What others are saying about Take Flight: True Stories of How Dreams Shape Our Lives
We all have dreams. When they take flight we want to share them with the world! This book is full of true stories by Albertans who dreamed, and what became of those dreams. Where each of the writers go next is the best part of the read. A book you should add to your library.
Kathleen Windsor
President, Windsor Graphics
Recipient, Doug Gilbert Media Award
for Professional Sports Editor
I really enjoyed this compilation. Some of the stories were moving, some were inspirational, some were funny, many were touching, all were human. These stories reminded me that I was not alone with my fears and feelings, my triumphs and tribulations. I found myself identifying with the writers on more than one occasion; I laughed with them, and cried with them, and I understood what they were feeling. It was my honour to be able to share in these moments, so beautifully written by some very talented writers.
Zenna Liber
Zen Garden Graphic Design
This collection of stories created a variety of emotions in me: a couple made me cry, another made me wait with bated breath, and others made me cheer. In the end, they all moved me.
Darlene Poier
Publisher, Pages Of Stories
The writers' stories in this collection are a true reflection of the heartbreak, conflict and joy we experience in our travels on life's journey. I am so impressed with the candor these writers have voiced in this selection of tales.
Susan Herbert
The stories in this book were all so personal and poignant that I want to meet each and every one of these amazing authors. Their courage and resilience is truly inspirational.
Jo Anne Goyette
Jo's Office On The Go!
Every story in this collection is unique but they have this in common: each person's reaction to their circumstances depended upon their attitude. The essay at the end was like seeing the special features on a DVD; it was fascinating to hear how the book evolved. This book is a brave project, a great platform for authors to get their story in print.
Trish Stilwell
Take
Flight
True Stories of How Dreams Shape Our Lives
Copyright © 2012 Imagine It In Writing
ISBN 978-0-9880169-1-0
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form without permission in writing from the author or publisher, except by a reviewer who may quote for review purposes. For more information, please write to the publisher at:
Box 1058
Didsbury, Alberta T0M 0W0
laura@imagineitinwriting.com
PRINTED IN CANADA
The author based this book on her perspective and experience. The author and publisher disclaim any liability, loss or risk incurred by individuals who act on the information contained herein. The author and publisher believe the advice presented here is sound, but readers cannot hold Laura Crowe, Imagine It In Writing or any of their agents responsible for either the actions the readers take or the results of those actions.
This book is lovingly dedicated to my two daughters,
Katherine and Anna.
May all your dreams take flight.
Table of Contents
Introduction
STORIES
The Tree by Joseph McPherson
Angel Wings by Mona Caukill
White Noise by Laura Crowe
Parlez-vous French? by Maxine Spence
Just Normal by Stacy Peters
Ahead of My Time by Miriam Rashleigh
Legacy by Alan R. Chambers
Father's Private War by J.M. Sutton
Looking Like a Dancer by Aime Hutton
Told You So by Melissa Kadey
Just Making Moments by Connie Petersen
Perpetual Journey by Lynne Adam Blackburn
The Other Side by Rachele and June Clavagnier
ESSAY
Take Flight by Laura Crowe
Introduction
Have you ever faced an obstacle that you had no idea how to overcome? Do you consider your life to be ordinary and uninteresting?
These may seem to be contradictions in terms. Truthfully, no one is truly uninteresting. Ordinary, yes. But, because we live and breathe still on this earth, we have a story to tell. Some are adventurous, some involve illness, some involve life and death situations, some span the globe, some make you laugh, and some make you cry. This is the stuff of life, which is why it is the stuff stories are made of.
Inside these pages, you will find thirteen such stories, all written by very brave people.
When I first began this collection, I was surprised that people weren't knocking down my door to participate. Tell a true, short story about yourself, with all the editing and support you need— who wouldn't want to do it? Then I began writing my own and I discovered just how difficult it is. Memoir requires blunt honesty, both in the writing and the willingness to let an editor shape it. It's hard to hear, "Please consider cutting this section" or "your dialogue doesn't sound natural" or "please go deeper here so the reader can feel your pain." And yet, all the authors in this collection were more than willing to do what I asked. Some shed tears while writing; some feared they wouldn't have anything interesting to say; some thought they didn't have enough skill. All sacrificed time and energy to work and re-work and re-work pieces of their history.
One of the most rewarding parts of this project was the huge difference between draft one and two, in both content and writer confidence. Many times I was asked, "Do I have what it takes?" And it was so delightful to show them, with each draft, how far they had come.
It is our joy to share our lives with you in these pages. May you come away reminded that you, too, have a story to share. You are not alone.
Stories
The Tree
by Joseph McPherson
The garage roof jump was our first "gang test."
"Oh man, it looks like a long way down," I said. "Like at least ten feet." In actuality the distance was more like seven feet from the edge of the roof (that my toes automatically curled around through my plastic Adidas runners) to the tilled dirt below, a burgeoning garden that would sprout corn a few weeks later. My neighbour-friends' dad—a Henry Sukkau—had built the garage a few years earlier, but, as they had an underground garage beneath their house, the building behind their home served as a workshop and storage shed. This building was filled with: snowmobiles, go-carts, a mini dirt bike, a John Deere lawn-tractor, a "Pacer" car (a moon-vehicle—or so it looked—undergoing an overhaul), a work-bench, and welding equipment (which Mark and Ray learned to operate practically out of diapers).
"No doubt," said Ray.
"It was your idea, Mark, and you're the captain," nine-year-old Raymond Schmidt said. "You should have to go first!"
Where we got the "gang" concept, I'm not exactly sure-though my brother had read me several books from The Sugar Creek Gang series, so the idea probably originated with me. We went by the name "The Ruarkville Gang" after the neighbourhood we grew up in Three Hills, Alberta.
Mark looked to be psyching himself up—his eyes measuring, judging the landing surface. "I don't know . . . We might break an ankle. It looks stinkin' high!"
"Just shut up and do it, Mark!" Ray said. "This is a gang test. Quit being a wimp."
Mark appeared not to notice the taunt and before we knew it he had coaxed his legs off of the roof. He landed with a thud, collapsing onto his knees and hands before bouncing upward like a rubber ball to his feet. He dusted off the front of his pants with glee, amused that his limbs were still intact.
"That was awesome! You losers have to try it—it's not hard at all!" Mark said.
We all laughed nervously. I was amazed that Mark had made the jump and knew (along with the others, I think) that at some point, the rest of us were on the hook to mimic the feat.
With a slightly less-than-enthusiastic leap, Ray passed the test next. He, too, sprung to his feet, though it looked like he had mildly twisted an ankle as it momentarily buckled under his weight before he caught himself and secured his posture. He shouted, "Whoo-hoo! Hokey pick! That was so fun!"
Raymond and I sat on the edge of the roof. My younger friend looked like Humpty anticipating a reassembling process, and how that outcome weighed against not being part of a gang. The ground appeared so far down, and, outside of defeating the high diving board at the swimming pool, neither of us had come so close to death as this.
Being the end of June, I remember the afternoon sun's blistering heat, my shoes melting into the black asphalt shingles of the garage. It was the combination of burning feet and impending insults that eventually caused me to take the plunge a minute or two later. I landed with a kerplunk, my bottom smacking the ground, thankfully not hard enough to cause paralysis . . . or at least not enough paralysis to inhibit further jumps. I got up okay, smiling.
"Wow!" I said. "That was so cool. Raymond, you have to do it—it's totally amazing!"
"It feels like you're flying," Mark said, just as Raymond zoomed past me. His body splayed onto the earth as did ours, and he, too, stood up laughing and looking like he had captured a city.
The next gang test was Henry Sukkau's fence.
Henry Sukkau built a white fence that outlined his property on three sides. The fence was made up of round posts that punctured the earth every eight feet or so, with three connecting two-by-fours in between them. The uppermost two-by-four was nailed flush with the top of its supporting posts, forming a very narrow, two-inch sidewalk that ran roughly a hundred metres long.
So, it was another hot summer day in a time before the Internet, cable television and video games that led one of us to say, "Hey, let's see if we can walk around on top of the whole fence without falling down!"
"Oh man, that's impossible," said Raymond.
"Don't be a wuss, Raymond," I said—after balancing along a whole eight-foot section before falling. "This is going be a cinch!"
"It's going to be easy as pie," Ray bragged, then fell into my mother's tulips, carefully encircled with rocks on my family's side of the property line.
"What the pickle?" Mark grunted after falling off the fence for the fourth time while attempting to make it on top of the first pole.
We all laughed.
"You're such a geek, Mark!" Raymond said, with a hearty grin.
"Come here and say that, you fink!" Again we chuckled and guffawed as Mark teetered mid-post, a look of anger on his face.
I think it was Mark who completed the fence-walk first, but not until a week or so later.
Each step that I took around that fence without falling made me feel like an Olympic gymnast on a balance beam. On the back side of the Sukkau's property there grew a few poplar trees that we could hold onto while we traversed the fence there. But to make it around the whole fence—jumping across the three-foot-wide fence crossings on two sides—was quite a triumph; it was an accomplishment filled with shaky moments and intense concentration that required restart after restart after faux-curse-laden restart.
I eventually walked the entirety of the fence without falling. We all did, in roughly the same order that we had each performed the garage jump test. When Raymond finally completed the circuit I was as happy for him as I was for myself.
The Tree was the next and last official gang membership test. This requirement, however, was a monster compared to those that preceded it.
"How far up is that bottom branch, anyway?" I said.
"Twenty feet, maybe?" Ray said.
Raymond looked uncomfortable. "Guys, I don't think I can do this."
"I doubt any of us are going to be able to climb this, Mark!" I said, appealing to our leader.
"Yes we will," he said, as he bent down to tighten his shoelaces.
The giant cottonwood tree across the street from the Sukkau home was about two-and-a-half feet wide in diameter. It wasn't something we could just wrap our legs around and shimmy up. It was something that we'd need to climb—much like a mountaineer or a rock-climber. There were rich, deep faults that ran up and down the trunk of that great tree, and there were a few knobs here and there where branches had grown and broken off. However, these knobs were small and spread out in awkward locations. And there sure weren't many of them.
Raymond and I sat back and watched Mark and Ray alternating their attempts at scaling the daunting tower, not believing it was possible to reach that bottom branch way up in the sky. And, what would happen once they reached the lowest limb? This was nothing like the garage jump test; how were we supposed to get down other than by hanging from the branch and free-falling to the ground?
So, the hours rolled quickly by that afternoon, our preoccupation with the impossible keeping us amused. And then the impossible happened. Mark Sukkau made it up the tree near the end of the day.
"How are you going to get down?" I asked Mark.
"I don't know, climb?" His legs dangled from his precarious position. A half hour later, and after several abandoned attempts at descending the cottonwood, Mark was swinging a good fourteen feet above the ground. He hung there until his hands gave out. In front of all of our horrified eyes, Mark finally let go of that limb and landed with such tremendous force that I was positive we'd be carrying his limp body to his parents.
Mark raised himself though. Stiffly. Confident. The leader. He said something like, "There. I did it. Now all of you have to do it if you want to be in the gang!"
Not long after, Ray completed the task.
I, of course, was incredulous, as was our younger friend Raymond.
I chalked it up to Mark and Ray being older and more developed than Raymond and me. But the older boys' bleeding arms and legs (where their pants had worked up past their socks) and their sweaty, grimy faces reeked of struggle. And their hoots and hollers and smiles of satisfaction proclaimed their victory. Would I be able to follow their lead? Usually, I kept up with the Sukkau twins, but in this case I had a sick feeling of inadequacy.
I went home that evening with the agonizing thought that the Ruarkville gang could very well end up being a two-member unit. After dinner, I returned to the tree to find Raymond already straddling the behemoth like a rider-and-bull at the rodeo. In the background, the noise of a motor running in the Sukkau garage told us the twins had moved on to a mechanical project, one that involved the two of them only.
"How's it coming?" I asked Raymond.
"Stupid idiots!" he muttered. He had a look of determination in his eyes despite the angry sentiment.
"How far have you got up it?"
"Just to that bump there." Raymond pointed about six feet up the trunk of the tree to a rounded hump that looked like it had the face of an infant owl peering back at us from its flat centre. I could smell the spicy odour of smudged sap and scuffed bark—a result of the day-long skirmishes that had taken place on that lower front.
"Let me give it a try," I said. Now that it was just Raymond and me, the pressure to pass this test was gone. My friend stepped to the side. He was breathing heavily and his skin sparkled with sweat.
I clasped the rotund thing in front of me and felt for a handhold. It certainly didn't feel like what it looked like even from just three feet away. My hands naturally found two of the many vertical furrows on the back side, and I pulled myself against the tree with all my might. My legs from the knees down brushed back and forth against the giant growth like a frog's legs swimming through a pond. I tried to hoist myself with only the strength of my arms up the bark, but the slight rise in the tree leading to the hump that Raymond had pointed out resisted all movement. A moment later my groin muscles gave out and I glumly let go of my grip and staggered backward.
Without looking to my younger buddy, I leapt at the tree again—securing a position on it much like the first time, though different enough that one of my flailing feet caught a nub and latched to it. I later saw that it was a busted-up, green shoot about three inches long. It had no way of growing into a branch over the long-term, but it served a purpose in providing something to push off of. From this position about a foot off the ground I was able to shimmy to the side of the hump above me. I could sense a way up in that direction.
Of course I fell again, and Raymond did, too. We both stayed at it until dark—it might have been ten-thirty by the time I opened the back door of my house. I was discouraged, but there was a glimmer of hope in the back of my mind that climbing that granddaddy of a cottonwood was possible. At least part-way. The hump six feet up seemed achievable—forget the limb fourteen feet higher. My arms and legs stung from the multitude of abrasions that I had acquired during the day's many limbless-tree-climb attempts. One thing I knew, I'd be wearing long sleeves in future ascents, and I'd have my jeans tucked into my socks.
The next day after breakfast, I made my way back to my nemesis. Raymond was already there. He had been at work on the tree for some time and was in need of a break. He appeared to be looking at the tree differently, analyzing it like a map or puzzle in front of him. He hardly noticed me when I walked up.
With Raymond's permission, I took my place at the base of the tree again. A sort of calm had overtaken me; down deep I knew that given enough time I would find a way to make it to the branch twenty vertical feet away.
The hump just above me was the first hurdle. I could only imagine that once on top of that knoll (as it seemed on the rolling contour of the cottonwood) I could rest in a sitting fashion, though from an observer's perspective I might appear to be stuck to it like I was wearing a Velcro suit.
I fell, over and over, but with each failure a stubborn energy welled up inside of me. It was like I had become enamoured by this strange conquest, and, whether or not victory ultimately lay in store for me, the battles along the way were becoming increasingly captivating and navigable as I engaged them one by one. The first few feet were a Normandy Beach. The next few feet were Vimy Ridge. My mind was no longer on the sum of the battles anymore; instead, I was living in the moment of crevices and knots and toe-holds the size of quarters. Although my body ached and grew tired, ironically it was reinvigorated every time Raymond fell back to the ground and it was my turn again.
By early afternoon, I made it to the hump. Raymond placed his hands on his hips in a "Well . . . Would you look at that!" I used that lasting image like fuel to overcome the next stage of the climb.
The rest of the way to the branch fourteen feet higher was much like the first six feet. There were small victories and many falls—though each plummet obviously further and harder than the ones during the first six-foot stretch. Amazingly, my body could adapt more easily than it did before. And what I had learned in the first six feet I managed to apply to the last fourteen.
Then, finally, with open wounds, and bruises, and even tears, I somehow grasped that tree branch twenty feet from the ground. Clasping the tree with my legs and my left hand gripping a knot or crack in the bark, I pulled at the limb with my right hand. Fear was no longer a close companion, as long as I kept my mind on my struggle. I manoeuvred myself onto the branch with a feeling of elation that's hard to describe. I could tell Raymond, below, was glad for me and I think my achievement gave him some hope that he would get there, too.
When I got to that branch after such a terrific fight, I didn't want to think of the descent. I looked above me to see what other branches existed, and I climbed around on those sturdy limbs for awhile, finding great nooks to perch in and look toward the mountains in the west. I was elevated so high above the rest of the world that I was camouflaged to the occasional passing car or pedestrian and they didn't even notice me.
I ascended the tree at least one more time once I knew the way up. I recall that the first descent was down the tree to the hump, the way I had come—something Ray and Mark hadn't even done! The second time around, I dropped that fourteen feet to the ground like my two friends before me.
Raymond passed the test as well. He was out at that tree alone until dark at least another day than me and maybe two more, adamant to complete this right-of-passage no matter what. When he limped tiredly, defiantly, across the street from that tree through the fading light of dusk, having done what the three of us boys did a few days earlier, I saw my own triumph afresh, and realized I was a champion who didn't need our group to belong.
Joseph McPherson lives and works in Olds, Alberta. He enjoys writing as a hobby and hopes to one day see his novel, Many, on a bookstore shelf. Joseph hopes that all who read his short story, "The Tree," get a sense of his growing up years in Three Hills, Alberta and how his boyhood experiences shaped who he is today.
Angel Wings
by Mona Caukill
Norm lay back in his easy chair, closed his eyes, and in minutes his breathing grew slow and regular. For a short time sleep eased him from the nightmare we now lived.
I looked around our home, and thought back over the years.
As our family grew, Kaslo, on Kootenay Lake, became our favourite holiday destination and, when we retired, was where we built our dream home. We planned to grow old there together.
When we first moved to Kaslo we bought, fixed up, and lived in a double garage on the outskirts of the village. We planned to build our new home there but, when a lake-front lot on the north edge of the village became available, we changed our plans.
Lake-front does not mean lake-side. Our lot sloped down from the street to the edge of the hill then fell away to a gravel shore about two hundred feet below. On two sides were bush, one side the lake, and on the other a lovely elderly gentleman who became a good friend. How did we get so lucky?
We worked on the house plans until we had exactly what we wanted; a comfortable home with bay windows that framed a beautiful view of Kootenay Lake and the mountains, a lower level with bedrooms enough for visiting family and friends, and a big yard that would keep me busy gardening from early spring to late autumn. Norm built a shop with a loft above for extra storage. Christmas and birthday gifts became shop tools and gardening implements.
We made new friends and became part of the community, bought a boat and replaced our mid-sized quad with a bigger one. Many a calm, clear day was spent either fishing or enjoying a packed lunch, motor off, floating in the middle of the lake. We rode our quad high up into the mountains, on trails narrow enough that I—riding on the back—looked uphill so I wouldn't see what was below. This was our dream and we were content and happy living it.
In the spring of 2006 we bought a new twelve foot aluminum boat and a truck-top loader. When the boat and loader were ready we planned to head for Summit Lake, a smaller lake an hour's drive away, for a week's camping and fishing. After that we would pull our trailer to our son's country home in Alberta, where we would help build an addition to his home, and where family would gather to celebrate our fiftieth wedding anniversary.
Norm began assembling the loader but, more and more often came into the house, flopped into his easy chair and closed his eyes. "What's wrong with me? I shouldn't be this tired."
"You're not twenty any more," I said. "Not even forty—or sixty. You can't expect to do the work you did then."
On June fifth we celebrated his seventy-second birthday with a quiet supper and the early-to-bed routine that was becoming more and more usual.
His fatigue grew worse. The fishing trip was postponed, the trip to Alberta became an uncertainty. We drove into Nelson, to the doctor's.
Tests were booked. We drove into Trail for procedures that the Nelson hospital was not equipped to do—blood tests, bone scan, an MRI. Results would be known in two weeks. We made an appointment with the doctor for July fourth, and drove home. And waited. Despite Norm's protests, I called our children. They should know. And I needed moral support. Our younger daughter, Deanne, drove from Alberta in time to go to the doctor's with us. Ours was the last appointment of the day. The last appointment. I should have made the connection.
"It's been three years since the melanoma was taken off your ear?
"Yes."
The doctor hesitated. "I can only guess that there were cells that got away."
"What about chemotherapy?"
"You have a choice. Spend the rest of your days undergoing treatment, in and out of the hospital with no guarantees, or enjoy your time with family and friends."
"How long do I have?"
"Either way, weeks to months."
"I choose to be with family and friends."
That last appointment of the day. The one that could take as long as was necessary. When few others would see patient and family walk away ashen-faced, speechless, staring into the hell that lay ahead.
The next day Dee drove us to Kimberley to deliver the news to Norm's mother. Even at the age of ninety do you expect to outlive your child? Our news shattered her but she kept her tears for later. Norm's sister and her husband sat stony-faced. We were making them late for their tee time. What could be more important than that? Forgiveness for their indifference still eludes me.
Norm had always taken care of our financial affairs. He sat me down in his office to give me a crash course. I gritted my teeth and learned, all the while hating the reason why, and wept as he transferred everything into my name. Dee drove us into Nelson to see our investment advisor who would, from then on, be my financial advisor. Again I wept, as all joint investments became mine alone.
Our elder son, Mark, took six weeks' leave and flew from New Zealand, his nine-year-old son Hamish with him. Deanne took a leave-of-absence from her job and was with us most of the time, her family there as often as possible. Our elder daughter Vicki and her family drove from Manitoba whenever they could, our younger son Brett and his family from Alberta. My sister and her family came to visit. Friends, from as far away as New Zealand, arrived to pay their respects. We seldom had to cope alone.
We contacted Palliative Care and met the nurse who would make regular visits. We tried to live as normal a life as possible. How could life be normal, with this hanging over us? Why had this happened? Why? It wasn't fair! We moved through our lives by rote.
What was it like for Norm? What was going through his mind, knowing that he had only a short time to live? That cancer cells were multiplying throughout his body? He didn't talk of it. He showed no fear, only regret, and sometimes anger at being cheated of fifteen or more years. How he faced the nights I cannot imagine.
One evening, as we readied ourselves for bed, he fell. Lost his balance, he said, and laughed it off. A few days later he fell again, and later, again. We were told it was a syndrome that is sometimes connected with cancer—a muscle weakness that would grow worse as time passed. We made sure someone was close by at all times. He, being an independent sort, hated that.
On one of the few days we were alone, he remembered that he had promised to give our extra anchor to an acquaintance of ours. It was in the loft above his shop and he was determined to bring it down. The stairs to the loft had no railing, left off in case something bulky needed to be carried up. I wanted to wait until the kids were back. No. This was something he had to do, and it had to be done now.
I followed him up the narrow steps, hoping that, if his legs gave 'way I could stop his fall. We made it to the top with no mishap. We found the anchor and he was ready to carry it down.
I convinced him to leave it, saying that I would get it later. He offered no argument. I led the way down, aware that if he fell I couldn't stop him, and we would topple to the concrete below. At the bottom I heaved a sigh of relief. We had made it.
We arranged a family picnic at Slocan Lake. Norm and I, seated in comfortable lawn chairs, held hands and watched from the shade of tall trees while the kids—big and small—splashed in the cold water or hunted for pretty rocks along the shore. He seemed often lost in reverie, but said he enjoyed the day. I don't remember what we ate as a picnic lunch.