Funereal Weather
If we haven't already awoken, Riley invariably will wake us up, if it's after eight in the morning. Riley sleeps under the blankets, either at my back or thereabouts, or down at the foot of the bed hard against Button who prefers to sleep on top of the blankets, at the foot of the bed, on her own pillow, covered by her own blanket. Creatures of habit, right? This morning Irving got the jump on Riley and got up to the bathroom just before eight. When he got back in bed he began reading his novel, but when he glanced over at me he could see I had my eyes wide open, watching him. He leaned over, gave me a kiss, put his book down. Too late, Riley noted we were awake, and tunneled his way out from under, leaping over me to get at Irving. He thrusts his little snout at Irving's face, first one way then the other. Time to get up, let them out for their morning micturation otherwise known as pee-time.We always put their breakfast bowls on the floor of the bathroom while we're showering. Button has her food first, then Riley; he needs encouragement, she doesn't. Why do we feed them while we're showering? Because they're trapped in there, door closed, and haven't much choice. They're both so sticky about their breakfasts it's a relief to us when they eat, skinny little mutts.
Sunday breakfast often consists of a half cantaloupe, banana, (orange/grapefruit juice for Irving too) sausages, french toast, coffee/tea. When Button and Riley smell sausages cooking they're very patient about their portion. Irving puts down little white dishes for their after-breakfast cookies; they get a choice. They always select their favourite first, then Button, who is larger and eats more and faster, raids Riley's dish before her own, while Riley runs upstairs with his cookie to try to hide it where Button won't get it, because he is too full to eat it then and there. After this daily ritual, they're presented with their own little dishes of cut-up sausage, and we set about ourselves to eat in peace.
Irving goes out to the front garden and brings in our sole ripening melon off the vine. Too soon, he should have waited, I told him so - it's still too green on one side, and when I knock it, it doesn't sound ready. He goes downstairs to use his router to cut out pieces he's using to decorate the panels he's installed on the walls of our upstairs hall, an ongoing project. I clean the kitchen, the powder room, the two upstairs bathrooms. And then I decide, because it's raining out and we aren't going out just yet for a ravine walk, to (ugh) polish the silver. Those are silver candlesticks, teapot, large tray, items which were wedding gifts more than 50 years ago and which I keep threatening to send to the Sally Ann, but Irving wants to keep them. He comes upstairs, knowing how I hate polishing the silver, offers to do it, but when I refuse, he says he's going to spray them with lacquer so I never have to do that hated task again.
He's upstairs, gluing on the little petals, and I decide to cut my hair, it's gotten kind of rough looking. I set about the task with mirror and scissors. I'm used to it. I can get away with cutting my own hair without disastrous results because my hair is fairly curly and mistakes have a way of hiding themselves. Irving comes in to inspect, says it looks fine, he doesn't have to do any touch-up; he's good at that.
The rain has let up, and now it's only drizzling. Charles, one of our next-door neighbours has just lost his mother. A brain embolism, I think, though they're not certain. Yesterday afternoon Susan came over with a card, thanking me for the one I sent them. Her card has written on it in her careful script the name and address of the funeral home should we wish to drop by. So today we decide that I'll dress for the occasion, and Irving will wait for me, with Button and Riley, in the car. I put on a sweater set, a long skirt and dress shoes, and we set off. At the funeral home in salons 1 and 2 there are perhaps a dozen people standing about as I enter. Charles sees me almost immediately and comes toward me, a shy smile on his normally reserved face, as he thanks me profusely for coming. I see his father standing nearby and approach him. He's half the height of his son, wizened and small, 89 years old, burying his 86-year-old wife. He's hard of hearing, and Charles quickly writes key words for his father to read, identifying me, conveying my message of sympathy. There's a board hard by us with family photographs and Charles's father stands beside it, pointing out for my edification various family members at varying points in history. I love photographs, particularly family photographs and these become precious to me for the moment, conveying the sadness of a fading family scene.
Charles's son Nathan, 10 years old, wearing a new haircut and a brightly coloured shirt comes over and greets me, and points out to me a photograph of his older sister when she was four. By then I'm speaking with Charles's sister Madeleine, eleven years his senior, born when their mother was 23 years old, newly married. She's a few years younger than me, short, stubby, plain face, good smile. In all the years she's been visiting her brother, niece and nephew on a weekly basis, we've greeted one another rarely, but we know one another. She's quiet, well spoken and painfully shy. Never married, always lived with her parents, now parent, in the singular. She bears no resemblance to Charles, neither physically nor in her manner. They're both introverts, both truly decent people, but they shun the presence of others. Traits which Susan attributes to the poor mothering of her mother-in-law.
I speak briefly with Sarah who is in company with Shannon, another little girl who lives on our street. Shannon has come with her parents and her twin brother, also to pay respects. Sarah is a tall, gangly girl, burdened with her father's truculence, spared by a reflection of her mother's brilliant smile. On this occasion she is happy to speak with me, softly, shyly. I've never been able to understand why these two children, who have known us all of their lives as the people who live next door appear to be unable to connect in the most elementally social way. With heads averted (like their father) they walk on, hoping not to be noticed. She's holding up well, she tells me, when I ask how she is.
There are lovely sprays of brilliant flowers above the bier. I see the cold white figure of Albina Eugenie laid out for last regretful goodbyes, but I do not approach, I don't wish to, and no one suggests that I do. Susan, her large and bright presence lightening the gluey atmosphere, approaches and we hug. She wants me to come over to where her mother-in-law lies, so I can see closely how lovely she was when she was young, to view a large photo of her which sits beside the casket. I demur, we speak briefly, share a few light moments, then he thanks me for coming along, and we promise to see one another on the morrow. I make my goodbyes and leave the premises to join my husband in the car.
Once home, we change into suitable gear for a ravine walk, and that includes raincoats since it's still spitting. Out in the ravine everything is dripping, the creek is running, rushing madly with its new supply of water, leaping over downed branches, curling around bends, under bridges. The trees host brilliant greens, a few new and different fungi have erupted here and there, the small pale heads of asters are bent with the weight of the rain. There are places on the trail where the canopy is sufficiently dense so the dirt is dry underfoot, but not many; this rain has penetrated very well.
Later, Irving goes back to his woodworking, and I print off a letter to our older boy in Toronto from the computer in the library. From the on-line computer I email a letter to the editor of our local paper, commenting on my changed opinion of our governor-general designate whom the paper has revealed had made a speech critical of the country's official multiculturalism. She has taken the intellectual and philosophical view that the official encouragement of cultural and ethnic ties encourages a ghetto mentality and discourages full acceptance of citizenship, as well as the obligations inherent in that citizenship. I fully agree, and have therefore a higher opinion of this woman than heretofor.
I find a very brief, but oh so welcome email from Jody, who is now in Sweden at the workshop he'd been preparing for, following his conference in Alaska. It's only week one of his two-week stay there, then he's off to Italy for another two, three weeks. The workshop, he says, is going very well. For the coming week they're going off to visit some rivers, and he'll let me know all about it in good time.
I make an on-line donation to the Canadian Cancer Society in memoriam. The Society will send an acknowledging card to the Algozino family. They had suggested, in the newspaper (you know, 'hatch and dispatch'?) that one could make donations to the charity of one's choice. From where I sit, in one of the spare bedrooms where the on-line computer is installed in an armoire, Button and Riley keep me company, sleeping on the bed beside me. I also write an email to the proprietors of the cottage where we stayed in New Hampshire a week ago. Thanking them for their hospitality and the use of their accommodation. I had to mention the pervasive odour of mould, though, and ask them if they have alternative accommodation free of mould. I hope they won't take offence.
It's been an interesting day, but not that interesting. Interesting, I suppose, that the weather appears to be commisserating with a family in mourning. We're still reading news of the U.S. Gulf Coast hurricanes. I feel exceedingly grateful that the hurricane named after me was slightly less vengeful than its predecessor. Having said which, it still remains a disaster for the many people affected so tragically, so many lives in tatters. That's life, always better than the alternative, no matter what it brings.
posted by Pieface @ Monday, September 26, 2005
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