I am hardly an expert but I do know a thing or two more than I would like about endings and beginnings and about moving on. I spent a good deal of time closing up the rooms in the dreams of the future my late husband and I imagined together in what seems now to be a long ago time but in reality is just a mere five years past. During his long illness, there were many endings. Most too painful to recount. There is a time for remembering loss and there comes a day when the laundry list of hurts isn't a useful exercise anymore and I have reached that point. Ironically there were as many beginnings during times of tragedy and loss, and there is even growth. I changed job sites and age levels in my teaching career. Began and finished a masters program. Made new friends. Set new goals, among them a decision to change locale and careers in the short term future. It's interesting the chain reactions decisions of all shapes and sizes have on the course of a person's life. Some people are blown far afield by unexpected circumstances and their reactions to them. Some are brought to a dead stop, letting currents take them and waves sweep them under. Some keep moving, re-plotting their courses as the conditions warrant until they find themselves on stable ground again. My plans changed course over the course of my late husband's illness and in the aftermath of his death and again when I met my now husband, Rob. In a strange way, Rob has always seemed a natural progression, a given, in a new beginning we seemed destined to share, so despite the rather momentous hurdles of leaving family, friends, home, job and country, it's been in some ways the easiest of my transitions from then to now.
Being a widow I have the dubious pleasure to know many others. Male and female. Much older than I am and some young enough to be my sons or daughters. We have endings in common. That's true. But a small portion of us share beginnings too. Some are triumphs and some are not. There is one gentlemen I know of through a message board for young widowed I frequent from time to time. He has taken to posting emails he receives from an organization called GriefShare, which tries to help bereaved people work through their losses. Recently he posted the following message:
What It Means to Move On
Moving on does not mean . . .
• you forget the person.
• you never feel the pain of your loss.
• you believe that life is fair.
Moving on does mean . . .
• you experience a lessening of the pain.
• you can treasure your best memories of the person who has died.
• you can realistically accept the different aspects of your loss.
• you can form new relationships, try new things.
Moving on also means . . .
• you grow in grace and in your walk with God.
• you accept your loss and forgive others.
• you understand that both joy and loss are a part of life.
• you believe that God is good, even when life isn't.
My husband loathes the saying "moving on" like many widowed he prefers "moving forward", and I try to use the term in deference to him though to me it is a bit of a semantics thing. In many ways beginnings do mean moving on as opposed to forward because it is not about momentum or trajectory as much as it is about putting certain dreams, hopes and deep feelings away in much the same way you pack up mementos from your children's lives or souvenirs from a trip. My mother has a cedar chest in the basement of my childhood home that is crammed with tiny clothes, blankets, report cards and such that belonged, and were important, to her and to each of us kids in times now long past. I seldom think about the old rag doll I named CeeDee that lies there wrapped, I think, in the remnants of my sister Kate's baby blanket. I know that it sounds like apples and oranges, comparing the inevitable of growing up to the loss of one's spouse, but they are not as different as you think. As my mother has been annoyingly fond of pointing out to me over the years, everything is a growth experience. Because I look as though I have achieved adulthood doesn't necessary mean I learned all there is to learn. I haven't achieved the enlightenment of Sidharrtha. Possibly because I haven't the time to sit under a tree until it smacks me on the head like gravity struck Newton. But in a way, widowhood has been my apple. We learn from everything and everyone in our lives, with luck, and at some point we move on from them - willing or not. It's not about forgetting or minimizing. Time moves and sweeps us along in its wake, but its different from just being pushed forward. Moving on implies that we have packed up those things from our old lives that are important and special in our own cedar chests, loaded them on the truck and once arrived, carefully put them away.
I have a habit of choosing my mottoes from the lyrics of songs. One of my favorites was written by group called Semi Sonic. The song is entitled "Closing Time". It uses the idea of a pub closing down in the wee hours as a metaphor for moving on and out into the big wide world. The song on the whole has a rather positive message but the line I truly love is "Closing time. Every new beginning comes from some other beginnings end." There is so much truth in that one simple expression. So much faith as well because I know many people who see endings as endings and nothing more, and even though I can see their side of it, I find that kind of thinking short-sighted. The reason being that endings and beginnings, as Shakespeare once put it are "neither good nor bad but thinking makes it so." Funny that I should find a line from Hamlet inspiring because there are few plays I dislike more than that dirge, but it is true.
Thursday, October 4, 2007
Wednesday, October 3, 2007
I was an Angelic Teen
There was an interesting opinion piece in The Globe and Mail on October 2nd about being honest with your children when discussing your own alcohol and drug use when you were young. I suppose this applies to sexual experiences too. Having spent as many years as I did working with preteens and teenagers, I am bit torn about his advice. While I know that it is always best to be as honest as possible with young people, I also know that there are too many variables in play to give a blanket seal of approval to the "be honest" approach when discussing sex, drugs and rock 'n roll.
Age appropriateness is an area that isn't as seriously discussed as much as it receives lip service. We live in an era of the parent as peer with parents and teens conversing and interacting on a level playing field with rules and officials viewed as quaint anachronisms. Parents should certainly take a more proactive role when it comes to dispensing and disseminating the information that their children receive through dubious sources when it comes to drugs, drinking and sex. Television, movies, popular music, the Internet, and of course peers, can spread as much misinformation as not, and there are too many truly stupid people in and out of your child's life on a daily basis for you not to pay attention to what they are learning and from whom.
Even though my own child is quite young. I have been on the receiving end of uncomfortable questions as a teacher and in personal relationships with younger people. Students reach a certain age where they take great delight in putting teachers on the spot whenever circumstances allow. In my role as teacher I have been asked about drinking habits, past drug use and the age at which I lost my virginity,among other things. The district where I taught arbitrarily chose grade 7 as the year to begin sex education, and many of my co-workers dreaded when the unit would come up in the Family and Consumer Science class because very often the children would sit passively in that class and ask their questions later in our classes. I gained a reputation for being able to answer their questions without stammering or blushing, and it was this experience that led me to the conclusion that if you are calm and as matter of fact as possible when addressing potentially explosive issues with kids, they will generally take you at your word. So, did I admit to drinking as a teen? No, I didn't need to because I kept it to the present tense. I rarely drink. I don't drink to get drunk when I do. From there my students assumed, incorrectly, that I had always been that way. Is this lying? Need to know is key when dealing with children, and my students simply didn't need to know what I was like as nineteen year old college student. Older teens would always ask about pot smoking. My stock answer was, and is still that I have asthma and therefore couldn't. Many of my students were on probation for drug offenses and looking for any example they could find of respectable adults who had smoked weed in high school. The truth is that I could have had I wanted to. My younger brother was growing it in the basement after all, but I really could never smoke. I grew up in the house of a smoker and was allergic by then, though I didn't realize it. Smoke of any kind made me cough and wheeze. Even if I had done this in high school, there was no reason for me to admit it and plenty not to give the circumstances. It gets back to variables and the bumpiness of the playing field. My high school students came from families where parents smoked, drank, ran through sexual partners faster than the seasons changed. They needed me to be an adult. Their questions were a way of confirming that I was.
When it came to sex, my first test was a close friend's oldest daughter. She and her sisters are like nieces to me. I watched them all grow up. When she was sixteen, she had her first serious boyfriend and she asked me about birth control because she was thinking about being intimate. I gave her the information and I also told her she needed to talk with her mom because if she was old enough to have sex and use birth control, she was old enough to be honest about her actions with her parents. After all, since college my motto has always been that if I couldn't tell my mom about it, I shouldn't be doing it. She did talk with her mom as a result, but when she asked me how old I was when I first had sex, I was honest. I was just shy of twenty-one. Old by standards now and then, but if I had been younger, I would have told her that too. Would I have shared the information in a classroom. No. That's not appropriate for the setting or the relationship of teacher and student. Which gets back to my early argument of appropriateness.
Being honest does not mean that children have any right to information about your past beyond the need to know rule, and it is foolish of parents to share their misadventures in their teens with their teen and younger children simply because they are still children and will not learn from your mistakes. They aren't old enough or experienced enough to internalize, or even see, the lesson you are hoping to teach them. Teens especially are blind to anything that is contrary to what they want. There is no need for them to know when you first started drinking, if you have ever smoked pot or the age at which you lost your virginity. All evidence points to the fact that when teens ask you these types of questions, they are looking for permission which is what knowledge of your teen actions provides. And when they discover that you evaded (and I recommend evasion highly over out-right lying)? You don't owe them an answer to that either. You are the parent and you were acting in their best interests at the time, and they will understand should they have children of their own someday. Yes, there is a reason that cliche exists. It's true.
Parent and child is never an equal relationship no matter the ages of either. When your children reach adulthood and are out living on their own, share until your heart bursts with fulfillment and lovey-dovey bonding, but until they be the parent. Be as perfect as possible, even if it is not quite the truth.
Age appropriateness is an area that isn't as seriously discussed as much as it receives lip service. We live in an era of the parent as peer with parents and teens conversing and interacting on a level playing field with rules and officials viewed as quaint anachronisms. Parents should certainly take a more proactive role when it comes to dispensing and disseminating the information that their children receive through dubious sources when it comes to drugs, drinking and sex. Television, movies, popular music, the Internet, and of course peers, can spread as much misinformation as not, and there are too many truly stupid people in and out of your child's life on a daily basis for you not to pay attention to what they are learning and from whom.
Even though my own child is quite young. I have been on the receiving end of uncomfortable questions as a teacher and in personal relationships with younger people. Students reach a certain age where they take great delight in putting teachers on the spot whenever circumstances allow. In my role as teacher I have been asked about drinking habits, past drug use and the age at which I lost my virginity,among other things. The district where I taught arbitrarily chose grade 7 as the year to begin sex education, and many of my co-workers dreaded when the unit would come up in the Family and Consumer Science class because very often the children would sit passively in that class and ask their questions later in our classes. I gained a reputation for being able to answer their questions without stammering or blushing, and it was this experience that led me to the conclusion that if you are calm and as matter of fact as possible when addressing potentially explosive issues with kids, they will generally take you at your word. So, did I admit to drinking as a teen? No, I didn't need to because I kept it to the present tense. I rarely drink. I don't drink to get drunk when I do. From there my students assumed, incorrectly, that I had always been that way. Is this lying? Need to know is key when dealing with children, and my students simply didn't need to know what I was like as nineteen year old college student. Older teens would always ask about pot smoking. My stock answer was, and is still that I have asthma and therefore couldn't. Many of my students were on probation for drug offenses and looking for any example they could find of respectable adults who had smoked weed in high school. The truth is that I could have had I wanted to. My younger brother was growing it in the basement after all, but I really could never smoke. I grew up in the house of a smoker and was allergic by then, though I didn't realize it. Smoke of any kind made me cough and wheeze. Even if I had done this in high school, there was no reason for me to admit it and plenty not to give the circumstances. It gets back to variables and the bumpiness of the playing field. My high school students came from families where parents smoked, drank, ran through sexual partners faster than the seasons changed. They needed me to be an adult. Their questions were a way of confirming that I was.
When it came to sex, my first test was a close friend's oldest daughter. She and her sisters are like nieces to me. I watched them all grow up. When she was sixteen, she had her first serious boyfriend and she asked me about birth control because she was thinking about being intimate. I gave her the information and I also told her she needed to talk with her mom because if she was old enough to have sex and use birth control, she was old enough to be honest about her actions with her parents. After all, since college my motto has always been that if I couldn't tell my mom about it, I shouldn't be doing it. She did talk with her mom as a result, but when she asked me how old I was when I first had sex, I was honest. I was just shy of twenty-one. Old by standards now and then, but if I had been younger, I would have told her that too. Would I have shared the information in a classroom. No. That's not appropriate for the setting or the relationship of teacher and student. Which gets back to my early argument of appropriateness.
Being honest does not mean that children have any right to information about your past beyond the need to know rule, and it is foolish of parents to share their misadventures in their teens with their teen and younger children simply because they are still children and will not learn from your mistakes. They aren't old enough or experienced enough to internalize, or even see, the lesson you are hoping to teach them. Teens especially are blind to anything that is contrary to what they want. There is no need for them to know when you first started drinking, if you have ever smoked pot or the age at which you lost your virginity. All evidence points to the fact that when teens ask you these types of questions, they are looking for permission which is what knowledge of your teen actions provides. And when they discover that you evaded (and I recommend evasion highly over out-right lying)? You don't owe them an answer to that either. You are the parent and you were acting in their best interests at the time, and they will understand should they have children of their own someday. Yes, there is a reason that cliche exists. It's true.
Parent and child is never an equal relationship no matter the ages of either. When your children reach adulthood and are out living on their own, share until your heart bursts with fulfillment and lovey-dovey bonding, but until they be the parent. Be as perfect as possible, even if it is not quite the truth.
Tuesday, October 2, 2007
GhostBusters
John Edwards is a fraud. I recoil from that show of his in horror, watching that twenty questions act of his peel people of signs and information that he uses to convince them he can communicate with their deceased loved ones. He is about as physic as my daughter's cat. Slyvia Brown is another charlaton who shouldn't be pandered to by talk show divas or publishers. One gem that she vomited forth is particularly telling. She was asked if our loved ones think about us or worry about us after they are gone. Ms. Brown replied, "No, they are in heaven and they don't care." Aside from being utterly insensitve and as blunt as a board upside the head, anyone who has received signs or visits from those who have gone on know that Slyvia is not a physic either. Back in the days when I was trying so desperately to have a child, my best friend and I went to a Psychic Fair. I sat down with a couple of them. One used a regular playing deck of cards and the other a Tarot set, but they were both completely wrong. I have had more physic moments than either of those women, but I am sure they are somewhere taking money from innocent people right now and giving them nothing but showy garbage in return.
Last night Rob's oldest daughter, Farron, came out to the house for supper. Like her dad (and me too I admit) she was late. I don't think any of us manage to be anywhere we say we are going to be on time anymore. It's a rare occurrence when I am not walking in at the last minute when I am not outright just plain tardy. Supper was a bit rushed as I had my deep water exercise class, but Farron assured me she would still be around when I got back.
When I returned, Rob, Farron and myself sat in the living room and listened to Farron discuss her man woes. She is not quite twenty-five and as I remember that time myself, men woeful or joyful is just about the center of the universe as far as preoccupation of thoughts, time and enegry go. Eventually though the topic turned to the house. Our house is haunted. Truly. Farron had just made a comment on how the dishwasher's noises sounded ghost-like and Rob brought up my last spirit encounter.
I should run aside here and explain that Rob didn't tell me about the house and its "inhabitants" until quite a while after Katy and I moved in. Still, the first time we visited before moving up here, I had a feeling the house was haunted. I was a bit curious about the possibility because Rob's late wife died here in the room down the hall which is now our joint office. I knew from my own experiences after Will died, and from a few Rob had told me about concerning Shelley, that spouses tend to hang out a bit for a while following their passing. Partly concern and maybe a little bit habit, it's my feeling that they need to hang onto us as they adjust just as we need to hang onto them. That first weekend visit, I saw a figure standing in the corner of our bedroom when I awoke for no reason in the middle of the night and I had the distinct feeling that I was being watched the few times I went into the basement.
After we moved in the basement feelings persisted until I felt almost as I did when I was a young child being sent down to the freezer to retrieve some thing or other for my mother to prepare for dinner. I also saw the figure in our room again. Once right next to the side of the bed by Rob as he slept. The incidents came to a head in the middle of the night when Katy awoke, came to get me and when I took her back to her room she insisted that someone was standing on the other side of the room. This was not long after the "honey" incidents. Katy would come into the room wherever I was and ask me what I wanted. Of course, I hadn't called for her but she would tell me that someone was calling "Honey" to her. The figure in her room was the last straw. Some otherworldly person could mess with me all they liked but had better leave my child alone. My late husband got quite the talking to by me in that instant and reminded that he had a child to look after and what was he going to do about this? Katy hasn't had a ghostly experience since.
After that, Rob came clean about the house. The incidents dated back to when he, Shelley and the girls first moved in. Apparently the house had been moved from a spot in the city on the old prison grounds. Jordan, Rob's younger daughter, was also a victim of the "honey" calls though the spirit actually called her by name. She also had told Farron that there were other creepy incidents in the basement. Mostly a feeling of being watched. My downstairs surrvialance ended one day when I finally got angry and told whoever it was to just knock it off already. It wasn't my last incident though. That was the one Rob wanted me to tell Farron about. I was sitting in the office, working on a blog piece about last wishes. It was right after our trip up to Beaver Lodge for Uncle Raymond's, Shelley's uncle, memorial. Rob had decided to bring Shelley's ashes along and place some under the tree in Raymond's yard where the two of them had gotten married. It got me thinking about my last wishes and where I wanted to end up, but as I was finishing up I got stuck. I couldn't figure out how to end the piece and toyed with the idea of writing a bit longer piece than I had originally intended when suddenly, someone shoved my chair from behind and I hit the desk. I took that as I sign that I was done and quickly wrote a few sentences and published. I should note here that my chair is a typical desk chair with wheels but I have a habit of sitting on one leg and letting the other dangle or rest on the tripod legs. I wasn't moving or rocking. My feet weren't even touching the floor and as far as I know, there aren't any earthquakes in Alberta.
Rob's experiences go back to before Shelley's illness even. He would hear a tinny radio playing 1940's type music. After Shelly died, he would hear voices as he was dropping off to sleep at night. Lots of voices. Like at a party. One night, he heard someone loudly call his full name. He has had experiences with Shelley too, as I have had with Will, but some of the things that have happened can't be attributed to our late spouses.
Katy's room is the one Farron used to sleep in. Farron related a tale of the attic door being open every night despite her repeated closings and of scratching sounds in the ceiling which she thought were rodents but Rob assured her wasn't possible as he has never seen any of the telltale rodent signs in the attic space.
I personally believe there is a next and probably even an after the next place that we all travel to after our time here is done for the moment. I think that we probably spend eternity looping these places and existing in different forms but with essentially the same group of fellow travelers or "souls". My knowledge of quantum physics is pretty limited, though it fascinates me, and I can't explain in any concrete way they reason that some of us are able to "break" through the barriers between existences and some of us can't, or maybe chose not to. What came first or what comes next is nothing to be afraid of anymore than you should fear getting older or any of the transitions that come along in this life. Change is just change to greater or lesser degrees. And, of course, it is inevitable.
Last night Rob's oldest daughter, Farron, came out to the house for supper. Like her dad (and me too I admit) she was late. I don't think any of us manage to be anywhere we say we are going to be on time anymore. It's a rare occurrence when I am not walking in at the last minute when I am not outright just plain tardy. Supper was a bit rushed as I had my deep water exercise class, but Farron assured me she would still be around when I got back.
When I returned, Rob, Farron and myself sat in the living room and listened to Farron discuss her man woes. She is not quite twenty-five and as I remember that time myself, men woeful or joyful is just about the center of the universe as far as preoccupation of thoughts, time and enegry go. Eventually though the topic turned to the house. Our house is haunted. Truly. Farron had just made a comment on how the dishwasher's noises sounded ghost-like and Rob brought up my last spirit encounter.
I should run aside here and explain that Rob didn't tell me about the house and its "inhabitants" until quite a while after Katy and I moved in. Still, the first time we visited before moving up here, I had a feeling the house was haunted. I was a bit curious about the possibility because Rob's late wife died here in the room down the hall which is now our joint office. I knew from my own experiences after Will died, and from a few Rob had told me about concerning Shelley, that spouses tend to hang out a bit for a while following their passing. Partly concern and maybe a little bit habit, it's my feeling that they need to hang onto us as they adjust just as we need to hang onto them. That first weekend visit, I saw a figure standing in the corner of our bedroom when I awoke for no reason in the middle of the night and I had the distinct feeling that I was being watched the few times I went into the basement.
After we moved in the basement feelings persisted until I felt almost as I did when I was a young child being sent down to the freezer to retrieve some thing or other for my mother to prepare for dinner. I also saw the figure in our room again. Once right next to the side of the bed by Rob as he slept. The incidents came to a head in the middle of the night when Katy awoke, came to get me and when I took her back to her room she insisted that someone was standing on the other side of the room. This was not long after the "honey" incidents. Katy would come into the room wherever I was and ask me what I wanted. Of course, I hadn't called for her but she would tell me that someone was calling "Honey" to her. The figure in her room was the last straw. Some otherworldly person could mess with me all they liked but had better leave my child alone. My late husband got quite the talking to by me in that instant and reminded that he had a child to look after and what was he going to do about this? Katy hasn't had a ghostly experience since.
After that, Rob came clean about the house. The incidents dated back to when he, Shelley and the girls first moved in. Apparently the house had been moved from a spot in the city on the old prison grounds. Jordan, Rob's younger daughter, was also a victim of the "honey" calls though the spirit actually called her by name. She also had told Farron that there were other creepy incidents in the basement. Mostly a feeling of being watched. My downstairs surrvialance ended one day when I finally got angry and told whoever it was to just knock it off already. It wasn't my last incident though. That was the one Rob wanted me to tell Farron about. I was sitting in the office, working on a blog piece about last wishes. It was right after our trip up to Beaver Lodge for Uncle Raymond's, Shelley's uncle, memorial. Rob had decided to bring Shelley's ashes along and place some under the tree in Raymond's yard where the two of them had gotten married. It got me thinking about my last wishes and where I wanted to end up, but as I was finishing up I got stuck. I couldn't figure out how to end the piece and toyed with the idea of writing a bit longer piece than I had originally intended when suddenly, someone shoved my chair from behind and I hit the desk. I took that as I sign that I was done and quickly wrote a few sentences and published. I should note here that my chair is a typical desk chair with wheels but I have a habit of sitting on one leg and letting the other dangle or rest on the tripod legs. I wasn't moving or rocking. My feet weren't even touching the floor and as far as I know, there aren't any earthquakes in Alberta.
Rob's experiences go back to before Shelley's illness even. He would hear a tinny radio playing 1940's type music. After Shelly died, he would hear voices as he was dropping off to sleep at night. Lots of voices. Like at a party. One night, he heard someone loudly call his full name. He has had experiences with Shelley too, as I have had with Will, but some of the things that have happened can't be attributed to our late spouses.
Katy's room is the one Farron used to sleep in. Farron related a tale of the attic door being open every night despite her repeated closings and of scratching sounds in the ceiling which she thought were rodents but Rob assured her wasn't possible as he has never seen any of the telltale rodent signs in the attic space.
I personally believe there is a next and probably even an after the next place that we all travel to after our time here is done for the moment. I think that we probably spend eternity looping these places and existing in different forms but with essentially the same group of fellow travelers or "souls". My knowledge of quantum physics is pretty limited, though it fascinates me, and I can't explain in any concrete way they reason that some of us are able to "break" through the barriers between existences and some of us can't, or maybe chose not to. What came first or what comes next is nothing to be afraid of anymore than you should fear getting older or any of the transitions that come along in this life. Change is just change to greater or lesser degrees. And, of course, it is inevitable.
Trying
My daughter’s favorite thing to say last year when she was in preschool and hadn’t succeeded at some task or other was “Try, try again. That’s what Mrs. Wright says.” An interesting motto for someone who was just four years old. She would often exhort me with the same saying and she still brings it up from time to time. So, as you might have guessed, I did not win the fiction contest last week with my chapter two entry, but as I mentioned I have numerous opportunities to try. I spent last night and most of today (in between SAHM things) working on my chapter three attempt. I think is is a bit better than my previous work and I may get the hang of this mystery writing thing yet.
Chapter Three – The Art of the Bid
Emmy wanted to storm in and confront both men. But cooler, decidedly more detective-like instincts kicked in. She waited in her van. Jack first, and minutes later Gombrick, emerged. To the casual observer they were unrelated customers from the throngs who waited daily in long lines for icedcapps and Timbit. Gombrick's stiff gait reminded Emmy of a peg-legged pirate. Jack was carrying his usual cup of coffee. After they were gone, Emmy pulled out but didn't follow either man. She knew where to find them when she needed them. What she needed now was information that neither was likely to give her.
Ixion Construction was located just off Yellowhead Trail near 82nd Street. Emmy called to let them know she was bringing a preliminary report. In truth, she had nothing to report that would help Ixion discredit Gombrick’s claims. She hoped they would have information for her. There was only one reason for Jack and Gombrick to be together and it meant bigger issues were at stake. But what did that have to do with Fulton?
"Ms. Budge, it’s good to see you so soon."
Emmy smiled wryly as she shook the proffered hand of the company's vice-president, Elizabeth Farron. Not the type Emmy pictured when she thought of construction workers, Ms. Farron had assured her on their initial meeting that she had come up through the ranks. Not tall, but sturdy and with the strongest grip Emmy had ever encountered in any female, she was inclined to believe that the pretty blond with a sunburst tattoo peeking above the neckline of an Oilers’ shirt was more capable than your average heir of an oil sands tycoon.
Ms. Farron led Emmy into a conference room strewn with evidence indicating a meeting had taken place not long ago and motioned for Emmy to sit down, "Sorry about the mess. Just finished up a progress meeting on the microbrewery project."
"Brian Fulton’s?" Emmy inquired. "That’s still on?"
The young woman hesitated slightly before nodding. "There were other investors."
"Of course. Was that part of Gombrick's job? Bidding?"
Ms. Farron gave her a quizzical look. "No, but he was
aware of company bids. Why do you ask?"
Emmy shrugged, "Curious. I really stopped in to say I’m dropping the investigation." Before she could be interrupted, Emmy raised her hand and continued, "I followed Gombrick for four days, and aside an inexplicable visit to the Edmonton Queen last night, he did nothing to indicate he’s anything other than a middle-aged man with a bad back. My advice: pay him the money."
"I'm paying you money to prove he’s defrauding my company," Farron retorted angrily before the whole of Emmy's statement sunk in. Slowly anger drained from her sky blue eyes. "Did you say he went to see Brian Fulton last night?"
"No," Emmy replied, "I said he visited the Edmonton Queen. Why would you think he saw Fulton?"
Flustered, she replied. " Well, I just assumed. Bert was on the James MacDonald project when the accident occurred and Brian was one of the backers.”
"But isn’t that a city contract?" Emmy asked.
“Yes, but even the city needs to borrow funding for large projects.
“So you knew Fulton?”
"Not really. My partner, Vic Wild, handles funding.” Her tone was flat, but the absent way she twirled long straight strands of hair around her fingers told Emmy there was more to her involvement with “funding”, Brian Fulton and his microbrewery.
"I know you think there’s nothing more to this case, but I would appreciate it if you would continue out the week. Just to make sure, and with a closing bonus for your wasted time."
That evening Emmy mulled the events of the day over a glass of ale at the Black Dog on Whyte Ave. She had been sure Gombrick was working with Jack on some case, but her conversation with Ms. Farron left her thinking Gombrick was guilty of more than trying to arrange an early retirement. She flipped through some clippings in a folder on the table.
"Not your usual reading fare, Em. Actually, I can't remember the last time you read anything longer than the back of a DVD," a tall dark bespectacled man remarked as he slid into the seat across from her. "Isn't reading what you supposedly pay me to do?”
Emmy glanced up from the news clippings. "I love that about you too. Your ability to read while biting the hand that feeds you."
"You haven't fed me yet. Or offered to buy me a drink," he pointed out cheerfully, rifling through her papers. "The Edmonton Journal? Hope you’re not looking for information about the world at large."
"All people, places and things Alberta are chronicled in the Journal, Cam," she replied.
"Newsflash. The world isn't flat," he whispered back in a mockingly conspiratorial tone.
"Nice," she replied, "but I need to connect Gombrick and Fulton. I can’t do that on the Internet, Facebook boy. Didn’t I ask for information on Farron?"
"Did better," he told her placing a printout of Farron's Facebook profile between them.
"One hundred forty-two friends. Good to know," Before she could tell Cam to go home and be useful, she spied two familiar faces. Bert Gombrick and another she couldn't put a name on.
"Gombrick? Odd friend choice. He could be her father and is suing her. Who’s this guy?"
Cam put the day's Journal on the table, pointing to the front-page photo. His finger traveled from a blurry Gombrick to a woman who was clearly Farron to a barely visible man in the back. Before Emmy could ask, Cam opened the Life section to a picture of the same man smiling in an advertisement.
"Jeff Bates? The yoga school guy?”
“Interesting group of friends, eh Em?”
Chapter Three – The Art of the Bid
Emmy wanted to storm in and confront both men. But cooler, decidedly more detective-like instincts kicked in. She waited in her van. Jack first, and minutes later Gombrick, emerged. To the casual observer they were unrelated customers from the throngs who waited daily in long lines for icedcapps and Timbit. Gombrick's stiff gait reminded Emmy of a peg-legged pirate. Jack was carrying his usual cup of coffee. After they were gone, Emmy pulled out but didn't follow either man. She knew where to find them when she needed them. What she needed now was information that neither was likely to give her.
Ixion Construction was located just off Yellowhead Trail near 82nd Street. Emmy called to let them know she was bringing a preliminary report. In truth, she had nothing to report that would help Ixion discredit Gombrick’s claims. She hoped they would have information for her. There was only one reason for Jack and Gombrick to be together and it meant bigger issues were at stake. But what did that have to do with Fulton?
"Ms. Budge, it’s good to see you so soon."
Emmy smiled wryly as she shook the proffered hand of the company's vice-president, Elizabeth Farron. Not the type Emmy pictured when she thought of construction workers, Ms. Farron had assured her on their initial meeting that she had come up through the ranks. Not tall, but sturdy and with the strongest grip Emmy had ever encountered in any female, she was inclined to believe that the pretty blond with a sunburst tattoo peeking above the neckline of an Oilers’ shirt was more capable than your average heir of an oil sands tycoon.
Ms. Farron led Emmy into a conference room strewn with evidence indicating a meeting had taken place not long ago and motioned for Emmy to sit down, "Sorry about the mess. Just finished up a progress meeting on the microbrewery project."
"Brian Fulton’s?" Emmy inquired. "That’s still on?"
The young woman hesitated slightly before nodding. "There were other investors."
"Of course. Was that part of Gombrick's job? Bidding?"
Ms. Farron gave her a quizzical look. "No, but he was
aware of company bids. Why do you ask?"
Emmy shrugged, "Curious. I really stopped in to say I’m dropping the investigation." Before she could be interrupted, Emmy raised her hand and continued, "I followed Gombrick for four days, and aside an inexplicable visit to the Edmonton Queen last night, he did nothing to indicate he’s anything other than a middle-aged man with a bad back. My advice: pay him the money."
"I'm paying you money to prove he’s defrauding my company," Farron retorted angrily before the whole of Emmy's statement sunk in. Slowly anger drained from her sky blue eyes. "Did you say he went to see Brian Fulton last night?"
"No," Emmy replied, "I said he visited the Edmonton Queen. Why would you think he saw Fulton?"
Flustered, she replied. " Well, I just assumed. Bert was on the James MacDonald project when the accident occurred and Brian was one of the backers.”
"But isn’t that a city contract?" Emmy asked.
“Yes, but even the city needs to borrow funding for large projects.
“So you knew Fulton?”
"Not really. My partner, Vic Wild, handles funding.” Her tone was flat, but the absent way she twirled long straight strands of hair around her fingers told Emmy there was more to her involvement with “funding”, Brian Fulton and his microbrewery.
"I know you think there’s nothing more to this case, but I would appreciate it if you would continue out the week. Just to make sure, and with a closing bonus for your wasted time."
That evening Emmy mulled the events of the day over a glass of ale at the Black Dog on Whyte Ave. She had been sure Gombrick was working with Jack on some case, but her conversation with Ms. Farron left her thinking Gombrick was guilty of more than trying to arrange an early retirement. She flipped through some clippings in a folder on the table.
"Not your usual reading fare, Em. Actually, I can't remember the last time you read anything longer than the back of a DVD," a tall dark bespectacled man remarked as he slid into the seat across from her. "Isn't reading what you supposedly pay me to do?”
Emmy glanced up from the news clippings. "I love that about you too. Your ability to read while biting the hand that feeds you."
"You haven't fed me yet. Or offered to buy me a drink," he pointed out cheerfully, rifling through her papers. "The Edmonton Journal? Hope you’re not looking for information about the world at large."
"All people, places and things Alberta are chronicled in the Journal, Cam," she replied.
"Newsflash. The world isn't flat," he whispered back in a mockingly conspiratorial tone.
"Nice," she replied, "but I need to connect Gombrick and Fulton. I can’t do that on the Internet, Facebook boy. Didn’t I ask for information on Farron?"
"Did better," he told her placing a printout of Farron's Facebook profile between them.
"One hundred forty-two friends. Good to know," Before she could tell Cam to go home and be useful, she spied two familiar faces. Bert Gombrick and another she couldn't put a name on.
"Gombrick? Odd friend choice. He could be her father and is suing her. Who’s this guy?"
Cam put the day's Journal on the table, pointing to the front-page photo. His finger traveled from a blurry Gombrick to a woman who was clearly Farron to a barely visible man in the back. Before Emmy could ask, Cam opened the Life section to a picture of the same man smiling in an advertisement.
"Jeff Bates? The yoga school guy?”
“Interesting group of friends, eh Em?”
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