I have a shoe box in my closet filled with poems, essays and short stories. All writings from years ago when I was earning my university degree. Now my email is brimming with drafts of anecdotes and ranting spiels. There are even flash drives with manuscripts and screenplays to boot somewhere. Until recently, I lacked the courage to share. The truth is,I am a story teller, a philosopher and a survivor who many look to for advice, opinion and insight.
I have decided not to let my insecurities about putting my words to print continue to be my accuse or deterrent not to share. Please enjoy.
The unremarkable sound solicited an unconscious glance out the window. When Melody’s gaze landed on the empty patio set the daze she had been in while unloading the dishwasher had not been broken. Until she heard it again. It was a thud, soft and muffled. It sounded like one of the black aluminum chairs bumping the wood planks of the deck as it shifted beneath an occupants weight.
This time, when she heard the noise, she took notice. Calling her attention again to the window, where within her view of the vacant outdoor dining set was a flash of something that caught her eye.
Brilliant green streaked by. What was that? An enormous bug of some sort? Were dragon flies green?
Melody thought of bright summer days lounging on the dock as kids. The lull of the sparkling waves sleepy with boredom and Melody recalled only blue dragon flies flitting around. She supposed they could be green.
The idea of a dragon fly hitting the window did not seem probable in this instance. The collision of glass and effodescent wings would be an altogether different sound, one of a messy buzzing thwack.
Another splash of green zipped out from behind the humming bird feeder and darted right back again out of Melody’s view. It hadn’t been bigger than her thumb with wings a blur, beating at an impossible rate. Such a beautiful marvel. Tiny and powerful, moving so quickly the human eye cannot quite see.
But where had the thud come from? Another flurry of fluttering wings jetted from above and to her astonishment, smacked directly into the other humming bird. Shocked by the aggression and deliberate violence, Melody reasoned this to be a display of male birds posturing. A miniture rallying of competition over a mate. The attack was swift. After blitzing the bird hovering at the feeder the offender flew back in the direction it had come.
How could something so small harbor such termendous zeel and moxy? Imagine the size of its heart, so delicate yet fierce and determined.
Curious, Melody closed the dishwasher and moved to the sink to better her view. Just beyond the window’s frame on the clothes line that stretched the entire length of the backyard perched the other bird. A sagging blue cable doubling back onto itself held and now still humming bird.
Again the tiny aviator with the higher advantage, was bomb diving the other who never faltered from its place at the feeder. Now that Melody could see the entire scene with her new position, it occurred to her that if this was over a female, shouldn’t she be close by?
There were four yellow flowers skirting the humming bird feeder. A strawberry shaped container with clear liquid offered waxy plastic flowers to surrounding humming birds. This endless supply of nector dangled there shielded from the wind in the alcove of her country home that backed onto rolling hills of farmers fields edged with and overgrowth of wild flowers. Purple, blue and, pink dotted the wide strips of tall grass that followed the fence line into the horizon. At the far end of their property, Melody’s mother fussed over a large manicured garden of irises, begonias, and rose bushes. The means of nector in the vacinity was limitless yet one humming bird flitted around the feeder as if guarding it. Protecting the open flower stalls like one would preserve a row of seats in the movie theater as they waited for their friends to arrive or return from the concession stand. This panicked frenzy to horde the plastic flowers in an effort to squeeze out the other bird made it clear to Melody that these humming birds were female. Most likely related.
This pointless and petty fight was nothing but a display of cruel catty stubborn behaviour. It became clear to Melody the bird’s were no doubt sisters.
That line that carves through our lives. In the wake of its fracture, chunks fall away, break and crumble.
Once the dust settles, there is nothing but desolate upturned earth, barren and harsh. What rises from this void is unforeseen possibility. A life never imagined, a future rerouted.
Lines with great distinction are clearer upon hindsight.
Yet, some remain unseen until crossed.
There are those lines one expects and anticipates within the texture of their life: falling in love, experiencing loss, becoming a parent, making a choice. Then, there are others that rock our entire civilization. Not only are they unexpected, they have the power to be definitive, changing the face of the world forever: recession, war, and disease.
Life is a concession of bad decisions and the constant attempt to recover.
The right choices often go unpraised. That is until they are reflected upon. A needed point of reference in contrast to another regrettable mistake. On the day I met the man I would marry and bear his child, I did not appreciate the lines I was approaching and thought nothing of crossing. Now as I look at my son and try not to think of my ex-husband, I recognize how significant my actions and decisions were. I crossed those lines blissfully unaware in a haze of loud music and blurred colours.
On that day, when I pushed a shopping cart through a near-empty grocery store in cottage country Ontario, I was in a daze as I watched the recent footage of a plane crashing into the World Trade Center. The numbness of that day was an indication that we stood at the precipice of a defining line, one that would change life forever. Looking back on that day, one I had no control over, I was more devastated by my impotence. How could something with such immense significance to so many lives be beyond expectation or control? I crossed that line muted and in slow motion in a wash of grey.
During those days, when the numbers were creeping up on the other side of the world, I clutched at the unstable fact that it had not reached our borders. Until it did. Then I did the only thing I could do. I stocked up on work books for my children, filled the pantry, stocked up on dog food, batteries, and yes toilet paper. Days later, news trickled in. This information tilted the world, putting us on a precarious slope, leaving us to slip into uncharted territory.
First, professional sporting events were cancelled. Then, school closures were announced, planes were grounded, and we were all in a stay at home order. It was real. The Covid-19 pandemic was upon us and a modern day Marshal Law was beginning to take shape. I crossed that very wide line, attempting to control what I could, in a blaze of flashing lights and the sound of constant voices.
With much consideration to the new normal, I was very well aware this line would determine forever in time.
A definitive line between before and after had been made.
A severe gouge, cutting deep through our lives and scarring our civilization. There was a true beauty in its historical significance and the shock of bearing witness. It was a turning point. Real priorities become crystal clear, life plans rerouted, and the noise faded away. The clutter of my life dissolved and all that mattered was keeping people safe. Because…
Tomorrow is imminent. Our existence is not.
Twenty years post Covid-19 is certain. The lines we must cross to get there remain unseen.
The Line
Blind to the lines which lie ahead, we cross without the slightest look back.
Splintered roads, blocked paths, clearer with distance. It’s foresight we lack.
I believe if the pandemic has shown us, as a civilization anything it is that empathy is often taken for granted. It takes work and conditioning made easier with socialization.
As someone who is an essential worker, I have noticed a gradual shift in attitudes among those who have the luxury of working from home.
Yes, I said luxury.
That is not to say I do not sympathize with the mundane and boredom working from home brings. I acknowledge the opportunity to work from home keeps employees safe, they have no risk of contracting Covid-19 or any of the countless variants at their place of work. I stress that people working from home may be bored but they are safe which is the entire point, right?
Those braving the elements for the past year to come into work have put themselves at risk at every facet of their day. Public transit, stairwells, elevators, washrooms, kitchenette are all risky as are door knobs, keyboards, telephones, and stationery. Imagine, a random routine task like grabbing a pen to jot down a note. An act we think nothing of until we catch ourselves touching our face moments afterward. Cue the sinking feeling that you have just contracted a deadly virus that will not be detected for days and could kill someone you care about all because you were thoughtless in grabbing a pen at a shared work space. This is a constant stress that has the power to eat away at any stomach lining. I think I would rather be bored.
We essential workers put our health and safety in the presumably washed hands of our colleagues every day. It is infuriating when a fellow colleague boasts about jamming with their band over the weekend, having a dinner party the night before, or crossing into another province on their days off, when the mass majority of essential workers are abiding by the stay-at-home order. We do not do this because we have nothing to do or because there is no one we care to visit. We sacrifice by staying at home because it is our civic duty to keep each other safe. We take responsibility for the health and safety of our colleagues, friends, family, and community as we all should.
Those at home are trapped within four walls. These once empathetic beings, have now spent much of their time, over the past year, feeling sorry for themselves and dwelling over their own situation. I understand it is frustrating that you cannot go to the gym but do not tell me that I am lucky to go to work. Boredom is not nearly as unhealthy as stress. Besides, only the boring are bored. If you don’t know what to do with your time, ask someone who has no free time, I bet they have a really creative list. Better yet, why not help. If you are so bored, why not volunteer to shop for your neighbor who is in isolation or shovel the walkway of a single mom who works at the hospital. Trust me, there is plenty to do if you are motivated.
The pandemic has knocked our society off balance, not that it was balanced to begin with. While some are bored out of their minds, others are scrambling to keep up. Those too busy to see straight are also those who sympathize with the other half. I do not feel that sympathy is reciprocated.
Where has the empathy gone? It too is working from home.
By being shut in for so long, many have stopped looking outward. They don’t see the dying, the suffering, the unemployed, or the stresses of the essential workers. I understand their challenges, I just don’t want to hear it anymore.
Every day, I am grateful for my family’s continuous good health and my paycheck. Although, it feels as though both are teetering on the precipice this pandemic has created. Mostly, I am grateful that I am not on the frontline. I do not have to contain with the sick or work with the assumed sick public. I have enough worry with a selected few colleagues who carelessly spread their fear mongering conspiracy theories while not able to keep their masks over their noses.
Months ago, the images on the television and social media became too much. Raw and sore faces from constant mask wearing, stories of loss and mourning for a loved one gone too soon, the nonstop display of rising numbers, and restriction announcements began to chip away at our ability to carry on. Many decided to turn it all off, but in doing so they learned to only look inward. As a way of coping, they ignored all that was still happening beyond their front doors.
We are not immune over time. The world did not heal while your back was turned.
By shutting it all out and binge-watching mindless television, many have shifted their narrowing empathy inward. The empathy has grown thin and weak over time. It is selective too, as we tend to surround ourselves with alike thinking company. Those working from home limit their zoom access to those who also work from home. This, only feeds into the now remote pity parties. The empathy that remains is reserved for the self. This is self-serving empathy.
So, if the only empathy you possess is for yourself, I suggest you get your head out of your ass. The vaccines may be on the horizon, but we are still very much in the thick of this storm.
A loose stone was kicked free by the toe of my boot. It tumbled and barrelled over the frozen gravel. It skipped and jumped as if escaping the cold, desperate to land any place but from where it was dislodged.
Little Sister – excerpt
November was such a lonely month, despite the rapid approach of my birthday. It was like being born in the dark. The trapped sky ached for the sun as it dragged heavy clouds that threatened snow across the vast desolate space. A soaring blackbird cut through my line of sight with an ominous cry. Snow would be a welcome change after the recent days of endless rain.
“Ashley!”
The sound of my name hurt my ears. Her bark snapped through the crisp morning air as if it had gone unanswered several times, but I knew better. That was just how Deb spoke my name, with an urgent exasperation reserved only for her little sister. I hadn’t realized that I had stopped to admire the anxious gloom from above until her screech caused my spine to flinch as if poked with an icy finger. The thick wool of my mitts scratched when I used it to rub at my raw nose. Deb stomped back towards me and tugged me along by the sleeve of my jacket at the elbow. I hated those morning walks to the bus, even more than I hated school. At least, whilst at school, I was free of my sisters.
“Come on! Let’s go! God, you are so braindead.” Chapped lips snarled around unmoving teeth.
As I wiped at my dripping nose again, I saw a flash of yellow between the two enormous blue spruce trees that skirted the property line. It was the school bus. I twisted out of Deb’s hold and quickened my pace. The bus still needed to run the length of the fence before it rounded the corner and stopped at the stop sign. The meeting place was at the phone booth beneath the huge hanging Pepsi sign. It creaked in the wind which I could hear. Once I pushed my toque up out of my eyes, I could even see the old Pepsi ball perched on the small hill just ahead. It was only a minute away but we had to hurry. Deb continued berating me, blaming me, but that was not why I began to clumsily run in my hand-me-down still too-big boots. Avoiding the cuss-out from my father was incentive enough to ignore the sting of frozen air in my chest and the burn in my legs from running as if weighed down by cement.
It was never a small inconvenience for us to miss the bus, although the school was just over the causeway. The fury our lateness ensued was one that unleashed a barrage of insults and inevitable one liner life lessons. His lectures were in harsh tones, full of put downs that did nothing but crush one’s spirit. The walk across the near frozen lake would be worth the risk if it meant we could avoid our father driving us to school. From behind the grill at the restaurant, beyond the breakfast rush, Hugh had a clear eye shot of the phone booth, the Pepsi sign, and the school bus that failed to stop for his two lazy girls who thought time waited for them.
Deep down I knew that the bus driver wouldn’t just drive away, especially when she could see the Watt’s girls on route. A dramatic display of running helped too. The effort alone would show we were trying to hurry and we could stay in Mrs. Darling’s bus driver’s good books. Not to mention running past the restaurant would not go unnoticed by Huge’s watchful gaze either.
By the time I reached the bus my cheeks were as red as my nose. If the door hadn’t folded open as soon as I got there I might have remembered my place. In my haste to get there, I forgot to think and began to climb the bus steps. When I fell back, I landed hard and felt my lunch crunch beneath my weight. Yep, my Thermos digging into my back would surely leave a mark. Stupid, stupid Ashley. Deb always got on the bus first. The bus driver’s eyes followed my older sister to the back of the bus before they dropped to me. The smile she offered was weak, as if she pitied my foolishness. When would I learn? As always, the only available seat was beside Mrs. Darling’s toddler strapped into his car seat in the front row. At least the worst part of my day was over.
It’s funny how memories bleed together like a smear of clouds in a bleak grey sky. Every day looked the same, yet only one sticks out. A path I walked almost everyday from September through to June and a single memory of one not so significant day stands in the place of many. Perhaps, I blocked them out. Perhaps, they were not remarkable enough to take up precious memory storage. Perhaps the marks they left on my memory were so deep my recollection just jumps right over the narrow dark gouge left in my childhood.
It was sad, this gouge is not the only one. I don’t talk about my childhood. When asked, I skip through it like a child avoiding cracks in a sidewalk. This is done without much thought or consideration although, I still move more briskly down these dark alleys as a way not to get tripped up by the serpents and demons that lurk within.
Now that I have my own children, I often reach back into my memories in hopes to offer them worthwhile lessons and antidotes. Sometimes I stumble upon one of these many cracks which I am now too big to fall into. With age, the serpent and demon who reside there are not as scary as they seemed long ago.
This is an excerpt from Little Sister – a novel in the making .
An Emily Wright original
Ashley was looking for the cat. She sat on the ugly carpet of the new house with its diamond pattern in every shade of brown, flipping through the pages of the photo album. Emptying the boxes of books onto the shelf had been her job but it was too dull. What seven year old would not go leafing through photos in lieu of doing a chore? On the spine of one thick binder was a tattered square of masking tape with 1975-80 written on it in a hasty black marker.
This album was all too tempting as it held the promise of her baby pictures. In hand-me -down shorts and a tank top, Ashley was all sharp shoulders, pointy elbows, and knobby knees folded there on the floor on the first weekend of summer break of 1981. Freckles at all of her corners had sprouted up over the last few days. There was no more space on her face evident by the smattering that covered her eyelids. Her skin wasn’t tanned as much as it was consumed by the less pale dots. Someone had once said that freckles were kisses from the sun God. “Then, my little sister was molested,” was witty Deborah’s quick response. Voicing her not always appropriate or appreciated opinion was an unfortunate side effect of her attention seeking disorder. Often such comments came at the expense of her little sister. Most of the photos were Polaroids and all had a greenish tinge. There were very few pictures of just Ashley. Someone was always holding her or feeding her. Wait, was she eating in every picture? That thought didn’t last long as something caught her eye. There was a picture of Ashley on her mother’s lap, eating of course as a four year old Deb grinned at the camera clutching a doll. Ashley didn’t recognize the doll but the red pants and white shirt with a strawberry print caused her to take pause. An odd feeling sort of blurred her edges. She shifted as if uncertain of the floor beneath her. The breath in her lungs got hot as she flipped back through the pages. She didn’t know what she was looking for until she saw it. Three pages back, she had glanced over a photo that now held her undivided attention. Her mom was sitting on the edge of the bed reading to Debra as a tiny Ashley layed on her stomach in the background. Too small to be the main focus and too young to even lift her head, the baby Ashley wore red pants and a strawberry printed shirt. She couldn’t understand what she was seeing or why it held her in place. She only knew that something fractured in that moment. The idea was so inconceivable that it hurt her brain. She tried blinking and squinting around it but it was like a clog in a drain stopping all flow of thought. The next thing she knew she was scanning pictures looking for the cat. Had her sister dressed Fiskis, the cat in her clothes too? It was hard enough being the youngest of three, but to then learn that her station in life was equal to or less than the doll’s existence had cracked something, the lense of her rose coloured glasses maybe. Just then there were footfalls on the stairs. It was her mother. “There you are,” she said.” You were just supposed to stack the books and come back. We have a lot to do.” Ignoring this, Ashley stood with the album stressed wide open out over her arm. A jagged finger nail with a dark line of dirt tapped at the one page before pressing into another. “Look.” Her mother took a cursory glance at the two photos because her arms were full of cleaning supplies meant for the laundry room. “Is Deb’s doll dressed in my clothes?” “Yes, it appears so.” Not understanding how staggering this knowledge was to her third daughter, Ashley’s mom continued on to the dank corner of the room. “No really mom, or am I wearing Debra’s doll clothes?” “I doubt I would have put you in doll clothes.” Her tone was dismissive as always but also unconvincing. After lining the shelf above the washing machine with the bottles of cleaner she had brought down, Ashley’s mother returned to the stairs. “Don’t be long. We will be setting up your room next,” and she disappeared to the main level of the bungalow. By your room she meant the one that Debra and Ashley would be sharing just as they had in the old house. Ashley had been named after her mother because for lack of imagination she had been named after her father’s favorite women; his wife, his mother and his grandmother. You would think that such an honour would be reserved for the eldest. But no. Ashley shared a room with her sister, owned nothing but hand me down clothing and had just discovered that even those she borrowed from her sister’s doll. There were no boundaries. Ashley had no distinct outline, she was just a blur with no features, form, or purpose. An inconvenient after thought as a way to maintain the rule of threes. Both of her parents were the eldest of three who knew no better than to repeat the tradition. Was it out of obligation? After the first two, why not just get a dog? She felt like a pretense with no real identity. Suddenly the move seemed less exciting. Their room was at the end of the hall. From its doorway, Ashley watched as Debra labored to stretch a long piece of tape through the not-quite middle of the carpet. Ever the opportunist, she had already arranged the furniture. But everything seemed lopsided. Entitled as only an older sister could be, Debra’s side of the room had the desk and two thirds of the dresser as well as the window, the closet, and the door. A bed pushed into a corner of bear walls and one stack of drawers was carved out for Ashley according to the line of tape. Good thing she expected no less. At the dinner table , Ashley was surrounded by older siblings who filled the moments when the television news cast was in commercials with rhetoric that supported their dismissiveness and mistreatment. The baby of the family was spoiled and the youngest was always an irresponsible free spirit. For most of her childhood she had assumed that they were talking about her Aunt and Uncle. Even Ashley was of the opinion that her dad’s baby sister was a phony con artist and her mother’s little brother was an out of touch hippy before she knew what any of those words meant. It had not occurred to her how such dinner time chatter would shape her own role within that family of vipers.
Bright ribbons of colour strewn across a warm summer sky. Singing birds and open flowers thrived beneath a shining sun with an endless horizon of emerald grass. Until, a pin prick of black pierced the scene and swelled into a gaping hole. All colour drained and in its place she heard her name.
Disappointment and loss ravished her awoke. The sound of her name scratching at the night had the distinct irritation of a word repeated.
There in the shadowed corner of her room, Ashley could make out parts of her sister’s face. Eyes found her and had dug her from her dream while lips that refused to whisper spoke again.
“Ash! You awake?”
There was no fake sleeping, Debra would just persist. Ashley did not want another pillow or stuffed animal hurled at her bed so she turned to her older sister. Two or three times a week, Debra would wake from her nightmares afraid, sad, or sometimes just lonely. So she would need her little sister.
Blankets rustled and the mattress squeaked as Debra made room for Ashley. There was no question the five year old would oblige. To fill the role of life sized teddy bear, Ashley crossed the dark room. Rumpled and dishevelled, she did not complain nor refuse. She just slipped into Debra’s bed. It was her duty after all as a good sister, she supposed or at least that was what Debra had told her.
The stink of her sister’s breath was hot on Ashley’s cheek as the bigger girl clung to her, but she was too tired to care. Soon Debra would be asleep. She would thrash, kick, and punch but not before twisting around all of the covers into a heap within her depraved embrace. There were no corners of sheet or pieces of loose quilt to tug free to keep Ashley warm. Instead, she did not move. It was too soon. Shivering and claiming her sliver of the mattress, she knew to wait for the unmistakable change in Debra’s breathing as a sign that she could return to the safety of her own bed.
By the time that happened, all fragments of sleep were gone. The pretty ribbons of colour had faded and her dream was lost to the night. Cold and uncomfortable, Ashley was awake and alone in the dark.
After all, what right did she have to slumber when Debra couldn’t sleep?
Katy followed. It was not odd for her stuffed turtle to be speaking. Nor was it strange that he stood even to her height. Kids do not question these things, especially when dreaming. The toque upon Cutie’s green head and the matching scarf around his long neck did make the girl wonder about the awaiting adventure, until she saw it.
Snow piles glittered in the dim light as she plodded through in her sock feet. It would have been beautiful if it were not so cold and inside.
They were standing in Katy’s living room she realized. Snow topped the furniture and floor like a fluffy whip over dessert. A smattering of icy white crystal’s dusted the walls and tall drifts pushed up against the door. A layer of frost covered the windows like thick gauze, too.
There, in the corner of the room stood the saddest sight of all. The Christmas tree, snow-covered and dark, it didn’t look like Christmas at all.
A chill formed in Katy’s chest and the lump she swallowed away brought tears to her eyes.
“What happened to Christmas?” She sniffed.
“It was canceled.” Cutie said. “Don’t you remember? No one can go out or come visit. Everyone is stuck inside.”
She tried to turn and run back to her room but the snow was too heavy. It held her in place. Katy pulled Cutie in for a hug, but her fuzzy friend shrank back to his normal size. In her arms, she held a stuffed toy. With no expression nor words, Cutie was of little comfort. Katy felt all alone.
Clutching her plush turtle tight, she was afraid as she looked around the room. Beneath the tree, two mounds of snow sat where there had once been wrapped gifts, but Katy didn’t care. She wanted the indoor winter to go away, for the lights to come on, and for her family to appear.
Her bottom lip quivered and Cutie’s shell was soft against her wet face.
A glint of something caught her eye. At first, Katy thought her tears had blurred her vision. But then, it happened again. Glassy specks of snow on the window sill had turned to gold.
As if caught in a breeze, they lifted and swirled. The tiny wind funnel grew bigger, stringing the grains together. Once the shiny strands had threaded as one, Katy recognized it as the dream rope.
Stardust hissed as it sifted and spun into a golden cord. Then, it fanned out. Shimmering twine glowed yellow as it took the shape of her Sandman. Katy beamed at her dream superhero as he materialized before her.
When the boy emerged, Katy hugged her ten-year-old brother, Samson.
“You came.” She said.
With her arms around his middle, Samson took in the sight of their living room. “What is all of this?”
“I know.” She sobbed. “Can you fix it?”
“Katy, it is Christmas Eve. You don’t have bad dreams on Christmas Eve.”
“Looks like I do.”
Peering up at him through her wet lashes, Katy couldn’t wait for her big brother to do what he always did. Samson had the power to turn her bad dream into a good one with the touch of his magic hand. He didn’t move. In his plaid pajamas, special for Christmas, he seemed sad as he looked around the cold dark room.
“Katy, we need to figure this out.”
“Just fix it.” She pulled back from their embrace.
“I can’t.” He shrugged and her eyes welled up again. “Not without knowing why you are dreaming about this. See, all of your other bad dreams make sense. I understand them.”
“Monsters chase me in most of my dreams. You understand that?” She asked and he did not miss her note of sarcasm.
“I do. You were afraid of something.”
“Yeah, monsters-“
“No.” He chuckled. “Well yes. Obviously, but dreams are more like messages from yourself to yourself. The monsters are a symbol for something.” Katy wrinkled her nose. “Your chase dreams always happened the nights before something big. Like your piano recital last year.” He nodded trying to coax her memory, “or just before you had to do those terrible evaluation tests at school. And remember the night before I went in for my surgery? You were afraid of all of those things and they appeared in your dreams as big green lizards.”
“Dragons,” she corrected.
“Right, dragons,” Sam sighed and his breath clouded between them. “So what is this about?”
“I don’t know. You’re the dream know-it-all. You tell me.”
“Okay, let’s figure this out together. I think it’s important for us to understand why you are dreaming about this.” Samson looked around considering the snow and the dim room and the shadow of the Christmas tree. “What’s the worst part about this scene?”
“Um, it’s covered in snow.”
“Exactly, how does that make you feel?”
“Cold,” she huffed creating another burst of fog.
“But you don’t hate snow. You play in it all the time. We go sledding; you make snow angels, and build snowmen. As long as you are dressed for it, it’s fun, right? Snow days are your favorite after all. You like snow.”
Katy pondered. “It’s dark.”
“Right, so it’s cold and dark. What do you think that means? When you first saw it, how did you feel?”
“Sad and all by myself,” her little chin trembled.
“Why would you think that you would be alone for Christmas?”
“Because this year it is canceled, that’s what the man said on the television and what Mommy told nanna and papa.”
“Katy, we put up the tree and hung our stockings. Mom baked all of our favorites and we do our chocolate calendars every day. It is not canceled.”
“But we aren’t going to see anyone and no one’s coming to visit.”
“Is this about presents?” His question was slow and gentle.
Katy’s eyes dropped to the two lumps in the snow beneath the tree. Chewing on her bottom lip, she seemed to consider. Then, she shook her head.
“Are you sure? Because it’s okay if it is, it makes sense, your seven. Gifts are a big part of Christmas at you’re age.”
“No!” With that, she crossed her arms and pushed out her bottom lip in defiance. “I can prove it!”
Unconvinced, Samson shrugged.
“Look,” she said pointing. “All the snow is piled at the door and we cannot get out! We cannot even see out!” She pointed again, this time at the frosted window. “My feet were stuck in the snow too. I felt trapped.”
“Oh, that’s good, Katy. Okay, now I understand.” He lowered his face to her so he could meet her eyes. “This dream is about not being able to change what is going on right now. We all feel that way, and it’s alright to be scared, frustrated, or even sad.” Samson offered his baby sister a small smile. “But you know we can see everyone. We just have to do it virtually. Mom and dad can set that up. And, I know, we will talk and see everyone tomorrow.”
“Are you sure?” Katy’s eyebrows pulled together.
“I am. I heard mom say she would put the call on the TV. That way nana and papa, Grampa Joe, and everyone will seem live size, as if they are here.”
“Really?” Her small hands came together under her chin.
“How about, we fix this dream of yours now.”
Katy giggled and clapped with excitement. Snow crunched as the dream hopper stepped towards the window and reached out his hand. Then, the most amazing thing happened.
Dream Hopper: Christmas Dream GIF.
Beneath Samson’s palm, the frost encrusted glass began to clear. Outside, a winter wonderland appeared. Snow-covered rooftops and snowmen were all aglow by the strings of Christmas lights wound around porches, framing front doors, and lining shrubs and bushes. Katy’s eyes grew big as her mouth drew up into a grin.
The branches of the tall indoor evergreen sagged beneath patches of snow. Using his fingers, Samson brushed the needles of the tree. Then, in a burst of sparkling diamonds, the snow exploded, leaving the most beautiful holiday tree in its place. As the powder sprinkled down, Samson and Katy admired the magnificent twinkling lights, colorful shimmering ornaments, and the brilliant glow of the star at the very top.
Katy sucked in a breath of wonder as the warmth dappled her cheeks.
Before crouching, Samson eyed her as the enchanted sight held her attention. Then, he pressed his fingers into the snow at her feet. Like magic, a gust of wind lifted the blanket of snow. Sifting it into ice crystals they flashed into glittery specs before disappearing.
Beneath the tree stood two gifts, Samson watched his little sister as her interest still did not fall to the wrapped parcels. Instead, she was peering at the stairway. There, two sets of slippers emerged as their parents descended wearing their typical Christmas morning robes.
“Merry Christmas,” their mother said as she reached the living room. Not able to contain her joy, Katy leaped forward, wrapping her arms around her mother.
“Merry Christmas, mommy,” she said.
“Look,” her father said as he picked her up and moved closer to the tree. Pulling Samson into a hug, they all turned to see out the window. There, was the most wonderful sight of all. Katy and Samson’s grandparents were approaching the house. On their doorstep, they had left Nana’s Christmas cake and a bag of goodies. The couple stood waving and blowing them kisses. Framed by the window, the four waved back.
Their grandpa Joe arrived next and placed a poinsettia on their stoop. Bundled up against the winter, he too stepped back to wave and smile at them. Before long there were cousins, aunts, uncles, and close friends all dotting the most amazing winter morning view. The sight of family and friends they hadn’t seen in a very long time, warmed their hearts and lifted their spirits.
“Thanks, Sandman.” Katy, still in her father’s arms, looked at her brother and smiled. “This is the best Christmas dream ever. Thank you for doing this for me.”
“Merry Christmas, Katy,” He said squeezing his little sister’s hand.
With that, Samson faded back into sparkling grains of golden sand. They sifted and twisted into a thin strand. It was beautiful, the dream rope, how it brought her Sandman into her dreams to make them good. Spinning, the glittering yellow crystals burst over Katy’s head. Christmas flurries of every color filled the air before melting into the night.
Trump and Bush, I am sure that is a punchline to a joke right there. However, a few years back a recording of Billy Bush speaking to Donald Trump hit the headlines. You may recall, it was October 2016 and Donald Trump was caught making crude comments about women.
“And when you’re a star they let you do it. You can do anything. Whatever you want. Grab them by the pussy.”
Those were Trump’s words as Bush jeered him on. This, is old news. It comes up again now because my son has just started dating and he plays hockey. Trump had defended himself by saying that…
…it was guy talk, just locker room banter.
Personally, I dated my fair share of hockey players in my youth and it pains me still to consider the context my name was mentioned during ‘said’ locker room banter. There are countless teammates out there who know intimate details about my relationships. I know that when a girl’s name comes up within the confines of that smelly cinderblock room it is not favorable to her reputation. Her body type would be offered up as bits of entertainment followed by the length she is unwilling or willing to go to display her affections.
No doubt, she is unaware that she has been entered into some sex competition by a boy who claims to love her, but would never admit THAT in the locker room. This I know.
Let me be perfectly clear, I did not date the pigs. ‘This’ was how the ‘better boy’s’ behaved.
The stories I heard about the pigs I cannot bring myself to repeat. However, the betrayal I experienced was far reaching, well beyond the comprehension or shelf lives of my ex-boyfriends. I remember a night, long after my puck bunny days, when I met a boy at a bar. We really hit it off, or so I thought. It was not until the goodnight kiss on my porch did I realize that he knew me way better than I had thought.
Having knowledge of a long gone relationship of mine, his expectation was to get in on some of that. The date came to an abrupt end, but not before his intended angle bit in and left its mark. He did not go away quietly, to the point that I instantly regretted letting him drive me home, thus knowing where I lived.
After Trump’s comments had gone viral as did his locker room banter defense, a reporter went the dressing room of an NHL team that will remain nameless. The players denied locker room banter and were adamant that they had better things to talk about.
Bullshit! You bunch of pussies! You are so aware of how badly you behave that you can not even defend the (then) President of the United States!
The #metoo movement has men spinning as they consider all they ways they have objectified women in their past and pray to God that no one calls them out for it as they attempt to slither over to the right side of history.
Here is proof that locker room banter happens and how quickly mindsets have become out dated.
Consider the movie ‘Mystery Alaska.’
In 1999, Russel Crow starred in a hockey movie; one that I really enjoyed at the time. I could relate. Of course I could, I grew up in a hockey town. Within the main story line there is a threat; a misogynistic, incriminating little thread. A character appropriately named Skank; the town player brags about a sexual conquest in the locker room. Another teammate, Bobby, told his girlfriend what Skank said. She, in turn repeated it to the girl the comment had been about. Rightfully pissed off, she hit Skank over the head with a shovel when he showed up on her doorstep for the inevitable booty call.
The punishment for this violation of trust was to skate ass first into a snowbank wearing only skates, helmet, and jock. The offender, Bobby. Because he repeated something said in the confines of the locker room breaking some sacred code where boys can behave like utter jack-assess in common company.
Moral of this story – boys enable, encourage, and embrace bad boy behavior. Or they used to. Only they can change that by rejecting it. Hopefully, we are able to raise better men who have the power and courage to change the topics of locker room banter.
‘Mystery Alaska’ is just one of hundreds of movies made in the last 30 years that highlights the now outdated attitudes towards gender. This is to only address the mistreatment of women. Don’t get me started on the full spectrum of equality as it relates to the LGBTQ community, race relations, economic divisiveness, representation of the disabled, and any group that is marginalized in any way.
Samson Hopkins is a dream hopper. He needs his sister’s help and finds her on a roller coaster.
Sam cannot help Evy without his little sister. By engaging his power like he has never done before, Sam steps into his sister’s good dream to recruit her for the dream job. He had not expected to find Katy on a roller coaster.
Samson Hopkins is a dream hopper. After meeting Evy, Sam learns the truth about his superpower.
Not only is the dream cord blue when Sam is with Evy, she tests everything about his powers. Sam learns the truth about her and himself but does not know how to help her. Sitting in her kitchen, answers are found over dessert.
