Openings
Part 13
May 1st has come and gone and with it, the date I had set to be finished with all of the bedrooms, so I can open my B&B.
I’ve been reading J.D. Salinger’s work, Raise High the Roof Beam Carpenters and Seymour, an Introduction. It’s the last of his work that I have to read, as I have read everything else by him that has been publicly published. I love his writing style. I love that he can go on about the most seemingly inconsequential things, and fret about them all the while, like the description of his fictitious brother’s nose, and then apologize to his readers that he has not gotten it quite right. That there is more to his brother’s physical appearance than the mere physicality of it. (I definitely do not do him justice.) He was known to be a recluse. Perhaps that’s another reason I feel a kinship.
He is much like David Sedaris, I think, though not quite so hilarious. I can only aspire to write as honestly as they did/do, and wonder if any of my musings could ever make it onto printed and bound pages. Would we sit by one another on a bookstore shelf, all our surnames belonging in the S section? Would we cast furtive glances at one another, sidelong, and would they whisper to each other, “What is she doing here?” or perhaps more positively, “Look who’s here with us!”
So many of us have those dreams of fame and notoriety. ‘If only someone would remember who I am,’ my ego cries out, ‘long after I am gone!’ May school children dread the idea of having to read yet another mandatory English Novel. And then may it be mine and may I have the opportunity to change their little, unliterary minds. May they forever become readers after having read the strung together letters that I have put before them. And may they hold my stories in their minds as they grow into adulthood, perhaps revisiting my tales many times, each, gleaning more from the words and finding hidden messages under the “ands” and ”thats”, all bringing them to a greater understanding of their place on this planet and their reason for being.
Sure Kim, whatever. Back to earth. This is a blog of the sort that there must be thousands upon thousands of similarly told stories of “when I was young” and “here’s a story to illustrate a point”. In fact, here’s one:
I loved English class, unlike my daughter who struggles with anything written, whether it be creative or factual. For me, it was the easiest of all classes. It was the one class where you didn’t actually have to memorize facts and spew out dates and statistics, that told nothing of the people and the eras they are meant to portray. Empty facts. How can anyone like economics, or law? B O R I N G. There are no guts there. No faces and folks crying out, “This is life!” English class was the one where you could take a poem or piece of writing and dissect it, giving it more meaning than perhaps even the writer intended. And get an A just for telling your opinion. My first book report was in grade one. I came into Kindergarten already knowing how to read, thanks to an older sister who liked to be boss and play school when she got home. I was the kid who either ran all the way home for the sheer joy of it, or walked with my head buried in a book. I did my first book report on Bread and Jam for Francis, by Russell Hoban. I basically rewrote the entire book, paraphrasing in places and adding my opinion in others and got an A++. I still have it somewhere. And the book of course. I really related to Francis and her penchant for having “everything come out even”.
English was an easy mark. Phys Ed. was not. Always the worst mark on my report card. It was the class where it was assumed you already knew the rules of every team sport because, my god, doesn’t everyone play basketball, soccer, field hockey, volleyball? I steered very clear of any sports tryouts, intramural or not. I was a tiny kid. Tiny (and as I was told by those around me), fragile, not athletic, and shy. I danced and loved ballet.
We moved from Brampton to Bramalea after my parents were divorced. It was only a few kilometres down the road and part of the same town, but of a very different demographic and feel. It was the beginning of grade five, in my new school. I was nine years old and we were asked to bring something, or do something for the class that would illustrate to the class, who we were. I had a Tchaikovsky album (my dad’s) of the Nutcracker Suite and made a cassette tape of The Dance of the Sugarplum Fairy. I loosely choreographed a piece to present to my brand new classmates in my brand new school. We were in the gymnasium and as I pressed PLAY, the sound filled the echoey space. I became lost in movement and interpretation. Afterwards, I folded myself back into my shell and became shy Kim once again. I look back at the courage and tenacity I didn’t even know I had, and took years to discover. I had a singing solo and duet that year in our school’s performance of Tom Sawyer. I was so timid and my voice did not project, so I was given a cordless microphone. On the night of the performance, the mic quit just as I started to sing, and I remember making sure I sang loud enough to hear my voice come back to me from the back wall. I remember my mom beaming at me from the front row with the biggest, goofiest grin on her face.
I received honours on my Royal Academy of Dance examinations, and was aiming for a career as a ballerina when I was young. But when I reached grade eight I grew, and kept growing until I was taller than most of the people in my school, including teachers. I was known as Stretch, or Pin. All limbs and straight lines. Too tall to be a dancer. Even Karen Kain, tall at her height of 5′-8” for a dancer, didn’t come close to my staggeringly towering 5′-11”. “Oh you’d be great at basketball!” people would say. I actually loved spending hours throwing hoops by myself in the park, or hitting a tennis ball against a wall over and over, but put me in a team situation where my mates depended on me to make the right moves when that ball came my way, and I was decidedly not the first one picked when choosing sides.
When my daughter was younger, I decided that she should not face the same trauma that gym class gave me. While also tiny, she had far more confidence, so I made it a point to spend time with her throwing balls back and forth and practicing those sports type moves that are integral to team play. (Because I know all about those.) When she was four, it was time to try her in a sport or activity. I put her in a soccer club with her friend Jillian, and watched as she was put in goal. The ball would inevitably come her way and as she followed its trajectory toward her, standing in front of the goal, she would literally take a step to the side and watch the ball as it hit the net behind her. If a ball was passed to her, somehow, her head would always be the recipient of the force of the kicked ball. She just couldn’t get the hang of it.
Soccer was out. Next we tried gymnastics, but it just didn’t catch on, no matter how much time she enjoyed spending hurling herself around the yard, exclaiming, “Watch this one Mom!” I must have hours of footage of all the attempts at a front-lawn, no-hands cartwheel practice. Me, off-camera, encouraging each time, “Oh that one was so close! Try again! Good one! Almost!” When we moved to Squamish, I signed her up for a ballet class, hesitant, because I didn’t want to be one of those parents who steer their children towards fulfilling their own broken dreams. She loved it and asked for more every year until pretty much all of her free time was spent dancing, and I had to take on a third job, just to pay for classes, before we finally moved to Calgary where she’d been accepted at The School of Alberta Ballet.
Running was always my sport. Running home after school, running just for the sake of running and because sometimes it was easier than walking and got you where you wanted to go more quickly. I loved to run and still do, though my knees and hips tell me otherwise. One Christmas, my sister, brother and I were given matching, royal blue Adidas jogging suits, with the branded white stripes up the sides of the pants and sleeves. That cold and snowy Christmas morning the three of us donned our suits and went for a run. My brother 7, me 12 and my sister 14. We made it to the Catholic school up the road when my sister decided it was too cold, so she turned back and went home. My brother and continued on, completing our “marathon” and arriving back at the house with frostbitten cheeks and frozen grins.
Now, when I say I ran, I did join the cross-country team in high school and would show up at every morning practice, but being the uncompetitive sort that I am, I would not show up for the meets. It was the running I loved, not the stress of performing for my team. I was cut from the team, obviously, but continued to run for myself.
When I lived in the mountainside town of Jerome, in Arizona, there was a race that came to town every Labour Day called, the Jerome Hill Run. Runners came from around the country to participate in this ten mile race. Five miles up the mountain via Perkinsville Road, the rockiest, most rutted road on the planet, and five miles back down. Starting at about 4900 feet, the elevation gained and lost was about 1000 feet each way. While the uphill part tested very ounce of your cardiovascular prowess, the downhill part was a moving torture chamber for hips, knees and ankles. I didn’t actually sign up for the race, and by the time I got to the starting line that morning, the race had already started.
I had to run fast to catch up to the stragglers, up the UVX road and through town towards Perkinsville Road before I started to move ahead. Soon I was passing more and more people. By the time I got to the turnaround point, my lungs were bursting and I was just ahead of the middle of the pack. The road down tested me more. I was used to my runs up the mountain via the highway, to the 2 mile marker every morning before the sun rose. Any later than that and the desert sun was just too intense. I was usually on my way back down by the time the sun was coming up over the Mogollon Rim (pronounced Mug-ee-on). The steep slope of the road around the hairpin turns could really get your momentum going, but it was important to hold it back a little so that you didn’t end up faster than your legs could carry you and pitch yourself inadvertently over the side of the cliffs. What freedom!! The Hill Run however, tested every tendon and ligament in my 30 year old body, and I fell into step with a girl my age from somewhere else. We encouraged each other through that last downhill mile and congratulated one another on our success when we made it through the finish line at the old high school. At that point, not having a number pinned to my chest, and not having really joined the race proper, I hobbled myself up the road to home.
On the Nova Scotia house front, the upstairs hallway is finished. I’ll make a frame for that beautiful piece of old wallpaper I discovered by the stairs. The hallway looks bright, clean and fresh and I feel the perfumed ghosts that watched me as I removed old wallpaper are pleased with the results.
I made a bed frame to fit inside the circa 1950’s bed frame in the green bedroom that will allow an Ikea mattress to sit on top. Quite proud of my ingenuity and building skills. The job went quickly and easily, though I was never too quick to congratulate myself until I was well and truly finished. Still, I’m waiting for that first heavy person to sit down hard to know that my job will stand up.
I’m working on the small bedroom at the front of the house. The other night, I primed the room after having mudded and sanded the walls and sanded and filled parts of the wood floor. At about 12pm I was mixing the grey/blue/green for the walls before I packed it up for the night. Tonight, I kept going until 9pm again, knowing I had leftovers in the fridge to quickly heat up. Just one more coat of wall colour and oil the floor and it’s done. My goal of finishing all of the bedrooms before opening on May 1 was not a reality, but since we are once again in the midde of a Covid lockdown, it has bought me a bit of time.
Next: Quiet Rebellion
Notes from the Edge of the World 