February, 2008 all rights reserved.
By Wendy Morrow
The full moon reflected onto the ice glazed snow in the back yard. Its light was so bright that the spruce trees cast shadows. A jackrabbit leapt across the field beyond the fence leaving tracks that disappeared in the shadows. Little lumps of dog poop were sprinkled across the yard, frozen into the snow. The old dog, for a moment turned to the hare and considered the chase; she hunched her back and strained once again. Finally satisfied that her bowels might give her some peace, she came back to the door and softly woofed.
Her owner closed and locked the door behind her and they both crept up the stairs, back to bed.
The form of a man leaned against the outside garage wall. He was dressed in black from head to toe but in the full light of the moon his dark shape against the white snow only made him stand out further. He didn’t understand the calendar of the moon and he didn’t consider how bright it might be tonight as he slipped between the houses. He was only concerned with making a score later on. He needed something to sell to the fence who he knew would only give him a tiny fraction of its value but that would be enough to get another rock of crack.
He had seen the electronic collection through the window of the walk out basement in the summer. He was pretty sure this was the house, he had memorized its location from the tractor seat of the golf course lawn mower that he rode all last season. All he needed was to get something slim enough to slip into his backpack and not be noticed.
He opened his jack knife and thumb nailed out the longest blade. He slipped the knife into the crack between the window and the frame and flipped up the latch. He opened the window and slithered inside.
Along the far wall was a bank of equipment for the family’s home theatre system. He drew in his breath as he slid into one of the back leather lounge chairs that faced the massive flat screen hanging on the wall. “Rich bastards” he thought, “They can get another one tomorrow”. He pulled out a component from its oak niche and yanked on the cords to free it, and stuffed the slim unit into his back pack.
Stepping over the sill he eased back out the window. He slipped on something beneath his feet that he couldn't see and fell into a thorny shrub, tearing his pants and ripping his flesh.
It was a long midnight bus ride out to the pawn shop in his neighbourhood. Dabbing at the blood as it dribbled own his leg he was getting anxious to get his fix.
His fingers were shaking as he felt for his crack pipe with one hand and slid the component under the teller window with the other. He waited.
The old fence let his glasses slide further down his nose, “Jesus H Christ, you stupid asshole” he said, “This DVD player is HD, its junk, its worthless, you gotta get a Blue Ray boy. I can’t give you nothing for this. Hey and don’t come in here with dog crap on your shoes again ya smelly bastard."
Wednesday, February 20, 2008
Monday, February 18, 2008
Liquid Gold
February, 2008
All rights reserved
By
Wendy Morrow
When I was 6 years old, spring in Calgary was a longed for event. After a winter of snow and dirty streets, short days and long nights, spring brings optimism. One day the ground is frozen solid and then almost the next day you can sink up to your ankles in the mud. The crocuses bloomed on the hill sides and the robins came back.
Like gophers popping out of their holes, gardeners emerged from their houses with their gloves on, balls of twine and seed packages in their pockets.
My mother was our gardener and she had prepared the ground in the previous fall, all the waiting vegetable beds needed now was a top dressing of compost and a gentle raking before she could plant the seeds.
My mother’s family had been gardeners going back to their very beginning. Her father was an avid rose gardener and a serious vegetable gardener as well. Her mother’s family were farmers of Irish extraction who lived in the country just north of Calgary. In the back soil of their farm’s massive vegetable patches, they grew everything they ate. They were not afraid to try anything new either. They would eat banana potatoes or purple carrots if they came from the garden. Their social lives were the big family gatherings that coincided with shelling peas and canning vegetables in the spring and harvest dinners and corn roasts in the fall.
Our little family had a fairly big city lot. Mum allowed only a small square of grass for us to play on and the rest of the back yard was devoted to the vegetable garden.
One spring day after the snow had melted from the garden plot, my father suggested to my mother that he could get a load of compost for her. He said that he could borrow a friend’s little flat bed trailer and hitch it to the back of our 1949 Chrysler sedan and bring home a load of gardener’s gold. “If you get manure make sure that it has been well composted.” Mum said. She didn’t want to be picking weeds out of her vegetable garden all summer. Everybody knew which one of our neighbours had put un-composted manure on their garden, you could smell it for blocks and the weed seeds were the first to sprout. “Righty-oh.” Dad said and went away whistling. I knew he wasn’t listening to her.
I felt quite privileged and very grown up when he asked me to come along with him. We drove to his friend’s place and after hitching up the little utility trailer, drinking several cups of coffee and long discussions with his mate about where to get the compost, off we went to the Calgary stock yards.
With money my father is a very careful man. He is extremely generous to his children but he could pinch a nickel so hard it would make the beaver squeak. He was shocked that the garden supply places would actually charge for what Dad considered to be just common ordinary dirt. His Scottish ancestry was too strong to over come, it wasn’t long before we ended up at the Calgary stock yards loading up the utility trailer with fresh manure.
Fresh manure is free, compost is pricey and Dad’s family weren’t farmers.
He loaded the runny muck onto the trailer. The solids remained in the trailer and the liquids spilled onto fenders and the tires and the road. As we drove away, I looked out the back window and watched the spray kick up behind us. The fumes were suffocating.
We drove home up the Edmonton Trail hill. This is one of the steepest roads in the city. The load in the trailer was heavy and as Dad put the car into 2nd gear and his foot on the gas, the trailer jumped off the hitch and hit the road. I screamed for Dad to stop, the trailer was going sideways. One little chain was the only connection that the trailer had to our car. The manure sloshed back and forth and settled to the front of the little trailer. The weight of the load dug the hitch cap into the pavement and prevented the whole works from snapping the chain and finding its own course down the hill. Dad put the hand brake on and got out of the car; he bent down and surveyed the damage.
He tried to lift the trailer back onto the hitch and couldn’t budge the thing. Cars passed us honking and pointing to the brown trail that was running down the centre of the road. With a wave Dad thanked them for their helpful observations.
When he is puzzled or worried my Dad holds his chin between his thumb and forefinger and twists his mouth from side to side. He leaned in the back window and sucking the air in between his teeth and out with a low slow whistle he said, “Well Deed, it looks like I have to go find some help. You stay here and I will be back in a jiffy.”
So, there I was on that lovely spring day with the temperature rising, sitting in the back seat of the car and a tipped over load of stinking fresh manure running down behind the little trailer with its nose buried in the road.
My swollen eyes were running and red and my nose plugged with the allergic reaction to the fresh manure. Wafts of the noxious fumes were filling the car. Even clogged up I could smell it. It was too warm outside to leave the windows up. This was the most embarrassed I had ever been. I sat there leaning out of the window with my head on my folded arms trying to catch any breath of air created when a car went by. I was out of tissues and my nose was running like a tap. It seemed like hours went by. People would stop their cars and walk up to ask me if we needed help. I got tired of telling them that my dad was going for help. I thought of abandoning the car and its manure load. I thought of walking home by myself all 15 blocks up hill. Finally Dad came back with a man to help him. Together they hoisted the trailer back on the hitch and we drove up the hill to home.
We shoveled the manure out onto the garden before my mother could catch on. Dad hosed out the trailer and returned it to his friend who was never able to use it for a domestic purpose again. For a couple of years the soil was too strong to grow anything in it without burning and the smell would drive us indoors on warm summer evenings, but it was fertile ground for the stories and the laughs I have shared with my father over the years.
All rights reserved
By
Wendy Morrow
When I was 6 years old, spring in Calgary was a longed for event. After a winter of snow and dirty streets, short days and long nights, spring brings optimism. One day the ground is frozen solid and then almost the next day you can sink up to your ankles in the mud. The crocuses bloomed on the hill sides and the robins came back.
Like gophers popping out of their holes, gardeners emerged from their houses with their gloves on, balls of twine and seed packages in their pockets.
My mother was our gardener and she had prepared the ground in the previous fall, all the waiting vegetable beds needed now was a top dressing of compost and a gentle raking before she could plant the seeds.
My mother’s family had been gardeners going back to their very beginning. Her father was an avid rose gardener and a serious vegetable gardener as well. Her mother’s family were farmers of Irish extraction who lived in the country just north of Calgary. In the back soil of their farm’s massive vegetable patches, they grew everything they ate. They were not afraid to try anything new either. They would eat banana potatoes or purple carrots if they came from the garden. Their social lives were the big family gatherings that coincided with shelling peas and canning vegetables in the spring and harvest dinners and corn roasts in the fall.
Our little family had a fairly big city lot. Mum allowed only a small square of grass for us to play on and the rest of the back yard was devoted to the vegetable garden.
One spring day after the snow had melted from the garden plot, my father suggested to my mother that he could get a load of compost for her. He said that he could borrow a friend’s little flat bed trailer and hitch it to the back of our 1949 Chrysler sedan and bring home a load of gardener’s gold. “If you get manure make sure that it has been well composted.” Mum said. She didn’t want to be picking weeds out of her vegetable garden all summer. Everybody knew which one of our neighbours had put un-composted manure on their garden, you could smell it for blocks and the weed seeds were the first to sprout. “Righty-oh.” Dad said and went away whistling. I knew he wasn’t listening to her.
I felt quite privileged and very grown up when he asked me to come along with him. We drove to his friend’s place and after hitching up the little utility trailer, drinking several cups of coffee and long discussions with his mate about where to get the compost, off we went to the Calgary stock yards.
With money my father is a very careful man. He is extremely generous to his children but he could pinch a nickel so hard it would make the beaver squeak. He was shocked that the garden supply places would actually charge for what Dad considered to be just common ordinary dirt. His Scottish ancestry was too strong to over come, it wasn’t long before we ended up at the Calgary stock yards loading up the utility trailer with fresh manure.
Fresh manure is free, compost is pricey and Dad’s family weren’t farmers.
He loaded the runny muck onto the trailer. The solids remained in the trailer and the liquids spilled onto fenders and the tires and the road. As we drove away, I looked out the back window and watched the spray kick up behind us. The fumes were suffocating.
We drove home up the Edmonton Trail hill. This is one of the steepest roads in the city. The load in the trailer was heavy and as Dad put the car into 2nd gear and his foot on the gas, the trailer jumped off the hitch and hit the road. I screamed for Dad to stop, the trailer was going sideways. One little chain was the only connection that the trailer had to our car. The manure sloshed back and forth and settled to the front of the little trailer. The weight of the load dug the hitch cap into the pavement and prevented the whole works from snapping the chain and finding its own course down the hill. Dad put the hand brake on and got out of the car; he bent down and surveyed the damage.
He tried to lift the trailer back onto the hitch and couldn’t budge the thing. Cars passed us honking and pointing to the brown trail that was running down the centre of the road. With a wave Dad thanked them for their helpful observations.
When he is puzzled or worried my Dad holds his chin between his thumb and forefinger and twists his mouth from side to side. He leaned in the back window and sucking the air in between his teeth and out with a low slow whistle he said, “Well Deed, it looks like I have to go find some help. You stay here and I will be back in a jiffy.”
So, there I was on that lovely spring day with the temperature rising, sitting in the back seat of the car and a tipped over load of stinking fresh manure running down behind the little trailer with its nose buried in the road.
My swollen eyes were running and red and my nose plugged with the allergic reaction to the fresh manure. Wafts of the noxious fumes were filling the car. Even clogged up I could smell it. It was too warm outside to leave the windows up. This was the most embarrassed I had ever been. I sat there leaning out of the window with my head on my folded arms trying to catch any breath of air created when a car went by. I was out of tissues and my nose was running like a tap. It seemed like hours went by. People would stop their cars and walk up to ask me if we needed help. I got tired of telling them that my dad was going for help. I thought of abandoning the car and its manure load. I thought of walking home by myself all 15 blocks up hill. Finally Dad came back with a man to help him. Together they hoisted the trailer back on the hitch and we drove up the hill to home.
We shoveled the manure out onto the garden before my mother could catch on. Dad hosed out the trailer and returned it to his friend who was never able to use it for a domestic purpose again. For a couple of years the soil was too strong to grow anything in it without burning and the smell would drive us indoors on warm summer evenings, but it was fertile ground for the stories and the laughs I have shared with my father over the years.
Monday, February 11, 2008
The Code
January, 2008
all rights reserved
by
Wendy Morrow
"Where is that password? " Lindsay grabbed handfuls of paper from the box that only weeks ago she had stuffed full of desk detritis in an effort to find her apartment keys. The keys were eventually found and the box kicked further back under the desk. She never had the time or the inclination to sort through the computer bean bag charms, the curled yellow stickies, the fuzzie cough drops and the MacDonald burger coupons
Now she had to mine the box again for a wrinkled piece of lined note paper with several code names written in pencil. "I knew I should have put the stupid code in my day timer or scratched it on my keyboard or texted myself with it." she muttered. She found two credit card applications that had been filled out and discarded, and a scratch and win lottery ticket with 'try again' in the window. Alas,no note paper with the code.
"Damn!" She snagged her perfect shell pink pinkie nail on a carpet tack which had somehow found its way into the box. The blood from the torn quick of her nail bed was dripping onto the plastic chair mat. She kneeled in the blood spot and reached over her head with her other hand blindly patting the top of her desk until she found the kleenex box. Her fingers brushed her coffee cup. She pulled out a handful of tissue and blotted the blood stains. Her coffee cup teetered and swayed propelled by the cold curdled liquid inside. As it tilted near the edge of the desk, the cup tipped over and washed the contents down Lindsay's neck. She turned with the shock of it and fought her way out from the nest of cords and winter boots. The crack of her head banging on the underside of her desk sounded like a gun shot.
She grabbed more kleenex and mopped herself. She could feel the cold sludge dripping down her back and the coffee stain spreading across her silk shirt. The stain was creeping. The hair on the back of her head was plastered to her skull, cold coffee or blood, she couldn't be sure which. It was a warm summer morning when she left home and she hadn't worn a jacket. She couldn't hide the stain.
Last night Linday had forgone the usual drink with her friends at the local pub and instead she spent the evening getting ready to stage the first step in her career plan.
She had soaked for hours in the tub, she exfoliated and scrubbed and lathered herself with fine scents and creams. She had meticulously applied the lovely coral pink colour to her beautifully manicured nails. She visualized herself standing no, sitting in front of the HR's desk as the HR admired her CV and her stunning confident self.
She set her alarm and and slept like the righteous right through the night. In the morning she reset her hair and applied her make up . She ripped the tags off of her lovely new shirt and got to her desk half an hour before her work mates arrived.
Yesterday she had requested an appointment with the head of HR. In the ladies room, she had overheard a conversation between two employees in a department which oversaw hers and in which she had longed to work. One of them was about to hand in her resignation and the vacancy would no doubt be filled in house. Lindsay was qualified, academically at least. She knew she would love this job.
Yesterday she been so full of herself and so confident that she would soon be the lord queen boss of all of the underlings in the department that she told the whole world in her facebook page blog. She wasted most of the afternoon tapping on and on about how she was going to make the cliquey 'power chicks' snivel and crawl for her. She pressed 'publish post' and then went home. On the bus, she thought "Oh my God, what if someone from the company reads my blog"
She ran from the bus stop to her building. Opening her door she saw that her trusty little laptop friend was waiting for her on her couch resting on an empty Lay's bag. She had barely put down her keys and poured herself a glass of red wine before she kicked off her shoes, opened the computer and pressed the ON button. Nothing happened. Nothing. She checked the connection, it was in. The power in the apartment was on. Why wasn't her lap top working? This unreliable piece of crap!
Slowly a green glow began in one corner of the screen, then it spread getting brighter and greener until it covered the entire screen except for a red stripe that ran down one side. Then the green glow faded to black and her lap top died with barely a death rattle.
"Thank God I have a computer at work and if I get there before anyone else, I will just edit my blog and no one will ever be the wiser." Lindsay rolled over in bed and slept the sleep of the innocent.
In the morning Lindsay sashayed into the office tower leaving a trail of perfume. Her company's office door was open. The office manager was on some kind of power trip to be the first to work everyday. This worked well in her favour she thought. She clicked down the hall past his door to show him that she was second in the door in the morning. In case that mattered. 'Oh! Lindsay", he called, "Glad to see you are in so early, can you show me how to get into that Facebook thing? My kids told me I should get with it and get on Facebook.
Lindsay blanched. "Oh my God!" she thought "He will see my posts. I am screwed!"
"Just a minute, I'll be right there to help you. Let me put my purse down."
She ran down the hall and into her cubicle.
"Don't Panic! Turn on the computer! Hurry hurry! Oh God where is the Favourites? Jeeze, why is this so slow? Okay what is the password... " she tapped out an e-mail name....no that isn't it. Not Found! Damn! okay what else could it be? I had the damn thing yesterday....calm down, think" She tapped in another. "Not found" Oh shit what is it....Where did I write it?" Oh, yes! its on a piece of paper in that box, I saw it just a few days ago. "
Where is that password? Lindsay dragged out the box and began to dig around inside.
She could hear her boss coming down the hall.
all rights reserved
by
Wendy Morrow
"Where is that password? " Lindsay grabbed handfuls of paper from the box that only weeks ago she had stuffed full of desk detritis in an effort to find her apartment keys. The keys were eventually found and the box kicked further back under the desk. She never had the time or the inclination to sort through the computer bean bag charms, the curled yellow stickies, the fuzzie cough drops and the MacDonald burger coupons
Now she had to mine the box again for a wrinkled piece of lined note paper with several code names written in pencil. "I knew I should have put the stupid code in my day timer or scratched it on my keyboard or texted myself with it." she muttered. She found two credit card applications that had been filled out and discarded, and a scratch and win lottery ticket with 'try again' in the window. Alas,no note paper with the code.
"Damn!" She snagged her perfect shell pink pinkie nail on a carpet tack which had somehow found its way into the box. The blood from the torn quick of her nail bed was dripping onto the plastic chair mat. She kneeled in the blood spot and reached over her head with her other hand blindly patting the top of her desk until she found the kleenex box. Her fingers brushed her coffee cup. She pulled out a handful of tissue and blotted the blood stains. Her coffee cup teetered and swayed propelled by the cold curdled liquid inside. As it tilted near the edge of the desk, the cup tipped over and washed the contents down Lindsay's neck. She turned with the shock of it and fought her way out from the nest of cords and winter boots. The crack of her head banging on the underside of her desk sounded like a gun shot.
She grabbed more kleenex and mopped herself. She could feel the cold sludge dripping down her back and the coffee stain spreading across her silk shirt. The stain was creeping. The hair on the back of her head was plastered to her skull, cold coffee or blood, she couldn't be sure which. It was a warm summer morning when she left home and she hadn't worn a jacket. She couldn't hide the stain.
Last night Linday had forgone the usual drink with her friends at the local pub and instead she spent the evening getting ready to stage the first step in her career plan.
She had soaked for hours in the tub, she exfoliated and scrubbed and lathered herself with fine scents and creams. She had meticulously applied the lovely coral pink colour to her beautifully manicured nails. She visualized herself standing no, sitting in front of the HR's desk as the HR admired her CV and her stunning confident self.
She set her alarm and and slept like the righteous right through the night. In the morning she reset her hair and applied her make up . She ripped the tags off of her lovely new shirt and got to her desk half an hour before her work mates arrived.
Yesterday she had requested an appointment with the head of HR. In the ladies room, she had overheard a conversation between two employees in a department which oversaw hers and in which she had longed to work. One of them was about to hand in her resignation and the vacancy would no doubt be filled in house. Lindsay was qualified, academically at least. She knew she would love this job.
Yesterday she been so full of herself and so confident that she would soon be the lord queen boss of all of the underlings in the department that she told the whole world in her facebook page blog. She wasted most of the afternoon tapping on and on about how she was going to make the cliquey 'power chicks' snivel and crawl for her. She pressed 'publish post' and then went home. On the bus, she thought "Oh my God, what if someone from the company reads my blog"
She ran from the bus stop to her building. Opening her door she saw that her trusty little laptop friend was waiting for her on her couch resting on an empty Lay's bag. She had barely put down her keys and poured herself a glass of red wine before she kicked off her shoes, opened the computer and pressed the ON button. Nothing happened. Nothing. She checked the connection, it was in. The power in the apartment was on. Why wasn't her lap top working? This unreliable piece of crap!
Slowly a green glow began in one corner of the screen, then it spread getting brighter and greener until it covered the entire screen except for a red stripe that ran down one side. Then the green glow faded to black and her lap top died with barely a death rattle.
"Thank God I have a computer at work and if I get there before anyone else, I will just edit my blog and no one will ever be the wiser." Lindsay rolled over in bed and slept the sleep of the innocent.
In the morning Lindsay sashayed into the office tower leaving a trail of perfume. Her company's office door was open. The office manager was on some kind of power trip to be the first to work everyday. This worked well in her favour she thought. She clicked down the hall past his door to show him that she was second in the door in the morning. In case that mattered. 'Oh! Lindsay", he called, "Glad to see you are in so early, can you show me how to get into that Facebook thing? My kids told me I should get with it and get on Facebook.
Lindsay blanched. "Oh my God!" she thought "He will see my posts. I am screwed!"
"Just a minute, I'll be right there to help you. Let me put my purse down."
She ran down the hall and into her cubicle.
"Don't Panic! Turn on the computer! Hurry hurry! Oh God where is the Favourites? Jeeze, why is this so slow? Okay what is the password... " she tapped out an e-mail name....no that isn't it. Not Found! Damn! okay what else could it be? I had the damn thing yesterday....calm down, think" She tapped in another. "Not found" Oh shit what is it....Where did I write it?" Oh, yes! its on a piece of paper in that box, I saw it just a few days ago. "
Where is that password? Lindsay dragged out the box and began to dig around inside.
She could hear her boss coming down the hall.
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