" A summer of cones" by Marg Heidebrecht

It’s been a summer of cones at my house. Not just the ice-cream variety devoured by grandchildren on the front steps, while we play a game where we each choose a car colour, and count until someone’s tally reaches ten. This summer required a different cone, the one pet owners recognize; the plastic weave-a-collar-through-looped-tabs contraption that extends and widens to prevent an animal’s mouth from reaching a site that needs to heal.

Think lamp at a party if an exuberant dancer flipped the shade upside down before pulling it over their head. In July while our American neighbours were celebrating their independence, 13-year-old Blossom was losing hers. A tumour, an anaesthetic, an incision. And a plastic cone.

There are complicating factors. A husband who’s also endured an anaesthetic, an incision, though thankfully not a tumour.  Plus, a second dog, Gilly, who’s prompted by instinct to lick and clean her companion which could, probably would, loosen the stitches that are doing their best to hold the wound closed.

“Keep the cone on. Keep the dogs apart.” The vet is calm, competent; a man of few words. I once asked how he made a diagnosis given his patients’ inability to describe their symptoms. He told me he wouldn’t know what to do if they could. He relies on observation, experience, and I rely on him. On his assistant too. Amelia is upbeat, chatty. She reports with enthusiasm on a recent pig roast and describes how she nabbed tickets for an upcoming rock concert; a peek into how she spends her time when she’s not answering the phone or passing sterilized instruments to her boss.

With the older dog restricted to walks to the curb and the younger free to explore the yard, I become an elementary school principal setting up a schedule for outdoor play. Blossom: cone off, leash on, outside, inside, leash off, cone on. Gilly: backyard, back in, leash on, long walk, leash off. On repeat and on my own since my usual assistant is occupied with his own regime of ice packs and physiotherapy.

The conversation inside the house sounds like Abbott and Costello’s on-stage banter in Who’s on First? in which the similarity between names of baseball players and the questions about their field positions creates confusion. And a hilarious skit. My own frantic opening and closing of doors to check Who’s Where? is less amusing; a slip-up could lead to a set-back. Forget stitches for snitches. It’s glitches I’m worried about.

Overnight requires a sleep divorce. I move into another room with the recuperating dog; a 40-year throw back to the broken sleep that accompanied a newborn. This time, it’s a thump, not a cry, that startles me; the sound of a restless dog bumping into the door, a wall, the bookshelf in her attempt to find a comfortable position. Wide awake. Both of us. Other nights are too quiet; I turn on the bedside lamp, observe the subtle rising and falling of her chest that indicates she’s still alive. Again, as with infants.

Eight medical appointments over six weeks; we persevere through antibiotics and additional sutures until a single word is entered on her chart. Healed. Insert celebratory, party-popper emojis here. An extra hour has been added to my day. I no longer slide chairs toward the table to clear a path or set partitions between Gilly and Blossom with the diligence of those separating church from state. When I open the back door to watch two exuberant dogs scoot across the deck and scamper down the stairs, my shoulders relax. 

It’s Friday. I’m lingering over the crossword instead of driving to the clinic. Unsettled, out of whack. I call Amelia. She laughs when I tell her we’re fine but that I miss the established routine. She uses words like "special" and "favourite" when referring to Blossom. Since part of her job involves building rapport, I expect she sprinkles these phrases into conversations with dozens of clients about a roster of pets.

But special, favourite? I agree. Of all the dogs, in all the houses, over all the years. Blossom joined our family after birthing three litters of pups, and is unphased by the time it takes little visitors to clip the purple leash onto her collar for walks to everyone calls The Blossom Park in spite of what’s written on the sign. 

Blossom's the one who eased me into retirement and provided a routine to cling to during months of lockdown. Our other dogs have liked me, even loved me, but this dog adores me. She follows me from room to room, from my desk to the microwave to nuke my coffee; when I leave the house she waits by the front door for me to return. 

Using the dog math equation for calculating age, Blossom is 91. At some point, there’ll be another visit to the vet and difficult decisions to make on her behalf.

But not this summer. Not yet.

***

Marg Heidebrecht lives and writes in Dundas, Ontario. Her first book of essays, In the Shade: Friendship, Loss, and the Bruce Trail (here) was shortlisted for the 2020 Hamilton Arts Council Literary Awards. Her second collection, Mosaic through East-Facing Glass: A Collection of Personal Essays (here), was shortlisted for the same awards in 2024 and includes “Invasions,” an essay which won the creative nonfiction prize in the 2022 Hamilton Arts & Letters contest. 

She’s also published several opinion pieces and many letters to the editor in The Globe and Mail and The Hamilton Spectator. The spring retreat at Elm Hurst Inn ignited a spark for her new project which is unnamed, unfinished, but less untidy now that Scrivener’s been downloaded to her laptop.

“Summer of Cones” was originally published as “Stitching” in Commuterlit.com here. For information about submitting to CommuterLit (and to a few other places), see here.

 Visit Marg at:
https://intheshade2019.blogspot.com/
https://mosaicmarg.blogspot.com/
https://www.instagram.com/intheshade2019/?hl=en

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

See Brian Henry's upcoming weekly writing classes, afternoon workshops, and writing retreats here.

 

“Arguing” by Marg Heidebrecht

 

Given the abundance of electronic devices in their 21^st century lives, my grandchildren struggle to make sense of a long-ago argument. I try again.

My older sisters wanted to watch The Wizard of Oz. The rooftop antenna picked up the broadcast of this Oscar-winning film from a station in Buffalo, New York. Through the magic of radio waves and alternating currents, the movie appeared on our living room TV, a heavy piece of furniture that weighed as much as I did.

Even with the volume dialed to its lowest setting, I could hear the screeching of the wicked witch from the kitchen where I was sprinkling cinnamon sugar onto a piece of buttered toast. Even after running upstairs and burying my head under a feather pillow, an itchy blanket, and a chenille bedspread, I could hear the flapping of the flying monkeys’ wings.

Had I been older than seven, I would’ve done what I do now when panic sets in – gone for a brisk evening walk.

“Turn it off,” I sobbed. My mother did and my sisters were furious. It was not possible to slam the swinging door that separated the living room from the kitchen, but they shoved it with such force that it took several minutes for the hinged panel to stop squeaking, to settle back down. It took the siblings much longer.

Questions followed this explanation. Didn’t you have noise-cancelling headphones? Couldn’t your sisters watch it later? Why didn’t you watch something else in a different room?

No, no, and we only had one screen. I resist any mention of the second screen, the portable one; it was stored behind out-of-season jackets and set up on a wobbly base whenever my father wanted to display pictures from a special event or recent vacation. 

He removed twenty-four slides from a yellow Kodachrome box, deposited them upside down and backwards into a projector; incomprehensible to these youngsters and archaic now to me with 6,893 images tucked inside my pocket on a phone.

In spite of the Oz debacle, there were advantages to living with one TV and four channels. We learned to defend our preferences and tolerate each other’s choices. Library books and embroidery projects remained options if the polka music on Lawrence Welk or Lassie’s search for yet another child in danger became unbearable.

Since I was not an early riser, I have no recollection of when the broadcast day began; but when weekend babysitting boosted my bank account, I learned that stations signed off at 11 p.m. with coloured bars and a series of beeps, leaving an unwelcome gap until the party-going parents returned.

In an attempt to stay awake, I grabbed another handful of salt & vinegar chips, counted the cars that drove down Sterling Street, and waited for a set of headlights to turn into the driveway of #73 so I could go home.

When my own kids were teens, the video store provided small bags of popcorn along with thousands of films. With one VCR and a mom who checked the language and violence ratings on the box, there were heated debates beside the checkout counter. More than once, we left empty-handed.

In hindsight, the supervision and wisdom required in that era was simple. The only web we knew was the kind made by spiders in hard-to-reach corners of the attic. The world-wide variety had not yet been spun; nor our attention held hostage in its sticky threads.

Today my grandchildren point to the 42” flat screen in our living room; it sits on an end table between a plaid sofa and a seldom-used window; an attempt to safeguard it should an excess of sugar and a deficit of outdoor play result in a game of indoor tag.

“Do you ever watch it?” A reasonable question.

“Yes, but not when we have visitors.” An honest answer.

“Do you have a favourite show?”

Petticoat Junction in the ‘60s, Cheers in the ‘80s, ER in the ‘00s; but with the availability of several dozen streaming services, it’s hard enough to decide what to watch after the dishes are done let alone choose a favourite. This is not the time to tell these bright young minds that Grandpa and Bubba sometimes prefer to re-watch familiar whodunits and that the endings always come as a surprise.

The tech broligarchs are busy implementing the restrictions ordered by the leader of the free world; they have not noticed that the rules at Grandma’s house remain unchanged: 1. Eat food at the table. 2. One piece of bubble gum per visit. 3. No screens.

My rationale?

1. The mess. 2. The dentist. 3. My time with them is limited, they have screens everywhere else, and it’s a slip ‘n slide tumble from ten minutes of Paw Patrol to hours on YouTube. Compromise versus dopamine is a rigged competition; I’m opting out of the match.

It is not lost on me that I’m considering the prevalence of screens while staring at one; I prefer the cut and paste features of Microsoft Word to typewriters and bottles of correction fluid.

This is an example of the inconsistency that comes with aging. We embrace online booking and transit apps that simplify life; we criticize the disruption of AI and Meta while lining up for senior discounts.

But our forebearers kept candles after the invention of light bulbs; thanks to them we can make wishes over birthday cakes and set a romantic tone in any room.

Perhaps, a hundred years from now, someone will unearth my board games, my craft supplies, my muddy boots. Will they be confused or amused by this stash of relics? Better, I suppose, than being overwhelmed with head-shaking regret.

Marg Heidebrecht lives and writes in Dundas, Ontario. Her first book of essays, In the Shade: Friendship, Loss, and the Bruce Trail (here) was shortlisted for the 2020 Hamilton Arts Council Literary Awards. Her essay, “Invasions,” won a creative nonfiction prize in the 2022 Hamilton Arts & Letters contest and is included in her 2024 book, Mosaic through East-Facing Glass: A Collection of Personal Essays (here). 

She’s also published several opinion pieces and many letters to the editor in The Globe and Mail and The Hamilton Spectator. 

Visit Marg at:
https://intheshade2019.blogspot.com/
https://www.instagram.com/intheshade2019/?hl=en

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

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

“Roasting” by Marg Heidebrecht

 

Mira is about to check the beets, to turn them over and see if they need a drizzle of olive oil when her phone rings: moss green, wall-mounted, rotary dial. Since it’s 4:55 p.m., the caller will be Ellen, the niece who’s been saddled with the task of keeping an eye on her.

“Can’t talk, sweetie.” Mira stretches the phone cord closer to the stove with one hand; reaches for an oven mitt with the other.

“I can’t either. Just a reminder that Jake and I are coming over tomorrow.”

“Jake?”

“The guy you met at Christmas.”

“The one who kept popping out to the porch? He smokes.”

“No, Auntie Mira. He’s a real estate agent. Business is 24/7.”

“I thought you broke up?”

“We did, sort of, but he’ll get you a good price for the house.”

“Who said it’s for sale?”

“Mom, me, everybody.”

The response to Mira’s, “Everybody but me,” is a dial tone. Followed by the beeping of the smoke alarm.

“Shit.”

Mira grabs the tray with the oven mitt, but the beets are heavy and the metal thin. She steadies it with her unprotected hand in an attempt to prevent a spill.

“SHIT!”

Both the beets and Mira’s hand are burned. The beets she can bury under compost, but her hand? Mira turns on the cold water, lets it pour between her fingers and over her palm. If Ellen notices the blisters or any swelling, she will report this to her mother, giving them proof that Mira should not be living alone. Plans are being made on her behalf. For her own good. And it pisses her off.

Ellen’s mother, Lisa, was born on the afternoon of Mira’s grade eight graduation. While Mira was delivering a farewell speech on behalf of her peers, her mother was delivering the baby intended to reset a marriage that was hanging on by the threads of obligation and routine.  Even a fourteen-year-old knew that was a lot to expect of an infant. Their dad left, their mother crawled under a quilt, and Mira took over.

A neighbour ran a home daycare; an extra child was no bother as long as no one asked for a receipt. Just as well that five years later Lisa’s elementary school was on the university bus route. Mira scheduled classes that allowed her to pick up her sister by 3:45. When seminars or midterms required her to stay late, she set an alarm to remind their mother to pick Lisa up. And gave the school the neighbour’s phone number. Just in case.

On his way to Mira’s the following morning, Jake stops at another client’s house to check that the stager has transformed the guest room into a home office. No need to remove family photos; they were smashed weeks ago, a consequence of Jake’s 6-step method for building a client base:

Assess if a new house is an attempt to reset a relationship;
flirt with the weakest link when touring the bedroom;
place a “For Sale” sign on the original property;
locate separate properties for the shattered couple;
collect the shared commission from three transactions;
repeat.

A young woman is whirling strawberries, yoghurt and chia seeds into a smoothie and doesn’t hear him come in.

“And you are?” Jake waits until the blender is quiet, though he should’ve waited further away.

“Fuck! Who are you?”

“Jake. I’m selling this place.”

“Ashley. I’m the collateral damage. Getting ready to lose not only my childhood home, but also my family.”

“Yeah, heard about that. Sorry.” Jake looks at the clock on the microwave. “Got some clients coming in soon with another agent. Any chance you can, you know…”

“Disappear?” Ashley provides Jake with the blunt word he’d been reluctant to use.

“Yup.”

“Not unless you’ve got a studio apartment tucked up your sleeve. And a U-Haul in the driveway.”

“That would be no.”

 While Ashley slips on shoes, Jake places a travel lid on the smoothie and the yet-to-solve issue at the back of his mind. They both get into his car.

Mira hates to admit it, but she’s looking forward to the company. That’s the part about aging in place that no one talks about. The tasks are easy; she’s made arrangements for lawn cutting and snow removal; downloaded Uber as well as a grocery delivery app. But in retirement, she increases the volume on the radio so it can be heard in every room. Familiar voices, engaging conversation. Who knew she would miss the office banter, the last-Friday-of-the-month cake for anyone who was celebrating, well, anything?

Her pattern of busy days and quiet evenings has the potential to flip due to the recent glut of widows. They plead with her to join them for concerts, for plays, for the dance recitals of their grandchildren; anything to avoid an unfilled calendar and a plate of leftovers.

She accepts the invitations that appeal to her; after years of not tolerating nonsense from men, she’s not about to start accepting it from women who were accustomed to setting tables exclusively for pairs. As if filling up an ark instead of hosting a dinner party.

“Hi Moira, I mean Merna.” Jake wipes his shoes on Mira’s mat, reassured it contains no images of cats. One less item to remove and an indication of reasonable taste.

“This is Ashley. She’s going to hang out here while I take measurements and a few photos.”

 Mira extends her hand to Ashley who notices the burn.

“Ouch. That looks nasty. How did…” She pauses when Mira moves her head a smidge to the left, then back again. Jake is trying to decide if he can add a heater to the back porch, call it a sunroom. And doesn’t notice.

Ellen arrives while Mira is tipping level scoops of coffee into the French press and Ashley is scraping the last bits of fruit from the bottom of her cup. 

“Hi, sweetie. I wasn’t expecting you’d come too. This is Ashley. She’s with Jake.”

With Jake. Ellen has moved beyond rage, but is not yet ready to shrug. She’s been slow to follow the “Fool me once” adage. Forget twice, it took a series of excuses for Ellen to realize that Jake was unlikely to change.

Ashely stands up, takes a few steps toward her. “He’s selling my parents’ house and I was in the way this morning. So, I’ve been sitting here with your fabulous aunt.”

Fabulous is not among the words Ellen uses to describe her aunt. Old-fashioned, stubborn, set in her ways are more apt; cautious and conservative are included in the missives Lisa sends from whatever mountain retreat on which she’s seeking clarity.

“A masters in mechanical engineering, part of the team that pushed the city to add barriers and not just paint to bike lanes.” In less than an hour, Ashley knows more about her aunt than Ellen has learned in two plus decades of emptying out Christmas stockings and gathering up Easter eggs. Side by side.

“And this one,” Mira points to Ashley. “A degree under her belt and all set to fast-track to be an educational assistant.”

Jake has a client in mind for the house; he texts her a few photos and hopes for a quick off-market closing.

While Ellen might take pleasure in undermining the sale, it’s Mira who creates a plan based on a novel in which a ten-year-old suggested his family invite a homeless stranger to move in. He stopped in front of a knockdown-rebuild on his way home from school. “I know someone who needs a house!” he shouted up to the workers on the roof; that someone being the man who stood outside the beer store. Collecting empties and change. A need, a solution. Is this similar?

Ashley moves into Mira’s spare room and begins her program at the local college. Ellen stops phoning every night; Lisa continues to hop around the globe; Jake removes the photos from his website.

Mira sets two plates for dinner every night for a year. She drizzles olive oil on beets, sets the oven to 425, and places the tray on the bottom rack. She trims perennials in the garden before unfolding a lawn chair to rest. Ashley smells the smoke as soon as she gets home, pulls the pan from the oven, and hears the sizzle when she tosses it in the sink. She searches the house before finding Mira in the yard. Drowsy, dozing.

“Shit, did I burn the beets?”

“You sure did. Same as when we met.”

“You knew?”

Ashley nods. “We have to tell them, you know. Ellen, Lisa.”

 “You call them. I’ll call Jake. He can bring over the documents I need to sign.” Mira rubs the raised scar on her hand. “He’s the only one who won’t say I told you so.”

And she’s right. Sort of. Ashley doesn’t say it either. She doesn’t say anything.

Marg Heidebrecht lives and writes in Dundas, Ontario. Her first book of essays, In the Shade: Friendship, Loss, and the Bruce Trail was shortlisted for the 2020 Hamilton Arts Council Literary Awards. Her essay, “Invasions,” won a creative nonfiction prize in the 2022 Hamilton Arts & Letters contest and is included in her 2024 book, Mosaic through East-Facing Glass: A Collection of Personal Essays. 

She’s also published several opinion pieces and many letters to the editor in The Globe and Mail and The Hamilton Spectator. 

Visit Marg at:
https://intheshade2019.blogspot.com/
https://mosaicmarg.blogspot.com/
https://www.instagram.com/intheshade2019/?hl=en

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

For more essays and other pieces about books or about reading, writing, and the writing life, see here (and scroll down).