The Mountain Forest

 

The rain barely shifted on the
horizon, mist rises from mountain
slopes, dark clouds hang suspended
determinedly lodged on the mountain
peaks, comfortable there, resistant
to the dim edge of the sun, anxious to
burn away dark vapour dimming the
day's early summer aspirations.

Hemlock, pine, spruce and fir
present in staid stately array, hung
with mosses and lichens that cling
too to the grey, red, black granite
walls of the gorge down which the
mountain stream storms over the
great boulders the mountain slopes
have shed since time lost its memory.

The robust understory of moose
maple, dogwood and ferns march
in orderly procession up the slopes
under the canopy of a growing
presence of beech and yellow birch.

Old, crumbly and opportunity-rich
trunks gently decaying, do double
duty as nursing logs, with spruce
and hemlock seedlings clinging fast
to their humus-rich surfaces. When
the seedlings become mature enough
to fend for themselves, their nurses
become part of the organic whole.

The air is perfumed with the fragrance
of seasonal blooms, wafted by gentle
breezes. The repeated peal of a
Pileated woodpecker rends the air.
Thrushes sing their welcome of
still-impending rain. Yellow Admirals
flit from ground to graceful, looping
heights, disappearing into the witches'
brew of bright-green tangled leafage.

 

 

The Winged Forest

The clear, ringing peal of a blue jay
dissipates the silence of the woods
as from its perch it asserts ownership
of all it surveys. Soon, however
winging silently off in search of
another perch for a repeat performance
clearly besotted with its idea of self
as master of its leafy-treed landscape.

A nestling crow, newly acquainted
with wide spaces and the emerging
buoyancy of its tender but boldly
outspread wings flies awkwardly from
branch to branch of an old pine, the
young bird's continual quacks of
querulous demands driving its hovering
parents to frantic distractionary tactics.

There, the sun ablaze in the vast blue
sky, sending shafts of pure gold through
the dense forest canopy to light up
four goldfinches, on the branches of a
neat little Hawthorn, like lemons
growing on a lemon tree - with the
fragrance of sweet pears wafting from
the blooming bedding grasses below.

Elsewhere in this summer forest, a
cardinal's high, sweet trill excites the
atmosphere, and the response is swift
and bright, as the pair take flight in
scarlet passage deeper into the
embracing, emerald-green woods.

Robins, a family of juveniles loathe to
take wing, scatter bipedally in short
purposeful bursts along the forest trail.
They forage among the cinquefoil, the
buttercups and blooming clover, sending
up startled blue, winged creatures whose
concern is to avoid becoming a meal
intent upon their very own life journey.

 

Impressions

 

Interesting, matching supermarket
grocery-carts by their contents, to
the people pushing them. Cause for
smug superiority, like the appearance
on urban streets of the obese strolling
along, lapping at an over-filled ice-cream
cone, wolfing down take-out pizza,
hamburgers, with all fixings intact.

Have they never heard of appetite
restraint? Eating themselves into
morbidity, whacking their futures
patterning their offspring to vulgarly
immediate consumption. In a world
where temptation is everywhere, good
common sense has succumbed to greed
and heedless urges for satisfaction
well exceeding satiety and logic.

There is the shopper: young, attractive
grossly ponderous in height and girth,
shopping cart brimming with all those
notorious products aimed at vulnerable
kids through ubiquitous advertising.
One, however, with full knowledge and
concern, does not casually condemn.
Despite which, the assumption is made
this consumer is an unintelligent fool.

Your cart unloaded, its virtuous contents
of fresh produce predominating, a total
absence of pre-prepared "convenience"
foods absent nutrition, weighted with salt,
sugar, fats, in favour of only natural,
preparation-untampered foods; this is
your superior choice. Reach across to
grasp the bar to separate your choices
from that of the next shopper's faux food.

The large young woman beams with
gratitude, "thank you" chiming from her
bow-shaped lips in a completely spontaneous
charming lilt of obvious sincerity. Not much
of an effort to elicit such an acknowledgement
you observe, and she trills with laughter
claiming civility worth its weight in gold.
A response worthy of a noble prize for
social attitude. Gaining from you an
relaxed grin of total acceptance.

When your purchase rings through at
$132.28, and you proffer $150 in U.S. bills
and innocently enquire whether Canadian
coinage is acceptable: one quarter, 3 pennies
the cashier frowns, seeks advice from a
supervisor who briskly advises this to be
a disallowed irregularity. The errant shopper
behind you, she of the morbidly obese shape
and cupid smile, urges upon your unwilling
hand 28 cents in U.S. coin. A valuable,
required and kind lesson in due humility.

 

 

Roots and Rocks

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

They reach everywhere, dark and
contorted, a wide-reaching tangle
of roots splaying over the steep
mountain trail. The better to trip
the unwary, unheeding hiker. But
this is, after all, the habitat of these
looming forest giants, the pines and
hemlocks, maples and beech whose
offspring luxuriate under their
forbears' canopy, in the rich organic
soil of earlier such great species,
felled by time and woodsmen.

Step lightly and be aware not only
of those strangling roots threatening
the progress of intrepid bipedal advance
but the rocks scattered on the landscape
surrounded by the granite peaks from
whose slopes they were dislodged many
ages ago. Consider the rocks, so deeply
embedded, stepping stones for the
breathless ascent to the mountain's far
summit, well above the treeline.

Listen in the process, to the fresh
clear sound of the cold mountain
stream as it too tumbles over boulders
interrupting downward passage
sending cool spray to vaporize into
the air from the waterfalls thus
created, where mosses grow thick
green and lush over trunks and soil.

Hear the thrushes' songs reverberate
through the forest, see the flight of an
Eastern Kingbird, a downy woodpecker.
Note the presence of oaks siding the
trail as you rise, and the prevalence
of tiny chipmunks whisking their way
over the roots and the rocks, their element.

There are, in the undergrowth, dogwood,
sensitive ferns, moose maple and sumac.
Beside the trail, dank, wet, rich bog and
here and there, lilies and orchids, blackberry
canes and blueberry patches. The ascent
steeper, more dauntingly arduous
the trees stunted in weather-agonized
shapes. Oak and azalea thrive, along with
laurel and small, twisted pines. Mountain
sorrel blooming, and birds on the wing.

The terrain becomes bare with huge
granite ledges and wide, smooth slopes
rainwater captured in small, ubiquitous
granite sinkholes. Gaze, from this height
on the miniature landscape far below.
Count, if you can, neighbourly peaks
marching into the far distance.

Marvel at the wide, deep bowl of the
over-arching sky, the placid white and
fringed clouds, hastily moving off to
make way for others, more aggressively
dark and hostile. Tree roots there are
none here, but a glut of tiny, delicate
alpine plants. Of rock there is a defined
defiant and deliberate presence.

 

 

The Homework Kid

Well, that’s it. I am pissed. I am really pissed. My mom says I should just let it go, and be thankful things turned out that way. All of us should. Take advantage of the break. There’ll be more than enough challenges, she said, next year, when I start high school. I know all of that. I know more or less, what to expect there. Things will be different, for sure.

But I’m still here, in elementary school, most of the way through Grade 8. I know I used to grit my teeth and say I can see it through. Meaning to the end of the school year. Meaning having HER ride on my back, driving me nuts with her screeching. No, not just me, everyone. All of us. Which gave us a lot to talk about, didn’t it? Having a teacher who we couldn’t respect.

You could say that everyone going into her class kind of knew what to expect. She had a reputation, and not a good one, but then hardly any teacher in the school has a ‘good’ reputation, if you know what I mean. Maybe the primary-grade teachers do, but not the others. Some of them aren’t bad, some of them are pretty awful. You could say Mrs. McVetty’s was about as bad as they get. I had a friend at school a grade above me, a really good friend. We used to spend a lot of time together in the schoolyard, and after school. She would tell me about the things McVetty used to do. She hated her.

My mom said I should give her a chance, not rely on gossip. It wasn’t gossip, it was friendly advice. But you know, when September came around and we were first in her class, I thought what the hell! I wondered what all the fuss was about, because she seemed really good. I mean she explained things, it seemed as if she cared about whether we understood subjects like math, and she’d seem to be extra careful to see that everyone knew what was happening before she moved on to higher levels.

I really appreciated that. It helped me a lot, it really did. I felt pretty good about stuff, especially math and science, not my best subjects. That lasted for the first two months. And after that, wow, you wouldn’t believe the kind of atmosphere around our classroom. Not, as my mom said, conducive to learning. Because this teacher just kept going off the rails. Seems she couldn’t control the class, and she couldn’t control her reaction to the class.

Yep, some of us were kind of noisy and we didn’t like being told not to be. She began to move us all around the place, making us sit here and there and everywhere but where we wanted to, to get us away from one another. That only made things worse; because we were further apart from the people we really liked we just upped the activities that got her mad. We were louder, we were sneakier when she wasn’t looking, some of the guys began to airplane notes and the place went wild.

If you think we were loud, that was nothing compared to her. I mean she went berserk, completely nuts. She would screech at us like she was out of her mind. My mom said she could understand that; I drive her crazy, too. She said all of us should give a thought to the difficulty of teaching 24 hormone-charged obstreperous kids (her words). Tough, I said, other teachers do it and they don’t blow like Mount Olympus.

Funny thing about that, my mom’s sympathy for Mrs. McVetty, it just didn’t last. She stopped telling me to try to tone things down and set an example for the other kids once I told her that my teacher criticized my mom. My mom was shocked. Criticize her? What for? Well, Mom, I said, remember all those evening school events we usually don’t attend?

“Those useless non-events? That’s what she’s criticizing me for, for not hauling myself out in the evening after working a day job, working at home, looking after you and wanting nothing but to get into an early bed? That’s what’s wrong with me?”

Yeah, Mom”, I laughed "that’s what’s wrong with you".

“Hey, remember, chum, this was a mutual decision. After the first few we went to, we both decided it was a waste of time.”

“Yep. I remember. You don’t get any complaint out of me for bypassing them. I’m just telling you what my esteemed teacher said.”

“She said... What did she say?”

“That you’ve got your priorities screwed up.”

“She said that? Who the hell does she think she is, anyway?”

“Don’t get mad at me, Mom, I’m just telling you what she said. I don’t think that way. In fact, I felt really bad, insulted that she would even mention you. You are none of her business. I just walked away from her.”

“Oh.”

After that Mom didn’t have too much to say about Mrs. McVetty. Although I gave her plenty of opportunity. It was like, every day coming home from school she’d ask how was school and I’d tell her how awful it was. Because of our teacher.

Like, what kid wants to go to school to be screamed at every damn day? And she picked on me a lot. No, not just me, most of the other kids got it too, but me especially. That’s my opinion.

She’d get this idea that you were doing something you weren’t supposed to and she’d keep going at you until you were ready to scream. Even about who your friends were. A teacher is supposed to teach. She hardly does that, most of the time. You don’t expect a teacher to be a social worker, to get herself all worked up about the kids in her class having friends. Some kids don’t deserve to have friends. They turn on people who are decent to them. That’s what happened to me.

There’s this girl, Shawna, not Shawna MacDonald, Shawna Boyd. Everyone likes Shawna MacDonald. Shawna Boyd, well everyone just kind of ignored her. I thought she never did anything to me, why should I ignore her? So I didn’t, I spoke to her, and she kind of matched herself up with me, and it was annoying because I didn’t always want her around, but there she was, always in our group.

The other girls would glare at her and that made me include her more, but I resented doing it, kind of. She kept text-messaging me outside school, and I responded, always, but she was kind of a nuisance, know what I mean? And then I found out that she had lied to me, telling me that one my friends said horrible things about me. And then I found out it wasn’t true, and I had it out with her.

Now I don’t exactly ignore her, I speak to her, but I don’t let her hang around anymore. That’s just the way it is. So Mrs. McVetty gets on my case and wants to know all about it, what happened and why. She has no right to do that. I just told her ‘nothing, nothing’s wrong’.

Holly and Morgan can’t stand Mrs. McVetty, they’re worse than me about her. You can bet we have lots to talk about, and none of it very flattering to Mrs. McVetty. Come to think of it, there weren’t many kids in the class who even liked her, although a couple of kids did defend her reputation. They thought she was all right. Good for them. They were her little class pets, so it’s hardly surprising they would come out on her side. She never yelled at them. Well, hardly ever.

Like, it’s crazy, she gives us new math work, writes on the board how to understand the stuff, tells us here’s some homework, and anyone who doesn’t get it can ask her for special help. I was stupid enough to go to her a few times and ask for help. I know I was stupid, because she as much as said so. And instead of helping me she was really sarcastic, so I would never ask her for any help again. I managed to figure things out for myself anyway, because I’m really good with homework. Matter of fact, my friends ask me to help them mostly. Not that I‘m the smartest kid in the class, I’m not.

There’s a couple of kids who are good at everything, sports, math, science, history, geography. Art, too. I can’t draw anything to resemble what it’s supposed to be. I’m not bad at athletics, but not good, either, although it’s kind of fun. I am pretty good at writing. When we get assignments to write poetry or book reviews, or history reviews, I write the longest reports and reviews, and when I read my poetry in front of the class everyone listens and I get a huge applause. But Brian’s a much better poet than I am; he can write poetry like it’s nothing. I’ve got to feel really upset about something before I can produce a poem, don’t know why.

Anyway, all of us were really getting fed up. Not only did we have to put up with all this screaming abuse day after day, and listening to our teacher accuse us of being ignorant little brats and worse, but she kept assigning all kinds of homework. And tests, day after day, one test after another. The good thing about the tests, though, is that she said anyone who didn’t get a mark they were proud of, would be allowed to do the test over. I took advantage of that opportunity all the time, a lot of the kids didn’t bother. But I figure, anything that helps pump up your marks at the end of the year is worthwhile. Besides, I know if you keep doing things over, like repeating things, they eventually stick with you.

I know I do a lot of complaining about the homework, because there’s so much of it. But even though I do complain a lot, I don’t really mind it all that much. I guess I’m pretty organized, that way. Besides which, I don’t get out all that much, since we live in the country. It’s not like I can just go for a walk somewhere, other than on our property, all six acres of it. No thanks, really.

I used to invite my friends over and I’d go over to their places quite a lot. We used to sleep over all the time, for the entire week-end. I don’t do that so much anymore. Don’t really know why, just don’t. I do a lot of reading though, a whole lot. I treasure my books. Don't like to lend them out to anyone, because none of my friends are careful enough with books. I hate dog-eared pages, it's horrible that anyone could do that with a book. So I do a lot of reading, and sometimes I even read some of my favourites over again. Sometimes I get bored, but even though my mom says invite your friends over, I won't.

Anyway, we see one another all the time at school. Sometimes, for some of us, it’s enough. More than enough, some of the girls are really irritating sometimes. The guys not so much, because we don’t really hang out with them. I heard once, someone told me about a school that decided to separate the boys from the girls, and kept them in separate classes, so they could do an experiment that organized classes to be taught in a way that the teachers thought would be better for the boys, and the same for the girls. I think that sucks. It’s much better when the guys and the girls are together, in one class. It’s far more interesting. With the guys around you never know when something really funny is going to happen.

Yes, I’m kind of off track. I was explaining, or I meant to explain, how kind of mysterious it is that all of a sudden, Mrs. McVetty isn’t there any more. I don’t mean upstairs, in her head, we’re kind of convinced she’s not all there, actually. I mean for a few days last week we had ‘spares’ come in. When that happens, it’s guaranteed to be a boring day. They don’t teach, they just depend on you to do work that’s been assigned by your normal teacher. And if there’s no work that’s been assigned, the spares just look at what Mrs. McVetty has written down for them, and tell us to get on with things that way. Couldn’t be more boring. We learn nothing, nothing at all. That really, truly bugs me.

And then last week this guy came in. Said he’d be around awhile. He’s a new teacher, looks like he’s around 26, or something. I doubt he’s had all that much experience, although he told us he has. He said he’d be filling in for Mrs. McVetty for the rest of the year. We’ve got almost two months left in the school year, and she’s opted out. She said nothing to us, nothing at all. She did say, at the start of the school year, she said it was a pledge: she would do everything necessary to completely prepare us for high school. She promised. And then what did she do? bog off, that's what. That really burns me up.

Seemed at first it would be a big relief. No more headaches, no more having to stick our fingers in our ears while she screeches at us, telling us we’re the worst class she’s ever had, absolute morons. She didn’t use that word, but it was what she meant.

This guy is okay. I don’t think all that much of him, actually. Just another teacher, certainly not the best I’ve had, but not the worst, either. The worst is no longer in our classroom. It’s too early, I guess, to see whether he’ll be any better than her at teaching us stuff. But already we can see he’s not into all the stuff she was, assigning us poetry and book review studies, and math and geography and science. He’s a bit of a wuss, we all thought.

I asked some of the guys what they thought of him. Shrug. You’d think they might be more interested, kind of, because he’s a guy and they’re guys, but it doesn’t seem like they’re reacting that way at all. It’s just kind of as though they’re disinterested.

Guess Mrs. McVetty knocked the stuffing out of all of us. He’s got his own take on the curriculum, and classes aren’t slopping over any more. We hardly get any homework. You’d think I’d be happy about that, but I’m not. I miss the homework, I really do.

And, guess what? I actually feel a little cheated about not having homework to do after school. It’s like I feel my academic credentials will be plummeting, I won’t be learning as much as I need to know, and that really, truly sucks. If you’d asked me a month ago if I’d be feeling like this I would never have believed it.

I mean we really had an awful load of stuff to get done, every day of the week, and week-ends no exceptions. It was a miserable burden, even if we did get used to it. And now, all of a sudden, nothing. Okay, maybe we should just kind of adjust, coast on the fact that we’ve got it easy now for the rest of the school year. But it just doesn’t feel right.

So, we should celebrate because we don’t get headaches any more being exposed to some adult who isn’t capable of mustering enough internal resources to calmly teach and discipline the people in the class who are always out of line? You’d think so. I’d have thought that way.

Okay, the same kids are still acting up. At first this guy, Mr. Masterson, just calmly put them in their place. And they shut up. Then that didn’t work any more. And he began yelling. It was different than what Mrs. McVetty used to do. This is a guy, and he raises his voice, and it’s loud and strong, not shrill and excited. Just a big, surprising blast. And everyone shuts up.

He yells “I don’t have to take this crap!”. And everyone shuts up. 

 

 

Gifted Elements Of Life

A blue, hazy sky, unresistant to the
sun's imperiously blazing presence
and a wind skilled at shifting relief
over energy-depleted limbs, exerted
through a vigorous morning foray
into beckoning woodlands.

A leisurely, yet energetic amble,
where we venture to be re-energized
by our direct confrontation with
all things natural, in brief release
from the din of the mechanistic
world of nature-spurning humankind.

Sunlight filtering through the leafy
canopy reveals a golden skein, a veil
of gilded particles shifting endlessly
through the warm, still air. This
gold dust of organic renewal swirls
everywhere, settles and rests
infiltrates, and insinuates at will.

Yet without will; at the discretion
and direction of nature's purpose. Our
orifices receive the powdered elements
of plant life, even as all it settles upon
absorb its presence as the continuation
and very manifestation of life.

As we ourselves are constructed of
all the heavenly matter that we name
star dust circulates, is absorbed and
lends life its essence, in an unending
celestial continuum of birth and re-birth.

 

 

The Eternal Revenants

 

How readily do people affect a
grievance not theirs, perceiving
injustice in an confused landscape
of dire human convergence of
spite, hatred and victimhood
head to head with the aspirations
of others to obey the imperative
to survive, by hopeful co-existence.

Hatred destroys those it drowns in
a sea of vast self-pity and the will to
avenge. Both inspire a cunning to
enable portrayals of abandonment and
piteous need where the goal is not to
seek conciliation but to impose a violent
reckoning for nothing less in flawed
human certainty will ease the anger
and the pain but to inflict revenge.

Clever manipulation of perceptions
provoke a soul-satisfying backlash
of heated denunciation to harry and
condemn those innocent of intent to harm,
whose feckless enterprise in ensuring their
own longevity has aroused the fury of
others, resentful of their presence in a
time and a space felt reserved for them.

A nation alone and condemned in its
establishment, where once its forebears
held thousands of years of custody of the
land, now isolated in stern denial of
presence. A nation, long homeless, dispersed
and oppressed, yet again singled out among
nations for contempt and rabid denial.

A people whose presence brings the genius
of knowledge to the world unparalleled by
any other, suppressed regardless, their
numbers brutally abbreviated in a vile
collaboration of planned extinction. The
remnants forge on instinctive with hope
and belief to meet again and yet again
brutal adversity without surcease.

Ancient sages forecast their dim visions
of an eternity of wild nightmares of
horrors and degraded aspirations. A people
apart yet of this time and of this place
held in uncertain esteem and quite certain
disdain. Holding fast and true to the
living dilemma of their presence in a
hostile world of others' beliefs.

Tragedy and opportunity are visitors
in equal measure on the threshhold of
that welcome-impoverished people. Their
struggle to surmount the obstacle of
apartness, otherness, and the strangeness of
subordinate status as lesser than most, yet
sustains the vigour of their needs and their
resolve and inner resources will, in the
final analysis, prevail; that stubborn lot.

 

 

The Climax Forest

 

Some malign force has clearly moved
relentlessly through the forest
of recent days. A mini-hurricane sweeping
trees imperiously from their secure footing
uprooting great balls of earth, roots losing
the struggle to sustain their grip
and stout trunks snapped under
a force too fierce to be resisted.

We pick our way carefully. Under
around and over the carnage
wondering at nature's awe-full, swiftly
unexpected and sharp tendency to
temper tantrums, disarray in the wake
of her emissaries' hot, fierce breath.

The atmosphere is humid with
anarchic display, vaguely foreboding
sinister, as though some mysterious
presence still lingers. A wide swath
of snapped spruce and birch, ground
littered with shattered limbs and
green, fragrant-needled branches.

Nearby, the mountain creek runs
cold and rampant, over mountain-
strewn boulders, unconcerned by the
maelstrom's devastation. A grey jay
flies from the mast of a jagged-top
pine. Something sadly malevolent is
occurring, an infestation, a viral agent.

Some deadly scourge is haunting
the forest's massive old pines, and the
adolescents as well, turning needles
orange and dry, diminishing their
future aspirations, leaving the
forest with sad, yawning gaps. A
doleful, double stroke of misery.

 

 

The Sky-Chugging Storm

 

It's a tame life we live; we accept
slight challenges and derive great
satisfaction in our small triumphs.
In the garden, the opportunities to
greet adversity with determined
actions are many, but of happy
moment to the intrepid gardener
thrilling to the immediate challenge.

The fragrance of damp soil, the
promise inherent in the effort to
aid sun and rain bring extravagant
colour shadings, varied architecture
and plush textures to prominent
garden features, drowning the
senses in deeply sensual bliss.

To thrust deeply into soil richly
composted, darkly crumbling with
growing nutrients, hosting burrowing
insects of the garden. A sense of
power and availment overwhelms.
The purpose: to move and transplant
faithful perennial clumps, and roses
to locations better suited to their
growing needs; to see them thrive.

This compels the action, impels the
change. The sky above is heavy with
dark clouds, the atmosphere cloying
with humidity, and one distant clap
after another gives ample warning
of imminent inundation. Nothing
deterred, the feverish digging proceeds
along with gentle removal and final
disposal, patting soil about the plant.

Lightning rents the clouds, sending
bright rods of energy and light
Earthward, counting down the arrival
of the sky-chugging storm whose
violent intent is deduced from the
ever-insurgent booms drumming the
sky, moving inexorably closer to the
target the garden has become.

It is nothing short of exhilarating
to race the storm. Perform the
penultimate transplant, calmly
proceed to the last as heavy drops
begin to lash the air. The final work
is done, warm, moist soil patted
into place, anchoring the plant.

One arm scoops my confused little
dog, the other my tools, for a mad
dash to the garden shed for tool
disposal. Deep breath, and the full
impact of the storm raging above
thunder thumping the atmosphere
light shafts renting the clouds, we
tear through the deck door, wet
and fulfilled, danger defied.

 

 

His Memories

 

His memories are of fond recollection
those of a young boy awed with the
white-bearded presence of a grandfather
attention to the hesitant curiosity of a
child. There, too, are memories of a
stoop-backed, pleated-faced grandmother
forever offering hugs and proudly warm
glances, along with little saucers
dancing with raisins and almonds.

So unlike his own father and mother
his grandparents, though stooped
with age, exuded kindness and charity.
His father, he knew, depended on what
he construed as his entitlement to
another type of charity, claiming constant
financial need, when none was there
dismaying and threatening the frail pair.

When the young boy grew older, married
he brought his young wife to visit the
wisps that remained of his grandparents
worn with time and the efforts of
existence, their faded presence still dear
without peer. Finally, three young
children of his own, there was a funeral
for two aged people, expired in tandem.

Long-lived, the ancient man and his wife
took their leave of the sons and daughters
they had borne and those countless others
successive generations, expanding the
pair's tenuously-transparent existence.
Themselves once young, moving relentlessly
toward the finality of elderly presence.

The heirlooms of the old couple's time
as progenitors of a wide brood, their
heritage and values assumed and widely
acclaimed. Their worldly wealth, modestly
valuable, distributed among the cast of
men and women who owed their
existence to the now dear-departed.

Two unobtrusive, small items went
unclaimed. The grandmother's simple
unadorned marriage ring removed at
death, not left for the burial. The
grandfather's cherished horn-carved
translucent, ochre shaded snuffbox.
Of no value to the acquisitive hoard
dividing between them items of value.

Offered, as a last resort, to the grandson
and gratefully accepted. That grandchild
now looking back, as advanced in frail
years now as was once his grandfather.

 

 

My Tangled Garden

I've my own version of a wonderfully
realized tangled garden, equally colourful
monumentally textured as A.Y. Jackson's
famous painting. While yet still spring
the warmth of the sun, this Valley's humidity
conspire with nature to urge all growing
things to green anarchic celebration.

Each of the trees, shrubs, bushes in my
beloved garden has a well developed
personality; to tamper with is to invite
dismayed rejection. Each flourishes
enthusiastically resistant to shaping
containment or instruction to respect the
confines assigned, aspiring instead to
capturing area not their own.

Patiently, I have learned through long
observance to allow each its successive
celebration of bloom. And when their
conceit has been fulfilled, admirable
presence of colour and fragrance muted for
another year, out come the shears, the
pruners, the secateurs and order is restored.

Allowing yet another garden contingent
to declare prominence and clamouring
claim to admired presence, in a prolonged
summer-long process of affecting need.

 

 

A Woodlands Drama

The imperious dome of the sky
is resolutely blue, with a faint
haze of deeply humid air, slightly
wafted by an over-heated wind
rustling foliage, relieving but
minimally the cloying atmosphere.

All is tranquil, barely a sound
emanates from any ambient source.
Even the depleted watercourse
no longer runs but lethargically
barely a ripple to glance back
the burning orb of the sun.

A sudden, high-pitched shriek
alarms the air, as a hawk pitches
itself into spirals through the
dense heat of the sky. A blackbird
pecking desultorily on dry ground
suddenly spreads wing, thrusting
wildly into the receiving sky.

There are no small woodlands
animals yet to be seen, wary in
their dens. Several brown, striped
feathers lie in testimony to a recent
night-time drama that unfolded
with desperation never heard.

Uncaring buttercups and Solomon's
seal reveal their flowery presence.
Fleabane perkily blooms, and
cowvetch begins its strangling
summer devotional. Blue-eyed
grass blooms in great innocence.

 

Suffering Children

 

She listened carefully, as she was trained to do. She was hearing yet another story. There would be some permutations that might make this story slightly different from all the others, but broadly speaking, they fell into a few categories, and the individual stories themselves did not distinguish themselves all that much. A neighbour, or a teacher calling to report a suspected case of child abuse. Even an extended family member might do that. There would be an exchange of information. She would listen sympathetically, attempt to draw out details to ensure she was getting as much of a balanced report of the matter as possible. It has not been unknown for someone to report child abuse, out of personal malice, where none existed. She would offer tentative advice after asking leading questions and weighing the responses.

It was her job. It was what she was trained to do. It was, in fact, what she saw as her responsibility to society. To respond, as much as she could under the law, to protect the well-being of vulnerable children.

There were so many days when she returned home exhausted after a day of listening, allowing someone to ventilate whatever their concerns were. To draw out the essential details. And when those details emerged and occasionally constituted really dreadfully abusive situations where it was clearly imperative for a case worker like herself to visit the home, evaluate further, question the child or children involved, look around at their living conditions, speak to their care-giver -- sometimes she was completely drained of emotion.

Why did people have children to begin with if they couldn’t care adequately for them? This was an absurd, unanswerable question, its only purpose to rage against the injustice of seeing those large haunted eyes of children, afraid of being ‘disciplined’, fearful of a stranger entering the home to ask confusing questions. She had to be careful with those questions. She could not ‘lead’ a child to respond fulsomely, to explain to her precisely what was occurring. For the most part the children involved did not really know what was happening. What was happening to them. They were so accustomed to being abused and neglected, they had no reason to believe normal life for them would be anything else than what they experienced.

And even young children had a kind of intuition, that if they said something that would place their guardian, their mother or their father in a dim light, there might be consequences. Consequences like further abuse after the departure of the stranger. Consequences such as being removed from their home, taken to somewhere like a prison for being bad, for making their parents or their parent dislike them and hurt them. Hurt them in so many ways, telling them that they’re worthless, they’re a millstone, their mother wishes they’d never been born. Slapping them around because they’re in the way, and irritating, annoying little pests.

There were days when she told herself she was functionally and emotionally in need of help herself, to the point where she was incapable of dealing with another familial mess. As accustomed as she was to dealing with these dysfunctional situations passing as families, she would never become hardened to the reality of the misery of a neglected, abused child.

“ I don’t quite know what to do, where to turn”, the faintly plaintive voice fed its worry into her ear. “It’s my daughter, my granddaughter, I worry about my granddaughter”.

“Your granddaughter. Why do you feel you have reason for concern?”

“It’s my daughter. She’s under stress, she always is. She’s a single mother. She’s finding it very difficult to cope.”

“How old is your granddaughter?”

“She’s thirteen, thirteen and some. She has a good mind of her own, and her mother tries to dominate her.”

“Dominate her?”

“Well, she’s very manipulative, my daughter, and controlling, and she doesn’t like it when someone opposes her, expresses other opinions, holds values she doesn’t.”

“All right, and why do you fear for your grandchild?”

“She’s a sensitive child. An intelligent, highly creative, bright child. These are characteristics she shares with her mother, actually. But her mother is exploiting her position as a mother in a very brutal way with her daughter.”

“Brutal? Is she … is she … how?”

“Our daughter is a well-paid professional, she’s had a good education, but she is also violently abusive in her language, her emotions. She has never tried to restrain herself, she spouts invective, really viciously, screams obscenities at her child. She berates her, she undermines the child’s self-confidence.”

“I see. A very strong personality. Has your grandchild complained to you? Have you witnessed any of this, these violent emotional expressions?”

“Witnessed it? Yes, we’ve been the objects of much of it ourselves, my husband and I. And even when our grandchild was much younger she was exposed to it, and had become a victim of it.”

“I see. Yet you’re particularly concerned at this juncture?”

“Yes, this is a young girl in her formative years, uncertain of herself, and her mother is involved in unsettling her, not supporting her emotionally. You can’t keep telling a child that she’s stupid without incurring long-lasting trauma!”

“I agree. I certainly agree, madam. Would you like to make this a formal complaint? We can have a case worker go out to the home and speak to your grandchild.”

“No, I don’t think… I honestly don’t know what to think. Our daughter is in a difficult position. Coping is hard for her. We’ve done our best to help, and we always have, but I’ve reached a point where I hardly know what next to do. I’m worried because she’s also abusing her daughter physically. I’m afraid that she will lose touch with reality in one of her rages.”

“She’s hitting the girl? Is she slapping her with an open hand?”

“Well yes, with an open hand. And later she tells me that it’s her daughter that’s at fault, that her daughter has become physical with her mother. Our granddaughter is taller than her mother, she’s a large girl, strong, but that doesn’t sound like the girl we know. We used to be her secondary care-givers when her mother was at work. Our granddaughter isn’t physical by nature. I used to encourage her when she was young in her early grades, to hit back if someone hit her. She refused, she was adamant, she said she couldn’t do that. So I don’t believe that she initiates physical abuse, even though our daughter claims that as fact.”

“You don’t believe her.”

“No, I know my daughter. I know my granddaughter. They do share some personality traits, but not that. Our grandchild has a natural sense of justice, she has always been that way, she just would not attack without extreme provocation -- to protect herself. She has told me that her mother is relentless, just won’t stop once she’s launched herself into a rage. I recognize her descriptions of her mother out of control. Our grandchild will take to her room, her mother will just invade her there, not stopping for one instant to give the child some relief. And I know what it’s like, my husband and I have experienced the very same abusive behaviour from our daughter. She has always been controlling and abusive, from the time she was a child herself.”

“I see. Listen, if your daughter is abusing her daughter so badly, it would really be helpful if you would agree to having a caseworker go around.”

“I know what you’re saying. On the other hand, I don’t know if I can do this to my daughter.”

“But think of your granddaughter. If things are as rough for her as you say they are, they might progress to a point where she is in real danger.”

“I’ve thought of that. My imagination keeps running away with me. I’ve got a too-vivid imagination in any event, I’m always thinking up dire scenarios. I can’t even be certain that I’m not reacting too strongly to the situation I’m describing to you. But my granddaughter told me on the weekend that her mother had slapped her so hard she thought her nose was bleeding.”

“Well, that sounds pretty bad. That’s serious abuse, that and the verbal tirades you describe.”

“I envision my granddaughter leaving home, just going out the door and instead of going to school, simply disappearing. I’m fearful.”

“I hear you. There’s an element of potential in what you’ve said, it does happen. Will you give me particulars; your daughter’s name and address and telephone number?”

“I … I just can’t, not now, not yet. Can you tell me what the age of majority is?”

“It’s sixteen.”

“My grandchild has two more years to go. “

“Can you afford to put things off for that length of time knowing how seriously dysfunctional your daughter’s household is with respect to her daughter?”

“ I don’t know, I just don’t know. But if I give you the information, and you act on it … You must be aware, I know I am, that mother-daughter relations are often strained, and worse. There must be so many families where what I’ve described to you are common occurrences.”

“Yes, yes that’s true enough.”

“I also want to … you know that I know and most people think of it … well Children’s Aid hasn’t got the greatest reputation for aiding children. There are stories…”

“Yes, you’re right. There are times when things go wrong, when failure results from interventions. But those failures represent a minuscule number of cases. You can’t take those events as representative of the work we do. We’re concerned with the well-being and safety of children, and that’s our prime motivator. We’re skilled professionals in the field, capable of assessing situations and arriving at solutions.”

“Yes, of course. What would happen if our grandchild was taken from her mother? Her father is long gone, he has no interest whatever in the child. He’s never paid anything for her upkeep. He has never in the decade since his absence from her life, even made the remotest attempt to contact her, see the child.”

“I could tell you that in all likelihood you would be chosen at the closest kin to look after the child. She would be placed in your care.”

“And that would destroy my daughter.”

“You think so?”

“I’m grateful to have spoken with you. Perhaps I really needed to ... someone to speak with, to get some perspective. I’m glad you listened, gave me the opportunity to talk. I’m feeling … a little more … confident -- about alternatives, about the future. It may not make sense to you after what I’ve said, but I think I’d better leave things there.”

“If you change your mind… If something further occurs to convince you that intervention is required, please call back.”

She may not. She may. Who really knows?

There was one bit of information that grandmother related that gave me pause. She described how the daughter accused her father of abusing her. Which the grandfather denied. And the grandmother would not believe.

She was after all, she said, always around, she knew what their child was like, growing up, how impossible she was to control. As an adolescent she suddenly arrived home from school one day and began casually throwing obscenities around. No one in their family had ever abused language and social sensibilities in that way.

It was as though the girl had suddenly turned some corner in her psychic life and become someone they hardly recognized.

When they protested at her changed behaviour and vocabulary she had laughed in their faces. “It’s not words that are harmful” she said, derisive of their middle-class shock. “It’s the way people behave, the way they treat one another.”

What could they respond to that, the woman asked rhetorically. She was right and at the same time wrong. Language needn’t be impeccable, but it should be respectful and they were mortally affronted that their daughter would confront them like that. Her siblings did not, and they were boys. Weren’t girls supposed to be more delicate in such matters, more attuned to propriety?

It’s the mother’s assertion that the daughter had no basis in bitterly charging her father with abuse that had me trying to assess what I’d heard, much later. It’s as though somehow an explanation of that now-grown daughter’s evolving behaviour has its basis in an unspoken and sinister secret that only she and her father share.

That the mother strenuously denies.

We may never hear from her again. On the other hand, if matters escalate beyond what the grandmother can handle in her perceived and ongoing maltreatment of the child, we may hear from her again.

It’s these muddled, non-specific attributions that give me a huge headache. To listen to all of this and be able to produce nothing of value to ameliorate an obviously bad situation that will without doubt result in a poor outcome makes me feel that I’m unable to make too much of a difference.

So, I ask myself yet again. Why is it that people have children? 

 

Palatial. Decadent. Sigh.

 

In the market for a new house?
Ready to leave your current home?
Moving up and out ... looking for
something more upscale, perhaps
to reflect your inner self and its
yearnings? Look no further, ample
alternatives exist, awaiting your
notice, and ultimate decision.

"This property of approximately 12
acres on Hidden Oaks Golf Course
offers exceptional potential for a
magnificent private residence or
corporate retreat. There is a six-
bedroom, five and one-half bath
home with pool and spa already in
place within walking distance of beach."

"Unparalleled views highlight this nearly
14,000-square-foot Mediterranean
estate atop its own 86-acre knoll. Now
being built, the secured, six-bedroom,
nine-bath home with observation tower,
library and fireplaced living, dining and
family rooms will feature the finest
appointments. Property offers a wine
cellar, guest/pool house and maid's quarters."

"This outstanding custom-built waterfront
contemporary offers quality workmanship,
handsome design and walls of glass. Beveled
mirrors, sliding glass doors, Portuguese
marble and 24-karat gold fixtures in the
whirlpool tub are some of its many special
features. 100 feet of bulkhead have two
motorized boat lifts, deep water, 8 decks and
panoramic river and Atlantic Ocean views."

"Incomparable in design, this country
estate is majestically sited on 5 gently rolling
acres and is only minutes by car to the nation's
capital. The exterior is Classic in style, while
the dynamic interior features hand-glazed
walls, faux finishes, 2 master suites, four
additional bedrooms, tray-ceilinged living
room, great room with cathedral ceiling and
media center, billiard room and an exercise
suite. Sharing the property are a large
pool, spa, tanning platforms and stone patios."

Do not despair. Make enquiries. Gird
your resolve. Consider listing your home
with these realtors. Consider offering a trade.
Be creative, and self-assured! Yours, for
theirs. It's done, really it is, all the time.
Explain the pleasures of a more simple
less complicated life within a less favourably
appointed, admirably less complex structure.

Resulting in fewer concerns, far less upkeep.
Tell them about those modest expenses.
Say what a sacrifice you are willing to make
on their behalf, to simplify their lives, mate.

 

 

Ambushed, Again, Misanthrope

 

Call it what you will, bushwhacked
assaulted, yet it is sensitivity-
sensibility-assaulting to become
vividly reminded of ourselves, how
we comport our presence on this
shared Globe, qualify and quantify
our existence by what we do - to
for and of ourselves, singly, collectively.

There are options; become deliberately
unaware, shield oneself from the
constant reminders, shut out of
consciousness our utter lack of
humanity toward one another; shun
the daily firestorm of news assailing
our eyes and ears, the very inner
sanctuary of our frail souls.

Become a heedless, disinterested
bystander, averting our senses from the
senseless. Protect ourselves from utter
despair for we are helpless and of course
blameless. The planet will still turn in axis
its orbit around the sun, the world will
proceed with its charnel-house events.

Events horrifying and eventually
steeling us to their constant occurrences
through the anaesthesia of indifference.
Wanting to know, to be responsibly
apprised and aware, responding in our
absurdly hopeless manner, this knowledge
captures us, demanding our recognition.

That we bear witness to the horrors,
exploitation, carnage, atrocities meted
out to the unfortunate by their tormentors.

This is the human race, a sensate
emotion-beleaguered organism that
Nature evolved into a creature that
defies its maker, one she has generously
imbued with a creative mind, fully aware
of consequences, fully comfortable with
forging full-steam ahead, and damn
anything in our path to self-destruction.

 

 

Changing Time

 

Its prolonged, mute anguish at
the state of world affairs which
demanded to be broadcast ... its
acute disappointment with the
fallibility of the very creative
intelligence that gave it life
exacted a heavy toll on our
wretched kitchen radio, upon
whose clarity we so depended.

To us, it seemed an inanimate
object we could animate at will.
Our silently obedient, then suddenly
verbose servant, delivering the
hourly news. An instrument not of
clever nature but of the clever
nature of our human minds.

Little did we imagine that this
mechanical-electrical dependent
might inherit some of the more
ignoble characteristics of those
who modelled it. Yet, there it was
exhibiting symptoms of delusion,
paranoia, jealousy, domination.

A sad occurrence; it became bitter
that ill news continually issued
from its sad mouth, overhearing in
the process our condemnations of
world leaders. Our radio complained
and refused any such further
indignities imposed upon it by us.

The radio crackled and faded
refused to stay on track, sullenly
closed itself down as a resource
dedicated to news delivery. Finally
we pulled its plug, its eyes dimmed
and it achieved the solitude it sought.
It sat there, defiant of our need.

We, in dire need of news, replaced
our tired, frenzied old radio. A new
model sits now where old faithless
once did. Sleek and modern, it can
also play our classical music CDs.
Its sound is decidedly superior.

But we miss our crankily opinionated
radio of yore. Long did it serve us.
We find ourselves sighing with regret.
We miss not its piques of temper
but the clear notice on its elderly
face of accurate time; a requisite the
talented new radio, does not possess.

 

 

A Forlorn Season

 

In one of her irascible moods
of pending mischief, Nature has
snatched early spring from our
grasp and impishly returned us
to winter in an impulse to please
us, her dependent creatures.
Understanding fully, as she does
our woe at the unfortunate passing
of icy winds, snowy landscapes.

Gone now, the sun and its faithful
companion warmth, along with
the comfort of another season of
promises. We see again frost, a
decor we know well, that comes
replete with howling winds bringing
sleet and snow storms in that
abysmally dark season just past.

Past, you say? We become again
reclusive, cold, quivering beings
loathe to so soon again face the
whipping winds that crease our
tender faces. To venture into that
miserable, frigid gale is to clasp to
one's bosom a viperous transition
born of true, natural malice.

Early spring flowers shrivel in
dismay. Birds fail in their trilling
dawn greetings, huddling within
tree branches, fluffing feathers
against bone-numbing cold. Those
tiny, exquisite summer residents
returning, are caught in the pitiable
fate of anxious hummingbirds.

Creatures of the forest hesitate,
curious and confused, so certain
were they of their collective memory
of raising young to an introduction
of mildly kind forbearance toward
those new of all species. They
withdraw, to wait out this inclemency.
And so too, of grim necessity, do we.

 

 

Risk Management

 

What the hell? The guy’s an absolute moron!

If her professional, highly technical, experienced guidance is as crucial to the program as they’re telling her, instructing her to no-fail appearances at scheduled high-echelon meetings extending into the next six months, and her contract runs out in two weeks, and she’s been informed no funding for extension exists, they’re all village idiots.

“No”, she responded stiffly, wondering how it might be even remotely possible she thought at one time that he was halfway intelligent.

Surprised heads were raised to gaze cryptically at her defiant, yet resigned tone. So unlike her usual brash confidence. “I will not be attending.”

Incompetent assholes, she fumed inwardly more than adequately belying her calm exterior. Can’t tell their own from a hole in the ground. And that hole in the ground was just where she found herself now, floundering without any immediate job prospects, despite her acknowledged professional skills and experience.

Really lucked into that great lottery of life for certain, she thought.

It wasn’t just this, this incident with a well-remunerated contract evaporating. There was more, much more going on in her life that wasn’t joy-inducing. Such is life. And such was her life. Choices, all about choices. And she’d made some really amazing ones. Always certain, at the time she made those choices that they were the right ones. And it’s possible they were the right ones, at that time.

They just didn’t turn out to be anything to celebrate, over time, when those choices more or less fell flat. Leaving her to pick up the sorry pieces, wondering what on Earth had ever compelled her to think that she knew what she was doing when making those choices at those decision-making times.

Who even knows where Jack is now? For that matter who gives a damn?

Well, Steven likely does. He speaks about his father occasionally, less so now than he used to when he was young. Funny thing, that; Jack left before Steven was old enough to understand what a father represented. Still, even as an infant, even when things started going awry, she clearly recalled the child clinging to the man. Resistant to being handed back to his mother by his impatient father who didn’t relish holding his son.

It was his restlessness that had attracted her to him to begin with. She thought it was so romantic, his curiosity about the world, about going places, talking about where he’d been. Turned out he hadn’t been anywhere other than in his fertile imagination. He just wanted to be there.

Where? Anywhere but where he was. He was possessed of a fierce longing to go, just go, leave behind whatever it was that kept him from seeing the world. She often wondered why he settled down to the conventional notions of companionship, marriage, a home and a child. She was glad that he had, but wondered about it. Casually, she wondered, never digging deep into the question that always hovered in her mind. It was as though she deliberately kept herself from delving a little deeper, in case she found an answer that would upset her neat little world that then represented their lives together.

He hadn’t left her to wonder too long. Becoming increasingly edgy and short-tempered, she understood without his spelling it out that she had become a burden to him. The love they thought they had for one another? A stupid illusion, nothing more. It was fun, it was sex, it was attractive for a while, and then it all waned and got stale and became burdensome and boring. Just in time to see the birth of their son.

He gave it a few more months, struggled with his incurable wanderlust, and left. Just left. No note. She understood, though what had occurred. She was left behind, abandoned by someone she persuaded herself to believe she knew. What she had known was a hollow shell with an attractive exterior. She resented his abandonment of her and their baby. But she knew too that she had never realistically considered who and what she was complicating her life with.

History now, but no more readily accepted. That burning, irritated feeling of having been left behind, of rejection was never forgotten. Especially with Steven around to keep it alive. He resembled his father in so many ways. So much for imprinting through observation and emulation -- patterning didn't they call it? Well, he could not possibly have absorbed anything about his father in the brief time he knew him; it was his inherited DNA.

Sure, it was his age, that too, but there was an underlying recklessness, and restlessness that elbowed her awareness into recognition of his parentage on the lance side. He bore little resemblance to her side of the family physically, and certainly none that she could recognize in his personality. His character was that of his father’s.

She had no idea what his grandfather was like, Jack was close-mouthed other than to tell her early on in their relationship that his father been an abusively miserable sod of a man, and his mother a screeching hellion. He had nothing to add to that, and since she knew he never bothered about them, satisfied with complete estrangement, she'd let it lie. She did wonder, though, if her errant husband had worried about whether he would become an abusive father to their son, if he remained with them. Then dismissed the thought; he was just simply disinterested in being a father, a husband, being tied down.

Not that things were any cosier between her and her siblings. Parents gone, long buried. Sibling rivalry between them translated into distance and disinterest. Although they did get together at least once a year, a huge family get-together. It was like meeting with the neighbours who lived far down the street, the ones you knew to acknowledge by a dip of the head, a brief ‘hi’, and that was it. There was no depth to their familial relationship, handily reflecting the lack of curiosity, one about the other.

And here was her kid, her only child, an unruly boy - young man really - who threw her for a loop. She hardly knew what to do with him. He hated school and his school marks and the remarks on his report cards, validated that. She’d tried to encourage him, help with his homework, but he resisted her involvement in his schoolwork, and just curtly informed her to leave him alone, he’d manage on his own.

He did, actually, he struggled on, convinced all his teachers hated him, were out to get him, but he wouldn’t give them the satisfaction or the opportunity. He ran with a group of boys whose nonchalant attitude to school, to social mores and relationships reflected his own, more or less. She was familiar with the faces, with some of the names, and certainly with the attitude.

She'd had it out with him time and again. She was relentless, coming at him with determination, to try to get him to recognize that his association with those others whose circumstances were far less than his would only lead him into trouble. He, at least, she said, had been given some valuable instruction at home, he knew the difference between what could be done and what shouldn't be done. Vague, but he knew pretty well what she meant. Some of his friends had been brought in for petty theft, for reckless driving, for driving while under the influence.

He came right back at her, telling her she was deluded if she thought the way he was brought up was in any way superior to that of his friends. Most of them, he reminded her, had both a mother and a father. True, they didn't have the disposable income his mother managed to earn, but they did all right. They had their values to hand on their kids. They were just being young and carefree, into doing things that stretched the limits of society's acceptance. Most young men did just that, he said, furious with her. Angry because he had no intention of dropping his friends, telling her they were more genuine than the kind of guys she probably hung out with when she was young. His father, for example, he hissed at her, who couldn't stick around long enough to see his own kid grow up.

"So don't give me any more of that shit!" he called after her, as she left the room. Doing so, because she wanted to contain her emotions, wanted to make sure she exercised some decent restraint. Didn't act the fishwife with him the way her husband had described his mother doing to him.

Once he had his high school diploma, she thought he’d think twice about going on to post-secondary, but he thought three times, and the third time was the final one. He got himself a service job and just hung around with his friends, all of them locked into minimum-wage jobs. Spending whatever they made on booze and good times. She began to get on his case, and he said he’d had enough and prepared to move out, to share an apartment downtown with some of his friends.

Nothing she could do about it. And she needed a break from him anyway. The last time an OPP officer drove into their driveway, knocking at the door, asking to speak with Steven, she felt she just wasn’t up to taking it any more. Nothing serious, just checking. He’d been found in possession of more pot than any one person could use, in that Honda she gave him when she bought a new one. This cop had a habit of stopping him on the road sometimes, just checking… He’d earned a local reputation. Even in the little backwater where she’d had her dream house built, a half-hour drive out of the city.

She would shrink inside, in an agony of disquietude when she heard Steve and a few of his friends laughing about that law enforcement officer. They called him "Kamikaze" because of his appearance, wouldn't take him seriously, thought he was an absolute gas. The man was short, stocky, with an impassive face, though he made an effort to smile, apologetically, each time he knocked at the door and she would answer.

He had confided to her that it was his opinion that her son would come around, and so likely would the other boys. He was convinced that his constant presence would act as a reminder to them, and they'd outgrow their fascination with the illicit. He knew, he laughed once when speaking with her, how he was regarded by them, as though he represented an absurd caricature. He didn't mind that, he was used to it. He wanted to spare them, if his pop-up appearances did the trick, of thinking they could commit more serious infractions, unnoticed by the law.

She appreciated his frank explanations. She appreciated that he cared. She thought what a decent man he was, so different from so many of the others. And how difficult it must be for him, a Japanese-Canadian whose presence was anything but commanding, even in that official uniform, to lay down the law. That her son and his friends had no respect for him and what he represented pained her.

That was another contentious issue between them. Steve just couldn't believe she was angry about that. What was the cop to her? Did she care more about the tender feelings of some ridiculous-looking, hard-boiled law-enforcement officer than she did about him? What the hell?!

That had been the occasion of a really incendiary battle. This time she hadn't stalked out of the room, she stood there, reminding him that some decent man cared enough about the welfare of kids like him to put himself out on their behalf, even while knowing they despised him and held him in contempt for doing his job.

Their argument became so heated that at one point she shoved him backward, onto the sofa. He bounded back, grabbed her by the shoulders and shook her, painfully, until she thought her neck might snap. He was a full head and a half taller than her. That little episode sobered her.

So he moved out, and she got a pair of little dogs to keep her company. Two small Shih Tzu; hairy, yappy little dogs. But she grew to appreciate having them around. At least they were warm and alive, and liked her. Glad when she arrived back home, their fat little bums wriggling from side to side, yapping, endlessly yapping. See squirrels out of her big picture windows, and they’d go into a paroxysm of hysterical yapping. But they were company.

When Steven saw them on his occasional visits - mostly to ask her for money - he’d been intrigued at their presence. Next thing she knew, he told her over the telephone that he’d got a little dog himself, a boxer. It wouldn’t be little very long, she told him.

But while it was, Steve and his friends were having a good time with the dog. Good time? She discovered later, that they took turns slamming it against the concrete wall of the apartment garage just for laughs. When he told her that she was horrified, and told him he was an idiot, no one should abuse an animal like that.

“Hey, Mom, get a grip” he said, clearly amused. “We’re just showing the dog who the alphas are. See, he’s a stubborn little bugger, and when he doesn’t do as he’s told, that’s his punishment. He’ll get the picture, eventually.” He never did.

When Steven moved back in with her after a year ‘on his own’ - tossed out as bad tenants, him and his buddies - he brought Buddy home with him. Buddy walked in as though he owned the place; nothing insecure about that dog, she thought.

And then she screamed, as he lunged at one of her little dogs, closed his big mouth around the small animal, and shook it from side to side, her little dog yelping horribly. Steven kicked his dog, hard, and her little dog fell to the floor, stunned. That was their introduction.

She wanted him to leave, she was hysterical with anger and fear. “Got nowhere to go, right now, Mom”, he said, reasonably enough.

“Well, then just get rid of that monster! I can’t have it here, it’ll end up killing my dogs!”

“Hey, that’s all right, Mom”, he said, soothingly, holding the snarling boxer firmly around the studded collar on its thick neck, as it tried to strain itself toward her cowering dogs. “I’ll keep him outside, in the garage. He’ll get used to living in the garage. You won’t have to see him.”

The dog was clearly psychologically damaged, and little wonder. It had psychotic episodes, but for the most part it would appear mild tempered and playful and her heart went out to it.

She wondered, briefly, what was the matter with her. Investing her concern in animals, instead of worrying about her son. Then she acknowledged that worrying about her son, like wondering about her husband, accomplished nothing. Only time would, and she couldn’t guess what the outcome might be.

There were some things that just couldn’t be managed. Time would do the managing. She laughed bitterly to herself. That was, after all, her profession -- risk management.