Yo, how do I make a grilled cheese sammich? Seriously, I need you to tell me. My parents kicked me out months ago. I called my mom, she said she can’t help anymore. Said I need to reflect on my choices. Last week when I got outta the shower my towel was already moist and smelled funky. How do I make my towel soft and fluffy? The stakes are high (as high as I am right now, ha ha!). But, yo, a million ants are marching across my apartment floor. How do I make them leave? Please help! Gettin’ hangry for some grilled cheeses.
Originally from Bowmanville, Ontario, Erin moved to Ottawa in 2004 to attend Carleton University, where she completed her BA (honors) in Art and Culture and minor in Canadian Studies. Residing in Carlsbad Springs with her free-range dachshund and husband, in 2023 Erin made the decision to enroll as special student at Carleton to take on new challenges and continue learning while working full time in marketing and advertising. Carleton University continues to offer Erin an encouraging and positive space to foster her love of writing.
Before she was a war bride, before she was your mother’s mother, before she was Jo, she was Johan, daughter of Willy Bona of Loch Ness. If the past can have a point of origin, you were certain that yours lay in her Inverness. So, you walked among distant relatives in the Dores cemetery north of her loch-side school, and you stood at the door of her father’s lighthouse, now empty and decrepit. It was a search interrupted by the news that she slipped into her final sleep. In the liminal drone of the rescheduled flight home, you felt a memory form inside you, malevolent and ambiguous. The short sharp breaths of the passenger beside you wove into your dream, coming through as a witch’s cackle. You awake. Changing cabin pressure brought an assaulted wail from an infant three rows back, abrasive and helpless. You awake. Long legs in tight seats cramp. You awake.
Just before landing, the flight attendant poked you with a breakfast tray. “You awake?”
The streets of Inverness were compressed and twisting, the streets of Vancouver expansive and wastefully wide. Your body registered the difference as discomfort.
“There is too much space here,” you said.
The taxi driver quickly turned down the radio. “Eh?”
Even the side streets were the width of several cars. The houses like fortresses retreated from sidewalks, sought out the shield of impenetrable hedges. Did it strike your grandmother too, when she arrived here after the war, that the Canadian thirst for space bordered on misanthropy? Or did she perhaps think that if Europeans had more living space, they’d war less frequently?
…
The house was empty when you arrived. In every place and to the very end, the reflection of a dutiful housewife’s domestic devotion. Every item is polished proudly and set in its rightful place. You took your shoes off at the door and followed the carpeted hall into the kitchen. She was not a cook. She had no signature dishes. Yet the kitchen is hers, uncontested: scotch mints in long-opened powdery bags, sharp cheddar in red
plastic tubs, oatcakes that crumble at the least pressure, and little stashes of liberated McDonald’s sugars, salts, and ketchup crowd in among the cutlery. You slid the drawer closed again. In the wooden hutch across from the cupboards, there will be shortbread; she never seemed to notice when one went missing.
“And she won’t notice now,” you told the kitchen furniture.
To be at Grandma Jo’s house was always to be transported into the diluted Presbyterianism of diaspora Scots: restrained, peaceful, and grateful, with few surprises and little drama. And in every room embroidered doilies showing the Moray Firth.
Childhood trips to this safe haven were sometimes planned but were usually announced to Jo by your mother sharply and urgently. You and your sister, temporary refugees, packed bags in haste and excitement, while your mother paced, eager for breath, hungry to see you both off. Or at least you.
After you’d left, the collect call would be made announcing your visit, and Grandma Jo would meet you at the station, glowing as if she had awaited your arrival for weeks. She’d stroke your sister’s cheek, and tell you how smart you looked, how much you’d both grown. You knew you could let your guard down in her warm gaze.
…
Jo slept in the sewing room. Amidst the old machines, spools of coloured thread, tattered paper patterns, pieces of cloth, and several half-finished articles of clothing sat a cheap, narrow cot that was too soft for her back. In the mornings, she would sit on its edge, backlit by the window, preparing slowly to stand up. Perhaps at first, the bed was there for nights when Grandpa was snoring but eventually, that bed was joined by a dresser, her shoes, school photos of you and your sister, and the bandages and special scissors she needed for her corns – the hallmarks of permanent residence.
Despite the discomfort of cheap and characterless shoes, she was a fast walker and you sometimes had to trot to keep up. Kerrisdale never seemed so far. And then quite suddenly, you were the one slowing down to wait for her. A gentleman always walks street side of a lady, she taught you, in case passing cars or buses splash mud. She chafed at the aging and the slowing.
…
One time when you and your sister arrived at the Greyhound station, Grandma Jo was not there to meet you. You looked around attentively as if you imagined she was playing at hiding; you examined each person as if you imagined you could have forgotten what she looked like. Tired and wanting to be ready when she arrived, you both sat on a bench outside the front doors. The city smelled like summer, with a retching warmth given shape by hulking dumpsters lurking in dark alleys. A woman battled a baby stroller with a wandering wheel, stacked tall with clothing on metal hangers, jangling pop cans, and various household items. She was speaking loudly and caught you watching. She stopped and squinted at you both, multiplying the signs of wear on her face. In the middle of an almost caring question about what a pair of kids was doing there alone, her head snapped back and she veered suddenly into shouting about God; it made your little sister jump. She leaned in on you; she thought you were the brave one, equipped to protect her, but you were a scared ten-year-old boy with a bladder that was quick to send out its distress signals. Her need made you angry. The woman moved on, laughing loudly, and you led your sister back inside the station.
A man in a faded grey boilersuit emerged from a room wiping crumbs from his beard. He pretended to sweep the floor, but he was just moving the mess around from one place to another with a large shaggy broom. With the conviction of a conscientious objector, he sang a Rolling Stones song while Pink Floyd leaked from the tinny station speakers. He used his broom handle as a microphone and glanced over to catch your attention. Your sister giggled, but not you. Every once in a while, a bus would hiss and spit into the bays and you would panic, worried that Grandma Jo would not be able to find you in the chaos of the new arrivals.
When she finally arrived, your sister had fallen asleep with her head on your lap and your hand on her back. You were determined not to cry with relief, but Grandma Jo did not hide her watery eyes when she hugged you close. She marvelled at what a wonderful surprise your arrival was. She stammered to excuse her lateness because she would never have told you that your mother – so exultant at being relieved of duty – had forgotten to call after your departure. As you fell asleep that night, you heard her on the
phone at the foot of the stairs, her Scottish accent softening the rebuke in her voice. It was the only time you ever heard her shout, and she was never late to the station again.
For the last day of that visit, you and your sister needled each other, each engagement an escalation. At the station, you stepped on her bag, grinding your heel into it, finding a satisfying snap inside. Hours later, as you approached some small town, your sister, red-eyed and thirsty, reached into her bag for change you had been given to buy juice on the trip. The acrid smell hit your nose before she pulled her hand out of the bag; the yellow highway lamps through dirty windows barely illuminated fingers covered in nail polish. The lid of one of the bottles had broken, and in your best big-brother voice you chastised her carelessness. You refused to help as she cried quietly and tried in futility to wipe each coin clean with tissues that disintegrated with every touch. Those around you looked for the source of the smell, and you looked away. Before she could finish, the bus gave a low moan and continued to shuttle you homeward, sick with tension.
You sometimes think of that memory as your own incurable sore on an innocent tongue, but you are no Wilfred Owen, sweet and proper.
…
The funeral procession was soon to arrive at the house. Grandpa, his friends, cousins, your mother and her sister. Your sister.
You took the last piece of shortbread from the hutch, stale but sweet provision. Your broad shoulders, survivors of your Scottish ancestry, slouched over it protectively as you sank deep into Jo’s empty bed. You were no longer small. You were a soldier now. There among Jo’s things in the sewing room to which she’d been exiled, you chafed at the waiting
Zeba is a professor at Carleton university. In 2015, Zeba was the co-winner of the Carleton University Creative Writing Competition for their creative non-fiction piece entitled “Down a Thumb.” That story was subsequently published in the Canadian literary journal Blank Spaces (Sept 2018).
“Get a job, Brim!” my mother screamed at the top of her lungs. You could tell she was mad because her eyebrows were furrowed, and that vein bulged right at the top of her hairline. She gets like that when she’s really upset. She stood right in front of the main door screaming. Brim stood on the lower part of the dust-filled staircase making that stupid face he did when he was angry.
“Fuck you, Tish, you’ve always been a miserable bitch,” he replied. My mom started to tear up. I thought back to when she first introduced me to him. She told me he was my new dad and said that he would take care of us. I knew how it would turn out from the start. She’s never been good with picking.
We used to go apple picking all the time before Brim.
Last week when they were on a break, mom came to pick me up after school every day. When I left school for the weekend, she was smiling at me through the window so wide. The baskets lined the back seat. We spent the entire afternoon there. Just us. For the first time in months. The trees danced with the wind, wishing temporary peace to our chaotic life. Mom stood in front of me grabbing the apples that were too high for me to reach, before chucking them into the baskets she turned to me,
“Check them for me.”
“Why? I’m sure they’re fine.”
“Just check ‘em, I’ve never been any good with picking.”
She giggled, and I laughed too, but something hidden in her laugh told me to hold on to these words. That they would eventually answer burning questions.
“I don’t need this shit, I’m done.” Brim ran up the stairs and started rummaging through some drawers. Mom ran after him promising that she didn’t mean it. I never understood what she
saw in him, he always acted so creepy. Sometimes, late at night, I’d see him standing motionless in my doorway. Whenever I asked, he usually said he was just checking in, reminding me of what my mom said… that he was here to take care of us. But I always got a strange feeling.
“Babe, I’m sorry, I know I overstepped, I just want us to be normal again,” my mom was begging now. I hated it. She did it almost every time he threatened to leave, it felt weak and reminded me of that word I spelled at the school spelling bee. Pathetic. My teacher described it as if a dog were to beg to keep a tick because it was its only friend. I stayed on the main floor and tried to peek through the railing to see what was happening. She was on her knees in front of him with her head hung low. An overwhelming feeling of disgust crashed over me, as though I was the only person standing on a beach as a tsunami came in. He dropped the bag he had started to pack and stood her up. They whispered for a bit before eventually making up and heading into her room.
I rushed to my room before hearing anything else. I stood in front of my door deciding to grab a snack before going in. It would be best not to go anywhere near them for at least an hour. I opened the fridge feeling blessed that my room was right next to the kitchen. Of course, there was nothing but a couple of bottles of jerk seasoning from my mom’s cooking phase and some apples
from the orchard. My mom tended to buy fast food or nothing at all. I grabbed an apple, finally got into bed, tucked myself in, and made sure my TV was at the highest volume possible. Better to be safe than sorry. I bit into the apple, and after I chewed, it felt mushy. The contents dissolved into my mouth leaving a mealy and grainy texture. The sharp sourness quickly turned into a lingering acidity. It was rotten.
Shyonne Nugent is a second year student currently enrolled in Carleton University’s political science program with a minor in english. The following piece is a work of fiction grounded in the author’s interest in damaged relationships titled “Rotten”.
Talia rises before the sun. She never uses an alarm clock—the one beside her bed doesn’t work anyways, perpetually stuck at 12:00 pm. Rather, routine is her alarm: get up, tend to her lovelies, get back. It took some time to adjust, but the prospect of working under that brutal desert sun soon became enough to wake her every morning before dawn.
Unraveling from the jumble of frayed linens, Talia leaps from the bed like some professional gymnast. Arms raised to the ceiling, she inhales deeply. Fingertips to toes, she exhales leisurely. She repeats the motion once, twice, and a final third time before massaging the last cricks out from along her spine.
Crow’s feet betray her youthful spirit. On her way to the kitchen, she skips down the hallway, copycatting the children hanging on the wall. When she first moved in, Talia contemplated taking the picture down—they’re not her kids after all—but the carefree glint in their eyes was too contagious.
After a quick breakfast of crackers and coffee beans, she makes for the foyer with its ghastly green wallpaper and slips into a cracked leather jacket. A pair of aviator goggles dangle around her neck. Reflected in the mirror, her hair is a tangle of copper wire—a wild mess she abandoned trying to tame long ago—and her smile a packet of yellowing Chiclets.
“Jeez-Louise! Look at yerself, you old crone. Just the sight of ya would make the Pope cuss!”
Laughing at the sound of her own voice, Talia slings the dented water canister over her shoulder and saunters outside.
Darkness blankets the barren landscape. The crickets have chirped their last lullaby, but the cicadas have yet to begin their screeching sonnet. The town greets her in a perfectly symmetrical embrace. Rows of cottage-style homes complete with clotheslines and little red wagons seem to have been assembled in the same manner one opens a pop-up card. There is a quaint, familial quality to the place. The only notable difference with the idyllic suburbs displayed in old American Dreambrochures is the lack of freshly mowed grass.
Talia kicks up dust as she struts down the main drag. Pebbles crunch under her boots. There are no street signs to point the way, but she’s memorized every twist and turn of this place—not that there’s much place to memorize.
“Hiya, Bert!” she calls, saluting her neighbour with a friendly wave.
Bert, with his perfect posture, hovers over a barbecue, tongs held in firm fingers. He seems pleased to see her, his smile immovable as always.
Talia pretends to sniff the morning air. “A little early for burgers, don’t ya think? Better watch your cholesterol.”
Bert doesn’t reply, but continues to smile as Talia moves on.
Up ahead, little Charlotte is already awake, hosting a tea party for her Chatty Kathy doll. Chester sits to the left, silently begging for a biscuit. Talia averts from the main drag to pat the unyielding dog on the head.
“You’re gettin’ nothing.” She chuckles, then adds, “Dummy.”
As she rounds the next bend, Talia begins to hum a tune. She doesn’t care for silence. With no working radio, she’s in constant battle with the hush.
And with hunger.
Her stomach growls. Good thing she left her rations back home. She already feels naughty for nibbling the corner of a fourth cracker, more than her morning allotment.
To distract herself, Talia glances shamelessly through every window she passes. Everyone is awake and fully dressed. Never any late sleepers in this town! The men read the same outdated newspaper in their favourite recliners, while their wives work various kitchen appliances and their charming smiles.
Talia soon spots Margaret lounging on a sun-scorched lawn chair, sipping what she knows to be the same glass of iced tea from yesterday.
“Ahoy, Margaret!” she hollers. “How are you feeling today? Why, that’s a damned shame. What’s that now? Nonsense, Marge! You don’t look a day over twenty-nine. Why just yesterday I caught Mr. Henderson makin’ eyes at ya from across the road.”
The red-and-white striped straw in her friend’s iced tea dances in the pre-dawn breeze.
“On my honour,” Talia says. “Now, you’ll have to forgive me, but I must be on my way. Work to do. Make sure to behave.”
She cackles with laughter.
Before long, Talia reaches the outskirts of town. The wasteland is a bordering ring of sand, boulders, and dead vegetation, all spilling past the limits of her vision. Up ahead, she spies the cactus with the crown of wilted flowers, its lower-most limb conveniently pointing the way. Veering left, she hefts the water canister higher onto her shoulder; the leather strap digs into her skin.
At some point during the night, the desert’s hot breath swept away yesterday’s footprints, leaving a blank canvas for her boots to stamp today’s date in the sand. The slimmest sliver of yellow crests the horizon. Talia picks up her pace; it won’t be long before the heat becomes unbearable.
Filling the dead air with the sound of her voice, she manages to count to one-thousand-and-four Mississippi before approaching the boulder resembling a young Bobby Kennedy. Two downturned pockmarks stare back sympathetically. It flashes her an awkward grin with its rocky mouth-slit.
Talia bows, flourishing her hands in jest. “Your Majesty.”
She skirts around the would-be President, swerving right where sand gives way to crusted dirt. In the distance, illuminated by the ever-rising sun is the drop-off. Overcome with excitement, she begins to jog. Her goggles, hanging loose around her neck, bounce against her chest. Then, like the baseball players of old, she slides into home plate, tumbling purposefully over the edge and landing on her feet just four meters below.
“Good morning, my lovelies.”
Talia sets down the water canister, thankful to be free of the weight, and drops to her knees. She sighs with relief. Despite the heat and ever-worsening odds, her garden endures. It’s nothing like the one her mom cared for when Talia was young; hers is simply a patch of fertile earth, a speck of dark brown soil in an orange-hued sea of sand and dust. A panel of judges would refrain from using the word extravagant, but she supposes she’d win the blue ribbon..
She leans in close. Held firm by sticks and twine, a fragile stem yawns in the early hour. A small green bulb dangles underneath a shimmering leaf. Soon, if all goes well, it will grow into a tomato, red and juicy in its ripened age. Still no sign of the cucumbers, but she can’t expect miracles. Just the mere existence of fertile soil in such a desolate climate is defiance enough.
“And how are we feeling today?”
It might be her imagination, but Talia swears the tomato plant flexes in response.
Beaming, she removes the apparatus she designed to block out the scorching afternoon sun and sets it to the side. With slow, delicate arcs, she empties the canister of rainwater, light glinting off the thin stream trickling from the spout. Temptation kicks in. How marvelous it would be to stick her head underneath and lap up the canister’s contents. But she quickly scolds herself for having such selfish thoughts. The last time it rained was two weeks ago and, judging by her meteorological knowledge, it might not rain for two more. She’s already rationed what she needs to survive. This water is not for her.
Once completed, she sits cross-legged, a serenade on her split lips, and watches with reverence as the soil sops up the moisture. With enough care, this garden will become her Eden—a paradise of sustainability. If she feeds it with love, it’ll feed her back.
Talia closes her eyes; she can already taste the juiciness of the tomatoes and the crunch of cucumbers. Was it luck that brought her down the aisle of seed packets when everyone else was raiding for cans and other non-perishables?
No. Noluck. “Smarts!” she declares.
Hands perched on knees, she inhales deeply, the air reeking of death and destruction. It didn’t always. Not before the world turned hot. Such a shame. Such a waste of life.
Talia touches the tip of an index finger to the baby tomato. Amazing what beauty one can create when the world isn’t blowing itself up.
Within half an hour, her forehead is slick with perspiration. She looks up; the sun hangs heavy in the sky like a blinding Christmas bulb. Time to head back. She reassembles the shade device, all the while praying that her tomato plant can make it another day out in this oven.
“Stay strong, my lovelies.”
With a hop and heave, she pulls herself over the lip of the drop-off and heads back to Bobby Kennedy. The water canister, now empty, doesn’t dig into her shoulder.
By the time she makes it back to the edge of town, Talia is drenched. She can smell the salt and adjusts her goggles so they’re snug on the bridge of her nose, preventing the sting of sweat in her eyes.
Margaret is exactly where Talia left her—sitting in a lawn chair, iced tea untouched.
“Ahoy!” Talia calls. “Marge, you beautiful devil. How is it that you’re not even breaking a sweat? You should pose for magazines!”
Margaret does not respond. Her ruby lips remain compressed in a perfect heart shape. She looks like she belongs on display in a storefront window, which in another time, she might have.
Or at least others like her.
As she moves further into town, the outlying tower bathes her in shadow. The coolness is a small reprieve. Through the lenses of her goggles, she looks up. The bomb—nestled safely in its metallic girdle at the top of the tower—is wide enough to blot out the sun. Other towns such as this were once used for nuclear testing; Talia came upon one in her travels, but cinder and ash wereall that remained.
The dry air begins to irritate her nostrils and her footfalls grow sluggish. Talia stops singing, the effort zapping whatever strength is left.
After ten minutes, she rounds the final bend to find Bert still standing by his grill.
“How long does it take to cook burgers?” Talia manages to ask. “You know I like mine well done, not charred to a crisp!”
Bert doesn’t laugh, but his plastic smile signals he’s in on the joke.
Back inside her home, the wait for tomorrow begins. The air still weighs heavy with heat, but being out from under the sun renews her energy.
Talia moves into the parlour. It’s a museum of various props: a china cabinet, magazines, and a dog dish. There used to be a telephone, its innards empty of wires, but she destroyed it long ago. Loneliness set in like a fever during those earliest days in town. She kept picking up the handset to talk—or just to listen to someone else talk—but the silence only reaffirmed that Talia was truly alone.
The only cure to such poisonous thoughts, she discovered, was sound.
She turns on the radio. It’s a sham as well and emits no sound, but having the plastic knob pointing to “on” settles her mind. Drown out the silence. Fill it with noise.
Talia’s favourite song plays at the back of her mind, her imagination an antenna capable of picking up radio waves. Eyes closed, she grabs air with her thumb and index finger, and turns up the volume. A euphoric crescendo of sound presses against the walls of the parlour. She sways to the melody, flicking her goggles onto the divan. Soon she’s twirling about the room, arms locked, dancing with a partner. What begins as a whisper turns into a hearty bellow. She sings of trees and roses, too. Of blue skies and bright days ahead.
As she spins past the window, she imagines the entire town overrun by her garden. No more sand. No more dust.
A wonderful world.
Nathaniel Whelan is a writer from Ottawa, Canada. He has been connected to the Carleton community for over a decade, first as a BA and MA student, and now as a member of staff. He currently works in communications at Carleton, and also as a part-time contract instructor at Algonquin College.
He has published a number of short stories with various literary magazines, including The Literary Hatchet, The Dread Machine, Sundial Magazine, Blood and Bourbon, and Mystery Tribune. In 2020, he won the Jerry Jazz Short Fiction Contest for my story “A Failed Artist’s Paradise.”
Every Wednesday after class, I got on the 88 and rode 45 minutes to Noohkoom’s house. She lived in a small beat-down community situated between the train tracks and the city. The bus didn’t go through the area, only circled around it; so I would walk another 15 down the main gravel road that was barely wide enough for one vehicle. When I would arrive at the crumbling bungalow, I was always in an awful mood and so was Noohkoom.. Mom used to say we were like storm clouds racing to see who could block out the sun first.. I marched in with a huff and plopped my school bag on the floor, and Noohkoom hollered “AEN SAC!” Which I knew meant to hang up my bag on the moose antlers nearby. I had picked up a bit of Michif from her over the months I had been visiting. Mom told me Noohkoom would really appreciate it if I learnt to speak our language but I never got around to it.
When I reached the living room, she was sitting in her ancient armchair that had moulded to her small frail body. Resting beside her on a wooden stool was one of Moushoum’s old tackle boxes which she had repurposed as a bead kit. The house was littered with Moushoums’s old hunting and fishing gear. I told her that if she sold it, she could get a lot of money from it. I didn’t understand why she held onto all this stuff at the time, but I know now Noohkoom didn’t want to part with Moushoum any more than she already had.
The tacklebox was filled with an endless supply of colourful tiny seed beads that somehow never dwindled despite her beading something new each week. I started on my regular chores around the house and fed the dogs that hung around the community, which she instructed me to do the first time I visited, only after calling them dirty mutts sael en bawnd di shyaen. Most times Nookhoom kept up her grumpy old woman act, but sometimes it would slip. I think that’s why I kept showing up every week. She was mean, but every time I saw a crack in her demeanour, I drifted closer to the Nookhoom that Mom knew and the woman that Moushoum used to know.
Once I finished her infinite list of demands, I sat with her for a while before heading back to campus. Very few words were ever exchanged during this time. I watched whatever channel she had on the television and she remained absorbed in whatever beading project she had going on. Periodically, she would get frustrated with the small beads and thick deer hide, muttering under her breath in Michif. One time as I got up to leave, she demanded, “gee-ouchaenmik.” She did this every week, and although I knew to kiss her cheek before leaving, it was her way of saying goodbye and I love you without actually having to say it. As I was leaning over, I noticed she had one white bead amongst the other purple beads.
“Noohkoom, you used the wrong colour.” I pointed at the bead.
“I did not,” she said.
Her response confused me but I ultimately chalked up the mistake to her bad eyes. The next week the same thing happened. A red bead amongst a sea of white.
“Nookhoom, you used the wrong colour again.” I said to her,
“I did not.”
I became a bit aggravated- could she really not see it? I pointed at it.
“See?”
“That is the spirit bead.” She looked up at me as if reading my thoughts. “This bead is a mistake I make on purpose. It is to remind me that only the Creator can make something perfect.”
Each week after that, she taught me more and more. She showed me how to prep the hide, what stitch to use, she let me pick out the colours, but she always picked out the spirit bead herself.
“I pick the bead as a thank you to the Creator, ” she said.
On the last Wednesday I visited before she passed, she handed me a small green tackle box without a word. I sat beside her and opened it up to reveal thousands of seed beads, a small bag of needles and a ball of tangled thread. I smiled at her and she returned the smile, before returning to the half-beaded flower stencil in front of her. It was the first time I had seen her smile since Moushoum passed. I finally saw her as he did. My Noohkoom was the crankiest woman with the kindest spirit. Each time I stitch the spirit bead into my work, I think of her smile that day.
Spirit Bead is a short story written by Katrina Pascall. Katrina is an undergraduate student at Carleton university in her second year. She is planning to complete a Bachelor of Arts degree in English with a concentration in Creative Writing. She does not have previous publication experience but is hoping to publish in the future. Katrina grew up in Northern Ontario and identifies as a Metis woman. Her short story Spirit Bead is a reflection on the sometimes difficult relationship between a Grandmother and her Granddaughter who connect emotionally and spiritually through their culture and language.
A circuitous route brought me to Carleton University in the summer of 1958. Spending money required a job, so I found work at the Regent Theatre as an usher for .50 cents an hour, with perks: a gold buttoned uniform and a pillbox hat. The Regent, now long gone was at the corner of Bank and Sparks, an area I was familiar with because I also had a Saturday job as an office boy at the nearby Ottawa Journal, also long gone. I saw the movie “Blackboard Jungle” at the Regent – not my favourite movie, but remembered because Bill Haley and the Comets, playing “Rock Around the Clock” was my introduction to rock and roll. Blackboard Jungle was not playing on my first day at work, but rather, Danny Kaye in The Court Jester, and after three shifts I knew I had to find another job.
The new Carleton University campus on Colonel By Drive consisted of two buildings, the library, and the Tory Building. Construction of Paterson Hall and a connecting tunnel was just beginning when I parked my bicycle and asked the boss, Tony, for a job. Tony looked me over and I could see the wheels turning, a hopeful sign. He said he paid labourers $1.25 per hour but being 15 years old, he would pay me $1.00. Double my salary! I thought I won the lottery. I called my friend Larry and told him to get over here right away because Tony said there might be another job. I weighed about 165 pounds and Larry a bit more. We were not fully grown, but getting there, and we looked like maybe we could work. We just had to prove it. Tony said we needed construction boots, but we never bought them, and he didn’t push it. He would send us somewhere out of sight when the safety inspector came around. One day I stepped on a nail and remember the pain and the board sticking to the bottom of my running shoe, a sickening sight. A band-aid, iodine, and back to work was how it was handled, but the experience, if you will excuse the pun, proved the point about construction boots.
Behind the job site, could be found a network of pathways winding though the underbrush and revealing small clearings. These were all that remained of cottages and shacks, that once populated this area of the riverbank and we spent our hall hour lunch break, eating sandwiches in one of these clearings. It was a pleasure I still recall.
We carried scaffolding to be assembled and then disassembled and pushed wheelbarrows of cement. I remember Larry on a scaffold maybe, 20 feet in the air, backing off the edge, still clutching his wheelbarrow full of cement. The foreman, a big man with a cigarette sticking out of his mouth, grabbed Larry by the wrist, pulling him back. He may have saved his life that day but work just carried on.
We traveled by bicycle, while the rest of the workers came by cars and pick-up trucks, rust buckets mostly. One guy though, an overweight Italian, stood out from the rest, because of his car. A $1.25 an hour labourer, driving a brand new shiny red Buick. Clearly, somewhere was another source of money.
One Friday a section of the tunnel roof was poured, and the cement had to be watered to prevent cracking. Living close by I got the weekend watering job. A dollar an hour just for watering cement.
Today, only these snapshots of memory remain. The rest is as they say, through a glass darkly. I can almost, but not quite recall Tony’s voice and I think he may have had a moustache, but I am not sure. He was a great boss though and I remember that summer with fondness. It was hard work but not exhausting and although tired at day’s end, it was a good tired. On my last day, Tony said to me, with a twinkle in his eye, Jimmy, why not stay here and not bother going back to school? He made his point.
The following summer, I found a job on a survey crew in Churchill, Manitoba, and never worked for Tony again. Larry returned for another summer. When I pass the Carleton campus today, it is never without thinking of that summer job.
Jim Bickford is an Ottawa resident who attended Carleton University part-time for a couple of political science courses in the eighties. The piece is a recollection of a summer job at Carleton University in 1958. .
