“It’s really quite an adventure too.”
The large fellow twists towards him.
“I love a nice view, and the views are great. You know the big houses up on the hill. I could park on almost any street, so I had the same view as the best houses in the city … and I could have a different one every night if I wanted.”
“Nice.”
“Like an exotic vacation or camping out in the deep woods, just urban woods.”
The average spiritual thrill-seeker, or any adventurer for that matter, might see it as a way to walk on the edge. You don’t have to go to the jungles of South America; you can seek thrills much closer to home. An unforeseen dividend from the investment.
“And I felt closer to the people who really live in the streets. Jesus hung around with the down and out, right? So I feel closer to Jesus, ‘cause these would be his friends if he were around. And it keeps me from complaining too much.”
Sid knew from before, on any old day that wasn’t going so well, when the depths of self-pity dragged his spirit through the mud, to see someone destitute, usually snuffed out that self-indulgent thought. He has everything in comparison. And now he feels some level of solidarity, though he still lives in a pretty upscale camper van – never on a park bench – he has some idea what it’s like.
He feels a little triumphant.
“So you put all that cash in the church basket?” the large one asks quietly.
He feels his face redden. Downsizing to middle means significant extra assets accumulate in the bank account, especially on a Canadian income.
“That was tough. I kept thinking, why not just keep the money myself, I earned it.”
“You said it, I didn’t,” the large one shrugs.
“I know. Then I think if I give it away, it won’t go to the poor anyway. It’ll just go to administration, you know, charities are so inefficient. But I knew I had to do it, so I just wrote out the cheque and stuffed it in the mail. You know that woman Jesus talks about, the one who put her two coppers in the box. I dunno, that day, I felt at least a little bit like her.”
The large guy nods.
He never actually gave all he had, yet he did give something. Nowhere close to life as rough as a poor woman in ancient Palestine. Food, cooked and refrigerated, protection from the rain and other nasty elements, and a warm place to sleep. Most go camping for fun, but this camping trip was special fun, with serious investment overtones, and payoffs. Over those homeless months, his thoughts couldn’t help but grow more positive, just knowing he could be wealthy without big-house dreams.
Sid feels a shudder as the plane starts its descent on the Halifax airport. This plane trip feels like a payoff for the last few months. The investigation has not finished, however, and a quiver of anticipation runs through him as he thinks of his sister.
Jo promised to meet him at the airport, and he knows she’s the type who sticks to not just her promises, but to her own chosen values, to what she really believes in.
Chapter 9
The plane touches down in light rain on the landing strip. Runway lights flashing by at a decelerating rate help reorient his mind to current. Flying east across three time zones has stacked on extra hours of fatigue. Jo sits waiting in the terminal with her own tired look, one that dissipates when she sees her brother. She gives him a hug.
“Where’s Sami?”
“Sleeping of course. We have a two-hour drive ahead of us. Midnight is way too late for a five-year-old.”
“How’s Jake?”
“As good as ever. We’re working hard. Business could be better. World events, you know, they can really affect tourist spending.”
“Right.” Sid grabs his bags from the conveyor belt. “You gonna teach this fall, then, get a regular pay check?”
Jo gives him a frosty look, one that might ice over a small pond, reiterating her policy on the chaos of working in the public school system. Regular pay would be nice, of course, and more pay even nicer, sure, but the personal trade-off is prohibitive. High energy teenagers, bent on partying and disruption, just drain the spirit. Happiness comes with being a self-employed artist, and happiness itself is the career benefit, not financial security. One other primary benefit comes with the package, a freedom allowing self-expression, completely uninhibited by institutional regulation.
“Wouldn’t be a useful supplement?”
“It’s just not worth it. I subbed last year, when we needed to buy a kiln, and to take Sami on a trip. One semester was enough. It’s just a backup, when all else fails.”
They find Jo’s orange Corolla waiting patiently, the Lucky Rabbit logo splashed vividly across the side. He tosses his bag in the back; they hop in the front, and find their way out onto a dark paved highway.
Low mountains surround them, Jo says, and squinting into the drizzling darkness, Sid can make out the twinkle of streetlights winding up into the heights. People living up those slopes must be big-house, ones who seek out a view, like at Witchekan. A mountain view or a swampy lake, ahhh, he could have either and many others, even better ones, just by selectively parking the van. He can have what big-house people go after.
###
They pull into Annapolis Royal; sound asleep, not a person to be seen. A village dot on the map of Nova Scotia had developed for him into an imaginary wonderland, one now to be replaced with the real. He grabs his backpack and follows Jo, through salty swirls of night mist along the silent street, into the house. A sign, a replica of the Lucky Rabbit car logo, hangs above the entrance and a jingly bell sounds lightly as they step into a room full of pottery displays. This, Jo says, is the sales floor. Hard to know it, but the house is on main street where tourists stroll by, a business below, a home above. The last rattle of the blinds on the glass leaves them surrounded in ceramic mystery, and a profound moment of screaming silence. The stairs creak as they climb to the living area.
Stretching out on the bed Jo shows him, Sid fades fast. Tranquility vanishes into the shadowy dance of dream. He is the sultan, riding again, on his long journey. Palace now far behind, the quest seems endless. Village after village, speaking with many – to those who might know, to the elders, still he lacks the full answer. The well echoes emptiness. Then there is rumor of a small girl, innately wise beyond her years, in the next village. Perhaps the wisdom of a child, he is spurred, setting off at a gallop. Maybe she is the one …
“Uncle Sidneyy … wake uup.”
He opens an eye; his niece is shyly poking him in the shoulder. He grabs her hand, bars his teeth and starts to chew her hand off at the wrist. She shrieks, then squeals herself into a ball of giggles as Sid tickles her sides until she squirms away.
“Sami, you need to let people sleep.”
“Uncle Sidney, you need to get up. Mom says its breakfast time.” She stays out of reach. “Cum’on. Now!”
“OK, OK, you win. Let me get up. Little wise one.”
“I’m not little and I’m not wise. I’m Sami.”
“Right Sami, you’re sooo big. Now scoot.” Sid squints as she turns. I bet you’re a wise girl in some way or another though, he adds to himself.
As he gets his act together, he revels on having slept in a house again, something worth waiting for. One room is enough, though, surely sufficient for one person. How many extra rooms do you need and what would they be for? Definitely no need for empty bedrooms, a simple rule in a design plan of the future world.
He walks down the hall to the kitchen. Where’s Jake, he asks. Business in Toronto, some pottery stores, I told you last night, she says, he’ll be back in a couple of days. Oh yah. Grainy bread, fresh butter and Annapolis Valley fruit lay about the table. A poor artist’s lifestyle does not rob one of healthy food.
“When the bell rings, someone’s come into the store, so I have to go down.” Jo pours milk for Sami. “I’d send you, but you don’t know a thing about pottery.”
“You’re wise, like big Sami.” He reaches to tickle his niece. Sa
mi squirms. “Keep me upstairs, then, ‘cause I’m here for a holiday, not work.”
“So you still living in that van?”
“Four months so far, two more to go. Gotta find an apartment to share soon, ‘cause winter’s coming.”
The sojourn into middle income, revealed for Jo, intrigues her. She nods along, making comments about the people she met in India, and what Soka Gakkai Buddhism would have to say. She names it Sid’s journey of enlightenment.
“I don’t know if I actually feel all that enlightened …”
The bell tinkles and Jo rises. He clears off the table, consulting Sami on where things are stored amongst the daily kitchen clutter. Jo comes back up. She points out a window facing out over the orange Corolla roof below.
“See our park? We’re building that park right now. I’m on the village committee. We’re getting the children’s playground equipment set up soon. The village got a grant from the province. Lots of paperwork, but it’s well worth it.”
“Really? Hey, does that give you an income … being on the committee?”
She squints at Sid with a sliver of the pond-freezing look, classifying his useless question into the void of no response it deserves.
“Cum’on, I’ll show it to you. We can go for a little walk around the park. I can watch the store from there.”
They saunter down the stairs through the display room now in full daylight. The brightness subdues the mystery somewhat, but intrigue still peers out from the corners. Like a little thunderstorm looking through the reeds along the lake’s edge.
Development of the community park has made some progress so far. Finely trimmed grass opens up like a deep breath, encircled by a newly sprouting hedge. A low cable and pole fence envelopes the perimeter with entrances on each side. A bare patch, covered with crushed shale, scars the smooth lawn. Jagged steel plates lie close on a wooden palette. Jo tells of swings, a slide and monkey bars on their way to the shale patch, when the local welder gets around to it.
“So why’d you join the committee?”
“It’s called community building, Sid. What’s the use of anything if we don’t have good community? And community’s got to serve the children … they have to be first on the list. Obviously, ‘cause they are the future.”
The house faces them from across the park. Built in 1888, Jo had said. Looks mysterious, must have lots of history, says Sid. Oh yes, it half burnt down once, used to be twice as big sure, the LaRonge family built it, she says, there was a little girl lost in that fire, but her sister grew up here. Flowers crepe off vines on the weathered board fence. The high peaked roof stretches up, a contest with the distant low mountaintops, standing sentinel over street, park and community tradition.
Back across the park, Jo leads their way up the driveway between board fence and the house’s sidewall, naming the different plants in the back yard. A brightly colored cone stands at one end. He looks over at it, pointing, glancing at his sister for an explanation.
“It’s a mulch cone. This village wants to be friends with the environment. They talk in council of a global village; we want to take care of our end of the earth. There’s this other committee I’m on. We got council to vote on a two part waste bill. Everyone pays by weight for what goes to landfill.” She smiles grimly. “Well, they’re supposed to pay; some dump it in the ditch. People! Anyway, the biodegradable goes in the cones, and you can get one free from the village.”
Sami comes running around the house, another little girl frolicking behind.
“This is my friend Sheizi.” She grabs the little girl’s hand. “And this is Monique, she’s visiting.” She touches the thin air with her other hand.
“Hi Sheizi … and hi Monique.”
He glances at Jo. She shrugs.
The two visible girls switch to elegant drama, their need for speed replaced by a new game, now a graceful walk. They adjust the patterns of flowers woven into their hair for each other, and for Monique. Jo hears the store doorbell jingle, leaving her brother to sit with the grooming and the birds.
So unlike his hectic urban environment, so maybe like Uncle Nick’s pura vida. He’ll have to ask Ryan. A small community beside rush hour traffic, an easy choice, and you wouldn’t need Central America; this place has its own exotic appeal. He knocks on a wooden fence board, yes, grounded and real. The two girls sit cross-legged on the grass, in a circle with room for three.
###
Over lunch, Jo mentions Franco’s visit that very same summer. Ice splinters crystallize in her eyes when Sid prods for more. Crossing country with family and a business associate, in typical caravan style, they pulled in to block up the entire main street with motor homes and boats. The plan was to launch their boats in the Atlantic, just to say they did. Jo had showed them the park, but they were more interested in getting a good deal and finding a public boat launch … as public as possible.
Franco did give Jo a few pointers on how to run a business, how she could expand and make more profit. She shivers, recalling some of his tactics. Her community outlook felt like a warm sea invaded by a North Atlantic iceberg, and through his smooth talk, she easily sensed what his voice was not saying. Peace was restored only gradually, only days after their departure, she sighs with relief, as she likely did then.
Sid is washing the dishes when Jo steps lightly back up the stairs. She has made a small sale, but more importantly, she tells him, she has an order for a custom set of dinnerware. Her specialty. She chats about the new designs she uses. Sea creatures, forest animals, they are more and more popular. People want symbols of nature, like religious icons, at the table during mealtime.
###
The afternoon brings a visitor over from up the street. Another artist who weaves, making special order clothing from local wool. The neighbor has knitted sweaters for Jo’s whole family and Sid watches as a business transaction takes place. No currency exchange; they trade straight across – clothing for kitchenware. Like they would have back in the old days.
“How do you know what’s worth what?” He asks, frowning.
“We could figure out the hours I suppose, but it’s a matter of what’s needed. My family needs warm clothes this winter and her family needs a set of dishes and mugs to eat and drink. We’re both better off, so there’s what it’s worth right there.” Jo’s neighbor nods.
Sid falls silent, picks up his notebook, and starts jotting. Their conversation turns to committees they are both on, shoptalk details that could last all afternoon. Sid excuses himself to wander off for a walk.
Adjusting to the pace, he ambles slowly down a wide street, under the boughs of oak trees. The age of the village shows with heritage sites from long ago. The street’s name is St George, and it is lined with mature houses, a brick court house, and then a hill where the French built Fort Anne, the sign says, on a point looking out over the waters, cannons ready. He wanders about, sniffing the ocean, thinking of going to sea, of living on a boat instead of a van.
Back at the house, the girls are taking their afternoon tea in the driveway. An extravagant assembly of plastic teacups sit on a shoebox with arrangements made for three.
“Hey Uncle Sidney.
“Hey Sami.”
“We told Monique about our new playground.”
“Oh, is she excited, like you?”
“She said it’s not new. She played there before.”
“Oh really.” He listens closely.
“They had a swing.” Sheizi says shyly. “Old board with scratchy ropes.”
Sami shakes her head in agreement, and then reveals more.
“We told her about muuch cones. For bigradable garbage.”
“What did she say?”
“She says pigs.”
“Pigs?”
“Pigs eat bigradable. They eat it all up.”
“Hmm, really, pigs.”
The girls laugh, and Sid smiles, shaking his head slowly, until the head shake becomes a nod. If a family had pigs, there
would be no garbage, but that was like the simpler times of the past, maybe back before the happiness peak of 1957. Would a return to the decades past be a return to wealthier ways of living? It should at least make more room for greener pastures and forests, a revival of Sid’s church, from those days.
###
They sit around the supper table later.
“You had a long visit with your neighbor.”
“She needed to talk and she needed me to listen. That’s what friends are for, you know that.”
He nods, knowing she’s right.
“Buddha teaches right action.”
“Oh, is your friend a Buddhist?”
“You know, everyone is a little bit of a Buddhist. We’re all enlightened to some extent or other.” Jo waves her hand around.
“Even Franco?” He can’t help himself.
“Yes, I suppose, even Franco. Like I said, to some extent or other.”
She passes a plate of chicken, with local organic vegetables, she says. A health food freak would be happy out in the small town like this.
“Aren’t Buddhists vegan?”
“To some extent, brother, remember no one’s perfect.” Jo keeps her peace.
Rocking back on two legs of an old wooden stool, Sid watches her later in the clay room, putting the finishing touches of paint on a dinner set and laying out blocks of fresh clay for the new order. Jake throws the clay, she told him, and I do most of the painting. A twitch of thunderstorm dances around the room, a silent flash of lightning.
“Was there ever a playground in that park before?”
“Maybe long ago, not since we moved here.”
“Maybe back in Grandpa’s day. Hey, Grandpa would be happy with you, you know, I think he’d be really happy you’re doing what you love to do.”
“Oh come on. He never gave a rat’s ass about other people. He never knew what happiness was, and especially for someone else.”
“To some extent, remember what you said. Grandpa Pawlo had to be a little bit enlightened too. You know, I’ve been thinking, he was sort of our leader, our flagman, cause he’s part of the reason we’re where we’re at, so we can look for happiness. He gave us the circumstances.”
She looks at him, eyes narrowing. Then with a sigh she settles quietly. “Yes, I suppose. He did write some poetry.”