A BAG of MARBLES

"When you feel like you're drowning in life, know that your lifeguard walks on water.." -Psalm 144

She had driven the road many times before. I know. She usually dragged me with her.  She would stop at the entrance and scan the horizon .

It was littered with gravestones, monuments, open graves, dirt covered graves. Old and new flowers. Lots of plastic ones. 

A few cars were parked along the gravel path. A few people stood  here and there, or wandering about.

She took a deep breath and drove into the Cemetery.

It was a Sunday in March. The one  day we  came to visit. The one day I brought my marbles to leave, one by one,  on the gravestones as we walked by.“To talk to dead people,” my mother would say to lighten  the mood. I clanked the bag of marbles.

Our yearly trek to see the dead people. Grasping the bag tightly, I jumped down from the parked car. My mother took a plaid wool blanket from the back and we were off.

My mother knew quite a few of them. There was Miss Cora and her husband, Reg.  Died of a broken heart. The both of them. But not for each other. Buried for all time. Together. My mother hoped they were doing well. Wherever they happened to be. 

We stopped at a granite angel. It marked the place of one  cranky old neighbour. He used to yell across the way at us. One day, he was felled by one of his own pine trees. Uprooted in a storm. Squashed him well and good. My mother sniffed at the stone angel. 

Then we came to two brass plaques dug into the ground at the back fence. My grandparents. My mother stopped at them. She laid down the plaid blanket and  sat down . She started talking. Told them how we were, and about how big I had become.  

I left  to run thru the graves. The wind had kicked up. I placed a marble on each gravestone, or plaque, I passed. I had six left.

My mother stood and shook the blanket. My grandfather had brought it all the way from Scotland back in the 40’s. I still have it to this day. I took two marbles and put them on their plaques. 

My mother  headed for a smaller grave, with only a plastic label. It was my dad’s grave. It was under one of the giant maple trees. The March wind  blew her hair from its clips as she knelt on the ground , no blanket. 

She hesitated. 

Then she talked to him. She was not sad. But her heart was. He’d only been gone about ten years. 

To this day, I don ‘t know exactly what she said to him. She let him  know  she missed him. Life was moving on. I was bored. I twirled  in the wind.

Then  grey clouds hunkered down, and  March rains opened up. We grabbed the plaid blanket and headed for the car. That day, I  turned back. Headed to his grave and left the last four marbles on the plastic label. For him. 

Some twenty years later, we buried my mother beside him. She died the end of March, on the same day he did, way back when. And now on the same stormy month they were together again. 

       I left them a bag of marbles …..Just in case…

 Photographs 2022

THE WEDDING

The WEDDING (Mar 7-22)

*Based on a real wedding experience I played at a few moons ago....

    Edna adjusted her large floral hat with the white feathers and pink tulle. She looked like the Queen Mum in her pink froo froo, at the piano playing her fourth rendition of “Bind us Together”. On  stage at the church. Waiting  for her cue.

She was so excited. She had not played in a group for years. In fact, she couldn’t EVER remember playing in one.  But no matter. It was thrilling. 

The  main pianist had  eloped. The bride  asked Edna to fill in. Edna knew one song she could play:“Bind Us Together”. So she played that over and over.

She also brought Buttertub.  The bride had requested Edna’s pig be in the bridal party. It was a farm themed wedding. Buttertub was going to carry the rings.

Down the aisle. With the bride’s son, who was all of ten years old. The bride assured her they would look after her pig. 

At the front of the church was a HUGE wooden arch, with fake daffodils and straw stapled all over the rims. Straw bales  were plopped at the edge to hold it up. Buttertub  was waiting at the back aisle ,for her cue. 

The leader of the band, Hank, a fiddler of some reknown,  came up on stage. There was a bass, a guitarist, a vocalist,  Edna and Hank. He showed her his fiddle. There was a list of songs taped to the back of the instrument. “My wife did that,” he said, “ so I don’t forget”. 

He wore a blue leisure suit from decades gone by. A frilly shirt and a black cowboy tie and hat. His boots jingled and jangled when he walked across the stage. The vocalist was poised. 

“Where’s my music?” asked Edna. “No music,” said Hank. “Just play some D’s and E’s with a  long riff. You’ll be fine…”. Edna had no idea what a "riff" was.... 

And so the vocalist  started singing the processional: “Lovesick Blues” by Hank Williams. The guitarist strummed. Hank tapped his toes and scraped away on his fiddle, like it had a hernia or something.

. Edna adjusted her hat and dutifully played some D’s and E’s on the keys.

Buttertub  toddled down the aisle to the hay bales.  The bride’s son removed the rings and handed them to the groom. Unfortunately , he let go of Buttertub. But no one noticed. Not then.

The pastor cleared his throat a few times.  All he managed to say was : “Dearly Beloved”. Buttertub squealed. The bride’s son rocked back and forth and fell over in a dead faint. The guests gasped and shrieked.  Buttertub wrapped her leash around the ankles of the pastor and yanked him over. Then they all noticed her.

The boy they hauled up, placing him, unceremoniously, under the front pew to recover. The pastor yowled till someone  put Buttertub back by the hay bales, tucking her leash over the edge of the archway. Buttertub nibbed at the hay. And no one noticed ……

Someone nudged Hank. The  band started playing “Guess things Happen that Way” by Johnny Cash. Hank yelled at Edna to play some F’s and C notes.  So Edna dutifully plunked on the keyboard and held onto her hat which was threatening to fly off.

The pastor started again: “Dearly Beloved”, after he had composed himself. The bride’s son was still sprawled out under the pew. He had a pen and was drawing on the underside of the bench.

The service got to the end, with only one instance of Buttertub passing gas after the vows. The pastor signaled to Hank. “Ring of Fire” blared forth from the band. Edna played some D’s and A’s this time, for variety.

But no one noticed  Buttertub. She pulled on her leash and the entire gateway came crashing down. It smashed into a ton of pieces. Just missing the pastor, but knocking off his hair piece. It landed on the ground where the pig found it. She ran off with it. Squealing.

Hank stomped his boots, spurs jangling, and the band fell into “Ring of Fire” by Johnny Cash. The bride’s son, fully recovered, rounded up Buttertub and the pastor’s hair piece. Edna ended on a high note, so to speak. She played some C’s and B’s, while Hank wailed away on his fiddle “ I fell into a burnin’ ring of fire. The ring of fire, the ring of fire…”

Photographs 2022
 

THE ORCHESTRA TRIP

"Where words fail, Music speaks. " - Hans Christian Anderson

I can’t remember the program we played on that trip to Expo 86. But I remember the people. I remember them so well. Amazing musicians. Good friends. A teacher and conductor  we adored. He worked hard, and we gave it our best. Wherever we played on that trip we were fed, watered, and appreciated. Everything was running like clockwork. Our last place was Victoria. Home. Then it would be back to  California. 

Unfortunately, my mother did not get the memo that stated there were almost 20 of us coming.

The church venue knew . But my mother forgot to get billets. So we stayed at our  house. All twenty of us. One living room for all the boys. No sleeping bags, not enough pillows, two couches, a few blankets. 

A hardwood floor and carpet to sleep on. Girls were spread out on the floors of  two small  bedrooms.  My mother sat up in the huge rocking chair in the old kitchen. Night after night. 

She had the door closed, but I could hear the tv’s muffled sounds. Like she used to  when I was little. She would be watching late night tv I guessed. I liked the familiar sound.

In the morning. Twenty people. One bathroom. Two rolls of toilet paper. My mother went to the store to buy more supplies. After she made breakfast. Bacon, eggs, fried tomatoes, hot scones she made in the night. She slathered them with butter and dripping honey. 

The scones did not last long. There was bubbling hot coffee and tea . We were happy. My cat purred and sat on people’s feet. We laughed. 

Another night. Another night of my mother sitting up in her chair. I could hear her rocking. Each night she would tiptoe into the room and talk to me .I can’t even remember what she talked about. 

It was mostly about the fact she bought a million strawberries that had to be hulled by morning for breakfast. So we hulled strawberries at 2am, the tv tuned to  some old movie. 

And she talked . And I listened. But I don’t remember what she said. I just know that I didn’t want to see a strawberry again .

After a few days,  most of our group climbed into  cars and headed back south. A few of us stayed on. 

It should have been nice to be home. But my mother was always talking to me, making me carve up fruit at 2 am. 

Each night she sat up in her chair, even though she could have taken her room again. But she wouldn’t hear of it. She just rocked in her chair, the tv on and planned  on breakfast.  I’m not sure if she slept at all that week.

Then she started baking cakes in the middle of the night. She’d haul me out of bed to frost. She’d talk.  I would listen. But I never remembered later.

It annoyed me. Her endless talking. Every night if it wasn’t a cake, then it was fruit. Even though there were only three of us left, she still put on a spread. Antique white table cloth on the dining room table, the best china. The last morning she brought forth  a chocolate cake, she made from scratch and I frosted in the middle of the night. Lots of scones, hot and covered with strawberries or honey.

That last morning,she asked me to walk with her. 

So we did. My cat followed us.

We walked away from the others who were waiting at the car. She talked. I listened. I don’t remember what she said. I last saw her standing by the old poplars she planted twenty years before. My cat circling her feet. I felt a sense of relief. When we were back in the states I called her . She talked . I listened. I can’t remember what she said, except  she wished I'd taken some of the strawberries off her hands.

That was the last time I saw her. I still don’t remember what she said , as the days march away.  But  I know her generous spirit lives on. Words aren’t always important. It’s what’s behind the words that we need to remember……..

 

PHOTOGRAPHS 2022       Part of the EXPO 86 Chamber Orchestra group. Such great people!