Yarrow BC, July 22
Now again I am waiting. If nothing happens "Nothing" being
an ill-timed (before 6:20 p.m.) visit from my grandparents I will see Frank
in 2 hours and ten minutes. I haven't seen him since Sunday night. It has
been a long time.
Sunday was lovely. My aunts and uncles joined forces to convince Grandma
that there would be no danger in my going with Frank and Judy to Stanley
Park. I was just home from church and gabbing with Neil on the chesterfield.
(It was very dry. Neil kept saying, "very good. Very good.") "Ellie!"
someone called. Auntie Lill was just leaning dangerously to look out of
the window "Are you going in that ..." she began, but I was past
and clattering down the steps. He came toward me and I nearly took a deep
breath. He was terribly handsome. Funny, whenever I see him coming toward
me from a car when he comes to get me, I say to myself, he's really much
better looking than I thought. Sunday it was even more like that than usual.
He was wearing his Sunday suit and he had a haircut and that chin is always
there The suit was dark and fit him perfectly and very expensive looking.
He was wearing a red tie, sort of knit and silky and very pretty.
Grandma looked at him through the window and came down the steps to meet
him. He looked so respectible, so groomed. She patted her hair before
she said hello to him. I thought the little side show was very amusing.
Judy was in the truck. It was shined up and he'd gone to a lot of work.
I resented Auntie's inflections in her phrase, "Are you going in that?"
I thought angrily, yes! I'm going and gladly and proudly.
We went to Doerksen's while he changed. Judy decided to go with Owens
and Dan to Mount Baker instead. I was a bit disturbed, knowing Grandma wouldn't
like it a bit, but I guess what she doesn't know, and I don't think she
does know, won't bother her. But all the same, I still don't feel too good
about it.
We had a hamburger in a paper bag at a drive-in for dinner. And we stopped
at a fruit market to get a box of Bings. While Frank went to get them I
leaned out of the window and I remember hearing someone whistling "Michael."
- Michael rowed the boat to shore.
- Halleluja!
There was much map searching amid cherry-eating when we reached the bridge
at New Westminster. We stopped often in shady streets to check the map.
When the tall buildings and the waterfront came into view I felt the usual
excitement creeping up into my head and I slid to the edge of the street
and stared. We were in a good mood, gay and easy.
We drove up Kingsway until it turned into Main, and then cut off across
the Georgia Viaduct to Georgia Ave. Georgia is a marvellous street - first
you can only see the blackened backs of old warehouses; then it widens into
a lovely route with silk prints in sort of a banner style on both sides,
and a huge post office, hotels, Chinese shops, an Art Gallery, and a theatre
of fine arts with abstract sculpture in front of it. I stared ecstatically.
We reached Stanley Park and drove slowly, slowly past walking sailors
and pretty girls and parked sports cars and glimpses of a beach with driftwood.
We parked the truck, the shiny red half-ton pickup. (About it, Frank said,
"I've noticed people give me funny looks. When I drive up in this thing,
people expect some kind of a hayseed to get out. Then they see this beautiful
girl sitting in it and they think, 'How does he do it?'") Then he opened
my door for me and I emerged, dark skin, glowing green-blue dress with ruffled
sleeves, dark shiny hair and swinging white purse.
We'd walked a ways under the big trees when we decided to go back and
park closer to the post office (not the gov't kind). While I was waiting
for Frank outside some Italians looked me over and said something I didn't
catch. We wandered around. Saw a guy and a girl smooching a la Paris, saw
some clown-eyed Beat girls, saw a group of ladies in saris and pyjama pants,
saw fish and ducks and seals and penguins and "big game." Saw
trees and roses and lovers and queer looking people, saw an old "Model A" with a
convertible top and a seat in the trunk, rumble-seats, I think they're called
(Frank took my picture in front of it), saw old couples sprawled on the
grass with inverted waistlines, saw caves under the branches of trees big
enough to raise, or start but I didn't tell Frank that, a family,
saw the Lumberman's arch and the Totems, saw a girl walking on the beach
in a sweater and slims and sleek blonde hair looking perfect and exquisite,
saw a little boy with a starfish, saw colored little boys tumbling on the
lawn in front of an elegant café with outdoor tables, saw so many
eyes and faces and pretty bare legs, saw a Negro girl with a sort of haughty
chic sitting on a bench in a very suave royal blue outfit with her legs
showing 'til there ("probably working at her job," Frank
said. Oh. But a very sophisticated prostitute, anyway).
We heard music coming from the bandshell across the lawn. "Wouldn't
it be a sensation if someone started to tango right here on the lawn?"
I said, my feet already bouncing. Frank looked down from the heights of
his twenty one year old sensibleness and said, "Takes two to dance."
We sat on a lawn for a while, by a plaque announcing that the tree we
were under was named "Tragedy." He stretched out and I sat beside
him with my skirts spreading, blue against green and bright. We even held
hands. I made him be very good tho'. And then we walked some more.
On the way back to the truck we crawled warily down a very steep, very
narrow stairs to the beach. The bottom step was gone. Frank lifted me from
the last one to the pebbly beach. There was sea-weed growing along the rock
wall, and the rocks were slimy. Frank turned over the rocks, teazing the
anxious, scuttling little crabs that were all he could find instead of the
starfish he wanted for me. We walked around a point of land, and he had
to hold my hand to keep me from slipping. Above me I heard a whacking. I
looked up. "It's alright. You can go past," a jovial voiced fisherman
called down to me during a pause in fish killing.
There were some logs and then another steep stairs to the top of the
sea-wall. The bottom step was gone here too. I waited for Frank. Suddenly,
he picked me up and lifted me "Don't, Frank!" I shrieked, seeing
idiotic visions of him stepping up the stairs carrying me, slipping backwards,
falling But he set me down when I got a toe-hold on the last step, and then
we went up together. I had brought a little black clam-shell with me and
I have it now.
We drove around blocks wildly trying to find a parking space. On one
corner, a group of Chinese boys was cleaning up vegetables in front of a
corner grocery shop. I smiled. They smiled too. Next time we went around
their grins were even broader. Next time they were gone.
The Bamboo Terrace had a big door leading right off the street into the
café. We climbed a stairway into the upper level. There were tables
with white table-cloths and little Chinese handle-less cups. No cutlery
but forks.
There were hoards of people there, and noisy children. "They're
the labouring class," Frank said. "So are we," I reminded
him. "No Ellie. You'll never look like these people and neither will
I." I wonder what he meant. We had an argumentative speculation about
whether the girl in the next table worked out or whether her chic was the
direct result of a Saturday night shopping spree. He said spree, I said
out.
He ordered Chicken Chow Mein, an oyster-vegetable dish, and we had tea.
It was good. The tea was scented and light, not sugared at all. I poured
too much sauce on my Chicken Chow Mein so it was salty but the vegetable
deal was very good; strange, the oysters tasted like mushy sardines. We
left. I looked in a mirror and saw that I looked a bit tumbled of hair,
but normal. Still not beautiful.
We drove home. At Clearbrook I moved a bit away from him and we drove
staidly into the yard. He came in with me, looked at some photos, listened
with a cynical ear while Grandma told an extended medical history of her
"schlimmes Bein," to a dumpy visitor. Grandpa took me off to talk
to me about Reimers, "die lieben das nicht," after being pushed
into the room by Grandma. Frank, meanwhile, went outside to wait for me
and heard most of Grandpa's speech in a muddled way.
We took a shorter route home, in a dusking evening. He pulled me over
close to him and drove with one hand. In Yarrow Reimers were already asleep.
It was about eleven o'clock. We talked about picking after we'd gone to
the tap for a drink. Then he left and I watched him go to the road through
the porch window.
July 25
It is so discouraging. I have watched my face in the mirror as it got
uglier and uglier until the tears rolled down my cheeks. I am in bed now,
chewing a sour apple, and my eyes are still very wet. It's not just any
one thing; it's an accumulation. All the stress and the tenseness and amalgamated
worries and tensities of all the other grandmotherly people.
But there has been so much clawing frustration. Two things brought it
to a climax - one was a grandmotherly word from Mrs Reimer. She just told
me, directly, when I came in from watching them weigh up, that she thought
it made me look like an "unverschamdes Madchen." "Ich sag'
dir das gans " I've forgotten the word she used but I think it meant
respectful, oh yes, "anschtendich, du bist die Jungens zu zier hinteran."
Her lept-upon conclusion was partly right - I had gone out partly to see
the guys but only partly, because I'd also gone to see how the weight tallied
up because Mr Reimer usually loses about 20 pounds.
I felt as though I'd been slapped. I made only very few protesting noises
and then I fled. Irene came after. She told me then that her grandmother
had just been telling her what and "unverschamdes Madchen" I am
and how I am too "fresh." "Fresh?" I queried horrifiedly.
"Uh-huh. I don't know what she meant." Fresh ! I laugh weakly.
It was a forced laugh of course.
I had counted on telling Frank about it. I'd counted on some reassurance.
I was dressed and ready. He was going to come, just to talk, at about eight.
It was ten past. I was wondering. He had been here earlier in the afternoon
and left some blueberries. He had telephoned fifteen minutes before I got
home. He had said he'd call again.
Now the telephone rang and I leaned against the door while I listened
to Mr Reimer talk.
"Elfreda Epp? You want to talk to her?" At this point I burst
in and he handed it to me. "Here. You take it." As if handing
over something slimy. Something "unverschamd" perhaps.
"Hello?" My voice sounded forlorn. I was surprized. It mirrored
my feelings exactly. He sounded far away. Far away in Abbotsford. "Did
you get my message?" "No." "Didn't you?" "What
message?" "I guess it's cut-here, then. I told Mrs Reimer to tell
you that I wouldn't be over tonight." "Oh. She didn't tell me."
So I am in bed, and I sobbed a few extra-loud sobs for the especial benefit
of les Reimers. I have to talk to her tomorrow to find out just exactly
why and wherefore, and perhaps, explain. I don't know why I should care
what they think of me. I've carefully coaxed myself to believe that it doesn't
matter, really. I've said convincingly that Scarlet O'Hara wasn't approved
of either and that if I have Scarlet O'Hara tendencies, which I hope I do,
I should be willing to be thought of as I am, as a fair part of it.
I have said, "These are only simple, peasant, Mennonite people.
Why should I, I who am young and have a beautiful future, care what these
bumpkins think?" Mrs Reimer is an old, homely, peasant Mennonite. She's
a bit dense and way behind the times. But I admire her. Perhaps I love her.
and I do care.
Is it true? Am I a shameless pants-chaser? If I am, how did that happen.
If they don't think much of me, and I know they don't, are they right? Am
I cheap and low and lazy and completely unloveable? What if it is all true?
Maybe that fear is the real reason for my tears.
July 27, Friday, 7:30 a.m.
It was nearly ten past eight when he came. I was beginning to be afraid
that he wouldn't come. But I kept writing to Karen, and then, suddenly,
a souped up heap painted green rolled over the pebbles in the driveway.
I peeked through the lace curtains. There was a blond boy driving, and beyond
him, a sharp profile. I dashed for the door. He was just walking past the
window to the back door so I rapped on it and he rushed to the door. He
was there before I opened it. He looked at me a long time and then he kissed
my cheek just above the corner of my smile.
We walked down the steps to the car and just when we'd passed it he grabbed
my hand. I looked towards the windows, looking for accusing eyes to say
"unvershamdes Madchen." The seats in George's heap are soft and
bouncy. It's almost like trampolining when you plop down into them. George
said "hi" and grinned. He was wearing a white tee shirt and his
hair was slicked back stiffly. He's so spontaneous and boyish that he's
hard not to like. I enjoyed him. Whenever Frank and I would be seriously
discussing something he'd put in a remark about the car or the weather.
Goofy and nice. Like a small boy.
Frank was in a peculiar mood - amourous, and yet silent. Sort of intense.
I was in a peculiar mood too - wanting him to be amourous, also intense
and "listening." (That isn't the word I want. Perhaps it is "sensitive"
or "receptive". Perhaps "sensitively perceptive.") And
a mite morbid too.
We matched moods beautifully. George was far away, as far as mood goes,
and that gave us a certain privacy he couldn't enter.
The car wouldn't start. George had no key so he tried with a penny. Not
even a grumble from the motor. So Frank and he jumped out, shoved, jumped
in, and the motor started. I have to confess that, even tho' it is kiddish,
I like the way George drives, fast corners, peel-off starts, screeches from
the tires.
We found a parking lot we could push the heap from. And then wandered
out to the roller rink to watch. There was some beaty swaying music, and
the skaters were good. A girl with orange slims and floating long hair who
skated as I wish I could skate. I don't know if she was actually such a
good skater but she skated with a certain atmosphere arms stretched out
in a floating pose, gliding dreamily around and around. We listened to the
music, me absorbed in watching the girl, Frank leaning against the fence
and watching me.
He suggested walking to the lake. So we did. There was a haze over it
in the distance, and the treeline was blurred. Shadows slid in slow, soft
strips across the water with the waves. The lake was clear, and at the bottom
were flat, colored pebbles. He held my hand, and I felt warm, dreamy.
"You'll want to go back and watch them," Frank said. He started
to walk back along the pier. "'Kay, but what do you want to do?"
"That doesn't matter." "Does so." "Sometimes I
like to just stand and look for a while." "Then let's just stand
and look for a while." We turned around and looked back over the lake.
We talked a little more about the "unvershamdes Madchen." I had
told him about it casually on the way to Cultus, but now I let him see how
I really felt about it. "Don't let it bother you," he said. "I
know. I've told myself and told myself all day, yesterday too, that I don't
care. But I do care."
George bounded up behind us, young, enthusiastic, and coltish. We walked
back with him. We went to see the swimming races, watched a few plump girls
diving, looked into the deep water, speculated about its actual depth, giggled
about a boy whose hair was dyed a streaky lemon-yellow, and went back to
the roller rink to see if George was on the trampoline yet. We stood in
a little corner made by the fences in the trampolining area and around the
roller rink. The music was good. [Everly Brothers for instance.] The girl
I'd been watching was still there. So was a girl in tight orange shorts
whose legs were firm and curvy and beautifully tanned. I leaned against
the fence and watched her going around. Her legs moved smoothly, without
effort, swaying and beautiful. They moved around and around passing me and
moving on.
"She has pretty legs," I said to Frank. He didn't say anything.
"I always notice that. It's a sort of obsession." "Obsession?"
he asked. "Mm-hmm." He didn't say anything for a long time. My
face was hidden by the bend in my arm, and I was looking past the fence
to those swaying slender legs. He turned my face with his hands and looked
into my eyes for a while. I think he was looking for tears. But there weren't
any. He was looking for words. "Do you think it makes her happy?"
he asked. "No." The legs floated past again. "But maybe "
I said speculatively. "No Ellie. I think it's like everything else.
You want it very badly, but when you get it it's empty. There's a girl who
lives quite close to us. Her age doesn't matter but she's about twenty five.
She's beautiful. Her waist must be about 22 or 21, and she's tall. But she
doesn't have a personality."
I knew what he meant, and I was so glad he cared enough to try to make
me feel better about it. "I know about that. It happened to me once,"
I said, referring to wanting something very badly. "Tell me about it,"
Dirk said. "If you can." "Oh, it doesn't bother me,"
I said, "but I feel so silly about it. And I can't explain it without
bragging a little." "Go ahead and brag. It will be good for you
to brag a little bit today."
So I told him about the Governor General's medal. "I wanted it very
badly, so I worked for it, and I got it. And when I had it, it was empty,"
I concluded. The legs went past again. "But I would have been miserable
if I hadn't," I said as an afterthought. We smiled at each other and
there was a perfect understanding.
As we'd been coming up the hill from the lake, George had said to me,
"Hey, howcome you're limping?" I hadn't said anything. Frank hadn't
said anything. "Are you just putting it on or something?" "Like
a duck, you mean," I said lightly. I looked at Frank. He was looking
at the ground and he wouldn't look up. "No," George said. "It's
authenic, all right," I finally said. Before I could explain further
George interrupted. "Oh yeah, I know now. You don't have to explain."
I think he was a little embarrassed. He was walking a few steps ahead of
us. Frank squeezed my hand, hard. I squeezed back, and it was a wordless
communication.
We stopped to try to find something to eat. "A banana split. Something
frivolous."
While George was outside Frank put his arms around me and I felt my face
against his stubbly cheek. He squeezed, and held me in a grip that was overpowering.
It is like the way you feel about a kitten, I think - you hold it in your
arms and it is soft. You love it very much. Something makes you want to
squeeze it, to crush it against yourself. I think that is how Frank feels
about me. I could feel his hands on my back. My sweater had slid up a little,
and he was touching my bare skin. I wondered whether I should perhaps feel
indecent, "unvershamd" but I didn't, really.
I sat up a little. Then it was almost like a sort of compulsion. My head
felt heavy, I couldn't quite hold it up, and it sank to Frank's shoulder.
It reminded me of a big sigh. I don't know why. He found my face with his
hands. Going to kiss me. But I didn't let him. I know he is still determined
not to and I'm going to help his determination, not fight it. It is a good
idea. It puts the way we feel about each other on a different level, away
from the tawdry and the messy.
We didn't find what we wanted there. We drove on down. I was closer,
actually, to Frank than I should have been in order to keep my dignity but
he is so special. Something shouted wildly inside me, "Frank, Frank,
I love you so much." How silly really. But I do love him. At least
today I do.
When George was waiting in a café for our banana splits, the idling
beat of the motor got mixed up with the beat of his heart. I couldn't find
the sound I was looking for. Perhaps they were at the same speed. Synchronized.
He was looking for my pulse. "I can't find it," he said. "Maybe
I lost it," I said. "Maybe I gave it to somebody." "I
wish I had it." "Maybe you do." George came then and handed
our splits to us through the window. "I gave you the one with the blue
spoon to match your sweater," he said with a grin. Frank always notices
that sweater too. He had stared for a while when I got into the car, leaning
back against the dash. "Y'know, that sweater does something for you.
It really does. Remember that. No - maybe you'd better not."
I was semi-wrapped when we went over the railroad tracks. My head was
somewhere under his chin. We went over them at about 60 miles per hour.
There was a gorgeous bump. Frank hit the ceiling, but I was safe and laughing.
It was fun.
Frank left me at my door. He stood on the bottom step again. "I
guess I'd better stay down here," he said. Then he left and I sneaked
in, not too quietly, because it was only ten p.m.
I thought the whole evening was wonderful. We didn't actually do anything
but we had a good time.
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