It’s a Two-fer

An Evening at the Artesian

It was fun! Just a walk down the street to the Artesian, a venue hosting a Globe Theatre Production of Making Spirits Bright. It was so much fun!! Based on the old CBC radio dramas many of us attending listened to, five actors played multiple roles. The stage was set with microphones for each actor, head gear to show a change from a human to an animal, a shiny black crow, disappearing clothes lines and some that I’ve missed! Opening with a First Nations story about a wiley wolf and an inept hunter, we were introduced with laughter to the land we live on. The stories that were presented: Coyote’s New Suit by Thomas King; Frankincents an’ Meer by W.O. Mitchell; The Night before Christmas by Clement Clarke Moore; and the Mitten, A Ukrainian Folk Tale, tickled my funny bone and the actors were impressive. They switched from human to animal, adults to children as each story dictated. All accompanied by the appropriate sound effects and props! That’s not all: rather than reading out a boring litany of sponsors, they were honoured with singing accolades! At the end the cast had all of us singing Auld Lang Syne. Did I mention it was so much fun!!

“As a young actor, I would be invited to the CBC Radio 

drama department to do voices for different characters, 

and I found that I could do quite a few of them.”

 ~ Peter Cullen, Canadian Actor

Director:

Jennifer Brewin

Actors:

Skyler Anderson

Kris Alvarez

Sarah Bergbusch

Sierra Haynes

Leon Willey

~~~~~

Cookies for Breakfast

 “Cookies for breakfast, yay!?” As soon as Rusty opened his eyes he knew what was in store for him. His sister Annabelle had baked cookies the night before and he could still smell them. He didn’t usually leap out of bed, that changed as soon as he could almost taste the sweet, crumble of the sugar cookies. If he was quiet enough, he could get down to the kitchen and help himself before his sister was up. Stuffing his feet into his slippers, he shuffled to his bedroom door and opened it carefully. “Don’t squeak! Don’t squeak!” He let his breath go, he had managed to open the door. He practiced that move all the time. Then his shoulders fell. “Coffee…..Mom and Dad are already up. They’ll be in the kitchen. It’s impossible now!” He backed into his room. “I might as well get dressed and figure something else out.” Screwing up his face in thought he paced. "Aha! Cool. That's what I need and I'll wait til my dumb sister is in the kitchen."

“No cry because cookie is finished. Smile because cookie happened.”

~ Cookie Monster, The Joy of Cookies: Cookie Monster’s Guide to Life

Cookies for Christmas ~ Theme for December: Creativity

        Cookies for Christmas

 “Cookie’s for breakfast, yay!”

“Rusty, leave those alone, we’re delivering them after lunch.”

Everyone had been told the cookies were Christmas presents.

Annabelle had worked hard to bake the dozens of cookies and decorate them with sparkles.

The sad look on Rusty’s face made her feel almost guilty.

“I’ve saved some for you, brother dear.”

Vowing to behave himself, he slipped a cookie into his pocket!

Innocently, Annabelle told him she had seen the cookie disappear.

Their mom came into the kitchen to see what they were doing.

“You can have a cookie, mom ~ just not Rusty right now.

“Creativity takes courage.”

~ Henri Matisse

On an Afternoon Walk ~ Skyward

It’s only an idea ~ 

this pencil sketch 

that brushes the clouds 

in the late afternoon sun.

“Ideas come from everything.”

~ Alfred Hitchcock

Chapter Two, Episode 164 - More than Just Friends - Situationally Theirs

Samuel and Elizabeth had been out to a movie. There was an old movie house in a neighbouring village that played the classics each weekend. Complete with hand cranked buttered popcorn, worn velvet seats and cartoon shorts. Humphrey Bogart and Lauren Bacall had entertained them. When the lights went down and the reels started, they felt like teenagers again. As the credits rolled, they pointed out their favourite actors ~ not just the stars, but the bit players. When the lights came up and it was time to go, real life began again. With a difference. Their hearts were lighter. These evenings together and away from the Estate were their own. They had no kitchen, no garden, just the two of them enjoying each other’s company. 

As they drove home they took the scenic ocean route. The night hid the foliage and flowers, but the stars were bright. If it was a moonlit night, its bright light traced a path across the water. They would park at an overlook to the water. On a clear night, they walked hand in hand on a familiar path. Listened to distant foghorns. Pointed out the Big Dipper, Orion, the North Star. 

On this night, they were in the park when the snow started. Big, soft flakes that disappeared in the black water, clung to the fencing, brightened the night. Elizabeth shivered. “Time to get home and get warm, Samuel. Tea and coffee cake?” 

“Suppose we should. Don’t want to be on these roads if this snow keeps up. Sure is pretty though.” He opened her door for her, brushed the snow off the windshield and climbed in for the drive back to the Estate. “It’ll be gone by morning, don’t you think? It’s not cold enough to stay much into the morning.”

~~~~~

“Hasn’t been much to talk about tonight, Elizabeth. With the two couples off traipsing around the country and Martha and James keeping to themselves, the old place is pretty quiet.”

“I like it quiet. May be strange but, when I hear the news, and all the troubles in the world, quiet is just like I like it. I guess I’m not much of a talker. There was time when all I could do was talk and argue. Have opinions about the state of the world, life in general, whether I was being treated right. Guess that wisdom we heard so much about when we were young, has slowed that talking down.”

Samuel laughed. “You just might have something there, Elizabeth. All the talking that does carry on is just a bunch of going around in circles. The same circles folks have been going around for as long as there’s been life.” He cut himself another big cut of coffee cake, held it up where he could take a good look at it. “But for where I’m sittin’, this cake and the woman that made it, are all I need. There’s just no fight in me anymore. Does that sound like I’ve given up on things?”

Elizabeth’s cheeks felt warm when she heard Samuel’s sideways speech about his feelings for her. She knew some women would be offended, but she had known him for a long time. He did tell a good story, but feelings?

“That’s why I like going to the movies, or read a book. Listen to stories. That makes the troubles of that world all get fixed. When the story’s been told, it’s done. I can think of all the different ways that a story could be told, could end and leave it at that. I can’t fix what’s going on in the rest of the world, but I can take care of where I am.” She knew she was no better at talking about feelings than Samuel was, but had paid attention to the things that he liked. Those things she did take care of.

“Snow followed us here, Elizabeth.” Samuel had gotten up to get his coat on and looked out the window. Heavy wet snow was falling. Ella Fitzgerald and Louis Armstrong, two of their favourites, came to their minds at the same time singing “Baby it’s cold outside.”

“Get your coat off, Samuel. No point in you going out in that. You can go in the morning.”

“Be slow to fall into friendship, but when you are in, 

continue firm and constant.”

~ Socrates

Rumpled

Walking from the bus into the bank I had avoided mud puddles, scattered among melting snow patches. Inside the bank, I stepped into the queue. The smell of old cigarette smoke surrounded him. I wondered at the tiny brown spots, evenly spaced, straight up the back of his beige, too big jacket. His clothes ill fitting, even his black cap was rumpled. He turned his head briefly. In profile, I saw a young face, pleasant, smooth and sharply defined, a shock of black hair revealed when he adjusted his cap. Tall and thin, he sagged under the weight of his late November clothes. I wondered where he had locked his bike up in this busy downtown.

“Your image isn’t your character. Character is what you are as a person.”

~ Derek Jeter, American baseball player

Driftwood

She clung on to the piece of driftwood, praying for daylight. If this were a dream, Caroline would awaken just before she drowned. But this was no dream. The water was frigid, the night moonless, not a sound on the lake. She had gone for her nightly swim, but this time she went too far, lost her way. She could only tell where she was by the few lights on the shores. At least she was close to safety. Praying for daylight wouldn’t help, because it was just past midnight. Her only salvation was the piece of driftwood that hadn’t yet made it to shore. “Concentrate, Carrie. Don’t panic.” Despite the cold enveloping her extremities, she could feel the tide. It was calm and steady. Moving her legs, partly to keep blood flowing, she propelled the driftwood forward with the tide that would take her to a shoreline. Talking aloud to give the night some texture, she began reciting any nursery rhyme or poem she had learned. “Focus. Don’t let go. You’re almost there.” As she neared the shore, she felt waving water weeds tickling her legs. Reaching one toe down, she felt sand beneath her. “Still too deep to try to stand. Push the driftwood forward.” The lights from a cabin were brighter. “It’s my cabin!” She pushed the driftwood onto shore, struggled to sit up, leaned over and kissed the slimy wet surface. “You saved my life. Thank you, thank you!” Standing awkwardly, no longer weightless, she steadied herself until she could see down the beach. It was as empty as the lake, except for her towel lying alone in the heap she had left it in. 

~~~~~

That was the story my grandmother told me. Smiling, she said “That old piece of driftwood saved my life.” I had asked her about the ancient piece of polished driftwood on our porch. It had been there as long as I could remember. It was large enough for any child to use it for a horse. Resting unevenly, it always gave us a great gallop down the beach and through the waves. It was our coat hanger for random hats, coats, wet towels on sunny or rainy days. As an adult, I suspected the real meaning behind the ancient driftwood belonged to my stolid grandmother.

“Scared is what you’re feeling. Brave is what you’re doing.”

~ Emma Donoghue, Room

Author’s note: a random first line chosen from writingexercises.co.uk

A Birthday Poem

Birthdays are special

Birthdays are sweet

Markers of the day

When each year is replete

I could say I’m sad

I could say boo hoo

I’m a little old lady

Without living in a shoe

But with each year that passes

I’ve gathered more gifts

Of family and friendships ~

Without a birthday, t’wd be missed.

“Every birthday is a gift. Every day is a gift.”

~ Aretha Franklin