Sticks and Stones Read online

  STICKS AND STONES

  by

  Margaret Lindsay Holton

  Acorn Press Canada

  Waterdown, Ontario

  Canada

  COPYRIGHT PAGE

  Sticks and Stones © 2021 by Margaret Lindsay Holton

  All Rights Reserved.

  This book is a work of fiction.

  Characters, incidents and dialogue are drawn from the author's

  imagination and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance

  to actual events or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Protected under Canadian and International Copyright Conventions.

  Reproduction, Relicensing, Resale or Loans of all Editions is not permitted without written permission of the author or Legal Trustee.

  Brief quotations may be embodied in critical articles or reviews.

  Canadian Publication Data, Acorn Press Canada

  via Library & Archives Canada

  Ebook ISBN: 978-1-7772498-2-3

  Genre: short stories, literary fiction, adult

  Cover design by MLHolton

  Publisher: MLH Productions / Acorn Press Canada

  17 Main Street, Box 1425, Waterdown, Ontario

  CANADA - L0R 2H0

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Sticks and Stones

  INTRODUCTION

  CHEZ NOUS

  JOJO’S MISTRESS

  WHEN BROTHERS LOVE

  FAMILY HOLD BACK

  GONE NATIVE

  GRANNY PAINTS

  THE DANCING BEAR

  WORDS FOR HIGHER

  SNOW WHITE IN CUBA

  P.O.V. I.P.O.*

  Further Reading: Trillium

  About the Author

  TABLE OF CONTENTS

  Dedication

  Introduction

  1. CHEZ NOUS

  2. JOJO’S MISTRESS

  3. WHEN BROTHERS LOVE

  4. FAMILY HOLD BACK

  5. GONE NATIVE

  6. GRANNY PAINTS

  7. THE DANCING BEAR

  8. WORDS FOR HIGHER

  9. SNOW WHITE IN CUBA

  10. P.O.V. I.P.O.

  Dedication:

  to all language lovers

  INTRODUCTION

  Short stories have long been a succinct and delightful bridge between the gymnastic extremes of poetry and the required drudgery of long-form prose. The brevity of short stories demands, ideally, an elegant efficiency that is bound with the ever-present challenge to convey meaning. For a writer, this is the ultimate short story goal: to convey meaning, elegantly and efficiently.

  Over the past 40-odd years, I have written innumerable first drafts of short prose pieces. An idea or observation will seize me and I’ve just got to get it down. In those first drafts, I will backtrack to that AHA moment when some new insight or truth was revealed. After the initial eruption, I usually put the drafts aside into my writing box with the intent of returning to them when time allows.

  The pandemic of 2020/2021 allowed such a time. The subsequent global lockdowns forced us to be with ourselves. As time dragged on through 2020 into 2021, many in isolation, particularly in pampered industrialized nations, turned to their ubiquitous screens for imperfect conversations with others. Zoom took off. Twitter exploded. Others just upped their screen consumption with Facebook, YouTube or Netflix in order to mind-meld with ‘like-minded’.

  Those in under-developed countries, without the luxury of big screen, computer access or hand-held devices had, seemingly, a rougher time of it. Generations of families were locked in domiciles where they invariably infected - and cared for - each other.

  In the plugged-in nations, after the novelty of screen interaction wore off, many isolated writers, such as myself, dove into unfinished writing projects. It seemed a perfect (near captive) opportunity to reach out to the house-bound new reader. In doing so, I had to travel back to dusty stories that had erupted decades ago and re-examine their poignancy. I discovered some tales, originally written with self-righteous urgency, were juvenile now, while others, (like P.O.V I.P.O. in this collection), continue to radiate an uncanny foresight of what we may yet become.

  Those selected for inclusion were rewritten, in part, to reflect my current writing voice. Sentences were rearranged. Archaic terms or words were replaced with contemporary phrases. Older dialogue was rewritten to land naturally on the living ear. Any former chronological order was completely dismissed.

  Of the 30 stories considered, I whittled it down to ten different kinds of stories. I chose these ones for the writing reasons below:

  1. Chez Nous - The warm-up and welcome. A traditional ‘long tail’ short story that solicits empathy for a motherless family. A gang of boys, young and old, are making their life work.

  2. JoJo’s Mistress - A short story format deviation. A long-form personal ad from an old-fashioned grieving widower.

  3. When Brothers Love – Another short story deviation where time lines are deliberately entangled to force cognitive blooms in the story.

  4. Family Hold Back – First-person non-fiction narrative. A structured recollection of the death of my father: never before discussed and never before shared.

  5. Gone Native – A traditional long-form short story that switches points of view inside an unusual incident that, in the end, makes perfect sense to those in-the-know.

  6. Granny Paints – A first-person fiction, (based on fact), of an aging elder passing on knowledge about the strengths and weaknesses of known family members to a direct descendant.

  7. The Dancing Bear – Another first-person narrative about the on-going sizzle between men and women.

  8. Words for Higher – An exploratory piece about the impact and influence of advertising on our conscious and unconscious minds.

  9. Snow White in Cuba – A fictionalized article, (based on fact), shared between travel-writing colleagues who explore a few ideas about journalism and Canadian identity.

  10. P.O.V. I.P.O. – Hybrid speculative fiction. A stripped-down hypothetical ‘what if’, set in real time.

  Overall, I chose these particular stories to offer readers the simple pleasure of reading. I chose them to share, willingly and willfully, with those at the beginning of their life-long love affair with thought and language. It is my hope that these tales will stimulate greater interest in the reader’s own reading and thinking. I am also sharing them to those in the middle of their love affair with thought and language in the hope that the stories will nurture their own developing thought processes and evolving perceptions. And finally, I am sharing the stories to those who are already well-tuned to multiple short story styles and points of view. If these stories do reverberate with insights that they know to be true, then, good. Affirmation is, to a great extent, confirmation.

  I am offering these stories to a wide range of readers because sharing well-chosen words expands our minds. New synaptic connections are made. We learn. We become more than we are. And, in these challenging times of reflection and crisis, reading really is a supportive and reassuring gift that we can offer each other.

  So, why then, the title - Sticks & Stones?

  A brave childhood response to a perceived verbal insult goes like this, ‘Stick and stones may break my bones, but names will never hurt me.’ Meaning, words, even when delivered with intent to harm, will not actually hurt you. (Whereas, obviously, the hurling of physical sticks and stones can and might.)

  There is a lot going on in the world right now that is forcing many to adopt defensive and combat-ready positions of ideological certainty. Tribes are developing along racial, religious and political lines. Many stand-on-guard protecting an assortment of sacred cows
. Yet, beneath this posturing is an acute awareness that, for a myriad of reasons not discussed here, broader human perception is, indeed, changing.

  The question is: do we fight for our past to protect our future, or, do we succumb to the whims and winds of change and hope for the best? This collection stands as a gentle invitation to, yes, come along for the ride - not in surrender - but in alliance. Put aside those ever-present sticks and stones, and pick up the words willingly, and then, journey on, aware that, yes, new ideas can and will challenge you ...

  Since the beginning of time, new thoughts have demanded our attention. In reaction, we reject, resist, denounce or challenge them. Many may even commit to combat. Yet, we all know that words really CANNOT HURT US. Clashes of ideas, while heated, can, if we remain level-headed, forge new insights, deepen compassion for others and also strengthen our own resolve to protect essential Survival Truths inherited from our forebearers.

  Like what?

  Consider this: thousands of species on our home planet have come and gone since time began. Of the approximate 8.7 million known genera on Earth today, Homo sapiens, our species, have endured a mere 300,000 years. It is a spit in the bucket compared to the long-surviving, intercontinental arthropods, the Trilobita. These sea-faring critters endured for an astounding 270,000,000 years - before going extinct.

  If we, on Earth, allow ourselves to unthinkingly surrender to the impulsive violence of ‘sticks & stones’ we will not only destroy the growing seeds of human civilization, we will lose our long-term survival advantage. Why? Because of all of the unique capabilities that we do have as mammals, it is our ability to share words - to communicate through the act and art of language - that elevates and encourages us to BUILD together.

  Remember, ‘stick and stones may break your bones, but words will never hurt you.’

  If even one of my chosen stories does succeed to resonate within you, that is, for me, a hopeful and hope-filled outcome. For, surely, humanity’s evolving consciousness is at its very best and its very brightest when we do connect through linguistic empathy. It is through this highly-attuned sensibility that we gain a much deeper understanding of our own species’ unique and remarkable place within a much larger and most magnificent cosmos.

  Thank you for considering my words.

  - Margaret Lindsay Holton, 2021

  CHEZ NOUS

  Philip Pianovic, the famous retired poet of Warsaw, ran a hippie-style bed & breakfast outside the village of Grimsby, in the province of Ontario, in the country of Canada. From the middle of May to the middle of November, he ran the B&B catering to the tourists of the increasingly fashionable Niagara wine region.

  He had been doing it for 20-odd years since he had first immigrated in the late 1990s. He had lost two good wives over it, both hardworking pleasantly plump women, and had, in turn, gained four pleasantly plump and precocious children. His four hardy boys lived with him on the large maple tree dotted property with a riveting horizon view over Lake Ontario.

  During the busy tourist season, from mid-May to early-November, Philip lived alone in the rambling clapboard farmhouse while his boys lived in the three little cottages that he had built for them scattered around the property. His two youngest sons shared the cabin nearest the farmhouse. On the weekends, Philip rented out their three furnished cottages, mostly to American road trippers or sightseers from Toronto. The boys would carefully prepare their cottages for the incoming visitors and then happily move over into the main farmhouse for the two or three nights when the guests were there. What had started out as a bit of a lark had become a way of life for them now. No detail prep was too small for their guests. Who could create the most interesting cottage stay for the guests?

  The ultimate test was how many photographs the visitors took of each cottage. To date, Gilly, the second eldest, was winning, hands down.

  Every day, at dawn, during the week, Philip would let out the large lumbering Newfoundlander, Puzzler, and go around to the little houses to wake up his four boys. By the time they got over to the main house, their breakfasts would be hot on the table. Philip always cooked up a large morning meal for his boys and any visiting weekend guests.

  There had been a large influx of European visitors to the area recently because of the explosive debut of the Niagara Ice Wine Festival several years ago. Philip discovered that most of the travelling Europeans preferred to stay in the more formal Victorian B&Bs run by the English ex-pats up the North Shore Service Road towards Niagara-on-the-Lake. He quietly understood their ‘we-want-colonial-grandeur’ preference and just continued on catering to the less demanding egalitarian and nature-loving North Americans. As a result, the entire place had an air of the chaotic poetic about it.

  Anders, his eldest son, now 19, lived beside the outdoor trampoline in the largest of the little cabins, the ‘Sunflower Cottage’. Anders was an enthusiastic sports nut and his hut reflected his diverse water-sport activities. Surf boards and sunfish hulls were jammed under the house frame. Paddles were crisscrossed beside the front door. ‘Sunflower’ was painted a vivid lemon yellow with ebony-black louvered shutters. A concrete leaf walkway, that Anders had made out of a mature sunflower, meandered from the cottage down to the lake. It also had the best lakeside view.

  Anders had created a lot of additional features that made visitors want to return to it again and again. He had built a queen-size box-spring base out of discarded barn-board in the peaked attic space for the undulating waterbed. He had hand-built a spiral staircase out of driftwood scrap from the attic to the main floor. He had mirrored the little living room with chips of tinted glass to add visual pleasure. And he’d carefully hung his polished sport trophies off the center beam. He also attached dried grape vines around the interior front bay window and even looped in wild jack-o-lantern pods to create a festive honeymoon-like atmosphere. Overall, the cottage had a marvelous madcap and fun feel about it.

  The best feature, however, was the two-headed outdoor shower that he had hooked up behind the barn-board screen under the large maple tree near the trampoline. The shower stall had steamy hot water flowing from its dual spray nozzles as well as a mosaic sunflower floor splash. Anders had hung prisms in the adjacent maple branches for that added touch of hippie glamour. As a consequence, the outdoor shower was a frequent and favourite spot with all the guests within the B&B compound, (not to mention a continual source of interest to meandering beachcombers.) Many a bare bottom had faced out over the lake throughout the years.

  Philip could rent out the whole ‘Sunflower Package’ to an American couple for $250 U.S. per weekend. Easy.

  Gilly, at 16, lived in the pristine, cedar-shake cottage further down the cedar hedge laneway. ‘Peach Pod’ was situated at the back of the property and stood near the now empty peach sorting shed. Gilly was, by all accounts, a very gifted visual artist. Everyone said he was going to be famous, just like his retired father.

  ‘Peach Pod’ had no view of the lake. Instead, its two main windows faced out over the vast peach tree nursery that extended far up to the lip of the escarpment. It was the most desired cabin in June when the wafting floral scent of the orchard was at its most pungent and the soft ivory blooms were brain-embossing vibrant.

  Bees could be a problem though, especially later in the season. Unfortunately, Gilly had developed an allergic reaction to their bites. He never complained. He just popped another antihistamine and told someone to listen to his speech for thirty minutes. If he started to slur, it was time to rush him up to the little medical clinic down the road in Grimsby. They only had to do that twice in all the years.

  ‘Peach Pod’ also had the best open-grate wood-stove. It was surrounded by a bulging bookcase. Gilly kept the stove well-maintained and primed at all times. He hated the cold with a passion and always kept his cabin warm and cozy. It was not uncommon to smell wood smoke coming from his cottage even in the middle of August. Gilly said his fingers had to be warm enough to draw. His fanciful and accurate pre-Raphaeli
te portraits of the passing parade of guests were haphazardly tacked up all over his cabin walls. There were sketches, folios and drawings everywhere, often overlapping. Guests would marvel at his skill and ask if he’d mind drawing their portraits too. Gilly never refused. He appreciated having access to free models of all shapes and sizes and he drew them all with deft precision.

  Gilly would trim down his own firewood from the dead wood that he dragged in from the older orchards. He was meticulous about this backbreaking job. The wood-burning logs were never greater than 5” in width and never longer than a foot in length. They fit into his woodstove perfectly. He would carefully stack the cut wood on the southeast side of his cottage so it would properly air-dry for the year. His woodpile was a sculptural thing of harmony and beauty. The cottage guests always said so. They usually took several photographs from several different angles before they left. Nearby, the discarded branch trimmings, used for kindling, were artfully arranged in a quixotic eye-catching teepee.

  So far, Gilly was winning the ‘best cottage’ competition again this year.

  Michael, now 12, and Tom, age 9, lived in the smallest, vinyl-siding red cottage, ‘Apple Shack’, beside the central farmhouse. Philip could keep an easy eye on them. He could shout out the window whenever their rough-housing got too rough. Inquisitive explorers, these two boys were always finding new treasures to add to their front garden. Last week, Michael had brought in a massive flat rock embossed with trilobite fossils that he had broken off from the limestone shale a few miles down the lake at Shandler’s Point. He had marched along beside Puzzler, triumphant with his latest find. Puzzler had been temporarily transformed into a turn-of-the-century workhorse to lug the load. Tom, not to be outdone, was working on new staves and pikes to add to his expanding collection of sword sticks and spoke-shaved lances. After Michael had planted the stone at the front of their cottage, Tom had artfully latticed the exterior of their front window with a few of his finest wooden sword creations. He even used a step ladder to get up there when no-one was looking.