Explosion of Fire and Ice Chapter 5

CHAPTER 5 -- DINNER AT THE JUBILEE RESTAURANT

Kate let herself into the apartment at 7:00, and turned on the light. She hung her jacket in the hall closet, and went down to her bedroom where her kilt was flung on the floor in a heap with her sweater set and her underwear. A gold chain, on which hung a finely wrought young foal with gangly legs, was curled around small gold earrings on the limed oak bureau. She picked up the binder from the bed and stepped over another, considerably ranker smelling, pile of clothes in the middle of the floor, and walked into the livingroom to a large chair. After setting her open binder and an ash tray and cigarettes on the oversized arm rests, and covering herself with a light mohair throw, she climbed into the nest she had created, took one of the Craven A's from its pack, lit it with a silver plated Ronson table lighter and puffed on it, tapping a non-existent ash into the silver plated ashtray.

She glanced at the book she had borrowed from Mr. Stevens, but turned from it to the science section of her binder. Mr. Killawee had given homework this morning, but it wasn't due till Wednesday. She looked at the assignment, and seeing that it consisted mainly of simple math problems connected with speed and distance, she set it aside. Taking a few drags from the cigarette, and using Mr. Stevens' book as a table, she proceeded to write in her best handwriting "I will not be late to class again. I will remember to bring my cooking apron to all my cooking classes from now on" . By the time she had written the two sentences twenty-five times her hand was stiff, and her cigarette had burned away to a long grey ash. She extricated herself from the tangle of papers and blanket and walked into the bathroom, and then into the kitchen. She opened the refrigerator door, and, in the half light, noted that it was only half past seven. She took a coke from the top shelf of the refrigerator and closed the door casting the kitchen once more into darkness.

She wished she could call Rick, but she always felt funny if anyone else answered, and tonight was one of his biology tutoring nights anyway. She hoped he'd call when he was finished, but he might not be able to. He was in his last year of high school with tons of homework every night, and his parents expected him to get the marks he needed for medical school.

I'll call Mim, she decided. She turned on the overhead light and dialed Miriam's number. It was answered on the third ring by Reverend Stockwell. "Yes, I'll get her for you, Kate, but just a short conversation. Miriam has homework to finish before bedtime."

"God, why does he always have to say that, Mim?"

"Say what?"

"Get off the phone in two minutes. How can you have a conversation with a stopwatch going?"

"He isn't timing me. But he's been helping me with my math homework and he wants us to get it finished soon. He has to prepare a speech or something for the Church Women's meeting tomorrow. What's up? How did things go with Miss Johnson after school?"

"I don't even want to think about it. I walked out when she wanted me to wash the floor on my knees."

"But, Kate, everyone washes the floor that way. You've been over here on a Saturday when we're all doing our chores. You've seen Donna scrubbing the kitchen and bathroom floors."

"But not everyone is wearing an expensive kilt from Scotland. I said I didn't want to talk about it and I don't. The last thing I need is you taking Miss Johnson's side in everything."

There was a sigh on the other end of the line and then Miriam's voice resumed, "What did you do after school?"

"The usual. Came home and changed into my jodphurs, rode for an hour or so, came home and took a bath and changed into jeans and went to the Jubilee for supper, and then came home and started my homework."

"What did you have for supper?"

"A hot hamburger sandwich, a coke and a hot fudge sundae."

"Yum. We had liver and onions. Yucck! Oops, gotta go. Dad's holding up one finger. See you tomorrow morning?"

"Yeah." Kate hung up slowly coiling the cord around her hand. She bit her lip, and then went back into the livingroom where she took up from where she had left off. "I will not be late to class again ..." She wondered what Miss Johnson would do about this afternoon. She felt a sick sense of dread when she remembered her words ... you may be a charwoman but I'm not ... the hell I will ... And had she heard what she'd said to the grade sevens?

Just as she finished the last of the lines, she heard a key in the lock. Her father came in shaking himself like a damp dog. Walter Hennigan was a slim man with thinning blond hair and hazel eyes. He was wearing a navy pinstriped business suit and a lustrous silk tie with a crisp white dress shirt. His shoes gleamed. The only resemblance between him and Kate was their short stature. "It's started to snow. Probably won't last. Too early for that, but it's been a grey November day. Any calls for me while I was out? How was your day?"

Kate threw herself on him and gave him a hug. "No calls. I'm glad you're home. I've had a rotten day. We started cooking this term and we have this absolute witch for a teacher. She's ancient and has these awful lumps all over her face. They turn red when she gets mad. She's ugly enough to be in a house of horrors. She probably glows in the dark. And her eyes are lopsided. One hangs halfway down her cheek.

Her father laughed and said, "Well maybe you'll finally learn how to cook, anyway."

"I doubt it," Kate retorted. "She's doing things like boiled eggs and porridge, and after what happened today I may not have to go back to her class anyway."

Mr. Hennigan's face clouded. "What did you do today?"

"I refused to wash her filthy old floor on my hands and knees in the good kilt you brought back from Scotland last trip."

Walter Hennigan laughed and tousled her hair. "You're quite a Tartar, aren't you? How was supper?"

"Okay. Are you going to play a game of crib with me before I go to bed?"

"Not tonight, honey. I'm beat. Maybe tomorrow night. Sleep tight," and he disappeared into his bedroom, not even stopping to brush his teeth.

"Not any night, you mean," Kate muttered to the closed door. "When was the last time we did anything together? I might as well still be living with Mom and Dad Hall, or be back at Edgehill for all I ever see of you."

Kate went into her own room and closed the door behind her. She turned on a bedside table lamp, slipped out of her jeans and shirt and put on a flannel nightgown hanging on the cupboard door. She looked around the room and brightened up. She loved this room and could remain oblivious to the three piles of clothing on the floor and unaware of the unmade bed and concentrate on the treasures on shelves and walls. Standing in the headboard of the bookcase bed were a small blue radio and several porcelain horses her dad had brought back from London, The walls were hung with mementoes of other European cities: a cuckoo clock from Geneva; silk paintings of children in Alpine dress from some other Swiss town; dolls in a variety of national costumes; and two framed blue silk scenes from Lyons where for centuries tapestries had been made. Her curtains and matching bedspread were made of a bright yellow printed cotton from Provence. One of his girlfriends who could sew had made them. Kate thought that one had been called Mary. Joanie was his current girlfriend, and Kate liked her. She was younger than some of the others had been but wasn't one of those glamour pusses who had her picture taken with him in some club. Kippy was a bleached blonde from New York who fit into that category. She'd liked the woman who'd given her the blue Evangeline figure too Adele, a dietician who worked at the Camp Hill veteran's hospital and made wonderful pumpkin pies. Sometimes Kate dropped in to see Adele on her way home from riding. Dad had said he'd broken off with her because they didn't have much in common, but Kate thought it was because she was middle aged and heavy and looked comfortable instead of young or glamorous. Joanie was coming to stay with her next week when her dad went to New York for a few days. Kate was looking forward to it.

She pushed some stuffed animals onto the floor and stretched luxuriantly. Then she retrieved the ancient Rudolph and planted a kiss on it red plastic nose. Her dad had given the stuffed reindeer to her the Christmas she'd arrived in Halifax. That flight had been a rollercoaster ride. The plane had taken off and landed at every city between Toronto and Halifax, and all the landings had been rough, especially the final one. Her father had been standing on the tarmac, the stuffed Rudolf in his hands, when the plane taxied in, and Kate, still feeling ill, had hugged him, grateful to feel solid ground under her feet.

The emotional ride had been just as turbulent. Fear of the unknown battled with the excitement of an adventure. One moment she delighted in the notion that her father would be only forty miles away; the next she remembered Mom Hall and her throat tightened. She'd read Edgehill's rules. Would she ever again be free to wander off alone for hours, just being a kid, she'd wondered.

And weaving its insidious way through all of these thoughts was the knowledge that she had instigated the whole affair by telling Mom Hall about the woman who'd given her the blue Bakelite radio. If she hadn't told anyone about meeting her real mother, nothing might have happened.

Kate fell asleep, cuddling Rudolf, the what if's tumbling around in her head.

Explosion of Fire and Ice Chapter 4

CHAPTER 4 -- FOUL MOODS, FISH AND RISENGRYNSGRØT

Art class had been fun. Mrs. Maxwell had brought in twigs and dead leaves and all kinds of other things from her cottage near Lunenburg, and they had created pictures from them. When Kate had to draw, she produced rigid figures with no life or movement, but when she was allowed to play with materials and move them around on the page, she could set free her imagination and her natural sense of order and beauty. She had created a haunted wood peopled with fantastic creatures. The trees and undergrowth gave hints of their presence, but there were no actual representations of them. She particularly liked the bark of one tree in which she could see a Puckish face. She thought it might provide the inspiration for a poem. Maybe she'd do something with it in Friday's creative writing class.

There were a few grade seven students lingering by their lockers when she arrived at Miss Johnson's door. This better not take long; she wanted to get to the riding club in time for her group riding lesson with Dick Zwicker. She nudged open the door with her shoulder, and set her binder down on the counter top. "I'm here to wash the floor, Miss Johnson," she said to the teacher's back.

"Have you written out your lines, Hennigar?"

Kate gritted her teeth. Mr. Zwicker called all of them by their last names, and he sometimes got her name wrong too, but she knew he liked her. When she'd recited "Abou Ben Adem" and won an elocution competition in grade six, he'd been the only adult to make a fuss. Her father had been too busy to come, but the next day Mr. Zwicker had called her over to the box stall where he was trimming Fairy's hooves, and had said, "Congratulations, Hennigar, I heard you won the speaking contest. I'm always proud when one of my kids does well, " and then he'd planted a big sloppy kiss on her cheek. She'd thought 'yuck' but had hugged that memory to her ever since.

"No, Miss Johnson. I thought that was homework. I've been in class all day. I'll give it to you Friday during class."

"All right, but see that you don't forget. It might be a good idea to do it tonight so that you don't."

"I don't forget things," Kate said coolly. When Alice reminded her of the forgotten apron, Kate flushed, and, in a more subdued tone, asked how she should wash the floor.

"The broom, bucket, cloths, brushes, and soap are all in the tall cupboard. Sweep it well first and then fill the bucket with warm water, add soap, and scrub it well."

"On my knees?" Kate asked incredulously. "I'm wearing my good kilt and stockings. They'll be ruined."

"You can use the small mat to kneel on. It's the one I use, and I never get runs in my stockings," Miss Johnson countered quietly. She had made up her mind to deal with this girl calmly. She'd taught five classes today and she didn't need any more stress. Her head ached and she just wanted to get home to her apartment where she could lie down for an hour before dinner.

"Haven't you got a mop I can use?" Kate asked.

"No, I don't, and even if I had, you can't get into the corners properly with a mop."

"Well I'm not going to crawl all over a wet floor on my hands and knees in my good clothes. You may be a charwoman, but I'm not. And besides, I've got riding and I'll be late if I take forever washing this floor. I thought this would be a fifteen minute detention not an hour's drudgery. "

Alice Johnson felt the scar tissue on her face grow fiery red, and she knew that Kate must be as aware of it as she was. She willed her fury to subside, closed her eyes and said quietly, "You will wash the floor, Miss, and you will do it properly."

"The hell I will," Kate said, and flounced out of the room. As soon as she was out in the hall she knew she'd gone too far, but she tossed her head and marched defiantly past the staring grade seven kids. "That ugly old fart has no right to expect me to do her job," she spat out as she headed down the stairs, past the gym, and out the front door.

Alice's response to Kate's outburst was to draw a deep breath and to let it out slowly. I don't want that girl in my class. She's one of those kids who can destroy a class. She sat down and wrote a report on the confrontation and tucked it into the corner of her desk pad to deal with the next day. Then she took the broom and dust pan from the cupboard and swept the floor. As she filled the bucket, she thought how soothing the warmth of the water was, and felt her headache receding to that place just outside her skull; the place where she still knew she had a headache, but where it didn't pound with each heart beat.

She dropped the rubber-backed mat to the floor and with some difficulty let herself down to a kneeling position. It had certainly been easier when she was a girl and her mother had overseen her floor washing. Then she could move with the agility of a young animal, and never felt discomfort from being on her knees. However; despite the nuisance of aching knee joints, she got a certain satisfaction from seeing the clear black and wine tile emerge from the greyed surface, just as she always did. When she rose after forty minutes on her knees, it was with the grace of a fifty-three year old elephant, and she thought wryly of her mother's words,"Of course you must wash the floor, Miss, I'm past the age when I can do everything in this household. I'm forty-four and you're fourteen. If you don't learn now, you'll be useless when you get married." Oh, Mama, if you had only known then what the future held.
At five o'clock, Alice glanced with satisfaction around the clean room, tucked her scarf in at the neck of her coat, picked up her handbag, and locked the door behind her. The corridors were quiet, and except for the odd teacher still marking at a classroom desk, and some students playing volleyball in the gym, the school was deserted. She walked out onto Preston Street and strode north until she reached Quinpool Road where she turned left. She lived above Bligh's Radio and Record Store and a florist shop beside the Royal Bank building at the corner of Oxford and Quinpool. It was an easy walk to school and handy to the stores and buses. The Oxford Theatre was on the opposite corner, and one bus ride took her out to Armdale where she could shop at Simpson's.

Once she climbed the dark staircase and let herself into her apartment, she felt a sense of relief she never felt at school, or indeed anywhere else. She carried her coat into the bedroom to hang in the closet, took off her shoes and considered lying down for a half hour before starting dinner, but decided against it. Her headache had subsided on its own, and she'd rest after dinner.
As she passed through the small livingroom on her way to the kitchen she thought about what she would do after supper. She'd read all the books in the shelves, all Victorian novels, and she hadn't been to the library for a couple of weeks. The show at the Oxford was Roman Holiday with Audrey Hepburn. Maybe she'd go to that, or maybe she'd just listen to music and write in the diary she'd kept since she was a girl. Yes, she thought, a quiet evening would be nice.

She walked back into her bedroom, changed into a faded house dress and slipped her bare feet into a pair of comfortable shaggy slippers with rundown heels. It was cool so she took out an ancient grey cardigan whose elbows had been darned with a wool that didn't quite match and put it on over the dress which in its youth had been Kelly green but was now a shade almost indistinguishable from the cardigan.

She was having fish tonight, a piece of cod she'd bought on Saturday that needed eating up. She peeled two potatoes and put them in a small pot. A quick glance in the fridge revealed no fresh vegetables, not even carrots, so she took a can of peas from the cupboard, and dumped them unceremoniously into a second pot. Using a wooden kitchen match, she lit the gas stove and set the two pots on the burners. Then she washed, floured and seasoned the fish fillets. She melted a small piece of butter and checked the potatoes. Yes, just turning tender, time to put the fish on. The butter sizzled when she placed the fillet in the pan, and she turned the heat a notch lower. She was reminded of the only time she had taught a class to cook fish. Never again. Most of them said they hated fish and the smell made them sick. She'd remonstrated with them saying they were Nova Scotians, that the mainstay of Nova Scotia's economy was the fishing industry. They were unmoved and most refused to touch the fish to wash it, and, when she had expected them to eat it, had become absolutely mutinous. She'd finally had to call in an administrator because she had lost control of the class.

Being a young teacher had been difficult. That first class and their looks of disgust when they looked at her face. She'd almost given up, but an older teacher had said to her, "Alice, give it a little more time. You'll get better at classroom management. The secret is to be tough at first so that they know who's boss. I know teachers who never smile till Christmas, my dear. And the other thing is that your scars are still quite new. They'll fade in time, you'll see. Soon the girls won't even notice them." Well, she'd been right. Alice's classroom discipline was now excellent, and the girls no longer looked at her in horror, but she couldn't remember when she'd last smiled in a classroom, and she felt stressed all the time.

She'd begun to dream of being a home economics teacher when she was about fifteen. Her mom had been very strict about teaching her to keep her room clean as a small child, and, once she was eleven, had expected her to help with the running of the household. Until she met Kjell, she'd resented any household responsibility that had interfered with her social life. If the girls thought she was tough, they should have lived with her mother!

She'd been a pretty little thing back then. In fact she'd looked a lot like that Stockwell girl, Miriam that is, not the older one, Donna; the same electric black curls, brown eyes and full lips. But she'd been more wilful than Miriam appeared to be. As a matter of fact, she'd been more like that uppity Kate Hennigar. A wry grin creased her face as she thought about her younger self.

Then she remembered when her mother was so ill after her brother was born. She'd been eleven, and they'd had Mrs. Cormier from Spryfield come in to help keep house for about a month. Alice had resented her obtrusive presence in the kitchen. She was a poor, raw boned woman with reddened hands attempting to support her twelve children. Alice was angry about the extra burdens her mother's illness forced her to carry, and missed being able to rely upon her mother, so she was unable to feel much sympathy for Mrs. Cormier. One day, after a particularly unappetizing meal, Mrs. Cormier had asked Alice to take out the garbage and she'd yelled, "Take it out yourself. It's your job. That's what you're being paid for, and if you can't do your job then you'd better clear out."

Mrs. Cormier had gone directly to her father who had taken her down to the coal cellar, his belt in his hand. As he strapped her, he spat out the words that hurt as much as the licking. "You had better learn to have some feeling for other people, young lady. Mrs. Cormier has a hard enough life and does not deserve your scorn. What she does deserve is respect for her hard work. You could be helping out a lot more than you are. She won't be coming back, and you'll soon realize just how much you should have appreciated her, because you'll be doing her job from now on."

How right he had been. She'd learned to cook and clean and do laundry, and she'd looked down at her hands one day, and gone crying to her mother's bedside, "Look at my hands. They're as ugly as Mrs. Cormier's. When are you going to get better?"

Her mother had put her arms around her and said, "As soon as I can, Alice. Perhaps my illness has helped you to understand something about people. We all have to chip in when there's work to be done. Can't any of us just leave things for the rest, can we?" And within another month, Mama had been up and about and Alice's life had returned to normal ... well as normal as possible in a house with a demanding new baby.

By the time Jock was a red-cheeked four year old, loved and spoiled by everyone, they were in the middle of a war, and she'd met Kjell. She'd been singing for the patients at Camp Hill one weekend. He'd been working on one of the British merchant ships when his appendix ruptured and they'd moved him to Camp Hill for emergency surgery before leaving port. The two months that elapsed before his ship returned to Halifax had given them the time to fall in love.

Kjell was just eighteen when she'd brought him home the first time. He loved to play with Jock, tossing him in the air, and in his lilting accent, would spend hours telling the little boy folk tales. Even her dad liked Kjell although he had some misgivings when she'd first started seeing him. "He's too old for you, Alice. Three years are a lot at your age, and those Scandinavian boys are too fast for a fifteen year old Canadian girl."

Little did he know that she was the one who would move faster if Kjell would only let her. It was Kjell who always drew back when their breath quickened and her temperature rose. He'd say, "You're too young, Alice. Wait, Love, till you're sixteen; then we'll get engaged."

Her mother had a suspicion that Alice's sudden interest in home-making was directly connected to her interest in Kjell. The girl who'd had to be coerced into every domestic activity just a few short weeks before suddenly began asking for recipes for pies and cakes. One Saturday night she subjected all of them to something called risengrynsgrøt: a rice porridge that Kjell said all Norwegians ate for their Saturday evening meal. Jock was delighted, particularly by the melted butter and the sprinkling of cinnamon and sugar, an almost unknown luxury in the war years with rationing. Kate's father had refused the toppings and gone looking for ketchup. "Anything to turn a breakfast into a decent supper," he'd growled. "I hope you're not intending to feed us this every Saturday night from now on."

Alice had laughed and said, "Don't be silly Daddy. Kjell's away more often than he's here, so you'd hardly need to worry about eating risengrynsgrøt every Saturday night," and her mother had reminded him of the scarcity of butter and sugar needed for the dish.

Alice sighed. All so long ago now ... Mrs. Cormier, Saturday evenings at Camp Hill, life with her parents and Jock, those years as a young teacher coming to terms with the scraps of a life without Kjell.

Explosion of Fire and Ice Chapter 3

CHAPTER 3 -- EXPLOSIONS AND CAVE-INS

Miriam and Kate checked the timetables taped to the inside of their lockers, gathered their books for the first two afternoon classes, and went their separate ways, Miriam to math and Kate to Miss Cole's class for English. Kate was looking forward to her afternoon. Her favourite teachers were Miss Cole and Mr. Stevens, the history teacher, and she always enjoyed Mrs. Maxwell's art classes even though she had no artistic talent.

Miss Cole was not alone today; Mr. Stevens was up at the front talking to her as the class filed in through the open door. They were both smiling and consulting the handouts on the desk.

"I wonder why Mr. Stevens is in here," Shona Morgan asked quietly. "They make such a cute couple, don't you think?"

Kate looked at the two young teachers. Mr. Stevens' dark head was bent to catch something Miss Cole had said, and then he said something that made her smile. Kate didn't know whether they were a couple or not. Miss Cole's smiles surfaced easily for students too.

The bell rang and conversation ceased. Miss Cole said, "Mr. Stevens and I have designed a special project for you this term. It will combine a history research assignment with several writing challenges. Sometimes you will be doing assignments that are quite strictly history and other times you will be doing more English-oriented tasks. This means that you may sometimes be doing history in English class or English in history class ... but you won't get into trouble for it this term." The students smiled and looked at Shona who was notorious for finishing her history assignments in English and regularly got caught by Miss Cole.

Mr. Stevens took up where Miss Cole had left off. "The very first thing we want you to do is to take this period to look over the term unit, discuss it with your partners or group members, and consider the event that you will be researching. Miss Cole and I will simply be here to help you with any questions you may have." By the time he had finished, Miss Cole had already started to hand out the small booklets that still smelled of spirit duplicating fluid.

"Gads, there's an awful lot to do," Shona said, glancing at the assignments in dismay.

"Yeah, but we've got all this term to do it, Shona," countered Kate. "And after the research part, the assignments look like fun -- imaginary dialogues, letters, journal entries."

"But an essay at the end," moaned Shona.

"Only if you want to write an essay. It could be a short story or a play or a series of poems. You can even choose songs. You're good in music. Maybe that's what you should do."

Robert put up his hand to get the attention of one of the teachers circulating among the students. "What topics can we choose from, Sir?" he asked when Mr. Stevens came over to him. The teacher signaled for silence by raising his hand. When all the students were quiet, he repeated Robert's question and said, "We want you to choose a topic you find interesting so we have an open list. Some of the topics are very definitely regional; others are more Canadian in scope. If you don't see a topic listed that you would like to see included, you may discuss it with us. If we think you can find the necessary research materials, and if the topic is both relevant to Canadian history and manageable, we will allow you to work on a topic of your choice. The initial list is on the side board."

As soon as he stopped talking, the classroom buzzed again. "Some interesting topics," murmured Kate. "Maybe I'll do something on the wild ponies. But how much can there be on wild ponies that would be fun to do for the English assignments. I can't quite see a conversation between someone who started the first herd and a Junior Bengal Lancer who is now riding one of the descendants of that herd. I don't think they'd let a wild pony into the stable!"

"My Dad's told me a lot about the Cape Breton coal miners," said Shona, "and they have some really interesting folk poetry. I could write folk songs for it. Maybe I'll choose the Springhill mine disasters."

"That sounds really great. And look, there's the Halifax Explosion. Now that would be a good one. Imagine talking to a survivor and writing three journal entries for that person; one right after the event, one six months afterwards, and one ten years later. Do you know anything about the Explosion, Shona? I just know about the anchor that's still stuck in the earth."

"Nope. But there must be all kinds of people who were alive then that you could interview. That might make it even more interesting, and you wouldn't have to do as much reading."

By the end of the period, most students had tentatively chosen their topics and, when they moved into the history classroom, were anxious to begin delving into the books and magazines that their teachers had accumulated. Kate picked up Heart Throbs of the Halifax Horror by Stanley K. Smith, and, with her usual single mindedness, buried herself in the book and was transported to Halifax in 1917. The bell rang, and with a start she re-entered the 1954 world of the grade nine classroom, alive with pre-recess chatter. "Can I keep this book, Sir?" she asked.

"Yes, Kate. Just sign it out here so I know where the different copies are."

As she headed off to her locker to find Miriam, her mind was alive with the drama of the events leading up to the collision of the Imo with the Mont Blanc. Miriam's afternoon had been dreary, beginning with Mr. Adams' math class. Mr. Adams' whole life seemed to be composed of rules and details. He liked teaching the basic math classes because he felt they needed much more structure than average or superior students, and he was an expert on structure. "What he doesn't seem to realize," Miriam lamented, "is that we may find math difficult but that doesn't mean we are idiots. I hate being treated as if I'm dumb just because I don't like algebra, and if I hear once more that we must always use an HB pencil so that we can correct the errors we are bound to make, I will scream."

Kate laughed, "You know you'll bring the HB pencil and smile sweetly and say 'Yes Sir, No Sir, Three Bags Full Sir,' like you always do, Mim."

Miriam's brown eyes crinkled up when she laughed and she pretended to throw the apple she'd brought for recess at Kate. Kate thought, for perhaps the hundredth time, that she wished she had Mim's long eyelashes and curly black hair instead of her own ordinary brown hair and nonexistent lashes. Mim didn't need the makeup she was forbidden to wear. A little Vaseline on her lashes and lips and she looked great. Mim's hair was like that of Kate's boyfriend, Rick. It wasn't fair for a boy to have curly hair and a double set of dark lashes. She sighed, and wished the week would fly. She almost never saw him except on weekends, and it was only Monday. Kate refreshed her lipstick and they headed off for the washroom before their last period class.
"We're doing a neat project in English and History, Mim. I'm going to research the Halifax Explosion, and then do all kinds of creative writing exercises based on the research. Miss Cole and Mr. Stevens worked together on it. Shona thinks they're dating. What do you think?"

"I don't know, but you're sure lucky to have them as teachers. Mrs. Simpson's nice but she never does anything new. Every week it's read a story, answer the questions, do spelling, vocabulary, and grammar exercises, and write a composition on Friday. She gets excited if she has us read a Bliss Carman poem! And Mr. Sullivan's geography classes are deadly. Just wait till you have him. You'll hate it. He makes you memorize every word in his notes and then spout them all back to him on the tests. If you change a single word he marks the question wrong. You'll have your share of fights with him! By the way, don't forget you have a detention with Miss Johnson after school. She'll eat you alive if you forget."

"We'd better hurry. Mrs. Maxwell's class is at the other end of the school," Kate said as they washed their hands and checked their reflections in the mirror. They dashed off, binders held tight to their chests, and joined the milling crowds of students in the halls.

Explosion of Fire and Ice Chapter 2

CHAPTER 2 -- TUNA FISH SANDWICHES AND TEA

Alice Johnson looked around the home economics lab after the last grade nine student had hurried through the door. She often thought that it was a pleasant room when it wasn't overrun by clumsy adolescent girls who would rather be anywhere but in a classroom. Even on a grey November day like this one, the cheerful red-checkered cloths on the institutional arborite tables, and the cafe curtains, with their checkered tie-backs that Doreen Hilton had sewn last year, created a cheerful atmosphere. She remembered her mother's kitchen with its startling fire engine red ceiling, the only touch of colour in a scoured white kitchen. It had always pleased her that her mother had, one day, in a whimsical moment, brightened her life in this way.

A shadow crossed Alice's face as she turned to take a crumpled brown paper lunch bag from the refrigerator. She filled the enamel kettle with water for her tea. It was exhausting having to face a new group every term; having to re-establish the rules and teach them things they should have learned at home. What were parents doing with their children these days? Some of these new girls had never boiled an egg, and were quite disinterested in learning the correct procedure. And they never seemed to listen. Even after they had copied a note stating clearly that gentle cooking was necessary to prevent toughening, there were two stations where the heat was turned to high for the entire fifteen minutes. Her mother had made sure she understood the necessity of keeping a decent house long before she'd ever taken a home economics course.
She poured boiling water over the tea bag in the small metal pot and returned the kettle to the stove, giving its already spotless white surface a swipe with a tea towel. Then she removed two wax-paper-wrapped sandwiches from the refrigerator, one tuna, the other cheese, carefully re-folding the bag and putting it into her purse. She seldom varied her lunch menu; it was easier to stay in a routine than to think of something new to eat each day. She'd heard that in Norway, all the teachers in the country opened their lunch bags at 11:00 a.m. and ate bread and brown cheese as they drank coffee in their staff rooms. She seldom ate with the staff, preferring the solitude of her classroom to the discussions about students and the idle chatter she associated with the teachers' lunch room.

For the first few years, Alice had attended staff functions, thinking it politic to do so. She recalled vividly the Christmas party five years ago which had ended her reluctant participation.
They'd all gathered in the staffroom at four. The room, decorated by Elsie Maxwell's art class looked a little gaudy, but no matter; it was the thought that counted. Elsie had collected her accolades with a great beaming smile and the words,"It was all the children's doing, really."
Stuff and nonsense, of course. The students would never have thought of the idea on their own, let alone executed it. It was a good way to get out of the last class before the Christmas holiday, that's what it was. But Alice had said nothing.

The food was all laid out near the kitchenette area ... cookies, cakes, dainty sandwiches, and Alice's Christmas mints. A punch bowl with little cups hanging on the rim sat at one end of the table. Doreen Hilton said cheerfully, "There are only eight punch cups, I'm afraid, so after that we'll have to use paper." Grace Hanson had asked, her thin scarlet lips pursed, whether there was alcohol in the punch, and Doreen had laughed and said, "No fear, Grace. Mr. Harris warned me that the school board would look askance if I added the usual rum."

Grace had sniffed and whispered later to Alice, "I've no doubt she'd have put it in if she thought she could get away with it. In our day, Alice, young women wouldn't have thought of drinking alcohol."

She'd looked at Grace thinking that their day had been a hundred years ago, and wondered if the librarian had ever been young, but she'd said merely, "Times change, Grace," and had walked over to the food table.

Doug Adams and Helen Brown were filling their plates."What in God's name are these things?" Doug had asked pointing to the pastel mints.

"They're Alice Johnson's mints, Doug," Helen had replied. "I'm sure they're very good."

"Probably as sour as she is," he responded, and passed them by.

"Don't be cruel," Helen had said softly, and then had looked up and seen Alice. She had reddened, dropped her paper plate, and attempted to cover her confusion with a
mishmash of French and English apologies for her clumsiness. Doug had simply walked away from the scene.

When Helen had asked Alice to join her and some of the other women, Alice had been unable to think of an excuse and had joined them on the sofa. Margaret Cole, a first year teacher, and terribly keen, was expounding on how wonderful her students were. To hear her talk, one would think that she was teaching saints, not teenagers. Helen Brown asked how she managed to control them so well, and admitted to having problems with discipline. Margaret said that the students' natural interest in stories and writing was half the battle, and Helen said she wished there were even a smidgen of natural interest in learning French. "There are tricks to discipline just as there are to anything else," a bombastic health teacher had said. "You have to look at the problem in a clear headed detached way and figure out the solution. It doesn't work to try and solve it in the middle of a classroom riot." The animated conversation had continued long after Alice had excused herself.

She found herself stuck in between Jim Sullivan and Bill Stevens, both social studies teachers, but as far apart in age, experience and attitude as two men could be. Jim had come back into teaching after the war. His ideas had been rigid when he left, but were absolutely calcified by the time he came home. Now he expected students to behave like little soldiers who never questioned their commanding officer, and who spat back his own words verbatim on every test. Bill, a first year teacher, was trying to explain the importance of getting students to think for themselves, to work with facts to reach conclusions. "Ridiculous to expect a fourteen year old to come up with anything intelligent, man," Bill had stated unequivocally. Jim had said something about how discussion among students kindled good ideas, and been given a tongue lashing that ended with the words, "Garbage in, garbage out. Keep on with that kind of sloppy thinking, young man, and we might as well kiss standards goodbye."

By five thirty, Alice had said perhaps ten words, and had heard thousands more than she wanted to hear. It seemed as if there were two camps: those who were completely out of touch with students and those who were completely out of touch with reality. She knew her students would place her in the first category, but in truth she belonged nowhere.

She was about to leave when Mr. Harris arrived dressed as Santa, and asked that June Wallace, the music teacher, go ahead with her surprise. Several teachers got up, left the staffroom and returned dressed in green tunics wearing jaunty elves' caps on the heads. June blew into her pitch pipe, and the group burst into song, performing a Christmas medley. When they asked the remaining staff members to join them in some carols at the end, Alice had not opened her mouth. Why hadn't they asked her if she wanted to be part of the choir? Because she wouldn't have looked good in the outfit? Or because no one even stopped to think that she might have something to offer? She'd left before the applause and hadn't gone into the staffroom voluntarily since.

Just as she was pouring her tea, there was a knock at the door. Who's forgotten something, this time? she wondered, as she made her way to respond. "Oh, hello, Sir. What can I do for you?" she asked, and wondered what in heaven's name Mr. Harris was doing here. "I've just seen Kate Hennigan, and wanted to let you know how I handled the situation."

"Insolent little piece of baggage, isn't she? The first day of class and already in trouble. Late, unprepared, talking to her partner, and then rude, to boot."

Mr. Harris' eyebrows lifted ever so slightly, but he said calmly, "I've told her to apologize and to behave herself from now on. She'll be in after school to serve her detention with you. She's a good student and I'm sure things will be fine from now on." Before she had a chance to say anything, she found herself looking at Mr. Harris' broad back as he hurried down the hall in the direction of the teachers' lunch room. He never knew how his words affected Alice.

As she closed the door, Alice's reddened face crumpled and angry tears began to flow down her pocked cheeks. She blew noisily into a clean white handkerchief, a pink monogram, AMJ, embroidered in one corner. You get no support in this school at all. They're always taking sides with the students, and not just the office; the other teachers too. They're all going soft. I can imagine the time I'm going to have with that one now. She'll think she can get away with murder. Well, I'm certainly not going to put up with any nonsense from her. What was it my father always used to say? Spare the rod and spoil the child.

Explosion of Fire and Ice Chapter 1

EXPLOSION OF FIRE AND ICE

CHAPTER 1 -- BOILED EGGS AND TROUBLE BREWING

Kate's blue eyes widened when she saw Miss Johnson's face. Swallowing a gasp and closing her mouth, she looked down at the floor as she mumbled an apology for being late.

"Well, don't just stand there gawking, Miss. You've already wasted too much time. Sit down and get busy copying the note from the front board," was Miss Johnson's response.

Kate edged onto the stool next to Miriam's, and noticed with dismay her best friend’s white cooking bag. She glanced around the room at all the white cloth bags by the three ring binders, some neatly placed, others splayed out like beanbags that had landed on the counter tops. Cripes! I'm the only one who forgot the damned thing. What else can go wrong?

She turned to say something to Miriam who shook her head almost imperceptibly and continued copying from the blackboard. Kate looked at the first two rules, smiled ruefully, and quickly opened her binder. Miriam whispered, "Don't forget the date," and Kate wrote down November 1, 1954, before scratching down the list.

1. Do not arrive late to class.

2. Bring your apron and cooking bag to every class.

3. After each class, wash and iron your apron and bag.

4. Do not forget to bring your notebook and writing implements to class.

5. Wash your hands before handling any food.

6. Do not leave your work station dirty.

7. Do not speak unnecessarily to your cooking partner.

"Gads, how many are there?" Kate muttered to Miriam. "I've already broken the first two."

"You, there at Station 3. What is your name? Can't you read the rules? Not only have you arrived late to class; now you are talking unnecessarily. And where is your white cooking bag? I don't see it anywhere?"

"I forgot it, Miss Johnson," Kate faltered. "It completely slipped my mind till I saw everyone else's. I'm really sorry. I won't forget it next time. My name is Kate, Kate Hennigan."

"I should send you to the office, Hennigar, but I won't since it’s the first class. Instead, you will stay after school and wash the cooking room floor. And, without an apron, you will be excluded from today's class. While the others are cooking you will write out the lines: 'I will not be late to class again' and 'I will remember to bring my apron to all my cooking classes from now on'. One hundred times." Miss Johnson had moved across the floor as she spoke and now stood beside Kate and Miriam. She looked down at Kate's scribbled notes and concluded, "And you will write the lines in considerably neater fashion that the notes you have copied."

Kate looked gloomily at Miriam and made a face at Miss Johnson's retreating back. Miriam grinned for an instant and then turned a solemn face toward the front of the room.

Miss Johnson read aloud her list of rules, elaborating on the reasons for each, then turned to a side blackboard where she had charted the term's work. Today they were making boiled eggs. Next class was porridge, and the one after that, grilled cheese sandwiches. Kate looked ahead to December and saw that Christmas mints were listed. What a useless class. Even she knew how to boil eggs and make grilled cheese sandwiches, and besides, she never ate porridge.

Breakfast was usually instant coffee, lunch, canned soup and toast, and dinner whatever the restaurant had on special or a hot chicken sandwich with its yellow gravy congealing on the white bread and its neat little piles of peas and chips on the side. She liked pouring the ketchup on the side of the plate, cutting the sandwich into bite- sized pieces, and then eating everything in a strict order: first the peas, one by one, then the sandwich, and finally the chips dipped into the ketchup. Afterwards she usually ordered a Devil's Delight or some other extravagant sundae.

Kate knew that Miriam envied her daily restaurant meals with no limit to what she could spend. Mim's father was the minister of the West End Baptist Church, and she lived in the cramped house next door to the church with her parents, three sisters and a brother. At Christmas Miriam gave gifts that her dad got free, little bookmarks with Bible verses on them, and most of Mim's clothes were carefully pressed and mended hand-me-downs. Kate could think of only two things she had been unable to talk her father into buying for her: a red pedal car when she was eight, and, more recently, a horse of her own.

Kate considered Miriam's life unduly regulated. Her own home had no set rules. Unlike the Stockwell's, whose lives were inextricably bound together, Kate and her father co-existed in their small apartment without a great deal of contact with one another. She liked their arrangement, but she also liked spending time at the Stockwell's. She liked the Saturday smell of baking bread and the solid healthy breakfasts Mrs. Stockwell insisted the kids eat each day. She often arrived early to pick Miriam up for school just so she could watch as Mrs. Stockwell, her grey hair caught up in an untidy bun, forced either Diane or Miriam back to the table to finish their eggs scrambled in milk, or checked to see that Wayne's fingernails were clean. Sometimes when Kate's dad was on a business trip he asked Mrs. Stockwell to keep Kate for a few days. Life always felt more orderly during those times.

Miss Johnson's harsh voice brought Kate out of her reverie. "You haven't written a thing, Miss. What have you been doing all this time? Are you being deliberately obstreperous or are you just plain stupid?"

Kate's head reared back and she responded without thinking, "I'm not stupid and that is not something a teacher should say to a student. Check with my other teachers, why don't you?" When she tossed her head, her nutmeg brown ponytail grazed Miriam’s cheek. She heard Miriam’s quick intake of breath and then Miss Johnson’s voice.

"Insolence will not be tolerated in this classroom, Hennigar, and you had better get that straight right now. Go down to Mr. Harris and explain why you have been sent from my classroom. I don't expect to see you again until you have a note from Mr. Harris and you are ready to apologize."

"But I didn't do anything, and my name's not Hennigar, you old cow," Kate muttered under her breath as she pulled her zippered binder to her chest and stormed out of the classroom without even a glance at Miriam as she brushed past her. Hideous old bitch. No wonder she's MISS Johnson. No man could stand her. She looks like she's been dumped in a vat of lye -- all those lumpy things on her face. And one eye droops so she seems to be looking in two directions at once. Creepy old biddy.

Mr. Harris was not in his office so Kate reported her presence to the secretary who pulled her student file and filled in the complaint form. Under 'Reason for Referral' she wrote "Sent by Miss Johnson" and rolled her eyes. She said, "Haven't seen you before. Don't you like cooking?"

"I haven't had a chance to find out," Kate said. "She kicked me out before I could do anything, right or wrong."

The secretary smiled sympathetically.

A few minutes later the burly form of Mr. Harris could be seen striding toward the office. He took the file and form from the secretary's outstretched hand and gestured toward his office door. "In you go, Miss. What's the problem?"

"Miss Johnson said I was insolent, Sir. It was the first day of her class and I was late and I forgot to bring my cooking bag to class. In Miss Hilton's sewing class last term we left our things in the classroom cubbyholes. But I wasn't insolent, Sir. She called me stupid and I objected."

He looked up from the file he had been perusing. "What exactly did you say?"

"I said I wasn't stupid and she had no right to say that."

"Well, you may be right but you probably said it in some way that was offensive. Try to mind your manners," Mr. Harris paused significantly, " and your tongue, in Miss Johnson's class from now on. You don't want to lose your honour roll standing for the sake of your pride now, do you?"

"No Sir, but she wasn't being fair."

"Life often isn't, but you will find it's simpler if you refrain from telling teachers what rights they have or do not have, Kate. Go back and apologize and make a fresh start with Miss Johnson. You'll see. It will be worth the damage you might do to your pride."

"Yes, Sir. Do I still have to wash the floor after school?"

"You do. Now run along. It's almost lunch time."

Kate left the office just as the bell began to ring. She had just snapped her combination lock shut when Miriam arrived, her black curly hair glinting a dozen shades of red gold in the sunshine. "Hurry up, Mim. Wait till you hear what Old Harris and his secretary think of Miss Johnson." Miriam’s brown eyes widened and the two girls set off for home.

From Eleutheran Adventure

Hidden Worlds

I used to look at clouds,
Imagine a world peopled by spirits,
Believed if I could just slip in through this opening or that,
I'd be rewarded by a glimpse of a pastel heaven.

I still like skies
But adulthood and air travel
Have demystified the heavens.
Pity.

Today I sometimes catch a glimmer
Of that long ago child
Who imagined whole worlds of possibility
In a hint of an opening.

These arcane worlds
Are quite unlike the heaven of my childish imagination.
Now I open doors into hidden human life,
And gasp with pleasure.

First a inkling of something more,
Then as the details are revealed,
Little orgasmic explosions of pure ecstasy ...
One after another.

In Damascus, in the walled city, I passed through a portal into a courtyard.
Doorways opened in every direction.
Stairways led up to still more entries.
A whole extended family
Lived around the fountain in which a watermelon cooled.

In France once, walking down a narrow dark cobbled alley,
I peeked into an open doorway,
And discovered a world of sunshine, potted plants and laundry,
Of children and chattering women.

In Eleuthera the streets seem to be straight,
Their intersections, perpendicular.
Shops and houses with yards line the routes.
Everything looks very ordinary.

But beside Pammy's dark blue restaurant in Governor's Harbour
In between Pammy's and the house next door,
The one with the faded, flaking aqua paint,
A narrow entrance to an alley beckons.

I'm always seduced by the music,
Pulled into a world of dogs and kids,
And women shelling pigeon peas in doorways,
Leading their hidden lives behind Pammy's restaurant.

Just the other day, in James Cistern,
I discovered, quite by accident,
That whole neighbourhoods exist behind the houses
Facing the Queen's Highway, looking out toward the sea.

A sign advertised a new restaurant, Alphemia's.
I walked my bike up to the big green empty-looking house.
A delivery van stopped.
Told me the restaurant was behind the green house.

I continued further in.
Found a house with a gate across the verandah opening.
Opened the gate.
The house looked deserted, cool and dim.

An old woman leaning on a crutch hobbled to the fence.
"Knock on the door," she cried.
I knocked timidly.

Blanche, the fruit seller on the Queen's Highway,
Joined the old lady.
"Knock harder!" she yelled in her hoarse voice.
I knocked again, louder this time.

A solemn little boy wearing a school uniform arrived.
"What's your name?" I asked.
"Darius Pinder, ma'am," he replied.
I shook his hand and asked, "Is your mama cooking?"
"Yes ma'am," he replied. "Come on through."


He led me through the tidy house with antimacassars on the chairs
Out through the back door where half a dozen school children sat eating pizza.
They giggled when he pointed me toward the tiny restaurant.

Afterwards, back out on the Queen's Highway,
My back to the Caribbean,
I took one last look
At the world I'd discovered.

It was as if the door had been closed tight.
Only the green house faced me.
Not a single sign that behind it, living their lives, were
A lame old lady, Blanche, Alphemia, and giggling children.

The Perfect Man

I've just met him — the perfect man. His name is James. But I had to meet a great many imperfect men before I reeled this one in. I started with Match.com, and then moved on to Yahoo Personals. I found James on Plentyoffish.com. I would recommend this site to anyone interested in dangling her feet in the water. For one thing it is free. For another it is a very active site. And of course, that is where I met the perfect man. I will come back to him later but first let me tell you about all the fish I threw back in.


When you begin to look at profiles on the Net there are many that get sifted out immediately. I have learned not to bother with those who live too far away, and I wonder about those who don't show their photos. Are they ugly, in relationships, married or just incompetent with a computer? I don't dismiss them out of hand, though, because I respond postively to good writing.

The ones I dismiss are those like "Cass ... Going my way" who writes so badly I am sure it is a joke. The introduction which is supposed to attract potential partners reads: "Life is like me you never depent on me im lazy i dont like work i have no hobbies i like weekend stay at home watch tv drink beer all my friend dont visit any more i dont no why all i said next time you come bring food and beer and my women must be fit and have a good job a good you no what hope to here from the lucky one soon."

Then there is the one whose third photo shows an ugly leering man in a mean little room wearing boxers that jut out at least a foot. At my age I am concerned about size ... and seek out normal or on the small side rather than broom handles. Just how much personal lubricant would be necessary to deal with Walter?

So yes ... the worst have already been winnowed out, but those who remain in the race seldom pan out once you get past the first few face-to-face meetings.

The very first man I met was Daniel, a retired policeman from some place in redneck Ohio. Go figure, eh? But he sent lovely emails. He wrote well, was intelligent and kind, had traveled and studied, liked Canada, spent his time helping rehabilitate offenders, and thought women were equal if not superior. When he told me he voted Republican and believed that people had the right and duty to carry guns, I argued but still thought he was a possibility. After all, on balance, he was a keeper. Then I met him.

He was enormous and shuffled uneasily on flat ground. His only means of locomotion was his car. His manner in public was that of a breezy insincere salesman. He wanted us to have sex as if we were lesbians. That prospect would not have been as horrifying if he had been a woman, but he was a parody of a man; his body was grotesque, his skin pasty and he felt soft and flabby. By the time we had spent a couple of days getting to know one another I never wanted to see him again, and the feeling was mututal. Today he is happily married and sends me jokes from time to time.

After Daniel, I began to look for articulate intelligent left leaning Canadians. The problem with my screening process is that I can become enamoured by good writing and the correct political perspective. That's why Ben was so attractive. In fact, I half fell in love with him before we even met. He had everything ... he read widely ... he wrote beautifully ... he was a fine photographer, and a canoeist. He was way left of centre and had a global perspective on life. He had all the warmth of his native Newfoundland and he was good looking and liked to touch. I found myself ignoring the yawningly long lectures on politics, since it was easy to silence them with a kiss. After a few weeks of frenetic and passionate wooing he announced that he was heading south in a trailer with his girl friend ... a doctor from the Yukon.

Back to the profiles, this time determined to judge dispassionately on the basis of good conversation and whether the man was presentable, intelligent and left leaning. I ignored spelling errors and merely cringed imperceptibly when a grammatical fault grated.

I met Gene, the poet who was terrifying to drive with, but was attractive behind thick glasses, gentle, intelligent, and had his rebellious drug-addicted grandson living with him. We cross country skiied together, he sent me poems, and I liked him ... but there was no spark. He shared his medical problems with me. In his case it was an inability to urinate easily. That might explain the guttering spark.

After Gene there was a musicologist who spent all his time listening to concerts with a laptop on his knee. Too single-minded.

I met a man who was living with his immigrant girlfriend and looking after her toddling nephew. The boy was soon to be returned to his parents, they would stop living together and he would have a girlfriend into whose arms, bed and home he could fall. Ta very much.

Then there was the retired professor from Quebec. His wife was an invalid and they led separate lives except that they maintained a home together and celebrated all family holidays with their daughter. My role was to be travel companion and woman in the background. It was important that I be intelligent, educated, physically fit, attractive ... and discreet. Discretion is not my strong suit ... and I have always felt sorry for second wives ... so I said I wasn't interested. He did not take it well. Perhaps he was afraid he had already compromised his secret life.

One day Santa Claus appeared. He was a crossing guard in his seventies who donned a Santa outfit every Christmas season for the kids he guided across the intersection. He became very angry with me and accused me of being a games player because I was hesitant about meeting someone his age so far away.

Next was Wesley. Wesley deserves a whole book ... and if you gave him the chance, he'd write it himself. Wesley is the man who spent fourteen years on a psychiatrist's couch and still blames Mommy, Daddy, his ex-wife ... and now me ... for the abysmal state of his mind.

Wesley was one of these men like Ben who is at his best when writing, but unlike Ben, Wesley walked like a short chubby penguin whose feathers were too tight. He affected a British accent and seemed to be attempting to emulate the worst aspects of the Motherland. He was an intellectual snob and didn't seemed to realize that his abject incompetence made him ridiculous, particularly when he was being arrogant.

He had lived in his apartment for two years when I met him, but still had not unpacked. He led a peculiarly barren andchaotic existence. In addition to the boxes were a dozen baskets of dirty clothing. Not only did he refrain from unpacking, and stay away from the laundromat, he chose not to clean the bathroom or the refrigerator. What he did do was sit at his computer, play sacred music all day and night, volunteer at his church and one of the city's music festivals, collect things in bins for recycling, and visit his psychiatrist twice or three times a week. I called his psychiatrist Dr. Grunt, because he apparently said nothing ... just listened and occasionally made gutteral noises. I wondered what good he had done over yea these many years, since all I could see was someone who needed props to face each day.

But of course, Wesley didn't reveal his arrogance or show me his apartment at first. Instead he swarmed all over me and insinuated himself into my life. My place began to feel alien to me. I found myself cleaning up after him and paying far more for groceries and hydro than I had in the days before Wesley.

We had a few good dates before he did this. One day, he arrived wearing an embarrassingly tight red spandex outfit and we biked to Kanata where we had lunch before biking home. We attended a good concert at the NAC. I am hard pressed to think of other pleasant outings just now. But he had some good stories to tell about the life he had led before he fell into this mess. He had been a student, a traveler, and had worked abroad leading a life that would not have been possible in Canada. Servants kept him, his wife and their boys organized. He came from money and was due to inherit a couple of million when his parents and other old people died. I was willing to overlook the overstuffed appearance and manner. Was it his history or his future prospects? I don't know.

At any rate, we eventually ended up in my bed and that began the slide into absolute chaos that was my life for two months. That was when I learned that he didn't like to rise early and get on home. That was when I discovered he didn't clean the bath after himself. That was when I realized he had no sense of time. That was when I watched in disbelief as he took over my computer ... and imported several viruses.

One day he brought his laundry. It took me three full days to do it. I used to like doing laundry. That marathon dampened my zeal.

My sixty-fifth birthday was the penultimate straw. Wesley wanted to give me a perfect day. What would I like? I wanted to plant herbs with him and have a nice dinner at home. He was to come over at 10 and we would do the planting. Then he would make me a great meal, bring a special wine and the perfect birthday cake.

Well, I began receiving the phone calls about noon. ... excuses for being late. Wesley is never responsible for his fuck-ups you understand; it is always the fault of an alarm clock, a delivery man, an ex-wife or his children.

I transplanted the herbs, his and mine. By four I pointed out that unless I bought the food and cooked it we would not be eating dinner that night. He suggested I buy it and follow his recipe. It was one of these complicated things that require cutting many things into tiny pieces and using five pots to prepare each stage. Not the kind of meal I would ever have chosen to make myself ... and certainly not on my birthday, but I did it. Shopping took an hour. Cooking took three.

He arrived shortly before it was ready with two bottles of wine: one a twenty-five year old burgundy; the other a decent red. I was almost ready to forgive him when he snatched back the burgundy and said he was donating it to the church, but thought I would like to see the wine he purchased when he got married, when he was still sane, employed and competent.

Oops ... he'd forgotten the cake so off he waddled double quick time. He arrived back an hour later. Dinner was ready. As a matter of fact I had begun to eat. (I had started drinking much earlier.) He was empty-handed. "Where is the cake?" I asked. The store was already closed when he got there. Why was I not surprised?

We had another similar meltdown over time the day we were to leave for a trip to New York City. It soured the trip, as I remember ... but the trip was also not enhanced by the fact that I did most of the driving and had to endure his twitterings about speed throughout. "I am simply keeping up with the traffic," I said between clenched teeth, and drove on. "This is the USA," he bleated. "They are stricter here." I pulled over. "Drive," I muttered. So he did for twenty miles and then pleaded exhaustion.

I took a break for a while after Wesley. Sixty-five is an age which demands a little self analysis. I needed to regroup and re-evaluate internet dating. I also needed to think about what I wanted. Sex had, by this time, become secondary to just having a best friend. So I had to ask myself why I wanted it to be a man at all. Why not simply continue enjoying the friendships I had? Did I really want to live with someone? Especially someone who might expect me to cook and clean for him; someone who might want me to mother him; someone who might demand (nicely) that I drop what I was doing in mid-sentence in order to provide succour. The break stretched out.

After several months I was bored. That was when I met the Brit who had spent his youth in Kenya, and still attended regimental reunions there. He pronounced the "e" in Kenya with the heaviness of the colonial presence. He collected antique cars, lived in a Kanata condo in summer and in a gated community in Florida in winter. He was well traveled, intelligent, and talkative. We met a few times and found we had a lot to talk about. His last partner, now deceased, had been a bad potter and a great partner. They divided the chores equally. She cooked, cleaned and put the food on the table; he looked after the investments and the cars ... and he paid for the hotel rooms when they traveled. He traveled first class. She traveled tourist because they paid for their own airline tickets. He also managed to fit in the information that he was taking some kind of penile erection aid. Lovely. At our last rendez-vous, I realized this was going nowhere. We had dinner at Red Lobster, his favourite eating place because the servings were enormous. Did I mention his large gut? A friend of his was there with his lady friend. The men talked about antique cars and such. The other woman and I discussed the meal and our children. I knew I was never going to choose to shuttle back and forth between Kanata and Florida. Both options were anathema to me ... a kind of horrible endless purgatory ... and I was not ready to become "the little woman". Someone was, though ... an American who immediately married him when I stopped seeing him.

After this man there was another long hiatus. Then I met someone who was very intelligent, well educated and held the right views ... but one lunch in Wakefield was enough for both of us. We were unable to do anything but agree with one another.

Then George, the 78 year old inventor, got in touch. He seemed nice, but more fatherly than husbandly, I thought, and besides he lived in Scarborough.

Then Al and John, the same man with two names, who had played with the RCMP band, contacted me. I can't remember what their most important problem was, but I wasn't interested.

Then a widower sent me a note. He was a lot like the music lover, even had two pianos, one a Steinway. He lived in a pleasant part of Ottawa South and was not hard on the eyes. But when he told me how uncomfortable he was with the written word and dropped hints about nocturnal habits necessitating getting up at noon, I wrote and said I thought we would grate on each other in no time.

And then there was Angus, the man who said he was independently poor, when in reality he was simply poor. He sent many emails and we met once. He said he generally ate vegetarian ... lots of lentil soup but at my place he wolfed down two large portions of the pork tenderloin and asked for more. He also drank more than his fair share of the wine I provided. (He had brought a loaf of stale bread which I sent home with him). When I said I was not interested in getting physical that evening, he desisted immediately, but went home and wrote me an email that said he had no burning desire to see me again.

I was about to give up again when Richard got in touch. He seemed lovely ... a little shy ... an accountant ... had a teenaged daughter living with him ... kindness incarnate ... and like me, an early riser. He came to visit and I liked what I saw. However; he was on a liquid diet for six weeks, despite being a normal size. I didn't know that men of nearly sixty ever suffered from anorexia. I also hadn't encountered such indecision before. I began to think of him as Richard the cowardly lion.

Shortly after we started corresponding, Richard 2 got in touch. He called himself Richard the Rebel. We exchanged pithy flirtatious emails but I told him I was not interested in casual sex with anyone and thought that Richard 1 would be a better choice for what I wanted. He agreed but tried to tempt me one last time by sending me the beginning of a pornographic story. The last paragraph of the story's beginning began with the words, "Her hand brushed his thigh. She felt his hardness, and began to ..."

I was to finish the paragraph as part of this game. I sent him the concluding word ... laugh ... ("Her hand brushed his thigh. She felt his hardness and began to ...... laugh")

One more exchange of emails and that was the end of that.

So one staid responsible Richard who was too indecisive for me and one who was funny and adventurous but wanted casual sex with no commitments. Too bad there weren't some kind of happy amalgam of the two.

And then Wesley came back into my life briefly. He invited me to dinner to see his new condo, purchased since inheriting his first million. I was to meet a friend of his who was helping women in the developing world.. Bruce thought I might be able to help with the writing for the organization. I was very interested in her micro-lending project in South Africa so I agreed.

I arrived. Wesley did his best to kiss me on the mouth. I presented the other cheek. The place was as cluttered as the old apartment had been. Books sat in piles on every available surface. The kitchen counters were heaped with things that should have been in cupboards, drawers or hung up. He had been in this place for six months. When his woman friend and I were introduced, she responded with a harsh "Who are you?" and I realized she had no idea I was coming.

Dinner had not been started and would take three hours. Wesley explained that he had fallen back to sleep that morning and offered the excuse as a perfectly valid reason. He also mention that his son who had been supposed to give him a few hours work had shown up a little late. I looked at him and muttered, "Deja vu", and said that I had to leave by 8:30 as my building site would be hazardous after dark.

Wesley suggested eating out.

The other woman said she and I should cook the food. We went into the kitchen to confront the stewing beef. She asked whether I wanted to be the chef or the sous-chef. I suggested we be co- chefs. She agreed and then disappeared into the livingroom to eat dolmadas and drink with Wesley while I cooked.

I listened to their conversation as I chopped, floured and seasoned on the square foot of counter at my disposal. I joined them while the stew simmered, getting up occasionally to stir or adjust seasonings and add wine. The conversation was full of truncated thoughts interrupted by Wesley's attempts to find tupperware with lids, cooking utensils, serving dishes and plates.

What I remember best was the other woman's manner. She reminded me of everything Wesley complained his parents did. She ordered him about in a sharp no-nonsense voice whenever his indecisiveness became really annoying, and, in general, treated him with the disdain one reserves for the incompetent or for children one does not love or respect. I said little, but thought (and remembered) a great deal.

When dinner was ready, I served. Wesley poured a very decent wine and we began to eat. During the dinner conversation Wesley went into one of his tirades against his ex-wife. The other woman cut him off and told him no one wanted to hear about his obsessions or his mental health all the time.

Bravo, I thought. Her high handed behaviour towards Wesley had made me feel embarrassed for him all evening, but I agreed with everything she said and sympathised with her frustration.

Wesley continued to hammer away as if she had said nothing, and then suddenly commented that he was very hurt by comments made this evening. Tears leaked from the corners of his eyes and his voice broke. More memories that made me squirm. She apologized. Then he surprised both of us by saying it was my comment that was so hurtful. (Remember deja vu?) I apologized for voicing my feelings, cleared the table and left.

By now I had decided internet dating was not a very good way to meet men. Good writers could portray themselves as congenial and sane, but there was no guarantee that anything was true or possible.

Someone suggested Plentyoffish.com so I decided to give the whole thing one last try. I was surprised by the flurry of activity that greeted my entrance.

Three men around my age contacted me immediately: one who had just grown up but sounded intelligent and a little off the wall; another who lived peacefully in the Gatineau Hills not too far away from me; and Mike who was looking for an activity partner.

Then there were the young ones: a 23 year old who was sure he could fascinate me;. a 33 year old who thought I could teach him something (wink, wink); and a 47 year old Ethiopian mail sorter who seemed desperate to make contact and said his last girl friend had been 60. He didn't have a trace of the arrogance of the others, and there was nothing flip or dishonest about him. He was just a little sad.

And then along came James, the perfect man.

Oh I know what you are thinking. There is no such thing as a perfect man. I'd have agreed with you a couple of weeks ago, but James has convinced me otherwise. It has taken him four "dates" to do so, but now I am absolutely sure. He tells me he was the best technical vocational teacher in Quebec, perhaps Canada, probably the world. The government wooed him away from a well paid engineering job and when he graduated from teachers' college, hundreds of job offers awaited him. His school was the best in the province and the tech-voc wing which he designed was perfect. He insisted that every project he undertook was and is completed to perfection. His children are also marvellous. His favourite daughter lives in a seven million dollar mansion in Florida where the front entrance is big enough to house three cars and the ceilings are 13 feet high. Doesn't that sound cozy?

On our first date he ate before we went out to dinner and was not able to find anything that appealed to him on the menu. I helped him choose a small pasta dish and the meal continued. It felt a bit like an interviewing situation rather than a conversation.He picked nervously at his pant legs, talked incessantly, and accidentally grazed my breast with his hand, but I attributed all that to first meeting jitters.

Because he paid for dinner I invited him to have a meal at my place the following Sunday. He began to expound on all the things that made him special and I began to have difficulty eluding his amorous advances. As I walked him up to his car, he offered to finish putting up my clothesline and I was torn between wanting to get the job done and not wanting to give him any false hopes, because it was clear to me that this was not going to go anywhere. The next night he arrived to scope out the materials. When he tried to kiss me I told him I thought this would not go further than friendship, and I was tired and wanted to say good night now. He left saying he would be back at noon the following day.

The following morning I awoke feeling horrible — some kind of 24 hour flu, I think. I was going to phone him around 10 to tell him to forget it as I was ill, but he arrived at 9:30. I tried to stay outside to help him but the combination of the flu bug, the heat and his explanations of why this method was so much better than any other; his insistence that other people were careless and sloppy compared to him; and the fact that he always seemed to have his hands on me when they weren't on one tool or another sent me in to my bed for the day. I came down at noon and made him ham sandwiches which I put in the fridge with cold drinks. I told him where the food was and was about to return to my bed when he told me how badly the boards and posts had been cut by another friend. I said I really didn't care. He retorted that he did because he had to adjust constantly to the other man's incompetence. I went back to bed.

About 3, I felt well enough to come out again and help with the last few things that needed doing, but half an hour of James' bragging and putting down of other people was enough. I said my thank yous and good byes and hoped I would never have to see the man again.

I realized that James made me just as uncomfortable as Wesley had — for different reasons of course, but both men evoked in me a similar distaste.

I have decided that internet dating is really not for me. The imperfect ones are too imperfect and the perfect ones are intolerable.