MERRY CHRISTMAS EVERYONE!

Christmas time means different things to different people.  When I was going through a difficult time, I wrote the following poem to explore what Christmas meant to me, trying to meld my knowledge of life after death, spirituality and Christianity.  It was read on the air at CKWX by Roy Jacques in 1985, and he said it lit up the switchboard.  Then in 1986 it was published by The Aldergrove Star.

I wish everyone the very best at this time of year, whatever your beliefs may be!

THE GHOST OF CHRISTMAS 

In times gone past the King proclaimed

“In charge of hearts

J.C. is named!”

“In charge of hearts?” asked poor J.C.

“What does my King

Expect of me?”

As poor J.C. was just a ghost

Did he deserve

This honoured post

The King then took J.C. aside

And said to him

“You cannot hide

The planet Earth has need of Thee

Since how to love

They do not see

They fight, they hate, they rob and kill

The planet Earth

Needs more love still

Your heart is big enough, my Son

I know your heart

Won’t let you run

Go forth, J.C., and teach of love

That it’s the law

From up above

I’ll give you angels and all men

Go forth and teach of love

My Friend”

But just a ghost, J.C. knew not

How he could help

A world distraught

A ghost you know, can only be

A feeling that

No one can see

Or thoughts that people won’t believe

Would planet Earth

This ghost receive?

J.C. went forth to do his best

It would take years

To pass this test

In little places here and there

J.C. found hearts

That sought to care

But just a few J.C. had found

Though he had searched

The world around

He tried to touch all hearts with love

They’d love a bit

Then push and shove

He tried to teach the world with thought

They’d think

But still went forth and fought

This planet Earth he loved for years

But no one listened

Through their tears

With sadness in his heart one day

He told his King

There was no way

That he could teach the world to love

“They can’t see ghosts

From up above

They don’t believe the things I say

There has to be

A better way”

The King agreed, perhaps this chore

Was more than he

Had thought before

There had to be a better plan

For teaching love

To Earthbound man

“We’ll have to call the Council soon

We’ll meet with them

Full moon in June

There’s one in charge of how to teach

And many minds

Knows how to reach

There’s one in charge of church and prayer

He can inspire

Some to care

There’s one in charge of Kingdoms, too

He’ll know which Kings

Will trust in you

There’s one in charge of words to write

He’ll know which words

For Earth are right

Because I gave you hearts, J.C.

You need not work alone

You see?”

And so it was the Council came

Together

All these ghosts just came

They thought, they talked, they made a plan

To show the Earth

A loving man

So all mankind could understand

That through the Cosmos

That’s the Plan

A ghost would go to Earth, you see

(Of course you know,

They picked J.C.)

And live inside a body, too

That could be seen

By me and you

Then he would live this thing called love

That guides

The Universe above

And he’d be killed by man’s own hand

So all mankind

Could understand

When he arose and was not dead

That ghosts are people

Not to dread

For life is always evermore

If man could see

He’d cry no more

That was the Plan the Council made

That was the part

That J.C. played

Now once a year humanity

Attempts to love

As did J.C.

The ghost of Christmas is J.C.

And Jesus Christ

Still lives for Thee.

_______________________

By Lisa A. Hatton

A LITTLE CHRISTMAS ROMANCE

The following story was written in response to a prompt that was pulled from a jar in the early days of The Ram’s Head Writers’ Group.  The original document is dated 2003.  It is one of the stories included in my collection called “Love Found”, published as an ebook on Kobo.

CHARDONNAY, YOGURT AND JOHN DEERE

            Tammy wandered from the kitchen toward the living room with her coffee mug in hand and spotted a white envelope on the floor by the front door.  Someone had pushed it through the mail slot since she had retired the night before.  Picking it up and turning it over, she saw it was addressed “To Chardonnay and Yogurt”.  She smiled, realizing it was meant for herself and her five year old son, Donovan.

            Opening the envelope, she read the loving sentiment on the front of the Christmas card and then opened it up.  Inside were five crisp hundred-dollar bills.  The card was simply signed “John Deere”.  Tammy had no idea who had delivered the card.  This was the third year in a row she had received one.  Each time there were five hundred-dollar bills inside.  Each time it arrived the week before Christmas.  Each time it was signed by someone calling himself “John Deere”.  There was no postmark on the card, so she knew it was hand delivered.  But of course, there was no return address on it, either.  She had no idea who was being so kind and generous.

            Tammy folded the hundred-dollar bills and put them in the pocket of her jeans.  Then she took the card and placed it in lone display on the mantel over her fireplace.  It would probably be the only card they received.  She and Donny had come to this town with Donny’s father four years ago, when he had found work here.  The job didn’t last any longer than the three previous ones had.  And this time the relationship didn’t last either.  Donny’s father had left them just before Christmas three years ago.  He had taken his truck, his clothes and the wide screen T.V., leaving them with no transportation, no money, and the unpaid bill for the television.

            She had been devastated, two weeks before Christmas and alone with her son in a town that wasn’t home and where she knew no one.  But a kind neighbor had seen the T.V. departing with the suitcase in the truck and had come over that night to ask if they were all right.  He was the older man who owned the house across the street.  His name was Jack Davies, and he lived alone. 

He had told her about a temporary job opening for the holiday season at a grocery store in town, and about his daughter who babysat toddlers still in diapers.  So in spite of the bill for the television, life without Donny’s father turned out better than anticipated.  That was the first Christmas the card had arrived addressed to “Chardonnay and Yogurt”.  The money had been a godsend and she and Donny had survived.  The job turned out to be permanent, and because she was a single Mom, the store gave her day shifts during the week so she could put Donny in daycare while she worked.

            Jack had become a good friend, always willing to help Tammy settle into a new town.  He told her where she could find a family doctor, and where the swimming pool was located.  And he always made time for Donny’s questions and Donny wanting to play.  She had learned he was forty-two, a widower for eight years.  He was only twelve years older than Tammy, not so much older after all.  She had told Jack about the Christmas cards and asked if he knew who would do such a thing, but he had said he didn’t know, that she should just enjoy the windfall.  Maybe, she thought, the cards were meant for a previous tenant who had moved without leaving a forwarding address. 

            Life for Tammy and Donny slowly turned into a reliable routine they both counted on.  Donny thrived in daycare with other children.  Tammy enjoyed her job, meeting many people during the day.  And life at home for the two of them was bearable.  They didn’t have a lot, but they weren’t starving.  She could afford the rent and utilities on the small house they now called home, even after paying for her divorce.  The landlord had supplied a lawn mower so during the summer they were able to enjoy the big back yard and she and Donny could kick a soccer ball around.  And this past summer, she had saved enough money to buy a small used car.  It was a great time-saver in getting to work and back, and made bringing home the bacon much easier.  She parked her little red hatchback in the driveway at the side of the house.

            It was Saturday, and Tammy thought she would go Christmas shopping today, now that she had some extra money.  She would buy a small frozen turkey for Christmas dinner, and a bottle of Chardonnay for her, and some of Donny’s favorite frozen yogurt.  She smiled to herself, realizing she could afford to buy Donny his first two-wheeler this year, to put under the tree.  Putting down her coffee mug, she went to open the living room drapes as she heard her son stirring in the back bedroom.  She pulled the cord and then stood transfixed at the wintry scene outside.  The road and lawns and trees were covered in a blanket of snow, and the white flakes were still coming down.  Thick, wet and puffy flakes, typical of a west-coast winter, had quietly brought the outside world to a stop.  There wasn’t yet even a single tire track down the road or a footstep on the sidewalk.

            “Wow!  Mom, can I go outside to play in the snow?” Donny asked excitedly as he came and stood on the sofa in front of the window, looking in reverence at the winter wonderland outside just waiting for his tracks of exploration.

            “Breakfast first though,” she countered as she headed for the kitchen.  She would have to clean off her car and do some shoveling herself if she wanted to go shopping later.  The main roads would be cleared, if she could get to one.  Now she wished she hadn’t parked her car so far into the driveway. 

            Dressed in winter clothing, she and Donny trekked through the snow on the front lawn, laughing and throwing snowballs at each other.  Then while he put his energies into building a snowman, she cleaned off her car and started shoveling the driveway.  Puffing after clearing five feet of a thirty-foot stretch, she stood and leaned on the rake to catch her breath.  Looking across the street, she saw Jack walking towards her, dressed in a parka and a baseball cap, with thick work gloves on his hands.

            “Hey, Tammy, hold on there.  You don’t have to shovel your driveway.”

            “What do you mean?  I can’t afford to hire someone, and Donny isn’t big enough

 yet for that chore.”

            “Actually, my girl, nobody has to shovel.  My lawn tractor in the garage also has a snowplow.  I’ll clean off my driveway and then come over and do yours.  It’ll only cost you a hot chocolate when I’m finished.  Do we agree on the price?” he asked, smiling down at her.

            “Of course,” she smiled back.  “Ice cream or marshmallows on top?” she asked, looking up.  That’s when she noticed the logo on his hat.  “You have a John Deere hat?” she questioned.

            “They gave me the hat when I bought the tractor three years ago.  And I’ll have

marshmallows, of course,” he said, winking as he turned and headed toward his garage.

            Later, while Tammy warmed some milk to make hot chocolate for three, she used a blank sheet of fancy notepaper and wrote out an invitation that read:

            Deere John,

You are warmly invited to join us for an early dinner at 4:00 p.m. on December

 25^th, at our home.  We do hope you can join us.

            Sincerely,

            Chardonnay and Yogurt

___________________________

By Lisa A. Hatton

A TIME TO MOURN

I had meant to post the following short, short story in time for Remembrance Day, but I forgot.  My bad.  This story was published by Polar Expressions in the anthology “The Stand” in 2017.

PARADE OF SORROW

            Cora’s left hand pulled her collar closer around her neck.  Her right hand gripped her umbrella tighter, struggling against the cold and wet November gusts assaulting her.  She stood on the sidewalk in the little town of Aldergrove, waiting for the somber parade of war veterans, determined to remember the fallen.  She came every November eleventh, part of the meager crowd that still honoured the dead instead of following the siren call of holiday shopping.

            She remembered the first time she came, proud and eager to see her ten year old son marching in his uniform as a Navy League Cadet.  He had joined because his friend belonged.  He’d been so proud to receive his uniform and meticulously kept it cleaned and ironed.  When the cadets passed by, she had seen him marching tall and sure, confident he knew where he was going and how to get there.

            Even though they had moved away and his life went in other directions, the self-discipline and integrity he acquired as a cadet never left him.  He was an honour student and he worked part time.  He saved his money and bought a car.  He was a man long before he reached the age of majority.

            In his final year of high school, he joined the military as an officer cadet.  In return for the four years of university he would subsequently serve as an officer for five years in the Royal Canadian Horse Artillery, minus the horse.  Big machinery had long since replaced the equine component of the army.

            No sooner had he graduated from high school than Cora’s son was gone, swallowed by the army at the Royal Military College in Kingston.  She remembered him telling her his training stipulated that his comrades in arms were now his family.  As a mother, she’d been dispensable.

            Oh, he came home on leave once or twice a year, still in touch with family and old friends.  When he graduated as a second lieutenant, Cora had been both proud and tearful.  Proud her son had accomplished so much.  Tearful for she knew the drum he marched to would lead him further away.

            And it did.  To a base at Shilo in Manitoba.  To a danger zone in Bosnia.  Back home to Kingston.  To Afghanistan.  To Kandahar.  To a forward operating base outside the wire fence.  To an improvised explosive device.  To death.  To a ramp ceremony.  To the air force base at Trenton and a ride in his casket down the highway of heroes.  To the military cemetary in Ottawa.

            Now Cora stood in the rain, waiting for the vets.  Waiting to remember her son.  Waiting for another chance to grieve.

­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­_________________________

By Lisa A. Hatton

FAMILY SKELETONS

Every family has its skeletons.  This story is for Riley.

LOST AND FOUND

            I had a cousin once, till I was six.  We were the same age.  Her name was Riley.  Riley Weiss.  I loved playing with Riley.  And then she disappeared.  I heard my Mom and Dad talking.

            “Harry needs to take care of his own children,” my Dad said of his brother.

            “They’re not ours.  We have two children of our own to raise.  We don’t have room for two more,” my Mom said.

            “They’ll be better off if they’re adopted,” Dad said.

            They were talking about Riley and her baby brother, Raymond.  They were the two youngest in a family of five children, the only two sired by my uncle.  It was 1957 and jobs were not plentiful.  The family had nothing, and the nothingness couldn’t bind them together.  My uncle left and went his own way.  His common-law wife left with her two oldest, both boys.  The middle child was her daughter.  She lived with other relatives temporarily, and later joined her mother and brothers.

            I didn’t know what being adopted meant, but I did know that nobody wanted Riley.  What would happen to her and her brother?  Who would look after them?  I went to bed hugging my doll and crying for Riley.  And then I cried for me.  What would happen if nobody wanted me or my little brother?

            As the years went by, the names of Riley and Raymond disappeared from the family lexicon.  They were never mentioned.  Pictures of them were non-existent.  Uncle Harry was still my father’s brother, but we never saw him.  We moved away from Surrey, and moved back, and moved away, and moved back a second time.

            In 1964 I was thirteen and just starting grade eight in junior high school.  Leaving music class one day, a girl with a pretty skirt and sweater set, and short curly hair, moved in front of me and stopped me from leaving the room.

            “Is your name Lisa Weiss?” she asked.

            “Yes.”

            “Did you have a cousin named Riley?” she asked, looking at me with eyes that pleaded for me to remember.

            “Why?  Do you know her?” I asked this girl, as devastating memories flooded back.  My heart was racing.

            “Um.  I’m Riley,” she choked, starting to cry
.

            “But….but, your name is Pearl,” I stammered, trying to make sense of what I was hearing.

            “I got to pick a new name when I was adopted.  Because I had a new last name, I got to pick a new first name, too.  My name is Pearl Bailey now,” she told me, as both of us were wiping tears from our eyes.

            “What about your brother?  Do you know what happened to Raymond?”

            “We were both adopted by the same couple.  But he was a baby and he doesn’t know he’s adopted,” she told me.

            “Oh, my God.  Can I tell the family?  Tell them your new name and where to find you?”  I just couldn’t imagine losing her again .

            “No!  Not yet.  I don’t want to get in trouble.  I can’t have them phoning me or anything.  Maybe I shouldn’t have told you!” she panicked, and started to leave.

            “Wait!  It’s okay.  I won’t tell anybody if you don’t want me to,” I said, putting my hand on her arm to stop her leaving.

            “Oh, I don’t know what to do.  I want to see my brothers.  I want to see Grandma.  Do you know where they are?”

            I told her that as far as I knew, her half-brothers had moved to Prince Rupert with their mother.  And I told her that her half-sister had moved up there as well.  As the hope in her eyes started to fade, I hurriedly told her that our paternal grandmother lived nearby.  Her head lifted eagerly.

            “Could you ask her if she wants to see me?” Riley asked, her eyes beseeching me.

            “You want to see Grandma?  You don’t want to see your Dad, or your Mom?” I asked.

            “No.  Never!  They gave me away.  They’re not my parents!  Why did they give me away?”

            “I don’t know, Riley.  I don’t know.  I heard your Dad didn’t have work.  We don’t see him.  He has a new wife.  And more kids.  But we don’t see them.”

            “Oh.  He has more kids?  But he didn’t want me?” she asked, with a little girl’s frail voice.

            Seeing the haunted look in her eyes and the bleak slump of her shoulders, I put my books down and reached out and hugged her.

            “I wanted you, Riley.  I wanted you.  I would have kept you if I could.”

            As she disengaged from my hug, she said, “I’ll give you my number, and you can give it to Grandma.  She can phone and ask for me, but she has to ask for Pearl, not Riley.  My name is Pearl now.  And don’t tell anybody else, not even your parents.  Okay?”

            Taking her number, I gave her my promise, crossing my fingers behind my back.

_________________________

By Lisa A. Hatton

FALL COINAGE

Now that it’s fall and Bryon, my “Honey”, is raking leaves again, I thought you might enjoy this story.  And if you’re a publisher who likes amusing short stories, please contact me.  I have a whole book of them about “Honey” that needs publishing.

KEEP WRITING

            I thought I had quit writing stories about Honey, but he recently smashed through my writer’s block and my Muse told me I should record the incident.  For some reason I need a written reminder of what Honey thinks I need to forget.

            Since Honey and I are now both retired seniors, we eagerly anticipate our monthly cash stipend in the form of pensions.  Most of them arrive at the bank the third business day before the end of the month.  We are both pretty good at budgeting but sometimes there are too many days between one month and the next.  When that happens, I don’t buy apple pie or ice cream for Honey at the grocery store.  But Honey’s plan is probably more practical, him being an engineer.  He saves his coins all month and then the last week before pensions arrive, he rolls his change and takes it to the bank to trade for bills so he has beer money when he goes to sing Karaoke, and that can be five or six nights a week.  Sometimes he just sings and sometimes he actually runs the Karaoke.  Either way, Karaoke is thirsty work, you know.  It requires quenching with pints of beer.

            One morning in November he came downstairs early, wearing jeans, a cowboy shirt with a vest over it, cowboy boots and his cowboy hat.  As I heard him grab his keys from the rack in the kitchen, I asked where he was going because I knew it wasn’t to mount a horse or round-up any cattle.

            “I’m going to the bank to trade my coins for bills,” he said.  He went out the door and I kept reading my newspaper and drinking my coffee.  As it was only 8:30, I thought he might have to wait for the doors to open at the bank.

            An hour later he stomped into the house with wet boots, cursing at something.  Afraid he was going to blame me for withdrawing money from our joint account to buy him a Christmas present, I still asked what was bothering him because I knew that’s what he expected me to do.

            “I lost all my coins!” he said.

            “How could you lose your coins between here and the bank?” I asked.

            “I haven’t been to the bank,” he screamed, as he paced back and forth from the front hallway to the kitchen.

            “Well, what were you doing then?” I asked.

            “I was raking leaves for garbage pick-up tomorrow,” he said.  “And when I got in my truck, I didn’t have any coins!” he railed, as he stomped some more from hallway to kitchen and back again.

            “Oh,” I said.  “Did you check the garbage cans with the leaves?”

            “Of course I did!  I emptied out all the leaves and went through all that wet crap looking for the coins.  No such luck,” he fumed.

            “Have you retraced all your steps outside?” I asked next.

            “Yes,” he sneered.  “I’m not stupid, you know.”

            “Unfortunately, Honey, the paper you rolled the coins in is the same colour as all the dead leaves from the trees.  What you need is a metal detector,” I advised him.

            “You know we don’t have one of those,” he told me.

            “Well, how about my sewing magnet?” I offered, smiling at the thought of him bent over looking for coins with an eighteen inch long magnet I use to pick up sewing pins.

            “Don’t be ridiculous,” he told me.  “I even went around all the lawn with the rake again, moving more leaves to see if I could find the coins.  That was a whole sixty bucks I lost!  The pockets in this vest aren’t very deep, you know.”

            At that point I refrained from discussing his quandary any longer.  And I wasn’t about to go outside looking for his needle in his haystack.  Instead I went out on the back porch and swept up the leaves there and put them into a garbage bag and then I emptied some planters with long dead peppermint and parsley and chives and basil and oregano.  While I was doing that, Honey spent some time out the back looking in more downed leaves.

            I saw him head out the back gate toward the ravine and the creek that passes through our property.  I thought he was going to check that the culvert under the footbridge wasn’t blocked and likely to cause the neighbour’s fear of flooding.  Studiously tending to my own chores, I didn’t say anything.  I finished cleaning up the back porch and then went inside for another coffee.

            A short time later, Honey banged in the front door, stomping his wet feet on the scatter mat, scaring the cat.  “Guess what I found?” he asked triumphantly.

            “You’re coins, I assume.  Where were they?” I asked.

            “I went down to the creek and stood in the middle of it and I saw something glinting, and I found all my coins!  They must have fallen out when I bent over to look at the culvert earlier,” he said, using my clean dish towel to dry his precious coins.

            After he dried all his coins, he had to roll them again with the required number in the required paper for bank acceptance.  He was short two quarters, so he went back to the creek looking for them. Engineers do practice due diligence, you know.  He did find them and then after he changed into dry clothes, he was ready to leave for the bank.

            “So,” I said, “You have enough money now to buy me supper tonight, right?” I asked hopefully.   At the very least, I thought I deserved compensation for listening to him sing the blues at home as well as all his old, sad Karaoke songs down at the restaurant.

            “Forget it,” he said.  So that’s why I decided to write this down, so I can remember what it was he told me to forget.

­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­_______________________________

By Lisa A. Hatton

           

           

           

           

HIDDEN TRUTH

Sometimes it is very difficult to discern the truth of a situation.

A THOUSAND WORDS

The adage asserts that a picture is worth a thousand words?  I don’t think so.  Not this picture anyhow.  It only shows the man I knew and not the thousand words that tell who he was or what he was or what he did or what happened to him or why he’s no longer in my life.  I have to dredge my memories for those thousand words and I won’t know if the word count is correct until I throw my words on the page.

His name was…..oops!  No, I won’t give his real name.  I’ll call him Semi, because that was what he did.  He was a trucker.  A long distance trucker who drove a semi, all over North America.  I met him because I’d asked to, sort of.  I’d written a lyrical poem about wanting a love who always came to me at journey’s end.  It was my own take on a witch’s spell I’d taken from a book.  How fitting, that Semi came to me at the end of one of his journey’s.  Be careful what you wish for.

We met at a single parents’ dance.  I was on the executive, so there I sat at the entrance table taking admission fees for our coffers; four dollars for members and eight for non-members.  He sauntered in, tall and rugged in his cowboy boots and jeans and shirt and denim jacket.  Towering over me, he smiled and winked and asked my name, as he counted out eight dollars.

I smiled back.  “Lisa,” I said, wondering if he was a good dancer.  When the music started, he came to my table and asked me to dance.  He stayed by my side the rest of the evening, not letting any other dance partner near me.  Between drinks and dances, he told me his story.

“She’s sleeping with her boyfriend, in my own house,” he said about his wife.  “She thinks I should sleep in the basement between runs and still pay the mortgage.”

“Do you have any children?” I asked, since this was a single parents’ dance.

“We have four.  The two oldest daughters were hers before I married her ten years ago.  The youngest boy and girl are ours together.  I love my kids.  They’re all over me when I get home from a run.”

“So if you don’t sleep in the basement, where would you go?” I was foolish enough to ask.  And that was how he ended up at my place two weeks before Christmas.

He moved in and brought his prized stereo, which he immediately hooked up in my living room, replacing mine.  His clothes took half my closet and other possessions filled my storage room.

My children were happy.  Semi became a substitute Dad.  He was a big teddy bear they climbed on and wrestled with.  He took us for a long ride in the tractor of the truck, to look at Christmas lights spread all over the countryside and he showed us how the CB worked.  My children were thrilled, and so was I.  And in bed at night, he and I were lovers.  I felt protected beside him.

“You are the most peaceful person I know,” he told me once.  “I saw that aura around you when I walked into the dance.  And when I entered your home, I could feel that peace that surrounds you and fills these rooms.”

We spent Christmas together, with my relatives.  It was a magical time, briefly.

Then the phone calls started.  I would answer and a teenaged girl would ask, “Is my Dad there?”  That was the oldest step-daughter.

Soon the two younger ones were also calling.  They wanted their father.  That seemed natural to me.  My own son and daughter phoned their Dad whenever they could. But Semi’s younger step-daughter never phoned.  And I didn’t think to question why, until one day his wife called.  My eight year old daughter answered and turned ghostly pale and deathly quiet.  I could hear shrill screaming over the phone and grabbed it from her.

“Where is he?  Tell that bastard he’d better pay me some child support.  If he isn’t out on the road, he’s not making any money.  How dare you sleep with my husband, you stupid bitch?  He’ll pay for leaving me!  Don’t you know he’s a child molester?  I’ve got the police after him and you’d better keep your own kids away from him!”

I dried my daughter’s tears and confronted Semi when he came home.

“Don’t let her get to you.  She’s the biggest liar in the world.  It shouldn’t be a problem.  I’ve just got a job and I’ll be off for L.A. in the morning.”

And just like that, he was gone.  No phone calls.  No letters.  His belongings still at my home.  It was six months before I heard from him.

“I was wondering if you still have my stereo, and other things?” he asked.  “I’m living in Edmonton now and was wondering if I could pick them up on my way through?”

It only took him half an hour to move his things out of my life.  The magic was gone so I was glad his things were, too.  But he did leave me his new phone number.

A month later a detective visited me and asked if I knew where Semi was.  He asked if my children had been molested by him.

“No.  They adored him and if he had touched them I don’t think they would still be asking about him and wanting to see him again,” I said.

“Do you know he sexually abused his younger stepdaughter?  We’re looking for him to charge him.  Do you know where he is?”

My heart wanted to believe in Semi’s innocence, but the mother in me erred on the side of caution.  I surrendered his Edmonton phone number, with trepidation.

Six months later my phone rang.  It was a collect call from Semi at a correctional facility not far away.  I accepted the charges.

“I was convicted of sexual assault on my stepdaughter.  I had no hope of acquittal when she testified in court.  Her mother put her up to it, I’m sure.  I’ll be in here for two years.”

Truth or lies, I’ll never know.  And those are the thousand words the picture never wrote.

__________________________

By Lisa A. Hatton