Rage

Today's prompt for The One Minute Writer is Accident. This is the story that emerged in response.

He brought the red mustang to a slippery halt at the stop sign. Rain reflected off the street and dripped lazily off the maple leaves leaning over the road. On the windshield ribbons of white stick substance groped the sleek glass. High pitched howls confused his senses

Distorted faces glowed through the rain sluicing across his side window. The door swung open. Fierce female hands ripped him from the seat and tossed him onto the pavement. In a melee of limbs, he was struck again and again. Hands, feet, elbows and knees pummeled his prone form. Lips split, nose broke, scalp lacerated and ribs cracked under the blows.

As his mind began to darken, he heard a woman's voice pitched deep, almost a growl.
" Girls, get off him! Get the hell back to the gym. " He of was aware of long arms and a tall body creating a barrier forcing back the band of thugs. Moving into consciousness and a world of pain he moved slug-like across the asphalt.

"Get in the car get in the car. Drive! drive!" the woman commanded.

He pulled himself into the still running vehicle. It took a brief moment for his twisted swollen foot to find the gas pedal. Then he was off. Shaking and drooling blood as he drove the car, wild and weaving down the road.

The woman, shuddering with adrenaline, watched until he was out of sight. Long strings of damp toilet paper, used to blind the windshield before the attack, clung to her feet and legs. She released a long, slow breath that she seemed to have held for hours. She returned to the building and the gymnasium. It was going to be a long night talking down the girls hopped up on rage.

Unfortunately this is a true story. One of many painful events in my experience working with Toronto's Department of Parks and Recreation in the late 60's. In this case, I was able to control my little mob because I had already 'proven' myself as the boss the night they attacked me in the darkened gym. It is not often that I think about my size and strength but on that occasion I was decidedly grateful to my peasant ancestors for my genetic heritage.

Grandmothers' Insight

I recently heard an interview on the marvelous Vancouver Co-op Radio that moved me profoundly. The woman being interviewed was Agnes Baker Pilgrim - (Takelma Siletz) of Grants Pass, Oregon, USA. She is known as Gandma Aggie. An aboriginal who is the eldest member of her tribe, Aggie is the elected leader of the International Council of the 13 Grandmothers.

These brave souls have taken leadership in renewing values that have grown rusty in this age of politics and technology. Their statement of mission demonstrated to me how entangled I have become in my own tiny world which is made up of my family, friends and my daily concerns.

The Grandmothers' Mission Statement

The grandmothers and two young ambassadors.

We, THE NATIONAL COUNCIL OF THIRTEEN INDIGENOUS GRANDMOTHERS, represent a global alliance of prayer, education and healing for our Mother Earth, all Her inhabitants, all the children, and for the next seven generations to come. We are deeply concerned with the unprecedented destruction of our Mother Earth and the destruction of indigenous ways of life. We believe the teachings of our ancestors will light our way through an uncertain future. We look to further our vision through the realization of projects that protect our diverse cultures: lands, medicines, language and ceremonial ways of prayer and through projects that educate and nurture our children.

Grandmother Aggie cited a personal example of how the Council members honour their connection to the earth. She told listeners how concerned she became as reports of diminishing salmon stock came year after year. She knew that there had once been a ceremony practiced by the tribes living in the north west region of the coast. She did some research and found records of the event in old writings. She worked with an aboriginal group and gained permission from the Oregon Forestry Service to hold the ancient Salmon Ceremony in a secluded riverbank area. The ceremony is a celebration of the gift of food given by the salmon to sustain life. The salmon is cooked over fires using traditional methods. Prayers of thanks are given to the earth and the fish for the gift of life and that which sustains life. The bones and skin of the fish are ritually returned to the river. Grandmother Aggie said that this process mimics and honours the cycle of the salmons' life. She told how the mature salmon return to the streams and rivers of their birth. When the salmon have completed spawning the adults die. Their bodies decompose and provide nutrients for the next generation.

She reported that the salmon count in Oregon increased the year following the revival of the ancient ritual. The ceremony is now an annual event.

This is one small example of how the grandmothers are taking action to change the world one step at a time. Some of their other efforts are much more ambitious. They have taken on the Pope and the political leaders of many nations.

There are a number of websites for the 13 Grandmothers. I found www.grandmotherscouncil.com/INTRO.html the most informative.

Some of the sites have franchised the Grandmothers and offer tee-shirts, mugs
and other items. Originally I felt this was not in keeping what they stood for but I assume that this is one of the ways thier projects are funded.

Whatever the rationale, I am grateful that their work continues. As Grandma Aggies says "We will go on until our hearts lie on the ground."

My Little Wren Goddess

Miss Montgomery

Grade 1 Kimberly Public School 1956-57

She was a petite woman inclined toward solid, Celtic stoutness. She had a strong featured face. Pleasant but not pretty. Her upper lip was graced by a few slender black lengths of silk. Her dark hair was inclined to waves especially when out winter classroom filled with the farmyard humidity of wet mitts, boots, knitted hats and scarves; all roasting on the big silver painted steam radiators. She favoured dark colours; navy or grey skirts paired with brown or navy cardigans. Her blouses were invariably white with sharp-pointed well-starched collars.
Her most interesting feature (in the eyes of a child) was her wooden leg, a souvenir from the war. She would use it to stomp out emphasis for an important point in instruction. She always wore thick, ankle covering leather shoes, their multitude of shiny black grommets laced securely. Her shoes had tree stump heels that aided in the percussion of her steps as she moved across the creaking wooden floors of the classroom.
Her posture was always very straight and her chin up. By some sort of implicit agreement, the pupils never talked about her leg. My family and I assume the other householders in the early to mid fifties, drummed into their children that RESPECT was required for those who fought in the war.
We knew she had been ‘overseas’ and had somehow lost a limb for ‘the cause’ as the war was referred to in the 1950s. I realize now that she was probably a field nurse. But at the time I pictured her wearing a dead-green helmet, like the one in my grandfather’s trunk. I saw her clad in uniform and puttees. I imagined her thrusting forward with rifle and bayonet rifle, she charged forth through barbed wire. I saw her firing the rifle and screaming battle cries at the ‘enemy’.
Rumour was that she lost her fiancée during an important battle. This was seen as a great tragedy since the culture of the day felt that a woman without a man was incomplete. On the other hand, women who remained dedicated to dead fiancée soldiers were deemed to be noble in the extreme.
At the front of the classroom there was a union jack which hung listlessly from its brass embellished oak flagstaff. Once a week Miss Montgomery would discuss the meaning of the flag, “Red is for courage, blue is for truth and white is for purity of heart,” she would tell us. The stripes, she said, represented the St. George Cross of England and the St Andrew Cross of Scotland”. I don’t remember why the saintly symbols of Ireland and Wales. I do remember, that she told us the blue background was a reminder of the oceans that linked the ‘Great Empire’ of England. Anyone who couldn’t promptly recite those salient details regarding the flag had to stay in at recess.
Even in Grade One we were expected to be able to list off the Commonwealth Countries for East to West around the Globe. A huge map of the world with the Empire’s holdings depicted in a peculiar orangey pink, hung in pride of place directly above the chalk board.
Every morning before class began; we rose to sing ‘God Save the King’ and, shortly after the first few months of Kindergarten, ‘God Save the Queen’. A picture of who watched us with a shy smile from her place of honour by the door.
The original version of ‘Oh Canada’ followed the British anthem. We were accompanied by music scratched out with a thick needle on an elderly record player that wavered feebly over the school loud speakers. A primitive intercom was set up with tremendous fanfare during my grade one year. It was considered a great privilege to be the student chosen on a particular morning to drop the needle into the groove. After all we were doing it for the pretty, young Queen.
As we warbled away with the anthems, Miss Montgomery was on the lookout for disrespect. She was quick with her pool cue of a pointer which was prodded sharply between the shoulder blades of anyone who did not stand at attention, showed signs of distraction or forgot the words to the anthems. Her pointer left shameful chalky spots on one’s back so everyone knew you’d failed in your duty.
During the recitation of The Lord’s Prayer she kept an eagle eye out for those who didn’t bow their heads properly, fidgeted or opened their eyes. I thought that she must have special permission from God so she could keep her eyes open to watch us during the recitation.
On special occasions such as parents’ night, school assembly, or spring tea, Miss Montgomery wore her immaculate Legion jacket, an armed forces beret complete with a magnificent multi-coloured crest embroidered on the front, and all her ribbons and medals. In my eyes, she was a miniature general. My, but she was impressive.
She was very supportive of the Red Cross and every month throughout the school year we had a volunteer day when we would fold lint-filled muslin bandages, presumably for stricken refugees.
Every three months, we were required to fill plain, string-tied, muslin bags supplied by the Red Cross with our donations. The bags required of a bar of soap, a flannel (facecloth), toothpaste, tooth brush, nail brush, safety pins, iodine, sticky plasters and comb.
The best part of charitable activities involved shoe box packages. For those we brought shoe boxes to house special gifts for the refugee children. We gathered mitts, scarves, scribblers, a skinny little 6 pack of crayons, a half dozen HB pencils, an eraser (pink only), chocolate bars, a small toy and any other small bits we could squeeze into the oblong containers. My tall father had very big feet and therefore I always had the largest shoebox. There was always plenty of room for indulgences such as hard candy or a tiny bottle of scent.
Miss Montgomery was particularly passionate about these little assembly line projects. She would do a slow march around the classroom assessing the contents of our boxes. So that no one was shamed, we learned to bring extras for the children in our class whose families could not afford the toiletries. I don’t know how she conveyed that message to us but it settled in our little brains quite firmly. My favourite contribution of extras was crayons. The Five and Dime store always kept a good supply on hand. I think they were 10¢ each.
She was rigorous in her demands for tidy packing. Demonstrating how to fold, wrap and place the items. No doubt this was to assure that there was optimum space for all the add-ins. We however thought that poor results would see us staying in at recess for years to come.
The girls would make boxes that included tiny dolls and pink hair clips. The boys would prepare packages with a more masculine emphasis. They would stuff whistles and dinky toys between the soft rolls of knitting and ensured, whenever possible, the items were some shade of blue or red rather than the pastel colors designated for much despised, girls.
After each box was finished we would colour a picture on the outside lid “to make it cheerful,” Miss M said. “and to show the children overseas that we are thoughtful and talented.”
I remember that she kept a large stack of snowy tissue in our supplies’ cupboard. She would smooth one piece in the top of each of our boxes. She looked like the jeweller who had a shop on Kingston road, wrapping diamonds in fine silk.
As we laboured at our charitable work, we were surrounded by the smell of chalk, eraser crumbles, blue ink, dust, floor wax and mildew.
Miss Montgomery, though a Canadian, spoke often of the cliffs of Dover in England. Did her lover take her there? In my mind, I saw her with her anonymous soldier sitting on a blue plaid blanket and picnicking. Listening to her words, I could imagine those gleaming white buttresses of shoreline. I was delighted to learn those heights were made of chalk. Did they smell like the chalk of our classroom? Did they sprinkle the sea air with white powder to be whirled about in the eddy of seagull wings? Had she brought suitcases of cylindrical stones home for use on our blackboard?
I wondered if there were also great coloured mountains of wax in this place called England. Is that where our crayons came from? Did bright wickless candles role in avalanches off the slippery sides?

After each session with the Red Cross bags and the shoe boxes, Miss Montgomery would read us a story from one of the countries she had visited in the war. It was the boys and girls in these places, she told us, to which our packages and parcels would travel. Of all the countries she mentioned, I remember only Holland and that was because of the wonderful story of Hans Brinker, or the Silver Skates. The original novel written by Mary Mapes Dodge was published in 1865. Miss Montgomery was not one for watered down versions. It took many months for her to finish the tale. She read to us in its original, old-fashioned and complicated English.
I also recall this country because we had a classmate who came from Holland. Her family lived in the Netherlands during the war but had come to Canada when she was a baby. Her last name was Dejong and for several years, her family spoke only Dutch. This was an amazing thing to me. How did they know what they were saying if they didn’t use English? Did their brains work in a different way? Miss Montgomery knew the answer to that. She said, “Words stand for the pictures we see in our heads, the things in the world around us and the way we feel, even if the words sound different, the pictures are the same.”
I adored this complicated lady for her brave stance in a confused world but also because she was the keeper of the Dick and Jane books from which she taught us to read. Magic. Pure magic. I cannot describe my joy in the process of learning to match the shapes of letters to the sculpture of words. She unlocked mighty secrets for me. She was a warrior magician. A goddess dressed in dull plumage.
After I left grade one, I would watch for her doing her slow march along the halls or patrolling in the school yard. She was my touchstone. When she monitored the winter schoolyard before classes or at recess, Miss Montgomery wore a navy coat that tangled around her ankles catching on the top hooks where her laced shoes ended. A smooth, crimson wool scarf piled like a scarlet snow drift around her short neck. Her head covering was a navy beret, stiff, well-brushed and lint-free at all times.
She carried a large brass bell with a wooden handle in her leather gloved hands. It was so heavy she had to use two; black leather-gloved, hands to ‘ring’ us back to class. Oddly, I remember that she had rubbery black boots that fit over her shoes covering all but the very high collars which supported her ankles. The front of these boots was shaped like an inverted beak and fastened off to the side with an elastic loop and a shiny black button. In my eyes, they were a fascinating contrivance.
One day, when I was in grade four, she disappeared, never to return. Did she go to Flanders to search for the grave of her lost love? Did she stand on the cliffs of Dover and watch the seagulls soar? I’ll never know.
It took some time for me to adjust to the loss of her presence. As happens with the fortunate young, in time, other beloved teachers stepped forward fill void. But be sure of this, I never forgot my small wren of a goddess who taught me the magic of words.

Reader please note: Miss Montgomery really was my grade one teacher at Kimberly Public School in East End Toronto. She did indeed create the thoughts and pass on the learning outlined in this little tale. But please remember this is a child’s story and may not be historically accurate.

Writing Straight Up

I have my writing shoes on and am work/walking at my treadmill desk. I love this great concept that incorporates a desktop and a treadmill. My ‘desk’ is fastened to the front bars of mill above the programming modules. I sense that Arthur Slade, the author who introduced me to this idea, must have been a more athletic type than I am. (No pun was intended but I like it so I will keep it.) At first I am wobbling, then doing a drunken two step and now I am marching along. My desk keeps sliding into my belly button and my mouse is on a rampage, spinning and circling like a mad crane. These shoes are made for writing

Ten minutes later....

The physical challenges are under control and the treadmill world is stabilised. I can trot like a horse or plod like a Meg either choice seems to keep the writing going.

I have given the treadmill her own name. It is clear to me that we are going to develop some intimacy as time goes by and I would feel badly referring to her as It. She is Wilda The Walking Wonder. The exciting aspect of my relationship with Wilda, is that she spontaneously introduces inclines in her orientation every once in awhile. I then stumble up hill toward my desk top. This is good. It shakes new thoughts loose and plops them out to be considered.
The monitor is perched on the window sill. Viewing it from eight feet away is odd. As long as I bump up the point size to 18 it’s easy to see. At that distance, there is definitely no screen radiation firing molecules into my system.

The most challenging aspect of this set-up is that I am not linked to Face Book. I wonder, “What am I missing as I stroll along to somewhere going nowhere?” Will I get lonely as I work/walk? A writer is an independent soul but we like to touch the outside world for brief visits. No obligations-just insights into the world.

One hundred and twenty minutes later....

Arthur assured me that the machine would auto stop after an hour but so far this has not happened. I did step off a couple of times because I couldn’t get my wireless keyboard to connect (You have to hold the connect button down for a looonnnnnggg time!). Surely Wilda, didn’t note my departure and up the ante by extending the time before a break.
Do you think my internal editor (Miss Monkey Mind) is messing with the keyboard? Perhaps she is attempting to distract me with wonky equipment functions. Is she afraid to start the process? She knows that the writing today will be strictly stream-of-consciousness and she won’t be able to interfere. Poor Monkey you lose.

From my usual office with a view, I look out over the river to the west and our lovely yard to the east. The treadmill is, unfortunately too heavy to heft up three flights of stairs. The result? I am working in the exercise room which is located on the lower walk-out level. This cedar clad space is not as bright as my upstairs study but smells wonderful. Here I look North. I have a cosy view of a little cobble-stone patio which peeks through the leaves. The forest at this side of the house accommodates a generous gathering of trees. The woody conference is hosted by a seasoned forty foot spruce tree and his Scotch pine relatives. Faithful attendees include: honey bushes, lilacs, elders, three story high Saskatoon berry trees, 14 foot pin cherries, poplars, and other arboreal varieties of unknown origin.

Little birds zoom outside the windows; wrens, chickadees and, at this time of year, nuthatches. They swim in the green shadows eager to collect the pine nuts that fall so generously from the spruce trees. Does it make them spruce nuts if they come from spruce trees? Somehow that sounds rude. The sun beams through the woods, making white on white stripes on the garden chairs that husband Rob made several years ago. These deep seated Muskoka chairs have mellowed in the adversity of weather (as we all tend to do). Now they blend happily into the framework of cobbles, lilacs, Virginia creeper and spruce.

The window is open as I walk and write. I can smell the fecund scent of fall decay. The Baba Yaga in me likes it. It imparts a sense of safety and a promise of renewal. For me smell evokes wonderful images particularly of times past. I must admit though, I hate the odour of rotting pin cherries and their ilk. When this type of berry rots, it tangs of blood not earth.
After several hours of churning her belt Wilda finally tired. I think she did notice my time away to fix the keyboard. It was hours before she stopped to cool her motors and gave me a moment to down some icy limeade and stretch my tight calves.

Ten minutes later....

The break is over and I begin once more. Oops! I almost lost my stream of consciousness there. No, I am not going to pass out. My mouse was moving stealthily toward the spell check icon. “Miss Monkey Mind, behave yourself”, I say. “This is a streaming exercise and you are not invited”. Fortunately the menu bar is too small to read from the mill. I caught the trap as I leaned forward and squinted at the monitor. And thus I am saved.
There are lots of typos and goofy sentences staring back at me from the screen. The urge to spell-check and edit is almost overwhelming. My fingers are not used to the rocking of walking while writing.

Sixty Minutes Later....

Walk. Walk. Walk. Work the body work the brain. Wilda, my purring companion and I have taken the first steps toward new adventures. I feel so good that I promise Monkey Mind I will spell check tomorrow.



The sun has paled and the birds are at rest. I’ll leave you to muse on my journey to nowhere that is somewhere in my heart. I know I will continue with my Writing Straight Up.

Lipstick circa 1950

Scarlet lipstick. That was the hallmark of the woman of the fifties. Fire-hot, glistening mouths were visible from blocks away. Words were etched in bloody frames, too often appropriate to the gossipy topics their owners’ loved.

In that time, lips moved front and centre, out of proportion in otherwise bland, Ivory soap-scrubbed faces. No one wore eye shadow or mascara aside from actresses, dancers or ladies of the night and other persons of scandalous intent.

Lipstick smeared teeth with coagulated cherry streaks were the trade mark of the honest woman too busy and distracted with children to spend the time blotting and powdering the greasy stuff.

On Sundays, churches were filled with vampire teeth not belonging to the damned but to the saintly. How unsettling it was for the children to see ancient ladies grinning with radish-tipped dentures.

What an odd sense of propriety these crimson mouthed matrons had. Did they not realise that ruby lips were intended to entice men with visible reproduction of the engorged dark peony coloured labia slick with the want of sex? It’s highly unlikely that they figured it out but Charles Revlon understood and built an empire on the mimicry of blood filled genitalia.

Image is courtesy of Artist Sheila Norgate.

Autumn in the Hamlets

This morning I was out picking Battleford apples from one of our trees. My feet were bare, the grass was lush and sparkling with dew. I couldn't stretch to the top branches where the biggest gems lurked, but a good shake showered me with a sweet storm of fruit. I felt like someone from a Gene Stratton Porter novel. Absorbed in the soul of nature.


The manchurian elms and the poplars are vying to see which can exhibit the most magnificent tansluscent lemon color. The Virgina creeper wins out however. With her scarlet robes she really stands out in the crowd. But like all else in life her glory will fade as the deep blood red of the Japanese maples appear. Virginia the scarlet

Riverside Hamlet is quiet today as everyone heads out to do whatever it is one does to prepare for the nasty cold that will soon arrive. We took a little drive down the road and around the fields to buy fresh corn from the Coles. They live in Furdale, another Hamlet but one that makes Riverside look like a metropolis.

The sun has warmed the earth of their corn fields and the scent of rich earth and green smell of corn rows erase all else from the air. We will eat only corn for supper, an annual indulgence. I will bake the corn in the husks. This a process, I believe, makes the kernels sweeter and more tender.

As we passed harvested fields, we enjoyed seeing a rabble of cranes and geese settled in the golden stubble. They had come together for a rare treat of sun-toasted grain and a good gossip.

The combine that prepared the feast.

Cranes sound as if they have a thousand frogs chorusing in their long neck. Geese reply with inelegant twanging nasal honks. Perhaps they were all Country singers in another lifetime.

A late arrival to the party.

The apples picked this morning are glowing in the late afternoon light breathing through the west kitchen window. Molecules of apple aroma dance throughout the room. A comforting yet enlivening smell.

So ends another day on the outskirts of Saskatoon.

All photography is by R.E. (Rob) Morgan

Freedom from Self

The waste basket is the writer's best friend

Isaac Bashevis Singer

Singer is one of my favorite writers. His stories are fables that delve into the arcane heart to find the real meaning of existence. He is a story teller who respects a rich Jewish tradition. His writing is an homage to ancient wisdom yet he adds his own touches to the tapestry of words. I can see him scribbling away refining and refining as he eliminates the dross and seeks the gold. I am sure his basket overflowed with superfluous words and unimportant thoughts.

Life works in a similar fashion. In our mid-teens a strange manifestation takes place. A translucent cloak enwraps us and distorts our view of life. In our cocooned world of self-design, we see ourselves as the center of the matrix. There is a simplicity of thinking that was black/white and totally ego-bound. Those who peopled the world outside our center are perceived as either friends or enemies. Events and interactions are viewed as either glorious affirmation of our worth or devastating holocausts designed to destroy us.

As we mature, we are called upon to eliminate the deceitful constructs of youth. As the days pass, the sheaves of psychic skin that overgrew our eyes, our hearts and our souls begin to shed. At first the shreds fall infrequently and blow way in the wind unnoticed. But soon the hurts, sorrows and scars accelerate the cloak's decay. In our middle years the shedding may take on the proportions of a hurricane. Confused, in pain from the tearing way, we may seek refuge in the well worn paths of behaviour from our adolescent years but as the giant funnels continue to strip away the layers, our heart's sight begins to clear. The sheets of protection tossed into the universal wastebasket. It is through this process we realise the events of life are not for us or against us but just ARE. Like the weather or the weeds what is, Is.