Husband is content at the Pink
Cottage feeding the muster (yes this is a correct term for a collection of
peafowl) of birds, revising his novel, breathing in the fragrant spring air and
watching the daffodils nudge their way towards sunlight.
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| Contented Husband | |
|
Wife, that would be me, isn’t quite so
ecstatic. I am relocated temporarily
from Somerset to Toronto; fulfilling my tour of duty tending to the most Crotchety
Pensioner (forthwith referred to as CP) in the GTA (that’s Greater Toronto
Area.)
Recently the Economist named Toronto
the World’s best city to live in. Perhaps
from April to October, but from where I freeze I beg to differ. I
contemplate heading out in temperatures hovering around -25, or with the wind
chill factor, -40. The Friday before I
left the UK the sun shone down on Somerset, the robins, blue tits, and
chaffinches sang joyously, and even the jackdaws greeted us en-mass out the
back of the house, clamoring for breakfast.
The hillsides were so green they looked photo-shopped. The day I flew out the verdant countryside
was lousy with leaping lambs.
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| Then.... |
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| ....And Now |
Three hours of shoveling snow can shrivel
the bloom off the rose that is Toronto.
The neighbour next door flaunts his fancy snow blowing machine, the newly
blown powder drifting down onto the driveway I’ve just finished clearing in
order to make my escape. CP doesn’t
believe in newfangled machinery.
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| A Nice but Frigid Stroll By My Alma Mater | |
Out on the street the beauty of
pristine white snow is fouled by splotches of dog urine, then stippled with
motor oil and sprinkled with salt. As
reluctant as I am to venture out into this subarctic hell, getting out of the
house is a necessary ordeal. It takes
fifteen minutes to layer on enough clothing to protect against the
elements. Then bundled up like a Siberian
Cosmonaut ready for a space walk, I realize I’ve forgotten something. I pull off salt chewed boots and tip-toe back
into the house to retrieve a bag of garbage that I will ferry out into the
world and deposit in one of the many public garbage cans that Sister and I have
identified throughout the GTA.
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| No Words Needed |
Refuse must be removed from the
house covertly, before CP gets hold of it.
It seems as time slips through his hands, he refuses to let anything
go. One characteristic many elderly folk
acquire is the inability to throw anything out.
When the pensioner is also a World War Two survivor, you can ratchet
that trait up a gazillion fold. Nothing
should be tossed out, ever… because you never know when you might need it; no
can, plastic container, nor their lids, no piece of foil or defunct car
battery. My father has lived in this
house since I was ten…. he started collecting things on the day we moved in. If it weren’t for diligent culling by my
mother… well, I wouldn’t be able to find
the back door. When our mother passed
away, or escaped, as some have said, her daughters took over.
In his dotage CP has become
McGyver. “Don’t throw that out!” he shouts when he catches us removing blown light bulbs, TVs old enough not to work but not so old as
to be vintage, ancient tinned goods, prescriptions that
expired a decade ago, emptied paper towel rolls, shoes that fit no one which
begs the question where did they come from, used cat litter and a fake
Christmas tree from which most of the fake boughs have mysteriously
disappeared, “I can use it!”
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| Vintage Fruit Cocktail |
He once fashioned a winter hat from
a section of our mother’s discarded leather coat. It was red with a black fur lining and
trim. The hat was pointed. CP looked like an insane elf when he wore
it. Now he wears multiple hats
underneath it. “Have to layer for the
cold,” he says. Yes, I agree, but he wears
so many layers it's like he's mummified.
Perhaps he is pre-mummifying himself for us.
CP has shrunk with age, as one does,
as I will and you will. He’s also partially
blind and partially deaf, and moving pretty slowly. This makes it easy for us to race past him
unnoticed on garbage days with empty boxes, cans of solidified paint and six foot
long rolls of decomposing carpet. Had
he noticed us he would have claimed there was some use for every one of these
items. In years gone by everything
removed, upon our mother’s request, was scrutinized. Sometimes CP dragged things up from the
bottom of the driveway, and then relocated them in the basement, or the family
room or the garage, and there they remained, unused and gathering dust.
Before we started our removal
program, under our mother’s direction, the family room and the garage were
unusable. To this day the garage is the
repository for an un-drivable car, an un-floatable boat, fishing poles, nets
without bottoms, tents and other remnants of a former sporty life.
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| Stuff |
Sister and I filled a dumpster with
unusable detritus several years ago. We
personally hauled 1.7 tons of formerly used lumber. It was during a heat-wave. She and I were out in the driveway wielding a
chainsaw. The city had ordered CP to
remove this build-up from his property under threat of fine. Even so he tried to squirrel away bits and
pieces of rubbish for future use. The
garden is now usable, at least when it’s not buried in three feet of snow.
Thanks to our endeavours the family
room is now perfectly habitable, but not in time for our mother to enjoy. The two family cats have taken it over as a
refuge; a necessity since CP’s diminished sight means he routinely sits on one
or the other of them as they nap in the living room.
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| Don't Tell Him Where I Am |
There’s still no room in the garage
for the rental cars Sister and I have when we’re here. CP was hoping we could use his un-drivable
car with its manual choke, different sized wheels on front and back, and engine
the size of a skidoo’s.
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| In The Driver's Seat |
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| Come Rain or Snow or Sleet... |
Disposal of things broken and
useless is a Sisyphean task, and we are mindful of not removing items which
have real emotional meaning to CP, but we’re pretty sure he won’t miss the box of
ancient rubber bands which decomposed upon touch or the carpet sweeper that fell
apart when CP picked it up or the copies of the Etobicoke Guardian dating from nineteen-eighty-three.
I haul these things across snow banks
the size of Somerset sheep making my way to random dumpsters in windswept parking
lots. This is my battle. At home, CP has his own battle; a daily one, to hang on to his memories and his mind, and wonder where the hell that box of elastic bands
disappeared to.
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| Meanwhile.... Back in Somerset |
