Advice

...my father has given to fabulously successful females ... as told to me by a former colleague.

1. Ask for help.
2. Be a bitch.

The Twist

He found me shattered and broken.
Carefully he took my fragile heart,
then without warning, dropped it.

Last Tastes of Summer

The last taste of summer has now come and gone. Just a couple weeks ago I was still collecting these wild blackberries that lovingly transplanted themselves in my yard.

Everyone said, "Pull them out! They are a wild plant and hard to control. They will take over." But these blackberries knew exactly what they were doing. They were on the edge of my yard and gracefully hung themselves over the rock wall there. They basked all summer in the heat radiating off the rocks and have produced the sweetest most succulent crop of blackberries that I have ever tasted. I can't say that I got a ton. Just three large freezer bags. But of course that doesn't take into account all that I ate in between and for the first year, that's not bad. And they have since enjoyed being in salads, yogurt, and smoothies. I've thought about making jam, but the truth is that I don't use jam all that often and made a batch of apricot earlier in the year. Besides, I enjoy the tart explosion of flavour that these offer on their own. Now all that's really left are the elderberries, rose hips and a few wild apples.

The Beast

In a time just a few years before my own, rumours circulated that strange beasts roamed through the dense shadows of these woods: tall, hairy beasts with a foul stench trailing behind them. It was in these times during one cold, dark autumn night in the tiny village of Kaslo that an incident occurred that would snowball into mythic proportions.

A group of teenagers had met together at the house of one of the locals. This said local, Mr B, was a bit of a strange man with straggly unkempt hair. But this was not in the least unusual for a small village full of solitary woodsmen.

The kids were getting ready to leave when one was sure he saw a shadow move in the bushes near the edge of the yard. Mr B said he would go out to investigate. Bears are known to occasionally wander into the city boundaries, especially at this time of year with the trees full of pears and apples. This was always a bit of a concern and no one thought it would be anything but. A few of the teenagers watched at the window, but the murky night obscured all but the pale movement of shadows. They waited as the icy air wafted in through the cracks of the old cabin.

Suddenly Mr B flew through the door all wild eyed with hair flying in every direction. “It’s a SASQUATCH!” he rasped as he raced to the kitchen and wrenched open a drawer, utensils flying everywhere. He grabbed the biggest knife to be seen and said, “I’m going after it!” Out he flew into the dark night with all the kids watching wide eyed in hushed whispers. They could just barely make out two shadows seemingly wrestling in the dark of the night. They waited on edge as the minutes passed.

After what seemed like an eternity, a dishevelled Mr. B. returned. “He’s gone! He got away, but I got him good. I don’t think he’ll be back.” The jittery group eventually made their way from the house and plodded towards their own. The groups broke off and became smaller as they fanned outward throughout the town. One of these groups met up with another group of teenagers also on their way back home. The excited kids exchanged stories with the other group and so the tale spread.

By later in the evening, the story had reached the police who wanted to investigate. And their story was later overheard on their radios by the police in the neighbouring town of Nelson. And then later by reporters in Vancouver. Within a week, the story covered the front pages of the Province, and this was before the Province had become such a rag.

So what really happened on that cold dark night? Search parties scoured the woods. They weren’t going to see any sasquatches. But I say nothing.

Toast

To my fabulously clean ancestors. Skål

From Reginsmál (25):

Kembðr ok þveginn skal kœnna hverr|
Combed and washed every thoughtful man should be
ok at morni mettr;               |
and fed in the morning;
þvíat ósýnt er,hvarat aptni kømr;|
for one cannot foresee where one will be by evening;
illt er fyr heill at hrapa.      |
it is bad to rush headlong before one's fate.

Beach Flowers

A gypsy told my fortune and I told her hers.
I said you'll die high in the mountains wrapped in silver furs.
You'll be looking for you lover in the midnight sun,
And you'll perish for your lover when the frost has begun.

~Stars