The Molly Fire

The Molly Fire

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The Molly

Fire A MEMOIR

MICHAEL

MITCHELL

ECW P ; RESS

Copyright © Michael Mitchell, 200 4 Published b y EC W PRESS 2120 Queen Stree t East, Suite 200 , Toronto, Ontario, Canada M4 E IE2 All rights reserved. No par t of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form b y any process — electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording , o r otherwise — without the prior writ ten permissio n o f the copyrigh t owner s and EC W PRESS. NATIONAL LIBRAR Y O F CANAD A CATALOGUIN G I N PUBLICATIO N DATA

Mitchell, Michael, 1943 The Molly fire / Michael Mitchell. ISBN 1-55022-676- 2 i. Mitchell, Molly G. 2 . Mitchell, Michael, 194 3 Family 3. Painters—Canada—Biography. I . Tide. ND249-M536M58 2004 759-

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Editor for the press: Michael Holme s Cover, Text Design an d Typesetting: Tania Craan Author Photo: Ken Straiton Production: Mary Bowness Printing: Gauvin Press This book is set in Janson an d AT Sackers The publicatio n o f The Molly Fire has been generously supported by the Canada Council, th e Ontario Art s Council, an d the Government o f Canada through the Book Publishing Industry Developmen t Program . Canad S 2345 DISTRIBUTION

CANADA: Jaguar Book Group, 10 0 Armstrong Ave., Georgetown, O N LJG 55 4 PRINTED AND BOUN D I N CANAD A

IN MEMOR Y OF

Molly LeGeyt Greene Mitchell 1919 — 2000

JAM 1918—1999 FOR

Jake & Ben Mitchell

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I have tried to see this many times. My cousin conies to the doo r o f the darkened house , peer s in the window, rings th e bell . Waits. N o reply . Tries again . Nothing. Takes out the key my mother has given him and opens the door calling her name. Silence. He goes from roo m to room , turnin g o n lights , callin g out fo r hi s artis t aunt, my mother. The las t room is the bath. Her glasse s are besid e th e sink ; her rob e i s folded o n th e toile t top, th e tu b i s full. Sh e looks so small and pale curled up under water, trapped in ice, locked up under glass. She was 81.

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We eac h fac e deat h i n ou r ow n way. I neede d quiet , time to take it in, time to look around. I took the call in Toronto, sat for an hour and then slept . I n the morning I booked a flight — a commitment tha t initiated a series o f step s i n a journey I ha d mad e man y time s before. Ca b t o th e airport , check-i n lineup , coffe e i n the lounge , boardin g — alph a four , delt a on e — a tightened buckl e and the erect seat-back . The n hour s of dull limbo — white noise, grey air — followed by the steep an d spectacula r descen t throug h cut s i n th e Coastal Range . The worl d return s i n Vancouve r as a kitchen clatter of sounds and smells. The bod y comes back to life . Next a bus and the long flatland ride to the ferry at the edge of a muddy delta. Back to a fluid medium and the grea t vortices of Active Pass. There is a resigned stillness to the little James Bay house. The doo r to the bath — the vanishing zon e — is slightly ajar . I won't look in for a day. Death is white. I'm sure I can see molecules dancin g in th e room s o f sad possessions. The table s are dusty, the silve r is tarnished, bu t he r plac e is set. Whil e th e 2

PLATE I

5-0 small and pale

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house i s merely orderly : he r studi o is entropic. There is a most terrible silence behind that door . For a couple of days I am alone. After th e firs t day , I begin to see photographs. I imagine.what she saw out the window, glances from the kitchen sink, silhouette s and shadows on the sheers, light lozenges on the floor. I fin d mysel f followin g i n he r footsteps . Wher e she would have drawn, I take simple pictures. It's a comfort. It's clarifying . I touch nothing . Bad weathe r breaks on th e thir d da y — an angry, blaming, recriminatin g blac k whirlwind o f emotion driven efficiency . Withi n an hour my mother's close t is empty, her clothe s bagge d an d at the curb . Bottle s and jars are inverted ove r the sink , dishes clatter int o boxes. M y father' s tools , untouche d sinc e hi s deat h nine month s earlier , ar e packe d an d whiske d away . Cupboards ar e purged , drawer s ar e pulled , a life' s underwear i s expose d by m y sister' s cycloni c rag e a t death. B y day's end the little world tha t I have spen t three day s learnin g t o accommodat e ha s vanished . Molly's lif e has become a mess to be tidied up. My eldest son rescues me. He calls from New York. "Do you need company ? I thin k I shoul d come . I' m not leaving you and your sister alone." He arrive s and spends tw o day s quietl y workin g an d absorbin g a litany of complaints agains t his father. In the evening s he takes me out to Molly haunts and buys the drinks . 3

A few days of this and then my sister, her husband, and my son, begin to leave — catching planes or driving cars back to their lives . I am left alon e with a deadline. The hous e will be sold and must be emptied. I pac k carefully , mak e reasone d choices , givin g each selectio n a bubble-wrap surround . M y mother' s friends an d neighbour s com e b y t o reclai m loane d books, pick over paintings or take a plant. Last day . I wal k through empt y rooms , satisfied , and then retreat to the little studio building in the garden. I despai r a s I realiz e tha t hundred s o f picture s remain afte r al l the pickin g an d packing . I sor t an d pack new piles. More boxe s are filled but many more paintings remain . Soo n I am stuffing he r drawings in with my socks and lining my bags with watercolours. I find still more pictures. My ticket is for the last flight off-island. Ar e there enoug h eye s in al l the worl d t o look at so many images? Finally I build a fire. The pile s surroun d m e — sheave s an d slidin g stacks — the legacy of a life of looking. Many of these pictures ar e unfinished. Som e ar e failures. Still I fee l as if I am torching the traces of her hand and the eyes and min d tha t guide d it . He r idea s and observation s become heat and light before curling into black ash on the cooling stone. The picture s bur n before the mats, leaving receding windows into the flames. I close the door and leave.

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PLATE

A MOST TERRIBLE SILENCE

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PLATE 3

the traces of her hand

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THE ROYA L DRAWING SOCIET Y 18 Queen Anne's Gate, Westminster S.W. Patron His Most Gracious Majesty The King President H.R.H. The Princes s Louise Duchess of Argyll This Full School Certificate i s awarded t o Molly Greene J

935 For obtainin g Honours in all six Divisions

They though t i t strange . S o unlik e Molly , sai d th e neighbours. Sh e wen t int o he r backyar d that earl y spring morning and sat in the sun leaning back, looking, quietl y smilin g fo r th e entir e day . She returne d the followin g mornin g t o th e sam e chair, th e sam e warmth, sam e sun moving throug h th e small garden, warming th e wall s o f he r studi o an d caressin g he r face. Sh e was sliding dow n in the chair , slipping into her girlhood , sunbathin g o n th e rock s o f Georgia n Bay, lyin g o n th e gras s o f he r parents ' garde n o n Hamilton Mountain, a small animal just out of the sea warming o n th e mu d o f a million-year-ol d shore . This wa s her las t spring , he r las t day , her las t fe w 5

hours. Down the muddy slope as the day cooled, back into the water, the white enamel of the tub, the amazing clarity of water, and air and mind. So many circles — th e retrea t t o beginning s an d th e fina l vorte x o f the drain . April 9, 2000. For several months after her death I periodically shif t the blu e suitcas e tha t contain s he r sketchbooks . Sh e drew constantl y a s a child , attende d th e Ontari o College o f Ar t i n th e lat e thirties , studyin g wit h Casson, Jackso n an d Carmichael , an d somehow , despite marriage and children, managed to paint every week of her life . The suitcas e is extremely heavy and inevitably ends up in an awkward place demanding to be move d again . On e draine d Novembe r mornin g I finally pull it into th e centr e of the roo m an d release the catch . Dozen s o f Grumbache r an d Strathmor e sketchbooks spil l ont o the floor. I begin t o randoml y leaf throug h th e wire-boun d books , readin g he r colour notes and examining her drawings. The dozen s of books contai n more tha n a thousand sketche s and watercolours from the last two decades. These are not intellectual picture s bu t engagement s with th e worl d and the detail s of life. I lov e bein g a photographe r becaus e i t give s m e licence t o be curious abou t everything — to be nosey. I begin to realize that it was my mother who taught me the reward s o f staring . Sh e wa s completel y eclectic : 6

PLATE 4 BER LAST SPRING, BER LAST DAY, HER LAST FEW BOURS

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drawings o f animals , trees , buildings , boats , people , landscapes — all the small details. She made pictures of broken appliances , o f dirt y dishes , o f laundr y an d garbage. Her bes t large paintings were lyrical abstractions demonstratin g he r formidabl e master y o f th e quite unforgivin g watercolou r medium . Whil e I lov e looking a t these big paintings, the y tell me little abou t her life. But I do know the woman behin d th e sketch es. These are all lived moments. She apprehended th e world b y drawing it. This was her identity , he r diary , her connection to the world. Henri Masson Conversatio n $25.0 0 David Milne Re d Church No . 3 100.0 0 Molly G . Mitchell Shi p Building, East Coas t N.F.S . Jack Nichols Sic k Boy with Glas s N.F.S . Goodridge Robert s Dar k Landscape 30.0 0 — Molly's Diary, 1942, page 4 of an exhibition price list

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I ha d los t m y mothe r onc e before. It had taken place on that bedrock geograph y o f our lives, the northeastern shore of Georgian bay - the bedrock because it was the constant . Befor e I was fiv Fd live d o n Hamilto n Mountain , i n Halifax , th e Gaspe, Newfoundland , Por t Nelson , Toront o an d Cherry Beac h on Vancouver Island. This is what happens whe n you r mothe r marrie s a shi p captai n an d

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navigator. You move and you move, but you're always by the water. My connectio n t o th e swee t water s o f th e Bay , renewed ever y yea r since , bega n i n th e summe r o f 1944 when I was nine months old . But the time I lost my mother came some half dozen years later. We, my mother and her sisters , my uncles and cousins, as well as my sister, were on the famil y island some five miles off-shore. I t was a perfect August day, heat tempere d by th e bus y westerlies , blu e water , blu e skie s an d clouds reachin g fo r th e eas t lik e littl e racin g Mackinaws. This was th e da y that my father decide d to teach my mother ho w to sail. We were gathered on the porch of that dark, sagging barn o f a turn-of-the-centur y cottage . M y fathe r launched trie dinghy, stepped the mast, tied on the gaf f and ra n u p th e mainsail . H e se t the jib , dropped th e centreboard an d worke d th e bronz e pintle s int o th e gudgeons. My mother was called down to the dock. From the porch I can see their heads together. My father's voice is too low to hear bu t I know he's talking b y the periodi c shar p coug h an d clearin g o f his throat. He steadie s the boat for her to step in. When she depart s th e doc k alone , m y siste r an d I tak e a more critical interest in the proceedings. We leave the shadow of the porch for the sparkling light of the high pink rocks that hump up around our tidy harbour. She's abandoning us. The win d is brisk and the bi g 8

dinghy heels . It' s alread y got a bone i n its teeth. Th e old man coughs and cups his hands around his mouth. "Remember, Molly, " h e shouts , "whateve r yo u do , don't gybe. " Sh e turn s bac k t o loo k a t hi m an d I despair when I see her expression. I already knew well why her schoolmates ha d called her "Fog." Over goe s the rudder , th e boa t an d boom whee l in th e win d as she clears the point. With a slow sweep she turtles and disappears. Ther e i s nothin g lef t bu t a larg e cedar strip shar k with a crimson dorsa l standing proud . We ar e frantic , m y siste r an d I . Sh e explode s upwards and screams, "Mommy's sinking. " I too take up the chorus. "Mommy's sinking! " we scream repeatedly. Ou r plain t bounce s of f the Rogers ' islan d nex t door — "Mommy's sinking ! Mommy' s sinking! " Ol d Ted Rogers' gre y and blue yacht Arbie has just pulled in to their island: the crew and passengers, motionless , watch us. It was the first time that I had truly faced the void. My sister and I are, in an instant, orphans . Of course , bein g onl y fou r an d seve n an d grief stricken, we had forgotten tha t Molly was an excellen t swimmer. He r craw l was elegant, fast , an d barely rip pled th e water . Sh e did what, when I late r becam e a committed kayaker , I cam e to kno w as a wet exit . To our astonishment , sh e cam e back from th e dea d an d swam gracefully to shor e leavin g the dingh y pivotin g with it s masthea d jamme d o n th e rock y bottom . Although sh e climbe d th e doc k ladde r quickl y an d

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gracefully, year s later she confessed t o me that it was one o f 'the most supremely embarrassing moments o f her life. Not th e gybing and turtling, but her childre n hysterically broadcastin g t o th e entir e archipelago , that their mothe r wa s going down . We made her fee l like a rusty scow, slowly wheezing over on its broke n back, befor e shutterin g dow n t o th e deep , leaving a trail of fetid bubbles and an oil slick. She was, after all, one of the Greene sisters . A silve r picku p swing s of f Beac h Driv e into Oa k Bay Marina. It's a perfect summer day — a cloudless sky and the slightest hint of a breeze that barely scuff s th e surfac e of the sea. The smal l truck backs down the boat launch rarnp and stop s a few feet fro m th e li p o f water an d land. A tall , bearde d ma n wearin g a Gree k sailor' s cap descends from th e ca b and work s his way along each side of the box, releasing lines. He will soon be 70. He drag s a small white wherry from th e bo x and lets it slowly slide onto th e surfac e o f the sea . A pair of brightwork oars li e across th e thwarts . Thi s tiny, zo-foot boa t is John Mitchell's las t command. I'm alone in her house some days after he r death , packin g the book s that line the built-i n shelvin g fram ing th e fireplace . New s o f Molly' s

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passing has left the hous e lik e a small stream dividin g into little rivulet s makin g their wa y out int o the cit y and beyond . No w th e phon e ha s begun t o ring . I' m surprised, eve n slightl y shocked , a t how many of th e calls, begun with somewhat perfunctory condolences, immediately segu e into a request fo r something — an article o f furniture , he r dishes , he r paint s o r certai n books. Th e mos t anxiou s and assertive call s are fro m elderly wome n wh o hav e len t o r exchange d paper backs wit h he r an d ar e no w convince d tha t Molly' s children ar e going to craftily spirit them off to — what, in Western-Canadia n eyes , i s th e greed y sipho n o f resources, including talent , money, and used books — Toronto. I know something of her habits, and quickly realize that the most sought-afte r loaner s ar e books that she has never opened . I suppose that we are all detainees of our own needs and values, but the insistent impor tance ascribe d t o som e of this stuff amaze s me. They are mostl y chees y historica l o r romanc e novel s an d not the kind of thing I'd eve r seen her read. But then, of course, one never knows. And afte r deat h we ofte n discover that we didn't really know the deceased. A few years earlier I'd don e this same book-packing job at the house of my wife's mother. On the west side of Rosedal e he r bi g downtow n Toront o hous e wa s filled with ar t an d bookcases, eve n a wheezy harmon ium. I n additio n t o a larg e bod y o f literature , ther e a

were hundreds of volumes of philosophy, Suf i text s as well as the complet e Gurdjieff an d Ouspensky It was an impressiv e librar y accumulate d during a life-long devotion t o mystical and spiritual pursuits. As I pulled these volumes down I discovered tha t there was a second laye r of books behind thi s spiritua l fascia . There were not dozens , but literall y hundred s o f Harlequi n romance novels , man y o f them quit e steamy . As this sophisticated European woman was slowly dying from cancer, a secre t sh e kep t fro m everyon e fo r tw o decades, sh e ha d sough t solace , not fro m th e grea t texts, bu t fro m escapis t pulp . Whe n he r friend s an d colleagues cam e to pic k throug h he r library , none o f them would even look at this stuff . I dutifull y haule d hug e orang e bag s o f thes e romances of f t o various used book dealers. After all , a book is a book. I instinctively respec t thing s betwee n covers. Bu t absolutely n o stor e would tak e them, no t even for free. I got quite desperate afte r bein g turned down again and again. My last stop was to see a buyer of old magazines and other quick reads who had a shop out eas t on Queen. He wa s a skinny guy with an Elvis hairdo an d a permanent but t o n his lip. Even he airil y waved the m of f and tol d m e t o leav e them al l on th e curb outsid e fo r th e garbag e truck. As the bag s were now giving way, I began to stack the books neatly along the curb , consolin g mysel f b y buildin g a smal l cityscape o f romantic skyscraper s as I wen t along . A 12

big woman guarding several shopping bags at a nearby bus stop watched me with interest. I finally magnanimously offered he r the pick of my literary skyline. She laconically replied, "No way — they're not books. " The surpris e a t m y mother' s wa s to fin d severa l books inscribe d wit h a n illegibl e mal e name . Eac h ended with the salutation, "My favourite song is Molly O." These books were buried dow n in a corner wit h various volume s she' d wo n fo r performance s a t Strathallan, Compton an d the Ontario College of Art. It was a safe bet my father would never look there. Th e intention o f these dedications was clearly romantic. "She's plain Molly O, simple and sweet, my heart is gone, I lay me at her feet : So light her tread , so fond he r gaze , Who woul d not love my Molly dear?"

Is that the Molly O!, William Scanlan' s bright little waltz of 1942? If it is then I've found something inter esting, for she'd already married my father. I would be born in a matter o f months. A letter fell out of another book. Anothe r sl y referenc e t o Moll y O . Thi s ha d always bee n m y favourit e corne r o f th e bookcase s in each house the y owned . I realize d now that he r littl e cache was always to the righ t of the fireplace — every house ha d ha d a n ope n fireplac e flanke d b y boo k shelves — and her secre t garden was always down low

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just abov e th e baseboards . A s a public schoo l bo y I' d often returne d t o thi s shel f fo r he r Lysistrata wit h Beardsley's naughty illustrations. How I loved that slim volume o f Aristophane s wit h al l thos e eage r littl e breasts, delicious bellies and salacious bums. Molly sighed, then sh e cried, "Don't you think you'd rather stay?" Michael winked, said, "I think this will be a lovely day." They sat for hours — on the sam e old stool, Spooning like a teacher never taught at school. . .

Now i f it's tha t Molly , O ! then th e son g is Irving Berlin's fro m 191 1 and things are perhaps les s interesting, althoug h I could pretend tha t it puts me in the picture. Mike O'Toole , on a stool, sa t one Sunday morning fair , Molly O , pure as snow, happened to be passing there, She smiled and said, "I see you're al l alone." Listen t o some blarney Michael brough t fro m home . . .

Now I'll neve r kno w Molly or Molly O. Stripping the flesh and guts of a house, packing them within th e bones o f the place , consignin g to family , neighbours , movers, shippers an d one's own baggage, makes things go astray . The y lea k ou t int o th e worl d an d peris h without provenance and I now have memories with no

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object. Those dedicated books and papers are among the lost, for the cartons and crates now unpacked have no mor e secrets . Thei r content s hav e she d thei r old dust an d take n u p residenc e bac k her e i n centra l Canada to gather dus t anew. O the voyages of objects! I live in Toronto's down town in what was once a farm house. The ceiling s ar e high, bu t th e cloc k fro m m y parents' hous e i s almost stooped beneath them. Made for a Mitchell i n 1742 , it survived almost two centuries moving about Northern England wit h m y ancestors , the n saile d aroun d th e Cape, crosse d th e India n Ocea n — m y grandfathe r was a n enginee r i n Burm a — an d th e Pacifi c t o Vancouver Islan d t o chim e ou t th e quarte r hour s o f my grandparents' live s for man y decades. With thei r deaths that great column of Oak set off again, crossin g to the mainland and riding the train east to Ontario. It timed my teenage years, recording every quarter hou r in which homework was not started , and every chore not completed . Innocen t o f locatio n and , eve n i n a strange sense, time itself, it continued t o announce th e cycle of the tides thousands of miles away from where it stood and to wheel up lovely little paintings of long gone phases of the moon . My father wa s the sam e age I a m now when h e fel t the siren-cal l o f hi s birthplac e an d decide d t o g o back. The bi g clock , bundled in blankets , boarded a 15

huge va n an d struc k ou t agai n fo r th e coast . Bac k home agai n i n Victori a i t le d a choru s o f mer e mantle clock s i n a timin g o f th e days , satisfyin g a naval navigator' s compulsiv e trackin g o f th e hours , and drivin g poo r Moll y fro m th e house . Thos e clocks wer e s o numerous , ol d an d inaccurat e tha t they truly took their time . The changin g of the hour took clos e t o te n minute s a s variou s bi g hand s reached the top, clanging, ringing, chiming, buzzing , thumping an d cuckooing their individua l versions of truth. Additionally, a clockwork recording barograph ground awa y in a glass case, its smal l pen scratchin g put ever y deviatio n o f ai r pressure . Ther e wa s no peace. What seemed to be a comfort to an old man, a kind of dominion over time and weather by measurement, mad e Molly an d me frantic. I couldn't wai t to escape those bookkeeper s o f mortality. Molly's house is now almost empty. I kneel next to an old Germa n clockmake r on th e floo r o f the living room. I'v e hire d hi m t o disassembl e and safel y pack the big clock -— the movers won't touch it. We remove the gol d finials atop th e case , clea n the bras s works, wrap th e hug e iro n counterweight s an d win d many feet o f chain . Thi s ten-foot-hig h monstrosit y i s a north o f Englan d countr y clock , oa k instea d o f mahogany, spherical bells instead o f chimes; its chief claim to distinction a t this point is its age. Now I'm its custodian ari d I'm abou t to send it, once again, across 16

PLATE 5

the great column of oak, 1742

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the country to Ontario. I watch men load it on a truck. It's cleaned , adjuste d and ready to g o when i t arrive s but I'l l neve r wind i t i n m y lifetime — for m e every tick is painful. Yet I take comfort knowing that one of my two sons will one da y have it. Jake, the elder , is a gentle, patient man. Maybe he'll pull those weights to the ver y top o f the cas e when he' s packe d my hous e and let that old man run. Vancouver Island : 1983 . I t ha s stopped raining and the cloud cover has begun to lift. Jake Mitchell an d I leave Molly's ca r an d stumbl e ove r driftwood and beached logs toward the water's edge. He has just turned si x — we're pals . We work our way along th e cobble beach , pokin g kel p bulb s an d collectin g th e odd shell . I demonstrat e ston e skipping , successfull y getting severa l triples and the n a n impressive "fiver, " but he's still too young to master it. I remain the Dad who knows stuff. Th e su n briefly burns a hole i n th e overcast an d the n retreat s leavin g a n afternoo n o f humid heat. Waves of tiny breakers arrive exhausted at the shor e the n limpl y curl , dum p an d suc k on smal l stones, rattling the m bac k into th e sea. We've ambled far enoug h t o make the ca r seem very small, high an d lonely i n th e larg e empt y parkin g lo t wher e severa l pages of newsprint languidl y roll like sunning cats. We soon clea r a small point an d lose sight o f it. J

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It's a half-mile walk along a curved, sweeping beach to the next headland — we decide to make for it before retreating. Jake runs ahead, hopping over boulders and hurling sticks int o the sea . Suddenl y h e stop s a hun dred yards ahead of me and drops to his haunches. Hi s head is tilted downwards . He' s ver y still. I double my pace to catch up an d find him starin g at the body of a gull. "Why isn' t it flying?" he asks. "Because it's dead. " "Dead?" "Yeah, it's dead. " "But it's not moving! " my son says. "The lif e has gone out of it." He look s a t me intensely then turns t o the carcass at his feet. A small furrow appears above the bridge of his nose. "Will it ever fly again?" "No." "Will it ever move? " "No." "Can it see?" "No, Jake, it's dead . Its life is over." He turn s t o th e bir d again . A series o f emotion s flutter acros s his young, androgynou s fac e — puzzlement, anxiety , anger , disbelie f — a s he struggle s t o absorb the idea of death. "Never, never , again?" 18

There is now pain all over his luminous face . "Never, never, again, Jake. It's all finished. Over." He get s up slowly and begins to walk back toward the car. A little joy seems to have gone out of his step. "I'm no t wearin g no dea d guy' s watch! " My younger son, Ben, glares at me from th e top of the stair. I stand o n the landing, arm extended, momentaril y mute , m y father' s watch in my hand. I'd bought it for him — the legacy of havin g earlie r give n th e women' s versio n t o m y mother. M y fathe r ha d fusse d abou t tha t gif t unti l I relented an d purchased on e fo r him. Bot h ar e mates for m y own . M y son , Ben , turn s away . I'v e offered something before he's ready for it. Jake approaches me a few hours later and tells me he would like to have the watch. I realize that he's overheard the earlier conversation. He i s trying to make up for his much younger brother's clumsiness . He wants me to feel better . My fathe r pull s o n th e oar s a s hi s littl e craft crosse s the ghos t cours e o f the Nootka canoe Tiliku m befor e roundin g Turke y Head. Mar y To d Island , a lo w gre y rock y hump, falls of f aft. H e keep s rowing. my g}ow green in the dark bedroom.

a|arm

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3:16 a.m.; my parents' house is silent. I'm 1 3 and have just dream t abou t m y hamster s — they'v e stage d a breakout an d ar e runnin g amo k i n th e basement , mounting eac h othe r an d crappin g wit h abandon . Then I realiz e tha t I'v e neglecte d t o fee d the m fo r more than a day. Tormented by guilt I get out of bed, slip m y windbreake r ove r m y flanne l pyjama s an d begin t o advanc e as soundlessly a s possible dow n th e dark stairs,, The ol d house always protests at every step but I make it down. No one stirs. I swin g open th e basemen t doo r t o a cell of cool, damp air and a faint whiff of hamster shit. Night basements always , spook me and I can't find the switch. I retreat into the kitchen where I know I'll find a flashlight in a drawer with the knives. Again I stand on the landing facing the abyss. My weak yellowed beam sags in the blackness ahead. The stair s are steep and without risers . Fearfull y I forc e mysel f t o descend . Th e concrete floo r a t the botto m i s as rough an d cold as a glacier. This is where my father keeps his boots, tools and guns. I shuffl e cautiousl y int o a corne r behin d th e furnace. M y two dozen hamsters ar e hunkered down in thei r cage s — littl e re d malevolen t eye s i n th e darkness. I begi n t o organiz e thei r foo d an d water, more tha n a half-hour's work. The hamster s ea t with ingratitude, One takes a desultory spin in the wheel. Then I hea r som e dul l thud s i n th e hous e hig h

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above followed b y rhythmic steps on the secon d floor stair. M y father' s unmistakabl e strid e acros s th e ground floor ends with the drag of the basement door and a wedge of light. I douse the flashlight and crouch behind th e furnace . H e clump s down in the darkness and make s his way to th e fron t o f the furnace . Th e cast-iron door croaks open and bangs against the huge cylindrical body like a badly tuned bell. The roo m is licked with a deep orange light that outlines th e huge furnace hunkere d under th e joists, spreading its ducts off int o the gloom. The shove l crunches into the coal bin and scrapes across the floor. Coal whumps into the firebox an d flashe s dee p red . Mor e shovelfuls . Th e furnace stir s t o life , wavin g its arm s malevolently a s the flames dance. I hol d m y breath unti l th e shove l clatters t o th e floo r an d the iro n doo r crashe s shut . The bi g Hydra i s gone. Footstep s fal l awa y into th e upper part of the house . I am alone at the botto m o f the world. A pair o f sunbather s on Oa k Ba y Beach turn over and glance out toward tiny Harris Island. A smal l whit e rowboa t i s headin g south a hundred yard s offshore . Th e oars man has a white beard. Their car s ar e rollin g u p m y littl e street o f red bric k Victorian row houses.

21

I see them now from my upper storey , parking under the bi g winter-bar e tree s tha t kee p thi s neighbour hood o f foolish bargeboard s framin g littl e peaks an d towers. Molly is in from Vancouver Island and staying in my house, henee the arriva l of her brother an d sisters to greet and gossip over dinner. The lon g table is set; flowers sweete n the alcove ; there's a clatter in th e kitchen. We're ready. The bel l rings an d in they come, al l together, thi s gaggle o f shufflin g siblings , no w scattere d mostl y through thei r 705 . Looking dow n the crowde d hall I see an aunt's haloed head, some furs, som e pearls and my uncle's shiny skull. They haven't bee n together i n one place for many years. Everyone wears glasses. They come to th e long tabl e in th e middl e of the house and , wit h apparentl y littl e thought , arrang e themselves in a row along one side. I soon realize that they are seated in their birt h order , with Molly in the middle: sea t numbe r three . Th e fou r sibling s drin k sherry an d soo n begi n t o wor k thei r wa y throug h wine. Stories about their childre n are exchanged, next news o f friends , an d the n the y begi n t o reminisce . Soon the oldest siste r i s admonishing he r brother; h e in turn gives my mother a poke in the ribs, and she in turn victimizes the baby, now 65. In a minute they are all arguing, shoving and pushing. Decades are dissolving, I' m kneelin g a t a door. M y mother' s childhoo d

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flickers briefl y throug h th e keyhol e an d the n pull s back to the bright light of the noisy present .

Li sht clan gs.down on th e deliver y tabl e where tw o doctors plant their feet against its base and pull har d o n high forceps . My first son comes ou t so slowly I fear they will snap his neck. While the doctor s attend t o hi s mother , exhauste d fro m a 36-hou r labour, a nurse hand s m e m y bo y bundle d i n a pin k blanket. Like me, he stands at the hea d of a new gen eration — I'm the oldest of all the cousins an d the first to becom e a parent — but he' s no t goin g t o lea d off wrapped in pink. I cradle my lo-pound son in one arm while rummagin g throug h a wall unit in the deliver y room until I find a blanket that's blue. From the very first day, small, sad Jake would have nightmares — wakin g u p screamin g ever y twent y minutes for two years. Th e firs t da y or tw o I woul d look a t hi m an d wonde r wha t hi s dream s coul d be . What di d he kno w afte r all ? I finally concluded tha t his nightmare s coul d onl y b e a reliving o f his nearl y catastrophic entry into th e world. A week later we carried him down to main entrance of the Wellesley Hospital. I fetched my van in a heavy spring downpour — it was early April — and began t o drive very gingerly eastward s through the city towar d

25

our little cottage on the Scarborough Bluffs. The rain wet street s ha d never glistene d s o vividly, the soaked trunks of trees had never bee n so black. Every car on the road was menacing. I felt as if I had stolen some thing. The firs t nigh t a t home nobody slept . The small , winterized! cottage wa s barely 3 0 feet fro m th e li p o f the hig h bluff . Tw o hundre d an d fift y belo w Lak e Ontario gnawe d a t sof t cla y buttresse s whil e sprin g runoff sheeted across the narrow lawn and undermined the lip. All night I could hear large chunks separate and thud dow n th e sogg y cliff . Severa l time s smal l tree s went over as I stood at the window listening to my new son howl over his mother's murmur s in the half-sleep dark. Those early weeks and months were so completely exhausting, an d s o amazingl y intense . Afte r al l m y struggles wit h m y fathe r I couldn' t believ e tha t I' d become one myself . October 1943. Molly has gone to stay with her mother, Elizabeth, at The Willows , a big stucco house with fan windows tha t he r parent s buil t acros s th e highwa y from th e ol d mill in Ancaster. Toward the en d of the month Elizabet h Chapi n too k t o drivin g he r ver y pregnant second daughter, Molly, over cart tracks and country roads on the theory that this was the best way to induce an overdue delivery. Finally they made a run 2

4

PLATE 6

the Willows, Ancaster

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to Hamilton Genera l a couple of days into November under leade n skies . John Mitchel l wa s at sea , some where mid-Atlantic , unde r th e sam e dar k sky. When he finally saw me, his first child, I was already walking. After a few weeks Molly gathered up her chil d and caught th e Halifa x train , dismountin g i n th e Gasp e where she and her sailor husband were renting a small farm fo r par t o f th e war . Sh e wa s largely alone i n a tiny farmhous e wit h n o runnin g wate r an d a woo d stove. Sh e ha d neve r cooke d i n he r lif e — Do t an d Daisy, who worked for her mother, had done that. She hadn't eve n planned o n being a mother — it was her husband's idea. He was convinced that he would sink, flailing in th e ic y North Atlantic, a s had s o many of his friends. H e wa s only 24 . He wante d t o leav e evidence that he had existed. As sh e struggle d t o was h diaper s i n a galvanize d pail steamin g o n th e woo d stove , hea t mil k i n a chipped ename l pa n an d bak e brea d i n a n outdoo r oven during the short Decembe r days , I lay in a room under th e eaves , oblivious, slowl y peelin g wallpaper off th e ceilin g sloping over my crib. Molly, 2 3 years old, was too tire d t o paint . A small white clinker-built rowboa t clear s Gonzales Poin t a s a doze n player s gol f through a n early lunch. The da y is still fair . The littl e boat makes for McMicking Point. 25

1933- A y° ung woma n ride s a n aban doned rail right of way along the to p of the Niagara Escarpmen t — one o f those prett y sisters, th e Green e girl s — the n dow n through th e maple s an d oak s t o th e ceda r botto m where sulphur water come s out o f the rock s and th e ponies drink . She' s leavin g Th e Willows , th e bi g house wit h th e fa n windows, th e larg e garden s tum bling down to the brook in front of the house, acres of lawn and flowers — a picture-book life before the fou r children se t off on their adul t lives and the maid s and gardener mov e on to lives beyond service. Four decade s later sh e ride s a n ol d hors e named Lady along the hig h moraine s rising fro m th e north shore o f the lowest of the Great Lakes. With her children gone, she has returned to her first loves: painting and riding . Sh e and Lady travel over and around th e high grave l hill s tha t mar k th e terminu s o f th e Carolinian forest . Along the old fore-shore, fa r below, the od d great elm geysers up in the corne r o f a fallow field. In winter she stays on the concession roads, bundled i n her crimso n cutte r while Lad y steams in he r traces. I enjo y animals, but thi s hors e an d I neve r made peace. Lady disliked men and I, accustomed to ridin g mules "Western " when I worked fo r several years in the mountain s of Oaxaca and Chiapas, have a difficul t time postin g "English " on a big hostile mare . When

26

we'd rejoi n th e roa d a mile o r s o north o f the farm , she'd shift from cante r to gallop as soon as she saw the outline o f the drive-she d dow n th e hil l ahea d in th e distance. Many times she threw me by making a hard, fast left into the lane, occasionally dragging me by one leg, my head up above the gravel and body twisted ou t to avoi d th e hoove s a s she raced malevolentl y t o th e barn. Then, I'd mak e myself take her out once more , wilfully prolongin g ou r argument. And she'd take me down again. After on e o f thes e exchanges , I tumble d bruise d and stif f int o bed in the ol d stone house . I was alone and soon fel l of f into sleep and dreamt . I lie face dow n in the gravelled concession line just below the house. I look up road, as the ground begin s to thum p faintly , an d soon se e a dark presence risin g over the earth-curve of the cresting hill. It's an enormous bull, runnin g head-dow n towar d me , hug e muscle s knotting an d releasing beneath the shimmering blue black hide. I ca n see the twi n tunnel s o f the nostril s now, th e we t leathe r o f it s nos e an d carbon-glaze d hoof. We're both o n the sam e rail, this huge boiler of an animal and I. I hol d m y ground. Then th e unexpected , thoug h anticipated, happens. The bi g animal machine swings hard to its left, like the horse, and makes for the barn, As it recedes, a fir tree break s through th e spine , ris ing rapidl y fro m th e hollo w betwee n th e workin g 27

shoulders, sucking life from th e host until only a great green tree rises from th e dust. I woke up in a fever. I recognized the bull and realized that I was the tree. A welded aluminum charte r boa t planes westbound throug h Enterpris e Channe l following a morning of whale-watching o n the Strait . I t sits high an d proud, trailin g a geysering, rooster tail aft. A small white rowboat bobs on its wake. 1969: Oaxaca , Mexico . Th e rain s wil l soon climb over the mountains, bringing an end t o ou r seaso n o f archaeological surve y work. W e hav e les s tha n si x dry week s t o examin e another 10 0 mile s o f the tropica l thor n fores t lying between die coastal range and the grea t blank face o f the Pacific. The coas t highway has yet to be built here and th e resort s ar e no t ye t eve n dreame d o f — th e scrub forest is as empty as it has been for millennia. I have been working with this group of Americans for a couple o f year s no w — fiv e whit e Californians , a transplanted Nicaragua n an d a troubled Cuban . W e travel i n tw o beig e Jeeps heavil y laden with bag s o f potsherds an d dried food — mostly rice and beans — as well as jerry cans of fue l an d fres h water . At nigh t we strin g hammock s between tree s an d powde r th e

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ropes with poison to dete r bugs , rodents an d reptiles. Our bigges t fear s ar e th e wil d boar s — vicious, fas t and unpredictable — and people, especiall y the arm y — all too predictabl e an d violent. The cre w has recently mutinied against our leader's timorous drivin g — electing m e to tak e the whee l of the lea d vehicle . Despit e th e appallin g conditio n o f this dir t cart track, the only passage through th e bus h and aroun d th e lagoons , I hav e manage d t o handil y double the pace. Until now. I have been sliding and grinding up this track since five in th e morning . I t i s now nearl y noo n an d I'v e come to a stop, flummoxed. I can't believe it — here I am i n th e middl e of nowhere, o n a trail t o nowhere , and ther e is suddenly a fork in the road . Both route s meander off into soggy-looking groun d tha t promise s to bury our Jeeps to the axle . The bus h is very dense. I have no idea where either for k goes. Everyone climb s down from bot h vehicles to offe r opinions. Ther e i s n o consensus . We'r e al l gettin g tired o f eac h othe r an d beginnin g t o squabble . Backtracking down the trai l o n foot to clea r my head of engin e nois e an d argument , I soo n fin d a smal l clearing an d sto p t o ligh t a n unfiltere d Delicados . I squat o n m y haunches i n th e shad e o f a few scrubb y trees. Despite the midday heat, the silence is delicious. Then I hear voices — Mixtecos. I rise to my feet to greet the m knowin g tha t thei r Spanis h will be equal

29

to mine. Two elderly campesinos approach; one leads a heavil y laden mule . Trustin g tha t the y wil l b e th e solution t o m y dilemma , I gree t the m an d explain. Together, w e trudge back to the pair of parked Jeeps. I repeat my question, asking which is the route to the northern par t of the state . They debate in Mixtec — I understand nothing. I n simple backcountry Spanish they again ask me what I want. I again explain where we wis h t o go . Bot h me n rene w thei r convolute d debate. On e suggest s th e pat h t o th e left : th e othe r seems to favou r th e right . The su n thunders aroun d us; th e ol d me n argu e vigorously ; m y fello w cre w members get impatient. The Cuba n re-asks the question but the old men ignore her — they don't lik e her accent. M y refrainin g th e questio n onl y energize s their debat e further . Te n minute s late r the y finall y reach a consensus — a la izquierda, to th e left . I thank them, mount th e Jeep an d grind off on the sinister path. They're correct; the trail is quite passable as th e sogg y sectio n prove s t o b e shor t an d shallow. Speeding u p I shif t int o secon d an d then third . Th e cart track straightens out after a couple of hundred fee t and then abruptl y rejoins the fork to the right that we have just left. After nearly an hour of talk and delay I'm back where I started. I'v e jus t learned anothe r lesso n about Mexico. The nex t few hours are an uneventful blur of scrub, heat, jostlin g an d noise . I driv e acros s a coupl e o f 3°

rivers with water squeezing in under the door seals. At one point th e secon d Jeep slides down a bank and has to be winched back up to the track — normal stuff . By late afternoon , hungry an d tired , w e decide t o take advantag e of relatively level ground t o th e wes t and head for the seacoas t to overnight . W e are only a few miles inland so it takes barely an hour to reach the Pacific. After coaxin g the Jeep through th e last line of trees behin d th e dune s w e suddenl y emerg e o n th e most startlin g stretc h o f deserte d beac h I hav e eve r seen. It extends for miles and miles to the north, finally disappearing in a shimmering haz e of distant moun tains. However, t o the south, it abruptly terminates i n a high broke n clif f abou t a mile distant. Wate r fro m a large lagoon spill s over th e beac h not fa r from wher e we've emerged. Severa l of us wander over to look and are at work immediately. This kin d o f survey work involve s hour s o f walking, head down, scanning the groun d fo r any signs of prehistoric settlemen t — potsherds, projectile points, obsidian flakes , eve n smal l treasure s lik e tin y jad e beads brought t o the surfac e b y burrowing ants. This location, the juncture of a lagoon an d th e sea , woul have bee n perfec t fo r pre-classi c settlemen t — th e riches o f th e se a supplemente d b y huntin g i n th e lagoon an d a little primitiv e farmin g right wher e we stand. The evidenc e of this lies at our feet . We begin walking a loose grid, filling our bags with 31

the castoff s o f three millennia. It is obvious that a test pit wil l have to b e droppe d a t thi s sit e an d a carefu l catalogue o f th e centurie s made . However , thi s will take several weeks, an assault on our schedule that, by the term s o f ou r funding , w e ca n scarcel y afford . There is a conference after supper . I, as the onl y single male in the group, will be left behind while the rest of crew continues northward th e nex t day. They will come back for m e in a few weeks. We ar e out o f our hammock s before dawn. Camp coffee i s made , som e se a turtl e egg s ar e boile d an d hard biscuit s passe d around . Foo d i s divided up — I get a large ba g o f beans, o f rice, tw o pots , a shovel , artifact bags , a notebook and pencils. The y toss me a bundle o f stakes , tw o spool s o f lin e an d a screen . I have m y ow n level , trowels , lup e an d machete . M y pack is droppe d i n th e san d an d the y ar e off . As the first line of light outline s th e mountains to the east, I stand watchin g tw o Jeep s disappea r int o th e dar k trees. I will be alone for nearly a month. We have pre-agreed where the pit will be dropped: I stake out a six-foot square, string some lines, and set to work. The stratigraph y is complex arid dens e with artifacts. Th e to p laye r is rud e country pottery , olla s and bowls, poorly fired from inferio r clay. These pots are clearly historic so I work through the m quickly. B eight in the morning the sun is high in the sky and the temperature is pushing 130. 1 take a break. 32

Grabbing an aluminum pot I head back toward the trees, swingin g m y machet e a s I walk . Livin g here , I've learne d a few tricks from the farmers. I soon find the variet y of palm that I want an d begin t o hac k at the trunk . In 1 0 minutes I am through an d the fortyfooter come s dow n where I planned. I set up my pot to catc h th e flui d alread y seeping fro m th e cut-off . After a few hours o f intense su n I'l l hav e a bucket o f pulque — a self-fermenting, low-alcohol , pal m bee r to kee p me compan y after work . There are plenty of these trees — I'm livin g next to a forest o f 245. I return t o work and keep up a steady pace without lunch until evening . I light th e on e burner stov e and put o n the ric e an d beans. It's no w time for the beer . The nearl y full po t sport s a good head of foam liber ally seasone d wit h dea d flie s tha t I pic k ou t wit h a spoon. I feel wonderful — relaxed, clear and calm. As I become aware of my peace, I sense its source. With all my busy intendin g I' d no t reall y appreciate d th e sound of the sea. Now the surf's rhythms roll over the beach, burying me in their swa y and ebb, messengers from a Far East, fa r over the horizon . I fee l m y body slowing down . I drin k an d ea t slowly , all th e whil e watching the waves . They approac h the shor e o n an angle, sweepin g northwar d wit h thei r inshor e end s curling baroquel y up th e beac h beyond m e an d the n onwards toward the misty infinity far to the north. As the day leaks away, they begin to phosphoresce, makin g 33

rolling curls of glowing green foam racing one another up th e beac h t o th e world' s end . Rolling , breaking , sweeping, retreating, repeating . The perfec t nighttim e temperatur e soon dissolves the barrier between the body and the world, between the min d an d th e body . Th e bea t o f th e wave s becomes the bea t o f the hear t an d the circulatio n of the bloo d — life a t its purest an d simplest with sleep at its most perfect. The day s are differentiated only by new stratigraphy and the steadil y growing pile of backdirt. After a week I hi t a layer entombin g a clay whistle. The previou s year we'd worked a ceremonial site high up in a remote arm o f th e Valle y of Oaxaca. There were centuries o f little gre y clay effigies — mould-mad e figures with a whistle hand-buil t o n th e bac k — abandone d an d buried aroun d the main mound. The earl y whistles at the botto m were simpl y a hollow, walnut-size d kno b with a finger hole poked in. We'd retriev e them fro m the soil , gentl y shak e the dir t ou t o f th e hollo w and blow them. It was like playing an empty pop bottle. You had t o blo w at just the righ t angl e across hole to ge t a note. They were not eas y to play. Most didn't work at all. A couple of layers up were later models. Some preColumbian geniu s ha d invente d a little nos e o f clay that protruded near the hole. We soon discovered that lining your li p u p t o th e protrusio n befor e blowin g 34

always gav e a note. The mysteriou s whistle-blowin g worship tha t had been importan t a t thi s templ e ha d clearly gotte n muc h loude r a s ther e wer e fa r fewe r defective whistles . The effig y o n th e front , however, remained the same. Several fee t highe r u p th e whistle s underwen t another evolution . Someon e ha d discovere d tha t a small strap looped over part of the hole — a clay reed of sort s — vastly improve d th e sound . Thes e littl e one-noters wer e now completely reliable. It was very compelling to witness these people refining this simple instrument. As we retrieved these things from the various levels, we felt as if we could see a human mind at work, gradually problem-solving. I began to feel a real kinship with these ancient people, a feeling that lasted until our dating results came in from th e laboratorie s in the U.S. I t had taken these people about 600 years to develo p a very simple instrument, an evolutionary pace so glacial that it still remains hard for the modern Western min d t o full y comprehen d it . The y wer e clearly intelligent but their priorities were quite differ ent fro m ours . This was a culture with a huge respect for tradition . The whistle I unearth near the beach is a variant of the las t type. The effig y i s missing — any attempt t o connect the tw o cultures is hopeless. I keep digging, screening, sorting, digging. Work th e previou s yea r ha d brough t on e othe r 35

encounter with the song s of time. Late in the season, after m y crew had departe d fo r the U.S., I staye d on to wor k with anothe r grou p i n th e Mitl a ar m o f the Valley o f Oaxaca . W e wer e excavatin g an impressive Classic perio d ceremonia l sit e buil t b y Zapotec s a t least a millennium earlier . As it had been occupied for a lon g time, ou r trenche s were severa l metre s deep . Every few days we'd find the remain s of an ocarina, a small cla y flute wit h a handful o f finge r holes . The y were always broken. The American archaeologist who was supervising this site became obsessed with finding one tha t wa s intact. A pale , lat e middle-age d ma n who'd gotte n ski n cance r fro m s o many years unde r the crashing Mexican sun, J.P. would visit the site once a week. He'd emerg e fro m th e shadowed interior of a big ol d American car with ever y inch o f his exposed skin — hands, neck, fac e — caked in a paste of white lead t o deflec t th e punishin g ray s o f th e sun . He' d slowly walk our trenches lookin g like a cross between The Mumm y and Michael Jackson. Ever y week he'd ask for ocarinas and every week we'd hand him a new box of fragments . Eventually ou r smal l cre w decide d t o giv e him a treat. There were a number o f local Zapotec potter s who specialize d i n Pre-Columbia n fakes : a few were very skilful. We engaged one of them to make an ocarina in the style of the ones we were retrieving. I t was

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duly made and carefully age d by burial in the potter' s yard. When it was delivered to us we spent more than an hou r carefull y insertin g i t int o th e appropriat e stratum. Onl y th e characteristi c li p o f on e en d was left protrudin g slightl y fro m th e tal l sectio n o f a trench tha t J.R wa s sure to inspec t a t the en d of the week. When we saw The Mummy' s ca r lumbering u p the slop e towar d us, we set up a lookout behin d th e rock fac e abov e th e cut . Sur e enough , th e ol d ma n came slowly down the trenc h a s we watched, breathless and giggling. Initially , he walked right b y it leaving u s feelin g foolis h afte r s o much effort . Howeve r as he bega n to retrac e his steps, we could clearly see his large straw hat movin g betwee n the hig h narro w walls. The ha t reache d the ocarin a and stopped. We could hea r digging . H e triumphantl y retrieve d th e little flut e and , turning t o th e ligh t an d us began t o carefully empt y th e interior . We wer e s o excited w e couldn't breathe . Satisfied tha t all the soil was out, he brought i t to his lips: blew a volley of notes and tossed our beautifu l littl e instrumen t ove r hi s shoulder an d shuffled off . A little pil e of shards lay behind hi m i n the bottom o f the pit. J.P. ha d bee n a jaz z musicia n a s a yout h i n Sa n Francisco. He kne w music — he knew his scales. Ou r potter, scio n o f generation s o f assimilatio n an d th e Catholic liturgy , ha d mad e a diatoni c flute . It s

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European scal e — th e D o R e Me o f ou r childhoo d songs — had unmasked ou r laboure d deception. W e all went back to work . The shimmerin g ribbo n o f dazzling sand, perfect as ne w snow , wa s no w m y onl y home . Th e wave s sweep i n hou r afte r hour , da y afte r day , week afte r week. Their sound becoming the whole rhythm o f the body, with breathing , heartbeat , digging pace and the patterns o f th e min d al l playin g ou t togethe r o r i n multiples of the great meter of the world. While space may hav e separate d m e fro m al l tha t I ha d know n before, time , th e grea t coun t o f th e universe , wa s keeping us all in the sam e dance. It wa s i n thi s seemin g was h o f connectednes s I often though t o f Molly, her penci l connectin g he r t o the same pulsing world that . I was in even though sh e was thousand s o f mile s awa y sketching , painting , drawing. We were still together i n this sparkling soup of uncountable trillions o f atoms that made up the air, the wate r — and i n clusters , mad e u p ourselves . I n time w e would exchang e thes e tin y buildin g blocks, surrendering our s whe n w e die d t o b e mad e int o something else. She drew around this. Her method of image-making was much less objectifying than that of the photograph y and filmmakin g tha t I wa s soo n t o tak e u p — th e viewfinder alway s create s separation an d distance . She was alway s totally i n th e worl d whe n sh e made goo d

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pictures. Makin g image s became , fo r bot h o f us, ou r way o f stayin g awake , o f bein g vibrantl y aliv e an d present. During thos e lon g dancin g day s o f solitud e I' d often tak e a brea k durin g the hea t of the day . Dropping m y clothes I' d wal k down to th e li p of the sea and wad e out throug h the surf . I was frequently accompanied by little four-foot sand sharks that poked harmlessly around m y legs. As the day s went by the y became mor e numerou s an d curious . W e ofte n bumped int o eac h othe r — thei r bodie s soli d an d abrasive — as we swam together i n the shallows along the shore. As I heade d int o m y fourt h week , th e layer s o f habitation i n m y test pi t bega n t o thi n out . I soo n found ou t why. Overnight th e pit bottom staine d dark with seepag e from th e lagoon. I' d clearl y reached the beginning o f human tim e i n thi s little corne r o f th e planet. My job was over. Over the nex t coupl e o f days I busied mysel f wit h some organizin g an d note-taking . I too k man y lon g walks and spent more time in the sea. One evening , as the light warmed an d the ai r cooled, I waded into an ocean as clear and flat a s a frozen pond . I'd neve r seen it so calm or so strangely silent . The sk y was without a single cloud. I stood for a long time in several feet of water feeling suspended from th e sky rather than sup ported b y the earth . I t was a moment o f an immens e 39

calm tha t I ha d neve r experience d befor e o r since . After many minutes o f complete peace I sensed a faint throbbing puls e approachin g fro m th e south . A s I turned, a white Cessna suddenly shot out from behind the rock y headland an d banked towar d m e barely 50 feet abov e the sea . In a n instant i t was abreast, push ing a great wave of engine noise over me and into my little world. Four dark faces were pressed t o the win dows, lookin g dow n a t a skinny , lonel y whit e ma n standing nake d whil e a vortex o f little brow n shark s wheeled and turned aroun d him in a glowing, golden , glassy sea. I have been alone in my mother's hous e for thre e day s sinc e sh e died . Fo r two , I couldn't fac e the haunted bathroom. Its tub now a gian t drai n i n whic h m y mother , curle d up , swirls around th e dar k eye of the centre — the top of a line to di e middle of the earth . I t will take courage to stan d i n tha t bath , t o pic k u p he r glasses , t o pu t away her clothes . At Har;img Poimt, Chinese dead sleep between Penzance an d th e se a as a rowboat with a single sea t clear s t o cros s Gonzale s Bay. Th e weathe r remain s fair , th e tid e stands.

4°

<"" V , „ ^ „ My old friend Alyson and I * ^ 5 \ J » drive in through rows of metallic grey and bronze SUV,s each hunkered dow n on the slopes flanking the nort h sid e o f th e pol o grounds . It' s a dazzlin g afternoon i n late June, thre e years after Molly' s death . A hig h clea r sk y arc s everywher e bu t t o th e sout h where a cloud ban k squat s ove r Lak e Ontario , som e 25 mile s away . Th e loca l club , innocen t i n white , i s facing a Michigan tea m flying bright red polo shirts.

When th e announce r sing s "Th e Star-Spangle d Banner," fe w Canadian s leav e thei r seat s o r picni c blankets — we'r e angr y wit h th e U.S . again . Everyone, however , stand s fo r " O Canada. " Th e Americans begin the game by playing very aggressively, riding fas t an d hittin g har d — many neck shots , an d long backhands . The Canadian s are more deliberate , less showy, more accurate. In the end , we will win. There are two crowds here. On the north side are all th e peopl e wh o hav e pai d t o ge t in . The y com e equipped — foldin g table s an d chairs , bi g shad e umbrellas an d coolers . Acros s th e field , 20 0 yards t o the south ar e the elegan t tents o f the corporat e spon sors. Betwee n thos e tent s ar e a serie s o f patio s wit h hundreds o f whit e moulde d plasti c chair s arrange d around larg e circula r tables . Ther e ar e waiter s i n black-tie. Tha t sid e ha s bi g hardwood s shadin g th e seating. 41

After thre e chukkers the field empties for halftime. Several ponies are led off to trailers in the parking lot. A few people launc h kite s a t th e easter n en d o f th e field. Most people unpack their picnics and pour their wine and beer. It's becoming very hot. Alyson and I rummage throug h th e groceries tha t we have bought on the way up. We have bread, olives, cheese and pears. She has chilled a bottle of white — it's her birthday. I open it, breaking the cork, and pour. Little chunk s bob in our glasses. The chees e sags in the plastic packs. Wine i s making me dim in the heat. My arms and the bac k of my neck bur n i n th e hig h sun . I glanc e across th e field , enviou s o f th e corporat e tents , umbrellas and shade trees. It's one of those worlds that appears perfec t fro m a distance until th e tree s ther e suddenly start to toss in the heat. My mind begins to focus; th e tree s twis t violently. I se e an umbrella go down, its cover floats off , an d the fram e — a long aluminum pol e wit h a radius o f naked rib s a t on e end , begins to cartwheel across the field. Then a chair rises in the heat and whips around in a circle a few feet of f the ground. Another follows. And another. In seconds a huge column o f white plastic patio chairs is rapidly spiralling upward s — 5 0 feet , the n hundreds , an d higher. Mor e an d mor e chair s follow . Blanket s an d tablecloths danc e in betwee n them . A few tables lift off an d soo n a n entir e pati o ha s been vacuumed up.

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The spira l of spinning chairs must be a thousand fee t high. It dodges out onto th e playing- field. All of us on the north side have dropped ou r sandwiches — our mouth s ar e still open . A s I watch th e great funne l o f plastic chair s an d lunc h plate s lurc h toward us, a small shrill voice in the bac k of my mind is yelling at me to act, to run. Instead, lik e everybody else, I just stare. The spinnin g chair cone is whipping toward th e announcer' s tower , pickin g u p divot s along th e way . At the las t minute i t stops , feint s an d doubles bac k about a hundred feet . Then it's of f and spinning again , heading straight toward us. I dive for my ligh t jacke t an d thro w a n ar m ove r ou r basket . About 40 feet i n front of us the colum n disappears . I look over . Gone . It's strangel y stil l fo r severa l seconds. Then a car alarm begins to shriek. I turn to the row of shiny 4 x 45 behind me . On e o f them i s shaking, headlight s flash ing, it s antenn a whippin g a small violent circle . Th e twister ha s touche d dow n again , pullin g a rearguard action o n th e stunne d picnickers . Twent y fee t t o m y left a famil y ha s brought thei r age d grandfather . H e sits high, strapped into a tall, wheeled chair. He's wearing clip-o n sunglasse s that ar e flippe d u p abov e his eyebrows lik e little open hatch-covers . There' s a ring of mayonnaise aroun d hi s mouth an d crumbs stuck to his chin . A large beac h umbrell a shade s him. A side table an d la p tra y hol d hi s food ; hi s descendent s ar e 43

slumped in folding chairs around him, eating. In a flash he's alone,, The disturbance has snatched up everything in on e swee p o f a hand. Th e ol d ma n i s left hatless , tray-less an d alone , i n th e bal d su n whil e th e famil y scrambles off for their things. He looks like a crumpled monument. Hi s bi g umbrell a i s alread y hundreds o f feet above us. The twiste r retreats back over the parked vehicles. Clouds o f dus t fro m th e roadwa y ar e sucke d up , defining the tornado's cone . The stor m lifts of f again and slouches off to the west. For almost an hour I can still see tablecloths, umbrella covers, and paper plates lazily arcing in the clea r sky. Somewhere to the west, plastic chairs are falling into gardens . When th e polo ponie s com e bac k out, I suddenl y see Molly postin g o n a dappled gre y a s it canter s t o centre field . I kno w that it' s sill y — she was a grea t rider but never playe d polo; beside s she's dead — but I can' t shak e it. It's he r in dazzling whites playing for our side, and we're going to win. Glancing seawar d betwee n th e head stones o f Ross Bay Cemetery on e ca n se e a tiny whit e boa t wit h a solitar y oarsma n stroking westwar d 20 0 yard s fro m shore . Thin puffs o f cumulus form across the Strait .

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The downtow n ru n ou t t o Toronto's airport is dismal. The grey concret e o f th e snakin g expresswa y is followed by lo w industria l unit s flankin g th e QE W afte r th Humber, nex t a strin g o f suburba n mid-rise , mir rored-glass offic e tower s wit h corporat e tenant s changing yearly, more ramps, more greyness, and then the budget hotels ringing the airport. It could be anywhere i n Nort h America , or , increasingly , muc h o f Western Europe . I wai t i n Arrival s wit h Tamils , Cantonese , Wes t Indians, Portugues e an d Italians . I fee l lik e th e lon e WASP in Upper Canad a until my parents clear the sliding doors at baggage pickup. They're neatly dressed in travel tweeds , handil y survivin g thei r earl y seventie s despite liquor an d tobacco. I drive them dow n to my sister's, where they'll stay for several weeks. This will end in tears: the old man inflexible, tense and irritabl e —my sister frustrate d an d impatient. Moll y will ge t through i t all with avoidance and a bottle of Gordon's . I don't hear from the m until an awkward dinner is arranged ten day s later. We g o to a cafe wit h a patio. The ol d ma n think s th e foo d i s weird. Molly ha s t o shell the fish for him and dice the vegetables. The res t of us try not t o watch. My sister is on simmer. Two days later I get a call from m y father. Things have no t gon e well . They'v e move d ou t — they're

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going home — he has something fo r me. I meet him the nex t mornin g i n th e lobb y o f a bi g downtow n hotel. He and my mother ar e clearly stressed and anxious to b e off. Even coffe e i s out o f the question . H e hands me a grocery bag with a red maple leaf printe d on white plastic. It's heavy . We say our goodbye s and I descend to the street where a sudden summer downpour i s tap dancin g on th e pavement . I dodg e across the darkenin g street, ope n th e rea r door s o f my bi g yellow van and toss the bag under the bed in the back. By the time my key is in the ignition, I've forgotten all about it. My thought s wer e o f th e visi t — ol d pattern s repeated once again, unstated expectations, mysteriou s needs, a lack of the will to communicate. M y childre n have once more reache d ou t t o their grandfather and received nothing in return. My younger so n confronts me in the hall, declaring, "Your dad's a loser, Dad." It's hard to argue but I have some understanding of a truth beyond. My father, in fact, was extremely emotional —-he'd had a life's trainin g not t o show it. Hi s father foreve r packin g hi s leathe r Gladston e an d departing fo r th e norther n reache s o f Britis h Columbia to build yet another bridge or design a jetty whenever hi s edg y wife drov e hi m crazy . My father's years o f boarding schoo l wer e followe d by his bein g sent t o Englan d t o stud y fo r master' s paper s o n th e Conway. Originall y launche d i n 183 9 a s the Nile, a 46

92-gun shi p o f the line , th e Conway wa s the prid e of the Britis h flotilla tha t kept the Russia n Baltic fleet at bay off St. Petersburg i n the Crimea n War . I t was on her heart-of-oa k deck s tha t Joh n Masefield , Poe t Laureate, firs t fel l i n lov e wit h th e sea . When John Mitchell firs t wen t aboard , sh e wa s alread y ove r a hundred years old. He an d his classmates slept for several years lined up below decks on that unheated ipt h century woode n three-maste r o n th e Mersey . The n they all departed fo r steel ships . Th e Canadia n boy s joined th e CP R and worked thei r way up a male worl d on th e grea t White Empresses. I f the y wer e o f m y father's generation , thei r career s wer e amputate d b y the war . The y wer e sentence d t o iro n tub s hastil y welded up in Collingwood. Mos t of these vessels were never intended fo r transatlantic work. Many sank. No plac e for emotions . Months late r m y wife , mothe r o f th e firs t Jewis h Mitchells accordin g to my father, flew to Israel to visit an uncle and revisit Ramat Gan where she'd spent part of her childhood. After several weeks I made the dismal airport driv e to pic k her up . Those were als o day s of big troubles in Israel — bombings, suicides, hijackings The E l Al flights had been moved, to the extreme eastern end of Pearson's Terminal 2.1 drove eastward along the lowe r leve l throug h a forest o f pillars and discov ered that I wasn't allowed to stop. No passengers waited in the gloom , only dozens of soldiers and provincial 47

police, all turned out in dark fatigues, bulletproof vests, big helmet s an d boots . The y al l carrie d automati c weapons. They waved me off and I slowly did the loop through th e ramp s aroun d th e termina l an d headed back — stil l n o passengers , jus t a doze n stif f bo y soldiers wit h swive l necks. I slowl y retraced th e loo p once again. I went dow n the tunnel o n the third ru n throug h the concrete colonnade . As I reached the end, a fistful of dar k helmeted me n steppe d ou t fro m behin d th e pillars — hands o n thei r holsters . I wa s surrounded. Wordlessly the y opene d al l the door s o f the van and ordered us out. While my older son and I were held to the sid e they poked through th e empt y van for a few minutes then slamme d the door s and slouched off. A minute late r the El Al passengers tumbled noisily ou t the terminal door s and we were off. At th e hous e I pulle d th e tw o bi g suitcase s fro m Israel out the back of the van. As I lowered them to the ground, I recognized the white grocery bag under the bed. I dropped the suitcases and crawled in to retriev e it. The ba g was still heavy. I struggled wit h the plastic knots and dumped the contents onto the drive. A 1922 Geco Carabiner , singl e sho t bol t action , wit h a cut down wwn Germa n Arm y rifle stoc k to mount i t on, lay on the pavement . Fou r boxes of bullets fell ou t of the bag. The soldier s had completely misse d it.

4*

As I assembled the gun, I remembered what it was. My fathe r ha d bee n directe d t o Spitzberge n durin g one o f his horrific autum n crossing s o f the earl y for ties. Hi s me n were t o g o ashore and confiscate every weapon they coul d find. When the y cache d the gun s on th e af t deck , m y fathe r ha d take n a shine t o thi s very odd rifl e an d spirited i t up t o hi s cabin. Bac k in Ancaster after the war, he'd gone rabbit hunting in the fields alon g Hamilto n Mountai n wit h th e painte r Frank Panabaker. It must have made a hell of a hole in a rabbit. I remembere d Panabaker , wh o rente d ou r islan d every June, shufflin g throug h th e pin e wood s i n hi s heavy cord s t o m y bac k cabi n wit h tha t sam e gu n under his arm. I thought of the service pistols wrapped in oiled paper, tucked in a wooden box, hidden in th e basement, an d coppe r an d bras s bullet s bagge d i n a shammy. I saw the galvanize d munitions boxe s lining the shelves like books. When I looked down the sight , there was my father running out onto a reef with that old gun trying t o shoot snakes. What did this pitted , pathetic, rust y ol d rifl e mea n t o him ? Wha t di d h e expect it would mean to me? I've use d it once. I sho t a beaver. It ha d cut down all my birches and thrown a lodge up over my dock — it wouldn't g o away. I know where the body is and five years later still can't bear to go look at it.

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A pair of young women in bright ball caps jog th e pat h parallelin g Dalla s Road . The y dodge dog walkers and old men shuffling and grumbling thei r wa y between Clove r Poin t and Finlayson. The fla g over Beacon Hill hangs limply from the pole. A little white boat moves steadily westward offshore — rowing, rowing. Only the peaks clear the cloud an d fog across Juan D e Fuca. Cunarder hul l #53 4 slowly rises, days , to months, t o years , fro m th e stock s a t Clydebank a s the Grea t Depressio n crawl s into th e mi d thirties . Tw o hundred vertica l fee t sep arate th e kee l resting o n massive timber block s fro m the bridge deck that clears even the dozen s of swinging cranes,, The timber slitherway, lying on either side of th e keel , i s lubricate d wit h 5 0 ton s o f grease . I t stretches fo r mor e tha n 100 0 fee t dow n int o th e Clyde. John Mitchell, pale, skinny and 16, is bent over his scrapbook i n a quie t corne r belo w deck s o n th e Conivay. He is 8700 nautical miles from home, measuring th e lon g day s o f his exil e by the progress o f hull 534. Daily he scan s the paper s for new developments as hundreds of men working shifts a t John Brown and Company driv e home her 1 0 million rivets . H e care fully cuts out the stories an d photographs, datin g each in ink , an d paste s the m ont o th e blac k pages o f his

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album. A departure present fro m his mother, its cover features a blac k lin e drawin g o f th e House s o f Parliament towering ove r the Thames a t night. Th e full moo n i n a windswep t sk y is stampe d ont o th e green linen board in gold foil. It' s echoe d by the gol d face o f Big Ben an d foi l haloe s around each light o n the embankment . It's Septembe r 26 , 1934 , nearly four years since the keel wa s firs t lai d o n th e stocks . Tw o day s o f hig h winds have sagged into a third o f drenching rain . Th e king an d queen , u p fro m Londo n b y train , hav e arrived a t th e yard s an d entere d a glas s enclosur e under th e shee r o f th e bow . Th e Princ e o f Wale s stands behind them. A quarter o f a million yard workers, their families, townspeople and the press stand far below o n th e ways , pummelled b y rains . Th e liner , "the statelies t shi p i n being, " declare s th e king , i s about to be sent forth "with a name in the world, alive with beauty , energ y an d strength. " Hi s word s ar e broadcast around the Empire . Then the quee n comes forward, trippin g a n apparatus tha t smashe s a bottl e o f Empir e champagn e from Australia on the side of the hull. As shards tinkle down the topsides, the queen leans into th e chromed microphone and gives the name of hull 534 to the world for th e ver y firs t tim e — Queen Mary. Sh e presse s a button settin g a battery of hydraulic rams against the enormous timbe r cradl e beneat h 53 4 an d th e hug e

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assemblage o f iron an d stee l begin s t o slid e into th e Clyde. As timbers snap and splinter unde r the bottom , colossal piles of chain, like great rusted entrails, begin to pay out to retard the slip into th e river. The previ ous October the great French liner Normandie had slid down the ways at St. Lazaire creating a backwash that swept a hundred people into the sea. On November 3 , 1857, the mothe r o f all gigantic iron ships, th e Great Eastern, had refused t o move at all. There was to be no such traged y o n th e Clyde . Carefu l calculation s ensured that she settle in afloat only a hundred feet off the ways . As insurance, th e mout h o f the Car t Rive r opposite ha d bee n prepare d t o admi t 534' s towerin g stern. Unnecessary. Moved acros s the rive r t o th e fittin g out-basi n of John Brown and Co. fo r completion, th e Queen Mary wasn't t o sai l unti l lat e Ma y o f 1936 . B y then John Mitchell would be preparing to pack his bags to return to Victori a an d hi s parents . H e woul d sig n o n a s a bridge cadet on an Empress and begin his many crossings o f the Pacific . On th e othe r ocean , a continen t away, the Queen Mary woul d work the Atlantic route s for decades . Her i6o,ooo-horsepowe r engines woul d push 81,000 tons of liner across the Atlantic just over 1000 times. As she made her las t cruis e in 1967 , th e greying boy-cade t from th e Conway wa s signing th e papers t o purchas e a i5o-year-ol d ston e farmhous e high o n th e moraine s abov e Lak e Ontario . Moll y 52

would put her largest studio ever in the back wing and tether two horses in the barn. Scuba diver s par k their vans an d statio n wagons o n th e Ogde n Poin t Wharve s an d stumble like black beetles toward the breakwater. One by one they ente r the water and slip beneath th e surface . John Mitchel l alter s course and pull s west-south-wes t t o paralle l th e Ogde n Point Breakwater. Half a century earlier, his father, in Harris twee d jacket and vest, stood on a pile of rock, a cold pip e hanging fro m hi s mouth, supervisin g th e extension of this breakwater and dreaming of his endof-day sherry . Th e breakwate r h e engineere d no w shelters pilot boats , cruise and cable ships. His now elderly so n clear s the littl e lighthous e o n th e poin t and swings northward pas t the Coas t Guar d Station . Still rowing. "Who the hell are you?" My siste r blanche s a t thi s greeting from her father. I've bee n ou t to Victoria t o see him in hospital several times since his stroke. This is her firs t visi t an d he's angr y an d confused . It' s th e first full sentenc e I'v e hear d him utter in months . We don' t kno w what t o d o — m y mother , siste r and I — so we stand of f and watch while two nurses bundle hi m int o a wheelchair fro m hi s bed. He' s s o 53

small now, so bent, so lost. It's painful t o watch, to see a tall, handsome, striding man diminishing befor e our eyes. Now he' s i n th e chair , his backles s hospital gow n supplemented by a pink flannel sheet. The i v is hung on a chrome hook above his sloping shoulder. I begin to roll the whole rig, with its trembling bags , through the maze of beds, outbound for the door and the larger worl d o f glistenin g corridors . There' s a cloying , sour smel l everywhere : waxes , disinfectants , sweat, shit and disease. We clea r th e nursin g statio n an d begi n th e lon g reach for the lounge. We're making good headway but the commande r i s distracted. Hi s eye s are unfocused on his lap where his arthritic hands twist and tug at his gown and sheet. He doe s that a lot lately, puzzling my mother and mystifying me. My sister, on her first visit to se e him , keep s up a nervous chatte r — Dad this , Dad that — as we steam down the hall. Closing on the lounge, I realiz e tha t m y fathe r an d I hav e gotte n ahead of the women. Once agai n I'm manoeuvrin g in close quarters. It's bus y in this empt y room, a clutter of vinyl armchairs, empt y magazines and a televisio n talking to a vacant sofa. Outside it's the usual sad B.C. winter weather — grey, dripping, morbid — so I bring the chair about and face it to the door at the momen t my sister enters. Her eye s are on the wheelchair occupant's lap: distressed, she suddenly turns away . I peek 54

over my father's shoulder. He has clawed his sheet and robe back almost to his belly exposing his penis, a grey blunt cathetered cylinde r — chicken parts, gizzards, a life being subtracted . Thursday, Apri l 14 , 1949 , Bangor, Wales . ONCE-PROUD WOODE N BATTLESHI P DOOME D T O DESTRUCTION B Y THE SEA . The 114-year-ol d

heart-of-oak warship Conway lies crippled and helpless on th e rock y shore s o f th e nearb y Mena i Straits , where sh e has gone agroun d under tow . There is no hope that she can be saved. The primar y concern is to make he r fas t i n he r presen t positio n s o she canno t heel ove r i n th e comin g winte r gale s an d menac e other shipping in the narrow and tricky channel. Th e Conway i s on e o f th e world' s las t survivin g woode n battleships. I hav e retreate d t o m y small island. This is the fourth day of rain — daytime drizzle, dee p nigh t storms . I read , I write, I pace and drink. For the past 48 hours, a thick dark log has drifte d a few hundred feet of f my shoreline. In the mornings it moves slowly to the west with the offshor e breezes . During th e rain-pocke d day s i t slowly retreats to th e eas t as the prevailin g westerlies build gently against the offshore current . Now, on this last day , toward si x o'clock, th e wes t wind, bearer of 55

good weather , ha s strengthene d an d finall y carrie d that black body out of sight. It was the size of a man. "I saw your father rowin g off the Fisgard Lighthouse las t Wednesday. At least I think that it was him — it looked like his boat, and I'm sure I heard his cough." Sunday morning , Octobe r 13 , 1929 , th e Mitchells, A.F. , his wife, Violet , and their two children emerg e from the 1 1 o'clock Anglican service in Oak Bay. Although it's not raining , there' s a heavy fog an d a penetrating damp chill i n th e air . As they mak e thei r wa y t o thei r ca r parke d dow n th e block, the Empress of Canada, returning to Victoria after being re-engined at the Fairfield yards in England, has just taken on a pilot and inches through heav y fog in the Juan de Fuca Strait. She is making for the quarantine station at William Head. She will not arrive. Just of f Albert Head , sh e ground s o n Mcllwain e Point— the forward momentum of 21,000 tons, even proceeding very slowly, is sufficient t o drive the vessel 200 fee t u p ont o th e rocks . Ston e pinnacle s tea r through the double bottom on the port side, springing plates all the way to the forwar d funnel. I t is Captain "Yankee" Griffiths' firs t disaste r in 40 years at sea. Back a t th e hous e o n Orchar d Avenue , the tele phone ring s fo r A.F. , bringin g hi m new s o f th e

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grounding. Hi s n-year-ol d son, John, already in love with ships and the sea, begs his father to drive him out to William Hea d t o witness the rescue and salvage. By the tim e the y arriv e in th e lat e afternoon , a sizeable crowd ha s gathered o n th e foreshore . Women stan d on the roug h rock s in far coat s an d Sunday hats; th e men ar e al l i n suit s an d woo l overcoats . Th e tug s Hopkins, Burrard Chief and Salvage Queen, have fixe d lines t o th e ster n an d ar e pullin g hard . "Yankee " Griffiths ha s se t th e engin e roo m telegrap h t o FUL L ASTERN but th e Empress doesn't budge. It take s tw o mor e day s t o ge t th e Canada of f Mcllwaine Point. They off-load muc h of the cargo and pump 700 tons of sea water into hold s in the ster n t o raise the bow . Seven tugs pull he r dea d astern a s th e tide rises and the liner slowly slips free. But on Sunday she ha d remaine d har d an d fast , towerin g ove r th e rocks of the point and the little scrub fir up by the path down. John Mitchell stare s open-mouthed at the spectacle of the ship that didn't make into port. He dreams of on e da y standing o n th e bridg e o f the Canada i n a smart uniform with long pants . Eight years later his dream will come true. "Your father' s rowboa t wa s spotte d pulled ashore on Whiffin Spi t in Sooke last Saturday. He was nowhere to be seen. "

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October 20 , 1933. John Mitchell , no longe r a t St . Michael's , i s ben t over hi s des k a t Oa k Ba y Hig h School neatl y working u p hi s notes afte r conductin g Experiment Numbe r Nin e in grade nine science. H e writes meticulously i n black ink, each letter carefull y formed an d slopin g t o th e right . Th e heading s ar e double-underlined i n re d an d a tid y diagrammati c illustration o f th e set-u p i s tippe d i n o n th e facin g page. Th e noteboo k i s boun d betwee n marbleize d boards. PURPOSE — a. To make a mercury barometer, b. To create a perfect vacuum. MATERIALS — Glass tube 4/10" wide, with i/io" walls, mercury, bowl. OBSERVATION — A tube made of glass is filled up with mercury. The en d of the tub e is inserted i n a bowl of mercury. The mercur y in the tube which is 3 ft. long will drop to 2 9 3/4" leaving a perfect vacuum at the top. This is caused by air pressure. CONCLUSION — Air pressure is the same as a column of mercury 29 3/4" long.

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The orderliness , th e logica l progression , th e attempt t o contai n an d control , ar e familia r t o m e from his wartime navigation logs of a decade later. It' s the handwritin g tha t startle s m e — it' s identica l t o mine when I was his age. The mercur y has been slowly drop ping for two days and it's now still an d slightly misty . We com e dow n t o th e jetty on Desolation Sound . We are four — actually, we are five, for I carr y my father's ashes in a small soft wood box under my right arm. My mother roll s along behind me; her new sailor's walk the legacy of a recent hip replacement . A smal l raw-aluminu m tu g idle s against th e pilings . Diese l fames . He r shagg y pilo t comes out to greet us. "Hi, I' m Bruce . I'm honoure d t o be a part of this. I'm totally into the life/death continuum. " For the first time since agreeing to this expedition, I questio n it s appropriateness. M y father, once com mander o f ship s and , fo r s o man y years, a towerin g dark figure in my life, i s now powder in a bag. Can I do this? We cast off and thump out into th e Sound , leaving a long plum e of diesel exhaust low over the water . I n this coo l corne r o f th e worl d ther e ar e onl y tw o colours: th e gre y o f th e wate r an d sk y an d a viole t

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horizon. W e reac h th e bel l buo y an d shu t down . Drifting, I wonder who will open the box. Colourles s sky, thic k gree n wate r and a silver boat — th e small , varnished bo x glows warm in a cool world . Finally , I open i t t o revea l a plastic ba g of grey ash . My siste r glances briefl y an d retreat s int o th e wheelhouse . It' s difficult no t t o b e transfixed by how little is left afte r the subtractio n o f water and life . Drifting. Turning. Gulls and cormorants gathe r on the buoy anticipating life fro m death . Then a hand, clawe d b y arthritis, dart s into the bag . Peel vegetables , mi x paints, chang e diapers : women live closer to the ground tha n men . My mother's ar m swings ove r th e wate r an d her han d opens . We lean over th e gunwhal e and collectively catc h ou r breath . Ashes fall and pepper the seam between ocean and sky. The worl d invert s a s a luminou s turquois e clou d blooms beneath the surfac e of the sea. The ol d man is on his way to China, onc e again riding the currents o f the great circle route.

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PLATE 7

peel vegetables, mix paints, change diapers

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BOAT SiCNftuNG

RULE O F THE ROA D AT SEA Two Steam Ships Meeting: When bot h lights you see ahead Port your helm and show your Red. Two Steam Ships Passing: Green to Green — or Red to Red Perfect Safet y — Go ahead. — Captain Walter Mitchell (1856-1938) Notes o n Definitions in Navigation an d Nautical Astronomy, July, 189 3

The Commande r i s on a long journey . Molly hand s me hi s log s whe n w e retur n t o Victoria. Hi s note s from hi s many Pacific crossings matc h his grade nine workbook, th e sam e hand, the sam e black letters an d red underlining . Victoria to Honolulu 2345

'

Honolulu t o Yokohama 3395

'

Yokohama to Kobe 35° Kobe to Shanghai 792

' '

Shanghai to Hong Kong 830 ' Hong Kong to Manila 632 '

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There's a poetr y t o hi s ligh t an d buo y list s tha t transcends th e doggerel o f road-rule mnemonics .

Kobe to Shanghai: Kobe Wharf to Wada Misaki to Tomoga Sima to le Shima to Murota Sk i to Ashizuri Saki to Toi Misaki to Sata Misaki to Kusakaki Jima to North Saddle to Fairway Buoy to Tungsha Light t o Wbosun g and Shanghai. Hong Kong to Shanghai: Tamtoo Head to Pedro Blanco to Breaker Point to Lammock Light t o High Brother to Chapel Island to Ockseu Island to Turnabout Islan d t o White Dog Light to Alligator Rock to Tung Yung Island t o Tae Island to Namkai Island to Peshan Island to Heachu Island to Saddle Island to Patahecock to Tong Ting to Steep Island to Elgar Island to Button Island to Gutzlaff to Fairway Buoy to Tungsha Light to Woosung and Shanghai.

This wa s his routine ove r 6 0 years ago . I tota l th e nautical mile s fro m th e whar f i n Victori a t o th e Manila dock s — eight thousand , thre e hundre d an d forty-four. H e use d t o d o th e ru n o n th e Empresses besting 2 0 knots. He'l l b e considerabl y slowe r now , but then, h e does have all eternity to arrive .

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PLATE 8

the commander is on a long journey

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Dead trees along water edge like pale grey GHOSTS. Very straight — with fine branches upward curved. Deep yellow " gree n branches curved down. Backgroun d delicate. Cerulean Blue green — foreground waterflatgreen. Canoe chrome yellow. — Molly colour note, 1975 , AQUABEE "Quickie Sketc h Pad" 6075

My father and I once attempted t o share a little voyage together . It wa s my idea, but i t didn't pla y ou t exactl y a s I planned . Mor e than a decade ago I fell in love with the Thistle ', a little diesel-powered, steel-hulle d trawler . After more tha n a year o f long-sho t negotiation s i t wa s suddenly and unexpectedly mine . With a friend, I re-launche d he r from th e shipyard s a t Collingwbod an d set off for th e northeastern shore o f Georgian Bay. It wa s a memo rable two days on the Swee t Sea. Under pressur e t o ge t tha t littl e vesse l out o f th e yards and with work demands back in Toronto, w e set off having only had time to take on fuel an d water and buy some charts. The weathe r wa s fair with sea s running less than a metre. The lighthous e a t the harbou r mouth slowl y shran k an d the n disappeared . Thirty minutes late r th e Collingwoo d grai n elevator s van ished an d then Blu e Mountain. Soo n ther e was only water. A s the lora n was down, I kep t clos e compas s

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watch. Runnin g a t five knots, severa l pleasant hour s passed as my little slack-bilged "ship" rolled across the bottom o f the Bay . When th e shorelin e bega n to lif t ahead of us my heart sank . I recognized nothin g — it could hav e been th e Skeleto n Coast . Wher e the hel l were we? This, of course, is the navigator's nightmare: my father would have thrown me off the boat. Once we' d establishe d tha t th e compas s erro r exceeded 20 degrees, we ran the balance of the trip on the buoyed inside small craft route. After overnightin g east of Christian Island , we began the long leg up the eastern shore. The winds built steadily all morning and by noon w e were rollin g har d i n chopp y two-metr e beam seas. When we began to bur y the rail s on each roll, th e diesel started to falter. I gave up the wheel to my partner in this adventure and pulled up the hatch in the little wheelhouse 'to go down below. Now I don't want to make this shippy little vessel sound too grand, but I can, with only slight exaggeration, say that it had an engin e room . Ther e was headroom dow n there if you straddled the keel. It wa s also dar k an d nasty. The exhaus t manifold was leaking; oily water slopped back and forth in th e bilges; tool s an d spar e part s wer e rollin g alon g i n clanging unison and the ballast was shifting. Swingin g my flashligh t bea m aroun d i n th e bus y darkness , I caught sigh t o f the fuel-lin e filters . Thei r little glass housings wer e almos t opaque , s o muc h sludg e ha d

64

been stirre d u p in tanks by all the heav y rolling. Th e little trawle r was fuel-starved. So thi s initia l voyag e ende d i n ignominy . Man y hours, an d many restarts later , w e sputtered int o th e big Sound , passed Parry Island an d lef t th e Thistle i n town for a fuel-line flus h an d repairs. During the subsequent week s she proved herself t o be quite reliabl e s o I took a bold ste p an d invited m y father t o cruis e th e easter n shor e an d th e Nort h Channel fo r 1 0 days. I was amazed when he accepted . A few weeks later h e fle w ou t fro m th e coas t an d we provisioned th e boa t i n Parr y Sound . W e slep t on board at the dock and cast off in the pre-dawn light. At five knots it's a long run ou t to the ope n Bay . It was a bright day with light westerlies — we made good time. By early evening we'd covered some 50 miles and were emerging fro m Alexande r Inlet. To the wes t lay over 200 miles of open water, terminating i n a thick horizo n roiling blac k like coal dust. I didn't like what I saw an neither di d m y father . Th e marin e broadcas t con firmed th e visuals — hell was coming across the Bay. The sudde n violence o f summer convection storm s over th e Grea t Lake s is hard fo r se a coast peopl e t o understand — I've ha d the two-to n boa t I no w own picked up by the sudde n hammer blo w of a front and deposited a hundred fee t of f course without leaving a mark on the water in between. We agreed to put in for the night . 65

I chose a nearby bay with low, treed islands to th e south an d eas t an d a lin e o f reef s an d shoal s to th e north an d wes t t o brea k th e sea s i f not th e winds . There was plenty o f room t o swin g on the hoo k bu t just to make sure I carefully set two Bruce anchors off the bows . W e mad e suppe r i n th e littl e galle y an d then settled in for a night of drinking an d attempts t o talk. It was very still when we bedded down, he up in the main house and me down below in the little fore castle, sometime afte r 11 . My father shoute d dow n t o m e at aroun d two . It sounded lik e duck-huntin g seaso n — th e rai n wa s driving like buckshot against the windows. I swung up the compariionwa y ladder and grabbed the bi g sealed beam searchlight. Ou r little craft was swinging wildly in gale-force winds. I climbed out on the covered side decks and swung the light aroun d looking for land to see if the anchors were dragging. There was absolutely nothing out there — not in any direction. It was just blackness slashed by driving rain caught in the beam. Once again, , I had no idea where the hell we were. At 4 a.m . I trie d agai n — same thing. At five — same again. This was a big one. I imagined war. HELP MEN ON H.M.C.S. RED DEER FIGHT THE SUB S Every dollar invested in War Saving s Stamps between Monday, June 29, and Saturday, July 3 1 — by Finance

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Minister Ilsley's direction — is for one purpose only, to provide Canada's Navy with more an d more of its stronges t weapons against the U-boats — depth charges. Depth charges cost $90 each, and H.M.C.S. Red Deer, under the command o f Lieut. J.A. Mitchell, coul d use a couple of dozen of these depth charges. Monday afternoon , Mayor Hogg received the following telegram from Hon . Angu s MacDonald, Minister o f National Defense, Naval Services. "I urge the citizens of Red Deer, Alberta, and district t o participate to the limit of their abilit y in the 'Stamp Out th e U-boat' drive being launched in July. The me n of H.M.C.S. 'Red Deer,.' under the command of Lieut. J.A. Mitchell, ar e fighting the anti-submarine campaign to the limit of their ability, and the knowledge that the citizens of your distric t are helping to support them with ammunition through th e purchase of War Saving s Stamps will be an inspiration to them." Red Deer Advocate, May 194 2

Well, a t thi s moment , Lieut . Commande r J . A . Mitchell, Ret'd , ha s passe d out . Havin g raise d th e alarm at 0200 hours, h e has left hi s son in command . Well, i f he can sleep through it , s o can I. I return t o my berth. The da y dawns bright and cool. Although the wind is dow n somewhat , th e wate r boil s whit e o n th e granitic bank s out for a least a mile. The tw o ancho r 67

rodes are now braided together after a night of swinging i n circle s a s the cycloni c stor m swep t through . They're going to be tough t o break out. We resume the run northward. A deep-sea navigator, th e ol d ma n isn' t kee n o n thi s kin d o f sailing . Much o f the route i s marginal, on e can see bottom in the fac e o f the wave s and ther e ar e breakers o n reef s to all sides. She rolls an d pitches like Molly's horse. By late afternoon we're in trouble again . We're up on th e flybridg e jus t enterin g a narro w blaste d cu t when the transmission throws a tooth an d dies. We're dead in the water i n a vessel with a lot of windage in a stiff breeze. The twi n rows of sharp rocks on eithe r side o f the channe l resembl e a shark's jaw and we'r e coasting int o it. I swing down to the deck and launch the inflatable , hopin g t o tak e the bi g boat under tow and keep my nicely-faired hull of f the rocks. The ten horse on the tender is no match for the winds. Finally, I wad e into th e cu t and , standin g chest-dee p i n th e channel, someho w manag e t o hol d th e trawle r of f the rocks. It's hard work. The ol d man comes down the ladder to the deck and enters the cabin. A few minutes later he emerges with two bottles and a glass. He bal ances them on the rail while making himself a gin and tonic. Then h e light s a cigarette an d sip s hi s drink . He's no t goin g t o loo k in my direction. It' s al l goin g to go away. He ha d his fill of boats a long time ago.

.68

We arrived at Saint John's at two-thirty this morning i n a dense fog, and as usual I was the first ashore along with Bill. Molly looked so delightfully dope y and young somehow. It almost seemed a shame to wake her up. Went aboard th e shi p around nine o'clock afte r a somewhat disturbed sleep and go t the buzz that we were going t o Halifax, when the al l too fantastic news of Japan's attack on the Pear l Harbor Bas e near Honolulu, and also on Manila. The worl d though t it might happen, but th e world doubted if it would ever happen, which all goes to prove that on e can't look an hour ahea d let alon e a whole day. If only you were with me dearest. I feel I need you awfully and I feel rather low over the new catastrophe. — John Mitchel l Diary , December 7 , 1941, 10:2 0 p.m., St. John's, Nfld .

This i s a remote place . We're alon e i n th e win d an d our sogg y solitude s fo r perhap s a n hour . The n a big fibreglass toy, flying the stars and stripes, appears down channel. I signal to them from the pile of blasted stone, my shoulde r jamme d agains t th e topsides , bu t the y ignore me and plow on hard through th e little cut leaving a wake that throws my little vessel hard against the rocks. Whe n sh e settles down , Commande r Mitchell pours anothe r drink . Thirty minute s later , a twenty-fiv e foo t inboar d

69

launch appear s an d takes us under tow . An hour later we're snugge d u p agains t a rock fac e i n a deep shel tered ba y cut int o a larg e uninhabited , well-woode d island. Onc e ou r rescuer s leave , I wor k th e radi o t o raise a marina that' s abou t twent y mile s back . They agree to send a mechanic and a workboat out the next morning. Th e ol d ma n i s quie t an d withdrawn s o I don't rais e th e subjec t o f his refusa l t o help . W e ea t and sleep. The star s fall out o f the sk y and ride in th e water. The se a is sweet. As I' m makin g mornin g coffee , a steel-hulle d workboat enter s ou r have n an d come s alongside . I pull the heavy tool boxe s aboard and we lift th e cabin sole. It takes us a couple of hours to unbolt the trans mission, disconnec t th e shaf t an d leve r th e heav y housing int o a position wher e we can pull it up with ropes. I don't kno w where my old man is, and at this moment I don't care. He's disappeare d onto the island for on e o f his walks . W e manag e t o ge t th e trans mission up onto th e dec k and drag it over to the rail. The mechani c and I manhandle the brute dow n into his boat. I pass over th e too l boxes an d he starts hi s engine. Suddenly m y fathe r appears . He' s go t u p i n hi s town clothe s an d he's carryin g his duffle . H e nimbl y jumps down into the idling boat muttering somethin g about rats. They pull out; he doesn't loo k back. I'm alone , which isn't so bad. 70

PLATE 9

home i n St. John's: ivatercolour by Molly, 194 1

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In fac t it' s quit e wonderful . B y th e nex t da y it' s been establishe d tha t the transmissio n i s terminal — another tooth had broken off long before my time and had sloshe d aroun d in the oil grindin g up teet h and scouring the housing. Th e onl y available replacement is in Atlanta . I t wil l b e flow n t o entr y a t Vancouve r and the n o n t o Toronto . I t wil l b e trucke d u p t o Sudbury for pickup. I've jus t been hande d the gif t o f a wee k o f enforce d idlenes s i n a beautiful , lonel y place. I'v e go t lot s o f books, foo d an d beer. And , my kayak is still secured to the flybridge . I soo n mak e th e happ y discover y tha t I' d lef t a series o f nature guide s i n th e boa t durin g a n earlie r trip. Each da y I will tak e a n exploratory wal k on my paradise island with one o f these books. I've bee n passionate about this landscape of undulating graniti c roc k an d wind-trained pine s sinc e m y childhood. I'v e dream t about it when in different parts of th e worl d — India, Peru , th e Emirates , Ukraine , China an d Japan. Two decades ago I lay one night, i n a corrugate d iro n shac k o n stilts , m y camera s pile d beneath m y foldin g cot , i n th e Nicaragua n coasta l town Puert o Cabezas . Running dow n th e coas t fro m Honduras i n arme d Donzi s an d cigarett e boats , th e contras arrive d off the por t shortl y afte r midnight . They began shooting up the town fro m th e water— periodically jun k woul d com e rippin g throug h th e sheet meta l ove r m y hea d an d dozen s o f bullet s 7^

pierced the walls. I lay very straight and still, pretending to be a stick floating down the Magnetewan River to Georgia n Ba y — a very thin stick . The Sandinist a soldier I shared the shack with had been through thi s so many times that he didn't eve n wake up. This is a young landscape — less than 12,00 0 years ago i t wa s still unde r a mile o f ice . Les s tha n 5,00 0 years ago it was still connected t o James Bay and harboured whales . Th e whit e an d jac k pine s ar e th e advance g^uar d o f th e norther n temperat e fores t — they're stil l colonizin g th e postglacia l lan d an d i n many area s have yet t o reac h th e coast . Because this evolving landscap e is not tha t complicated , withi n a week I had identified ever y last tree , bu g and bird in paradise. Tired o f makin g m y encyclopedi c inventory , I decided t o paddl e ou t pas t th e archipelag o int o th e miles of shoals stretching toward the horizon. As there was a stiff breeze, I stretched a skirt over the coamin g of the boat and put o n a life jacket. I had a wonderful paddle out: through the surf. The skies were deep blue and the bright-sun crashed and sparkled off the waves. I soon found myself out beyond the last shoals in very bumpy water. With the period o f the waves so short I had n o chanc e t o swin g m y 18-foo t boa t abou t between them . Al l I coul d d o was keep stroking far ther an d farther out until I was in deeper water where the waves would separate. 72

This glaciate d landscap e doesn' t giv e itsel f u p t o water tha t easily . It's shallo w ou t a long way, making the wave s drag on the botto m an d pile up stee p an d close. Paddlin g severa l miles offshor e an d strugglin g to stay upright, I was getting exhausted. There was no one to help. Then a strange thin g happened . I realize d tha t I was no t alone . Swimmin g alon g besid e m e lookin g just a s tired an d anxiou s a s I, wa s a very larg e toad . Not a frog, whic h migh t hav e made some sens e way out there , bu t a big wart y toad . W e looke d a t eac h other an d I fel t a renewed energy . In dir e strait s any company is a comfort. Sizing up the next wave I seized the moment, heeled the boat, and with the most powerful swee p I coul d muster, brought i t aroun d in th e trough. It was hard work. Now to find the toad. He to o ha d com e about . I spotte d hi m abou t a dozen feet off to port struggling u p th e backsid e of a wave. I stroked over to be closer and we paddled along side by side for a few minutes. I was working hard no t to ya w and roll , o r pitch-pol e int o th e bay . He wa s struggling just to stay afloat an d alive. I headed us for land a littl e farthe r t o th e sout h wher e ther e wa s a break i n th e bank s an d deeper , calme r water . Sur e enough, I soon had my boat under control despite my rubbery arms . Lookin g ove r a t th e toa d I coul d se e that he was largely submerged an d stroking sluggishly. '73

We had bonded: I had to do something. I extended my paddle towar d him, slippin g th e narro w blade unde r his bod y an d the n lifted . U p cam e the paddl e blade, toad and all, which I quickly swung over the bow of my kayak. H e hoppe d of f onto th e dec k of the forepea k and clun g lik e a limpe t t o th e bo w ever y tim e i t plunged. I now had a big warty figurehead. The res t of the paddle in was uneventful. I reached the trawle r an d tie d th e kaya k alongside. Th e toa d decided t o han g i n wher e h e was . W e ha d a bee r together an d then I turned in for the night . Next morning h e was still there . I made us coffee . Too tired to walk or paddle after the adventures of the day before, I spent the day reading Bodsworth's wonderful Last of the Curlews. The toa d slept. On th e followin g da y I hear d th e engin e o f th e workboat approachin g from the fa r side of the island . A brand new transmission an d a very large invoice lay in the bottom o f the boat . We set to work. When we were finally finished, we settled down to have a drink on the cabin trunk. I looked ove r the side— : my toad was gone . After overnightin g on e las t time , I cas t of f alone and se t ou t fo r m y island , som e eigh t hour s away . When I arrived it was still windy. Getting into my tiny harbour involve s makin g a quic k S tur n an d the n throwing the boat hard astern before hitting the rocks. I didn' t think I could do it alone, with no one ashore 74

to grab the lines, so I headed toward my sister's island one half mile away. As I approached I could see some activity. They came down to help me land. Once the boat was secured we climbed up the roc k face to have a drink in her cabin. Lo and behold, there sat my father wit h a book an d a glass. He mus t hav e called them t o com e an d fetch him fro m th e marina . We al l sa t dow n awkwardly . To brea k th e silenc e I began t o tel l th e stor y o f my long paddl e in th e bi g water an d my encounter wit h th e toad . When I had finished my tale of the toad, my father leaned over and whispered i n my ear, "Did you kiss it?" The littl e white wherry slips between th e lighthouses of f Beren s Islan d an d round s Shoal Point . Trailers , trawler s an d th e od d seiner, li e berthe d a t Fisherman' s Wharf . Tourists ea t fish and chips at the bottom o f the ramp. Looking up, one sees the passage of a very small rowboat behind the trawls and rigging . NAVAL MESSAG E A.I..G. 30i(r) C.T.U. ns 24.1.13 from H.M.C.S. Skeena. May 0643!! 3ist: U-boat considered sunk by H.M.C.S. Witaskiwin and H.M.C.S. Skeena in position 049° 59' N 036° 36'W. Floating wreckage and human remains recovered. Weather report 386 5 226 3 123411/31/42

15'

The voyag e and my father jumping ship is, of course , very small beer. Take the stor y of 50x42 — slow convoy X. Here is a very large convoy compose d o f som e 6 0 bottoms , everythin g from tankers , flus h deckers , thre e islan d freighters , tall rigge d ol d coasters , eve n a n ol d blunt-bowe d laker. Thes e suppl y ship s se t ou t fro m Halifa x an d Newfoundland i n the fal l of 1941, wallowing along at a painfull y slo w five knots wit h a n escor t o f severa l 190' corvettes. The whol e motley procession is led by the destroye r H.M.C.S . Skeena. He r roste r include s 125 rating s an d 2 5 chief s an d pett y officers . Amon g her 1 0 senio r officer s ar e Lieutenan t Commande r James C. Hibbard o f Halifax, captain. Her chie f navigator is Lieutenant John A. Mitchell of Victoria. Th e Skeena i s th e antithesi s o f mos t o f her charges . He r 32,000 horsepower engine s ca n push 32 1 feet o f steel through the North Atlantic at better than 30 knots. Altogether this enormous flotilla is slowly carrying more tita n hal f a million ton s o f supplie s an d 2,50 0 men ou t int o th e gri m autumna l sea s o f the Nort h Atlantic. Th e 12-colum n convo y occupie s 3 4 square miles of the surface of the sea. Destination: the "Black Pit," the unprotected zone of the mid-Atlantic that lies beyond aircraf t rang e an d coastal patrols. First challenge: a screaming gale . The whol e convo y hove s t o for 3 6 hours an d attempts to sta y afloat an d together . Three merchant ships drop out and return to Sydney.

76

As th e gal e subsides , si x stragglers , includin g on e corvette, ar e rounded u p an d the convo y resume s it s thumping plo w eastboun d t o England . Th e daw n of the nex t day brings a periscope sighting an d a streaking torpedo. A double miss, by the torpedo an d by the Skeena that has taken up pursuit. Cours e i s altered fo r the day . By 9:30 at nigh t a fall moo n ha s rise n dea d ahead to th e east . At 9:37 the first shi p blows up and sinks fas t wit h al l hands. A t 9:4 8 anothe r torped o i s sighted an d a U-boat steams out of sight an d range at high speed. Soon a further U-boa t i s spotted and then a third . Ye t another appears , runnin g dow n betwee n the sevent h an d eigh t colum n o f th e convoy . Th e Skeena drops depth charges and fires star shells to illuminate the proceedings. A minute late r a tanker blows up and sinks. Three ships down, 95 survivors. The fal l moo n i s joined by northern lights . A couple of big icebergs drif t by in the gloom. At midnight i t clouds over . Anothe r U-boa t appear s — late r it' s learned tha t thi s wol f pac k had a t leas t a dozen. Th e Skeena attempt s t o ra m i t jus t a s th e entir e convo y changes course . There' s confusion , chao s an d a nea r collision in the darknes s as the Skeen a goes full aster n to avoid a merchantman. Next a fuel oil tanker running parallel to the destroyer explode s in a geyser of orange flame and disappears. At dawn the U-boats withdraw to observe the convoy from the margins. Near noon a single sub undertakes a sneak attack taking the freighte r

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Thistle Glen t o th e bottom . Th e Skeena race s i n an d dumps 5,00 0 pound s o f TNT overboard. The U-boa t dives and hides on the bottom . Th e Skeena stop s he r engines an d listen s wit h th e Asdic whil e sh e drifts . More depth charges and then more silence. A huge air bubble rises to the surfac e followed by an oil slick. One down. In th e lat e afternoo n a singl e Lockheed-Hudso n bomber, it s bay s emptied t o accommodat e extr a fuel , appears mid-Atlantic . It flie s a search pattern, locates the enemy and drops some warning flares. The U-boat s flee. At midnight tw o newly commissioned corvettes , the Chambly an d the Moose Jaw, draw near to reinforce. As the y approach , severa l merchantme n locat e tw o more U-boats . Gunfire, rockets, sta r shells , flares and bedlam greet the new arrivals. Another freighter bursts into flames . Th e corvette s dro p a patter n o f dept h charges over the sub as it crash dives. Minutes later the disabled U-boat surfaces right beside the Chambly an d the Germa n captai n leap s t o safet y o n th e Canadia n corvette. The U-boa t crew of 30 follows minutes later, refusing t o shak e hand s wit h thei r desertin g com mander. Nine subs are left. Presently , a merchantman puts 70 rounds into a diving U-boat after failure to ram. A corvette lowers a boat in the heavy swells and rescues nine. No mor e survivors are found. Throughout all of this th e Skeena has been racin g

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about at a rate of knots. She is almost out o f star shells and has nearly exhausted her fuel. The convo y contin ues its crawl toward England. At 5:15 in the mornin g the se a is light; it's cloudy, visibility is two miles. Th e cooks mak e breakfast . Nea r daw n a lookou t o n th e Skeena spot s severa l objects on th e horizon . It' s soo n apparent that five British destroyers are closing quickly to reinforce. After 6 6 hours at their posts my father and hi s fello w crewmember s ca n finall y drea m o f sleep. Randa, Benury, Jedmore, Garm, Stonepool, Stargard, Thistle Glen, Scania, Crossbill, Winterswyck, Empire Starbuck, Gypsum Queen, Muneric and Ulysses.

All o n th e bottom . Lifeboat s an d lumbe r drif t o n a greasy sea. A few men still howl and flail through slow swells of burning bunker oil. As the day brightens nine U-boats slin k off for Germany. The thre e lef t behind lazily spin dow n through th e depths , streaming bub bles, oil, socks and sailors' caps. Molly remember s hi s Newfoundland shor e leaves after thes e duties . He' d com e of f the shi p ben t an d grim. Silent . Joining he r i n bed, his legs would begin to tremble, then his entire body would shake, until the

79

whole be d rattled a s she clung t o the mattress besid e him. Many hours would pass until he'd fal l into a restless, thrashing sleep.

February, 1942, a few days before my

nty-fourth birthday , I am a lieutenant, vif,^./?

x-.s'f

gating officer o f the Canadia n destroyer that is conductin g the usua l anti-submarine sweep ahead of a convoy of some fifty merchant ships. A lookout spots a dot on the horizo n and ou r zigzag i s altered to close the object . Before long, we can see that it is a life raf t — nothing unusual as the North Atlantic is littered wit h lif e raft s an d debri s from sunke n ships. As it gets closer, we can count seven figures in the raft , but we soon realize that none ar e alive. As we pick up speed, the raf t drift s dow n the por t side of the shi p and we are shocked to see that three o f the occupant s are young nursin g sisters of our ow n age. Somehow we have learned to accept men losing their lives , but the deat h of young women, those we went to movies with, danced with and picnicked with, this was almost impossible to accept. —John Mitchell, Remembranc e Day, Victoria, 198 3

"I used to see your fathe r far up the coas t from Victori a i n th e afternoons , rowing , hour upon hour . H e was always alone."

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During th e summe r o f 193 7 th e Japanese begi n attackin g Shanghai . The CP R puts tw o Empresses, th e Asia and th e Canada, at the disposa l of the Roya l Navy t o facilitate the evacuation of the many Westerners living in th e Europea n concession s o f the city . On August 18, th e Asia crosse s th e ba r a t th e mout h o f th e Whangpoo and takes on 1393 women and children for safe passag e t o Hon g Kong . Th e Canada, outboun d from Vancouver , receives orders t o d o th e same . At 6:39, Augus t 22 , sh e depart s Kob e an d sail s fo r Shanghai. Du e t o heav y shelling o n th e Whangpoo , she anchors a t Woosung an d is met by two warships, H.M.S. Duncan and Grimsby, loaded with refugees, o n August 25. Despite th e dangers , several of the junio r officers ar e ferrie d int o Shanghai . Joh n Mitchel l clambers ove r th e debri s litterin g th e street s i n th e commercial core. He ha s his little foldin g black plastic Koda k Bantam 82 8 i n hi s pocket . H e ha s neve r seen dead people before. All afternoo n h e photograph s th e corpses , lyin g like broke n dolls , an d sleepin g stree t peopl e o n th e sidewalks an d pavemen t o f th e Bund . Week s later , back in Victoria, he take s his film to a drugstore o n Fort Street . Fo r hi s next outbound voyage he buy s a black-paged album and an envelope of photo corners . When h e is not o n watch, h e hunche s ove r th e tin y desk i n hi s quarters , carefull y captioning eac h littl e 81

deckle-edged prin t i n whit e ink . Whe n h e tire s o f mounting them , he quietly plays his violin. A hurrican e ha s straggle d u p the Atlanti c seaboar d fro m th e Caribbean, beatin g u p coasta l communities alon g the way until it reaches New York where i t begin s t o thras h u p the Hudson Valley and, finally, tumbl e over the border into Canada. The wind spin westward up the St. Lawrence and cartwheel onto Lake Ontari o a t Kingston . A s th e lak e widens , th e winds accelerat e an d th e wave s buil d rapidly , thei r peaks tearin g away ahead o f the rollers . Severa l bul k carriers, caugh t out in the middle , have all made runs for shelter . Almost 18 5 miles west of Kingston wave s twice the height o f a ma n tumbl e ont o Burlingto n Beach , rolling tons of sand back into the mud-churned water s at the wester n en d o f the lake . This freshwater sea is reclaiming th e sandpi t shelterin g Hamilto n Harbou r and Coot' s Paradise. Th e thi n lin e o f frame cottage s strung along Lakeshore Roa d cower under the willows and Manitoba maple s as the beach dissolves minute by minute. The Burlingto n police appeal to the naval reserv e and the se a cadets for assistance . A couple of flatbeds and a dozen pickup s ar e conscripte d t o ru n load s of sandbags along Lakeshore Road and Beach Boulevard.

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Lieutenant Commande r Joh n Mitchel l R.C.S.C . i s the commandin g office r o f th e "Iro n Duke " Se a Cadets Corps . He' s gon e for hours leavin g Molly and me housebound, starin g ou t the rain-lashe d window s at the tree s tossin g violentl y acros s the street. I n th e late afternoo n th e rai n let s u p somewha t an d Moll y decides tha t w e will driv e dow n t o th e lak e t o brin g John Mitchell soup and coffee . It's an exciting drive . I stand in front of the passenger seat next to Molly with my chin o n the top of the dashboard o f m y father' s ne w gree n Vauxhall . Th e wipers slas h bac k an d fort h jus t beyon d m y nose , revealing downe d tree s an d saggin g powe r lines . Several time s w e hav e t o doubl e bac k an d procee d cautiously dow n a paralle l street . Whe n w e reac h Lakeshore Road , wher e i t run s behin d th e cottages , the scen e i s chaotic . Th e lak e ha s advance d t o th e stoops an d porche s o f many o f the cabin s an d grea t dirty waves roll over the sandbag dykes that my father and hi s cre w hav e thrown u p alon g th e cres t o f th e beach. Men are still wading in the brown surf to heave new bags on the top of their lumpy breakwater. The nois e o f wind an d waves is thrilling as Molly and I slowly stumble toward where my father is shouting, red-faced, at a group of frightened young me n in soggy wool uniforms. The grea t boiling freshwater sea is relentlessl y clawin g bac k th e shorelin e an d ha s already pulle d an d pummelle d severa l outbuilding s

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into vicious-looking pile s o f split boards , protrudin g spikes and shredded Insulbrick. I look up at my father as he takes the thermo s from Molly an d drinks milky coffee fro m th e meta l lid. As he squint s ou t ove r th e thundering waves toward the horizon far to the east, I wonder if he still loves the water. The grea t grey winter Atlantic that swallowed so many of his friends and took his youth awa y in the night is right here on this sad little beach with its tumbledown cottages, rustin g lawn chairs and baggy screens. There's no glory in all this raging water — just exhaustion, humiliation, hostility and slow defeat. October 24, 1944. The Skeena, on antisubmarine patro l sout h o f Iceland , encounters sever e weathe r conditions . Winds, gristin g to 10 0 miles an hour, driv e sleet and snow, forcin g th e destroye r t o shelte r i n th e le e o f Videy Islan d i n Reykjavi k Harbour . Sh e drop s th e hook bu t soo n begin s t o dra g ancho r a s the squall s become more severe and all contact with the island is lost. A s visibility returns th e Skeena i s throw n ster n first onto th e rock s by huge waves and she broaches. By dawn , 1 5 men ar e lost : b y night, th e Skeena, th e Rolls-Royce of destroyers, is gone. Papa Duck and I don't know whether to go forward s o r backwards . Hunched ove r *4

the black wheel in the tiny cabin of this boat, peerin g through th e spray-streake d windscreen, al l I se e is a cliff o f slate-blue wate r rising just beyond the oak toe rail o f th e foredeck . Th e bo w o f m y 5o-year-ol d wooden launc h ha s plunge d precipitousl y into , th e trough between the first big waves marching into the channel mouth. The scre w has begun to cavitate wildly as each wave lifts it free o f the water. I glance aft at the alarming noise coming from th e stern an d see my only passenge r — a huge, brown , wicke r chair . I'v e secured i t t o th e floorboard s o f th e ope n cockpi t behind th e cabin. The lonel y chair is full of ghosts. I've sol d th e famil y islan d an d retreate d 2 5 mile s farther north where there's more wilderness, few people, more emptiness. This has been my last trip back to the old dark place to retrieve family treasures. It will be on e o f the las t voyages for th e boa t as well. Now, only five miles shy of my new cabin, th e weathe r has suddenly held up an iron hand. As th e bo w rise s o n th e nex t wave , gallon s o f chilled water slosh back toward me and squirt through the windo w frames o f the cabin , soaking the fron t o f my windbreake r an d drainin g int o m y lap . It' s to o rough t o d o thi s tri p bu t thi s narrow s betwee n th e shoals afford s n o roo m t o tur n back . The ghos t sea t and I are committed. We'r e on a teeter-totter. I rise: it falls. I sink: it swoops up into the sky. The chai r is the seat of souls — I must get it home safely . 85

Slowly, slowly , we wallow forward . Th e Chrysle r Crown, a wonderful ancien t straight six , thunders in the engin e bo x and spits hot wate r ou t th e transom . It's not a quitter. I can't be one either. We finally reach the turnin g buo y an d poin t nort h — a three-mil e reach throug h roug h bea m seas . The ol d boa t roll s and pitches violently. There's now a lot of water in the bilge. W e clos e o n th e nex t buoy , lurc h pas t it an d grind on toward its successor. Soon I will be swinging toward the coast and picking through uncharte d reef s and shoals making for the mouth o f my inlet. There, water will be calm. We clatter into my little harbou r an d nestle up to my sagging jetty. I shut down and free the chair, urg ing it toward the building. It balks at the entrance, its arms seizing the door frame. We struggle: I win. The chair stumble s int o th e strang e roo m sideway s and thuds down onto th e floor. I drag it to the other end of the cabin and light a fire in the stove to dry us both out. We can talk when we have warmed up. Standing in the kitchen making a hot drink, I watch the chair facing the fire. I have seen myself in it, son on my lap, while I read him a story. Molly has sat in it with me on her lap reading to me. I've seen a photograph of her, barely five, snuggling up to her fathe r in it while he sketche d fo r her. And there's a photo i n a n album where he perches o n the seat , legs dangling quite shy of the floor, beside his mother. Even then the chair was

86

old. It's s o wide it will hold tw o or three. It s big arms have embrace d thi s famil y through s o many genera tions that it deserves to rest before the fire. It needs to be treated gently : it knows far too much . Molly rushes dow n th e long drive a t Th e Willows, Ancaster , screamin g a t a pudg y four-year ol d in overalls straddling the centr e line o f Highway 2 . Having discovered tha t one of her father's cane s separate s into a sheat h an d blade , I'v e escaped th e house , swor d i n hand , t o tak e o n th e world. I awake n at three i n the morning. I n various corners o f the city, my male friends will be up now, wandering about , tryin g t o return to sleep or eve n do a little work — we all have the slee p disorders of the middle-aged. Forty miles to the north my oldes t friend , Kerry , wil l b e standin g b y the bi g windows o f hi s farmhouse , lookin g sout h ove r hi s fields, smoking, drinking . We ar e all in our 505 . I cros s th e roo m t o m y smal l kitchen , ope n th e fridge an d pull out a bottle of ale. Taking a glass, I return to bed to sip and stare at the ceiling of my studio. I had fallen asleep, perhaps fou r hours earlier, leaving both a light and the radio on. As I now begin to slide away, into drea m but not sleep , I slip bac k int o a beautiful lat e sprin g afternoon . I' m

*7

walking hom e afte r schoo l throug h th e street s o f a small Ontario town. The ai r — soft, moist, warm — is rich with the smells of new life. My body, is silent and transparent — n o murmurs , n o pains , n o limits . I pause halfway dow n the last hill to my house, radiant with the realization that at this moment everything is perfect. I want time to stop. I'm old enough. How old was I -— seven, nine, eleven? As I begin to drift back to the present, I realize that this had been a real moment. Why had that instant returned now, that experience of complete contentment ? I lie, sipping in the semi-darkness, puzzled. Gradually I become aware of th e musi c fro m th e radio . I briefl y float of f and return t o peace, security and contentment. I turn my head towar d th e sourc e o f the sound . Then it slowly comes back. The musi c is Delius' "Florida Suite," in a Beecham recordin g tha t m y mothe r Moll y ofte n played when I was a child. Holding tigh t t o my little musical madelaine, I try to understand wh y this par ticular musi c so comforted her. There is no shortag e of lyrical, yearning, prett y musi c — she had record ings and always worked with the radio on — she knew lots of it. But what did Delius — a Florida plantation owner, Virginia music teacher and late romantic com poser — say to her? His Suite's first performance took place at a restaurant in a Leipzig park in 1887 . The audienc e of three consisted o f Christian Sindling , Edvar d Grieg and, of 88

course, Delius . Th e orchestr a members , al l player s from th e Leipzig Conservatory, wer e pai d in beer . SECOND ANNUA L DANCE

H.M.C.S. RE D DEER 2z|.TH SEPTEMBER , 194 3 SYDNEY, N.S.

PROGRAMME

PROGRAMME

i . Rise and Shine

Fox Trot

9. Collision stations

Fox Trot

2. Hands t o Station s

Fox Trot

10. Sick, Lame and Lazy

Fox Trot

3. Colour s

Waltz

1 1 . Dodger's Shuffl e

Fox Trot

4. Oropesa Stomp

Fox Trot

12. Stoker's Serenade

Waltz

5. Request Me n to Muste r

Fox Trot

13. Darken Ship

Waltz

6. Bangor Lullaby

Waltz

14. Action Station s

Fox Trot

7. Up Spirits !

Fox Trot

15. Splice the Main Brac e

Fox Trot

8. Bully Beef Bounce

FoxTrot

1 6. Smooth Sailing Home

Waltz

Stand Easy

God Sav e the King

*9

It's almos t Christmas . Large , flopp y flakes o f wet snow parachute ont o Bloor Street near th e museum . We are rushing toward th e Park Plaz a Hote l fo r th e annua l famil y Christma s dinner. Up the elevator we go; Molly looks young and wonderful i n he r ne w multicoloure d winte r coat . My fathe r i s dressed in gre y and black . My mother's mother i s organizer an d host . A t thi s time , th e roo f is a bar wit h a small dining roo m o n th e nort h end . The remainde r is a roof deck with a parapet. Granny Greene, a s we call her, has booked the whol e dining room. Aunts, uncles, al l my cousins are there fo r th e roast beef trucked up on the elevator from a basement kitchen. We all sit at a long single table sharing shinglelike scalloped potatoes, khak i peas, squash and genes.

9°

LORD NELSON HOTEL Halifax, N.S. Christmas 1941 Dinner Celery en Branche Quee n Olive s Rose Radishes Mixe d Nuts Supreme of Orange an d Grapefruit Palmyra Clear Green Turtle a u Sherry Medallion o f Lobster, Cardinal Mignon o f Beef, Lucullu s Christmas Roas t Stuffed Turkey , Savory Dressing Giblet Grav y Cranberr y Jelly Fontante Potatoe s Buttered Green Pea s Baked Squash Yuletide Plum Puddin g Noe l Lo g Hot Minc e Pi e Christma s Cak e Ice Cream Friandises Coffee $3.00 per Person

9i

LORD NELSON HOTEL, HALIFAX Program 1941 CHRISTMAS DINNER Ballroom and Lounge 7.0 0 P.M. Music by Nick. Schoester & His Orchestr a DANCING Ballroom 10.0 0 P.M. to 2.0 0 A.M. Music by Harry Cochrane & His Orchestra GOD SAV E THE KIN G

New Year' s 1952 : a da y o f slat e skie s and a razo r wind . I' m behin d th e garag e with m y ne w bo x camera , a recen t Christmas gif t fro m a n aunt. This leatherette beauty ,

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black a s jet, ha s a transparent roun d re d windo w i n back — like an animal eye caught by a headlight. I find it infinitel y mor e mysteriou s tha n th e clear-eye d triplet on the Deco lens board. Numbers, diminishin g dots an d imperiou s arrow s rol l b y i n th e re d glo w within m y picture-makin g box . Th e littl e pris m viewfinders — one for horizontals, one for verticals — transform an d orde r reality . Placing a border aroun d part of the world's infiniteness aid s comprehension. I t brings me comfort and control. I carry it ahead of me like a chalice. The grumbl e o f tires on grave l betrays th e return of m y father' s car. His ne w Austi n ha s a dee p gree n body and black fenders. Little lighted orange arms flip out from the doo r pillar s o n either side to announc e the intention t o turn. It's very English an d up-to-date . However, m y uncl e ha s recentl y wo n a ne w Studebaker i n a draw, a Raymond Lowe y confectio n designed fo r interstella r travel . I t make s m y father's new car look like a hat box. I race around to the front o f the garage just in time to catch the Austin's boot sliding into the gloom of the garage. Moto r stops , doo r slams , brogue s scuf f o n gravel, then a dark coat and hat emerge from the shadows. I ask him to pose for a picture. He pulls down the garage door an d advances a couple of feet. He's tal l as a tote m i n his dark charcoal wool overcoa t and black fedora. He stand s slightly tilted to the left , ha t canted 93

opposite. The shar p wind tugs 'at a corner o f his coat. I stumbl e backward s trying t o fit his height int o th e frame. Th e crud e right-angle viewfinde r use s a small, angled mirror behind a meniscus. Findin g the subject is lik e searchin g fo r a dim e i n a wel l bottom . He' s there, the n I lose him. When he reappears, chromati c aberration wraps a rainbow around his shoulders. H e clears hi s throat, a bad sign, s o I quickl y depress the shutter. H e coughs , turns an d leaves. It's over . But it's not. This photograph, th e first I ever made, was to have a very strange journey. Twenty-five years later th e little deckle-edged, ferrotype d prin t fell ou t , of a book in.my studio. I picked it up and stared, trans ported back to the gravel drive and the glacial wind. I decided to put the print o n my copy stand and make a new negativ e i n a large r format . I n th e darkroo m I began to enlarg e the hea d and pulled and dried a big print. It wasn't very good so I folded it in half to make it fi t th e darkroo m garbag e bin . I t wa s then tha t I noticed somethin g odd . The tw o sides of his face were quite different. It was like half a portrait of two people in tha t coat . Her e wa s a man deepl y uncomfortable with the world, his lot and his family. There was anger — we were all to blame. Back i n th e darkroo m I continue d t o enlarg e it , eventually pulling a life-sized print o f the fal l figur e that I later mounte d o n board and cut out on a band saw. Now I could carry my father under my arm. One 94

summer nigh t I se t it uprigh t i n a meadow halfwa y down the Scarboroug h Bluffs . I unfolded a heavy tripod som e distance away and screwed a big view camera on top. After openin g the shutter I ran forward in the darkness through the long grass and lay down with a flash tube i n my hand before the cutout . Blu e light leapt up the figure. Then I moved in over and farther back and popped the flash again. Crickets chirpe d and scratched awa y I made four mor e repetitions s o that the figur e retreated slowl y backwards and rightwards out of frame. There was a heavy dewfall that tended t o condense o n th e lens . Eac h iteratio n o f m y fathe r glowed wit h a luminou s halo , floatin g i n th e dar k landscape. It was a very strange and freighted pictur e that was to hang in many art galleries over the years. Eventually Warner Brother s record s in Lo s Angeles bought right s t o us e i t o n a n albu m cove r fo r th e Seattle ban d Quarterflash . The recordin g ha d one of those hit s — "Harden M y Heart" —that you heard for month s ever y tim e yo u turne d o n th e radi o o r walked into a shoe store. I recall taking a cab in fro m Heathrow som e months late r an d ridin g pas t Virgin Records o n Oxfor d Street . M y fathe r stoo d i n th e window, large as life. When he found out, he tried t o sue me and I learne d somethin g abou t th e powe r of photographs.

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"I have a photograph o f your fathe r that I must give you. I took it a decade ago while sailing with a friend in Esquimalt. W e came abreast of a small rowboat drifting off the naval yards. It wasn't : until w e were very close tha t I realize d th e old man hunched in the boat, staring at the base, was your father. " On my fourth birthda y Molly persuade d my father tha t I should begi n t o receive an allowance. They decided that I would be refinanced ever y Friday when he returned afte r th e work week in the city "I s it Friday yet? Is it Friday yet?" I repeatedly asked Molly fo r the remainder o f the week. The wai t for that first Friday was interminable. Whe n the end of the week finally arrived she loaded me into the car and drove to the railway station. Trains loomed very large i n those days , not onl y because I was small and the locomotives wer e huge, sweat y and black, but because they had, within a human lifetime, pulled th e country togethe r by dragging lon g lines o f passenger and bo x car s acros s th e continent . Thos e gian t mechanical snake s were freighte d wit h meanin g an d metaphor. The dar k beas t cam e ground-grumblin g int o th e station an d crunche d t o a standstill. Dozen s o f gre y men i n lon g dar k coat s an d face-shadowin g fedora s descended an d dispersed. My father was at the far end

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a strange and freighted picture

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of th e platform . He cam e toward u s i n thos e bruta l brogues tha t man y me n wor e then , thei r laminate d leather soles and thick uppers like an armament for the foot. I suspect that the taste for these heavy shoes, the notion that the foo t shoul d b e isolated an d insulate d from contac t with the earth , was the legacy of a youth in the services. Indeed, this soldier-foot stuff seems the most visibl e an d endurin g remnan t o f military train ing. I'v e know n man y ex-servicemen , includin g th e most unwillin g Vietnam vet s who, thoug h otherwis e dishevelled, disorganized and hostile to authority, regularly gathe r al l thei r families ' shoes — wives' , sons ' and daughters' — and vigorously clean and polish each one o n a n elaborat e an d orderl y polishin g box . Th e ritual is terminated when all the shin y shoes are lined up i n a neat row, as if for inspection an d parade . M y father owned a varnished shoebox, its wooden sole and negative heel supported by two little columns above a little mansard roof. After Molly died, it was one of the first things my sister and I pitched. After a perfunctory kiss o n Molly's cheek , he pro ceeded to the ca r and queued to escap e the lot. Onc e back hom e I orbite d aroun d m y father, tryin g to b e noticed but not annoying as I wanted to begin my new life a s a kid o f means . Finall y Molly intervened an d reminded he r husban d wh o promptl y change d allowance day to Saturday. I'd have to sleep on it. Following breakfas t th e next day he took me aside 91

and surprise d m e b y offerin g a choice. H e extende d both arms , hands palm up, with a single silver coin in each. I was to select one. No one's fool, I went for the larger o f th e tw o coin s an d a quic k readin g o f m y father's fac e tol d m e I' d gotte n awa y wit h it . Tha t afternoon Moll y an d I mad e our way on foo t t o th e old service station b y the highway , which had a small wooden concessio n stan d with a large shutter, hinge d at the top and supported by a stick. It was a stretch for me t o reac h up an d deposit my precious coi n o n th e counter o f tha t treasur e house . Row s o f brigh t foi l bags, brilliantly coloured paper wrappers, glass jars of chromatic gu m balls, long strips o f white pape r wit h tiny half beads of candy stuck to them — green, yellow, blue, red and purple — and small boxes that promised both swee t stuff an d a prize. The ol d lady behind th e counter patiently explained what my silver coin would buy and waited while I agonized ove r the choices. The followin g Saturda y was a repetitio n o f th e first — th e selection , th e wal k and the bi g decision . After severa l week s o f thi s I finall y encountere d another kid at the stand. As he was ahead of me, I was obliged to wait until he had finished his deliberations . I knew it wouldn't take long as this slightly older boy only had on e of those patheticall y small and thin silver coins that I had passed over. I was outraged when he wa s handed twic e wha t I' d bee n receiving . Th e

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storekeeper an d m y mothe r trie d t o mollif y m e — without success . I felt betrayed. Then the shopkeepe r produced a pair of coins, a s had m y father, an d care fully explaine d the differenc e betwee n a nickel and a dime an d th e relativ e value s o f apparentl y simila r metals. When Molly finally understood the game that my fathe r ha d bee n playin g wit h m e sh e angril y marched us home and confronted him . He wa s sheepish, wha t els e could h e be? Lookin g back from th e present I can now see that thi s was to become a pattern. When he taught me how to sail, he explained the perils of a gybe but never how to execute a controlled one . Then he'd race me in our cedar-strip dinghies, skilfully gybing around the turning rock and beat me back to the dock. All of this ricochets aroun d my brain whenever I confront one of my sons across a pool table or slip ahead of one of them on a bicycle or in a kayak. I know that they're convince d that I withhold informatio n an d fai l t o teac h the m ho w to us e tools. .I'm no t consciou s o f competing , bu t I surel y must be. John Mitchell rows past Laurel Point and elects t o hu g th e sout h shor e o f the Inne r Harbour rathe r tha n cros s t o Songhee s Point. H e row s outboar d o f th e Victoria Clipper an d the Coho — both are loading for the States .

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He crosses James Bay, then ships his oars and holds for a float plane to taxi outbound. Th e win d is rising bu t there are no seas in this protected Inne r Harbour . Natrix sipedon slip s throug h th e wate r — slithering, sibilant , sinuous and sexy. I watch the four-foo t blac k wate r snak e undulatin g just offshore belo w the high pink rocks. Its body is as thick as my eight-year-old arm . My'father emerge s from the big , dark, board-andbatten cottage . Th e scree n doo r slam s behin d him . Black hair , ic y white ski n an d a boxe r bathin g suit . Long pale feet move a pipe an d thick-bottomed glas s of rye. He cough s and moves toward a bench on a high dome o f gneiss. He sit s down , crossing hi s pale thi n legs. The win d whispers through th e white pines an d small waves lick the rocks. It's late July. He doesn' t see me crouched in a cleft. The snak e oscillate s alon g th e hig h roc k dom e searching fo r a landing. Commande r Mitchell' s pal e blue eyes are focused somewhere just short of infinity. He's los t i n hi s tobacc o an d alcoho l — staring ou t across the bay toward th e islands several miles to th e north. The snak e carves 5"s in the thick water— sideslipping alon g th e roc k face , it s hea d high , blac k tongue flickering, near me. Up above I hear.ice cubes clink in a glass, then throat-clearing. There's a desert clarity to the light. Sky, rocks, water, pines — needle

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sharpness everywher e bu t i n th e deliciou s depth s o f soft wate r caressin g rocks and sliding alon g the thic k dark body of the snake. Then I hear the bench fal l backwards and the brilliant crash of the rye glass on rocks — the serpent has been seen . My father is now up an d moving, passin g behind an d above me, oblivious t o m y presence. Hi s furrowed fac e ha s turned brigh t red a s he race s ove r the rock s throwing stones , stick s — anything h e ca n find — at the big dark snake. His movements become stiff, jerky , convulsive . The tendon s i n hi s neck cord out rigidly , th e dee p flus h o f hi s fac e ha s begu n t o ,cloak his shoulders. H e i s frantic, pitching stone afte r stone a t the snak e as it swims along the shore . Natrix sipedon dive s easily and my father stiff-legs it back and forth across the shore rocks, his he"ad bulled-down and glistening wit h sweat . The snak e resurface s 2 0 fee t down shore and my old man is clawing through mor e loose rocks and tossing volleys that geyser around his fearsome serpent . A pale man o n fire scrabbles alon g the shore . Snake s mak e hi m blind , mad , crazy . He' s terrified. The snak e is all control . A great serpent with the feathers of a Quetzal once held th e hig h Mexica n plateau . Ther e wa s a tim e when a Rainbow Serpent churned outback dust in the Aborigines' mind . An d the Kwakiut l onc e whispere d tales o f Sisiutl , a serpent beas t wit h a head a t eithe r end. My father is in thrall to them all . I am outside —

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feeling nothing. It's just a snake. But I greatly fear th e old man's flailing loss of control, his enormous terror . The littl e whit e wherr y lie s agains t th e float dock, its painter made fast t o a wooden piling, blac k and rank with creosote . Coiled , wet, glistening , th e balanc e o f the lin e sun s on the deck of the dock. The wherry' s oars are neatly shipped, a beige windbreaker is folded neatl y beneath the seat . The onl y cre w member has gone ashor e for a pint. Stepping dow n fro m th e trai n I emerg e from shado w into light an d heat crashing all around m e an d spinnin g u p fro m th e whit e dust at my feet. M y head pounds a s I try to keep my balance in the dazzlin g mid-afternoon light o f south ern India. Three of us are walking toward fou r distan t gopurams, shimmering templ e tower s risin g above the Tamil Nad u tow n o f Chidambaram . A s w e pas s through th e oute r templ e wall , a stone Shiv a dances around th e gopuram abov e us , wheelin g upward s through ove r a hundred poses until reaching the peak 150 fee t abov e ou r heads . The templ e compoun d i s enormous — th e perimete r wal l enclose s a sacre d square of more tha n 3 0 acres. We bend to the heat and remove our shoes for the long barefoo t journey towar d th e nex t rin g o f walls,

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nesting, on e within th e other , in this huge Dravidia n shrine t o Nataraja , th e dancin g Shiva . W e shuffl e through a gateway and make for the thousand-pillare d hall at the centre . W e take our time an d soon dusk is upon us . A s w e pas s insid e betwee n th e ring s o f columns surrounding th e core , the groun d fall s away . We descend through ranks of pillars down stone steps in ever-increasin g darknes s until a grea t blac k cube looms up before us blocking our way — the very dark heart o f Nataraja' s shrine . W e stan d surrounde d b y hundreds of devotees, motionless , silent , expectant , i n the dim-dancing torchlight . Minutes stretc h i n the darknes s — it's suffocating , claustrophobic an d dauntin g — s o man y peopl e s o quiet and still. Finally, a bell rings. The sound , coming from somewher e off in the distan t recesses of the colonnade, is very small but unmistakable . It gradu ally slip s awa y lik e th e light . Quiet . Anothe r bel l rings — larger, lower , longer. I know this one — my father's ship's bell lifted from the bridg e when one of his vessels went into lay-up. I've heard him striking i t amidst th e humpin g rock s o f the bay . I'm no w very focused and alert. The familia r ring dies away. A brief quiet follow s — only the whispe r of a thousand peo ple breathing. Suddenly a large r bel l rings , the n anothe r an d another an d another. More hidden bells clan g in th e darkness an d th e cacophon y mounts , buildin g an d 105

building until m y head is a hollow ringing, screamin g sphere an d every organ i n my body is vibrating, sick eningly to th e grea t circlin g engin e o f noise roarin g through a thousand stone pillars in the blackness. The unrelenting soun d expand s and expand s until I fee l ready to fall down and vomit. The sanctu m before me suddenly burst s ope n an d dozen s o f idol s withi n explode into flame . Th e bell s cease and their dimin ishing soun d swing s round an d round th e grea t hall, decaying as the violent light from Shiva and his burning consort s get s hotter . The n door s o f the sanctum santorum clos e wit h a crash . W e ar e lef t drained , stunned an d stupefied in the dark . Silence seep s back. The ritua l is over. We leave for a night of restless sleep in the heat, , Late th e nex t mornin g w e boar d a bu s fo r th e great templ e tow n o f Kumbakona m a fe w hour s away. It' s a lon g dust y rid e i n th e hea t wit h man y stops o n th e route . A s w e approac h Kumbakonam the many gopurams of the town's four enormous tem ples climb skyward in golden dusk . I'm beginnin g t o understand wha t th e man y ceremonia l centre s o f Oaxaca — where I'd onc e don e archaeologica l work — must have been like when they were living places. We descen d a t th e bu s statio n an d mak e ou r wa y toward Bi g Bazaar Street . The marke t is still open. Here and there stal l owners are lighting lamps as night falls. There's a commo-

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tion down the stree t a s a very large elephant emerges from on e o f th e templ e gates . I t ha s no rider . Thi s magnificent creatur e wears a crimson blanket covered with bell s — in fac t th e whol e anima l is covered with hundreds o f bells all of an extremely distinctive shape. Each golde n bel l has a knife-edged brass ring turne d around i t just below the shoulder. I think of Saturn. The elephan t makes its way from stall to stall, pausing at each to exten d it s trunk to the owners , eac h of whom offer s a few rupees. It the n flip s it s trunk backwards over its head periodically, dropping the offering s into a large basket on its back. It's a hypnotic sigh t — we watch open-mouthed unti l the rounds are complete and th e grea t beast retreats int o its temple. We begi n walking again. We need to find somewhere to eat. Many o f the stall s ar e beginnin g to clos e up . W e move on to a new street where most are already shuttered fo r th e night . However , nea r th e en d o f th e block ligh t spill s fro m a singl e larg e stall . W e wal k down to investigate, hoping to get food . It's the shop of a cookware vendor. Huge aluminum pots ar e stacke d alon g th e canva s walls right u p th e roof. Between them are many columns o f smaller pan s of al l shapes and sizes . There's a small open spac e in the middle where two men sit on a carpet under a bare bulb drinking tea. They get up to greet us. These me n ar e brothers . On e own s th e stall , th e other, a scrap metal dealer and ship-breaker, is visiting 705

from th e opposit e coast . We immediatel y fall int o an animated discussion . Bac k i n Toront o I ha d bee n working o n a projec t t o tur n tw o vintag e Lak e Michigan railwa y ferries into studios. I'd struc k a deal with th e Harbour Commission fo r a thousand fee t of seawall near Cherry Beach . On options I'd gotten tw o 33O-foot ferrie s fro m th e 1920 5 a s fa r a s th e nort h shore o f Lake Erie wher e the y were a t this momen t frozen int o a littl e harbou r nea r Por t Colborne . I loved those old ships. Each had a pair of triple expansion steam engines of a magnificence that would make you weep: such beautiful doomed technology from th e days whe n bi g machine s jus t whispere d an d sighe d rather tha n crashin g awa y like th e engine s o f hell. I was going to giv e them a new life . The shipbreake r pulls a calculator out of his dhot i and begin s punchin g number s a s he interrogate s m e about m y boats . I n a minute , wit h a bi g grin , h e announces tha t I a m payin g $350,00 0 fo r th e ships . He i s right. H e know s the spo t price o f scrap steel in every part o f the planet . It i s his business, bu t still, I am impressed. As the conversation winds down it ends the way so many in southern India do . He ask s me if there i s anything he can do for me. During th e firs t fe w weeks of travel I didn' t tak e this goodbye seriously. I thought tha t it was as empty a salutation as "Have a nice day" or "Take care. " It is only recently that I've begun to understand that when 106

people in the sout h sa y it to you they mean it. "Wel l yes," I say , "ther e actuall y is. " I tel l hi m ho w entranced I wa s by th e sigh t o f the alms-collectin g temple elephant . If ther e i s anything I want to tak e away fro m Indi a i t i s on e o f thos e beautifu l bras s bells. We have travelled b y bus and bicycle with on e tiny backpack each so it will have to be small. But it will always remind m e of people and places from on e of life's richest experiences . "It will be no problem," he says . "Jus t retur n i n a couple o f hours." S o we se t of f once agai n t o tr y t o find supper. Dinne r turn s int o a long meditatio n o n life and death. One of my travel companions has been living with an aggressive cancer for several years. This Indian adventure is a brief remission trip during which he ha s hope d t o fin d absolution , salvatio n an d a renewed life. He i s still very ill, frantic an d desperate . This evenin g w e ar e dealin g wit h hi s conditio n b y drinking many quarts of Bullet Super Strong Beer. We are all getting les s and less coherent . "Oh shit ! I forgo t abou t th e bells, " I suddenl y exclaim. "I'v e go t t o g o — the brother s ma y still be waiting for me." I throw some rupees on the table and set of f throug h th e no w ver y dar k street s o f Kumbakonam. After a few wrong turns, I finally spy the stall down the next block. Miraculously the light s are still on. When I reach it, with a mixture of breathlessness an d guilt , I freez e i n th e dust y street . Th e

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place is totally transformed . The pot s an d pans have vanished. The whol e stal l glow s with a golden ligh t reflecting of f dozens and dozens of bells. I mus t b e standin g i n th e stree t fo r quit e a lon g time because finally one of the brothers come s out to get me. He explain s that the y sent runner s — young boys — out to various foundries around the town and have had them bring in all the bells they could find. I feel very awkward — there ha s clearly been a misunderstanding. Apologeticall y I begi n t o explai n agai n that I am travelling largely by bicycle and carry only a small backpack. I only need one bell. "We know that," he says . "Th e importan t thin g is that i t b e the righ t one — that it be your bell." They pour me tea and hand me a bell to ring. I listen carefull y an d put it down . I a m given another . I drink tea and ring bells well into the night. Some are tiny thing s tha t ca n b e hel d betwee n tw o fingers. A couple o f them are as big as washtubs — it must have taken severa l peopl e t o carr y the m there . Ther e are bells of every conceivable size in between. All are th e same beautifu l shape . I rin g the m al l and finally find one that speak s to me. I a m lucky — it is only abou t seven inches high. I drin k mor e tea , ring more bell s and then return to my choice and play it again. There is absolutely no question in my mind — this is my bell. The olde r brother places it on a scale. Three kilos. He pulls ou t hi s calculator , run s u p som e number s and 108

asks me for two dollars. India is the moon , it's hell, it is heaven, it's Mars. I brough t tha t bel l back to Canada , took it home , and los t it . I t wa s gone fo r nearly a decade and the n one winter day , unpacking some boxes, I recovered it . Never agai n woul d I misplac e i t i n a move . I n th e spring I packed that bell in my bag and took i t north when th e ic e began t o brea k up. I ra n i t ou t t o th e island in my boat and hung it from a rafter besid e my father's shi p bell . The y wer e th e sam e size . The y sound th e sam e note. On e i s a little sharp , the othe r slightly flat. Puberty fall s lik e a roug h ston e int o glassy water s afte r firs t light . I n a n instant th e wate r follow s th e ston e down a polished hole towar d th e depths , then , afte r briefly eruptin g into a small squirting geyser, collapses into glistening rings rolling outwards, searching for the shore . The ring s touch everything . All is charged and changing . Friendships shift, yo u avoid your siblings and hide from you r parents . Yo u desperately need t o elude th e whole adult world of teachers, policemen, neighbours and relatives . We'd ru n off to the rail yards. There was only one train a week . I t woul d stea m dow n th e mai n lin e from Toronto , g o onto a short siding , and then clat iop

ter throug h a manual switc h an d crawl through th e fields nort h int o town . I t wa s a n ol d Canadia n National 4-6-4 , #5431, a coal burner, pulling a handful o f boxcars of lumber an d a caboose. The res t o f the week the place was ours. We soon learned how to jimmy ope n on e o f th e ol d woode n warehouse s flanking th e tracks . Stra w an d excelsio r la y o n th e floor an d sunligh t knife d throug h th e plank s in th e walls, slicin g u p th e dust . We' d g o dow n i n smal l gangs, boys and girls, climb the loading platform and breathlessly giggle ou r way through th e crac k in th e sliding door . Onc e inside , we'd take off our clothes . It wa s best to g o there wit h th e Dutc h girls . Th e four sister s ha d everything. Th e oldest , well into her late teens, was already a woman, big, fleshy, and knowing. He r fifteen-year-ol d siste r wa s lith e an d quiet . Marta, just passing twelve, had a soft round belly, high breasts an d stron g white : thighs. Th e younges t was a tiny sylph with large pink nipples on her flat chest and a soft mound, split like a mouth, between her legs. She was the only one without pubic hair. We'd tumble , crawl and explore, sharing our bod ies, th e sligh t acri d smel l o f urine , th e faint , sweet , whiff of shit and the near perfection of youth. Pale figures i n th e golde n darknes s slipped quickl y throug h the sunlight slashe s from th e unbattened walls. It was our Eden. Then th e oldes t gir l woul d ge t anxious . Slowl y no

we'd al l pul l o n ou r clothe s an d on e b y on e danc e through the crack in the door out into the brittle light of the day . A crow often calle d from th e roof . Pickups rattled dow n th e cinde r roa d behin d th e bi g sheds . We'd al l climb the hill back home to the smell of furniture polis h an d th e tickin g o f a doze n clocks . Th e adults were in charge again. I'm holdin g a late ipth-centur y pho tograph mad e by the Steffen s Studi o i n Chicago. A photographer o f th e perio d woul d have called i t a cabinet card — a mount slightl y over fou r by six inches, bevelled and gilded on the edges , with a radius on the corner s an d an embossed imprint. Th e albumen print on the mount records a moment in the lives o f tw o ver y pretty youn g girls : Molly' s mothe r and her olde r sister. I never knew the older sister, Molly's Aunt Louisa, but th e younge r an d prettier o f the two , m y grandmother, Elizabeth Chapin Greene, was a major figur e in m y youth. Sh e was tough, yo u couldn' t ge t much past her , bu t sh e coul d als o b e ver y generous . Th e daughter o f a successfu l Chicag o stockbroker , sh e brought a respectabl e inheritanc e t o he r marriage . But she also married well, not to money, but to talent, charm, har d wor k an d decency . M y grandfather' s family, th e Greenes , ha d bee n knockin g aroun d th e western en d o f Lak e Ontari o fo r a fe w generations . in

As far as I ca n figure out, th e famil y had tw o trades, Anglican ministry o r lawyering, business and dissolu tion, with successive generation s alternatin g betwee n the two. As Church o f England ministers, they set up an earl y paris h nea r Dunda s an d Burlington . A branch of the family did missionary work on the B.C. coast — my distan t cousin , Cano n Greene , an d hi s little steamer , bot h missio n shi p an d church , bein g well known in the coasta l communities o n the inside passage and up to Skagway and the Queen Charlotte s as the Columbia Coast Mission. That was where the tw o unrelated families , Mitchell s an d Greenes , firs t unknowingly intersected : man y o f th e breakwater s and wharve s that sheltere d th e missio n shi p o n he r journeys up the coast were engineered b y my father's father. Across th e countr y an d a generatio n later , th e Greenes an d Mitchells were also accidentally crossing paths. A we b o f convolute d knot s an d unravelling s took m e to th e easter n arcti c severa l times, which in turn got me: involved with some Inuit artists who the connected m e t o Cano n Greene' s so n who was running a gallery o f Inuit ar t i n Toronto . Hi s beautifu l green cano e woul d occasionall y arriv e a t m y island after a night crossin g o n Georgia n Bay . Looking like Hemingway, pas t 70, and usually with a woman many decades younge r i n th e bo w seat , h e wa s nearly a s skilled a n embroidere r o f fac t a s myself . When, a t

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some poin t i n hi s 70 5 h e decide d that h e coul d n o longer tolerate sleepin g on the har d rocks of the bay in the cold rain, he passed on all his canoeing maps to me, includin g a n elaborat e map , tha t he' d hand drawn, o f all 330 islands in tha t mystica l and remot e offshore archipelago , the Bustard Islands. He to o was a painter. As was the Green e wh o marrie d the broker' s prett y daughter fro m Chicago . B y day a businessman wh o served a s presiden t o f severa l corporations , chiefl y ones makin g cigarettes an d cigars , he was , by nigh t and b y Sundays , yet anothe r painte r an d sometim e sketcher wit h variou s member s o f th e Group . I remember sitting, more than a decade after my grandfather died , wit h th e printe r Chuc k Matthew s an d A. J. Casson at the former's house and having the two men sa y t o me , "Here , borro w thes e drawings . If you're eve n half the man that Lorry Greene was, we know tha t you'l l brin g the m back. " It mad e me fee l very small. Was m y Green e grandmothe r tough ? On e tim e when my parents were away on a business trip, my sister and I were deposited with that formidable woman at her countr y place, Four Oaks , outside of Ancaster, Ontario. I t wa s a rathe r charmin g whit e clapboar d place that rambled along, in various extensions, under some ancient giant oaks overlooking a wheat field that

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rolled off down to the west toward Dundas. I was back there recently . The hous e stil l stand s but th e rolling field ha s bee n sol d of f an d subdivided . We liv e i n a culture o f amnesi a — ther e ar e onl y present s an d imagined futures — so I was very touched to discover that the new street was called Greenefield. When we stayed with her we always fell into a pattern. My sister and I would be playing along until an argument,, Sue would throw a tantrum, I'd punc h he r and she' d g o crying t o ou r grandmothe r wh o would tell her to work out the business with me herself. She would return shouting and , of course, I would then go to my grandmother fo r backup. No deal . At this point my siste r an d I woul d becom e allie s wit h a mutual hatred o f ou r heartles s grandmother . No w sid e b y side, we'd approach her to ensure that she understood how cruel she was and how superior was her daughter, Molly, our mother. In fact , she' d better know that we were no w leaving and going bac k home to Mommy. "Fine!" sh e woul d say , and of f we'd set , tw o deter mined preadolescents , o n th e jo-mil e wal k bac k home. This occurred a number of times. We'd usually get down the long drive and then a mile or two down the public lane to the highway. The ol d highway was narrow and home to considerable truck traffic s o we'd be obliged to walk in the ditch. It was scary and exhausting so at some point we'd be forced to giv e up. Ou r

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PLATE I I

the broker's pretty daughters., Louisa and Elizabeth., circa 1890

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defeated retur n was always humiliating. I'd hav e trouble reachin g th e larg e bras s lio n knocke r an d Elizabeth Chapi n Green e woul d tak e he r tim e answering it. Aroun d thi s tim e Moll y trie d takin g a leaf fro m he r mother' s boo k an d dumpe d bot h o f us out o n th e shoulde r o f Highwa y 2 in th e middl e of winter. She drove off, spinning a mixture of gravel and ice int o ou r faces . Experience d highwa y walkers, we trudged hom e throug h nearb y fields . Year s later , Molly confesse d tha t sh e wa s nearly paralyze d with guilt all the way back in the ca r and while waiting for us in th e hous e telephone d ever y friend tha t sh e had as a distraction. Not s o her mother . Now when I think o f Granny Greene, I' m impressed by the intelligence tha t adaptability requires . Her e wa s a woma n wh o reache d adulthood durin g th e nineteent h centur y an d live d late int o th e twentieth . A n adult befor e automobile s existed, she spent the last quarter of her lif e jetting to Europe ever y summer an d t o Barbado s fo r th e win ters. She shared this extraordinary shift with her many grandchildren. Thanks t o her interest and her pocketbook, we were all sent of f on a version o f th e gran d tour. As the oldes t of all the cousins , I was the first to go. A t 15 , I wa s bundle d of f i n lat e sprin g o n th e Montreal trai n a t Unio n Statio n i n Toronto , the n down t o th e Por t o f Montreal b y ca b an d ont o th e Empress o f France. There followed a n amazin g voyage 115

down the St . Lawrence, past the cliff s an d battlements of Quebec City and out the Straits of Belle Isle, all the while dodgin g an armad a o f icebergs. I ca n still fee l the dee p chil l tha t woul d envelop e th e deck s as we steamed by each aqua island of ice. I spent the eight day crossing playing strip poker with a variety of notso-proper youn g girl s fro m remnant s o f th e Commonwealth — Kenya, Australia, and Malta. I was learning things — just as my grandmother wished. As a callow youth of 15,1 can't claim to have appreciated what she did for me at the time. I am pained now to think of the bills I ran up, staying for six weeks in a hotel suit e in Knightsbridge, and I recall with amazement havin g rented a n Austin A3 5 — I had neither a driver's licence nor experience . The onl y incident tha t I no w remembe r i s gettin g los t o n a roundabou t i n Plymouth and being screamed at by bus and lorry drivers as I wobbled round and round the centr e island in that little white car, trying to decide where and when I should bail out of the circle . Much of that trip seems an improbable dream and in man y ways it was . One o f my big passions at th e time was astronom y Sinc e I had little mone y I built my own telescopes . Many winter nights , afte r doin g my homework, I would solemnly walk for two hours around a stool in the basemen t to which I had glued a glas s blan k fo r a n eight-inc h reflectin g telescope mirror. Nigh t afte r night , fo r mont h afte r month , I •116

rotated on e thick blank on top of the other, with everfiner grades of jeweller's rouge in between, as I slowly, painstakingly, ground a parabolic curve into the glass. That telescope did get built and I did get to see Saturn's rings an d the moons o f Jupiter. On my English trip I stayed wit h a cousi n o f m y grandmother' s wh o ha d been a rear admira l in th e Roya l Navy. H e too k m e into hi s backyar d i n Gilfor d an d showe d m e hi s observatory. I t ha d an enormous bras s refractor telescope o n a flute d cast-iro n pedesta l centre d unde r a rotating dome . M y telescop e wa s a cardboar d tube , azimuth-mounted on a wooden ladder. In Lancashire my two great uncles, Frank and Jack Mitchell, too k m e o n numerou s da y trips an d hikes . We'd se t of f eac h da y i n a 193 5 Daimle r limousine , regularly refreshin g ourselve s a t inn s an d pubs . On e day we made an expedition to the site of a key incident in a somewhat obscure narrative poem that they treasured. Durin g th e lon g outboun d drive , a grumbl e of alarming noises began to issue from wha t was then, a t least, a 2 5-year-old transmission . Thoug h no t ye t a legal driver, I had some mechanical expertise, busying myself, at that time, with the systematic desecration of a perfectly preserved 192 7 Plymouth Coup e purchased from a farmer nea r Peterborough . A neighbour an d I put motorcycle fender s o n it, changed the wheels, and painted tha t littl e coup e baby blue. When my partner paid for a brand new Oldsmobile V8 to re-power it -• — n7

the cas h handove r wa s i n th e Rosebow l Dine r i n Oshawa -— he was putatively given a map of the near by Lak e Ontari o shorelin e wit h a n X marke d o n it . The motor , supposedly lifte d durin g a G M nightshirt was wrapped in tarpaper and buried in Oshawa Beach. My two great uncle s seeme d no t i n the leas t con cerned, abou t th e dru m ki t beneat h th e floorboards . We carried on , paid our respects a t the riverside loca tion o f th e ancien t drama , an d limpe d of f i n ou r thumping limo for tea. I eventuall y got tired o f being patronized wheneve r I attempte d t o aler t ol d Fran k and Jack to the dying transmission. When we emerged, drunk and sleepy, from a very leisurely lunch, I discovered th e reason for their lac k of concern. They had a secondj almost identical Daimler, with a second, nearly identical driver , waitin g fo r u s i n th e ca r park . W e swept off , ou r schedul e uninterrupted , leavin g th e original car and driver, like an abandoned tea trolley. Forty five years after thi s trip I found a thick bundle o f aerogramme s carefull y seale d i n a "HEFT Y OneZip" foo d storag e bag . All dated the summe r of '59, they were one half of an astonishingly intense correspondence betwee n Molly , travellin g wit h m e i n England, an d her husban d back in Ontario . H e ha d carefully filed and saved all her letters : she had tossed his. With Moll y an d I wanderin g abou t Englan d an d Sue of f for a summer o f camp , h e clearl y was lonel y 118

and lost . H e ha d conducte d a pape r pursui t o f he r across th e Atlantic , dow n int o Cornwal l an d Devo n and al l the wa y up int o th e Yorkshir e Dales. Sh e had tried t o mollify him every 48 hours with a brisk log of our adventures spiked with some yearning and sympathy. Although w e were officiall y a trio — Molly, he r mother Elizabeth Chapin and myself— we often went our separat e ways for several days at a time. Whil e I was enthusiasticall y loggin g warships , exploring pill boxes, climbin g tower s an d spelunking , a dram a o f love, loss and loneliness wa s being scratched onto little squares of thin blu e paper. They would have regularly passed eac h othe r mid-Atlanti c o n th e 18-hou r mai l flights. He was clearly trying to get her to come home. 2istjune, 5 9 Empress o f France Last night they had a special evening of the "Empres s Daily" consisting o f six passengers cutting lon g pieces of tape with curved nail scissors. You were to bet on them. I won on a long-haired ma n — enough mone y to keep me in cigarette s at $2 a pack for the rest of the trip. Michael seems to be. hitting i t off with Erica, a young woman from Keny a who is traveling with her mother. Your lazy son is just getting up at i o'clock . There was a dance last night an d he danced with me then disappeared . He was the last in the cabin, well afte r i A.M. The part y was fun but I missed you. Molly

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July 27 , '5 9 ' Basil Street Hotel, Knightsbridge Well I suppose that you are running ou t of socks . . . I fee l like a nun o r a girl in boarding school. I'll probabl y break out of my cell with a Hell of a yell so watch out! Molly

August 2nd, '59 Ibid Terribly sleepy but I'll mak e a start anyway. I am trying to get as many replies of f to you as possible. You sound so blue in yours. I hope that your endless bad dreams go away. We are all together again so Michael i s back in the roo m with me tonight a s mother wanted one to herself as usual. It works out better as she can have a rest without being disturbed by him a s he is always slumped over his diary and nearly asleep. He i s so long-winded abou t his adventures of the da y that he has a hard time getting to sleep before midnight ever y night. Molly

August 1 2 Looe, Cornwal l O.K. S o I just got an outside report on your trip to G.B. and I hear thai: you're a bronzed, handsome, bachelor. Eh! I will

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look pale and dried up beside you. When I see these couples here in the hotel I feel like a widow or a spinster. Da d is coming over soon to take Mum to Denmark. I wonder if he could slip you in his suitcase. Molly

AugUSt 20T H

Rock, Cornwall Well I must go to sleep. Mike and I are sharing a room again and he writes in his diary for hours until I can't stand it any longer. He mus t have a whole book by now. He i s so long-winded. Now the dancing orchestra downstairs is playing Tea For Two, making me homesick for you. Molly

AugUSt 24T H

Plymouth We spent the day at Peignton where mother's Purita n ancestors come from. In the ancient parish church they got out an old birth book and other records from a safe an d there he was, Samuel Chapin, born 1589 , one of the on e hundred people who sailed on the Mayflower in 1620 . Molly

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There i s als o one lette r fro m m e apologizin g fo r not writing sooner . AugUSt 26T H

London. Well I'm really becoming an Englishman. I've carefull y studied their lingo. A few days ago I went and saw King Arthur's castle, which really isn't his castle and has nothing to do with him at all. It was built in 120 0 A.D. and old Art lived in 50 0 A.D. We went to Peignton th e other day to see the parish church where Samuel Chapin was born, baptized and married. He was Gran's great, great, great, great, great grandfather or something. He was one of the pilgrim father s and founded Springfield , Mass in the States. The churc h is full o f carved figures of saints but ol d Sam, being a Puritan, knocked all their heads off. I went to an amusement park and had my fortune told by Madame So and So. She said I have unusual powers of attraction fo r the opposite sex. What a lot of guff. Toda y they had rowing races in Hyde Park, an Olympic warm-up by many countries. When the rowing shells raced the announcer declared it was "really ripping, chaps" or "jolly fine race." When th e Canadians came out in war canoes he referred to their beautiful boat s as "a rather difficult an d crowded way of traveling over water." I still haven't seen a cricket match yet. Sinner ! Au Revoir Mike

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"Hi, Mike . You r father's no t her e — he's taken hi s little boa t dow n t o th e se a again. God's teeth ! Who know s where he goe s or what he does in that thing. He'll be gone for hours, if not the day. Maybe this time he won't be late for supper. " Listenin g t o m y mother' s voic e o n th e phone I can suddenly see the kind of meal she'll make him. Potatoe s wil l b e boiled , she'l l tha w som e pea s and throw a couple of patties from a package — they'll look and taste like skinny brown hockey pucks — into a thi n aluminu m non-stic k pan . Eatin g he r cookin g was a job, like brushing one' s teeth. In th e mi d '6os while at university I me t Annick . Mor e tha n a decad e later, afte r variou s twist s an d turns , she becam e th e mothe r o f tw o boy s that Joh n Mitchel l wryl y calle d th e firs t Jewis h Mitchells. Born in Paris to a Jewish mother, she was at the nexu s o f tw o grea t culinar y traditions , althoug h she generally referred to i t al l as just "fressing." No t long afte r w e met sh e asked me if there wa s anything that Molly cooked that I liked. I flipped through years of supper s in m y mind , tryin g t o recal l anythin g i n Molly's hastily thrown togethe r meals that was memorable. A dim image of a dinner calle d "Stuffed Flan k Steak" finally surfaced. It would appear several times a year — I could eat it. The followin g weekend Annick 125

invited me for supper. Beaming, she placed dinner on the table while I opened a bottle o f student wine. "What's that? " I aske d he r — it didn' t loo k lik e anything she' d eve r cooke d before . Her triumphan t smile wavered briefly. "It' s Stuffe d Flan k Steak, " sh e replied. I stare d a t i t more closel y an d the n finall y tried a piece. A roll of lightly cooked beef was cloaked in a sauce o f considerable subtlety. The whol e thin g was tende r an d deliciou s bu t she' d go t i t al l wrong. Molly's Stuffe d Flan k Steak had sat on the platter like a long, dried, grey turd. Its only taste was the stuffing , the sam e one tha t fille d he r dessicate d chicke n an d turkey dinner s a t Thanksgivin g an d Christmas . I f Annick was going to memorialize my best WASP dinner she was going t o learn how to leave the ove n on and forget th e spic e jars. John Mitchel l woul d not hav e eaten it. 2003. I'm sittin g on the dec k of my sister's condominium eight floors above downtown Toronto. Sue is beside me , giggling , a s sh e hand s m e a transparen t freezer ba g full o f grubby cards. "What's this? " I ask. "Open it . I jus t foun d the m unpackin g som e of Mum's boxes from Victoria. " The greas y stack of three by five cards is subdivided with crumple d inde x card s o n crea m stock . I fli p through th e tabs : Sandwiches , Frostings, Pies , Sala d Dressings, Soups , Fritters, Preserves . I look under Sea Foods. The firs t car d say s "Shirt

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Waste $800.0 0 — Sold. " Th e shirtwais t car d i s followed by "Onion Stud y — Sold $95." The nex t card is a recipe fo r Seven-minut e Frui t Whip with a card for Frui t Sala d Stretc h glue d o n th e back . "Whe n making fruit salad to serve a large group (or to stretc h a small amount of leftover fruit ) ad d cubes of fruit gelatin. Make the gelatin with juice from canne d fruit." Thankful I' d misse d tha t dessert . I fli p t o Soups . The firs t recip e is for Ground Meat Whirls — missed that on e too . Nex t i s something calle d Bovril Melba Pickup. "Cut da y old bread wafer thin. Remove crusts. Spread Bovri l Cordial lightl y wit h pastr y brush (D o not soak the bread). Place on baking sheet and toast in warm oven until very crisp an d golden brown . Serv e with soups and salads. Don't waste the crusts. Dry and save them fo r bread crumbs. " I di g further. Hot Relis h tha t i s Adjustable. Leftover Cooke d Cerea l Pancakes . Peac h Whip . Hamburger Pie . Marmalad e Delight . Niblet s Brand Corn "Quickies. " Moll y ha d a secre t lif e — I don' t remember an y of these. "Eas y Lunch: i ca n of Tom. Soup / i ca n Green Habita t Sou p / curr y powde r / Crab" — more familiar . Zucchin i o f the Week . And then "Minno w Poo l — Jan . 23/77 , Image s West , $250, sold. " This i s al l classi c Fog filing . She' s suddenly so present I feel very sad. "Leftover green s can be palatable if seasoned well with spice d ha m spread , heav y crea m toppe d wit h 125

crumbs an d browned. " "Hurry ! Pleas e sen d m e copies o f Occasions, The Kno x Recipe Book, at $3.0 0 and on e proof o f purchase. Please allow 4 to 6 weeks for delivery. " No t sent . Money' s Mushroom s an d Asparagus Recipe is written o n th e bac k of a cheque from th e Ban k of Montreal. Then , I find it. "Stuffe d Flank Stea k — costs $1.67 , May 1948 , Women's Da y Kitchen." Nex t i s a divide r car d labelle d Famil y Favourite Beef . O n th e bac k i s printe d a recip e fo r Beef Brisket acros s whic h Molly has written i n ball point, "Don' t do this brisket — tastes awful. " Driving bac k fro m Ottaw a a fe w weeks after thi s meeting with my sister, I decide to turn off Highway 7 at Pert h an d visit Molly' s younge r sister , Barbara . A retired ar t teache r a t Centra l Technica l Schoo l i n Toronto an d long-tim e arcti c travelle r wit h painte r Doris McCarthy, Bar has decided to spend her 70 5 and 8os i n a smal l overstuffe d bungalo w i n Perth . I'v e phoned ahea d s o she has supper fo r tw o on th e tabl e when I arrive. She's put ou t a beer for me -— her glass is ful l o f a clear but slightl y oily looking liquid that I recognize fro m he r olde r sister' s las t dinners . I don' t think tha t eithe r o f them eve r put muc h mix in with their liquor, In the centre of the table a great truncated cone o f rosy aspi c trembles o n a large plate. Shelled shrimp hang in the jellied gloom like little chin a commas. A s she dishes it out I remember the recipe. Molly had i t filed between Marmalade Pudding — costs 29 126

cents (October 1947 ) and Coffe e Gelati n Cube s with Custard — Source of Vitamins A, E Complex. Even deat h can' t vanquis h Savor y Aspi c wit h Shrimps — costs $1.25, April 1947. Snow ha s bee n e hig h winds o f thi s lat e winte r stor m fo r ove r 5 0 hours . From my studio window I watch it slash across neighbouring backyard s and swin g in wil d eddie s aroun d the fenc e posts . As we begin the thir d day , the accumulation i s just topping th e sil l that front s my desk. There are reports of 3o-foot waves rolling up the eastern coas t and Buffalo, onc e again, is buried. Inside, I hav e my own small paper blizzard . This book is built of Post-its • — ideas born in the middle of phone calls and memories recovered in the night. The scribbled stickers paper the walls, cabinets and blinds. They hang lik e shake s from m y printer an d m y fax. They are falling to the floor like October leaves . I'm getting lost. These Mitchells saved everything. I'm losin g sight of what's significant. Always too curi ous to know how people spend their capita l of days, I am less certain what it all means. July 17 , 1908 . M y Mitchel l grandfather , a civi l engineer, write s hi s mothe r fro m hi s Bomba y Burmah Trading Corporation offices , som e 8000 sea miles fro m he r hous e i n Lancashire . He' s upse t

Decervers and Impoltois, riding th

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because his favourite elephant ha s died. How will he complete hi s work? He has spent the previous morn ing, ove r his boot-tops i n the monsoon mud , sawing off th e tusks . He burie d them , helped b y his coolie , but someon e mad e of f wit h the m i n th e night . Whiskey, hi s dog, is fine. He writes her from Oa k Bungalow on August 9 to complain he' s short of vegetables. He doesn' t want a birthday present . A cak e o r plu m puddin g i n a ti n would b e nic e fo r Christmas . Hi s assistan t ha s jus t been quarantined i n Mandalay. He write s agai n on September 21 . All is well. He' s got a new elephant. On Octobe r 5 he writes from Ondonga u Cam p in Burma. My Dear Father , Thanks fo r your note of August 26 and sorry my letters seem to have given some concern. Yo u ask how I like the life ou t here. It is not all beer and skittles bu t there is much to be said for it. Everybody gets ill their first rains, it is the natural order o f things. I have kept very fit, only three day s fever in all. It is seldom I notice th e loneliness . You also ask if there is any serious danger in the jungle business. What ther e is we seem to escape as a rule. There has been a lot of cholera in the villages this rains. If I thought my constitution wa s going to pot I should chuck the show. Yours affectionately , Archie

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October 22 , 1908 . H e write s hi s mother . On e o f the tusk thieves has been caught. He awaits the arrival of th e magistrat e t o issu e a warrant for th e arres t of the other. The previou s night he witnessed some magnificent dancin g a t th e for t where ther e wa s a gam bling festival. Lost Rs 14007. "There are four floatin g islands i n th e lake . On e yesterda y abou t 10 0 yard s long was heading straight for here all day but the wind changed directio n toward s evening. " This adventure ends with malaria. He's shipped out to Victori a t o recover . H e marrie s hi s nurse . She' s from Sussex . Who wer e thes e people ? I begi n excavation s in a stack o f Mitchel l carton s clutterin g m y studio . Letters, albums , clippings , contract s an d card s — it's chaos. Frank Mitchell's a Highlander wh o comes down to Lancashire followin g th e Battl e o f Prestonpan s o f September 1745 , durin g th e Jacobite Rebellion . Hi s son of the same name farms at Rochdale, where he sets up looms in a shed adjacent to the house. The weaving operation flourishes ; the y hir e additiona l staf f an d establish a full choru s t o perfor m Haydn an d Hande l in the loom house. There is also a floral society. Hard time s are the lot of the next generation. Two farms ar e abandoned by John Mitchell in consecutive famines. By 1829 they're back to the looms. Not thei r own. I2p

Next generation. Ye t another John. By age ten he's weaving fustian an d by early adulthood i s an oversee r in a cotto n mill . H e take s a wife , join s a lodge , becomes a local official an d walks in Queen Victoria's Coronation procession . By 1846 he's owner of a spindle and roller works. He take s on two partners, one of them hi s forme r schoolmaster , an d convert s a n ol d gasworks into a weaving facility. Soo n 15 0 looms are producing cotto n velvet . He sell s out to his partners but keep s th e forgin g operatio n i n th e spindl e an d roller works . Th e Crimea n Wa r bring s a smal l bonanza. He develop s a method o f machine-forgin g bayonets, hithert o mad e b y hand . Th e Ordnanc e Office contract s fo r 20,00 0 bayonets , 20,00 0 Mini e rifle sight s an d 50,00 0 rammers . However , th e orde r is cancelle d befor e completio n — politics . Bu t thi s John is not a quitter. By 1860 he's got a new partne r and th e pai r establis h Th e Primros e Pape r Mill s a t Clitheroe. Success brings a second mill . By 1867 th e partners hav e separated. Eac h get s a mill an d carrie s on. The Mitchell s are dragged into court for pollut ing local rivers an d child labour . Where does this lead? Politics — where else? This John Mitchel l become s Mayor o f Clithero e fo r tw o terms in the 18705 . He make s the local gas and water works public property an d has the municipalit y pur chase lands for a cattle market in 1877 . The citizenry have tired of stepping in cow shit on city streets. Th e

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next mayo r falls il l an d deputize s m y grea t grea t grandfather. Worker s i n th e cotto n trad e ris e u p against their master s so Deputy Mayor Mitchel l call s in th e Lancer s t o quel l th e riotin g an d arson . Until 1890 he holds Her Majesty's Commission o f the Peace and marche s a t th e hea d o f Queen Victoria's Jubile e Procession i n 1887 . Nasty business . His son Clement joins his father in the paper business — John Mitchel l an d Sons , o f course . H e als o joins th e 8t h Rifl e Voluntee r Force . I n 187 0 h e receives his commission as lieutenant and joins his fellow officers an d men fo r a sharp-shooting competitio n on the Pendle Hill Range. They shoot at 200, 500 and 800 yards. Clement emerge s triumphant wit h a silver cream jug. Clement enter s loca l politic s — tow n councillor , then alderman , count y magistrate , an d finally mayor like his father. He i s a founder of the local free library, cricket, bowling , tenni s an d golf clubs, promotes sev eral choral and operatic societies and conducts a performance o f th e Mikado . H e i s stil l peddlin g paper through th e family business. He die s in 192 2 at 81, the same age as my father. His two older sons, the bachelors Jack and Frank, take over the business , running i t successfull y fo r decades. In th e earl y sprin g o f 194 7 thei r younge r brother , Archie, makes the journe y from Vancouve r Island t o i3i

see them. O n Easte r Sunda y he addresse s a letter t o the sol e Mitchel l o f th e nex t generation , hi s so n Lieutenant Commande r John A. Mitchell, Hamilton , Canada. Almonds^ Clitheroe, Lanes. John Dear , Frank and I have been discussing your futur e prospects and also the future o f John Mitchell & Sons. In the first place and now that you have been in business for several months, you will by now be able to for m som e idea of your futur e prospects. Are they favourable? I f not, have you any alternative ideas? Regarding John Mitchell & Sons, it seems a pity for thi s very old firm to wind up. Frank points ou t that it is largely a personal business, i.e. dealing with people who are also personal friends. Perhap s you would be able to carry this on. He als o points out that it would take a year or so to learn the "ropes" and that it would be advisable to spend some time in the paper mill in order t o learn details of the paper trade. I think it would be advisable for Molly an d Mike to remain in Canada until you found ou t how it worked out. This is about all I can tell you, John, a s to whether you wish to consider the matter furthe r would seem to depend on what appears to lie ahead of you, where you are, and whether you think Molly would like the life here under these grey

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PLATE 1 2

triumphant with a silver cream jug (Clement Mitchell, 1842 ^

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skies. Perhaps Molly would not be happy away from he r family and friends. Regardin g the antiquated condition s at Almonds, you know all about that. Still rather cold and sunless but I like it here in England. My love to you all, Dad

So her e h e wa s being offere d a lon g establishe d business, a big house and the life of a long line of John Mitchells. Wha t discussion s too k plac e wit h Moll y and wha t repl y di d h e send ? Give n hi s unhappines s with hi s subsequen t enterprise s di d h e mak e a hug e mistake? Was this the biggest o f his many regrets? The ol d brothers carried on with the business until closing it and retiring in 1955 after nearly 100 years of operation. Their siste r has married out an d only the youngest brother , m y grandfather , marrie s an d ha s children, includin g th e las t John Mitchell , bu t he' s busy building bridges and breakwaters in the colonies . The sister , Sar a Elizabeth , marrie d a Clithero e man, Walter Southworth , whose famil y was, like th e Mitchells, i n th e cotto n trade . Som e years later th e Southworth mill s were to combin e cotto n and nylon in a fabric that achieved notoriety on the other side of the world as a British Expedition began its slow assault on the wolf-jawed slope s of Mount Everest.

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It has now been revealed that material for the protective clothing was made at Messrs. J. Southworth an d Sons'Jubilee Mill, Clitheroe. Cloth fo r the climbers' outer clothin g and tents was manufactured at the mill, and, while being light in weight, it is.extremely strong. Mr. Southworth told a reporter on Wednesday that the clothing being worn by the Everest men had been tested to withstand a wind force of 100 m.p.h. Mr. Southworth said that they understood that a member of the expedition — a New Zealander — had told a friend tha t their tents — of Clitheroe-made cloth — were a pleasure to live with. — Advertiser and Times, Clitheroe

I hav e tw o memories o f Sara Elizabeth . Whe n I visited th e family in the late '50 5 I though t tha t the y were all somewhat decadent. A lot of them didn't seem to work — they just lived on family money, spendin g their time getting drunk at country clubs and speeding down back lanes in their Land Rovers. However Sara , the matriarch, seeme d to spend much o f her tim e on her hands and knees in front of her large brick house with a silver-handle d knif e i n he r han d surgicall y removing the few tiny weeds from her otherwis e perfect front lawn. I would sit beside her on her puttinggreen lawn and talk. Periodically w e would escape the summer hea t togethe r b y descendin g t o th e hug e whitewashed cold cella r o f the hous e where she kept stoneware crocks of ginger beer . There, this ol d lady

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and I woul d si t o n woode n boxes , drainin g a croc k into a pair of cut crystal glasses. Frank and Jack, my great uncles, were the source of my sister's and my greatest thrills a t Christmas. Ever y November th e two old bachelors would wander about the draft y ol d family house in Clitheroe accompanied by their cook . Her jo b was to carr y a large open car ton fro m roo m t o room . Th e tw o ol d boy s woul d rummage through famil y cupboards, pull drawers and pitch th e debris of generations int o th e box. When it was fall it was sealed and shipped to Canada. The bi g brown carton preceded all other present s on Christmas day. Out would tumble Victorian games and puzzles , knives, obscure tool s an d man y objects that forever eluded identification. Somewhere I have a large collection o f button hooks . I di d sta y in tha t house , The Almonds , briefly i n 1959. The dar k pile of grey stone's chief charm was a masonry tower a t the bottom o f the garden . Here, i n a stud y a t th e top , Joh n Webster , practitione r i n physick, wrot e th e definitiv e stud y o f Lancashir e Witchcraft. Publishe d i n Londo n i n 167 7 Th e Displaying o f Supposed Witchcraft confirm s th e exis tence o f man y "deceiver s an d impostors " a s well a s "divers person s unde r a passiv e delusio n o f melan choly an d fancy. " Webster utterl y disprove s the exis tence of "a Corporeal Leagu e made betwixt the Devi l and the Witch, or that he sucks on the witches body, *35

has carnal copulation, o r that witches are turned into cats, dogs, raise tempests o r the like ..." As a bonus, he als o deals with the existenc e o f angels and spirits , apparitions, th e natur e o f astra l an d siderea l spirits , the forc e o f charm s an d philter s an d othe r abstrus e matters. All these troublesome issue s are neatly tidied up in 346 pages. D E V I L and the W IT G H, Thi s tim e w e have agreed t o mee t i n Vancouver. It's th e earl y ippo s an d my parents hav e now both passe d their three scor e an d ten. Ye t when we connec t i n th e lobb y o f a downtown Vancouver hotel they look very good. My father sports a well-cut wool overcoat and a nicely blocked brimmed hat on a rakish angle. My mother wears a smart pantsuit. They look healtby — I don' t hav e to worry for now. As we stand in th e empt y lobby debating where to eat , th e doors of the elevato r behind them open and out steps Jean Chretien . Now, I nee d t o tal k t o him. Saturday Night magazin e has bee n tryin g for week s to pu t u s together s o that I ca n do a portrait sessio n fo r a feature story and cover, but scheduling has been dogged with problems. Eac h time a date is selected one of us is unavailable . Chretie n nod s t o me , w e me t onc e before, an d rushe s b y quickly , deep i n conversatio n with a companion. No chance. I explai n to my parents what has been transpiring.

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My father, a serious politica l skeptic , seem s to hav e a certain sympath y fo r Chretie n an d urge s m e t o tel l him abou t th e sessio n i f i t eve r work s out . Moll y i s curious too . Well, no w that a decade has gone by and they're bot h gon e I realiz e tha t w e neve r go t th e chance to talk about it. A month o r so later, a date was finally set . I was to fly up to Ottawa an d meet my model at the law offices of Lang Michener. Thi s was to be no ordinary photojournalistic session. For some years I had been explor ing th e potentia l o f portraitur e don e ver y clos e u p with a large view camera. These images of friends and figures in the arts, while made by contact-printing th e entire negative , showe d onl y a carefull y chose n por tion of the face. I was trying to both comprehend th e people befor e th e camer a and, in a sense, investigat e the limits of my medium. I also wanted to question th e conventions an d assumption s o f traditiona l portrai t practice. Portrait s hav e lon g functione d a s image s designed to project authority, dignify power and project aspects of character an d personality. They do thi s through setting, clothing and posture. I t is, of course, largely a game o f pretend. Th e resul t i s a bundle o f signs designed to present an image useful t o the sitter . Can we actually discover anythin g previously unre vealed about th e subject? Our Karsh , fo r example, was skilful a t applyin g very traditiona l mean s t o su m u p and packag e the popula r imag e o f public figures . Hi s

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Hemingway o r his Churchill take everyone's expecta tions o f those figure s an d neatl y summariz e them i n single photographs . Bu t I canno t thin k o f a singl e Karsh portrait that reveals, or even hints at some hid den quality of the private person. There are no insights or secrets , jus t th e authorize d qualities . I wante d t o explore wha t woul d happe n i f on e too k awa y al l th e props — no sets,, no costumes, no gestures. I would do this b y working a t such shor t distances , that al l these elements wer e outsid e the frame . Als o by working i n such close proximity, spatial and — one hoped — other barriers, would be breached. I was trying to achiev e a kind of intimate collaboration . Initially I photographe d ol d friend s an d my chil dren this way. After a year or s o I expanded my circle of "collaborators" by working wit h peopl e I knew in the visual arts. I was as pleased with these photograph s as I ever a m with my personal work. They interested me and seemed to interest others a s well. John Frase r and hi s ar t directo r a t Saturday Night wer e curiou s what woul d happe n i f I trie d t o wor k thi s wa y with Chretien. I was far from sur e that it would be successful. I had worked with career politicians in the past and had foun d i t a deeply frustrating experience. Once a n assignment fo r a national magazin e had necessitate d my spending a n entire week, from sunris e to bedtime , with Ed Broadbent when he was NDP leader in Ottawa. Add it up; it was a lot of hours together. If you're goin g

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to b e i n eac h other's lap s 1 6 hours a day you ma y as well talk a little and get to know each other. But with Broadbent I foun d tha t any question I casually asked him cue d anothe r tap e i n hi s head , an d I' d ge t a prepackaged speech back. It never stopped, even afte r I gently confronted him and reminded him that I was only doing the photographs, no t th e text . For m e he was typical of them all, no matter of what stripe. They get s o used t o performin g in public an d being man aged that they seem to lose touch with the self . Ho w was I going to get anything out of Chretien? Readin g his recentl y publishe d autobiography , Straight From the Heart, hadn't helped. It seemed terribly empty, as if there was nobody home. Nevertheless, I was curious t o se e if I coul d pul l anything off and so agreed to try. Working so close up with a large camera demanded a great deal of light. I had to pack many cases of equipment an d hence took a fellow photographer, Doug Clark, along as an assistant. We were ushered into the librar y of the la w firm's Ottawa office s an d began the lon g process of unpacking and setting up. Although we were ready in an hour as promised, there was no sign of our subject . Finally one o f his suppor t peopl e cam e in an d aske d to se e samples of my work. When I showed her a book of my portraits sh e blanche d an d rushe d int o th e hallwa y and disappeared. More people came back with her and

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looked at my book. They were clearly alarmed — they felt that the close-ups made with such a large sheet of film were grotesque. This was not going well. Now I could hear them talking to Chretien outside the doo r and urging him to cancel the session. Then, t o m y surprise , Chretie n pushe d i n pas t them an d aske d t o se e my samples. He di d not loo k pleased bu t nevertheles s bega n askin g me questions . "Why d o yo u tak e picture s thi s way? " I bega n t o answer his enquirie s on e b y one, clearl y an d briefly . He listened carefully . More questions. I could see his people flutterin g around behind him as we huddled in the corner. I had been allotted on e hour o f set-up and one hour o f photography. Ther e were now less than 20 minutes left before his next appointment. Suddenly Chretien stoo d u p an d turne d t o hi s staff . "Pleas e leave us alone," he sai d to them , "le t the ma n do his job." Now w e wer e o n firme r ground . Thi s I ha d t o respect. Dou g and I got down to work. Before digital photography mos t photographers mad e Polaroid test s before committin g t o final film. As it was difficult t o see the inverte d an d very dim images on the groun d glass of a view camera when working close, I had made "sketching" th e fina l imag e b y makin g explorator y Polaroids, a vital part of my process. They allowed me to chec k th e lighting , exposure , focu s an d for m o f each attempt before making any final exposures. Each

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time I mad e one of these Polaroids , Chretie n woul d ask to see it. How could I refuse? H e was wedged into a very tiny space between rn y lights an d the bi g camera tha t wa s onl y a coupl e o f inche s fro m hi s face . Doug would hand him each Polaroid, Chretien would squint a t each — they were almos t landscapes with a nose an d a n ey e — an d declar e i t a "lous y picture " before droppin g it to the floor. Yet despite his displeasure, he remained so that I could take anothe r an d yet another . I worke d very quickly for 1 5 minute s — these wer e hardly very studied — before h e decide d that I'd don e enoug h damag e and he got up an d left. Althoug h thes e photograph s wer e subsequently published, they never really satisfied me. It wasn't until severa l years later when, on a hunch, I reprinted the m i n blac k an d white , instea d o f th e colour material s with which they ha d been originall y made, tha t I bega n t o mak e peac e wit h them . Whenever I pull out the prints I hear Chretien's voice : "Lousy pictures, Michael, lousy pictures." As the shor t E& N island train, an old diesel and a pai r o f coaches , inche s ove r th e Johnson Stree t Bridge , a little wherry passes by beneath. Fro m th e bridg e on e ca n se e a shoulder bag , a jacket, and a thermos an d flask, lying in the bilge. The oarsma n pulls slowly but steady. 141

Another midnigh t mortalit y call. Suddenly photographer Ed Burtynsk y and I ar e on the road, climbin g th e watershe d betwee n Lak e Ontario and Georgian Bay in my little red van. We shar e th e dar k 40 0 wit h th e stif f headlight s o f heavy tractor-trailer s makin g fo r Sudbury , th e Soo , Winnipeg, Vancouver. I struggle in the darkness to both drive and dial the long sequence of digits to get through to Tokyo on my car phone. Th e closin g circl e reaches as far a s Japan where yet : another photographer , Ke n Straiton , wil l be, at this moment, thinking hard about lunch. I don' t want t o wak e his elderl y parent s fas t aslee p a t thi s hour on the water's edge in Oakville. Yet I need direc tions t o thei r cabin , wher e Martina , ou r midnigh t caller, pace s somewhere a t th e en d o f a labyrinth o f unlit lanes beside Lake Muskoka, Some half dozen years earlier, she, responding t o a knock on her studio door in the Cite des Artes building in th e hear t o f Paris, ha d foun d ou r frien d an d fello w photographer, Dou g Clark , standin g wit h flower s i n his hand. She , a sculptor fro m Hamburg , fel l i n lov e with th e bo y fro m Burlington . The y married, ha d a son, an d afte r severa l years of Doug's failur e t o gras p German, finally moved t o Toronto. It wa s a big and, initially, reluctant move fo r her , bu t afte r a couple o f years, she'd begun to get comfortable. Now the impre-

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PLATE 1 3

lousy pictures, Michael, lousy pictures

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sario, cour t jester , teache r an d bagma n o f Canadia n fine art photography — our Dougie — was dead. A yea r ago , nearl y t o th e day , Tin a an d I ha d retreated fro m th e cardia c ward of Toronto General , stunned. Jus t hours out o f quadruple bypas s surgery , Doug was clearly in immens e pain . H e wa s only 4 5 but looke d twice that. The colour s of life ha d slipped out o f hi m leavin g onl y shade s o f lea d sinker s an d stones. Tin a an d I slowl y mad e ou r wa y through a maze of shiny-floored hallways. We had to get outside and breathe. Six weeks later, at the ragtag end of summer, he was on hi s wa y bac k t o hi s coffe e an d adrenalin-fuelled, hyperactive self— talkin g about trading in his personality for a new one, scheming up projects and planning a retur n t o teaching . W e all , Martin a included , thought h e neede d a fe w day s off, a shor t tri p awa y from hospital s an d institutiona l intrusions , befor e resuming school. My Georgian Ba y island was Doug's choice. Ed , Doug , an d I too k of f a few days later — same red van. As w e wer e leaving , Martin a collare d Burtynsk y and I in her kitchen while Doug carrie d out his bags. She ha d hi m o n a vegetarian , lo w fat , n o coffee , tobacco o r excitemen t diet . H e wa s not strong . W e made promises. We meant them . But Dou g couldn' t kee p them. Th e whol e tri p up

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was fuelle d b y his wolfin g down double-double s an d donuts. Neithe r Ed nor I wanted to begin ou r weekend lecturing him so we buttoned up. I knew his heart was weak, his arterie s stil l half plugged, th e incision s still healing . Several hours late r I made things worse . To reach my place you park on a reservation an d descend a river to reac h th e ope n bay . It's al l wilderness, seve n mile s through empt y forest , wetlands , an d scrub . Hero n often fl y alongside . Yo u can se e bear , moose , beave r and bi g snakes , bu t rarel y people . W e mammal s o n this rive r hav e worke d ou t a truce. I alway s slow o r stop the skiff so bear or deer can complete their cross ing. I give the moose spac e to eat and drink. I dodg e the beaver and muskrat. In return the y let me observe. The rive r ha s its hazard s — small rapids an d bi g eddies i n th e spring , lo w water by . fall. I ru n thre e propellers. On e o n th e boat , on e i n th e dock-she d and invariabl y on e i n th e sho p wher e it' s patientl y hammered an d welded back into form. It's alway s the deadheads that ge t you. Those big water-soaked log s roll an d swin g dow n i n tha t mudd y sou p lik e slo w manatees. They don' t com e u p t o breath e bu t eac h day the y mak e a littl e mor e progres s towar d th e Sweet Sea. I banked fas t into a steep turn abou t halfway dow n and hit one, , The tille r vaulted out of my hand and the big metal stiff charged the bank at 25 knots. It was just 144

like those aircraft crashe s you see on television — the aluminum tub e rocketin g throug h th e underbrush , branches squealin g against metal, everythin g comin g up fast . Then silence . Burtynsky and I rose from th e bilge an d looke d a t eac h other. Yo u could n o longe r see the river. Worse than that, we couldn't se e Doug. His seat in the bow was empty. I'd kille d him. We climbed ou t o f the boa t an d scrambled inlan d through th e muc k an d scru b willows . Thirt y fee t ahead o f th e boa t w e foun d Dou g curle d u p i n th e mud where he'd landed, giggling. His pump was still working. The nex t day he and Ed were to save me. We were walking the lon g empty , rocky foreshore — brillian t light, war m wind, the sibilanc e o f the pine s an d surf on the slopin g shore. They grabbe d me just as I was putting my foot down on a sunning rattler . The yea r that followed this was a new routine fo r Doug. He organized all his stuff. He began to dress in tailored grey and black. The flac k jackets and combat shorts wor n wel l int o winte r vanished . H e bough t glasses with severe metal frames. He walked the many blocks to work. He was less manic. He rarely clowned. Life wa s now seriou s busines s — measured i n days , not years or decades. One hundred , 200 , 300 days — he was heading for a full year of borrowed life . As the anniversar y approached he planned a summer vacation. It would be a quiet one, just his wife and *45

six-year old-son, fo r a week at Ken's parents' plac e in Muskoka., The da y before the y left , h e walke d al l th e wa y down belo w Bloor to visit my west-end studio . He' d just undergone oral surgery . When he arrived, I rec ognized th e ic u ski n colou r immediately . He looke d terrible. Th e upcomin g holida y was clearly essential . And wit h Martin a alon g h e wouldn' t b e abl e t o ea t donuts. They made it up to the cabin: he slept the first day. Day tw o dawne d bright , warm , limpid , perfect . A t breakfast h e mad e his requests . H e wante d t o driv e them to a special spot on the Moon River. After that he wanted t o stan d wit h them , howeve r briefly , o n th e Precambrian shore of Georgian Bay . All this was done. Then the y returne d t o th e cabi n an d Dou g descended t o th e Lak e Muskok a shorelin e t o swi m with hi s so n whil e Martin a mad e supper . The y at e together. H e mad e them laugh. Then she cleaned up while he put th e bo y to bed . As she was finishing he returned t o th e kitche n an d softl y calle d ou t t o her . "Thank you, Tina." "For supper , Doug? That's nothing. I t was a wonderful day." "No, Tina , than k yo u fo r al l o f it , ou r son , fo r everything." They-went to bed. He cried out in her arms, trembled and died. He'd know n all along.

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Now h e wa s a body i n th e nex t room , i n a small cabin in the dar k woods. Hi s son slept and she was so alone when she called us — the ambulance would take 50 minutes to arrive. Too late. We were closing in, but still hours away . Doug ha d alway s played th e clown , livin g lik e a bum in the back of buildings and garages. He calle d it urban camping . We al l bought hi m lunche s an d gave him work when we had it. In return he entertained us. But h e als o alway s di d somethin g bigge r — h e thought abou t all of us. Peripatetic an d gregarious, he had man y circle s o f friends an d acquaintances , many who'd neve r met eac h other. Ye t he alway s made sure that th e one s tha t woul d enjo y an d be helpful t o on e another would eventually meet. He gav e us the gif t of each other . I'd neve r thought o f him as heroic. I t turn s ou t he was. Befor e th e holida y an d th e final , fatal , denta l work, he' d bee n t o se e his doctors . H e reporte d t o Tina tha t they' d tol d hi m h e wa s a cardia c success story. They'd actually told him he was in big trouble , that ther e wasn' t much time . His final gif t wa s to his family: a perfect day. Fog ha s cloake d th e Strai t thi s morning . Cool an d thick, it condense s o n the ski n and shoulders o f the few strollers strung along the coast walk. Very small waves emerge from th e J

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veil above the sea and languidly lick the cobbles of the beach. Just: perceptible abov e thei r whispere d with drawals, a raw squeak of dry oarlocks progresses down the shore , its source cloaked by the mist. Molly an d I wor k ou r wa y slowly alon g Government Stree t nea r Victoria' s inne r harbour. She has just turned 7 9 and her hi p joint ha s wor n ou t - — sh e walk s wit h considerabl e pain. Somewher e ahea d of us my father, his morning errands complete, is making his way toward us. When we meet, we'll lunch together . Out ove r the water a float plane banks in from the straits and begins a rapid descent toward the Empress. There's a brisk wind off the Pacific this morning, flags are snapped out, an d the floatin g dock s grind agains t the pilings . Eve n u p here , hig h abov e the seawall , I smell kel p an d creosote . Th e harbou r shelter s th e usual mix of odd and foolish vessels. Not th e working boats, everythin g o n the m doe s somethin g useful . Their form, while not alway s handsome, smacks satisfyingly o f utility. On e respect s the m — it' s th e pla y boats tha t ofte n stic k i n th e craw . Most conspicuou s among th e floatin g follie s i s a larg e an d ver y shin y fibreglass yacht that piggybacks a helicopter. This vulgar vesse l look s lik e a '5 2 Hudson . I' m no t a n intractable traditionalist — some of the woody houseboats her e loo k lik e floatin g Birkenstocks . Bu t I d o

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love a beautiful sheer-line, a proud wheelhouse and an elegant counter . Bu t then, I remind myself , eve n the old man himself commanded a few tubs. Finally I spo t him , al l decke d ou t i n screamin g beige and starin g at a shop window a block ahead of us. I point him out to Molly who stops her cane-assisted stumpin g an d stares . W e watc h hi m walk , head down, a few steps forward. He pause s before the next window and looks in. But then it appears that he's not. I watch him pause at a third window and conclude that he has no interes t i n the displays , he's looking at his reflection in the glass. I point this out to Molly. "Yes, I know," she says. "But why?" I ask. She turns to me, smiling, and explains. One o f his numerous complaint s was that almos t all o f th e ol d me n h e encountere d o n th e street s looked grumpy . Tire d o f thi s observation , amon g many others , Molly ha d tol d hi m tha t h e looke d a s irritable an d out-of-sort s a s they di d an d shoul d d o something abou t it . I t seem s tha t fo r th e pas t few months he had taken her retort to heart. Now, whenever h e passe d a mirror , o r reflectiv e window , h e paused t o examin e his expressio n an d mak e adjustments. He ha d resolved to be an affable ol d man. The littl e wherry slowly passes the whaling wall east of the Empress.

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Molly has come into Toronto, alone, from the West. There's a show to hang, friends t o se e and famil y t o visit . She' s also having a rest from the irritable dependency of her husband. Times are good. After lunc h o n Colleg e Street , sh e an d m y siste r straggle up Yonge Street towar d Curry's Art Supplies just south of Bloor. Weeks later my sister tells me that our mother ha d studie d the window s of sex shops all the wa y to Curry's , leavin g a litter o f droll observa tions an d lascivious asides floating ove r the sidewalk. She can surprise. On th e morning of her last full da y in town Molly calls m e t o as k i f I wil l tak e he r t o Th e Earthl y Paradise, a William Morris survey at the Art Gallery of Ontario. I offer t o combine it with lunch and a deal is struck. Afte r fetchin g her i n m y ca r we crawl down Spadina through Chinatown toward Dundas Street. It takes three change s of the ligh t t o make a left a t th e old Victory Burlesque. Then another two-block grind through a talu s o f vegetables , shopper s an d han d trucks befor e parking o n Beverly . W e wal k the las t block t o th e gallery . Althoug h sh e i s slowe r an d shrinking she is not ye t using a cane. It feel s goo d t o be with her. The galler y facade wa s not invitin g in those days . The ol d Georgian front , a quiet suite of brick arches

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and pediments , flankin g a crescen t drive , ha d bee n ruthlessly buried behind boxes and slabs of gritty grey cement. Ther e wa s a ro w o f glas s door s frame d i n bronzed aluminu m — n o theatre , n o occasion , just entry an d egress. At times lik e this I irrationally hat e Mies an d Gropius , no t fo r thei r buildings , man y of which I admire , bu t fo r thei r bruta l dismissa l of th e past — their destruction of an ornamented and histori cist classicism fo r their own version o f the sam e — a classicism that is spare, industrial, and in the pencils of their man y acolytes, inelegant an d alienating . We pas s inside. It' s strangel y quie t i n th e hall . A security guar d approaches . Ther e hav e bee n mor e cutbacks. It's Monday. The galler y is closed. I know that she' s going to be hugely disappointed. She stare s a t th e resolut e securit y man , he r bod y weaving slightly , he r hea d tippe d bac k s o sh e ca n examine this uniforme d obstacle through he r glasses. Time stops briefly. Molly, rocking on her feet, turns to rne, eye s bi g behin d bifocals . Thre e beats . "Fi x it , Mikey." "What Mum?" "Fix it," sh e says again. She's serious. I realize that she has no doubt whatsoever that I can. It's just a bigshouldered institutio n wit h a fe w doze n guard s an d many locked doors. Fix it, Mikey. I look down at this suddenly irrevocable ol d lad y who's decide d that he r

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son can do battle with the province. I can see that she's not ready to leave. Why should I have doubts when she doesn't? I ask for the house phone and begin dialling staff extensions . On m y third tr y I ge t a n answe r — a long-standing, patient, staffer who's always been a friend o f photographers. I explain the situation. She asks me to stay put and hangs up. Molly and I continue to stand in the big grey lobby facing security. It's a long standoff . Suddenly my curator friend, Maia, sweeps in fro m a sid e door wit h tw o custodian s in tow . We're swept up the big staircase to the second floor. The bi g doors are thrown ope n t o a huge dar k space. A metal pane l in the wall is latched open. Breaker s rattle like dominoes an d retreating galleries of Morris's world spring from th e gloom . I stan d wit h Mai a a t th e entranc e while my mother stumps off into the room. She makes her wa y from objec t to object , completely absorbed, totally livin g i n he r eyes . We watc h for a long time . Her tin y figure diminishing dow n the galleries . The paintings, th e papers , the fabric s glow . It's s o rich i n there an d she's so small. I want time to float outwards forever. I wish for bright eyes . I want the rooms to be unending. Molly has only been gone an hour an d as she has left he r bags with me it is my job to keep the diar y going. My God, how I love you Molly my darling. I never knew this could

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happen. Sometimes I wonder if all the happiness that is mine is true, — John Mitchell Diary, December 7 , 1941, 10:2 0 p.m., St. John's, Nfld.

;* -*\ < Early one fall, after running home "' ; from school, I found the front door ajar. I paused , caugh t m y breat h an d entered quietly . The hous e was of a period, high an d dark insid e — wood an d th e scen t o f lemo n oil . I dodged th e ca t and began to clim b the stair . Years of sneaking in late ha d attune d m e to th e voice s o f th e treads. Step s one , thre e an d seven were loud, bu t 1 1 was th e worst , issuin g a volley o f protes t unde r th e weight o f the foot . Whe n I pause d .on th e landin g I heard sof t crying . I found m y mother curled up, eyes red, in the uppe r hall closet. Sh e looked up a t me — startled. "I married the wrong man." What could I say, a 12-year-old, rocking from foo t to foot, in that brown space, nauseated by the smell of furniture polish? Then cam e th e coug h an d th e heav y tread o f siz e 1 2 wing-ti p brogues . A dar k grey fedora and the shoulders of a wool coat appear o n th e landin g below . A staccat o cracklin g from trea d n unde r layer s o f laminate d leather . A clearing-of-the-throat an d pipe smoke. I retreated to J

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my room, leavin g them t o their low murmurs. Their door close d shut . /€"~~J&jfH^' I ^ay under the covers up in my room , ^/~- ^P pretendin g to be asleep. It was nearly 11. ~^/^- I soon heard Molly steps on the stair — she stil l cam e u p t o chec k o n u s eac h night . Sh e entered my sister's room first and pulled up her blankets. All was well. Her footsteps exited and then a thin line o f lig'h t expande d int o a parallelogra m o n m y floor — Molly was coming in . I could feel her warmth as she bent over to give her sleeping son a goodnight kiss. At the moment I felt her lips on my cheek the Leafs scored a goal. I'd mounted my latest project, a crystal radio, on th e inside o f the bed frame. Two wires — one black, one white — coiled from its terminals through the springs, snaked over the headboard en d o f th e mattres s an d slippe d int o th e open end of my pillowcase to the single Bakelite headphone buried in my pillow. The signa l vibrating a steel disk abov e th e littl e electromagne t wa s s o wea k sh e couldn't hea r it. I'd finally found a way to subvert my 10 o'clock curfew and stay on top of the next morning's hockey talk at school. I was also trying very hard to stay on he r goo d sid e a s I wa s now in th e thir d wee k of negotiations fo r somethin g desperatel y important . I had to have a pair of white buck shoes. Donny, Chuck , Franki e an d Johnn y W. al l ha d !54

them. Even the pathetic Andrew Turner ha d a pair and I was still walking to school in something hopeles s and brown. Ever y mornin g whil e I wa s running a greas y brush ove r my Oxfords under m y father's supervision , those guy s were skipping breakfast s o they could carefully brus h thei r shoe s wit h stink y whit e sho e pain t from a little bottle . You r shirt coul d be crumpled, you could even have slightly baggy-ass jeans and cuffs rolle d too high , bu t th e whit e buck s had t o b e immaculate . And they all were. I, however, might a s well kill myself, even if I knew the hockey scores. Those shoe s ha d t o b e just right. Three-quarter inch sole s in a kind of reddish rubbe r were mandator y and yo u ha d t o hav e th e righ t eyelet s an d laces . N o substitutions allowed . The wors t thin g you coul d d o to somebod y i n 195 7 was stomp a big dar k footprint on the upper s o f his white bucks . It would divid e the whole schoolyard int o two camps — if you were lucky. Because you better hav e some guys on your side when you squared of f in the wooded vacan t lo t acros s fro m the jail . I wa s alway s havin g troubl e keepin g u p wit h th e codes. White bucks had suddenly appeared just as guys like me were catching on to cleats . All the toug h guy s had ha d little crescent s o f steel tacke d ont o th e har d heels o f thei r shoes . Originall y designe d t o preven t workboots fro m goin g dow n a t th e heels , thes e littl e tap sho e add-on s ha d becom e a n acousti c necessity . *55

The toug h guys ' swagge r was scored by the clickin g of hee l plate s o n pavement . And the y sounde d even better whe n the y wer e gougin g u p th e hardwoo d floors o f my grade seven classroom. Molly ha d made me leave my shoes just inside the doo r ever since I'd tacked on my own. Now everybod y was going from har d and noisy to soft and silent, from black and tough to orderly white . I had to catch up. Knowing that I'd get a snorting dismissal fro m Joh n Mitchell , I' d concentrate d al l m y efforts o n Molly. I feigned a n interest in her paintings, regularly se t th e table , drie d th e dishe s an d haule d garbage. I ran errands, cu t the grass, even vacuumed. But mostly I just nagged, begged, pleaded and ground her down . Finall y on e Saturda y mornin g whe n m y father wa s still a t his printing plan t she relented. We got in the ca r and drove down Highway 2 toward the city to buy white bucks. I couldn't have been happier . As it was a warm day we drove with the windows partly dow n ari d th e radi o turne d t o CHUM . Pa t Boone , who'd starte d thi s whole nurse sho e business , sang a couple of times, doing his antiseptic, Christian white boy cover s o f Littl e Richar d an d Fat s Domino . Everything was perfect until we got to the shoe store. Molly aske d for the shoe s and we sat down on th e bench. The clerk , bent with late middle age, shuffle d off int o th e back . We ha d a long , excruciatin g wait during which I feared Molly would los e patience and 156

have us leave. Finally the old man returned, pulled up a lo w chai r opposit e me , place d a slopin g footstoo l between us , and began to open The Box . The shoe s wer e wrapped in white tissue . He fum bled with it, turning the shoes over several times to free them fro m thei r pape r swaddling. Then they emerged — glowing , shimmering , radiatin g promise — until I saw the sole s — thin, black and totally, totall y wrong . Molly had won. But maybe not — I could still claim they didn't fit. We trie d eight-and-a-halfs , nines, then hal f a size up. All too narrow I asserted. The cler k wearily led me to the bac k o f th e stor e wher e a tall , beige , truncate d metal pyramid stood on a low platform. Three hood ed viewers angled off from its top. I'd totally forgotte n about sho e stor e X-ra y machines. A click of a switch, a buzzing, then a flickering image of the bone s of my feet within the outlin e o f the welt of the shoe s floate d in th e viewers . W e eac h stare d dow n a t th e eerie , green, pulsatin g evidenc e — a pai r o f siz e nin e fee t comfortably nestle d withi n a pair o f siz e nin e shoes . The machin e humme d an d crackle d wit h static . "They're perfect, " announce d Moll y whil e ignorin g my gaze. "We'll take them. " I suffere d i n those shoes for the next several years. At first I bravely painted them severa l times a week in a pitiful attemp t t o keep my head up. I soon attempt ed to doubl e up codes by trying t o tack heel plates to *57

their rubbe r sole s - — self defeating as I wanted thos e shoes t o wea r out . Bu t Molly ha d bough t quality . I scuffed th e pavement , playe d stree t hockey , kicke d footballs, climbe d chai n link s an d wade d throug h creeks, bu t th e bi g whit e shoe s survived . Sh e eve n made me wear them to England where the Teddy boys turned thei r Elvi s heads , sneere d dow n fro m thei r thick rubber platforms before sinking back into bore dom. Molly wa s not t o be defeated and neither wer e the shoes . They survived three year s of abuse before repetitive soaking s finally made the leathe r crac k and my feet and I were released. Molly mad e one more fashio n excursion , this one without me, before I moved out after high school. She came back from Eaton' s carrying a long plastic bag by a clothes hanger hook. "Here you are, Mikey — a nice brown suit. " The buildin g boom after th e war was a cruelty t o th e land . Long-establishe d fields were assaulte d with surve y stakes , stripped o f their cloa k of topsoil an d shave d clean of trees. Th e builder s o f those mea n littl e boxe s drov e Fargo pickups and surplus Willys alon g the slimy clay roads. Hammer ring s filled the December days . How m y fathe r hate d tha t gridiro n surve y som e developers contrive d nea r a fiel d where , i n th e strangest twis t o f historica l fates , a pi g farme r kep t 158

house wit h Olg a Alexandrovn a Romanova , siste r o f Tsar Nicolas II and the last Grand Duchess of Russia. None of it exists now. The tow n swallowed, the Dew Drop In n ha s disappeared , m y schoo l i s razed , th e brickyard closed . I t wa s a long an d anxiou s walk t o that schoo l pas t identica l yello w bric k houses , pro truding like teeth through re d clay gums. We'd reac h the edge of the known world, a zone of scarified earth, bordering th e las t o f the ne w suburban drives . Here was our Pillars o f Hercules, where we left the familiar streets o f th e development , ou r Mediterranean , an d voyaged out into an ocean of long grass in a series of abandoned fields. Our Sty x was the CN R main line, a steel river racing between blac k bank s a s th e locomotive s wer e stil l steamers and many burned coal. Here we'd found th e dark portal to hell, a large corrugated steel culvert that tunnelled unde r th e track s t o th e grea t pit s o f th e brickworks o n th e othe r side . Borderin g th e ri m o f that hug e woun d wa s a shamble s o f shant y house s where the "Eye-talian " brick-makers lived . The dar k sons o f thos e swarth y Calabrian labourer s were ou r barbarian hordes, a band of brutal bullies tha t stalke d us on the way to school . One bitter November dus k they tied my classmate Ronnie to the tracks. The Parker boys and I were terrified a s w e struggle d wit h al l th e grann y knot s i n binder twine. Our initia l fear o f their retur n was soon 159

replaced b y outrigh t pani c whe n th e ballas t o f th e roadbed bega n a n earthquake rumble. A huge 4-8-4 , bound fo r Toronto , wa s telegraphin g it s approac h through ith e ringing rails. Coarse sisal tore our fingers as we dug and pulled a t those jammed knots securin g a whimpering nine-year-old t o the tracks. I remember looking up and realizing that a headlamp searched the curved cut barely half a mile away. Did w e free hi m an d sav e ourselves? Well, yes we did. But it was very close. While I rolled wit h Ronni e to th e sout h sid e o f th e right-of-way , th e other s scrambled t o th e north . A shoc k wav e o f ho t air , seared oil, an d coal dust swept and thundered ove r us and rumbled, clattered, until the whistle moaned away when the last car passed. It wasn' t al l clos e escape s i n thos e days . On e o f those brick-boys stomped and shattered my ankle during recess. My parents too k me to Toronto to have it set and taped. We also made our own disasters. The olde r Parke r brother wa s retarded an d had lef t schoo l fo r a simple sorting jo b a t th e villag e hardware. He stol e bullet s from th e backroom, taking them home t o play in the unfinished attic space where he and his brothers slept . Freddy Parker had a collection o f Mason jars lined up on a two-by-four beside his bed. Each held hundreds of shiny brass and copper bullets. He'd dum p them on his bed and play a miniature bu t dangerous version o f

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his sortin g jo b a t work . Th e followin g sprin g h e joined us at a campfire som e older kid s had built one evening in a woodlot behin d m y parents' house . Hi s pockets wer e ful l o f bullets , 2 2 longs , som e 30-305 , 385, an d eve n som e gian t 455 . H e bega n t o thro w them into the fire, drooling and sniggering when they went of f like littl e bombs . A few others joine d in — the little band's excitement wa s primal and predatory. Suddenly on e o f the bigge r boy s i n th e inne r circl e lumped forwar d towar d the fire . B y the tim e we go t help he was gone. There was , o f course , a n investigation . Eac h ki d present a t the fir e shootin g was called to th e princi pal's office t o be interviewed by both the principal and several provincial police officers . Waitin g i n the dar k anteroom — hardwood bench, varnished walls — one could hear low voices and see the adult shapes moving behind th e panel s of frosted glass . Then report s an d howls. Authoritaria n wisdo m wa s tha t eac h o f u s should be solemnly strapped afte r givin g testimony . This schoolboys' worl d was a recapitulation of the evolution of human culture. We were still at the headbonking, cave-and-jungl e stage ; eac h da y a surviva l struggle. There was the perilous field, train track, and highway walk to endur e twic e daily. Even worse for me in winter, because I not only had to deal with deep snow and bitte r cold , but surviv e it wearing sissy breeches 161

instead o f real pants. The n th e schoo l yar d world of chestnuts, marbles , indifferen t girl s an d violenc e along thos e gri m basemen t classroom s wit h hostil e spinsters drillin g multiplication an d long division . I'd ge t hom e shattere d an d exhausted . Molly wa s doing wifely things — cleaning and cooking for a husband an d two small children . I t wa s the onl y tim e I remember her not having a studio. It must have been a busy and very frustrating time for her but I still had a sens e sh e wa s watching me . On e da y I returne d home earl y i n particularl y ba d shape . Sh e sa t dow n and talke d t o me . Sh e woul d teac h m e ho w t o d o something that would help me cope. What wa s it? She taught me how to knit. Sh e surrendered all her wool left-overs and set me up knitting a bi g wraparound scarf . For week s I worked o n tha t banner of random colours an d irregular stripes . It got longer and longer unti l th e day it could no longer b e hidden. Whe n my father found ou t there wa s hell t o pay. He stormed around in his dark coat, hat and huge shoes yellin g a t m y mothe r abou t weakling s an d fairies. Before my wrists got too limp, I was to join the Sea Scouts an d learn to be a man. I can' t reall y remember everythin g tha t happene d after that . I kno w I stoppe d knitting . I kno w tha t I never wore the scarf— b y that time it was a ridiculous thing, ove r a dozen fee t long . And I kno w tha t I'v e developed a life-long affectio n fo r lon g woo l scarves 162

with stripes . Now , it' s nearl y 5 0 years late r an d I'v e already bought two of them this fall. And I never, ever, joined the Se a Scouts. m *"'-"" *•' Lights went out tonight so sat down in

/x living room and knitted in the gloom I • ~C>-:.-; „, n while Mr. H. sprawled his boney self in the next chair and tapped his fingers impatiently. What a creature. He i s too much "Bachelor." H e might b e more human if he was seduced or something. H e reminds me of a staid Frankenstein. Wis h my knitting would go faster . — Molly's Diary , November n , 194 1

"I like your sweater. " Molly wa s lookin g a t m e an d i t with a n intensit y unusua l fo r her . I stood befor e her , a young ma n i n hi s middle twenties , fi t an d dar k from a couple o f years walking the deserts and coastal thorn forests of southern Mexico . I wa s weekending a t m y parents ' farm . My new sweater was the colou r of a pine tree — solid green in the body and one sleeve. It's big rolled turtl e neck was a brilliant orang e bisected by a single stripe of royal blue. These dazzling near-complements raced around th e nec k an d the n droppe d t o on e shoulde r and ran down the lef t arm . I liked it too . The nex t day she came up to me asked to borrow it 163

to wear while she rode her horse . It transforme d her. She wa s a teenage d gir l again , ridin g fast , bac k straight, hai r brigh t i n th e wind . Afte r th e rid e sh e kept it o n until sh e went t o bed . Leaving a day later, she ran after me to the borrowed car. "May I have it?" I struggled awkwardly . It was late fall, I had no money, I lacked a winter coat. The sweate r was a month's gro ceries, a n impulsive purchase. I waffled,, wavered and said no, I needed it. True . She had never before asked me fo r anything more than help. Sh e never di d again. Over th e years I used that sweate r until it was worn ou t — but it was never again mine. Horses hav e beste d m e al l m y life. I f they weren't losin g me the n I was losing beautiful girls to them. I'd be making great progress with some Anglo princes s an d the n she' d discove r horse s an d I wouldn't b e good enoug h t o shovel shit in the stables . I even lost Patricia, the most beautiful gir l in my public school, to a horse that was both a gelding and blind. To watch those girls around those animals felt like hiding i n a women's locke r roo m o r peekin g throug h a bedroom keyhol e a t the mos t intimat e femal e secret s and rituals. I once bicycled into a small temple town in south ern India arid , desperate fo r shade, innocently slipped

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into a dusky building housing a Kali shrine. The inte rior, thic k with darkness , incense an d smoke, was full of shroude d peopl e starin g wit h violen t intensit y a t the burn t an d horrifi c imag e o f th e goddess . Man y slow minute s passe d before I realize d that I was the only male . Th e powe r o f s o muc h femal e presenc e filled me with amazement and trepidation. I fled outside, relieved to be out on a dusty street i n the clang ing sunlight . Whil e Kal i wa s al l disease , deat h an d destruction, I sense d a cousi n concentratio n whe n young female s wer e aroun d horses . Th e charge d admixture of mothering, master y and deep sensualit y was totall y othe r t o th e mal e mind . They sli p away , float back , linge r an d the n ar e swep t awa y agai n by these big, handsome, somewhat dim animals. Patricia, Pamela and Leana, all lost an d gone. And most of all, my mother, Molly.

And so I begin, something I have been meaning to do for ages. If I am going to live while history is being made better d o •/ ' "''•;. \ something about it. Did a dreadful thing, slept all afternoon, too much party I guess. John's ship will be in tonight. Go d the week has gone quickly. Always flies when he is here. Guess I love him too much (a fine state of affairs) . — Molly's diary , November 9, 1941

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There was a time that Molly went bad . Fo r severa l year s she'd trie d t o b e pragmati c — grimly churnin g ou t skilful watercolours of old horse barns and abandoned waterworks because those subjects sold. Finally she hit her limit . She' d tak e a brea k an d mak e sculpture . When I hear d of this throug h he r friend s I became quite anxious . Sculpture? I couldn' t se e it. Bein g a photographer, I only understood art that was flat . For months she worked away but wouldn't let me see a thing. I' d hea r tha t she'd take n carving classes, then casting and finally some instruction in ceramics. Where would all this go? Finally one Sunday morning I foun d out . Sh e took m e into he r studi o an d slyly opened a cupboard door. I discovered that my mother was no t onl y explorin g anothe r dimension , sh e was making filth . Sh e calle d the m cocktai l sculptures . They wer e glaze d an d painte d ceramic s al l buil t around a common armatur e — a martini glass . Th e subjects wer e sluts . Tarty-looking , bi g busted , nip waisted, leggy hustlers crawled up the stems, pleasure themselves on the rims and vulgared about inside the bowls. These women toyed with olives and committed unspeakable act s with swizzl e sticks and maraschino cherries. The y weren' t dresse d fo r warmth . Moll y giggled.

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O, th e girl s o f Strathalle n an d Compton, those expensive trainin g grounds for future wives of the upper middle class. My mother an d he r sisters , childre n o f privilege , idlin g through th e Depressio n year s i n th e Easter n town ships, waiting for final finishing back in Toronto at the Ontario Colleg e o f Art. Th e Compto n girl s wading through th e deep snow of southern Quebec, the thic k wool plaid skirt s o f the schoo l unifor m regularly re hemmed i n th e dorms , eac h tim e exposin g a littl e more black-stockinge d thig h fo r th e boy s dow n th e road. Thes e youn g wome n understoo d earl y wha t their capita l was — and when t o laugh . My mother , even in ol d age, spoke of her leg s as her bes t feature , as if she were fine coachwork. A I'm on my way home after school. My \ n pal and I have fallen in with the three best-looking girl s in our grade-nin e class and we're walking them home. They're laughing at our jokes, professing admiratio n for ou r bullshi t feat s an d giving us suggestive sidelong glances . It's beginning t o look like we're getting somewhere. We're excited. This littl e galax y o f adolescen t sexualit y come s wheeling around a corner o f the block and, just as I'm about to triumph, I despair. My mother is right there,

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for al l those girls to see. She's sitting in the ditch, he r big Reeves pad proppe d agains t th e culvert , concen trating on a drawing. She's got a cigar in her mouth. I suppose i t coul d hav e bee n worse : sometime s sh e smoked a pipe. The girl s tittere d an d swep t of f down the stree t without us . The y carrie d thei r binder s hel d tigh t across their breasts , giving them an armless walk that gave thei r little pleated skirts a most entrancing, bu t rapidly retreating, swing . My mother wa s so focuse d on her painting that she never knew what she'd done . After hig h school , I initially drifte d int o fine art s a t university . Ou r choice s ar e shaped b y ou r parents , whethe r the y giv e guidance or not. We live in their world — picking and choosing fro m wha t they'v e expose d u s to , havin g responses that ar e attractive or reactive. By this time my father was in business, importing an d distributin g industrial tools . If he'd stil l bee n knocking about on ships then I'd hav e been keen on the sea . But he was now a fish out of water, a tall man with a dark coat and a dark office. Lik e many of his generation, he' d bee n vividly alive until 25 . Now he was putting in time . While I was learning to walk, he was leading con voys across the North Atlantic. Soon many of the best boats were on the bottom. By the time I was born he

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was stuc k wit h rus t bucket s — America n loaner s superannuated fro m the Great War, or punky wooden minesweepers, to o slo w an d smal l fo r th e job . A s a bridge cade t an d navigato r o n th e Pacifi c Empresses during th e lat e '30 5 he'd love d hi s work. Heaven fo r him wa s a lon e nigh t watc h o n th e bridg e wit h th e great mothe r ocea n slowin g breathin g man y deck s below his feet. Now it was all reduced t o nasty spaces, damp cold an d a sea bleak with menace . H e cam e t o hate his first love — a ship on the midnigh t sea.

Well alone again, such is a navy wife, but how worth while it always seems. Stood on Water Street and saw the harbour g o blue wit h dusk, the lights move rhythmically around and "my ship" go out smooth and impersonally. Now I go back to calendar days. Cold, Dammit . — Molly's diary , November 12 , 194 1

If I had the wings of an angel If I had the wings of a dove I would search the whole world over For a blazer like the above. For I have looked a t the tailoring In both the Water streets.

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So would you do your sailorin g In one with paper pleats . I hope it won't be forever As the real thing shoul d arrive With all my fondest endeavour And what the shops contrive . So, Merry seventeenth o f May For it was a year ago We started on our joyous way With wedding bells and champagne glow. — Birthday Card, handmade by Molly, for he r sailo r John, 194 1

So here they are , comin g at the first year o f their marriage fro m ver y differen t places . Hi s worl d wa s one of cramped and noisy spaces, a deep freeze o f iron and steel, a palette that ran from zin c to slate to black. The othe r sid e wa s Molly' s world . Shin y tube s o f bright pigments , th e textur e o f ra g paper , th e ric h smells o f turpentine and oil paint. The worl d was not something t o be instrumental in , it was a bouquet and a banquet . Hal f th e tim e sh e wa s day-dreaming an d sleep-walking, nickname d "Fog " fo r goo d reason . Then unexpectedly, she'd b e wide-awake — looking, staring, drawing. The lin e from her pencil her umbil ical to the world .

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PLATE 1 4

Molly's world

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In the earl y '6os I was at the grim , gre y University of Toronto makin g my way from on e miserabl e clas s to another studying Fine Art. It all bore little resemblance to m y mother' s world . Dr y stick s showin g yellowe d slides and minor artists teaching studio . Brittl e women being taught to decorate. My second year they hired a middle-aged America n t o conduc t paintin g classe s i n contemporary technique . Weekly , we' d spen d thre e hours pushin g pain t aroun d i n mudd y circles . I was feeling quite lost . Then one afternoon he arrived quite luminous and excited. The previou s day he'd been out painting in a huge mars h eas t o f the city . Dee p i n thos e wetlands he'd bee n surprised t o discover anothe r painte r working the sam e territory. This artist , h e explained , had proved t o have a very sharp ey e and formidable technique. They'd worked side by side for the remainde r of th e day , the encounte r endin g wit h a trade. Eac h took awa y a paintin g b y th e other . H e hel d u p hi s prize. I knew my mother's han d immediately. Today I a m writin g lik e a broke n leg . When I finally shut dow n m y computer I decide to unpack yet one more box from th e little James Bay house. I pull a carton, slic e the tap e an d rediscove r m y firs t bi g postag e stam p album, "TH E MAJESTIC. " Publishe d i n 195 5 b y Grossman i n Ne w York , i t claim s t o "cove r th e

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world" bu t predictabl y begin s wit h th e U.S . an d devotes th e mos t page s t o it . Leafin g throug h it reminds m e o f al l th e man y way s th e worl d ha s changed. A 003 wings across a nickel Air Mail stamp. Hitler, dead only a decade, glares from many Germa n issues and even a few of Ukraine. There are entries fo r British G-uiana , Britis h Hondura s an d th e Britis h Solomon Islands. A then recent Ungandan stamp celebrates th e Roya l Visit o f 1952 . My i/z d stam p fro m Tristan d a Cunha feature s th e Quee n starin g at a lobster. A mer e handfu l o f year s earlier , Newfoundland released it s last postag e an d most European s stil l ha d colonies. While it's all still familiar to me, it now seems somewhat quaint. However, whe n I pul l th e stam p album s o f m y father, grandfathe r and his father from the box I enter a strang e an d forgotte n world . Wher e wa s Heligoland? Wh o live d i n Funchal ? O r Gran d Comoro, Griqualand , Guanacaste or Gwalior? I spent eight years in University and I've neve r heard of Hoi Hao, Holkar , Horta or Malmedy. Hand me a map and I'd blus h tryin g t o locat e Inhambane , Mongtse , Nabha, Niue , Nowanuggu r o r Soruth . Wha t eve r happened t o Patiala , Perak , Packho i an d Poonch ? Was Oi l River s ugl y an d Ri o d e Or o beautiful ? Wa s life good in Santander? What did people do in Tolima, Vathy an d Vryburg ? I' m quit e curiou s abou t Tete , Thurn and Taxis. You could probably take me to Cap e 772

Juby but please don't ever try to banish me to Bamra, Banat-Bacska, Baranya, Barwani or Bundi. I wouldn't want to di e in Eastern Roumeli a but I migh t accep t Duttia. While drinking wine in Fiume I could lament the passin g o f Carinthia , Castelrosso , Chamb a an d Charkari. I suspec t tha t i f you' d writte n m e fro m Corrientes I'd hav e agreed to meet you in Fernando Poo. And, was Cundinamarca really on this planet? A fal l moo n i n lat e Septembe r tosse s fcr shadows across my bedroom floor. I've been "^r.ll^*1 bundled up in blankets, all day, all week, all (v, VO through the month since Labour Day with many month s t o go . I pla y th e radio , read , hing e stamps into my album. By the time I finally roll fro m the be d an d tr y t o wal k again Jonas Sal k wil l hav e announced his vaccine and my poliomyelitis will begin to gather dust in the cabinet of curiosities. These must have been Molly' s hardes t years — a sailor husband unhappily trappe d ashore , a son , semi-cripple d an d bed-ridden, and an often sickl y daughter. For those of us bor n befor e th e '505 , childhoo d wa s a pilgrim' s progress of disease; measles, mumps and chicken pox — a childhood trinit y t o whic h th e fate s an d famil y added scarle t fever , whoopin g cough , T B and polio . We spen t year s i n bed , fathe r an d children , whil e Molly nursed. But this night her duties were to be different. Ou r 173

beagle ha s slippe d th e she d an d sit s i n m y mother' s flower garden baying at the moon. I hear gruff mur murs fro m th e bi g roo m dow n th e hall . "It' s you r damn dog," he'd say. Molly's fee t hit the floor, the oak door squeal s and he r woman' s steps diminis h dow n the stair. I hear the front door clos e on the tall dark midnight house. But for the baying of our beagle this old lakeport town is silent. I struggle on the high bed, dragging my useless legs and body by my arms into a position b y the window . I no w can see the moonli t garden o n ou r landscape d corne r lot . Thi s plo t i s halved b y an enormous hedge o f Chinese el m with a great black archway in the middle. On on e side lies a pretty sho w worl d o f flowerbed s an d ornamenta l trees. On the other lies the sweet rankness of compost piles an d rows of fruits an d vegetables an d my pussy willow tree . Moll y suddenl y springs int o th e publi c side fro m th e dar k opening centrin g th e hedge , he r bare feet and flying nightgown as luminous in the blue light as the flowers in the garden. The beagl e springs barking from the tulip bed and makes for the tall elm at the ape x of the lot . Molly floats fas t behin d across the big lawn and the pair makes three circuits of that great geyserin g el m wit h th e do g bayin g an d m y mother's nighti e an d entreatie s adrif t behind . Dow n the ro w o f lilac an d forsythia , an d the n kitty-corne r across the big square lawn to the pair of chestnut trees and aroun d an d back , the y glid e quickl y in th e ic y

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white o f th e autum n moon . Th e neighbours ' light s begin t o go on — yellow square s an d mullioned row s below th e sof t silhouette s o f big hardwoods , maples, oaks and elms that line these streets. This is the stage I se e from m y window in this hig h house . Th e dee p night sky down t o the sinuou s lin e o f trees, the littl e lights o f other live s and a woman an d her do g swing ing around the square lawn in the moonlight . AMONG THE SEASON' S DEBUTANT S Miss Molly Greene (at left with dog), daughter of Mr. and Mrs. L.R. Greene, Ancaster and Toronto, and Miss Gweynneth Young, daughter of Mr. an d Mrs. Alan V. Young, are pictured above . These charming girls are among the grou p of Hamilton debutante s who will come out at the Charity Ball in Toronto o n October 29 .

Red scooter flies. It glide s down th e sidewalks chatterin g pas t th e trunk s of maples an d elms . I t swoop s u p an d down th e cur b cut s at the drives , arc s across the ros y macadam to the south side, loops a tree and returns in gleaming triumph . I t take s man y coat s o f pain t t o make a re d tha t dee p an d lustrous . Th e bi g wheels fore an d af t are disks of rich cream . The machin e is a beauty but, alas , it's not mine . I'm stayin g at my grandfather's city house, a threestorey Victorian , o n Cottingham , wes t o f Avenu e 175

Road, tha t h e use s three night s a week. A boy down the bloc k own s th e scooter , th e onl y on e I'v e eve r seen. I'm mesmerized. Every day I watch this gloriou s machine -— a crimson streak between the tree s — and dream. It's my apprenticeship i n consumer lust . Almost a week has passed. I've slowl y worked m y way dow n th e stree t b y movin g fro m tre e t o tree , inching m y way toward th e scoote r house . No w I' m examining the bark on a big black trunk a t the end of their drive. I'm trying to find something fascinating to justify being so far out of my own territory. A lone an t picks a t a crevice: a few buds dro p fro m th e canopy . The street : is empty. Then I hear a back door slam and a scuffl e followe d b y a clin k o f meta l agains t stone . Suddenly there it is, bearing down on me like a gleaming mail train'. The ki d swooshes by without even the hint o f a sidelong glance . H e diminishe s towar d th e brick-paved cros s street to the west and vanishes from my life. I won't get a ride on this day. I skul k home an d tel l m y grandmothe r wha t has happened. She's busy. It seems to mean nothing to her. I mop e o n th e fron t step s for the afternoo n knowing that I have to go back to my parents i n the morning. All is lost. Spring turns to summer a few days later. It's always breathtaking bu t brie f alon g Lak e Ontario' s nort h shore. On e da y the branche s en d i n sticks , the n th e

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next there are buds and little leaves of the palest emerald and th e mus k of new life . I n les s than a week the trees have leafed out and the journey through summe r has begun. And I have to get through i t on a tricycle. I live under a pall that stretches throug h until fall . The brass y light of September cools into the bright clear days of early October. Graduall y the light weakens until a grey sky rolls ove r the chilled horizon just ahead of November. Now there' s no reason to live. The firs t wee k of November bring s m y birthday. Every year I wish all through Octobe r tha t the weather will hold so that I can party with my friends around a campfire. Every year I get within a few days and then the sun collapses, a freezer opens in Manitoba, and my mother put s re d tissu e ove r a flashlight on th e floor . We surroun d i t pretendin g i t flicker s an d give s u s warmth. I'm skunke d again. This fall John Mitchell i s ill. It's been three years since h e walke d the dec k of a corvette . Afte r a few months i n Sorel , Quebec , layin g u p nava l vessel s after th e war , he kne w he ha d n o futur e i n a peacetime navy . H e cam e to Ontari o t o joi n m y mothe r and g o into business. He chos e printing,, an industry that jus t brough t hi m heartbreak . Hi s despai r was expressed throug h hi s body . H e develope d a fear some allergy to the solvents and inks and took to bed. Molly wok e me th e mornin g o f my eighth birthda y

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and too k m e int o he r bedroo m t o se e m y ailin g father. I stood shyly by the door looking cautiously in at thi s tal l ma n flattene d an d foreshortene d i n th e bed. Hi s eye s were s o swollen an d encruste d tha t I could barel y see the Februar y blu e o f his irises. Hi s hands la y on th e eiderdow n — huge, cracked , puff y red mitts that swallowed most of his fingers. He wa s a mess. His eyes tracked me as I moved tentatively into the bedroom. Not a word was said. Was he angry again? I released my mother's hand and turned to retreat to my headquarters acros s th e hall . A s I crosse d th e hal l threshold I froze. I backed, turned an d put my eye to gap between the door and the frame. Leanin g against the wall, hidden by the swung-back door, was a large, very red, lustrous, gleaming, fast an d flashy scooter. Summer's long dusky evenings send amber finger s towar d 1 0 o'clock . Th e high tinkle of children's voices is gradually disappearing from the serried lawns and bac k patio s o f th e suburb . Earl y cicadas, th e tin g o f tumbler s an d ice , an d lo w adul t voices i n th e breezeway s an d backyard s ar e th e onl y sounds remaining . Th e od d car passes. Onc e agai n I am stalling, desperately trying to buy time. I'm terrified but I can't tell my mother becaus e she's with my father.

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Again sh e tell s m e t o g o u p t o bed . I fin d anothe r urgent questio n t o as k but I ca n see time's almost up because the old man's forehead is creased deeply and he clears his throat mor e frequently. Soon he'll blo w and I'll b e climbing stairs alone to my attic room. I suspect the future. I know what will happen next. Unhappily I mount th e stairs to the top of the house, to my room with the sloping walls. Up there under the roof it' s ho t an d still. Fro m m y bed I can see a small section o f sky, neatly quartered by the window . Over the next 20 minutes ligh t slowl y slides out of the sash. Darkness and deep night follow . After a time I realize that I can see a small spangle of light . I t rotates , quivers , the n hit s a flas h point . Flames suddenl y begin t o craw l up th e fa r wal l an d soon spil l acros s the carpet . I rac e for the stair s and pound dow n for th e fron t door . Whe n I reac h th e street I realiz e tha t I have forgotten m y parents. By now the conflagration is so intense I can't get back in. The shrub s in the yard have ignited. Th e hous e nex t door i s engulfed . No w th e entir e stree t i s burning . Looking throug h th e drivewa y space s betwee n th e houses I realiz e tha t th e nex t stree t ove r ha s als o ignited. Th e whol e worl d i s burning . I se e people rushing abou t bu t the y ar e merely silhouettes in th e middle distance . None o f them se e me. I mus t fin d my mother.

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I quickly discover that if I stay to the centre of the road I ca n avoi d th e wors t o f the hea t an d no t ge t burnt. Whe n I reac h th e botto m o f my street I cu t across to the next. I will try to reach my house fro m the back . Onc e I find Molly I kno w that everythin g will be fine. I'll b e safe. She'l l kno w what to do. Th e next stree t seems much narrowe r an d the flame s ar e beginning t o clos e in. As I begin running towar d the street's vanishin g poin t it get s hotte r and hotter. I'm sweating. I can't find her. I cry out as the heat intensifies beyon d th e bearable . Ver y quickl y everythin g turns white , th e firestor m ha s becom e s o intense . Now I have falle n — and Fm struggling t o get back up. The ho t ligh t sear s m y eyes an d twists ho t nail s and wires back into my skull. I can't help but cry out, the pain is so unbearable, the light so intense. My father is staring down at me. He has turned o n the overhea d and look s annoyed . His drin k i s in hi s right hand, some has spilled o n his sleeve. He alway s makes u s fee l w e shoul d apologiz e fo r existing . Hi s children ar e an annoyance and impediment. H e turn s and stride s for the stairs. The ligh t i s turned off — I listen t o the clatter o f the big wingtip brogues dimin ishing down the steps. The fire has been quenched for another 24 hours. Once again I have escaped. It's been burning nightl y no w fo r tw o year s an d won' t sto p until we move. Why can't I tell them?

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June ist , 194 2 St. John's, Newfoundlan d Fire bombs are quite small — about the size of a two or three pound trout. Know how to smother them with a stirrup pump and sand, and have the mean s to d o so handy. If you keep calm it is very easy to smother them . If you do not know who your A.R.P. Warden is, take the trouble to find out, and get him to show you how to use the stirrup pump and how to get the fire, which the bomb may cause, under control with the jet of water, and how to smother the bomb with the spray. If trouble ever comes, God forbid we should be unpre pared. Yours very truly, L.C. Outerbridge , Lt.-Col., Director o f Civil Defens e Newfoundland Departmen t o f Defence

Those summe r evening s were onc e s o long — a lemon sky , an appl e sk y before the shif t to dusk y blue an d the dee p dar k of th e night . I t wa s 194 9 an d w e wer e livin g on e block fro m th e shor e o f Lak e Ontario . Ou r hug e world was tiny, about two streets on either side of my parents' firs t house. In front lay a vacant lot, then the Lakeshore Highwa y an d th e grea t jumbl e o f lime stone blocks dumped from the highway's edge to stay erosion o f the coast . This was a mysterious worl d of 181

little caves , powerful smell s and percussive waves. I t was also forbidden. My siste r an d I range d thi s smal l universe , she mostly to the west, past the old corner house with the emerald lawns and the horseshoe pits. This house was the sourc e of two key sounds of our earl y childhood: the summe r evenin g tintinnabulatio n o f th e neigh bour's horseshoe-throw, an d the year-round sharp rap of a pair of silver candlestick s against glass as the ol d lady inside went from windo w to window tapping o n the pane s to cautio n passin g children of f her perfec t lawn. In rny whole life there I was never to actually see her — sh e remaine d onl y a dar k shap e behin d th e rustling lace of her curtains. My ow n world la y to th e eas t where, beyon d th e last hous e o n th e block , la y anothe r vacan t lot tha t rumpled dow n into a mysterious wooded creek-bed . Here w e fought globa l wars among the willow s and box elders . Eac h sprin g w e whale-hunted th e gian t suckers that migrate d upstrea m t o spaw n and squeamishly leaped from th e cree k waters whenever one of the revoltin g lampre y eels appeared. Occasionally we discovered muskrat s an d mudpuppies , thos e strang e aquatic salamander s with feather y external gill s an d slimy hides. To north o f both ou r range s marche d a giant ceda r windbreak that n o livin g thin g had eve r penetrated. It was the edge of the then-known world. Molly's task , once she' d release d us on day-parol e

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to the world, was to retrieve us for meals or bed. She'd emerge fro m th e fron t doo r carryin g a larg e ram' s horn fitted with a bone mouthpiec e an d a brass reed. She'd stan d there , arm s akimbo , wit h he r mothers ' apron an d '40 5 hair , blowin g throug h thi s upturne d bone hor n unti l she' d filled our entir e univers e wit h its plaintiv e song . Thi s distan t earl y warning syste m was backed by a tracking device, a black cocker spaniel named Dinah. This loyal animal always shadowed my younger sister . Upo n hearin g th e ram' s horn , Dina h would leave my sister's side and scurry across the backyards and up the porch step s to my mother's feet . She would the n tur n abou t an d rac e bac k fo r m y sister , carefully escortin g he r hom e throug h al l the peril s of our small world. Dinah's movements told Molly all she needed to know — in what direction m y sister played, how fa r away, and whether sh e was safe an d well. Our worl d i n thos e years was like a compass card. The know n eart h wa s flat, our house , o f course, th e pivot point , whil e ou r journey s swun g th e needle . Although m y sister's worl d o f dolls an d party dresses was contained within a few playmates' houses just west of the tapping candlesticks, my range to the east had a gate t o anothe r universe . A small stream, a hypnoti c fluid medium, alway s called my friends an d me dow n into her secret domain. If we followed her as she flung her skirt s around various twists and bends in her bed, we eventually reached the dark thumping world of the

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Lakeshore Highwa y bridge . Man y time s w e reache d the shadowed openin g to the bridg e onl y t o lose th e courage t o posses s tha t spac e and pass beneath . Th e day we finally did, we were stunned to discover that on the other sid e she fanned her waters into the undulat ing fastnes s o f a souther n ocean . Ther e la y Lak e Ontario, lowes t o f th e Grea t Lakes , b y surfac e are a the smallest, and yet, stil l no mean sea. The know n world had suddenly exploded. Bounded as it may have been to th e eas t and west and north, it was without limit t o th e south . Shoreline s ar e power ful place s — the meeting o f the finite and the infinite. This boundar y zone , forbidde n t o u s becaus e o f th e twin -dangers o f a highway t o b e crosse d an d a sea in which to drown, was the source of pitched excitement . We crouched an d crawled through the caves created by the great blocks, overwhelmed by the rich smell of seaweed tresse s an d th e ran k odou r o f shimmerin g alewives strande d o n th e cobbles . W e wer e th e firs t people: w e becam e Champlain , L a Verendry e an d Balboa. It was a time of amazing moment. Liberated, we were learning quickly . There was the afternoon a neighbourhood gir l came with us down to our sacred stream. Peter and Will waded in ahead and set course downstrea m fo r our lad y of the bridg e and her grea t mother ocean . Wendy followed , an d I drew up the rear splashin g throug h the calf-deep water and

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carefully partin g th e weeping willow fronds. The tw o boys ahead rounded a bend b y a little oxbo w and dis appeared fro m sight . Wend y suddenl y stoppe d mid stream an d nonchalantly lifte d he r dres s hig h abov e her bum. Sh e bent forward , moved her fee t apart, and peed. Water dance d between her leg s and a ribbon of tiny bubble s swep t of f dow n th e cree k ahea d o f he r and swept around the hidden corner towar d the boys . I wa s transfixed. I ha d n o ide a tha t perfec t girl s di d this — my sister scarcely mattered . On thi s hike we met a n older kid who lived beside the highway . Busil y trapping frogs , h e invite d u s t o shimmy up the greas y embankment behin d hi s house and snea k int o th e backyar d potting shed . There, in the fou r diamond s o f ho t ligh t fro m th e mullione d single window , he showe d u s what h e ha d learne d i n Sunday school . Hi s secre t pleasur e wa s crucifyin g frogs. He'd constructe d a trio of simple wooden crosses to which h e fixed his captive frog s - — weak white bellie s out, tiny web-fingered hands neatly tacked and tied to the armatures. When he built three small fires and the terrified amphibian s bega n t o jer k and ji g with pain , his little Calvar y was complete. I glanced only briefly at th e strugglin g frogs , fo r I quickl y realized that h e was far more arresting . I' d neve r before seen a face s o luminous with concentration. Bead s of spittle laced his

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lips — his tongue tip repeatedly flicke d the m off. He was as daz2:le-eyed, intense an d radiant as a lover. This was the dar k side of the rive r an d the ocean , of our sizzlin g souther n world . Molly introduced m e to another, more diurnal an d respectable, but equall y remarkable. On e da y in earl y sprin g sh e walke d m e across the vacant lot before our place to call upon on e of th e house s b y th e lake . A n ol d woma n answere d warmly and asked us in for tea. I drifted i n and out of the lady-talk , m y return s occasione d onl y b y thei r allusions t o a special kitten-bus h i n th e yard . Finall y we all got up , exite d throug h th e pantry , ducke d th e clothesline acros s the stoop an d descended to the garden. She led us to a back corner b y the lakeshor e clif f and showed me her magic tree. Her bus h at the bottom of the garden, a small soft wood, wa s transmogrifying . Al l alon g it s oute r branches, little , furr y animal s wer e emerging . Lik e tiny mice, they had not yet grown their ear s or opened their eyes . Fee t tucke d withi n thei r fa r an d tail s stil l buried in .the tree stems it appeared to my hunter's eye that they wouldn't hatch for weeks. Then that widow did an amazing thing. She pulled a pair of loop-handled Chines e scissor s from her apro n and began to cli p off some mother branches . An orderly old lady, she cut exactly one dozen and then handed all to me . My mother an d I se t off on the dangerou s

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block-long journey home. I struggled to both hold her hand and carry my bouquet of dead-baby sticks. Safely home, Molly retrieved a Mason jar from th e kitchen cupboar d an d half-fille d i t wit h water . Sh e gently inserte d th e wounde d en d o f my bundle int o the magnifyin g vessel and carrie d i t wit h m e t o m y room. I was told to watch and keep it wet. In time , whit e wormy roots bega n to wiggle from the stems . I kep t thi s sorcer y from Molly unti l the y were more than an inch in length and soon to be snakes and eels . The worl d a s it was, was not. I was learning about changeling s an d becoming, metamorphosi s an d mutation. Ever y fixed object of all creation was beginning t o demonstrat e a n infinit y o f possibilities . Th e earth was curving: the groun d was moving. Ten twigs survive d the white-wor m stage . Molly' s father, Lorrie , als o a painter an d a grea t an d gentl e gardener, cam e to visit an d helped m e plant them i n my mother' s flowerbed . My mos t vivi d memories of him ar e hi s gardenin g a t hi s countr y house s i n Ancaster — first The Willows , the n late r Th e Fou r Oaks. Short and barrel-chested, he always planted tall flowers — gladioli , bi g irises , sunflowers . H e onl y wore wool tweed three-piece suits , even when weeding in the August heat. Whether painting or pickerel fishing, h e alway s wore a tie. Hi s silve r hea d would float through bright flowers dancing in the wind while

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my grandmother , Elizabet h Chapi n Greene , barke d orders from the casement in her bedroom. He seemed serenely unaffected. Late r I learned that whenever he sensed he r approachin g attentio n h e shu t dow n hi s hearing aid . Hi s gardenin g an d paintin g floate d i n delicious silence . I t wa s hi s quie t exampl e tha t ha d taught my mother t o draw the world. Summer kep t m e busy . I explore d th e cree k an d caves and travelled northward t o the bay. On occasion I conducte d inspection s o f those fledgling pussy willows. By autumn I was preoccupied wit h school fear s and m y approachin g birthday , alway s planne d a s a camp-out and annually despoiled by yet another cruel November. The followin g spring I received news that we wer e goin g t o move . Muc h throa t clearin g an d coughing accompanie d my father' s disclosur e o f thi s upheaval on e supper . The followin g morning Moll y and I went out to inspect winter damage in the yard. The sno w had hidden some horrors. Its white blanket had tucke d i n a coz y ro w o f dea d stick s i n th e flowerbed. I was devastated. Yet a further wee k of wan sprin g sun performe d a minor miracle . On e cuttin g produce d a leaf . Natur e had mad e a select. This littl e stick , waving its single leaf to the reborn world was the chosen one. As it transpired, it was a true survivor as we moved many times during the following years and my pussy willow always came with us. It survive d the yellow brick suburb and 188

a move to the heart of an early Ontario town. There it lost its trunk because I dug too deep a hole for it. As if compensating for a lowly start in that backyard, it grew and gre w there unti l it attaine d a height o f nearly 20 feet. When that place was sold a neighbour brought in a backhoe and the mothe r puss y willow was relocate d to my parents' newly purchased farm. It now lived high on the moraine s above the lowes t of the lakes . By this time I was working outside of Canada but Molly maintained ou r conspiracy . That far m sol d fo r thei r fina l move to the West; m y Molly-willow wa s then moved , accompanied by my mother's horse to yet another far m where it flourished for many years. It's a body-war m earl y Augus t evening. Th e cicada s bega n thei r high-summer son g severa l day s ago . I'm sitting on the very cliff edge of the Scarborough Bluffs , m y leg s danglin g som e 20 0 fee t above the sinuou s line where the lak e licks the gravel beach. The exchang e of lake and land is barely audible down below in the darkness . My neighbour, architec t Ron Thorn, has come dow n to visit m y little winter ized cottage hidde n in the trees. We sit side by side in the ric h darkness , sharing a bottle an d talking abou t Vancouver. After year s of designing house s fo r othe r people, he has finally drawn and built his own. It slips among the escarpment trees , uphill , a t the beginnin g

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of my street. Having known this man for many years, I know how critical is the moment to spring my query. While I must let him tell his story through, I must also fit i n min e s o that I ma y make him understan d the urgency of my request. And I must tell'my tale before he's drunk. The momen t comes, and I begin at the beginning, my childhood wal k with m y mother, t o th e shor e of this same lake. We both hav e a Molly in ou r live s — mine a mother, his a wife. I talk him through m y life, carrying m y willow tree befor e me. I explai n that I must move in a few weeks to an apartment in the centre o f the city. My willow needs a home. So ther e i t ends . M y Moll y tre e mothere d b y another Molly . I t live s undercove r amon g th e soft woods o n th e bluff , waitin g fo r th e shor e t o arrive . Every March the surface water runs and big chunks of the cla y cliff g o over i n th e dark . The bi g lake licks them away. It's slowly coming for my tree. From th e ba r past Swif t Stree t drinker s on th e patio can see a small white rowboat pass tug s an d a high-prowe d woode n minesweeper alongsid e Harbou r Road . I t transits th e Uppe r Harbour , row s beneat h Poin t Ellice Bridg e an d disappear s aroun d th e poin t an d into Selkirk Water.

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Molly paints sitting in the middle V> x ^ of a field — her concentration is &y^ ' absolute, its a cow pasture with a pigpen under a tree in a corner. Initially the cattle languidly watch her from a distance, slowly chewing their cuds. Ther e ar e hundred s o f them, Holsteins . They slowly mov e towar d her , curious . Circlin g closer . I watch fro m th e roa d wher e I hav e com e t o pic k he r up. No w al l I se e is a great , slow-turnin g blac k an d white circl e o f big-bone d animals . Sh e ha s disap peared within the eye of this bovine vortex, but I know that she' s sittin g calml y i n th e stil l centre , quietl y painting. Sh e knows animals. T

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1961.1 have my driver's licence and my mother need s a new car. We agree to shar e a vehicle. Molly wants some thing useful but excitin g as she's having a small midlife crisis. My fathe r has already had a much bigge r one . The ma n wh o usuall y bough t Englis h car s i n grey , dark oliv e o r black , drov e hom e i n th e fal l o f 195 6 behind the wheel of a brand new top-end Dodge . This challenge t o my uncle's Studebaker had the big V-8, a stick shift an d enormous fins that cante d outward in a weird amalga m of menace and glamour. Painted two tone pink and white, i t looke d lik e a cake on wheels. Molly, my sister and I stood slack-jawe d in the drive.

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In th e eye s of my friends, m y father's foll y was my triumph. Th e Dodg e wa s going b e a rocket. Thos e late '50 5 cars were the progen y o f the ne w interstate system south of the border. They rumbled up the hills and straightaway s with rea l style but the y didn' t care for corners , You weren't ever supposed to get off those great highway s into th e sunset , th e west , a new life . Turning was for sissies. Those cars swayed and dipped alarmingly when you tried to turn o r rein them in. As it turned out I did have some good times in that metal stampers' wet dream. My biggest triump h i n it actually carne to me by stealth. I had offered t o drive several couples home from a high school dance — the back seat alone held five vertical or two horizontal. As it turne d ou t m y passengers lived all over the count y so I was driving into th e littl e hour s o f the morning . My last drop off, a girl in my class, was at a trailer park on the edg e of town. Her fathe r owne d the place. As she was returning hom e pas t curfew w e had t o proceed veiy quietly. I carefully guide d that big rumbling boat , light s doused , betwee n row s o f mobil e homes. I reached her place, let her out and then began to back up an d turn aroun d to leav e while she waved goodbye. This was tricky with no lights in the dark. As I eased that bi g pink car astern I suddenly felt resist ance and then heard the shrie k of tearing sheet metal. I immediately threw the car into first but it wouldn't move. I was stuck.

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The gir l rushed ove r an d I go t out to inspect th e damage. I was in trouble. The rea r fins, which over hung th e bumper , wer e completel y burie d i n th e aluminum ski n o f a large hous e trailer . Eventuall y I floored tha t bi g engin e an d poppe d th e clutc h t o extract the fins. I narrowly missed her parent's unit in front o f me. Amazingly ther e wa s no damag e to th e car . Th e heavy chrome trim had knifed throug h the aluminum sheeting intact. The onl y evidence of the mishap were two large, splayed, churchy-looking hole s in the trailer. Unbelievably , th e owner s hadn' t woke n up . W e agreed that I'd return in the morning and face her dad and the music. Next da y I ha d som e troubl e explainin g t o m y father wh y I needed to borro w the ca r at 7:3 0 in th e morning. But I did get the keys and headed apprehensively over to the traile r park. My friend, he r mothe r and he r fathe r waited a t th e entrance . The y looke d serious. A s he r fathe r strod e ove r menacingl y I rehearsed m y excuses. He grabbe d me. It too k m e a few seconds to realize that he was giving me a hug. It seemed tha t th e traile r owner s were four month s i n arrears. They' d skippe d befor e dawn , slippin g ou t onto th e highwa y without realizin g that ther e wa s a pair o f gothic vents in th e sid e of their house . I ha d been driving a chariot of retribution . My mother' s ca r was a differen t story . Sh e an d I

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settled o n somethin g bran d ne w t o Canada . British Leyland ha d begu n producin g th e firs t o f th e boxy , dinky-wheeled, Mini Minors. We bought a model that was somewha t grandl y know n a s a n estat e wagon . This little woody was bright red and had a tight fourspeed box. It was truly fun to drive. I went a lot of places in that little machine of ours — trip s t o Montreal , Buffalo , Georgia n Bay , unti l 1963 when I got grounded. Molly got tough. It wasn't because I rolled it . I had, but she never found out . I'd been drinkin g win e with som e friend s lat e on e frigi d March night . W e wer e parke d i n a countr y lane . Bottles emptied, we decided to head home. Of course I ha d to pul l out fast . A s I made a sharp left, slidin g onto a concession road, I hit a frozen rut . Th e littl e wagon flipped into the ditch leaving us unhurt in the way of slack-bodied drunks. Everyone crawled out th e sliding window s an d easil y rolle d that.littl e wago n back ont o it s wheels . A midnight tri p t o a car wash cleaned up the roof and that was the end of it. No, th e groundin g was for a more serious offense , one against propriety. I' d gon e t o a n outdoor danc e one summe r Frida y wit h a coupl e o f guy s wh o worked besid e me in a machine shop. For m e it was just a summer job. For the m i t wa s a lifeline. The y were a coupl e o f primitive s fro m rura l Ne w Brunswick wh o cam e fro m rea l povert y — o f jobs, experience an d expectations . They were lookin g fo r

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women but had no car, the essential mating tool those days, and talked me into driving . The danc e was in an open-sided pavilion in a small river valle y east of Toronto, Outline d wit h string s of small bulbs , th e simpl e buildin g seeme d t o floa t among th e flood-li t cedar s and willows of the ravine . Warm ai r wit h al l th e nigh t smell s o f summe r — mowed grass , creek-bed, pop an d popcorn — drifte d in through th e ope n sides . There was a live band and a candy-coloured jukebox. The musi c was white-boys' rock an d roll . I' m stil l amaze d at ho w pervasiv e and persuasive an environment a piece of pop music could be. Fo r 18 0 seconds , Budd y Holly coul d wra p you r entire body in a song. So my hungry companion s very quickly picked up several girl s includin g a spar e fo r me . Thes e girl s reflected a backwoods boy's idea of glamour. They had teased hair , capr i pant s an d ble w bubble s fro m bi g gum wads. They were as crude as the boy s from Ne w Brunswick. One o f my companion s soo n disappeare d beyond the radian t worl d o f the danc e floo r not t o resurfac e until Monday. He was not alone. The othe r staye d by me, th e driver , an d w e eventuall y shoehorne d th e remaining two girls into tha t little red wagon. It was difficult t o affec t a n impressive takeof f with 850 cc's. However, I did manage to throw a few bits of gravel, a pans y substitut e fo r th e mandator y tir e

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squeal. Soon we were headed off into th e darknes s to do it. After a few miles rolling past dairy farms I began to wonder where. Although my and Molly's ca r could drop i n th e trun k o f th e choppe d an d channelle d Hudsons at the drive-in, it was decided to go there for hamburgers a s an interim move . I gues s we though t the girl s had to be fuelled u p first. The rout e t o th e A& W woul d take us throug h m y hometown. No t a problem , i t wa s pas t midnight . With a few miles of flat run o n Highway 2, 1 got that Morris up past 50. The firs t houses of town appeared alongside th e road , the n a school , a Chev y dealer's and the daily bar. We were approaching th e four cor ners. As we breasted the poo l hall I became aware of activity behind me . When I stopped a t the only light in town I became aware of my mother. While she was walking th e dog, we were screwin g around. Th e pai r in th e rea r ha d sli d back the window s and sli d dow n on eac h othe r — head s ou t on e side , fee t ou t th e other. An d Molly? Sh e stood ther e wit h he r irritabl e dachshund, Sophie , o n a leas h watchin g m e fro m every corne r o f the bloc k an d eac h window of every building. Sh e refused t o forgive me. In the morning I turned i n my keys. That was my last run in the Mini but it wasn't Molly's. She drov e tha t littl e wago n fo r anothe r te n years . Then sh e move d wes t t o Vancouve r Island wit h m y

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PLATE 1 5

the final Dodge

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father an d bought another . While I saw less of her in those years, I was around when she sold it. She was in her 705 , it was now the late '8os. Dear Fog had unwittingly bought a Cooper coupe . So that was why men yelled an d whistle d whe n sh e wen t by . She ha d th e classic package — the ho t engine , leathe r seats , and coachwork in British Racing Green. After several days of biddin g turmoi l a t th e en d o f he r drive , tha t ca r raced off on its tiny wheels to live in California. Molly then bought a grey station wagon in which she could pack paintings . I t wa s he r las t car , anothe r dam n Dodge. _ The big rig — new brown Ford pickup towing a 20-foot beige house v% trailer — pulls out of the farmyard. The For d ha s an extended cab, auxiliary transmission cooler , heavy-dut y tires an d a tape player. Th e traile r i s a portabl e hous e provisione d with unbreakable plastic dishes, dried foods an d tins . There is a short row of paperbacks on the littl e shelf built-in abov e a dining are a that's convertibl e int o a bed a t night. Wrinkle-free, quick-dr y items i n eart h tones — browns, tans, greens and rusts — swing in the little closet . Al l these good s signa l a transitio n t o a new life . The previou s night th e swarth y purchaser of my parents' farm had filled the kitchen door and dropped 197

an attach e eas e stuffe d wit h bundle d bill s o n th e counter. Th e dea l was done. The earl y ipth-centur y stone farmhouse was gone, as was the cutter, the crimson Masse y tracto r an d th e bi g bed s o f asparagus. Molly gave away her tack and her horses. She slept little that night knowing that the steaming rides over the winter hills wer e over. There'd be no more evening s on th e porc h of f the summe r kitchen , smokin g an d drinking whil e dus k caresse d th e moraine s befor e rolling u p th e distan t lak e for th e night . M y fathe r wanted to go home and walk the Victoria streets of his childhood, star e a t th e se a an d nurs e hi s regrets . Anticipation kept them awak e — they would leave in the morning, swin g by the bank, and then loop across the continent , crossin g an d re-crossin g th e border , taking nearly a year to reach the ferr y at Tsawwassen. But mostl y the y couldn' t slee p becaus e of the shin y leather cas e radiatin g loss , hop e an d ris k fro m th e back of the closet . The ri g ra n well . The ca b filled with music , th e tires humme d an d th e bi g beig e bo x trundled alon g behind obedientl y mil e afte r mile . The y crosse d a t Lewiston, negotiated some badly signed interchange s and eventually found th e interstate tha t steamrollered for th e Carolinas . I n th e evening s the y passe d th e growling Macks, Whites an d Freightliners returnin g to Florida an d the truc k garden s of the south . Their

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operators dippe d thei r light s an d tappe d thei r ai r horns, easing the little Mitchell wagon train back into the cruisin g lan e alon g th e shoulder . A t nigh t the y kept t o themselve s i n th e dar k campground s an d pullovers, nursin g thei r fina l Scotches , thei r book s and tobacco. The transitio n was going well. Months late r the y bega n a migratio n u p th e Mississippi flyway , eventuall y slippin g bac k int o Canada nea r Lake of the Woods . They pulled into a campground leavin g muc h o f th e Sout h an d th e Midwest i n their wake. It was a beautiful evening. After suppe r they walked down to a small lake, found a log seat and made themselves comfortabl e fo r th e slo w slid e int o darkness . The lo w sun soon lifted a scrim of ruby and gold above the shar p peak s o f larc h an d spruce . A s th e lak e warmed, a large bull moose ambled into th e shallows and bega n pulling u p hi s supper. A loon soloe d fro m the far end of the radiant lake. While ther e wa s still ligh t the y se t ou t togethe r back towar d thei r traile r an d th e promis e o f a con templative nightcap . A disreputable-lookin g picku p with a camper back had pulled in a hundred feet fro m their brow n For d an d trailer . It s cre w spilled ou t o f rear doors and set up a circle of aluminum lawn chairs centred o n a large orang e plasti c cooler . Fiv e youn g guys in John Deer e and CA T caps were warming up for

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a lon g night , of drinking. The y pulled bee r ca n afte r beer ca n fro m th e hug e cooler , pitchin g eac h spen t predecessor into the bush. "She was just begging fo r it man. No fuckin g wa y was I going t o d o that bitch . Who'd wan t to look at her in the fucking morning?" "I'm wit h you man. No fuckin g way." As th e littl e circl e o f fuck/fuc k boy s go t loude r and louder , th e adventurer s i n th e beig e traile r go t more an d mor e annoyed . Finall y Joh n Mitchel l cleared his throat, got out of his chair and headed for the coole r campfire . I n tha t hundre d fee t the com mander strode across the decks of the Acadia, the Red Deer and the Restigouche. By the tim e he reached th e beer circl e h e was high o n th e bridg e o f an Empress with the se a rolling pathetically nearly 80 feet below. He pulle d hi s pipe ou t o f his mouth an d gave the m hell. The boy s stared at him in open-mouthed disbelief. Finall y a wiry guy on th e fa r sid e of the coole r snarled, "Shut up, you nosey old fuck." He advanced toward the retiree in stay-press beige and shot a larger goobe r a t hi s feet . Th e other s go t ou t o f thei r folding law n chairs an d flanke d thei r ne w leader . A stocky six-foote r o n th e lef t advance d towar d th e startled ex-reservis t whil e shakin g a fres h ca n o f Blue. He pulle d the tab freeing a stream of suds that arced ove r th e tw o yards betwee n them , drenchin g the startled captain/boss/parent who stood red-faced 200

and flummoxed while bee r ra n dow n hi s glasses and dribbled int o hi s beard . "Fuc k off , gramps . Mov e your nickin g traile r an d ol d lad y somewher e else , you dumb shit." The par k office was closed. It was dark and he was alone an d suddenl y old . Th e fiv e primitive s wer e enjoying themselves . "Let' s tak e hi s rackin g truck. " The ol d ma n too k a ste p backwards . Hi s fac e wa s crimson an d creased, his shoulders ben t as if his back was broken . Th e bee r boy s slouche d forward : h e backed u p tw o step s an d then turned . Th e evenin g was no longe r beautifu l an d the roa d no longe r free . His fac e burne d with ange r and shame as he retreate d in a hail of derision and obscenities. He pulled ope n the trailer' s aluminu m doo r an d steppe d insid e — elderly, diminished. At Chapma n Poin t th e wherr y enter s The Gorge , proceedin g u p Victori a Arm . Once again the oarsma n slips his oars, drift s and take s a drink. Th e passag e i s dark and narrow. A t Dingle y Del l the y hea r hi m coug h an d clear his throat. H e rows . Molly i s gone : th e hous e i s empty. There is business to be done. Death i s expensive . Dail y th e tele phone an d th e fron t doo r presen t mor e individual s

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and'institutions with cup in hand. Clearly I must get a handle on Molly's money. It's a shambles . I hav e tw o boxe s fille d wit h ol d passbooks, crumple d statement s an d bills, yet I have little knowledge of her resources . A year earlier we' d gone t o a Ban k of Montreal an d signe d papers . I' d start there . Despite havin g various Molly documents , a state ment of joint signing authority , my passport and a key, the manage r will not releas e the deposi t box . She' s a big woman in middl e age , dresse d for authorit y an d her ne w job . Whil e she' s enjoyin g he r littl e bi t o f power, it's also clear that she's terrified. All letters will be crossed and dotted, al l procedures followed rigidly, no mistake s made . He r promotio n i s precious . I retreat to a law office an d re-emerge wit h a death certificate an d m y powe r o f attorney . Ye t the enforce r prevails. I return with more paper and the lawyer. The crisp dress finally wavers and deflates. I finally get into the box. The safety-deposi t bo x is filled with duplicate s o f papers that I already possess. There is, however, much more money in her account than I expected. She could have lived bette r and travelled more. I leave the cas h where it is and decide to pursue other leads . I'd found some cheque s fro m th e Ban k of Commerc e bearin g my father' s name . I wal k severa l block s pas t small , tired shops and stucco houses until I reach a branch by

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the parliamen t buildings . Despit e havin g a n impres sive pil e o f papers — I'm startin g t o understan d th e rules of this trial — they keep me there for almost four hours. Althoug h mor e tha n a year ha s passed , they have no idea that their custome r i s dead. Why wouldn't Moll y hav e told them ? After a farther painfu l half hour i n the manager' s office , h e finally reveals what's in the account. Eighty-nin e dollars . I have paper traces for two more banks. I spen d the next two days sitting under fluorescent lights on plastic chairs. The return s are modest. My enquiries are well organized an d polite . Th e response s ar e ofte n appallingly inept an d insensitive. I' m becomin g upset . After week s o f dealin g wit h lawyers , accountants , bankers, loca l governmen t an d hospita l security , I' m beginning to see Victoria as the city of the dead. It feel s as if there's a whole subcultur e determine d t o proces s and profi t fro m agin g an d death . Th e crematoriu m tries repeatedl y to substitut e expensiv e urn s fo r ou r recycled box. These over-decorated pot s ar e so vulgar that I fear people will assume that my mother had been a tart. The lawyer s quote me a fixed fee. Weeks later, as the dimension s o f th e estat e becom e clear , the y announce that fees will be a percentage of the assets. In the en d we settle fo r more tha n quadrupl e the initia l quote. And so it goes with packers, movers, cable companies and real estate agents. And they get them before death too. Living here temporarily I soon discover that 203

the more chrome walkers and wheelchairs there are in a neighbourhood , th e highe r th e cost s o f basic s like food. This apparent preying on the frail and the fixed income, along with the relentless rain, is depressing me. One morning over coffee I leaf once more through the files , discardin g paper s tha t recen t event s hav e made redundant . I paus e a t a n empt y an d unuse d envelope fro m a Scoti a Ban k downtow n o n For t Street. This envelope has surfaced behin d my father's desk durin g th e pre-sal e cleanup . It' s hardl y a lead, but nevertheless , I decid e t o driv e downtown . I almost abando n the effor t whe n I can' t find parking within a hal f mil e o f th e branch . Tomorro w I wil l return to Toronto and I'm fa r from th e bottom o f my chore list . I shoul d sto p playin g detectiv e an d sta y home with a broom. I sho w my documents t o a servic e clerk . Twent y minutes later I'm interviewed in a cubicle by a department head,, I'm the n sent off to be interrogated i n the assistant manager' s office . Finall y th e manage r appears. There is an account in my father's name. It's been inactiv e fo r years. The balanc e is about a hundred thousand dollars, money that I'm sure Molly was not awar e of. Whatever wer e they doing? What else have I missed? The cit y days have a pattern — waking at five or six, making coffee, a quick check 2O

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on th e world' s distemper, mor e coffe e an d the n th e phone. We boot up our computers in the mornings in the way that we once lay and lit a fire. And then there's the mail, that relentless onslaught of pleading, billing and dunnin g tha t sustain s a n ever-renewin g loa d o f paper guilt . These month s I fin d th e arriva l o f the mai l th e most difficul t hou r a s my parents stil l liv e on in list s across the continent . Most of it is a toss: subscriptio n renewals, donation pledges , memberships an d gallery openings. I ope n an d scan them. Wit h a big permanent marke r I scraw l "DECEASED " acros s th e notices an d refold and return i n what often proves t o be a futil e effor t t o ste m th e tide . Th e grea t mai l machine thunder s forwar d an d I remai n surprise d a t how the dead continue to run up bills. Every ten day s or so comes the arriva l of an envelope that stops the heart . A long letter fro m a former friend o f Molly' s arrives , ful l o f news , chatt y gossip and affection . Som e of her oldes t friend s don' t know she's gone . Sometime s the new s travels in th e mos t awkward ways: today I face the most difficult on e yet. It's a lette r fro m a n ol d parenta l frien d wh o som e decades ag o move d t o Florid a wit h he r family . He r husband the n decampe d with thei r Philippin e maid and th e childre n lef t fo r thei r ow n live s soo n after . Wife an d mothe r no w live s alone. She has, however, just learned of Molly's passing and has written a long 205

letter o f condolenc e t o m y father . I t close s wit h a promise to come and visit him . Now this i s trul y awkward . The gossi p networ k across th e continen t ha s telegraphe d m y mother' s death but not the much older news of my father's. Her follow-up note is poignant. "Bot h you and Molly hold a ver y special place in ou r famil y memory . They ar e happy memories, o f happy times with tw o wonderfu l people. I called the telephone number I had for you so that I coul d convey these thought s t o you in person, but learned tha t it had been disconnected. I hope that this letter find s you, wherever you have decided to be. May this find you in good health and doing the things you enjoy. Lots o f Love. " This lette r deserve s a considere d repl y bu t I' m temporarily flummoxed . Th e lette r pape r an d th e envelope ar e no t a matc h — eac h ha s a differen t address. I n th e worl d o f th e elderl y i s eithe r t o b e trusted? After som e pacing and indecision I decide to gamble and ' telephon e a number printe d wit h on e of the addresses . I don' t wan t t o mak e thi s call . Sh e answers on the first ring. I identif y myself . There i s a silenc e o n th e lin e proportional t o the 40 years that hav e passed since I last spok e wit h her . The n he r voic e again , "Thi s is important, I will call you back." We exchange numbers. She' s gone .

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I sit in this silence . A call from m e can only mean dire and unhappy news. She must be composing an d preparing herself . I wait . Whe n th e rin g come s I answer quickl y and immediately begi n a narration o f the pas t year , outlinin g th e illnesses , th e death s and the funerals . Sh e prompts m e through t o th e end . I begin to realize that she is taking all this in with equanimity. She is much closer to the precipice than I; she receives new s o f thos e wh o hav e falle n ove r wit h a numbing regularity . This is how we get read y to g o ourselves. After we'v e spoke n I' m lef t swimmin g aroun d i n the past. I begin to remember drivin g a school bus full of students throug h a December blizzar d in th e 'yo s along Highway 7 to Ottawa. Creeping along , throug h a near total whiteout, I' m amaze d that this little twolane highway remains th e mos t direc t rout e betwee n my country' s politica l an d financia l capitals . W e stil l live in a bush garden . There's bee n a studen t rebellio n a t th e colleg e where I teach . Classe s hav e been suspende d an d the faculty ha s been ordere d t o dispers e th e student s b y setting u p little voluntary field trips, thu s givin g the students th e illusio n o f power an d control over thei r own fates . A s the mos t junio r o n th e facult y I hav e drawn the dulles t — a museum excursion to the capi tal. I must also drive the bus. To my surprise I have a

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full house and they're all young women. Eleven hours later, when I finally limp exhausted into Ottawa, I find out why. By prior arrangemen t w e ar e t o sta y a t a house owned b y th e boyfrien d o f on e o f th e students . Arriving past midnight, I skid the bus into a snowbank by the drive and we all climb down into the icy night. Inside the; house our host tells all the women to spread out their sleeping bags in the living room. I'm given a small empty room on the second floor. I a m so tired from th e lon g an d perilou s driv e tha t I fal l aslee p almost instantl y despit e th e sloshin g lovemakin g o f the host and her boyfriend o n the waterbed next door. A knock awakens me just a s I begi n t o sli p int o deep sleep. One of the women in my class stands outside the door with her sleeping bag. She wants in. Too exhausted t o discuss it o r do anything I wav e her in and promptly pass out again on the floor. A few minutes late r anothe r knoc k wakes me up. I let anothe r student in. Then there's another and another. When I awaken in the dun light of morning there are six bags in my room beside my own. They're not going to let each other get away with anything. And there I lie, in the midst of every foolish man's dream, and I've slept through all of it. There has been a sea change/These young women, onl y half a generatio n younge r tha n myself, have become incredibly assertive. Three day s late r w e set ou t t o retur n home . We

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have finishe d late , ha d supper , an d no w I' m steelin g myself fo r a lon g driv e throug h th e night . Th e bu s sluices throug h th e rapidl y solidifyin g slus h o n Carlingview a s I hea d ou t o f Ottawa. M y passenger s doze or talk quietly behind m e in the dark. As the gas stations, franchise s an d malls slip by, I begin t o sens e a presence . A minute o r tw o elapse s befor e I realiz e that I' m abou t t o pas s b y the high-ris e tha t Molly' s mother ha s chosen fo r her las t days . I hav e not see n my Green e grandmothe r fo r severa l years . O n impulse I wheel the school bus into the crescent drive at the entrance , tellin g th e fe w passengers still awak e as I brake that I'l l retur n i n a few minutes. I slip int o the late-night lobb y and press the i ith floor button in the elevator . Th e ca b rocks gentl y a s it hisse s up th e shaft. The di m corrido r slip s off east and west fro m th e elevator doors , to a dark vanishing poin t o n eac h end of th e building . Bot h way s ther e ar e lon g row s o f closed door s facin g eac h othe r acros s th e carpeting . Toward th e easter n en d a singl e doo r stand s ajar , a splinter o f war m ligh t spill s ont o th e floor . I wal k toward it, pause briefly, the n pus h on the door . The roo m glow s - — ever y ligh t i s on an d Grann y Greene sit s in bed, propped u p by many pillows, waiting for me with a small sweet smile. She has a steaming teapot an d two cups waiting on the little Regenc y side table. A saucer of the sugar cookies that my long-gon e 2 Op

Grandfather Green e an d I both love d sits besid e her 1920 octagona l Rolex . Sh e tell s m e t o si t dow n an d then pours. We talk quietly for a few minutes and then I rise to go. I touch he r fingers briefly as I say goodbye and then head off for my bus idling by the curb. I don't explai n to m y students wher e I hav e been and they don' t ask . Soo n w e ar e rumblin g ove r th e Canadian Shiel d a s a ragge d fores t slip s b y i n th e night. As the firs t light s o f Peterborough win k out of the darknes s several hours later , th e very strangenes s of what ha s take n plac e s o matter-of-factl y become s overwhelming. There had been no prior arrangemen t and n o communicatio n betwee n u s fo r severa l years, yet I was expected at that moment an d I knew it. We never spoke again. Her deat h at 93 came soon after . DELUXE SUGA R COOKIES i cu i 1/ 2 cup i larg 1 teaspoo 1/2 teaspoo 2 x /2 cup i teaspoo i teaspoo

p butter s icing sugar e egg n vanilla n grated lemon rind s all-purpose flour n baking soda n cream of tartar granulated suga r to sprinkle on top

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Sprinkle each cookie with granulated sugar. Bake 8-10 minutes, or until lightly golden. These can be prepared two days ahead, and stored in an airtight container. Makes about two dozen cookies. — Molly's recipe box

Tillicum Roa d crosse s hig h abov e Th e Gorge. Commande r Mitchel l row s o n beneath the bridge. As m y fathe r go t olde r an d older he seemed to have less and less to do, yet each task became a bother. He go t fuss y and began to create work. For a few years they owned a small apartment building in Victoria. He kep t it fall of youn g nurse s an d spinste r teachers . I f h e wasn' t rowing he spent his days with a toolbox in the furnac e room o r laundry . Moll y though t h e wa s tryin g t o avoid people. My sister fantasized tha t h e was fingering the tenants' drawer s in the dryers. One year I drove a van out from Toronto t o mee t him i n th e Rockies . I caugh t u p t o hi m a t a camp ground somewher e i n th e Selkirks . H e stil l ha d th e brown For d picku p and zo-foo t hous e trailer . Whil e he wen t of f t o fin d Moll y wh o ha d escape d t o th e woods t o sketch , I inspecte d hi s rig. He' d bough t a

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plastic label-make r an d he' d bee n busy . There were many labels of the sor t one would expect.

SPARE FUSES . REPLACEMEN T BULBS . STOVE PARTS. LURES & HOOKS. KNIVES. Many seemed inane.

TOOLBOX. GLOV E COMPARTMENT . GAS CAP. LEFT PROPANE TANK. RIGHT PROPANE TANK. My fathe r wa s turnin g 80 . Whe n I decided to fly out fo r his birthday and take my older so n with me we didn't kno w that it would be his last year. We just got on the plane. We too k a room dow n the street a t the James Bay Inn an d prepare d ou r mind s fo r a week-lon g visit . There was a drinks reception at the house where everyone stoo d jamme d int o a coupl e o f room s holdin g glasses and shouting a t each other. The y were all getting old and deaf. My father forgot to talk to my son. The nex t da y a smaller group convene d an d went out t o dinner . Victori a ha s a number o f restaurant s serving dull Protestant fare in what always feels to me like a room adde d to someone' s house. They all have awkward sid e entrances , crea m interior s an d grann y tablecloths. Smal l cushions covere d in fussy prints are secured t o the wooden chair s with little cotton straps tied around the spindles. And the floors slope, and the wine is industrial, the foo d boring .

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We at e mostl y i n silence . Durin g desser t I finally screwed u p th e courag e t o as k my fathe r t o explai n something that had puzzled me for years. In one of the big silence s I said , "Dad , there' s somethin g I always wanted t o as k you about. " Hi s fac e sharpene d an d he paused with his fork abov e the plate. I coul d hear my sister catch her breat h — O h God, there goes my brother again, fucking everything up. Just be nice and it will soon be over. Everythin g wen t int o suspensio n bu t I forge d ahead. "Da d — what' s a dunderhead? " M y father' s world, eve r sinc e I wa s a child , ha d bee n populate d with men who were either "clowns, " "Blood y Brits" or "dunderheads." I kne w wha t th e firs t tw o were. M y sister relaxe d with a small giggle. Th e ol d man' s fac e was red — why couldn't h e just have a good time? "You," he said . "You're a dunderhead." And he still didn't tal k to my son. The nex t mornin g over breakfas t my son pleade d with m e t o cal l the whol e thin g off . He fel t lik e th e third person o n a date. I agreed. We went downtow n and rented a bright red car with a plastic spoiler on the trunk. W e threw our bag s in the bac k seat and got in the lineup fo r the Coho, the Port Angeles ferry. After the usua l grilling by U.S. Immigratio n — why do we let the m b e so abusive when they'r e standing o n ou r soil? — - we drove onto the ca r deck. As we cleared my grandfather's jetty at the mouth o f the harbour the sun came out and the sea began to sparkle. We'd achieve d 2I3

a kin d o f freedom. I wa s no longe r goin g t o tr y s o hard. A gull flew just off the rail , radiant as a dove in the morning light. I photographed i t many times. The prints I made later ar e as luminous a s tiny icons . ^fesfeia.-'-•- •> These ends have sad beginnings. ^^^ M y rathe r calle d on e evenin g t o announce that my mother ha d had an accident. She'd fallen som e hours befor e an d had bee n unable to ge t up. He was vague about details and sounded confused . Gradually it became apparent that he had compressed many hours into minute s an d thousands of miles into metres. Si x hours ha d passe d and sh e was still curle d up on the floor with a shattered hip . He seeme d con vinced that : his children were somewhere nearb y and would drop over in a few minutes an d help her t o he r feet. This little ship of marriage tha t they'd bee n sail ing on for nearly 60 years now had no one at the helm. A few months passed by. Molly now had a synthetic hip an d lif e ha d returne d t o som e normalcy . On e January day they sat down to lunch. Now eve n less of a cook , m y mother ha d probabl y rushed i n fro m he r studio, quickl y thawe d somethin g o r opene d a can . Their lunc h together , largel y silent , ende d wit h th e old man going off to nap. Did Molly go to her studio? I'm not sure. What I do know is that a few hours later she went to chec k on him an d found hi m stil l asleep.

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When she woke him he could neither tal k nor move. This was when the en d began. He'd ha d a stroke. I climbe d a tall contro l towe r i n Antwerp's enormous containe r por t t o mak e a series o f assignmen t photographs o f people , ship s an d cranes . Th e day' s work finished, I returne d t o Brussel s under a n overcast sky . After agreein g t o mee t m y client shortl y i n the hote l bar , I rushe d up to my room to dum p and recharge my equipment. The messag e light flashed on the phone. I picked it up and listened. That was how I found ou t about my father's stroke. Now it was all different. In the space of a short nap their worlds suddenly contracted. Although he was to live anothe r eigh t months , h e wa s never t o retur n home. His lif e was now a hospital bed an d occasional hallway adventure s in a wheelchair . Hers becam e a painful dail y drive from he r hous e behind th e parlia ment buildings to Victoria's General Hospital, cruelly located well outside the city in the bush. Between the two lay dozens of traffic lights , ever y red light requiring an excruciating movement of her hip-replacemen t leg. The driv e was one o f unrelenting drearines s — gas stations , ca r dealerships , franchis e restaurants , strip malls. Every day it looked more hideous. Every few weeks I flew out from Toronto and did the drivin g for several days. I encountere d tw o great mysteries and two solitudes. Looking at him in his hos-

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pital be d looking bac k at me I had no ide a what was going o n insid e hi s mind . On e bega n t o understan d how profound and transformative was the evolution of language., He could neither spea k nor write so it felt as if the lights were out. But when nurses officiously bustled i n ari d out , engagin g in , baby talk aroun d him , I occasionally sa w a familia r sardoni c coc k of th e eye brow or set of the mouth that suggested an imprisoned mind. But then again, I wasn't sure. I wa s als o uncertai n wha t sh e fel t an d thought . Often i t seeme d a s i f sh e wa s goin g throug h th e motions, playing the dutiful wife . High-strung, angry, uncertain and often reactionary, he'd always been a lot of work. I' d alway s thought tha t hi s most endearin g quality was his passion for his wife. Sometime in 1940, while o n leav e from convo y duty , he'd walke d into a party at an officers' mes s in Halifax. From th e door he saw a woman in a ruby dress across the room with her arm languidly resting o n the mantl e of the fireplace. End and beginning, he would look no further. She was it. She remained his passion until his last breath. Molly an d I would do the ordea l by stoplight an d strip mal l together , th e lon g wa y out t o th e inter change where the forest began. The transitio n marked by a brutal concrete bunke r with a blue H on the roof. We'd negotiat e th e lobby where one of her painting s hung, bump up in the elevator, thread the corridors t o his room . Eac h da y there wer e gri m change s i n th e

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four-place ward. Enter ne w sad stories, exit s from lif e marked b y a n empt y bed . H e la y there, grim , grey , suddenly so old, sleeping. Time would grind on, it was like sittin g a t a wake. Then a n eye would open , he' d turn his head and slowly, painfully, reac h for her han d with hi s best arm . They'd hold hand s fo r a few min utes an d the n he' d laps e back somewhere into sleep . Then Moll y woul d dro p hi s han d an d tur n t o me . "Well, that' s enoug h o f this place," she' d sa y matterof-factly. "Let's get out of here." And we'd be gone, off to a favourite bar on the harbour . What was she feel ing? I couldn't figure it out . During telephon e talk s before one of my trips west I'd as k how h e wa s doing. "Muc h better, " she' d say. But then , whe n I arrive d an d did the torture-drive , he'd seem the same or, more frequently, worse. There were no longer an y facts, just hopes. The lin e was still paying out the hawespipe , but th e locke r would soo n be empty. When summe r cam e Molly kep t givin g improve ment report s wheneve r I called . Tire d an d feelin g somewhat impoverished fro m so much transcontinental travel, I let myself believe her. Toward the en d of August I decide d to chec k for myself and once again boarded a plane. W e wen t t o se e him o n a beautiful late summer morning. He looked like hell. A tiny grey man with bright yellow, rheumy eyes sat hunched in a wheelchair. I t wa s lunchtime an d sh e bega n t o fee d 2/7

him wit h a spoon . Afte r a coupl e o f mouthful s h e looked a t me. He wa s clearly humiliated t o hav e me see him thi s way. It wa s so awkward tha t I began to distract myself by reading his weekly menu. I was surprised t o see that it included a jigger of Scotch a day. Where was it? Well it seemed that she hadn't ever gotten aroun d t o goin g an d buyin g it . Her e wa s m y excuse t o ge t out unti l lunc h wa s over. As I lef t th e building his nurse questione d m y departure. When I explained my errand she cautioned me not to buy a jug of the stuff . I t seemed a strange request . I walke d eigh t block s t o a liquo r outlet , photo graphing th e expirin g garden s o f late summer o n the way. Browning petals, drooping stalk s and yellowin g leaves lined the sidewalk. When I examined the store shelves I began to understand th e nurse's order. Onc e a fussy drinker, his standards had clearly declined. His current brand was available only in the kind of bottle I'd associat e with bul k vinegar. It eve n had th e littl e glass handle cas t in, I knew that I'd neve r ge t it past the enforcers in the nursing station. Instead I went for a micke y o f Bell s an d burie d i t i n m y camer a bag . When I returned I placed it on the tray holder o f his wheelchair. H e ben t low , hi s hea d wobblin g o n a stringy stalk, to look at it. His eyes seemed to narrow. He lifted hi s good ar m and began to swing it toward the bottle . As it accelerate d I realized tha t h e wasn't going t o pick it up. With th e quickes t movement I'd

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seen from him in eight months he swept the offendin g bottle of f his tray. "Wrong!" he barked and then col lapsed in his chair. It was the first thing that he'd said to me in months. It was also the last. He was dead the next day. Makes me feel like building a little tower, and "^n") forever hibernating until you come back or sleep until you are here again . Cold an d rainy and dreary tonight. I hope it is not too bad at sea and hope you will be warm, at least your fee t will. Love darling to you always and ever. — Molly's Diary, January 10, 194 2

I've arrive d o n ye t anothe r o f m y biweekly visits to Victoria — seeing Molly through m y father' s strok e an d descent . She pours m e a sherry an d invites me out to her stu dio in the back . She' s returned t o painting and wants to show me new work. It's crowde d in the smal l building — the rack s are stuffed wit h portfolios , frame s an d mats . Severa l weeks earlie r we'd gone for a walk together, workin g our wa y towar d th e mout h o f th e inne r harbour . Whenever sh e stopped to contemplate somethin g I' d photographed it . At day's end I lef t th e film at a onehour lab , handing he r th e littl e print s nex t morning . 219

Since then she' s been working up paintings fro m m y photographs. Sh e pulls them ou t one by one to show me. I' d bee n quic k o n th e previou s visit , catchin g fleeting movements of the gulls and the curl of a wave at just the right instant. She'd taken advantage of these moments snatche d fro m time' s strea m an d ha d use d them as elements i n a series of skilful maritime paintings. You could see that they'd sel l well. Putting them bac k in the rack s she moved a thick wad o f ne w watercolou r pape r t o on e side . She' d already worked the top sheet — it caught my eye —• so I reached for it before everythin g was re-shelved and gone. Unlike th e other painting s it was not representational. It was a beauty. "When did you do this?" I asked her. "Yesterday." "Yesterday?" "Yes," she said. "Do you like it?" It wa s not a big painting but a quietly compelling one. A red lin e swoope d in fro m th e righ t edg e and embraced a kind of celebration i n th e centr e — red, turquoise, orange, ochre — a glimpse of a tropical sea and wheeling origami around which depths, darkness, and storms roiled. Over the years I'd watched so many wonderful abstract s of hers disappear into th e houses of strangers — I didn' t ow n one myself — an d here she was , 8 0 year s ol d an d stil l celebratin g lif e i n a

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medium — watercolou r — tha t dance d ou t o n th e edge like live music. Onc e th e son g was begun ther e was n o goin g bac k — th e note s wer e o n th e wind , floating, flying — no returns, no second chances. "Take it, Mike." "Really?" "Yes, please take it — I want you to have it." For almos t thre e year s now — a thousand day s — it has hun g nex t t o m y bed, a little squar e o f morning music. My mother's smal l house is dark at this hour but for a single light in the hall from her bedroo m t o th e bath . Afte r thre e hours slee p I a m onc e agai n awak e and hav e quietl y retreated int o th e dar k living room t o sip a drink and await the return o f sleep. I don't want to disturb hers . A front has come in across the Straits. The win d whispers secret s in the chimney : th e littl e Japanese maple fronting th e hous e scratche s o n th e windo w glas s making shadow play on the shade. The furnac e cycles on an d of f bu t th e clock s ar e silent . Sh e n o longe r winds them. As I lift my glass again I hear the rustle of bed linens at the end of the hall — Molly is getting u p to g o t o th e bathroom . Suddenl y sh e passe s by th e double doors from the hal l to the room in which I sit.

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She has probably forgotten that I am in the house for the weekend . Or perhap s she thinks tha t I sleep , or doesn't conside r a t all . Sh e passe s b y th e openin g slowly, hobbling with her replacemen t hip, ben t for ward, tin y Sh e is wearing only panties . Mos t o f th e time we see each other throug h th e glas s of memory. Features an d detail s ar e maske d b y experienc e an d animation of the past . This time there is neither and I'm shocke d to realize that the joyful gir l is gone, as is the young mother an d the kindly granny. What I see is a pale bent crone with breasts like flaps, a formless sagging belly , loos e age-spotte d fles h hangin g fro m the thighs. All I see is death in the hall and the cruel ty of time. I fee l th e burde n o f too muc h conscious ness, too keen an awareness of what will come. If animals possess this consciousnes s it seems to flash only from the terror at the moment of death by predator or catastrophe. Our particularl y painful burde n is to live with this every week of our lives, every day, every waking moment. Christmas 2002 . The family' s "Best Before Date " i s expiring . A car d comes from Molly's older brother and his wife .

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PLATE 1 6

a little square, of morning music

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PLATE 1 7

shadow play on the shears

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Greetings of the Season And Best Wishes for the Coming Year Hi.

Just to bring you up to date on your elderl y relatives. Arch had a heart attac k in March — a triple bi-pass — a pacemaker in April and in July a colostomy. Then had his knee replaced but walking with a cane. I broke my foot in August and had a pacemaker in Nov. Apart from al l that we are fine an d on the roa d to recovery in 2003 . (All in a nut shell). How b y the way are you two? K.

I have a book launch party a couple of months later and sen d the m a n invitation, althoug h I don' t expec t to see them. The Thursda y before the even t I com e home t o a messag e fro m m y uncle , Arch . "Mike , please call me when you have time. I have somethin g I would like to tell you." I too have something I want to tell him. In 1956 , when I becam e a teenager, h e sen t m e a special packag e for m y birthday. He' d turne d o n th e radio a fe w days earlie r an d hear d Jerry Le e Lewis' s brand ne w recording , "Grea t Ball s o f Fire, " fo r th e very first time. His note with the package said, "Happ y Birthday Mike. When I heard this song on the radio I

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knew it was the end o f civilization and thought you' d be interested." The parce l containe d no t onl y "Grea t Balls o f Fire," bu t als o ever y hit 4 5 fo r tha t season . That presen t mad e m e th e mos t popula r gu y in my class. It allowe d me to make a few moves. I wanted to tell him what that present had meant to me almost half a century ago . I wanted to thank him again. The soun d o f hi s voic e o n th e messag e tap e alarmed me . I didn' t cal l hi m bac k righ t awa y — instead I called my sister. Arch sounded so small — he was a big man — that I thought tha t my sister Sue and I should driv e out to Oakville on the weekend and see him. Su e wasn't home . Rathe r tha n leav e a message and start days of phone tag , I decided t o cal l her th e next day . Again, n o luck . Bu t I wasn' t worrie d a s I knew that she'd b e home on Saturday. Saturday vanished i n busyness . Wakin g Sunday , I made a note to be sure to call her as soon as I returned from m y earl y mornin g circui t o f a neighbourhoo d park. O n m y wa y hom e I stoppe d fo r coffee . M y mobile rang . I t wa s my cousin. Arch was dead. I was two days too late . It got worse. His wife, K., tired of lying in bed that morning while she waited fo r him t o make breakfast , had gotte n up to help hi m in the kitchen. H e wasn' t there. The n sh e bega n t o searc h rooms . H e wa s sprawled ou t i n another bedroom, dea d from a heart attack. 224

K. was always an organizer. She immediately began making call s an d b y noo n wa s well int o th e funera l arrangements. B y mid afternoo n she collapsed with a heart attack. The funera l was off. She survived . Afte r severa l weeks i n hospita l sh e was released. Again she began making calls and funeral arrangements. Only one representative fro m Arch's side of the famil y would be invited to the internmen t at St. John's, Ancaster. My cousin Ann was nominated. However, there would be a reception in Oakville a few days before. I doubled up with my sister and we drove out from Toronto . The addres s was a funeral home on Oakville's main street. There it was, tucked in between drapery stores, cute boutiques an d a gas station — just another busi ness. Inside, a blackboard with moveable plastic letters, listed the day's dead. It directed us to the back. Arch's room — he was not there — was large and beige. His wife, K., sat in a big French Provincial chair in the middl e of the fa r wall, like the queen , while we joined a long line that snaked around the room to see her and say our words. I didn't know anybody there. I couldn't say anything meaningful with dozens waiting impatiently i n the lineu p behin d me . You couldn't sit and have a conversation with anyone — there were no chairs. Th e plac e neede d seatin g an d a licence . I decided the n an d ther e tha t ever y funera l hom e should hav e a bar . Unctuous undertaker s shoul d b e 225

forced t o serv e cheer y drink s — Singapor e Slings , Manhattans, Pin k Ladies . There should b e balloons. He'd bee n a funny ma n with heart. A long life — he was 87 — should be celebrated. And people "die" — they never, never, "pass away." November 2003 , Gourdon , France . I've woken up to a morning from earlie r in life . Th e worl d seems scrubbed clean and sparkling and the smel l of it al l keeps pulling m e back somewhere, to a time that had magic. But I can't quite touc h it , hold i t i n my hands, tur n i t ove r and recognize exactl y where I've bee n taken. I shelv e m y plans fo r idleness : thi s i s a day for a trip. I throw my bag in the rear seat, start the car and back my little rental Peugeo t int o a narrow lane. In a few minute s I'v e passe d th e las t stragglin g building s on the edge of town and begun to dart through the little hills of Lot, climbin g higher on a good road. In an hour I've crested the highest of them to where the late autumn sk y is snappe d ou t i n th e pures t blu e fro m horizon t o horizon. It's the third week of November — I've been 60 for two weeks. When I pull over on the summit and leave the ca r I instantly fee l th e sun penetrate m y clothes, skin, and burrow into my bones. I have no complaints — just a few minutes of peace with the universe . Back in th e driver's seat I begin a rapid descent of

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the south face of the Dordogne Valley. A slight breeze has come up and brittle leaves skitter acros s the pavement lik e bus y russe t crabs . Halfwa y dow n a dee r leaps acros s th e highwa y and vanishes int o the blac k oaks scrambling up the slopes. At the bottom my road bounds acros s the bi g rive r o n si x stone arche s an d swings sharply left int o Souillac. I've com e on a little pilgrimage to see the automate s of Gascon Decamps. The Musee d e Vautomate is a low building hunkere d down behind' a handsom e Romanesqu e Abbaye . It' s closed. I'l l hav e to wai t ou t a n interminabl e Frenc h lunch to get in. I walk along an old leaky canal enjoying the brilliant midda y sun. Invisible water is seeping everywhere. I can hear it bubbling under the shuttered buildings an d runnin g beneat h th e deserte d streets . Bright green moss grows on tired stone walls. At three o'clock a couple of small cars pull into the museum parking lot. As I walk over I can hear shutter s clattering open and the rattle o f keys in those Frenc h locks that require at least a couple of complete revolu tions befor e they'll agre e t o withdra w th e bolt . I n a minute I'm in. It's a long dark space. As I move into it alone, little pools o f ligh t emerg e revealin g variou s tableau x o f perfect porcelai n doll s turne d ou t i n th e fines t silks , satins an d lace . A socialite preen s befor e a mirror, a woman charm s a snake, while a girl with russe t curls cuddles a bir d an d a winge d clow n i n pantaloon s 227

strides acros s th e moon . Whe n I ste p close r the y begin to move. Their eye s blin k a s the y slowl y tur n thei r heads . Beneath th e beautifu l clothe s an d jewels , behind th e perfect chin a skin , ar e wheels, wires, levers an d cogs . Little motor s rais e th e arms , move the leg s an d tur n heads. A Chinese conjuro r cover s a large white ball on a tabl e wit h a coppe r con e — th e vanishe d bal l re emerges fro m hi s mouth . A panther , crouche d low , stalks prey A jazz trio fro m th e 'zo s — piano, violi n and drum kit — begins to play. The thre e black musicians ar e dresse d i n crimso n Eto n jackets , white tie s and grey silk trousers. Th e fiddle player's fingers move individually along the finger board of his violin. He and his band-mates, unlike most o f Decamps' automates of the 1920 5 an d '305 , ar e life-size . Nearby, L e Rieur, a balding fa t man , squat s o n a stool , belly-laughin g a t Decamps' joke. Deeper int o th e museu m Le Prestidigiteur levitates a woman , while a photographer plunge s beneat h hi s dark cloth a s his subject — a trickster clown — covers his fac e wit h a pig's . L a Laveuse Phenix attempt s t o scrub a black boy's bum, an old racist joke from befor e the wars. Well t o the back I find the largest tableau x of them all, La Reine Des Neiges. Her majesty , admirin g hersel f i n a han d mirror , holds court in a glittering grotto. Great frozen column s support a ceiling bristlin g wit h icy stalactites glowing

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in th e half-light . Thi s confection , Decamps ' last , i s huge. Tw o life-size guard s in golden breastplate s doze on either sid e of the roya l throne whil e a couple of big magpies, accompanied b y a wolf on a fiddle an d a fox with a harp, serenade th e queen . Rhyth m fo r a pair of dancing seals is kept by a polar bear on percussion. It's a Neverland of snow, ice, gilt and pearls witnessed by a pair o f awestruc k littl e childre n pose d lef t o f th e throne. Snow begins falling on Queen Street . I stand holding Molly' s lef t han d whil e m y younge r siste r Su e holds the other . Sh e wears her new winter coa t with a Peter Pa n colla r ove r severa l crinoline s makin g th e coat flare out at the bottom. Sh e looks like a little bell. We are waiting to cross Queen , th e no man' s land between th e retai l rivals , Eaton' s an d Simpsons . Decamps' New World disciple s have been a t work for months, transformin g th e displa y windows facing off across th e streetca r line s int o a parad e o f prosceni a staging dozen s o f Ghristma s dramas . We bot h kno w that th e elves , reindee r an d rabbit s o f th e radian t arrangements ar e wood , wir e an d paste , bu t w e le t ourselves b e seduced nevertheless . We fervently wan t to believe in the whole mythology of Christmas — the levitating sled, the pudgy old couple packing toys on a glacier an d th e came l jocke y kings. Thi s wil l b e th e year tha t I stay awake all through th e 24t h and catc h Molly committing stockin g frau d a t dawn. 229

However, a t thi s momen t it' s al l stil l intact . Th e windows' glow radiates out into the street like hearths warming u s i n a cit y o f slat e skie s an d shar p winds. This will always be the most difficul t month . Mid-February 1952 . Moll y urges m e t o hurr y up an d pu t my boots o n — we're goin g out . I'v e alread y got so many winte r clothe s o n — lon g underwear , plai d flannel shirt , sweater , thick wool coat an d heavy corduroy breeches — that I have trouble bending over to latch o n m y blac k rubbe r galoshes . No w tha t I' m nine, I receive 20 cents a week allowance, usually paid out on Saturdays by Molly. My father's 34th birthda y will be in a few days. We're going out to each buy him a present. She has hers al l worked ou t — all she has to d o is run int o a sho p an d pic k i t up . Bac k i n th e ca r sh e shows it to me. As our breath condenses on the windscreen sh e open s a larg e fla t cardboar d bo x o n th e front sea t between us. It' s ful l o f neatly folde d tissu e paper tha t sh e carefull y unwraps , revealin g a heav y sweater cable-kni t fro m rust-coloure d wool . Sh e seems very pleased with her choice and he would wear it for many years. Now that she's finished it's my turn. She levers the column shift up into first and pulling hard o n the wheel bounces the ca r across the ice ruts by the cur b and out onto Hamilton' s mai n street. W e

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drive a couple o f blocks with th e window s constantl y icing up. She bumps over some more ruts and we park in fron t o f a five-and-dime . Initially I hav e troubl e rememberin g tha t we'r e here to bu y something fo r my father an d not myself. He's seldo m at home an d when he is he seem s eithe r remote o r irritate d — fo r me , Moll y i s muc h mor e immediate. Rows of shallow bins on th e lon g counters ar e ful l of trinkets , tool s an d toys i n bright plastic primaries. We g o to hardware , then stationery , dow n t o glove s and back to pens and pencils. I deliberate. We retrace our steps . I ge t briefl y distracte d b y barrette s an d bobby pin s — I lik e th e colour s o f th e plasti c hai r clips. I hadn' t ye t learne d tha t boy s an d me n wer e restricted t o navy, green, grey , brown and black. I get steered back to stationery where Molly see s a slim mechanica l penci l sh e think s m y fathe r woul d like. It means nothing to me. I slide down the counte r and discove r a bin fal l o f neat rows o f little book s — diaries, mem o pads , tin y dictionarie s an d addres s books. I work my way through th e columns , examining al l the variet y in th e section , stretchin g har d fo r the items at the back. At fingertip distance I find a single, black, leather bound book. It's very small — little bigger than a double pack of paper matches — but the lustre of the thin leather and the tiny nubs on the spine are a totally new 251

experience fo r me. I can' t stop feelin g the leathe r i n my hand an d enjoyin g the sof t flexin g o f the covers. Each page, in pale blue ink, is lined fo r three entrie s — name, street, town , an d telephone. This is what I want to buy. It costs several times what I have clinking in my pocket. Molly ha s begu n t o ge t a sens e o f he r so n — a t times ver y purposeful , focused an d determined . W e begin negotiations. The settlemen t take s twenty minutes — it' s basicall y a dea l o f thirds . She'l l pu t u p a third, I'll empt y my pockets for the next third and I'll have my first experience of credit and debt for the balance. The nex t week, when I discover there's to be no allowance,, I hav e som e moment s o f self-pityin g regret. However , fo r th e presen t I a m satisfied . W e line up at the cash. Molly wake s me earl y two day s late r — my littl e sister has a-cold and is left to sleep. My father is sitting up i n be d — his readin g light i s on — - he's drinkin g tea. He knows that something is up. Molly bends over and fishes around under the bed, but comes up empty handed. Sh e gets dow n o n he r hand s an d knees and finally collars the parce l far unde r th e bo x spring. As she pull s he r bo x ou t I realiz e tha t it' s bee n trans formed b y wrappin g pape r an d ribbon . I recogniz e both a s refugees from Christmas . O n to p o f her bi g box lies a tiny package carefully wrappe d in th e rem nants of the same Christmas roll. I feel my face get hot 232

— I'd totall y forgotten that part of giving presents. Moments later my father i s having a second cup in bed — - this time wearing a heavy rust sweater over his pyjama top . It makes him seem even bigger. Now it' s my turn. I reluctantly approach him on his side of the bed — I'm neve r sure of his reactions. After placin g my presen t besid e hi m on the be d I quickl y retreat . His huge hands make the little book seem very small. He ha s trouble turnin g th e tiny pages but h e doesn' t seem displeased. I can breathe. Over the years as I got older, he slowly got smaller. It too k a lot o f time an d the width o f a continent for us t o graduall y pas s i n lif e — h e towar d a kin d o f dimmishment an d mysel f t o a distance d independ ence. For years our phone conversations were limited to a sentence or two, invariably ending with him saying, "Here, I'll han d you back to Moll." Or, "It's your nickel, I'll ge t off." My mother would return and we'd chatter awa y but I could always hear him coughing or clearing his throat in the near distance. He coul d only participate through her mediation — we got more and more out of touch. He seeme d baffled b y my comings and goings, my friendships and my many projects. He was often critical . When I flew out to Victoria afte r hi s death I dis covered that Molly had neglected to unpack the things he'd take n to the nursing home. The followin g afternoon I poured a beer and sat with his bags beside me 235

on th e bed . Durin g hi s las t month s he' d live d wit h very little: severa l changes o f pyjamas, a pair o f gre y flannel pant s an d hi s favourit e blazer , on e o f hi s clocks, a shaving kit and a photo of Molly in a sterling silver frame . I ha d troubl e unpackin g his clothe s — too intimate , to o sa d and far too final. I hate d thei r smell but I made myself try on his blazer. It had a red escutcheon embroidere d o n th e pocket— th e thre e crenellated tower s of Conway Castle. I was amazed to discover that it was far too smal l for me. There was a bulge in the breast pocket that proved to be his wallet. I sa t dow n an d opene d i t up . Betwee n hi s driver' s licence, birth certificate, a photo of my sister as a fiveyear-old an d hi s ban k card s wa s a soiled , narro w nylon strip. I slipped i t out and held it to the light. It was m y maternit y war d bracele t fro m Hamilto n General in 1943.1 fished in the lumpy billfold section and pulle d ou t a smal l blac k leathe r boo k crudel y inscribed i n penci l o n th e inne r cover , "T o Daddy, Happy Birthday , 1952." Every space in it was filled — most had been reused several times. The las t entries were written th e year he died. '"^•1 -£•*, May 1966. My father has aske me to come home o n the weeken d as he has a little jo b fo r me. When I ste p off the bus he's waiting at Brown's Motors, a GM dealership dow by the creek that doubles as a Gray Coach Agency. He

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leads me over to a new car — a sober dar k blue Ford — and I immediately realize that the big pink Dodg e is doomed . Indeed , thi s i s why h e want s m e home . The element s hav e not been kin d to Big Pink — rust barnacles clin g to th e whee l wells, door bottom s an d rocker panels . Severa l hundre d pound s o f chrome d steel hav e pitte d an d begu n t o peel . John Mitchell' s fling with fins is over — he wants me to do the rounds of used car dealers and see what I can get for it. The next day is Saturday. I get up at nine, dress and grab the keys. I spend several hours driving that great lumbering boat onto differen t ca r lots. I park it under strings o f little light bulbs and plastic pennants, clim b wooden step s t o th e managers' trailer s an d make my pitch. Fashions have changed — I fear the y will laugh me off the lot — but usually they just sneer subtly, tell me there's no market for candy Chryslers an d go back to their phon e calls. This is GM country. Finally I find a tin y ca r lo t a t th e nort h edg e o f tow n tha t ha s a Desoto, a Plymout h an d a n ol d Studebake r lik e m y uncle's. A few years earlier, Uncle Arch , the on e wh o gave m e "Grea t Ball s o f Fire " an d a le g u p o n m y friends, ha d take n m e t o a demolitio n derb y some where dow n on th e Niagar a Peninsula . As all the ol d beaters rolled o n to the track under the lights fo r the main event I realized that my uncle was crying. I followed his gaze and saw the sourc e of his distress. Th e last ca r onto th e fiel d tha t summe r night wa s one of 255

those old Raymond Lowey interstellar Studebaker s — a perfec t matc h fo r th e on e h e use d t o own . "Th e headlights stil l work, " h e wailed . "They'r e goin g t o smash it up. I can't watch. Let's go. " "Please, Uncl e Arch , can we stay?" I'd neve r bee n to a demotio n derb y an d wa s excited. Arc h relente d but clearl y di d not hav e a good time . Ever y glancin g blow fro m a Chev y o r For d directe d a t tha t Studebaker was a slam to my uncle's body and his soul. The Studebake r soon becam e the wiene r tha t al l the other car s bullied. As they battered i t into a wobbling carcass of crushed metal Arch crumpled beside me. He moaned when the las t headlight fel l ou t an d rolled off the dirt track. Finally the radiator burst and my uncle's youth stoppe d moving . A skinny driver limpe d off to the pits . I phoned m y father from th e car lot and explained I had a $250 deal. As the papers were in his name he'd have to come over and sign the transfer. He turned up about a hal f hou r later an d me t th e deale r an d m e beside Big Pink. In the middle of the transfer a phone rang in the trailer and we were left alone. As a hundred back-seat Saturda y nights roile d i n my brain I heard a separation and clunk. A yard-long piece of rust-riddled steel had fallen from the driver's side rocker panel. My father nudge d me . "Kic k i t unde r th e car, " he whis pered. I booted i t under th e Studebaker an d slouched carefully against the doorpost of the Dodge. A minute 23 6

later Big Pink's new owner descended from the traile r with a cheque in his hand. We climbed into th e For d and m y fathe r slippe d m e twent y bucks . I stare d straight ahea d as we pulled off the lot. We drove home together i n silence. ,. My sister Sue and I finally '% get our act together — we "•' agree to pass on a funeral and throw a party. I pul l severa l thousan d dollar s ou t of Molly's account and we go down to the inner harbou r and check out the hotels. We soon agree on the place — a sunken sunroom that will hold a hundred people handily. It has a high peaked glass roof and three walls of windows giving out to flower gardens. It's cheerful, airy and bright. We place an order for a thousand dollars worth o f food an d drink s and then star t to work the phones. This memorial i s for both parents . We ge t fe w regrets an d wonderfu l weather . Th e room quickly fills up with silver hair, shiny pates and assorted cane s an d walkers. I kne w tha t th e elderl y could drin k but who said they didn' t hav e appetites? The mountain s o f food g o down quickly . Sue and I make a couple of short speeches -— so does my cousin John who found Molly in the tub. It's al l just the way you'd wan t it to be except for one thing — the pho tographs. We'd foun d a couple of pictures of my father tha t 237

seemed to sum him up nicely. They were propped up in frame s o n th e mai n part y table . I t ha d prove d harder to do the same for Molly. Finally I decided to just put ou t the little leather boun d albu m of photographs that I' d mad e during th e ol d man's burial tri p on Desolatio n Sound . The littl e tu g wa s there, m y sister an d I, and many views of Molly. It was a simple narrative that told th e story of the whole day. It wa s too loaded . People woul d approac h th e table , examine m y father' s photo s an d the n star t t o lea f through di e book. They'd see Molly walking down a pier, staring at the Coast Range from th e bow, having a drink inside the wheelhouse and having another aft. Then they' d com e t o th e pag e where th e dovetaile d wooden bo x is brought out , opened , an d revealed t o be full o f ash. When they'd se e Molly thro w th e firs t handful an d the grea t cloud for m in the water, they' d immediately close the book with a third o f the pages to go . Everybod y go t t o th e sam e plac e an d the n found something urgent to do. It was all far to close to home — to o muc h lik e nex t mont h o r tomorro w when you're 80. Nobody sai d a word. Nobody saw the beautiful endin g of brooding landscapes that I' d lai d out. They just kept closing the book. Packed up, cleaned up and sold, th e life i n that house is over. The re d doo r

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the beautiful ending

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is closed, the loc k is set. My cab skirts the inne r har bour, probably for the las t time. I hav e no reaso n to come back . W e clea r th e las t o f man y stoplight s i n town an d make for the airport . I fl y frequently an d ofte n cros s borders . Wit h tim e one develops a nose for the personalities i n the crews . You ge t skille d a t pickin g th e mos t forgivin g line a t check-in, the easy con at customs. When I reached the counter an d saw the pai r ou r nationa l airlin e ha d o n duty, I fell into deep despair. The tw o big women had sniffed a troublemaker the moment I cleared the sliding doors. They drew themselves up into monument s of disapproval. My bag was overweight. I shrugged and offered t o pay . Not acceptable . I mus t unpack , righ t then an d there, befor e th e rapidly growing lineup. Now thi s was something I would absolutely refus e to do. It wasn't just the tangle o f used underwear an d socks that I didn't wan t to expose. It was my mother. There she was, in her plastic bag, in her little wooden box, at the bottom of my suitcase. I don't know what the rule s ar e o n thi s but , i n th e eye s o f thes e tw o women, I had to be breaking more than on e of them. There was going to be a showdown. I alread y had thre e carry-on s — my camer a bag , my briefcas e an d a laptop . I woul d neve r ge t away with making my mother a fourth. She was surprisingly heavy, the box was awkward and, besides, it containe d .239

a person . Unde r m y seat ? I n th e overhea d bin ? I couldn't se e it This pair were like chunky caryatids holding up an enormous rul e boo k an d a lineup. They were deter mined t o preven t th e descen t o f thi s Das h 8 int o someone's yard . We circle d eac h other . M y mothe r and I were going to win this one. I tried sweet reasonableness, the n indignatio n an d outrage. It ultimatel y came dow n to money . Wit h eac h round, th e charg e for excess escalated. When it was clear that a rebellion was fomentin g i n th e lin e behin d m e the y finall y sawed of f a t $190 . Lord , Molly , yo u hav e cos t m e enough i n restauran t an d ba r bills , no w you're stil l dinging me after death ! I put down my card and paid. We were soon high over the islands of the gulf on our way back east. In a few hour s Moll y an d I would b e flying over the waters of our bay, that sweet sea. v It's been a black and white da

on thi s littl e island . I've sa t alone all mornin g watchin g th e water , cormorants an d th e sof t shift s o f light. Pas t noo n I hear some wheeling gulls. They settle on a small rocky island a thousan d fee t ou t an d hunke r dow n facin g west. More join them. And then more. The ai r is very still, A little late r I hear th e rough honkin g o f Canada geese. I wait. The)/ appear from the east, suddenly, fly

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the lock is set

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ing i n a line s o low that the downbea t o f their wing s leaves prints o n the water. Their cryin g recedes west. All is soft an d the colou r o f pearls. Quiet . Then again honking i n the east. The cacophon y is more comple x this tim e an d presentl y a larger floc k comes in down low. This time I can hear the air mov through thei r feather s a s the y pas s i n fron t o f me . Gone to the west. In moments anothe r squadro n follows. Then more. The callin g recedes. I begin t o fee l restless. Suddenly, straggler s com e ove r di e pine s o n th e facing fa r shor e t o th e south . The y dro p dow n lo w over th e wate r an d bank, disappearin g to th e eas t — the wron g way . I smil e a t thei r confusio n bu t m y smugness is short-lived fo r their callin g fails to recede. They suddenly wheel about, joined by as many more, and com e acros s an d right ove r m y head, long necks stretched straight , wing s way back on their beautiful ly shaped bodies. This tim e I can feel th e dow n draf t stir m y hair . An d agai n more , s o clos e tha t th e ai r movement throug h thei r wing feather s an d alon g their bodie s separate s into sibilants, sof t whistle s an d whorls. Next, silence. I sense that something's up but a neutrality prevails over the next hour. Then darkness. I go inside my wooden cabi n to sleep. I cras h bac k int o consciousness . Blue/white/blu e light draw s th e pine s al l around me . Ever y needl e is sharpened. Mor e reports , mor e discharges . Ozone .

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Sudden winds and water beating, pounding, smashing against th e roof . S o loud a shout woul d drown. Th e cabin drum s an d shakes . More an d mor e water . I' m under a falls drowning alone. I sit up just before a flash illuminates the room and the wooden box on the bedside table. Twelve inches by six inches by four inches . Four kilos . Seventee n pounds . M y mother' s ashe s waiting here for my sister to come back to Ontario — to thi s remot e rive r mout h o n Norther n Georgia n Bay. My mother sleep s beside me. Soon we'll take her out t o her rock y territory, th e rock s she often sa t on, swam from, painted, loved. We're already on the boat, this little rocking cabin, surrounded by water, all sides, above, below and now streaming down the walls fro m the wind-lifte d shingle s an d dancin g everywher e o n the floor. ONTARIO COLLEG E O F ART STAGES ITS ANNUAL COSTUME BALL Down twenty thousand leagues under the sea, where no submarines lurked and where all was fun and fancy-free , wen t students of the Ontario College of Art last night. On th e seabed they danced the light fantastic. Through seaweed they floated an d flew. Bubble s flitted abou t and burst. Neptune rode his seahorse and waved his trident and all the se a fish laughed and made merry. — Thelma Craig, Globe and Mail, Toronto, Tuesday, February 18 , 194 1 (Molly's graduation year)

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i Not far from here French River i makes its many-fingered entrance to

tne raucous waters of the bay. Some three centurie s ag o Champlain came down thes e glacier-groun d chutes , ridin g th e blac k water boiling betwee n graniti c hump s glitterin g wit h mica an d quartz . Tumblin g throug h the las t vortice s to the flat water rolling against a thousand stone islets, he reache d ove r th e gunwal e o f hi s bar k boa t an d cupped a handful o f cool water, bringing it to his lips. His eye s swept th e landles s horizon bendin g aroun d the world as the water hit his tongue. "L a Mer Douce," he declared — The Swee t Sea. This time, I operate the boat. On my fourth try the big V-6 shakes itself awake and fills the brigh t morn ing wit h it s angr y clatte r an d oil y smoke . Ou r littl e cortege come s aboar d an d I pu t th e bo x beside th e stainless steel wheel. Yes, it is the same box. The shif t do g clunk s in an d th e ster n dig s down. We revers e out o f my little harbou r an d swing about to the west and rumble ou t into the big waters o f the bay. The prevailin g westerlie s hav e alread y flattene d the offshor e breez e of early morning and are building fast. Whe n I'v e cleare d the rive r mouth , th e bi g ful l bow begin s t o di p o n th e firs t swells . Champlain' s sweet water is already boiling around th e hundreds of humping reef s an d shoal s tha t escor t u s towar d th e horizon. A decad e ago , o n thi s ver y spot , I stare d 2

43

down over the bo w of a small skiff on an exceptionally calm mornin g i n earl y autum n an d realize d tha t w e were flyin g ove r th e bone s o f a woode n steamer . Today the big swells keep its secret. The las t spa r buo y doe s a one-legge d ji g i n th e two-metre sea s that continue t o build as we plow farther west. The fetc h here is a couple of hundred miles — th e widt h o f Georgia n Bay , the breac h betwee n Manitoulin and the Bruce, the breadth of Lake Huron and the rnouth of Michigan. We pass Albert's Reef off to port. We're now out about five nautical miles and I begin t o pul l bac k waitin g fo r th e momen t t o fee l right. The bo w drops, I shut down, we begin to drift . It's tim e to pull the box. Someone bring s out a bottle an d we begin drink ing, buying a little time before we must open the little chest. Thi s is no easie r a second time . There ar e n o proficiencies in burials. After Moll y mad e her yo s sh e bega n to diminish . We no longer spoke eye to eye — I talked to the to p of her head. Her woman's bones were dissolving . She developed a hunch, he r bod y curving in on itself a s if rehearsing the final fetal tuck. Sometimes I woul d dro p he r of f somewhere an d wheel away to park her car. Returning on foot, I would see this tiny person in the distance. Bent like a C, with a stick — her cane — in the gap, she would slowly crab

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up a flight of steps so as to be able to greet m e cheer fully a t the top when I caught up. This was evidence o f an opposin g process . As her body shrank , the person insid e got larger. My father's death augmente d he r farther . He r hip-replacemen t sailor's rol l becam e heroic . Sh e was always cheerful . Whenever I crosse d th e countr y t o se e her we went out on dates. Dinners and drinking. We' d hi t the bars. Talk, liste n to music. She' d tel l me about th e big love of her life , a young docto r she'd me t in London who soon die d i n the blitz. W e had more drinks . I paid. I told her that she was the most expensive girlfriend I' d ever had. She giggled. W e hit one more bar . This ruthless proces s coul d onl y en d i n death . As she shran k s o small , her hand s clawe d so tightly sh e could barely hold a brush. But then sh e needed it less, this drawin g an d paintin g t o apprehen d th e world . She was achieving a kind of completeness and equilib rium. Her lif e was working through. She was drawing a fina l circle . This morning a turkey vultur e =£1, gyre s above the pines, head down, '•-——~ pinion feathers splayed. There's death dow n below . A night rai n ha s scrubbed th e ai r — I se e ever y spli t i n th e rocks , ever y needle, ever y leaf wit h preternatura l clarit y yet , compare d t o th e vulture, I'm a sightless man. 245

My sister an d I had scattered onl y half of Molly's ashes on the bay. The balanc e we split for our own private rituals. That night I had a dream in which death appeared as a lone white pine sweeping a cold sky. I knew it was Molly. In th e morning I roused my family and we waded over to the enormous empty island just behind ours . Once there , we separate d an d bega n searchin g th e har d roc k hillocks an d crease s for th e perfec t tin y Moll y pine . While this mature forest had some jack and red pines on th e margins , whit e pine s wer e th e dominan t species. Betwee n and belo w the giant s gre w junipers and the od d scrub cedar in a hollow. We were seeking a seedling that sang to us. As I wandered , searching , I' d occasionall y cres t a big pink whaleback rock scaly with lichen an d spy one of my sons walking head down, searching, a few hundred fee t away . A high was arriving s o the win d was vigorously chasin g off the las t clouds. The shar p sun tossed spark s an d spangle s of mica and quart z across the bare backs of the rocks. The dazzl e made it diffi cult t o se e into th e hollow s where the fores t kept its nursery. It was getting very hot and , after a n hour o r so, I reali2:e d that , althoug h w e had covere d a lot o f ground, w e wer e al l beginnin g t o wal k i n circles . I turned back to find the rest of the search party. I was more tha n halfwa y bac k when I felt a gentle tug t o th e left . Slippin g dow n a smal l roc k fac e I

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reached a depressio n blankete d wit h hummock s o f vibrant mos s an d ringe d b y matur e conifers . An d there, jus t off-centr e in thi s moss y bed , wa s a long needled, one-foo t pine. I t wa s vigorous, symmetrica l and the mos t astonishin g shade of blue. Molly. After memorizing the spot I went off to rendezvous with the others . Catchin g u p with m y boys, they tol d me that the y had foun d this beautifu l littl e pin e wit h blue needles. It had made them thin k o f their grand mother. Consensus . We tenderl y extracte d ou r talismani c tre e alon g with a clump of moss. There was so little soil under i t that i t looke d to b e a certain casualt y of winter. Bac k at our islan d I retrieved Molly' s ashe s from th e same little bo x of dovetailed pine board s that had hel d m y father's. I lik e th e ide a o f crematio n — not jus t the cleansing fire, but als o the instant reductio n to atoms of gas rising up th e flu e an d rejoining the univers e as the basi c buildin g block s o f creatio n — infinitel y preferable to being recycled through the gut of bacteria and worms. We du g a small hollow b y the wid e wooden step s where w e have ou r mornin g coffe e an d line d i t wit h Molly ash . We tampe d in'th e tre e an d brough t i t a drink fro m th e bay . No w he r atom s woul d flo w upwards int o th e brigh t blu e needles of a brand ne w tree.

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The nex t winter wa s no t kind . As I ra n m y boat ou t through lit e decayin g ic e i n Apri l t o ope n u p th e building, I wa s dismaye d t o observ e th e extensiv e windburn o n th e sout h flanks of the pine s alon g th e shore. More than half of each tree was browned out — a lo t o f needle s ha d dropped . I wa s sure the y wer e dying. However, th e Molly tree lived in a hollow sheltered b y the steps . I t wa s defiantly gree n an d a littl e bigger. Sh e clearly intended t o survive so we'd always have coffee togethe r i n the morning light . May 2004 . A littl e befor e noo n I knock o n m y younger so n Ben' s bed room door. He' s bac k in Toronto afte r a winter term at McGill — I want to catch up. There's no answer , no soun d — the doo r i s locked. I knoc k again. Nothing. I retreat t o the kitchen and rummage through drawer s until I find an ice pick. It slips easily into the small hole centred on the doorknob releasing the lock. As I slip into his room I see that he's there, a six-foot lank y log o n th e be d — dea d t o di e world . The roo m smells like an armpit. When I si t o n hi s be d h e groans , roll s ove r an d grumpily greet s me. A large portfolio has spilled ont o the floor — these are his sketches, acrylics, figure studies and CA D drawings — he's studying architecture. O n the wal l abov e his des k he's hun g a large beautifull y rendered watercolour of a drive shed — one of Molly's.

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PLATE 2 O

coffee in the morning

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When she last saw him he was still a boy. He ha d ye t to lift a paintbrush. No w tha t he does so almost daily , time ha s take n he r away . Th e thousand s o f mile s between the m ha s no w becom e al l eternity , robbin g them o f the chanc e to take walks, share the world and make drawing s together . Sh e coul d hav e taugh t hi m much. They would have had a good time. They could have connecte d t o eac h othe r th e sam e way each o f them connected to the world — with keen eye, a sharp pencil and a curious mind . iI stumbl e ove r thes e boxe s daily. Paper s see m a s heav y a s the silverware . Occasionall y I give mysel f t o th e pas t fo r a n hour or so and sift through anothe r paper bundle. My parents soun d s o young in thei r wartim e letters — I don't recognize th e voice in their diaries, it reads like stylized dialogu e fro m ol d movies. No w tha t they'r e gone I realize that I never kne w who they were. We operate in a n environment o f roles — parent, grandparent, child , sibling . Thi s i s th e nomenclatur e o f affiliation an d relationship , rathe r tha n a descriptio n of individua l people. John an d Moll y — tw o names. What would I have thought of them if we'd been peers and classmate s or neighbours? Woul d I have had any truck with my father? Woul d I have thought tha t my mother wa s one o f th e ho t wome n i n m y class ? It' s

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hard to contemplate. Would I have liked them? What were thei r inne r lives ? Ho w intelligen t wer e they ? Were their secrets interesting? The y undoubtedly had some. A warm , still , summe r nigh t i n the lat e '303. The Empress o f Canada is rollin g acros s th e Nort h Pacific , eastboun d fo r Vancouver. Captain W. J. Kinley has sent word down to hi s junio r officer s an d cadets : dres s i n you r bes t tropical whites and get up to the first clas s lounge t o entertain passenger s and distinguished guests. Manuel Quezon , first president o f the Philippines , is makin g passag e wit h hi s family . Joh n Mitchel l enters th e elegan t two-store y firs t clas s dining roo m with a musician's gallery at the forwar d end . He see s Quezon's daughte r a t a table with he r family , screw s up his courage and asks her to dance. His summer uniform, mad e up for him by a tailor in Hong Kong, fits perfectly. He's a tall, slim, handsome man with devastating blu e eyes . Th e Quezo n gir l ha s golde n skin , beautiful arm s an d dar k eye s on e coul d div e into . They foxtro t ove r th e gentl y humpin g inlai d floo r under the 16-foo t ceiling. The Empress rolls. The tin y orchestra plays . A soft , war m salt breez e sift s acros s the room. They connect. Many days later they reunite on the return voyage. The shi p clears for Manila. A n invitation i s extende d

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to th e junio r office r t o joi n th e Quezo n famil y fo r a retreat i n th e mountain s behin d th e capital . H e accepts. H e overstay s hi s leave . Th e Empress lie s against the wharf in Manila, her fires banked low. The ship waits, the Chines e cre w waits and so do the pas sengers. When 21-year-old John Mitchell shows up at the qua y in a state lim o h e i s not reprimanded . C P i anxious t o kee p landin g right s i n Manila. N o on e is going to argue with a Quezon, n o matter how young. The ship' s 1 2 boilers are fired up, releasing superheated stea m t o he r Fairfiel d compoun d turbines . Longshoremen releas e line s fro m th e bollards . He r ip-foot manganes e bronz e screw s begi n t o chur n and th e Canada pull s awa y fro m th e wharf . Blac k smoke huffs ou t of the two forward funnels — the af t stack is a dummy — an d hangs , stretche d ou t lik e a ribbon i n the heat. Sh e swings until onl y her ster n is visible, slowl y diminishing , eventuall y droppin g below the horizo n as she steams outboun d ove r the curve of the world. The pale , black-haired Canadian boy and the black-haired, honey-skinned, Philippin a never see each other again . lear

^mn^'^'m Its nmPld blue and tne angle

or th e mid-afternoo n su n betray the tim e of year — the last few days of summer in lat e September , 2003 . I'v e stole n of f t o m y small

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rock in Georgia n Ba y for ten day s to trudg e throug h my editor's copy of this manuscript . Some of my mistakes ar e embarrassin g — misplace d possessives , dropped punctuation , an d a fe w careles s shift s o f tense. I'm onl y slightl y comforted whe n I discove r a few slips that even he has missed. I'd hoped to just deal with larger issues. A light, warm , south breez e raise s half-foot wave s that sparkl e in th e sun . Fo r severa l hour s dozen s o f gulls hav e bee n millin g abou t jus t of f shore . Occasionally they'r e joine d b y a large , dark , bird . Hawk, osprey , turke y vulture ? I'v e misplace d m y binoculars an d can't ge t close enough t o tell — I still should know . Even thoug h today' s weather i s perfect, as will be tomorrow's, w e all know that we'r e waitin g for th e sam e thing. A hurricane is heading north, taking its time — it's not schedule d t o arriv e for two more days . The bird s seem to know it, a s do the wasps clinging t o my cedar shakes an d the last , lost , monarc h clingin g t o th e le e side of my only Jack pine. But for my short-wave radio, I'd b e as innocent o f the futur e a s the rock s and trees . I don' t wan t t o leave . I'll pu t sprin g line s o n th e boats, centre bucket s on the floor an d let the buildin g shake. I may not b e much o f a roofer but I know the structure — I drove many of the big nails myself— is sound. I' m reluctan t t o surrende r th e las t few days of summer and my last chance to make these pages right. 252

They are now mere digit s spinnin g on my hard drive , 300,000 ke y stroke s buildin g 56,00 0 word s bundle d into nearly a thousand paragraphs . As I scroll throug h them o n th e scree n I' m embarrasse d tha t I' m ol d enough t o stil l nee d th e fee l o f pape r i n m y hands . The previou s draf t cover s th e table , th e floor , tw o beds an d hal f a doze n press-bac k chairs . I leav e th e screen's cold light and begin to gather up paper, working my way down the big room toward the fireplace. I toss th e draf t ont o th e grat e an d light a match. On e corner catche s and th e shee t edg e begins t o curl . By the time I've retrieved th e balance of the book the fire is wrapped around my words. Paper, paintings an d my parents corkscrew up the flue . The gull s have all hunkered down on the lee side of a rocky islet. The bi g dark bird is gone. I sit here feeling beaten up by time. My parents are a memory, my sons no longer liv e with me, and I have a zippe r u p m y ches t wher e m y hear t ha s bee n repaired. I haven' t full y accepte d i t all . I fee l onl y slightly close r t o th e battere d centr e o f th e whol e experience — th e cancers , strokes , hear t attack s an d life itself . An d I' m stil l tryin g t o comprehen d th e drowning. Predictably , on e wishe s tha t w e al l ha d talked more befor e all the losses — I don't know who everybody was. The surprise s afte r deat h could have enriched life .

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It's a lat e winte r earl y evening . M y boys an d I ar e amblin g alon g th e Malecon towar d Havana' s harbou r mouth. A n outboun d containe r shi p clears th e rampart s o f E l Morro . Th e sweeping beacon of the fort' s lighthous e flashes rhythmically across the ship's white superstruc ture, diminishing as the vessel slips farther an d farther out into th e dusk y Straits of Florida. W e turn up th e Prado and make for the Parque Centrale, walking past old men on the benches under the big trees lining the boulevard — s o reminiscen t o f th e Ramblas . At th e park w e cu t throug h th e arcad e toward th e to p o f O'Reilly and then tur n dow n alongsid e th e Floridit a and hea d fo r th e Ba r Montserrat. Th e dust y street , thick wit h bicycle s an d bicitaxis , i s backli t b y ca b headlights farthe r dow n th e block . Stroller s an d jinateros ja m th e narro w sidewalks , slowin g ou r progress towar d th e bar . The doorma n help s us slip through th e entranc e clutc h o f hookers and we make our way to thre e stool s a t the fa r end o f the counter . Mercifully, th e ban d take s a break and th e noise s of the street — car horns, arguments , alon g with a background grumble of engines and conversations — rush in throug h th e windo w grills . It' s anothe r hot , we t Cuban night . We order drink s — both m y sons affect cigars . It's been a goo d te n days . W e thre e hav e don e thes e 254

March trips together for years but this time I sense an ending. They'r e no w adult s wit h thei r ow n lives . I raise my drink an d tell the m tha t thi s tri p wa s subsidized by money left by my mother. My youngest holds up hi s glass. The oldes t bring s up his . " A mojito fo r Molly," he declaims. We drink. Molly dressed all these women i n tight top s an d short bottom s — red, aqua, lime-green an d purpl e — workin g th e bar . They'v e climbed dow n fro m he r cocktai l glasse s fo r th e evening. She' d hav e liked thi s place . I'd happil y buy the drinks. Past Craigflower Bridge the long gullet of Th e Gorg e bellie s ou t int o Portag e Inlet, a land-locked extensio n o f th e sea . Here th e wherr y drift s wher e ther e i s no longer a way forward an d n o passag e out but a swallo w a t th e gu t o f The Gorge . Just northwes t o f Christi e Poin t Island , Highway # i race s besid e th e inlet . A t tha t poin t Helmcken Roa d jumps over it on a concrete span, carrying traffic , relatives , th e sick , th e dyin g an d th e bereaved t o th e blu e H b y th e highway , Joh n Mitchell's las t berth . A Molly paintin g stil l hang s i n the lobby.

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My siste r call s m e som e eight months after my mother' s death. W e haven' t talke d fo r weeks , eac h o f us bus y with ou r ow n life . Sh e ha s jus t hear d tha t anothe r uncle ha s died . A retire d majo r genera l i n th e Canadian Arm y an d forme r ADM , he' d ha d a hear t attack at 46 that stalled his career but changed his life. He gav e u p smoking , relaxe d an d live d anothe r 4 2 years. He'd ha d more brushes with death ; — a couple more hear t attack s and a freak lightnin g strik e whil e golfing. He' d die d havin g hi s secon d bypas s opera tion. Suddenly, in the middle of this conversation, my sister asks me if I think often of our mother. "Yes," I tel l her . "Severa l times a week I hav e the urge t o cal l he r suddenl y dashe d b y th e realizatio n that she is gone." My siste r confesse s that sh e wants t o tal k to he r every single day. MARRIED I N EAST Word has been received by the bridegroom's parents, Mr. and Mrs. A.F. Michell, Orchard Avenue, Oak Bay, that their son, Sub Lieut. John A. Mitchell, R.C.N.R., wa s married to Miss Mary (Molly) Le Geyt Greene, younge r daughter of Mr. and Mrs. Lawrence Greene of Toronto and Ancaster, Ont., o n May 1 7 in St. John's Church, Ancaster, in

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the presenc e of the bride' s famil y and a few intimate friends. The servic e was solemnized by Rev. W.A. Brown , and th e organist was in attendance, the churc h bein g beautifully decorated with Spring flowers. " — Times Colonist, Victoria, May, 194 1

F I N I S.

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PLATE 2 1

bell buoy, Desolation Sound

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A NOTE ON THE PLATE S AND INSET ILLUSTRATIONS

The cover , endpapers and plates i through 4 , as well as plates 14,15,17 and 19 and the bullets on pages 10,150, 167 and 221 were all made at the Victoria house and studio buildin g i n th e tw o day s immediatel y following Molly's death in April 2000. Plates 7, 8, 18 and 2 1 were all photographed near Cortez Island, Desolation Sound, during her B.C. funeral in August 2000. Plates 5 and 6 were made in Ancaster and Toront o in 2004 . Plates 9 and 16 , both watercolour s by Molly Greene Mitchell , wer e painte d i n 194 1 an d 200 0 respectively. Plat e n i s courtes y o f Elizabet h (Greene) Meuser, Molly' s olde r sister , while my sister Susan Schell e len t th e i9t h centur y watercolou r o f Clement Mitchell a s a boy. Plate 1 3 was made in 199 0 at Ottaw a fo r Saturday Night Magazine. Plat e 10 , A Strange an d Freighted Picture, wa s mad e a t Fools Paradise, painte r Dori s McCarthy' s hous e an d studi o in Scarborough , durin g the summe r o f 197 7 an d was part o f th e 197 8 Ar t Galler y o f Ontari o exhibition , Nightlife. Coffee I n Th e Morning, Molly' s rebirt h a s 2

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a whit e pine , wa s photographed hig h o n th e north eastern shor e o f Georgia n Ba y in July 2004 . Sh e i s doing well. The inse t "bullet" illustrations have many sources. Most of the drawing s are fro m th e dozens o f Molly's sketchbooks foun d i n he r studi o a t th e tim e o f he r death. Th e onl y exception s ar e th e 192 9 cartoo n o f the Green e famil y an d thei r car , pag e 237 , and the 1905 pen an d ink of Georgian Ba y on page 243. Both are b y he r father , Laurenc e Richar d Greene . Moll y painted the small, decorated box on page 21 when she was 12 . The imag e tha t introduce s al l th e rowin g sequences show s the sextan t that m y fathe r use d o n the Empresses and while on convoy duty in the 19405 . On pag e 255 a 1944 photograph capture s him shoot ing the sun with it from th e bridge of the Red Deer. The man y photograph s o f object s inse t int o th e text ar e th e sam e object s describe d i n th e adjacen t paragraphs — th e Mitchell s kep t everything . Th e 19th-century telescope was Captain Walter Mitchell's and late r adopte d b y Joh n Mitchell . It s barre l i s engraved wit h th e name s o f al l th e ship s the y eac h served on. The bell s are as described in the text. Th e pine box on. pages 55 and 59 sequentially held both my parents' ashes . Th e modifie d Celti c cros s an d sta g device served as a kind of family crest for generations .

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The on e use d here i s taken fro m th e bac k of a silver hairbrush. The camer a on page 8 1 is the Koda k 828 he used on th e ships , a s is th e violin . Th e Re d Deer' s cres t appears on pages 63 and 167 ; the Skeena' s on pages 76 and 84 . The bulle t on page 58 is my father's recording barometer. The Spitzberge n rifl e appear s on page 45. The Conwa y castle image on pages 50 and 5 5 is fro m the school's uniform belt buckle. The bullet s on pages 28 and 40 are pre-Columbia n effigy whistl e fragments from Oaxaca . The octagona l women's Role x belonge d t o m y grandmother , Elizabeth Chapin Greene. "Deceivers an d Imposters," "Devil an d the Witch" and the final "Finis" are fro m John Webster's Witchcraft . The to y steam locomotive was m y father' s childhoo d toy . Th e variou s marin e illustrations — compas s rose , signalers , an d distres s flags — are from Captain Walter Mitchell's not e book. A Havana street photographer made the photograph of me and my sons Jake and Ben in 2001 . All the keys were Molly's. The B.C . license plate, LEGEYT, is from her last Mini. A very special thanks to Dunca n McLean an d Ross Hookway of Waddington's who generously shared their time an d digita l studio for the creatio n o f all the black and white illustrations in this book.

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