Chapter eight

Hovering Above Myself 

A Memoir by

Jacqueline D’Acre

Chapter Eight

Hurrah! The medical marijuana arrived yesterday afternoon. Purolator delivered two largish bottles: One labeled CBD drops with a yellow label, the other, 1:1 drops, with a red label. I took my first dose of the night-time oil, 1:1, last night. It’s a trifle challenging to read the syringe, the labelling is so tiny. I got up, went to the doorway and turned on the light. I measured as closely as I could to 2.5 ml and squirted it under my tongue. Now this kind puts you to sleep but also gets you high. I hadn’t wanted that kind. I was afraid of getting fuzzy-minded and not being able to write. But that’s what the doctor recommended so I decided to go along. Also, I was told that the initial dosing is so low I probably wouldn’t get high. Well, I did get a little high. Just a barely perceptible change, not enough to get the munchies or the giggles. Next thing I knew I was sound asleep and woke up just minutes ago, at 5 a.m. Time to try the CBD drops. I used the flashlight on my iphone to read the label. Drew up a measurement attempt close to 2.5 ml. Administered it under my tongue. Waited a few seconds, then swallowed. It has a funny taste—sort of metallic. Like sucking on a nickel. It’s such a low dose it probably won’t do much, if anything, towards cessation of pain.

Woke up at 7:48. Amazing! I slept all through the night. Pretty groggy though. But with no pain.

It seemed like an ordinary school day in 1954, Grade 7, Junior High, with one exception. I had been chosen by the home economics teacher to act as hostess for an afternoon tea. All the mothers and grandmothers were invited. The class served little tea sandwiches of cucumber and salmon along with chocolate brownies.

Home Economics Class, 1950's

I was nervous. Why did she have to pick me? Surely someone else would do a better job. Stewing about this I stomped all the way home for lunch. As soon as I entered the kitchen and slammed the door behind me, I knew something was very wrong. Mother wasn’t cooking lunch, she was just sitting at the kitchen table, doing nothing. A moment later Gram came out from the pantry/bedroom (now a sewing room) and just stood looking at me.

“What’s wrong,” I cried out.

“Jackie,” Gram said. “We have some very bad news.”

I started to cry. Now I could see Mother was crying too. So was Gram.

“What is it?” I yelled. “What happened?”

Gram made a ‘follow me’ motion, turned and walked back into the sewing room. She stopped beside a cardboard box, to the right of her sewing machine. Rusty was in the box.

“Rusty?” I whispered. “Hey, boy.”

I knelt down and petted him, then snatched my hand away. He was stiff and cold. Dear old wonderful Rusty was dead. I sat down on the floor, fondled one of his silky ears and wept. Gram cried along with me. After a while it dawned on me: I couldn’t go to school this afternoon. I’d cry all the time. My Home Ec teacher would have to find another hostess.

Gram and Mother coaxed me back out into the kitchen. I sat down at the table and a hot cup of tea appeared before me. I took a tentative sip and resumed weeping. Gram and Mother sat down at the table. Each of them folded their hands before them on the table.

Mother spoke. “Have you ever heard the expression: ‘The show must go on?’”

I shook my head ‘no.’

“Well, they say that about actors. If an actor turns up really ill, still, he or she performs. No matter what—the show must go on.”

I stared at her. Surely she didn’t think I’d—

        

“Listen to me. You have been picked to do something very important. You—out of all those girls in your class. It’s a great honour. She must really see something in you, Jackie. Pull yourself together. You’re the star of the show. Tell yourself: ‘The show must go on.’”

I sat on the floor with Rusty until it was time to change. Mother drove and Gram and I sat in the front seat with her. We were dressed up. Gram had on red lipstick and I could smell Mother’s Tabu perfume.

At the Home Ec classroom I stood at the door next to my teacher and the principal. We said “Hello, how are you?” to each arriving lady as we shook their hands. To everyone I wanted to blurt out: “My dog died today and he was the best dog in the world!” But I stood and smiled. Later I showed groups of women around, explaining how the classroom operated: Cooking, cleaning, sewing. I kept on smiling and even answered their questions. Finally the ordeal was over. I wanted to faint. Instead I rode home and like a zombie walked downstairs and fell onto my bed where I stayed till morning.

I liked everything about Grades Seven and Eight at Central School. (Now it’s torn down and is replaced by Pattison Park, located on the corner of May and Myles Streets in Fort William.) Penny and I continued our friendship. Junior High was an experiment in the school system. It was the first one ever in Fort William and was designed to help students adjust more readily to high school. Mornings were spent in one classroom for basic subjects like English, spelling, algebra, PE. In the afternoons, science, history, music and art were taught by different teachers and we rotated from classroom to classroom, just like high school. One of the afternoon teachers was Mr. Dugald, a thin, intense man who taught us History and who formed a Glee Club. One afternoon he arranged the class like a choir and had us sing. Then he walked along in front of us, leaning in to listen to us individually. When we finished the song, he announced who was selected for the Glee Club. I was included. I felt lucky to be picked, especially since I believed I had the voice of an old crow.

Central School, Fort William

We gathered to sing a few afternoons each week. Singing together we became as one glorious voice. When we had learned several songs we sang at school assemblies and, I believe we also went to a few old folks homes and performed.

Mr. Dugald also taught history. We’d had Canadian history in Grade Seven and were all thoroughly bored: We had taken it in several grades already. But I perked up immensely when I heard that Grade Eight was British history. All those kings and queens. My favourite queen? The red-headed Elizabeth I. She was, perhaps, the first feminist—struggling always against men who doubted her ability. But when Sir Francis Drake under her command thrashed the Spanish Armada (in 1588) quite a few men suddenly got very quiet. Elizabeth triumphed.

At the end of the year we had a comprehensive history exam. Thrilling! Then my grade came through: 99. What! How had I managed to make some silly mistake and not get a 100? I had: It was a simple little spelling error, one I should have known better about.

There was a graduation dance for the eighth graders. Mother got me an actual store-bought dress: Blue, full-skirted and requiring a couple of crinolines under the skirt to keep it fashionably flared out. The dance was in the school gym of course, so we danced on a hardwood floor, beneath basketball hoops, in a room festooned with crepe-paper streamers. I had a slight crush on a boy named Douglas Hazard. He had a crush on little, smart, Janey Gibb. She danced with other boys, never Douglas. To my delight, I was his second choice. He asked me to dance and we danced all night. He whirled me around and the pins holding my hair up fell out and my waist-length hair tumbled down my back. I could feel it swaying as we moved. He glanced over at Janey several times, but that was okay. I was happy to be danced with. Then he walked me home and at my door, gave me a peck on the cheek.

“Good night, Jackie. Your hair is beautiful.”

“Good night, Douglas. Thanks for a good time.”

That fall I went to a dog show with some family members. It was held at the CLE grounds, all green grass and trees with ‘turned’ leaves: Yellow, gold, red, orange. I wandered off by myself and silently roamed to the building that housed the dogs. I walked through the rows of benches, actually little stall-like edifices, each holding a dog or two. In front of them were special grooming tables, with several handlers at work grooming dogs. Then I came upon Them. Two sleek, silver dogs with penetrating white eyes. They stared at me solemnly. One tentatively began to wag her short tail. I couldn’t speak, couldn’t hardly breathe. Never before had I seen such beauty in an animal. What were they? What kind of dog? An aura, a glow, surrounded them. It was a transcendent moment for me. I knew I had to have one of these dogs in my life, despite it being highly unlikely. They must cost hundreds of dollars. Eventually I was able to move. I crouched nearer the dogs and whispered: “Hey baby, hey girl.” I extended my hand for them to smell. They sniffed my fingers quite seriously and looked up at me, tails wagging. A lady came up to me.

“So, do you like Rolf and Ingrid?” she queried in a German accent.

“I really like them. What are they?”

“They are Vymarahners. Bred by royalty in Chermany.”

She handed me a brochure. At the top it read: “Weimaraners, the smartest dogs in the world.”

“Are they really that smart?”

“Pretty smart. They retrieve on land and in water. They point. They learn obedience lessons quickly.”

“How do I find out more about them?”

“At the back of that brochure is the address for the Weimaraner Club of Canada. You can write to them. They are very helpful.”

“Well, thank you very much.”

I leaned in again and stroked each of the dogs’ silken coats.

“Bye.” They gazed at me…what?...pleadingly?

I walked away in a perfect daze. Something big, something important had just happened to me. I knew I had to learn more about these ethereal creatures. Somehow, I had to have one. I made a wish.

I got home and could babble about nothing but these strange dogs. I was surprised that Father had heard of them. He said their nickname was: ‘Grey Ghosts.’

First I wrote a letter to the Weimaraner Club of Canada requesting general information and the kennels that had puppies for sale. I typed on an ancient Royal typewriter I found in the basement. It took me forever to type anything because I had to search and search to find the right key. Finally, I sent my letter off and could not resist checking the mail every day.

Eventually, information arrived. I set aside the brochure on Weimaraners and began typing letters to kennels. I also got out a letter to the USA club because we were only forty miles from the US border, and the state of Minnesota.

While I waited this time, I began to study. What knowledge is necessary to become a successful breeder? Grateful for being a member of the adult library, I read books on genetics, nutrition, training, whelping. I gorged on canine information. I knew now that the gestation period for puppies is sixty-three days. If you want an idea of what your puppies were going to look like, look more at the grandparents than the parents: Heredity often skips a generation. (This also applies to humans, I believe.)

The marijuana came and I started using it. I squirted a dose under my tongue. It is supposed to take as long as one and half to two hours to have any effect on pain. The doctor at Bodystream, the marijuana clinic, said it takes two weeks for painkilling to set in. But I am seeing a slight difference in just two days. Yea!

I didn’t talk to anyone in the family about this dog longing. I knew they wouldn’t be interested any more than they were interested in my fascination for horses.

Every day I dashed home to check the mail. I was elated when I found a letter from a kennel. There were pictures and pedigrees and prices. Most puppies were $100.00—a vast sum, way beyond my reach. I just had no money. It never occurred to me to ask Grampa for pay for my work in the store and besides, it was a way I helped the family. At eleven, I was considered too young to babysit. I didn’t even ask my family for money for a puppy. This went on for about a year, when one day, Father approached me and gave a little speech. I stared at the ground while I listened. (I never got over my fear of him.)

“You’ve done a lot of work, Jackie, learning about these dogs. I saw you were reading books on genetics and breeding and training. I’m impressed. You know, there’s a savings bond in your name that your Grandmother Cryderman left for you. It’s for one hundred dollars. Would that buy a puppy?”

“Yes, it would. A hundred dollars! For real?” I jumped up and down.

“For real. And if you can find a good puppy for that price, then you can buy the dog.”

“There’s a kennel in Minnesota in a town called ‘Anoka.’ It’s close to Minneapolis, the breeder says. They have one puppy left. A female, which is what I want because I’d like to raise puppies. She’s priced at one hundred dollars. (This was 1954. A hundred dollars was like a thousand dollars.) Can I have her, Father?”

“So you think, after all your study, this is a good dog?”

“Yes. Her sire is a champion. Her dam has wins in Obedience competitions, in the

U.S. and in Canada. So she should be smart, athletic and beautiful.”

“Okay. Write to the man and say you’re seriously interested: To hold that puppy until we get there. We should be able to go next weekend. Monty would probably like to come.” (Monty is what Father called Gram.)

So the next weekend we set off for Anoka, Minnesota, me hardly daring to believe this was coming true. Bless Gramma Cryderman.

We were at Pigeon River, the border, in no time. I had been across before but always felt it was a mysterious thing. One minute, you were in Canada. The next, the USA, but nothing looked different. Same trees, same birds, same sky, same rocks on the roadside. One trip, I heard: “Oh Can-ah-dah…Can-ah-dahhhhh…Can-ah-dahhhhhh.” The Oh Canada bird was in the States! It was a Canadian bird! What was it doing here, across the border! Traitor!

Besides the treacherous bird, I was always a little let down. There should be a difference. We were in a different country.

We arrived in Duluth several hours later and Father pulled into the driveway of a big Victorian house, dark green, right on Lake Superior. It was a house for lodgers: There was only bed, no breakfast. The owners knew Gram. She went to Duluth about twice a year to shop, especially for sheets and towels, and she always stayed at this place.

According to her, J. C. Penney’s had the best buys—far cheaper than anything in Canada. I remember one time when I was there, the grownups were all gathered in the living room watching some black and white fuzz on the glass face of a brown box with legs. Gram turned to me, “Jackie. What do you think of it?”

“Think of what?” I couldn’t make out what was so fascinating about the black and white swirly dots.

“The television. You’re looking right at it!”

“But all it is is fuzz.”

“What? No! It’s a picture. A moving picture. A comedy. See?”

I stared hard at the fuzz. Then the whole thing shifted, the little dots coalesced and I saw a man standing on a stage, talking! Right here in the house!

“I see a man!” I cried out. “What is it?”

“Television. T.V. What do you think?”

“I think it’s wonderful.”

When we got home, UncaBill went out immediately and came home with a 21” black and white Motorola television set. (There was no colour TV then.) He put it in a corner of the living room and we all gathered around to watch. It was the first TV on the block. Word got out and kids and neighbours began showing up, wondering if they could come in and see the television. We let everyone in and soon all the chairs were taken and people were sitting on the stairs, peering through the bannister to watch. Absolutely enraptured. They came every night for ages.

Motorola television set , 1950's

We spent the night at the Victorian house and early the next morning set out for Anoka. I was jumping with excitement. My palms were wet. I couldn’t sit still so I wiggled around in the backseat staring out at forest and farm. I kept telling myself not to go all mushy and buy her just because she was a Weimaraner puppy. To be cool. To check for good teeth, straight legs, long neck and a deep chest. And temperament. I could hardly believe it, though. Me! Actually getting a rare, wondrous Weimaraner—a dog only rich people had.

We arrived in Anoka and following the directions that had been mailed to me, we made our way to the kennel.

We pulled into a driveway, drove past trees and lawn and came to a chain link kennel of several dog runs. There was a house beyond it. In moments, a man came out of the house and he shook hands with my father. I told him I was the one writing the letters and the puppy, if I liked her, would be my dog.

“Where is she?” I queried, impatient.

“Right along here,” and the man gestured for us to follow him. We walked past chain link runs with barking Weimaraners until we came to one run at the end. At first it looked empty. Then I saw in a far corner, hunched over, a big puppy. I knew she was four months old. The man opened a gate and I walked into the dog run.

“Puppy, puppy,” I called. “Let me see you.”

She raised her head and her pale eyes drilled passionately, pleadingly into mine. Suddenly all the promises to check every inch of her conformation flew out the window and I rushed to the puppy, gathered her up in my arms and hugged her. She snuggled up against me. She smelled like sheets fresh off the line. I carried her out of the run onto the grass where the folks were. Then I got serious; I wanted her for sure, but thought yep, better check. I didn’t want to buy a dog just because I was desperate to have one, and then find out it had a disqualifying fault. I would not be able to breed that dog. I peeled back the puppy’s lips to look at her bite. Perfect. I looked inside her ears. As far as I could tell, fine, none of that waxy brown stuff Rusty used to get. Then I stood and reaching around her chest, lifted her front end up and dropped it, watching how her legs and feet came down. Perfectly straight. Her puppy joints and feet looked too big, but that was normal for a four-month old. The puppy submitted to this inspection, but droopingly. She had a flaw. Temperament: She was shy. But I was so suddenly in love with her I decided I’d train her out of it.

“She’s wonderful. I want her.”

Father got out my hundred dollars, changed from Canadian to American funds and handed them over to the man. (At this time the Canadian dollar was worth more than the American, so I came out ahead.) I had a chain link collar and a leather leash for her so I put them on and coaxed her to follow. Still drooping, she did. I got into the back seat with Puppy and Gram and Father got in the front. We drove back to Duluth, and checked into the Victorian house.

The old couple who ran the Victorian oohed and aahed over Puppy. Hesitantly, she wagged her tail at these attentions. I fed her then took her for a walk along the lakeshore. She seemed content to stay near me so I let her off the leash and she trotted a bit ahead. Way down the beach, a man appeared, walking toward us. It was twilight and his bulky shape looked vaguely sinister. I kept on walking. Puppy continued also. Then she stopped, lifted her head and froze. She stared at the man who was quite close now and then she said: “Woof.” I was elated. Only four months old and she’s protecting me despite her shyness. She woofed again, then again. I went to her and snapped the leash to her collar. I stepped forward and, assuming a nonchalant demeanor, clucked to Puppy. The man strode right up to us, then walked past. Puppy woofed once more after his retreating figure then was silent. I unsnapped her leash and we cavorted down the beach. Good girl.

It was dark when we pulled up in front of 544 Wiley. We tumbled from the car and I ran ahead with Puppy, eager to show Mother. Of course, by now the other kids would be in bed. I opened the kitchen door to bright light and stepped inside. Mother was at the stove and when she heard me she turned then immediately bent down and put her arms out to Puppy. The puppy scrambled towards her, toenails clicking on the tile floor. Mother exclaimed: “Oh! You beauty. Mona Lisa.” She was named. Lisa. From her pedigree I picked out a surname and called her ‘Lisa Von Teufelschlosse’ on her papers. Lisa of the Devil’s Castle. The kids heard the commotion and they streamed into the kitchen, all of them trying to pat Lisa at once. I could not believe my good luck: I had my strange, beautiful, mysterious dog. A wish of mine had come true.