“Look at all the space this paper takes up!” exclaim my thirty-somethings. “There is an invention called the laptop, you know, Ma.”
They refer to my journal, not on scraps of paper but on lined, 3 hole- punch paper. Decades of journal, in boxes, in envelopes, in bags, in closets, in the garage, the current year on my desk.
Never mind that writing by hand is a different posture and thought process than writing on a screen, technology changes. Consider this:
If I had typed my journal thoughts onto the word processor I used when my son was 4, I would have saved it on one of those hard plastic squares. I would no longer be able to access this treasure:
“Today John kept jumping on my bed and refused to stop. Finally I said,
‘If you don’t stop jumping on the bed I’m going to breathe bad breath on you!’
He stopped jumping on the bed.”
Now really, where would we be if that tidbit of family lore were forever inaccessible on obsolete technology?
This rings with such reality--after all, if momma sent a text, I'd never have found that note in the street. But this, for me, is also a reminder of keeping a journal of our lives--all the bits and pieces. My son stopped jumping when he opened his forehead on the foot-board (antique bed!) and needed three stitches! Wish I'd known I had it in me otherwise...!
A "different posture"--yes, there is something to that. I know. Thank you for posting this!
I really love this time capsule, Amy. I was a young kid in the 90s and so have early memories of those floppy disks (in my case, this is where we saved those old PC games onto, one level per disk!).
I laughed out loud at your threat to your son, such a candid glimpse into motherhood that wouldn't be captured if you had saved writing that line until after John had gone to bed that night. You've made me really reflect on my own writing, and how much writing in Word can both speed up and slow down progress - on the one hand, I'm a much quicker typer than hand writer, but on the other hand, am hindered by the ability to continually edit and re-edit my words before moving onto the next line, paragraph, etc.
Love this, Amy, and as an incorrigible hand-writer, I get it. There's something about the pace of handwriting, too, that feels important. My thoughts must slow to meet the realities of pen to paper, and I'm convinced they're improved in the process.
Enjoyed this. Liked the description of the effort to keep memories straight. Would like a little more on that line "rendering ourselves vulnerable to error..." What triggered that?
Yes, that is a curious line! Another small point if further curiosity, for me, if the use of past in the opening lined: "I always believeD..." But what now? Has the persona changed... maybe that connects with the line Amy is pondering... The line "not betray the sequence of events in our minds" really holds truth with what we so often do.
Thanks Amy for narrowing in on that line, rewarding to know that the transition toward the narrator's conclusion stood out to you (and Alison too!). I mainly was hoping to convey the heaviness one feels when they realize that their memory of an event was incorrect, which makes one beg the question of why did they misremember, how could they have mistaken the order of events, etc (what influenced them to remember the event in that way?)
It was a lovely day. Sunny and clear but cold. A break from what felt like an endless series of storms in the weeks leading up to Christmas when the atmospheric river pouring in from the southwest was temporarily pushed southwards into Oregon by an Arctic high. Possible Arctic outflow winds warned the tv meteorologists. Record low temperatures! Bundle up!
Ellrod walked briskly past the hockey rink, towards Chinatown. After weeks of dreary, dark, rainy days, Ellrod was dazzled by the bright sun. With the cold he did not think to wear sunglasses; with the sun he did not think to wear a toque. He kept his gaze down, his hands pushed deep into the pockets of his overcoat, his breath forming a small cloud in the cold air as he walked along.
As he approached the skateboard park, Ellrod noted the tent city that had sprung up the previous summer was mostly gone. There were only a couple of tents remaining of the dozens that had been there a few months earlier.
Ellrod was not sure what to think of the tent city. Initially he was sympathetic. It was public land he thought. But then the law, he reminded himself, forbids rich and poor alike to sleep under bridges, to beg in the streets, and to steal their bread. Or not.
But then, as the number of tents swelled, residents of the neighbourhood began to report being harassed by occupants of the tent city. There were complaints of noise and open drug use. In the end there was a story, widely reported in the media, that two men from the tent city had assaulted an elderly woman who lived in the neighbourhood. Whether true or not, the cops were mobilized, warnings were issued, a few arrests were made, and ultimately the occupants of the tent city were moved on. A few - too few for the powers that be to concern themselves with - had returned.
As he passed the tents, Ellrod noted a scrap of paper on a small patch of grass next to the sidewalk. There was writing on the note, in blue ballpoint ink that had smeared on the wet paper, and Ellrod, bending over slightly, read the following words: “I will send u a couple of packs of cheap smokes and maybe cookies”. He paused and read the note again. A mother worried about her child? A lover atoning for some offence? Checking on the welfare of an old friend? Did someone ever send the smokes? Can you buy cheap smokes? Is someone still waiting - hoping - to receive cookies?
Ellrod considered the possibilities as he stepped off the curb into the crosswalk. At precisely that same moment he realized the approaching car was not slowing down. Ellrod froze. The driver honked and swerved, narrowly missing him. Ellrod caught his breath as the car - a white BMW - sped off.
“Fucking assholes,” someone said. Ellrod looked behind him. There was a young man standing beside one of the tents. “Fucking assholes,” the young man said again. “They think they fucking own the place.”
Once again, you've written a short, multi-layered piece, a portrait, but so much more: a story that sits in my head.
I like the exclamation marks! They make me smile. Then there's the series of questions about the notes--again, a strong progression of thoughts. Humour there, too... "Can you buy cheap smokes?" You move from the innocuous to the tough stuff.
The closing with the driver of the BMW, and the young man, with Elrod caught between the two. More solidarity with the young man...? or is that because he does not have a BMW to climb into...? Yes, you evoke strong images, and so many questions! Even as it feels "complete."
Thanks for posting this. And revisiting the photo note!
Dec 29, 2021·edited Dec 29, 2021Liked by Alison Acheson
Thanks for your comments Alison.
I pondered for some time what to do with the note. All of my first ideas were mawkish. So I started thinking about the weather and thought Ellrod might be headed up to the Pat to catch some music on a Sat afternoon. (Who’d be playing? Tony Wilson maybe. It would definitely be a Strat player, the music a little edgy.) I looked at Google maps, checked out his route, where the viaduct was, and where you might have found the note. And then the story gradually emerged.
I’ve read it over and over now and it kind of sits in my head too.
I've been working in the Jan. 1st post--about writing "fences," and your decision to work with the note as I posted, and the geography and urban surroundings is really interesting! You've really hit on so much of the reality that is the east side/Strathcona. And of course, Ellrod's take on it! Thanks for sharing the process here!
In Favour of Paper
A. Whitmore
“Look at all the space this paper takes up!” exclaim my thirty-somethings. “There is an invention called the laptop, you know, Ma.”
They refer to my journal, not on scraps of paper but on lined, 3 hole- punch paper. Decades of journal, in boxes, in envelopes, in bags, in closets, in the garage, the current year on my desk.
Never mind that writing by hand is a different posture and thought process than writing on a screen, technology changes. Consider this:
If I had typed my journal thoughts onto the word processor I used when my son was 4, I would have saved it on one of those hard plastic squares. I would no longer be able to access this treasure:
“Today John kept jumping on my bed and refused to stop. Finally I said,
‘If you don’t stop jumping on the bed I’m going to breathe bad breath on you!’
He stopped jumping on the bed.”
Now really, where would we be if that tidbit of family lore were forever inaccessible on obsolete technology?
This rings with such reality--after all, if momma sent a text, I'd never have found that note in the street. But this, for me, is also a reminder of keeping a journal of our lives--all the bits and pieces. My son stopped jumping when he opened his forehead on the foot-board (antique bed!) and needed three stitches! Wish I'd known I had it in me otherwise...!
A "different posture"--yes, there is something to that. I know. Thank you for posting this!
I really love this time capsule, Amy. I was a young kid in the 90s and so have early memories of those floppy disks (in my case, this is where we saved those old PC games onto, one level per disk!).
I laughed out loud at your threat to your son, such a candid glimpse into motherhood that wouldn't be captured if you had saved writing that line until after John had gone to bed that night. You've made me really reflect on my own writing, and how much writing in Word can both speed up and slow down progress - on the one hand, I'm a much quicker typer than hand writer, but on the other hand, am hindered by the ability to continually edit and re-edit my words before moving onto the next line, paragraph, etc.
Love this, Amy, and as an incorrigible hand-writer, I get it. There's something about the pace of handwriting, too, that feels important. My thoughts must slow to meet the realities of pen to paper, and I'm convinced they're improved in the process.
I always believed that those stories --
those memories held onto so tightly between
balled up fists and the blankets and pillowcases while
falling asleep --
was for the sake of convincing others
those persons of interest
which is why we make such a conscious effort to
not betray the sequence of events in our minds,
those words spoken and actions taken to convey
the context through which
we first encountered our demons
But what if the reason why we fight to
seize so strongly upon our reflections,
recreating the brush strokes so meticulously in our minds while
rendering ourselves vulnerable to error
is because the past is a story we tell to ourselves?
(inspired by a scribbled note on a boardwalk pier)
Enjoyed this. Liked the description of the effort to keep memories straight. Would like a little more on that line "rendering ourselves vulnerable to error..." What triggered that?
Yes, that is a curious line! Another small point if further curiosity, for me, if the use of past in the opening lined: "I always believeD..." But what now? Has the persona changed... maybe that connects with the line Amy is pondering... The line "not betray the sequence of events in our minds" really holds truth with what we so often do.
Thanks Amy for narrowing in on that line, rewarding to know that the transition toward the narrator's conclusion stood out to you (and Alison too!). I mainly was hoping to convey the heaviness one feels when they realize that their memory of an event was incorrect, which makes one beg the question of why did they misremember, how could they have mistaken the order of events, etc (what influenced them to remember the event in that way?)
BMW
It was a lovely day. Sunny and clear but cold. A break from what felt like an endless series of storms in the weeks leading up to Christmas when the atmospheric river pouring in from the southwest was temporarily pushed southwards into Oregon by an Arctic high. Possible Arctic outflow winds warned the tv meteorologists. Record low temperatures! Bundle up!
Ellrod walked briskly past the hockey rink, towards Chinatown. After weeks of dreary, dark, rainy days, Ellrod was dazzled by the bright sun. With the cold he did not think to wear sunglasses; with the sun he did not think to wear a toque. He kept his gaze down, his hands pushed deep into the pockets of his overcoat, his breath forming a small cloud in the cold air as he walked along.
As he approached the skateboard park, Ellrod noted the tent city that had sprung up the previous summer was mostly gone. There were only a couple of tents remaining of the dozens that had been there a few months earlier.
Ellrod was not sure what to think of the tent city. Initially he was sympathetic. It was public land he thought. But then the law, he reminded himself, forbids rich and poor alike to sleep under bridges, to beg in the streets, and to steal their bread. Or not.
But then, as the number of tents swelled, residents of the neighbourhood began to report being harassed by occupants of the tent city. There were complaints of noise and open drug use. In the end there was a story, widely reported in the media, that two men from the tent city had assaulted an elderly woman who lived in the neighbourhood. Whether true or not, the cops were mobilized, warnings were issued, a few arrests were made, and ultimately the occupants of the tent city were moved on. A few - too few for the powers that be to concern themselves with - had returned.
As he passed the tents, Ellrod noted a scrap of paper on a small patch of grass next to the sidewalk. There was writing on the note, in blue ballpoint ink that had smeared on the wet paper, and Ellrod, bending over slightly, read the following words: “I will send u a couple of packs of cheap smokes and maybe cookies”. He paused and read the note again. A mother worried about her child? A lover atoning for some offence? Checking on the welfare of an old friend? Did someone ever send the smokes? Can you buy cheap smokes? Is someone still waiting - hoping - to receive cookies?
Ellrod considered the possibilities as he stepped off the curb into the crosswalk. At precisely that same moment he realized the approaching car was not slowing down. Ellrod froze. The driver honked and swerved, narrowly missing him. Ellrod caught his breath as the car - a white BMW - sped off.
“Fucking assholes,” someone said. Ellrod looked behind him. There was a young man standing beside one of the tents. “Fucking assholes,” the young man said again. “They think they fucking own the place.”
Once again, you've written a short, multi-layered piece, a portrait, but so much more: a story that sits in my head.
I like the exclamation marks! They make me smile. Then there's the series of questions about the notes--again, a strong progression of thoughts. Humour there, too... "Can you buy cheap smokes?" You move from the innocuous to the tough stuff.
The closing with the driver of the BMW, and the young man, with Elrod caught between the two. More solidarity with the young man...? or is that because he does not have a BMW to climb into...? Yes, you evoke strong images, and so many questions! Even as it feels "complete."
Thanks for posting this. And revisiting the photo note!
Thanks for your comments Alison.
I pondered for some time what to do with the note. All of my first ideas were mawkish. So I started thinking about the weather and thought Ellrod might be headed up to the Pat to catch some music on a Sat afternoon. (Who’d be playing? Tony Wilson maybe. It would definitely be a Strat player, the music a little edgy.) I looked at Google maps, checked out his route, where the viaduct was, and where you might have found the note. And then the story gradually emerged.
I’ve read it over and over now and it kind of sits in my head too.
I've been working in the Jan. 1st post--about writing "fences," and your decision to work with the note as I posted, and the geography and urban surroundings is really interesting! You've really hit on so much of the reality that is the east side/Strathcona. And of course, Ellrod's take on it! Thanks for sharing the process here!