DEL PAPA'S PLACE
Book Launch
May 6th@2pm
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Join us on Saturday May 6th at the Capreol Curling Club for the official launch of Jerry Lewis Told Me I Was Going To Die. This fun and funny essay collection focuses on finding the humour (and humiliations) of growing up with a physical disability in small-town Canada.
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It doesn't sound like a particularly amusing topic but, somehow, Matthew finds ways to laugh at his predicament. There's the usual stories: predatory used-wheelchair salesmen, simulated drownings, hero-worship, and plenty of sitcom-esque misunderstandings…including the time he took two dates to prom and spent the night desperately keeping the unknowing rivals apart. No wait, that really was a sitcom episode. Matthew skipped his prom to read.
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There are plenty of expected anecdotes in this book but it includes some surprises too. Toilet humour features prominently in one essay, while another revolves around guns and gun-culture—shooting is one of society's most inclusive sports. Nothing is taboo, not even those cringe-worthy moments any self-respecting author would leave out. Matthew tells the truth, no matter how foolish he looks, and invites the reader to laugh at his scars.
The Money Shot
Eddie blinked. It didn’t help, his eyes still burned. That’ll happen when you stare through cheap-ass binoculars for the better part of an hour straight, he thought. It was time to quit, but he just couldn’t tear himself away. Not with a view like this.
His arms ached. His back ached. Even his neck, but none of it mattered. God must freaking love me, Eddie thought with a smile.
Across the street, flaunting themselves on the roof of the Benson building, three models sunbathed. Big sunglasses obscured half their faces, leaving only the tips of aristocratic noses and pouty, collagen-fattened lips free. Two of the women lounged in designer bikinis—miniscule strips of colourful cloth that highlighted rather than hid—while the third didn’t even bother with that small modesty, instead lying au natural. Her taut behind, unblemished by so much as a tan-line, presented to the sun…and Eddie.
A rattle of frantic footsteps sounded behind Eddie: someone running up the fire escape to join him. The first of many, he thought smiling but not looking away.
The first thing Eddie had done—after lucking onto the find and snapping photos with his phone—was put word up on the Internet. “Can’t hog a rare sight like this,” he had mumbled, thumb typing the address even as he ogled.
“Did I miss it?” hissed a voice. Anxiety clear, the man hurried to the ledge and leaned against it.
Eddie, not bothering to turn, answered, “No, not yet.”
“What’s she look like?”
“Amazing.”
A shuffle of movement, the familiar sound of a high-powered camera being uncased, “And the legs?”
“Perfect,” the forty-three-year-old gushed. He adjusted the focus of his cheap binoculars. Through the imperfect lenses Eddie continued to stare as one model stood. Raven haired and golden skinned she reached back with long delicate arms and slowly undid the tie on her bikini top. “Show me the money,” he whispered, eyes straining. Then, while the woman just stood there with her back to him, he cursed, “Come on, move!”
“Get out of the way, damn it,” his fellow watcher muttered.
Half naked, the model settled back down and Eddie, ignoring the exposed—and obviously fake—breasts, sighed in relief.
“Ah, there you are,” he said, refocusing his binoculars on the Stilt-Legged Siberian Falcon the sunbather had been blocking. “Such a beauty,” Eddie marvelled. The bird, never seen outside the icy Russian tundra, took his breath away.
“Looks happy,” he whispered into his phone’s recorder. “Probably a two-foot wingspan. No signs of stress or injury.” Eddie didn’t bother to add: despite being perched two thousand miles from home on a hot Chicago rooftop. That, for a birdwatcher of his calibre, went without saying.
As the August sun beat down like a spotlight, the falcon preened, shining white under the summer glare, almost glowing. She stretched her long legs and Eddie watched, enthralled. “Can’t imagine what she’s been eating, but whatever it is it seems to be agreeing with her.”
Beside him his fellow birder snapped pictures in rolling bursts. “She’s really putting on a show, eh?” he said with a laugh.
Eddie nodded. “I just hope those stupid sunbathers don’t scare her off before the others get to see her. That’d be a right shame.”
The forty-three-year-old knew that hundreds of people would have read his online message ‘Accidental: S-L S. Falcon’ and, recognizing it’s import, dropped everything to come catch a glimpse. Sightings like this occurred once a lifetime—if then. And no self-respecting birder would let the opportunity pass.
In the lens of his rock-steady binoculars the falcon resumed its rightful place as the centre of his attention.
“This makes it all worthwhile,” Eddie said, thinking of the expense and effort his obsession cost. “Even if it means staring past models.”
Nursing Doubts
The Sudbury Star, 2008
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Looking up from her second cup of midday tea, Hattie MacAndrews smiled as she sat, spine straight, in her favourite kitchen chair, and said, “I think dearie, that it is time.”
“Time?” Wendy asked around a delicious freshly baked butter tart. Gesturing with the half-eaten pastry she swallowed and said, “These are good.”
Folding the napkin used to catch errant crumbs, Hattie nodded. She placed the green cloth on the table and looked across. “One of the neighbour girls brought them over earlier.”
“That was nice.”
“Oh, they are always doing things like that. She stayed for a while and we had a nice chat.”
Wendy, not wanting the other to see her frown, looked down to ensure her white blouse was clean. “So you, ah, just talked? You didn’t…?” She let the question hang.
“Well…” Hattie hesitated then answered, “She did ask what I thought of her daughter’s new boyfriend.”
“I bet she did. And she didn’t pay, right?”
“No. But she offered. I just couldn’t take anything after she was kind enough to bring me those tarts.”
“Hattie,” Wendy began, her voice falling into nurse mode, heavy with authority. “You shouldn’t let them take advantage of you like that.”
“Pish,” Hattie answered like only an eighty-plus-year-old could. “I like to help.”
“I know, but–”
Voice serious, Hattie interrupted. “There were some things she needed to know about the boy.” The frown that had grown on her face as she said that turned into an impish smile, “Besides, I won’t have to worry about money for long.”
“Really?” Forgetting her earlier worry Wendy asked, “Why not, you going to win the lottery?”
“Yes.”
A gentle chime sounded, echoing through the house. Looking over at the massive antique grandfather clock that dominated, tastefully, one parlour wall, Wendy read the time and fell back on routine, “You have an hour until your pills are due.”
She received one of those looks that seniors somehow perfect, the one reserved for dealing with those younger and slower than themselves. Wendy had seen that look more than a few times in the three years since she had quit the hospital and moved into what was supposed to be the semi-retirement of home care.
It hadn’t taken her long to learn the move had been a mistake. Home care was even more work. Her patients, generally elderly and housebound, were demanding and particular. She spent as much time visiting as nursing.
“I’m well aware when my medication is due.” Sighing, Hattie added, “I meant what I said. I’m going to win the lotto.”
The nurse laughed. She couldn’t help herself. “But Hattie, you’ve always been against the lottery.”
Sipping from the plain china, pinky finger at stiff attention, the elderly woman’s anger was clear only because of years of friendship. It was gone almost as quickly as it came. Hattie was calm long before she set the cup primly in its saucer.
“That is not entirely true,” came the answer, and briefly Wendy wondered what she had said wrong—but she knew her friend would go on to explain. Hattie was a great one for explanations.
“What I said was that it was a gamble…and I abhor gambling. The lotto preys on the ignorant and weak minded.”
“Of course,” Wendy was quick to agree. “How silly of me.” She had learned long ago to humour Hattie when she was in one of her moods. “So what changed your mind now?”
“Nothing. Once made my mind does not change.”
“But you just said you want to play.”
“No. I believe I said that I was going to win.”
In any of her other patients Wendy would have taken that with a grain of salt, even assumed that they were off their meds. But not with Hattie MacAndrews. No, from her the long time nurse accepted it, saying only, “Alright,” and eyeing another tart.
Hattie often came out with strange notions…and when she did, she was always right. Which was why those who knew her had stopped doubting her long ago. Now they just went with it. Sooner or later things would work out just like the old girl had predicted.
For her part Hattie just nodded, knowing her nurse’s acceptance was a given, and slowly climbed to her feet. Using her hospital-issue cane, the aluminum meticulously polished, to pull herself up, she paused long enough to smooth her skirt and walked with surprisingly nimble steps to the oak cupboard where she always hid her purse. “I’ll give you this. And no arguing.” She reached in and drew out a ten-dollar bill, “For the ticket and gas.”
Wendy didn’t say anything when handed the neatly folded bill. She didn’t expect anything for the gas; doing favours went with the job.
Hattie didn’t care. She refused to accept people’s charity. She didn’t take to arguing either.
From her pink fanny pack came the ever-present notebook. She carried it everywhere and wrote little reminders to herself, explaining, “The old mind ain’t what it used to be.” Which Wendy found scary because she had never known Hattie to ever forget anything.
The nurse suspected her friend had a photographic memory…and often wondered what Hattie’d been like fifty years before.
The brown leather cover was flipped back and a series of numbers were written with the stub of pencil found on a nearby shelf, Hattie frowning all the while. She never used a pen, just a number four pencil. She had spares tucked throughout the house, not because she lost them, but to always keep a sharp one near at hand. Wendy knew about the pencils because she was asked to sharpen them every other day.
Ripping off the page with a practiced ease, Hattie gave it to her friend, saying, “Well, better get going,” with her usual impatience.
Wendy didn’t mind the abruptness. Hattie treated everyone that way.
Instead, she folded the paper around the money, stood, and, picking up her purse—an oversized affair that seemed to accumulate junk at a miraculous rate—tucking the numbers and money inside, before walking to the door.
She didn’t bother with the tea set. It would still be there on the polished coffee table waiting to be put away when she came back on her evening rounds.
“Oh, and dearie,” Hattie called as she neared the door. “Thank you.”
Wendy smiled and nodded. Pulling on her white nurse’s shoes, the soles near worn through from running errands for her patients, she opened the glass door. Marvelling, as she always did, at the beautiful smoked glass, spotless except for the small and elegant bit of writing at eye level.
‘Hattie MacAndrews,’ it read, ‘Psychic Extraordinairre’.
Pulling the door closed, gently so as not to rattle the glass, Wendy marched down the three steps to the sidewalk and then toward her waiting car. She laughed as she remembered how often she had walked by that discrete sign before she worked up the nerve to mention the misspelling.
Hattie had smiled at the news. “Caught that, did you? It’s one of my little tests. How people point the mistake out tells me about them. You waited and tried to be gentle. Kind people do that. I like kind people.”
In truth Hattie liked everybody and everybody liked her. Mostly.
The entire neighbourhood knew Hattie, or knew of her anyway, and Wendy, being her long-time nurse, was almost as well known. It had taken a while to get used to. She had never had a celebrity for a patient before…and still didn’t according to Hattie.
“It’s all foolishness,” she’d say when people mentioned her impressive reputation. “I’m nothing but a fraud. And an old fraud at that.”
Hattie would be the first to tell you that she didn’t have any powers—psychic or otherwise. When she had first met Hattie, years ago, Wendy had believed her. Now? She wasn’t quite so sure. Whenever ‘Miss Hattie’ was mentioned in her hearing, Wendy’s ears perked up, but all she ever heard was hushed praise. Every person to ever have a ‘visit’ with Hattie left awed.
No other psychic she’d ever heard of worked like Hattie. She didn’t put on a big fancy show. No crystal ball or tarot cards. She invited people in for a visit, offered them a cup of tea, and never looked at the leaves. Instead she chatted, just friendly small talk—ranging from the weather to politics.
“I cannot abide all that silliness,” she’d say to people who looked at her plain, neat kitchen, searching for mystic symbols. And despite her strange attitude towards the supernatural, or maybe because of it, hundreds of rumours floated around about her, crediting her with feats that would have made David Copperfield envious.
Arriving at the convenience store, the rushed nurse climbed from her aging blue Intrepid and went inside. The air conditioning was working overtime and the cold air hit like a wall. She pushed through it and went to the counter and waited while a young woman wearing too tight jeans paid for some magazines. Then Wendy stepped forward and smiled.
“Lottery ticket please.” She dug in her purse and, after rummaging, found the notepaper and the money.
“Numbers?” the bored teenager behind the counter asked, looking awkward in his rumpled store vest.
“One sec.” She unfolded the note and read off, “Three, Six, Twenty-two, Twenty-eight, Forty, and–” Wendy paused. “Damn. I can’t read the last number. Forty-seven or forty-nine?” Holding the paper toward the teen she asked, “What do you think?”
He looked at it and shrugged, “I can’t read your writing neither.”
“It’s not my writing,” she answered, squinting at the small numbers. Hattie’s normally neat hand was little more than scribbles. Her arthritis must be bothering her, she thought, sympathy competing with her growing frustration at trying to decipher the number.
Standing under the clerk’s disinterested eyes and falling further behind schedule with every passing second, Wendy came to a sudden decision.
“Damn,” she muttered, hoping she made the right choice as she paid the kid, waiting impatiently for the machine to finish printing.
“Thank you,” she said politely, a habit learned from Hattie. No one could make common courtesy cut like Hattie MacAndrews. The teen didn’t catch the edge. He’d already forgotten Wendy existed.
That evening as she made her rounds, checking that her various patients were faithfully sticking to their prescriptions, Wendy was careful to time her arrival at Hattie’s brownstone home. She wanted to be there to watch the lottery drawing.
“Come in, come in,” Hattie said as she opened the door and waved the nurse into the parlour. “Sit,” she ordered as she moved and uncovered the television. She kept it hidden, saying, “A television is a necessary evil, but I don’t need to stare at the bloody thing all day.”
Sitting in her overstuffed chair Hattie picked up the remote and jabbed at the ‘On’ button with more than her usual awkwardness. Wendy noticed the swollen knuckles and confirmed her earlier diagnosis.
“Would you like your ticket?” Wendy asked, reaching into her purse and starting to search, only to be waved to stop.
“Don’t worry about that. I know you’ll take care of it.”
With that the two settled back and waited. The silk-voiced announcer came on, working hard to make the bouncing of numbered Ping-Pong balls sound exciting. A tarted-up blonde slunk onto the stage, her barely there dress sparkling under the studio lights as she pushed the big red button with a perfectly manicured hand and a false smile.
The white plastic spheres began to fall into the chute. The announcer, his voice hushed, said, “Here we go,” and began reading the numbers as each ball came to a stop. “Three. Six. Twenty-two. Twenty-eight. Forty.”
Sitting through it all with her mouth open, jaw falling lower with each number, Wendy watched stunned.
Polished voice rising with excitement at the calling of every number, the announcer read the last, “And Forty-seven.”
Scrambling to think of something to say, Wendy was at a loss. She sat on the couch and stared at the television in disbelief.
“Well, there you go,” Hattie said once the draw was over, her attitude no different than if she were announcing the tea was ready. Then she turned to her friend and smiled, “I’d suggest you get those tickets cashed. Before you lose them.”
Reaching into her purse Wendy pulled out the two tickets she had bought. They were identical except for the last number. One was Forty-seven and the other Forty-nine.
“How?” she began, but Hattie wasn’t in the mood.
“You can keep the big winner,” she said, ignoring the unspoken question of how she picked the winning numbers. Wendy didn’t press. “Think of it as a tip for cashing the other.”
“You don’t want it?”
“Dear no,” she laughed. “There are already too many people wanting to see me now, everyone expecting a miracle because of those foolish rumours. Imagine if a psychic showed up to claim the lotto? I’d never live it down.” She shuddered at the idea. “Now how about a nice cup of tea?”
There wasn’t much that Wendy was certain of right then, having just witnessed something that should have been impossible. But she was pretty sure of one thing: that there was no way Hattie would let money change her. Nothing ever would.
It was a reassuring thought.
Icy Chills
Whenever someone mentions ice fishing I find myself overwhelmed by chills. I think they call that a psychosomatic reaction. Regardless of the name, I know the cause: childhood trauma. You see, growing up in Capreol I spent many happy hours playing winter sports—shinny hockey, sledding, even snowball fights—but despite all of this I never understood the appeal of one winter activity: ice fishing. Maybe if I caught something my opinion might be different…but all I ever got was frostbite. Don’t ask me where!
Ice fishing not being wheelchair friendly meant that I got towed out on a sleigh. A sleigh that had a tendency to tip—forcing me to choke on mouthfuls of snow as I was dragged along until the pullers noticed my unhappy predicament. From there I was plopped beside my assigned hole—for hours. Hours with nothing between my tender, young flesh and the ice but a wholly inadequate layer of cloth. Usually damp cloth thanks to the inescapable slush.
Sure there were hot dogs and hot chocolate but, compared to a Saturday morning spent sprawled inches from the TV with a pile of fluffy pillows beneath me, watching cartoons in my warm, dry basement, a bottomless bowl of sugary cereal in hand, unevenly charred hot dogs and stale hot chocolate seemed poor compensation. Other ice fishermen moved around, running from hole to hole whenever their tip-ups so much as twitched…but not me. I sat, with seeming infinite patience. In truth, the reason I never complained was because opening my mouth set my teeth to chattering and I feared biting off my own tongue!
Every trip we’d try a different spot (near shore, away from shore, by the stream, far from the stream, you name it) but the results were always the same—no fish. Not even a sign of fish. Just that damn hole with its black water slowly refreezing. To this day I remain convinced that somewhere, probably just below the surface, the fish were laughing at me!
Each of those holes got drilled by hand too—luckily not by me! Cranking the handle on the old manual auger as it chewed through three feet of ice required long minutes of sweating effort and almost always ended with wet feet. Best of all, when you finally broke through, the heavy screw auger wanted to keep going. It never quite fell through, but it was often a close call.
My old dog loved every minute of it. He’d run around like an idiot, racing from hole to hole stopping only to roll on the ice and any dropped minnows, sniffing everything, and eating the hot dogs too burnt for even my grandfather to dare (and he’d eat just about anything!). In truth the only thing I ever liked about ice fishing was the company. My grandpa, dad, brother, and Copper (the dog), all of us spending quality time together. Looking back, I can see that the best part was the memories. Even if I still can’t think of them without shivering.
Not A Snowball’s Chance In
H-E-Double Hockey Sticks
They were the best Peewee hockey team in Canada. We…weren’t.
That’s pretty much all I got out of the pre-game PA announcements. Oh sure there was more to it, the organizers didn’t delay the tournament’s opening just to boast. They were genuinely proud of the local team—and rightly so.
We didn’t care. Didn’t care how good they were. Or even that they’d been selected to travel to Europe and represent Canada. We’d just driven over two hundred kilometres, through a snowstorm no less, and all we wanted was to play hockey.
And eventually, after each member of their team was individually announced—including all five coaches, three trainers, and two managers—and the ceremonial face-off held, complete with posing for commemorative photographs, we did.
The puck dropped and ‘the best Peewee hockey team in Canada’ didn’t know what hit ‘em.
I watched it all from my usual spot behind the glass. Wheelchair parked as close to the ice as I could get.
It was beautiful. Every guy on our team played his absolute best. The passes were crisp, the shots accurate, and the body checks crushing. My brother even scored the first goal—a seeing-eye wrist shot from just over the blue line. I swear I nearly went hoarse from all the cheering.
Needless to say the best Peewee Hockey team in Canada didn’t take it well.
The game got ‘chippy’ in the third period. Not that we minded, we’d put it out of reach by then, five or six to one, and we were from Northern Ontario—hard-nosed hockey is what we liked best.
Still, when the game was over our guys left the animosity on the ice…too bad they couldn’t.
#
They caught us outside our hotel the next morning. We were in the midst of a heated game of parking lot road hockey. I was in net—my wheelchair might keep me off the ice but, being big and wide, it proved an advantage at stopping frozen tennis balls—and saw them first.
“Uh, guys,” I called, nervous.
Sixteen unhappy looking pre-teens (I counted) marched up to us.
“Coach says we got to get our pride back,” one said.
“You can’t embarrass us like that. Not in our own arena,” said another.
Our guys weren’t about to stand for that. Three of the tougher players on our team found their way to the front.
“What are you going to do about it?” our captain, Gary, asked as the others lined up behind him.
Things could have gotten ugly. They probably would have too—if I hadn’t stopped it. Or rather the snowball I threw stopped it.
I’ll admit right now that it wasn’t my best snowball. I didn’t take the time to pack it tight or choose the stickiest snow. But, for all that, it still exploded on contact, spraying across the chest of their leader in the most distracting way possible.
The snowball fight that followed was, quite simply, the stuff of legends. Before I knew what was going on, bodies were running and diving, parked cars became cover, and foul language flew back and forth with each throw.
I, thanks to my wheelchair, couldn’t keep up. The battle moved past me, growing more intense with every passing minute. Before long it had escalated into a snowball war.
The hotel manager came running out, arms waving and shouting, “No, no, no…stop this!” but was driven back inside by a two-sided barrage. Things had gone past the point of no return. It would take more than a poorly dressed morning manager to end the hostilities.
Sitting there in my wheelchair I recognized a sad truth—the snowball fight wouldn’t stop until someone got hurt…and maybe not even then.
That’s when the police arrived.
None of us heard the siren approach. The first we knew of their presence was when the squad car drove in, lights flashing, and stopped between the two warring sides. A last few snowballs sailed, but even those half-hearted throws stopped when the uniformed officer got out and, glaring at everyone equally, said, “What’s going on here?” It wasn’t a question.
The home team smiled—cocky smiles. They clearly figured that we’d get the blame. We were out-of-towners and they were ‘the best Peewee hockey team in Canada’. It was a ‘no-brainer’ that the local police would take their side.
I, far enough back to avoid official notice, reached the same conclusion.
Something had to be done. But what?
Once again a snowball averted disaster…for us. Another hurried throw struck its mark. I hit the cop square in the back of the head, knocking his furred cap clean off.
He turned in the direction of the throw and, frowning, demanded, “Who did that?”
Sitting there, looking harmless in my wheelchair, I put on the most innocent expression I could manage and pointed—right at ‘the best Peewee hockey team in Canada’.
The police officer followed my finger and turned on the locals. “All right boys,” he said. “Time to go talk to your coach.”
#
In the end we were asked to leave town.
The police escort seemed overkill. Bad enough we forfeited our chance at winning the tournament, but to be treated like criminals…that hurt. Needless to say the bus ride home proved uncomfortably quiet.
As to ‘the best Peewee hockey team in Canada’ they didn’t end up going to Europe after all. Too many players were stuck in their rooms, grounded.
One Sad Tail
Cats with long tails don’t do well with owners in wheelchairs.
I must have ‘got’ my cat more than a thousand times in twenty years—mostly backing over his never-still tail. And yet, despite his many pain-filled screeches, he always came back to me…unafraid, or maybe just forgiving.
Milky, that was his name (cats drink milk and he was a boy—Milk+he—I came up with it at age four so cut me some slack!), was good like that. ‘Course I never complained about his ‘quirks’ either—the odd nip, the claws that dug into my skin with more affection than necessary, the smell he developed as he aged—so that was just fair.
Still I always felt guilty whenever I backed up and heard, Rweeeoooow!
#
Cute was never a word used to describe my cat. Not even as a kitten.
‘Hell-spawn’ came close, but still left a lot to the imagination. Not that I cared. Milky was my friend. Oh sure, he had his flaws—like attacking any passing dog or trying to sleep directly over my nose and mouth—but none of them mattered to me. He was my friend and I his. We un-derstood each other. So long as we were together the rest of the world could go hang.
Dark furred, a smoky grey bordering on true black, Milky had bright yellow eyes that missed nothing—especially nothing small and furry. He could hunt with the best and stood, rightfully proud, over every half-dead rodent dropped at my feet.
We got him fixed at a young age, but it didn’t seem to take.
Physically he was neutered. Mentally, though, he thought he was whole. Aggressive as the mangiest Tomcat, Milky went out most nights looking for trouble and, judging from the fresh scars covering him every morning, found it. His ears were shredded to bits. His tail was often missing chunks of fur…and not just from being run over by my wheelchair. Lounging at the top of the local food chain he terrorized the neighbourhood, leaving pawmarks on the hoods of freshly washed cars, hissing from out of shadows, and sharpening his claws on anything he damn well pleased—including people and other pets.
At home he was just as dominant. Our two dogs lived in fear of his lightning quick paws. Every bed was his—we just ‘borrowed’ them. No piece of furniture escaped his attention. Scratches marred every bit of wood in the house. Even the carpet found itself subject to Milky’s abuse.
Of course nothing ever suffered worse than my cousin Robbie’s leg.
Robbie didn’t like cats and made no effort to hide that fact. He and Milky had been fighting a sort of human-feline cold war for years. Things were limited to the odd kick, cuff, and nip—until my cat decid-ed to go medieval on Robbie…thirty-eight stitches later the war was over. Robbie, scarred for life, offered surrender and Milky, looking as satisfied as only a cat can, accepted. Or at least I think he did…who can tell with cats?
That bloodletting could have been the end for Milky. Only one voice spoke up in his defence: mine. Luckily that proved enough—not that my cat cared. No, he seemed indifferent to his fate. Too satisfied at his decisive victory to even notice.
There were no more incidents after that. At least not between Milky and Robbie. It, however, remained open season on anything furred or feathered.
As he got older, my ragged cat softened…some. He often sought me out for companionship. Climbing up my leg, claws easily punching through my pants into the skin below, to settle on my lap for a good petting. We’d spend hours like that Milky and I, him purring like some out-of-tune chainsaw and me gently stroking what remained of his ears.
He was a natural born listener. Better than any psychiatrist. Somehow, no matter my mood, he always said the right thing—nothing.
#
And then, one day, he was gone.
Oh sure Milky had been slowing down for a while, but I didn’t think anything of it…until he disappeared. Even then I didn’t worry. He often stayed away for days at a time. Sooner or later he’d come strolling home, usually with some not quite dead creature between his jaws. But this time, as his absence stretched, I began to suspect something was wrong.
This time Milky left and never came home.
There was no trace of him. Not a patch of fur or speck of blood. My family tried to console me, saying, “He probably went off to die somewhere quiet.” But I knew better. Milky wouldn’t go out like that.
No, I figure he tried fighting something he shouldn’t, a fox or a wolf, and went down in a blaze of claw-flashing glory. That was more his style.
Ten years earlier I’d have bet on my cat against anything short of a bear, but age gets us all. Slows us down. Makes us vulnerable.
They say the average life expectancy for a cat is four years. Accidents kill many. But generally it is euthanasia that ends them. Some are put down because they’re sick. Some are put down because they turn mean. Most, sadly, are put to sleep because they are unwanted. My cat, Milky, beat the odds and lived twenty-three long and, mostly, happy years.
Nine lifetimes wouldn’t be enough to write how much that mangy old cat meant to me. We were the best of friends, Milky and me.
I just wish I hadn’t run over his tail quite so often.
Look Ma, No Hands
I only ever met one guy like Roddy. Good thing. The world couldn’t handle two of him.
Twelve years old and dripping charisma he quickly became my hero. As summer camp progressed he became my friend too. But the hero-thing came first.
It started with the crowd of parents saying teary-eyed goodbyes.
My folks had been amongst the loudest. I didn’t make it easy for them, tossing about words like ‘abandoned’ and ‘negligent’. They’d driven away, leaving me staring in disbelief. Eventually I realized they weren’t coming back and went inside. There I climbed on my bunk—determined to wallow in abandoned misery for the next two weeks.
That plan lasted all of five minutes.
I couldn’t help but watch as the only other guy my age struggled valiantly to avoid hugging his older sisters. His mother hissed a stern voiced, “Roddy!” and he looked over to where she sat nursing before giving in to the inevitable…sort of.
Roddy, I would come to learn, never did anything the easy way. It was part of his charm.
Instead of the expected warm fraternal hug, he used the opportunity to secretly pinch each of his sisters on their butts while his folks couldn’t see.
That’s not weird like it sounds. For a guy with no arms Roddy got pretty grabby, but in a harmless, goofy kind of way. And judging from the girls’ outraged squeals those prosthetic limbs pinched hard.
I learned an important lesson watching Roddy: some heroes don’t need arms full of rippling muscle—some heroes don’t need arms at all.
#
The rest of summer camp is a bit of a blur except for the time that I died…and Roddy saved me.
Looking back, the dying part would seem the most important. It wasn’t. I’ve nearly died a bunch of times. Dying is no big deal when you’ve come as close as I have.
Twice I’ve almost drowned. Nearly been hit by a car on three separate occasions. Just barely avoided electrocution. Narrowly missed a messy impalement. Escaped hypothermia and a spectacular car crash unhurt. I think I was even poisoned once. But none stick with me like summer camp.
This wasn’t a near death experience. There was nothing near about it. I actually died. Died and came back.
All because of Roddy.
#
The last of the parents had gone, leaving a small crowd of homesick kids waving good-bye. Roddy watched them through the window over my bunk before saying, “All clear.”
We pulled out our comic books and, spreading them on the rock hard mattress, tried to ignore our new cabin-mates as they limped and rolled past us. Most were clearly anxious to get on with the whole summer camp experience. Me? I pretty much wanted to be anywhere else but here.
“So what are you gonna do?” Roddy asked blowing his shaggy hair out of his eyes and ignoring the screaming chaos around us. Twelve kids to a cabin made for a lot of noise, even when those kids were disabled.
“Oh, I don’t know. Arts and crafts maybe?”
“Yeah, that’s always good.” Roddy, who had been to camp three times already, knew all the ins and outs. “Horse riding is cool too.”
“What about archery?” I asked, before remembering his arms.
He looked at my embarrassed face and laughed, “Not much good for me.” He waved his prosthetic arms—plastic with hooked metal pincers at the end—and then grabbed another comic. Not even crinkling the cover.
I felt like a goof as I crawled to the side of the bed, legs dragging behind me, and dug through the pack hanging from the back of my wheelchair. “What else?”
“I like the nature hikes…they keep the trails smooth enough for chairs to make it.”
Camp Mossdale ran two camps a year for the physically challenged: one for kids aged seven to twelve, and one for those between thirteen and sixteen. Being stuck with what seemed, at the lofty age of twelve, a bunch babies was already annoying.
Wheelchairs rolled around, crutches thumped, the click of one blind kid’s cane provided a constant background noise. Not that I paid attention. I was busy reading one of Roddy’s Spider-Man comics…I was more of a Batman guy, but this was camp and I was roughing it.
Actually I was breaking the rules. We both were.
The people running Mossdale had a whole list of rules. They sent a booklet out to all prospective campers. ‘No Comic Books’ had been number four. After ‘No Televisions’ and ‘No Radios’ and ‘No Video Games’.
Mossdale was all about physical activities. Preferably outdoors type physical activities. The kind of things us ‘differently-abled’ campers didn’t get to do back home. It was a healthy, safe, and encouraging environment—or so the brochure said.
I didn’t much like being encouraged. I knew what I could and couldn’t do and didn’t need people pushing me to try new things.
My parents disagreed. Which was why they’d shipped me here.
Our cabin’s councillor showed up, late. He proved a cadaverous nineteen-year-old with a ridiculous attempt at a moustache sprouting on his upper lip and an easy smile. Kicking an overstuffed duffle bag ahead of him with one foot while trying to drag a beat-up suitcase behind, he said, “Hey,” to no one in particular.
The younger kids hurried over to make nice.
“My name’s Joey,” he said. “I’m just going to dump my stuff and then we can start getting to know each other.” With that he moved to the only private room in the H-shaped cabin, a cubicle barely big enough to hold a bed, across from the bathroom.
He seemed a decent enough guy…considering that he’d be responsible for my death.
#
Nothing much happened that first day. Our councillor finished introducing himself by saying, “This is my first summer here so I’m learning as we go.”
That reassuring news had Roddy smiling and me worrying. “C’mon,” Roddy said, waving me away from the excited campers crowding Joey. “We need to stake out our seats early.” With that said we headed to the cafeteria.
The food was terrible. No salt. No fat. No sugar. Lots of greens. Dessert was a bran muffin—with no butter.
“Designed to keep us regular,” Roddy said in a conspiratorial whisper. I’d watched him eat out of the corner of my eye. He handled the fork with ease, his hooks dexterous despite their piratical appearance.
Talk about adapting—he didn’t even bother with his arms to drink. Just leaned forward and picked the cup up with his teeth. Tilting his head back to swallow he never spilled a drop. Even managed to keep up his end of the conversation, a running commentary of the camp’s many faults, with only a little slur.
Loud announcements periodically interrupted the meal. The speaker system squealed whenever it tried to amplify a voice, distorting the words beyond recognition.
Joey came around and whispered, “Word from the boss. Be sure to fill out your activities form before lights out.” That news worried me no end.
“It’s all good,” Roddy said back at the cabin as I stressed.
In the other room Joey helped the rest make their picks. He drifted over once to check on us and said, “The canoeing is good.”
Suspicious of unasked advice I said, “Thought you never done this before?”
He looked at me and smiled. “I haven’t. But I did spend all last week up here training. Got to try all the activities.”
“Oh.”
“They assign each councillor an activity. To help,” he explained. “Me, I’m working with the horses.”
“You know a lot about horses?” I asked.
“No. Not a thing. But there’s this girl…” He didn’t finish. He didn’t have to. Being twelve, Roddy and me considered ourselves men of the world. We got it.
It was Joey’s fascination with this ‘girl’ that would eventually lead to my death.
#
The day I died started off on a sour note.
Showering didn’t rank real high on my list of favourite things…so learning that Sunday was our cabin’s assigned shower day didn’t have me in the best of moods. Learning I had to be supervised just made it worse.
Everything at Camp Mossdale was supervised—for our safety.
I didn’t feel very safe knowing that someone would be watching me shower. Especially not when I learned it was a girl. Okay, young woman. Maybe eighteen.
I grumbled all through my shower, unhappy in my swimsuit. We had to bathe in our swimsuits—all of us—another one of the camp’s rules.
The double-stalled communal shower cabin, built extra wide to make room for shower chairs and other assistance devices, echoed. The faded tile walls carried the conversation from the other shower to me clearly.
Where I was shy and embarrassed, Roddy—in the next stall over—gloried in it. He laughed. He joked. He stripped.
It’s unclear who was more shocked, me listening in or the young female councillor assigned to ‘help’ him.
There’d been no warning. He just up and peeled off his swim shorts. Tossing them out of his shower while announcing, “I don’t got nothing to hide.”
How’d he get them off? I don’t know. He didn’t wear his arms into the shower. Used his feet I guess…don’t ask how exactly. Not that it surprised me. He could bend his legs in ways to make a contortionist envious.
All I know for sure was that his helper mumbled something shocked.
Roddy’s answer was, “You know it isn’t really fair you get to see me naked if I don’t get to see you.”
I blushed at my helper. She was just old enough to intimidate me. Seeing my embarrassment, she shook her head and pretended to ignore the sounds coming from beside us.
Roddy never let up. His self-assured voice teased and taunted. Cajoling until he had his helper giggling helplessly.
It didn’t work though. She stubbornly stayed clothed. But he refused to give up.
That quality, so annoying in the showers, would later save my life.
#
“Horses?” Disbelief filled my voice.
Roddy looked at me, “Yeah, horses.” Eyes shining as he looked into his own little world, he finished, “We’ll be galloping across the plains like cowboys.”
So far I had one friend at camp and I wasn’t about to lose him. “All right,” I answered, not happy.
It seemed fine at first. Joey walked with us to the riding area, gossiping the entire way. “I’ll see if I can get you two a chance on Piney, he’s the best we got.”
“What makes him special?” Roddy asked.
“He’s the youngest. By a long count.” Not wanting to meet our eyes, Joey added, “The rest are, uh, old. Real old. One hoof in the glue factory old.”
Getting my first look at the animals I saw what he meant. Even not knowing diddley-squat about horses, I could tell they were old. I doubted any of them had been prizes when young either.
It didn’t matter. The campers all stared impressed. The girls huddled by the railings, already in love with the big-eyed beasts, while the boys kept a bit of distance, whispering and teasing each other. It seemed strange seeing these kids—crippled, blind, deaf—joking and laughing like they didn’t have a care in the world.
Then the first camper got on. A look of total disbelief raced across her face. Replaced a moment later by happiness so complete it was sunshine breaking through a cloudy sky.
Witnessing that miracle, I forgave Camp Mossdale its myriad sins…even the food.
So it went, until Roddy’s turn came. He scrambled into the saddle and took the reins in his hooks. A few slow paces and then he dropped them, steering with just his knees. “Look ma!” he shouted, laughing, “No hands!”
My turn came. Joey lifted me up. He paused to see if this feat impressed his lady-friend, then giving her a smile he heaved me the rest of the way.
I went up…and over. Dropping to the ground on the horse’s other side. Headfirst.
#
They tried to tell me I blacked out. Only their pale faces and relieved smiles told me different. I knew what happened. I died.
It all seemed a bit blurry at first, but I spotted Roddy leaning over me with his usual confident smile in place…if looking a little crooked.
“Thought you were a goner,” he said.
“What happened?”
“You fell.” It seemed obvious what with me laying on the ground and everything. “Stopped breathing for a while. Lucky I know CPR.”
“Come on,” Joey said lifting me up and putting me in my wheelchair, “Let’s get you to the nurse.”
I didn’t know much about horses, but I remember hearing that when you fall off you’re supposed to get right back on. But not me. Not then. The further from the horses I went the happier I became.
About halfway to the nurse’s office I stopped. “Roddy gave me CPR?”
“Yeah. Soon as you fell he took charge. Not panicking at all. Just kicked off his shoes and started stepping on your chest like it was the most normal thing in the world.
That night at supper Roddy said, “You coming back to the stables?”
“No. I’m going to try the theatre.”
“Good idea. There you’ll only die on stage.” His eyes followed one of the passing servers. Leaning back as she passed, his prosthetic arm flashed out and goosed her.
This time though he picked the wrong butt. The server twirled and, face red, slapped him. Hard. The gunshot-like sound had heads turning throughout the cafeteria.
Roddy sat there with a big red hand print blossoming on his cheek and an even bigger smile on his face.
The woman looked horrified. Slapping a twelve-year-old cripple will do that.
It didn’t bother Roddy in the least. He just blew the hair out of his eyes, gave her an apologetic little nod and went back to eating. Whispering to me, “I love it when they react without thinking. Like I was normal.”
#
The rest of summer camp proved anti-climactic. What could compare with dying?
Being resuscitated by a guy with no arms just made it that much more memorable…as if I needed the help.
Roddy finally getting the shower girl to strip came close—even if she did have a bathing suit on underneath. His detailed description of her bikini impressed even our love-struck cabin councillor. Joey took to looking at him with the same hero worship as I did.
Me? I avoid horses to this day.