Stuart Rd, Yarrow, Aug 24th
We haven't been communicating so much lately. Rather, the communication
has changed. Where we used to transmit ideas we now communicate feeling.
I miss the ideas tho', and would like to get it back because so soon ...
Monday a.m.
It was Sunday yesterday. He got me after work. I showed him the cannery.
In the cooker section I flirted with leggy Lothar while he talked to somebody
he knew. I hoped he'd notice.
We sat in the truck for three minutes to decide where we wanted to go
after. Grandma came to the door in her long narrow Sunday dress and asked
if we'd decided to live there so we came in. He chatted with Grandma in
the living room while I changed and then came into the kitchen to keep me
company while I ate my salty fried eggs and some mousse.
"Wanna read some medieval history?" I asked, and got the text
book "The Middle Ages" into which I tucked the letter I'd written
him. He looked a bit nonplussed when I handed him the thing, but found the
note soon. I like to watch his face when he reads them. Usually there is
a half smile on it, and it grows broader.
When I was finished we left and promised to be back before ten. We didn't
know where we were going. He took the road to Chilliwack. I moved over halfway
there and sat near him (because I am going home so soon). We just drove
around while it got darker and the pink in the sky faded behind the mountains.
He drove into a café parking lot, a crowded tiny place. There
was a red neon shining through the windshield, a sturdy-lettered "CAFE"
sign winking on and off. The red light splashed over us while we thought
of the time when I will have to go home. We talked and felt and loved tersely.
"One summer two people met," Frank said.
"So?"
"They lived a long ways apart."
"So?"
"That part of the story is easy to tell. There will probably be
a sad ending."
"A sad ending is more artistic, Frank."
"Is it?"
"Sure it is. I'm going to write lots of stories with sad endings
There's one brewing in my mind right now."
"Tell me about it."
"You're in it. Disguised, of course. And I think there should be
a strawberry patch in it too. It's an unusual setting."
"It is, isn't it?" He chuckled.
"Wasn't it funny that Grandpa happened to send me to your patch."
"I should thank him. He'd love that wouldn't he!"
"You know, I had a funny feeling about you right from the beginning,
before you'd said two words to me."
"'Funny feeling' is vague."
"More definitely 'an awareness.'"
We went into the café and sat on two stools near the juke box.
There were tins of fruit and dog food and cases of pop on the wall in front
of us. I caught our reflection on the mirror on one side of us. I looked
pink-cheeked and a bit disheveled. Frank was dark and earnest.
A television set in the next room. I could hear the voices of Jay North
and his mother in "Lassie" and could nearly see the blue glow
from the screen in my mind.
He put a quarter in the juke box and punched numbers. A man sang excitedly,
persuasively, "Love hurts!"
"He's right, you know. There is a certain amount of pain involved,"
Frank said. So he has felt it too.
On my request he played "Green fields" by the Brothers Four.
It was a soft introduction, and then the voices beginning, "Once there
were green fields, kissed by the sun ..." I could nearly see the long
grass waving.
"Gone are the green fields, parched by the sun ..." they crooned
on.
"Irrigation."
Frank's matter-of-fact farming fact in this tender mood of sighing song
was startling. He couldn't understand why I laughed.
"Oh I know he's talking about his heart, but he should'a irrigated
anyway," Frank said as the song continued, "gone with the cold
winds, that swept into my heart," "where are the lovers, who used
to stroll, through green fields ..."
Aug 31
Last night after we saw "The Green Helmet," we sat in the truck
for a while in the rain, and it was so warm, so utterly contented and so
blissful. The rain splattered on the roof. Frank had the window open and
the fresh smell floated in through it. He leaned back against the door,
looked up into the dark and rain outside. His neck and his young hard jaw
were outlined in silhoette against the drizzling soft dark outside. I was
near and cuddled and so warm, so happy.
I said, once, on the way home, "On Sunday you can say, 'It's been
nice to know you,' and all that. Politely of course."
"No. I'll say it is nice to know you."
"Was nice."
"Is that a request?"
"Is what?"
"Was nice."
"No, Frank."
Sept 5 1961
Sunday and yesterday were, combined and humped, one big breathless and
both good and bad day. Sunday Frank came and met Uncle and Auntie [Bill
and Alice Epp] and then we drove around Chilliwack, parked at the airport
and talked, drove around Cultus Lake, ate peanuts and chocolate, had rootbeer
and shared a Mama burger at the A&W, went to a wedding rehersal for
the wedding Frank is best man at, went to a Brunk crusade meeting at MEI,
met Grandpa and Grandma [Konrad] and Art Friesen, and had a lingering lovely
good night. Also ate supper - pork chops - at a little café in Abbotsford,
had a banana split at Danny's.
"You know, there was a mirror in that café," he said.
"Guess what I saw in it - a lucky guy and a beautiful girl."
"Not beautiful, Frank, but if you think so that's all right"
There is a big memory. It was a whole and complete day, the day we went
to the P.N.E.
For a long time before, he, Frank, had talked of taking me there, even
in the strawberry patch months ago. And when the day was decided on our
anticipation grew. He was saying goodnight to me. "We'll go to the
P.N.E. We'll have a wonderful time," he said.
"Yes," I said. "It will be something to remember all our
lives."
It began at 6 am. yesterday, Monday, September 4, Labor Day. I crawled
out of bed and was not ready with the makeup when the pink & white,
wonderful Chevy came up the drive. I missed the truck tho'.
He waited outside while I told Grandpa and Grandma and took out a pear
because I was so hungry. I hadn't slept since 4 am and not much before either.
Exitement I guess.
We drove on our lovely back road, winding and empty and hilly. The Chevy
took every hill at a full gallop without even a snort. I was on the half
way mark but he drove, after a while, with two hands. He said he would
come duck hunting and see me. I said, not if I'm a stiff. He didn't quite
get it. I'll un-stiff you, he said. You mean fold me up like an accordian?
I asked. I wouldn't care, even if your mother was watching he said.
The land was still and half dark. They were just bringing the cows in
to milk. In a few barns there was a light, but otherwise there was quiet.
It was a nice time to be with him.
We got Judy. I saw Mrs. Doerksen without teeth and in her nightgown on
the steps inside. We drove to Vancouver. We got tangled up trying to find
the Exhibition grounds. But we asked a gardener and an urchin and found
the place. Our car parked, we went out into the brisk morning to become
Exhibition Goers. One of many. Our walk down the Hollar Alley was embarrassing
because every one in every booth vied for our attention. There weren't many
people there yet. The air smelled horrible in a wonderful popcorn and hamburger
way. The music was gay and skittery. On our empty stomachs we rode the roller
coaster. In the first car with Frank (taking good care) beside me and a
certain promise in mind, it was a lovely ride.
"Oh-h-h my goodness, my goodness," was all I said when we slid
right down into a fall that was like a dive into ice water. "That wasn't
a scream. It was only a gasp," I explained hurriedly lest he think
it had been a scream. It almost sounded like one. The whole ride and the
next were windy and breathless and wonderful. Stupidly I nearly slipped
on the gangway down. He was very protective after that. It was almost irking.
Then we rode the ferris wheel, trying to decide which was the highest.
All three of us were in one seat. The bar was snapped in, we moved slowly
up and back. The view from the top was lovely - the bay, a beach, gay exhibition
tents, lurid ads for the House of Harlem "See Jazza-dusky import from
New Orleans."
Feeling daring, Judy and I rocked our seat on top, calculating the right
time to jump from our seat to the canvas roof of a tent below - in case
it were necessary. In case there were a rabid murderer in the seat with
us.
On the ground again we wandered between empty bags and many people some
of whom I exchanged happy stares with.
The handsome and bored looking yeller from one of the booths teazed us
every time we went by. "Hey curly, you've got two wives. That's not
fair. I want the one in the blue sweater." Frank held my hand as we
walked and very seldom let it go.
We went to the cafeteria for breakfast-dinner. Because the dinner wasn't
quite ready yet, we sat in a booth and watched the people, Judy making remarks
about a dark-eyed busty waitress.
A battle-axe waitress walked up. "You serve yourself here,"
she said. Frank explained. He looked wonderful in a light blue shirt I'd
never seen before. He was piqued. "She must have thought I was some
kind of country hick" he muttered. He almost sulked. I felt a bit irked.
"Forget it, Frank," I said. He did after a while, but it rankled.
That was one thing I learned about him.
We looked at the horses. We looked at the honey and vegetables and the
flowers. There was a bank of huge dalias in reds and oranges and yellows,
all massed together. It was like an abstract painting, vivid and intense
and a little unreal. It was beautiful. Now the sun was out and glorious.
In the electric building, in a maze of exhibits, we lost Judy. But Frank
thought that was all right. She's nineteen.
We peeked into a Japanese style prefabricated home. We saw an atomic
shelter. We went down a ramp with many others into the Hobby show. I lingered
over the paintings. I even remember a few: colorful and grotesque portrait
of a Sasquatch; a water color study of a dear old man in overalls; a foggy
ballet picture; a pen and ink horse, sketched in minute and lovely detail;
a picture called "Invitation" - a study of the tilted face of
a girl in black and white; a pencil head of a negro woman with enormous
loveliness and dignity called "The Nigerian;" a Siamese cat; an
impressionist semi-cubist study of chairs on a lawn in reds and blues; some
drab landscapes which won all the prizes. After coins and electrical radio
devices and wood carving and embroiderings and old cars we began to get
tired. Then, in the middle of Indian Crafts Frank said, "I don't care,"
and took off his shoes. I watched delightedly as he picked them up and walked
on in his green wool argyles.
The clock in the atomic bomb shelter said half past four. We'd lost all
sense of time. I thought it could be true. We panicked and walked out. There
was a door man. We asked him.
"Half past one," he said. I was surprized.
We rode the monster. It was a ride with long octapus-like arms holding
seats. Snug in one of these seats with Frank's arm around me we dipped and
soared and whirled. It was lovely. Two little boys behind us nudged each
other and giggled.
We had a chocolate coated ice cream bar. When it was about half past
two we went to the milk bottle booth. Frank looked it over. A quarter a
throw. He handed over a dollar. All four throws were wild. On the next dollar
there were a few more wild ones and a few near misses. I stood a ways away,
uncertain. I didn't want him to think I would mind too much if he didn't
get one. I had visions of him trying endlessly and never hitting them while
the stock of dollars beside the barker got bigger. Another dollar had just
gone. This was the last throw. I neither hoped or despaired. I was looking
away, not disinterested, but disinterestedly. There was a crash. The milk
bottles were over.
"What do you want?" said the barker.
"That bear, the black and white one " F began. He turned to
me. "Hey!" he said. "What do you want? It's yours."
I deliberated, feeling deliciously important.
"Can I have a poodle?" I said. "A pink one?"
"Anything," said the barker, and fetched down a fluffy one
with silvery eyes, a red lapping tongue, a red collar and a chain to hang
onto.
We walked away. He grabbed my hand and looked at me intensely. "You
didn't encourage me or anything, and you acted as tho' you didn't care at
all," he said flatly.
I never can say the right thing when it needs to be said, but I explained
to him later in a letter. I was touched that he minded.
We sat on some steps at the pond; I cuddled my nameless dog ("Frivolity"
is what Frank suggested) and we nibbled on melty ice cream bars.
It was half past four. We had to be home early. He left me at the gate
to watch and ran off to find Judy. I stood there in my pink skirt with the
poodle crooked in my arms and watched the people coming and going through
the gates. A little girl with long hair and a chubby face ran back and forth
between her parents and me, chatting incessantly. I looked over all the
pretty girls, the pretty faces, the pretty legs and was happy. I didn't
hear Frank come back.
Just suddenly he was there.
He hadn't found Judy, so we went to the car to wait. I combed my hair
immediately. It had been a hay stack ever since the roller coaster and this
bothered me. We waited a long time. F became impatient. Neither of us said
much. We remembered all the people, the barkers who'd howled at us. (As
I walked away with my poodle they hollared "Get her a twin! Get her
a larger one! Get her another!" This attention was heady.)
Two fellows in white shirts sauntered by with 2 dumpy looking girls.
Frank stuck his head out the window.
"Hey!" he said. The guys stopped. He got out to talk to them.
The handsomest one looked at me and grinned. They stood in front of our
pink & white Chevy ('58). Frank talked easily with them. They walked
on. Frank came back to me.
After some fuming we decided to leave Judy. Frank had to be back early
for a wedding - Leona Seimens.' Frank was in a dilemma - blood was thicker
than water, he said, Judy being blood and Larry being water. It was already
quite late. We'd have to speed, he decided, in that Labor Day traffic. Town
traffic was slow, tho'. A car load of boys hovered around us and I smiled
at them coquettishly over my poodle. They grinned too and passed us in the
next lane. When we finally left them they waved and I returned their wave
through the open window. Outside it was pure sunshine, different from the
clouds of the morning.
After some kind of short cut we came to the Loughheed Highway. We began
to speed in earnest, weaving and rocketing and swaying across the road around
slower people. I prudently mixed enjoyment with smoke signals into the blue
sky.
Miles and close calls later ("if we had a flat tire now," Frank
said, "there'd be headlines - 'Two young people killed instantly.'"
"This would be a good way to die - with a pink, frivolous poodle ..."
I said. "It isn't something to laugh about," he said soberly,
calculating the time needed to pass a car ahead. "I'm serious,"
I said) a siren wrapped itself around us and a red light motioned us over.
We dropped speed, slid into a driveway. The cop was tall and young and good
looking. He scribbled down a licence number.
"Wait here," he said tersely. "I'll be back." He
folded himself back into his car and raced down the highway.
Well!
Frank's reactions were amusing. He wasn't repentant about speeding, only
kicking himself for being caught. He was silent and tense. I was - as I
said - amused, and yet sober because he was so worried. We waited a long
time.
Finally I touched his hand, briefly, covered it with mine. There wasn't
any response and I was unsure. I took it away again, quickly, and dropped
my eyes.
With a sigh, he leaned me toward him, sadly. "Ellie," he said.
The cop car came over the hill.
Again, I was amused. Frank was so polite! All identification was handed
over - info given, excuse given ("I was supposed to be best man for
a wedding half an hour ago."), apologies made with appropriate gestures.
("I know it doesn't help to say so, officer, but ..." - gesture
inserted here - "I'm sorry!") (Yeah - sorry you got caught!)
We got a ticket, the first he ever got or I've ever seen. ("If George
had been here we'd have gotten out of that." "How?" "We'd
have sworn up and down we weren't speeding. What could they do?") The
date on the ticket was Monday, September 11. ("It'll be a bad day -
first my summons and then you go home.") Finally we were ready to go.
Shifting into second, Frank said, "You'll have to promise not to
tell any one about this. Not anyone."
"All right Frank, I won't tell anyone." We drove on sedately.
Mission - Abbotsford - Clearbrook - and finally home to Doerksens. I was
thrown to the mercies of the family while he dashed off into his suit and
away in the car for taking pictures. Margaret and I chatted first in her
room, tentatively began to like each other. She is small and slender with
long eyes like a cat's, and blond hair. She has a square small chin, and
a profile that is odd, unconventional. In blue jeans she looks a tom-boy.
She is lithe, intense. We admired hairdos in one of Judy's fashion magazines,
helped Mrs. D. get supper, chatted lightly, ironed my dress - forgot to
polish my shoes ("You cheated! You didn't use the shoe polish.")
Dave blew in, freckled, tow-head, merry. Surprizingly, he was also the perfect
host. As I stood chatting with Mr Doerksen (who is so good-looking)
I discovered how tired my feet were.
"Ellie, why don't you sit down" Dave invited, and dragged out
a chair for me. At the table he passed me this and that. Would I have more
potatoes? How about cream for my pudding? ("He wanted to make a good
impression on his big brother's girl.")
We did dishes - had to jump into our clothes in order to "just make
it" for the ceremony. In changing, Marg admired lavishly my dress,
my shoes, and me, my poodle (Jon loved it) my hair, etc. There wasn't even
time to wear much lipstick. Somehow we got paniced to the car and away.
Marg asked questions of a medical-surgical nature which I answered with
no qualms. These were Frank's people. ("She told me some of the things
she asked you - weren't you terribly embarrassed?")
I sat with Marg in the balcony with some of her younger friends and behind
us the little boys colted around. The wedding march started almost immediately.
Frank was in front, standing stiffly. His eyes flicked up and found me ("the
sobriety of the bestman was commended") and returned to me. Everyone
seemed to know - they turned and grinned knowingly at me - he's looking
for you they whispered behind hands.
Then he sat down, and the rest of the time was spent in eager whispered
chatter with Marg. She's a lovely person but she doesn't know it.
The rest of the time was not too wonderful In order to spare Frank the
long drive home and Grandma the anxiety of having me gone until so late,
I begged a ride from John Kroekers, Yarrow people, ex-P.R.D. Marg, because
she was so unsure of herself, left me with Katie. This was not a good idea.
I wandered away after a while, and watched - went through the reception
line. Frank was the first one - I shook hands with him gravely, said, "Hello
Mr. Doerksen," said I had a ride home. He grimaced.
I ate silently at one of the long tables. Frank sat at the head table
and looked at me often. I studiedly avoided looking at him, ate a little,
talked a little, watched mostly. ("You didn't eat much, and you seemed
to know everyone there.") We went home early. I did not see him again
Marg told me wistfully of Frank's long before-going-to-bed talks with
Judy. "I hear them sometimes," she said. "I think he likes
you a lot. I hope you like him a lot." I did. I said something to the
effect, casually. When Frank walked away to sign the register with the bridesmaid,
she solemnly asked, "are you jealous?" When I said no, I was not,
she accused me gently of not liking him much. I wonder at the loyalty these
kids have for Frank.
Went home to a dark house. Crawled silently into bed, and slept. It had
been nearly 17 hours.
Stuart Rd, Yarrow, Sept 6
The phone doesn't ring and my fingernails are being bitten off. I'm struggling
against being a scrambler. I'm feeling fear and desperation and bewilderment.
I am being a scrambler I guess, in my heart.
On Monday night when he was the distant and self-possessed best man I
saw his eyes searching for me in the balcony and when he found me in my
lavendar coat his eyes looked back again and again.
When, in the receiving line, I teazingly shook his hand and told him
I had a ride home, he made a face and said hurriedly, "I'll probably
see you on Sunday. If anything develops I'll call you."
Now it is Wednesday. I cried on Monday night and I cried last night,
and I shall cry again tonight.
I don't know. Won't he call me? He didn't last night, and he didn't tonight,
and perhaps he won't - tomorrow, or Friday, or Saturday, or ever. And then,
on Monday night the bus will come and I won't see him again. If he doesn't
say goodbye he won't write.
Has something happened? Why did he say, "I'll probably see you on
Sunday" so impersonally? Why "probably"? Why didn't he say,
I'll see you Thursday night. Eight o'clock?"
Thursday
He hasn't called me yet. I will cry again tonight and tomorrow night.
Maybe after a week or two weeks I won't any more.
Friday
- You
- Will always be
- Etched
- Into memory
- Indelibly.
He wrote, and that was his P.S. I hadn't tho't of the writing angle,
but today suddenly while plopping tin cans down, I said, there will be a
letter tonight, and there was. I read it on the clover-starred park lawn
and looked windblown and giggled and was entirely happy again.
Sept 11
We ate at a corner booth. I thought for once he might sit beside instead
of across but he sat across anyway. Still, he hugged me, um, three times,
on the street, (confessing meanwhile that it was bad manners).
And we had a good time over the eating. We sat on a front bench and held
hands and nuzzled to kill time and because this would be the last time.
There was even a bit of dummheit. When he came in he walked around the bench.
"Are you by any chance Ellie Epp?"
I didn't say anything. "Or don't you know her?"
I slid coyly away. "I'm sorry, I don't talk to strange men "
But then I slid back over and asked how he'd made out at court. 23 dollars
only. It was his incredible luck. And some scheming. Luck was involved in
the fact that the cop had clocked him at 65 whereas he'd been afraid the
word would be 105. The scheming came to this: he dressed for the occasion
- workish pants and shirt with a sports jacket and work boots to look like
a poor immigrant farmer!
After I'd gotten my tags we sat on a bench in the dark behind, close.
He was warm and it was beginning to be a cool evening. Close and warm, his
hands on my back and touching my neck. Boy scouts walked past with some
frisky "well, well"'s and things like, "Too bad you can't
see the moon." I thought so too. But he doesn't care who sees him love
me. He never has, ever since the berry patch. And this was the last time.
"You know, I don't think I really realize," I said quickly,
"I think I will see you again next Wednesday or next Sunday."
The bus roared in and its brakes hissed loudly ("Hate that sound,"
Frank said. "I'll hate it even more now.") We carried out my stuff
and he stowed my suitcase away for me. And then in the narrow aisle he moved
closer very quickly and just for an instant brushed my cheek with his lips.
And then he was gone. The man across the aisle said, "Such a little
one!" "Maybe if you'd looked the other way," I said lightly
and then opened my window as wide as I could. He was below in the blue shirt
that makes his chin and eyes a different color. He reached to the ridge
above me and chinned himself so that my face was against his one last time.
And then the bus moved forward and he dropped to the ground.
I saw him then, looking back. He was waving like a small boy. And I saw
him once more when we drove by his truck. He stood on the running board
leaning out onto the road at an angle from the hand on the door handle.
And he waved again.
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