| still at home volume 4 part 6 - 1962 april-august | work & days: a lifetime journal project |
April 26 If I were superstitious - and I am - perhaps - I would say, it can't be, not possibly. It has been too easy. Ellie m'girl, I've learned something. Half the prereq. for success is luck and kindness, the other half - gall. It was a long shot in the dark, my application. When I stopped Mr. S. in the hall to say, "I'd like to apply for that Festival thing" he said, oh, about 1 in 20 chance. Alberta's a big place. Won't hurt you to try. So a letter was prepared, sent off to Grande Prairie. But Tuesday after school, a knock on the door. Mr. Toews, supt of schools, grinned into the kitchen. True, he has the clothes of a gentleman, and a pipe - but also screwy pig eyes and a punched-up nose and a grimace of a grin. "I was Dracula" type. But not a dracula - a nice guy. He'd come for some details on my application form. We had coffee. I rather liked him. That was all, and I forgot it. But today the Third Letter came. Blown and pink-cheeked from playing ball with Alvina, I came in to look at the mail. The long white envelope addressed to Daddy didn't rate a second look until I noticed the return address. Dept of Education. M-m I read his mail, but no farther than the first sentence. "Since your daughter has been selected for the Canada Council Train, we should be pleased to ..." Read it again - "daughter has been accepted" Mr. S. in the hall had said "Do you still want to try?" A long shot in the dark - "I guess so." And if I'd said I guess not ... Gall does pay off. First in the F.H. check. Now in this. And perhaps - if three letters is not the limit - in a B.S. of F.A. scholarship, in a Seventeen-published story (symbolism. I am seventeen - therefore - Seventeen!) in a trip to Europe, student plan. My reaction? I jumped up and down and squealed. And even father was interested - oo! What does it mean? Only this: an expense paid trip - train trip - from here to Ontario with a group of cultured and brainy kids, a stay in a hotel, eye-witness view of a real honest-to-goodness Shakespeare in costume and colorama, hob-nobbing with intellectuals, an Eventure! I went into Mom's bedroom with a flashlight, to get something. But there was my face and I forgot the thing. A dark room and a mirror and a light are things that can make me beautiful, beguiling, sultry, anything. I got lost in my face, staring at it in the mirrors. If the light is soft and reflected, I become someone new. I look as I wish I could look. Perhaps it is the face of the hidden me staring out at me, huge-eyed and soft-shadowed. The black background and only a sudden lighted face are dramatic. A light below my chin gives my whole face drama. It looks like a mask, rigid and bright, but it changes and the shadows push moods across it. Every girl wants to be suddenly beautiful. In that sort of light I am. Not otherwise, but in that light there is something in it I'd want a man I love to see. It reminds me of men I love, and gives me whispery dream thought of being loved grandly and passionately. I wore a night cap, a soft puff about my face. My bangs were wisped out above my eyebrows. My eyes looked huge, shadowed in a round shadow, pointed. My chin was sharpened to a point, my cheekbones high lighted. And there was a clearness and softness to the outline of my mouth. I remember my hands too - sensual in half shadow. And my thin wrists and my sloping longish neck from the side. I felt very sexy, really. I unbuttoned my sweater slowly and stared solemnly at the reflection wondering how it would be if - I should remember that strong elfin face and tell myself it is me. If I look like her I may find her other parts - warmth, laughter, intensity. Mostly warmth. April 27 In the grey weather went away to Sexsmith to get Doc McCrum to sign my certificate, which he did, kindly and no fee and friendly. Saturday, April 28 4 hours per day study for Psych 20 final exam written today; hours spent playing ball with the softball-fiend neighbour; sewing a dress for our grad party in May. Auntie Alice and family were here in the holidays. Uncle [Willie] sat in the living room and talked at me. I asked him a few questions because I had problems but he just wanted to argue theology and couldn't seem to care less. I must learn to do better. Auntie brought a picture [of Frank and me] she took at Grandpa Epp's. Its very dim and hazed over somehow so there's nothing clear. Auntie said about the haze, "Musta bin the static in the air." Quips Mom, "Not the static; the ecstatic." The dress is a creation: silky rich-looking blue top, high-necked and sleeveless, yards of fluffy plain white skirt. It is to be worn with white heels and short gloves, a jangly necklace, and style. That's what it is supposed to have - sophistication and simplicity and a certain sleekness. Sunday 29th of April Do you know, journal, I like men. I do. Not boys; men and a few boys. I like Frank and Al, Peter Dyck, Uncle Bernie, Len Sawatsky, Pete Suderman, Harold Remple, Doc McCrum, Rex Harper, Gerold, Pat Ranch, lots of them - the orderly, the 67 boys. I like girls too, a few - Ruthie, Donna, Mrs. Schatts, Sally, Elizabeth, Joan Lozerone, Marion Comagnon but girls, lets face it, are not such good company; they aren't as easy to talk to. Ruthie and I on the topic of are we flirts? did some thinking. I'm not - but I do flirt; and like to - but not as much as I used to. That protective subconscious again? In the café yesterday Pop and I sat and listened to four men remenisce. Their coffee was finished. Now it was only fellowship. The four were lined up against the counter. Mr Lowe on one end with his white straight hair falling on either side of his leathery dark face with its alive features and strongly dark eyebrows. Then another man, sleepy, slow-spoken, beefy faced, his balding head bursting, not smooth as most older men's, his huge round suspender-held stomach that looked firm and heavy. Then a lean talkative younger fellow with a thickish mouth, heavy glasses and a nervous laugh. Then a small silent man whose jacket was hunched up to his ears almost meeting the flat wide cap over his dull strawberry like red face with the scar around one corner of his mouth. He hardly ever spoke, and only to intreject a dry throaty word no one ever noticed. They swapped stories about the old days, "... when we were puttin' through the railroad I was helpin' to build the roundhouse ..." "He pulls out this Colt 45 - he was a good shot in them days too - and he says to the Widder McCloud - he was the barber - 'I'm gonna scare all the hair off this guy's head'" "... there was this railroad fence, you know, and all drifted up on one side. Well, he hits for this thing and drives over it with his feet wavin' up in the air and ol' Knobby still shooting after 'im." Stanley, the Co-op clerk, came in for coffee break and gulped his Pepsi while he listened, his long fingers curling and uncurling around it. I looked at him sideways a few times - he's a mystery and somehow attractive. April 30 Leona (Mrs Woelk) was at Sieberts so I went over to say hi and came home in the soft frog-song dark feeling like a chipped statuette: "the Social Misfit" May 1 There is a new, special pin up on our wall: the wry merry face of Robert Frost. Life is good because of this, a note from Frank, books of French and English, things like day dreaming of clothes, like talking to my friends - Gail, Donna, Dot - at recess, like making peanut butter fudge, like drawing wistful long-lined nudes. May 8, 1962 Remember this date. Mrs. Christianson said "do you get a complimentary copy?" Lynn said, "so you're an author!" Cary said, "where's your article?" I blurted - "Oh, is it in?" It was. I'm a published author. True - my creation is hacked up and confused. True, some dull editor put in some cliché's, true, they changed my title. But yet, there it is. "Study Habits that make the grade" "Ellie Epp" The photograph is by Ewing Galloway. How many people will read it? Hundreds. Hey, I'm a published author! - And I got a long letter from Frank (he's crazy about me) - And I wore new shoes to school which were much admired. - And new pants came today which make me look actually lean. - And I'm going to Stratford. - And I've got a date for Friday, and a swish dress, and there'll be a corsage Life is swell - a published author! May 14 Monday - stayed home from school to study, stayed up till 2:30. May 15 And again - the leaves have begun to come out, more slowly than usual. We wrote a final French test and I'm glad its done. May 16 Two dates in one week are more, just a little more, than usual. The first was the prom-substitute. I began dressing right after school. We talked party all day at school, all we grade eleven girls who are friends. One by one the shoes - heels with lovely pointed toes - nylons - underthings - slips - makeup - finally my dress. It has a lucious spreading white chiffon skirt and its top is silky. I wear a dangly necklace with it. I paraded through the kitchen in that finery and wondered if father (eating silently beside Jim) was impressed at all, and if he notices. Mother made a sighing sound about "how they grow up", which she knows a mother is expected to make. So Lloyd came for me and we set out. My heels sank into the ground with a curious plopping sound as we walked to the car. Conversation was no problem: he likes to talk. Probably he does not have much chance to tell people things he has decided. I wondered about him all the time there and from. He was gallant: yet he seemed dismayed - oh, mildly - at being seen with me, perhaps just by being seen at all with a girl. He seemed self-confident; yet he fussed about seeming like a "country boy", and did little things calculated to impress me. We talked about interesting things, and quite intimately. Yet I felt as tho there were two paper crusts around us both, painted to look human, and as tho' the two-crust people conversed and were friends while we eyed them nervously. At the party there were pretty girls in party dresses. There were a few men who interested me: a redhead preacher's son with a vaudeville talent, a debonair slim bank-boy, a tubby little freckleface who laughed off bewilderment at the fairest of long-legged girls. I got sick - first just a tummy ache. Then two trips to the bathroom, one filling the "bowl" and one the sink. The ice-cream and cake and strawberries weren't appreachiated. I remember sitting mutely while they had devotions, my skirt very white and soft, my arms brown, bare, and Egyptian, my shoulder just brushing Lloyd beside me. I remember sitting in town to watch people. I remember my flower - four winish pink roes on green velvet leaf background. I remember waiting at the flower shop while he looked for a gift for mothers day. I could see my reflection in a mirror - the coat flaring over my white skirt, a still bright semi-smile, the tall feeling of real heels (oh joy!). There were hundreds of men, shined and self-conscious, milling about. I liked it, with the flowers and the scent. I remember standing in the hall while Lloyd said good night, thinking of something to say to the girl opposite me - a tiny dwarfish girl whose tiny six year old body was strangely grown to an adult and poignant face. But what to say? I said nothing, but wish I had. Two o'clock is late. When I got home I fell asleep in pieces interspersed between hallucinations and semi-fever and wild surrealist dreams. II Date was a semi-date only, a lark. Gerald arrived at a late hour last night amid a thunderous roar of a beat 54 Meteor. I was in pyjamas, put my coat over. We stood and talked. He asked did I want to go to town with him? I said it would be funny. So today I went to school in my bright slacks and new ruffly shirt and white shoes. We had to have a note to go home, but I talked S into letting me go home on the bus. This was because he must have heard some plotting - and with tongue in cheek told us about the rule saying you can go home only on the bus or with your parents. I didn't want to be dishonest - tho' it would have been easy - so I went home first, and then Gerald picked me up. It was a larkish day - hot sun, wind, and the venturesome mood you get after writing a test. The black Dodge Gerald drives has class, but larkishness too. We tried to get Gail to come. Gerald drove over to her place. I ran out to see if she could come. I knocked once. No answer. I moved into the porch and knocked again. Both Mr and Mrs Angen came from the living room; I saw them through the screen. Did I say hello? It would be like me to forget - but I asked for Gail. Mrs. Angen looked at me with hostile round blue eyes. I imagined or sensed some hostility. But she went upstairs to Gail. I head only a murmer. Mrs. Angen came down. Still no smile. "She says she can't go," she said. "Is she not feeling well?" I asked quickly. "She has to do something at the school." There were thuds on the stairway. (Angry thuds?) Gail came in, pretty (blue-eyed) slender Gail with her lovely legs. "Hi" she said quietly. Same passive sound as her mother had. A quietness that could have been anger or hurt or nothing at all. She was busy [she said]. Gerald was worried. He's crazy about her and she's crazy about him but they are both unsure and it is funny. I think of Frank So we went, in the sun and the glory, for a lark. In town - quiet mid-afternoon streets. Gerald disappearing into part shops, and reappearing. The same Gerald as always. Boistrous, noisy, swearing in a way that is exuberant rather than angry. No company manners. I like him. He likes me. (Why?) We took his pictures in Woolworths, and while they developed we rambled down aisles between pillow cases and purses. "What do you want?" he said exuberantly. "I'll get you something!" Always impulse. He would pick up a camera, say "I should get me a camera." He bumped into my elbow once, said, "I like being out with you. I can be myself!" I think he did, tho' you can't tell, with Gerald. At the A&W we had soft ice cream. "What do you want?" he said. "You order something for me," I said, "... but what I really want is an ice cream cone!" "Okay," he said to the girl, "Get her a big one." He got himself one too, and a root beer float. The spoon he handed to me. "Want a spoon?" he said. "Sure" I said - souvenir. "Better hide it," he said. "Why, do they keep them?" "Yeah, I guess so," he said. So I wiped it off and put it in my purse. I wish I hadn't. It's bothering me. That was the whole afternoon. But I'm worrying about Gail. She's a sweet kid. Maybe a lark isn't worth it. But two dates in a week! May 17 Thurs. Dear Ellie-a-year-back: I wear nylons all the time now and can't for horror stand bobby socks. It really isn't bad! Its good - wonderful, 'nfact. The joy of our poor joyless school life is talking to each other, we girls, about love and marriage. Not boys any more! We've improved drastically. May 18: Friday night I went to see Mrs Kinderwater; I walked through the place where the gate used to be, and along the tilting broken sidewalk, and past the empty dining room window and the plants beside the front steps. It was like it had always been. But Mrs Kinderwater was not the same. [Paulina Gergen Kinderwater 1891-1968 born in Germany and Frank Marion Kinderwater 1891-1986 born in Wisconsin among the first white settlers in the La Glace area in 1912] She shuffled aimlessly around the kitchen floor, rubbing her stomach. Her stockings were a thick purple-grey color, folded around the bony ankles. She was distracted jumping from whatever topic I began (the leaves, the beaver dam, the grandchildren) to her dismaying health. This was the Mrs. Kinderwater, always cheery and garrulous, who gave me cookies after school when we found the courage to venture up the road past the caragana hedge. She talked delightedly of jet travel and the world. She bemused us with talkative tales of grasshoppers and the old days. One day when I sat at the road and sobbed because down the road, a flock of turkeys (blue-wattled and enormous) waited for me, she came out to the road and walked beside me past the almighty gobbler. She lent mother books. She let us read her magazines. She heard me touching her piano wistfully, quietly so father wouldn't shout, and said "she should have a piano. She doesn't just make noise like other children." Eavesdropping, I was grateful. But today she was nearly silent and always anxious. She was feeling just too badly to visit. She was sorry. She wanted to go to bed. ("Yes I should have stayed in the hospital like the ol' doc said, but I pleaded I thought of Papa alone. He needed someone to cook for him.") She touched my shoulder, ("But you're a young lady now") she was sorry she couldn't visit. "I wanted to walk down to the creek a bit ..." I said eagerly. I had been waiting to say it. I wished I hadn't come. Looking up there was a flash like a light bulb inside, I caught her profile tilted against the window, and my mind photographed it just as I would like to pose her and paint her lovely old face. Her hair wisps, there is dull sadness in her eyes. Her mouth twists in one corner. The skin is pulled taut over her narrow little nose, but wrinkles in sloping downward lines over the rest of her face. Her mouth pouts a little, it isn't the sunken line of most old mouths. She took me to the door and said again as I closed the screendoor that she was sorry. Both of us were near tears. I walked to the road quickly. I don't ever want to go back, I thought, no. I tried to wistle on a blade of grass. No sound came. There was a mirror on the wall of her kitchen, a large and long one. Usually I look into it to see my young face. Today I did not look. I think she is going to die soon. The beavers are gone from the creek. Someone blasted their dam. I sat on the bridge to wait for mother, I listened to the scraping rubbing water going over twigs in the dam. Foam floated into a pattern of lines. A fish thrashed over the branches. It looked an abstract symbol of terror. I've never seen a fish in that creek before. Just now I went into the kitchen to wash my face. From Mom and Dad's bedroom came unmistable heavy breathing, almost panting. I knew why. I splashed water loudly to cover the sound I both wanted to hear and wanted never to hear. The sound slowed suddenly. I went outside, and when I came back Mother was talking. I feel - pity for her, repulsion almost to horror at the panting sound, (he must be groping and fumbly and awful) curiosity. She must place her stretched and misshapen body into an obediant position and stare into the darkness as his smelling body cries "satisfy me, satisfy me!" And when it is satisfied does she feel betrayed? She talks of ordinary things to him in a normal tone. How CAN she? He must gulp his satisfaction greedily. This will probably cause trouble when I marry. The sex-life of my father horrifies me. (once a boar raped a fat sow outside of my window. The sow stood passively and stared ahead, as Mother must. I want to ask her "do you love him? How can you?" A wife must satisfy her husband. Submit. If I am ever married, how will it be? I want to love him, and I want him to be slow and tender. But what if he is greedy? Men are ... I wonder about Frank. And I've read about things like "she never knew a man could have such a power to move her." The man I marry must be someone who can love me well. But how will I know. I want sex, yes, but only part of it. I want to be bare and soft and touched and trembling. I want "him" to want me. But I don't want to crouch passively and be raped (yes - I could be raped though married. If he takes me when I don't want to be taken, when he doesn't love me and I don't love him, its rape.) I hope it isn't as bad as I think. May 19 Sat. Choir practice was rained out. Just after I got my wash hung up, down came the rain. May 21 We got a puppy, a dear wee black and white one with a patch over one eye, who looks like a dear small baby, or kitten. May 22 I'm sick and tired of school, including Shattsie. He hauled me into his office to tell me off about the paragraph I wrote with good intentions of telling him [to lay off bullying Henry Olidam]. May 23 Walter Nagy (editor, yes, of the Herald Tribune) came to interview me about Stratford. He's a lean knobby nervous fellow, but quite capable. Rather nice. May 27 Sun - my picture and the write-up was in the paper. Mr Schmidt said not to get proud. May 29 Tues: From now on a rigorous study schedule. June 7 [Judy's birthday] At nearly midnight Judy and I and Phillis S. walked to Webber's Folly to sleep with the wind rasping in trees and the vast sky. At 4 a.m. we moved to the shack, read, and then slept until noon. June 9 Saturday - what to do besides study for Socials test? Choir practice and a late night reading about Salinger - wore my grad dress for Frank's benefit. His graduation was last night and this morning. Yay Frank. June 11 Mon - Stayed home because the finals start tommorrow! Studied Social Studies listlessly and bothered Mom at home. June 13 Weds. Because it was drastically hot and beautifully so, J and I went out to lie with the dandelions and tan and study and tease doggy Dirk. June 14 Thursday. Language test - I'm scheming means of getting to B.C. For: money, to see you know who. Also plotting clothes. June 15 Went to town after a rough Science test. Bought a huge travelling purse, typewriter, yards of lovely young dress fabric, a "glory gown" - beat inspiration. June 16 A day of gifts: a morning working in the woods, picking rocks, smiles from two handsome guys in a white jaguar, a warm intimate choir practice, and a thunder storm. See Journal. June 16 Dear Journal, The smokey dim lamp is for atmosphere, (altho' not only - I do have to see) and I am wearing something new and nice. It is a semi-smock; short, just above my knees; made of a firm stiff weave; patterned with the jazzy intricacies of contemporary beat murals. It is very svelt, very coffee-house and young. It is for inspiration. I say I spent the $2.99 (Saan Store) for something to study in and to put over me when Mother says I am indecent. But I bought it because it is a symbol, (half-beat, half-Seventeen: that is what I want to seem, tho' perhaps not be) and for inspiration. It looks like a painter's smock, (red dabbed and pink smeared and gorgeous), a writer's glory gown. I bought other things too, yesterday. A huge purse big enough for travelling - shoes, clock, camera, hair brush, book, cosmetics, wads of scribbling paper, a bit of money. I bought something else too, something that I loved. It was in the Bay, a sleek roll of Sera-silk in pink and apple green with a life-shimmer about it and something I can only describe as "youngness." It will make a swishy elegant dress with a very elegant wide skirt. Thinking of things I love, this morning my mind named three things: my smock-thing, the dress to be made of that material, and my blue wardrobe bag. (I must remember to call it a "bag", not a vulgar "suitcase." There is nothing vulgar about my incomparable "bag".) Love not things of this world ... I worried about that. I do love world things and status symbols. (if not the conventional symbols for the conventional status-seeking, still symbols and still seeking of status through things) What were my three things symbolic of? Expense? - my glory gown was $2.99. No, not expensiveness. A full life, maybe - all of them have color and a vague thing I could call style. What they really are symbols of is the Ellie I want to seem. I think sometimes, even say, that it is not important to be personally important. But I am not a good philosopher or deciple of philosophers and I yearn to be beautiful completely, or charming - special. A rediculous ambition. My sage philosopher self tells me that superciliously. Today began with a call to the fields and the bush. I rolled my jeans up and wore a tight tee shirt with the blue scarf. I felt desirable but didn't look because my mind knows better. It is critical of me, disapproves of vanity. We carried trees (fence post poles) from the deep woods to the less deep woods where the tractor was parked. The path was humpy with tree trunks and sinking moss clumps. We walked a long time - not really - and enjoyed it. Judy is a good sis. There was rapport. I'm glad I have her. I've thought of this last year in La Glace school. It was a gift. Remember when I used to say grade four prayers, "God, please you don't have to make them like me, but don't let them dislike me." I've been solitary a long time. Last year I was happy to be solitary. This year I am not solitary any more. I have friends. I am close to our class. I feel one of it, and proud to belong. That is why this year has been a gift. Frank is a gift. I find myself aware of being aware of him - often. This morning I lay on my back as the waggon bumped over fields. I felt the sun on my face, my body slumped against the hard movement of the waggon. And I thought of Frank, of seeing him again, (when?) of being with him. It happens often. and yesterday, waiting in the dentist's chair, I thought of him too. What do I arrange in my mind when I "think of him"? I say his name, "Frank, Frank, Frank" There is a peacefulness about that. If I feel mentally energetic enough I say things to him. When I'm sleepy I try to feel again how it is when he holds me, but I don't remember and his face dulls into sleep. Today was a gift. After hauling poles there were rocks to pick. I worked hard. When we came in with the load for dinner I said "I feel as tho' I've done a good day's work." "You have" Father said. That was part of the gift. I went to La Glace for the mail too. A white [page missing] June 17 Sunday. It unfortunately - no fortunately - was dry enough for Pop to pack us off to church where we had an intimate service with dear Block. June 18 School, presumably to study Lit. Really to mail a letter to Frank and fool around in Judy's short pink dress. June 19 Our last test, last day of school, last year in La Glace. No sentiment (all shrivelled into a brown locked up pot-porri. Blocks for supper. June 20 Wednesday to start sewing for - possibly a grande trip to B.C. The wanderlust sets in and I have to move or die! Caterpillars in swarms on the trees. June 21 Designed and sewed a green blouse, sewing swish new dress (orange pink and green-gold) My Underwood came and is a thrill. I spent the afternoon sadly interviewing Mrs Atkinson. Showed Block the U18. June 22 Now for some reason Mom and I, Pop and I are nearing each other and finding it good. in fact the whole family - weeping Rudy, worried Paul, bland Judy. June 23 Sat. Some more endless fixing for a trip planned next week. And a fast letter came from Frank, quick typed answer. Last Block choir practice. June 24 Sun: Children's Day was good because of wearing the new dress and heels. June 25 Mon. At 7:30 am the'venture II began. Day: Doris in Dawson Creek, Robert Chamute! Steak and mushrooms internationally. June 26 Upon arriving in Abbotsford I spent money by telephoning F and buying a white skirt red jacket suit outfit. Uncle Jakes for night. June 27 A rather anguished day spent in writing a grim letter to Frank. Then went to Friesen's [picker's] shack and talked intensely to Frank about Project Dead. Wednesday I wrote a letter to Frank this morning - I composed it carefully. I wanted it to say the poignant things I have to tell him. I have a copy somewhere. Then he came to see me just after I got here. He was wearing the blue tee shirt and looked very good. He came in the truck. We decided to go for a drive. He took the pleasant gravelly side road. The, when we had come to a crossroads - he stopped and I handed him the letters. "Do you want them in chronological order or worst first?" As he read I opened the glove compartment to find the roses he put there, (a full blooming one, a half open, and a bud - all red and with a very faint odor) and his English book. I opened it randomly. It opened at
As he read I tried to feel as much as I could the whole scene, or rather my consciousness. Green leaves, "love is not love", red roses, his inscrutable brown profile, (sun burned ear!) and what he was reading - "but, because I do care " He finished and sat looking out his window. I saw him from only the side of my eye. After a very long time he said "Lets go for coffee". "Or if you'd rather we can go back." "I don't want to go back" (this said after a long while and quietly) So we drove on, hill after hill. Later he put his arm around me and pulled me into the closeness of his shoulder. There were more hills. We talked quite a bit. On Townshipline road he said "somebody says it is better not to love at all because you will be hurt but Wordsworth says "better to have loved and lost than never to have loved at all." "I like Wordsworth's idea best", I said softly. I do. Just having known him is worth any tearing hurt that can come later. When we talked about the fatal letter it was indirectly. I was calmer than I'd thought I would be. I feel that way with him. We are such very good friends. That is what I felt all evening, friendship. He is special. And he thinks I'm special! "Brown eyes," he said, "and green, and the silver dollar." When we drove away from where we had parked to read the letter I held my chin up with the flower under it. "I should have a picture of that," he said. What I was doing was only propping my chin up with his rose. A very nice symbol I think. even with such dire things as Project Dead (his name for what will have to happen) in view his affection can prop up my chin and keep it up. We didn't decide anything. He told me some little stories which I am not astute enough to interpret as he asked me to. One was about Marvin, "Marv told me about his father. Marv's mother was sort of a nagging person. It seems he carried a torch for a girl he couldn't have until he was thirty two. Then biology got the better of him." "I think I'll be a bachelor. Marv and I used to plan that" he said, and "I knew this would come up. I just tried to ignore it." I wondered, is he really sort of anti-marriage? Maybe he has seen things, as I have. and finally he said, "let's just think about it for a few weeks." June 28 Our first day of picking. My room mate is Marg Frose, young teacher and U student. June 30 Sat. After I was fetched away to 3069 [Konrad grandparents] I had a bath and hairwash and gab with cutie Jenette, attractive Auntie Anne, Mia, fat Auntie Lil. July 1 Frank and I went flying! Cessna 172 with an instructor. Then driving lesson and visiting G.pa Epps. Stole cherries with the King kids. July 2 After 17 flats I came home and was in bed when Frank came in his pale blue shirt. July 4 On our day off we went shopping in Abbotsford - gurmet food, clams and Chinese food, chocolate cookies, and I got an oriental cook book! July 6 A Friday night date with Frank and brother Dave took us to the library - joy - Freud, Cyrano de Bergerac, Chekov and the Tempest. July 7 I convinced Frank that it was absolutely necessary to sleep sometimes and so postponed the "something fun" he suggested. July 8 After lawn gabbing in sunshine with F and Judy and lunch at Doerksen's we had a rather exited hug-session, decided to "swear off" and talked till late. July 10 When I was in bed and nearly asleep F came over and I felt rather grumpy, he swatted flies. I miss the inordinate affection since "Austerity program" July 11 I've made over $100.00 (Frank and) I got a CARE pkg from my syblings. F and I had ice cream and raspberries with pop, parked and burped and talked. July 12 After a day of picking first rasps and then strawberries then at a birthday party for Curly had ice cream and cake. July 13 Frank obligingly took me to Abbotsford to hear Doris Eichorst and see her films (from the Greyhound). We talked late afterwards. July 14 Quit early to grab a bit of sleep, then wisked away to Abbotsford, bought some green shoes; the guys got drunk. Bathed at Doerksen's. Judy over for nite. July 15 From 4:30 am I spent today with Frank at the Seattle World's Fair. Pizza, modern art, Philippines display houses, watermelon, Danish hot dogs. July 16 Monday morning depression on a really cold morning turned into a joyfulness after it began to rain. $20 for "Curlyheads" article! July 18 Poor dear Irish was drunk again and told me how much he liked me and about what guts I have - riddles, jokes, songs all day. Wednesday, July 18 Its been an odd evening, a very odd evening, I said. And we parted happy, with a swing of hands. The mood was high from the beginning. I wore green, a gay green: my pointed shoes, soft grey green sweater, young green skirt. He was dressed all the way too, in black. He was handsome more than usual. (Maybe that explains my antics later. You shall see what I mean.) The driving lesson was peaceful: trees, smooth curves in the road, first gear, second, third, the slow progression of clutch gear gas clutch. Then we stopped at the Rainbow's End. Perhaps the eerie atmosphere helped what happened. There was piped nervous gospel music; we were secluded by swinging walls; colored lights were tacked erratically on the ceiling. We talked quite gaily. The waitress, a thin homely spinster, darted long-leggedly with hamburger and edgy smiles. We talked. Our conversation moved to future, to social work. "You can't help anyone Ellie. It's no good." "Yes it is." "No." "Yes." "It doesn't do a Goddam bit of good. I wonder sometimes if ..." Whatever else he said faded. I was numb. My stiff face turned to the window and into my coat. He said more. I heard none of it. "Excuse the profanity," he said. No, no, Frank, Frank. Forgive him for he knows not what he does. No. Why why no. His hand touching my eyelid found tears. He turned my face roughly and rubbed away the tears. "Say something," he said. "Say something to hurt me back." Silence. "Ellie are you sure you understand that I wasn't lashing out at you?" "Yes." The two banana splits came. I accepted them with a cardboard smile. I held mine in my hand. The yellow side bent inward and the ice cream melted around the cherry and chocolate. After a long time he took it from my hand, set it on the tray, carried both outside with a sort of violence, slammed the truck into the stream of highway cars. But when he gripped my head in his hand to lean it on his shoulder it was softly softly. My eyes were closed. When he stopped and I opened them there were tall trees and a pink sky. We parked. He said, "Now say what you are going to say." "There isn't anything to say." "Why?" "I don't know." Silence. "It hurts to see you so unhappy." "Is that all?" "Not entirely. It was a shock." Silence. And he said softly, "I don't ever want to be the cause of this again." You will, Frank. As long as I love you you will. We talked about him. I said, "What is bothering you Frank?" "How did you know? "It's natural. What is bothering you?" "Two things. One of them is religion." After another long time "The other is us." We finally talked about it, I lightly across his chest, he with his arm around me and his head leaned back on the open window. When it was darker and I saw his shadowy eyes and his sad mouth, he looked very young. He told me the three reasons, one two three, that we cannot marry. I recognized them and agreed. "Is there anything you want to add?" he said. "There is one point, number four." "It's a three word reason." "I think you know. It's the first one you thought of." "Do I have to say it?" "No." We talked and snuggled too, a bit, and finally came to a happy weak compromise. [pages missing] July 20 Friday - library then shopping (domestic scene Frank, cart, and me frugally specials shopping) We had coffee and cantelope and chocolate bars and spagetti and meatballs and green cherries. July 22 News today of Marylin Siebert's funeral - shot accidentally. Afternoon lazing with Frank at Hatzec, talking girl talk to Aunties, being close. Chinese supper, Grandpas for tea, waited for moon to come up. [August 16 about July 22] I remember the Sunday in Clearbrooke. Church was dull. I sat between Auntie Lou and Uncle John. Both sermons were dull. I walked home in stockings, carrying my heels with me. We had a good dinner. We went outside and it was hot. Sitting in lawn chairs the two aunts and I talked petty girl things. Then Frank came and I went out to him feeling very slender and brown. (You look fresh and starched, he told me.) I felt almost like the dagger girl or the wand girl because my green skirt and green shoes and green blouse were crisp and I've lost weight. We drove quite slowly and it was suddenly cool through the open windows. Eventually we parked the red truck beside a steep bank of Hatzec Lake. We carried the blanket with us and spread it under three cottonwood trees on a sloping part of the lake bank. It took a while to clear away the thorns underneath, and even when they were pushed aside it took mental effort to be comfortable. He took off his blue knit t-shirt and lay with his bare chest in the sun and his torso very bare. (He would have been very shocked, wouldn't he, if I'd done the same thing. I wonder !) (If I had a pretty shape it would have been exiting and dangerous) I remember the spaces of light on the lake, the spray of water skiers passing, the splashing young girls in the lake, (one of them bent over and we could see her round little breasts. I wondered if Frank noticed and what he thought) the flecks of sky between the shifting sun and shadow greens of our leaf-roof, the untidy wisps of cotton wood fluff (Frank said they were cottonwoods). I remember the hot blanketed feeling of my legs in the sun, the lumpy feeling of under our blanket (it is dark green with yellow plaid stripes) the sticky-on-top, cool-underneath feeling of his bare shoulder (I thought of the nights when I've wondered what his bare shoulder would feel like next to my cheek), the muscle-free loose-bodied feeling, the humming contentment of sun and being near him. I touched my hair. Once when I sat up to comb it he said "let me." But his touch was to light and he wasn't very good at it. He tickled my arms with a grass leaf until I shook it away and made him laugh. Sometimes he would hold me, very hard, (and I would be nearly frightened) but I liked it best when we barely touched heads in the sun. Sometimes I felt almost married to him. It grew cooler, the sun slid below the branches of our tree, it became breezy. We picked up our blanket and went away. As we climbed the bank he pointed to a sign neither of us had seen - "private property". That night after tea with Grandpa and Grandma (good tea with lemon in it) we went back to my cabin. "I'll stay until the moon comes up" he said. We waited outside on the berry waggon. Sometimes we sat on the edge and he put his arms around me. After a while the moon crawled above the Yarrow hills and he went home. July 23 Monday thanks to Frank I'm squeezing pennies by picking rasps at some people he knows. July 24 Last day on the strawberries, a half day really, and said goodbye to Marg - evening driving lesson with F, nearly backed off a cliff. July 25 Weds. Picked again - the ratty foreman pats my knee when he takes me home. Last night with Frank - we talked late about what is sexually stimulating! G'pa came and got me at near 7 o'clock. Goodbye to John's cabins. July 26 Thurs - off to Vancouver early with Uncle Harv and Mia in the Volksie - bought pink dress, sweater, shoes, bangles, junk, pink pyjamas, nylons. July 26, Thursday Pleasant to be winked at by a fresh boy in a beat car. It slid into a lane next to my Pacific Stages bus. I hope the gay wink and the wide young grin are an omen for the next magnificent two weeks. The two boys in the car, with a bit of awkwardness, bought me a coffee in the antique coffee shop and chatted nervously with me in the New Westminister depot. The woman in the seat next to me (a chuckly burbly Hungarian accent, wine-y breath) for a small while babbled sadly about her marriage life. "Heart broke, two. Two times. First husband, then two husband. I no like him. No. I can't get up again. Never get up again. Broke. Two time." She sounded a child and she sat like a child with her tiny feet stretched ahead of her. Yet she was telling me, in her beery sad way, how fortunate I am. "You no like, you no go. I no like, I go. I try. I never come up again." She laughed, though, a child's laugh. (precisely, the laugh of the little Hungarian child across the road from Grandfather's small house on Stewart Rd.) And she slapped my hand playfully when I tryed to put my shoe in my mouth. There was some yoke-jokeling with the bus driver. I love my new shoes. I love the happy wee clangor of my new bracelets. I love the singing sound of my new sweater and the pink skirt. There are two happy shopping bags of new things beside me. Pyjamas too, sexy sheer pink ones. When the bus stopped Clearbrooke was dark, a retired pensioner who left only night lights on, tho it was barely eleven fifteen. One of the night-lights was in the phone booth. The boy who alit with me waved and went the opposite direction. Only a bit past eleven. Good. Dime in hand I dialed for Frank. Against the rules - I called a boy merely because I wanted to hear his voice. It was a while before he reached the phone in the hallway from his sleeping bag outside. "In bed? I'm sorry. And this is against all the rules. But I wanted to talk to you." "I flirted with the bus driver. And I had coffee with two boys in the bus depot in New Westminister. Those are confessions. There's one really bad one I haven't told you. It's too long tho' - no, I'll tell you anyway. Yesterday afternoon we had to pick with partners - I had a middle [breaks off] July 27 Stopped to show off going away outfit to Janeen (pink dress, red rose, gloves, shoes) supper with F and sour-sweet goodbye. On board with a sleeper and new friends. July 27 When in my sleek new pink dress I left Clearbrooke there was an elegance - jangly bracelet, red rose on my shoulder, the white gloves that make me a lady, hurrying white shoes and dark stockings, perfumed wrists. I love the guy. We've had such a good summer, and even this evening was wacky. We read parts of Walt Whitman's Whoever You Are Holding Me Now in Hand; we drove cheek beside cheek, sadly; we admired my frivolous pink pyjamas; we ate cherry pie with ice cream; we backed into a sign; we made a feeble attempt to phone Grandma and pa Epp then left the phone booth gaily; we blew kisses through the window; when I saw him waving a letter I ran to the end of the car. (The letter was there before me.) We stood touching hands, my white glove above him, he reaching up. I leaned over the half-door, he stood with one foot on the lower step. I felt quite Romeo-and-Juliet. I had been near-rushed into the train by the porter. During our long Chilliwack stop when I looked out I could see him, looking into our windows distantly, leaning against July 28 Sat - Meeting people like Judy, Terre, Mr. Baravelle, Miss Adamson, porter Munroe. Riding through the Rockies - Edmonton. July 29 Sun - Saskatchewan people - Indra; Edmonton people - Al, Lynne, Liz. Cafeteria meals today, not dining car meals as yesterday. Tasting intellectual conversation. Winnipeg escapades with Gudrin, Terre and Judy. - Class president, the casual ivy league dress, the college haircut, the pipe, the black horn-rims. He sits comfortably leaned against the window with his legs spread apart and his hand between them (does he m?) He talks with the pipe between his teeth, easily. He says things with a sort of boredom - I wonder if, like most of us, he is an intellectual status seeker? Of course he is, perhaps aknowledgedly. He seems to know a great deal. He is not egotist enough to speak only of himself, and yet there is a small eye-wandering when someone else speaks enthusiastically. One adept phrase "negative utopia" - I found it on the back of a book. A spark of interest in humans - perhaps only a learned thing. kiss the girl's hand, say things like "you're an idealist" with a quick interest. Idealist - the truth is nothing more than the view of society. (leaving out religion) He says he's an agnostic - he says he has to be. Favorite phrase "looking at it objectively". Does he? Perhaps and perhaps not. Good voice - he says "I can't sing". That's unoriginal. Alban Sherman Gouldon. - Afternoon singsong - boistrous Liz, Gudrun, others. Intellectual discussion - moved first to edges, settled down to make notes on Alban on pink paper as he talked to Indra. Moved to table across from him. Got into the discussion. Told him I'd been making notes. He writes science fiction for an outlet - told him he was an archetype, stereotype. We talked books, sex, moral ethics, books, love, politics, religion. I took notes in the back of my book on books I want to read. I went for lunch - I with my comfortable lunch had settled when Judy and Terre invited me over. We began on the usual, real and unreal, true and pretended. It was sharp fun. Then when we'd finished a woman with two pretty small girls dropped into the empty chair beside us. "I just wanted to tell you how much my husband enjoyed your conversation. He's a psychologist and he thought it terribly interesting." July 30 Mon - all day through Ontario woods. At last night's singsong Rick was near, and this evening, world's end cozy. Another sing in the smoker. Al likes me, Alex too. July 31 Tues - breakfast with Alex in Toronto, met Gilles on the special train, five of us to Mrs Beadle's [boarding house}, dinner (smorgasbord - whee!) at the Inn, afternoon riverboating with Gilles, "The Tempest", home early. - The Tempest First glimpse of the theatre - spotlighted crowd and swirly music. They played God Save the Queen happily. Miranda was lovely. Arial stole the show, nimble, happy. Waves! Loathesome Caliban, savage, snarling. August 1 Weds - late for the tour of the Theatre, walked with Marg and our Gilles so we were also late for afternoon's "Shrew" - supper in park. After "Gondoliers" about 5 couples for banana splits and cha-chaing home late. - "What does a French girl do if you say that? If she is warm, she becomes warmer. It is easy to take her in your arms then and kiss her. But if she is cold she will say: Oui? Bon-n-n (distastefully) It is a good thing to smile, as you do." "It is bad to smile that way. It makes you so desirable." August 2 Thurs - a bit late again for tour of Exhibitions - modern art, olde books, saw a few puny VIPs at dinner, afternoon at the school to see jazz dancing, lost Gilles to go and see the cathedral. "McBeth" was dull but afterwards we lived it up! - snakedanced through Stratford, sang beside the river, home 3:35. August 3 Fri - before noon, packed and went strolling with the fun mob - (Liz, Indra, Rick, Al, Marg, Jim, Mike) fake cigarette holders, sang. "Cyrano" in the afternoon got a standing ovation, with Mike for supper and platform dance. Sad goodbye to Gilles - kicking myself. - Friday Give us an S - T - R - A - T - F - O - R - D Gerussi, Colicos Ron - "if you're going to sing I want to be near you." From PEI. Just behind was Gilles with Judy. He was gobbled up by Judy the Vamp from Vancouver, and Terre. He had a seat for me too - but I indicated the two fellows I had with me, both of whom he has seen me with - Ron and handsome Mike. So we sat separately but near. Before very long they were both crawling all over him, and I'll admit he was quite passive, he was enjoying it. I felt almost a bit sick. Yet - tho' I felt relieved to be free I missed him. it was itchy pride probably because I don't particularly like Mike and Ron flitted because I felt so silent. I appreciated dear Gilles more than I ever had when I had him. I tried first to shake him away and then sighed at the distance between us. Why am I such a pervert! I need to know what I want - that's what I need more than anything. I need a rule and a philosophy. While he philandered I fretted, finally leaving Mike to wander between cars and sing, leaning against a swaying wall beside the window. Acoustics were good, my voice was blues shift and the song was sad - sweet "Solitude". He caught my eye for a quick smile several times. (I can still see his face. I wonder how soon it will fade - it is puckish, grinning, almost elfin. His haircut is very short and stylish; his eyes tilt and laugh. And those clothes! (I hardly remember Frank's) except I do remember the afternoon on the grass under the willows when his arms around me became quite warm and his face near my neck was warm too. I wish now that I had responded, because he was dear and I liked him, and because of Judy if I must be honest. But instead I stared maiden-like at the grass and smiled rather shyly, and then began to talk to Marg who was having the same interesting problem with her Gilles. Poor Gilles. I acted as tho' he wasn't there half the time. What is the matter with me? An everlasting unto everlasting man-restlessness. I wish I could do it over, I know now. But - I think I'll write him. We got to Toronto. Those vampishly inclined kissed all the fellows good-bye. I felt like kissing someone too, Gilles in particular, but everyone else was kissing him so I wouldn't have even if I was the kissing kind - and I am not, though I would perhaps like to be. And I didn't say goodbye to him. To Mike there was a quick see-you, and then as I was hovering over my half-watermelon Gilles was there to say good-bye to me. His arms were around me, quickly, a kiss on the right side very fast and hard, another on the left, and one more that nearly reached my mouth. Al went by just then, and Gilles and he said goodbye. I was touched. They embraced, honestly and masculinely with several manly thumps. Then Gilles walked down with me to the place where East became East and West, West. This is what he said: "I'm going to remember you. I'll write you. I'll remember most the times I was with you. Because that was when I was sincere." A wave, and we walked apart. I'm a dolt. I hope he does write. I have the swan feather we got on the Avon. In the car (miles down on track 6) I was a welcome-homer. As Lynne and Al were talking across from me Al again brought Gilles into the conversation. He mentions him often: "Gilles thinks, Gilles says, that suit of Gilles', you know, Gilles ..." "You liked Gilles, didn't you?" "Yes. Did you?" "Yes. But I didn't appreciate him until saying goodbye to him. I don't know what happened...." "If it didn't snap " "But it did. I sort of killed it tho' I don't know really what happened - to explain it I have to tell you a long story about myself - but it's just that I'm frightened of close relationships and flee as soon as they become possessive." "But he wasn't possessive." "I know. But he seemed to be always there. But I liked him very much." "Yes." Someday I will learn. August 4 Sat - one last day together, losing only people I didn't know too well - Mike. Talking to Ron about psych, Rick about Michelle. Friends. discovering people I didn't notice before. - Saturday 10:30 - snatches of railroad yard, rock in stark folds. Mu-mu to wear, breakfast (cherry pie) with Lynne. Sad tale of how Mr. Baravelle and Miss Campbell looked for me. Mr. B. (when he returned from the hunt, to the B.C. kids - oh, she was out boying and girling) Napping with Rick, he talking wistfully and continually about the gracéd Michèlle. No dinner, he got some juice for us. He dreamed and I honestly began to wonder about Gilles, the dear. But restlessness grew - I flirted a bit. Why do these older men immediately want to talk deep intellectual things with me? - the man who wouldn't give me his name, who tried generally to disallusion me (Social Work "it isn't any good", futile - is everything? This isn't fair - all old jerks being sour and trying to sour us.) The newsy - genial, sexy, pseudo intellectual but well-read - he tries. Agnostic, Socialist leanings. His theory (well thought-out but probably borrowed) is "love is a deception". The idiot told me how sexy my mu-mu was, what a good shape I have and (crowningly - the Dolt) that I have nice legs. Then he went into the Christmas card story. I made an excuse to run. Then there was a rather homely Jamaican porter (squat, round faced) who sat on a stool in his cubicle and watched me walk toward him. "What happened to your foot?" "I had polio." "That's too bad." "No, it's not." "No? Why not?" "Because its given me things I wouldn't have had." (hospital, a bit of extra concern from teachers, more acute happinesses.) I was amused when he dismissingly said "I guess you can get married anyway." And he who found me not charming (when I said "do you mind if I come in and talk to you?" he said "I guess you can" so grudgingly that I hurriedly assured him that I wouldn't, not for anything) was satisfyingly surprized when I said, "Very likely. I've had two proposals already." "Two? How old are you?" "Seventeen." The story was a lie - I've had no real proposals. But someone has wanted to, and I am content. We sang again. Our favorites have become Yellow Bird, The Happy Wanderer, The Quartermaster's Store. Some of the nicer ones were Green Grow the Rushes-O, Jamaican Farewell ("I left a little girl in Stratford town") Fires Burning. I sang leaning against the wall, looking sometimes at Ron, sometimes at the indistinct mirror image on the window, sometimes alto, sometimes tenor, sometimes an explorative descant, sometimes silent. Several women and men in the car with us seemed to be truly enjoying us. Later a woman in the washroom said "you have a beautiful voice." I don't, but one of the Sask. girls does - a gorgeous voice. After a while of this I staggered back to our car, to find Indra, Pat Mooney, Lynne and Al being intellectual. At the edges of their group I paused, and then melted slowly into good fellowship. We discussed perverty teachers, religion (disturbing), more books, personality quirks; spoofed Freud (defecation!) (Al was stern and disapproving - I like him!), slurped my watermelon (friend Dave McCloud of Toronto U brought it to our attention), waiter laughed unintellectually at Pat's funny teacher stories. Then Burgess, Dear Battle Axe, was shooing us away into our berths. Rick popped his head into mine. "Sleepy tonight Ellie? Good. I'm not either. Let's talk a while. Careful." I buttoned up my berth curtains, unscrambled my purses and bags and luggage. Then Rick crawled in from the underside of my curtain - I was a bit taken aback - man in my berth! ("Here?" I said. "Where else?" "The observation car is that way." "Hey! So it is." I do like his quick smile and equally quick interest and then the contrasting dreaminess in his feelings for Michelle. "I was singing some songs I knew, some of the nicer ones, and she had her head on my shoulder. I wanted it to last forever.") He was handing me some peanuts when Burgess, Dear Battle Axe poked her head in. "How many of you are there in this berth?" "Two at the moment. We're dividing peanuts" (coo-oly). She was vastly more taken aback than I had been. Poor soul, she should know people can't sleep together on a train with 20 other kids within twenty feet of them. However, Rick was chased out with much clucking. Burgess, Dear Battle Axe, by the way was the one who cracked yesterday "You're the one who was leading my boy Ron astray last night - he told me you'd been talking about my drama class." What could I say? And she (neck forward like a turkey) ogred on down the car. Afternoon we stopped at Hornepaine - ice cream, chips, hot dog and sunning on the hill. Back on the train during and after supper Ron and I had a groping fast-paced conversation about the usual things - why are we here? Are we here or are we a dream in one man' mind? Is there a reason for anything. Is there a Reason? I like him extremement. He thinks as I do. I also like his way of saying "I'll buy that!" or "You've got it, exactly," or "You're right!" "I feel as tho' I've grown little tentacles all over me that have been storing things up to think about when I get home." "You're right! That's it exactly. I'm not thinking about anything now. I'm just receiving." The black back of his head almost on my shoulder. So whom did I fall in love with today. At odd moments with L and M, at some moments with the little boy black head, at long-ago morning moments with blue-eyes. With each I'm different. Lord and Master gets a near belligerance, black head gets a smiling quiet approach, blue eyes is handled with a light flipness. August 5 Sun - in Winnipeg, phone call announced that Blocks have a Ruth. Lost Judy, Ron, Leslie, Indra (late), made good friends with Terre, last night - caught with Rick in my berth! Friday night with Ron! - Sunday 5 am There was a fogged pink glare in my eyes and a lake outside the window to wake up with. Early and good morning. Satisfying bacon and eggs for breakfast, A wry good morning to B, DB. (Shall I say, "B-a-a-d morning?") There was a house outside the window, early, early. It stood squarely on a scraggly yard. Its windows were square and black. Before the door was a curved brown and white dog, sleeping. The entire house was solidly silent. I yearned to know the people inside it. In the observation car was a little blond girl whose sunburn had left small pink scars on her nose. Her father has curly hair and a nice face (warm brown eyes - are brown eyes always warm? I hope mine are.) Indra was in the dining car with her lovely dress - bright yellow with crooked rickrack and red buttons to match. She wears it with red dangly earrings, sunglasses, sandals, and her long cigarette holder. She looks a gold skinned goddess in it. Lyla was in too, black slim dress, pink flower, high dark hair, eyes made up à la Toby Robins. She is the one who is reputed to have flooded Chris Plummer's dressing room [with tears] when she actually and finally met the exalted hero. Al had a large smile, as did Judy, Terre, and the dah-ling waiter, Mario. Idiotic newsy was in today. His line today was "I didn't like to say it before everyone else, but of everyone you impressed me most." Je ne sais pas. Ah, mais oui, c'est la vie! The sky is a solid smoke blue like a wall from wherever to trees. August 6 Mon - Al, Tom, Rick, Jim kissed me goodbye. - [Gilles Pruneau, Montréal; Rick Parker, Calgary; Terre Larsen, West Vancouver; Indra Kagis, Prince Albert; Judy Hilderman, Yorkton; Marg Clark, Swift Current; Ron Uldrich; Al Goulden, Medicine Hat; Lynne Murphy, Kensington PEI; Mike Glisinski, Atikokan; CNR newsy Morris Brass; CNR waiter Mario Cianflone] August 8 Weds - for a while became an extra daughter at Sieberts, helped with chores and pea shelling. Home alone, no correct time. August 10 Slept from 4 pm to 11:30 pm, read for 3 hours and ate terrible amount of raisins and coconut, slept until 10 am. August 11 Sat. At about 4 Mom and Pop came home. I cried several gluey tears and then recovered enough to swap horror stories. Rain. What a mess we're in. August 12 I'm reading Vanity Fair and 1984. August 13 Late at night uncle somehow jumped on the table to kill a moth - crash went table, moth, lamp and uncle. An unholy racket, children howling. August 14 Uncle and Auntie left after supper. We're canning peas and beans and saskatoons and apricots and apples and chasing cattle. [page missing - letter to Frank] Do you ever compare this July with last summer? There's a difference. Last summer seemed more light-hearted. This summer we seemed continually to be tangling with some sort of tension or another. Yet in all my life there's never been a more peaceful existence than in John's shack (washing my face in the morning under the cold water tap, talking to Marg for hours, seeing you sometimes at night when you came over in your blue sweater, sleeping like a whole forest of logs and not hearing the drunken mutterings of poor Irish next door.) 11 pm. Sun. nite Here's a theory: maybe aloneness is a good thing to have much of. It seems to sharpen an experience. I'll remember especially the evening we left Stratford on the train. Somewhere between Stratford and Toronto I wandered off to the space between cars, stood there looking out the window into the windblown dark, and sang to myself. It was so nice. I do value my solitude. And tonight, sitting by myself and singing very very quietly and just being, and being alone in my mind. And in Edmonton - here's a long story, do you want to hear it? I was supposed to take the 3 o'clock plane home on the afternoon of the 6th, but as soon as the chaperone was gone I cancelled my reservation and set it ahead to the 9:20 a.m. flight next day. Then I reserved a room at the YWCA and traipsed off to see "West Side Story," my reason for staying over. It was a unique movie, very very good. It was full of color and jazz dancing and there were a few good songs. After it was over at about 6 pm I walked a few streets just for the alone independent feeling - and then I took the dear old familiar bus to my hospital, made friends with the girl who's in "my" bed, spent an hour visiting a dear friend on sixth floor station #6 (paralytic ward), and wandered extatically through my alma mater. And then spent the rest of the evening visiting Reiner's parents and sister and meeting his girl. They're very nice. And next morning after an extravagant CNR meal-ticket breakfast at Edmonton's nicest hotel I took the limosine to the airport and had a very brief and comfortable flight to Grande Prairie. Mom and Dad being in B.C., I decided to hitchhike home but my friend the county superintendent of schools picked me up, took me home for dinner, and eventually ferried me home after inventing an excuse for "coming out to La Glace anyway". The lamp is smoking fiercely, Frank, and I'll say good night before choking everyone. The 'lectricity pole is set up, the wires are there, but no hook-up and no lights yet. Good night. Sunday, August 19 The book was called "Success in Love" or something similar and I found it in the bottom row of a display rack in Hudsons Hope. (The small store had tubes of motor gel and speckly bananas, a slight bespeckled clerk and a pregnant Indian girl) So I glanced through the section on "sex appeal," flicked through to "The Motion of Love" and became imbedded (PUN! she shrieked) in "First Intercourse." That, with an Anne Morrow Lindberg book (aware, happy, alive), was a mélange of food for thought. Sex was the first course until it brought on some mild visceral reaction (I feel worldly-wise and blasé and enormously pleased with myself when I can use a word like visceral and orgasmic, even if in only thought-phrases) Note to me later: read a few of those books and make notes. Also be sure he reads the same books. [Bob Chamute and I argued the double standard a bit. He said you need the experience: I said, "read a book. But for goodness sake, read the same book!" He laughed a real and honest laugh, aloud, into the aisle. "I'm sorry. I think that was funny." I was delighted.) Anyway, about the book: it went into things I'd never dreamed of, peculiar positions and the like. It talked blandly of "maximum penetration", "coitus reservatus", "defloration". One part rather appealed to me, a quoted description by some sociologist of his honeymoon. He married a very shy innocent little thing. The first night he merely shared her room, after that for a few nights he slept outside the bedclothes in her room, eventually she invited him under and then gradually there was consummation. I like the slowly, slowly tenderness idea of it. Love. Part of the chapter explained honeymoon rape. I quite see what they mean. I wonder if that is what happened to mother. Perhaps not, but I think it was. I can not picture Father loving her unselfishly. Will I be like him? "Coitus reservatus" was another new idea, a slowly slowly type of love. There is shallow penetration only, slow movement, tenderness, cuddling, sleep. But the main impression was of challenge: this is something to be studied and created. I thought of food and sex as parallels: fine cuisine is a challenge, fine bed-life is a similar challenge. Both are part of fine full living. That idea blended nicely with Anne Morrow Lindberg's "The Steep Ascent". It is an aware book by an aware, deep-breathing author. Its gospel is living well, living sensually, caressing trees and mountains, sucking soft cheese, crumbling fresh plowed clods under bare foot, finding the texture of sky. I thought of Frank of course. I thought of Bob Chamute (a letter half-finished to him is at home - we're camping for the weekend. I have a profoundly undignified stomach upset - food and the thought of food brings the lurking nausea from wherever it goes. Judy and I laughed a great deal about it yesterday: I feel the lining of my stomach peeling off in chunks like milk soaked bread and float off, bobbing and sagging in vast amounts of murky stomach-juice that's thick as grey clam juice.) Another of the sort of people I'd like to be: a German woman with pale brown eyes, hair hung around, brown skin lightly freckled, a gold tooth. Gold plastic combs in her hair. August 30 Frank - no I won't write a letter, I'll journalate. I am Ellie: I am seventeen. I should begin any writing with an identity of myself, a pause to see where I am. I, Ellie, am touselled and there is a spot on my chin that I've been poking. My Italian pants are very tight now because I've sewed them in. There's a certain joy in tight pants - a friskiness of wanting to dance to some unheard jazz (gesture, slide, wheel), to the amusement of Uncle Bill and the astonishment of Judy, who never capers. My feet are bare. Bare feet are one of the things that I love beyond most things. And I love to walk thongéd in rain-wet grass, run in the streaming thunderstorm barefoot (so that my feet are wet in spite of the sandals and I'm caught again in the madness Judy never feels) Identity - is it a word anyone understands? It seems an important thing. I plan my identity. I'm not a simple person; octagonal, perhaps; pentagonal at least. I rotate to show different sides to different people. (As an example, notice the letters I write: compare the one to Indra with the one sent to Rick, to Marg.) It seems customary to ask "What am I?" but I ask "what shall I be now?" There are basics, of course, (mostly sins) which may be the core of my hectagon, pentagon. Arrogances - I'm arrogant and I become more arrogant. Whenever I feel unsure especially, I become condescending. That's odd. Snobbishness which is actually self-sufficiency. e.g. I don't especially want to go to the party we're having as Young Peoples on Sunday night. I don't want to go - Mother says it's snobbishness. Actually it is: a peculiar sort of snobbery. Laissez-faire. I say they won't miss me and I won't miss them. It's true. I'd like rather to read, or talk to Mom. Happiness - "I'm a happy person but not a happy-go-lucky person" I told Frank one night this summer. He said affectionately "You're well-adjusted". Perhaps, but not especially. I'm just happy. Not because. Not actually In Spite Of. I hope I'll keep it. I hope it's not only being seventeen. I think it is a possession and a gift. I think I'll always have it. It might make up for some of the snobbery and arrogance and selfishness. The identities I have aren't natural identities like the three faces of Eve. They're planned things I build rather carefully from bits of me I find in the core. I think of clothes, of tone of voice. I'll tell you about the lovely identity I have for next year: Ellen is her secret name. She wears brown and softs and silks and scarves. She wears her hair puffy, gamin, soft. That is what she is: tinkling, feminine. She has what every girl needs - a mysterious smile. She is soft and friendly but aloof in a dreamily pardonable way. That is, her aloofness is pardonable because it is dreamy. She always wears stockings, is always neat. She gets up early, has a bath if she can, makes an omelet for breakfast, walks to school happily. There she pays attention well but in an abstract way. Then after school she walks home alone as she came and as she has gone about all day. She carries books in; she practices piano for an hour. Then she makes a diet supper and does homework for a while. She goes for a walk, comes back to finish homework and write letters or journal. Scrubs. Hair and devotions. Silence and darkness. She works. She doesn't overeat. She walks. She's content, happy, mysterious. Being mysterious is important.
Still at home vol 5
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