Our parents were always
working. Maria’s dad was a grocer. Her mother was a chef at one time. My mother
was a seamstress for a big hotel in town. She used to bring her work home with
her most days. I can still hear the sewing machine vrooming away into the wee hours on weekend mornings. She’d watch a
movie while she sewed. She really liked Jimmy Stewart and the “Duke”, John Wayne.
On workdays, I was
supposed to clean up the bathroom, do math booklets or practise piano or violin ( yuck). Maria and I always had other ideas.
Many afternoons, Maria came by, tapping on the door. I would
grab my house key and run to meet her. I took care to be home by four at the latest. My
mother took the bus home, and sometimes we surprised each other, reaching the back door at the same time.
Those were glorious
days. Maria liked to envision she was a superhero.
I liked to pretend I was a moody actress.
We often started our days down at the
beach, below the cemetery, where we’d pick
up stones. One of our favourite games was to pretend to go camping in amongst the
headstones of the graveyard. We used the stones from the beach to build our own
little fort.
Maria and I liked to
dip our fingers in the crystals, then lick it from our grimy fingers. Then we’d wipe
our fingers on the raincoat sleeves. It got very sticky. The ants liked that.
We liked that. Maria liked cherry
flavour the best.
We sat in the dirt on the raincoat and told each other ghost
stories. Sometimes we pretended ghosts and goblins were chasing us. We’d take
turns shrieking for help.
One day an old couple, walking by, heard us.
They asked if we were having fun. “Oh yes,” we chirped. “We’re camping!”
They toddled on. We returned to our
ghost story and peanut butter and jello, and squishy bananas.
A week later, day
before Labour day, it rained. Maria and I met to play in the cemetery. We spread out my dirty
raincoat by the tree, downed the jelly powder, and sandwiches. Today we had
mandarin oranges instead of bananas. It was getting chilly so we quit early.
That was the last of our camping game. We never played it
again. I rolled up the raincoat and
trundled home. It had a funny smell. Maria waved as she turned down her street.
My mother was waiting when I got home. Turned out the old
couple who saw us in the graveyard, also knew my mother from the church. They phoned her at work. She stood in front of me , with her arms folded.
My mother sniffed the air. I sniffed. Sniff Sniff. That raincoat reeked to high heaven. She had me unroll it
over the bathroom sink. Pieces of doggy doo doo fell from the folds. She saw
the peanut butter, the grass stains, the sticky jelly stuff, brown banana goo. Doo here. Doo doo there. Everywhere a doo doo.
She got very quiet. Then she snorted. She laughed. Took me by
surprise. Then she composed herself. Ready to be stern. She snorted again.
I was handed a bar of
soap and spent the better part of the evening washing , and rewashing that
raincoat. It never did reclaim any of
its former glory. It ended up in a trash
bag. I had no raincoat, for a while.
On days that it rained, till we could get another raincoat, my
mother made me wear a black garbage bag
with holes cut in it for my arms and my head. To school. Of course, to school, wouldn’t
you know it? Much to the delight of my
friend, Maria. She thought it was hilarious.
So she wore one as well. Got her mother to cut one out. Peas
in a pod, that was us. We grew up over
the next year. Maria moved away the
following summer and I never saw her again. I missed her in the years to come. I
often think of her, wonder how she is, what wonderful thing she did with her
life.
But I’ve never missed camping, or peanut butter, jello, and
bananas.
