DAILY COMPANION

We used to have a cat we called Suede.  He kept me company for many years when my husband, Bryon, often worked out of town.  I wrote this short piece in present tense when Suede was still alive.

MY FAMILIAR

            I pick up the cat, all thirteen pounds of honey blond fur, and hold his docile body under my right arm as I limp to the front door. He used to be a cat who always asked to go outside after a meal.  I think old age has stolen his memory, as he doesn’t remember how to scratch at the door to go out anymore, only how to scratch to come in.

            As I open the door, we are both assaulted by the wind and the rain. He stiffens under my arm, but refrains from clawing me.  I bend from the waist and drop him the remaining foot onto the front porch. Now is the tricky part.  Can I turn and close the door faster than he can turn and run back inside?  Stiff limbs hinder us both, and I see him turn to watch me balefully as I close the door. This time I win.

            From the window I watch as he dashes down the steps and under my car, his protection from the rain and predators.  After ascertaining there is no threat from dog, or Siamese cat, or noisy motor, he makes another dash for cover under the boat. He heeds my past instruction to run between the raindrops.

            Now he is temporarily out of sight and I am hoping he finds a patch of dirt to do his business.  I retreat to the kitchen and pour my morning coffee, then sit at the table by the patio door.

            Within five minutes I see my blond feline come around the back corner of the house and stride toward the sun deck, carefully avoiding wet weeds that stand obnoxiously in his way between the patio bricks.  Reaching the steps, he leaps thankfully up them and then glares at me through the glass door before he scratches at it imperiously to be allowed inside.

            I unlock and slide the door just wide enough for his feline form to gain entry, and he darts into the kitchen as if all of Mother Nature were chasing him.

            Now he rewards himself by munching on more of his cat food, and taking a long drink of water, before searching out the driest, warmest corner of my good chair in the living room, where he will complete his morning ablutions and then take a much needed nap before his next meal.  He is my daily companion, my familiar.

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By Lisa A. Hatton 

WHO ARE THE HOMELESS?

When the sight of homeless people became more prevalent in Langley City, B.C., Canada, where I live, I started wondering about the tragedies that could lead to such dire circumstances.  I wrote the following story to muddle my way through to some sort of understanding from the limited knowledge I did have.

It was published in 2011 in the Polar Expressions anthology “Inkspots” and won an Honourable Mention designation and my name was one of the authors featured on the back cover of the book.  It’s something different to think about.

FREEDOM

            Roger woke to the heavy drumming of winter rain on his tent.  He shivered and pulled himself in his mummy-shaped sleeping bag away from the tent’s edge that leaked.  It wasn’t still pitch black in his tent, so he knew daylight was trying to poke through the heavy cloud cover.  He was luckier than some, he figured.  At least he had the tent, which he’d rescued from a dumpster last summer.  And he had an old bicycle, too, so he could travel the streets, looking for cans and bottles he could return for cash.  Not bad for an old bugger.

            He pulled himself reluctantly out of his bag and put on his only pair of boots.  They were somebody’s discarded work boots, with steel toes.  Kind of heavy for walking, but way more waterproof than the last pair of used sneakers he’d had.  He was still wearing his only set of clothes and his only coat that he never took off, and an aviator hat that kept his head and his ears warm.  Once the boots were tied he was ready to start his day.

            Roger emerged from his tent with his rickety bicycle and pushed it gingerly through the brush to reach the path that would take him from the bowels of the park closer to the more used areas, and then to the street.  Once he was out of the mud, he’d be able to ride and he would quickly travel the streets that had garbage pick-up today, scrounging all the cans and bottles he could from the blue recycle bins as he went.  When he had three or four garbage bags full to overflowing, he would head to the closest grocery store or liquor store to return his finds for cash.  He was lucky he lived in Langley.  The City divided the garbage pickup into four different areas, with one section of the town designated for pick-up each day Tuesday through Friday.  The other three days, he scavenged from the dumpsters in town.  So for most days of the week he had an income, of sorts.  It was enough to buy the rum that kept him warm at night.

            He went to the shelter for a free meal every day.  But he wouldn’t let them talk him into staying there to sleep.  No way.  He hated crowds.  Couldn’t stand to be around that many people.  All the noise drove him nuts.  It was all he could do to get through the half hour it took to get a meal.  He couldn’t imagine all that ruckus for hours on end all night long.  And no, he didn’t want anything to do with staying there permanently in their attempt to get people off the streets.  He didn’t want anything to do with those judgmental bastards down at welfare, either, thinking they were doing so much good by making you feel like you’re no good cause you don’t have an address, or any relatives to vouch for you, or any I.D. from the frickin’ province.  And he sure as hell wasn’t going to let the Sally Ann shove any fictitious God down his throat, either.  He didn’t believe in God.

            If there had been a God, he wouldn’t have lost everything.  God died twenty years ago when he got a pink slip the day he left the mining camp to come home for a break after working three months to make good money to support his family.  Only the break was permanent.  And then coming home to find his wife had split with his three kids.  What God makes that happen?  So he goes to the pub to drown his sorrows and after a couple of hours hears some fire sirens.  By the time he made it back to his house, it was all gutted by the fire.  And then the insurance wouldn’t pay up for it because nobody had been living in the house for the past thirty days.  So don’t talk to him about any God.  He didn’t need to suffer all those sermons for a place to stay.  He had his freedom, and nobody could ever take that away from him.  He started humming “Me And Bobby McGee” as he pedaled through the rain.

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By Lisa A. Hatton

PUBLISHED TWICE!

After my mother suffered a heart attack and the consequences of short term memory loss, she couldn’t live alone again.  Instead of going back to her apartment, she was moved to a nursing home in Abbotsford, B.C.  Having been her primary caregiver since my father died eleven years earlier, I was faced with having to empty her apartment and distribute all her possessions.  Luckily for me, I had Jeannette, my precious sister-in-law, to help me.

The following story was published in Today’s Senior Newsmagazine in June, 2005.  For some unknown reason, they again published it in August of 2007.  Somebody must have liked it?

 TWO MARBLES

            I sit on an antique wooden chair that belongs with the antique wooden telephone table in the corner.  Except for a tall dresser, they are the only pieces of furniture left in the bedroom.

            My sister-in-law sits on the floor in front of me.  Between us, open and supported on top of a large cardboard box, is my Mother’s jewelry box.  It is a large, white leather, padded box, yellowed with age, that opens in tiers.  It has a lock and key.

            Together we are going through its contents.  My brother abdicated his role as heir to these items and said his wife should stand in for him.  It should be women dividing up another woman’s jewelry, either for themselves or for their daughters.

            There isn’t a lot of monetary value in what we find.  We have already dispersed the good pieces that were kept in small boxes.  Today we find an antique brooch, trying to sparkle its sequins of blue.  It may have belonged to my Grandmother, but we do not know.  My niece has asked for anything old and funky.  This will go to her.

            We pull out three lockets, two gold and one silver.  The silver one has pictures of my deceased Father and my deceased brother.  I put this locket aside to take to my Mother in the nursing home.  One gold locket has a picture of me.  I decide to keep that one.  The other gold locket has pictures of my maternal grandparents.  I keep that as well.

            Then we pull out a gold compact with an R.C.A.F. emblem on the front, and my Mother’s name inscribed underneath.  My Dad had been in the Air Force when he gave this to her on their engagement during World War II.  I keep it for sentiment, even though the mirror is broken.  The compact is heart shaped, and speaks of his love for her.

            There are sets of chunky clip-on earrings to give to my niece.  A pearl necklace, coming apart but with errant pearls still present, my sister-in-law wants to salvage, in case the pearls are real.

            I retrieve the obituary notices my Mother has saved, token reminders of lives lost.  At some point in her life, though, these people were family members and therefore earned her respect.  Their names she saved with her jewelry.

            We pull out an old Bulova lady’s watch.  It has a small delicate face and a gold expansion bracelet.  I remember my Mother wearing it on fancy dates with my Father.  It was her “dressy” watch.  I wind it and look to see if it works.  There is no second hand, and I can’t hear if it is ticking.  My sister-in-law holds it to her ear and says it’s working.  The bracelet is too small for me.  We decide her daughter, my niece, should have this, too.

            There is a small pill bottle that we open.  She pulls out the contents, but doesn’t know what they are.  She asks if they are roach clips.  I laugh.  I tell her no, they’re men’s tie clips, used to clip a tie to a shirt so it wouldn’t flap around.  They had belonged to my Father.  We decide my brother should have them.

            Next we find two men’s rings, one with my Father’s initials.  Again, these will go to my brother.

            There are a number of old coins, some silver dollars, and one large piece that says “Ontario, 1867, White Trillium”.  I don’t know if it’s a coin or not.  It has no amount on it.  I ask to save the coins for my son.

            We pull out a matching set of necklace, earrings and scarf pin, done in fine petite point, all tiny red roses.  These go to my niece as I have a similar set that will be passed down to my own daughter.

            At the very bottom is a folded, yellow piece of paper.  I open it and read my Father’s handwriting.  It is a promissory note for $7000.00 that he signed in 1959.  It is marked paid in full one year later.  I remember he started his first business at that time, so perhaps that is why he borrowed from a friend.  My Mother saved the paper for over 40 years.  I discard it, even though it’s proof my Father always paid his bills.

            There are several tiny padlocks and keys we dispose of.  And at last we have only two marbles left, one large and one small.  My sister-in-law shakes her head and asks why Mom kept marbles in her jewelry box?  I tell her Mom kept them to roll through a vacuum cleaner hose to find where it was plugged.  And if you move house a lot, if you keep your marbles in your jewelry box you’ll never lose them.  She doesn’t believe me.

            I take the marbles and put them in my pocket.  They will go in my own jewelry box, waiting for the day someone else will have to clean out my life.

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By Lisa A. Hatton

FAMILY HEIRLOOM

Sorry to say, but I never thought diamonds were my best friend.

THE RING

Whenever I wore that ring, I was terrified.  Terrified of theft.  Terrified of losing it.  It was a white gold band sporting a floral cluster of twenty six diamonds and screamed of wealth I never possessed.  I felt like such a fraud when I wore it, that someone would question me about where I obtained it.  And yet, it was so very, very beautiful I loved to look at it on my hand.

            But no, I didn’t wear it more than three times in sixteen years.  I had two choices.  Have it assessed regularly and pay for the extra insurance to cover it.  Or stow it away in a safety deposit box.  So that’s where it went, to a box at the bank.  I retrieved it to wear when my son graduated from the Royal Military College, and several years later when he married.  And then again when my daughter married.  But otherwise it stayed safely under lock and key.

            The ring had been a gift from my father to my mother on their fortieth wedding anniversary.  She had wanted a new set of engagement and wedding rings, as hers were almost worn through.  But Dad liked to splurge and demonstrate his success in life.  He needed the bling of ostentation.  So she received this gorgeous, sparkling ring that she seldom wore.  After he died, she gave the ring to me.  I suspect she was tired of being the keeper of Dad’s pride.  She also gave away the mink coat he’d given her, that also needed assessments and storage.

            After my mother died, I started thinking of death and wills and belongings left to children.  I decided to give the ring to my daughter.  But she lives 3,000 kilometres away, and I wasn’t going to mail it.  I waited, and waited, until finally she came for a visit.  I took her to the bank with me and in the secured, dark back room with all the safety deposit boxes, I opened mine and handed her the ring case.  She opened it and I watched as her eyes grew large and a gorgeous smile bloomed across her face as she took out the ring and placed it on her finger.

            “Oh, Mom, I absolutely love it!  You’re really giving this to me?  I can’t believe it.  I’ll never take it off!” she said.

            And I knew that with the third generation, the ring had finally found a home.

           

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By Lisa A. Hatton

A DIFFERENT POINT OF VIEW

This story was published in the Polar Expressions anthology “Below The Canopy” in 2009.  It was my attempt to write from a male point of view, first person.

HIS RANT

            He lives in the apartment over the three-bay carriage house.  Not because he wants to, that’s for sure.  Only because the bitch he’s married to doesn’t want him in the house anymore.  Take your shoes off.  Don’t touch the walls.  Don’t smoke.  Don’t sit here.  Don’t go there.  Don’t let the dog on the furniture. Don’t put your feet on the coffee table.  Don’t walk on the clean floor.  Don’t leave dirty dishes around.  Don’t throw your clothes on the floor.  Don’t leave beer bottles in the den.  And for God’s sake, don’t ever go in the living room with all her fancy furniture. Damn it!  You’d think she was curator of a museum or something.

            Never mind he slaved his ass off to buy the property in the first place.  No way does she acknowledge that. She just acts as if it’s all hers, like it’s her special right.  But at least he was smart enough not to put her name on anything. So if she wants out of the marriage she’ll have to really fight him to get a cent.  He’ll pay the bills to keep the property out of hawk, but anything else she can pay for herself.  See how she likes them apples.

            Dumb bitch. He just got so fed up with all her complaining about what a slob he was, he moved out to the garage.  Piss on her!  He’d live any way he damned well pleased now.  He didn’t have to wash up to sit at any table with her.  And he sure as hell didn’t have to bathe first to get into bed anymore.  So what if the grease on his arms rubbed off on the sheets.  And so what if he liked to eat in bed while he watched T.V.  A few crumbs never hurt anybody.  And he could leave the toilet seat up all the time if it suited him.

            Now he could drink beer all day on a Saturday.  He could twist a top off at eight in the morning and there wouldn’t be anything she could say or do about it.  Hell, she wouldn’t even know about it.  And he could have himself a feed of fried pyrogies and garlic sausage every night for supper, too.  No more effin’ rabbit food.  So what if it was Sunday and she’d always cooked a roast and yorkshire pudding.  He could feed himself.  He didn’t need to put up with any more of her crap in order to eat something, that’s for sure.

            And there wouldn’t be any more visiting with her family.  He wouldn’t have to be pleasant to her mother and he wouldn’t have to act like her kids were his own, either.  They could all go plumb to hell.  His own kids didn’t bother with him anymore, so why should he have to put up with hers?

 

This bitch just kept saying she was tired of being blamed for what the first wife did, especially since he still had the first wife listed as beneficiary on everything.  Should never have married a second time.  The first time was bad enough.  That one had taken everything.  But he’d been able to live with that ‘cause she got custody of the kids, first one did.  Had to take care of his own kids, never mind they never had any time for him.  Truth be told, both women had just been out to get whatever they could from him.  No, he wasn’t going to write a will.  He wasn’t going to make it easier for anybody.  Nobody ever helped him.

            Setting the tenth empty beer bottle on the table beside his old and torn recliner, he takes the last puff of his cigarette and puts it out in the overfilled ashtray.  He does an unsteady sideways shuffle to the bathroom and fumbles with the fly on his jeans before he’s able to relieve himself.  He absently gazes at the empty paper towel holder and remembers he still has to buy toilet paper, too.  He would brush his teeth, but he doesn’t have any toothpaste.  The towel is so filthy, he decides not to shave.  He hasn’t gone out anywhere today because he doesn’t know which clothes on the floor are clean or dirty.

            Stupid bitch.  It was all her fault.

            He flops on his badly rumpled bed that smells as rank as he feels.  He passes out wondering what she’s cooking for dinner.

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By Lisa A. Hatton