Snow is a Four Letter Word

This week I was looking for a site with good writing prompts. There are a lot out there in cyberspace but I didn’t want those long kind that are a story on their own. Yawn.

I discovered Reedsy, a site with a plethora of things for writers, and just the ‘write’ kind of prompts. Bonus–they offer contests for the prompts each week. So I joined.

Here I want to share my first prompt result from yesterday, April 1st, 2020:

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At New Years I’d made myself a fabulous resolution and I’d made it to be accomplished on April first, my definition of the first day of spring. I’d really proved how clever I was with the brilliant revelation that no one ever keeps resolutions in January and February when everyone and their donkey is down with the winter ultramarines. As my friends all fell off their high tower resolutions, broken diets, broken gym appointments, et cetera, I smugly explained my own genius plan and left them gawking.

Well, today was the day. The skylarks and meadowlarks sang outside my window and woke me up to the sun tickling my freckles. I picked the blanket lint out of my toes and enjoyed the bright yellow nail polish on my fingernails, which I had chosen in honour of Spring.

Whistling “Oh What a Beautiful Morning,” as my grandma often did, I burrowed my way through to the back of the closet where my summer clothes had been banished to since fall. I couldn’t see a pickled thing. I was back in seconds with a flashlight and vague thoughts of “tidying up” floating through my brain.

The birds were still duelling their songs, the sun still reached long rays into the room and stroked my hair. Now for my bikini, the one with spotted ducks all over it, smelling like last fall’s barbeque, then my tank and shorts went over that. Likely the neighbours, Miss Henson and her sister would be watching me and they didn’t need to see my rolls.

Breakfast and coffee could wait. The great sunshiny outdoors was getting impatient with me. After all the birds and the sun didn’t need to get dressed first. I allowed an image of myself in my skin-suit parading in front of Miss Henson’s bay window to elicit several chuckles from the depths of my bowels. Or was that gurgle something else?

My favourite denim shorts with the green pockets were elusive and I made like a badger to unearth them from a pile at my feet. My best tank top was in plain sight but had a mustard stain on it. So what, the stain matched the abstract flowers on the teal background.

Grabbing a faded beach towel from the closet I threw open the garden doors that led to the deck and tripped over the threshold in shock, landing face-first in the most enormous snowdrift of the year. The entire yard was billowing white. WHAT THE FROOT LOOPS? The sun that had caressed me up in my room now mocked me with it’s April Fool joke. So this was Manitoba? I was not amused.

I stood and wrapped myself in the thin towel and stared. Had a fleet of semi-trucks come in the night and attempted to bury the entire house? The glare on all that snow was blinding. How could I now carry out my mission?

As I turned to go back inside and have a triple espresso with my favourite “flavour” dumped in, I caught sight of the neighbour sisters watching me through their window. I feebly answered the waving of their prune-skin hands then paused with one freezing foot in the house and the other out. If I backed out now, the Henson sisters would spread the fact faster than a viral video on Youtube. Everyone knew my resolution. Why, oh why did I brag-mouth it all over town?

I had a tryst, a resolution to fulfill. The winter shovel was still on the deck and I braced my back into shovelling a path through to the pool at the far end.

If anyone ever needs this information, sweat and goosebumps don’t mix. The sweat froze then crackled on my goosebumps as they grew into hills. Tank shirt and shorts froze as my perspiration soaked in. My legs turned purple, my arms were red. And my nose burst with snot at each thrust of the shovel.

Pride, shmide. Maybe I should stop. Maybe I should just stand on the ice in the pool. Maybe, if I could just get the Henson sisters to leave their window for a second.

But every time I looked, there they were, smiling toothlessly and waving me on. Grandad always called me obstinate. Actually the words he used were pig-headed or mule-headed. I preferred tenacious.

I reached the pool, brushed the snow off the ladder and climbed, slipping twice, and landing butt first on the pile I had just made. Great snow for snow angels, just not in APRIL. Now at the top, I groaned. There must be a meter of snow on top of the ice. My teeth clattered like a broken chainsaw. My dreads had formed icicles. Pneumonia was not part of my resolution but seemed inevitable. There came a rap at the sisters’ window. Company had joined them at the window in the form of the bookseller and his wife. All nodding and shooing me on.

If I die of exposure I hope they live out their remaining days guilt-ridden. I retrieved the shovel and went at it again, knowing exercise was the only thing keeping me from hypothermia. I cleared a couple of meters of snow off the ice and still hanging on to the ladder rail, sat gingerly down on it. It looked thick, and maybe I hadn’t perfectly completed my resolution of swimming on the first day of spring I had done enough. I’d never gotten frostbite before, not even in forty below weather, but I bet I will now. Still, no eating humble pie for me. I grinned like a Cheshire cat, waved to my spectators and heard them rap on the window again. They didn’t stop. It was a “standing” ovation. On and on the noise went, louder and louder, and then–

Splash! Soak-city. Ice like broken crystals in my hair and everywhere, sparkling in the sun.

So I did fulfill my resolution. I went for my swim. I felt like an overgrown popsicle, right down to the pink and purple colour. I found my footing in the pool, pushed the thin layer of ice out of the way and stood up, one gigantic shiver. So much for humble pie. It was humiliating, demeaning, and disgraceful pie. Now for sure I’d catch pneumonia. I scrambled up the ladder, shook myself like a wet sheepdog and headed for the house, then around the corner came not just the Henson sisters, but their company as well, bearing gifts of enormous comforters. They wrapped me up like the Michelin man, took me into their home, placed me before the fire, and plied me with hot tea and a hot water bottle.

Miss Henson, her sister, and the bookseller and his wife all fussed over me, congratulated me, and didn’t complain when I sneezed violently over their blankets. Nobody, nobody except this little voice in my idiotic brain, told me how stupid I was.

Truth is, they knew there was no point. And so did I. They knew me. Knew me well. They were just waiting for the next stunt I would pull to entertain them on their long and lonely days.

Ironically when I woke up this morning guess what lay white-blanketed all around the house? I can’t say it. It’s a four-letter word.

I live in Manitoba. This is my life.

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Fear Factor

It was time to return to the seat of my 5 year old trauma, so long left unaddressed.

I took my camera in case I needed proof. Evidence. For what, I didn’t know. I played soothing music in my car all the way to the seat of the 45 year old crime.

Cruising down the winding road through Kildonan Park in broad daylight, flowers blooming, larks trilling, that fright I’d had all those years ago suddenly seemed childish, trivial, surreal. And as I found the sign, parked and stepped out of my car, camera in hand, I laughed.

There, tucked into trees and ferns and shrubs was the Grimm Brother’s Hansel & Gretel “Hexehaus” — the witch’s hut.

I walked all around in the quiet of the day. It was peaceful. An endearing round hut of stone with a pointed cedar shingle roof and decorated gingerbread tiles. I took a load of pictures. It was idyllic.

I could not believe I had once run out of this sweet Hexehaus shrieking my head off, traumatized by this.

An arched red door stood wide open and beckoned me inside.

The main floor showed a frieze all around the base of the slanted cone roof and depicted the story of Hansel and Gretel in phases. Tucked under the slope of the stairs, little Hansel stood behind willow branch bars, being slowly fattened up by the witch with rich food. But where is the witch? The culprit of my trauma?

I climbed up the spiral staircase and around the corner. Soft lights lit the way. Near the stair top I glimpsed a scene. A 2 foot Gretel doll stood near a bed sweeping. Books and potions filled a shelf, an embroidered cushion lay on a chair, a stuffed cat and mouse on a work bench.

I took a few steps closer, and rounded the turn of the stairs and

there–
she–
was.

Black hat, black cloak, ugly, warty face, so fake–and only 4 feet tall.

The witch stood over a glowing stove.  I had been frightened out of my wits when my parents took me here as a five year old. The witch, in my child’s mind’s eye had been at least 7 feet tall, larger than life, and scarier than hell. I snapped some more pictures. This would make a great blog post, I thought. I smiled at myself, at that little child I used to be. And at the younger adult I’d been and never taken my own children here. There was little I feared now. I could cross this off my list. A ghost laid to rest.

I slipped back out into the sun, sat in my car and turned the key. Checking the rear view mirror I turned into traffic and cruised with smiling thoughts.

Sleepy thoughts. Thoughts turning dark from a wispy, gradually solidifying, smoky mass that blocked my sight. I smelled something vile, I heard a cackle, felt a tingling crackle, and knew no more until I woke as the moon rose, in the cage—with Hansel.

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Winnipeg Window Dressing

All I can say is think of the work and artistry that went into these old buildings. And they’re still standing tall and proud. (We won’t, however, discuss their plumbing.)

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Lids of Winnipeg

More from my stroll through Winnipeg, Canada, last week. Lids. Some of the downtown buildings, I discovered, have beautiful lids, which is more than can be said of some of its people. 😉 😉 😉

I had a “foreigner” stop me as I strolled the streets with my camera, big floppy hat on my head, looking for all the world like a typical tourist. His head tilted he asked, “Are you from Winnipeg?”

“Yes,” I said.

“Born and raised?”

“Yes,” I answered again. Seeing his perplexity I added, “I just decided to take a closer look at my city.”

He smiled broadly, and wished me a very sincere, “Have a wonderful day then.”

St Boniface Cathedral

St Boniface University

Hotel Fort Garry

Golden Boy and compatriots atop the Legislative building

Land Titles Building

Law Courts Building

Government House

Next week: Winnipeg architectural details. It’s a beautiful city!

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Bears on Broadway

I was taking in our lovely city this week and found myself in a park behind the legislative. Here’s what I found:

Bears on Broadway, Winnipeg, MB, Canada.

No, NOT these Fluff Heads pictured here.

These:

And here is their story:

“Bears on Broadway was CancerCare Manitoba Foundations unique way to celebrate their 75th anniversity, to create awareness, and to help raise fund

In 2005, 62 of these 7 foot tall concrete polar bears were placed on the beautiful tree lined median strip on Broadway Boulevard and were called Bears on Broadway.

Each 8000 lb bear had it’s own sponsor and it’s own artist.” See more of these beauties here:

http://www.winnipegreflections.com/bears_On_Broadway.php

PS. The Bears in the first picture are talented enough for the limelight, and anything but fluff heads. They are myself and my writing group, the Anita Factor, all of whom have a good sense of humour or I could never do this to them. 🙂

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Crazy Canucks

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I have discovered several Canadian laws of things Thou Shalt Not Do. Some from way back when, some taken out of context, some just plain Canadian. See if your law-abiding self is actually a transgressor:

1. The only noise-makers Sudbury cyclists can attach to their bikes are bells and horns, or face fines up to $5,000. Who attaches a siren to their bike, anyways?
2. It’s Illegal To Build Big Snowmen in Souris, P.E.I.
3. It is illegal to eat ice-cream on Bank Street on a Sunday.
4. In Toronto you can’t drag a dead horse down Yonge Street on a Sunday.
5. Citizens may not publicly remove bandages.
6. It is against the law to make burgers out of polar bears.
7. It is illegal to set fire to the wooden leg of a wooden legged man
8. It’s an offense to have more than two colors of paint on your house.
9. No more than 3.5 inches of water is allowed in a bathtub.
10. In early southern Ontario, stealing a soldier’s socks was punishable by death.
11. Street musicians must not give children balloon animals in Victoria, British Columbia.
12. In Glace Bay, Nova Scotia, all cyclists are required to carry a kerosene lantern, which can be seen plainly.
13. Unless you want to face a fine of up to $25,000., you must never release a raccoon out of its territory in the province of Ontario.
14. You cannot release ten or more helium-filled balloons in any City of Toronto park within a 24 hour period.
15. In Fort Qu’ Appelle, Saskatchewan all teenagers walking down the main street must have their shoes tied.
16. It is illegal to kill a sick person by frightening them. Guns are fine.
17. In Oshawa, it’s illegal to climb trees. It’s best to keep one’s feet on the ground.
18. In Montreal, you may not swear in French. The mother tongue should not be tainted with profanity.
19. Homeowners are responsible for clearing snow off of municipal sidewalks, and fined with higher taxes if they don’t.
20. It is against the law to impersonate a foreigner.
21. You may not paint a ladder as it will be slippery when wet.
22. You may not pay for a fifty-cent item with only pennies.
23. “For Sale” signs are not permitted in the windows of moving vehicles.
24. Every fifth song on Canadian radio must be by a Canadian born citizen.
25. It is illegal to kill a sasquatch. But you can sell a photo of it for thousands of $.

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Retreat not Retreating

Writer’s Retreat is a misnomer–We retreat from the rat race not from writing. The one I was just on, we all scribbled and typed steadily and got heaps done. You’ve never seen a group of woman thrown together for a weekend be so quiet!

That’s my writer’s group, bless them all.

With the colourful beauty of a Canadian autumn on the edge of Lake Winnipeg as a backdrop, we wrote only to the sounds of a cheeky squirrel, a handful of birds and the rustle of the golden-amber aspen leaves as they danced their way down to dot the ground, a natural carpet. A carpet that led through trees and mossy logs to the lake where some of us took our work undisturbed by anyone else.

Blessed peace.

Could have stayed a little longer.

What a difference it makes to work without phone calls, kids needing attention or your services as chauffeur, or the laundry, door frame height calling out to you with long sticky barbed tendrils.

And being all of the same mind and purpose, knowing when and when not to interrupt each other for a question.

Recently I read two different blogs. One posted how one must never take a break but write every day to keep the literary muscles flexed. The other, how a hiatus from writing can refresh us, help our minds to step back and get fresh perspective. I say, do what works for you.

This weekend we did both. Our goal was to get a certain amount of writing or a certain point in our works-in-progress complete, or sorted. But we took the time to take walks, and to talk, and to refresh both body and mind.

So thank you to my brother for the use of his cottage and thank you my writer friends…

Same place & time—next year.

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