All North American serial rights reserved.
The Crocodile
By Wendy Morrow
Lucy ran down the street after her father. Her little curls bounced in the wind and her sunglasses slipped down her nose.” Daddy”, she called out. “Daddy wait, Daddy wait.” Her foot caught on a crack in the sidewalk and all at once she fell onto the dimpled concrete. Lucy screamed and lay on the pavement.
Her father turned and ran back to her. “Oh Lucy.” he cried and bent to pick her up. “Lucy, Lucy, poor little Lucy.”
“My knee” she sobbed and looked down through her tears at her injured knee, the blood was starting to come out in little droplets and the sight of it threw Lucy into even deeper, heaving sobs. She brought her knee up to her face and howled.
“My new shoe,” she wailed. “My cwoc, where is my cwoc?” Lucy struggled to get down and she looked all around. She had a little green sandal still attached to one foot but the other was bare. “Oh no,” she said. “I have to have my cwoc.” She fell into sadder sobs at the thought of the missing croc.
“Well,” her father said, “I guess we will have to find it, let’s look around and see if we can see your croc.”
“Where do you suppose a lost little croc would go? Would it go back to the swamp and look for its family?” he asked Lucy.
“No” Lucy said. “It is not a real crocodile.”
“Would it go to the zoo to look for the animals?” her father asked.
“No, it wouldn’t do that, it doesn’t know the way.” Lucy stopped gasping and cocked her head to one side and looked at her father.
“Do you think it went inside to have a sandwich?” her father kissed the tears on her cheek.
“Yes,” Lucy said, “that is what I wanted to tell you. We made lunch and I was calling you to come and get your sandwich.”
Lucy and her father began to look for Lucy's shoe, they looked on the grass, and on the road. They looked under the wagon and on the porch. They peered under the daisies in the flower bed and over the neighbour’s fence, but they couldn’t see the little shoe.
A little chickadee was watching them search for Lucy’s shoe. “Here sweetie, here’s your shoe” The little bird sang. “Here sweetie, here’s your shoe.”
Lucy and her father looked at the bird and then the bush. And there was Lucy's shoe, sitting on a branch like a little green flower.
“Well your shoe is sitting in the bush here waiting for you to find it.” Her father scooped her up and put her on his shoulders. He bent down and Lucy picked her shoe off the branch and her father put it on her foot.
“Now, you have matching crocs again.” He said.
Lucy smiled, and messed up her father’s hair as they went in for lunch.
She had forgotten about her knee.
Word count 374
Monday, June 23, 2008
Friday, June 20, 2008
The Longest Day of the Year
All North American serial rights reserved'
June 20th 2008,
By Wendy Morrow
The clock was nearing that magical moment of 6:57 p.m. June 20th, 2008. the moment of the zenith of the sun and the summer solstice. The holiest day of the year for gardeners, golfers, patio bar drinkers and sun worshippers. The moment when summer goes on forever and all thoughts of winter and snow are banished.
The moment was the peak cruising altitude of patio daddy-Os all along the busy downtown sidewalk restaurants and bars. The golden hour of summer. This year there will be a full moon at the same time. What a confluence of events! Surely the magic will be present tonight.
Aila twisted the last lock of hair into place and coated it with hairspray. Her tube top covered the bare minimum and revealed the parts she wanted to show off.
She put the sparkly belly button ring on and then slipped the matching toe rings over her middle toes. Her shorts were short. They were very short, but she had spent the last hour in the shower shaving her legs and buffing her calloused knees and rubbing her legs and arms with body cream. “Hmm, Lookin' good there girl!” she hummed and admired herself in the mirror. She knew her legs would go the distance and they would look especially long with her new shoes. She could smell the heavenly expensive body scrub, gel, creams and lotions wafting ahead of her and the alluring scent would surely turn all the male heads. “I just know that if it is meant to be, I will meet him tonight.” She told the mirror.
She tossed her apartment keys into her little bag and stepped into her too tall wedgies. She locked the door behind her and started off down the street. “What a night it will be.” She swished herself down the block and started the short walk to the pub. She had arranged to meet her buddies at their favourite local and since one of the guys had probably been on the patio all day long, they would have the best table by now. Right on the corner, right on the street, right in full cruising view of everyone passing by.
She heard a fuss in the bushes along the sidewalk, a loud squawk and a hiss. More sounds of breaking branches and howling. She stooped down and peered into the hedge. A mother duck was on the ground in a tangle of branches and old leaves and under her wings she was hiding her babies. The female mallard was holding off a cat who had discovered the family and thought that a tasty duckling for dinner was just the ticket.
“Shoo!” Aila shouted, “Get out of here”, and she flapped her hands at the cat. The cat backed off a foot or two, continuing to snarl but it still had the lust to kill on her mind. The cat made a grab for a duckling that had poked its head out from under the mother duck’s wing. The cat caught the duckling by a leg and began to back out of the hedge with the baby bird in its mouth. Aila dove into the bush and grabbed the cat by the tail. The cat screamed and twisted its body and as she turned to bite Aila, the little duckling fell from the cat’s mouth. In an instant Aila had the duckling in her hand and she backed out through the bush.
Aila’s tube top had rolled up to her arm pits. Aila put the duckling down beside her. She looked around to find that no one had seen the incident as she pulled her tube top back down. “Now what?” she asked the mother duck. “That cat will come back, what a stupid place to have your babies.” She mumbled to the duck. She brushed the side of her face and felt a drop of blood trickle town her cheek. She must have scratched herself in the bush.
The Elbow river ran through the quiet old neighbourhood and all along its banks, other water fowl had chosen sheltered places to lay and hatch their off spring. “We will have to get you down to the river you stupid duck.” Aila looked under the mother duck’s wing. Six ducklings, “Well, how do we move you?” she asked. “I have nothing to carry you all in. If you stay here you will lose your fight with the cat.”
She gathered up the soft, warm little bodies and as she cradled them in her arms, she discovered that they were not content to be carried. They squirmed and wriggled and tumbled to the ground. “Oh God, you stupid ducks, you are going to make me late and ruin my night” Aila threw a stick at the cat who backed off a further.
She picked up the mother duck, it would be easier to carry and wrestle one duck. The mother duck was frantic to get back down. Aila thought it was easier to carry and wrestle one duck than six. No, now she could see that there were two more in the hedge; eight squirming ducklings.
Down the sidewalk they marched. Aila holding the big duck in her arms in the lead and all the wee ducklings in a row behind them The mother duck was flapping, wriggling, pooping, hissing and snapping. She quacked and spat and bit Aila’s midriff and arms. Aila walked backwards to keep an eye on the little ducklings parading along behind. Each curb was a Mount Everest and every corner was a speedway. The trip was only two blocks long but Aila’s nerves were getting raw.
A motorcycle roared up to a screeching, smoking stop at the last corner just as the little parade passed by. The front tire on the motorcycle missed the last little straggler by a feather. The rider pushed the visor up on his shiny red helmet and said. “Taking your ducks for a walk?”
“Smart ass.” Alia hissed back. “Stupid jerk!” She kept her steady pace but took her time on the curb as the little ducklings were getting tired and becoming a bit distracted. She wanted the rider to have to wait until the little family was up on the sidewalk before he frightened them again. He balanced his bike with both feet on the ground and watched the little procession for while and then rolled quietly around the corner.
Finally they reached the river bank. Aila put the mother duck down on the grass and held her until all the tired little babies waddled up for the reunion. Aila sat down on the grass beside them and then watched the little family plop into the water and gather together in the stream. Down the river they floated and bobbed and not once did they look back to say goodbye or thank you.
When Aila reached the patio, her hair was standing on end and the trickled blood had smeared and dried on her face and back. Her shorts were streaked with duck poop and stained with grass. Her arms and midriff were red from duck bill bites.
Her friends welcomed her with quizzical faces. She sat down in the shade of the patio umbrella, she laughed and dabbed at her wounds with a wet Kleenex and told them her Pied duckling story.
On a corner table a few feet away, someone had placed a red motorcycle helmet. The bright summer sun, at its peak of the solstice glinted off the helmet and caught Aila’s eye.
The waitress came over to her with a wine glass of cold Baby Duck. “From the gentleman in the corner.” She said.
June 20th 2008,
By Wendy Morrow
The clock was nearing that magical moment of 6:57 p.m. June 20th, 2008. the moment of the zenith of the sun and the summer solstice. The holiest day of the year for gardeners, golfers, patio bar drinkers and sun worshippers. The moment when summer goes on forever and all thoughts of winter and snow are banished.
The moment was the peak cruising altitude of patio daddy-Os all along the busy downtown sidewalk restaurants and bars. The golden hour of summer. This year there will be a full moon at the same time. What a confluence of events! Surely the magic will be present tonight.
Aila twisted the last lock of hair into place and coated it with hairspray. Her tube top covered the bare minimum and revealed the parts she wanted to show off.
She put the sparkly belly button ring on and then slipped the matching toe rings over her middle toes. Her shorts were short. They were very short, but she had spent the last hour in the shower shaving her legs and buffing her calloused knees and rubbing her legs and arms with body cream. “Hmm, Lookin' good there girl!” she hummed and admired herself in the mirror. She knew her legs would go the distance and they would look especially long with her new shoes. She could smell the heavenly expensive body scrub, gel, creams and lotions wafting ahead of her and the alluring scent would surely turn all the male heads. “I just know that if it is meant to be, I will meet him tonight.” She told the mirror.
She tossed her apartment keys into her little bag and stepped into her too tall wedgies. She locked the door behind her and started off down the street. “What a night it will be.” She swished herself down the block and started the short walk to the pub. She had arranged to meet her buddies at their favourite local and since one of the guys had probably been on the patio all day long, they would have the best table by now. Right on the corner, right on the street, right in full cruising view of everyone passing by.
She heard a fuss in the bushes along the sidewalk, a loud squawk and a hiss. More sounds of breaking branches and howling. She stooped down and peered into the hedge. A mother duck was on the ground in a tangle of branches and old leaves and under her wings she was hiding her babies. The female mallard was holding off a cat who had discovered the family and thought that a tasty duckling for dinner was just the ticket.
“Shoo!” Aila shouted, “Get out of here”, and she flapped her hands at the cat. The cat backed off a foot or two, continuing to snarl but it still had the lust to kill on her mind. The cat made a grab for a duckling that had poked its head out from under the mother duck’s wing. The cat caught the duckling by a leg and began to back out of the hedge with the baby bird in its mouth. Aila dove into the bush and grabbed the cat by the tail. The cat screamed and twisted its body and as she turned to bite Aila, the little duckling fell from the cat’s mouth. In an instant Aila had the duckling in her hand and she backed out through the bush.
Aila’s tube top had rolled up to her arm pits. Aila put the duckling down beside her. She looked around to find that no one had seen the incident as she pulled her tube top back down. “Now what?” she asked the mother duck. “That cat will come back, what a stupid place to have your babies.” She mumbled to the duck. She brushed the side of her face and felt a drop of blood trickle town her cheek. She must have scratched herself in the bush.
The Elbow river ran through the quiet old neighbourhood and all along its banks, other water fowl had chosen sheltered places to lay and hatch their off spring. “We will have to get you down to the river you stupid duck.” Aila looked under the mother duck’s wing. Six ducklings, “Well, how do we move you?” she asked. “I have nothing to carry you all in. If you stay here you will lose your fight with the cat.”
She gathered up the soft, warm little bodies and as she cradled them in her arms, she discovered that they were not content to be carried. They squirmed and wriggled and tumbled to the ground. “Oh God, you stupid ducks, you are going to make me late and ruin my night” Aila threw a stick at the cat who backed off a further.
She picked up the mother duck, it would be easier to carry and wrestle one duck. The mother duck was frantic to get back down. Aila thought it was easier to carry and wrestle one duck than six. No, now she could see that there were two more in the hedge; eight squirming ducklings.
Down the sidewalk they marched. Aila holding the big duck in her arms in the lead and all the wee ducklings in a row behind them The mother duck was flapping, wriggling, pooping, hissing and snapping. She quacked and spat and bit Aila’s midriff and arms. Aila walked backwards to keep an eye on the little ducklings parading along behind. Each curb was a Mount Everest and every corner was a speedway. The trip was only two blocks long but Aila’s nerves were getting raw.
A motorcycle roared up to a screeching, smoking stop at the last corner just as the little parade passed by. The front tire on the motorcycle missed the last little straggler by a feather. The rider pushed the visor up on his shiny red helmet and said. “Taking your ducks for a walk?”
“Smart ass.” Alia hissed back. “Stupid jerk!” She kept her steady pace but took her time on the curb as the little ducklings were getting tired and becoming a bit distracted. She wanted the rider to have to wait until the little family was up on the sidewalk before he frightened them again. He balanced his bike with both feet on the ground and watched the little procession for while and then rolled quietly around the corner.
Finally they reached the river bank. Aila put the mother duck down on the grass and held her until all the tired little babies waddled up for the reunion. Aila sat down on the grass beside them and then watched the little family plop into the water and gather together in the stream. Down the river they floated and bobbed and not once did they look back to say goodbye or thank you.
When Aila reached the patio, her hair was standing on end and the trickled blood had smeared and dried on her face and back. Her shorts were streaked with duck poop and stained with grass. Her arms and midriff were red from duck bill bites.
Her friends welcomed her with quizzical faces. She sat down in the shade of the patio umbrella, she laughed and dabbed at her wounds with a wet Kleenex and told them her Pied duckling story.
On a corner table a few feet away, someone had placed a red motorcycle helmet. The bright summer sun, at its peak of the solstice glinted off the helmet and caught Aila’s eye.
The waitress came over to her with a wine glass of cold Baby Duck. “From the gentleman in the corner.” She said.
Monday, March 10, 2008
Harry and the Feds
By
Wendy Morrow
All North American rights reserved
Harry hated opening those brown envelopes with the pink insert that you could see through the plastic envelope window.
After it arrived in his mail box, he waited a day until he had enough stamina to take in the bad news. From previous experience Harry knew that to take the kind of bad news that the Revenue Canada can deliver, he needed to be sitting down with a hot cup of coffee. He needed to have his wits about him with no distractions.
He headed sideways down the narrow old basement stairs to where he had assembled his office, his coffee cup in one hand and the envelope in the other. At the fourth step he hunched is shoulders and ducked his head to avoid a goose egg on the forehead. His desk sat beside the washing machine and was carefully balanced over the sump pump drain. This was the only place in the basement with a window, although the window was only a foot high.
“It has to be bad news. The feds wouldn’t send me a thank you note or a get well card.” He grumbled, “It has to be something ominous like a demand…those bastards!” Harry was already working himself up. “What do those bloodthirsty sons of bitches want now?” Harry could feel the pulse rising on his temple.
His letter opener glistened in the feeble sunbeam that found its way through the dusty window. He slashed open the envelope and snapped the insert flat. He read.
“Failure to File GST Notice.”
You have an over due return as indicated below…..
Please contact us immediately.”
‘What?’ he said to the wet towel on the laundry line as it dripped onto his head, “I don’t have anything to file. I told you guys that. I sent you my return. I mailed it to you by Canada Post.”
Harry had sent Rev Can his Canada Post change of address and a cheque for $1.30, which was the present outstanding balance on his GST account. They had sent back to him a formal request for a change of address. Failure to File, they warned, would be the result if they were not in receipt of his payment, which they had returned to him. Harry sent another application to change his address and again, it was returned to him. “We are not in possession of your new address and therefore we are returning your application.” They said. They didn’t blush. They sent the notice to his new address.
Harry picked up the phone and called the 1-800 number on the notice. “Welcome to Revenue Canada, if you know the extension of the person you wish to contact, please enter that number now. Or, you may dial ‘0’ for an operator.
‘Beep’. Harry dialed zero. “We’re sorry, that number is no longer available, do you wish to try again?’
“Jeeze”. Moaned Harry as he punched in another 1-800 number that promised a more direct route.
“Welcome to Revenue Canada Business Inquiries the mailbox of the person you wish to contact is now full, please try again or go to our web site at dubdubdubdotgovdotcanunderscorewebackslashdontforwardslashgivedot adotshitforwardslashdot govdotca.
Bievenue a Revenue Canada….”
Harry nearly had the web site written down but the French translation blinded his concentration.
He dialed again. Beep, beep, beep, “We’re sorry this line is busy, for a small charge we will notify you when this line is free…….”
Wendy Morrow
All North American rights reserved
Harry hated opening those brown envelopes with the pink insert that you could see through the plastic envelope window.
After it arrived in his mail box, he waited a day until he had enough stamina to take in the bad news. From previous experience Harry knew that to take the kind of bad news that the Revenue Canada can deliver, he needed to be sitting down with a hot cup of coffee. He needed to have his wits about him with no distractions.
He headed sideways down the narrow old basement stairs to where he had assembled his office, his coffee cup in one hand and the envelope in the other. At the fourth step he hunched is shoulders and ducked his head to avoid a goose egg on the forehead. His desk sat beside the washing machine and was carefully balanced over the sump pump drain. This was the only place in the basement with a window, although the window was only a foot high.
“It has to be bad news. The feds wouldn’t send me a thank you note or a get well card.” He grumbled, “It has to be something ominous like a demand…those bastards!” Harry was already working himself up. “What do those bloodthirsty sons of bitches want now?” Harry could feel the pulse rising on his temple.
His letter opener glistened in the feeble sunbeam that found its way through the dusty window. He slashed open the envelope and snapped the insert flat. He read.
“Failure to File GST Notice.”
You have an over due return as indicated below…..
Please contact us immediately.”
‘What?’ he said to the wet towel on the laundry line as it dripped onto his head, “I don’t have anything to file. I told you guys that. I sent you my return. I mailed it to you by Canada Post.”
Harry had sent Rev Can his Canada Post change of address and a cheque for $1.30, which was the present outstanding balance on his GST account. They had sent back to him a formal request for a change of address. Failure to File, they warned, would be the result if they were not in receipt of his payment, which they had returned to him. Harry sent another application to change his address and again, it was returned to him. “We are not in possession of your new address and therefore we are returning your application.” They said. They didn’t blush. They sent the notice to his new address.
Harry picked up the phone and called the 1-800 number on the notice. “Welcome to Revenue Canada, if you know the extension of the person you wish to contact, please enter that number now. Or, you may dial ‘0’ for an operator.
‘Beep’. Harry dialed zero. “We’re sorry, that number is no longer available, do you wish to try again?’
“Jeeze”. Moaned Harry as he punched in another 1-800 number that promised a more direct route.
“Welcome to Revenue Canada Business Inquiries the mailbox of the person you wish to contact is now full, please try again or go to our web site at dubdubdubdotgovdotcanunderscorewebackslashdontforwardslashgivedot adotshitforwardslashdot govdotca.
Bievenue a Revenue Canada….”
Harry nearly had the web site written down but the French translation blinded his concentration.
He dialed again. Beep, beep, beep, “We’re sorry this line is busy, for a small charge we will notify you when this line is free…….”
Friday, March 7, 2008
Cooking with Pliers
March, 2008
all rights reserved
by
Wendy Morrow
Somewhere on the highway outside of Kitchener Ontario we pulled over to the side of the highway. It was getting close to dinner time. We were hot and tired and had been on the road most of the day, stopping here and there to look at tourist attractions and historical sites.
There were five of us, our mother and our father, my 10 year old sister and my little brother who was 9 years younger than me; he was around 4 years old at the time.
All through the long winter months Dad had planned the family holiday which was the highlight of his year. His work vacation time was 3 weeks and we took every second of those 3 weeks. Often leaving on our holiday the night before they began and coming home after midnight of the very last day.
Every winter night he poured over the road maps spread out on the kitchen table with a note pad by his side. He calculated how far we could travel in a day and what amusements we were likely to find along the route. ‘It is important to find camping spots before 4o’clock.” he would remind us, “You still have time to find a good spot and you have daylight to set up your camp.”
I don’t recall once in my childhood finding a spot before 7:00pm, long after everyone in the car had given up the will to live and were close to passing out with hunger.
Now, here we were in Ontario, far from our home in Winnipeg, pulling the home made tent trailer.
Smoke was billowing out in clouds from the engine of our old 1949 Chrysler sedan and Dad was leaning over the grill into the engine’s abyss, peering through the haze.
“Having trouble there?”
Dad jerked upright bumping his head on the inside of the car hood, when the voice behind him boomed out the question.
A tiny little man in overalls walked up to our car. My sister and I and our little brother stopped squabbling and slapping each other long enough to roll down our windows and listen.
Mom was fishing around in the trunk and looked up when the man approached.
“I used to be the Chrysler plant supervisor.” The little man told Dad. “What’cha got going on here? She hot?”
“No”, Dad started to reply. Before he could say anything further the little man pulled a rag out of his back pocket and wrapped it around the radiator cap.
“Watch out now,” he said. “The steam will burn you if she is too hot” He dug further into his pockets and came up with a pair of pliers. Clamping the pliers onto the cap he squinted, turned his face away and twisted the cap.
Small hisses of steam, then the cap came off and to the little man’s surprise no geyser of hot vapour.
“Well”, he said, scratching his chin, “There must be a leak in a hose somewhere in here.” With that he dove into the engine and squatted down among the hoses, fans and wires.
Our view of the proceedings diminished with a new puff of smoke and all we could see from our dashboard vantage point was the little man’s back as he hunched further down into the engine’s belly to find the problem.
“I don’t think you’ll find anything wrong with the car.” Dad said.
“Eh?” The little man wheezed through the smoke and looking up at my father through steamy glasses. “Sure is a puzzle though, nothing on the road, so she ain’t leaking antifreeze. “ One things’ for sure, I am getting a strong whiff of smokie wieners. Smells like a campfire.
My dad pointed to the manifold on which a large bundle of tinfoil had been carefully placed. Little droplets of meat juice were working themselves out of the foil package and dripping onto hot engine parts sending clouds of smoke and steam into the air.
My mother passed him a pair of oven mitts; Dad reached into the engine and took out the parcel. Holding it in one hand he closed the hood of the car with the other hand and placed the steamy package on top.
A cloud of delicious smelling steam and smoke erupted from the package as Dad slit it open. There inside was our dinner. Crusty and burnt but definitely hot enough to eat.
Mom passed the little man a paper plate on which she had prepared a hot dog bun, Dad ceremoniously placed the first blackened and shriveled hot dog wiener inside the bun and said to the little man.
“I bet you that Chrysler never showed you that the Imperial can also cook dinner.
The astonished little man took his plate and still looking back at us over his shoulder, got into his car and drove away.
all rights reserved
by
Wendy Morrow
Somewhere on the highway outside of Kitchener Ontario we pulled over to the side of the highway. It was getting close to dinner time. We were hot and tired and had been on the road most of the day, stopping here and there to look at tourist attractions and historical sites.
There were five of us, our mother and our father, my 10 year old sister and my little brother who was 9 years younger than me; he was around 4 years old at the time.
All through the long winter months Dad had planned the family holiday which was the highlight of his year. His work vacation time was 3 weeks and we took every second of those 3 weeks. Often leaving on our holiday the night before they began and coming home after midnight of the very last day.
Every winter night he poured over the road maps spread out on the kitchen table with a note pad by his side. He calculated how far we could travel in a day and what amusements we were likely to find along the route. ‘It is important to find camping spots before 4o’clock.” he would remind us, “You still have time to find a good spot and you have daylight to set up your camp.”
I don’t recall once in my childhood finding a spot before 7:00pm, long after everyone in the car had given up the will to live and were close to passing out with hunger.
Now, here we were in Ontario, far from our home in Winnipeg, pulling the home made tent trailer.
Smoke was billowing out in clouds from the engine of our old 1949 Chrysler sedan and Dad was leaning over the grill into the engine’s abyss, peering through the haze.
“Having trouble there?”
Dad jerked upright bumping his head on the inside of the car hood, when the voice behind him boomed out the question.
A tiny little man in overalls walked up to our car. My sister and I and our little brother stopped squabbling and slapping each other long enough to roll down our windows and listen.
Mom was fishing around in the trunk and looked up when the man approached.
“I used to be the Chrysler plant supervisor.” The little man told Dad. “What’cha got going on here? She hot?”
“No”, Dad started to reply. Before he could say anything further the little man pulled a rag out of his back pocket and wrapped it around the radiator cap.
“Watch out now,” he said. “The steam will burn you if she is too hot” He dug further into his pockets and came up with a pair of pliers. Clamping the pliers onto the cap he squinted, turned his face away and twisted the cap.
Small hisses of steam, then the cap came off and to the little man’s surprise no geyser of hot vapour.
“Well”, he said, scratching his chin, “There must be a leak in a hose somewhere in here.” With that he dove into the engine and squatted down among the hoses, fans and wires.
Our view of the proceedings diminished with a new puff of smoke and all we could see from our dashboard vantage point was the little man’s back as he hunched further down into the engine’s belly to find the problem.
“I don’t think you’ll find anything wrong with the car.” Dad said.
“Eh?” The little man wheezed through the smoke and looking up at my father through steamy glasses. “Sure is a puzzle though, nothing on the road, so she ain’t leaking antifreeze. “ One things’ for sure, I am getting a strong whiff of smokie wieners. Smells like a campfire.
My dad pointed to the manifold on which a large bundle of tinfoil had been carefully placed. Little droplets of meat juice were working themselves out of the foil package and dripping onto hot engine parts sending clouds of smoke and steam into the air.
My mother passed him a pair of oven mitts; Dad reached into the engine and took out the parcel. Holding it in one hand he closed the hood of the car with the other hand and placed the steamy package on top.
A cloud of delicious smelling steam and smoke erupted from the package as Dad slit it open. There inside was our dinner. Crusty and burnt but definitely hot enough to eat.
Mom passed the little man a paper plate on which she had prepared a hot dog bun, Dad ceremoniously placed the first blackened and shriveled hot dog wiener inside the bun and said to the little man.
“I bet you that Chrysler never showed you that the Imperial can also cook dinner.
The astonished little man took his plate and still looking back at us over his shoulder, got into his car and drove away.
Wednesday, February 20, 2008
The Fence
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."
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."
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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