Smithy Takes the Bus
21 July 2021

Smithy had a lovely smile, handsome in his own way. He was a brindled British bulldog and a very good friend of mine. He didn’t have a collar or a leash as we lived in the country near the village of Blair and he went where he pleased.

 My dad worked in the city, only home weekends. On Saturday mornings he had old shoes and tired flannels on and a grand old suede jacket that had belonged to my mother’s father. We would go for a walk across the countryside, just the three of us.

 Sometimes I got to carry an old haversack that had a small iron frying pan, five pieces of white bread and half a dozen slices of bacon.

 We walked several fields back behind the house but the best route was past Mr. Naismith’s house and over to the old mill stream. Through the thicket of cedars, we collected a few rocks and some sticks to make a fire.

 Smithy faithfully followed across the stubble of the fall fields, which hurt his paws but he did his best to keep up. As the bacon began to sizzle, Smithy would sit nearby, sometimes in the smoke, as he knew the drill. There would be a grand sandwich for my dad and one for myself. The last piece of bread would be used to clean the pan of drippings and then piece by piece this would go to Smithy.

 On some weekday afternoons my aunt and grandmother would come for tea. My aunt was a very good woman. Smithy was an excellent judge of human nature and realized that as a precise and proper person, she would not drop a portion of cake or cookie. Instead of wasting his time with her, Smithy decided to have some fun. He would go straight to my grandmother’s chair and sit directly in front of her, giving his best bulldog smile. From a reservoir of animal cunning Smithy knew the old lady would spare some crumbs since she was a little frightened by his presence. The inevitable result was that the beautiful smiling bulldog went to his position every time. Sitting in front of the old lady, he smiled and very deep in his throat, quietly did his best bulldog growl. Goodness, it was effective! And it was my first lesson in how to get your way.

 Smithy’s daily routine varied, dependent only on his whim and opportunity. He often walked me part way along the path towards school. At the edge of our property as the route proceeded through the pines, I would say goodbye at the cemetery and carry on by myself.

 One fine morning I noticed he continued to follow. I stopped before the thicket of lilac bushes and explained that he should go home. This had no effect, as Smithy seemed to be feeling adventurous, and so we continued our walk. Soon we were past the wild apple trees and across the old gravel lane that served as a road in front of the school. Smithy followed and I explained that school was about to start and he must wait outside. Smithy sat and waited for my return.

 After a while Smithy must have made the decision to explore, so he walked down the little hill and found himself in the centre of the town. A group was waiting in front of Nicholson’s Tavern. Smithy was glad to see the people so he sat down nearby to provide them with company. Everyone was calm and Smithy liked that, but soon a big green and white bus came along and stopped right by the people. As his new friends quietly got on the bus, he walked to a seat near the back. Once everyone had a seat, Smithy assessed his options. After walking to the front of the bus, he sat down by the driver as he seemed to be in charge.

 Soon the driver called out, “Who does this fellow belong to?” but continued driving. After a while it became clear that no one was going to claim Smithy’s friendship so several miles out of town the bus stopped by a nice-looking house. This came as a surprise to the rural resident, but they greeted the bus and said they would look after the dog and give him back to the bus driver on the next day as the bus returned to Blair.

 Smithy was on his best behaviour as he did not know these people but they seemed like nice folks. His hunch was right as they gave him a bowl of water and provided a good plate of their own dinner for his evening meal. Smithy was happy and didn’t notice the passing of time. Before blowing out the light at bedtime, they noticed that their guest sat quietly by the bed and seemed to smile. By now they had become good friends and picked Smithy up and put him on the bed. Smithy thought this was a great idea and beamed his pleasure.

 In the morning the kindly people flagged down the bus on its return trip and picked Smithy up for his return to Blair. The driver stopped at his scheduled stop, but went into Mrs. Miller’s store for a quick review of events. As Smithy was known in the village, Mrs. Miller called his home to arrange for a pick-up.

 It was in this way that Smithy returned. I was very happy to see him but surprised to learn that he had arranged to sleep on the big bed, right in the middle. I said, “Smithy, you know you’re not supposed to be on beds!”

 Smithy just smiled.

Alfie Sent Me
21 August, 2021
Courtesy of TS Eliot and an eminence grise, JAP

The scene
opaque to those
at buggy speed
Watching closely
their chores and duties
with narrow focus and
quotidian glances

Gradually
gutter waters swell
encompassing worlds
in their brief prism
betraying no secrets
Fact or direction
seepage seen only
by interested watchers

From the longest night
the urgency of a too brief spring
The scented moments washing
Life’s accumulated grey detritus

The gathering momentum of days’
warmth inching up in
nascent green
itself a gift
Rainbow’s brilliant king
soon capped by purples and pastels – colours
so intense
as to wind me

Fresh forsythia reflecting
sun of renewed strength
requiring a winter-practised squint

It’s been a good visit

Nightwatchman’s Blue Notebook

Postscript Not Necessary
27 March/27 May, 2013

The quiet admission
smelled of bravado but
an addict of life cannot consider quitting
after the hills and the curves
Surely many a race
is won on the straightaway

Too soon the entropic breeze
whispers through tall spruce trees
singing a separate song for
each occupant enthroned
some too soon reclaimed
some without a chance
some gladly escaping pain
or enfeeblements’ strain

Some stories unheard
some without a single new note
Blame not nights’ dark
respect tenacity
honour chapters’ end

Yet where on this earth do we locate
other stories’ start

Ready to Wear
20 May, 2013

Jacob Marley’s life chains
each make little loops and
interconnected circles
accumulating to defensive
chain mail
which we each wear
with varying ease and utility

Tempo
22 March, 2012

Cosmic time understands the difficult dawdling
that humans endure in search of meaning, yet
a photon achieves its destination at the instant
of commencement

A certain mania drives some unfortunates
to spin and writhe in an accelerating dervish
dance, seeking what has long since
happened and dissipated

Time-management oxymoron
understood as striving better to see
the topography of different routes to the present
had we the wit to watch
through our own version of time

Too slow some find and dread that introspection
others locate
as quickness promotes wide-ranging
travel and accomplishment

Others, too fast, find carefully examined terrain
sadly washed away
wondering did they exercise
too thorough imagining
of what might have been and
lose focus on their task

Nightwatchman’s White Notebook

Night Shift
10:30 p.m. – 6:30 a.m.

Start at Danforth 9:15 p.m.
Bumpers
Lines 4x
Boards
Ladder
Life ring
Sailing mags

10:30:              desk
Midnight:        lock rec centre; check pool
1:00:                walkdown to 9^th
2:00                 garage patrol, exterior, sprinklers
2:30                 check in with office
3:00                 wait at desk for newspapers
4:00                 pool check
4:30                 check locker rooms after G&M
5:00                 pool test; walk 8^th to lobby
5:30                 garage patrol & outside
6:00                 pool test
7:00                 pool test; fin patrol

Pluck profundities from thin air

Drifting
31 March, 2014

Wakefulness must be a reward
Loitering is underrated
anxiety reduction

My own nature is seldom evident to me
except through sailing;
I live most of my life without thinking about it
without anchoring any identity for my self

I try to be reasonable, usually
as one never knows when paths will be recrossed
there is no point in manufacturing enemies
nor in providing fodder for dispute

Night Shift Canada Day 2012

18:30               Suites in & out
                        505 X              511 ü              510 X
                        405 X              510 X              510 X
                        305 X              310 ü              311 X
                        205 X              209 ü              210 ü
                        104 ü              108 ü              106 X

22:30               Advise George what it’s about
22:33               L without comment takes cleaners’ keys
22:56               L straight into elevator 3
23:04               L enters building using fob at lobby front
23:13               L returns keys
23:17               car arrives; L takes large young girl to lower-level washroom
23:21               L finally offsite – remains offsite for 48 min

After the glare
late day soft sun
mirrors back from water’s
slippery surface showing
some ripples of current
rising through pelagic depths

No Forwarding Address
2 July, 2012

A speck in the eye
Inside refracted images
From a parallel existence

Conventional wisdom assures
Light laws require images
To remain
As begun
But beginning must be misunderstood

Prismed by Modern Times
Charlie’s contemporary image
Proves old physics laws
Cannot be constant
Some alter and depart

Woven from Gossamer
13 July/24 July, 2013

So spun from a slender string
the fragile memory
needs exercise on happiness wings

Human wiring lets slip
sadness and tension not nourishable
unsettled by questions

Future memories
gather steam while we, giant-like,
drive wheels of classic engines
shunting back to ease each coupling
then surge forward
as strong and able

Know newness of coming memories
will warm as we peer
through the steam

A grand new batch
of reverie
seen through a gentle dream

We teach ourselves nightmares
Substantive perfection achieved

There is hope for autodidacts to build
where angst is lost
and vision and reality
are indistinguishable

Casals’ Injunction
8 June 2014

“Don’t play the notes. Play the meaning of the notes”
– Pablo Casals

The meaning of the words
escapes the filter of two lifetimes
So busy must we be to unravel
more than our share
of understanding
One won’t suffice

The Pool
8 June, 2014

The parking lot now was mostly deserted. One car near the street left to relax in the safety of the large globes’ glow. The pool near the back of the lot was engineered to collect rain water. Many years of maple keys and shreds of garbage effectively clogged its drain. So at 4 a.m. the poor old racoon hobbled up on hips nearly destroyed in a fight for dominance or arthritis.

Or else the simple accumulation of years had deteriorated his thinking, for each front paw went into the water in turn to check for depth. When he struggled to the centre he stood knee-deep and hunted forlornly for clams. Soon satisfied there would be no breakfast today, he drank and lurched awkwardly away, knowing dawn approached.

And so it did
The automatic street lights turned themselves off just after 5
having maintained leonine primacy of water access
A piercing squawk indicated a seagull
followed by several others
marking their combative day, beginning without fanfare

Multi-hued pigeons came to the pool
only after the loud gulls departed
for newfound treasure of bagged-up garbage
No sharing nicely

Pigeons were able to co-exist
without noise or threatening sounds
The pool was shared between all
non-gull birds
the little chickadees
bathed and drank
in civil companionship

© Richard Clare Moss 2021