Originally Written in Winter of 2011

The Strength of Stephanie Sibley’s Egg Shells

Twas Education week at Coley's Point Elementary circa 1989 and Mr. Kelloway's grade five class were marching toward the gymnasium to see the science projects that had been prominently displayed on the tables all throughout. They walked down the warm hall of the Elementary and Primary wing of the school and through the doors into the older part of the school which housed Junior high. As soon as the doors opened the temperature got cooler, due mainly to the antiquated furnace which in the winter frequently failed giving all the children a day or at the very least a morning off from school. 

In a perfect line of students walking on the right hand side of the hallway towards the spectacle was Russell Samways eager to see the cool and wonderful presentations and experiments that were typical of Education week. A functional volcano and little yellow chicks that had incubated over the past weeks were the highlights of last year. What would this year hold?

Russell’s excitement was at its fullest when he walked into the Gymnasium which was filled with wonderment and the collective body heat of nearly all the other students of the school representing their work.

Mark Lundrigan had a display showing how an object becomes inverted as you move away from it with a magnifying glass. His main object to be inverted was a lit candle, which of course added simply to aesthetics and nothing to functionality. And so like most all things Russell was intrigued and asked to see the magnifying glass for himself and spied the objects as they inverted when he focussed and moved away from them. Further on along the rows of displays the class went until Russell and his friend Rob Harris happened upon a most interesting display.

Propped up by egg shells cut in half and placed at each corner were three large university sized textbooks piled one on top of the other. In fact they were the biggest books Russell had ever seen. The experiment showed the compression strength of a dome, or a facsimile of such, which in this case were the egg shells that Mrs. Riggs’s grade four student Stephanie Sibley had (perhaps with the help of her Mother) carefully cut horizontally. Then each egg was wrapped along the bottom edge with masking tape for added rigidity due to the hairline fractures one would regard after cutting through an egg. In each corner resembled engineering’s prodigy - the dome - in all its glory.

Both Russell and Rob examined the project carefully. They looked at each corner and at the pile of books atop the eggs. They looked under the table, along the table and looked very closely at each book - thinking there was some mechanism helping to support these books. How could this be possible their minds begged? Four egg shells supporting all this weight, Russell was mind boggled that this could be so.

To a further degree the boys were invited to apply weight to the stack of books, and each one added another book, for a total of five, thus illustrating the great strength of a hen’s egg. This was certainly impressive judging by the look on the faces of the two young boys in attendance. With the young students mesmerized at the feat, a triumphant young Stephanie welcomed the boys to take blows atop the structure - confident it would not topple.

Russell watched as Rob made a fist and dropped it onto the stack of books. Surely this would break the shells. But as Stephanie predicted the shells remained unharmed. Both intrigued and in awe, Russell took up the challenge and despite his diminutive size offered that he could break the eggs.

So there it was - a stack of books held in suspended animation by four domes with Russell Samways standing before it, certain he could rise to the challenge. Then with one swift blow he brought a look of disbelief to the face of Stephanie Sibley.

Despite his achievement, he immediately knew he had done wrong. Instantly a warm anxious feeling of guilt rose up through his stomach and manifested itself in a shaky, nervous apology that would do no good to this shocked and speechless little girl. The look of sadness was all she could muster as Mr. Kelloway's grade five class was summoned to the entrance of the gym for the trip back and Russell's long walk down the cold hallway and down another to the classroom where he and his guilt would sit in a desk . . .

. . . that is until an anticipated knock came to the door. There stood Stephanie Sibley, the young heartbroken student didn't know Russell but when Mrs. Riggs was notified of the situation she knew it was from the group who had just finished viewing the science projects. It was without doubt a Grade 5 student! Being that there was only one class of grade 5's in the school Mrs. Riggs and Stephanie knew exactly where to go. Scanning the classroom she quickly recognized then pointed out the boy who had ruined her science project. In the direction of that finger - sat behind a desk that all but dwarfed him - was Russell: nearly green with anxiety and wrought with guilt and remorse

In front of the whole class the incident was recounted as Mr. Kelloway calmly listened to what had happened and finally walked to Russell’s desk. Leaning across and reaching down to the desk he picked up the small child by his clothes and raised him up out of the seat until his head touched the ceiling tile.

Russell’s mouth went dry, he felt lightheaded and weak as his classmates roared with laughter. However this was not the laughter he was accustomed to. This was to be no laughing matter. This was humiliation.

Swiftly the young boy was thrust out the door and pushed down the hallway ahead of his teacher. Words that were uttered were: "I can't stand punks like you" and “what is wrong with the likes of you”, accompanied by slaps to the back of the head (not the type that would land a man in jail, but the type that were accustomed in that day - the kind that in this day and age would tarnish a man's career) all the way to the administrative offices.

Mr. Barrett, Vice Principal, had been briefed and was sufficiently abreast of the situation as opposed to the circumstances as the nervous child listened from behind the door that read “Vice Principal”. He looked hard and long at the rectangular signage that said “Vice Principal” and all he could think of was the signage that looked just like it that his Father had made for him, which he - with the help of a chair to stand on - stuck to his bedroom door. This of course made him long to be home instead in being in front of this door.

Then Russell Samways - visibly shaken and scared - was brought to him.

"Close the door" the Vice Principal snapped!

"What were you thinking?"

“Why, why, why would you do something like this to that poor little girl? You ruined her day and now because of you she has no science project. What do you have to say for yourself?”

"Is there something wrong with you?"

 This was the big question that stuck in the little boy's mind as Mr. Barrett, eyes bulging out of his head, actually jumped up and down and up and down on the floor as his face turned an unhealthy shade of red. This was the maddest Russell had ever seen anyone, and he was sufficiently intimidated and terrified to prove it.

Russell - not having the confidence to speak up for himself - just stood there and tried not to cry. Due to the intimidation of the Vice Principal, the boy did not speak and did not communicate what he wanted to say. Later that day he would say the things he wanted to say - only it was to himself - in his mind. He wished he did say something in his own defence or at the very least describe his point of view. If he did speak up for himself maybe he would have left that day without the thoughts, ideas, notions and questions that would pervade his mind for the days and months and years to come. The type of thoughts that intrude, interrupt and demand attention, all this was spurred along by the regret of not explaining himself.

Instead, he stood in that cold and lonely office on a February afternoon, wishing for the day to end and to be back home, as he was yelled at and screamed at, until whatever self esteem he had - had gone.

Originally Written in September of 2011

After 10 years of night classes and 1 or 2 courses here and there my Mother moved into the city to finish her final 2 years of University. It was stressful enough for me when I moved away for University at the age of 18, but she was 57 in her last year.

Always a source of pride and strength - my Mother Convocated early in the spring with a degree in Theology, the last step in fulfilling her dream to become a person of the cloth. She was also elated to find that she was to be posted in a community only 5 hours away from our home town and that she would be leaving for her new parish a week after her ordination. Later in the spring, near the beginning of summer, my siblings and I would fly home from all parts of the country to join our Mother at her ordination. 

We had a great time as always on our visits home especially given that this was the first time we had all been home together since our sister’s wedding and only the second time since the death of our Father. We laughed and cried at all the memories that passed through the years and the crazy and wild times that youth provided. Then one by one we all left to go back to our respective places. 

At the end it was just Mom and I. I had decided to stay an extra few days to visit friends and family which also allowed me to see my Mother off as she made her way across the island to her new home. The night before she left I helped pack up her car and then we visited her last remaining Uncle on her Mother’s side. He was a jovial man with a warm smile and a soft caring voice to compliment, despite his many years battling cancer. Now in his 80’s and free of cancer he had a very positive outlook and gave much praise to my Mother.

“If your Mother was only here to see you”, he said looking at Mom, his voice weakening as he tried to continue. I recognised that same struggle from my Grandmother when she tried to speak through tears. A trait that was not passed on to my Mother, who simply stopped speaking when overwhelmed with emotion. 

After a cup of tea and some cheese and purity cream crackers we called it a night. Before we left the kitchen her Uncle went into the back room and returned with something in his hand.

“This was your Grandmother’s”, he said as he presented her with what looked like a very small quilt. It had many different sized patches and if you asked me I would have said it was blue in colour. As he unfolded it I could see that it was fashioned into a bag of some sort with a shoulder strap. My Mother knew instantly what it was. It was the old handmade bag that my Great-Grandmother carried her bible in on her way to church when she was a little girl and on into her late 60’s before she was so sick from Alzheimer’s that church was no longer reasonable.

It was the bag my Mother remembered from her childhood when she would attend church with her Grandmother. It was a bag that - for my mother - was synonymous with church, and the early days of what she felt was when she knew the Lord would play a large part in her life. This brought tears to my Mom’s face, as she tried to tell us what it meant to her, but overwhelmed with emotion she just stopped her futile attempts at getting a few words out. She tilted her head to the side and smiled as the tightening of her face pushed more tears from her eyes. I too began to well up inside and put my arm across her shoulder and rubbed her back, so happy I was there to experience it with her.

    

Afterwards we were accompanied to the door and exchanged hugs and farewells, and her Uncle remained in the doorway until we were inside the car and the car was started, “a loving gesture”, I remarked, making sure we were safely aboard and on our way.  

That night as Mom clued up the last few thing she asked me if I would like to come and stay the night and perhaps a few days at her new Parish. I thought that would be a lovely idea and of course said yes. 

The next morning Mom got up and had a shower and prepared breakfast for the 2 of us.

“How many eggs do you want?”

“2”, I replied.

“Do you want any oatmeal?”

“Yes please” I said.

She allowed me to sleep on the couch until the very last moment until she said “Ok, it’s ready” and I popped up and joined her for breakfast. 

By the time the morning progressed and we had finished packing the car it was evident there was no room for me and particularly considering she had to pick up another passenger 3 hours into her drive. She was disappointed I wouldn’t be going and I was a little relieved knowing I wouldn’t have to travel 5 hours across the island. So we hugged and I bid her farewell. 

When I went back inside the house I saw the bag from the night before and her bible obviously in it. I quickly ran out the door with it and managed to whistle loud enough to get her attention. She stopped half way down the lane and put the car in gear and backed up as the telltale sound of a manual transmission in reverse broke the silence of early morning.

This all happened just as our next door neighbour - Mom’s uncle on her father’s side was getting aboard his car with his wife and stopped in our driveway to bid my mother a fond farewell.

“You’re gonna have a foggy one”, he said.

“Huh, that’s no surprise, I’m so used to this grey foggy weather now this month that I wouldn’t know what to do if it was sunny”.

“Yes”, he began, “I’m leaving around noon to go out that way to pick up a load of crab. The weather’s calling for fog all the way, now mind you I’m not going out as far as where you are.”

“Well that’s too bad, you could have come out and been my first visitor only for that”

“Yes, I s’pose”, her Uncle chuckled,

“but I’ll be passing through there plenty enough this summer don’t you worry, just as long as you got a place for me to park the truck”

“Well I dare say we’ll find somewhere to put that big ol thing.”

“Alright then”, he said “well I got to go on, we’re on our way out for breakfast down at the hall”

“Alright then, we’ll see you again”, Mom said as we both waved goodbye.

Then it was our turn to say goodbye once more, she got out of the car, still smelling new, and we hugged as the cold morning drizzle wet her hair and brought a chill up my back. The car tires turned out onto the lane crunching the pebbles under it, travelled down the lane and turning onto the main road as I listened to the engine rev up and change into a higher gear.

I went back inside welcoming the warm of our home and went to my room and got under the covers. In bed I thought of how nice it would be to surprise Mom with a visit, so I alarmed the clock for 2 hours later. Time enough to get back to sleep, time enough for her to get to her destination and get settled before I arrive to help unpack and of course be her first official visitor. 

The disconcerting sound of my phone's alarm went off 2 hours later and I got up out of bed and went to the kitchen to boil the kettle. The weather hadn't changed at all, still drizzly and cold. Brutal considering it had been like this during my whole trip home, save for 5-6 hours one Saturday when the sun came out but the wind off the ocean kept it cold.

Within half an hour I had my bag packed for a short visit with my mother and I was on the road. There wasn't much traffic on the highway for a mid Monday morning drive, although I was going in the opposite direction of the city not to mention the fact that this crappy weather would turn a cat away from it's kittens.

On the part of the island that we lived we are divided from the main bulk of the island by a strip of land known as an isthmus. Being an island out in the the Atlantic the weather around the water had no trouble rushing onto the land and covering this isthmus with whatever it had to give. This being said it was always a bad place for fog and rain not to mention that years ago during the last iceage this area was the one of the last places that the glaciers melted, leaving in it's absence a conglomeration of massive boulders and oddly placed rocks that were once sucked up by the passing glacier. 

For many miles this place is barrenous, nearly swept clean of life by the punishing winds off the water and the salty air. The grass here is always a heather colour, never vibrant, not much vegetation can survive in such a less-than-hospitible place. It's very rare to see animals in this area as well, not even the sea birds or crows inhabit this place, even the rocks are bare and for miles it's just a constant heather coloured mossy barren.

It was in this eerie section of the drive that traffic became denser, just like when an iceberg is seen off shore and people slow to gaze at it while still driving. Traffic going in my direction started to back up and in the oncoming lane traffic came in waves separated by what seemed like 2 minute intervals. At this point I knew something was going on, it was probably construction or an over turned transport truck because in such a desolate place there were certainly no attractions.

 

As I crested the next hill I could see that there was a traffic accident. No wonder, I thought considering the weather and where we were and like always, whenever I come up on the scene of an accident I pray. I prayed for the safety of those helping the victims and for the lives of those involved and for the lord to watch over them in this time of peril.

 Getting closer to the scene the traffic slowed to a crawl. Looking out the window onto the ground you could see the contents of a vehicle. Books and clothing strewn about, a few bottles of water and the kind of Tupperware containers my mother used. I could see broken pieces of CD’s, a sun visor, pieces of plastic from a car: probably from the front or rear fender. 

When I got closer to the sirens I found I was able to identify a lot of the bits and pieces from the wreckage. I chalked it up to my familiarity with cars and ordinary everyday things until I saw something that made my heart sink. It made me instantly sick and I nearly passed out right there and then in that convoy of slow moving traffic. It was the old patched handbag that my mother put her bible in, the very handbag that I had packed for her some hours ago before her journey across the island to her new Parish.

Originally Written in the Winter of 2011

Later in the night she went to him to tell him that she felt hurt, she felt left out, that he hadn’t really spoken to her very much throughout the night, except for when he went asking for a cigarette.

She was right. It was true. He did neglect her, but only because she was doing so well on her own. She was a social Papillion, he didn’t have to constantly be by her side asking her how she was doing all the time, like her old boyfriends which they made fun of for doing exactly that.

 He was comfortable knowing she was his and he was hers. They didn’t have to be stuck together all night, joined at the hip as they say. But she would have liked it from time to time. If only he asked her if she wanted another drink before she was getting low, she would have liked that.

Having dated her for years now he was used to the looks, he asked her about it once, she said she never noticed, but he did. It happened whenever she walked into a room, the mall or even while driving. It made him feel mad at first and then happy and privileged because it was him that she was with.

He hated how men reacted when they first saw her, staring - obvious - mainly because he knew that if he were in their shoes he would have done the same, only he wouldn't let anyone notice. He wanted to be above that - and when he was by her side he was.

 He always dated attractive women but she was stunning, she was like a dream, she was everything beautiful. He once told her: “I love the fact that it doesn’t matter where we go I know you will be the most attractive person there”.

That night, nearing the end of the party they walked home together, stopping several times along the way. They sat Indian style in the middle of the road on the warm black asphalt, facing each other.

The air warm and humid. In a way that the air moves slow above you and absorbs all sound, the slight breeze shaking the leaves around them speaking to their ears of its cooling effect. Passing a bottle of wine back and forth they exchanged feelings and expectations for the relationship. They communicated as lovers, caring and thoughtful of one another’s needs. They talked of what they wanted and how they had learned from previous relationships the things they didn’t want.

As time went on they passed the bottle from hand to hand. Each time the pitch of the sloshing of wine in the bottle got higher as the wine diminished reminding them it was getting late and the wine was getting low. They smoked cigarettes when the bottle was empty in an effort to keep the buzz going and the night timeless. When they had their full of smoking cigarettes, deciding it was time to move on, he took her hand in his and continued the walk to his house. She smiled when he took her hand and held it, but he hadn’t noticed. He never liked holding hands, so when he held her hand in his she felt a warmth rise up throughout her body and she leaned over and kissed his cheek. And for the first time for him it felt right to have his fingers interlocked with hers.

When they arrived at his house he procured another bottle of wine - he did not get glasses for them as the intimacy dictated that they continue as they started - drinking from the same bottle. They sat on the door step and continued to talk; only now the birds started to chirp and then more joined in. The singing of the birds caught their attention and as they looked about their surroundings: a long green lawn, tall trees full of leaves, a field of hay, a vista of the ocean and a large rocky hill he referred to as mountain in his youth.

Soon the sky turned pink, and from pink to orange, till blue finally peaked near the horizon as the bay lit up and hurt their eyes as the sun slowly but eagerly made its way out of the water. It was their first sunrise. They felt the beauty of the moment and furnished it with a long kiss. The same sensual kiss they shared when they first dated, when his neck would be sore every morning from the night before leaning over kissing her soft - Gummi Bear like - lips.

They intimated of how perfect the moment was, how the night ended perfectly, how they wouldn’t want to share it with anyone else, how this moment was meant to be and how they both wished they would feel this way forever. Moments after, again in his head, he wished once more that he would feel this way forever.