Creative Writing
Short Story: Bob Grylls – The Lone Wolf
Poem: Erma Johnson – My Special Friend; Heather Campbell – Treasures; Bob Grylls – Love Returns
Essay: Erma Johnson – A Miracle and a Genius tied with Heather Campbell – Celebration of Time
Acrostic: Sheila Broome – The Gaspe View; Heather Campbell – Wilderness Panic; Bob Grylls – Raspberry Delight
Class 39 – Short Story
The Lone Wolf
By Bob Grylls
My name is Jimmy Dune and I am a recluse. Nova Scotia born and raised, I said to hell with a normal life forever about three years ago, manoeuvred myself across the country incognito, stayed there for awhile before I headed back east with a specific destination and a firm purpose in mind. I had required a bit more edginess in my life, discovered it and I was finally nearing the holy grail.
Camped on the fringe of Mississauga, I sought a little time to reflect on my life before I continued. Personal discernment had never been a prerequisite for me but rather a waste of time. I figured though, it would probably illustrate my lifetime of being an outsider. I was fully alone; left an estranged family down east and had only casual acquaintances from the briefest of meeting places on the road. There was not a person in the world I could confide in should I wish too. I did have a sense of ambivalence about continuing my journey but it passed in a second!
I recalled my parents, Dan and Shirley, who I thought of as only existing with in the same house with. I never got to converse with them anything about myself or my hopes – they were too busy and I came to accept that as normal. My father had a high-ranking job with the police and my mother was entrenched in politics, staying in Ottawa most of the year. Until my teens, I had a countless number of babysitters and knew them even better than my parents. Some of them tried to get inside my head but soon gave up. As I explained, I was a loner, no one knew my thoughts – it was my secret. When I was 10, one of the sitters asked if I would like to kiss her. I wasn’t offended but I wasn’t interested either.
Reaching my teens, I was now able to make my own decisions regarding staying up for the late-night shows, even roaming the dark streets as a ghost-like figure, observing movements of others without being noticed, always avoiding contact or raising suspicions. At times, I would imagine there was another outsider that I could identify with or even have similar judgements about the world we reside in. I would be willing to make a connection but unlikely to happen.
School for me was hit and miss. The other students didn’t like me, thought of me as weird but no bullying as I could handle myself. In fact, I drove back a few bullies who were pestering smaller and weaker kids. I don’t know why? I didn’t have contempt for the bullies nor compassion for the victims. It was as if acting in a movie that already been shot– no edits or cuts required. I eked out high school, not because I sat through many classes but because I picked up on things easily. Most teachers were oblivious of my existence anyway which helped me keep a low profile.
Soon after that I announced to my parents I was leaving home for good. They weren’t dismayed yet were somewhat surprized. They wanted to ponder my decision – afterwards proposed to set me up with an annuity allowing a reasonable but far from generous withdrawal each month. To take the offer I had to agree to never come into their lives again. Of course, I accepted. I left in the dark of the night, not looking back or caring about a single thing I was leaving behind. One day my life would be all worthwhile. My mode of transportation was hitchhiking but mostly borrowing a vehicle for each leg of my trip as I headed west. I preferred the smaller non-descript cars. I never mishandled them and when finished left them in a place where they would be easily spotted since they were loaners not thefts. The west coast was a test case to measure my competence and mental preparation for the eventual meeting place back east.
It wasn’t a month after arriving that I blended into the notorious east-side of Vancouver. Most of my time was spent trolling the villainous dark web, hoping that I might twin with someone, anyone that had a vision to complement my own. But hope was beginning to fade like my name did to my parents until the day a certain post intrigued me to the point of suppressing a whimper. Then the subtle clue lured an attempt to hack into this mysterious data file. Finally, after breaking the code, seven days in a row messages were sent back and forth, each revealing a progressive hint of information about the other. Our ages and gender hadn’t been exposed yet but we appeared to have a common purpose, one that would make a tremendous statement that everyone anywhere would certainly know about. We slowly started formulating an idea, building on it, one step after another. My nickname became Frodo and the other person, Whizzer. It wasn’t too long before we risked sharing some personal information. Whizzer was a ‘she’ – made no difference to me – and an illegal immigrant from north Africa, under cover in a condominium on Front Street, downtown Toronto that her brother arranged for her. She was 24 and I told her I was 21, which I was. Despite sanctuary in Canada, she was philosophically opposed to everything the West stood for. Her purpose of terrorism was a political act to cause horror and take civilian casualties. Learning all this, I believed I had met the one I was meant too. I wanted to sent a wake-up call to this country and others for their indifference in managing global warming and world poverty for starters. Thinking of it sent exhilaration emanating through my veins like the budding of my hidden purpose.
I left for Toronto in a few days, again with no urgency and utilizing similar transportation as my trip to the west coast was. We were in communication a few times every day. In moments of quiet I studied Toronto in general, a place I had never been. Quizzically her address wasn’t too far from the noted CN Tower and Rogers baseball stadium. My arrival during baseball season would be fortuitous since large crowds of people would be gathered in one location.
It was near Winnipeg when heavy rain made driving treacherous. I pulled into a trendy motel, parked behind it in case the stolen vehicle in my possession was spotted. Rarely lavish with money, I felt like treating myself for my elevated temperament these days. It was near morning when a crack of thunder startled me from a deep sleep. For a moment I panicked, allowing some self doubt to creep in. That too was a new experience but it passed quickly and I rustled about, eager to hit the highway. As my trip wore on, Whizzer and I were on e-mail more frequently. Almost able to read her mind because of being synchronized on our mutual goal. I asked the question that I dared not too, up to this point.
“Do you have the explosives at the condo”
She said, “Yes, my brother has kept his promise.”
A big relief but as a Canadian I knew if we used them I would be even more deplored as a traitor to my country than she as a terrorist. I didn’t sweat that, I was only anxious about the few days remaining until finally meeting Whizzer in person and together unmasking what would be our colossal surprize for the world. After that consequence, only an escape route needed to be worked out. Likely we would continue our mission – to send a message that the world has to change in order to be saved.
Back in Mississauga, there was a final communique before heading to her condo by transit – no more cars to break into, get them started without a key and slip off unseen. I didn’t take a direct route downtown but rambled around the city, not that I was interested in the sights but instead to settle my stifled nerves. On the way, I was a little shocked when it dawned on me, “What did she look like.” Who cares I thought to myself but couldn’t let it go. Finally, I was on Front Street, then at the entrance to the condo. Off-guard slightly, I struggled for composure. I tentatively buzzed Whizzer’s unit. Answered fairly quickly, still the suspense of waiting was agony. The voice that said, “Who is it”, sounded melodious to my ears, so soft but assertive. It was the first time I’d heard it. Their meeting at the door was awkward but avoid of suspicion. At last we sat, sipping on tea at the tiny kitchen nook while eager to learn more about each other. Her real name was Amina. We glanced at each other frequently but quickly lowered our gazes as we both were a little shy. I found her ways and movements attractive and my heart fluttered often as if to confirm it. I never had feelings like this before. Finally exhausted with small talk we decided to examine the sealed package in the morning. I slept in the spare room but wondered a few times what it would be like to share a bed with Amina.
In the morning after dashing down some toast and tea we went over to that portentous looking crate, which was heavy (the label stating 25 kg), bulky and extremely well sealed. Locating the necessary tools, we opened the crate and sorted the various pieces and parts that were inside. An envelope for Amina from her brother was included in the crate. As she read, “My dear sister, I am so sorry but the electronics for this device is not available at this time but maybe in a few months or so. Enclosed are two suicide vests for your consideration, the second in case you recruit someone – Fadel.”
We were in a state of complete confusion, unable to anticipate the next move. I peered at Amina in her dismay awaiting her reaction. Tears assembled at the corners of her eyes as she explained, “I must go through with my commitment but I had planned to go home to my people to show how brave I was. Sacrificing my life wasn’t to be.” She was so helpless that I went and held her for comfort until the tears stopped. I said, “Let’s sleep on it.” And we did and in her bed for most of the day and all of the night. I think I now understood the meaning of being in love.
The next morning at the breakfast nook we stared at each other for over an hour, nobody saying a word.
Abruptly: “Amina, I will follow your wishes.”
“I want to be alive if it is being with you”, she said.
I leaned across the table to cup her face saying, “Let’s you and I begin a new undertaking together.”
We proceeded to recrate the explosives with a note from Amina’s put inside for Fadel. Then we took a stroll down to the shadow of the CN Tower, so peaceful and majestic, and imagined how different it might have looked had it not been for the grace of our love and the forfeiture of being infamous. Probably we both had some disappointment but more importantly we now had each other.
That evening we took a flight to Gander where no one knew us and hopefully never would.
CLASS 42 — AN ESSAY (Theme: Celebrating Canada’s 150th Birthday) .. A Tie for first place
A Miracle and a Genius
By Erma Johnson
It could be said that it was something of a miracle that the Dominion of Canada was ever born. This vast area that stretched 4000 miles from sea to sea and separated by mountains, plains and bush — could it ever be united into one country? What did the west coast with its mines, fur traders and fisheries have in common with the people in the east? What did the sections of Upper and Lower Canada (Ontario and Quebec), one half determined to be French and the other half stubbornly English have in common? Was it possible to create one nation from such diverse groups and geography and involving such great distances?
Of course we know that indeed one nation was formed: Canada. How and why was this rather surprising union brought about?
When the United States failed to conquer Canada in 1812, a “family feeling” began to emerge. They had faced a common threat TOGETHER. The people of British North America weren’t going to be threatened, invaded and scorned without a fight. There emerged a stubbornness in their attitude and a feeling of belonging together.
After the rebellions in both Upper and Lower Canada Lord Durham recommended that the two Canadas ought to be united and that they should be accorded responsible government. A seed was planted.
The American Civil War stiffened that feeling. There was a fear that when the Civil War ended, the United States might send their already formed and war ready army north and attempt to take over British North America and fulfill the Manifest Destiny which stated: “Our Manifest Destiny is to overspread the continent allotted by Providence for the free development of our multiplying millions.”
The French didn’t want to become Americans as they realized that they would be such a tiny minority in the United States that they would be totally insignificant; the Loyalists didn’t want to become Americans as they had moved to British North America to remain under British rule and neither did the Indians who had quickly learned that the thinking of many Americans, especially the rather violent settlers in the American west held the motto that: “The only good Indian is a dead Indian”. Britain also was open to some sort of union. It wanted to keep its colonies. For these reasons and many others an attempt to unite was put into action.
In 1864 a conference was held in Charlottetown, Prince Edward Island, to discuss a union of the Maritime provinces. Canadian politicians heard about this and asked if they might send delegates and put forth a plan for the union of the whole of British North America. It was here at Charlottetown, that the Canadians — men with the ability to speak gained the attention of their audiences. They were imaginative, creative men with a single purpose: The union of all of British North America. This conference set the ball rolling towards confederation.
In October, 1864 a delegation met at Quebec. These delegates became known as “The Fathers of Confederation”. There were 33 men with the fate of one half of the continent in their hands! All were acutely aware of the great historical significance of this meeting. They forgot they were Grits or Tories, Rouges or Blancs — they worked together for a common goal. All agreed that any federation had to be strong and could not be broken by any province. They were convinced that the American Constitution which had given large powers to the individual states was wrong and that the American Civil War probably would not have happened because of that. In a British North America federation, the central government must have broad powers and be more powerful in every way over the provinces. A plan for a confederation was drawn up at Quebec.
But what to call this new nation? Leonard Tilley is credited with giving the new nation its name “The Dominion of Canada”. Tilley got the idea from the 72nd Psalm: “He shall have dominion also from sea to sea and from the river unto the ends of the earth”.
In 1866/67, in London, the Colonial Office worked with the Canadians on a Confederation bill. Britain was in favour of confederation. In the spring of 1867 the first draft of the British North America act was ready. The British Parliament passed the bill quickly and on July 1, 1867 the British North America Act came into force. The British North America act united the two Canadas, Nova Scotia and New Brunswick. This new nation was to have a constitutional monarchy which would follow closely the British system of government. The divisions of powers were carefully set out listing all the powers the provinces would be responsible for and all powers NOT listed would belong to the federal or Dominion government. The British North America Act was fair to the French-speaking people of Quebec. Quebec could have its own separate schools and both Protestants and Catholics were safe-guarded. Both English and French were to be used in the acts and records of the Dominion Parliament and in the Quebec Legislature. Either language could be used in the House of Commons or the Legislature.
It took political will to bring about Confederation and it was most fortunate that British North America had the men of imagination and foresight and who were willing to set aside their own political ambitions to achieve this common goal. When one thinks of our country now, a single nation, united and stretching from the Atlantic to the Pacific and from the St. Lawrence to the far Arctic, we should remember these names: Sir John A. Macdonald, George Brown ( willing to set aside his own goals to form the great coalition), Sir Georges Etienne Cartier( who played a huge role in persuading Quebec to join) Sir Alexander Galt (who pushed to make confederation the main policy of the Conservative platform), Sir Leonard Tilley( naming of our nation), and Sir Charles Tupper ( who played a big role in convincing the Maritimes to accept the Confederation plan) — these men were the architects in building the Dominion of Canada.
Sir John A. Macdonald was the first Prime Minister of Canada and it was right and fitting that he should have been! Without his great skill, his good humour, and his ability to draw people together Canada might never have become a nation. He possessed that rare talent to talk to all regardless of who they were and his charismatic personality helped overcome difficulties. It was Macdonald who kept the union united, free and growing. He had a magnificent sense of humour and the knack of being able to find just the right thing to say to those with whom he had to deal. He loved the people of Canada and he loved them.
I sincerely believe that Sir John A. Macdonald could be called a genius for the strategic role he played in the formation of Canada. I believe that the formation of Canada, a new nation, formed with a generosity of spirit and good will, was in some ways a miracle and it took a genius like Sir John A. Macdonald to bring it about.
So, from the seed that was sown on July 1, 1867 a wonderful nation has flowered! I hope and I pray that this beautiful, free and diverse nation will prosper, grow and remain one of the world’s finest countries. To all Canadians on July 1st, 2017, I wish you a happy, joyous birthday and not only on July 1st but throughout the whole year of 2017. May our nation continue to exemplify true democratic values and serve as a beacon for generosity of spirit and goodwill which was the basis for its founding.
Celebration Time
by Heather Campbell
This year, 2017, being Canada’s 150th birthday, I am watching for advertisements of events that I might attend at which folks get together to proudly celebrate, recognize and be thankful for our great country of Canada. What better time to say “Canada, we love you!”
The prospect of celebrating 150 years causes me to think back to Canada’s celebration of its 100th birthday, July 1st, 1967 and hope that the celebrations of 2017 will favourably compare. That year was memorable! All Canadians that I knew heartily embraced the idea spawned by our creative politicians and public servants of a unique Centennial celebration. There were community projects everywhere.
I was teaching that year and each of us on staff had made Centennial dresses. If the truth be known, my mother made mine and I expect that was the case with most of us. When she was finished mine, with true patriotic enthusiasm, she made one for herself. Even though many of us used that same pattern of a princess style bodice from which the long, lace-trimmed skirt flowed, none of us chose the same material. Every Friday we wore these long flowing dresses and matching bonnets to school. Our teaching curriculums had been beefed-up to include more Canadian content than usual.
In fact, there were months of memories that year as the “Expo” in Montreal (on the manmade Isle de Orleans and the Isle of Ste.Helen) opened its doors to the world from April to October, proving that we are a melting pot of different nationalities. Sixty-two different countries helped us celebrate by each having a pavilion featuring the highlights of their country and making this the greatest World Fair ever envisioned. The records show that fifty million people attended in the course of the six months. No doubt, some of you reading this made the trip to Montreal and took in the once-in-a- lifetime experience.
At that time I had been married for only five years and we did not have enough money for motel rooms, nor could we even have found one on short notice. Tourism exploded that year in the Montreal area. Tenting was a viable choice for us; with my parents, we set out on the May 24th weekend to absorb the wonders of the “Expo 67”, also known as “Man and His World”.
Along the way we made lasting memories of a different kind. Unfortunately, that May 24th was a damp and cold weekend, so cold in fact that each of us crawled into our sleeping bags on the Friday night without shedding anything except our shoes! We sure didn’t lose much time in the morning collapsing the tent trailer and finding a restaurant serving breakfast. The camp stove and the groceries could wait until warmer weather! We left the trailer on that site and took only the car.
Anticipation soon replaced the discomfort of our night’s sleep as we arrived at the Expo site. We had passes for one day only and there was so much to see. We were given Expo passports and the novelty of getting them stamped as we visited each “country” was just one of the elements of fun. The countries had outdone themselves on the unique architectural structure of each pavilion. Who could ever forget the global-shaped American building or the upside-down pyramid shape of the Canadian building and the sweeping majestic tent of West Germany?
Inside the Bell Canada Theatre, the spirit of innovation was astounding. We grabbed the railing provided to keep our balance because the screen that encircled us drew us right into scenes such as the breathtaking aspects of the Rockies or being part of the Mounties Musical Ride. It was so real that at times we actually crouched to avoid being chopped by a propeller and gasped as we dove into a mountain chasm.
Many of the pavilions had huge lineups. Each time we joined one of these lines, we had the impression that we would be in the building very soon as we inched to the head of the line. That’s when we would discover that it was not really the head, just a well-camouflaged turn that was to be repeated several times before the actual entrance. A godsend was the monorail that took its passengers up and over the site and in some cases, such as the American Pavilion, through the building. We didn’t see details that way but we did get on overall view of what was available. Wherever you went, there was food; you could sample each country’s specialties.
By midday we were tiring and really welcomed the buildings that had chairs and huge television screens accompanied by headphones which gave information about each picture.
Finally, exhausted, we headed for the parking lot. Even that experience provided us with indelible memories. To begin with, the parking lot was unique in that instead of parking area A, B, C, etc., the areas were designated by animal pictures. I was sure that we had parked in the Camel area at post number 3. No one else had written anything down because I had been designated to remember where we parked. I had even circled the camel on the parking receipt I had been given. Tired now, we had few recollections of our very early morning parking and now the lot was a sea of vehicles. Our car was definitely not at “Camel #3”. What other animal would resemble a camel? We tried mules, gazelle and even caribou but there was no welcoming car. By sheer luck we came upon the horse and there beside post #3 was our car! Since then, it has been a long-standing joke that a certain family member cannot tell a horse from a camel!
By keeping alive and sharing our nostalgic Centennial tales like I have just related, it is hoped that those who were too young to be at the 1967 spectacles will want to create their own memories now for this sesquicentennial year. Although there is nothing planned that is quite as spectacular as Expo was, it still gives us a chance to come together in unity, celebrating the diversities that make us unique.
Our local museums have been hosting more events and adding to their Canadiana displays. It is encouraging to see so many flags waving from various homes and businesses. Red and white have become the dominant decorating colours. Those people who have made whole flowerbeds of nothing but red and white flowers are to be commended.
The colourful ceremonies and great speeches on Parliament Hill on July 1st, commemorating 150 years, were wonderful (but best viewed, perhaps, from the comfort of your living room via television). Although Indigenous demonstrators used this venue to stage their ongoing protest of what they consider unfair treatment, this too was well-handled by organizers, dignitaries and our prime minister.
Many cities, towns and villages held their own festivities and ingeniously handled the challenges that our rainy weather presented. Here in Ontario, the celebrating went on whether it had to be moved indoors or postponed to another day. Canadians have indomitable spirits! Having to improvise just adds to the memories!
We here in Beachburg and area are twice-blessed; we have a chance to celebrate Canada’s 150 years and also to celebrate the 160th year of the Beachburg Fair. It’s time to don those centennial outfits and join the parades, mix with young and old, relish good food, appreciate local entertainment, wave our flags, enjoy the fireworks, and proudly sing “O Canada” every chance we get. Hopefully, in later years when we look back, we will have some 2017 sesquicentennial memories, whether they are awesome or humorous, that we can share with the next generation.
Poem: MY SPECIAL FRIEND
By Erma Johnson
“I have a friend,” – words easy to utter;
They spout as glibly as a knife slips though butter.
But the friendship I speak of cannot be dismissed
With a few simple phrases like a child’s scrape that’s kissed.
Sages through all time have tried to explain
This uniqueness of mortals, but I’ll try again.
My friend is a lady — not all are extinct,
Good moral values and strength she has linked.
For solder she used the lessons of life,
And welded a code unaffected by strife.
I’m glad and I’m grateful the gods have seen fit
To have our paths cross and a friendship to knit.
For when spirits are low, or crises explode,
My friend helps me through and eases my load.
Or, when I’m excited — have great news to tell,
She shares in my joy and enhances the spell.
Her keen sense of humour – optimism ablaze,
Is contagious as measles – spreads as the sun’s rays.
These lines may seem silly, sentimental, or trite,
To some even stupid, but I know they’re right!
How fortunate I am to have such a friend!
May we be kindred spirits right on to the end.
Winner: An acrostic
The Gaspe View
By Sheila Broome
A feeling of panic overwhelmed us as we created another mountain and no lights could be seen. Bone chilling wind crossed our path bringing loose snow covering our tracks almost as fast as we made them. Clearly, the town, we thought, that was just over the next ridge, was not. Darkness was approaching. Every rider in our caravan prefers to ride in the daylight. Favouring a beautiful winter sun rather than a snow machine headlight to guide our way is a unanimous conception. Gradually each one of us came to the realization we were not going to make our destination before dark. Hunkering down for another three kilometer ride up and then three or more kilometer down the other side, we travelled on.
Incredible sunsets can be seen from atop the mountains of the Gaspe Peninsula so despite the lateness we stopped to gaze and be amazed. Journeying to this dreamed about destination was on the notorious bucket list for all of our group. Keen to take pictures or to just stand and admire we stopped and stood on the trail facing west. Land gave way to the ocean far below us. Many miles of blue grey water met the brilliant orange, pink and yellow sky as the January sun sank out of sight in the endless ocean. No one cared we were wasting time, as it was truly a breath taking scene that most people would never have the opportunity to see from this elevation. Oddly, usually a chatty group, we stood in silence. Perhaps we were attempting to firmly etch this scene into our memory to recall at a later date, for I know I was. Quietly our fearless leader interrupted our rapture with a “we must move on.”
Rejuvenated by our rest, we were less anxious when the snow began and the darkness fell. Snow flakes bigger than I have ever seen soon filled the groomed trails making our travel more labour intensive. Touring in deep snow can make even the most experienced sledders work up a sweat. Under a brightening mood brought on by the wonder of this winter world in the mountains, we pressed on. Valiantly or foolishly, this group of sixty-year-olds crossed three more mountains before arriving at our destination two hours later than planned. Weary beyond words we found our hotel which turned out to be, certainly not, a Marriott. X-rated happenings had gone on in this establishment in the past, we had no doubts. Yearning for a little whiskey, a hot meal and a place to lay our heads, we chose to ignore the signs of a less than reputable chateau. Zapped of our last bit of energy, another feeling of panic overwhelmed us when we realized we were checked into rooms on the third floor and no elevators!
