note: So weird. I must have written this as a trifecta, and then not had time to figure out whether or not I could publish it. IDK. The thing just appeared in here this morning when I logged in and started to review the story thus far. Weird. Anyway, I've hit publish, so I guess I'll leave it. But I've removed it from the Trifecta set. Because it didn't even have the word, which in Week 23 was confidence.
Across the Rails -- Upon Arrival
The children, upon seeing the ramshackle hut, looked at each other. So tired were they, so thirsty and hungry and sick to death of Oreo cookies and apple juice, the shack looked like a resort. Although they'd never been there before, it was exactly as Terry had expected it to be. One door, window to the right with lime green curtains obliterating the view to the insides. Door painted red, rest of the house a dirty shade of grey.
Terry knew this house had once been white, had seen the picture and committed the little house's visage to memory. But grey was not charcoal and, as soon as she located the key to the lock, it would be theirs for the duration. At least that was her hope.
Even in her pre-teen state, she knew better than to think that anything in her life would be a given. Experience had taught her that if she hoped that something would work in her favour, the opposite would usually prove true.
She thought bad thoughts, just to avert the possibility. Other squatters, her aunt not wanting her, rats eating their way through the provisions, a poisoned well. If she thought these ideas now, none of them would prove true.
The house looked deserted, something about it was desolate enough to make her think her aunt and her aunt's friend had not been there for a while. Still, there was no mail piled high, no papers on the stoop. Of course the area was off the beaten track, she thought, it was possible that the mail was delivered only to a "rural route" box nearby. And if her aunt was anything like her own folks, she would not have the time, patience, trust nor money for a newspaper subscription. And the free ones were usually only delivered in the towns -- rural folks were not ones to use the flyers to augment their meager furnishings with dreams of Martha Stewart or her ilk.
"What do you think, Petey?" she asked finally.
"Do you think they're home?" he replied. "I want some water."
"Wait here with Frannie," Terry said, her voice low despite their being the only people to be seen. "I'm going around back."
Peter sat down with his back against a knotty old tree, as weary as if he'd already lived a hundred years, rather than his meager six. Francis dropped beside him, and put her exhausted head on his thigh. His hand automatically smoothed down her hair, the gesture of an older sibling who never enjoyed the luxury of being cranky and selfish.
As Jean left to find a way into the house, she let her eyes linger for a moment longer on her brother and sister than she should have. How much she longed to be a younger child, to have someone smooth her hair, for any touch that would lessen the responsibility she felt. She ached to be back at their place by the lake, reading books with her neighbour.
She shook herself a bit, to pull back into her reality. She knew she needed to get the younger kids into the house and give them something better to eat before nightfall. She glanced around, noticing dandelions everywhere. They'd have greens, anyway.
The key was exactly where her mom said it would be, beneath the stairs, between a piece of wood that made the platform and a leg that didn't quite rise to meet it. It felt cool and hard and sharp in her hand and as she squeezed it the pain she felt brought her some relief from her unending stress.
She turned the key and slipped into the back door of the shack. It smelled musty, as if it had been closed up and not given a chance to dry out from the wet of the spring. She could fix that tomorrow, she thought as she opened the front door and beckoned the others to enter.
Last year we sold our car, so it was only fitting that we reclaim the little house that the car never had a chance to live in because we had too much stored stuff. Here is the second half of yesterday's misadventures, halfway toward replanting trees:
Lying here trapped in my bed, awaiting my grub. The hours tick by. I hear negotiations and imagine the mess as my stomach growls. But as “mother”, today’s duty is to wait. Hungry.
From the Trifecta Writing Challenge: This weekend's Trifextra is the first of its kind. This weekend we only need 32 words from you, because we're giving you the 33rd. Your challenge is to write anything you want, in whichever form you please, so long as your response is exactly 33 words and includes the word "mother."
