Welcome to The Club v4.1 Winter 2023/24

Welcome to...
THE Club
Don’t put this down! You’ll have to bend over to pick it back up!
A Moment in the Kitchen
By Gayle Etherington, Ancaster • from Daytripping Nov-Dec 2016 issue
All Inclusive Suites & Apartments with kitchenettes.
CUSTOM MENU OPTIONS • ACTIVITIES • 24HR CARE
Call for a personal tour.
WALLACEBURG • 519-627-9292
Looking for
PRIVATE IN-HOME
PHYSIOTHERAPY?
Mobility Works Physio Yoga
will come to you!
Balance Training, Falls Prevenon,
Funconal Strength, Yoga,
Nordic Pole Walking, and more!
MOBILITY WORKS
phy s i o
y oga
MOVE. FEEL. LIVE.
Book IN-HOME
Physiotherapy or Private Yoga
at: www.mwphysioyoga.com
Covered under most
Extended Health Benefits.
Kelly-Lynn
Musico
REGISTERED
PHYSIOTHERAPIST
REGISTERED
YOGA TEACHER
Contact Kelly-Lynn at 519.312.6122
or mwphysioyoga@outlook.com
Puzzle
Solution
For The Club Winter 2023/24
CROSSWORD on page 7
Puzzle
Solution
For The Club Winter 2023/24
SUDOKU on page 29
Standing in the middle of the kitchen,
I stare at the geometric design on the
formica table. The swirling circles of
brown and mustard yellow, a forgiving
mistress in concealing a lifetime of coffee
rings, cigarette burns and the etched
initials of an old love.
The room is a time capsule. In fact, the
entire house is a scrapbook of a typical
farmhouse one sees dotted alongside the
roads of Ontario. Solid stone structures
that lay impervious, while families come
and go, leaving a backdrop of faded
gingham wallpaper, history and secrets.
I look down at the surface of the table
littered with prescription bottles, an open
McKenzie Seed Catalog and a milk glass
cereal bowl. The remains of what looks
like a bloated mass of Shreddies lay
hardening, covering up most of the ivy
pattern that clings to the rim. The only
clue that she has been here recently, is
the bright pink lipstick smear on the
chipped mug that sits half full of beige
oily liquid. I pat the stained knitted tea
cozy covering the pot and it is cold to the
touch.
Belly tightening, I turn and walk to
the sink. A gentle breeze lifts the flimsy
curtains and as they blow inward, my
fingers capture a piece of the fabric.
Years of sunlight have taken its toll but
the faded images of vintage toasters and
coffee percolators still bleed through
the cotton. A dark ugly memory streaks
through the quiet as I recall the day my
mother hung them up for the first time.
“Add a bit of colour to the room, don’t
you think Katie Cat?” she stated as she
climbed down from the rickety step stool
one of my brothers had made in shop
class. My response is a pile of lost words,
but I am left with the sick feeling of
intentional cruelty. A senseless slaughter
of a happy moment, my victim, a slight
woman who always seemed to get in the
cross fire of my teenage misery.
She was an easy target for my nasty
tongue, and as I mocked her lifestyle and
ideals, we clashed often. What I did not
realize at the time was that she could
sense my inner need to rebel and gave
me a safe place to do just that. In the
shadows just before sleep, I often relive
my careless words and the shame that
comes still brings me to my knees.
I should have made the biggest fuss
over these darn curtains.
They would after all,
be the frame around
her world for the
next forty years. I
let the material slip
free, releasing it to
the outgoing wind.
It was too quiet.
Where did she go?
I never liked
hearing the sound of
my own heartbeat. Right
now, its echo battles the
cheap starburst clock
that hangs over the
stove. The insidious ticking reverberates
off the walls, even though the hands,
made to look like a knife and fork appear
to be frozen permanently at ten to five.
My eyes automatically move to the
doorway where I half expect to see the
weathered face of my father coming in
for his dinner. A man of routine and few
words, I always felt his love for us when I
looked at his hands.
Crossing the room to the built in alcove,
I turn on the radio. The familiar click of
the worn knob lights up the greasy face
and the silence is filled with the crooning
of Johnny Mathis.
I notice the elf figurine sitting on the
shelf. His casual cross-legged pose and
impish smile were a part of my childhood
Christmas memories, and as I wipe the
dust off him, I wonder when he stopped
being put away with the other ornaments.
A creepy piece of plaster, I spent far too
many hours looking at his snide little
mouth and squinty eyes. I turn him over
and look at the generic stamp on his
bottom and the place where his legs have
been glued back together after one of its
many falls. He may be worthless, but he
has earned the right to reign over this
corner of the kitchen while he can. With
a newfound sense of respect, I gently
place him back where he belongs.
The sound of gravel on the driveway
draws my attention and my anxiety level
is dialed back when I see who is getting
out of the car.
Moments later I hear the screen door
slam and her voice call out. “Katharine?”
“I’m in the kitchen, Mom!” I holler.
She enters wearing the yellow plaid
raincoat she bought for herself at Eaton’s
in the sixties. One pocket is torn, the
other swollen with used tissues. Her
flannel pyjama pants are tucked into
black wellies that are leaving fossil like
footprints on the linoleum floor. Her
thinning hair is sticking up in rooster
fashion and one lone curler still clings to
her scalp.
She is carrying a flat of fresh
strawberries in both arms. “Look what I
picked this morning,” she states, smiling
so wide her eyes all but disappear.
I return the smile, taking the fruit
from her to place on the counter. I can
feel where her gaze slips to and prepare
myself. “Not hungry?” she says as she
looks down at the unfinished breakfast.
I don’t have the heart to tell
her that it’s not mine. I can’t...not
when she smells like sunshine
and earth. When her cheeks and
nose are pink from the cool air
and her bent fingers are still
stained red. Later perhaps,
but not now.
I bring the dirty
dishes to the sink
and wash away the
unwanted mess.
“So, Mom,
I guess we are
making jam today?”
P A G E
30
I hate Russian dolls, they’re so full of themselves.
WINTER 23/24