“The Wisdom of Lily and the Fishbowl” by Anne Louise Pittens

 

In the spring of 2024, I went on adventure and learned to let go. I was headed for a writing retreat in Port Carling, Ontario – Muskoka country – but with a few threads to pick up along the way.

Brian Henry, long time editor and writing coach, hosted the retreat at the lovely Sherwood Inn on Lake Joseph. To get there, I flew from my home in Whitehorse, Yukon, to Toronto. In a nostalgic moment, I stayed the night at what used to be called The Bristol Place Hotel, now The Westin, on the airport strip. For

ty-six years earlier, I had stayed there for my honeymoon. I was curious to see if the hotel had weathered the years any better than my marriage, which had not done well at all! When I entered the lobby, I discovered that I did not remember the place. A bit like that first marriage, I thought, as I settled into my room. All the best to let things go.

A luxurious bed looked inviting, but I had a terrible sleep, fretting about a dozen things that have long escaped my memory. Primarily, I was nervous about meeting up with my brother who was driving me to my destination early in the morning.

Beyond a few texts every year, I had not spoken with him in a long time. I hoped we might enjoy catching up in person, but I knew he was not in a great head space due to recent personal trauma. I was determined to stay positive.

At seven am, I gave up trying to squeeze out anymore sleep and made my way down to the lobby in hopes of finding a decent cup of coffee. After a minute of searching, I located the coffee shop crammed into the back corner of the lobby like an afterthought. 

The lineup was long. The food display case was next to bare, and the lone person working was run off her feet. Exhausted from travel, I zombied my way into line and waited my turn.

As I approached the order station, I spotted a goldfish bowl on the counter. Sad place for a fish, I thought. No choice but to endlessly swim in circles, never getting anywhere, never moving on.

Fortunately, there was no fish trapped in the bowl, just a jumble of cards. They were the sort of card you get at a florist shop to message the recipient of your floral thoughts. Beside the bowl was a jar of pens and a stack of blank cards.

Instructions read as follows:

Leave a happy thought!

Take a happy thought!

While waiting for my coffee, I picked up a pen and card and considered what I might write. I have never been good at this sort of thing – like writing a message in a greeting card. I never know what to say. At that moment, my coffee arrived and instead of leaving a happy thought, I took one.

Seeing my brother pull up, I stuffed the card into my back pocket and climbed on board. By the time we travelled for an hour, we had worn out our topics of choice and tumbled into silence.

On the upside, we were beyond Toronto and past Barrie. The further north we drove, lakes and rocks took over from urban housing and shopping malls. Ah Muskoka! As a child, I spent many summers embracing the chilly waters of Mary Lake at Port Sidney. Now, I could feel my lungs opening to the fresh air.

Over the years, I had all but forgotten the jewel green of springtime leaves and how sunlight sparkles on the water.  White clouds graced the sky and reflected across the glassy surface of the lake, a perfect mirror image. A spring breeze blew up, and watercraft tethered to docks bobbed in the surf, straining at their ropes like dogs’ strain at their leashes. Boat houses dotted the shore.

And of course, here and there, a Muskoka chair (Adirondak chair if you’re not from Ontario) sat perched on a lakeside rock looking to the horizon. All it needed was an occupant in the requisite Tilly hat, pen and paper ready. A cup of coffee and a resting hound would complete the picture.

Muskoka Chairs at Sherwood Inn

The Sherwood Inn was welcoming and warm. Nestled into a lovely, treed setting, it sat on the edges of Lake Joseph. I have a thing about older architecture and was not disappointed. Dark green shutters stood out against the white building and in the evening, the interior lighting cast a warm and welcoming glow. I could hardly wait to explore after checking in.

Tired from the journey, I went to my room where I was delighted to find a private bathroom, a writing desk, a comfortable bed, and a cozy seating area. The window looked over a large deck and beyond that to the lake.

With time before the retreat started, I changed into more comfortable clothing to have a snooze, hopeful I would awake feeling renewed and refreshed. As I dropped my jeans on the chair, the card from the coffee shop fell out of my pocket. This was the message:

Lily Elliot

You

Are

Lovd

Loved

Based on the writing, it was hand-printed by a child of six or seven years of age. I could imagine her standing there, elbows on the counter and her tongue held in just the right position to form the letters.

As we travel through each day, we never know how the little things we do or say are going to impact the world around us. Somewhere along her journey, young Lily left a note for a stranger to tell them they were loved.

My lucky day! I really treasure that she felt no need to get a new card and start over because of a spelling mistake. Lily knew. Mistakes are ok. Everyone makes them. We move on.

And in that moment, with Lily’s lesson in mind, I moved on. Three blessed days of writing in a beautiful place lay ahead of me. The food was delicious, beautifully presented, beautifully seasoned, and bountiful. Great service is always a pleasure, and it was in abundance. To be able to share this time with others who love to write – and Brian who loves to help and encourage – was the best tonic ever.

But a note to Lily; wherever your travels have taken you, I wanted to say a heart-felt thank you. I don’t know how I ended up at the same coffee shop as you and I don’t know how you came to write this card, but I have it now. It is tucked into my bedroom mirror.

Now, no matter what is going on in my world, every time I look at your card and your message, I feel lighter in spirit. I recall those beautiful spring days I spent at the Sherwood writing retreat in Muskoka, investing my time in the things that matter, and learning to let go of the things that don’t.

Anne Louise Pittens lives in Whitehorse, Yukon, with her husband Michel and Gryphon – a Swiss Mountain Dog who hates the cold.  With almost a full retirement recently upon her, Anne is spending her time writing, shovelling snow and shivering to produce a little extra heat.  Occasionally she can be found scrolling through old photos of Mexico and Costa Rica. The Yukon is a magical place and welcoming to every person who cares to give it a try.

See more pieces about or inspired by Brian’s retreats, workshops and classes here.

For more essays, short stories, and poetry by you fellow writers see here (and scroll down).

See Brian Henry's upcoming weekly writing classes, one-day workshops, and four-day retreats here.

“Old Man Winter” by Anne Louise Pittens

Old Man Winter I’ve been thinking,

Too much eggnog you’ve been drinking.

Looks like water, feels like rain,

When’s it going to snow again?

Question answered. Friday December 5, the snow began. We’d all been watching the weather report for a week, and it was predicting a doozie of a dump. But would it come? Yes, yes it would.

From Friday to Monday morning Ma Nature cut loose with a foot and a half of the white stuff.  White Gold, as the shovellers call it. It’s a lucrative business, this keeping of things in motion, in winter, in the Yukon. For me, heaven. Nothing satisfies like pushing snow.

On Saturday afternoon, I sat in my writing room, typing away. When I suddenly felt dizzy, I stopped, feeling my stomach lurch. Oh yeah, I know what this is. 180 miles away, off the coast of Alaska, outside the little hamlet of Yakatuk, a 7.0 earthquake had my wine glasses toasting each other as they swung about in the overhead rack. 

My dog jumped from his bed and barked at me. I ran around grabbing passports, medication, boots and jackets. It’s not as easy as it sounds when the floor is rolling under your feet. The shaking lasted a long time! Some said two minutes. Not sure, but it did leave an impression – on most of us.  

My husband was out plowing the driveway with his best friend, John Deere. He never noticed a thing. I told him about it over beer that evening.

Between snow and earthquakes and extremes in the north, he related his own stories. Seems he was working on Baffin Island fifty odd years ago, building housing in the Inuit community of Pangnirtung. An unforgiving place this Baffin Island. Rocky. Windy. 

When he got off the plane, the first thing he noticed was that all the houses were low to the ground like they were crouching. Each had a steel cable secured to the ground from one side across the roof to the other. When he asked what that was all about, an Inuit elder gently explained it was to keep the houses from blowing away.

There was a Northern store there, fresh built. No cable holding her down. The wind took the roof off. For the next year, anyone requiring a new pair of socks, a blanket or a tin of coffee, hitched up the dog team and mushed their way onto the tundra. Everything they needed was blowing around in the arctic breeze. Or so the story goes.

On another occasion, in Paulatuk, building supplies were flown in. There were a couple lifts of plywood – G1S to be exact. If you don’t know, that stands for Good 1 Side – which is to say one side is ugly and the other is fit to be ogled.

The lifts of G1S plywood got tossed in the storm. Next day, the crews were out with long poles, poking around in the snow like an avalanche rescue team, searching for the lost material. Michel came across several pieces and yelled out to his companions. “Found it. Got the G1S. NFC”

“What?” Someone called back.

“Got the G1S. NFC” Michel repeated, yelling over the howling wind. “No F’ing Corners!” The plywood had been trashed as it bounced across the frozen ground and finally came to rest on the ice-covered bay. And you don’t just call Home Depot for another load. It took a week to replace the product so building could continue. Anyway, too many stories. Someone should write a book!

Sunday, the day after the earthquake, my friend Maria called me to check in and see if I had felt the shaker the day before. I said yes and she reminded me about the last one we had several years back when her husband was still alive. It arrived in the summer when it is light eighteen hours a day. We had a good laugh because back then we also discussed our experiences.

When she felt the earth move, Maria went running to check on her husband. She found him mid-flight racing to save his TV. Twenty miles away, on the other side of Whitehorse, I was running to check on my sweetheart only to find him bracing his beloved motorcycle.

Yeah…

It's Monday now and Mother Nature has blown herself out. The snow has stopped. The temperature sits at -22 which is perfectly livable. Thanks to the fresh snow, the world has all gone quiet and turned to varying degrees of white. There is, however, a hellacious wind howling down from the North. To all the snow-machiners, skiiers and other weirdos out there that love this white world, this is for you. May your igloo keep you warm and your batteries never fail you. Cheers! The deep freeze is upon us.

Just a few hours south of the Arctic circle, Dawson City sits stoic at the confluence of the Klondike and Yukon Rivers. Tomorrow, the temperatures are set to plummet to -45 degrees. Whiskey freezes around -27.

My husband’s daughter and her partner have a cabin in West Dawson. They are determined to spend Christmas there. They will fly into Dawson, run across the Klondike Highway where they will install a warm battery in an icy car.

Then if the metal of the engine doesn’t shatter, they will drive an hour through the almost perpetual dark so they can cross an ice road over the frozen Yukon River to their off-grid cabin. They think this is a very romantic idea. I think they’re off their nut! But let’s not snow on their bon hiver parade.

Between us, I suspect they’ll be praying for a vacancy at the Eldorado Hotel once reality frosts their backsides.

But for now, six hours to the south in Whitehorse, me and my guy have gone to ground, holed up in our home for the duration. Two wood stoves will be exhaling smoke. I will continue to crochet a blanket, an excellent craft to take up when one lives in the north. Michel will be chapters deep into some book or other, and our hundred-pound pup will be stretched out beside him.

If you look at our house from the road right now, through the dark you’ll see two reading lamps warming the room with a soft orange glow. If you listen, you’ll hear our wood stove crackling while the cedar logs of our house snap at the cold.

I get why the bears sleep the season away, and while I will also be hibernating for the next several days, I am beyond grateful to be here.

Cheers!

Anne Louise Pittens lives in Whitehorse, Yukon, with her husband Michel and Gryphon – a Swiss Mountain Dog who hates the cold.

 With almost a full retirement recently upon her, Anne is spending her time writing, shovelling snow and shivering to produce a little extra heat.

 Occasionally she can be found scrolling through old photos of Mexico and Costa Rica.

The Yukon is a magical place and welcoming to every person who cares to give it a try.

For more essays, short stories, and poetry by you fellow writers see here (and scroll down).

See Brian Henry's upcoming weekly writing classes, one-day workshops, and four-day retreats here.

“Vices and Virtues” by Anne Pittens

Death impacted Jenna’s life unexpectedly. There was no quiet knock to warn of its approach; it just up and took Grandma right in the middle of the Chicken Dance at a cousin’s wedding.

Given a choice, Jenna suspected that righteous old Grandma might have selected a better dropping ground – some place where all her friends and family were not drunk and flapping at the crucial moment. While the morbidly fascinated ogled the body, Jenna stole three quick shots from behind the bar and contemplated the scene from several feet back.

Something about death was personal; not the kind of thing you should be doing in front of a crowd. After all, it was your body’s final craving. The ultimate release. Who wanted to surrender to needs of that nature with everyone gaping at you? 

Apparently, you could live with all the dignity you wanted, but dying with it?  Ha! After making all the right choices in life, the Grim Reaper, with a lascivious leer and a terrible twinkle could yank your final option!

Seeing the old gal flat out like that, Jenna noted that death was not a tidy process, not the way it appears once you see the body in the coffin all spit and polished. Anything could happen. You might lose control of your bladder and stain your skirt, or in the case of dear Granny, you might fall the wrong way and everyone would get to see your granny panties.

Worse things could happen Jenna supposed. At lease she had not crashed from Mr. Crapper’s commode, her poopy rosebud winking at the world. Sometimes you just had to count whatever blessings you were left with.

Jenna watched the body turn from phyllo pastry pale to the gloomy gray of a winter day. Once confirmed dead by all the unqualified, Grandma was unceremoniously dragged, her skirt hitching up under her, to an anteroom.

Thank God they moved her. When she dropped, her ample thighs splayed open under her voluminous dress and a most ungracious view presented itself. No granny panties here!  Whoever knew that Grandma would meet her Maker wearing a black garter belt and sexy stockings topped out with feathery red boas?  That was sure to give Jesus a start! 

Apparently, the stockings weren’t the only thing unseemly about Grandma; Jenna didn’t care to speculate whether the black triangle was pretty panties or a box of Loreal long lasting!

Later, when Jenna and her mother were going through the dear woman’s drawers, they discovered she had something of a lusty craving for pretty little lady things. One drawer was so overloaded, that unmentionables of every color, contour and curious capacity eagerly popped out – once the invitation was issued.

Oh, the things you find in the drawers of dead people. Now that was a lesson worth learning. Be careful what you leave behind; other people will have to clean up your vices as well as your virtues. On the up side, with careful planning, unwary relations rifling your drawers provided a lovely opportunity for a final bit of toying.

Then let the chisel stutter your epitaph!

*** 

Anne Pittens is a writer living in Whitehorse, Yukon with her husband and dog.

“Vices and Virtues” placed 3^rd in Witcraft’s on-line magazine annual contest, 2024. It was published in November of that year. For more about submitting to Witcraft and a few other places, see here.

See Brian Henry's upcoming weekly writing classes, one-day workshops, and four-day retreats here.

Read more short stories, essays, and reviews by your fellow writers here (and scroll down).