Sherbrooke
city in May springs forth crocuses, lilies, tulips and lilacs. I pinched a lilac off a branch walking past a tree on Ball street heading home, smelling it along the way. I placed it in a slender vase setting it on a table next to my arm chair. The smell filled my nostrils for the first couple of days, after that I had to lean in closer and sniff in the smell, until finally it was faded and finished, ready for the recycle bin. In my landlords back yard there is a tree that blooms
and there's another lilac tree as you leave the property via the driveway.
My favorite sound in the world to wake up to are the birds singing in a chirping song at about 3:30 am and is in full force by 4:30 am, it brightens up my morning start and it makes me feel glad to greet it.
My favorite sound in the world to wake up to are the birds singing in a chirping song at about 3:30 am and is in full force by 4:30 am, it brightens up my morning start and it makes me feel glad to greet it.
In the third week of May it
livens up for a spurt as the streets fill up with University students that have
been attending all year long the University of Sherbrooke. This particular
night they chose my street to gather on. Their exams have been taken or nearly
all but finished and now they are celebrating in droves. Chanting songs and
slogans, that sound like they belong to some professional sports team or it
could be frat houses as there is clapping and cheering too at the end of the
chants. As they continued on walking past my home letting off some steam
together, they stood for a couple of hours in the same spot, I could hear them
reminiscing, as some will be saying their goodbyes for the summer or their off
on a new adventure to parts unknown as they start off a brand new
life. Apartment signs are up as vacancies open attracting students to
their buildings. My Kitchen window and living room window face the building
alongside a house and an apartment building that gives me a bird’s eye view
right into the neighbor’s kitchen that is clearly empty now, I try not to look
over but like flies attracted to the light when I walk through my kitchen and
see their light on I can see all the goings on like a voyeur, I can’t seem to
help myself. So to help us out I placed a large geranium plant that blooms
loads of flowers to help cover up my window view of the neighbors business but
I can still see in as enter into the kitchen heading towards the window to
enter into my living room on the right side of it;with the large plant hanging
there the neighbor can no longer notice me noticing them. Works for me...
I like to
take long soaks in the bath on the weekend. I used to take it around the day and time that CBC
radio’s Stewart McLean’s Vinyl Café show would play, sadly this year we lost a great Canadian icon as he passed away of melanoma at a young age. I would lean back on to the tub's pillow and
listen to his story telling and then he would introduce the singer or band he’d
chosen to play between sets that were of Canadian content and so I got to hear
new material all the time that normally I would never hear of, as they most likely wouldn't make it on to mainstream
radio; that’s what I love about CBC radio, they have a music station of only
Canadian content. There is one Stewart McLean's story that he wrote about how
men with tools are brought together in harmony, and camaraderie, there’s
excitability in the air, expertise flowing in the wind, no one really invited
them over they just knew to come and
then word would eventually spread for a call out for certain tools or expertise. This is exactly what I witnessed with my neighbor,
living in the house that I can see from kitchen/living room windows. Minus the catastrophes that Stewart McLean's characters experienced in his story telling, it appeared to be going quite well.
The other day I had to borrow his cell phone as I had noticed I couldn't call out. And now my internet was down too. I was an hour with the company it took 24 hours or so for them to fix the phone line and I with the guidance of the tech fixed the internet. So I called my birth mother, whom I found 4 years ago and checked in; she told me she had been trying to reach me for 15 days, which explains why my 'Mother’s day' was so darn quiet. She said to me she was considering a call to the police as the busy signal on my phone for those many days was becoming a growing concern to her and her life partner. I'd been that busy I hadn't noticed, but it was beginning to sink in that it had been awfully quiet lately. If the Irish luck stays with me, I assured her that her number and my daughter’s number are my ICE contacts. (ICE in case of emergency).
My garden pots
have all been seeded and some greenery is sprouting up. A squirrel, like every
year, attempted to dig its paws into my pots, but the soil was wet and I topped
them all up with manure and so only two tomato seedlings were dug up as the
heaviness of the soil dissuaded the squirrel’s attempts to dig on and off it
went discouraged. I repositioned the offended tomatoes seedlings and in hopes that they
all have a chance to sprout before one of the other squirrels come up looking
for something they think they might of stuck in one my pots during the winter
time.
I walked down King street East to fetch some potted flowers to add to my tables to get the colorful bloom-age started. I huffed and puffed my way back up the mountain with my loaded up black leather knapsack full of groceries too from items on special. I had to stop 3 times to rest I was so over loaded with weight on me. Cans of Marley's food were on special so I loaded up on those too. My arms carried bags on each shoulder full of small flower pots. As I climbed up the mountain of King street West. On my last leg of resting on the side walks bench, I met a nice lady and we chatted in French, about what the challenges of living in Sherbrooke city can be, especially if you want to go biking; turns out she works for the city of Sherbrooke and had an appointment to go to on my street so she kept me company as we walked along that way together.
I placed a box under one of the tables added some covering in there so that Marley could join me outdoors as she runs to the door anyway; so I lifted up and pinned up one side of the plastic covering so she can see the going on's, on that side only, but kept the other side down as that is the view of the bird feeders and she is clearly a predator.
On facebook
I have inspirational messages scroll on my feed and one read out something along
the lines of ‘one day I’d like to wake up and see all the news outlets tell stories
of only peace throughout the world.’
Call Out for Help written by © LeeMarie
Blessed are we for the food we eat
the clothes we get to keep
A place to call home where we can sleep
And I wonder...
What’s going on with the world today?
It’s not necessarily a better place.
There’s still people suffering across the ways.
Then there are others who won’t share the same space.
We’re still using steel and arms to settle our
disputes.
We’ll always have monsters who need to prey on the
weak.
Now the earth is spilling over with souls
who stood up
for justice and peace.
And they bleed and they bleed
and they bleed and they
bleed.
Bellies are rumbling,
ignorance is spreading, further
out of our reach.
Children are dying, losing their limbs,
women are
crying out in pain every week.
Everyone is scurrying looking for relief,
at the break
of dawn the madness just repeats.
And they bleed and they bleed
and they bleed and they
bleed.
We’re still waiting for the healing to start,
where everyone
is equal and given a proper start.
When we don’t see each other with labels
rising faster
than the snow falls.
Can’t we think of others’ as well as ourselves?
Those rose colored glasses are fashionable out of
style.
The call out for help has been sounded for a while.
And they bleed and they bleed
and they bleed and they bleed.
and they bleed and they bleed.
Blessed are we for the food we eat
the clothes we get to keep
A place to call home where we can sleep
And I wonder…
Here is the video from 2009 if you care to listen to it sung in a Capella style.
When I was growing up, I’d say it was somewhat a sheltered life,
not so much an ivory tower, but pretty tightly wound. The only advice my
adopted mother gave me when I had to take the bus into town to attend a private
school run by gray nuns in Morpeth, Northumberland, England. I must have been
11 years old; was not to sit or talk to any man with long hair, they carry
lice. Why? I am not sure, but I looked at them with curiosity more than concern
or fear. Considering that we were the generation of children who were sent out
doors to play all day and the parents had no real clue as to what we were up to
while being away from them, it seemed strange that they would stand in judgment
of others and volunteer an opinion. But what did I understand about adults? My
adoptive brother and I after school and sometimes on weekends often would play
tennis on our street, somewhat in front of our house. Our house was semi d
attached built on a semi circle street. Past the semi attached were the
duo garages and then another neighbor’s house that followed along the circle
onto another house. But in-between those two there was a gate, that lead to
some stairs that took us to a back road that led us to open fields, hills and
trees. We often used that path to go play and have fun around in the fields
touching the high seeded like foliage that lead us to the hills to roll down
on. I'd hug the trees run my fingers along the bark and like a pole dancer
holding on to the tree danced around it scraping my hands along the bark as I
sang some made up songs.
Well, the owner of that gate and stairs was the first neighbor
past our garages; was slowly getting fed up of us using that crossing and our
tennis balls falling on to his yard and seeing us going over and picking them
up. So, one day he put up a barb wire fence to keep us
all completely off his land . But sure enough, one our tennis balls
fell into his yard and I, one day, wearing a red wind breaker, reached in
between the barb wire to retrieve the ball and while pulling my arm back out
the barb wire caught my jacket and I kept tugging at it until the wire let me
go. Returning with the tennis ball we continued our game of tennis; which is
when I noticed as I swung my tennis racket a certain angel my jacket sleeve
rose up revealing a very deep gash caused by the barb wire. I was
bleeding and I could clearly see the inside of my wrist. Screaming in shock and
horror, my wrist now decidedly throbbing I raced home to show my adoptive
mother, who was more disturbed by my screaming than my wound. She had me
run it under cold water then we sped me off.. The nice doctor sewed me up
after freezing my wrist and several stitches later I was mended. I now wear my
scar like a badge of honor; for the next day the neighbor felt so bad he took
the barb wire fence down from his yard and let us use his gate to other side
any time we wanted. Score one for the little guys.
I just recently heard from my adoptive
brother, which shocked me, to be honest. You see, our old neighbor had called
me to check in with me as we do with each other for years now. She's a retired
school teacher from John Abbott. Her husband used to try and reason with my
adoptive mother to stop what ever she was doing as they clearly heard me
screaming out in pain all the time. I had been their neighbor since I was
thirteen years old, returned back from England we found a house next to theirs
and we kept in touch even after I had moved away. She's in her 80's now
and the way she told the story I thought it was so very a recent event. She told
me she read that my adoptive father had died and hadn't she told me this
before? I took it as then and not in 2012, when we actually speaking of
it , it was 2015, three years later I hear about this. I searched for the
obituary. I went into my kitchen first, a little stunned at the news and opened
my fridge door and spied some beer and I took one out, which was my first
mistake. I sat at my table drinking it as I tried to digest the news and how
was I suppose to take it. My last memory of him clearly flooded back to
when I last saw him I was fifteen, suitcase in my hand he stood at
the door way, a tear trickled down his face, his blue eyes had swelled up
and he said to me, " we weren't good enough for you? you
had to bring an outsider, a stranger, (he spat out the words, he sounded like
he was scoffing as he said them) a 'social worker', into our home to deal with
our family problems and now you've broken up our family; your
mother hasn't gotten out of bed for two days as result of all this.
You can never come back here, once you leave, do you understand me?"
I stood stone faced as he said this to me,
I couldn't comprehend his words, they weren't penetrating,
my shoulders felt heavy as he slammed the door behind me and I walked on
to a new life without them all. My poor adoptive brother had been banned from
speaking to me as we often saw each other on the city bus; the group home was
only about 9 blocks away from where we last shared a home together. So now
being 2015 this passive aggressive man who stood that day before me was gone
from this world and I didn't know what it was suppose to mean to me. I searched
for his obituary and saw that it was 2012 August, the date of my daughter's
birthday of all dates and that no one had thought to tell me this, which oddly
disturbed me. It read that he was born in 1925 and he leaves behind his beloved
wife of 60 years and it mentioned my adoptive brother and his family. I was not
mentioned in the obituary of course that should not come as a surprise. What I
did next as the beer buzz took effect and my emotions and anxieties were
running high was I searched for my adoptive brother on Facebook and found him.
Sent him a message that wasn't that friendly as I hadn't forgotten what he last
said to me when we found each other again back in 1988; was that all the things
that happened to me in our house was of my own making and that I deserved all
the abuse and maltreatment that I got and then, he dumped me, stating he wanted
nothing further to do with me when I didn't react well to his statement after
trying to discuss the going on's in the first place. He preferred to live in
denial.. So my screw you attitude towards him reflected in those messages that
I left him on facebook. This year, last month, he wrote to one of my email
addresses and told me that he just received my messages from Facebook and that
he was in Saudi Arabia and the messages must of been blocked. He hadn't taken
kindly to my messages demonstrated by the fact that he copy pasted them into
his message. He wished me happiness and told me to move on. He is in love,
after his divorce from the mother of his two children, one of them named after
him as our adoptive father did to him; so the tradition lives on. He wanted to
spread the news of his happiness, he indicated that our adoptive mother was
still alive and still living in the West Island is what I presume. I
didn't quite apologize for the way I wrote to him but did offer
an explanation of the unfortunate events that took place and that
I truly don't have a high regard for him for his ignorance
to what transpired in our home which was cruel in it's depravity and he
enabled the behavior as an adult. He wrote back stating that he either blocked
the memories of our child hood or he has a memory problem.
My reply to that was how fortunate for him and sad at the same time. He gets to miss the messy bits as well as the great bits. I reminded his of something, when at fifteen I had a hunting rifle aimed at my head while at our cottage in Lac Castor; I was playing with pebbles enjoying the pinning sound it made against the other pebbles as they struck and landed, bored, nothing to do unless it was assigned to me, I entertained myself. After being ordered to stop, I still had a few left in my hand before I could comply. I happened to look up at my adoptive parents window and watched as my adoptive mother stood there, rifle in hand, she was mapping out my demise and where my body would be buried and the joys of no one missing me; her plan was to help the world rid them of one less gutter child and planned to place me back there where she found me or pulled me out of, (spewed nonsense). 'Besides the neighbors are sick of hearing your screaming, echoing around the lake'; ( maybe if she stopped beating me with wooden branches they would hear screams of laughter and play like sounds they should of been hearing). She said,' the neighbors think you are mentally ill, did you know?'. (gee thanks) I remember standing there calmly, wishing she wouldn't miss my head with the bullet so that it would end my misery once and for all. I said a word I heard the other school kids say, that I didn't understand it's meaning, but instinctively knew it fitted this situation and I said to her. 'You are a bastard'. She laughed, mocking me and said, ' I'm a bastard, no, you are the bastard's child, a child no one wanted. I took you in, your dress was dirty and tattered I had to wash it and give it back, you're shoes were to small for your feet. Your father and mother deserted you, they didn't want you. I felt sorry for you, I offered you a home, all you have to do is, do as you are told, I own you, you speak when I tell you to speak, you move when I tell you to move, but you just don't get it, over and over again I tell you, but you just don't listen'. I told her in retaliation, my feelings hurt and my brain burning with anger, ' go ahead just do it, just pull the trigger, end it now, do what you have to do'. My adoptive mother walked away exasperated with me. I stood there still alive, for more of this miserable life to continue. I kicked over the large soup mug that had milk in it and an unstirred whole egg sitting on the bottom. It had been sitting there for hours now, by my tent, and I wasn't going to drink it. One sip of that I knew I didn't like it. It was right up there with the hot mustard sandwiches she gave, that had me standing at the kitchen counter for hours at an end back in Montreal west; until she went to bed sent me off to do the same; and it was still sitting there, waiting for me the next morning. I was growing more stubborn and I was digging in my heels in defiance. I was losing a lot of weight and my skin was peeling between my fingers and toes from malnutrition. She had to feed me, she said, they didn't say what she had to feed me.
I wrote in that
last note to my adoptive brother to remind him of our fun times when we were at
play together the only fun time to speak off until I turned thirteen, then
there were no more fun times together in that new house in Montreal West. I
didn't write it in as much detail as I wished but this is the revised version,
as now more thought was put into it.
While in Rosemere the stories of us exploring outside,
the skiing and tobogganing at the side of house there was hill,
we lived on a dead end street that had signs of construction for more roads in
the back of us. We would walk through the huge gray cylinders playing in
them. Our road crossed into a field and we would skate on the natures natural
ice ponds; we spent all day out until it was dark and we even had a swing
set in the back yard. In England when we weren't building colorful card
board houses that we got as a joint Christmas present and sleeping in
them, we camped in a tent in the back yard; we played with the
neighborhood kids and built snow forts and had snowball wars, played king of
the castle on gravel tops. You went to scouts right next door in a small wooden
hut; I could hear all your chants and stomping of feet from my bedroom. We walk
for hours in fields and forests, playing with sword fights, from swords
we carved ourselves as well as bow and arrows, reenacting the history
we learnt from books in our way. You and I would build train tracks and
would watch the trains go 'round as well as car racing tracks ( hot rods I
think the cars were called); you were always working on your soldiers and
painting them, and building airplanes. You enjoyed your solitary moments as you
were more of an introvert like me, when we were spent of company we would
retreat to our own rooms and work on our own things. I believe it has more to
do with our birth signs as we are a week apart in birthdays. I was always
drawing, or reading, playing dress up with barbies or working on crafts,
building on a bright light. crocheting, looming, needle working and such. We
had a can with string and we would pretend to be talking on them from our
bedrooms, we had quite the imagination.
I
haven't heard from my adoptive brother since I wrote the note of memory lane;
but that doesn't surprise me. One thing that I found creepy that he wrote in
his notes was that he sees that I was searching for my birth parents and wished
me luck in finding them. I asked him how he knew that and he indicated that it
was the internet search that told him so. I am thinking there is more to this
story. When he was in the Royal Navy Donnacona and needed security clearance on
top classified information of some kind. I was included in that security
research so they basically knew what I was up to. There's no such thing as
privacy anymore. I never told him I found my birth mother I decided it was none
of his concern, what are we to each other now, other than titles of used to be.
Take my hand in yours for a while
We’ll go chasing rainbows in the sky
Counting colors, all the while.
Sit on white sandy beach
Watching the sail boasts pass on by
Lazily counting, all the flags, way up high.
There’s so much sadness all around us
Sometimes you just gotta go catch a butterfly
To change your mind
from the things that plague you in the night;
Trying to solve things, all the time.
Travel to a warm summer day
Not a cloud in the sky
Your arms wide open faith is a bound.
The divine the divine it’s all around
Open your eyes see the design for you
Take pleasure in it too.
The bells tolls you’re getting a little older
Things haven’t always gone your way
You’re still finding ways to escape
Travel in your mind, see a Picasso
Even a mine, have a glass of wine
mm mine tastes fine.
Climb the highest mountain
Cross the longest field;
Sing a song or two
Dance to some rhythm and rhyme.
Sometimes you just gotta go catch a butterfly (Repeats to the begining)
Change your mind
Sometimes you just gotta go catch a butterfly
Change your mind
Sometimes you just gotta go catch a butterfly
Here's a video of this song sung in a Capella style images of Dorval 2010
Early in the morning or after 5:pm is the only time these days the silence of being outdoors is appreciated. Last year and this year construction has been none stop. Last year they tore up our street to put new pipes in and now its the street over. Twice we were evacuated for a gas pipe hit and now yesterday they evacuated the street over for the same reason. I could smell it as I quickly dressed and readied myself for the possibility that I would have to find Marley and shove her unwillingly in her carry on box and leave the premises. I saw the fire men evacuate the elderly home not far from my view and after being informed that I was not included in having to leave my home. I decided to go to the corner depanneur to buy my self a beer; I had been sweating all day from cleaning windows and placing one of my air conditioners in the window preparing for a heat wave coming and being on the third floor it surely rises. I passed all the elderly folks, and other neighbors, some holding their cats and dogs, that had been evacuated; spying all the firemen, paramedics, police officers, media crew with their cameras. I noticed buses parked on the side of road along with all the emergency crew vehicles, workmen, it was a sea of men a feast for the eyes if you are into checking them out, like I am. I had music playing in my ears from my ear buds and the wind was blowing the warm sun on my exposed arms, legs and face; I wore a colorful summery dress with an ankle bracelet that I made, my hair slicked back that I twisted up in the back, a little rouge on my lips and flip flops. I headed to my destination in search of a refreshment to go with the day. I had visions of me out on my balcony chilling. When I returned the crew of workers were still about with their vans, buses and such but no people even though the street was still closed off. They must of been in the buses parked close by, I hadn't thought to look inside I was to focused on the workers, paramedics uniforms and firemen clothing, how hot they must be inside. As soon as I sat outside, Marley in her box under the table, the construction noise started up again, they must of solved the gas problem. To my dismay I had no peace, and another hour to go before I would get it.
When I lived in Dorval almost 7 years ago now. One night the gas station across the street was on fire, it was horrific and large explosions occurred. My neighbor and I bumped into each other in the hallway and she invited me inside as she had the better view; we stood there as we watched horrified and nervous, we didn't know if we should leave our homes. The land was finally sold off and these large condos were built up covering the view of the lake for the apartment building behind it, which must of peeved them all off to no end, to now be facing an over priced brand new building in its stead. With all the construction noise I am having to hear again this summer a song I wrote about all the construction noise been heard when they were building those condos in Dorval; reminded me that I had recorded it and filmed that building being built. here it is.
Every Morning Clang,Clang written ©LeeMarie
Every
morning, every morning bang, bang
Every
morning, every morning clang, clang
It sounds
familiar, it’s not that warming
All this
construction, going on every morning.
I missed the
sound of the birds calling
the day is starting, the day is starting,
the day is
starting ohhh.
Every
morning, every morning boom, boom
Every
morning, every morning clang, clang
It sounds
familiar, it’s not that warming
This isn’t
your typical morning glory story
And now
their yelling to be heard
yeah-ha, yeah-ha, yeah –ha
Every
morning, every morning tap, tap
Every
morning, every morning pow, pow
It sounds
familiar, it’s not that warming
All this
construction, going on every morning.
I miss the
hums of the cars going by vroom, vroom, vroom
Every
morning, every morning boom, boom
Every
morning, every morning pong, pong
It sounds
familiar, it’s not that warming
This isn’t
your typical morning glory story
And now
their yelling to be heard
yeah-ha, yeah-ha, yeah –ha
Every
morning, every morning bang, bang
Every
morning, every morning pow, pow
It sounds
familiar, it’s not that warming
All this
construction, going on every morning.
I missed the
sound of the birds calling
the day is starting, the day is starting,
the day is
starting ohhh.
Every
morning, every morning boom, boom
Every
morning, every morning pong, pong
It sounds
familiar, it’s not that warming
This isn’t
your typical morning glory story
And now
their yelling to be heard
yeah-ha, yeah-ha, yeah –ha
Every
morning, every morning boom, boom
Every
morning, every morning bang, bang
Every
morning, every morning dings
Every
morning, every morning pow, pow
Every
morning, every morning boom, boom
Every
morning, every morning bang, bang
Every
morning, every morning clang, clang
Every
morning, every morning bang, bang
Every morning, every morning
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=rTTs6dZ7uVQ
Every morning, every morning
I have some work obligations to go fulfill now, not really motivated. I waited for the last minute to turn on the air conditioner it has now reached 26 Celsius in my office. I have a painting to finish, some footage to look over, and the remaining of my beer to finish off later on after 5:Pm when the construction has stopped. I had wanted to record some new songs I wrote but this second computer that I have doesn't have good recording sound so it may not be possible until I get a new one as my primary one died, sadly. Well this is me signing off for now.
Until next time... Stay active, steadfast and true to you
Cheers XO
https://society6.com/product/fanciful-day_print#s6-2845688p4a1v45
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Thank you for taking the time. Kind Regards LM