My father fell down the stairs. Part II.

Remember when you would call me your only son?
Remember when I piled up boxes and stools to reach the top shelf of my closet and it all came crashing down on top of me and it had woken you up and you came into my room and gave me my first and only spanking? Remember the bruises I had and that you had thought were from your hands but they had been from my fall?
Remember when you would bring me to the track with a stop watch? I wish I could have run faster.
Remember when mom left and you cornered me in the porch to let me know that my mother was a whore and I was just like her?
Remember showing me that Linden tree leaves in the springtime taste like fresh green beans?
Remember when you told me that music was a good hobby until I got married? I'm divorced now. Can I sing again?
Remember how you wished I would become a lawyer?
Remember that night when you and mom's boyfriend stood face to face and I took my brother out of the mix and dragged him to the backyard and held his shaking shoulders while he puked?
Remember how you laughed when I told you that I would one day have a job I loved wherein I could support myself and choose my own hours?
Remember how you would never call me pretty or beautiful because those terms should not be used when describing a daughter. Did you know that I still don't trust those words when I hear them today?
Remember that night when you lit my cigarette for me?
Remember when I caught my first pike and set it free because it was a fighter and I believed that it deserved a better fate than being caught by a girl.


Did you know that what makes me most angry and upset right now is that you got drunk and fell down the stairs? Did you know that stored within that one event is a lifetime of memory?

Weekend Wonders/Wanders

Met a friend at the train station. I arrived early having misread the 24 hour clock. Not misread. Mistranslated. Sat with a book on my lap while waiting, curiously watching a large number of single/stay at home dad types with daughters wandering around. Thought it uncharitable to despise them. Decided that train stations are decidedly unromantic places. Thought about my favourite movie -- Waterloo Bridge -- and imagined Vivian Leigh's character walking towards the platform not realizing that Robert Taylor's character would soon return from the dead and take her in his arms. He would hold her and babble on not realizing that she had fallen long ago and could never be his.

Showing friend my home. She's never seen this place. Through her eyes I feel free to love it. Validation through reflection.

Long walk. Long strides. Stopping at the perfect place for Irish coffee and chocolate beer. More walking. Slept free of remembered dreams.

Next day. More walking. More talking. My 'hood.' Stepping into shops when cold and back onto the road when too warm. Perfect finds. Delightful treasures. At one point my friend stated that she wanted to buy some tea. I immediately turned into a shop. 'Where are you going?' 'Into this tea shop.' Serendipity. Received a detailed lesson on tea. Chrysanthemum tea. Green tea. Boil the water and pour it into a container. Let it sit for 2 to 3 minutes. Pour water over loose leaves in pot. Do not trap leaves in a tea ball. The green tea should steep for 2 minutes only before drinking. Art. Lovely.

Final day. To market to market . . .
Leather art: walked into leather shop. Beautiful coats and bags. Saw a purse and knew it was mine. An exorbitant splurge?
Book art: Favourite bookstore/gallery closing. Retirement sale. Sad but glad I had the chance to say goodbye. Touched the books. Years ago when I visited, the gallery used to leave me both light headed and heavy. Many depictions of spirits and gods. This time most of the gods had been packed away. The feeling however was still present. Not negative. Not positive. Just present. A presence.
Light bulb art: Lovely shop which my friend said reminded her of my home. It felt like home. I looked up. The owner was using old light bulbs as vases for plant offcuts. Brilliant! Will do this with my children. Bought incense which was then placed in a bag made out of folded page from a magazine. Nothing wasted.
Chick Pea curry: Walked into and then out of a diner. Walked down the road and saw small curry place. Walked in. Young fellow served me then his dad came and asked for my plate back to fill it 'properly.' Taste buds dancing.

Train station. The end is the beginning. Standing in line for coffee. A stranger approached and spoke. Lovely woman with curious eyes. Ethnomusicological connection. She was friends with the woman who was my mentor in university. Both ethnomusicologists. We talked and we exchanged cards. She's an urban nomad. I recognized her spirit and I think she recognized mine.

The weekend was magical. Full of wonder. Came home to an email from the woman at the train station. She had already sent and received a response from my past mentor. Connections. Roots. Despite my sometimes desire to run away I am reminded and I recognize that I too am a part of the whole. I am, in Siberry's words, 'bound by the beauty.'

My father fell down the stairs.

I've been down lately. Not melancholic or whimsically nostalgic but down. Real deep in the depths of lowdown down. Weird thing is that I haven't actually been feeling depressed or even sad. True, tears have appeared in my eyes on a frequent (near daily) and unannounced basis but if I was to state how I have been feeling I really couldn't say that I was depressed. Just down. Perhaps I would also include a dash of frustration, a measure of loneliness, a modicum of anger, and a pinch of exhaustion. My own personal recipe made to order.

I really don't mean to get into reasons or rationalles at this point. This preamble is only to set the stage for what happened next. Leading us to the title of this particular blurb. Last weekend my kidlings and I cleaned house. Working together in order to achieve a common goal is a lovely way to pass a Sunday--good old Protestant ethic. By the time early evening arrived I was ready to indulge myself. It had been ages since I had a long soak in the bath and with a freshly cleaned tub and sparkling faucets I looked forward to reacquainting myself with the idea of relaxing.

So there I was, thoroughly enjoying the experience when I heard the phone ring. Once. Twice. Then it stopped. The girl child had answered it. I heard her voice. "Yes" "Ok" "Just a minute" "I'll get her". I heard her climb the stairs to bring me the phone. I figured I could continue my indulgence and talk on the phone at the same time. No harm done. I am a multi talented individual. My daughter informed me that it was my aunt. "Hello!" I exclaimed purposefully filling my voice with sunshine and happiness.

My aunt replied with a quick hello followed by a "don't worry everything is ok." My father had fallen down the stairs. My father is 78 years old and lives alone in a bungalow an 8 hour (when I'm driving) distance from where I sat soaking in my bath. The water started to feel rather cold. I got more information. My father had fallen down the stairs the night before. He had lost consciousness. When he woke up he had crawled upstairs and went to bed. In the morning, he had called his brother, my uncle, and my uncle and aunt had taken him to the hospital. 7 hours and many tests later he was home. Nothing broken but morphine coursing through his veins to help him deal with bruised ribs and sore everywhere else.

My aunt continued to say that he was alright but was very lucky. There was no sign of trauma on his head so his loss of consciousness was not from him hitting it. I listened and gathered more information. I know that my aunt would prefer that my dad go to a home. That might be the best thing for him. How much of what she says is in my dad's best interests? How much of what she says is in hers? I listen and take it in. She asks that I call my brothers. I am not surprised that I am the one she called. An ally? I say I will call them and thank her for calling me. I ask to speak to my dad. I hear his voice. It sounds strong yet tired. Understandable. Something else is in his tone. Embarrassment? Fear? I listen. I joke. I tell him to get some rest. I hang up the phone and step out of the bath and drain the tub.

I call brother #1. What can he do? He lives 1 hour from my bath and 12 hours (if he drives) from my dad. Leave it to the uncle and aunt he says. I suggest that perhaps it was kind of our responsibility too. He agrees and can ensure that all future monetary commitments would be met. Ok. The venture has financial backing.

I call brother #2. He's working on his PHD. He has no time to think about anything else until it is done. He also informs me that he had been speaking with my dad the night he fell. My dad fell down the stairs because he was drunk. I should, therefore, not worry. It wasn't medical. He also told me that I was better at dealing with personal issues with folk so he would leave it up to me to talk to my dad about options. But, I wondered, you are the one with power of attorney here.

I don't call brother #3. I don't know his number. I don't know where he is.

Feeling a bit like Le Petit Prince I put the phone away. I think about how strange people are. I think about how I do not find this strangeness surprising. While I do not understand my brother's reactions, their reactions are, to me, predictable. I can see them coming a mile away. When did people become so archetypal? When did I? The level of self-absorption witnessed all around me leaves me feeling deflated. Down. I wonder how to write this out. I wonder how to examine the subjective objectively. I wonder how to make it all about me when it was my father who fell down the stairs.