Words By Whittall

Growing up, my family spent a week at the cottage every summer. It wasn’t our cottage, but we would rent the same cottage in the same place: Chesley Lake, a Mennonite campground near Owen Sound.   And, it wasn’t just my family, about one quarter to one third of the congregation of the Elmira Mennonite church chose to vacation at Chesley Lake every third week of July.  There were familiar faces everywhere, at the small beach, wandering on the trails or playground, and in the pews at the chapel on Sunday.   At night, smelling of campfire smoke, my fingers sticky with melted marshmallow, and unable to sleep with the stabbing pain of an inevitable sunburn, I would lie in my bed and listen to the adults talking in the kitchen.   “So and so was married to so and so.” “Oh, wasn’t he the one who worked at the Co-op?” “Yes, his brother is the one who lost his leg in that thrasher accident.” It seemed to me like my parents knew everyone in the world and how they were connected. I longed for

Rufus peered out the window in the front room.   Sometimes he had to stretch to make himself taller, leaning into the window sill to get a better look.   The antics of the man in the gray house across the road and the neighbours in the yellow house were endlessly amusing. He liked the man and woman who lived in the yellow house. They talked nicely to him and ruffled his blond hair.   Sometimes the man played catch with him on their well-tended lawn.   They mowed it once a week, sometimes more. The man in the gray house ignored Rufus. And, he only mowed his lawn once a month, sometimes less.     The man in the gray house built a huge garage on the grass he didn’t mow. Mommy and Daddy didn’t like it.    “Ruined their view,” they said. “Can’t see the Corkum’s house any more.”   The people in the pretty yellow house didn’t like it either.   Sometimes Mommy and Daddy would get together with them and all four of them would start complaining about the “Monster Garage.”   Once

The scent is unforgettable. Luxury perfected in brown goo.   Wella Balsam shampoo.   My mother cut my hair at the kitchen table, and yes, she once used a bowl.   Saturday nights she set my thick straight hair with prickly curlers held in place with sharp plastic picks. Sunday mornings, I was cranky, but had wonderfully bouncy hair. Mom had naturally curly hair and so her greatest challenge was remembering to remove from her forehead, the piece of Scotch tape she used to keep her bangs in place. This usually happened just as Dad turned our avocado green Ford into the church parking lot.   She’d turn around to the back seat for one last check of our appearance, spitting into a Kleenex to tame my wild locks, combing my brother’s hair with her fingers. Thus, I entered the House of God, sleep deprived and moulded by spit. In the early 1970’s when tight curls became the rage, a new form of hair torture arrived in our house: The TONI Home Perm kit. In a careful procedure that took most

I used to work for the government.   Some people think that is an oxymoron, but there were quite a few of us who did work very hard on your behalf. We’re Group A. Others spend their days yelling at their kids on the phone, complaining about their jobs, or making money on the side, ripping off office supplies. Group B.   Group C types spend their time, drawing up strategies, policies and regulations aimed at keeping the Bs in line, but generally making life more difficult for the As.   For example, I once sat though a 45-minute power point presentation, the gist of which, was that I should not call a member of the public, or a colleague a moron. It was required viewing for all staff – across all government. And, someone, or more likely a team of people, had spent months designing the program and getting it approved by boffins who make a lot of money.   Perfume is another example. The policies on this scen t-sitive issue were over the top in design and underwhelming in effect.