A Quote from 30Rock that Cracked me up.

Jack Donagy to Liz Lemon:

"I don't know what happened to you in your life that helped you gain a sense of humour as a coping mechanism -maybe it was some sort of brace or corrective boot you wore during childhood - but in any case I'm glad your on my team."

Scotia Bank Santa

As most people who believe in Santa and Christmas do – I have a number of warm fuzzy memories from Christmases past. And a few that absolutely traumatized me. Like the year I went to the Scotia Bank with my mother, while she was doing her banking I lined up to sit on Santa’s knee.

My mother had long ago come up with the concept of store Santa’s being Elves dressed as Santa to help him access all the kids in the world as a way of getting around the question of how come there are simultaneous Santa sightings. We began to call them the Super Save Santa, the Craft Fair Santa, the Bayshore Mall Santa and today while my mother waited in the teller line I waited in the line to meet Scotia Bank Santa.

I could not think of a single item I wanted Scotia Bank Santa to bring me and when it came to be my turn I hesitantly walked up to Santa, he hoisted me up on his lap and when he asked if I had been good I nodded yes, my mother who was observing smiled at me. Then Santa and I had a conversation that went something like this:

Santa: Michelle have you have been a good girl?
Michelle: I nod yes
Santa: What would you like Santa to bring to you?
Michelle: Um, Uhhhhhhhhhmmmmmmm, Um.
Santa: Cat’s got your tongue today – you’re usually so talkative.
Michelle: Uhhhhhhhhhhhhmmmmmm.

I couldn’t think of anything and I panicked.

Michelle: A toy train?

Santa: A toy train well if you are good we can bring one for you if Santa ‘s elves back at the workshop have made enough for all the boys and girls this year.

I was so disappointed. I didn’t want a toy train. What am I going to do with a toy train? I can’t believe I wasted my one chance to tell Santa what I wanted. I lay in bed awake worried sick over the idea that I had panicked and asked Santa for the wrong thing. What a dolt I was.

On the 23rd of December I was in our town’s Pharmacy with my mom. She was waiting on a prescription and I was told I could look at the kid’s books and magazines and not to go anywhere from there.

The store had a gift section with a “break it – you - buy it” policy. Thanks to me, my mother had recently become the reluctant owner of a pair of ugly overpriced white porcelain salt and pepper shakers shaped like doves that sat on a perch with their wings open - when I and all my coordination ventured in that area on a past visit … she carefully glued the broken piece back together and placed the doves in the china cabinet at our house. They weren’t even re-giftable! I knew she hated them as much as I hated the constant reminder of my embarrassing break it and buy it incident. She told me not to ask her for anything inside the four walls of the pharmacy because we were broke now that we had to buy the doves.

From then forward I was quarantined to the books and magazines isle where on this day I found a beautiful book. Not just any book, but a POP UP Dolls book of the Nativity scene. The manger, sheep, cows, wise guys, Joseph, Mary and the Baby Jesus were looking up at me from the pages of the book and I never wanted anything a much as I wanted this book. Why had I not seen this book before I met with Santa at the bank? What had I asked for a stupid train? A train! Only kids in re-runs of televised Christmas stories asked Santa for trains not modern kids like me. We wanted Pop Up Nativity Scene Paper Doll books! Well I did.

Mom finished her shopping and came to collect me in the book isle. I showed her the Nativity book, but I did not ask her for it because I knew full well the ugly doves had cost ten times as much as the book.

Michelle: I wish I had told Scotia Bank Santa about this book mom, look at how neat it is. I sure would like this book. I LOVE this book more than any other book I have ever seen.

Mom: Well put it back on the shelf where you found it. You can ask Santa for it next year.

I did. I put it back on the shelf in the store but it sat on the front shelf of my brain for the rest of the day. At dinner I talked all about the book describing it’s colours and all it’s features to my father.

Dad: That sounds nice Michelle. Maybe you can ask Santa for it next year.

Michelle: Yeah – next year.

The house was a flurry of activity over the next day as the 24th of December seems to be every year, we had run out for last minute grocery purchases, had wrapped gifts, sorted baking and mom had allowed us to sit in front of the TV which was a very special treat so she could get the rest of the vacuuming done before our Christmas eve touring began.

Off we went to visit relatives and drop off gifts and when we returned it was just after midnight on Christmas. We were rushed into the house into our PJ’s teeth were brushed and we were put to sleep.

But I couldn’t sleep. I wasn’t excited I was dreading waking up to a toy train. I hope the Scotia Bank Santa forgets file my request with Real Santa!

Michelle: Mom! Mom!
Mom: What do you want scooter - you have to go to sleep or Santa won’t come.

Michelle: I made a mistake!
Mom: What? Did you wet the bed? You drank enough pop to float away at your cousin’s house.
Michelle: No! I told Scotia Santa I wanted a toy train set and I don’t!
Mom: Oh I am certain he knows you don’t want that and if you go to sleep when you wake up you will see that he will have brought you exactly what you wanted because Santa always knows.

With that she hugged me and left me to go to sleep…

Early in the morning, very early in the morning, my sister and I snuck out into the living room. Mom and Dad were on our heals. For some reason there was no protest at how early we were up. Sue and I stopped dead in our tracks to take in the splendor of the Christmas scene. The tree was filled with presents – a Mickey Mouse record player was spinning a 45 record and beside it were two blue sleighs each filled to the top with toys. One for me and one for my sister. So many toys!

I approached my sleigh to have a closer look at all it’s contents. I had never seen so many toys. We must have been so very extra especially good that year – this was not usual. I mean we were well taken care of but this was over the top! There in the centre of my sleigh was a book with an envelope paper clipped to the front of it. What’s that? I reached in and pulled out the book more curious in the envelope than the book when I discovered it was the - Nativity Scene Pop Up book! I shrieked in total happiness. Wha? How did Santa know?

Mom: Michelle what does the letter say?
Michelle: Can you help me?
Mom: Of course. Oh look it’s a letter from Santa!

Mom reads out loud:

Dear Michelle,
It was brought to my attention by my faithful helper the Scotia Santa that you wanted a toy train. For some reason this did not seem right. I think the Scotia Santa might have had you mixed up with another Michelle who lives on the other side of your town. She wanted a toy train very much and had even written me a letter asking for one. I only had so many trains to go around this year so I brought you what I thought you might like a whole lot better. This book. The Nativity Pop Up Book, I do hope you enjoy it.

Continue to be a good girl and thank you for the cookies,

Santa.


It was a magical Christmas – one I look back at the photos of and am filled with warm fuzzies….the one thing that catches me now is the thought that Santa brought me the Nativity – Religion and fantasy collided that year.

I remember bringing this album to the hospital on one of my visits with mom. In her morphine haze she breaks the parent child code by demystifying that Christmas.

MOM: I was sick that year. I was going through a battery of tests and I thought I was going to die and that it was going to be our last Christmas together. That’s why I bought you so many toys. You were only five years old. Your sister was only three.

Michelle: Humph. To me it was the most magical Christmas ever mom. I guess the joke’s on you – you’re still here.

My mother died a month later on December 12th, 2000. That Christmas I spent in the OBX with my boyfriend’s family. I stayed in bed and mourned for all the Christmases past and wondered if life would ever be the same again.

Catholic WorSHIP

My mother was surprisingly the first one out of bed Christmas morning 1996. It was never spoken but the underlying sentiment was that if this was going to be her last Christmas she was not going to miss a single minute of it.

Carolyn Shipley was battling breast cancer and this was the second time around in three years. She had just returned from the hospital after yet another round of Christmas Chemo.

The night before, Mom asked us all to go, as a family, to Christmas Eve Midnights Mass. Of course we all agreed to go because this might be mom’s last Christmas and we were going to do whatever we could to make mom happy. Truthfully, I hated sitting through the drone of the Catholic Mass, it rambled on for more than and hour and a half and the Priest who should have been rejoicing in the Virgin birth of our Savior this Christmas was scolding us all for being born sinners begging us to repent and ask our forgiveness.

Our family was late for everything so we were stuffed together into a pew near the back of the church. The view before us was a sea of tacky Christmas sweaters and the back of people's heads. This was what we had to look at for the next 95 minutes. Perhaps, even though I am fairly tall, if I stood on tiptoes I would get to see the top of our priest's balding head. Perhaps.

The church was hot and overcrowded with all the seasonal Catholic Church goers - the ones who attend only at Christmas. Which incidentally is funny to me because they are never there at Easter when the mass goes on for two hours while the priest reads the Passion in its entirety. I figure those people had likely been trapped at my Church one past Easter when the tone-deaf Priest decided to sing the entire Passion, which took onwards of three hours and they had learned their lesson.

The priest said a few words and my parents along with the rest of the congregation would, in monotone, respond the appropriate phrases. I too had them burned in my head from years of Catholic school and regular church going but I refused to say them. No God would cause so much suffering to one family. I was not buying that “God doesn’t give us what we want only what we can handle” BS any longer. Our family was on overload. Recently my dad; who had a wife with breast cancer, a grandchild born with a genetic disorder and a mother who had suffered 5 strokes in as many months had vowed to change our last name from Shipley to Ship Wrecked. God was testing our love for our family and him – surely. Most Catholics would say this is when you get down on your knees and pray all the harder. But I was done with this charade. No-way was I going to mime the words from our book of psalms along with the rest of the congregation. No-way God, not this year.

While the sermon was going on I liked to people watch, it gave me a chance to see and say hello to old high school buddies. I have to say, it was, and is always fun to see how the high school kids grew up. Who got fat, who got thin, who came out, who got married, who bought boobs, who had not changed her hair or makeup styles since high school, who had kids…. and my favorite, who walked by pretending not to see me when clearly they did! Yeah I love that one. How wonderfully Catholic.

I passed the time by taking a count of how many women were wearing fur, and when we were asked to spin around under the guidance of our priest to extend the sign of peace to our fellow pew mates uber-cool me offered a peace sign with two fingers rather than shake a hand. For God's sake - it's cold season I am not touching people!

Another old standby used to keep me entertained during the sermon was to yawn and then see who caught the yawn and then I would watch it spread around the church. I learned this one when I was an alter girl in the fifth grade. It was very progressive at the time to have girls help the priest serve mass. My friend Laura and I would serve together and when we sat up on the altar on either side of the priest facing the congregation I would fake a giant yawn and then watch it rotate around the lower level and then up into the balcony of the church. This never got old and no one caught onto what I was doing – except of course my mother who asked me not to play that game when I was serving at our next door neighbour’s father’s funeral. Show some respect she had said.

This year I had a new distraction in the form of an eight-month-old baby boy. My sister had had a baby. Born in sin, out of wedlock and my Mother and Father couldn’t have been more excited or proud to be grandparents. The baby was our savior this year.

Our mother had held my sister by the hand, held her own wigged head up and proudly marched the unwed mother of the Cri-Du-Chat Syndrome baby boy proudly into the eternal judgment of our lord’s home. Amen.

My nephew was born deaf. Actually with no ears at all – he just had little nubs we call lobes. We had all been taking sign language classes so we could teach my nephew in the hope we would one day have some form of communication with him. All was going well with this I thought. My sister Sue was in night school taking sign language classes and I was learning through studying her books and under her guidance.

After mass I decided to take my Nephew up to see the Crèche at the front of the church to the left of the altar. There had been big ceremony in marching the baby Jesus statue into the church in the processional and placing him in his manger next to his Virgin mother and earthling surrogate father. Not that we could see this from our position, but, it was a once a year occurrence and I was certain what was going on up there. The Crèche was pretty and so I thought my nephew would like to see it up close.

Holding Aaron in my arms, I waded through the winter coat clothed people, who were either standing around in boisterous discussions or pushing toward the door, making my way to the front of the church. Pointing at the crèche’s inhabitants one by one I made the sign for each animal. There is a donkey, signing donkey, there is a cow, I sign cow, over here is a sheep, this is the Virgin Mary I make the sign for mother. She is the baby’s mother – I sign baby. The nephew stares off into the ceiling watching the fan twirl around.

My sister is waiting patiently at the back of the church for me to finish showing my nephew the crèche. I look back at her to make sure she is not annoyed with my side excursion. She smiles at me – a look of relief washes over her face telling me she is happy mass and the public scrutiny is over. I return her smile. I then go back to pointing out the wise guys, a cat and finally to Joseph, I sign daddy and then I sign beard and point out his beard to my nephew. My nephew has lost interest in the ceiling fan and decided to pay attention again – this sign for beard has caught his eye and he is entertained by it – so I continue to stand at the crèche in front of the altar and sign “beard.” Suddenly I can hear my sister’s laughter erupt from the back of the church, it is echoing off the nowhere near empty church walls. I spin around to look at her and she gives me a sign of her own. Her hand is flat waving in front of her neck – cut it – shut up! It says to me. She begins racing up the centre isle of the church toward me, her hand is pressed over her mouth in an attempt to muffle her laughter, and as she nears I see tears squeezing out of her eyes.

Sue what’s so funny?
That’s not the sign for beard idiot. That’s the sign for Fuck - You.
Fuck-You Joseph, Fuck- you. You keep signing it over and over and it’s so funny. I had to come and stop you in case anyone in here signs. They are really going to think we are the worst Catholics ever.

But we are, I say, we are. And it was an honest mistake the two signs are different only by hand direction.

Still giggling, we hook arms and take our blasphemous selves out of the church and out to the car. Merry Christmas to all and to all a good night – except you Joseph you surrogate baby daddy– Fuck-You!

Relation-Ship: My Muse

I see situations in a certain way and I see people in a certain way. I like to study and then come up with an idea of just what these insights mean to me. Usually, the way I see things is through a quite honed but deeply dark sense of humor. I have been accused of using my humor to mask how I feel. Hey, I say what ever gets me through my day. Sometimes I have encountered events too painful to look at head on. If I didn’t look for the humor in those events perhaps I would shrivel up and live full time on a salad of anti psychotics whilst locked in an institution.

I’d rather mask out the pain through a bad joke…or a lifetime of bad jokes. It’s more fun. And if that is an unhealthy way of coping then let me advise that it is also through years of trying other coping therapeutics ( which have included; in no particular order, booze, food, drugs, kickboxing (yeah I really sucked at that), smoking, Tai Kwon Do, partying, shopping, acting, sleeping through a depression (twice), working non stop producing shitty TV, thankfully I have always been too vain to try cutting or thowing up after meals) most of which were fun but failingly ungratifying that I have come to the conclusion that through a more moderate application of beer, yoga and writing and humour I would find my outlet.

And thanks to a kick in the ass from two of my dearest friends…who have within the same week said. “Why are you dancing around, dabbling in art and in a writing group when you should sit down while you have this opportunity and write a damn book.” And “Stop being a pussy, what you write is funny. Especially because your style is so proper.”
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At writing class we were given a cue: My Muse. Immediately I knew who my muse was. It was my family and the people who have been drawn into and out of its circle over the years.

I have been a great collector of stories and have often thought I would like to write about my experiences as a member of this family- my family- I can say what I want about them because they are mine and will duel you to death if you dare to pass comment on them -family.

I am a great one for having multiple beers while out with friends and when I am encouraged or just distraught over a new family occurrence I will launch into one of my stories or upon request retell an old favorite. Rest assured it's never for the amusement of others - well the retellings can be - mostly it's just theraputic.

- Hey did ya know I was burned when I fell in a BBQ when I was 15 months old? Each member of family claims they pulled me out. Yeah - see the scars - my sister says they look like chicken skin.

- The neighborhood kids would gather at the end of my drive way and then send one kid to the door to call on me. I would come outside thinking they were inviting me to play. As soon as the door closed and my mother was out of earshot they would, on cue, burst into a wonderful song they had made up…a play on my name. Me-Smell Shit-ley…then one kid would push me to the ground and run away. Yeah that was a good one.

- When I was in grade three, my dad bought me a woman’s blue 3-speed bike. He added training wheels because the bike was too big for me and then to make me look like more of a loser he added a giant florescent orange flag on an flexible pole to the back – so cars to see me while riding he said. I am positive it was so I would never, ever, ever, in the history of teenage hood ever, never get a date. My sister got a huge teddy bear. No Flag.

- Also in grade three I was sent home on the school bus carrying my sister who was in grade one. She had fallen at the playground and had BROKEN her ankle. I wore the family’s house key around my neck – so I go to take her home. What the hell was I gonna do with her when I got there? Paper Mache a cast?

- When I was 19 got hit by a drunk driver while driving my dad’s station wagon over to a friend’s house to watch a movie. He sideswiped me. The drunk driver was my friend’s father. How ironic is that. Also, my father’s station wagon was being traded in the next day on a new car – now it had a beautiful dent in it and it’s light was hanging out. I had to go to court and testify against friend’s dad. While sitting in the courthouse beside the officer who had a tagged 60 ouncer of crown royal on his lap as evidence, my high school law class walked by. They all stared at me and one of them said - “ohmigawd there is Michelle Shipley is she a drunk driver?” The friend’s dad was a no show – his lawyer pleads guilty on his behalf.

- Did I tell ya about the time my family went and had family pictures done at the church – but- did not include me? Yes! I swear it’s true. And I was living with them at the time too.

- When my mother was dying and had not been awake in days I went to visit her. I had a melt down and pulled my chair closer to her so I could lay my head on her chest while I sobbed. I was alone in the room with her at the time. As I pulled the chair forward it shrieked along the floor. My Mother who had not spoken an audible word in more than a week yelled” MICHELLE PICK UP THE DAMN CHAIR!” It’s true.

- I have no idea if this was legal or not but, it’s funny as hell. My sister Sue and I were hanging out in the living room watching TV one night in the middle of winter when we were bombarded by snowballs – they were coming at us over the back fence from the bike path and were slamming furiously into the glass patio door. This had been happening on a regular basis and my father had clearly had it. He was in a business meeting with a dude discussing some new fangled 90’s pyramid business plan. Sue and I jumped up grabbed coats and headed for the door. I had just gotten my driver’s license and waving my dad’s car keys at him as a form of asking permission and so as not to further interrupt the meeting we dashed out the door to catch the snowball assailants. We drove up the road and slowed when we saw a group of boys about age 13. I rolled down the window and asked the kids if they knew where the next town was. Yeah – back the way you came one kid said. This gave us permission to pull a U-turn landing on the shoulder of the road beside the boys. My sister flung the door open and grabbed one of the boys by the arm. Did you throw snowballs at our house? No. The kids said terrified. Michelle get the tape and the rope from the trunk. This kid is a liar. We’re taking him home to dad. By now the other kids are a good 20 feet back. The boy Sue is holding onto is crying and the other boys are promising to never throw snowballs again if we would just let their friend go. I carried the rope over to Sue and together we bantered back and forth about how beat up the last kid was after throwing snowballs at our house and getting caught. We deliberated where we would dump his body. Maybe near the tracks. Then I asked the kids if they were serious about not throwing snowballs at the house. If so we would let him go. They all agreed. We died laughing all the way home and proudly retold the whole story to dad and his business associate. All was well until the next night when a snowball hit the house. This time dad went after the kids on foot. He caught one boy and the kid said, “Your daughters beat up our friend” my dad said – go on that’s not true they are just girls. Throw another flake of snow at our house again and I will dump you on the tracks! We never had another incident…that I know of.

- My grandma had a beautiful candy dish on her coffee table. She said it was for the guests. We would curiously take the lid off of it to find it full of rubber spiders. She also had money stashed all around her house. I found $900.00 in an armoire she had given me two apartment moves and two years post humus. She was an interesting lady and I could write novels on her life alone. She was asked by the pastor of St. Anthony’s church to donate to the repair of the church stairs when they were on a door-to-door canvass of the neighborhood. Why? My grandma asked them, would I give you money? I don’t go to that church, I did not wear out those stairs. She also called me one time to let me know she was now a widow. You’re a widow Granny? Yes she said laughing. I haven’t seen that jerk since your father was 2 years old and I got a letter today saying he has died and now I am a widow. My condolences Granny.

- When my mother died - which was after a very very very long battle with cancer, we were at the funeral home sitting with the funeral director. He was trying to up sell us lockets with little pieces of our mother’s cremated ashes in them and other ridiculous trinkets that we had no need or want for. This experience was far was pushier and more unpleasant than shopping for a vehicle. I decided to have a little fun with this insensitive guy who was feining sensitivity for our family in this “great time of sorrow.” My mother who was not a sports minded person had been in a wheel chair for the last year of her life. When the funeral director asked us what we would like to include on the prayer cards for our departed I piped in and said –“well she was an avid golfer and I think she would like us to mention that. Also. She loved to run long distances and was always winning medals for record times.” My family all looked at each other and then at the table. The funeral director said well this is all very excellent but I think this would be better placed in the obituary in the paper. How about we use the poem “Footprints” for the mass card?” My boyfriend squeezed my knee as a sign to shut up before I could say anything more. We agreed to a poem but it was not FOOTPRINTS.

- At my mother’s funeral we had created boards of old family photos and had put a few of my mother’s favorite things out. She was an avid gardener and really prided herself on her green thumb. We placed her floppy straw garden hat and her pruning shears near her urn. Perfect we thought. All of her is here now. Slowly through out the course of the day people who had come to pay their respects pulled me aside and asked in their own polite -I am not intruding- kind of way why the florist had left their shears and hat beside my mother. Seriously people – it was – DECEMBER. Clearly they were not the florist’s hat and pruning shears. – In the same polite tone I would explain they were my mother’s. Of course that would make sense she like to garden came their reply.



I have a ton of these stories. This writing scrapes the surface of each story. I think it will be a launch pad, a test zone. So far the writing has come easily as an indication to continue onward.

My sister and I have a bunch of nicknames for people in our life’s stories. Whether flattering or not, each moniker was carefully chosen based on a physical or other characteristic or attribute. It’s not like we think our family members have not done the same with us. Want an example? Old Leather Face, Dynesty Nails, Drama, Uncle Cliff (after Cliff Claven), just to name a few.... Will those nicknamed be offended when they recognize them selves in my writings? Will the truth, my truth, of my history be seen as hurtful or disrespectful to those who may find them selves an active part of my world in print? This is what I struggled with – this is why I dance around the idea of writing a collection of short stories based on memory.

The truth of the matter is this. I can’t broil up a work of fiction with nearly as rich and full a plot line, with as much humor or depth of character as I can source from the years I have interacted with my family. I can take a humorous and self-deprecating look at whom I am and the life I lead. If it’s all on a level playing field is it then okay to state my truths? Perhaps I should ask Susan Jane Gilman or David Sedaris or Augustine Burroughs.

My Hood, A Mirror & the Armless Sweaters...

Each time I move somewhere new I venture out to spend the day wondering my new neighborhood or the hood for those who are hipsters and like the shortened version of the word. This has become a sort of habit really. I do enjoy switching it up by moving city to city, and have resided at countless addresses over the past 18 years. Whether I move toward or away from something I just have a sense that when things become too familiar I should pack up and move on simply because there is a whole world out there to see.
Until now.
Until this address.
Super small southern town USA has me feeling like it’s history and inhabitants could hold my attention for quite sometime. I actually feel like this is the one town I was meant to find in all my meanderings across North America and abroad. I think I might actually feel at home.

I should tell you we found our house just after Christmas…I like to call it my Miracle on 34th Street house. I knew it was “the one” the second the front door swung open. It’s owner, the seller, greeted us with a little hesitancy and then a pride filled; “Welcome to our home, it is a Georgian Colonial built in 1910.” She had gone to the trouble of baking cookies to make the house smell good – although I never did see the cookies. I am lead to believe they must have been eaten up by all the curious people who had come to the open house hours earlier…we were the stragglers. The house was a beauty, thoughtfully restored, even though the walls had received quite a shock (a quote stolen from the mouth of a wonderful southern woman I have become acquainted) with some of the paint pallet choices, in no way did the smell of fresh baked cookies have to promote this home.

We moved into the house in early February. At closing the woman we bought the house from said; “We left you the keys for the house in a basket in the drawer, a bottle of wine and some beer in the fridge. There is a spare key at the yellow house next door. It’s owned by Ben & Anne Marie, they are good people. I suggest you leave the key there and don’t you dare change the paint in that house. If you need to retouch the paint anywhere Pratt and Lambert’s has the list of colors under my name.”

Three hundred signatures later the house was ours.

All our belongings arrived frozen solid from our temporary (it became 9 months) un-climatized storage unit in winter land Canada. It was a balmy 15 degrees Celsius and we were delighted at the idea that we would have no use for snow tires or show shovels for some time.

Slowly and deliberately I unpacked boxes. With each venture out to the curb to add to my recycling pile a new neighbor came over to meet me and inquire as to the house’s inhabitants. At first I found this odd. No one had ever crossed a street to meet me in any of my other homes except just once a neighbor in Toronto yelled over the back fence at me;

“Do you have kids?”
“No” I replied.

She never spoke to me again. Here though, in the south, it’s all about hospitality and with it comes the old small town values of actually knowing your neighbours. At first I found it was nosy but I’ve come to change my mind about that. It’s genuine interest and respectfully so. With each neighbor's introduction I repeated the answers to their questions:

Yes, I live here with my husband, we are newly weds, he works at the hospital in the next town over, no we don’t have children, but we do have a dog, yes, he does look like a squirrel, speaking of squirrels there are so many here I have never seen so many. Oh, it’s because of the pecan trees, yes we do have two gorgeous pecan trees. Well it’s very nice to meet you, thank you for coming over to introduce yourself to us, we feel very welcomed already.

This went on with each neighbor until later in the week when the last few neighbours came over just to shake hands by introduction and say hello. It seemed they already had the answers to their questions - "it’s a small town, people talk"- I was informed.

And in act of absolute generosity and kindness, home made cookies were baked and delivered to our house by way of the lovely Miss Anne Marie. She had brought them over as a welcoming. I swear I thought this only ever occurred on TV – in all the places I have ever lived, no one had ever brought over home made cookies. I think I ate six one after another in lieu of lunch. Guilt getting the better of me I decided to bag a few for my husband’s lunch. A few, whatever, he does not have to know how many made there way over here originally. The cookies were quickly followed by an invitation to dinner next door. “We felt we should get to know the people who’s house key we are keeping!” Anne Marie said by way of invitation. “Don’t worry” my husband said; “we are only Canadian axe murderers.”

Dinner was amazing. All of it, the food, the company, the generosity of stories and information, the wine, it seemed we could listen to Ben and Anne Marie tell us stories for hours. They laughed when we said we hadn’t chosen this town at first, we were meant to go else where, a larger ocean front city. We were told that story was not new and ironically was just their story as well. Ben said, “ No one was meant to settle here, we all happened upon this town and are still here.”

After dinner Ben who had had a great hunting season, pulled a tube of venison sausage out of the freezer to send home with my husband. Steve and I wandered home hand in hand feeling happy, discussing the night’s events deciding unanimously that we had found the perfect spot to live. Then Steve looked at me, held out the sausage, and said; “hold my sausage I have to go pee” and bolted inside the back door of our house. Laughing loudly I called after him - Do you know what you just said to me? I entered the house and put the sausage in the freezer.
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Days moved into weeks as we settled into our house. I puttered the neighborhood, figuring out where the good stores were, exploring the board walk, more than once having conversations with a rather hard of hearing elderly man who would nod while my lips moved then say exactly what I had said a moment before like it was news.

Michelle: “Hey look there at that little turtle.”
Pause.
Deaf Man: Hey Look at that little turtle there.”

Eventually I would wander back into the historic district admiring the old houses. Many of them have been restored and are looking beautiful. I want so badly to walk up to the front doors of them and ask their owners if I could walk through. I liked to imagine who had lived there. Each house had it’s own distinct personality. Most have a plaque hanging beside the front door boasting the original family name and the year the house was built. Our house does not. I am determined to find out though. My father in law suggested we mock one up for our house that reads our family name circa 2008.

So it’s on this walk when I discover two very curious looking white houses located side by side. If they had historic district plaques you would not know for all over the front porch and lawns and drive ways and down between the houses were precariously propped pieces of what looked to be the oddest collection of discarded furniture. The front porch of one house was clear to the door but had an armoire with all it’s drawers pulled out and stacked one on top of the other on top of it, rolls of indoor outdoor carpeting, a chair, some cardboard boxes, a dolls carriage, an old Christmas tree fully decorated a few bed frames and lord knows what else perched on the porch.

My eye was drawn to the second porch. A five-foot tall metal filing cabinet, and some other articles of furniture visibly blocked its door. I stand and stare trying to take it all in. There in the corner by the top step sat one of the most gorgeous mirrors I have ever seen.

Oh, I think to myself, I wonder who lives here and I wonder if they would want to part with that mirror? It sure would look great on one of the walls of my sparsely furnished house.

Just then an old white station wagon pulls up and turns into the small clear space of driveway between the two white houses and it too is full of stuff, it even has cardboard boxes of more stuff bungeed to the roof. From behind the wheel I see a tiny white haired head. Quickly I turn on my heel and head in the opposite direction toward home. I didn’t want to be caught being a lurky Lou.

Curiosity over the houses inhabitants had got the best of me. The same person must own both houses. I imagined what it looked like inside what treasures were stored within those eight walls and I also wondered if it were filled with cats.

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A dinner invitation was accepted by Ben and Anne Marie to join Steve and I at our house. This was going to be our first dinner hosted in the new house and we were looking forward to it. We actually had a dining room and now thanks to Steve’s mother a proper dining room table which had originally held a prominent position in their childhood family home.

Back in Toronto we were known for hosting dinner parties. Fridays the boys would shop and then drop by to spark up the BBQ for what had become to be known as “Meat Fest” which became “Beer and Meat Fest.” We hosted meals for the holidays and just because days too. Birthdays, Sundays, Thanksgiving and Easter which we nick named “Feaster” because we were not practicing Catholics nor the parents of small children so the day was not about church or hiding tiny candy eggs but rather all about the food. Hence Feaster. We would cram our dinner guests around our old Formica diner table to get down to the business of food, wine conversation and more wine.

Steve and I were really looking forward to hosting our new neighbours. We had been meal planning when he was unexpectedly called into work on the day of the dinner. Dammit! Steve tells me to go ahead with the plans – he’ll join us at 8 pm when he gets in... or try for next Wednesday when I am off again to help with the cooking. By help Steve means -do the cooking. I am always the Sous Chef.

I place a call next door and thankfully Anne Marie is so easy going – they can’t make Wednesday but why don’t I join them at their house since Steve will be out and then I won’t have to eat alone. I arrived with two salads and some berries for dessert. Anne Marie breaks out the olives, corn bread and a delicious beef and barley soup. We get down to the business of eating and talking. I miss Steve, because I am having such a good time, I wish he were there to enjoy with us. Topics of conversation head in every which direction, school, books, retirement, more books, writing, food, childhood stories, referrals for handy men, and finally I decide I will ask if they have any knowledge of the inhabitant of the white houses with all the furniture on the porches. I tell them about my curiosity about the white houses and about the mirror.

Ben with his rich southern accent tells a story in just such a way he easily can hold an audience captive. His voice is like butter.

Ben of course knows a little about the lady of the white houses. He spins me a tale and for a while I am left wondering if he is telling me the truth or if he is pulling my leg just a little. I hope I don’t miss anything in the retelling but it goes something like this:

The woman of the white house is approximately 85 years old she had a job taking care of wards of the state. The last time Ben had spoken to her she said she was taking care of a retarded black man who had become a ward of the state when the armless moonshiner he was living with died. You see the armless moonshiner had the recipe for the moonshine but not the capability to make the formula so under careful guided direction and constant supervision the retarded black man would blend together the ingredients and together they would create the beverage, which he then bootlegged. This was the arrangement and it worked great at keeping them both cared for. One man the whole brain the other the whole body. When the armless moonshiner died the retarded black man could not care for himself as he retained nothing of the recipes or the daily activities of keeping himself or his home so he became a ward of the state who was then cared for by the white haired woman of the white house. Ben said, he asked the white haired woman of the white house if the moonshiner had ever left he retarded black man anything by way of his will - after having had such a long term symbiotic relationship. The white haired woman replied, “Only a stack of armless sweaters.”

Seriously? A stack of armless sweaters? Go on? This is not true. Armless sweaters? Don’t they call them vests down here in the south? Ben said if I see the white haired woman out front her house I should stop to chat and ask her for the mirror she would likely give it to me. Mind you if you decide to stop to talk be sure you have plenty of time. She is known for being long on words.

“Time” I say – “is what I happen to have a lot of right now Ben.”
________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

I drive my bike though the neighborhood taking a different path each time. With the summer has come my neighbours desire to spruce up their houses. Fences and verandas are going up, exteriors of homes are in stages of repair and paint, landscaping is tended to. I pass by the cluttered white houses without ever seeing any existence of its owner. I do however notice the mirror is gone. In its place are several new treasures. A wrought iron bench, a few empty flowerpots and a cushion for a couch, but no sign of the couch, I scan the porch. No mirror. Oh wait the mirror is there it has just been moved! Clearly summer has brought about improvements to these houses too, in the way of additional lawn ornaments.

I pass by the white houses several times before I finally see the white haired lady outside. She waves at greeting so I slow down and compliment her on her hydrangeas, which are heirloom in size and grandeur, full of beautiful blooming blue flowers.

“Come.” She says, “I have a knife in my pocket, I will cut you some.”

I introduce myself and she asks where I live.

“Oh by the Episcopalian Church,” she says.
“Sort of,” I reply.

While she works at cutting branches off the hydrangea she tells me her name is Helen and that she is 95 years old. She says she was born right here in this very house. She bought the house from her parents and had lived there her whole life. She was a twin. Her sister Harriett lived next door in the other white house.

Mystery solved I thought. I wondered if Harriett was still alive and living there - if so it was her porch where the coveted mirror was, it would be Harriett I would have to speak to about parting with it.

Helen continues on offering information about her home and it’s history she seemed to be very happy to have someone interested in listening to her tell stories of old main street. I was a very captive audience.

Her parents had five girls. With each baby girl born they planted a tree. She points to each tree on the lot and calls them by name.

“There is Cadence she was the eldest, then Laura pointing to a Mimosa tree, see those Pecan trees over there side by side? Those were planted for Harriett and I. My mother had all four of us in 31/2 years. Can you imagine? Then came the baby Margarite. We had to take her tree down because a possum had made a nest in her and had eaten all of its roots.”

The tree was going to fall into her sister’s house; so, an arborist had taken it down, although when this was, I am not sure. I would have asked but I really could not get a word in edgewise since I had made my introduction and that was a good half hour before.

Helen’s mother had wanted 10 children. Her wish fulfilled when each daughter married. Then she had five girls and five boys. She regarded each of her sons in laws as her own, Helen tells me.

Helen talks of the train stopping on the track behind the house, letting off all the Circus animals to bathe in the river before the animal handlers would march them in a parade up main street into town. She said she would perch herself on the porch of the Martin house to watch. I make a mental note to check the house names and look for the Martin House on my next walk down Main Street. And I recall Ben saying, “she’s a talker, you had best have time when you stop by.”

Waving her arm towards the front porch she tells me she wants to have a garage sale but has been too tired to sort all the stuff out to get rid of it. She says some of it belongs to her and some to her son who lives with her and some to her sister. Although, I suspect her porch has looked like that for a very, very long time. Helen plunges into another story about her house as I see my opportunity to ask about the mirror slip by.

“My sister’s husband was named Lolly pop – he survived WW1 to return to the little white house where he opened a store and people would come from miles around to buy his meat as he was an exceptional butcher."

They had no children, so, when he died the business closed and Helen had opened a bicycle shop in its place, which ran good business for a while.

"I don’t want any shops back there now – too much traffic. It was different in those days.” she says.

“The ice truck used to come up the street. The street at that time was much lower.” She gestures with her hands at how much the road has risen with all the layers of gravel and pavement. She tells me she has photos of the street and shops somewhere, if she could find them.

The door of her house opens and out comes a tall well-groomed gentleman in his 70’s. He is wearing a flamboyant floral shirt tucked neatly into walking shorts. His hair is neatly combed and his moustache meticulously shaped. He is carrying a bag and a plastic patio glass full of ice and lemonade. She introduces me, saying I have just moved into the 400 block.

For the first time in more than 45 minutes I have an opportunity to speak. “ Your mother has kindly cut me some flowers to plant in my yard she says if I plant then near a down spout they’ll grow.”

He says, “If my mother cut them they will root and grow, she has a way with plants.” Helen pipes in, “Terrance is a hairstylist he had an add in the paper this week.”

“What salon do you work in Terrance,” I ask?

“Terry,” he says, “ I work just up the road at Silver Scissors.”

“He’s really quite good at it!” Helen brags.

Terrance says, “ I have 40 years practice,” winks at me, tells his mother he is going to a friends and won’t be long. He gets in hi solder model white caddy and drives away.

“Don’t be long” she calls after the car, “my chest is tight today and I don’t fancy being alone.”

Helen then tells me about a myriad of health trouble she has encountered in the last year. “But you are still here! And at 95 you have had a good run of health I comment.” I say and she looks pleased.

I thank her for the flowers – she tells me to come back and let her know how they are growing. I say I will and head for home.

Somewhere along the way the desire for the mirror was lost to the satisfaction of having held a rather informative and engaging conversation. I decided that while the mirror was the impetus for searching out the white haired woman, now known as Helen, the true treasure I got to take home, in addition to a vase full of hydrangeas, was two hours worth of insight into a woman’s life combed through on fast forward over 95 years. Helen chose to share some of the recognizably important events of her life with me. She is a woman who has known my new neighborhood and my street for a lifetime. No amount of circling the block gaping at houses on my part would tell the stories she had just shared.

Ben said, “Make sure you have time when you stop, to talk.”

“Right now all I have is time,” I had replied.

I gave Helen my time and in return Helen gave me a reflection from the mirror of her life.

AcquaintanceShip

Living aboard a boat gives a person an opportunity to meet all kinds of characters. Last summer while cruising the Carolinas we happened upon one interesting cat.

His name was Mikey; short a wiry man whose skin was leathery and tanned by years of sun. He was hard working. I would watch him detail boats while nursing a six-pack of Coronas; he took a lot of pride in his work. Readying random boats for weekend cruisers. He was proficient and called upon often to repair docks, scale masts, rig sails, tinker at engines, scrub hulls, there was no job to big or small to tackle at when it came to water vehicles.

Upon our first meeting we were using the laundry facilities together. He had a little white Lhasa Apso with him. This dog struck me as being an odd fit for a guy like him. Being a dog person I knelt down to give the pup a pat on the head to say hello.
"What' your dog's name?" I asked.
"Mutton” He replied. After a brief pause he says rather cautiously, "I inherited her. Her name was Muffin but that was too faggotty so I call her Mutton. It works."
"Good name - she looks like Sheri Lewis's Lamb Chops". I say - but he looks at me blankly. Like my Canadian accent trumped him or he had no idea who Sheri Lewis and Lamb Chops were.
He asked which boat I was on. I told him.

"Tell your Mister to come see me if he needs work done." He said as he passed through the door.

I return to the boat to tell my "Mister" - I had met the wily wiry guy - and that he said you should get up with him if you need any work done. My Mister says – That guy is used to taking on jobs for boat owners - we are sailors not boat owners we do our own work. He'll know that we are different soon enough.

Next day I return to the slip to find Mikey up our mast. Mutton is tied to our hookups lounging in a small bit of provided shade.

"Hey there Missus" he shouts from above as a greeting.

"Hello Mikey," I reply, "what are you boys up to? "

“Givin’ the Mister a hand with the wind gage.”

My Mister and Mikey chat boats.

Mikey asks us “why we are so far from home? Was Canada too cold?” Without waiting for a reply he proceeds on, “I am from West Virginia up in the mountains. It’s too fucking cold there and I knew soon as I was old enough and able I was getting out of there. Ain’t never going back cept to burry my kin.”

Mikey is not much a fan f the government either. He claims to be a cash man. No employment record means no money in taxes. He lives aboard a boat on the ocean what the hell does he need to pay tax for?
Every now and again his cell phone rings and he has a good chat. He’s a talker. He mentions a girlfriend in a neighboring town who is a nurse. When she comes to visit we should all go out he says. I later ask the Mister what a nurse would be doing with a guy who lives outside society? The Mister says some girls like the idea of guys like that.

Mikey is always friendly with us but his natural demeaner is a bit on edge. I think fundamentally he would like to trust but this was a guy whose been crossed and lived on the outside of civilization for a reason. I have observed him enough to know that there would be something to set him off and it wouldn’t take much. The odd time we would see a few shady characters pop by to visit with him. He would dismiss them call them trouble – he always claimed he didn’t know why they were coming around.

Last winter we decided to move the boat. It would mean a four-day motor if the winds, which were not typical at that time of year for the area, were not up. I was back in Canada working a contract leaving the Mister to battle the mild January Carolina weather and water to move the boat on his own.

Sure enough Mikey had resurfaced in the area. He had been anchored out for some time so as not to incur any marina fees. With all the boats winterized the work around the marina was few and far between. With his obvious distaste for cold weather I am curious to know why he has not sailed further south but I am not there to ask. It’s January and prone to temperatures that hover around the freezing mark. The Mister tells him of his plan to move the boat and coincidentally Mikey has to a pick up a boat in the same area and deliver it back to the marina we are departing. So Mikey tags along to keep the Mister company and help us out. I tell my Mister that this idea makes me uncomfortable. I don’t know if we can trust Mikey not to snap.

Each morning I call the Mister to find out how the move is going. He reports back that everything is going great. Mikey thinks our boat sails really well and feels we have made a great choice in purchasing her. If we ever want to sell it Mikey says to call him first.


Each night I call the Mister to remind him that he should not indulge in any booze with Mikey because I think that would cause him some unneeded trouble. The Mister tells me not to worry. But I do.

On the fourth day after encountering some unfavorable weather there is still another 2 days to make it to the next marina. Mikey offers to deliver our boat for $150.00 cash while the Mister heads back to work. I wonder if our boat will arrive. I think up scenarios of the name and serial number being removed and the boat flipping hands with a shady broker for an unusually low sum of money and this thought makes me feel somewhat sad.

On the sixth day Mikey calls the Mister to say he had arrived safely to the docks. He’s going to supervise the lift as the marina is going to pull our boat out of the water so we can have some bottom work done. Mikey says he has met another sailor who is going to help him deliver the next boat. Would the Mister mind driving them both over to the next marina when he comes to pay up for delivering the boat. The Mister complies.

Finishing my contact I arrive back home to witness the finale of this sailing tale.

The Mister tells me the friend Mikey met was sketchy. He too lived on the outskirts of society was pretty rough around the edges and was missing more than a few teeth. He had driven Mikey, the New Guy and their stuff, which included a motor, a tool kit and a couple of duffels to the next town over.

The Mister admits to me that Mikey was an all right guy but clearly had some psychological problems, which he seemed to be keeping in check. But Mikey liked the Mister all right and the Mister was cautious not to set him off. Their deal was completed and to the Mister there was closure. To Mikey in the Mister he had found a new best friend.

The Mister receives a phone call from Mikey, he just wanted to check in and thank the Mister for the business. He said to say hi to the Missus.

A few days later the Mister collects a phone message. He listens, presses speaker and holds the phone out for me to listen. It’s Mikey, he claims the “New Guy” was a mean, mean drunk who drank all his beer, smoked all his smokes, ate all his pizza and had pulled a knife on him. He had thrown New Guy off the boat with all his belongings and was underway to deliver the boat back to the originating marina. Look out for him he’s a mean sun of a gun. Say hi to the Missus. He hangs up.

Eyebrows raised the Mister and I look at each other.

“I wonder what the real story is? “ I say.

Not too long after we are down at our marina checking out the progress on our boat’s repairs when we see a guy with a sun-bleached head of long hair, his back is to us. The Mister looks at me and whispers – “that’s New Guy”. As we approach, New Guy turns around an instantly recognizes the Mister.

From the front the New Guy’s hair is fairly well receded, his face is leathery, he is sporting a black eye and a few lacerations one on his cheek bone another on his nose. They look fresh.

New guy says, “Hey, that friend of yours is a lunatic. He smoked all my smokes, bought the bar full of people pizza with that $150.00 you gave him and got pissed off when they didn’t even save him a slice. The cops were called to the bar to remove him because he was out of control mad over the eaten pizza.
Back at the boat he accused me of drinking his beer, eating his pizza and then pulled a homemade flare gun on me. It was all I could do to get all my shit and get off that boat alive. What a mean, mean motha-fucker drunk. His daddy and my daddy go back, they said he’s a mean, mean drunk.“

Now I really wonder what the real story is.

A month goes by and we hear nothing from Mikey and one day the Mister picks up a phone message. It’s Mikey. He says he’s going inside to do a month in lieu of paying restitution for a bar fight he was in. Ain’t no government gonna take his thousand dollars. A warm bed and a hot meal everyday for 30 was better than that.

Some where down the middle of two stories was the truth? Did it matter what it was?

Mikey was a character. I think of him from time to time and hope that he is making his way more peacefully and I wonder what happened to Mutton.

Mikey was a guy who was generous enough that he would use his honestly and hard earned cash to feed strangers in a bar. Strangers who did not have the decency to save him a pizza slice…. He was also the guy who no way in hell was going to let the “man” get their hands on his cash. No way.

For the Mister and I that was the story.