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.

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?”

HayFever

Did you know that Hay Fever is simply one of those nonsensical terms for allergic rhinitis? I didn't know that until I googled up the term last night after spending an entire afternoon and evening sneezing the nose off my face and wondering if there was a quicker way to drain my sinuses. Like maybe removing my eyeballs and just scooping the snot out. This morning we are all sneezing, dripping and snuffling to some extent. Part of the trouble is the near ubiquitous state of renovation we live in. Not complaining, mind you. Every project started and completed is another step closer to selling the house and building a new one together. Still, the reality is that I am allergic to dust and I live in a continual state of it. The other side of the tipping point was that Rob is using the fire-pit in the backyard to dispose of some of the old wood from even older reno projects past. He also decided yesterday to burn paper. Between the two of us we have the death of a what appears to be a whole forest on our hands. Some of it is the accumulation of paper generated by years illness on the part of both our late spouses. It's hard to know what needs to be saved for this or that purpose. Much of it was just the inability to deal with concrete tasks when so much of our reserves were split, unevenly, between day to day survival and sorting through the inner piles of "paperwork" that grieving generates. The end result though is that today we are snotty, and not in that satisfying way of sticking out our tongues at the world either. Drippy, mucousy, wheezy, throat-clearing yukkiness. Rob deals with it by refusing to acknowledge it. If he doesn't say the words "I have allergies," out loud then it just isn't so. Such a man thing. My dad and my late husband have/had similar coping strategies. As a women, while I lament the need to do so, I would rather just own up and begin to seek a solution. So far, I have not found a solution to my allergic woes. I systematically have purged offensive foods from my diet and this has helped but the whole rhinitis issue can't be rectified unless I stop breathing air. I kinda need air, as filthy polluted as it is, and have only imperfect remedies. Anti-histamines. Decongestants. Herbal teas. A pitiful arsenal really. The commercials you see with happy, snot-free people wandering cheerfully through a Disney picture perfect wilderness that begs for Cinderella and Sleeping Beauty to come waltzing through with their entourage of cheeping, squeaking and squawking menageries are an offensive load of poop. Drugged up to the hilt, the truly allergic can maybe manage not to drip, but the truth is that your eyes still sting and your sinus cavities sting and ache and you can still hack up a nice wad of phlegm at a moment's notice.

Hay Fever is a sign of a hyper-vigilant immune system. Personally if my immune system wanted to be really useful it would be coming up with ways to protect me against the coming Bird Flu epidemic, but I guess dust and pollen is the best it can do in its off hours when it isn't fighting the good fight against all the viruses and bacteria that penetrate our systems from time to time. Practice is practice, I suppose.

Egg Shitter

The book is called NO KIDS: 40 Reasons Not to Have Children and was written by a French author named Corrine Maier. In it this psychiatrist, and mother of two, attempts to dissuade young childless French women from succumbing to the baby fever which is currently sweeping their country. Unlike most other countries in the EU where birthrates have fallen well below population replacement levels and young children are swiftly becoming an anomaly, the French are experiencing a renaissance of motherhood thanks in no small part to government sponsored maternity leaves where mothers are paid full wages for up to sixteen weeks, receive "bonus checks" for having more than one child and enjoy a creche, or childcare, system that is unequaled anywhere. Ms. Maier feels that these programs are part of a larger plan to imprison women in the traditional, and largely unfulfilling, role of "mom". The phrase she coined for women who buy into the myth that motherhood is the ultimate goal for a women is merdeuf which a French speaker would recognize as the contraction of mère de famille, which is the traditional phrase for a full-time mother or a housewife and someone who makes the act of mothering her career. The contraction of this term, however, sounds like a combination of merde, which any first year French student can tell you means "shit" and oeuf, which means "egg". Combined these two sounds seem to imply that these xeno-phobes disguised as patriots and uber-mommies are in fact little more than "egg-shitters."

Now, it may seem ironic that someone who has given birth to and is raising children of her own would counsel women who have not yet had children to steer clear of the "profession" of motherhood, but only if you weren't a mother yourself. Even the most rabidly devoted mother has moments when she wishes she had opted for the power career or the guy with no real potential other than showing her a really great time. Why? Because it would have been easier and finite. There is no end to motherhood. No way to quit or backtrack. Just 15 or 20 years of intensive, sometimes mind-numbing, and certainly unappreciated but for hindsight freakin' hard work. For nothing. There are no monetary rewards. No company perks. No advancements. If men had been handed this role at the dawn of creation the human race would have began and ended with Adam and Eve. And yes, I know as a mother myself that there are intangible rewards to having and raising children that shouldn't be compared with the consumer-driven objectified greediness of the material minded, but when you stop to consider that in the vast majority of the world women are little more than breeding cows with nearly identical rights it is hard to argue against Ms. Maier's attempt to warn off future generations of brood mares.

It could be the poor translation but I think some of Ms. Maier's reasons are stupid, but a few drive home the point that women are still being forced to choose between having children and having a life, eg. career. Children are limiting for women in a way that they are not for men. You can argue the point as much as you like but the facts are the facts. Mothers, even really crappy ones, are tied to the early development of their off-spring in a much more physical way than fathers are and because of this, they will inevitably lose time. Time for education or building careers or simply to pursue some personally fulfilling dream. We can't have it all in the same way men can and it's time this was acknowledged and made generally known to women before they have babies. An uninformed choice is hardly a choice at all.