Notes from Via Train 6677, 8:05 p.m.

To my right:
A woman highlights a binder filled with law notes, case details, photocopies marked up with sticky notes. She highlights the words with a pink felt pen.

To my left:
A woman marks up a diagram of a brain cut open in neat, thin slices. The pituitary gland like a small soft bean.

Out the window:
It is dark outside already. A lone light from a farmhouse pokes through the black. On the windows, there is only a reflection of the inside where normally there are distances.

Grandmother watching the birches flutter

My grandmother is sitting alone on the white porch overlooking the lawn and the fallow fields in the distance. She sips from her tea, scribbles a few words into the crossword puzzle and looks up again. The afternoon sun warms her when the automn breeze dies down.

"I love watching the leaves. How they flutter so. Especially the birch. They fall just three or four at a time," she says. "They remind me of my old home in Maitland. Jim and I would watch them in the back yard falling all day every fall."

She returns to her crossword for a moment. Until the wind picks up again.

"Look how far the flutter. Only this morning the lawn was completely green."

In quietness the universe can be observed

In 1156, the Chinese author Yeh Meng-te wrote:

"Since I had plenty of leisure time, I usually rose early in the morning, and then with an empty mind concentrated on the beauty of the fields, trees, rivers, mountains and clouds and found that I could predict the weather right seven to eight times out of ten. Then I realized that in quietness the universe can be observed, the inner moods felt and the real truth obtained."

That quote makes sitting at home on a Saturday afternoon watching clouds that much more relaxing.

Bees

One night in the height of autumn, my father came to me with a serious look on his face and a flashlight in his hand.

"I found a bee's nest out in the garden. I've got some gas and some matches. Tonight we're going burn them," he whispered. "But don't tell your mother."

Under the light of the moon, we crept out over the cool, wet grass to the garden where we had planted the tomatoes that he meticulously cared for like a child during the summer. There were crickets, deep and sonorous. Inside the house my sister and mother slept peacefully while the man and his son waged a silent, covert war on the bees. He had a flash light in one hand and a Gerry can of petrol in the other. The trees cast soft shadows.

"Look," he said as he aimed the cone of yellow light towards the ground. "Under the rock. Coming out there." I stepped closer to the garden. "No no no. Stand back." He held back my shoulder.

He handed me the flashlight to hold as he unscrewed the gas can. My father walked slowly towards the garden. He picked up a branch and flipped over the rock. A cloud of bewildered bees jumped in and out of the light. "See?" He jumped back and stood by my side. He took a deep breath. Finally he approached the swarm and poured the contents over the nest. He hands shook until finally he just dropped the can and ran back to safety of the darkness. He pulled out a flimsy book of matches and struck two at the same time. His light lit up his face, his eyes carefully concentrating on the humble flame.

"Stand back."

The back yard lit up on yellow light as the flames licked the shadows. We stood there watching the flames, and the bees along with them, die. It was dark again. More crickets, more moonlight.

I was only nine years old. And, by then, I had developed a deep prejudice against bees. Today, my fear and loathing continues. I'll admit this: I'm not completely obsessed with hatred; I now know that bees are good. They make honey. They pollinate flowers. Good things.

But my hatred has not disappeared. It's just more focused. My real enemies are wasps. Yellow Jacket Wasps. Those bastardly flying flotsam of yellow evil with wings. They do no good. Every fall, they are the uninvited guests to backyard barbeques, zipping above the plates of carefully prepared tomatoes, chicken and mango salad. They attempt to drink beer. They fly above the fruit stands at grocery stores. They swoop for coffee and Danishes at the cafe. They appear from no where and ruin everything. Unlike flies, that you can swat with your hand, these wasps have the power to fight/bite back. And their nests are ugly, haphazard and evil – always buried in walls, under stair cases or hanging like bad earrings from tree branches. But they burn well.

My father has his own fear of bees that he passed onto me. My first wasp incident was in my early years. I was playing in the front yard of my Great grand mother’s retirement home in North Hatley on summer vacation. I was minding my own business. I jumped over a ditch and stepped on a nest. Suddenly, I felt terrible sharp pains all over my body. Wasps had gone up my shirt and pants and bit me dozens of times. It was pure horror. My father has his own story.

Now that it is fall again, and I am an adult, I am still horrified by those nasty little wasps. Most people are calm, zenlike around the wasps. Guests at our table will gently whoosh the wasps away with their hands, as if fanning a bolt of silk. "Ha ha ha! Pass the potato salad please! This corn tastes great." Meanwhile, my eyes are fixed on the wasp on the lip of the red salad bowl. I am watching its terrible antennae twitch. I am watching his friends do reconnaissance around the pile of burgers. I can hear them buzzing. Making a plan. I am on the edge of my seat, waiting at any moment to run away – usually screaming as they come closer and closer.

“Oh you,” someone will say. “Don’t be ridiculous. They won’t hurt you unless you hurt them.”

Thanksgiving

Notes from a Wake

We find ourselves at these places, in these times, talking to each other, laughing and crying, standing around the kitchen table with platters piled high with rolls of ham and roast beef; cucumbers, carrots with a bowl of dip; perfectly sliced fruit in the homes of the dead. Wearing our suits and ties, we point out distant relatives in the crowd linking them to everyone else standing beside us. We look at the ones with grey hair and wonder who is next.

We stand in church where the priest spoke in a language I could not understand. Watched as they sprinkled the casket in holy water and burned incense. We stood and sat. And stood again while the men in white robes spoke on and on. The choir sang. A violin played. Things only the living can enjoy. We are not here for the dead, only for ourselves. We're looking at the people who have come. The left behind. The priest has words to explain all this. And I don't even know what he is saying.

We leave through the heavy oak doors when the words and music stops, to watch the coffin being loaded into the white Cadillac hearse. The church bells ring. We stand on the grey stone steps and button up our coats from the cold fall wind under a grey sky. We smile at someone. We light up our cigarettes and get into cars and start them. We go on.

I check my watch; we must leave soon to make the long drive back home before it's too late.

Life, Death and Poutine

The night before the funeral, our family stopped at Le Roy Julep, one of my mother's favourite restaurants that she frequented as a child . It's a place that she remembers where you'd pull up in your car and waitresses would take your order from your car window. Today, it's a sleepy diner that's attempted to refurbish itself to modern sit-down dining experiences. With a lightning storm of neon lights and dodgy carpeting, it's quite unremarkable. But did you know that Le Roy Julep is the birthplace of Poutine? Poutine is a legendary Quebec delicacy: greasy fries loaded with cheese curds and soaked in gravy. You may die of a heart attack. But you will go down with a smile on your face and greasy fingers.



Not only does Le Roy Julep have standard poutine, they have at least 13 different variations: hot dog poutine, pizza poutine, chicken poutine (see picture above), roast beef poutine, Cesar salad poutine and more.

Drummondville, Quebec. Birthplace of poutine. My homeland.