Chapter Twelve of Jackie D' Acre's Memoir

The next episode of Jackie D'Arcre's very interesting memoir takes place when she is in her teens, living in the country and attending high school. For the first time she gets interested in boys but also acquires girl friends. Once again we move from sun to shadows and back again in a rawly honest account of Thunder Bay in the late fifties and early sixties. 

Hovering Above Myself: A Memoir

Chapter Twelve

I had settled into being a high school student. My special classes were exciting. I was learning French, (Bonjour!) Latin (???) and science. Mr. Gayoski was the science teacher. He’d gone to Collegiate with Mother. The way he talked, he had quite a crush on her. I told Mother I had him for science and she laughed and said, “Oh, little Eddie Gayoski. Of course I remember him. Tell him ‘Hello’ from me.”

He was short and as wide as he was tall. His jacket didn’t reach across his belly; the top button of his shirt was always undone, it didn’t fit around his short, thick neck. He wheezed instead of breathing, even while standing still. But he was always super nice to me: He still had a crush on Mother. And science was riveting.

In Grade Ten we entered the science classroom for the first class of the school year and encountered a huge metal contraption. The class was biology. On closer observation of the contraption, we saw it was full of eggs. We were to study the growth of a chick in an egg. Each class, Mr. Gayoski cracked an egg open and we studied the contents. At first it was just yolk and white. Then a few thin threads of red veins appeared on the yellow yolk. They increased and became more complex the more we opened eggs. Then one class, as usual, Mr. Gayoski brought another egg to the lab table. We were all crowded around. Mr. Gayoski cracked the egg and laid open the shells. This revealed the yolk, but this time, there was a perfect, tiny, bright red heart on the yolk. Just the heart. Pointing up. The veins trailed away from it then petered out. But, the heart was beating! I was dumbstruck. I was in awe. The class was silent. Also quiet, Mr. Gayoski stared at the beating heart. What made it beat? There was no brain, no body, no apparent source of power. Just the heart. So tiny, so valiant, striving to survive. Tears came into my eyes. Poor wee thing. What powered it? The source of the power was invisible. Was it God? Were we seeing God? Something big was happening and it was revealed to us. But we didn’t understand it. I had a heart just like that one. The same power was making my heart beat. I had always thought our brains commanded our hearts to beat. No, the same power was making everyone’s heart beat. The chick heart looked no different from our hearts, except it was so much smaller. Did that mean we were ALL connected? That we were even connected to the chicken heart? Oh! This was extremely exciting. This gave me so much to ponder.

After a protracted silence, and without uttering a word, Mr. Gayoski gently picked up the yolk with the living, beating heart and took it out of the room. After that, he didn’t open any more eggs.

I had another epiphany in Mr. Gayoski’s class, this one entirely unconnected to the science material being taught. I drew all the time. The margins of my notebooks were covered in sketches. I had recently added humans to my repertoire. Oh, I still drew horses, but I had a new fascination for the human form. My epiphany happened when I finished drawing a woman’s head in profile. I looked at it and suddenly realized that the space surrounding the head, that seemingly empty space next to the forehead, the nose, the lips, the chin, the neck, the hair, was full of invisible stuff. The stars were surrounded not by emptiness, but by…molecules? Atoms? Gases? So the ‘empty’ space was teeming with stuff and if I was an artist, I had to honour that surrounding space: Not to brush it off as boring background. The surrounding space held the head together. The space around all of us, holds all of us together.

I walked to Grampa’s store from Collegiate for lunch every day. It was too early for Gram to come in and help so he appreciated my company.

 I loved this solitary walk. I burrowed into my heavy winter clothes and imagined things, my most secret desires. I imagined I had a horse. That I became a fantastically gifted rider. Or a published author, winning literary prizes for my books. Or, I’d become an artist. I would live in a garret in Paris, I would paint and sculpt, I would have affairs with mysterious men. I would not marry! I was just about to sip champagne with one of these mysterious men when a voice rang out: “Jackie.” I trudged on. “JAAACKIE!!” I kept my head down and pretended not to hear. “Jackie!” Who was it! Daring to interrupt my reverie? Then I felt a presence at my shoulder. This intruder skipped to get ahead of me.

“Hi!” she cried in a sprightly voice. (You imagined she was just as annoying first thing in the morning.) “I’m Janice Saxberg. We’re going the same way, we can walk together!”

 I groaned. My solitude was destroyed, not to mention my elaborate dreams. Did I have to? But Janice stuck. She seemed to have absolutely no awareness of my desire for aloneness. (Years later this would be called ‘Setting Boundaries.’ Janice had no boundaries. She couldn’t imagine someone actually wanting to be alone.) She just barged in. I sighed. I had no idea she would become my best friend.

 I looked at her. She grinned, showing even teeth. She was a pretty girl. Dark brown hair. Skin that looked like it would tan beautifully. (Unlike my paleface which only freckled and burned.) An appealing, crooked smile. Also despite the winter clothes, it was obvious she had a great figure. She was slim. Slim did not guarantee a great figure. A person can be slim and not have a great figure. Janice had a great figure. Currently pudgy, I was off the diet pills, so I had no figure. The diet pills made me kind of crazy, even though I got a lot done when I was on them.    Janice told me she lived with her father, her brother Marvin, (who was famous because he was a DJ on the radio) and her younger sister whose name was something like Suzanne or Suzie. Her mother was not in the picture, I think she’d left her family.

Then she asked me what boys I liked. What? “I don’t like any boys.” Well, maybe except for the tall Japanese guy who played basketball.

“Really? Are you sure? I like Brian Latta. The hockey player.” He also was a student at Collegiate. I knew Brian, by sight only. He was hard to miss. Brian was really cute. He looked like Heath Ledger. Janice had set her sights high. 

“Jackie. I’m having trouble getting him. Can you help me? I mean, you’re so smart, you’re in the Brain class, you must be able to come up with something.” I was hardly an expert on getting a boy. I was clueless. But I was intrigued by Janice’s dilemma. Maybe I could try to plot a scheme to attract him. This was intriguing. I started to like Janice. And she seemed to like me, fat and all.

Thus began a long safari; hunting that elusive species, the shy Brianibus Lattissimus. We began to follow him around, hopefully without him noticing. Quickly we learned his class schedule. Now we could arrange it so Janice would just ‘happen’ to be outside of the classroom for, say, Geography. If she did it right, it would seem as though they had accidentally bumped into each other. I’d trail along behind watching their interactions, so I could hopefully come up with more devious game plans. We must not let Brianibus Lattissimus escape.

I must have really liked Janice, because I suggested that since he was a star hockey player, we should be at his games, cheering him on, accidentally bumping into him after the game. I hated hockey. But I would do this for Janice. Besides, the plotting, tracking and scheming was a lot of fun. It was like being a spy. It was being a spy.

So I got permission from Mother to spend some nights in town so I could go to hockey games with Janice.

So I went and then, partway into the game, Janice leaped from her seat and screamed, “Ya dumb banana!” at some bungling player committing an infraction I didn’t understand. I was shocked at this public display of emotion. The only thing I knew about hockey was that it was good to get the puck into a net. The correct net.

When Janice screamed, I was embarrassed. Furtively, I looked around to see who might be staring at us and saw that everyone was on their feet, screaming. I waited a moment, then I jumped up and screamed, “Ya dumb banana!” Whew. That felt good.

After the game we scurried outside to get the best possible location to lie in wait for Brian. When he appeared, Janice called out, “Great game, Brian!” He nodded at her. A deep nod. We considered this nodding to be a winning gesture. Now he knew she was a hockey fan, thus more desirable.  

Janice had it all fantasized out: Brian and she would date. He would ask her to go steady. Then, there would be the engagement, the wedding, and the babies! Janice wanted to have a whole hockey team of babies. However many that is. She just knew Brian was The One, even though she was only in the tenth grade and had never even had one conversation with him.

After the game, we walked back to Janice’s house, the opposite direction of 544. We couldn’t bear to stop talking, couldn’t bear to end the evening. The only solution was that I stay overnight with Janice. That way we could keep on talking. We became inseparable. I had a friend! I hadn’t had one since Penny Hollingsworth.

Art was interesting. I still sat next to Christopher Black and we carried on whispering. His stepfather was a monster, a sadist. Poor Christopher. Then, of course, I got to draw for almost an hour. Often the subject would be figure drawing. A student picked by Mr. Brown would pose in front of the class. By the end of the school year I was proficient at drawing pleats. Every girl in school had a reversible pleated skirt. Reversible skirts were all the rage. I begged and begged to get one. They cost the enormous sum of $25. Eventually, I got one. Then Mother got one. I had been back on diet pills, so Mother’s skirt fit me. Two reversible skirts. I felt like a rich kid.

One day I came home from school and found Mother excitedly waiting for me.

“Look, Jackie, look!” she said.

            “What?”

            She brandished a piece of paper. I took it and read: ‘Portraiture and Figure Drawing Workshop…’ “What’s it for, Mother?”

            “The workshop. I signed you up for it. It’s at the Brodie Street Library close to the Cheese Store.”

            “Oh, Mother! This is just great of you. Thank you.”

            So the next Wednesday evening I walked to the library carrying the supplies recommended for the class: A sheet of cardboard, big clamps, a thick pile of newsprint paper, (without the print. Uncle George worked at the Great Lakes Paper Mill: He got these rolls of blank newsprint for free.) I also had soft leaded sketching pencils, a box of charcoal sticks, an eraser.

            The class was held on the adult level of the library. I entered a large room. A semi-circle of seated adults looked up at my entrance. Adults. I looked again. All adults. Oh no. I was the only kid in the class. Then a beautiful woman welcomed me and gestured I take the remaining seat. Her name was Elizabeth. Long, straight, dark brown hair hung down her back to her waist. Some fell over her shoulders. She wore a floor-length green dress made of a gauze fabric. Her skin was fair, her eyes were large and gentle. She smelled like incense. Beads swayed from her neck to below her waistline. Was I seeing…nipples? What?! No bra? (I was still tortured by my full-length foundation garment.) Gram would be shocked.

I didn’t realize that I was seeing a precursor to a ‘hippie.’

            Elizabeth introduced her husband. He was dressed in blue jeans! In the library! Blue jeans were for farmers and truckers and pool halls.

She told us to clamp some paper to our cardboard. Held out and propped against our laps, it functioned as a drawing board.

            “John,” (I don’t remember his real name) “will model for us.”

Oh no! Please don’t ask him to take off his clothes. Was he getting naked? Too embarrassing. I blushed and hid behind my drawing board. After an interval, I gathered up my courage: I peeked around the cardboard, then sagged in relief. Thank God! He was fully clothed: I would become proficient in drawing blue jeans. I started to sketch.

Elizabeth circled the artists, bending close to whisper comments. She leaned over my shoulder, strands of her long hair brushing my shoulder. She told me not to draw lines, but instead to squint at the model, to see how light and dark areas stood out or receded. Then to lightly shade darker areas, and keep on working into these shaded areas, until it gave a sort of 3D effect. This was wonderful advice. I saw how it would improve all of my sketching.

The model, at Elizabeth’s prompting, changed his pose every few minutes. We had to hustle. With each new pose, everyone quickly tore off the top sheet of paper, tossed it on the floor and industriously resumed sketching, everyone’s charcoal scratching on the paper.

I did full-body, half-body and head and neck studies. Genuine portraiture. I was surprised when my head drawings actually looked like John. That made me like portraiture.

At the end of the class Elizabeth had all of us lay our best study on a large table. Then we all slowly circled the table, evaluating everyone’s art. I walked and looked with a dawning surprise. The sketches were terrible. As if little kids had drawn them. Then I got to mine. Gosh. Did I draw that? My portrait of John looked as if a real artist had drawn it. It looked adult. I was only fourteen and I was a better artist than any of these adults. Elizabeth slid in next to me and whispered, “Can you stay a minute after class?”

“Uh…sure. But only a minute. Mother will be waiting outside in the car for me.”

What did she want?

The adults left. John came over to where Elizabeth and I were standing. I felt nervous around John. I guess he could be called ‘sexy.’ Embarrassing. I couldn’t even say the word ‘sexy’ without blushing.

“Jackie. I hope you know your art is very good. I’m glad you’re taking my class. You need to be seriously studying art. I recommend life drawing.”

“What exactly is life drawing?”

“You draw from nude models.”

“Oh. Well, I won’t find much of that in Fort William.”

“I hope you’ll consider art school after you graduate from high school.”

“Oh, Elizabeth, I can’t make up my mind. I like to write, too. I can’t decide whether to be a writer or an artist.”

“You are talented. Don’t give up on your art.”

But then, I’d have to give up my writing—which had to be somewhat good, or two teachers wouldn’t have accused me of plagiarizing.

I thanked John and Elizabeth, then ran outside. Mother was parked there, waiting,

“Well?” she said as I got into the car.

I pulled the door shut.

“Well, it was pretty amazing. Thanks for signing me up.”

I told her about the class, John’s shocking jeans, Elizabeth’s lack of a bra and, her wearing a full-length gauze dress!

“They’re bohemians!” Mother exclaimed in delight. “Real artists. But don’t start thinking it’s a good idea to be a fulltime artist. Artists starve in garrets. Get a real job. Be a teacher or a nurse. Then, do art in your spare time.”

I silently swore NEVER to be a teacher or a nurse. Somehow I would make my living as either a writer or an artist.

“Yes, Mother.”

We rode home in silence.

At 544, Mother admired my sketches. Gram appeared and cast a disapproving look at the art. “All very well and good, Jackie, but I never heard of anyone making a living as an artist. Be a teacher.”

I finished the course and hung my best sketches on the concrete walls of my basement room. My cave now had cave art.  But…Writer? Artist? I couldn’t choose. I loved both.

One Saturday afternoon at the farm, Father approached me carrying something in his cupped hands. I was curious. He got up to me and opened his hands. A baby crow! The little guy looked up at me with helpless black eyes and opened its mouth wide.

“Father! He’s so cute! What happened? Where did you find him?”

“He was on the ground at the back of our property. I just picked him up. I looked around for his parents but I didn’t see them anywhere. They must have abandoned him. He needs care. I thought you would like to have him.”

Father doing something nice for me?

“Yes! I would love it.”

I reached out and took the bird from him. The little guy was soft and lightweight in my hands, fluttering his ink-black feathers against my fingers. He stared up at me, then opened his mouth again. Wide. He was hungry. He wanted me to feed him. But what? He needed protein. Crows ate everything. Then I remembered that I had cleaned some sixty smelt (little fish) and saved the smelt eggs. Tiny yellow balls. That was protein and small enough for him to swallow. I went into the house. I was opening the freezer compartment of the fridge when Mother appeared. She took a look at what was in my hands and screamed.

“Get it out of the house! Get it away from me!”

“But, Mother,” I called after her, “he’s only a baby. He can’t hurt you.”

By now she was gone from the kitchen.

“You know I’m scared of birds!” she yelled from somewhere.

Yes. We all knew she was scared of birds. The story was, when she was little, Gram was cleaning a chicken in the kitchen. In those days chickens didn’t come featherless and wrapped in plastic wrap. You plucked them and gutted them. Little June entered. She saw the feathers, the bloody intestines, the severed head and feet. She screamed.

Gram spoke, “What? Scared of a little chicken?” And she picked up the chicken’s head and thrust it at little June. Bursting into tears, June ran. Gram chased her, poking the chicken head at her, telling her she was being silly. June sobbed and ran faster. Eventually, Gram called her a sissy and gave up chasing her. From then on, every bird frightened Mother. Birds were so frightening, she never even ate chicken. She refused to cook it. So, growing up, I never tasted chicken. (This was a good example, I thought, of how things that happened to you when you were a child affected you as an adult.)

Meanwhile, Baby Crow needed feeding. I dug out a couple of bags of smelt eggs to thaw, then I went to my old standby: Carnation milk and corn syrup. I mixed that up and found an eye dropper and started squirting the milk mixture into Baby Crow’s mouth. He liked it! While he ate I pondered where would I keep him. Not in the house, that was for sure. Then I remembered that Uncle Joe, Father’s younger brother, who was also our next-door neighbour, had built a chicken house. But he never got any chickens, so the shed stood empty. When Baby Crow was full I went immediately to Uncle Joe’s. He gave me his approval so Baby Crow was moved into the chicken house. Later I tried him on the smelt eggs. He devoured them.

Baby Crow got named ‘Dandy’ and he thrived. After school he rode round on my shoulder, and even on top of my head. He started flying around the chicken house and perching on a beam. When I went in I held out my arm and he flew down to it. I took him outside for a long fresh-air walk. He could fly away any time, but he never did. He was very attached to me and I was to him.

One day I got off the school bus and walked down our drive. Tracy, my little red-headed brother, was standing by the house.

“Jackie,” he said. “Dandy died.” He started to cry.

“What? I don’t believe it. What happened?”

We started walking toward the chicken house. Tears came into my eyes. My beautiful Dandy.

“I brought some friends home from school to see him. We went into the chicken house. But he was up on a beam. But we wanted to pet him. I called him but he wouldn’t come down. So I picked up a hoe and tried to knock him off the beam. But I accidently hit him in the head and he just fell down to the ground.” Tracy started to cry again. I was devastated about losing Dandy, but also didn’t want Tracy feeling guilty about this. It was an accident. I told him that.

“Don’t feel bad, Tracy. You didn’t mean it.”

But he didn’t stop feeling guilty. Years later he still felt guilty and I felt bad that he felt guilty. It discoloured our relationship and we acted funny around each other, awkward, ill at ease.  It turned into a major thing. It was/is very sad.

One Sunday the whole family was having dinner at 544. In the middle of dinner, Mother piped up with a stunner. “I’ve been talking with Ma, and we agree: It’s time for you to join the church, Jackie. Take communion. Classes are held right after the service, so you just stay on and attend those classes.”

            “No. I don’t want to.”

            Mother: “What? Of course you want to! You’ve gone to Knox United Church all your life. You’re old enough to officially become a church member.”

            “I don’t want to be a member of anything I don’t believe in.” I ate a forkful of peas.

            “You need those classes to find out what you do believe in.”

            “After hundreds of church services I pretty much know what the church teaches, Mother. It ignores science.”

            “Science isn’t everything! You need church too. You are going to take those classes. I won’t have you let Gramma down. That church is her life! No more arguments.”

            The next Sunday I didn’t get out of bed. I was staying at Gram’s so I was in the basement room. I lay, hunched under the covers, listening to the footsteps over my head as people got their breakfasts. Mother was there, why I don’t know. Then. Dreaded footsteps on the stairs, footsteps walking the length of the basement.

            “Jackie. Get up.” It was Mother. “You’re going to church. Hurry up. Don’t make Gramma late.”

            I lay frozen, head under the covers, fervently wishing she would go away. She pulled the covers off me.

“C’mon. Get up.”

 I stared up at her.

“Jackie. What’s wrong with you? GET UP!”

“No, Mother. I am not going to church.”

“Oh yes, you are!”

And she slapped me hard, across the face. I covered my face with my hands and drew my legs up tight against my body. She slapped and slapped. Finally I cried. She kept on slapping. I’d thought she was all through with this sort of thing since the move to the farm. I was wrong. And the hypocrisy! She wasn’t going to church, yet I had to go.

I walked with Gram to the church, head down, silent, my cheeks stinging. I sat numb through the service. Mrs. Vranch, in the choir, stared at me the entire time as if she knew I was evil. When it was over, I stayed on for the classes. There was me and about five others. They were all much older, in their forties and fifties. All of them wore a pious expression. Reverend Smith (can’t think of his real name) shuffled over to us, where we sat at the back of the church. He greeted us then opened a book he was carrying. He began to almost chant its contents. One of them was something like, “Do you believe God created the Heavens and the Earth in six days?” While everyone answered “Yes,” my hand went up. Reverend Smith briefly glanced at it then cast his eyes down to the book and resumed reading. I called out: “Reverend Smith. Reverend Smith?” He ignored me and kept on reading. I put my hand down wondering what to do. Why was he ignoring me? Was this some sort of class where you couldn’t ask questions? The others were silent, heads turned away from me. I began to blush. But, I tried again.

I raised my voice: “Reverend Smith? Please. Reverend Smith?” He continued to read in his dull monotone. “Science says it took millions of years to create Earth!” Reverend Smith didn’t even pause. He just kept on reading like an automaton. “What about Adam and Eve? Evolution and finds of bones say it took millions of years to create man. Homo Sapiens. What about that?”

Still reading. I started to cry. He wouldn’t listen to me. I really wanted some answers. I wanted to believe in God. Everyone was turned away from me: The Antichrist.

“Please? Reverend Smith?” Nada.  

 I sat for a few seconds then couldn’t stand it any longer. I jumped up and ran from the church, weeping. I ran to 544, crying all the way. I burst into the kitchen. Mother and Gram sat there, cups of tea before them. I stopped.

“Well,” said Mother. “How’d it go?”

I heaved a couple of sobs and forced out, “It…didn’t.”

“What do you mean?”

“He ignored me. He wouldn’t answer my questions.”

“Maybe your questions were inappropriate.”

“That evolution took millions of years? Is that inappropriate?”

“Some things you just have to take on faith.”

“I’m not going back.”

“What?!”

“I am not going back.”

“Oh yes, you are!” She got to her feet and slapped me across the face, again. I yelled in pain. (All this slapping really didn’t bother me emotionally all that much. I wasn’t traumatized by the slapping. The prevailing view then was: ‘Spare the rod and spoil the child.’ That, from the Bible.)

I stared at Mother. “I don’t care what you do. You can’t make me go.”

She kept on slapping. “You are not going to let your Grandmother down. You are taking those lessons and you are joining the church.” More slapping. I started to go down to the floor trying to escape her. She was relentless. I cried and cried. I wanted to stick up for my beliefs. But she wouldn’t have it. I slouched on the floor and wept, helpless.

“Say you’ll go and I’ll stop.” Slap. Slap. Slap.

“Okaaaay! Okay! I’ll go! I’ll hate it, but I’ll go.”

She stopped. “Alright, then. Next Sunday, church. No arguments?” She looked down at me.

“No…arguments.”

I was no Joan of Arc. I got up and slunk down to my cave. In defiance, I read some of The Golden Bough.

Next Sunday, I went. I sat while Reverend Smith read, staring straight ahead. I mumbled responses when required. Then the class was finished.

The next Sunday I was supposed to take communion for the first time. I was sitting with Gram, up front as usual. Ever since I started attending church I got to know who was in the choir. One of them was old Mrs. Vranch. In her black robes, hands clutching a hymnal, she stared at me with beady black eyes. It was as if she knew I was blaspheming, questioning the church. I didn’t know where to look. I couldn’t escape her judgmental glare. Had one of the others taking the classes ratted on me? That was a Christian thing to do.

Reverend Smith came down from his pulpit to an alter laden with trays of little white cubes of Wonderbread, and other trays holding tiny shot glasses of grape juice. He told us to pretend this was flesh and blood. Ew! Were we cannibals? When a tray of Wonderbread was passed to me, I held it for a second, then passed it on, untouched. Likewise the ‘wine.’ Quick check of Mrs. Vranch. She was still staring at me. I decided to smile at her. She didn’t smile back.

Gram had to notice I didn’t take Communion, but she didn’t say anything, even though, clearly now, her granddaughter was going to hell. We walked home from church in silence. It was springtime—such a nice day to shine on me, the doomed. Gram, thankfully, didn’t tell Mother. And she didn’t insist I attend church the next Sunday.

I accidentally spilled a whole bottle of my marijuana oil—I was getting ready to fill the little syringe with the oil—when boom! James Bond leaped on top of me. Oops, the bottle overturned and let go all of its $90.00 worth of oil. I went to the Body Stream doctor to see about getting that bottle replaced. No dice. Then the gal who works in the office, Lauren, said she could fix it—go ahead and order. So I did and the order went through. Bless Lauren. So I’ll see the replacement probably Monday. Today’s Friday.

            Tomorrow’s my birthday. I ordered a birthday cake for myself, to read: ‘Happy 75^th Birthday Jackie.’ I’m inviting everyone who comes by to stop in and have a piece of cake. So it should be a jolly time. My sister, Jane, just called and she will be dropping by. Yea! I don’t think she knows I’m writing this memoir. Little nervous about telling her.  Jennifer, my sister in Calgary, read Chapter One at Joan Baril’s literarythunderbay website and didn’t like it. So we remain friends but I don’t talk about the book.

            Jennifer sent me the most beautiful electric blue robe. I was so excited about receiving it. I tried it on yesterday, to wear it out to the doctor’s, and it didn’t fit! Now the hassle of returning it. I hopd they had another in a larger size. I wear robes all the time now. Floor length, long sleeves, a hood, and a zipper opening down the front. Very comfortable. I wear them outdoors, too. If that’s a little eccentric, well okay, I’m a writer. Writer’s are supposed to be eccentric.

            I was sick for over two weeks, an intestinal virus. I have several days worth of Meals on Wheels stacked up in the fridge. I was just too nauseated to eat them. It was awful—clutching my little waste basket to throw up in. I thought it would never clear up, but finally, yesterday, a day without stomach pain.

            Jennifer just sent a text with a photo of Gloria, her new puppy, a Weimaraner who looks so much like Lisa it’s eerie. She texts me photos all the time. I am following the growth of Gloria this way, highly entertaining.

 Jennifer’s birthday, is of course, the next day—Sunday and I have yet to think of something for her birthday present. This is very difficult. She doesn’t need clothes, she never wears jewellery, she downloads all of her books to Kindle. (Which I got her.) I think I’ll just send money. I’m not good at picking out gifts.

            Speaking of money, I hired ‘Driving Miss Daisy’ to push my wheelchair to the doctor’s yesterday. It cost $160.00 taxi and all. Ouch! And I have two more appointments coming up…I hope Lee, my friend, will be available. She pushes for free! But she works so it’s difficult to find a day to suit her. Sometimes my sister Della helps, but she’s very busy with her horse business, so she’s not always available. So it’s pay or stay home. It’s very expensive to be disabled. Wheelchairs cost a bunch. Now I might need a new bed, $1700.00.

            Oh! The next horror facing me is whether or not to get—(shudder!)—false teeth. My current teeth ache a lot of the time and I take a great deal of extra strength Advil. I think it’s supposed to be bad for my kidneys.

Recently I had a terrible toothache on a Saturday. The dentist on call was a Dr. St. Jean. (A dazzlingly handsome, gentle man.) After X-rays it was apparent that yet another back tooth had to be extracted, which left me with almost totally bare gums in the back of my mouth. I asked Dr. St Jean what could be done about this. He thought a device could be fitted to cover those bare gums and also give me more chewing power. He also admitted this would be expensive.

I went home, pondering. I also made some calls and got various prices for false teeth. One place quoted me $3000. If I don’t go that route, my existing teeth need work: A root canal or two and several fillings. I think it’ll take about $10,000.00 to completely repair my teeth. I just do not want to spend that much of my nest egg on root canals! And how much longer do I have to live? Ten years? Is it worth it to spend all that money for just a few years use? I’m chewing just fine with my front teeth. But if I do decide to go for the false teeth, there is precedent. Mother had false teeth from the age of twenty-six and no one ever knew. They looked great. Real. Not a soul ever saw her without them.

I was at the store one noon hour, eating lunch and reading a book. My Uncle Bob, Grandpa’s relation, was at the store. He was a genial old guy and I rather liked him. Then he walked up behind me and put his hands on my shoulders. I alerted. Then he began to massage my shoulders. I went rigid. His hands dropped lower and lower and he grabbed my breasts and squeezed. I leaped up and ran down the steps to the basement where I locked myself in the bathroom. What was wrong with men?! Were they all like this? Fondling young girls? I wasn’t safe anywhere.

Then there was a gathering of some sort of my Grandfather’s side of the family. As far as I can remember this happened only once. There I encountered Donald, a second cousin of mine I’d never met before. He was tall, dark and not quite handsome. We hit it off and he asked for my phone number. I was flattered.

            The next day he called and we talked for a long time. In the end, after days of talking on the phone, I asked if he’d like to go to a school dance with me. He would. We went and danced in the balloon-and-streamer decorated gym. I didn’t know how to get talking to anybody else, so it was a quiet evening. Then, the walk home. Holding hands, we took a shortcut over some railway tracks. A little ways down the tracks, he stopped and put his arms around me. Oh my God. He was going to kiss me! Wasn’t he? I lifted my face toward his and waited. I wasn’t sure what to do. Then Donald leaned down and planted his lips against mine. His lips pushed against my lips. It was hard to keep my mouth closed, he was pressing so much my lips were smushed up against my teeth. He pressed harder. I closed my lips tighter. The harder he pressed, the more firmly clamped I kept my mouth. It started to hurt. Was this kissing? It was awful. Why would people do this so much when it was so awful? Finally he stopped. He took my hand and silent, we walked on. And I never heard from Donald again.

I was friends with a girl named Carol who lived on the last block of Wiley. She took piano later than me and became a regular virtuoso. I felt a little jealous. One summer day, Carol and I decided to tan in her backyard. For me to consider tanning was insane. All I did was burn, peel and resume being white. And usually I didn’t want to be seen in a bathing suit. At that time a small miracle had occurred: I’d grown three inches and now was 5’5” and hadn’t gained any weight doing it. I just stretched out the weight I had and I was slimmer.

            We set out into her backyard in bathing suits, carrying towels, blankets, magazines and baby oil mixed with iodine. The iodine mixture was supposed to make you tan quicker. Everyone was using it. Well, we shook out the blankets and lay down. We slathered ourselves with the baby oil and iodine, then posed on the blankets. The sun shone down upon us. Bumblebees buzzed, butterflies floated, birds sang. The smell of cut grass permeated the air. We lay there, eyes closed, happily lazy, the sun pouring down all around us. Then something hit me on the belly. I sat up and looked around. I didn’t see anything, just the neighbours’ fences. Then a small clump of dirt hit my thigh.

“Who did that?” I called out.

There was a chuckle then a male voice: “Me.”

            “Me? Where are you, me?”

            The naked top half of a man appeared above the fence. He was extremely muscular, like a body builder. Interesting. He was grinning, showing white teeth in his tan face.

“Hi. I’m Norman. Who are you?”

            “Oh. Hi Norman. I’m Jackie. I hope you’re wearing pants.”

            “Oh yeah. See?” And he jumped into the air and I saw he was wearing blue jeans.

            “Whew,” I exhaled.

            “Do you live here?” said Norman.

            “No. This is Carol’s house.” (I gestured toward Carol, who gave a little wave.) “Sometimes I live down the street at my grandmother’s house, other times, out in the country. You?”

            “This is my grandmother’s house. I’m digging her garden.”

An activity perfect for showing off muscles. I didn’t mind seeing the muscles. I had never seen muscles like that before. I was trying to decide if it was attractive or not.

He asked and I gave him my phone number.

I arranged to stay in town next Saturday night. Norman came on his bike. He parked it outside Gram’s and chatting away, we walked to the bus stop.

We went to the Capital theatre and sat near the back. There were few people there. In the dark, I saw only grey shapes of people’s heads. Music poured over us. The smell of cigarette smoke and popcorn filled the air.

We settled into our seats and watched a movie I can’t remember. Then, I felt Norman’s arm slide around my shoulders, brushing the nape of my neck. My body tingled all over. A while later his hand reached into my lap and took my hand. Shivers raced up my arm. So when the male actor moved in on the lady actor for a kiss I had an inkling of what was coming. Norman gently pulled me toward him. Then his head blocked the screen. His lips brushed mine. Uh oh. Would this be another teeth to teeth pushing contest? His mouth touched mine. Okay. We were lip to lip. Then I felt his tongue lick my lips. I sat, puzzled. He licked away. I still sat, unsure of what I was supposed to do. Was I supposed to lick his lips too? After some moments of licking, Norman gently pulled away. He smiled down at me.

“You’re supposed to open your mouth.”

“You’re kidding. Isn’t that French kissing?”

In the movies, actors always pressed their lips together, mouths tightly closed.

“Yes it is. Just open your mouth.”

I stared up at him. Behind us someone hissed: “Hush.”

 “Just give it a try. If you don’t like it, we’ll stop. Okay?”

I stared up at him as his mouth descended to mine. I closed my eyes and opened my mouth a little bit. His lips touched down. His hot, wet tongue insinuated itself between my teeth. I had to open my mouth wider to let it in. His tongue danced with my tongue. He pulled me closer and I felt my breasts crush against his chest. His manly, muscular chest. I could barely breathe, but in a good way. We continued our dance of the tongues. This was so good. My entire body felt electric. I could do this all night long.

Norman and I dated for quite a while. I couldn’t spend all my time in town. Mother needed my help, especially with Jamie Lou requiring such intensive care. So I had to go out to the farm. Norman called me every night, but Jeffrey started lying in wait for his phone calls and answering them before I could get to the phone. At first, I didn’t think much of it until one night, I paused to listen in. I didn’t know who was on the phone. I hoped it was Norman. Jeffrey was sweet-talking the person on the end of the line. She was pretty advanced for someone her age: Ten!

I pounced upon her. “Who’s on the phone, Jeffrey?” There was venom in my voice.

Jeffrey looked up at me—she was sitting on the floor—navy blue eyes wide and innocent. She took her time. “Norman—”

I wrenched the phone away from her and covered the receiver.

“You brat. You’re flirting with my boyfriend.”

She smiled. “He seems to like it.”

I raised my hand, I wanted to slap her so bad, but I didn’t want to be like Mother. Instead, I lifted the receiver and said, “Hello. Norman?”

“Oh. Hi Jackie. I was just talking to your sister—”

“Don’t ever call me again, do you hear?”

“Jackie. Wait a minute—it didn’t mean anything—”

I slammed the receiver back on the phone. A boy could be my boyfriend, or he could be Jeffrey’s boyfriend, but he couldn’t be Jackie and Jeffrey’s boyfriend.