DAISY
Topic: - daisy
The blue hills crackled with color — they were on fire. That’s how it looked to Daisy anyway. Under a pewter sky blazed violent stands of blistering sunshine yellow and shocking coral red, now far away against the darkening hills, now close to the roadside. The intense, brilliant shifting perspective made her dizzy. Daisy and her sister Robyn had just rounded the bend below the sign to Horning’s Mills.

"Isn’t it neat," Daisy said to Robyn who was driving, "how we think of green as their natural color? But these aren’t their dressup clothes. These are their everyday clothes."

"Umm hmm," said Robyn trying to sound like she was listening, casting a quick look out the side window in hopes of catching a glimpse of color and attempting to stay on the road. The white noise of the tiny engine formed the only accompaniment. Quiet, rather than radio or a tape, seemed to suit the moment best.

They tooled along in Robyn’s little red Taurus. She had bought it used from a friend. Although red wasn’t her first choice, she did buy it with her own money. Who’d have thought a singer could actually make enough money to buy anything.

Robyn really enjoyed doing backup vocals. She loved the feeling of swooping under a song and giving just enough gas for lift.

So unlike Daisy, who never seemed quite to have both feet on the ground. Yet her flighty Daisy was universally and unconditionally adored. Redickville.

Robyn stole a glance at her little sister. There she was, staring at the passing landscape as if this was the first, most vibrant showing of autumn colors she had ever seen in her entire life.

Daisy, the "pretty" sister, just happened to be one of those rare creatures wrought of pure delight in form and beauty. Robyn and their youngest sister Jenny were very pretty young women with lively eyes, glossy hair and strong young bodies. Daisy was stunning.

Her perfectly clear skin positively glowed. The color of her hair apparently depended on the beholder — some said it was honey colored, some coffee, some taffy. She had arresting green eyes, a straight elegant nose and full, finely etched lips. In profile all the angles of her face lined up in perfect symmetry. She was the kind of person you could just look at for a long time.

"I hope Jenny appreciates this," Robyn declared firmly, getting her mind back on the road. Jenny had organized the party in Hens & Chickens. It was Grampa John’s seventy-fifth. There were all kinds of suckups and hangers-on in the old man’s life, so festivities would probably spread from John’s shack at Sunset Point across the road and over to the beach, or rather the stones and shale on this stretch of Georgian Bay shoreline.

"I hope John appreciates it," Robyn added. She had always hated the old man for driving their mother away when the girls were the tender ages of eight, six and four. But Jenny had stayed with him for the past several summers, and some strange bond had developed between them. Jenny never really said much about it. However there was a genuine compelling loyalty or something in her voice when she spoke of him. It almost made Robyn jealous of their relationship.

It had changed Jenny somehow too. These days she filled box after box with scribbled in notebooks. Robyn had no idea what Jenny was so driven to write about.

"I’m sure they do," said Daisy.

"Why are we even going to this thing, tell me that," Robyn demanded with irritation. "I mean, really, I absolutely detest that old man. Don’t you?"

Daisy didn’t answer right away. "No," she said. "Not the way you do."

"Why not?"

"Maybe it’s because you’re the oldest. You’re the big sister. You have a clearer picture of what happened way back then." Maple Valley.

"Don’t you ever think about our mother?" Robyn asked. "Don’t you ever wonder what our lives might have been like with her around?" Robyn caught herself sounding shrill.

"I mean Dad was always there for us. But that’s about it. He was just there, like a scarecrow or a stone or a bump on a log."

"No, I don’t think much about her," said Daisy, in her own way starting and ending the conversation.

The girls’ mother, Jeannette, had left silently in the night after the great dog incident. She had left a sappy, insipid letter, the same one for each of the girls. Robyn’s had been stuck into the pages of a little Bible, which Robyn carried around with her everywhere like a sacred relic. Jenny’s had been left between the pages of an empty steno book.

Daisy had found hers in a collection of Shakespeare plays — The Merchant of Venice to be exact. While Daisy had never been very impressed with the letter, she was quite fond of Merchant of Venice. She thought a lot about Portia, trapped in her father’s treasure box. And how she was most free to be her purest clever self when disguised as a lawyer and a man. Portia would definitely approve of Daisy’s plan to run her own bookstore someday.

"How’s Daniel?" asked Robyn. Daniel was Daisy’s latest beau. No one in the family had foreseen how Daisy’s otherworldly good looks would cause her to attract the most psychotic suitors. There had been the besmitten Paul, who left love letters in clear plastic sandwich bags taped to her bicycle handlebars outside the small independent bookshop where she worked in Hungry Hollow. Then there was Luigi, the besotted toad-like pseudo-intellectual frequenter of the shop, who stalked her sister and left his own scary trail of billets doux.

Robyn herself would have had trouble believing it was for real if she had not lived through it with Daisy. She had learned to appreciate thoroughly the merits of not being shockingly beautiful.

"Daniel is fine, thanks. He’s taking me to a concert next week. Dett Chorale in Orangeville." Daisy was smiling. Right turn at Singhampton.

During the Luigi episode Daisy had become alarmingly thin and not prone to smiling, until she’d managed to arrange police protection. But these days she could be seen actually consuming food now and again.

"Are you in love?" Robyn gently prodded, knowing the answer. Daisy’s smile did not change. Daniel, an earnest young philosophy student, clearly was good to her — he was far and away more stable than any of her other guys. That was a good start.

The two young women didn’t talk during the next part of the trip — the downhill glide along the escarpment toward the harbour at Hens & Chickens. The colors down the mountainside were glorious. Bright sunlight sliced through the thick cloud cover in strange short bursts. As they snaked past Devil’s Glen, the dark moments seemed almost more electric than the brilliant ones. Around the bend at Glen Huron, the late light washed all points of land in front of them a deep dark blue — from the hills on the west, east through the valley and along the curve of the shoreline, past Wasaga Beach and up around toward Midland. Both thought they could even see Christian Island.

The view here, as always, was breathtaking. Although the girls had not grown up in Hens & Chickens, the descent into Duntroon had the same effect on them as on everyone else with blood ties to the area. Home. They were coming home.

Due north, by the paler blue of the harbor, they easily picked out the distinct white columns of the grain terminal elevators, clear as day. John’s cottage was not far from there, to the east. The girls felt, in this moment sailing over the lowlands of the Batteaux, that they were ready for anything.

ROBYN
Topic: - robyn
Robyn exploded from her grandfather’s cottage. The Muskoka door crashed behind her. She gave a slight glance up and down the road for traffic, then crossed to the shore.

The crunch and grind of the shoreline rocks felt good underfoot. She pounded a straight line down to the water’s edge and just stood there. The sky was the fantastic pinky orange colour Sunset Point had earned its name for. But that old trick of nature wouldn’t work on her tonight. What she needed was the water. The gentle shupp shupp and clatter of the tiny waves tugging, urging the little stones at the water’s edge to come back with them. Shhhhhhh.

It always worked for her. The water sound lapped into her ears and head and drove out all other thought. It carried her hot prickly anger away. She took a few steps to the right and picked out a big rock to sit on. She wedged herself into the east corner of this tiny bit of beach, feeling safe with the tall berm of huge jumbled rocks at her back. Shupp shupp, shhhhh.

Sky darkening to grey with orange streaks. Shhhhhhh.

Now navy blue with wisps of orange. Shhhhhhh.

Slowly she eased her mind toward the problem. Her grandfather. John Wilson.

It was Labour Day. Command appearance at Grampa John’s cottage in Hens & Chickens. She didn’t know why her father always had to run and jump for that horrible old man. She liked their home in Hungry Hollow. It was lovely this time of year — they could take walks along the river, where the pods on the sumachs were just turning harvest red. Or they could pick apples just like here. Or they could drive up into the hills. It felt so good just driving around.

But no. Another holiday weekend up in Hens & Chickens. Under the dark looming shadow of old John. John Wilson was a big man in town, a permanent fixture on council. Robyn knew he had lots of money. "Oh, millions probably," her father had said once like it didn’t matter. John owned many buildings in town. He had built several subdivisions. Yet this tumbledown damp drafty dingy brown waterfront shack was what he called home.

He was a strange old man with rugged elegance. Tall, with very short silver grey hair. His face was slightly pockmarked and he had quick pale grey eyes. His voice, usually soft and woolly, took on a distinct scary edge when he turned mean, which was often.

About town, he behaved like a true gentleman, courteous, ready with a kind word for the many people who stopped and spoke to him. Always dressed simply but cleanly, often in a crisp pressed shirt and trousers or uncreased T-shirt. He had a housekeeper, Elizabeth, who took care of these things. No one in the family could figure out how she had managed to stay so long with the old tyrant. Elizabeth must be responsible for the few gardening touches that civilized the property. There were trimmed but overgrown white lilac bushes at the break in the high cedar hedging, and a few thick patches of white and yellow daisies. Must be Elizabeth.

John’s behaviour at home was just plain rude. He would insist on these family events, and her father would always just go along with it, like some kind of dim puppy. Once they were trapped at the cottage, John would make everyone miserable.

There was never any food. The old man survived on dry toast, coffee and bacon. He didn’t drink, but was so miserable maybe he should. Robyn’s dad would have to do a big shopping trip as soon as they arrived. Often the place was locked when they showed up — that meant waiting on the porch with bags of groceries in the gloom of the high cedars, summer or winter, until John decided to make his appearance.

He had no concern for suitable sleeping arrangements either. There were no beds except John’s. Dad always slept on the pullout couch in the sitting room. The girls laid out their sleeping bags in the loft. That way at least there was some distance between them and John.

If they were really lucky, Uncle Ray wouldn’t show up again. Too bad today hadn’t been one of those days. Uncle Ray was her dad’s younger brother. He thought he was such a rebel. He thought he was so cool, with his balding head and long dirty hair in a ponytail, his shapeless bulk squeezed into his stupid little purple truck with ridiculous gigantic wheels. He was always trying to impress John with tales of shady business deals or casual cruelty. Sometimes John gave a small appreciative chuckle. Her dad sat through them silently.

A cold nose stuck itself between her hand and her knee. She scratched its head in greeting. "Hey, Muffin," she crooned. Muffin belonged to Bob a couple of doors down. A black lab mutt, she was only visible because of the bleached summer stones she stood on. Robyn stroked the white blaze down Muffin’s nose. She had never seen Bob walking the poor thing. Since she was fat and her coat glistened, she most certainly thrived on the good will of neighbours. "Watch yourself, Muff. You’re just an old dog," Robyn warned her. A double flash of headlights split the darkness. Muffin loped toward the shiny objects. Robyn’s stomach tightened.

Ray got himself some dogs. John had told everyone how Ray had his two babies now — his granddogs he called them. Omar and Hogan were Rottweiler and Mastiff pups under a year old. Thanksgiving again. Mother had begged John to promise Ray wouldn’t bring the dogs. The girls were only eight, six and four. Ray couldn’t be trusted to restrain the dogs, she told John. They would terrify and trample the girls. John promised.

The then-new purple truck with black cap pulled up. Ray jumped out and flipped down the tailgate. The dogs bounded out and like heat-seeking missiles went right for the girls. They chased them around the back yard. They had the girls pressed into three separate corners of the cedar hedge shrieking in terror. The dogs raced between them and leaped up puppy-like with their great black bodies high over the heads of the children.

Mother screamed, tears streaming, and ran to each corner one at a time to pick up each child one at a time and carry them up to the screened porch. She was screaming, "Dale, get Jenny. Dale, get Daisy. Go get Robyn." But Dad could not move from his spot, like a deer frozen in the headlights.

Crack. Crack. Two gunshots. John stood on the back step with his hunting rifle smoking in his hand. "Ray," he roared. "Get rid of those damn dogs."

Ray was never seen to waddle so fast. He grabbed the dogs by the collars, threw them roughly into the back of the truck and slammed the tailgate. He glowered at Mother and John, squeezed back into his purple truck, spun gravel and sped off.

Robyn went over her blurry eight year old memories of the incident — the black shapes, the screaming, the sharp sound and smell of the rifle, her heart throbbing painfully in her chest behind the tiny wires of the porch screen. And the deep wide pit of emptiness. The next morning her mother was gone.

This time it was a parrot. A tough old bird with ratty red and green feathers. Mr. Clint, Ray called it. ‘Make my day,’ was one of the bird’s more civilized lines.

The quiet of the afternoon was peppered with, ‘Go f--- yourself.’

‘Make my day.’

‘F--- off.’

It was unsettling to say the least. At dinner Mr. Clint sat perched on Ray’s shoulder and added tasteful conversation to the meal.

"Uncle Ray, please pass the butter?" Daisy asked.

‘Go f--- yourself,’ to which Ray sat smiling. Daisy shrank.

"Ray, can you do something about the bird?" her dad asked.

‘Shut up, you f------ whore.’

Earlier in the day John had snorted quietly at the bird’s antics. But it now had become boring even for him. "Ray, get rid of the bird," John said meaning business.

‘Up yours, motherf------.’

"Please, Uncle Ray. Can’t you stop him?" Robyn had asked. At that, Mr. Clint lifted off Ray’s shoulder, dived bombed her head and began beating brutally on her scalp with his beak. "Dad! Help! Help me!" she screamed, trying to swat the nasty creature from her head.

John stood sharply, knocking his chair down and said, "Ray. Get rid of that damn bird now."

Ray whistled the bird back to his shoulder, smiled smuggly, stood and left.

Robyn was shaking with fear and rage. She had grabbed her sweater and the small pack she always carried, and crashed through the cottage. Now here on this rock she could hear a voice calling from the darkness across the road.

"Robyn? You okay?"

"I’m okay, Dad," she said loudly still facing the harbour.

"You coming in soon?" asked the voice.

"Yes Dad, soon."

The double flash again from the parking lot by the concession stand down the shore. Her boyfriend, Rod. That was the signal. Tonight they were going to do it. Run away together. Say good riddance to all this. She was just 16, but she couldn’t take it anymore.

Rod often bugged her about it. He was bossy and pushy, but some part of her liked him for that. So different from her father. Rod was 23 and he liked to play the old fashioned gentleman, opening the passenger door of his truck for her, sounding like he knew something when he talked about his plans for them. He managed a donut shop by an on-ramp to the 401 outside Hungry Hollow. He had big plans to buy his own franchise. She didn’t mind the talk. She really liked his truck, a slightly beat up turquoise older model Ford half ton. It felt pretty good to be sitting up high with him in the truck just driving.

Of course the whole sex thing crackled over the relationship like a thundercloud. She told him she wasn’t into sex before marriage. She really didn’t know why it mattered to her. Maybe it was because she didn’t have her mother around. Her dad would be no help on this. She had given in to kissing and cuddling and nuzzling naked body parts, but the whole thing left her cold. Maybe it was the company. She knew Rod was pushing the elopement idea because the pressure was building for him. Lately there were tiny flickers of resentment in the way he talked to her. She clung to the knowledge she could break out of this fantasy world any time she wanted to. But right now, it was so tempting. Lighthouse beam. Shhhhhh.

She felt ready now to re-read the letter. She opened the small leather pack she always carried and pulled out a pocket size Bible. She took from between the pages a triple folded, much handled paper. It was now as soft as well worn cotton from so much unfolding and reading and refolding.

My beloved Robyn,
Please remember first above all how much I love you. And Daisy and Jenny. I have written a letter like this for them too. It’s because I love you girls so much that I have gone. I feel if I stay in this situation with your dad and your grandfather, I will be providing you with a terrible role model. The damage would be great and your futures would be bleak. Your dad loves you and will take good care of our girls — of that I am as certain as the sun rising in the morning. I know this will not make much sense, but I honestly believe it’s best for you. You will always be in my thoughts and I can only hope to leave you with a strong independent spirit. With love as boundless as the stars, xoxoxoxo Mom.

Robyn had read this letter so many times, she didn’t cry anymore. A big shapeless spirit was about all she had left of her mother. Robyn had been eight when she left, and remembered her voice and her eyeglasses. Of course she was beautiful. Didn’t all kids think their mothers were beautiful?

Jeannette — vibrant, clever, high spirited. That’s how friends of her mother described her. Robyn knew her father adored her mother. But what good was she? Robyn wished she had stayed for her.

Jeannette’s letter had been stuck in the book of Ruth in this little Bible that Robyn barely remembered, left by her pillow in the night. She had woken up to find her mother gone forever and this little book. Robyn had always stuck the letter back in the same spot. She wasn’t sure if her mother placed it there on purpose. Her mother had never been a particularly religious person, her dad only went to church if someone led him, and John dragged the family out at Christmas and Easter, probably for show.

But Robyn had become very attached to Ruth. So much loyalty to stick by her mother-in-law after all the men had gone. Slipping under Boaz's blanket just because Naomi told her to, yet losing no dignity. Was Robyn’s mother trying to tell her, let Ruth be your mother instead of me? Or be more like Ruth than me? Or she herself wasn’t strong enough to be as loyal as Ruth? Robyn had read the book of Ruth many many times. Always the same line stuck in her ears — "Where you go I will go, and where you stay I will stay."

Rod and his stupid lights again. She really shouldn’t be so irritated by him. She had gone along with the dream too. She looked back at John’s cottage. A little light shone in the loft window. Likely Daisy had turned it on for her.

Rod would have to wait, she decided. She knew she was a cute enough kid with the dark unruly curls of her mother, people said. There would be other blankets to share the corners of, maybe with a man who would make her skin tingle and her belly burn a little more.

Then she did a thing she had never done before. She cast a tiny tender prayer out over the plush black star speckled water — "Dear God in heaven, please let my mother know somehow I’m thinking of her tonight."

She listened through two more surges then stood up. The sun bleached stones and crayfish bones glowed in the darkness. They rolled and crunched underfoot as she climbed back toward the cottage, gingerly touching the parrot pecks on her head.

OSPREY HEIGHTS
Topic: - osprey heights
A great green wall of big bushy mock orange flecked with its delicate white crown-like flowers confronted Ferne as she stepped from the car. The heavy heat of the day had loosened clouds of its faint fragance.

Still in the driver’s seat, Myrt wiped her forehead and dabbed her neck with a tissue from her spacious handbag. Then she and Ferne passed through the gap in the hedging. The sight took their breath away. They had walked into a mysterious green maze, like the storybook secret garden -- only real.

The two women were sisters-in-law. Myrt’s husband, who was Ferne’s brother, had passed away many years before. Ferne had some time ago retired as a school principal. Myrt and Ferne were frequent travelling companions, whether on trips to Portugal or Greece, or just puttering around the Beaver Valley dropping in on their numerous relatives. Ferne’s husband Bart was a successful apple farmer who was happy to stick closer to home. Never in their travels had they seen anything quite like this.

The first few yards of the path featured an herb border of thyme, dill, borage, chives, mint, catnip and tall straggly hens and chickens. Opposite the border, an island of spreading pale pink rose bushes.

Beyond the island, a hanging garden surrounded a stone pond stocked with goldfish and leopard frogs. Pink and purple clematis as well as blue and rainbow morning glories discreetly draped the attendant concrete angels. Also in the little recessed roofless green room stood taller plants that would bloom later, like coneflowers and hollyhocks and brown-eyed Susans.

This was Osprey Heights. The enormous scope of its beauty made Ferne feel silly. Myrt had bugged her for some time to visit it. Ferne had dragged her feet.

Osprey Heights was a property neighbouring the old Murdoch family farm in Osprey Township on Blue Mountain. Formerly the site of an abandonned Methodist church, Osprey Heights had been purchased several years ago by two men. They had cleaned up the old church, replaced the broken windows and refitted it as their home.

Then they had worked their magic on the grounds. The garden had become so notable that the owners opened it to the public one afternoon a week from May to September. But Ferne dreaded the thought of going. She couldn't even explain to herself why.

Here was the old church, almost hidden now behind vines and ivy. Low, flat woolly thyme crept across the front steps almost completely obscuring them in green. When she was young, Ferne used to escape down the road with her books to this church, already abandoned, for peace and quiet away from her 11 brothers and sisters. Once her dad had strolled down here to find her and as he stood in the shadowy doorway, a small barn swallow had darted past them and up into the rafters. She must have a nest up there, Dad had said, then added, "Animals and children always know a safe place." The swallows would still feel at home here, hidden behind the thyme and ivy, Ferne thought.

She and Myrt continued to wind their way slowly through thick patches of lavendar, red and yellow potentilla, silvery blue sea holly and galaxies of shasta daisies.

Then Ferne just stopped. The maze had opened out on the vegetable garden. It was planted in diagonal rows to the lines of the paths. The tomatoes and peppers seemed to rise up from a hot frothy sea of orange and yellow poppies.

They sailed through the poppies past walls of scarlet runners, anchored by big beautiful pink and white peonies. Then they came to the rose garden.

It was almost at the eye of the maze, walled off from the rest of the garden by hedge roses in various stages of bud and bloom. Myrt, who to Ferne's surprise seemed to know quite a bit about roses, took it upon herself to give a running commentary: "Queen Victoria. Pink fairy. Cabbage roses. Yellow Lady Banks. Wild roses. Over the arbour, those pink and white ones are New Dawn, lovely fragrance. And this bright red one — Blaze, I think."

For Ferne the names went in one ear and out the other. She was stunned by all the colors — yellow, cream, dark pink, light pink, apricot, coral and cherry red. She found the scents overwhelming. In fact she was suddenly overcome by the feeling that she might throw up. She hunched over and turned white.

Myrt noticed, and helped her over to the bench under the New Dawn roses. "Are you all right?" asked a small man hurrying up to them. He was slender, 50-something and wore dark sunglasses. Another man who looked a lot like the first joined them and held a tall glass of water for Ferne.

"I think so," Myrt answered. "It must be this dreadful heat. Maybe she just needs to sit for a spell."

But the humid July heat rolled the scent of the roses down over her head like a cloth sack. Ferne felt her stomach and throat tighten again. She broke out in a full sweat.

"Let’s get her out back," said the first man. "Lloyd, mind the gate," he instructed. With force that surprised her from a small man, he led Ferne behind the church to a stone patio overlooking the blue hills.

Their host helped Ferne sit down in an ironwork chair. Myrt wheezing soon joined them. She collapsed into the chair beside Ferne. A glass of water was found for her as well.

Osprey Heights sat on the same side of the road as the Murdoch farm. Ferne felt like she'd been here many times before. A stand of ragged tree tops separated the hills from the cloudless sky. Above them Ferne could see a dark soaring bird. Probably just an old crow. She had seen lots of soaring birds up here, but had never known if they were ospreys. It’s not like they ever swooped down right in front of her holding a fish.

"Welcome to Osprey Heights," said their host, bringing her back to earth. "I’m Robert. That's Lloyd. We’re the owners."

"I’m Myrtle Murdoch ," said Myrt taking the extended hand, "and this is my sister-in-law, Ferne Palmer."

"Flower names," noted Robert.

"Murdoch? " he added. "The same Murdoch from up the road?"

"Yes. My husband Harold and Ferne here were brother and sister. They grew up on that farm. It belonged to their mom and dad, Maud and Jim Murdoch. Now her brother Charles Murdoch runs it."

"Let me ask you something," said Robert, leaning forward. "After we bought this place, my father told us an interesting story. His uncle was a circuit minister who probably covered this area. One particular story stood out in his mind. There was a funeral for a boy named Smith, but the family, a large one, was all named Murdoch. Dad thought it might have been this church. Does that sound familiar?"

Ferne was still pale and very quiet. Myrt looked at her friend then said, "Yes, that would have been Burton Smith, Ferne’s half brother. Ferne dear, do you want me to go on with the story?"

Ferne nodded.

"All right. Ferne and Harold’s mother and father both had first marriages. Burton Smith was Gramma’s only child from her first marriage. Grampa had six children from his first. Then came the great flu epidemic of 1918, and their first husband and wife died. Gramma and Grampa married, then had six more children together. Burton was killed when he was run over by a horse drawn land roller."

"A what?"

"One of those big, heavy old-fashioned rollers that was drawn by horses. These outfits were very heavy for flattening the lumpy ground around here. It was an awful tragedy. Burton’s head was crushed."

She patted Ferne’s hand. "How am I doing?"

Ferne managed a faint smile.

"Now I'm only repeating of course what I was told later. But I understand Gramma felt terrible guilt over the whole thing. Burton was thirteen and he had wanted to help out at a neighbour’s place. It was heavy, dangerous work for a youngster. You might allow a teenager to do that kind of thing under family supervision, but not really for a neighbour. Grampa said no. Gramma said she thought it would be all right. After Burton’s death, she became very religious, am I right Ferne?"

"Yes."

"She was very private about her views. She was generous about babysitting whenever her children wanted to go out to a dance or something like that. But she was very strict about her own practices. Whenever she minded the children she had a habit of telling them Bible stories. My own son Everett, who often stayed at the farm, was very influenced by her."

"My father said it would have been a time of year like this -- a very hot summer day," added Robert. "What stood out most about the funeral in his uncle’s mind were the roses. Bright red, deep pink, hazy white. Bushes and climbers. Vases and wreathes full of roses. The air was heavy with the cloying scent of roses."

Ferne heaved visibly. "Are you okay, Ferne?" Robert asked with fresh concern.

She wiped the corners of her mouth with her fingers and said in a low quiet voice, "I was five years old when my brother died. I have never been able to stand the smell of roses."

"Oh, Ferne," was all Myrt could say.

But Ferne seemed lost in thought. She scanned the blue horizon wondering if that osprey would come back again.

BLACKIE & THE CAT WITH THE ZIPPER
Topic: - blackie

The morning after the new baby arrived, so did Blackie.

Mother tried to push open the side door of the new house, but the door was stuck. She went out front and around the side to see what was blocking things up.

There curled up in the sun in the shelter of the door frame was a tiny black puppy. As it lay in her hand, its warm tummy rising and falling against her palm, Mother knew she would keep him.

Mother's two babies grew together, learning to walk and play in the shade of the big silver maple tree in the tiny back yard.

Blackie looked a bit like a Scottie dog. But he didn't act much like a Scottie dog. Or any other dog.

Blackie didn't chase cats or chew bones or bark at other dogs. Blackie liked to sit in the sun and lick his fur clean. He liked to play ball, but wouldn't bring it back. His favourite treat was a dish of milk and bowl of kibble with tuna.

In time Mother and Father brought home two more babies. The little girls grew up with their brother and Blackie in the shade of the silver maple tree in Hungry Hollow. Until Mother and Father decided the little house was just too small for the six of them any more.

One day a big moving truck with a picture of a piano on the side arrived. The movers picked up all their toys and furniture and books and Blackie's doghouse and loaded them on the truck. They all drove to a bigger house in Hungry Hollow and took everything out of the truck again.

The new house was fun. There were train tracks running right through the yard. The children had a wonderful time running up the little hill out back and waving to the train engineers until they waved back.

Blackie's house took up a corner of the yard near the whirlygig, where the big wooden fence slightly muted the sound of the 20 trains a day.

Not long after the move, the children went out in the morning to feed Blackie his kibble and tuna and milk and wave at trains. But they couldn't find Blackie anywhere. Instead a big ginger cat seemed to have moved into the doghouse.

It was an unusual cat because it had a zipper down its tummy. No, not just a zigzag marking. A real zipper with a silver pull and silver teeth. But it didn't unzip. All the children could do was talk about it and show it off to their friends.

Although they were sad that Blackie never did return, they were very happy with their new family member. They called her Zipper.

It turned out Zipper was not at all like other cats. She loved to play fetch and return with a small ball. She loved to run and give a cat-like yip at passing trains.

She loved brisk walks and, outfitted with a leash, she was a fine companion for Mother on her evening walks. Zip's above average size, and the fact she was a cat with a bright flashing zipper, caused people to keep their distance on dark winter nights.

As well Zip turned up her nose at kibble and tuna, preferring to work on a small meaty bone in the doorway of her house.

Stories grew and multiplied. Suddenly the youngest, Mother and Father's baby, was ready for an apartment of her own. Moving day morning, she burst into Mother and Father's room and jumped up on the bed.

"I had the strangest dream," she gushed. "I dreamed Zipper came out of her house in the night. She pulled down the zipper on her tummy, and stepped out of her ginger coat. Underneath was Blackie. He hung the ginger coat on the whirlygig, lay down in the doorway of the doghouse, licked his paws and went to sleep. Then the sun rose, and Blackie took down the ginger coat, zipped it back on and ran after a passing train. It scared me a bit. What do you think it means?"

Father thought about it carefully. He said, "I think it means Blackie wanted to try on a ginger coat."

"Oh, I see," said the youngest.

The day after Mother and Father returned to their very quiet home after the youngest moved away, they couldn't find Zipper anywhere. Several days later they admitted, with great sadness, that Zipper had probably pushed on. She had giving the family many fine years. What more could they expect?

However a fat blue jay seemed to have moved in to a tree up by the tracks. The enormous bird was almost tame with Mother and Father, hopping up on the deck rail for stale ends of hot dog buns. They called him Big Blue, and treated him as one of the family.

Except they didn't like the way he looked at those tiny wild canaries.