The Little Story

The Ripple of our Life - Grassi Lakes, Canmore

Our stories have no beginning and no end. It’s mysterious, and downright spooky sometimes how people come into and then leave your life. Sometimes they travel great distances with you, and sometimes you are connected and don’t even know it. The joy of connection cannot be forced, it is magical, it is unexpected, it is to be celebrated.

That is how the curly haired girl, Merrick, Grace, Ollie and She that we all know came to be. But even make believe characters take a break. 

We all need to redefine, and reemerge into something new. At times we are forced into it, whether it be the end of a work term, a health crisis or a pending divorce. But we are always given the gift to choose our reaction, and the ability (however difficult) to step back and consciously set our next path.

Choosing our Reaction - Grassi Lakes, Canmore

If you haven’t had a chance to see this story unfold, I hope you will enjoy it. And like me, also anticipate the next connection!

Act
No Longer an Act
Grace
Blown in Glass
Transparent Houses
Ollie
Her
Reflected in Coffee
Clouded Poetry
Turning Back the Pages of Time
Crumpled dreams
Some kind of progress

Anticipate the next connection. (Click to Tweet)

                                                   

Some kind of progress – 12

She and Ollie met several times over the next few weeks. She realized that their friendship and the ease they felt with each other had not diminished over the decades. He had walked her home once, to her building with the striped awnings and eyebrows of cream coloured sandstone. A building she had loved instantly, because it had reminded her of the old, brick buildings that were common in their hometown. It even had radiators.

Once she had arrived for their coffee and met one of Ollie’s neighbours, a woman who lived one floor below him. Grace had smelled of vanilla and had the cheery, open face of someone that practised smiling often. She sometimes gazed to her left as though she was pondering carefully, giving her answer serious thought. They talked about art and Ollie, it was as though they were connected somehow.

Early on, she had forgiven him for being the messenger.

She told him about how when her position changed to day-time she had become more aware. It was so much easier to hide her sadness in the comfort of the dark.

He asked her if she recalled their days together in college, of streakers, and pre-happy-hour drinks in the corn field adjacent to their college. Oh, those days of camaraderie had always stayed with her as the highlight between cramming for exams and hitchhiking to save on your finances.

As time went by, she opened up more, her smile no longer seemed a betrayal of all that she had lost and laughing didn’t hurt. Ollie even gave up his toupée. She didn’t mention it outright, she just said that “he looked especially fine” that day, he understood.

Some things don’t need more words. (Click to Tweet)

For the rest of The Little Story, read here.

 

Ollie (Oliver) - 6

He had a small tick that was exacerbated by fatigue and stress (which ever came first). His badly made toupé askew on the top of his head and though it had the potential of making him look like a crazy person, it did nothing of the sort. No one could look at him without finding him endearing.

Ollie ran down the stairs and dropped his message under Grace's door. He hadn't seen her in days and that threw him off course. He looked forward to Thursday nights, when they often met for coffee, decaffeinated for her, and the usual for him because he'd never been one prone to sleepless nights.

Tonight however, he was going to see his son's new showing at the gallery downtown. He hadn't seen his son since January 1st, and it was time to see what Merrick was up to these days.

No one could look at him without finding him endearing. (Click to Tweet)

For the rest of The Little Story, read here.  

Transparent Houses - 5

Grace was disappointed that the film presentation she had been looking forward to all week had been postponed. Had the film not arrived? Had the gallery's technology broken down? Was there a copyright law that had not been adhered to? What would she do with this "extra" time until her next appointment?

As an apology, the gallery had handed out small gift bags with (of course!) advertising material. However, hanging from the rope handle was a small ornament. Grace exclaimed at the ornament and was told that it came from the shop next door.

She side-stepped around a woman who was standing intently looking at the shop window and was almost run over by a man in jeans. He was wielding what appeared to be a cast iron obelisk through the doorway. How brave he was, taking such a weighty object into a space with such fragile things. Grace moved the gift bag to her other hand and held the door as he squeezed by. All she noticed was the size of his hands.

Once inside she was halted in awe by what she saw. How fortunate that she had stopped inside this shop that she had never ventured in before. What delight to see the array of colours, matte and shiny, in a variety of styles and shapes tucked into every available nook and cranny that could be found.  Looking upwards, Grace felt euphorically light-headed seeing the reflections of everything that dangled.

As Grace faced in each direction, she felt like she had as a small child in her Grandfather's house. How the mosaic floor, could make you giddy when you twirled yourself at high speed. A childhood prelude to having "one too many" in later youthful experiences with cheap red wine. As she faced the front window, she saw that the woman was still there. Like she herself, had stopped time in a bottle.

There was one instant when the sun shone through and lit on the same star hanging in the window that Grace had been given with her gift bag. The woman outside was transfixed, and a slow tear stopped on her cheek and her face broke into a dawning smile. She had received an answer.

Merrick left behind his newest creation for consignment with the staff and scooped the star ornament in his paw. His niece would like this. Now, he was done his shopping.

She was still there, like she herself had stopped time in a bottle. (Click to Tweet)

For the rest of The Little Story, read here. 

Blown in Glass - 4

She carried the weight of her sadness around with her every moment.

The pain of her loss, disguised her true self and could only be understood by a mother who had also lost a child. On the rare occasion that she smiled or laughed, it was startling to those around her. They feared the demonstration of emotion could cause her to implode. That eventually, she would shatter. 

Traversing the present must surely be a chore for her. Because why would someone in such pain choose to be present? The past although fraught with memories of happiness also brought the pain of the loss; the future, a blank, empty, endless slate of darkness and the unknown.

Blown in Glass, Seattle WA

Where did she stand each morning, how did she place her feet to keep her balance, in which place could she stand comfortably? Or did she only appear to be standing but every moment her soul was searching for a place to lay her weary mind, in the cavern of the safety of the day…before it all happened. 

How could she have not known what was coming? (Click to Tweet)

For the rest of The Little Story, read here. 

Grace - 3

She would often sit in her window seat reminiscent of Carol King's Tapestry back in the 70's. It was an album she had heard her mother play over and over during the divorce. Songs that with mundane repetition eventually brought peace.

She was drawn to unstructured garments, loose and flowing in colours of the earth, shades of tree-bark, sand and stones. Dressing this way gave her balance to the disciplined 8 to 5 that she kept daily.

Books with sticky notes were found in every room, on tabletops and on floors amidst the hard to reach dust bunnies. She often read two or more at a time, one fiction and one that wasn't, just so she wouldn't get too confused. She did not have a cat.

"Way over yonder is a place that I know."





Songs that with mundane repetition eventually brought peace. (Click to Tweet)

For the rest of The Little Story, read here. 

No longer an Act - 2

He was never one to shy away from finding love.

Many a girl had been twirled around the dance floor to his two-step. He fell in love nightly and with an open heart. He didn't cross boundaries but a girl felt that she had been flirted with, courted and wed all in one night. He knew the words to the songs and whispered them in tiny studded ears.

He knew when to speak softly and when to be center stage. A person couldn't help but fall for his ways, it would be pointless to resist. His back was slapped and a joke shared in countless encounters during an evening. He was a bit of candy wrapped in shiny foil.

You were surprised by the sheer size of his hands. They belonged on someone who was much taller and bigger. And though they had come in handy in many a misplaced playground scuffle, he had grown to be gentle with them.

And still he went home alone each night. It wasn't her fault, the woman with the curly hair and the flowered skirts, it was his time to go.

He is no one, he is every man, he is yet to have a name.

It seems that it was not the end.


He is no one, he is every man, he is yet to have a name. (Click to Tweet)

He was a bit of candy wrapped in shiny foil. (Click to Tweet)

For the rest of The Little Story, read here. 

Act - 1

He had ducked into a doorway to a bookstore in Inglewood in the pouring rain. He was just merely looking for a dry place to stop. She had a planned meeting with her sister, and was running late, why are we always the sister who is on time? A serendipitous meeting of two strangers that turned into more…

Her flowing curls and flowered skirt should have told him even then that her art was her life, he would always be a minor recurring character in her daily drama. Her writing came in waves fuelled by bad boyfriends, mostly beatnik in temperament, a professor thrown in for good measure on occasion, trips to sandy and tropical places..and he played his part by being a good stand-in. He was there to dry her tears, offer encouragement, do her research, buy a coffee (strong and black).

Even when they were lying in his bed, high on the hill and could see the twinkling lights below, he sensed that she scrolled through their dialogue for bits she could use in her next play.

He was by nature, warm-hearted. His sister still recalled how he would name the pigs on the family farm. He tended them and taught them (pigs are such intelligent creatures!). And then he'd cry unabashedly when "they were taken to town". So in many ways he was used to endings; he anticipated them but was able to treasure the time until they arrived.

It was not a surprise to his sister, who had witnessed the long story of her brother and the girl/woman that it would end abruptly.

He had maintained his patience, because distance was her most favourite word.

He looked at her one day and realized that he had no more to give, she had taken it all. That her charm and curls could not keep them together in his old age. He put down his unfinished coffee and walked out the door.

The End.

He was used to endings but still treasured the time until they arrived. (Click to Tweet)

For the rest of The Little Story, read here.