POETIC PERSONIFICATION

I used to belong to a group called Poet’s Potpourri in Abbotsford, B.C.  Donna Bishop, who led the group, was adamant that poetry was a performing art.  So every year, she would arrange a special event where all members and other poets from the Lower Mainland could “perform” their poetry with a microphone in front of a live audience.  The year I read the following poem, it was the first time I was on a stage, with a microphone, reading to a live audience.  The poem was well received, and one listener did tell me that what I wrote was so true, so very true, and he knew that from his own experience.

 

 

SWEET BETRAYAL

Alone with the full moon

He dreamed of Love

To ease the pain of singleness

A sweet caress, to guide each lonely step

His longing drew her to him

She kissed him softly and eased his pain

She made him feel a man again

The Lady he turned to in his need

He gave his life to her

Inch by inch, hour by hour

Through the years

By her obsessed

She him possessed

He gave up all to be with she

His family, fortune, self-respect

To keep his love for her intact

From all the world he would retract

His only choice to live for her

At first, she loved him well

She held him close and stopped his pain

Always there to meet his need

Then he desired more and more

For when apart

His empty life

Was more than he could bear

He was by her bewitched

No children would she bear him

No friends would she allow

Unless she had dominion, before her they must bow

He trusted her with all his heart

And did not see

His loss of Soul

When perilous hands

Covered up his eyes

Nor did he see

His loss of strength and potency

Living just for she

The blindness he embraced

Loving and trusting her

Manhood lost

And mind diminished

Accepting all that she might do

In blinding trust he did allow

The rope she tied around his neck

Knowing she would kill him

Powerless to resist

He died of love

For the Lady in the bottle.

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By Lisa A. Hatton

SHORT AND SWEET

I wrote the following short observation five years ago.  Still true today.

HUNGER

            The diner was full, every booth occupied.  There were the down and out, who could only afford the all-day breakfast with free coffee.  There were golden agers and seniors out for their weekend brunch.  There were young couples and families getting fortified for Sunday shopping.  There were also the mentally ill; one lady waving to imaginary friends, and one man in earnest conversation with a voice in his head.  The aroma of bacon and fresh coffee evoked our longing for sustenance.

            Middle aged waitresses ran incessantly from tables to kitchen to till.  People lined up to come in, and then lined up to pay when they left.

            We sat at one booth by the window, he and I.  We sat across from each other, the table between us, not like when we first met.  Then we always sat next to each other, touching, even at a booth.  Now we sat separately, lost in our own individual thoughts.

            Gazing around, my mind rambled to the chores waiting at home, then to the list in my purse of needed groceries, and eventually to pending surgery three weeks hence.  Thinking of the surgery, and my surgeon, and the confidence I felt that the outcome would be successful, I smiled.

            The man across the table perked up and his sharp blue eyes locked on mine.  “What?  What were you thinking?  Why are you smiling?”

            After twenty years, we still hunger for each other’s smile. 

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By Lisa A. Hatton

ALL YOU CAN DO IS LAUGH!

It is said that you may please some of the people all the time, all of the people some of the time, but not all the people all the time.  This became very evident to me when I lived inside a co-op housing complex that itself was inside a strata townhouse complex.  There were two governing bodies with many, many bylaws.  The following story came from my experience working as the Assistant Property Manager of the strata complex.  I hope you find it as wryly funny as I did.

 

 

One Man’s Solution

            Once a month, on the fourth Monday, our townhouse complex has its regularly scheduled Strata Council Meeting.  This always takes place in our own Activity Centre at 7:00 p.m., after most people have already had a long day.  We have seven elected Council Members who have decided that Meetings should be open and above-board, and not at all secretive.  All owners are invited to show an interest and attend these Meetings.

            Thank goodness they don’t.  We have about one thousand residents spread through 305 townhouses and we couldn’t possibly schedule a Meeting long enough for everybody to have their say.  It’s my job to record the minutes of these Meetings.

            In September our Meeting received a delegation of residents from Cornwall Court, which is the longest cul-de-sac in the complex.  The fourth item on our agenda is “Good & Welfare”, which means any resident can bring forth any topic of concern.  I faithfully note all complaints in the minutes so issues raised by concerned residents can be recorded for posterity.  This delegation from Cornwall Court arrived with a petition in hand.

            “The next item on our Agenda is ‘Good and Welfare’.  Does anyone from the floor wish to raise any concerns?” our Chairman, Henry, asked.

            “Yes, we do.  We have a petition here to request speed bumps be installed on Cornwall Court.  It’s signed by 32 residents on that street and we are all fed up with people speeding down that road and around the cul-de-sac.  We have small children, sometimes outside playing or riding their bikes, and we want something done for their safety,” one angry resident informed Council.

            “May we have your name and unit number for the minutes, please?  And may we see the petition?” Henry asked.

            “I’m Scott Penner from Unit #286, and here’s the petition.  We have complained to Joe at the Office about the speeding several times, but management doesn’t seem to be able to do anything about this.  They can only fine someone if I rat on a neighbour and give them the Unit number.  I really think speed bumps would be the better solution.  That way all vehicles would have to slow down,” Mr. Penner informed Council.

            Henry briefly glanced at the petition and then looked askingly at the other Council Members.  “Would someone on Council like to make a motion that we install three speed bumps on Cornwall Court?”

            Paul made the motion and Ruth seconded it, and it was carried.  Henry always moves very quickly through “Good and Welfare”.  The delegation left and we were free to continue the Meeting without interruption from the floor.

            Looking at Joe, our manager who worked on-site in our own office, Henry asked him, “Will you have the speed bumps installed?  Other areas in here have them, so we can’t really say no.  Wish it was that easy pleasing everyone else.”

            The next day Joe called several paving companies for quotes on installation of speed bumps and received prices that varied greatly.  Always pinching pennies, Joe accepted the lowest quote and arranged for the speed bumps to be installed the following day.  Two days after the petition was received, the job was completed.

            “How’s that for getting things done?” Joe asked me, very pleased with himself.

            Council and management were all pleased until the next Council Meeting.  October’s minutes read like this:

MINUTES – Oct./91

4.               GOOD & WELFARE:

Unit #290 – complained of new speed bumps on Cornwall Court.  Resident can’t get his wheelchair over them as they are too high.

Unit #294 – complained of new speed bumps.  Children have to walk to end of the road before they can ride in parent’s car, which bottoms out over the speed bumps when passengers in car.

Unit #300 – Council Member complains speed bumps are too high and she can’t drive her sports car down to her Unit without damaging her bumpers or muffler and tailpipe.

Unit #270 – elderly resident complains we never had his permission to install speed bumps and they are too high for him to ride his bicycle over.  He is consequently deprived of pleasurable exercise.

Tom’s Towing stated they would no longer patrol Cornwall Court for illegally parked vehicles as the speed bumps are too high and cause too much wear and tear on tow trucks and escalate the possibility of damage being done to vehicles being towed.

Council requested that Joe investigate having the speed bumps reduced in height

            Joe had that done.  The paving company that installed the speed bumps was able to shave about six inches off the top of them.  That seemed to solve the problem until the next meeting where the minutes read:

MINUTES – Nov./91

4.               GOOD & WELFARE:

Unit #286 – Scott Penner complained that snow removal was not being done on Cornwall Court this winter.  It was done regularly last winter, but not this year.  Mr. Penner demanded an explanation.

Joe informed Council and Mr. Penner that the snow plow will not go where there are any speed bumps because they damage equipment, and the location of speed bumps cannot be ascertained by the snow plow when they are covered by snow and consequently cannot be avoided.  Speed bumps were non-existent on Cornwall Court the previous winter, but pose a problem this year.  However, Joe said that lack of snow removal will definitely help in deterring speeders as Mr. Penner had previously requested.

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By Lisa A. Hatton

FOR MOTHER'S DAY

I wrote the following story when my mother had moved to a nursing home.  It was published in July of 2005 by Today’s Senior Newsmagazine.  She has since passed away and is now a beloved memory for me to keep.

 

MINE TO KEEP

            I have never wanted to be keeper of the past.  But each time my parents downsized I was expected to take all things my Mother could not bear to lose forever, such as furniture, artwork, ornaments, knickknacks, clothing and linens.  My house overflows with her past.  And even though she is losing her memory, I must keep these things and remember for her.

            Most recently she has moved from an apartment to a nursing home and now I have a giant box of old photos to keep.  It sits in my spare bedroom and any time I open the door, it chastises me for not paying attention.  Now once a week I visit the box as I visit my Mother, the obedient child being dutiful.

            Part of me rebels to the extent that I will not let my Mother escape her past so easily.  Each time I visit her, I visit the box first and take a handful of photos with me.  In her room we sit with the photos on a table between us and I make her look at each one.  “Who is this person, Mom?  Where was this photo taken?  What year was it?”  And I write down pertinent details on the back of each photo.  She can remember her distant past, but not what day of the week it is today.

            I am determined that if I must keep these pictures, then I must know the people in them.  And my knowledge must be recorded for the generations that come after me.

            Last Saturday we went through many photos that had been saved by her Mother, my Grandmother.  Most we were able to identify.  My great grandmother, great aunts and uncles, pictures in England, pictures in Canada.  There is a picture of the Winnipeg flood, and one taken in Edmonton of Princess Elizabeth and her husband, Phillip, before she became our Queen.

            We are down to several pictures of unknown young men in British World War I uniforms.  On the back of one is written “To Dearest Olive, Love, Marty”.  My Mother had no relatives named Marty.  She thinks these men in uniform were former boyfriends of her own Mother who was just a teenager during the First World War.

            I know the collection in my box of photos gives me a pictorial history of a whole century.  So I will identify and record and catalogue and I will be the keeper of this past.  As I sat with my Mother, I could feel the presence of all these departed souls.  They were in the room with us, pleased to be remembered, perhaps reminding my Mother she is not forgotten and will one day be joining them.

            And yes, I know too that my Mother will one day step into my own memory in a photo and that will be all I have left of her.  So of course, I will be the keeper of this past.

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By Lisa A. Hatton

WRITE WHAT YOU SEE OR HEAR

Writers are told to write what they know.  Sometimes that just means write what you see or hear.  This story was based on an exchange I overheard at the pub one night.

PLAYING TRIVIA

            Meredith sat next to her husband at the local pub.  Their hands were on keyboards while they played a game of trivia that was up on the television screen.  As they played, another couple entered and came to the next table.  The man was over six feet tall and looked solid.  The woman only stood about five feet tall.  She was slight and nervous.  Meredith watched as he held her chair.  They sat facing each other.

            The server pounced on them immediately, brandishing menus and coasters, asking what they wanted to drink.  The woman ordered a bottle of beer, and he ordered diet pop.  Waiting for their drinks, they pored over their menus.

            “You can order anything you’d like,” he told her with a smile.

            As they dined, they chatted, and Meredith listened.  He was a trucker.  She worked in an office.  He had never been married.  She had been divorced for years and had raised her children alone.  She had a dog.  He was allergic to dogs.

            “The dog is a guard dog.  I have him to keep my ex away from me and my house.  I won’t be abused again, by anybody,” she said, as she lifted her beer with one hand to take a drink.

            “When I’m there, you won’t need the dog.  I’ll make sure your ex never comes near you,” he said, as he placed his hand over hers on the tabletop.  She pulled her hand away.

            After dinner, he ordered coffee and she ordered another beer.  They kept chatting, seeking absolute truth on a first date, Meredith thought.  The woman started to lead the conversation, talking about her house instead of herself.

            “I’m good at repairs,” the man said.  “I can fix most things around the house.”  Again he covered her hand with his and again she pulled away.

            He ordered another coffee and she another beer.

            “You know,” she said, “one dinner isn’t going to get you into my bed.  You’re not taking me for a ride tonight.”

            “Of course not,” he said unperturbed.  “We can have several dinners first,” he reassured her, as he placed his hand over hers again.

            This time she looked at him searchingly before she slowly pulled her hand away again.  He paid their bill and Meredith watched them leave.

            “Is he getting any tonight?” Meredith asked her husband.

            “You tell me,” he said.  “I don’t know how women think.”

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By Lisa A. Hatton

           

THE SOUL LIVES FOREVER

I firmly believe the Soul lives forever.  Isn’t that what Easter is all about anyhow?

ETERNAL

            His voice always haunted me, with intonations of Great Britain, and honour and chivalry.  His deep, mellow tone called me home every time I heard it.

            I was not yet twenty when he first spoke to me in my car.  It was late at night as I drove home from some outing.  His voice talked to me from my radio on the only station I received.  For several years and with the wisdom of maturity, he informed me of politics and current events and community concerns and social mores, always with some ironic twist at the end.  He was a date I counted on.

            The years passed.  I married and moved away and then returned.  His radio station died.  But he found rebirth elsewhere on the dial.  My marriage ended and I sought the solace of the voice I knew.

            Eventually I sent him poetry of mine.  He read it on the air.  I wrote again, and once more he read my poem, his noble voice pronouncing my written words.  I sensed a union consummated before we even met.

            He sought me out by mail and invited me for a long, romantic lunch.  His words bade me come to hear his voice in person, and so I did.

            We met, we talked, we listened, our minds reaching out to entwine each other’s heart.  On parting, he kissed the inside of my wrist and asked when we might meet again.  We set a date and time for our first tryst.

            It was the beginning of a ten year love affair.  Each of us only wanted the loving, the coming together in pure joy, and then parting to live our separate lives.  I gave him back his youth.  He gave me back my faith in love.

            Then after ten years of only the loving, I needed more.  I gave my heart and daily life to another.  Certain the love affair was ended, I moved on.  But I wasn’t prepared for the shock of his voice grasping for the memories stored in my heart each time I inadvertently heard him on the radio.

            He haunted me that way for years.  Until one night in a dream he berated me for leaving him.  The next day, the haunting ceased when I read his obituary in the newspaper.  I no longer hear his voice on the radio.  Now he simply speaks his name inside my mind and the secret caress of his unseen presence tells me the love we shared is eternal.

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By Lisa A. Hatton

BECAUSE IT'S TAX TIME

April is a time for filing income taxes, so I thought the following personal article might be appropriate.  Receipts can be revealing.  What do yours say about you?  Enjoy!

DISCLOSURE

                        As a bookkeeper for more than forty years, I learned to read people by the receipts they kept for business.  My penchant for deciphering numbers in fine print told me far more than just the financial cost of an item or service.

            I could tell there were two guests in a hotel room when a businessman was out of town, on business, without his wife.  I knew a businesswoman bought ten bottles of vodka for one dinner for four that she hosted back in December.  I knew when he sent his wife flowers, or when she took her husband golfing.  I knew where they banked and how much they earned.  I knew what their medical premiums cost and where they had RRSPs.  I could tell what vehicles they drove, whether they were purchased or leased, and when their insurance expired.  I knew if he had disability insurance or if she had life insurance.  I knew what school their children attended and the colour of the uniform for the basketball team they sponsored.  And I learned where the whole family vacationed each year.

            So what did my receipts say about me?  The top drawer of my filing cabinet was overflowing, so I pulled out one file folder that was bulging, entitled “Personal Receipts”.  It had been collecting items for many years.  I spent an hour sorting my memories, keeping some and discarding others.

            I’d been searching for a diagram I knew I saved that showed the assembly of an oscillating fan.  I wanted to take the fan apart and clean it.  “Destructions” come in handy.  The fan was probably twenty years old but I still had the diagram in my personal receipt file.

            What other details of my life were evident on paper?  I found picture I.D. of myself that had been issued by the provincial government before drivers’ licences included pictures.  The I.D. had been required to prove I wasn’t a minor when I purchased alcohol.  This laminated piece of identification was from 1970.

            There was a hospital registration card for my daughter from Vancouver Children’s Hospital for when she had open heart surgery in 1984 at the age of five.  When she turned sixteen, I gave her a birthstone ring.  I saw the receipt from the local jeweller.  And later there were receipts from her two driving tests; the one she failed and the one she passed.  From Champagne & Lace I had the receipt for her grad dress.  All of these were proof she lived and grew up.

            For my son, I found outdated vehicle registrations and vehicle insurance papers.   When he graduated as a second lieutenant from the Royal Military College in Kingston, I bought him a silver pocket watch and a silver flask, both engraved with his name and both for him to use with his dress uniform.  I had the receipts.

            I kept airline tickets to my son’s graduation and my daughter’s wedding.  There were also tickets to Winnipeg one February so I could visit my son and daughter-in-law at C.F.B. Shilo.  I remember the temperature was minus forty degrees Celsius the whole five days of my visit!

            I had receipts for my ancient chesterfield suite and VCR, both of which were still in use.  There were receipts for cameras that have since died and for all the repairs to a washing machine we later replaced.  I had detailed instructions for care of a box spring and mattress I bought for my daughter.

            In the file were all the vet bills for our since departed cat.  And I had the receipt for the large print bible I gave my mother-in-law for her birthday one year.

            Since the late 1980s, I had saved receipts every time I renewed my disabled parking permit.  My fold-up cane cost me $29.99, and my designer cane cost me $49.99.  My wheeled walker with brakes and basket cost $200.00, used.  No warranty.

            In 1996, my son bought one new tire for my car, for $129.95 at Canadian Tire.  I subscribed to Reader’s Digest for five years in a row, and to Storyteller Magazine for two years.

 
            The television in the living room came from Visions, a wedding present from my mother.  My driving glasses were two for the price of one.  My largest expenditures on clothing were always at the fabric store, some assembly required.  The Corelle dishes in the kitchen came from Walmart.  Wedding presents for the kids, pots and pans with twenty-five year warranties for both my son and daughter, came from Sears and so did my Kenmore stove.  There was also the receipt for the marriage licence when Bryon and I got married.

            Ah, yes.  There is revelation by receipt.  Can you read me now?

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By Lisa A. Hatton