a frivolous five minutes over fish & chips with ‘m’ — age 8

I have known M all her live-long life but not until recently did we spend a whole day together beginning with ice-cream for breakfast, followed by a few hours at the beach where we leave messages on hand-painted rocks such as “Enjoy the birds!” and “The beach is beautiful!”. We collect a far too heavy bag of unpainted ones and pick up some litter and slosh about skipping stones and looking for beach glass, of which we find a surprising amount—mostly green.

Later, en route to the art gallery (where we plagiarize some of our favourite pieces with crayons and sketch pads) we meet a man with a lizard named Igor. There’s a lovely woman named Jenny in a chip truck who gives us waaaay too many chips, but not too many to eat. Later we buy a cotton candy flavoured milkshake, which is not finished and which I’m not sure we would recommend.

There is lunch on a patio overlooking a lake and much chatter in the car on the drive to a small town where we traipse up and down both sides of the main street, searching for just the right thing and once we decide what that is and go back to the store to get it, the store is closed and there we are, hands and dropped-jawed faces pressed up against the glass, neither of us able to speak because the ‘just the right thing’ is SO VERY RIGHT and can not be found in any of the other shops in town.

Because, believe me, we looked…

And then, in the distant dark of the store, we see the woman who’d been there earlier behind the counter… and we wave through the window and jump up and down and instead of getting her purse and going home, the woman marches through the store, straight to the door, and she opens it.

And this is so thrilling our insides are all a-tremble.

We explain about the JUST THE RIGHT THING and the woman says, “Of course, come in.” And so we do. And M runs to the shelf where the Right Thing is and shouts its name and hugs it until it says moo in relief and joy of adoption, for the JUST THE RIGHT THING is a soft and huggable cow named Cowy.

And all the way home in the car the chatter centres around the dreadful, barely thinkable What If ???— What if people weren’t as wonderful as they are and the door had not been opened and Cowy had to spend a long, long night alone (with the other ‘not so quite right’ things) in the store?? Our minds boggle at the very idea. And our insides tremble for some time to come.

—Things about M:  she likes apples and everything about school and her favourite colour is not pink.

How long could you go without talking?  Three minutes

Do you prefer silence or noise?  I like sound in the background, but sometimes I like quiet.

How many pairs of shoes do you own?  More than ten.

If you won $25 million?  I’d get one or two things that my family want and five things for me.

One law you’d make?  No littering.

Unusual talent?  I swam the whole length of my grandma’s pool underwater without breathing.

What do you like to cook?  Sundaes. Vanilla with Oreos and caramel and strawberries cut like hearts… and that’s with NO recipe. I can also do it with chocolate sauce.

Have you or would you ever bungee jump?  No.

What’s the most dare-devilish thing you’ve done?  Stepping into a lake with fish.

Do you like surprise parties, practical jokes?  I like surprise parties and I kind of like practical jokes.

Favourite time of day?  Afternoon. It’s more sunny.

What tree would you be?  An apple tree. That way I could give people food.

Best present ever received?  The watch that my grandma gave me that was my grandpa’s.

What do you like on your toast?  Nutella.

The last thing you drew a picture of?  The picture I did at the art gallery called ‘Creative’.

Last thing written in ink.  A list of paintings and things in the gallery.

Favourite childhood meal?  Spaghetti.

What [past] age did you like best?  Two.

Would you go back to that age if you could?  Yes.

Best invention?  Well it’s definitely not Twitter.

Describe your childhood bedroom.  I share a bunk-bed with my sister, posters on the closet, Justin Bieber on the door, two dressers, karaoke machine, purple walls, two piggy banks and bookshelves up to the ceiling.

Afraid of spiders?  Yes.

Phobias?  Locked doors, dark.

Least favourite teacher and why?  Don’t have one. I like them all.

Favourite children’s story?  Smelly Socks and Sometimes I Like to Curl up in a Ball

Ideal picnic ingredients?  Monkey blanket, apples, Nutella, books, sandwiches, pencil crayons, colouring book, journal, bananas.

Is Barbie a negative role model?  No.

Best thing about Canada?  There’s no poisonous snakes.

Best thing about people in general?  They’re polite and respectful and some of them are thoughtful.

What flavour would you be?  Banana sherbet.

What colour?  Orange.

What would you come back as?  A unicorn.

Favourite saying:  “Don’t litter.”

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—the frivolous five, a series of frivolity…

spells, spelled with words…

“I wished I could visit a Museum of Unnatural History, but, even so, I was glad there wasn’t one. Werewolves were wonderful because they could be anything, I knew. If someone actually caught a werewolf, or a dragon, if they tamed a manticore or stabled a unicorn, put them in bottles, dissected them, then they could only be one thing, and they would no longer live in the shadowy places between the things I knew and the world of the impossible, which was, I was certain, the only place that mattered.
          “There was no such museum, not then. But I knew how to visit the creatures who would never be sighted in the zoos or the museum or the woods. They were waiting for me in books and in stories, after all, hiding inside the twenty-six characters and a handful of punctuation marks. These letters and words, when placed in the right order, would conjure all manner of exotic beasts and people from the shadows, would reveal the motives and minds of insects and of cats. They were spells, spelled with words to make worlds, waiting for me, in the pages of books.”  

—Neil Gaiman, from the Introduction to Unnatural Creatures (Harper Collins, 2013)
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why write, i ask myself

Well, I answer… here’s one reason:

I write because there’s so bloody much to understand and how would I ever begin to understand any of it except to note the questions and play with the answers in the form of possibilities and see the shape of it all on the page until I can see myself within it somewhere… and then maybe, just maybe, through the alchemy of time and distance I might be able to do at least this much— to look backward or forward and say yes, I see how I’m different now, and how I’m the same.

What I do with that understanding is, of course, another thing entirely.
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On the other hand I might just be fond of moving commas about…

…or want to change the world or have an excess of words in my head that don’t neatly fit into any of my cupboards. It could be that Nancy Drew had more of an effect on me than I realize and I’m still trying to write that perfect Hidden Staircase. My fondness for sitting near open windows shouldn’t be discounted, nor should my ability to sit in rooms by myself for hours with little company other than open windows. I attribute that last quality to the number of time-outs I received as a child, only then they were called “Go to your room and stay there!”
If only my dear parents knew how that was but music to my ears…

And what about the girl who delivers newspapers with a smile and a wooden cart and appears to have no idea how special she is — who will write about her if I don’t?

Perhaps I write because I can. Or I am. Therefore I do. Maybe it’s complicated like that. Maybe I haven’t a clue.

Maybe it doesn’t matter. Maybe I should stop asking stupid questions and get back to work.

♦♦

one way to do pei ‘up west’

 
*Fly.

When you land in Charlottetown, notice the children playing with a puppy on the grass right outside the airport doors. Unless said children are paid to do this… realize you have come to an enchanted isle.
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Drive directly to the Oyster Barn in Malpeque [with a stop for chips en route to take the edge off near starvation from not being offered so much as a pretzel on the flight.]IMG_2400
At Malpeque, get a table by the window, order at least a dozen briny beauties to eat there [and a dozen to take with you]. Watch the fishermen coming in from a day’s work, unloading their haul, swabbing decks. If you have the chance, tell them thank you.

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Arrive at your ‘up west’ lodgings. Run fast, the mosquitoes are hungry. Hug friends who greet you with a key and a jar of homemade, wild strawberry jam. Later, after a thunderstorm, walk to the beach where a rainbow will be waiting.IMG_2409
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Wake to a sun-flooded yellow room. Eat bread and jam and drink peach infused tea with pink rosebuds. Drive to North Cape to see where the Northumberland Straight and the Gulf of St. Lawrence meet and where sometimes there are seals or farmers gathering Irish moss. Take pictures of Queen Anne’s Lace and things that are purple and then stop at Charley’s Cookhouse — sit outside and breathe salt air. Order fried clams.
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Go to any beach, any beach at all, with a picnic of chicken legs, potato salad, watermelon and a sketch pad. Do not go for the crowds.
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Wonder about the number of orphan gloves you will find.
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Take those oysters you bought in Malpeque and shuck them on the rocks at Kildaire Cape at sunset and discover a replacement for North Cape’s now-extinct Elephant Rock.
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See a starfish.
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Be a starfish.
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Visit McAusland’s Mill where wool has been spun by rows of whizzing machines for close to a hundred and fifty years and penny ante games of cards are played at break time. There are no tours and no one tells you to keep your hands away from the whizzing machinery. Beautiful things are made here. Kick yourself for not bringing an extra suitcase. Afterwards, stop at a little craft place in an old schoolhouse and discover that the woman working there has a son in Ottawa who is doing an animated film with Donald Sutherland. Stop also at the long abandoned Lewis Motel and discover that the pay phone still works.
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Buy potatoes by tossing coins into a wooden box at the end of a farmer’s driveway then watch the water turn rust when you wash them.

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They say the mud is strong enough to permanently dye clothing. Try it.

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At least once, get up early enough to see the sun rise.

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Find a fiddle festival to attend and become certain that in some small way all’s right with the world.

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Uncover island mysteries such as what makes the biggest tree on PEI grow so tall…

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Find once-mythical lanes at the end of which friends will appear and take you to what is quite possibly the best restaurant on the whole of the island.

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Find almost-buried treasure.

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And in a churchyard, find the grave of Sharon Jean who died at 6 months in 1954. Someone has left fresh flowers there.

On Thursday, buy halibut from the back of the fish guy’s truck. Have it for dinner on Friday with a salad made of garlic and chives and local green beans.

Take pictures of lighthouses, impossible views and of yourself in your clam-digging best.

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Take time to sit at the town pond—after lunch at The Pier where the herons are great little posers and the clouds are shaped like teddy bears; after being lucky enough to get the last baguette at the French place; after a browse through the second-hand clothing store where you will find a pair of black pin-striped pants for $1.00; after visiting the gallery of local art (which includes an inspiring button ‘collage’) and the museum, which used to be a jail and where you can look up your family’s history in the area to see if any of them were ever a guest of Her Majesty— Just sit there a while and consider that life really could not be sweeter and if you’re still in doubt, ask a group of people in the gazebo right there on the edge of the pond… ask them where is the local book shop and marvel as they each offer their own animated version of how to get to it… around the corner.

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* If driving, take pretzels.

—More travel notes…

Stratford
Montreal
Miami
Niagara Region
Peterborough
Chile
Vancouver