"It's Gypsy"

(This is my take on what happened. I wasn't there. My imagination fills in where facts are lacking. I wrote this and put it on hold because I wasn't sure it was my story to tell. I've come to the realization that it is my story. As Nick relayed the events of her death to me I experienced it and was traumatized by what I could see in my mind, and I was traumatized by his grief, and I grieve still).


     I answered the phone. It was our good friend Nick from treeplanting. The one who convinced me to come back for another season after my premature "tree-tirement." My crewboss, and Jon’s right hand man. Our very own Zorba the Greek; an accidental wise man who often muddles the words of common sayings in such a way as to make them less cliché and more true to life.  I was so happy he was calling. It's always great to hear his voice. I wanted to hear about their plans, when he and Carrie would finally be done the berry-pick, finished with the season so they could join us in the Yukon.

I must have joked to him about something. It was always jokes between us. Then silence.
“This isn’t a happy call,” His voice broke. He inhaled and a raw choking, guttural weeping noise came over the phone. “It’s Gypsy.” And instantly my heart was pounding. I was begging him to say she was ok. The words flew out of his mouth. I saw it happen. I witnessed everything through his words. I choked and wailed. Looking back, I have never cried so freely, with such lack of self consciousness. OFten I have cried and become wrapped up in the romance of it and when the sensation of sorrow passes I make an attempt at keeping the tears flowing. This time I did not have to try. The sorrow did not pass. We were in the car, parked outside the ambulance station where Jon works and I didn't care who saw or heard me. I was saying no! No. No. No. The whole time. I was seeing it. Nick is a storyteller. I was there.

They pull up at the side of the dirt road and let the dogs out of the truck. Spade and Gypo run off to do their thing. The four veteran treeplanters amble around to the tailgate. Sit and light cigarettes, and drink strong coffee from dented travel mugs as a sparse rain falls. It's early September and all of the trees are in the ground. These four have paid their dues and so they are granted a few extra weeks work at a decent day-wage for picking berries that will later be processed for the seed, grown in a green house, and replanted as part of forest reclamation projects. It is meticulous, though easy work. There is no quota and the day rate allows lots of time for breaks, making it an ideal cool down to the hardcore pace of the planting season.

There are fresh truck tracks in the mud of the road and the planters don’t think anything of it. The dogs run free, happy to be out of the motel for a day of work. Spade darts into the bush, Gypo  up the road to check things out. 

A few days before Nick came upon Gypsy with a discarded deer head. He took a video. “Here’s my little dog, my little girl," He says affectionately. "I don’t know if you can see what she is doing, but she is eating the brains out of a deer head.” She was not one to frolic with the other dogs, she commanded respect. Not aloof, just damn majestic, a husky-greyhound hybrid plucked as a puppy from the kennel of a legendary Dawson City musher to live the nomadic life of the dog of two treeplanters. I once saw this dog chase a black bear through a clear-cut and bite it in the ass. At the time, terrified, I screamed out her name. She ignored me. She knew what she was doing. At a plant north of Fort MacMurray she flew with us in a helicopter, sitting tall and peering out the window in wonder as we commuted from our remote camp site. Carrie said Gypsy had realized her life long dream of flying like the birds. 
Throughout my time as a planter, I wouldn’t see her for a year and then I would, and I would call to her and she would run towards me at dog-race speed, smiling, teeth barred, she would say a quick hi, take a pat, then go off and do her own thing. She didn’t like to be fawned over.

On this particular day last fall, the group climbs back into the truck and  they continue up the dirt road, looking for a good work site for the day. They round a bend. A pick-up truck appears up ahead in the drizzle and Gypsy is running along beside it on the other side of the ditch. She is getting old but still has an elegance to her stride, her waist tucked in dramatically behind her deep chest, betraying the greyhound genes within her. The planters gain on the truck. (I’m watching it all in slow motion as Nick speaks). Perhaps the occupants of the truck yell out to her, because Gypsy bends her neck ever so slightly, looking over at them. There are two of them. It’s somewhere in Northern Alberta. Lake La fucking Biche or some shit hole. And this beautiful creature is running along side this strange truck. Her strong, graceful neck arched towards them. The group of four berry-pickers get closer and closer. And then they see it. A gun. Pointed at their beautiful dog. There is nothing they can do. They hear it. A single shot. Those red-neck fuckers fucking shoot her. A deafening bang and she falls hard to the ground, her neck twisting back, her bright orange collar visible amongst the luscious wet greyness of her fur. She is heaving in the wet grass of the shallow ditch. The truck drives off. I can hear the incredulous screaming. "You fucking shot my dog!" 
They carry her bleeding into the truck and Carrie holds her. The love of their lives. Their entire universe. They want to follow the truck but are scared of the gun, scared to go anywhere but towards help for Gypsy, bleeding and moaning. They wrap her up and Carrie holds her as they drive to town, her rain gear sopping red with blood. Just blood everywhere and she is in so much pain and she is dying and she does die. She turns cold in Carrie’s arms. And Spade is never the same dog after that. And no one is the same. And I am not the same. I saw it all through Nick’s words. I felt it all through Nick’s grief, as well as through my own.

Tidy Sapling

My business is picking up. I am almost at the point where I can work completely for myself. A few more clients and I am there. What I do is I clean houses. I am good at it and I charge a fair price. A few of my clients say I am a marriage saver. lol. I believe them. They are telling their friends about me and I am growing by word of mouth alone. The best, most sustainable way in my opinion. And I like cleaning. It is exercise and satisfying work. Buddhist, almost.

Of course this isn't my "PASSION" but it is what will pay the bills. (on top of my part-time job at Starbucks, my sporadic freelancing gigs, and my occasional stints as a supply teacher)

My hope is, when life has been simplified, and all I have to worry about is my business, I will have time for the writing and painting I have been putting off (and sharing this writing and painting on the blog).

When I look at all of this, no wonder life feels scattered. I basically have four jobs and I am a mom and partner and dog owner.

Fwig.

My Kind of Yukon Gold

Sometimes the world is so bursting with inspiration it hits me over the head. That's what happened today. I was tucking some clothes away in the crawl space and letters and photographs rained down from the walls. 

Of course I read them. They were over 20 years old and written from various women, all to the same man, all within the same 3 year period, all about how much they long for him, love him, culminating in a 14 page letter written by the jilted woman who was carrying this mans child!

And so I am crackling with fictive energy, pregnant with poetry!

cursive hearts hidden 

still beat, fatherless

children still breath

Am I a terrible person for finding these letters? For reading them? For sharing some of the most poignant excerpts on my blog?

(Names have been changed)

 

Mary:   I just got one of my sculptures fired (actually 2 of them) but one I'm really pleased with. It broke and I    

                           need to repair it but I think I can do it so it won't be obvious.

Cath:  P.S. I left the earring on your dresser so it should be there if you found the        

                  other in your truck.

Josie:  (expect me when you least expect me

              with the baby in me or in my arms)

I ache for these women. I too have attempted to repair beautiful broken things, left talismans behind,  worn our child like a wedding ring.

We got a house!

I still can't believe it. I didn't want to talk about it because I was afraid our dreams would be dashed. It was a multiple offer situation, but it was the house we wanted so we went for it, intuition and balls out. And we got it! And we moved in a month later. It happened so quickly but we are now all moved to our new house and things are great. 

All I want to do is read and write and make art looking paintings. And snuggle in our very own respective rooms. In our very own little house.

 Just snuck in and got this while she was sleeping:)

 As you can see we are still waiting on furniture but Welli doesn't mind.

The old cabin above had a loft that housed our bed and Juni's crib all together. I can't believe we lived like this for so long. Sleep was scarce. Juni would wake and see us and start to cry to get our attention. Often, because I have night terrors, I would be the one inadvertently waking her up. And Jon, with his shifts and us waking him up at all hours, probably got the brunt of it, as was evident with his grumpy middle of the night rages that he probably can't remember lol.

Oh, whatever. It is over and we have a beautiful little house with rooms that have doors. And it likes us. And we like it. A lot.

Wisers Whisky

There is a place under the oats, under the sky, where you buried treasure for your future children. To make them strong. They would dig not knowing how deep. Not knowing if they were in the right place, until they were, or until they gave up. 

If I were to talk about it, you wouldn't remember the time you bled the walls red. Your blood Josef. Painted the walls. I made you believe you were asleep. Cleaned you and put you to bed. Alone I scrubbed away the traces. Rung the towels until the water ran clear.

It was the car I loved if not you. Volkswagen Jetta. Sheep skin seats. Filthy as fuck but well built. It was the same colour as your skin exposed to the sun all those hours working outdoors. 

Most saw the smile lines and freckles, the arms, large and brown. They thought you were simple. And you were. Except your simplicity was a distillation of great wisdom. There is something to be said about brawn gained stacking bales of hay, and brains nourished on fresh air and open spaces. You were dazed and rugged to everyone else, but pristine in private as I read you to sleep.

Do you remember the night I screamed? Everyone heard. You woke and it was real and you were scared too. The bear breathing inches from our heads. Huffing and sniffing. And then terror. The huge paw pressed against the wall of the tent. And I was wrapped up in it, suffocating and so I screamed bloody goddam murder. So loud Saskatchewan heard me. But then it wasn't real. It was just nighttime and I was just dreaming and you said "What the Shit" in the stoned-surfer way you had of speaking sometimes when you were half asleep, and the people camped around us who thought I was dying laughed when they heard you because they knew I was okay, you were there. 

I'm convinced you knew I was begging the universe. Chanting, chanting, chanting. Taking the Whisky like it was communion. But it wasn't time. They found your car abandoned in the airport parking lot. Your tin of weed wrapped in a bread bag, wedged in haste under the seat, 4 joints expertly rolled.  

You were gone. They'd tease me and tell me you were coming back to dig us out of the mess we were in. You'd bring a flat bed truck loaded with dirt bikes for everyone and we wouldn't have to walk for hours through the mud anymore. I believed them. Time trudged on, knee deep. And gradually your absence became so real and everywhere felt so empty. I stopped looking. Stopped waiting. Stopped and savoured how completely free I was to remember the straw of your hair, the lines of your face, and the smooth white skin underneath it all.

ride it through

i watch the clouds

make believe themselves

mountains 

and shiver behind the wheel

for months and months

drive too fast 

find myself on ice 

at a turn

and ride it through

 and never learn

Where's Woody?