CONFESSION TO A PRIEST


Oh Lordy, why does it always have to be so dark in here? And why can’t an old woman like me sit in a chair in the confessional, instead of two arthritic legs crackling away on a wooden kneeler? I could never understand the reason behind kneeling anyway. You try and tell me that God doesn’t hear the man praying for dry weather while on his combine, or a woman pleading for help while being chased by a bull?

Hmmm? Speak up please, I can‘t hear you. My last confession? Well, let’s think.

Father, it’s been about three months since my last declaration of guilt, but with that being said I’m not entirely sure if what I did was a sin at all, so hear me out before you send me off with a pile of Hail Marys.

To make a long story short, it had to do with the pickle competition last fall at the Grunthel Fairground. You know where Grunthel is, don’t you? Forty-two miles north…

No, you’re right, it doesn’t matter.

Now, my specialty is brine and every year for the past nine years in fact, I’ve never won an award for my jars. In 2006 I was offered an honorable mention but you might as well have tossed a cow pie right in my face. I was so humiliated. Honorable mention! That’s just saying you’re a glorified loser.

There’s also the pie competition that I would’ve been good in since everyone knew that I also make a tasty rhubarb and apple pie, but how could anyone compete with Mrs. O’Neil? She’d trudge along the railroad tracks with her diamond willow cane in one hand and a plastic ice-cream pail in the other. Picked her own blueberries and she was 96 years old for God’s sake! I’m sure all of the judges thought she’d probably drop dead of a broken heart if they didn’t give her a ribbon. Unfair competition is what I call it. Small town mentality.

Hmm. No… I don’t believe I used God’s name in vain. No, I don’t remember. What did I say? God’s sake? Well if I said it, so did you just now. So how can you condemn me when you clearly said it yourself? I’m sure there’s a lot more people saying a lot worse and they’re still walking the streets. Can we… oh for ‘goodness sake‘. Is that better?

So, I signed up for the pickle competition and there were four of us women this year. Fanny Marshall was on the immediate right of me. I can only imagine what her kitchen looked like, she was always so dirty and dumpy looking. Now I know I’m not one to talk about dumpiness with my weight teetering at nearly 200 pounds but I’m big boned so that makes a world of difference. Anyway, I knew immediately that she wouldn’t hurt my odds since her brine was always milky white. A certain turn-off for a pickle connoisseur.

And to my left, two chairs over, was Crazy Annie.

Well, I have to disagree with you Father. I am not calling her names. I‘m sure you mean well, but labeling that as a sin is just being nitpicky if I do say so myself. She is crazy, that’s a fact. I’m only stating the truth. I wouldn’t have said it otherwise.

I’m not sure what her logic was, if any, but every year Crazy Annie approached the table with a quart sealer crammed with two of the biggest pickles possible; always two, no more, no less. They looked like two puffy green calf embryos, is what they looked like, if you could imagine that. Mind you, it was always a laugh because it’s part of the judge’s duty to taste all of the entries. When they’d cut into one of her pickles the spray of juice would usually hit the first row of spectators like a water fountain.

Yes, I realize that it’s inappropriate to laugh in a confessional, especially as loudly as I did, but if you could have seen the screwed up faces as they tasted…

Where was I now? Oh yes. Low and behold, who should pop up around the corner as I polished the outside of my jar, but Nellie Bomok. SHE’s the one who claimed the 1st prize ribbon for the last eight years. I’m not a vindictive person but God I hated her. Every year, she walked away with her nose so high in the air I’m surprised that she didn’t trip over her own two feet. Word has it that she took up with her neighbor Joe from down the street, and the flowers on his wife’s grave haven’t even wilted yet.

Any comment on that one Father? I didn’t think so. And in answer to your question, Yes, I’m almost finished. Well, halfway.

As long as I live, I’ll never forget that day. Nellie walked to the spot next to mine at the long table and flattened a starched red and white embroidered doily in front and placed her jar on top. How a piece of cloth was going to make her pickles taste better, I’ll never know but I have to say it looked quite well presented. I knew it was too late to run back home for a doily of my own, so I whipped off my apron and kind of swirled it around the jar and tied a bow in front with the two straps. I’ve always been a little competitive and there’s no harm in that.

Father… are you getting up? You can’t leave until I’m done. I‘m sure there’s some kind of rule about that. I don’t think the board would like it if I went to the next meeting…

Are you sitting again? Okay, good…

Well, to back the truck up a little, I should have mentioned that Nellie and I have been in the same cribbage club for years with several other widowed women, always taking turns at each other’s homes. Two days before the Grunthel Fair got underway, the game was at Nellie’s place. I excused myself to use the biffy and as I passed by her kitchen I noticed her latest batch of jarred pickles cooling on the side counter. Well, what I did next was kind of chancy but with such an opportune moment… I grabbed a jar and hid it under her back step, and I retrieved the pickles later when I asked to see her garden. I shoved the jar in my purse while she picked me some fresh plums from her tree and she was none the wiser. Then I high-tailed it back to my place, cracked the seal on the jar, tossed out a pickle and set a plump, juicy baby mouse on top. Then I sealed the lid with a tad of Elmer’s glue. If truth be told, I found the litter of mice in the spring and pickled one for a moment such as that. I’ve always been a bit of a planner.

Father, are you still there? Okay… it’s just that you’re awfully quiet.

So, when the day of the competition came along, I packed two jars of pickles in my basket, one was mine, the other was Nellie’s. And off to the fair I went. As luck would have it, Nellie was chatting with Crazy Annie at the table, so I leaned over and in my friendliest manner, asked Nellie if I might admire her pickles. I placed her jar in front of me, and while her back was turned, I switched the two. I knew that Nellie prided herself with her annual picture in the Grunthel Herald, as she held that damn ribbon and smiled like a Cheshire cat. It was about time that I wiped that smile right off her face. Mind you, I felt bad for a minute, but fair is fair.

Then the contest began. Fanny, Crazy Annie, Nellie, and me, our heads bobbed behind our pickle jars. The crowd was thick, and Ben the photographer from the Grunthel Herald was positioned front and center. Crazy Annie’s jar was opened first. There was a murmur amongst the three judges as they decided which pickle to remove from the brine. All breath was halted as the trio nibbled the limp, hollowed form. Crazy Annie just sat there grinning from ear to ear; she looked prouder than a peacock.

Yes, I realize you have mass to hold…. so I’ll try and talk faster.

Next was Nellie. My heart thumped away like a drum, I must say. And the angel on my shoulder wondered if I should have done what I had done. Ben stepped forward and focused his camera, Joe from down the street stood up from his front row seat to see better, children asked to be lifted onto their dads’ shoulders, women stopped talking and stretched their necks to peer over the people in front of them. Everyone in town was anxious to see if Nellie would win nine straight years in a row.

One of the judges took a jackknife from his back pocket and ever so gently pried and nudged the seal to pop. I stood, and was on the tips of my toes by this time. I wanted to be the first to see the bloated little white bugger floating on top of her blasted pickles. The lid came off, a fork was submerged, a portion was removed, sliced on a china dish. All three judges slowly sunk their teeth into the crunchy…

Oh for the love of God, I’m in the confessional booth here. What kind of church is this when I’m on a time clock? Stop knocking. Father will be out soon. Go pray for patience.

Or, I guess I could finish this story up later since it seems like I’m causing a ruckus out there. No? You’re sure? You want to hear how it ends?

Well, they chewed it up real good and all of them nodded with approval. I was sick, literally sick. There wasn’t a rodent to be found, only pickles. Then the judges stepped sideways to my area and I thought, could I have… did I mix up the two jars? I grabbed my apron from the table and wiped my brow, dabbed at my neck, and lowered the cloth down the front of my dress and swiped under both my armpits. Maybe that wasn’t the most attractive thing to do but I was sweating like a pig by that time. I’m telling you, I didn’t know what to do next.

Each judge held the sealer way up high, rotated the glass and looked for clarity. They seemed to be quite pleased about the added blend of baby carrots, garlic cloves, and dill weed. Out came the jackknife again, the pop of the top and I almost keeled over backwards. There was the fleshy blob lying on top looking like a curled up anemic pickle.

Well, Nellie’s eyes widened like saucers and being as dramatic as they come, she screamed to high heaven and pushed the jar clear off the table. Pickles, brine, carrots and garlic were everywhere. And well, the mouse landed on Mrs. O’Neil’s lap. It took a moment for her to figure out what happened with her poor eyesight and all, but she was more than a little disturbed when someone yelled out it was a dead mouse, a hairless one at that.

Well, to shorten things up a little, Mrs. O’Neil had a stroke later that day and died that very night. No one but me knew the eyeless bloat was meant for Nellie, but the whole town blamed me just the same.

I said, “How long did you expect her to live? How many more blueberry pies did you expect her to make? She was 96 years old for God’s sake!”

But now, here I am two towns over, trying to start a new life. Me at 82.

Here I thought I was going to be famous for a day at least, and instead, all hell broke loose. I must say, my picture was in the Grunthel Herald but it was taken when I held my auction. I had to sell most of my belongings since I‘m now living in a furnished basement suite. Most townspeople only came to gawk. Boxes of my stuff went to the Salvation Army. Nobody bought my pickles.

Yes, I know that wasn’t very funny…

Anyway Father, that’s about it in a nutshell. And to say my piece, I don’t think I should have to say penance since I feel I’ve suffered enough by having to move to this godforsaken town of hillbillies. Everyone is so unfriendly. And not the most intelligent bunch to say the least.

Father… Father… are you there?

throwback

i

It’s hard finding a route to walk your dog—at least, I find it that way. But I (or we) finally set on a park hugging the dirty Assiniboine, even though I feel self-conscious in my Caucasian Canadian ways and have to suppress an urge to wipe my dog’s feet before I let him into my apartment. We stare out at the brown water and I grimace at its disgusting beauty. As much as I don’t want to admit it, I feel inspired: the ugliness inspires me. (Inspires me to do what, I don’t know.) A poem forms in my head as we walk back home under the Donald Street Bridge, but the words fall out of my ears as the wind howls through them and it starts to rain. My fingers itch to pick up a pen at home but the words elude me—any words, even the ugly ones. I sleep instead as my dog licks my toes.

ii

the fishermen bring their rods
and radios down to its shores and
hope to catch some luck. they listen hushed
to CJOB and blush and curse whenever
they hear the Bombers mentioned. when they are left
alone, they talk to the ducks and throw them
pieces of crusted bread. they carve their catches
into the stump they sit on, so they know
for next time. at the end of the day, the river
washes away any evidence that they were there,
watching and waiting for something—anything
—to happen. they feel proud when the Free Press reads:
“Red River spits up aluminum chair: local fisherman takes it home.”

Red River Swim

Red River Swim

Does pollution poison the Red river

flowing over my feet

dangling from my dock?

Sun dashes through muddy waters

green and yellow,

warm like summertime.

Laughter on the neighbours

dock and two lifejacketed children

jump in, their mother hovers.

Catch them she waves

as they float my direction

in the current.

I snag one lifejacket as the

other floats past. The mother gallops

along the riverbank holding her hat.

On the way back she thanks

me, says next time

she’ll tether them.

The children screech as they push each

other off the dock.

Their mother reads a magazine.

Sparkling surface invites me

to be a child

in their family.

Tired children wrapped

in towels

shout when I finally dive.

I’m heading downtown,

floating on the current,

looking at the sky.

July "assignment"

Write about your favourite (or least favourite) Winnipeg/Manitoba landmark. (If Angelica joins the blog, she can write about a B.C. landmark.)

Tuesdays

Tuesdays. In winter it was Saturday that was my favourite but in summer, nothing was better than Tuesday. We were the only folks I knew with a hot air dryer. It was amazing. Mom would throw wet clothes in, push a button and presto the clothes were dry, clean and warm. And Tuesday was the day the ceremonies would begin. She’d start each Tuesday morning with a cheery “Good morning merry sunshine!” and then she’d say the words that would remind me of what was to come that day “bring me your dirty clothes.” It wasn’t so much the collecting of dirty clothes that I enjoyed, or dragging them down the stairs but I knew that there was something I would receive from all this effort, something that made Tuesdays the very best days ever. I’d wipe the sleep from my eyes and roll onto the floor lifting the white bed skirt, taking a quick peek under my bed. And there I would see them, my treasures, laid one beside the other. Oh the things I would create today, my mind whirled with creativity. My mother would call once again snapping me out of my daydream. Bring them now, I’m starting, she would say. I would rush to gather the clothing littered about my room. My favourite blue shorts, my new red dress I wore to Cindy’s birthday party. What fun we had that day! My green striped t-shirt. And there was more. I’d load my arms so full then tumble down the stairs. Teetering one way then the next pushing and kicking whatever fell to the floor with my feet, dragging it along with me. Then finally I would arrive and at the feet of my mother, like an offering I would dumb my grimy clothing. She was not nearly as excited as I was about Tuesdays and I could tell by the way she would throw clothes with such fury, sorting colors making sure never ever to mix them.

Then I would wait. So patiently, only asking every ten minutes when it was time. “Patience” she would say. “Okay” I would reply suppressing the urge to grab what I wanted and run. I would sit on the old stool by the counter. The one that was missing several of its foot rests. I would sit with my elbows resting on the Albright counter top, my chin in my hands watching the clock. It was always the same. 60 minutes; 60 long minutes before it was time to check. On the days that the humidity was high, of the dryer was over stuffed it took longer. “Run and get your stuff. So you’re ready” She’d say a bit amused with my obsession, looking at me with a quizzical look wondering whose child was I any way. I didn’t care, I’d been waiting for this all week. And then it happened, the buzzer rang and I bolted into the room where the clothes lay on the tiled floor beside the machine that was teaching me one of life’s great lessons – good things come to those who wait. I grabbed the handle and pulled urging my mother to take the clothes out. Faster. Faster. And when she was finished she’d do the thing that she did before throwing another load of limp and soggy clothes in; she’d check the lint trap. Slowly, so slowly, it seemed to take minutes as she pulled the long meshy screen from the bowels of the beast. There plastered to it, would be what I’d been waiting for so long. Lint. Wonderful colors, shades of pink and red, she must have washed my new dress, threads from dad’s plaid shirt, little balls of dark blue denim. Carefully she would peel it, carefully she would lay it in my hands. She knew how I liked it, smooth, one single piece. Carefully I would carry it back to the counter I had been sitting by, waiting. Then I would begin. The pink and red became a glorious sunset, blue balls were unwound to make waves of water, threads became trunks of trees, and on the process would go. Nothing was spared. Every piece of lint became part of the grand picture; a petal, a flower, a coconut, boats sailing. And when I was finished, I lifted it with such care not wanting to mess a thing, carried it up the stairs, rounded the corner to my bedroom, knelt on my knees beside my bed, lifted the skirt with one hand and slowly, gently place my new creation beside the rest. I looked at them. Watchfully. The colors of my everyday life glued into beautiful pictures. I laid down beside them running my fingers gently over the soft, fuzzy surface and sighed. Tuesdays.

the reindeer

with a missing eye, you got me through childhood.
with no stuffing left—I hugged it all out of you—
a toy had never been so loved. you got left
at the grocery store, in the movie theatre, in the wash
and still, you were always by my side. in the end
you weighed barely a pound, but all my love and insecurities
I poured onto you, so that you could barely hold yourself together.

In the end, you were basically a ball of lint. I almost screamed when I discovered a hole right through your stomach the size of a needle, and then you shed the pounds like water pouring off my back in the tub. I tried to plump you up with small stones and I asked my mom to sew you back up, but that didn’t work either. You were masticated.

I made a bed for you
on the table next to mine. made out of straw,
it must’ve not been too comfortable,
but you never complained. I told you
my secrets—you held my hand as I fell
asleep. I never talked to anyone else
like I talked to you. you always listened.
you were like a death trap; no one could get
information from you.

One day when I was 9, we spent the whole day out in the backyard. I rolled on top of you accidentally, pushing you into tormented grass and sour cream Pringles and orange Kool-Aid and dog shit. I thought I lost you. But I found you outside in the rain three days later. You hadn’t moved an inch. Were you scared like I was?

I brought you to the hospital
when I had my appendix out.
they even let me take you into
the operating room, where they cut
me open like my brother did to a frog
in biology. you got a pink band-aid.
I got a scar.

Sitting in Brad’s van, I thought about you the other day. Where did I leave you? I hope you’re still intact. Even now, the thought of losing you again makes me tear up. I loved you like you were a part of me. I hope Yoda didn’t get you. You might be covered in slobber in some sewage drain somewhere, if he did.

I thought you were it for me.
I thought we were a perfect match.
I thought no one could love me better.
But we all grow up.

Time Spent Alone

TIME SPENT ALONE
Recently, I was asked about my favourite childhood toy. My first impulse was to say, it wasn’t so much a toy but the anticipation of when mom brought home the latest Eaton’s catalogue from the Main Street Post Office.
I would lie on the floor and flip frantically through the glossy pages. With a shaky grip, I’d cut out the paper thin models donned with flowing virgin white bridal gowns and swanky brightly coloured bridesmaid dresses. Concentration would build as I swirled my moist tongue along dry lips.
With delicate fingers, I paraded the glamorous women atop the dresser, under the bed skirt and alongside the oil heater; usually to the tune of Dum, Dum, De, Dum. This usually lasted a few hours, or until the heads bent backwards and then the bridal party didn’t look as pretty.
But by saying that I was around for the Eaton’s catalogue, showed something about my age, so I picked the next memory that popped into my head. It was a doll, that my grown daughters recently pointed out - the head does not remotely match the body. I’m not sure how I missed that, since I had forty-plus years to give her a once over.
I’m also certain that I must have given her a name, but I can’t imagine what it would have been. Maybe Betty? Or was that the nurse doll?
Anyway, Miss ‘Odd Head’ certainly didn’t have the charm of an Eaton’s bride. Her puffed dimpled knees were moulded into a slightly bent position, she had a proportionally bloated tummy, fat arms and cupped fingers. In an upright position, her eyes opened with a sweep of dark lashes - her eyes closed, when she laid down. The doll had moulded plastic light-brown swirls for curls. And there was the slight split in her neck - possibly, a telltale sign of a foreign head being jack-hammered onto a larger frame. For a sense of realism, she had an anatomically correct hole bored into her bum.
I’m not sure of all of the details, but I do remember the day she died.
I cried openly, as tears rolled down my cheeks. Involuntary heartfelt hiccups escaped from my mouth. I believe the backyard theatrical performance came a few days after my Baba’s funeral.
I made a wobbly cross out of two sticks and a nail; which seemed to take the better part of the afternoon. It was a solemn day as I placed my doll’s lifeless body into the cool earth between red geraniums and pink petunias.
The next spring, my mom replanted her flower garden. I’m sure she had a creepy feeling inside her stomach as she pulled, first an arm, and then a head out of the makeshift burial plot.
Mom presented the doll to me later that night with nary the dirt of the last few months. I wrapped the white coloured plastic body and the brown rubber headed doll into a tea towel.
Jagged bits of plastic protruded where her fingers and toes used to be. The crack along her neck was somewhat larger. Her signature eyelashes were gone. The middle of her face was indented, faint evidence of a past nose. She only had one good eye. The other was somewhat wonky; like she might have experienced a stroke over the winter months. None-the-less, she was a miracle!
I still have her. In our basement. In a far corner. One cockeyed lash-less eye looking over the edge of a cardboard box. She is butt-naked, and the grandchildren never play with her.
Whatever her name is…