The Molly Fire

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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


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.

i

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


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


PLATE 3

the traces of her hand


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


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

,- •> ^

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

V

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


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

1

9

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

20

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

22

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


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

28

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

36

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

37

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.

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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


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

2OI

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

4

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

OLD MAN

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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


PLATE 1 7

shadow play on the shears


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

228

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

234

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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PLATE 1 8

the beautiful ending


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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PLATE I p

the lock is set


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

244

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

246

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.

247

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.

248

PLATE 2 O

coffee in the morning


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

249

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

25-0

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

25I

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 .

2

53

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.

255

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.

257


PLATE 2 1

bell buoy, Desolation Sound


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

59

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 .

260

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.

261

The Molly Fire

Molly

Molly in the Middle

Teaching Molly

Teaching Molly

Marrying Molly

Marrying Molly

Molly Coddle

The Late, Lamented Molly Marx

The Late, Lamented Molly Marx

Molly Moon Stops the World

The Late, Lamented Molly Marx

The Late, Lamented Molly Marx

The Late, Lamented Molly Marx

The Late, Lamented Molly Marx

The Late, Lamented Molly Marx

Two Lovers For Molly

At Lady Molly s

Peaches For Mad Molly

When Harry Met Molly

A Millionaire for Molly

Murphy's Law (Molly Murphy)

Protecting Molly McCulloch

When Harry Met Molly

When Harry Met Molly

Pistol Packin' Molly

Molly Cooper's Dream Date

Pistol Packin' Molly

A Millionaire for Molly

Peaches For Mad Molly

Making Sense of the Molly Maguires

The Molly Fire

Molly

Molly in the Middle

Teaching Molly

Teaching Molly

Marrying Molly

Marrying Molly

Molly Coddle

The Late, Lamented Molly Marx

The Late, Lamented Molly Marx

Molly Moon Stops the World

The Late, Lamented Molly Marx

The Late, Lamented Molly Marx

The Late, Lamented Molly Marx

The Late, Lamented Molly Marx

The Late, Lamented Molly Marx

Two Lovers For Molly

At Lady Molly s

Peaches For Mad Molly

When Harry Met Molly

A Millionaire for Molly

Murphy's Law (Molly Murphy)

Protecting Molly McCulloch

When Harry Met Molly

When Harry Met Molly

Pistol Packin' Molly

Molly Cooper's Dream Date

Pistol Packin' Molly

A Millionaire for Molly

Peaches For Mad Molly

Making Sense of the Molly Maguires

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