Family Lines

stories for you

Month: January 2017

Lost Andy

Andy talks and talks and talks. Talks and talks. Then talks some more.

“At school we painted pictures,” he says.

“I can make super-sonic laser beams come out of my eyes.”

“Can I take Jasper out for a walk?”

Andy is annoying me with all his talking. I want to tell him to shut up but I won’t. He’s only seven years old.

Andy is my foster brother. He stays with my family on weekends. Mom and Dad decided to become foster parents since all their kids have grown up and moved away for university. I admire the fact that my parents are doing something for children who need help and love but it’s Christmas. I don’t want Andy around. I want my Mom and Dad all to myself because I’ve been away for four months and have a lot to tell them.

Andy never stops chattering. He follows me around telling me about his latest ninja adventure.

“Me and the ninjas hang out a lot. We just went and beat up some bad guys real bad. They’ve got blood coming out of their noses,” he says.

Andy’s mum doesn’t like him. In fact, she hates him. She never asks how school was or looks at him or kisses him goodnight.

He likes coming to our house because we don’t hit. He said that once. He likes coming to our house because we don’t ignore him. He said that too.

A friend and I were catching up during that same holiday Andy was part of my family. After Katherine and after our coffees, we found a kitten behind the café. It was a freezing cold Saturday and it took a long time to capture the baby. Every time Katherine and I got close she would dart into the brambles.

I managed to catch her when she climbed a tree and was too weak to get very far.

I put the kitten in the car and she howled all the way home. She was starving and wild and scared. At my house I gave her some warm milk and mush to eat. I cleaned her up and she’s beautiful. She tried to snuggle into my collarbone. She looked up at me asking for love with her enormous eyes. She made me cry. She made me put Andy into perspective.

Andy is like the kitten, abandoned and scared. He wants attention and love, except he’s not cute and cuddly. He’s a skinny little boy. He can’t fit into the nook of my shoulder. So he talks constantly to get people to notice him, even if all they’re going to say is be quiet.

After this revelation I try to be nicer to Andy. We walk through the woods together. I show him how to play the piano and how to build a house out of Lego. But he still keeps talking.

Laughing at life

Hockey jersey and high heels.

Funny photo: hockey and heels.

“Ha ha ha.”

That’s me laughing. To myself. I constantly crack myself up. But while I think I’m funny, it sometimes doesn’t translate well onto the page. However, I can’t always write about serious life lessons or sweet little moments because life makes us laugh too. We need to inject humour into our memoirs.

Writing humour is tough but it’s a best-seller once it hits the shelves. Writing a poignant, heartwarming story is a lot easier than writing a comedic memoir. Why? Because we all have different senses of humour.

To some writers, being funny on the page comes naturally. Just read this sentence from Elizabeth Gilbert’s memoir Eat Pray Love.

Having a baby is like getting a tattoo on your face. You really need to be certain it’s what you want before you commit.

That’s so true and hilarious at the same time. She is taking something that’s an incredibly big commitment and making us think about it in a different way. She’s making us look at having a baby in another light. Writers are always looking for ways to describe things in a new way. Gilbert did it here. (No pun intended.)

Life isn’t only a series of ponderous thoughts and events. We have laughter and comedic relief every day. Even in our darkest moments there’s a dot of light. The other day was terrible for me. There were so many things going wrong — and not going right — personally and professionally. I just wanted to get home from the gym and drink the extra-large tea I had just bought and not talk to anyone.

I pulled into the garage and parked in my designated spot. Then I grabbed the tea by the lid and … splash. Hot tea spilled all over the tops of my legs: the burning liquid quickly soaked into my gym tights. I hopped out of the car as fast as I could and wondered what to do. Should I stop, drop and roll? Should I take off my pants in the garage where anyone might drive or walk in? Ouch! That tea was boiling.

A few seconds later, my legs were no longer on fire. The tea was tepid and I was left with an empty cup and feeling more miserable than ever. Oh the tragedy of being upset and being doomed to have nothing ever go right.

Cat in a drawer.

Tomas being funny.

Right. Stop taking yourself so seriously.

“I tea-d myself,” I said aloud to myself. Then I started laughing. It was funny. We’ll all need to laugh once in a while. Why not start with me?

Jokes

Some people find me funny and others might just find me funny-looking. However, I did win first prize at a joke competition in a Revelstoke bar a few years ago with a laugh I wrote. I won’t repeat the joke here as it’s a bit racy but I do have two others I created and can share with you.

Where does Batman go pee? The batroom.

Where do enzymes go to work out? The digestive tract.

No. 1 skeletons

Emply glass milk bottles.My head is full of different types of memories. Some are good memories, like playing hockey on the pond with my dad or my mom taking me to get my ears pierced. Other memories are sad, like when I had to say goodbye to my friends and move to a new community a couple of hundred kilometres away. I also have memories about things that once didn’t made sense to me but I’ve since clarified them over the years.

In Westville, NS in the mid-70s, there was still a milkman. Carton and jugs of milk were sold in the store but the milkman also delivered milk in glass bottles to homes around town. My family’s house even had a cut-out in the wall of our entryway for the milk. Every morning my parents put out a sign that either said “No” (they didn’t want milk) or “Yes” (they wanted milk). When the milk came, the full bottles were put on the shelf in the entry way. The milk was kept fresh with a cap, a cap that had No. 1 written on it. When six-year-old me read that, I was confused.

Huh? No one is supposed to drink the milk? Why not? I asked my parents about this and they explained to me that the N and the O were short form for the word number. The milk people were declaring their milk as Number One – the best milk to drink. Oh. Sure?

Apartheid was another thing I struggled to understand. Dad and me (I might have been seven) were shopping for a birthday present for mom and we went into a nice store. I found a glorious shiny brass plate and thought I had struck gold. It was perfect.

“No,” said Dad. “This was made in South Africa. We don’t buy anything from there.”

“Why not?”

“Because of apartheid. The government there doesn’t treat black people fairly.”

I’m sure my father gave me a more lengthy history lecture but I couldn’t understand why this South Africa would treat its people terribly. However, the lesson was learned and my world both widened and shrank at the news that not everyone is treated equally.

Red Skelton’s name was a head-scratcher for me as a kid. On a March break trip to Florida, my family was visiting John’s Pass, a touristy fishing village. Red Skelton, the comedian and early TV performer, had an exhibition of his art there and was also there in person.

“I just met Red Skelton!” said my mother.

Red Skelton with artwork,

Red Skelton with artwork, 1948. Macfadden Publications.

“Who?”

I had interpreted the artist’s name as Red Skeleton. Why was mom so excited to see a bloody skeleton? How was this guy even alive?

“He’s a clown who paints clowns.”

That did not make the image in my head any better.

Knowlton Nash is another figure I had a hard time figuring out many years before I became a journalist myself. When my family was in Ottawa staying at the Chateau Laurier, Nash was staying at the same hotel. There was some sort of world conference going on and the CBC anchor was either covering it or part of it. My mom spotted him in the hotel gift shop.

“There’s Knowlton Nash!”

Nolltown Gnash? I looked over the man my mother was (covertly) staring at and saw a blond haired man with huge glasses. He’s an icon in the media world where I’d end up later in life but as a tween girl, I had no idea why this man was worthy of being recognized. And what was up with those mammoth glasses?

Nowadays, I can just google anything that muddles my brain. But back then, when computers took up a lot more space than the palm of my hand, I had to work things out for myself, skeletons and all. Interestingly enough though, my own last name never caused me any nor my playground playmates any confusion.

“Tell me a story, Lea Storry!” they’d shout to me at recess.

Thankfully, my parents didn’t call me Rita.

No Bones about it

Me and a dog,.

Me and my buddy Bones. Photo by Don Aubrey.

A few years ago, I walked the dogs and patted the cats as a volunteer for the Fort Smith Animal Shelter. There were a lot of stray animals in the tiny Northwest Territories town. It’s especially imperative there’s a haven for animals there because of the extreme cold in winter. Once the dogs and cats are in the shelter they get tons of warmth and love from the volunteers.

I went to the shelter on weekends and sometimes during my lunch hour on weekdays. When I first started working at the shelter I got teary eyed every visit thinking about all the abandoned pets. But I kept going because if I wasn’t there, who would take my place?

Most of the cats enjoyed a pat or 30 (I ended up taking one of the kitties home.) They purred and cuddled and played with me in the cosy kitty room. I always had to hurry to shut the cat room door when I was leaving because they’d try to follow me out.

The main room was where the dog pens were housed. There were huskies and Labs and even a mini Pinscher that I wanted to adopt. There were old dogs and middle-aged dogs and puppies. There were adorable dogs and funny-looking mutts and dogs I couldn’t walk because they were too large and too strong and they walked me.

There was one big guy named Bones at the shelter and if you met him in a dark alley you probably would run the other way. He only looked scary. I’m not sure what breed he was but he was definitely a cross between a German Shepherd and a Rottweiler. He had the brown and black colouring of both canines, the ears that stuck straight up in a Shepherd and the snout of a Rottie. He had the strength of a horse and even his tail could pack a mighty thwack if you walked past him. Bones wasn’t meant for fighting though and it showed through in his soft, kind brown eyes and friendly demeanour.

Cats/

In the cat room.

Bones could have been a bad man but he was the sweetest dog in the world. He enjoyed people and pats and going for walks. I loved him a lot. We used to wander around the snow-covered paths in winter looking for new sights (for me) and new smells (for him). Bones was my best buddy. I’d tell him all kinds of stuff and he never butted in with unwanted opinions or advice. Ever. He just kept silent and let me do the talking.

It took a while before Bones was adopted so we had a pretty long relationship. He even chaperoned a couple of dates I went on with a human. Bones wasn’t the jealous kind and he let my soon-to-be boyfriend tag along with us.

Bones went to live with a local family in Smith and was often seen hanging out at their shop. I went to see him a couple of times and he’d always stand on his hind legs and give me a bear hug. He knocked me over each time as he was almost the same size as me.

Thus year, 2017, marks almost 10 years since I last saw him. He was hit by a vehicle a while after I moved from Fort Smith to B.C. I heard the news through a shelter friend and I cried over the loss of my big, furry friend. I still miss him.

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