The finger

My brother Dave was tough. He could hold a lighted match under his hand until I smelled the burnt flesh. He caught bumblebees and let them sting him. He never winced, not once. I thought he was crazy. Mom said he was just like her brothers—accident prone.

Danger held a strange fascination for him. If he fell out of a tree, he climbed higher the next time. He played with knives and hatchets. He rode his bike over impossible hills.

We did everything together, he and I. He pranced over creeks on slippery, mossy logs; I crawled, protesting. He waited for me, across the creek, at the bottom of the hill, in the rafters of the old cannery. I followed everywhere he went, slowly, cautiously.

The summer I turned ten and Dave nine, we were in Toronto, staying with my “Nana”, Grandma Anderson. Mom and Dad were busy with grown-up stuff; I remember seeing our old Dodge from the window of the Yonge Street bus. License number U9O64; yes, that was ours. It was parked by the curb, a squarish black car among all the bright 50’s models. I didn’t see my parents.

Nana had a big, sunny back yard, surrounded by deep beds of flowers, daisies and hollyhocks and snapdragons. High fences, a tidy shed; not much trouble there to get into. We spent too many quiet hours there, catching bees and wishing we were home again. We had to be good in Nana’s house. 

Grandma Whitelaw took us some days. Her house was more fun, inside and out. She had a messy, crowded basement where I found stacks of moldy-smelling magazines with romantic love stories continued from one to the other. On the main floor, Grandpa had his study. I remember bookshelves and a huge roll-top desk and the crokinole board, always waiting for us on the footstool. Dave was good; his aim was deadly. I always lost to him, but somehow I beat Grandpa most of the time.

We didn’t see much of Grandma. She didn’t talk to children; she fed us and left us to our own devices. We weren’t allowed in her kitchen, except to eat.

We didn’t go upstairs. Grandma rented out the front bedroom, at the top of the stairs. We had to be quiet in the house so as not to disturb the roomer.

It didn’t matter; there was another big back yard here, a better one than Nana’s from our point of view. Apple trees to climb and harvest. A tumble-down shed with long-unused gardening tools. Long grass and dandelions, mud to dig in.

Dave found an old push lawnmower, and we cut a few paths across the grass. It was heavy work. We gave up. Dave flipped the lawnmower upside down and examined the blades. “Watch out, they’re sharp,” I said. He ignored me and spun one of the  wheels. The knives flashed.

“Come here, turn the wheel for me,” he said. He picked a dandelion and watched as the head was lopped off. Another. A blade of grass.

“Faster!” He held a whole handful of grass up to the blades. Tiny green flakes flew up into our faces. “Faster!” I started to use two hands. Dave fed in more dandelions.

“There’s blood on your finger,” Dave said. I stopped spinning the wheel and looked. He was right. My finger tip was dangling at a strange angle, and now the blood was dripping onto my dress. It didn’t hurt, though. 

Dave jumped up and ran into the house, yelling. I followed him, holding up my hand—the nail portion flopped back, held on by a tiny scrap of skin. Dave ran through the kitchen, down the dark hall, up the stairs to where the sun shone unexpectedly from the roomer’s flung-open door. He was screaming, though I don’t remember the words, only Grandma holding him by the shoulders and asking what was wrong. The roomer, an old, old lady with white hair, stood in her doorway. Behind her, a bright afghan slipped off her still-moving rocker.  

Two steps down from the landing, I waited, repeating quietly, “My finger’s off, my finger’s off.” The blood ran down my arm. It still didn’t hurt.

Eventually Dave calmed down enough to point at me, and I was taken care of. A doctor sewed my finger-tip back on. It took 15 stitches, a fact I was inordinately proud of. 

I wore a big bandage and a sling for what seemed like months. Now it did hurt- bad, and all the way to my elbow. I hated to get dressed and undressed; I had to lower my hand to put it through the sleeves and then my finger throbbed for a long time. I didn’t dare complain; Dave wouldn’t.

Back at Nana’s, I was spoiled. I got to sleep in Aunt Connie’s bedroom, with the big cedar right up against the window, so the curtains never had to be pulled. The room had a slightly sweet smell; an odour of well-worn blankets, old wood, wicker and ancient varnish. Aunt Connie had a silver dressing-table set, two brushes, a hand mirror and a funny little tool I didn’t recognize. She didn’t clean the hair out of her brush like I had been taught to, and I made a little rope out of my gleanings and compared it to my hair colour. In the scant light from the window, it looked almost the same.

Eventually the bandages came off and I was demoted to my previous status. I wore the sling for another week until it became a nuisance.

The pain faded, but never completely vanished. For years, on rainy days my whole hand ached. The finger-tip was extremely sensitive; just picking up a book the wrong way sent stabs of fire down the bones. Today, forty-plus years later, it hurts to clip that nail.

Every time I see Dave now, he has a new story to tell of his visits to Emergency wards. He doesn’t seem to mind. I think he could still hold a candle to his hand until it cooked.

Stories of childhood

Susannah Anderson, 2000

Sarah Finds a Friend

Once upon a time, (all good fairy stories start like this, and this is a fairy story, even though there are no fairies in it;) once upon a time there was a princess. Now other fairy-tale princesses are radiantly beautiful, or astoundingly ugly, happy as a cat on a cozy lap, or mournful as a rainy afternoon, but Sarah -- that was her name -- was just okay-looking, just almost-pretty. And she was sometimes cheerful and sometimes a bit bored. 

She lived in a castle too new to have a ghost and too small to get lost in. There was some gold -- on the picture frames -- and some silver -- the spoons and a coffee urn. Her father, the king, was very busy, always on the phone or closeted with important-looking people in dark suits. At supper, he would always ask, "What did you do today, Sarah, my pet?"

And Sarah always said, "Nothing, papa."

And her mother always said, "What do you mean, Sarah? We had a perfectly lovely afternoon, walking in the gardens and arranging the flowers, didn't we?"

"Yes, mamma," Sarah said, because she was a very polite little princess.

When winter came and the flowers died, the queen stayed inside and worked on her embroidery, but Sarah walked alone every afternoon, through the rose garden with all its bare thorny stalks, under the empty grape arbour, around the rhododendrons, and into the orchard. In the centre of the orchard, there was a fountain, with a statue of a faun and a little marble bench. One day, Sarah was sitting on the bench, waiting for it to be time to go in for supper, when she caught a glimpse of something shiny, all purple and pink, moving behind the statue. She jumped up and went to see what it was, but there was nothing. "Hello? Who's there? Where are you?" she called.

"Here I am, Your Highness, Her Majesty the queen sent me to call you to supper," said a voice, and Sarah turned and saw only the lady's maid, in a brown uniform.

"Did you see anyone else here?" Sarah asked.

"No, Your Highness, only your Highness. And Her Majesty the queen says to hurry, if you please, the king your father is waiting."

So Sarah went in to supper with her curiosity unsatisfied. But when her father the king asked, "What did you do today, Sarah, my pet?" she answered, as usual,

"Nothing, papa."

What did Sarah see? Well, I'm glad you asked. Under the apple trees, and around the rhododendrons, the gardener's assistant had been planting daffodil bulbs for the spring flowering. But, being only the assistant, he had been careless, and spilled half a bucket of bulbs on the path, where, instead of picking them up, he had just kicked them off under a handy bush. So he didn't look closely, or he would have seen that one was not a bulb, but an egg. An odd-looking egg, at that, striped, ever so faintly, in pale purple and paler green. 

The bulbs landed under the bush and stayed there, but the egg was round and it rolled out the other side, and into a mossy hollow where a wintry ray of sunlight lit on it, and warmed it. Soon a crack appeared at the pointed end of the egg. Another crack opened, and another, and with a snap! the end fell off. And out crawled the last, the very latest, of the dinosaurs.

The egg had been buried deep in the clay where the sun never shone, for centuries, until a big back hoe excavated the hillside to make a housing development. There had been a bumpy ride since;  it was dumped onto the riverside with a pile of rocks, to make a breakwater, washed down to a muddy bank and dug up to level out the ground on the daffodil farm, then bagged and trucked, and finally spilled on the ground and kicked. All it needed was a touch of sun to wake up the sleeping dinosaur inside.

While the new-hatched dino is yawning and stretching, and uncoiling his tail, we have a minute to look at him. He is still tiny, only about a foot long, not counting the tail, which is as long as the rest of him all together. His head is too small, but it makes up for that by its colour: a vibrant, eye-dazzling neon blue. His sides are purple, shading down into pink towards the tail, which darkens to a deep cherry-red at the very tip. His belly is striped, like the egg, in pale purple and green. And along his back there is a row of triangular fins covered in glossy green scales.

Whether this is the true colour of dinosaurs, or whether the long ages in the clay brought about some magic, we will never know. There are no other dinosaurs around to compare. This baby dino has no mother.

When he finished working out the kinks in his tail, the dinosaur looked around for something to eat. Some race memory, some instinct, made him think of giant hibiscus flowers, and insects buzzing in the shade of the mammoth ferns, but all he could see was moss and cold bare branches.  Then he heard the water running in the fountain and set out to get a drink. This was when Sarah saw him, and frightened him, running and shouting. He hid quickly under the rhododendrons until she went away.

When he was sure no-one could see him, he went to the fountain and drank.  Next, he ran back and forth over the moss to keep warm, until he found some half-rotten apples under a tree. He tried one: it was soft and full of holes, but it didn't taste too bad. There was a fat green worm in the core: it was delicious. He ate wormy apples until it was too dark to find them. Afterwards, he dug himself a hole in the moss and rolled up in it, nose to tail, shivering and wishing he was back in his warm egg. It took him a long time to get to sleep.

Sarah was out early the next morning, going for a walk before it rained, she told her lady's maid. Of course, she ran straight to the orchard. And of course, right away she noticed the bare patch where a dinosaur had torn up the moss to make a blanket. In the centre was a small green mound, gently snoring.  Sarah poked at it with a broken branch and it spluttered and shook. The moss fell off to one side, and a bright blue head stretched out towards her, with the mouth wide open. Sarah jumped back. Was this a snake? Do blue snakes bite?

No, the creature was just yawning. He stood up, all purple and pink in  the morning sunlight, shaking off the rest of the moss. His tail curved up behind him like a cartoon question mark.  He looked at Sarah. Sarah looked at him. She came closer, carefully. He didn't move.

Then Sarah noticed the creature's eyes. The pupils were strange; not round and black, but rather a deep green spiral, spinning. They held her, and now she felt her own eyes spinning, too. The orchard went round and round, the sky wheeled over and under her; the whole world was spinning. Sarah felt sick.

Suddenly, it was over. The ground was solid under her feet. Her eyes were free again. Then the creature spoke. His voice was faint and papery, like a rustling in the leaves, but Sarah could understand him.

"Hello, Sarah," he said. "My name is Bix."

"Pleased to meet you, Bix," said Sarah. (She was a well-trained little princess.) "Welcome to my garden. But how do you know my name?"

"I looked into your mind, to learn how to communicate with you. I'm sorry if it made you dizzy."

"Who are you?" she asked. "Are you magic? Are you an alien? Do you come from Mars?"

"No," said Bix. "I'm a dinosaur."

"But there are no dinosaurs any more!"

"I know," said Bix. "I have no mother." His tail sagged to the ground for a second, looking like a piece of fat pink spaghetti, then it stood straight up in the air. "Maybe you can be my mother?"

"No," said Sarah. "I'm not a dinosaur. But I can be your friend."

"Thank you, Sarah. I need a friend. I'm lonely here. And I'm cold. And hungry."

"What do dinosaurs eat?"

"Well, some nice juicy dragonflies would be nice. Or water lilies with frogs on top. Or...but I don't see anything around here. Not even a banana tree. Bananas are healthy."

"I've got bananas in the castle," said Sarah. Why don't we go there? It's warm inside, too."

So Sarah led Bix through the orchard, and around the rhododendrons, into the bare rose garden. When they got to the gate to the castle lawns, she stopped. "What are we going to tell the grown-ups?" she said. "They'll call the newspapers, and the scientists. They'll take you to a lab and poke you full of holes. The papparazzi will be all over us. You'll have to go on TV. Do you want to go on TV?"

"No, no. Can't I just stay quietly with you?" Bix's tail flipped around to hide his head. He peeked out from under the cherry-red tip. "I don't want to go to a lab, either. Help me, please!"

"I don't know," Sarah said. "There are grown-ups everywhere." She leaned on the gate and looked at Bix for a long time. Across the lawn, a clock chimed. Nine times; time for breakfast. She would have to go in soon, before they came looking for her. 

"I don't know," she said again. "Could you pretend to be a toy?"

"Like this?" Bix said. He let his tail droop and his knees sag. 

"Yeah. Except for your face; can you make your eyes look like plastic?"

Bix opened his eyes wide and crossed them slightly.

"Perfect!" said Sarah. "Whenever you see a grown-up, don't move, and look like that. I think it will work. Now let's go, it's late."

They went out onto the lawn and towards the castle. Not to the front door, where the butler would be watching; not to the side door where Sarah's lady's maid waited for her; past the double doors off the parking lot where the lawyers rushed in and out with cell phones at their ears; around the corner, past the kitchen doors where the cooks would be dashing around with steaming dishes of scrambled eggs and trays of buttered toast; past the gardener's entrance; past the garages; back, farther back, to a small forgotten door, where the weeds pushed through the cracks in the walk. 

Nobody had used this door for a hundred years: it was the door to the dungeons. Nobody but Sarah: she had discovered it last summer, and found the key, a great shaft of rusty iron hanging on a hook. It had taken a long time to unlock the door, and she had left it that way; as if she knew that someday she would need a secret entrance to the castle.

Now she pushed it hard, with two hands. The wood was swollen with winter dampness, and the door stuck at first, then it opened, creaking, into a dark passageway. Inside, with the door shut, it was pitch black, but Sarah knew the way, and Bix came along behind, holding the hem of her jacket in his mouth. Straight ahead they went, then around a corner to a large stone room surrounded by cells with heavy iron bars. Tiny windows in the cells let in a cobwebby daylight. On the other side of the room, stone steps led up, around a corner, up again into a black corridor. At the end, Sarah stopped.

"Now," she said, "I think I'll carry you. Pretend you're a toy." She picked Bix up --"Oof! You're heavy," she said -- and opened a door into a hallway with lights, and linoleum on the floor. Voices came from an open door at the end, but Sarah turned off, up another flight of stairs, down another hall, across a marble lobby, up more stairs, wide and carpeted. Down the next hallway, two girls in white aprons came out of a door, carrying rumpled sheets and towels. They curtsied when they saw Sarah, and went away swiftly. Sarah pushed the door open.

Sarah's room was full of stuffed toys; teddies on the armchairs, Barbies around a three-story dollhouse, jungle animals on a shelf over the computer, Winnie the Pooh on the bed with Paddington, and a huge floppy dog on the rug. Bix would fit right in. While Sarah went to breakfast, he settled down in front of the fireplace, warming his toes and eating bananas from a bowl he found on Sarah's night stand. Luckily, he ate the peels, too, because he'd just finished the second banana, and was deciding whether to try a peach or an orange, when the door opened, and a woman pushed a big vacuum cleaner into the room. He barely had time to freeze, and make his plastic-eyed face, before she saw him.

"Another doll," she said. "What does she want with another doll? She's got too many already."  And she picked up Bix by the tail -- he blinked, but she didn't notice -- and threw him into a box in the closet, on top of a heap of Mickey Mouse dolls. Then she slammed the door and left him in the dark, listening to the rumble of the vacuum, then to the silence.

Of course, Sarah rescued him when she came back from breakfast. She had a bun in her pocket, with a slice of ham in the middle. The ham was good, but Bix couldn't eat the bread; it was too dry, like old moss. He had just taken a bite of an orange, when Sarah heard her mother's voice in the hallway, and "Quick!" she said, "Hide under the bed! Mamma can't see you; she'll want to know who gave you to me." And she crammed him under the bed, orange and all.

The queen didn't leave until Sarah's governess came to do schoolwork with her. Then the lady's maid came, to call Sarah to lunch. While she was gone, the chamber maid came to dust. After lunch, the governess returned, then the lady's maid to dress Sarah for dinner, then someone to tend to the fire, then the king to tuck Sarah in for the night. Bix spent most of the day under the bed, trying not to move, even though his neck was stiff and his tail went to sleep.

The next day wasn't much better, nor the next, nor the next. But Bix learned to hide in the closet, with the door open only a crack, and Sarah put fruit and sandwich meats in a basket on the bottom shelf for him. And he was warm, and dry -- it was raining hard most of the time outside. And at night, after everyone in the castle was in bed, he could tiptoe out and climb under the quilts with Sarah, and they could whisper together until she fell asleep.

"What was it like in the egg, Bix?" Sarah asked. "Can you remember?"

"Just dark; dark and warm. But I was asleep most of the time."

"How big will you be when you grow up?"

"I don't know."

"My governess gave me a book about dinosaurs. She says they all died of cold."

"So would I, if I wasn't in here with you."

"I'm glad I found you, Bix."

"So am I."

December came; the rain turned to sleet, then to snow. The lawns and the rose garden and the orchard were buried deep, and the fountain froze. Bix had never seen snow, so Sarah opened her window one night, and Bix stuck his head out. "It's beautiful," he said after a while, "but I'm..." His eyes closed and he laid his head on the snowy windowsill. Sarah pulled him in quickly, and warmed him up at the fire, wrapped in her softest blanket.

"I'm cold-blooded," he said when he woke up. "I would freeze out there."

"We'll go out in the summertime," said Sarah.

But it seemed that they wouldn't be able to wait until the summer. Bix was growing. He was just a baby dinosaur, and he had a lot of growing to do. Every day he was bigger. And hungrier. 

"What an appetite Princess Sarah has lately!" said the cook.

"Sarah, my pet, you must have a hollow leg!" said her father the king.

But though Sarah carried up both pockets full of meat after every meal, and ordered bowls of oranges and bananas, and huge basins of popcorn (Bix liked it with chili powder) Bix never got enough. And he was getting too big to hide under the bed. Once he got the hiccups when the queen was in the room, and the whole bed bounced so, that Sarah had to pretend to be having a coughing fit. Then she had to take a horrible-tasting medicine for a week.

In the closet, Bix hid himself under the Mickey Mouse dolls. They couldn't take the risk of the chambermaid seeing him anymore, because who ever heard of a shiny, multi-coloured, plastic-eyed, dinosaur doll that grew? 

"We have to talk to a grown-up," whispered Sarah one night. Bix was on the floor beside her bed; he didn't fit under her covers any more.

"But they'll put me on TV."

"And all the scientists will poke at you. I know, but what else can we do?"

"When is summer coming?"

"Not for a long time. It's not even Christmas yet."

Bix laid his head on Sarah's pillow and she put an arm around his neck. The firelight flickered on the tears on Sarah's cheeks.

Suddenly she sat up. "I know!" she said, too loudly. "I know," she whispered. "There's one grown-up who can help. And he won't tell anyone. I know he won't!" She kissed Bix on the nose, and lay down again. "Go to sleep, Bix," she said. "Everything's going to be fine."

The next morning, before breakfast, Sarah wrote a letter. "Dear Santa," she wrote, "I need to talk to you. I have a problem and I need your help. Please come to my room in the castle on Christmas Eve. I'll be waiting for you. Love, Sarah." She thought a minute, and added a P.S.: "I don't need any presents. Please come and talk to me." She folded the letter and put it in an envelope and addressed it to Santa Claus, North Pole. When she went downstairs, she gave the letter to the butler. 

"Send this by courier. It's urgent," she said.

"Immediately, Your Highness," he answered.

Now you know and I know that Santa is very careful not to be seen on Christmas Eve.  I'm sure Sarah knew it, too, but that's how she knew he would understand Bix's problem. Santa has never let any scientist examine his sleigh or his reindeer; he could protect Bix. 

On Christmas Eve, Sarah's mother, the queen, and Sarah's father, the king, came up to hang her stocking over the fireplace in her room. She had her own tree, just a small one, hung with many coloured glass balls, purple and pink, neon blue and green, and a deep cherry-red, in honour of Bix, although she couldn't tell her parents that. Her mother the queen read the Christmas story, and her father the king sang Silent Night and all the verses of Good King Wenceslaus. (He couldn't hold a tune, but since he was the king, no-one had ever told him.) And all the time, Bix stood scrunched as small as he could make himself in the closet. He was so big now that Sarah had to push hard to shut the closet door. Finally, they set out the cookies and milk for Santa Claus, and tucked Sarah into bed.

"Now go to sleep quickly, so Santa can come," her father said.

"Yes, papa," said Sarah.

As soon as they had gone downstairs, Sarah popped out of bed and went to open the closet door. "Whew!" said Bix. "I was suffocating in there!"

"For the last time," said Sarah.

Then they sat down to wait. They waited and waited. "Don't let me go to sleep," said Sarah. The clock ticked. The fire died down, and they waited.

"He's not coming," said Bix.

"Just wait," said Sarah.

And when the last spark had gone from the grate, and Sarah's eyes were closing even though she kept pinching herself, there was a scuffling noise overhead, and a swooshing in the chimney, and a thump! of big boots on the bricks, and Santa stepped into the room.

"Now, Sarah, what's the trouble?" he said.

"It's Bix," said Sarah.

Santa looked at him. Bix was as tall as Santa now, and bigger around even than Santa's big belly. "I see," said Santa. "Hmm." He walked around to look at Bix from the other side. "Can you hold your breath?" he asked.

"For a few minutes, I can," said Bix.

"Well, Sarah," said Santa, "I have an opening for a toy maker at the North Pole. Bix would be perfect for the job."

"But it's cold there! He'll freeze!"

"Not in my workshops, deep underground. It's warm and bright, and there's lots of room for a young hungry dinosaur. And games and dancing, and plenty of company, elves and reindeer, Mrs. Claus and I. How about it, Bix? Will you go with me?"

"I'll miss you, Sarah."

"I'll never forget you, Bix." Sarah put her arms around his neck, and cried a bit onto his purple scales. Bix wrapped his tail around her and hugged her tightly. Then he let her go. 

"I'm ready, sir," he said.

"Hold your breath now," Santa said. He put his hand on Bix's blue head and gave a nod. Whoosh! Bix was gone. Whoosh! Sarah was alone. There was a thump and a bump on the rooftop, and then silence. Sarah went to bed and cried herself to sleep.

Sarah was very quiet that Christmas. There were presents: a pearl necklace from her father, the Narnia books from her mother, and mountains of chocolates and games and art supplies from the governess, the butler, the lady's maid, the cook, and the chambermaids. She thanked everybody politely, and sat looking out the window at the snow.

"What's wrong with Sarah?" asked her father.

"The princess has lost her appetite," said the cook.

"Don't you like your presents, Sarah?" asked her mother.

"Yes, mamma," said Sarah. She picked up the first Narnia book and pretended to read. But the blue cover reminded her of Bix, and the tears in her eyes made the letters blurry. 

Three days later, Sarah was sitting at her window, waiting for summer to come, when her lady's maid came to tell her there was a parcel for her in the mail, and his majesty the king desired that she come downstairs to open it. In his office, her father handed her a letter, postmarked at the North Pole. She tore it open, quickly.

North Pole,

December 25,

Dear Sarah,

 I must be getting old. I forgot to fill your stocking last night. Please accept my apologies.  I am sending your present in tomorrow's mail. I hope it is what you wanted.

We are all well here at the North Pole; a little tired after last night's work, but cheerful. I have a new toy maker here, called Bix. He sends his love.

Until next year,

Santa.

Sarah's father, the king, read the letter over Sarah's shoulder, and wondered. Sarah's mother, the queen, read the letter over her other shoulder. She wondered, too.

"Is there a parcel?" Sarah asked.

A security guard came over and gave her a package. He had been checking it over thoroughly. He had never seen a package from the North Pole before, and you couldn't be too careful.

Sarah ripped off the brown paper, and the pink and purple wrapping paper. Inside was a cell phone. A cell phone? Her own cell phone? Who would she call?

"Was that what you wanted, Sarah?" her mother asked.

"I guess so, mamma," Sarah said.

That night, after Sarah was in bed, her phone rang. "Hello?" she said.

"Hello, Sarah, it's me, Bix."

"Bix? Where are you?"

"In Santa's workshop. We get free long distance from here; Santa says I can call you every day. Did you have a good Christmas?"

"I was lonely," Sarah said. "But not now; never any more."  

Susannah Anderson, 2012

Cathedral

Let's go back a few years. A lifetime, almost. When I was a child some 70-something years ago, we lived on the far coast of Nootka Island on a narrow strip of flat land above the high tide line. Behind us, the mountain rose steeply, Douglas-Fir clad, unexplored. To the right, a couple more houses, the abandoned remains of a fish cannery, an old dock. That was it. That was the “town”.

On our left, beyond my bedroom, on stilts above the creek, the forest was a green wall. We kids crossed the creek on a fallen log. On the other bank salal bushes made an impenetrable barrier, but another fallen log, this one hollow, tunnelled through. We crawled through on hands and knees, and emerged into a dark, open space, the roof far overhead supported by wide, brown, bark-covered pillars. I called it the cathedral.

My brothers ran ahead, shouting, crossing the small promontory to the shore beyond. There, an islet, a pile of bare rock topped with sun-baked moss and a few trees, was accessible at low tide. There we would run around aimlessly, poke into tide pools, climb the rocks and trees, my brothers shouting all the while. Once we carried lunch and had a picnic.

But often, I let the boys go on and stopped in the cathedral. Here were ancient monsters, trees so tall and wide that they shut out the sunlight, leaving the area in permanent shade. Nothing grew here but the trees, the moss, and evergreen ferns.

I would find a mossy log and sit. Just listening. To the silence, the deep, heavy silence of growing things, occasionally punctuated by a laggard raindrop, filtered through the moss far overhead. Plop!

The forest smelled of wet wood, of sharp-scented moss, of musty ferns. Outside, there was always the smell of salt water, ancient fish-scented lumber; here none of that penetrated. All was green and brown; those colours still bring back the scent of that sanctuary fo me.

Virgin forest: no saws had bitten into this bark, no chainsaws had broken the silence. Looking at Google maps today, I see that the area now is criss-crossed by logging roads, with large blank, clear-cut spaces. The little creek now enters a muddy estuary. I can't find our house. 

Snow

 Sometime in the fall, when every day was grey and wet, when the coal-oil lamps were lit as soon as supper was over and the eaves dripped all through the long night, the weekly boat delivered a spark of colour; the Christmas catalogue from Sears-Roebuck, one per household. Two inches thick, smelling of fresh ink, glossy and bright. The Wish Book, Dad called it.

The first half of the book was the clothes section. Women’s clothes first, starting with the cover; the most elegant lady in a long coat. Gloves and hat and jewelry; city clothes, Sunday morning clothes. Inside, more of the same, then housedresses, jackets, shoes, purses. Underwear, pages and pages of it. Corsets with whalebones, with hooks and eyes, with laces. Stockings and garter belts. I studied it all carefully. Someday I would be a woman and wear things like that. It all looked very uncomfortable, though.

Men’s clothes came next; I flipped the pages quickly. Children’s clothes; little girls in perfect ringlets wearing birthday-party dresses. On to the tools, the washing machines, the dishes.

And finally, the toys. A dozen or so pages near the back of the catalogue. Dolls and looms for the girls. And the important part, the purpose of it all: the boys’ section. Trucks. Black metal trains that shot real sparks. Meccano. Tinkertoy. Microscopes. Ah!

In these pages I would find Christmas presents for my brothers. And wish. I knew I would get doll clothes or a loom or a sweater, as usual. But just look at that chemistry set! Just read the list of items in that box! What I could do with that!

I read every word of that toy section, even to the descriptions of the extras: “XY94357 – Batteries for the XY94356, set of four. $0.99.”

Eventually the order form was filled out, with the code numbers double-checked, the totals added up. I passed the catalogue on to Dave, reluctantly.

When the 1951 catalogue came, Mom told us to just look at it, but not to order anything; we would be getting money for Christmas, and we would go to the city – to the States! – to buy our own presents. She gave me $5.00, all for myself. I folded the bill into an inch-wide square and put it into the coin purse I used for my candy money at camp. But what would I buy with it? There was nothing in the girls’ section of the catalogue that appealed to me. I had my doll. She was old and half-bald, but I didn’t need another. What for? I had two looms already. And I couldn’t buy boy stuff; people would laugh. I checked the prices of Meccano sets, though.

In December, we took the boat down to Vancouver. We did the normal things: ate in Chinatown, visited some people in stuffy houses, waited for Mom and Dad in church offices. At a lot where a row of pointy flags flapped in the drizzle, Dad bought a car.

And then it was Christmas Day, and there was no more business to be attended to, and we had eaten pie and pickles and cranberry sauce in a brown house with a monkey tree in the yard,  and we were free at last. We crossed the border with the last shred of daylight.

It was snowing when we drove into Seattle. I rolled down my window and caught some on my sleeve until Mom made me shut the window again. Dad was driving slowly, looking for a motel.

It’s Christmas,” he said. “We’re going to find a place with television.”

I thought he was joking at first, until he passed several motels without stopping. And then, there it was; “Television in all the rooms,” the sign said. And below, in blinking blue neon, the magic word, “Vacancy”. Dad pulled into the driveway.

We sat on the beds in the semi-dark, watching. I had never seen a television before; it was like seeing a filmstrip without the projector. Except that the picture was much smaller. Greyer, too. And there was something wrong; the voices were staticky and snowflakes blurred the image. “It’s the weather,” Dad said. “Can’t be fixed. I’m sorry; should I turn it off?”

Mom said yes; we kids said no. The television stayed on.

The movie was a story about toys who had come alive. Tin soldiers marched and saluted, stuffed animals rushed about, a ballerina doll got off her pedestal and danced down the street. There were doll-house castles with towers and drawbridges, prancing wooden horses, a marching band. And around it all the snow swirled. At times, a deep fog would sweep over the screen, a fog that permitted only glimpses of moving figures, a flash of bare arm here, a carriage wheel there.

The voices were no clearer. A soldier talked excitedly with the ballerina; I could hear his tone but not his words. Trumpets blared, then faded in mid-note. A town crier shouted – I couldn’t make out what.

I couldn’t follow the story. But it didn’t matter; it was still wonderful, magical. Just right, really; why should mere mortals expect to see clearly into this other world?

The weather worsened, outside our window and on the screen. Just before the blizzard struck, I got a final glimpse of the ballerina back on her stand, on the tip of her left toe, arms over her head, the right foot pointing at the horizon. She was spinning slowly.

She danced through my dreams that night.

The next morning, Boxing Day, we went shopping. “Everything’s on sale,” Mom said. “We’ll get really nice things this year.”

In a store where the boys bought trucks, I found a new wig for my doll, marked down to four dollars. Back at home, Mom helped me glue it onto her head. I combed the hair back and tied it in a bouncy pony-tail just like the one the ballerina wore.

Reassurance

Connie opens her eyes and watches the sunlight dancing on the rug. This is her home, her green rocker, her own teapot and cup.   But will they send her away?  At her age, where can she go?  

The wind blows in the cedars; so lonesome, always.  Her afghan has slipped; her knees are cold.  Where is Peggy?

Her brother is sitting in the wing chair; very dapper in his civvies.  "...demobbed two days ago;  I'm taking the train back East," he was saying.  "Good to see you looking so well, my dear.  I see your husband takes good care of you."

"And Peggy," Connie says, "Do you know Peggy, my daughter?  Can you stay for tea?  There are biscuits and strawberry jam."  She reaches for the hand-bell on her tray, rings loudly.  The children file in, shucking off raincoats and rubbers.  "Good morning, children, good morning, good morning!"

"Morning, Mrs. White," they repeat, dutifully.  A first-grader has brought a grubby fistful of dandelions.  Peggy will put them in a glass. 

Peggy is in the doorway, drying her reddened hands on a tea-towel.  She should take better care of herself; her grey hair needs cutting, and there are dark circles under her eyes.  "Did you ring?" she asks. "I'm making some tea and sandwiches, be ready in a few minutes.  Salmon OK?"

"Strawberry jam.  I want strawberry jam."

"OK, a strawberry jam sandwich.  Do you want salmon, too?"

"No. No salmon, strawberry jam.  And tea.  And my knees are cold."  Peggy picks up the blanket from the floor, tucks it around Connie's knees, and bustles off without a word.  Why is she so rushed?

"It's all these clocks," says mother.  "Tick, tick, get up, tick tick, gobble your breakfast, tick tick, run out the door, tick tick, run, run ,run."  She rests her feet on a horsehair footstool.  "More haste, less speed, I always say."

Connie's clock doesn't tick; the hands just go around silently.  There's a battery in back, so she never has to remember to wind it up.  Peggy got her one of those new-fangled clocks with no face, just numbers that keep changing,  but it made her nervous and she gave it away.  There's no clock here in the porch; when the sunlight  touches the geranium, Peggy always brings her lunch.  So reliable, dear Peggy.

Her grandson is pouring tea.  He never puts in enough sugar.  Where is Peggy? 

Ah, here she comes, with a tray of sandwiches and a folding chair. The salmon sandwiches look good, cut in tiny triangles and garnished with fresh parsley.  Connie has one, after all.  Peggy puts an extra spoonful of sugar in her tea.

The sun has gone behind a cloud and Connie shivers.  She must have nodded off; her tea is cold. She rings the bell and her grandson comes. Handsome young man; looks just like Father. "It's chilly, I'll take you in," he says, reaching for the afghan.

"No.  I like it on the porch."  

Father leans over her.  "And how's my darling girl today?"  She loves the smell of him:  wool and cigar smoke and a faint memory of green soap.  "Busy day today in the hospital, I almost forgot your errand."  He places a brown-paper package in her hands.  She tears at the string, folds back the brown paper and layers of pale tissue.  Underneath is a mound of soft wool.  "Let's just tuck you in," Father says.  Hands caress her shoulders.

"Feel warmer?" says her grandson.  "Looks like the sun is coming out again, too!"

It is: the geraniums blaze in the slanting rays; flowers red as her school sweater, scented leaves brilliantly green.  Mother always loved geraniums.  And hollyhocks.  Why does nobody have hollyhocks any more?  Connie used to make little princess dolls out of the flowers; such beautiful flowing pink skirts they had.  She wore a pink dress, too, at the Sunday School picnic that day, the day Doug first walked her home.

Doug.  Walking down the lane, holding her hand.  Over the breakfast coffee, "Any more of that plum jam, my dear?"  Sitting beside her in church, singing just slightly off key.  Driving; right hand resting casually on the gearshift, left elbow out the window, rain or shine.  Joking, always joking, even when the chemotherapy melted away his flesh and scattered his hair on the wind.  "They'll pay me big bucks, now," he said.  "Before and after photos.  Eat all you want, lose 25 pounds!"

"Mom!  Are you crying?"  Peggy is kneeling beside Connie's rocker, holding her hand.

"No, I'm fine.  It's just the sun; it's too bright in my eyes."

"Here, let me turn the chair a bit.  There.  That's better."  

She has brought the afternoon pills.  And the supplement.  Ugh.  Delicious! says the label, but did the advertisers ever taste it?  Father pours out a big spoonful of castor oil.  "It tastes like the devil, but it will give you strong bones.  Open up!" he says.  Connie opens her mouth obediently.  Peggy places a pill on her tongue and holds a glass of cold water to her lips.  "Down the hatch!" says Father. She swallows.

"Good girl!" says Peggy "One more, and we're done! That's it!  Now the milkshake. You like that, anyhow." Connie smiles insincerely over the rim of her glass.  

While Connie drinks, Peggy sits and rests, rubbing her neck with both hands.  Before she takes the empty glass, she rearranges Connie's coverlet, tenderly, as though she were tucking in a baby.  

Connie is dozing again when a toddler pulls at her sleeve.  Peggy?  No, Peggy is grown up now.  Peggy’s daughter?  No, her granddaughter.  "Ganny," she says. "Ganny. Up."  Connie winces as the baby scrambles over her knees, and twists around to snuggle under the coverlet.  Within minutes, she is asleep.  

"She has your smile," says Doug.  He brushes the child's hair off her face with a careful finger.  "Two beautiful women!"  

"Flatterer!" laughs Connie.  He looks healthy and tanned, salt-and-pepper hair slightly tousled.  Not a trace of the cancer that killed him.  He stretches out a hand to her, inviting her to walk in the garden.

"Doug?" Connie apologizes.  "I can't go with you.  I'm old, I need a walker. Doug, I'm an old lady, I can't stay awake, and if they send me away, where will I go?"  She is sobbing now.

"Shhh! Don't cry, dearest, we'll be all right as long as we're together."  He always says that.  

"As long as we're together."  Connie smiles at him, comforted.  She rests her cheek on Doug's tweedy shoulder.

 "Peggy," Connie asks at bedtime, "am I too much work for you?"

"Of course not, Mom!  Hands up.  Good.  Now let's get this nightie on."

"I should go to a nursing home."

"This is your home.  You belong here, Mom.  OK, now, under the covers.  Let me fix that pillow." Peggy straightens the pillow, pulls the blankets up another inch and dims the light.  She bends and kisses Connie on the forehead.  "Gonna be sunny again tomorrow.  Have a good sleep."  At the door she turns back, smiling.  "We'll make it, Mom.  As long as we're together."

She leaves, but Mother sits on the slipper chair at the foot of the bed.  She is singing a lullaby.