Ceilings, Doors, Windows, Floors
Collected Stories 2011
By Robert Adair Wilson
Copyright 2012 Robert Adair Wilson - Cover by Leslie Slova Wilson
Published by Robert Adair Wilson at Smashwords
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Circles Within Circles
Camping and Travel In South Eastern British Columbia
We received the wedding invitation six months in advance and after a few months of anticipation my wife, Leslie, and I set out on what was our maiden voyage to experience camping and touring some of the circle routes in the south central Okanagan and Kootenay area of British Columbia. Our ultimate goal was to attend the wedding of friends in Cranbrook on August 7. Camping had a special definition for us, as it was to consist of sleeping in the back of our 2005 Toyota Siena minivan on a Coleman airbed and preparing our meals on a propane-fired camp stove. We didn't test anything out or have a practice run because my wife was confident and I had a back-up plan of staying at motels along the way. On July 21 we left Chilliwack with the plan to stop somewhere between Princeton and Hedley on Highway 3, the Crowsnest, leading us into the Similkameen Valley. We planned on either Stemwinder or Bromley Rock Provincial Campsite and drove past Bromley Rock to get a good look at Stemwinder, which turned out to be full to capacity. Back at Bromley Rock we were able to get a site directly across from the outhouse bathrooms just down off the highway and overlooking the river. We set up camp in about half an hour, a time we would vastly improve upon as the days passed until about seven minutes became the average setup time. The folding camp chairs came out to the site table along with the box of kitchen utensils, propane stove and Rubbermaid container of dry or non-perishable foodstuffs. A cooler with a block of ice in it served as refrigerator for milk, eggs, deli items and fruit. Utensils included pots, pans, lids, coffee carafe, knives, forks, spoons, a small cast iron fry pan and a supply of paper plates. Cameras, laptop computer, suitcase and containers of bedding and towels were stacked on the front seats. With the airbed inflated in seconds from the power plug in the rear of the van, we spread a flannel sheet over its flocked top and used a fleece blanket on top of that and a sleeping bag cover up in the cooler mountain areas. With four large pillows from home we were more comfortable and slept better than at any motel or hotel. In no time we were collapsed in our camp chairs, sipping a wonderful white wine from the Crowsnest Vineyard in Cawston. The traffic from the highway above was muted as we watched a playful chipmunk skip and dance to and fro in hopes of scoring more natural, unsalted, unroasted almonds, and it always did. Raucous black birds with enormous long white tails sailed past our nesting place and it was only a day or two later that I remembered they were magpies that I hadn't seen for so many years. Although it was hot and dry at Bromley Rock for the two days and nights we stayed there, it did try hard to rain a few times. We made our way down to the river and sat on smaller rocks amid huge rocks. We soaked our feet to cool off and took pictures trying to capture a glimpse of the spirit of the river that seemed to ripple to the surface in the deepest part of the flow. Above and behind us loomed the gigantic namesake of the campsite, Bromley Rock.
On July 22, our first real day beginning from a camping start, we awoke relatively early, completely refreshed. It had rained moderately overnight as my sandals were wet on the ground outside the van. I set up the stove and measured a carafe full of water into a large pot. This pot went on the stove with three eggs slow cooking as the water came to a boil for the coffee. Coffee and eggs were ready and served at the same time. Clean up was a snap. We broke down the sleeping area every morning to enable restoring the items from the front seats but noted that in future we would travel with a rooftop luggage container and not require the other containers or suitcase. We spent the day touring and exploring the area, as we were to do wherever we ended up staying. Lunch at the Crowsnest Vineyard on their patio and a delightful bottle of 2006 Cuvee #3, perfect with the black forest salad and almond-crusted salmon. Later in the afternoon we made a visit to the historic Grist Mill and a photographic examination of the most famous Hedley mine from the front porch of the Gold Dust Pub. This pub was the original home for the managers of the Nickel Plate Mine, dating from 1904. It served in this capacity for fifty years to include the managers of the historic Mascot Mine. The afternoon was topped off with a driving tour of the area, a walkabout and some shopping in downtown Keremeos and visits to several fruit stands.
On the 23 of July we set out for Osoyoos and Oliver in our first leg into the Thompson-Okanagan country. The entire area may be imagined as what 'California North' might appear: tanned, chiseled bodies both male and female, sweltering heat and bushy, bushy blonde hairdos everywhere. For the most part we were not disappointed but not to be second-bested, the wineries and vineyards came to the fore at every chance. There must be over four hundred estate wineries between Osoyoos in the south and Vernon in the north and this is a relatively short expanse easily driven in a matter of hours. Our intent was to experience and explore as much of the region as we could as time allowed. We began with the Nk'Mip Cellars winery at Osoyoos, part of a twenty-five million dollar development plan by the Osoyoos Indian Band, and after being suitably impressed by the art and artifacts, made our way northward. Before ending this day of our tour we managed to visit some favorite vineyards in the area. These included Burrowing Owl, Jackson Triggs, Wild Goose, Stag's Hollow and the uniquely illustrated and storied Blasted Church.
That evening we camped at Vaseux Lake Provincial Park beside Highway 97 between Oliver and Okanagan Falls. At first it was so hot we tried to leave the rear vent windows open so as not to stifle in the heat but we soon discovered at least six mosquitoes hunkering down on the ceiling of the van. The windless, arid furnace and standing water only modified the situation. We had to close the vent windows and dispatch the critters before we could hope for any sleep that night. We toured the wildlife reserve at the lake the next morning, free of mosquitoes at that time except in shadier areas- just too damned hot. As a result of the heat we saw few of the several red and blue listed endangered wildlife protected in this park, which includes an area ranging from desert to wetland. We spent only one night at Vaseux Lake and moved north on July 24 to Penticton and beyond and eventually at seven-thirty in the evening found a private campsite with wonderfully clean bathrooms and hot showers at Peachland on the shore of Lake Okanagan. Todd's Tent and RV Park provided such a comfortable and centrally located facility that we camped on here for five days and nights, leaving on the 29. Finding this camp with only two vacancies remaining was a Godsend as we had travelled in desperation as far as Bear Creek Provincial Park beyond Kelowna on the west side of Okanagan Lake where we were told 'No Vacancy' but we were welcome to camp in the parking lot. We happened to find Todd's on the way back south planning to stay at the Best Western in Penticton as we were so thoroughly worn out and depressed from looking and not finding.
When we pulled into Todd's I could only think of some modern-styled refuge out of Steinbeck's Grapes of Wrath. The place was packed to overflowing and the first thing noticed was mothers and fathers walking around in bathrobes going to and from the hot showers and all the small children, completely oblivious to the posted camp speed limit, rushing up and down the interweaving gravel roads on their trikes and bicycles at ten, fifteen or twenty kilometers per hour. A pleasant, balmy breeze flowed in from Okanagan Lake reducing the effects of the scorching temperature and keeping the mosquitoes totally at bay. On Sunday, July 25, we attended morning church services in downtown Penticton and found that the minister, visiting from Vancouver, had just the week before been visiting with our minister back in Victoria. It is truly a small world where so many circles exist within wider circles. In those five days we thoroughly enjoyed exploring and walking throughout Penticton's historic venues, making several driving tours into the Naramata Bench, visiting Red Rooster vineyard and reminiscing with Ruby Tuesday's co-owner, Prudence Maher, about her daughter's shattered platter that began the original winery's history, touring the Naramata Centre United Church Retreat, driving near to the top of Okanagan Mountain Provincial Park that still showed the signs of wildfire ravages suffered in the summer of 2003, riding on the historic Kettle Valley Steam Railway in Summerland and hiking the lookout summit of Knox Mountain Park in Kelowna. With temperatures reaching 37 degrees Celsius each day we were at Peachland, Leslie recaptured a memory from her youth at the shores of Sproat Lake by swimming in Okanagan Lake.
On July 29 we continued north toward Vernon stopping for tours and tastings at Quail's Gate, Mission Hill, Summerhill and Gray Monk Estate wineries. It was very enjoyable to chat with Trudy Heiss, the matriarch at Gray Monk, about advancements made over the last twenty-eight years and her hopes for new California mango-scented varietals. We enjoyed a bottle of Trudy's favorite wine, Siegerrebe, later that evening when we finally stopped at the Gold Panner campsite to the east of Lumby on Highway 6. On the way there, through to Vernon we cruised the town stopping across from the Court House to take pictures of Justice Park which I helped to install, fountain, waterfall and all, in the summer of 1972 when I was a mere lad of twenty-two years. We were forced into a detour from the main highway north, which took us past the historic O'Keefe Ranch. After a short jaunt through the Spallumcheen Valley to Armstrong, we stopped at the Rogers Flour Mill and store to pick up camping supplies in the form of bags of seven grain oatmeal, rolled oats, raisins, couscous, assorted dried fruits and, curiously, a large bag of homemade chocolate macaroons, an essential breakfast item. Rogers' oatmeal tastes even better fresh from the mill.
The Gold Panner campsite was rustic, to say the least, isolated in a way the brochure described as 'romantic' and possessed hot showers the likes of which we had only experienced in Cuba. Yet, despite the signs warning of bears, we stayed on two days and nights and spent time visiting Lumby and the famous Ramshorn Pub as well as some great antique and curiosity shops. Back in camp we hiked the several levels of campground all the way down to the creek where nature has virtually reclaimed the sites of the Lucky Strike and Neversweat mines. The nights here were cooler, enough so that we awoke with cold feet in the mornings but a gentle breeze through the many trees again kept the mosquitoes at bay. Chipmunks would chatter and scold us at any random chance as if to underscore the fact that they would not give up their precious harvest of fir cones for anyone but they kept their distance and were not interested in whether we had any treats for them. Most of the campers were older than middle age, ensconced in large RVs or fifth wheels and only one child presented himself in the company of his grandmother.
The distance from Gold Panner camp to our next stop seemed lengthy although the drive went smoothly with no problems and we drove onto the Needles Ferry as soon as we reached the west side of Upper Arrow Lake. In ten minutes we were on the other side and heading north to Nakusp. The greenery and change in the forested areas was quite noticeable compared to the Thompson-Okanagan. Vast stands of lush growth surrounded us. The crispness and clearness of the air was more evident. We reached Nakusp and drove the twelve kilometers to the east to reach the Hot Springs. This was as close to heaven as we had been so far and we booked in for three days and nights in the campground. Use of the hot springs pools and facilities was an extra charge but quite reasonable, especially as a day pass. Nakusp itself was relatively small but did possess a large amount of history including the longest serving hotel in the province, the Leland Hotel, in service continually since 1892. The downtown area was clean, tidy and well maintained. People with Alberta license plates on their vehicles have purchased many of the quaint little houses that make up the residential core of Nakusp as summer get-away cottages. Our campsite was so well situated, by a rushing river, carefully cordoned off with a safety chain link fence, that this was the second campsite, after Todd's Tent Town in Peachland, that we determined to make reservations for next summer's adventures.
Generously sized campsites are situated below the excellent clean washrooms and hot showers that stand halfway uphill to the hot springs facilities. Several young families with children were tent camping at this site and the children and chipmunks played happily all around us. Our own personal chipmunk, a pregnant female, posed relentlessly for all the free almonds and walnuts we could provide. For the children cavorting about, a large boulder to the side of our camp driveway became first a lookout, then a fire engine, then a racecar and finally a ship on the high seas and no child was ever heard crying or complaining.
Floating in the sulphur pools of Nakusp for hours on end was a delight among friendly fellow retirees. An older gentleman approached us and we struck up a conversation that led to discovering that in 1966 he had worked on constructing the Otter Bay ferry terminal on North Pender Island when he was twenty years old. I had moved from the island only two years before but regained many memories when he said Laurie Auchterlonie, an acquaintance of my parents, had provided cold beer to his crew after working through a hot summer day. We also found time to travel south to the ancient ghost town of Sandon where some of the greatest mines of the Silvery Slocan once existed. It is estimated that over thirty-nine billion dollars worth of silver was extracted from this one area of the Slocan between 1892 and 1898. Now an extensive museum with a very courteous and well-informed curator dominates the town site. The only other striking visual anomaly of the town is a large array of Brill electric trolley buses that were rescued from destruction in 2001 in Vancouver where one of the largest Brill bus contingents existed, about three hundred units, were shredded to scrap between March and September of that year. Twelve were purchased and transported to their savior's property in the midst of the town. Here it is that they are awaiting eventual restoration and shipment to museums and archives across North America, much to the chagrin of purists who would like to see the town restored to showcase its original existence.
From Nakusp on August 2 we made our way down Highway 6 to Highway 31A and over to Highway 31 down on the west shore of Kootenay Lake through Balfour and stopping for two days and nights at the Baker Street Best Western Inn in Nelson. We are spoiled so easily - electricity to recharge the computer, to recharge the cameras' batteries, electricity to make in-room coffee in the morning, electricity to watch all those neglected sitcoms. Nelson was full of memories for Leslie who had attended Art School and lived there forty some odd years ago. All the memories came flooding back and she showed me the town, as she had known it - the coffee bars, the parks, the schools, the Hume Hotel. We explored south from Nelson toward Salmo looking for the ghost town of Ymir but found little remained but a very pleasant drive. Two brief days and nights passed quickly and we were on our way back north to Balfour and the longest free ferry in North America, the Osprey 2000, up Kootenay Lake for eleven kilometers to dock at Kootenay Bay. A short distance off the ferry brought us to the Yasodhara Ashram of Swami Radha where Leslie had attended and meditated while an art student in Nelson. Walking the grounds of the ashram and observing the pilgrims at work and meditation gave us a sense of peace beyond the peacefulness of the setting.
We spent the afternoon in a delightful drive down the east side of Kootenay Lake, stopping only briefly at an historic hotel in Sirdar just north of Creston. As soon as we reached Creston we found the private campsite, Pair A Dice, and were unperturbed by the constable in the squad car and the yellow "Police Line - Do Not Cross" tape; we understood from the camp owner that there had been a rather violent father and son reunion. We decided to take campsite #11 for two days and nights, trying not to think of it as the 'snake eyes' campsite.
This camp turned out to be one of the better ones we stayed in and we appreciated the spotless washrooms and hot showers. Creston afforded us with walking tours of the town, all well laid out and an excellent guided tour of the Columbia Brewery, home of Kokanee beer and Alexander Keith ales. After the informative tour that cost two dollars and was topped off with a complimentary pint of ale, we travelled up the road to the little known Skimmerhorn winery where we were pleasantly surprised with their Autumn Tryst and Kootenay Crush Red. We stopped and ate our lunchtime wraps I habitually prepared after breakfast was finished and before we headed out each day. Then it was time to travel slightly west to the Creston Valley Wildlife Management Area where we selected an unguided two-hour hike on level, grassy ground through a sweltering swamp in near 35 degree Celsius heat. We did not see the cinnamon bear with cubs nor did we see the moose with calves but somehow we counted ourselves lucky to not have when all was said and done. The air conditioning was so appreciated in the hotel lounge back in town.
From Creston on August 6 we continued our circle tour to our reservation at the Heritage Inn in Cranbrook. We arrived early before our room was available and decided to travel a short distance north to Fort Steele and explore the heritage buildings and museums for a few hours. Back in Cranbrook and now on Mountain Time we settled into our room and prepared for the wedding celebration at three in the afternoon the next day. That next day we toured the town and spent two hours at the Canadian Museum of Rail Travel before returning to our hotel room to change for the wedding and reception that totally engulfed us until midnight. The next day we were awake early, by eight-thirty had said our good-byes, and were on the road again on our way back through a southern route on Highway 3 through Creston, Salmo, Castlegar and on to Grand Forks where we camped at the downtown municipal campground overnight. We spent a quiet August 8 between the Winnipeg Hotel and the Grand Forks Hotel, Craig's Place and the Omega 2 restaurant for less than wonderful authentic Russian food - borscht and pierogi.
The last leg of our journey was a long slow drive over the mountains to Osoyoos from the south and then on over the Allison Pass in Manning Park. Cascades of rain accompanied us down to and out of Hope until we reached Chilliwack once more. The following evening over barbeque, salad, and several bottles of Ruby Tuesday's outstanding Red Stiletto and Riesling, we recounted our adventures to close friends and family. This is truly what retirement is all about - revisiting our past and sharing our circle tours with circles of kith and kin.
Sock Monkey's Accident
Sock Monkey sat at the low round table. He sat in Grandma's living room with Gerrik. Gerrik was five years old long enough to tell everyone he used to be four but not long enough to tell everyone he was going to be six. Sock Monkey had had eleven birthday parties. They were eating cheddar cheese on Jazz Ritz crackers with blueberry yogurt. These were their favorite foods except maybe for Graham crackers and cream cheese. Grandma was in the kitchen baking bread.
Gerrik and Sock Monkey were best friends. Sock Monkey lived with Grandma but every time Gerrik would visit he would talk and play with Sock Monkey. Sock Monkey was always happy to see his friend, Gerrik.
Sometimes they would listen to music or watch movies. One time they were watching "Yellow Submarine". They liked the movie a lot. Gerrik figured they had watched it 'fifty hundred million times' but they never got tired of it.
Sock Monkey liked the part about all the lonely people best because he had come from a rummage sale at a church sale. That was where Grandma found him. He was very lonely and very sad before Grandma in her bright red jacket walked past the table he was sitting on. Then she turned around and said, "I have just the perfect home for this little sock monkey". Sock Monkey listened to the song. He remembered that he knew Father Mackenzie in the church. He would hear him writing the words he would say on Sundays.
Sock Monkey and Gerrik had been playing a game. They were pretending they could fly. Sock Monkey just flew too high in the air. He fell and hit the floor with a soft thump. After he hit the floor, he didn't look right ... or left. He tried to speak but he didn't sound right. He tried to walk but he didn't move right. Sock Monkey just didn't do anything right. Gerrik ran and got his Grandma as fast as he could.
Grandma took one look and asked, "What happened to you, Sock Monkey?" Sock Monkey said nothing because he just didn't hear right either. "I think I know what to do," Grandma told Gerrik. "I just hope we are in time for it to work."
"What are you going to do?" asked Gerrik.
"This is a very special operation for Sock Monkey," said Grandma. "We will have to perform CPR."
"What is CPR?" asked Gerrik. He didn't want anyone to hurt Sock Monkey.
"CPR," said Grandma, "is Coronary Primate Resuscitation and it's a very tricky operation for a Sock Monkey so small but we have to try."
Grandma didn't waste any time. She got right to work. "First we need to make sure Sock Monkey is lying on his back with his legs together. His arms have to be at his side." Gerrik turned Sock Monkey over onto his back. "Carefully ... carefully," said Grandma and she stuck the tip of her tongue out from between her lips. Gerrik knew she did this whenever she was worried. Sock Monkey's legs and arms were straight and flat beside his body. He looked small as small could be, lying on the rug. Gerrik ran and got a placemat from the dining room table. He folded it and put it under Sock Monkey's head.
Grandma bent down beside Sock Monkey on her hands and knees. With her two pointing fingers she started to gently rub Sock Monkey's chest. She pressed slightly, counting,
"One, two, three, four, breathe Sock Monkey like you did before
Five, six, seven, eight - open your eyes before it's too late
Five, six, seven, eight, nine, ten, we love you."
Then Grandma took her thumb and finger. She pressed Sock Monkey's nose. At the same time, she put her lips and mouth on Sock Monkey's stitched red mouth. She breathed onto his mouth.
All of a sudden Sock Monkey started to move. First his chest gave a small heave then an arm and a small hairy hand jerked. His tiny chest shook. At last both his legs stretched. He sat up. He opened his little black eyes.
"Oh, Gerrik, what happened to me? I don't remember going to sleep. I don't think I want to try flying ever again."
"Maybe next time we will fly in an airplane," said Grandma.
"Or maybe we could fly in a yellow submarine!" said Gerrik.
A Time and Place For Everything
Sitting in church James felt a degree of sanctuary and quiet reverie where all was sorted out. The world could be viewed from a finer, more distant and ordered perspective. The chapel area saw much of him over the decades and its solid rectangular form felt familiar without being overbearing to those seeking solace. He climbed the ten steps that stood bracketed by ancient brickwork and pushed through the heavy, carved, double door entrance. He sat on the right side in the fan of Naugahyde chairs arranged from both ends of the table and lectern pulpit where the minister or member of the lay congregation delivered the sermon. This Do In Remembrance Of Me carved into the wood skirting the communion table beckoned with an Old World charm. Gone were the staid wooden pews that stood like cards in a deck evenly distributed on either side of the room, gone in favor of a more open and relaxed space, allowing the ability to look, if that were desired, from one side to the other and greet friends and acquaintances across the room and up and down the repeated rows of seating.
It was from this position that he slipped into his usual seat, usual unless he was late and the seat taken by some visitor from out of town at the invitation of a church-going relative arriving before him. He saved the chair beside it for Madge to occupy when she returned from the fellowship hall after ensuring all was well with the coffee and refreshments that followed the service. His wife wasn't overly fussy or obsessive about such things; really more just a force of habit that led to the conviction that arrangements must be made and nothing left to chance, a place for everything and everything in place as much as possible. He liked this about his wife and willingly supported her drive to make things so. She had never been a bully about it, not exactly and not with him. She was simply very determined, very concrete in how she expected events to progress, no surprises and nothing off the agenda. He remembered when they had first dated and he had made a wicked suggestion to her. Her reply was, "Really, James, there is a time and place for everything!" And when they raised their children, long gone from the nest now, this became her mantra in dealing with any instance of cajoling, pleading or whining. 'A time for everything and everything in its time' would silence nearly any grumble or complaint if only for its cryptic quality that left young minds wondering at the meaning. There was no need to continue debate or investigation. This phrase ended that and any need to listen any further. They had been together long enough to know the habits of one another well. So well that there were many things simply understood between them. They loved each other in a natural, knowing, accepted, comfortable manner. No need to say the words or discuss feelings. No need to do anything out of the ordinary. Until finally, one day, there is no need for communication at all anymore.
He could monitor the small entranceway with the cloak rack and hangers on the right and service bulletins, pamphlets and guest book on the left. He actually missed the pews. He remembered and savored the stiff-backed rigidness of the heavy dark wood, its immovability, the hard, unrelenting, flat bench seat and the highness and largeness of it all, the smooth, cool feel of the wood and the acrid scent of Murphy's Oil Soap. He knew nothing was left to comfort then. Going to church meant business and that business meant minds were not to wander or be allowed to waft away into some false sense of security. There should not be comfort for the temporal body when the sermon was about the intolerable condition that awaited the spirit, the soul. The meager, harsh furnishings were to underline the message and to encourage the receiver not to dally behind after receiving the medicine required for redemption. Communication then was hot, direct and necessary.
This Sunday he gazed absent-mindedly at the three large vertical windows in the wall across from him and admired the intricate, colourful displays of leaded glass and crystal. A prism of colours danced before him as the sun slowly gained height on the south wall enveloping more of the panes in shafts of bright morning light. His gaze must be conspicuous, he realized, as every new arrival made a point of greeting him as if to ask permission before intruding between his scrutiny and that upon which he looked. He allowed his eyes to fall and sweep away onto a length of unresponsive, unpresuming carpet and, through some chance combination of scene and thought, he pictured the first dwelling he and Madge owned outright, their first true home together. They bought it sight unseen from an agent in Vancouver because it was romantic in name, Windy Ridge, and Madge said its description reminded her of something out of Wuthering Heights. She even pleaded, half in earnest, "Oh, James, if you could only change your name to Heathcliffe," and he could only wonder at what she meant, not wanting to reveal any ignorance on his part. When they made the arduous journey, even in that day's estimation, they found an old post and beam, black and white Tudor farmhouse perched precariously on broad cedar footings, structurally sound but horribly abandoned to the elements, time and nature. Two domineering walnut trees filled the space between the road and farmhouse. They had to beat a path through stinging nettles and salal from the main roadway up to the side porch and force open the door to gain admission. Self-seeded hollyhocks and irises from some previous owner bordered a path of crushed seashells that ran between the house and a kitchen garden to this entry point. Inside the first room after the outer porch they found a dank yet greasy atmosphere pervading their surroundings like smudge or a staleness gone terribly wrong. They found the source of this misfortune, a cook stove that had been used as a fire pit without ventilation by squatters in the past. Windows had been thrown open to vent the smoke and were left partially ajar on their metal screw out rods although the lack of so many glass panes probably gave enough ventilation. Blackberry vines, the perennial opportunists, over the years had choked the casements and attempted to layer and inch themselves from kitchen to dining room, no matter that there was only the faintest hint of sunlight to encourage them along. Dingy yet highly serviceable linoleum of a hollow black diamond pattern on a once white background ran from kitchen to dining room. Madge lit candles and coal-oil lamps and turned to James. "It's beautiful," was all she said. They found the rest of the dwelling in like condition - hard wood floors made of rough-hewn timber, living room with an immense, open fireplace of stones transplanted from clearing the fields for cultivation; bedrooms and bathroom in Second World War era wallpaper of muted blues and greens, vacant of furnishings except for some wooden boxes and an old enameled utility table and chairs in the kitchen. A single windowless door led from the living room out onto an open front veranda covered in wisteria. "We will put double French doors with glass knobs here," Madge said casually as she passed it for the first time, "but all in good time. For now, we must cut some fir and cedar boughs from the forest and hang them throughout the kitchen and dining room." Everywhere the forest, inside and out, encroached on them, bowed down, enveloping and sheltering them in solitude. They talked and planned for hours then. Every day was filled with a new event or adventure and conversations. Planning the journey, thought James, was as much or more fun than making the trip.
"Everything is in its place and the coffee is on," Madge's voice beside him brought James back from his reveries. "That's my good girl," he murmured, squeezing her hand but not too hard and passing her a copy of the hymnal. James slowly turned his head as his gaze took in the full length of the chapel, from the organist at one end all the way up to the minister at the other. God help us, he thought, there is no one younger than the minister here and he is ten years younger than me and announcing his retirement. James recently retired after forty-five numbing years as a corrections officer. Church and Sunday morning was a welcome reprieve from his work-a-day world but often it had a powerful effect on James, the realization that most of the people he and Madge knew or saw on a regular basis were either as old as them or older. Here at church they saw mostly couples, elderly couples helping each other to their seats, grappling with walkers and canes as they made their stiff, painful, slow progress. How often in a year would these people visit a doctor? Was it possible to read in their faces the diagnosis of cancer or Alzheimer's or other terminal diseases? Did they recognize it in the faces of others? Several trips made to their physicians, he imagined, until finally the inevitable, inescapable news was received. Then all that was left was waiting to find the proper moment, the suitable setting, and the right time and place to discuss the final situation, the ending position.
The men were quite often smaller in frame than their wives and dressed in clothes three or four sizes larger than required as though they were shrinking away, disappearing from their own physical beings, ebbing away from their lives. The expanse of graying heads where there was still hair to be found made James feel he faced a panel of Supreme Court judges or a sage medical council. He glanced at the notices in the service bulletin and noted there were nine funerals and one christening in the last four weeks.
He and Madge had been to a performance at a neighborhood theater the night before. The play was an enjoyable romantic comedy, a delightful account of mistaken identities, false accusations, people rushing about and the hilarious conclusion that met the needs of all the players. James commented at intermission that most of the audience was their age or older and that for every man in the audience there were four or five women, a natural enough statistic given the fact that mainly women purchase theatre tickets in their age bracket but quite stunning when demonstrated so visually.
"Well, that's what most actuarial studies prove," Madge responded in her matter-of-fact manner, "When people get up into their sixties and seventies and beyond, quite common for females to outnumber males in just such proportions."
She was so dogmatic and pragmatic she could have followed it up with a statement of how anything otherwise would be quite suspicious.
"But why this ratio?" James wondered, wanting to continue the discussion, to eat up more of the dragging intermission. He found himself staring at her with well-worn expectation.
"Well, men live too widely and too wildly, if you ask me," rejoined Madge not meeting his eyes with just a hint of reproach. "They don't take care of themselves, believing that bad things happen to others but not to them. Women are more focused, more deliberate. Same when they are children; boys are reckless risk-takers while girls are demure and devoted to the task at hand. In contrast to this, men are too constricted when it comes to their emotions. They bottle everything up and it devours them completely; makes their bodies prone to so many diseases. They really don't give themselves a chance, don't get what they really want to say off their chests."
James wanted to tell her that he could focus, could be deliberate, that he was fallible but her tone told him there was nothing more to say.
The service was drawing to an end. Soon they would wend their way out into the country for the drive they took every Sunday afternoon. Maybe they would find their usual place, the one with the stone fireplace and red poppies on the curtains, for a little brunch and a brew before heading back home to prepare Sunday dinner. Perhaps they would arrive and take their usual table. Beyond the window and out over the shining Sooke River the rain might fall steadily, perfectly straight from sky to ground as though from an eternal showerhead. Petunias and marigolds parched in their moss-filled window box prisons on the deck beyond the pane would rejuvenate in the downpour. The bank sloping up past the hotel from the river might reveal seven cedar stumps cut off evenly, leveled all at the same height. The rest of the slope, a verdant lush landscape, might be decorated in fledgling maple saplings, their leaves bent under the rain like tiny jagged green parachutes as they vied to reclaim the ground. Perhaps ferns would bend and shimmy, a glistening chorus of hula dancers in unison. Salmon berries and blackberry vines would confound the various weeds and provide no match for the other undergrowth. Possibly a nest of birds, looking to be some sort of wrens or finches, might be burrowed into a hollow just below the crest of the slope where the soil had fallen away, laying bare a slight overhang. The birds could be caring for young as more than one of them would come and go at random with some anonymous tidbit clenched in their beaks. And the silent, palpable rain would fall on all. Perhaps then, in that place and at that time, he would be able to tell her.
Glimpses of Cuba
This journal is dedicated to our Cuban avatars that guide, teach and accompany us on these following adventures, sometimes animal, sometimes mineral, sometimes vegetable, human or inanimate they beckon us to follow, learn and explore.
January 31 - Day 1 We board the Sunwing Boeing 737-800 from Vancouver at the appointed time just before the start of this new day and plunge through the night and three time zones ahead to come to rest on the ground at the Juan G. Gomez Airport - Varadero, just before 9:00 am. The 27 degree C temperature blasts us as we retrieve luggage with the unsolicited help of an octogenarian who follows us asking for his tip until I can change a bill at the airport Cadeca - currency exchange - $89 CUC for $100 CAN - an exchange with which we become familiar. He is happy with his peso. Across the airport parking lot beer is sold from a pallet in the shade of the building overhang for two pesos a can - ice-cold Cristal and the stronger Bucanero. We pile on the semi-air conditioned bus with twenty or so other travelers heading for several different resorts. At the halfway point toward Habana at about 10:30 am we stop at a roadside refreshment area that sells 'the best pina coladas in all of Cuba' for two pesos. The bartender gives us tall glasses of mix and a bottle of white rum, 'Keep pouring until it tastes right' he says. We do.
We arrive at the Hotel Telegrafo at 12:00 noon. It is one of the oldest hotels in Habana Centro (1888) but completely refurbished several times. We marvel at the huge open spaces in the lobby and bar that has no ceiling until the third floor top of the building. A huge winding central staircase of marble steps, open with a guardrail, build around a cylinder of concrete that must be ten feet in diameter extends from the floor to the top of the building. This guardrail is all that stands between us and the floor below, a drop of about eighty feet and signs in Spanish warn that children must never be on the stairs unaccompanied. We use the stairs every time we descend from our room, only ascending in the slow elevator. We quickly realize that this railing is indeed our first avatar, protector and guide. We christen it 'Avatar of the Day'. We retire to the bar as we are early for check in and find it to be a wonder of murals and mosaic art by Eduardo Ruben entitled Jibacoa - Breezes and the centerpiece of the hotel. At 1:00 pm we check in and find our room 314 at the top of the building overlooking Parque Central, the Prado, Paseo de Marti and Neptuno, an intersection hosting six traffic lanes, several Cuba taxis, Coco cabs - yellow, three-wheeled vehicles shaped like coconuts, horse-drawn carriages, bicycle cabs, old pristine 1950's vehicles used as cabs, tour buses and city buses as well as many private and government vehicles and what looks like most of the pedestrians in Cuba trying to jaywalk their way to an early grave. No vehicle ever slows down or stops for pedestrians in Habana; there is only the use of the horn, long into the night. More about our room later but suffice to say it is enormous; the second largest on the floor, and the ceiling must be twelve feet high.
We unpack and change into sandals, my wife in her Birkenstocks and me in my Eccos, and shorts and short sleeve tops for the heat and never wear anything else for two weeks. No socks, no sneakers - can't bear the thought in the stifling heat. We exit the hotel to the east across Parque Central and head for the nearest landmark we didn't get to two years ago - El Floridita where Hemingway quaffed his daiquiris, rum and grapefruit juice, on the corner of Calle Obispo and Av de las Misiones. Very crowded and very expensive food and drinks. The drinks are delicious and there are many other variations beside the special El Floridita mentioned but at six pesos each, it is time to snap a picture of the life size bronze rendering of Hemingway and continue our way down Obispo and left at Calle Cuba and right at Empedrado to #207 to a second Hemy hangout, the legendary La Bodeguita del Medio. This really is a hole in the wall. We pack in like sardines and they have the moxy to put a four-piece band in the corner - music is everywhere in Habana and every group wants to sell its CD and all of them are good. This is where Hemy drank his mojito before returning to his room at the Hotel Ambos Mundos where it is said he wrote For Whom the Bell Tolls and several other starts or finishes. The mojitos come in a shooter style glass and cost $4 CUC each but the atmosphere is electric with the intimacy and thousands of signatures on the walls. No, mine is not there - I think you have to drink thirteen mojitos first. A little more exploring in Habana Vieja takes us to La Lluvia de Oro just because it's there on the corner of Obispo and Calle Habana. Dos cervezas, por favor. Then we find one of the best spots for refreshment over our two week quest - La Dichosa at the corner of Obispo and Calle Compostela - small, comfortable, cool with the entire end of the room open onto Obispo and music and performers who are immensely professional. We see more avatars we are bound to encounter again - they are all the angels in the architecture and they keep watch over us from all colonial buildings and churches throughout Habana Vieja. We note them for a later day.
February 1 - Day 2 We awake refreshed and excited for our second day looking forward to our inclusive breakfast in the hotel restaurant and orientation meeting with our Sunwing rep, Osmay, at the Hotel Parque Central across the square. Breakfast is splendid, replete with frittatas, several sides, fresh fruit and juices, breads and pastries, cereals and salads and meats and cheeses. We sign up for three tours: the Hemingway Villa six-hour tour at Finca La Vigia for February 3, an overnight Sunday-Monday, February 6-7, tour of Cienfuegos -Trinidad and an all day tour of Valle de Vinales for February 9. An all day tour of Varadero at an all-inclusive is to be confirmed. We set out looking for a market place called Harris Brothers we had passed by the day before but can't locate it by map or word of mouth. Turns out it is right under our noses. Down Obispo, the vehicle free calle, we find many vendors and treasures for grandkids back home. We continue down Obispo to the Plaza de Armas to El Mina restaurant where we have lunch just as we did two years before but this time we are not lost or separated from a tour group - thank you, Lonely Planet! We get on course to make our way back on the Habana Vieja walking tour. Down Obispo to San Ignacio and we are engaged by a young couple who want to say 'hola' and take us to a bar to hear the band play music. We oblige and buy them and ourselves each a Cuba Libre then we buy the $10 CUC cd from the band, and the young couple buttonholes us for $10 CUC for Pampers! Oh, well, it all goes into the economy. Back to Habana Vieja and the walking tour. We started at the Restaurante El Patio and the Catedral de San Cristobal de la Habana, which luckily was open this go round. The church construction was started in 1748 by the Jesuits and finished without them in 1787. It is one of the oldest cathedrals in the Americas and housed the remains of Christopher Columbus from 1795 to 1898 before they were moved to Seville. We snap some good flash pictures inside, behind the enormous wooden doors. People are routinely reminded to remove their headgear, even Catholics in awe of their surroundings - no shirt, no shoes, no salvation; remove your hat, senor, por favor! Next is the old working print shop, the Taller Experimental de Grafica in an alleyway off the square where outside we buy a necklace, bracelets and a fan. Next we are off to the gaudy pink pastel Hotel Ambos Mundos and room 511 to examine a mini-Museo de Hemingway and some artifacts displayed by a very knowledgeable woman for one peso from each of us. We get good, no flash pictures and great views from the sixth floor terrace of what Hemy's looked out on while standing, writing - the Fortaleza de San Carlos de la Cabana - an infamous prison and center of torture and death. On to Habana 1791, a renowned perfumery, creating fragrances on site and nearby the Museo del Chocolate - they are greatly sold out - must arrive earlier in the morning. We fade in the heat of the day and pledge to come back for Camara Oscura and its thirty-five meter tower-housed views, the Cafe Taberna, a temple to Benny More, the Mambo King, and where we celebrated our honeymoon and New Year's Eve, 2008/09 and for Habana's best (and only) micro-brewery beer at Taverna de la Muralla in Plaza Vieja at San Ignacio and Calle Muralla, named after the five kilometer stone wall that protected old Habana from pirates and other undesirables. We return to the Telegrafo by 7:00 pm, drink Cuba Libres in the bar and retire to watch Liam Neeson speak Spanish on HBO. We fall asleep in the arms of our respective sweeties.
February 2 Day 3 We walk down the Prado to Trocodero on the Architectural Walking Tour guided by our trusty copy of Lonely Planet. Beautiful shots of the Capitolio, Gran Teatre and Prado #109 where Castro screened, recruited and trained his hand-picked group even signing them up for gunnery practice under Batista's nose as young Cuban businessmen. Also manage to get shots of the Barrio Chino gate behind the Capitolio and the Pantagas Tobacco Factory. Habana Club rum is available in stores everywhere and ranges in price from $3.65 - $7.95 CUC for 1.14 liter to $11.90 CUC for 710 ml of seven-year-old Vieja. There are also several rums available nowhere else but Cuba. After a couple of cerveza Bucanero back at the Telegrafo, we go back to the Plaza Viejo by way of Calle Brasil. We stop at a very ornately decorated Farmacia where drugs have been produced for centuries. We get some good pictures - one peso, por favor. At Plaza Vieja we take the elevator up eight floors to the Camara Oscura where we experience 360-degree views of the city, a history lecture and a camera darkroom viewing made possible by turned lenses. Great pictures of the Russian Orthodox church, the Jose Marti Memorial, the Fortaleza de San Carlos de la Cabana, Hotel Ambos Mundos, the Malecon waterfront, the Bacardi Building, the Capitolio and the Plaza itself, all in real time. We stop for lunch on the terrace of the Santa Angel Restaurante, shrimp and roasted chicken with Cuban rice - one huge sunny-side-up egg on top of the rice. We determine to return later for an El Escorial Cafe lunch and micro-brewed beer - Habana's best - at the Taverna de la Muralla. We wend our way back up San Ignacio and Brasil. The little children following us - they are a must as being our avatars of today - yell out 'Papa, Papa' while adults, presumably their parents, speak softly saying 'Hemingway, hey, Hemingway; it's Hemingway.' Afterwards I realize or rationalize it's not my girth or wild white hair; it's the fact we are wearing our Tilley hats - similar to Hemingway but I'm sure size is important, too! The sale of cigars on the street must be illegal as several times every day, young men pass by us without stopping but softly asking if I want to buy a cigar. The whole performance smacks of subterfuge, almost like 'Psst, hey, wanna buy a watch?'
February 3 Day 4 At 9:30 am we leave by VW Fiesta (sic) on our way to the Hemingway Museum-Mansion-Villa Tour with Maria and Pedro, cameras ready, batteries charged - Viva el Papa! In 1939 Hemy rented Finca La Vigia high on a hill in San Francisco de Paula fifteen kilometers south east of Habana Centro. In 1940 he bought the property and lived there continuously until 1960 when he returned to the US. The villa was built in 1888 and encompasses fifty-six hectares of park and forest where he imported hundreds of trees and other fauna from Africa. Many of the animals he shot are preserved here. The entire estate and 11, 000 documents, most of them his private library, are here as a gift to the people of Cuba. Hemy's Villa is astounding. The Pilar, his yacht, is carefully preserved as is his swimming pool, albeit empty, but deep enough for diving at 35 x 25 x 12 feet at the end. Two large sheds once housed pump engines for the pool. Hemy obsessed about his weight and recorded it in pencil on the wall of his bathroom next to his scales. He swam ten to twelve times a day in the pool. Every room is meticulously laid out, over 9, 000 books and bookcases in every room even the bathroom. Mounted trophies from Africa in every room even over his bed and at least two huge writing desks, like they awaited his sitting down. There is a separate domicile where it is said he kept a few 'female visitors' and a three-storey tower off from the north-east corner of the main house, the top of which contains an old wooden telescope, a bust of Mark Twain, his hero, and yet another writing desk! It is a fabulous Hemy Villa tour with Maria and Pedro, driving what I believe is his own car. They are late and apologetic because the car would not start. First we drove downtown and walked the Hotel Ambos Mundos walk as we did before then drive out to Cojimar where Hemy kept his yacht, Pilar. We eat lunch with live entertainment at La Terraza de Cojimar Restaurante where Hemy went fishing. The paella is touted as being the best in Cuba and we decide to try to recreate the dish when we return home. We eat some small crawfish-like thingy's - not to everyone's taste but we manage. Two free drinks each and lunch laid on - we make the ride back in the rear of the VW Fiesta (or so the steering wheel says). It was well worth it. We stop on the way to take pictures of the coastguard station at the site of the first memorial raised to Hemy. More about the vehicle - it is small enough to negotiate the streets in Habana Vieja that are almost to narrow for a bicycle taxi - kudos to Pedro. The suspension is suspect as we find out on the highway, the Via Blanco, as well as the clutch. When I see we are the only ones on this tour, I ask if anyone else is going to Hemy's Villa and Maria answers 'about one million a year' and I wonder to myself do they do it two at a time? My wife starts to wonder about the overnight trip to Cien Fuegos - Trinidad and if we will be seeing Maria and Pedro again meaning a five-hour trip across five provinces in the back of said VW Fiesta. Maria and Pedro are both very nice and look to be in their 20's or early 30's but she has a daughter sixteen and he a son twenty-two who is a doctor. She has been a tour guide for Transgaviota for eighteen years and he drives as well for Cubataxi. Cubans look younger than they are! Back at the Telegrafo we enjoy rum and Tukola (Cuban coco cola) in our room and smoke Popular and Hollywood Rojo since our Canadians run out. We watch Cuban TV - CNN and BBC for the latest on the Egyptian Crisis. At 6:00 pm we remove ourselves to the Terraza Telegrafo and take in the whole dance of vintage '50's autos and charmed pedestrians unfold on the Prado between the Hotel Parque Central and us. A note on driving tips. It is amazing that no one actually gets killed or seriously maimed here. People cross the square at Prado and Neptuno below our third floor suite and no one gets run over. At least not in my watching. I'm sure some dogs must come to a bad end. I see the dogs edging closer to the traffic and pray 'get back to the parque' but they don't. Too busy looking for food. By the way, that reminds me we see our first rat trap at Hemy's place. No mistaking it - 'No Tenor - Escadion de Raticiones'. We are right above an intersection that goes busy 24-7 with pedestrians crossing everywhere and no one gets hit. If they do we have never heard ambulance or fire or emergency sirens, just cursing en Espanol. About the dogs (fewer cats due to severe allergies among Cubans) - they lie asleep - small, mongrel breeds - some females with full teats and occasionally you see a crossbreed puppy. Talk about a dog's life - there is no food - in Plaza Vieja a small dog came up to us on three legs, the fourth crippled, and begged by standing up on my wife's dress. Almost like 'Please get me out of this Hell'. This dog is another avatar, our guide for today and is speaking to us of the conditions, both seen and hidden, all around us. But now it is ten to two and the intersection is starting to slow down. Our room is so large with 12-foot ceilings and tiled floors throughout and the acoustics are so good, I wake up and my wife is on the other side of the room sounding like she's in another room while only twenty feet away from me. The square is quiet. A vehicle comes up or down every few minutes and one or two pedestrians cross unimpeded but still wary. And the dogs are out in force. Those who slept all day on the cement are busy checking each other's tails throughout the square. We watch Mel Gibson in Braveheart in Spanish - muy bueno a l'Ecoisse!