new/olde

At the Faire

Dedicated to all those people (including animals), places, and things who inspire me.

"I remember it quite cleary," said the old woman sitting in a rocking chair on her porch. "I remember what I was wearing and what the day was like."

She reached down, picked up a cup of tea, and took a sip. She returned the cup to the table and looked at me. Her eyes were gray. And they shone with remembrance.

This is the story she told me.

I was ten. I was wearing a red t-shirt and jeans. White runners. It was one of those beautiful summer days when you throw your face into the wind and catch a breath of goodness. You take that deep inside you and think that nothing will ever change. But it does. It always does.

I was on the path that ran behind our cottage and back to the farm house of the people who rented the five cottages. We rented the Honeymooners. There was the Two-story, the Cedars, the Log Cabin, and the Peppers. Each cottage got its name over the years just by being. You should always get your name just by being. It's the most honest way.

None of these cottages had any electricity or running water. All of us cottagers cooked on wood stoves, and kept our food in iceboxes. They were a real throwback to the olden days.

The Two-story was a two story cottage (of course) that sat at the foot of the hill that ran down from the farm house. It was very close to the shore of the lake. It had no paint and now, after all this time, the siding was a silver-grey. It always seemed so fragile, teetering there on the shore. It looked like the heat from the sun could set it ablaze.

The Cedars was, like all the others, a single story building. This one was a couple hundred feet from the beach, crouched in a grove of cedar trees. Before we started renting the Honeymooners for whole seasons, we stayed in this one for 2-week vacations. I remember one time we brought our cat. The poor thing huddled underneath the cottage in the floor joist for the enitre 2 weeks.

The Peppers was named after the family who had rented that one seasonally for as long as I knew. They had hooked up a propane fridge and stove. Luxury. They stilll had an outhouse like the rest of us though. They were from the States. Buffalo I think.

The Log Cabin was next furthest from the farm house. From the Peppers, the road looped up a small hill and around the corner. Walking, it was probably 3 minutes. It was made of logs (as you guessed, I'm sure). A family from Pickering used to stay there. A whole bunch of kids. We became friends with them.

The Honeymooners was our place. It was a tiny 2-room cottage. Originally, in the thirties, it was one of the first pre-fab cottages. It was called the Honeymooners because the first people to ever stay in it were newlyweds. One of the 6 brothers who used to run the farm and his new wife lived there for a while. The brothers were now in their late seventies, eighties, or nineties.

There was no road to our cottage, only a path through the woods of about a kilometre. It was, to me, a magical path. It followed the shoreline, but only at one point was it close to the shore. The rest of the time it wound through the woods, fifty feet or so from the lake. It went through a low spot and over a small stream below the beaver dam. We built a small footbridge over the stream and I used to like rebuilding it and maintaining it. I pretended I was a bridge builder I suppose.

It was at the bridge over the stream that I met the troll. Well, he didn't seem a troll to me then, just a small man on our path. He wasn't an ugly troll. But he was at the bridge. And he wasn't collecting tolls. In fact, he gave me an envelope.

"Is this your bridge?" he asked me.

"Well, it's our bridge, my family's I mean. We built it."

"It's a fine bridge. I like bridges. Bridges are very important things. They take you from one side to the other."

"Thank you. It keeps our feet dry when the stream is running higher in the spring."

"I bet it does." He paused and studied the bridge. It was really just some small logs stretched across the stream, with some planked nailed on top. It didn't really even keep your feet dry in the spring as it was more a raft in the stream than a bridge then.

"My name is Ellingmore Woodstoo. I'm a troll on a bridge surveying adventure. What's your name?"

"I'm Angela Hudson. You're really a troll? There's no such thing."

"I'm really a troll, Angela. I know what I am you know. I learned it a long time ago."

"I'm sorry. Yes. I know what I am too. I'm a girl."

"A fine girl! I have to give you something for using your bridge, Angela."

He started going through his pockets, pulling out small things, shiny glass balls, a small hammer, a ruler, a feather, and an envelope.

"Here's a good thing for you. Tickets to the Faire."

"What Faire? Where is it?"


"The Dark Moon Faire, Angela. It'll be nearby when the moon is new."

"What do you mean? It's only at night? I can't go at night."

"The moon is new somewhere when it's daytime here. You can go. All the details are on the tickets." Said the troll.

I opened the envelope and pulled out the three tickets to the Darkmoon Faire. They wee a dark purple colour, with gold printing on them and lots of pretty swirly gold decoration. And in the middle of each was a picture. A different picture on each one.

The first had a picture of a zebra. I picked the second one, and as I did, I was sure the zebra winked at me. I went back to the first again. But it was just a picture.

"That zebra winked at me. I'm sure it did."

The troll just grinned at me.

I looked at the second again. It had a picture of a lit candle on it. I stared at it, but nothing happened, until I pulled the third one to the top, then the candle seemed to flicker. I looked at the second again, but of course it was just a picture of a burning candle.

The third had a picture of a rocking chair. And as I put them back in the envelope, the chair rocked. I didn't pull them out again because I knew it would just be a picture of a rocking chair.

None of them had a date or place for the faire. They just said whenever and whereever.

"But where is it? Is it in the village? Or back in the city?" I asked.

"Don’t worry Angela, you'll find it. It'll come to you, now that you have tickets."

The troll took another look at the bridge.

"Goodbye Angela. Maybe I'll see you at the Faire."

"Goodbye, sir. Maybe. Thank you for the tickets."

And the troll turned on his heel and walked off into the woods, not following our path at all. He climbed up the small hill to one side of the beaver dam, and disappeared into the woods. I heard a whoop. And then "What a fine bridge!" and nothing more.

I tucked the envelope into my back pocket.

I raced back to the cottage as fast as I could. My father was sitting on a chair at the shoreline, relaxing.

"I-met-a-troll-at- the-bridge." I said, all one word.

"Pardon" said my father, "What did you say?"

"I met a troll. At the bridge over the stream below the beaver dam."

"A troll? How do you know it was a troll?"

I didn't occur to me until later that my father never questioned whether trolls existed, he just asked if I was sure I had met one.

"He told me he was. He gave me tickets to the Darkmoon Faire. Here in my pocket."

I reached into my back pocket, but the envelope wasn't there. I seached my other pockets. I couldn't find the envelope.

"Oh no! I've dropped it on the path!" I turned to run back along the path.

"Wait, Angela. You haven't lost it. It's only for you. If you go up to your tent you'll find it in your pocket. Trust me."

Since the cottage was only two rooms, and now that I was old enough, I slept in a tent on a flat half way down the hill from the cottage.

"But it's not in my pocket, daddy. I've lost it."

"Go up to your tent and see if you have it." He said.

I went up to my tent, but I was sure I'd lost it. I didn't know what my father was talking about. But when I climbed through the flap into the tent and reached into my pocket, the envelope was there. I went back down to the shore.

"You're right daddy, here it is." But as I reached into the pocket I had checked moments before, there was nothing there.

My father saw the look on my face. "It's only for you Angela. Nobody else. You'll only find the tickets when nobody else is around."

He sighed.

"I met a troll once when I was your age. And my tickets were never there either, unless I was alone. Let me tell you about it."

And this is the story my father told me.

Remembering Porky

On Saturday, November 8, 2008, Ian Elliot published a story in the Whig Standard about my uncle Jack, known as "Porky".

Here is a link to that story.

This is my uncle's cross in Flanders.

In Flanders Fields

In Flanders fields the poppies blow
Between the crosses, row on row,
That mark our place; and in the sky
The larks, still bravely singing, fly
Scarce heard amid the guns below.

We are the Dead. Short days ago
We lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow,
Loved, and were loved, and now we lie
In Flanders Fields.

Take up our quarrel with the foe:
To you from failing hands we throw
The torch; be yours to hold it high.
If ye break faith with us who die
We shall not sleep, though poppies grow
In Flanders Fields.

- John McCrae

Letter for Remembrance

This letter was written June 18, 1944. On June 21st, at 2301, the author took his place as rear gunner in ME846, a Lancaster 1 . They were heading for the oil refineries at Wesseling, Germany. By 1:30AM on June 22nd, the author, my uncle, was dead, along with his skipper, Dave, and the mid upper gunner George. Surviving were Peter, Tommy, Geordie, and Tag.

Got Milk?

Just happened to look up tonight. And, rarely for this light-polluted place, I could clearly see the milky way.

All those billions of other beings looking back at me. Now that's cool.

How's that for speculative non-fiction?

Little Did We Know

By someone I know. Go vote! Go comment!

Here's a link to the site so you can comment.

Two Balls

A couple of days ago, on a four-lane highway, I saw a child's ball sitting on the shoulder. It was purple. About the size of a basketball. Huh. I wonder how that got there?

Today, on my way to work on a different highway, I spotted a smaller yellow ball sitting on the shoulder. Huh. I wonder how that got there?

Maybe they fell out of windows. But I suspect eunuchs.

Sin

Sin-o-cism: The act of cutting sin out of your life. Not really though.

Sin-ick: One who has a problem with sin. Can be heard to say: "Sin? Ick!" Not really though.

Miss Takes

If you can't make colossal mistakes, why make any at all?

About Writing

From Samuel R. Delany's About Writing

Writers are people who write. By and large, they are not happy people. They're not good at relationships. Often they're drunks. And writing -- good writing -- does not get easier and easier with practice. It gets harder and harder -- so eventually the writer must stall out into silence.The silence that waits for every writer and that, inevitably, if only with death (if we're lucky the two may happen at the same time: but they are still two, and their coincidence is rare), the writer must fall into is angst-ridden and terrifying - and often drives us mad. (In a letter to Allen Tate, the poet Hart Crane once described writing as "dancing on dynamite.") So if you're not a writer, consider yourself fortunate.

Makes it sound so warm and squishy. All rainbows and puppy dogs.

Building a Ship

Ooooooo. I like this one.

"If you want to build a ship, don't drum up people together to collect wood and don't assign them tasks and work, but rather teach them to long for the endless immensity of the sea." - Antoine de Saint-Exupery


But I might, in my endless arrogance, say that a little differently. I wouldn't attempt to teach anyone about the sea, I would show them and let them come to their own conclusion. If they saw what I see, they would build the ship; otherwise, they should continue on their way.

"If you want to build a ship, don't drum up people together to collect wood and don't assign them tasks and work, but rather show them the endless immensity of the sea. Those that see what you see will build the ship." - The Third Level

Pockets

Spring has arrived. Warm weather has returned. And that means a new jacket.

And that means finding the stuff I left in my pockets last fall. Cool.

(OK. Get a life springs to mind.)

Tiny surprises all for me. Like this morning, on the way to get my paper in my work jacket (a slightly rumpled and stained and VERY comfortable jacket), I found one of my business cards. Why would I have a business card in the jacket I wear to prune trees or take out the garbage? I guess it makes as much sense as the people who have their blackberries on the golf course.

Oh well. A mystery and a surprise all in one package.

Rain on Deep Snow

I want to talk about rain on deep snow.

It's time for warmer weather to move in. And that means rain instead of snow. We've had a lot of snow this year and there is still a lot of snow on the ground.

It's raining now. That clean bright surface is being eaten away. When it was fresh the surface would move around, pushed by the wind. Always changing. Always new. But now, it's being made to look old and worn out. But not old and worn out as if full of wisdom, or old and worn out as if a witness to eons. Just old. Just worn out.

Rain on deep snow seems sadder somehow. I think it's because it will take so long for the ground to show again. And that first glimpse of the ground we haven't seen for so long is, of course, the anticipation of spring. We're all a little impatient.

Also, Rain on Deep Snow would be a great name for a band.

Squirrel Needs

I was looking out my front window during our current snow storm and saw a squirrel munching on a sunflower seed from my bird feeder. That's OK. Everyone needs to eat. He looked at me (a little nervously), and I looked at him.

Here's what the day looks like.



Anyway, about 20 minutes later I looked out again and there were squirrel tracks in the newly-fallen snow to my front door. I guess he wanted in. If he had still been there I probably would have let him in to sit by the fire and have a chip.

Everyone has needs.

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