Whispers from the Myth Teller

I was just listening to CBC's Definitely Not the Opera where the host, Sook-Yin Lee, asked "If you could take back something from your youth, what would it be?" (the show was about nostalgia).

So I dusted off those rusty memory boxes, cracked them open with much squeaking and clouds of dust, and padded through pictures, trading cards, and Star Wars action figures until I found a set of keys. House keys, to be exact. One key for a deadbolt, the other for the door. They are discolored green and brown, worn with age, but they slid easily in the the locks of Little House where I spent many happy, youthful days in the summers past.

Every couple of weekends, my family would drive out to the town of St. Malachie, near Frampton. This was a wee pocket of Irish and Scottish families where four generations of my father's side of the family lived after arriving from Ireland via Grosse Isle. Living alongside the Tremblays and the Langlois' were the proud Irish family names like Hickey, Murphy, O'Rourke, O'Farrell, O'Grady, and Beatty.

The Little House was owned by The Aunties, who were my grandfather's sisters. At any one time, Madeleine, Bertha, and Dot could be found bustling in the kitchen, serving tea, and catching up on the news and gossip about the far-flung members of my hoary-old Irish family. It was a tiny, two-storey house with a rickety porch and fake brown-brick panels covering the exterior walls, some half-cracked and hanging on by rusty nails and love.

As the wooden screen door SMACK-Smack-smecked shut, it announced to the room of people that new company had arrived with the promise of news and more good conversation. Bertha would be up in a flash for a hug and a kiss, with Dot dashing down the creaky stairs, and Madeleine wiping her hands on her apron as she pulled another fresh strawberry pie from the oven. I was a shy, awkward boy in those days, but I knew to shake hands with everyone in the room and grin on cue when they ruffled my hair or commented on how tall I was. I would run my hands along the textured, dark flowers that rambled across the upholstered couches like muted wildfire. I would pick at the flaking paint on the walls until I became aware of people watching, then laughing as I tried to be non-chalant about my low-grade destruction habits.

I tried to enjoy the adult conversation, but it centred about the local news, politics, the damn Tories, and whose gall-bladder needed removing. I would eventually wander away from the living room to take to Madeleine and maybe get a slice of her mystical strawberry pie (it frustrated my mother to no end that she could never quite duplicate that pie perfectly). She would shoo me away, promising me a slice after lunch, or send me into the basement for something she needed.

I both dreaded and loved the basement of that house. It was dark, old, and musty. I could still hear the endless conversations above, but they were muffled and distant, disconnected voices that were strange, yet familiar. I always feared basements: although I was always curious to discover the treasures that were lost in storage, I feared the creatures that might be guarding them, their eyes tracing my every move and dreaming of how delicious my muffled screams would be. I would start out bravely searching for what Madeleine needed, but tear up the stairs in a mad panic once I found it. She would then shoo me out of the house again, laughing off the sinister possibilities of toothed potentialities in her basement.

The property was tiny: just enough space for a few cars to park in the matted grass, a small wooden shed, and a couple of picnic tables. The tall grass and weeds behind the house was so thick, I wondered if I would ever find my way back to the house if I wandered into it. I spent many summers rummaging in the wooden shed, searching for a way that I could explore the jungles behind the Little House and discover their secrets.

The second floor of the Little House was filled with beds. Ornate metal bedframes, squeaky bed springs supporting squishy mattresses and soft linens that invited lazy afternoon naps. The doubled-paned wood-framed windows welcomed warm sunbeams that inched across the pages of a favourite book as I spent afternoons lost in worlds of dragons, bold knights, and the odd papercut. Even the air seemed filled with dusty denizens that were only revealed with warm sunlight as they drifted from room to room, ghosts that could only be temporarily exorcised by an expertly-wielded feather duster.

When I wasn't exploring the Little House, sipping tea, and stealing extra slices of strawberry pie, I was visiting with my cousin Andrew, who lived only a few houses away. He seemed to regard every inch of the country-side with a lackadaisical attitude that bewildered my city-based sensibilities. Whenever I visited, we read comic books and we swung in the hammock, ducking away from the occasional crab apple that would be shook loose from the constant swaying. We went fishing, explored the back woods, and debated the mystery of girls, their wildish ways, and how cool it would be if we had the nerve to prove how cool we were. We put too much ketchup on our hotdogs while we watched scrap metal wrench and fly at the local demolition derby. We dodged the angry francophone kids who despised our English-speaking ways and warned us that we should go home or else. Mostly, we assured our parents that we were keeping out of trouble and rarely got into as much destruction as they always feared we would.

And then it would be Sunday, with the sun setting in the distance. My Dad would drive up to my cousin's house to pick me up and we'd be off to the city again. I would watch the old houses disappear in a cloud of dust, wonder if the old Targ video game in Hotel Paradis had changed as we drove past, and wait to see the familiar white and green bridges that connected the North shore of Charny to the South shore of Quebec city.

Those days are precious to me. Now that I've written this, I need to go back and visit, even though the Little House has been empty for many years and lists dangerously in the wind. Maybe I can get Bertha or Dot to lend me a key and I can unlock my past one more time.

A few people have been asking me about this, so here are the particulars:

Wake:

Funeral Home Lepine Cloutier
1025, rte de l'Église
Sainte Foy, Qc
Google Maps

Sunday: 2pm to 5pm and 7pm to 9pm
Monday: 9am to 10:30am

Funeral:

Eglise Ste. Ursule
3455 Neilson
Sainte Foy, Qc
Google Maps

Monday: 11am
a reception will follow the service

And now, I need to write the eulogy. My mum has told me to keep it light, which will be a challenge for because I'm not used to being funny.

I arrived Tuesday night and drove directly to the hospital. My sister and my mother had spent the day with Dad, but had gone home for a bite to eat and some rest, planning to return later that night. That suited me fine because I wanted time alone with Dad.

I approached his bed, took his hand, and said "I'm here Dad. I just arrived from Montreal." Dad turned to look at me, whispered my name, and squeezed my hand. This was the most communication I got from him for the rest of the night. Apparently, he was still talkative the day before, but now it's a struggle for him to cough and even just to breathe.

But I know he knew I was there and I knew he could listen and hear me, so I told him everything I've been dying to say my entire life. I recycled some of what I posted here last, but also other things that were mostly unspoken during our lives together. My Dad knows I love him and I know my Dad loves me, but he's not the type of man to be openly and verbally affectionate like that. "I'm going to get mushy now Dad," I laughed through the tears. "And there's nothing you can do to stop me." I thought I saw him smile ever so slightly and he squeezed my hand.

I spent Wednesday afternoon with him, but by now he was completely unresponsive. My mum and aunt (his sister) were there too and sometimes there'd be conversation between us. But each time my Dad would take too long to take his next breath, the conversation would come to a halt as well, and we'd all hang there waiting to see his chest rise again.

My Dad must find this humiliating. Dressed in nothing but a bed sheet, he looks like a roman in his toga. This is not dignified, but I have told him that I will forget this image of him as soon as I can and only remember the strong, charming, loving man that I've known my whole life.

Today is another day. I'm praying for my Dad's sake that it will be the last.

Spent the weekend in Quebec city with the folks. We would've left Friday night, but we had a friend having a birthday party before he leaves for India for a year.

While in Quebec, we visited friends and family and did some shopping. I picked up some summer shoes and sandals (don't worry: I won't wear them with socks) and sarahcarotte picked up some shoes and a kick-ass cool shirt.

We also visited my nieces and their parents on Sunday. The oldest (Alexandra) is a grunting teenager at 13, but at least she was in a good mood. The middle child (Samantha) is 9 years old and the youngest (Natasha-my godchild) is 7. It's always a pleasure to see them (and bring them Easter candy) and we stayed for supper and I got to tuck them into bed (after telling them a story).

Natasha always blows me away with the things she says. Most of the time, I can't understand what she's saying and then she'll come up with something that leaves me stunned. This time, after calling out for her mother after I tucked her in, her mum came up to me very seriously and said "Natasha is concerned about your health. She's afraid your heart will stop beating if you don't stop stressing out about work and lose some weight."

Heh. I gotta start cycling to work. I'm under Niece's orders!

We spent the weekend with friends in Parham (north of Perth (I think)) who were closing up the cottage for the winter. It's good to get away from the city and be able to see the stars without the encroaching light polution.

The waters of Eagle Lake were chilling, which I can say with some authority since I had to take a dip when we had to maneuver the boats unto their respective trailers. But the days were unseasonable hot and the evenings were unseasonably warm, so it was a good weekend to spend in nature. I was also glad to be of help to bring in the docks (which weighed a ton and I'm not as strong as I look).

It's enough to make me want a cottage of my own, but I know I wouldn't use it much. My parents have a gorgeous cottage only 3 hours away and I didn't get down there once this summer. Between LARPing, kayaking, and festivals, almost every weekend was spoken for.

I'm very torn on the kind of cottage I'd want (it would be in the shape of this). It has to be near water, but on a lake or a river? How many acres would I need? The problem is that I'm not a very handy fella (like my Dad), so I don't know if I could handle a big place.

I've always thought I'd like to own a cottage and rent an apartment in the city. I'd probably try to spend every moment I could at the cottage and only come to the apartment when I had to work in the city.

Day dream day dream day dream day dream day dream... Thanks to Captain Plank, Danica, Shadow, Bandit, and Jim for their hospitality, good humour, and understanding.

My folks are coming up for a visit tomorrow. They are going to Cuba for a week next week, but they have to fly from Dorval. Therefore, they will be driving to Montreal from Quebec city.

I don't get to see my parents that often and they almost never see where I live. It gets tougher and tougher to find a weekend that I can set aside for a Quebec trip, and when I get there, I don't have much to do (aside from visiting family). I find I can only spend a few days in Quebec city before I go a bit stir crazy. Montreal is my town now.

But my Dad is 60+, so he doesn't like driving long distances, and he especially doesn't like driving in Montreal. It takes some getting used to, admittedly. I hear that Montrealers hate driving it Quebec city because the roads curve and twist too much (as opposed to Montreal streets that follow a grid). When I first moved to Montreal, I used to get trapped on one-way streets for blocks and blocks before I could turn around. I once ended up on Ile Ste-Helene while trying to Drive to the Old Dublin. It can be daunting.

So my parents visit me rarely and I have to say it's weird having them here. I'm used to visiting them and hanging out. When they visit me, my need to entertain my guests kicks in (I definitely get that from my parents). It used to drive sarahcarotte crazy on how I would hover over her at first when she came to visit and eventually moved in.

It's been 11+ years since I've moved to Montreal and my parents have visited me about six times. I wish they would visit me more often, but I understand why they don't.

Now I gotta get this place cleaned up before my mum shows up with the White Glove (listen to the song).