When your rooster crows
At the break of dawn
Look out your window
And I'll be gone
Bob Dylan; Don't Think Twice
Antigua, Guatemala
January 31, 2020
You are a morning person. You can't help it. Even when you go to bed late you wake up early. Now what? You are awake and it is dark. Pitch dark. You are confused. You hear a rooster crowing. You lie in the dark. You listen to the breath of the person beside you and you hear the rooster crow.
The room is dark, dark as tar, and you can't see a thing. The rooster crows and you can't remember where you are so you get up, dress, and quietly go out the door. Your shoes click on the tile floor.
The screen of your cell phone glows in the dark. Is it Eastern or Central time? You cannot remember. You remember where you are and how you got there but time is beyond comprehension. The hall is deserted and your shoes click on the tile floor. The man that greeted you when you arrived yesterday is asleep. His head is down on the front desk and you hear his breathing.
You unlatch a gigantic wood door that is the main entrance and step out onto the street. The door swings easily and makes no noise. The door is a portal. It connects and separates two worlds. You step through it onto the hard cobblestone street. You close the portal behind you. There is a click. A faint click. It latches shut, without effort, and you are left to stand in silence on the cobblestone road.
The road is deserted. It is dark, like pitch. The sun has yet to come up. The rooster crows. And in kind, other roosters respond. You stand with your back to the portal. You turn to look at it and you raise your hand to give it a gentle push. You turn your back to the great door a second time and for no reason you turn left.
At the first intersection you come to you turn left again. Maybe you have a sense of where you are going. Maybe you don't. The sun remains buried behind the shadow of the mountains but you notice the sky is brighter. The roads are deserted. The shops that once were open are all closed, barricaded and locked. Some locked with several locks. Everything is locked and latched tight.
Yesterday you saw a cafe. You can't remember where you saw the cafe. It was only the day before. You can't remember so you continue to walk.
You walk past an ancient Spanish Church. It is painted yellow, like the light of the sun, and the trim and the statues embedded in wall cavities are painted white, for pureness. Pigeons roost on the heads of the statues and deposit their droppings on the heads of saints. In front of the church is a square. There are trees, and benches for people to sit. There are people sitting on the benches. You look at them. They at you. And you walk past them. The light is dim and the sun is rising. The sky is brighter than it was before.
You turn right. You turn right because you see the arch. The big arch spans the cobblestone road and acts as a kind of marker. Yesterday the road was full of people. People and cars. And they took pictures of the arch. Now the road is empty and you stand on the deserted cobblestone below the great arch. The arch is painted yellow, like the golden rays of the sun, and parts of it are trimmed and painted white, for purity. The cobblestones are dark. Almost black and their surfaces are round and worn smooth. You take a picture of the arch because the street is deserted and there are no cars.
Straight ahead, down the cobblestone road, you see the central square. You remember the square like you remembered the big arch. The square and the the arch are like sign posts and act as markers.
You hear the engine of a car. Then a pickup truck passes slowly in front of you. The pickup truck is full of people. The people are crammed onto the bed of the pickup truck. Their hands clutch a metal rail that is there to prevent them from falling out. People stand on the bumper and cling to the metal rail. The truck is crammed full of silent people and it rides low across the black cobblestones. The wheels click on smooth stones. And you watch it pass by.
The narrow streets of cobblestone have come alive. There must be a signal you have missed. Store fronts are open and the streets are filling with people. People and cars and trucks and motorcycles. There must have been a signal and you missed it.
The shadows of the mountains stretch across the city. The sky is brighter. The morning sun, with it's gleaming rays of light, remains parked behind the mountains. You continue to walk towards the central square that is filling with people.
The espresso is dark. It is black, like pitch, like a darkened room, and you take a sip of the delicate nectar. You stand on the curb across the way from the central square and you think about crossing the cobblestone street and sitting on a bench with all the other silent people. You think about sitting on a bench, sipping your nectar, and watch for the sun as it rises over the mountains. But you don't. You turn left. You start the long walk back to the portal. And you hope the doorman is awake. That the doorman is no longer asleep at his desk.
Monday, February 24, 2020
Sunday, February 23, 2020
The Guatemala Stove Project
Before going much further with the story I suppose I should talk (write?) about the main purpose I have traveled a thousand miles into the deepest heart of Central America.
Up to this point my three little tales have been more or less about me which, as you have probably gathered, is my favourite topic. I'm confident you are your own favourite topic too. After all, are we not the most interesting person we know. Like a tire with a slow leak our minds roil with self deflating internal conversations. There are times we say one thing while we do another and in the process we become a jangle of contradiction. We drag ourselves down by a thousand tortured failures as we stumble blindly along a broken pathetic existence. Wow, that is so drama. Okay, so maybe YOU don't, You're perfect, which I've always thought, but I am certainly an existential mess. Ironically it's this animated mess that makes for the interesting stuff that the best and most fascinating stories are made. What great artist is not a tortured soul. Bad things come before good things. And then bad things happen again. And so on. I don't really know what that has to do with anything about the GSP but there you have it.
The Guatemala Stove Project (GSP) has been around for 20 odd years. It is a charitable, non-profit organization that funds the building of wood burning stoves in the highlands of Guatemala, Central America.
Why wood stoves? Well, the people who live here, the native Mayan people, are the poorest and most marginalized in a poor and marginalized country. They live a subsistence existence, meaning, basically, they live off the land. Their homes are hand built of adobe (mud). Most have no running water. A few have minimal electricity. They grow and harvest their own food and they cook what they have over open fires. There is little variety in their diet, mostly corn, and if they are fortunate, some vegetables. Cooking takes place outside the home but most cooking takes place indoors. Fire wood is either gathered from far away and carried back to camp, or if the family has an income in that particular month they may be able to purchase a few arm fulls of wood.
Imagine a tiny fire in the center of a small dark room. You will cook all your meals on this fire. There is an entrance that may or may not have a door. There could be a tiny window for light. Or not. There is a hole in the roof to let the smoke out. A pot of water rests on the fire. You, the mother, tend the fire and watch patiently, carefully as the water comes to a boil. Two or three of your children are with you. The haze is as thick as soup and you can hardly see your child who totters across the way. The walls are stained black. So are your lungs. Your eyes sting and burn. You rub your eyes and that only makes it worse. Breath in, breath out.
I don't know if you have ever been in a smoke filled room but it is wicked. Recall those smoke filled bars in which us boomers once passed away the time way back when. And that is tolerable comparatively speaking.
There are several things going on here. The health issues are obvious. However, there are a few other things to consider. An open fire uses a ton of wood compared to an enclosed and efficient wood stove. Imagine you have to collect all that wood and carry it up the side of a mountain. Every day. More wood, more deforestation. More deforestation, more soil erosion. More soil erosion, less productive soil and the greater the chance of mud slides.
And in the big picture, more wood burned, a hell of a lot more carbon emissions. More trees cut down, less carbon sequestration. Forests and Jungle are good things for the planet. Desert, not so much.
When the forests are gone they are gone. The land becomes barren and dry. The birds, the animals, the insects are gone too. We humans are hard on this earth. We don't mean to be. We just are.
I digress, the stove is a source of pride for the family and it becomes a place for communal and family activity. Cooking is safer as there is far less chance for burns and accidental fires. Or, if the family has to purchase fire wood periodically they could save on this expenditure and use the money elsewhere for other much needed goods.
There is no chance for employment for the people in the hills. There are no jobs. There probably will be no jobs other than agriculture. There are very few places for education. Education is key, especially for women, as they are the backbone of civilization. Women and education are the glue that binds. Guatemalan men, and entire families, are abandoning their homeland for the supposedly greener pastures of North America in hopes of a better life. We have heard the stories. I can't blame them for seeking something better. You and I would do the same. The history of humanity is the story of migration. A cook stove won't change that but it will change the lives for the better for those who stay.
A stove costs $300 Canadian dollars. Think about it. Or think about donating 20 bucks. It won't kill you like a face full of smoke.
Up to this point my three little tales have been more or less about me which, as you have probably gathered, is my favourite topic. I'm confident you are your own favourite topic too. After all, are we not the most interesting person we know. Like a tire with a slow leak our minds roil with self deflating internal conversations. There are times we say one thing while we do another and in the process we become a jangle of contradiction. We drag ourselves down by a thousand tortured failures as we stumble blindly along a broken pathetic existence. Wow, that is so drama. Okay, so maybe YOU don't, You're perfect, which I've always thought, but I am certainly an existential mess. Ironically it's this animated mess that makes for the interesting stuff that the best and most fascinating stories are made. What great artist is not a tortured soul. Bad things come before good things. And then bad things happen again. And so on. I don't really know what that has to do with anything about the GSP but there you have it.
The Guatemala Stove Project (GSP) has been around for 20 odd years. It is a charitable, non-profit organization that funds the building of wood burning stoves in the highlands of Guatemala, Central America.
Why wood stoves? Well, the people who live here, the native Mayan people, are the poorest and most marginalized in a poor and marginalized country. They live a subsistence existence, meaning, basically, they live off the land. Their homes are hand built of adobe (mud). Most have no running water. A few have minimal electricity. They grow and harvest their own food and they cook what they have over open fires. There is little variety in their diet, mostly corn, and if they are fortunate, some vegetables. Cooking takes place outside the home but most cooking takes place indoors. Fire wood is either gathered from far away and carried back to camp, or if the family has an income in that particular month they may be able to purchase a few arm fulls of wood.
Imagine a tiny fire in the center of a small dark room. You will cook all your meals on this fire. There is an entrance that may or may not have a door. There could be a tiny window for light. Or not. There is a hole in the roof to let the smoke out. A pot of water rests on the fire. You, the mother, tend the fire and watch patiently, carefully as the water comes to a boil. Two or three of your children are with you. The haze is as thick as soup and you can hardly see your child who totters across the way. The walls are stained black. So are your lungs. Your eyes sting and burn. You rub your eyes and that only makes it worse. Breath in, breath out.
I don't know if you have ever been in a smoke filled room but it is wicked. Recall those smoke filled bars in which us boomers once passed away the time way back when. And that is tolerable comparatively speaking.
There are several things going on here. The health issues are obvious. However, there are a few other things to consider. An open fire uses a ton of wood compared to an enclosed and efficient wood stove. Imagine you have to collect all that wood and carry it up the side of a mountain. Every day. More wood, more deforestation. More deforestation, more soil erosion. More soil erosion, less productive soil and the greater the chance of mud slides.
And in the big picture, more wood burned, a hell of a lot more carbon emissions. More trees cut down, less carbon sequestration. Forests and Jungle are good things for the planet. Desert, not so much.
When the forests are gone they are gone. The land becomes barren and dry. The birds, the animals, the insects are gone too. We humans are hard on this earth. We don't mean to be. We just are.
I digress, the stove is a source of pride for the family and it becomes a place for communal and family activity. Cooking is safer as there is far less chance for burns and accidental fires. Or, if the family has to purchase fire wood periodically they could save on this expenditure and use the money elsewhere for other much needed goods.
There is no chance for employment for the people in the hills. There are no jobs. There probably will be no jobs other than agriculture. There are very few places for education. Education is key, especially for women, as they are the backbone of civilization. Women and education are the glue that binds. Guatemalan men, and entire families, are abandoning their homeland for the supposedly greener pastures of North America in hopes of a better life. We have heard the stories. I can't blame them for seeking something better. You and I would do the same. The history of humanity is the story of migration. A cook stove won't change that but it will change the lives for the better for those who stay.
A stove costs $300 Canadian dollars. Think about it. Or think about donating 20 bucks. It won't kill you like a face full of smoke.
Friday, February 21, 2020
Antigua
Antigua Guatemala has been designated an UNESCO world heritage site. I can see why. It is very much what you'd expect to encounter in a 500 year old Colonial Spanish city. I gather that Antigua translates roughly as 'Old Guatemala' and the city has the ancient feeling of old bones. But in my pale green eyes everything is new and I am, as I stand upon black hewed cobblestone trying to avoid motorcycles and cars gawking at this new world around me, mesmerized by it's beauty. I think I have fallen in love with a place.
At some point on this working vacation though the love will tarnish and fade as love sometimes can. Warts and faults appear on our beloved and we see things differently. Or do we ultimately see things as they really are? Influenced by our own biases and personalities of course. But the initial flush of love is thrilling and so I jump right in. Like a crow or magpie I am sometimes infatuated by shiny new things and I am drawn to pick them up and keep them to myself.
Our hotel has a strong Spanish flavour as does everything in Antigua. The individual rooms of the Posada La Merced surround a lush garden courtyard which is open to a sky so blue it hurts the eyes. A little fountain trickles water. Plants familiar and unfamiliar hang everywhere from thick wooden rafters stained dark with time. There is a bench to sit and wonder. I am green with envy, not so much for this exact place but that there are places in this world that are warm year round, where one can have a courtyard open to the blue skies above, where the rains can fall in and wash away the dust of time, where one can nurture and tend their own private Garden of Eden and let the days slowly pass in the care of something that feeds and nurtures the soul.
Not to disparage upon myself and give the world the wrong impression but I do have my own Garden of Eden complete with my own Eve and a lovely community that supports and connects. I suppose the difference is my courtyard is seasonal. And it is not enclosed by walls of tile and stone but of trees and fields, and the tending of gardens in the warm summer months give way to the tending of banked fires that glow through the window of an airtight stove during the long snow crusted winters. It is not so bad, these changing seasons, it is just different, though right now I am jealous that a builder can build a house without considering the need to account for a biting cold that lasts for months and for the underlying earth that will heave with frost when winter sets in. I will, at this time, conveniently ignore the ever present threat that earthquakes could topple this city of dreams and turn stone to rubble at any moment for the sake of love at first sight.
Antigua has about forty five thousand people, similar to the size of Ontario's Belleville. The entire city is surrounded by mountains so I feel like I'm a tiny child sitting in the bottom of an immense bathtub as I look up at these towering peaks. The mountains are no so much mountains as they are volcanoes, most of them dormant, but some of them occasionally fart out smoke and lava.
The day is early so once we are settled in I am too excited to sit still. Probably the first thing that anyone does when arriving at a new place is explore. This I believe is to get one's bearings and to learn what is where. For Catherine it is textiles and museums. For me it is Espresso Cafe's and more Espresso Cafe's.
I won't bore you with a detailed account of walking through the city but I will say it is a fantastic city to walk and walk and walk some more. One caveat though, the sidewalks are narrow and uneven. The cobblestone roads are narrow and uneven. And, I'm fairly sure of this, pedestrians don't necessarily have the right of way. Caution to you who visit. Watch your step. Heads up. Eyes down.
At some point on this working vacation though the love will tarnish and fade as love sometimes can. Warts and faults appear on our beloved and we see things differently. Or do we ultimately see things as they really are? Influenced by our own biases and personalities of course. But the initial flush of love is thrilling and so I jump right in. Like a crow or magpie I am sometimes infatuated by shiny new things and I am drawn to pick them up and keep them to myself.
Our hotel has a strong Spanish flavour as does everything in Antigua. The individual rooms of the Posada La Merced surround a lush garden courtyard which is open to a sky so blue it hurts the eyes. A little fountain trickles water. Plants familiar and unfamiliar hang everywhere from thick wooden rafters stained dark with time. There is a bench to sit and wonder. I am green with envy, not so much for this exact place but that there are places in this world that are warm year round, where one can have a courtyard open to the blue skies above, where the rains can fall in and wash away the dust of time, where one can nurture and tend their own private Garden of Eden and let the days slowly pass in the care of something that feeds and nurtures the soul.
Not to disparage upon myself and give the world the wrong impression but I do have my own Garden of Eden complete with my own Eve and a lovely community that supports and connects. I suppose the difference is my courtyard is seasonal. And it is not enclosed by walls of tile and stone but of trees and fields, and the tending of gardens in the warm summer months give way to the tending of banked fires that glow through the window of an airtight stove during the long snow crusted winters. It is not so bad, these changing seasons, it is just different, though right now I am jealous that a builder can build a house without considering the need to account for a biting cold that lasts for months and for the underlying earth that will heave with frost when winter sets in. I will, at this time, conveniently ignore the ever present threat that earthquakes could topple this city of dreams and turn stone to rubble at any moment for the sake of love at first sight.
Antigua has about forty five thousand people, similar to the size of Ontario's Belleville. The entire city is surrounded by mountains so I feel like I'm a tiny child sitting in the bottom of an immense bathtub as I look up at these towering peaks. The mountains are no so much mountains as they are volcanoes, most of them dormant, but some of them occasionally fart out smoke and lava.
The day is early so once we are settled in I am too excited to sit still. Probably the first thing that anyone does when arriving at a new place is explore. This I believe is to get one's bearings and to learn what is where. For Catherine it is textiles and museums. For me it is Espresso Cafe's and more Espresso Cafe's.
I won't bore you with a detailed account of walking through the city but I will say it is a fantastic city to walk and walk and walk some more. One caveat though, the sidewalks are narrow and uneven. The cobblestone roads are narrow and uneven. And, I'm fairly sure of this, pedestrians don't necessarily have the right of way. Caution to you who visit. Watch your step. Heads up. Eyes down.
Wednesday, February 19, 2020
Guatemala City
Yes I am a tourist. I am also on a mission. I have come to Guatemala to help build stoves. There are roughly 20 of us arriving from frigid Ontario over the next few days. Then we will go up into the highlands that surround Guatemala's second biggest city, Quetzaltenango. And once up in the mountains we will meet the Mayan people who have lived there forever, in villages and communities small and large, old and new, and we will get down to work. A few of the organizers are already in Guatemala. They came early to meet the people and collect information on the many stoves that have been built over the past year.
Not counting the organizers, this particular traveling party of 6 are the first to arrive in Guatemala. We had set our travel plans as such so we would have a few days to acclimatize ourselves to the country and the culture. It is a great idea. I love the idea of hanging out before work.
One slight hitch. Only 4 of us arrive at the Guatemalan airport. Two are left behind in Mexico City. They missed their connecting flight. It is a long story full of happenstance and pathos. I'll skip the details and summarize by saying we are not impressed with AeroMexico. Things being what they are, the two of them did eventually arrive, sans luggage. As it is, there ain't no sense in dwelling on things that go amiss. If I were the type to dwell on my screw ups I'd regret most every day of my life. That's also another long story. Best to leave it alone. For now.
At the exit doors of the airport the surviving 4 of us were on the lookout for a dude that should be holding a sign written in English. 'Stove Project'. We found him and after a semi-confusing conversation held in sign language, broken Spanish mixed in with a few French verbs, and much pointing we follow him out the door to a waiting shuttle bus. A shuttle bus is basically a big van with a whole lot of seats. I quickly learn shuttle buses in Guatemala are usually full beyond capacity. They drive along roads with the sliding side door wide open. People hop off and on willy nilly. Luggage, boxes, tools, crates of live chickens are stored and tied haphazardly in place on the roof. This is not the case for the four of us. Today we travel is spacious luxury.
My first breath of warm Guatemalan air has an aroma thick with floral sweetness. Sounds of traffic and the occasional horn mingle with the cheerful chirping of birds. Colour seems to be everywhere. A blue sky. Trees full and green. Red, orange, yellow flowers. I see butterflies. I'd call this paradise if I were not standing in the midst of a large Central American city.
The colourful contrast to the mostly monochrome uniformity of a Canadian winter is almost overwhelming. Over the past few months I have forgotten the pleasures that come with a Canadian summer, and now, how quickly I accept my new surroundings. Winter was yesterday and already a part of my past.
It is hot but not humid. These are highlands after all. And though one could say we are in the tropics I am told the type of climate that makes your clothes stick to your skin is limited to the Pacific coast. Moisture that wafts in off that vast and rolling ocean stalls when the heavy air masses encounter the volcanic mountain range that traverses Guatemala like a bony spine and divides the country in two.
Guatemala City is the capital. Like Ottawa the population is a million strong but it is said if one includes the surrounding areas the number of people living here soars above 3 million.
Our bus swings through the city. The driver has a heavy foot. Traffic is chaotic. There are more motorcycles and scooters than cars. There seems to be no traffic lights and stop signs. Like ants on a congested path trucks, cars, bikes and the smoke belching chicken buses merge and pass and cut one another off. Movement is continuous. Roads are lined with uncountable vendors and pedestrians who appear to be inches away from the voluminous traffic. Rules? There are no rules. No time for shyness. Just go.
I am wide eyed and laughing with the giddy tickle sensation that comes with the excitement and wonder of something completely foreign yet unmistakably human . Can this be the same planet I currently live on? Mere minutes have passed and already I have become entrenched in a strange new world in which my sense for the exotic is about to explode and my hunger for adventure is ravenous.
Motorcyclists do not wear helmets. There are two, three, four, five people sardined into the seats of a thousand speeding scooters. Entire families weave through traffic, tiny children sandwiched between parents. They speed along center lanes with careless abandon. I gorge on the thrill of it all and I long to be riding in the midst of this chaotic mayhem. Without a doubt I would be injured or deceased within minutes. It seems worth the risk.
Mr. Heavy Foot pushes the van along what I think might be a highway and soon the traffic thins as we reach the edge of the great city. Up into the mountains we climb. The road snakes and turns as we go and we lean and rock with every motion. I should be tired for I have barely slept in the past 30 hours. But between coffee and excitement I am alert. I am doing my best to engage with what goes on before me.
After an hour, or two, for it is hard to tell, we come to another city. The roads we have traveled have been a continuous line of houses and businesses, except where the mountain sides are too steep to build, so I find it difficult to discern changing patterns. But traffic has congested once again. Of that I am sure.
Without warning pavement turns to cobblestone. The tires click and roar and the van bounces to the cobblestone beat. Streets narrow to alleyways more suitable to horse and buggy. The roads jut confusingly in every direction. The buildings we fly past are solid looking and their exteriors are plastered and painted in a mosaic of colour. Once again there are pedestrians and motorcycles everywhere. We pass churches and park squares, coffee shops, hotels and homes. Some buildings lie in ruins. The van seems to be going in circles. Later I figure out the streets are a maze of one way directions. The van jerks to a halt. We have arrived in Antigua unbeknownst to me.
Not counting the organizers, this particular traveling party of 6 are the first to arrive in Guatemala. We had set our travel plans as such so we would have a few days to acclimatize ourselves to the country and the culture. It is a great idea. I love the idea of hanging out before work.
One slight hitch. Only 4 of us arrive at the Guatemalan airport. Two are left behind in Mexico City. They missed their connecting flight. It is a long story full of happenstance and pathos. I'll skip the details and summarize by saying we are not impressed with AeroMexico. Things being what they are, the two of them did eventually arrive, sans luggage. As it is, there ain't no sense in dwelling on things that go amiss. If I were the type to dwell on my screw ups I'd regret most every day of my life. That's also another long story. Best to leave it alone. For now.
At the exit doors of the airport the surviving 4 of us were on the lookout for a dude that should be holding a sign written in English. 'Stove Project'. We found him and after a semi-confusing conversation held in sign language, broken Spanish mixed in with a few French verbs, and much pointing we follow him out the door to a waiting shuttle bus. A shuttle bus is basically a big van with a whole lot of seats. I quickly learn shuttle buses in Guatemala are usually full beyond capacity. They drive along roads with the sliding side door wide open. People hop off and on willy nilly. Luggage, boxes, tools, crates of live chickens are stored and tied haphazardly in place on the roof. This is not the case for the four of us. Today we travel is spacious luxury.
My first breath of warm Guatemalan air has an aroma thick with floral sweetness. Sounds of traffic and the occasional horn mingle with the cheerful chirping of birds. Colour seems to be everywhere. A blue sky. Trees full and green. Red, orange, yellow flowers. I see butterflies. I'd call this paradise if I were not standing in the midst of a large Central American city.
The colourful contrast to the mostly monochrome uniformity of a Canadian winter is almost overwhelming. Over the past few months I have forgotten the pleasures that come with a Canadian summer, and now, how quickly I accept my new surroundings. Winter was yesterday and already a part of my past.
It is hot but not humid. These are highlands after all. And though one could say we are in the tropics I am told the type of climate that makes your clothes stick to your skin is limited to the Pacific coast. Moisture that wafts in off that vast and rolling ocean stalls when the heavy air masses encounter the volcanic mountain range that traverses Guatemala like a bony spine and divides the country in two.
Guatemala City is the capital. Like Ottawa the population is a million strong but it is said if one includes the surrounding areas the number of people living here soars above 3 million.
Our bus swings through the city. The driver has a heavy foot. Traffic is chaotic. There are more motorcycles and scooters than cars. There seems to be no traffic lights and stop signs. Like ants on a congested path trucks, cars, bikes and the smoke belching chicken buses merge and pass and cut one another off. Movement is continuous. Roads are lined with uncountable vendors and pedestrians who appear to be inches away from the voluminous traffic. Rules? There are no rules. No time for shyness. Just go.
I am wide eyed and laughing with the giddy tickle sensation that comes with the excitement and wonder of something completely foreign yet unmistakably human . Can this be the same planet I currently live on? Mere minutes have passed and already I have become entrenched in a strange new world in which my sense for the exotic is about to explode and my hunger for adventure is ravenous.
Motorcyclists do not wear helmets. There are two, three, four, five people sardined into the seats of a thousand speeding scooters. Entire families weave through traffic, tiny children sandwiched between parents. They speed along center lanes with careless abandon. I gorge on the thrill of it all and I long to be riding in the midst of this chaotic mayhem. Without a doubt I would be injured or deceased within minutes. It seems worth the risk.
Mr. Heavy Foot pushes the van along what I think might be a highway and soon the traffic thins as we reach the edge of the great city. Up into the mountains we climb. The road snakes and turns as we go and we lean and rock with every motion. I should be tired for I have barely slept in the past 30 hours. But between coffee and excitement I am alert. I am doing my best to engage with what goes on before me.
After an hour, or two, for it is hard to tell, we come to another city. The roads we have traveled have been a continuous line of houses and businesses, except where the mountain sides are too steep to build, so I find it difficult to discern changing patterns. But traffic has congested once again. Of that I am sure.
Without warning pavement turns to cobblestone. The tires click and roar and the van bounces to the cobblestone beat. Streets narrow to alleyways more suitable to horse and buggy. The roads jut confusingly in every direction. The buildings we fly past are solid looking and their exteriors are plastered and painted in a mosaic of colour. Once again there are pedestrians and motorcycles everywhere. We pass churches and park squares, coffee shops, hotels and homes. Some buildings lie in ruins. The van seems to be going in circles. Later I figure out the streets are a maze of one way directions. The van jerks to a halt. We have arrived in Antigua unbeknownst to me.
Tuesday, February 18, 2020
Guatemala; Upon Arrival
The first thing that comes to mind is how the unordinary quickly becomes ordinary. Perhaps this is a comment on how quickly people adapt to new surroundings. I know this to be true.
Upon touchdown at the main airport of Guatemala, comparatively speaking a tiny airport with one small terminal, I am bristling with attentiveness to the new world that has appeared around me. I do my best to absorb all than I can. My senses are on high alert. The newness of it all is exciting.
For the most part the long and narrow hall of the terminal is void of people. Our footsteps and voices echo off the terrazzo floors and the immense glass windows as if we are wandering through a rocky Arizona canyon.
As I walk, heavy with backpack and single suitcase, I peer through the large windows at the world beyond. There are but a couple of airliners out on the tarmac, one of them the one that brought us. They bear the insignia of AeroMexico; a bird of prey set as headgear on a human face, probably Aztec. I cannot explain why but I like their logo. Perhaps it is unique. From the near empty cavern and the barren tarmac one would surmise that Guatemala is neither a tourist destination nor a business center. That's okay with me. I hate tourists, even though I'm one.
The tarmac stretches out a few hundred feet and then abruptly encounters a shear rock wall that has been cut and grooved by machine. The flat surface that is the landing strip and terminal building is obviously human made for the landscape that surrounds me is rolling with mountains and I hazard a guess there is little chance of finding a natural area that is large enough and level enough and suitable enough to land a jet.
Along the entire top of the etched and imposing wall there is a chain link fence and the fence itself is lined along its top with coiled razor wire. Okay, so this is Guatemala. I can see the point of the fence. It is a barrier to keep people from falling over the edge, but then why the razor wire. Who in their right mind would clamber over a fence to immediately become involved in a 50 meter drop to hard pavement? Wait a minute, there are people in this world who are not in their right mind. The razor wire is to protect us from ourselves and the stupid ideas that sometimes inspire us. Hey, I have a great idea, lets storm the airport! Who's with me? Lemmings.
Beyond the fence are tropical looking trees, and a road upon which I see cars traveling. Beyond this are rows of tall buildings, apartments as opposed to business towers. The buildings are in various states of condition, meaning some look in sad shape and in need of repair, and some are colourful and cheery looking in their own right. I think of Beirut, even though I've never been to Beirut. Again I don't know why. I generally don't know why I think what I think. The city looks appealing and unappealing. My first impression is what a great place, I wouldn't want to live here.
Yes, yes, yes, and then in the further beyond are the mountains. The lovely mountains. Not tall and snow covered like the Rockies or Andes but still what I would call big mothers. It is early morning. We have been in the air all night traveling through darkness. We have left the cold and snow and the relatively flat surface of Eastern Canada behind. Now the sun has come up over the hills and the sky is clear blue. I have yet to taste the warm air. The mountains look dry and thirsty. I love mountains and I am ready to sip the nectar of Guatemala.
Upon touchdown at the main airport of Guatemala, comparatively speaking a tiny airport with one small terminal, I am bristling with attentiveness to the new world that has appeared around me. I do my best to absorb all than I can. My senses are on high alert. The newness of it all is exciting.
For the most part the long and narrow hall of the terminal is void of people. Our footsteps and voices echo off the terrazzo floors and the immense glass windows as if we are wandering through a rocky Arizona canyon.
As I walk, heavy with backpack and single suitcase, I peer through the large windows at the world beyond. There are but a couple of airliners out on the tarmac, one of them the one that brought us. They bear the insignia of AeroMexico; a bird of prey set as headgear on a human face, probably Aztec. I cannot explain why but I like their logo. Perhaps it is unique. From the near empty cavern and the barren tarmac one would surmise that Guatemala is neither a tourist destination nor a business center. That's okay with me. I hate tourists, even though I'm one.
The tarmac stretches out a few hundred feet and then abruptly encounters a shear rock wall that has been cut and grooved by machine. The flat surface that is the landing strip and terminal building is obviously human made for the landscape that surrounds me is rolling with mountains and I hazard a guess there is little chance of finding a natural area that is large enough and level enough and suitable enough to land a jet.
Along the entire top of the etched and imposing wall there is a chain link fence and the fence itself is lined along its top with coiled razor wire. Okay, so this is Guatemala. I can see the point of the fence. It is a barrier to keep people from falling over the edge, but then why the razor wire. Who in their right mind would clamber over a fence to immediately become involved in a 50 meter drop to hard pavement? Wait a minute, there are people in this world who are not in their right mind. The razor wire is to protect us from ourselves and the stupid ideas that sometimes inspire us. Hey, I have a great idea, lets storm the airport! Who's with me? Lemmings.
Beyond the fence are tropical looking trees, and a road upon which I see cars traveling. Beyond this are rows of tall buildings, apartments as opposed to business towers. The buildings are in various states of condition, meaning some look in sad shape and in need of repair, and some are colourful and cheery looking in their own right. I think of Beirut, even though I've never been to Beirut. Again I don't know why. I generally don't know why I think what I think. The city looks appealing and unappealing. My first impression is what a great place, I wouldn't want to live here.
Yes, yes, yes, and then in the further beyond are the mountains. The lovely mountains. Not tall and snow covered like the Rockies or Andes but still what I would call big mothers. It is early morning. We have been in the air all night traveling through darkness. We have left the cold and snow and the relatively flat surface of Eastern Canada behind. Now the sun has come up over the hills and the sky is clear blue. I have yet to taste the warm air. The mountains look dry and thirsty. I love mountains and I am ready to sip the nectar of Guatemala.
Sunday, December 9, 2018
Colonoscopy
Chapter 1
Nine forty five. A.M.
I arrived fifteen minutes ahead of schedule. The hospital was eerily empty. Lights were dim and the day outside overcast coinciding with my tentative mood, a sombre grey. Snow threatened.
I stood in line at registration., the center of this particular branch of the bureaucratic wheel.
I looked up and down barren halls. Terrazzo floors narrowed off in several directions leading who knows where. Some culminated at pairs of imposing doors embossed with intimidating lettering. 'authorized personnel only'. Yikes. They didn't even capitalize it. My left eye twitched. I swallowed hard.
A thought, "is it still considered a line when you are the only one in it?' The receptionist gabbed on the phone, voice muffled behind the glass barricade. She hung up and disappeared through a door without looking at me. I was miffed, feeling ignored in my self importance. Moments later she returned, waved me over without looking.
'Health card.'
I had it ready. A sign above her spartan enclave read, 'Have Your Health Card Ready'. I'm good at following rules. She read the card. 'This your real name?'
"Of course."
Her eyes narrowed, 'Notquite Oldfish?' she scoffed, as if expecting a prank.
"It's Oldish, and yes, that's me. Most people call me Not."
'Okay', she said. The kind of okay where the ay trails long and the pitch rises suggesting a level of uncertainty or suspicion. 'Okay Not,' she went on, 'I see you are registered in the system. Same address? Same phone number? Spouse?'
"Yes, yes, and yes."
'And what are you in for?' She made it sound like I committed a heinous crime and was about to be imprisoned or sent for execution.
"Colonoscopy," I mumbled.
'What?'
I repeated myself louder.
She didn't bat an eyelash, 'day surgery, down the hall, my left, your right. Come to the end. You'll see double doors with Day Surgery on the left side. There are some chairs there. Sit and wait until your name is called.' She handed me my health card and some forms to fill out.
"Yes Mam. Thank you Mam." I was twice her age and felt like a kid.
Chapter 2
A couple of months previous I had received by mail a letter, official looking yet curiously suspicious, as things can often be in these terse and highly technological times. I was tempted to act irrationally as I usually do and toss the thing into the trash. Instead I opened it as I walked up the gravel driveway. I announced my arrival as I entered the tiny vestibule that is our front door. "Hellooooo, I'm home. Guess what?"
'You're having a colonoscopy.'
I was taken aback. Stunned. "How'd you know?"
'I didn't. It just came out.'
As Fate and Havoc play their very annoying games it wasn't the first coincidence. The week before a friend asked, out of the blue, if I'd ever had a colonoscopy. I wasn't sure what she was angling at so I said hesitatingly, 'Noooo?' I lied. I've had two. One five years ago and one ten years ago. I was due.
'You're getting that age,' she said. 'You should speak to your doctor. And while you are at it get your prostate tested. It's pretty simple.' I wondered how she knew.
She grinned, 'I've had mine tested.'
"You don't have a prostate."
'I know." Her smile widened.
Yikes.
Chapter 3
Cookie was with me to drive me home after the procedure. I said "you should go hang out in town, go to the library, get a coffee, whatever. Looks like I'll be at least three hours." She left.
I sauntered down the hall feigning carefree and casual. Looking like a ski bum I dragged my heavy snow boots along the floor. Today it's all about attitude. I felt like I was back in grade school making my way to the Principal's office to get my ass reamed rather than in the hospital about to get my ass reamed.
People had already occupied some of the chairs, cheap plastic ones like the kind you'd find in a tacky cafeteria. There were a lot of old guys who looked identical and one woman, late thirties, early forties I guessed. Wait a minute, I'm of the same age as these ancient looking fuckers. Crikey, do I look that old? The woman glanced up at me and smiled as I passed. I made a face and smiled back. I couldn't help notice there was a single space between each person. Like no one wanted to touch another person. Dare I sit beside another person? Dare I sit beside the woman. I followed the unspoken rule, I sat at the end and left a space. I leaned forward and looked down the uneven isle at the other tortured souls. Most just stared at the blank wall across the way. The woman played on her cell phone.
The door to the Day Surgery area swings open and closed by one of those automatic push buttons. It operates in complete silence and moves as if it has a will of it's own. Like a call to the gallows a single name is spoken into the still air. The victim solemnly stands, shuffles forward and the doors silently close behind. Time passes. Without warning the automatic door returns to life. The person who previously entered has disappeared without a trace.
'Mr. Oldish.'
It was my turn to go through the pearly gates. I did so tentatively. I entered the chamber. The doors closed behind me. I watched them swing shut.
Straight ahead a solid wall. To the left another set of stocky looking doors, closed tight. To my right a small change room with a tiny wooden bench, and a flimsy white curtain, fastened with rings like a shower curtain, hung limply and drawn open. There was no sign of human life. As I peered into the change room a voice startled me. 'Notquite?'
"Um, yes?" I turned to see a young person, shorter than I, decked out in blue overalls, her long dark hair pulled back into a pony tail.
She was directive and direct. She handed me a bag and some cloth. 'Here are two gowns. The first one goes on open at the back, the second one goes over top, open at the front. Change room is there,' she pointed, 'I'll be back in five minutes.' She turned and zipped out of the room, her pony tail bobbing behind her.
I sat down on the little wooden bench and exhaled. I perceived a problem. Do I completely strip off my clothes and then put on the gowns or should I remove some clothes, put on a gown, and then remove the rest of my clothes and don the second gown? Fuck, I hate this. What if I'm totally naked when Pony Tail returns? Fuck. She only gave me one bag and I'm wearing enough clothes to fill three bags.
I stripped naked, bare feet on the freezing floor, holding the gowns up for inspection wondering if there were subtle differences in their design indicating which one to put on first. They appeared similar so I surmised it didn't matter which gown went on first. I don't do stress well.
I stuffed as much of my clothes into the plastic bag as I could. No way the heavy boots and winter coat were going to fit. What do I do? Leave them here. No one else left clothes behind. There were no hooks to hang a jacket on anyway. My feet were cold so I put my boots back on.
Sitting dejectedly, partially lost in thought, I saw three blue pieces of cloth lying on the floor almost hidden from view by the drawn curtain. I bent forward and grabbed them. Ah ha! Flimsy little booties for the feet, and some other thing. And look, more plastic baggies tucked below the bench. Fantastic. This is going great. My mood picked up considerably.
Pony Tail returned and looked me once over. 'Put your hair net on, bring your bags, follow me.'
A hair net. Of course. Not that I have much hair.
Chapter 4
The day before may be more interesting than the actual day of the procedure. But then again it may not be. Depends on your perspective.
The letter had listed directions that must be followed to the letter. Or else. Luckily I'm good at following directions.
The first thing to do was to take a trip to the drug store and purchase some foul tasting concoction that is supposed to 'aid' in eliminating wastes from the bowel. We must have a clean bowel musn't we? I was instructed to pick up a Kit of Bowel Aid that contained four packs of powder. The Pharmacist looked on the shelf and said in a high pitched voice, 'OH!... we don't have any left. We'll have to order some more.'
What the F. Was there an unexpected run on this stuff? A sudden surge in colonoscopies? How do you run out of this stuff?
"What do I do?" I wailed, "I have to have the stuff for tomorrow?"
'We have the same thing just different."
"Huh?"
The Pharmacist ran off rummaging through shelves loaded with salves, ointments, pills and sponges. A couple of other Pharmacists came over to help. They scrambled around, occasionally whispering to each other, 'over here, no, maybe over here.' I wasn't impressed. Finally the three of them came forward. 'Got it. It's three pills and only two packages of powder. Works just as well and you won't have to drink as much of the mixture. Don't worry, you'll be fine.'
I was skeptical but desperate. That's what happens when I procrastinate.
Cookie was with me in the Pharmacy, "Remember the letter said it would help to have juice or something to help wash the Bowel Aid down." Before we left the Pharmacy I purchased 4 massive bottles of blue flavored Gatoraid.
"This ought to help!" I was anticipating the worst and hoping for the best.
Cookie questioned my sanity, 'are you sure you need that much Gatoraid?'
"Absolutely, Gatoraid for the Bowel Aid. Blue is the best."
The next morning was prep day. I was ready and I told Cookie so. "The letter said not to eat solid foods the day before the procedure, but I'm hungry so I think I'll have some oatmeal for breakfast. I'd say oatmeal isn't really solid food."
Cookie narrowed her eyes and kept her comments to herself.
I decided it would be okay to have one tiny piece of toast. The kind with tons of seeds in it. Healthy toast. But no butter. Okay, a little butter. And black coffee. No cream. I wasn't supposed to have any dairy. I consider butter to be a non dairy product, don't you? It's kind of oily isn't it?
Still hungry, I went off to work. I came home before noon. The bowel flush was to begin in the afternoon. The directions on the box said take the three pills around 1pm, wait until you have a dump or wait for 6 hours, whatever comes first, and then start drinking the powder mixture like crazy.
I was pumped so I took the pills at noon. The pills were surprisingly small. Atomic size really. I expected something the size of agates. Life is full of surprises. With the pills being so small I was doubtful to their degree of effectiveness. What ever, I chased them down with a liter of blue gatoraid and cursed the pharmacist's and all their children as I did so.
I waited.
Six o'clock. Nothing. I was starting to feel a little panicky. "Something's wrong with me Cookie. I took the pills and waited six hours. Nothing's happened. Not even a gurgle or a fart. I expected gurgling at the least."
I was loosing it. "It's the Pharmacist's fault! Aaaaaa, what if I don't get a fully clean bowel?"
Cookie said calmly, 'just keep following directions and don't worry about it. You'll be fine.'
'That's what the pharmacist said', directed I, with hands on hips, to Mrs. No Worries.
I prepared the first batch of Bowel Aid. 'Mix the powder in cold water until it dissolves. Then drink the foul concoction as fast as you can. Stay near a toilet.' That's pretty clear.
So I drank it. And I drank three more liters of blue gatoraid.
That was a mistake.
I shit and shit, and then shit some more. Eventually it was like pissing out your asshole. That stuff really works.
I shit every colour of the rainbow, including several shades of blue.
Yikes.
Oh yeah. The oatmeal was probably a mistake. The toast with the seeds definitely was. As I said, luckily I'm good at following directions.
Chapter 5
Pony tail beckoned me forward, directed me to a fancy cot with wheels, bid me lie down and started grilling me with the same questions as the mean lady at reception. I was completely unprepared for this type of investigation. Eventually she stuck me with a syringe full of clear liquid. Truth serum.
"I'm not lying," I said. "My name really is Notquite and my dog tag is 092254. I'm here for a colonoscopy and if I live through it I promise I'll be good."
'Yes, yes, you'll be fine,' Ponytail said.
Where have I heard that before?
Then she wheeled me over to a huddle of other old guys who all looked the same. Who are these guys? They can't be the same dudes as the transfixed old farts in the hall. How could they be ahead of me? The forty something woman was there too. I was hoping I'd be placed next to her instead of beside some old fucker, but they whisked her away and put me in her spot.
Crammed into rows, a half dozen or more of us lay prone on our cots staring at a gaudy blue/green wall.
Off to my far left a tiny flat screen TV blared.
Choices were limited. Stare at the TV. Stare at the wall.
I choose the wall. More entertaining.
But like the Singing Sirens who tried to beckon Jason and the Argonauts to certain death I too was drawn in by it's enchanting spell.
Lord have mercy. A game show. You're kidding me? People actually watch this?
However, something seemed familiar. By golly, 'The Price Is Right'. I was aghast. It was still on after how many decades? Why?
The host was initially puzzling. He to was familiar. 'Ah ha, so that's what happened to Drew Cary,' I gloated, 'boy he fell a long way.' To be knocked off my high horse, he probably makes more in a day than I do in a year. Who's the real chump?
Some of the guys were getting right into it and I could see one or two quietly pumping their fists. The Sirens were winning.
Then it dawned on me, holy mackerel, 'One Flew Over The Coo Coo's Nest'. Ponytail was Nurse Ratshit. I was one of the inmates, probably Danny DeVito. Definitely not Jack Nicholson.
I couldn't take it any longer. I cranked my neck around to see what took place behind our backs. Ponytail was in a corner sticking some other guy with the truth serum. One of the other nurses, a curly blonde who looked bored, held a clip board and was interrogating another hapless soul. He had the truth serum draining into his hand too.
Yikes.
One by one we were wheeled away. Picked off like sitting ducks.
Chapter 6
The operating room was rather nondescript. Same garish blue/green walls. A bunch of beeping machines with lights flashing. I don't remember if there were any windows. I think not. But plenty of florescent lights made the space quite stark and glaringly bright. I'm sure there were no shadows in this room.
A a team of nurses asked me all the same questions as previous. Doesn't anyone write this stuff down?
One of them asked about medications. Did you take any today?
"I take none."
What about vitamins and supplements?
"Vitamin D and Magnesium."
Why do you take Magnesium?
Everybody stopped what they were doing and looked at me.
"What? How the hell should I know?"
I couldn't think why at the moment. I was feeling a little pressured.
A tall nurse who was in desperate need of a shave answered for me with a basso hoity-toity voice, 'Cause your wife told you too.'
Everybody laughed.
"Well," said I, "you're not far off the mark."
Some guy in the corner, who turned out to be the surgeon, said, 'almost all the men that come here tell us their wives make them take their vitamins. Join the club.'
They all laughed again.
The Surgeon explained the process, what he was going to do and what he was going to look for, and all the terrible things that could go wrong during the procedure. Then I had to sign a release form absolving him of all fault if he screwed things up. Logical.
"Roll on your side." I did.
"Did you drink ALL of your medication?" I did.
Need's a Shave turned out to be the anesthesiologist. 'You're going to fall asleep. Then you will wake up.'
I hope so.
Last thing I heard him say, 'don't worry, you'll be fine.' I know. That's what every one keeps telling me.
I did, I was. I woke up in the exact same place, same fetal position a couple of seconds later. I thought perhaps the anesthesia didn't work. Then I heard, 'he's awake.' It was over.
The Surgeon peered down at me. "You're good. All went well. Good clean bowel. No problems. Your colon is in excellent condition. See you in five years." I blinked.
I can hardly wait.
Chapter 7
Somebody wheeled me away and stationed me between the forty something woman and some old guy. I didn't like the old guy. He reminded me of me. Old. So I turned to the young woman. She was eating a muffin and downing a juice. "How'd it go?"
"Fine, fine." She choked. Muffin bits flew out of her mouth. "All is good. You?"
"Yeah, me too. I'll live for a while yet. You a farmer?" I ask people if they are farmers. One can hope. It's also a good ice breaker.
She waved her juice box in the air and pursed her lip. "Noooo? But I garden, quite a bit. I'm a nurse."
Well, Blondie Clipboard and Pony Tail were within ear shot. Damned if they didn't come running over and the three of them had a big chin wag. It was like a high school reunion or something. Everybody squealing and jumping. I ate a blueberry muffin that tasted nothing like blueberries. They had no Perrier.
One by one we dressed to go home in the allotted restroom. Blondie Clipboard walked Forty Something and I out to the main foyer where we were to wait for our rides. This time it was like walking the yellow brick road in 'Wizard of Oz', the three of us arm in arm, Blondie in the middle. Perhaps we should have skipped.
In front of the rotating entry doors sat an old oaken bench. We sat down on it. The bench was stained dark dark, well worn, and solid as granite. Must of been there for a hundred years. To heavy to move.
"Are you sure you are not a farmer? You seem like the type. Maybe your family farms? At least you're from Perth, right?"
"No, I live near Chaffey's Locks. Grew up there. Did my nurse training in the big city, came back. Now my husband and I run a B&B. There's a lot of grounds work to do. And I still nurse. Down in Kingston. Can't live in the city. Still a country girl at heart. You?"
"Born and raised in Toronto. Live in Maberly now. On a farm. It's fun. It's a learning process. What are you going to eat to break your fast?"
"Oh, I dunno. Soup, probably. Something hearty but light." She looked toward the doors. "My husband's here. Gotta go. I'm Catherine by the way, nice to meet you.... ?"
"Nice name Catherine. I'm Notquite."
Her face lit up. "Nice name too, Notquite. Bye" We shook hands.
"See you here in five years, eh?" I yelled to no one. She was gone, already twirled through the revolving doors and out into the still overcast day. She passed Cookie who was on her way in. My ride was here too. I smiled.
Nine forty five. A.M.
I arrived fifteen minutes ahead of schedule. The hospital was eerily empty. Lights were dim and the day outside overcast coinciding with my tentative mood, a sombre grey. Snow threatened.
I stood in line at registration., the center of this particular branch of the bureaucratic wheel.
I looked up and down barren halls. Terrazzo floors narrowed off in several directions leading who knows where. Some culminated at pairs of imposing doors embossed with intimidating lettering. 'authorized personnel only'. Yikes. They didn't even capitalize it. My left eye twitched. I swallowed hard.
A thought, "is it still considered a line when you are the only one in it?' The receptionist gabbed on the phone, voice muffled behind the glass barricade. She hung up and disappeared through a door without looking at me. I was miffed, feeling ignored in my self importance. Moments later she returned, waved me over without looking.
'Health card.'
I had it ready. A sign above her spartan enclave read, 'Have Your Health Card Ready'. I'm good at following rules. She read the card. 'This your real name?'
"Of course."
Her eyes narrowed, 'Notquite Oldfish?' she scoffed, as if expecting a prank.
"It's Oldish, and yes, that's me. Most people call me Not."
'Okay', she said. The kind of okay where the ay trails long and the pitch rises suggesting a level of uncertainty or suspicion. 'Okay Not,' she went on, 'I see you are registered in the system. Same address? Same phone number? Spouse?'
"Yes, yes, and yes."
'And what are you in for?' She made it sound like I committed a heinous crime and was about to be imprisoned or sent for execution.
"Colonoscopy," I mumbled.
'What?'
I repeated myself louder.
She didn't bat an eyelash, 'day surgery, down the hall, my left, your right. Come to the end. You'll see double doors with Day Surgery on the left side. There are some chairs there. Sit and wait until your name is called.' She handed me my health card and some forms to fill out.
"Yes Mam. Thank you Mam." I was twice her age and felt like a kid.
Chapter 2
A couple of months previous I had received by mail a letter, official looking yet curiously suspicious, as things can often be in these terse and highly technological times. I was tempted to act irrationally as I usually do and toss the thing into the trash. Instead I opened it as I walked up the gravel driveway. I announced my arrival as I entered the tiny vestibule that is our front door. "Hellooooo, I'm home. Guess what?"
'You're having a colonoscopy.'
I was taken aback. Stunned. "How'd you know?"
'I didn't. It just came out.'
As Fate and Havoc play their very annoying games it wasn't the first coincidence. The week before a friend asked, out of the blue, if I'd ever had a colonoscopy. I wasn't sure what she was angling at so I said hesitatingly, 'Noooo?' I lied. I've had two. One five years ago and one ten years ago. I was due.
'You're getting that age,' she said. 'You should speak to your doctor. And while you are at it get your prostate tested. It's pretty simple.' I wondered how she knew.
She grinned, 'I've had mine tested.'
"You don't have a prostate."
'I know." Her smile widened.
Yikes.
Chapter 3
Cookie was with me to drive me home after the procedure. I said "you should go hang out in town, go to the library, get a coffee, whatever. Looks like I'll be at least three hours." She left.
I sauntered down the hall feigning carefree and casual. Looking like a ski bum I dragged my heavy snow boots along the floor. Today it's all about attitude. I felt like I was back in grade school making my way to the Principal's office to get my ass reamed rather than in the hospital about to get my ass reamed.
People had already occupied some of the chairs, cheap plastic ones like the kind you'd find in a tacky cafeteria. There were a lot of old guys who looked identical and one woman, late thirties, early forties I guessed. Wait a minute, I'm of the same age as these ancient looking fuckers. Crikey, do I look that old? The woman glanced up at me and smiled as I passed. I made a face and smiled back. I couldn't help notice there was a single space between each person. Like no one wanted to touch another person. Dare I sit beside another person? Dare I sit beside the woman. I followed the unspoken rule, I sat at the end and left a space. I leaned forward and looked down the uneven isle at the other tortured souls. Most just stared at the blank wall across the way. The woman played on her cell phone.
The door to the Day Surgery area swings open and closed by one of those automatic push buttons. It operates in complete silence and moves as if it has a will of it's own. Like a call to the gallows a single name is spoken into the still air. The victim solemnly stands, shuffles forward and the doors silently close behind. Time passes. Without warning the automatic door returns to life. The person who previously entered has disappeared without a trace.
'Mr. Oldish.'
It was my turn to go through the pearly gates. I did so tentatively. I entered the chamber. The doors closed behind me. I watched them swing shut.
Straight ahead a solid wall. To the left another set of stocky looking doors, closed tight. To my right a small change room with a tiny wooden bench, and a flimsy white curtain, fastened with rings like a shower curtain, hung limply and drawn open. There was no sign of human life. As I peered into the change room a voice startled me. 'Notquite?'
"Um, yes?" I turned to see a young person, shorter than I, decked out in blue overalls, her long dark hair pulled back into a pony tail.
She was directive and direct. She handed me a bag and some cloth. 'Here are two gowns. The first one goes on open at the back, the second one goes over top, open at the front. Change room is there,' she pointed, 'I'll be back in five minutes.' She turned and zipped out of the room, her pony tail bobbing behind her.
I sat down on the little wooden bench and exhaled. I perceived a problem. Do I completely strip off my clothes and then put on the gowns or should I remove some clothes, put on a gown, and then remove the rest of my clothes and don the second gown? Fuck, I hate this. What if I'm totally naked when Pony Tail returns? Fuck. She only gave me one bag and I'm wearing enough clothes to fill three bags.
I stripped naked, bare feet on the freezing floor, holding the gowns up for inspection wondering if there were subtle differences in their design indicating which one to put on first. They appeared similar so I surmised it didn't matter which gown went on first. I don't do stress well.
I stuffed as much of my clothes into the plastic bag as I could. No way the heavy boots and winter coat were going to fit. What do I do? Leave them here. No one else left clothes behind. There were no hooks to hang a jacket on anyway. My feet were cold so I put my boots back on.
Sitting dejectedly, partially lost in thought, I saw three blue pieces of cloth lying on the floor almost hidden from view by the drawn curtain. I bent forward and grabbed them. Ah ha! Flimsy little booties for the feet, and some other thing. And look, more plastic baggies tucked below the bench. Fantastic. This is going great. My mood picked up considerably.
Pony Tail returned and looked me once over. 'Put your hair net on, bring your bags, follow me.'
A hair net. Of course. Not that I have much hair.
Chapter 4
The day before may be more interesting than the actual day of the procedure. But then again it may not be. Depends on your perspective.
The letter had listed directions that must be followed to the letter. Or else. Luckily I'm good at following directions.
The first thing to do was to take a trip to the drug store and purchase some foul tasting concoction that is supposed to 'aid' in eliminating wastes from the bowel. We must have a clean bowel musn't we? I was instructed to pick up a Kit of Bowel Aid that contained four packs of powder. The Pharmacist looked on the shelf and said in a high pitched voice, 'OH!... we don't have any left. We'll have to order some more.'
What the F. Was there an unexpected run on this stuff? A sudden surge in colonoscopies? How do you run out of this stuff?
"What do I do?" I wailed, "I have to have the stuff for tomorrow?"
'We have the same thing just different."
"Huh?"
The Pharmacist ran off rummaging through shelves loaded with salves, ointments, pills and sponges. A couple of other Pharmacists came over to help. They scrambled around, occasionally whispering to each other, 'over here, no, maybe over here.' I wasn't impressed. Finally the three of them came forward. 'Got it. It's three pills and only two packages of powder. Works just as well and you won't have to drink as much of the mixture. Don't worry, you'll be fine.'
I was skeptical but desperate. That's what happens when I procrastinate.
Cookie was with me in the Pharmacy, "Remember the letter said it would help to have juice or something to help wash the Bowel Aid down." Before we left the Pharmacy I purchased 4 massive bottles of blue flavored Gatoraid.
"This ought to help!" I was anticipating the worst and hoping for the best.
Cookie questioned my sanity, 'are you sure you need that much Gatoraid?'
"Absolutely, Gatoraid for the Bowel Aid. Blue is the best."
The next morning was prep day. I was ready and I told Cookie so. "The letter said not to eat solid foods the day before the procedure, but I'm hungry so I think I'll have some oatmeal for breakfast. I'd say oatmeal isn't really solid food."
Cookie narrowed her eyes and kept her comments to herself.
I decided it would be okay to have one tiny piece of toast. The kind with tons of seeds in it. Healthy toast. But no butter. Okay, a little butter. And black coffee. No cream. I wasn't supposed to have any dairy. I consider butter to be a non dairy product, don't you? It's kind of oily isn't it?
Still hungry, I went off to work. I came home before noon. The bowel flush was to begin in the afternoon. The directions on the box said take the three pills around 1pm, wait until you have a dump or wait for 6 hours, whatever comes first, and then start drinking the powder mixture like crazy.
I was pumped so I took the pills at noon. The pills were surprisingly small. Atomic size really. I expected something the size of agates. Life is full of surprises. With the pills being so small I was doubtful to their degree of effectiveness. What ever, I chased them down with a liter of blue gatoraid and cursed the pharmacist's and all their children as I did so.
I waited.
Six o'clock. Nothing. I was starting to feel a little panicky. "Something's wrong with me Cookie. I took the pills and waited six hours. Nothing's happened. Not even a gurgle or a fart. I expected gurgling at the least."
I was loosing it. "It's the Pharmacist's fault! Aaaaaa, what if I don't get a fully clean bowel?"
Cookie said calmly, 'just keep following directions and don't worry about it. You'll be fine.'
'That's what the pharmacist said', directed I, with hands on hips, to Mrs. No Worries.
I prepared the first batch of Bowel Aid. 'Mix the powder in cold water until it dissolves. Then drink the foul concoction as fast as you can. Stay near a toilet.' That's pretty clear.
So I drank it. And I drank three more liters of blue gatoraid.
That was a mistake.
I shit and shit, and then shit some more. Eventually it was like pissing out your asshole. That stuff really works.
I shit every colour of the rainbow, including several shades of blue.
Yikes.
Oh yeah. The oatmeal was probably a mistake. The toast with the seeds definitely was. As I said, luckily I'm good at following directions.
Chapter 5
Pony tail beckoned me forward, directed me to a fancy cot with wheels, bid me lie down and started grilling me with the same questions as the mean lady at reception. I was completely unprepared for this type of investigation. Eventually she stuck me with a syringe full of clear liquid. Truth serum.
"I'm not lying," I said. "My name really is Notquite and my dog tag is 092254. I'm here for a colonoscopy and if I live through it I promise I'll be good."
'Yes, yes, you'll be fine,' Ponytail said.
Where have I heard that before?
Then she wheeled me over to a huddle of other old guys who all looked the same. Who are these guys? They can't be the same dudes as the transfixed old farts in the hall. How could they be ahead of me? The forty something woman was there too. I was hoping I'd be placed next to her instead of beside some old fucker, but they whisked her away and put me in her spot.
Crammed into rows, a half dozen or more of us lay prone on our cots staring at a gaudy blue/green wall.
Off to my far left a tiny flat screen TV blared.
Choices were limited. Stare at the TV. Stare at the wall.
I choose the wall. More entertaining.
But like the Singing Sirens who tried to beckon Jason and the Argonauts to certain death I too was drawn in by it's enchanting spell.
Lord have mercy. A game show. You're kidding me? People actually watch this?
However, something seemed familiar. By golly, 'The Price Is Right'. I was aghast. It was still on after how many decades? Why?
The host was initially puzzling. He to was familiar. 'Ah ha, so that's what happened to Drew Cary,' I gloated, 'boy he fell a long way.' To be knocked off my high horse, he probably makes more in a day than I do in a year. Who's the real chump?
Some of the guys were getting right into it and I could see one or two quietly pumping their fists. The Sirens were winning.
Then it dawned on me, holy mackerel, 'One Flew Over The Coo Coo's Nest'. Ponytail was Nurse Ratshit. I was one of the inmates, probably Danny DeVito. Definitely not Jack Nicholson.
I couldn't take it any longer. I cranked my neck around to see what took place behind our backs. Ponytail was in a corner sticking some other guy with the truth serum. One of the other nurses, a curly blonde who looked bored, held a clip board and was interrogating another hapless soul. He had the truth serum draining into his hand too.
Yikes.
One by one we were wheeled away. Picked off like sitting ducks.
Chapter 6
The operating room was rather nondescript. Same garish blue/green walls. A bunch of beeping machines with lights flashing. I don't remember if there were any windows. I think not. But plenty of florescent lights made the space quite stark and glaringly bright. I'm sure there were no shadows in this room.
A a team of nurses asked me all the same questions as previous. Doesn't anyone write this stuff down?
One of them asked about medications. Did you take any today?
"I take none."
What about vitamins and supplements?
"Vitamin D and Magnesium."
Why do you take Magnesium?
Everybody stopped what they were doing and looked at me.
"What? How the hell should I know?"
I couldn't think why at the moment. I was feeling a little pressured.
A tall nurse who was in desperate need of a shave answered for me with a basso hoity-toity voice, 'Cause your wife told you too.'
Everybody laughed.
"Well," said I, "you're not far off the mark."
Some guy in the corner, who turned out to be the surgeon, said, 'almost all the men that come here tell us their wives make them take their vitamins. Join the club.'
They all laughed again.
The Surgeon explained the process, what he was going to do and what he was going to look for, and all the terrible things that could go wrong during the procedure. Then I had to sign a release form absolving him of all fault if he screwed things up. Logical.
"Roll on your side." I did.
"Did you drink ALL of your medication?" I did.
Need's a Shave turned out to be the anesthesiologist. 'You're going to fall asleep. Then you will wake up.'
I hope so.
Last thing I heard him say, 'don't worry, you'll be fine.' I know. That's what every one keeps telling me.
I did, I was. I woke up in the exact same place, same fetal position a couple of seconds later. I thought perhaps the anesthesia didn't work. Then I heard, 'he's awake.' It was over.
The Surgeon peered down at me. "You're good. All went well. Good clean bowel. No problems. Your colon is in excellent condition. See you in five years." I blinked.
I can hardly wait.
Chapter 7
Somebody wheeled me away and stationed me between the forty something woman and some old guy. I didn't like the old guy. He reminded me of me. Old. So I turned to the young woman. She was eating a muffin and downing a juice. "How'd it go?"
"Fine, fine." She choked. Muffin bits flew out of her mouth. "All is good. You?"
"Yeah, me too. I'll live for a while yet. You a farmer?" I ask people if they are farmers. One can hope. It's also a good ice breaker.
She waved her juice box in the air and pursed her lip. "Noooo? But I garden, quite a bit. I'm a nurse."
Well, Blondie Clipboard and Pony Tail were within ear shot. Damned if they didn't come running over and the three of them had a big chin wag. It was like a high school reunion or something. Everybody squealing and jumping. I ate a blueberry muffin that tasted nothing like blueberries. They had no Perrier.
One by one we dressed to go home in the allotted restroom. Blondie Clipboard walked Forty Something and I out to the main foyer where we were to wait for our rides. This time it was like walking the yellow brick road in 'Wizard of Oz', the three of us arm in arm, Blondie in the middle. Perhaps we should have skipped.
In front of the rotating entry doors sat an old oaken bench. We sat down on it. The bench was stained dark dark, well worn, and solid as granite. Must of been there for a hundred years. To heavy to move.
"Are you sure you are not a farmer? You seem like the type. Maybe your family farms? At least you're from Perth, right?"
"No, I live near Chaffey's Locks. Grew up there. Did my nurse training in the big city, came back. Now my husband and I run a B&B. There's a lot of grounds work to do. And I still nurse. Down in Kingston. Can't live in the city. Still a country girl at heart. You?"
"Born and raised in Toronto. Live in Maberly now. On a farm. It's fun. It's a learning process. What are you going to eat to break your fast?"
"Oh, I dunno. Soup, probably. Something hearty but light." She looked toward the doors. "My husband's here. Gotta go. I'm Catherine by the way, nice to meet you.... ?"
"Nice name Catherine. I'm Notquite."
Her face lit up. "Nice name too, Notquite. Bye" We shook hands.
"See you here in five years, eh?" I yelled to no one. She was gone, already twirled through the revolving doors and out into the still overcast day. She passed Cookie who was on her way in. My ride was here too. I smiled.
Sunday, December 2, 2018
Grackle
"The Grackle died," she announced as she pushed open the front door of the old farm house. Cold air streamed in. She spoke loudly, just shy of a shout, "I found his little body lying on the snow, next to the food and water that was put out for the ducks."
"I guess the cold finally got to him," she continued as she heeled off her snow boots then flicked them with her toes onto the shoe tray. "Anyway, the birds are all tucked in for the night."
A Grackle had been loitering around the homestead since mid summer. Most of its tail feathers were missing, others were damaged. It could fly, awkwardly, from ground to low hanging tree branch or fence post. Mostly it sauntered about on spindly legs over grass and ground.
The Grackle was a he, probably young, somewhat short and plump, although that could have been an illusion due to his sparse tail feathers. His legs seemed short for a grackle. Grackles tend to be long and lean.
She took off her coat, hung it up, sat herself down at the kitchen table. Her man sat across the way, close to the wood stove.
"You still cold?"
"Yeah. I think it'll take awhile to thaw out. Work was mighty cold today. I'm sure glad we have a warm house. I always feel bad for the birds when it gets cold like this."
"I'm sorry he's gone. Poor Grackle, I liked him."
They both did. The Grackle had become a fixture around the farm yard, like the ducks or chickens. He could be spotted mingling with the diverse soiree of domesticated fowl, a tiny speck among boulders, neck cocked and craned, looking up at them, eavesdropping on their birdy conversations.
When ever they tended the birds the people would keep an eye out for the Grackle. Invariably he would be there, somewhere; be it copping some seed in the hen's coop, standing lonely in the grass, perched atop a stack of composting hay, or sitting on a nearby fence watching the goings on of chicken, duck, dog, or person. Sometimes he could be heard rustling through fallen leaves underneath the bare trees on the far side of the house.
He never cackled a complaint or trilled an alarm like other birds. If an intruder or threat approached he simply hopped away, silently, quickly, but not to quick as to appear rushed or fearful.
His life, like most of us, alternated between the pedestrian and the portentous. The farm cat would hesitate as he meandered by, stare in feline contemplation at the little black bird, swish his tail, and then proceed on. Though that may say more about the cat than the Grackle. A dozen times the tiny fellow became imprisoned in one of the live traps left out to capture ravenous hordes of chipmunks. Grackle was freed, but not without a fleeting notion of a supposedly more merciful and conclusive fate.
Grackles are social, loud, gregarious. Generally they are not well thought of. Flocks large enough to eclipse the sun can descend on grain fields and decimate an entire crop. This one bucked the stereotype and kept to himself. By choice, by need, or, perhaps cruelly ostracized, who could say? For what ever reason he was a loner. He lived, survived, toughed it out on his own in a friendless dire landscape. What was there not to like about the little guy? He was a gamer. He was low maintenance and his presence added something different, something out of the ordinary to the ongoing routine of animal care.
As the days and months passed an element of drama built.
"Have you seen him today?"
"How did he look?"
"Who was he with? The ducks or the chickens?"
"Do you think he'll be okay?"
Then as winter stormed in and nightly temperatures dropped concerns changed from "have you seen him today?" to one of survival. The belief was that if he could make it through the darkest autumn months and beyond the coming solstice then with luck he may survive to see the light and warmth of spring.
The doors to the garage were left open. Perhaps he'd find a roost, or a snug corner to tuck himself into away from the chill of overnight winds. More likely he took shelter in thick boughs of a nearby evergreen.
But Grackles lack the down of a duck or the cold weather plumage of a chicken and though he fluffed out his feathers as best he could he looked as if the cold and the snow were taking their toll.
By the end of summer when days grow shorter and the heat finally wanes birds of all manner begin their migration south. Some come and go one or two at a time, or, for safety and support, they gather in large flocks and take to the wing in large numbers. A variety of species stop by the old farm on their way through. They mingle with the ducks and chickens. Perhaps they feel safe hopping around among the long legs of the bigger birds. More likely it is the grain that attracts them. They eat their fill of spilled seed or they sneak into coops and shelters and steal, which probably isn't the best way to put it, what ever they can, storing much needed energy on easy pickings before they hightail it off into the blue sky towards the distant horizon. The chickens and ducks pay them little heed.
As every season is different so are the years that seem to fly by. This year an over abundance of Grackles, Blue Jays and Red Wing Blackbirds stayed around the farm for weeks. While the Grackles and Red Wings feasted on free grain, the Blue Jays denuded ripening pear trees and stripped vines that were loaded heavily with plump purple grapes. Meanwhile countless little brown jobs like Juncos and White Crown Sparrows picked their way through the remains of the garden.
Blue Jays screeched and cawed and caused a ruckus more annoying than the predawn crowing of an early rising rooster. Red Wings soared in from the sidelines looking like jets landing on aircraft carriers. Grackles by the score perched in trees directly overhead feed stations. They plopped down to the feast below like falling apples. There was a mishmash of competition and cooperation. Who could fault them. The pickings were easy and ripe.
As the days shortened the wild birds became fewer in number until there remained only one, a Grackle, stunted, with a spindly tail and a beautiful iridescent blue head who walked more than he flew. Standing alone on the barren earth he watched with yellowy eye and tilted head the others of his kind leave in large groups. And he bid them farewell.
Then he watched the leaves on all the trees turn from green to a hundred shades of red, orange and yellow. He watched the leaves wither and fall. He felt the winds change. They came rushing in from the north bringing at first a cold, driving rain, then snow, wet and sticky. He watched frost cover pumpkin and kale and he watched muddy puddles freeze over. His world was the farm yard. His friends the chickens and ducks. His admirers, the people.
He died on a cold November's day, a year when winter came early and the snows covered the ground.
"I guess the cold finally got to him," she continued as she heeled off her snow boots then flicked them with her toes onto the shoe tray. "Anyway, the birds are all tucked in for the night."
A Grackle had been loitering around the homestead since mid summer. Most of its tail feathers were missing, others were damaged. It could fly, awkwardly, from ground to low hanging tree branch or fence post. Mostly it sauntered about on spindly legs over grass and ground.
The Grackle was a he, probably young, somewhat short and plump, although that could have been an illusion due to his sparse tail feathers. His legs seemed short for a grackle. Grackles tend to be long and lean.
She took off her coat, hung it up, sat herself down at the kitchen table. Her man sat across the way, close to the wood stove.
"You still cold?"
"Yeah. I think it'll take awhile to thaw out. Work was mighty cold today. I'm sure glad we have a warm house. I always feel bad for the birds when it gets cold like this."
"I'm sorry he's gone. Poor Grackle, I liked him."
They both did. The Grackle had become a fixture around the farm yard, like the ducks or chickens. He could be spotted mingling with the diverse soiree of domesticated fowl, a tiny speck among boulders, neck cocked and craned, looking up at them, eavesdropping on their birdy conversations.
When ever they tended the birds the people would keep an eye out for the Grackle. Invariably he would be there, somewhere; be it copping some seed in the hen's coop, standing lonely in the grass, perched atop a stack of composting hay, or sitting on a nearby fence watching the goings on of chicken, duck, dog, or person. Sometimes he could be heard rustling through fallen leaves underneath the bare trees on the far side of the house.
He never cackled a complaint or trilled an alarm like other birds. If an intruder or threat approached he simply hopped away, silently, quickly, but not to quick as to appear rushed or fearful.
His life, like most of us, alternated between the pedestrian and the portentous. The farm cat would hesitate as he meandered by, stare in feline contemplation at the little black bird, swish his tail, and then proceed on. Though that may say more about the cat than the Grackle. A dozen times the tiny fellow became imprisoned in one of the live traps left out to capture ravenous hordes of chipmunks. Grackle was freed, but not without a fleeting notion of a supposedly more merciful and conclusive fate.
Grackles are social, loud, gregarious. Generally they are not well thought of. Flocks large enough to eclipse the sun can descend on grain fields and decimate an entire crop. This one bucked the stereotype and kept to himself. By choice, by need, or, perhaps cruelly ostracized, who could say? For what ever reason he was a loner. He lived, survived, toughed it out on his own in a friendless dire landscape. What was there not to like about the little guy? He was a gamer. He was low maintenance and his presence added something different, something out of the ordinary to the ongoing routine of animal care.
As the days and months passed an element of drama built.
"Have you seen him today?"
"How did he look?"
"Who was he with? The ducks or the chickens?"
"Do you think he'll be okay?"
Then as winter stormed in and nightly temperatures dropped concerns changed from "have you seen him today?" to one of survival. The belief was that if he could make it through the darkest autumn months and beyond the coming solstice then with luck he may survive to see the light and warmth of spring.
The doors to the garage were left open. Perhaps he'd find a roost, or a snug corner to tuck himself into away from the chill of overnight winds. More likely he took shelter in thick boughs of a nearby evergreen.
But Grackles lack the down of a duck or the cold weather plumage of a chicken and though he fluffed out his feathers as best he could he looked as if the cold and the snow were taking their toll.
By the end of summer when days grow shorter and the heat finally wanes birds of all manner begin their migration south. Some come and go one or two at a time, or, for safety and support, they gather in large flocks and take to the wing in large numbers. A variety of species stop by the old farm on their way through. They mingle with the ducks and chickens. Perhaps they feel safe hopping around among the long legs of the bigger birds. More likely it is the grain that attracts them. They eat their fill of spilled seed or they sneak into coops and shelters and steal, which probably isn't the best way to put it, what ever they can, storing much needed energy on easy pickings before they hightail it off into the blue sky towards the distant horizon. The chickens and ducks pay them little heed.
As every season is different so are the years that seem to fly by. This year an over abundance of Grackles, Blue Jays and Red Wing Blackbirds stayed around the farm for weeks. While the Grackles and Red Wings feasted on free grain, the Blue Jays denuded ripening pear trees and stripped vines that were loaded heavily with plump purple grapes. Meanwhile countless little brown jobs like Juncos and White Crown Sparrows picked their way through the remains of the garden.
Blue Jays screeched and cawed and caused a ruckus more annoying than the predawn crowing of an early rising rooster. Red Wings soared in from the sidelines looking like jets landing on aircraft carriers. Grackles by the score perched in trees directly overhead feed stations. They plopped down to the feast below like falling apples. There was a mishmash of competition and cooperation. Who could fault them. The pickings were easy and ripe.
As the days shortened the wild birds became fewer in number until there remained only one, a Grackle, stunted, with a spindly tail and a beautiful iridescent blue head who walked more than he flew. Standing alone on the barren earth he watched with yellowy eye and tilted head the others of his kind leave in large groups. And he bid them farewell.
Then he watched the leaves on all the trees turn from green to a hundred shades of red, orange and yellow. He watched the leaves wither and fall. He felt the winds change. They came rushing in from the north bringing at first a cold, driving rain, then snow, wet and sticky. He watched frost cover pumpkin and kale and he watched muddy puddles freeze over. His world was the farm yard. His friends the chickens and ducks. His admirers, the people.
He died on a cold November's day, a year when winter came early and the snows covered the ground.
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