Wednesday was a great day. It was much more animated a day than I had had for weeks. Henri was here to work in the garden, Sheba and I walked with our friends and their dogs, and it was gloriously sunny and nice and mild. The forest fragrances were a delight; it smelt like warm weather and my spirits were high all day. It was so, so beautiful a day.
Henri got a good start on pruning but had to leave early. He’ll be back next week. And Dave and Ursula came over to fetch our splitter to do some wood splitting. They have a huge volume of felled wood from when their property was cleared. It was lovely to have a short visit with them, then I left to get my TAP form from the clinic that will give me free passage on the ferries when I go to see Dr. Chen. When I got home, I had a deep, deep scare.
The back door was wide open. It had been open the entire time I was gone, and Ethel was nowhere to be seen. Fred was still here, bless him, but I searched high and low for Ethel who was gone. She’s the braver and more curious of the two cats, so I knew that she was gone.
I went outside and called for her. Nothing. I went back inside and climbed up to check in the loft where she likes to hide and sleep. Nothing. But when I came down from the loft, there she was outside the back door wanting in. I was monumentally relieved, and I learned something about both cats: This is their home, and my voice is their protector. I have new faith in them and their commitment to Pinecone Park.
It moves me deeply to know that I earned the loyalty I enjoy with the brood. Not surprising for an orphan/neglected child. And speaking of orphans and neglected children, I’ve only just realized the irony of my history and my childhood reading.
As I’ve written here before about moving into the basement when things started getting worse between me and the Tyrells. My Chris cave. It came with a fireplace and scores of old books on shelves built into the room, and amongst the books were the entire works of Charles Dickens. Two collections in the room had an enormous influence on my life: the anti-war books by various authors, and the books of Mr. Dickens. Little did I know that my life would be so Dickensian.
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When I was nine years old, Connie and Don got me very excited about a new vacuum. With great enthusiasm, we rushed downstairs into our rec room (which would later become my bedroom), and there was a nineteen-inch Admiral television set. That magnificent machine changed my deep friendship with Doug and Marilyn Downey. They had long been the best part of my world, but after school, they wanted to watch programming that was for teens (Funorama), and I hated it. I wanted to watch Perry Mason. It, and Dragnet were all about words. Ideas spewed out of the characters mouths. These two shows were like being on a roller-coaster.
On one episode of Perry Mason, a witness had changed her testimony and was under fire about it. She claimed that the trial and stirred up memories and that she’d been having nightmares, so she sought counsel from a psychologist, and their discussion brought forth her revised memory. She said that she had repressed her memory and explained how and why people can repress memories.
And I thought it was hooey. I didn’t believe in the idea of repressed memories. I don’t know how a person can suddenly be too quick to form an opinion, and without any research or knowledge of human psychology, but I did.
And then one day, I got into the bathtub while Steve was pouring himself a glass of wine, both of us unwinding in our preferred fashion, and as I waited for him, it was like an unknown force opened the door of my memory where all my souvenirs of life with the Tyrells and my associated sorrows were stored.
It was like a slide show of images. That’s what it felt like. Images that I did not call up consciously. One after another, there was an endless stream of them, and I did not like what I was seeing. I was horrified. Those memories were the first step to my breakdown twenty years later.
Another irony.
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I posted a link to the parliamentary petition to revoke the Canadian citizenship of Elon Musk on my Facebook page. A couple of people mentioned having seen it and having signed the petition thanks to me. I did not go near the very, very many comments. Too dangerous.
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Today, I am suffering. My lower back is in revolt and walking is very, very slow and modestly painful. I will be taking things very cautiously today.
