Welcome to a sample of what the magazine If Not Now … might look like. The goal is to show potential contributors what the magazine could look like and answer a few questions – and ask some. No effort was made to solicit work though it is hoped you enjoy what has been included. We debated whether to include writers’ names since it was not an open process, but decided to include some to reassure readers the writing was from local people.

Please review it and know that your work could appear in future issues. And please feel free to make suggestions via email to magazine@haliburtonwriters.ca

Writing guidelines include the following:

Fictional short stories (maximum 2500 words)

Flash fiction (maximum 250 words)

Poetry (maximum 25 lines)

Creative non-fiction (maximum 2500 words)

Junior fiction (maximum 1500 words)

Junior Poetry (maximum 25 lines)

Guest column (maximum 1000 words)

Note: These numbers are limits, not targets. For example, a well-written 1200-word story

is perfectly acceptable, in fact preferable to something longer that has 'padding' to

approach the maximum length.

We would welcome comments on these maximums, especially the poetry ones.

Flash Fiction is a term

that has evolved to describe very short fiction. Many people find their reading time limited to using a tablet on the subway or in waiting rooms, so something that can be completed in a brief time is essential. Writing a story that short, with all the essential elements of fiction – plot, character and setting – is challenging.

There is no ‘official’ definition of how short flash fiction should be but If Not Now … has

chosen to define it as 250

words or less. Here is an example:

Random Rickshaw

Bob Smith

For months, I badgered Meili

at school before she finally

agreed on a date. When we

went out, I promptly forgot

her name. Later, she said

following my train of thought

was draining. She called it

‘an airplane of thought, not a

train, faster than a speeding

rickshaw.’

Our high school senior year

was just over and I had found

the perfect summer job for

someone with ADHD. This

city attracts hundreds of

summer tourists to the

historic parts of the core

where streets are narrow,

twisting, and hills totally

absent. A few years ago, a

resourceful entrepreneur

bought some high-tech

rickshaws and hired students

to haul visitors around. That

was invariably more

attractive to them than

spending time in a car

crawling through laneways,

yet still missing alleys where

a person could buy anything

from an abacus to a zucchini.

I planned on joining the

university cross-country

team come fall and believed

the exercise would help my

conditioning. Such running

would be fine as long as I

could remember what I was

doing and not veer off to the

pub or something.

The job kept me constantly

moving - thankfully - and I

had Google Maps on my

iPhone for whenever

someone asked for a specific

location. However, most

people were quite content to

let me wander, happy with

whatever random route my

scattered brain took.

The only problem happened

one evening when I found

myself standing at a stop

sign, waiting for it to turn

green.

Some publications impose a time limit on re-publishing something. We do not, so anything you publish here can be submitted elsewhere. However, some things stipulate ‘previously unpublished’. Printed publications are obvious, but on-line postings less so. The guideline seems to be if something has been posted in a private forum – something that needs a password to access -, it is not considered published. However, if it has been posted in something accessible to anyone without a password, that is considered publication. So appearing in this magazine would count as ‘published’.

Poetry

The Skeletal Bedroom

Pauline Johnson

Any excuse to trudge upstairs

(A drink of water, having to go to the bathroom)

To get closer to the voices heard above

To escape the menacing darkness of the room

To which I was consigned to each night

The bare bones bedroom in the basement

I shared with my sister, Linda

Who was 18 months older

than I.

My six-year-old’s night terrors were all around

Lurking in cold, darkened shadows

Ready to emerge through skeletal walls

Surrounding the unfinished basement bedroom

Two by fours connected, but not covered

Door frame missing its final finish

Exposing me to whatever hid beyond my sight

And to thoughts of sickness and death

Like our neighbour’s return to hospital,

The ambulance bearing him back

After being allowed home at Christmas

The last return visit of a dying man

I sensed the finality that introduced death Into my six-year-old world

Trepidation into my bedtime ritual

My mind conjuring up the worst

Of life’s fears and doubts

My security was always threatened

In this our brand new home

A good English child

Was I too steeped in blind obedience?

Why didn’t I just tell Mom and Dad

About my fears in this room?

Why didn’t they guess?

Pauline L. Johnson loves to network. She has long been an advocate for writers in Haliburton. Publishing credits include poetry in Quills Canadian Poetry Magazine, a newspaper column and magazine articles.

In the space at the bottom of a contribution, we will print a brief biography like the above which the writer submitted. Should we ask her/him to include a photo too?

Many writers think they lack the ability to write fiction and therefore focus on real-life tales such as memoirs. There is a way to combine the two. Take a real anecdote or recounting of an event and turn it into fictional story. Change some of the details and let your mind ramble a bit for some of the happenings, thinking ‘this could have happened next’ or ‘instead of what actually happened, this might have occurred’. In such ways, a writer can take something real and turn it into a fictional story.

Here’s an example. The writer says much of this is invented, though it started with recollection of a real event.

Fiction

The Christmas Tree

Bob Smith

When your father dies

unexpectedly three weeks

before the day in March

1961 when you turn twelve,

you don’t think about next

year’s Christmas tree. A

massive emptiness

dominates everything -

mostly shock and sorrow, but

a tinge of fear too. Maybe

you wonder who will go with

you to the end-of-season

father and son hockey-team

banquet. Or perhaps you

notice the pickup no else

drives sitting unused beside

the house. You might even

think about how much you’ll

miss those silent Saturday

mornings when he read and

you played. For ever after,

seeing a Lego set while

passing through the Toy

Department on your way to

the Menswear Section will

remind you of the smell of

his pipe. Your mom slept in

on Saturday, her reward for

making the house perfect for

the weekend, as if it wasn’t

fine already. You love her

and all, but she’s a bit of a

fuss-budget and that’s why

your friends are never

allowed inside the house.

You might think about how

everybody at school felt

sorry for Jimmy Walker when

his dad left. Only now it’s

you who’ll get that pity,

except more because at least

Jimmy sees his dad every

second weekend.

You don’t think about next

year’s Christmas tree though.

Not until the first week of

November when Mr.

Thompson at the corner puts

up the snow fence around

his yard like he does every

year and you see the red and

green ‘Christmas Trees For

Sale’ sign lying on the lawn

waiting its turn. When you

get home, you find out the

Sears Christmas catalogue

has arrived.

You remember how your

father drove you to Grampa

Fraser’s, who owned miles

and miles of forest out the

Ten Mile Lake Road. You

recall how the two of you

trudged through the snow

that wouldn’t get really deep

until January, him pulling the

toboggan with the thermos

of hot chocolate, emergency

blanket and Swede saw on it.

The thought of that hot drink

always made your mouth

water, but you knew you had

to wait until the tree was

down. Last year, at long last,

he let you carry the saw

since you were finally strong

enough it didn’t drag. He

always explained why he

preferred it to an axe. Every

year, you listened carefully

even though the words were

identical. You never

complained, even the winter

you were eight and an icy

rain started before the tree

was fully cut through. By the

time you were back at the

truck, you were so cold and

wet you thought you’d never

stop shivering. Not even the

hot chocolate that scalded

your mouth was much help.

No complaining though.

After all, you were with him.

Now you wonder how you’ll

get a tree. The truck no one

else ever drove is gone.

Mom didn’t ever drive it, and

she welcomed the money

Mr. Donnelly gave her. But it

still felt like betrayal when

you watched him drive it

away. The lump in your

throat only dissolved when

you muttered those words

you overheard Dad mumble

when some old man drove

through a red light and

almost hit your truck.

You could probably find the

saw in the backyard

workshop no one has gone in

since he died, but with no

truck and no one to use it

anyway, what good would

that do? You can picture it

under the pile of heavenly-

smelling cedar curls from

when he used the plane to

smooth down the boards for

the chest he made Mom for

her birthday. You remember

Reverend Miller after the

funeral saying you needed to

be strong, and you’re bigger

now. But you admit to

yourself you still don’t have

the strength to cut an entire

tree by yourself. Every year,

Dad let you make a few

strokes with the saw so he

could tell people you helped

bring it down, but you know

he did the hard part.

He always said the trees Mr.

Thompson sold weren’t

worth it, that they were old

long before you bought

them. You would be lucky if

there were any needles left

by Boxing Day much less

New Years, and Mom

wanted the tree left up until

January 6th which she called

Little Christmas for some

reason. Besides, you don’t

know if there’s money to buy

a tree. Mom doesn’t say

anything, but last month she

started to work Saturdays at

Fosberg’s Book Store. One

night when she thought you

were asleep, you overheard

her on the phone with Aunt

Mary Ellen saying the money

wasn’t much but it was

better than nothing. She

said you were big enough to

leave alone - you wouldn’t

mess up her house.

But then one Saturday in

December, Uncle Willie

shows up and says he’ll take

you to get a tree if you can

give him directions. You get

your toboggan, then force

open the rusty workshop

door and grab the saw.

When you brush the curls of

wood off it, some stick to

your mitts, which is a good

thing because the smell

might cover up Uncle Willy’s

cigar when you’re in his car.

You explain to him why saws

are preferable to axes as you

put them into the cluttered

trunk. He asks if you have

any rope to tie the tree to

the top of the car for the trip

home.

He follows the road you

point out and you tell him

where to stop. You pull the

toboggan with the saw on it

and he follows you into the

trees. He lets you pick out a

perfectly-shaped spruce, the

kind of tree Dad always

chose. You start the cut and

he takes over when he can

see your arms are burning.

Neither of you think about

the way trees look a lot

smaller outside than inside.

Before she left for work,

Mom rearranged the living

room to clear the corner

where the tree goes. Only

when you and Uncle Willie

finally manage to get the

tree through the back door,

it takes up a third of the

room. You move the rocker

to the kitchen while he cuts

three feet off the top of it. It

still is squashed against the

ceiling, and looks a little

weird, splayed out like that.

“Better than cutting a hole in

the ceiling,” he says with a

laugh. At first, you think that

would have been fine since

that is your bedroom up

there and you can imagine

sleeping with the smell of

spruce. But then you think

of your mother. The rocker

in the kitchen will be bad

enough; you can picture her

reaction if she also found a

hole in the living room

ceiling.

Then Uncle Willie looks at his

watch and says he’s late for

picking up Aunt Mary Ellen at

the IGA where she works.

You watch for your mom out

the little window in the hall,

the high one you can only

see through if you climb onto

the telephone table and

balance. When she opens

the door, you’re ready.

“It’s a little big,” you say

helping her take her coat off.

The Brag Bin

The Brag Bin will provide an opportunity for writers to announce a specific accomplishment, such as publication or competition success. HHWEN congratulates all writers on their achievements – completing personal undertakings is completely worthwhile – but wants to give an opportunity to those whose efforts have been ‘officially’ recognized.

Examples are on the magazine website under ‘Submission Guidelines’.

Such announcements should be emailed to magazine@haliburtonwriters.ca with submission-brag bin in the subject line.

Fiction

The Old Farmhouse

Pauline Johnson

Pushing beyond fear to

cope with the

unexpected was

something Keith was

beginning to

understand. Fourteen

and on the verge of

manhood, he had

watched his future

brother-in-law, Bob,

who was 21, handle

unpleasant tasks in the

last few hours. Now with

daylight having

disappeared, he

snuggled into his

sleeping bag and

thought about their first

experiences at the old

farmhouse today,

experiences quite

different from their life

in the city.

Prince Edward

Island was a long way

from Toronto, but Mom

and Dad had bought this

old 100 acre farm on St.

Peter’s Bay and it looked

like he would have to

help Dad make the old

farmhouse livable during

their vacation. Sitting

right in the middle of the

100 acres, the house

seemed isolated to

someone who was used

to having neighbours’

houses all around.

People might

wonder what had

brought the family to

this spot. With the

cemetery between the

farmhouse and the

highway, it would not

attract most people.

However, the other end

of the property ran

along St. Peter’s Bay

where oceanic

whitecaps rolled onto

the shores. Prince

Edward Island beaches

were stunning, even

when huge purple

jellyfish were swept up

and dumped on beaches

along the coast.

Restoring the farmhouse

would give purpose to

his parent’s annual

visits. They had rented

out the empty land to a

potato farmer and

planned to enjoy the

house and the view,

once the house was

ready.

The only

neighbours here were

rats who had had

uninterrupted use of the

premises for who knows

how long. Today, they

had encountered two, at

least Bob and Dad had.

Pretty exciting stuff for

Keith and his friend,

Gary, also aged 14, who

had accompanied him

on a working holiday

this year.

That evening

before supper, the guys

had swept out one room

and spread their

sleeping bags side by

side -- four across the

room – Dad’s, his own,

Gary’s and Bob’s – the

adults on the edge to

give the younger boys a

sense of security.

“Would you guys like

your own room?” Dad

had asked with a smile.

“No thanks,” he

and Gary had replied in

unison, leery of the first

night on the floor in an

old house.

Earlier in the day,

somebody had had to

enter the stone

basement of the

farmhouse through a

narrow opening in the

outer wall. Before they

did any work on the

house, the foundation

needed to be checked to

see what plumbing was

underneath and if the

foundation was solid.

Entering the dark, tomb-

like enclosure fell to

Bob, older at 21 than

the imaginative teens,

yet younger and more

agile than Dad who had

put on more than a few

pounds over the years.

All they could see

was a huge bolder

protruding from the

earth for a floor and a

stone dividing wall with

a hole in the top, the

hole just big enough to

allow someone to slither

into the other section of

the basement. Watching

Bob disappear, they had

waited for any

communication

indicating what he had

discovered. It wasn’t

long before Bob

exclaimed in disgust as

his flashlight illuminated

the lump he was

standing on. It was a

dead rat.

The good news

was that the foundation

was solid, resting on

hard rock with

cemented stones,

forming a perimeter

wall, all still in perfect

condition. On to the

next job.

Before anyone

could contemplate what

that was, further

excitement was

generated when Dad

discovered that a live rat

had fallen into the

empty water barrel on

the front porch. “Not

another one,” he sighed.

Everyone ran to the

front, including Mom

and Pauline, Keith’s

sister. The women had

stayed for the day to

work, but were going to

a friend’s after supper to

spend the night in a

proper bedroom. This

was 50 years ago so

gender equality didn’t

enter the picture.

Reluctant to

release the rat in case it

came back into the

house, Dad had

searched for something

to use as a weapon and

decided to try dropping

a sledge hammer on the

creature to see if he

could kill it. “I’m going to

attach a rope to the

hammer’s handle so that

I can get it back in case I

miss,” he’d explained.

The rest of us just

looked on in awe.

As executions go,

this had been pretty

crude, but letting the rat

go and thinking of it

coming back seemed out

of the question. Six pairs

of eyes had taken turns

peering over the edge of

the barrel, wanting to

see but prepared to

retreat fast when blood

splattered.

As the hammer

dropped, Keith jumped

and heard the rodent

squeal. Each thud

caused it to frantically

scurry around in circles.

With morbid fascination,

everyone looked on as

Dad continued to do his

best to kill the quarry. It

was getting harder to

stay near the barrel as

squeals elicited

sympathy from those

observing. “Finally,”

sighed Dad when the

fifth drop stunned it.

The sixth drop finished it

off. Nobody had been

jubilant but the guys felt

safer about sleeping on

the floor that night. Dad

seemed to walk away

with a bit of a swagger.

Later, with the rat

killed, supper over, and

a bedroom readied,

Mom and Pauline

returned to the

McSwain’s farm to

sleep, leaving the guys

to camp out for the

night. With no TV or

radio, they had turned in

early, although none of

them expected to enjoy

a good night’s sleep on

the floor.

A couple of hours

later, Gary’s eyes flew

open and he clenched

his hands to keep his

fear in check. He

wondered if he was

hearing things but didn’t

wait long to find out.

Turning towards Bob, he

poked him through the

sleeping bag. “Bob,

wake up. I think I hear

voices. Do you hear

them?” He seemed

poised to jump into the

sleeping bag with Bob.

“What on

earth…” Dad cursed.

They were all awake

now and the two

younger ones were

panicked, thinking of

ghosts, the cemetery

and the farmhouse’s

isolation. “Where’s the

flashlight?” Dad asked.

Bob didn’t know.

“Gary, let me get

up,” Bob encouraged,

his body trapped in the

bag and Gary sprawled

on top of him. “Where

did we leave the

flashlight?” he

whispered.

“Sh…,” Dad

mouthed. The sounds

they continued to hear

were not clear but

voices were

recognizable. Where

were they coming from?

Busy trying to

calm Gary, Bob did not

get up at first. Dad was

the one who crawled

out into the living room.

Inching his way along

the wall in the darkness,

he cursed the spider

webs and splinters that

pieced his hands. He

peeked out of the

windows he passed but

he couldn’t see anything

except a few shadows

close to the building.

Keith followed behind

Dad feeling he should

back him up if he

encountered anything.

Making his way closer to

the voices, Dad

discovered the old

wooden phone in a

cobwebbed corner and

sighed with relief. Its

handle was not sitting

properly on the base

because it was warped.

Laughing, he relayed to

the others, “Two locals

talking on the party-line

are your ‘ghosts’.”

Feeling much

braver, Keith said, “I

knew there was a logical

explanation.” He

returned to his sleeping

bag. As he crawled in, he

said, “You know, Guys,

what’s that saying?

‘What happens here,

stays here.’ No need for

the women to hear

about this.”

Bob laughed at

the boys. “In your

dreams, you yellow

bellies.”

They all had a

good chuckle and finally

called it a night. Their

first “graveyard shift”

had netted them a ghost

story to share, not to

mention the tale of the

rat’s execution that had

been the adventure of

the afternoon.

Guest Column

Frequently, writers produce something which is about the process of writing, a report on a writers’ convention they attended, etc. That could be of broader interest and including such writing as a ‘guest column’ is certainly a possibility. Here is a sample about the process of developing characters in fiction.

Developing Character In Fiction

A writer of fiction must

know her/his characters so

well that s/he could predict

their behaviour in any

situation, whether it

happens to be part of the

story or not.

Most stories involve a

simple truth - they involve

a character who loses a

part of his/her sense of

personal identity, and the

subsequent tale is about

regaining or replacing it.

This is what readers relate

to, and, when executed

well, accounts for broad

appeal. Even when a

story is ‘action and

adventure’, seemingly plot-

driven, this is true.

Abraham Maslow

identified five categories of

people motivators. At the

bottom level are basic

biological needs like food,

water, air and the

biological drive to

reproduce. The second

category includes the need

for safety, things like

shelter, feeling free from

threats of disease,

animals, and other people.

The third classification

includes social needs,

such as the desire to give

and receive affection and

the need to feel included.

The fourth refers to self-

esteem needs, the need to

define and clarify

understanding of personal

identity. Finally, there are

self-actualization needs,

the need to reach one’s

potentials.

The bottom two levels

provide opportunity for

relatively simple, though

very powerful, conflict.

You can’t get much more

down and dirty than having

your life threatened or

losing your livelihood, the

source of food, drink, and

shelter.

The subsequent

classifications are often

the foundation of more

complex, ‘psychological’

character and plot

development. How many

stories can you think of

that include someone

struggling to establish

relationships, worrying

about how courageous or

intelligent he/she might be,

or striving to excel?

In particular, clarification of

identity is a major driver.

There are seven aspects

to character, and the loss

of some aspect of any of

the seven can be serious,

leading to common terms

like ‘identity crisis’ and ‘the

need to find oneself’.

Identities have four kinds

of characteristics, physical

(appearance), mental (how

one thinks), social (how

one interacts with other

people) and emotional

(temperament or

personality). The other

three aspects are

values/beliefs, roles, and

talents/abilities. For good

character development, a

writer would be able to

detail all of these about the

character, whether or not

clear examples actually

show up in the written

story. Knowing them

allows the writer to let the

character talk and behave

‘in character’.

It also explains why books

appeal so differently. In

real life, people constantly

have to re-define and re-

establish different aspects

of their identity as their

characteristics, beliefs,

and roles change as a

natural part of the

evolution of life. Finding

fictional characters who

deal with the challenges in

ways the reader can

understand and learn from

is not simply escapist

entertainment. It doesn’t

matter if the protagonist is

dealing with an evil arch-

enemy to the human race,

as long as he/she does it

with brains, perseverance,

and bravery,

characteristics Joe and Jill

Public want to have, to

deal with the more

mundane matters in their

own lives. A plot might be

wildly entertaining, but

readers must feel some

connection to the main

character(s), and even

though the outward details

of his/her existence might

be totally different from the

readers’, some kind of

affinity must exist.

So, even if writers have

wonderful ideas for plots,

they must intimately know

the characters. They must

understand them so

thoroughly that when they

write dialogue or describe

how the characters

behave or act, it is

consistent with the kind of

people those characters

are. Writers must

recognize how those

characters have lost some

aspect of identity and how

the evolution of the story

lets them re-establish it or

develop new

characteristics to become

part of their understanding

of themselves.

Of course this is a very

analytical way of looking at

an imaginative process.

But writing fiction is a

combination of both

creative and analytical

thinking. The logical

conceptualizing involved in

planning (not that creative

thinking is illogical)

produces a framework in

which the artistic juices

thrive. There are

uncreative planners and

unstructured creators.

Good writers can do both.

Good writing demonstrates

both.

The magazine will

include a ‘Coming

Events’ column, a place

where people can announce upcoming events that are of specific interest to

writers.

Announcements should be emailed to magazine@haliburtonwriters.ca with submission-coming event in the subject line.

As an example, the following is something from Pauline Johnson of The Reading/Writing connection. (She says though the RSVP date is

November 26, email her

if you’re interested.)

You are invited by members

of the Reading/Writing

Connection to a

Christmas

Luncheon Social

for Writers and

Friends across Haliburton,

Muskoka and surrounding

areas.

Friday, December

5 at 12 noon

Heatherwood Dining Room at

Pinestone Resort

RSVP to Pauline

Johnson by

Wednesday,

November 26

at 705-489-3878 or

pauline.l.johnson@sy

mpatico.ca.

Space must be reserved

in the dining room.

Individual bills will be

requested.

Price $19.95 + tax,

gratuities for the three

course luncheon.

Creative Non-Fiction

The Unforgettable Gift

It was Christmas Eve 1954

and we were all pretending.

Mom had filled the house

with the glorious smell of

cookies during the day as she

baked the treats we would

leave for Santa. Otherwise,

she pretended it was just

another day. Dad wasn’t

there, but then, he was a

railway engineer, frequently

away from our Northern

Ontario home two days at a

time. It wasn’t a nine-to-five

job, him taking a full day to

drive a train to the next

division point, then sleeping

overnight in the bunkhouse

before bringing another train

home. He had taken me

down to the station where I

was fascinated by the iron

monsters, but whenever I

begged him to take me along

on a trip, he said I had to

wait until I was older.

Railway employees could

have either Christmas Eve

and Day or New Year’s Eve

and Day as a holiday, and he,

as a family-man, always

chose Christmas. However,

the railway company had no

control over weather, and

the raging blizzard that

particular day before

Christmas promised a slow

train trip. Then he would

have a long walk home since

we had no car and buses

stopped running at noon.

My older sister pretended

she enjoyed playing Snakes

And Ladders with five-year-

old me. Kids today, with

their Game Boys, X-Boxes

and IPads, probably don’t

know about such board

games, but I still recall the

apprehension created by the

long yellow and green

serpent with the leering

smirk. It rested the end of its

tail on the square two from

the end and if the roll of the

dice said you landed there,

you had to slide down its

entire slimy length to resume

playing almost at the

beginning. My sister

frequently stared with a

furrowed brow at the snow

whipping past the window,

but I assumed that showed

she was afraid of landing on

the lurking monster like me.

I wasn’t completely oblivious

to the unspoken underlying

tension in the house, but

continued to play, since even

then I realized the game was

to keep my excitement

somewhat under control. I

wasn’t a hyperactive kid but I

had been waiting with

anticipation and growing

impatience for Christmas. I

had looked so often, the

Christmas catalogue

automatically opened to the

page with model trains. I

didn’t know the reason for

that pervading sense of

anxiety surrounding me, so I

ignored it, and in that sense,

I was pretending too.

Bedtime arrived and Dad still

wasn’t home. Never before

had he not been part of the

ritual of preparing the plate

of cookies and glass of ginger

ale for Santa.

As usual, sleep finally swept

me away. As usual, Santa

visited, leaving a stuffed

stocking at the foot of my

bed, and, I knew, even more

gifts under the Christmas

tree in the downstairs living

room. Maybe that train set.

As usual, I woke while it was

still dark, which isn’t saying

much, as daylight comes late

on December days in that

part of the world. As usual, I

explored my stocking. Shiny

Red Delicious apples and

aromatic, dimpled oranges

might be commonplace

today, but they were treats

back then.

He still wasn’t home. My

sister had moved her

stocking into my room so

opening them could be a

shared experience. Mom

watched from the doorway,

but the most dominating

presence involved empty

space and silence.

Then we waited. Mom went

down to the kitchen to put

the turkey into the oven for

the later feast. The sounds

of plates clattering and

silverware clinking as she set

the table brought to me a

vision of his empty chair at

the table’s head. That was

quickly replaced by an

imaginary picture of a toy

locomotive towing boxcars

around the tree.

My parents, like many who

grew up during the Great

Depression, were

determined we would not

face the grinding poverty and

dismal grey existence that

had been the background of

so much of their lives. Dad,

as one of the older boys in a

large family, had quit school

when his father died

unexpectedly. He took a

menial job on the railway so

he could help support

younger siblings and a

pregnant mother. Hard

work, reliability, and

determination had brought

on promotions from General

Labourer through Fireman –

the man who shovelled coal

into the locomotive’s boiler –

to Engineer.

Mom was the oldest of

another large brood. Every

year or so, there was another

infant to monopolize

Grandma’s attention and

energy, so Mom raised the

other kids. That’s why she

had to quit school so young.

She seldom talked about her

childhood but two memories

stand out. Cod liver oil,

which they were forced to

take daily by the spoonful,

must have tasted foul. Years

later when I took her for Fish

And Chips, she couldn’t eat

her halibut because it had

been deep fried in oil which

at some point had been used

for cod; the remnant flavour

contaminated her fish. The

second memory involved her

occasionally sneaking away

to the attic to pore over a

tapestry her grandmother

had sewn, using small silk

flags that had been given

away in packages of tea. The

brilliant crimsons, emerald

greens, and rich indigos took

her to Persia, Siam, and The

Gold Coast, away from the

browns and greys of dirty

diapers, potato peelings, and

crusted porridge pots.

We stood at the top of the

stairs, Mom at the bottom to

give us the signal we could

come down. Now I know the

word for what I felt was

ambivalence. Perhaps I

wasn’t really jitterbugging in

excitement, but if my feet

weren’t actually dancing, my

stomach certainly was.

However, I also felt

reluctance because Dad

wasn’t there and finding that

train, as I fervently hoped I

might, wouldn’t be the same

without him. Mom’s

hesitation probably wasn’t

teasing, though it seemed

like it at the time; I’m sure

she was even more

conflicted than me.

However, just before she

gave us the signal, the front

door behind her burst open

and he stomped in. Waiting

while he scrubbed off the

grime and changed into clean

clothes was not at all a

chore.

I don’t recall anything from

the living room. That year,

the real gift came through

the door.

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