Going It Alone

What is she thinking, perhaps her mind was temporarily suspended in the cloud, no not that one, the other one that truly exist, the one you see, you feel it when it rains. Just came back from town feeling out, in, sideways, upside down, and backwards all at one. Her best pal has flown into chaos at home with a leaking pipe. Her sister’s house flooded yesterday, is there any synchronization out there.  

Seated at the kitchen table listening to the fridge grown, bump, burp, acting like a man, without the farts. She is certain pack racks have moved in and goes outside to check the side of the house.

Books are comfort, so the library is the obvious choice to seek shelter in 28 degree. Cookbooks, of course, none in the house, the colorful creations bring hope. Dvd’s for a girl that might watch 3 movies a year is a big stretch. The oldies and goodies that have long been yanked off the shelves are here – Sideways – Driving Miss Daily and a French favorite, along with 3 novels that are a little deeper than – Eat, Pray, Love she started and finished last night at 4:00 am., when she couldn’t sleep.

Filling wholes like sealing holes on a leaky bottle that only 10 digits can fill before you’re out of luck. Her heart craves knowing, being with someone that knows her every move, mood, living without judgement. A gulf, an abyss the size of China divides them. Her head is just above the water level breathing in rasps, unhinged from its unit.  Yet, she imagines his eyes lighting up when he watches the sun set holding hands, eating lobster with a hammer, jumping into frigid waters, and sipping cream ale stout. That’s what keeps her going, a knowing of a harmonious love that is never changing.

Laundry hung on a line, floors and dishes washed by hand, and buying fresh vegetables at the markets. Feeling so absolutely appreciative for an experience of a lifetime, and the people who made it happen.  Giving up morning coffee, beer and Hal’s favorite’s cheezies, and feeling like a rogue wave has hit her on day one. Meeting local on evening walk that yearn to tell you their story.

Marcel a man of 5’2” was so honoured to tell us about his life and that of his father that when we asked to photograph his old gas pumps, he gave us a tour of a garage that is 40 yrs. old, that has been moved three times on the same property. Every licence plate in N.B. since 1940 is hung on an overhead beam along with all provincial one, in every color imaginable. A rainbow of color illuminates the jukebox – it was in pristine condition exuding crystal sound melodies that only vinyl records can produce. White flower gas signs with 4 original pumps, cream yellow, ranging in age up to 60 years old adorn the corners of the garage. Every inch of each wall is strew with faultless memorabilia from the past. And of course the babes selling premium oil, as Marcel calls her the Guard, stands over all operations, and looking like she has had a few herself. Then he tells us of the history of the town.

Why he asks the government allows Jamaicans to come in, they invited them because they claim the locals were not taking the jobs at the fish factories, and the smoking plants. They do seem unfamiliar in a predominately white town, to think about it she feels out of place too. His arms reach up and show the shores, the multitude of boats that used to graze these waters, and now this wharf is down to 5 boats. “My father and I used to peel muscles from the rock not far from here, then everyone came, out fished them, and the American’s that won’t buy our lobster at $3.50 a lbs., no they won’t go higher than $2.50. Meanwhile her mind is reeling, $2.50, anywhere out west it would be $12.00 to $25.00 and that isn’t in a restaurant. He calms himself down as he sees his wife on the nearby porch listening, she will return with camera in hand.