The Beviad–musings, mutterings and myths

Just before the sun rose, a former colleague of mine arrived with an Asian woman. He took out a wand that he said (and showed the printed statement affirming) had been cut from a hazel tree on Dartmoor ‘with permission from the tree’. He held it out to the rising sun to recharge it. (He pronounced ‘celtic’ with a soft c, however, so how knowledgeable is that? Still, it was nice to know that the teacher P. had found the most boring is actually a pagan and therefore must have a romantic streak somewhere.) His girl friend and another guy stood up on the parapet of the Lookout, far above the park below, to be able to see the sun and take a picture witht their phone cameras, making those of us who are afraid of heights shiver even more at the very thought. I was in such pain, I must say, that I could hardly enjoy any of this; the damp and cold really hit me.

No other pagans/wiccans were present; they must have been up on Mount Royal. Or perhaps they are planning to observe the solstice at 6pm today, when the longest day actually begins.

At six, we barrelled down the mountain in the car with “Hair’s” song, ‘Good Morning Star Shine’ playing very loudly. We didn’t have a ritual planned, but we went to Westmount Park for breakfast and nearly froze near the lagoon, which was unfortunately filled with garbage. We had hot coffee, strawberries and raspberry danishes the shape of the sun. We held wild roses while I said a few words with my wand (which is made of resin with crystals embedded in it and therefore didn’t need any permission from any tree for it to be mine). Devon sang some sun songs, we took some pics, and then retired, half frozen, to our house for some bacon and warmth.  Next year will be different; we will have a more elaborate ritual (perhaps one that involves circle dancing of some sort so as to keep us warm, and will dress more warmly.

Two years ago, for no reason in particular, our beloved cat Charlie was suddenly found across the street, dead, without blood or wound apparent. He probably had been hit by a car, which was in itself odd, since he was a grown cat, used to the occasional traffic we get on this almost-deadend street. We mourned him, of course, since he was our favorite, a cat we got as a kitten to make up for Ariel, who had cancer and had  to be put down. Even strangers, and people who didn’t usually like cats had liked Charlie, since he was very friendly and cute.

Jeff’s letter led me to a website where Writers’ Literary Agency was disemboweled for all to see as the work of a man who has been charged before with fraud in two other scams. I don’t know what their next step would have been with me. Since I had already paid for a reading, on what basis could they have asked for more money, I wonder.  I was almost tempted to continue to act innocent, just to see where they’d go with this, but instead I cut and pasted the website and sent it to WLA with a brief letter asking what they had to say about it. I fully expect to never hear from them again. I just hope that they don’t take my story and publish it themselves without acknowledging me at all, but even that is a lame idea.

We were both post grad students at McGill, working hard on the doctorates (that we never finished because life got in the way) and teaching two classes each of English 100 to support ourselves. We had been living together for a year, something which was risque at the time (1968), and which we had kept from our parents because John figured his father, who had a bad heart, would be physically upset if he found out. We had lived in a two bedroom, ground floor apartment for a mere $90 right across the street from the Children’s Hospital on what was then called Dorchester Boulevard. And it had been a great year together. We had really gotten along and had learned to live together well. With the approach of summer, we could foresee that we’d have to return to Vancouver without incomes, to live with our parents. And it wasn’t a very happy thought. So we decided to get married, although weddings were very much out of favor that year and we were afraid getting married would spoil our relationship–I would become a nagging wife, he would become a boorish, insensitive husband–as if all those stereotypes somehow came with the state of marriage. Marriage would mean that we could live together in Vancouver, or stay together on Pasley Island at his parents’ cottage all summer if needs be.

We  wanted no relatives present at the service. I was afraid of John’s lofty rich parents meeting my lower class ones, including my born-again-never-stop-proselyting stepfather) so we thought we’d do it here in Montreal, our excuse being that we were then going to drive a drive-away car across Canada to Vancouver for our honeymoon. We planned very little, really, basically arranging to have a Unitarian minister perform the ceremony at the McGill multidenominational chapel on University. I wore a short white dress I paid $25 for (my mother had sent me $100 for the wedding), green plastic sandles, and a straw hat  with flowers around the crown; I also wore a light brown wig that gave me lovely long hair for the first time in my life; John wore a  suit with a purple shirt and red tie: thus we snubbed our noses at traditional wedding attire, hoping that if we did things differently, we would refrain from becoming the stereotypical bridal couple. We wrote our own wedding vows and chose off-beat (for the time) readings from poetry and Khalil Gibran for the minister to read. There were maybe 20 people at our wedding, all colleagues at McGill. Funnily, after the service, we suddenly found ourselves on the pavement outside without a ride to the reception—that’s how poorly the whole thing was planned. The minister, who had a thick black beard and looked like a hippy, gave us a ride into NDG to Sally’s house, for she had volunteered it for the reception. I remember that I sat in the back seat with the minister’s dog, while John sat in the front, talking to the minister about that man’s recent time up north ministering to the Innuit; I was thinking, “This isn’t what I thought my car ride after the wedding would be like, with me here alone with a dog.” But it didn’t matter; I was very happy. And that high continued through the cozy reception, where we ate potluck food and some of the rest of my mother’s money paid for beer. 

The next morning I awoke in our apartment waiting for the awful feeling of “Oh no, I’m married” to hit me, but it didn’t. I felt very nervous, as if I were walking on thin ice, but I had decided to be the perfect wife. I would never nag; I would always be available for sex (something that was much emphasized in the 60s), I would respect John; I would cook for him and bake, as I had done when we lived together (prompting one colleague to point out to me that as a mistress, I was not supposed to be baking.) I would always be understanding. And I would keep my money separate from his, so that unlike my mother, who had no money and no sense of where my father kept his money when he died, I would not be totally dependent on John. I also swore to myself that I would work at my profession, which was to be a teacher of some sort, preferably at a university, and not become a hausfrau. 

I had already discovered that since John and I were fellow students, we were the partner type of couple. We took turns  cooking what little we knew how to cook (mainly chili and spaghetti; my first cookbook was the “I hate to cook cookbook’ which taught me how to do interesting things with hamburger meat, like cook it with mushrooms, mushroom soup mix and noodles, then serve it with sour cream, for something called ‘Skidrow Stroganoff’). When John had had a class earlier than me, that first winter together, he had brought me a cup of tea, which he put next to the bed with a book on it to keep it hot. That was so considerate on his part; and he has continued doing that for most of our married life, although now it usuallly is a matter of his getting up and making coffee before I come down. Later, that principle of sharing meant that John shared diapering duties and early morning feedings of Pasley, which really helped me. He has always, in fact, shared parenting duties, something I am pleased to see that my daughter and her husband also do.

John has remained my sweetie now for 39 years. I have tried not to nag—and sometimes even succeeded at it; it only puts his back up. Case in point: when he’s getting very shaggy around the collar, the more I suggest he get a hair cut, the less chance there is of his getting it cut any time soon. This means that many things just don’t get done around the house, because I refuse to nag until he does them—things like hanging pictures, replacing the antiquated and ugly kitchen cabinets, and getting a car after 17 years without one. I have learned that it’s better not to make a fuss about such things; that it really doesn’t matter that much. Having such a wonderful, considerate husband is well worth the occasional inconvenience. 

Of course, it has helped that he has never been unfaithful to me, and vice versa; that we usually are honest with one another–except on the little things like how much I really paid for something, and whether or not my hair really does look better; that I don’t test him or run him down to others (although there is always the temptation to confide wryly– about something, like the fact that he always orders the cheapest thing when in a restaurant, or can be with male friends for hours without finding out essential details about their marriage, children or romantic situations–to girlfriends or to Pasley.) Still, I respect him and love him very much. He has made me very happy. And I never take him for granted.

Lately he has been a wonderful nurse as I recover, not wincing as he changed my bandages, cooking me nicely- served meals, going up and down stairs for me to fetch things, putting up with my complaints and moods, acting more positive than usual about things just to keep me upbeat. He is a wonderful person, and I am so glad that we ended up together. He will make growing old together an adventure. 

Or at least, that’s what they seem to be. First of all, Tylenol Arthritis medication, which I’m taking in its place, doesn’t work. I’m constantly in pain. Secondly, I find it hard to sleep at night, even with a prescribed sleeping pill: I can’t get comfortable and all my body seems to be aching, even parts not related directly to my dastardly knee. Finally, my bad leg twitches. Last night, I couldn’t go for more than the count of 4 without it twitching something awful, requiring a moving of my leg to another position. John finally had to get up and sleep in the back bedroom. I finally must have fallen asleep around 2 or 3, and slept until 9, when the phone rang (I’m usually up by 6). These are all apparently symptoms of withdrawal, especially the twitching of course.

I will be seeing the doctor on Tuesday, so I can mention this to him, but I don’t know what he can do about it. According to the internet, I should have weaned myself away from the pills rather than just stopping. Wish someone had told me that. Of course, I knew that, somewhere in my vast useless store of knowledge, but it didn’t occur to me to do so. That’s how stupified this situation is making me. ARRRG.

I guess I will get over it, but in the meantime, I am constantly in discomfort and find it hard to concentrate on anything I read or anyone I’m talking to. Movies and videos help, since they do distract me somewhat. So does good television, except during the ads, which again let me become aware of the pain. This whole thing is changing my personality; I can no longer sparkle or charm, as I sometimes did in the past, but seem to be droning on in my life, teeth clenched. Luckily I take anti-depressants, or I’d be at the bottom of the barrel right about now.

Meanwhile, nerve-wracking news continues to pour in: my Montreal sister in law has a melanoma, which although it is being treated, is worrisome; my other sister in law in Vancouver, also still suffering after a botched knee job two years ago, is now having to face another surgery on her other knee, plus problems with her disabled but charming son. My daughter is still throwing up in the early stages of her pregnancy. And my house is a mess (to get to the really mundane) since I just can’t clean it, or even bring myself to pick things up–it all just seems so trivial in contrast to the rest that’s happening.

On the cheerful side (and there is one),I had a nice Italian lunch with a friend yesterday and she gave John and me four brightly colored spatulas for the kitchen as a 39th wedding anniversary present. And my daughter and her husband had a nice night out with steak dinner for their June 6 anniversary of 9 years of marriage, so obviously her nausea is slowly dispersing. And of course, my grand-daughter Devon is as charming and sweet as ever, as we saw  when she slept over the other night with us. She is a constant joy.

So maybe this is what one can expect of being a ’senior citizen’: chronic pain from one thing or the other; friends around you dying or getting sick or getting a scare about their health; your own mortality suddenly much more noticeable. And, in a kind of balance to all that worrisome stuff, the enjoyment of grandkids, of childen’s lives moving on and up as they should, the pleasure of company with friends and family. The end game of life is approaching, and I guess this is a wake-up call to me to find a way to deal with it now, while things are only mildly troublesome.

In any case, I get a mild kick out of knowing that I’m addicted to something called ‘hillbilly heroin’. 

This is certainly not a typical June in Montreal. And yet, I recall how, nine years ago this week, when Paze and Jeff were getting married, the weather was just like this–chilly, rainy, variable. My poor mother sat on the back porch wrapped in blankets during our backyard reception, so chilly was she. Yet I always think of June as a time of pleasant warmth, just-right weather in contrast to that of July or August when it sizzles. And yet, day after day, the weather is in the early 20s, with the threat or reality of rain. I look at it and decide I don’t want to go out after all. I don’t have anywhere to go, really. I’m too anti-social to meet with anyone, and I have no money, so going out to shop is not in the picture.

In truth, the reason I have no money is that I spent $160 on furniture last weekend at the big Westmount Garage Sale in the arena near here. I didn’t go until 11, since I couldn’t face the idea of waiting in line until 9:30, when the doors open. And I took only $25 with me, thinking that I might see a toy for Devon or something else cheap to buy. I came home several hours later with a sofa, two upholstered chairs and a dining room rug, having had to walk all the way back to the dep to use the ATM machine, then back to the arena after spying the things I wanted and putting a small deposit on them.

The sofa is quite beautiful, with shades of pink in the floral design of its good-as-new slipcovers. It’s high enough even for me to sit on (I can’t sit on anything low these days because I can’t get up again!) It is currently gracing the tv room, where it really brightens the room up (and goes with the existing pink drapes and the tiny pink flowers on the dark green wallpaper. It cost $150 originally, but by the time I arrived, prices were dropping, and I got it for $65. I also got two pink velvet chairs that are beautifully made (they have buttoned arm covers, for example.) They had originally been $50 each, but I got the two of them for $50. They are currently in the living room, where they balance the blueness of the sofa. (I know: blue and pink. But the walls are a faint pink, after all.) The rug is large and dirty, but stretched out on the floor of the arena, it looked promising, pink and grey, with Persian-like patterns. I got it for $25, although it had been $100. I can probably get it cleaned at Yervant’s for $100, and it will still have been cheap.

These new things do cheer me up quite a bit. Every time I enter the tv room or living room, I enjoy the new color of the rooms. I don’t know why I’ve got this bee in my bonnet over pink, but it seems to be the color of the moment to cheer me up. It warms me and makes me feel better, somehow. From Paze’s point of view, the chairs will seem ugly, I know—a kind of pepto bismal pink and a weird shape (they have high backs), but I don’t care. It’s not her house. Even she has said that it doesn’t matter what she thinks of my new furniture. What matters is that John, who has to live with it, likes it–or says he does.

Our thirty-ninth wedding anniversary was Sunday. It felt very odd, since I’m just not myself these days. I couldn’t get my mind around the idea. We were going to go out to dinner tonight, but since John had a big potluck lunch at the marking session, we decided to go out tomorrow instead. By then I will at least have gotten my wretched hair washed and styled and might look more human. But we haven’t picked a restaurant yet. Should we try somewhere new and more expensive than usual, just for the celebration? Or go somewhere old and cozy, like the Bistro on the Greene? ARRG.