She is my mother’s friend, but I call her my aunt. She had three red-haired boys, so my mum, having the luxury of one boy and three girls would lend me to her from time to time.
Her kitchen was her own, everything had a place. Her weekly routine, never diverted from, kept it spotlessly organized. My family’s was a family activity centre.
She taught me about making jams and jellies, knitting, sewing and crocheting. She wasn’t particularly creative, but saw these as activities she had to do. I wanted to learn these things and my aunt welcomed me because she wanted to spend time with a girl.
She worked in the kitchen with a different intensity than my own mother. She wiped down the cupboards every Friday, laundry on Mondays and Wednesdays, ironing on Tuesdays and Thursdays. She had developed a weekly menu from which she never strayed. She had very specific routines for the week where my mother seemed to wing it.
She was actually disgusted by mashing fruit and thought that her yearly batch of marmalade was the most horrible food in her house until we made red current jelly. She kept mumbling how vile it was to mash the fruit with the stems.
The adjoining room was also hers, dedicated to fabric arts. She made lots of beautiful things never straying from a pattern, she taught me to follow the directions. I made an intricate baby blanket of granny squares and a pair of knitted gloves that fit my hands perfectly.
Going to visit her was always a whole day event and quite tiring. I might have stayed overnight, but for her habit of talking about politics or morality at the dinner table, which always made me cry. I couldn’t resolve my love of her help with her lack of charity. Also, her boys were terribly uncomfortable around me.
It was like a holiday for us, removed us from the distraction of our own families.
Occasionally, I still visit her. I bring any projects I’m working on including sometimes my daughters. But I am always careful to steer the conversation away from politics and I never bring her my latest jam or jelly.
by Helen Spaxman March 26, 2010
Wednesday, April 7, 2010
New Beginning: MVA
The phone call to my parents could have gone very differently. I could have been calling to tell them that I was in the hospital. Or a worse nightmare, my husband would have been calling to tell them that the girls were in the hospital and that I was in a coma… or dead.
I struggled to call them because of some part of me that wished to stay emotionally detached. I felt obligated to call them. I knew my parents would be hurt to find out about it months later around a dinner table.
“Hi, Dad… I’m calling because the girls and I were in a car accident yesterday. And I feel very lucky to be alive.”
We had gone to visit Granny for a part of spring break. On our last day, on our way home, we decided to go swimming at the pool in Chilliwack. After the swim we put our wet things in the trunk with the suitcase and drove another 20 minutes on the highway to buy donuts. Claire, three, was by this time fast asleep in her car seat, so we used the drive-through. Iris, seven, had one timbit and closed the carton, holding them on her lap until her sister woke up and so she could share the rest with her. I put a decaf in the drink holder, not being much of a coffee drinker that would be enough to keep me alert on the road after our swim. I had also insisted on the girls wearing their winter coats so that I could keep the air cool in the car.
The highway was surprisingly busy, for a Friday during Spring Break: the slow lane dawdling 10km less than the posted speed limit, but the fast lane racing its usual 10-15km faster. I stayed in the slow lane, not being one of those people that has to get anywhere fast.
I hummed harmony to Tracy Chapman’s album: New Beginning a tape I could only play in this car’s antiquated stereo. It was music I hadn’t listened to since other happily maudlin times: the complicated birth of my first child, falling in love for the second time.
Now, my first independent drive out to visit Granny, just me and the girls. “At this point in my life… hmm, hmm, hmm, I still have mountains to climb, hmm, hmm, hmm… I want to live as if the search to live honestly is all that anyone needs.”
The car adjacent to me in the fast lane moved onto the inside shoulder and then a towering SUV bashed into our little Toyota Corolla on the driver’s side forcing us onto the grassy shoulder.
I reduced my pressure on the accelerator, the SUV continued to race on at 130km or more, gunning it. Suddenly my steering wheel went loose and the front wheels seemed to collapse and turn to the left. We were now only travelling 60-70km/hr, but the car careened across the two lane highway, going into a roll. I held that useless steering wheel saying to myself, “Good-bye, I’m sorry girls.” People don’t walk away from a car wreck like this.
As the car rolled into the grassy median, I held onto the roof through the hole where the window had been, and I felt the grass slowly come up to meet my fingers so I pulled them in. We had stopped upside-down. Iris started to cry and Claire woke up and started making similar sounds, so I spoke encouragingly to them, “We’re gonna be OK! Iris, please calm yourself, you’re upsetting Claire. We aren’t hurt; we’re just going to get out of the car.” We hung upside-down from our seats, our coats cushioning the seat belts.
I unbuckled myself and my feet fell to the …ceiling.
Someone came to the window and said, “Don’t move!”
“I think I’m okay,” I replied, with some astonishment.
He helped one of my kids out and I went around the other side to help the other one out, but someone else was already there, donuts everywhere among the broken glass. Police were there before paramedics, perhaps chasing the SUV, stolen it turned out. I corralled my children, grabbing one from a woman speedily carrying her off. We sat down in the grass well away from the car, to answer questions. I thought, well, I don’t have to watch out for dog pooh we can sit anywhere.
Once in the ambulance, I asked the police to bring some things from the car: the car seats, and my notebook, how would I survive with out that! They said the towing company would secure all the rest in the trunk.
The paramedic told me I had to phone someone. I felt as I did when I had to later phone my parents. A painfully detached call to my husband resulted.
“We have been in a car accident. Can you meet us at the Abbotsford Hospital?”
“Is everyone OK?”
“Yes, but I can’t drive the car home.”
“Is the car drive-able?”
“No.”
Colin drove out to meet us. He didn’t want to drive for an hour wondering how bad it was, but unfortunately heard on the radio, “Single vehicle crash on Highway 1 near McCallum Road, rollover.” He knew that must be us.
The next day he drove out to Abbotsford again to an auto wrecker for our suitcase and wet things from the trunk. The clerk told him where to look, but he walked past the car several times not recognizing it, it was so squashed. He broke down, realizing at that point how lucky he was that we were alive.
After the motor vehicle accident, I aggressively worked on some unresolved issues in my older daughter’s life. What would happen to our family if I died tomorrow? I look at all of my decisions differently. I still get glimpses sometimes of that intense feeling, when I feel unsatisfied with the honesty of my moves.
“…my unfaltering belief that truth is divinity.” Tracy Chapman
Months later, still reeling from the accident, I broke down in the street at the news of a stranger’s death while their child lived because of a winter coat in a car seat. I realized that my greatest fear is not only to lose my children, but to leave them orphans.
Helen Spaxman
November 29, 2009
I struggled to call them because of some part of me that wished to stay emotionally detached. I felt obligated to call them. I knew my parents would be hurt to find out about it months later around a dinner table.
“Hi, Dad… I’m calling because the girls and I were in a car accident yesterday. And I feel very lucky to be alive.”
We had gone to visit Granny for a part of spring break. On our last day, on our way home, we decided to go swimming at the pool in Chilliwack. After the swim we put our wet things in the trunk with the suitcase and drove another 20 minutes on the highway to buy donuts. Claire, three, was by this time fast asleep in her car seat, so we used the drive-through. Iris, seven, had one timbit and closed the carton, holding them on her lap until her sister woke up and so she could share the rest with her. I put a decaf in the drink holder, not being much of a coffee drinker that would be enough to keep me alert on the road after our swim. I had also insisted on the girls wearing their winter coats so that I could keep the air cool in the car.
The highway was surprisingly busy, for a Friday during Spring Break: the slow lane dawdling 10km less than the posted speed limit, but the fast lane racing its usual 10-15km faster. I stayed in the slow lane, not being one of those people that has to get anywhere fast.
I hummed harmony to Tracy Chapman’s album: New Beginning a tape I could only play in this car’s antiquated stereo. It was music I hadn’t listened to since other happily maudlin times: the complicated birth of my first child, falling in love for the second time.
Now, my first independent drive out to visit Granny, just me and the girls. “At this point in my life… hmm, hmm, hmm, I still have mountains to climb, hmm, hmm, hmm… I want to live as if the search to live honestly is all that anyone needs.”
The car adjacent to me in the fast lane moved onto the inside shoulder and then a towering SUV bashed into our little Toyota Corolla on the driver’s side forcing us onto the grassy shoulder.
I reduced my pressure on the accelerator, the SUV continued to race on at 130km or more, gunning it. Suddenly my steering wheel went loose and the front wheels seemed to collapse and turn to the left. We were now only travelling 60-70km/hr, but the car careened across the two lane highway, going into a roll. I held that useless steering wheel saying to myself, “Good-bye, I’m sorry girls.” People don’t walk away from a car wreck like this.
As the car rolled into the grassy median, I held onto the roof through the hole where the window had been, and I felt the grass slowly come up to meet my fingers so I pulled them in. We had stopped upside-down. Iris started to cry and Claire woke up and started making similar sounds, so I spoke encouragingly to them, “We’re gonna be OK! Iris, please calm yourself, you’re upsetting Claire. We aren’t hurt; we’re just going to get out of the car.” We hung upside-down from our seats, our coats cushioning the seat belts.
I unbuckled myself and my feet fell to the …ceiling.
Someone came to the window and said, “Don’t move!”
“I think I’m okay,” I replied, with some astonishment.
He helped one of my kids out and I went around the other side to help the other one out, but someone else was already there, donuts everywhere among the broken glass. Police were there before paramedics, perhaps chasing the SUV, stolen it turned out. I corralled my children, grabbing one from a woman speedily carrying her off. We sat down in the grass well away from the car, to answer questions. I thought, well, I don’t have to watch out for dog pooh we can sit anywhere.
Once in the ambulance, I asked the police to bring some things from the car: the car seats, and my notebook, how would I survive with out that! They said the towing company would secure all the rest in the trunk.
The paramedic told me I had to phone someone. I felt as I did when I had to later phone my parents. A painfully detached call to my husband resulted.
“We have been in a car accident. Can you meet us at the Abbotsford Hospital?”
“Is everyone OK?”
“Yes, but I can’t drive the car home.”
“Is the car drive-able?”
“No.”
Colin drove out to meet us. He didn’t want to drive for an hour wondering how bad it was, but unfortunately heard on the radio, “Single vehicle crash on Highway 1 near McCallum Road, rollover.” He knew that must be us.
The next day he drove out to Abbotsford again to an auto wrecker for our suitcase and wet things from the trunk. The clerk told him where to look, but he walked past the car several times not recognizing it, it was so squashed. He broke down, realizing at that point how lucky he was that we were alive.
After the motor vehicle accident, I aggressively worked on some unresolved issues in my older daughter’s life. What would happen to our family if I died tomorrow? I look at all of my decisions differently. I still get glimpses sometimes of that intense feeling, when I feel unsatisfied with the honesty of my moves.
“…my unfaltering belief that truth is divinity.” Tracy Chapman
Months later, still reeling from the accident, I broke down in the street at the news of a stranger’s death while their child lived because of a winter coat in a car seat. I realized that my greatest fear is not only to lose my children, but to leave them orphans.
Helen Spaxman
November 29, 2009
The Move
The Move by Helen Spaxman March 29, 2010.
She goes down the stairs, picks up another box and starts back up the three flights. Passing her boyfriend on his way down, she puts on a brave face; she straightens her posture. A few more steps and she rests the box on the wrought iron banister, looking down at the large pattern of green and gold diamonds of the thinly carpeted hallway of the second floor. The smell of onions cooking reminds her of her mother’s kitchen, a home like she hopes to make someday soon.
She hears her boyfriend trudging up the stairs again. He is muttering about the so-called friend they helped to move this morning, that ditched them for a paying job this afternoon.
She wipes the sweat of her upper lip on her bare forearm and heaves the box up the next flight of stairs to their top floor apartment.
They arrive at the same time in the kitchen and drop their boxes on the table. He turns and, still muttering, goes back down through the hot three storey walk-up to the cool lobby. She picks up his box and moves it to the bathroom. She resists the urge to open it and to place the items lovingly on shelves and in the cabinet. She longs to place his items next to hers, to arrange them within categories of height or frequency of use, keeping his most accessible so that her items will not be in his way. She will keep the tastefully packaged items at the front of the shelves and the uglier or embarrassing items in the cabinet. She knows that her boyfriend doesn’t share this excitement.
After many more trips, the lobby now empty, her boyfriend flops on the loveseat. She brings him a glass of water. A box has now been opened and she suddenly feels rejuvenated; she begins to organize her own kitchen. She unwraps a small stack of mismatched dinner plates, flattening the crumpled newspaper. Checking for electrical outlets, she places the kettle and toaster nearby and her teas in the cupboard above. They will migrate upwards as she stocks the kitchen with dry goods. Dishes will go on the other side of the sink and she knows that the drying rack will go on that side, too.
“What the hell, don’t you ever stop?” he calls, “Sit down with me for awhile, there’s plenty of time for that.”
He is an old hand at moving, so she joins him on the loveseat, wilting in the heat from his body. She sighs and takes off her shoes. The thin grey carpet under her steaming feet, hops with fleas.
She goes down the stairs, picks up another box and starts back up the three flights. Passing her boyfriend on his way down, she puts on a brave face; she straightens her posture. A few more steps and she rests the box on the wrought iron banister, looking down at the large pattern of green and gold diamonds of the thinly carpeted hallway of the second floor. The smell of onions cooking reminds her of her mother’s kitchen, a home like she hopes to make someday soon.
She hears her boyfriend trudging up the stairs again. He is muttering about the so-called friend they helped to move this morning, that ditched them for a paying job this afternoon.
She wipes the sweat of her upper lip on her bare forearm and heaves the box up the next flight of stairs to their top floor apartment.
They arrive at the same time in the kitchen and drop their boxes on the table. He turns and, still muttering, goes back down through the hot three storey walk-up to the cool lobby. She picks up his box and moves it to the bathroom. She resists the urge to open it and to place the items lovingly on shelves and in the cabinet. She longs to place his items next to hers, to arrange them within categories of height or frequency of use, keeping his most accessible so that her items will not be in his way. She will keep the tastefully packaged items at the front of the shelves and the uglier or embarrassing items in the cabinet. She knows that her boyfriend doesn’t share this excitement.
After many more trips, the lobby now empty, her boyfriend flops on the loveseat. She brings him a glass of water. A box has now been opened and she suddenly feels rejuvenated; she begins to organize her own kitchen. She unwraps a small stack of mismatched dinner plates, flattening the crumpled newspaper. Checking for electrical outlets, she places the kettle and toaster nearby and her teas in the cupboard above. They will migrate upwards as she stocks the kitchen with dry goods. Dishes will go on the other side of the sink and she knows that the drying rack will go on that side, too.
“What the hell, don’t you ever stop?” he calls, “Sit down with me for awhile, there’s plenty of time for that.”
He is an old hand at moving, so she joins him on the loveseat, wilting in the heat from his body. She sighs and takes off her shoes. The thin grey carpet under her steaming feet, hops with fleas.
Tuesday, February 9, 2010
Mama Bear
The feeling of milk flowing through my breasts always makes my toes tingle and my cheeks go flush. There’s no better away for a mother to get exercise then strapping the wee one in a snugly, baby heroin and fresh air. Each morning for the last three weeks I have been strapping Gus to my chest and heading out the door. The baby fat that has accumulated over my body clings to my hips and thighs like bubble gum stuck to the soul of a sneaker in a mid August heat wave. The leaves on are just starting to brake free of their buds like butterflies bursting out of their chrysalises and blessing the world with their myriad of colors. The world seemed so alive as if spring gave us all reason to breathe a little deeper. Bathing our spirits, takes us out of winter, showing us that there is a end to the darkness.
I lower my head and kiss my sleeping sons cheek. My heart swells as I think of all the years of head filled with love and laughter. I pick up the pace as I also think of all the years of chasing behind him and trying to keep him out of harms way. I entertain myself as I walk along on thoughts of heroic acts of undying motherly love. How I would morph into a momma bear and strike down any harm with one mighty swoop, protecting my offspring at any cost, sacrificing my life to save his.
My quaint neighbourhood with its song birds in the trees and budding shrubs and lily-white crocuses quickly transcend as I turned the corner onto Charles Street. It was like all the colour of spring had suddenly been fused with muddied greys browns except for the ruby red flashing lights of the emergency vehicles and the electric yellow tape that now cut through these quite streets. Deeply wounding my sense of tranquility and shaking me back in to city life. My arms cross over my infant Gus as if to shield him from the shadow of human existence. Old cracks in my heart start to tear open; my eyes blink violently as if to wash away the what my baby laden mind can not fathom.
“Oh my god, oh my god,” I shake my head "I don’t understand,” hold my son closer and try to envelope him into my very being. “Oh my god, how?” I say aloud.
There in the back seat of the squad car alone sat a women—no a girl. A child herself, blank expression on her face, eyes as wide as a pool of unknown pain.
My heart goes to her, but my mind is quick like a snake spring for behind jagged rocks ready to judge. My heart reaches out to her there is less that separates her form me, than the thin glass of the police car. I look down on the boulevard there on the fresh spring grass a black coroner’s blanket with the silhouette of a child beneath.
Why did it happen, who’s to blame? What turns a momma bear in to a monster? What can acts like this teach us; can we ever really know?
At home with both my children tucked away behind closed doors I stand staring out the window at my own reflection. How vulnerable we all are to our seas of emotions that swirl and crash within us.
by Terri Bishop
I lower my head and kiss my sleeping sons cheek. My heart swells as I think of all the years of head filled with love and laughter. I pick up the pace as I also think of all the years of chasing behind him and trying to keep him out of harms way. I entertain myself as I walk along on thoughts of heroic acts of undying motherly love. How I would morph into a momma bear and strike down any harm with one mighty swoop, protecting my offspring at any cost, sacrificing my life to save his.
My quaint neighbourhood with its song birds in the trees and budding shrubs and lily-white crocuses quickly transcend as I turned the corner onto Charles Street. It was like all the colour of spring had suddenly been fused with muddied greys browns except for the ruby red flashing lights of the emergency vehicles and the electric yellow tape that now cut through these quite streets. Deeply wounding my sense of tranquility and shaking me back in to city life. My arms cross over my infant Gus as if to shield him from the shadow of human existence. Old cracks in my heart start to tear open; my eyes blink violently as if to wash away the what my baby laden mind can not fathom.
“Oh my god, oh my god,” I shake my head "I don’t understand,” hold my son closer and try to envelope him into my very being. “Oh my god, how?” I say aloud.
There in the back seat of the squad car alone sat a women—no a girl. A child herself, blank expression on her face, eyes as wide as a pool of unknown pain.
My heart goes to her, but my mind is quick like a snake spring for behind jagged rocks ready to judge. My heart reaches out to her there is less that separates her form me, than the thin glass of the police car. I look down on the boulevard there on the fresh spring grass a black coroner’s blanket with the silhouette of a child beneath.
Why did it happen, who’s to blame? What turns a momma bear in to a monster? What can acts like this teach us; can we ever really know?
At home with both my children tucked away behind closed doors I stand staring out the window at my own reflection. How vulnerable we all are to our seas of emotions that swirl and crash within us.
by Terri Bishop
Thursday, February 4, 2010
New Works: Poems and essays
Bathers
Sisters in the bath,
turning into prunes,
playing.
Imagining scenarios,
Inventing futures and flights of fantasy
together.
Then a time of discomfort
the shock of one sister’s changing body
they accept separateness.
Unable to risk being close.
one in the shower,
filling up the bath for the other.
Then one day tempted
the old toys call to her
she stays in the bath once again.
Now more hours of their childhood,
will be spent in wet fun
building their relationship
trust.
Helen Spaxman January 25, 2010
-----------------------------------------
Worst Dinner Ever
My husband, Gord, built a wonderful bench around two sides of our dining table. It allows us to serve birthday cake to 10 kids around a table that would normally sit four adults on chairs. All the same, Gord curses the day he came up with the idea.
We have two daughters, Christa, the elder sits nicely; she is eleven years old. She eats almost anything we place in front of her and often more than I do myself. Louise, six years old, refuses to eat most things; she continues to grow and have energy for school and running, dancing, singing and so on, but seems to live on air. And we worry about her inability to sit at the table.
If you put a jigsaw puzzle, art materials or even lined paper and pencil on the table, Louise will sit and concentrate. Ask any of her teachers. But once there is food, especially dinner, that bench becomes a stage for dancing, singing, “poetry”, yoga, gymnastics and any kind of monkey business she can come up with. Louise rarely sits on this bench at dinner time, preferring to squat, presumably to be able to get up at a moments notice.
Six years ago, Christa got an enormous glass from a hockey game; she wasn’t allowed to use it because she knocked it over a number of times. Last year Gord started using it; he does drink a lot of water at dinner time. Soon after, Louise started switching it with hers when he wasn’t looking and it became joke with them. Daddy would act like he didn’t know how it got moved. Even though we are tired of this joke, we have allowed it to continue if only to keep a positive mood at the table rather than a fight over what Louise refuses to eat.
One recent dinner, I had prepared nutty short grain rice, chopped and steamed kale and carrots with Bragg’s, thin ham steaks, home-cooked black beans, sometimes Louise eats these. The week before she had enjoyed these beans on toast at lunch. And always on the lookout for proteins that she will like, I hoped she would be tempted by the pink ham.
“I’m not eating THAT!” Louise pushed the plate away getting rather animated on the bench.
“Behave!” Daddy pointed his finger at her.
“I am being have.”
Daddy looked back at Louise. “Hey, what happened to my water? It shrunk!”
“I don’t know?” smirking.
Sensing her improved mood, I suggested, “Have a seat, Louise.”
She pulled a cushion over to sit on but instead squatted over it. Then, leaning across the table, she plucked a cherry tomato out of the big salad bowl knocking over her gigantic glass of water, dousing her dinner.
This should have been a tragedy and in the past had resulted in tears and me trading my dinner for her rinsed one. But with a goofy grin, Louise said, “I like soup.”
She stirred the water into her food, carefully separating out the ham, and ate her “soup” all up. My daughter is a ham but won’t eat it.
Helen Spaxman
January 28, 2010
Wednesday, January 27, 2010
Thursday Morning Writers: Writing from the Heart
My Day
Breathe
Wake
Rise
Pray
Move
Care
Love
Work
Smile
Pray
Move
Think
Listen
Love
Breathe
Share
Meditate
Feel
Remember
Think
Love
Share
Rest
Pray
Work
Smile
Listen
Relax
Love
Care
Pray
Breathe
Elephants
They walk, talk
Thump, with a bump
heavy days with stairs ahead
running, jumping througout the day
the noise of laughter
seeing them play
thump with a bump
let's go out to play
crash bang, here we go again
for another day of the
elephants going out to play.
Breathe
Wake
Rise
Pray
Move
Care
Love
Work
Smile
Pray
Move
Think
Listen
Love
Breathe
Share
Meditate
Feel
Remember
Think
Love
Share
Rest
Pray
Work
Smile
Listen
Relax
Love
Care
Pray
Breathe
by Roxanne Gray
Elephants
They walk, talk
Thump, with a bump
heavy days with stairs ahead
running, jumping througout the day
the noise of laughter
seeing them play
thump with a bump
let's go out to play
crash bang, here we go again
for another day of the
elephants going out to play.
by Candice
Thursday, November 26, 2009
Welcome to Tales from the East Side
Many of us have a story to two, or perhaps two hundred to tell. Tales from the East Side is such a place where writers who are also students of the VSB's adult ed. programs can share their stories, in short prose, poetry, or visual art. In the past their work has been available in print format. This recent release of Tales from the East Side will be only available in the fine format you witness here. It may change in shape, form and content, but the means of distribution will remain in the virtual realm.
We at Tales, welcome submissions to this site. Please talk to your instructor for further details. If they aren't sure, they can also contact, Lorrie Miller at Hastings. Happy reading, and even happier writing.
Every once in a while we will post writing starts, or images of inspiration for you to write about. That way, if you always wanted to write something, but really didin't know what... now you have no more excuses! Have fun. (Fiction, non-fiction, memoir, poetry are welcome)
Writing start:
(as per image above)
THE HOUSE:
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