Storied - Chronicles by the Circle of Six

By Linda Bond, Nell Davidson, Donna McDonald and 3 more

PREFACE

We did not intend to write a book.

In the fall of 2017 we were a disparate bunch who shared a desire to tell our stories and to tell them well. By the time our month- long weekly workshops with facilitator Linda Bond ended, we had become a co-operative group—writers helpingwriters—and friends as well. Six of the group wanted to continue, agreeing to meet monthly at the Belleville library.

Around the boardroom table we read our stories aloud, praising and encouraging each other while learning to give and receive feedback for improvements. Something left out? Too much detail? Some clarification required? We concluded our three- hour sessions with lunch at a nearby restaurant. Our camaraderie made the food taste even better.

Then we went home to our computers to revise, sometimes

rewrite, our stories.

Who are we? All residents of the Bay of Quinte area on the north shore of Lake Ontario, we range in age from mid-50s through mid-80s. Veterinary technician Donna McDonald; author and retired school administrator Wendy Russell-Sheppard; restorer of historic buildings and artist Kim Fedor, and retired teacher Linda Bond, all live in Belleville. NellDavidson, a retired office manager

and business owner, comes from Quinte West; Pat Whittaker, a retired journalist, is a Prince Edward County resident.

At the end of 2018, as we celebrated the holiday season with lunch at a small Wellington restaurant and read our seasonal stories aloud, Linda took us by surprise.

"These stories are so great! We should put out a book together." That was a daunting thought. Was it really possible? Linda has remarkable powers of persuasion. She assured us our stories were worthy of publication, with a bit of fine tuning. Six stories by six writers . . .. The idea started to take hold.

In the spring, the hard work began. Our first goal was to complete one story every two months for a year. Decision bycommittee is not a fast process, but it was important to reach consensus on a myriad of details. We needed a name for our group; after much deliberation, we arrived at Circle of Six. We would be self- published. But we needed a copy editor, a contents editor, a graphic designer, and a printing company.

We chose a title, a cover, worked out the story order. We composed this preface and the other necessary parts of our book, all while supporting one another through family illness, the deaths of a brother, a father, and a husband.

Our venue changed a few times. Besides the library, we met at the Al Purdy A-frame cottage in Ameliasburgh, as guests of Eurithe Purdy, and took advantage of a free meeting room at a funeral home. When COVID-19 hit, we switched to Zoom.As restrictions loosened, we greeted each other in person again at Zwick's Park in Belleville.

Versatility is one of our hallmarks.

This quality is clearly evident in our stories. You will be transported to a 1950s beach in South Africa, to the middle of abustling

Winnipeg Free Press newsroom, to the bench of a girls' soccer game in Calgary. You will witness a happy gathering inhurricane- shattered Haiti. There's a coming-of-age tale, a mid-life revelation, an examination of the hard choices that come with aging. And much more.

As you read, perhaps your own stories will come to mind. Perhaps

you will want to tell them, write them down.

The door is open . . .

Welcome

 

CIRCLE OF SIX — Canadians.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

• Language: English
• Publisher: circle of six
• Release date: Oct 2, 2021
• ISBN: 9798201370671

Book preview

COME ON IN

COACHING LESSONS

Kim Fedor

WHACK!

Our defender hits the boards after an illegal push. She crumples to the ground, lifeless. The players pause on the field for an instant, but there is no whistle to stop the game. In seconds, she jumps up as if jolted by a defibrillator and chases down the guilty opponent with wild ferocity to defend our net. The ball is cleared. When our team goes on offence, she runs to the bench to rotate off the field.

Are you okay? I ask.

Yeah, coach. I’m ready to go back on.

Come here. Have some water. Sit out a rotation and make sure you’re okay.

I feel a pair of eyes on me from down the bench. My daughter, who keenly guards her fellow players, stands up and approaches me, glaring.

Mom, how could you? You can’t bench her. You know how she’ll react.

I’m giving her a timeout. It’s for her benefit.

She needs a chance to go back out and make it right.

She needs a break, or someone could get hurt, I snap.

I decide for your well-being when you can’t make the decision for yourself.

The scowl continues as she takes her place in rotation. The sting lingers from the hot words passed between us.

I don’t need this fight with my teenager. Why did I sign up for this?

The answer comes as I look down the bench and see a long line of perfect ponytails. I’ve known these girls on indoor and outdoor soccer fields for years and my heart swells with pride and protection.

In the past, I watched the games from the stands with the other parents, cheering for the girls while focusing on the season standings and rival teams. I knew what problems teens could face, but I had no idea what life stresses our girls were experiencing every day until I sat with them on the bench during their games as their assistant coach.

Even practices are telling. I hear their conversations in the locker room or during team meals. At sixteen, they’re concerned with the pressure to excel at school and get into university. They battle challenging exams, grade-point averages, university applications and career choices. Those who don’t have post-secondary opportunities struggle to define their paths, be it employment or travel.

They also face personal and family problems, the range and number shocking. Just this year, they’ve tackled divorce, sibling rivalry, terminal illness, and unfaithful boyfriends. They’ve had pressure from parents: a dad who overanalyzes their performance in the car post-game and a mom who constantly nags about things of little importance. There have been bullies at school (both cyber and old-fashioned), heartaches, pregnancy fears, and parties with alcohol and drugs. Yet, there have also been celebrations and joys—team victories, birthday parties, driver’s licenses, part-time jobs, and dating.

We are out of town at the annual winter tournament, competing in the semi-final game. We need a win to advance to the gold-medal match.

An offside call cancels our latest goal, along with the momentum to be ahead in the game. We’re playing well and have a chance to win. The girls demonstrate grace under pressure. They excel at soccer and sportsmanship on the field, while I see them doing extremely well off the field too—making good choices, plotting their futures, helping each other through tough times.

In the last seconds we force a turnover, which results in a breakaway and a shot on goal. There is a fabulous save by the opponents’ goalie. At the final whistle, the game is tied despite the girls’ best efforts. Since we are pushed out of the gold-medal playoff game, we head back to the team bus. Exhausted, they rehydrate in silence, their faces gloomy. During the drive, disappointment rolls off their backs. Quiet conversations start up. It’s a lesson I take to heart: don’t dwell on the loss.

Guess what everyone? shouts the team captain.

What?

Now we can watch the ice dance final on TV! Our next game isn’t until tomorrow afternoon.

A cheer goes up in the bus.

The following morning, instead of going to the gold-medal match, all fifteen girls cram onto the two double beds in a hotel room to watch Scott Moir and Tessa Virtue compete for gold in ice dance at the Sochi Olympics. The duo’s Olympic journey eclipses the soccer tournament.

I take in the moment from a corner of the room. The cross-legged beauties sit together while snacking, braiding one another’s hair, talking and laughing. I sigh, thinking of the power of girls. Their goofy charms. Their seriousness and humour. Their brashness and fire. Their klutziness. Their caring ways with each other. I love them all so much and would do anything for them.

I’m committed to supporting my daughter, and the other players on the soccer team. Why? Because when I can’t do much as a parent but step back, it is comforting to know the girls will help each other in this big crazy world.

We pack up and board the bus to head to our afternoon bronze-medal match. The silence tells me that tensions are high. The tournament hasn’t gone as well as expected. There is no shame, although these competitive athletes may think otherwise as the standard they’ve set for themselves is gold.

In the locker room, the team’s usual pre-game music isn’t blaring, nor is their bravado. Instead, Bruno Mars’ Uptown Funk comes on. I break into my mom dance.

Every morning, I dance for my daughter to this hit tune when it plays on the radio during breakfast. We start each day with a cup of tea, a hug and a laugh. Humour is the valve to release life’s pressures.

Dancing in the locker room, I’m the goof who takes their minds off their worries about flubbing the game. It’s a great song, the beat uplifts me, and I get into my moves. When I look up, I catch sight of the What the hell? look on their faces. While they pretend not to notice me, they lace up their cleats, adjust their ankle braces, and put K-tape over their knee and hamstring injuries. I catch my daughter’s eye. Her flush of embarrassment dissipates because she, like the others, can’t help but smile just a little.

These three minutes of craziness are my gift to you, girls, I tell them silently. Forget about your exams, boyfriends, parents’ expectations and losing out on the gold medal.

It feels like a mountain is lifting off us. Everyone is breathing easier. After our team cheer, we head towards the field in unison.

While Tessa Virtue and Scott Moir won silver, we won the bronze.

And that was cause for celebration.

A GIRL’S BEST FRIEND

Donna McDonald

Go. Git! I yelled at the stray that had climbed on my dog’s back.

Startled, it dismounted, but to my horror, they were still stuck together. Dinah was tied to her dog house and almost strangling as, tail to tail, the other dog tried to get away. Terrified, I ran across the lawn, up the steps, and burst into our family’s general store. The spring on the screen door screeched as it stretched its full range and then rapidly pulled the door back with a loud smack.

My mom, standing behind the cash register, and about six customers waiting to pay for their groceries, all turned and stared at me wide-eyed.

There’s a dog stuck to Dinah! I screamed.

Run along now Donna, my mother calmly replied as the bell rang on the cash register. That’s $16.42 please.

My mouth dropped. But he’s stuck!

Smirks appeared on the customers’ faces while my mother’s face remained stern. She gave me a look that said, I won’t tell you again.

It was obvious that she did not understand the magnitude of the situation. Panicking, I ran back to the yard to help Dinah. Luckily, I found her alone and seemingly unharmed.

Shortly after this alarming incident, my dad acquired a BB gun to stop the endless parade of dogs from wandering into our yard. Dad spent all day working in the store while, in the evenings, he sent Dinah’s courtiers packing with the assistance of the firearm. This form of birth control proved unsuccessful. Approximately sixty-three days after he had taken up his post, I was shocked to discover twelve puppies in Dinah’s dog house! It seemed odd that the pregnancy went undetected. I guess her heavy fur coat had hidden her weight gain. No one had talked about the fact that she was going to have puppies. This whole thing was never discussed or explained. As it turned out, other than a bit I heard on the schoolyard, for years, my entire sex education was what I had seen from the dogs in the backyard.

It appeared that each of Dinah’s pups had a different father. There was quite a range of sizes, colours, and coat lengths. I’m sure every registered breed of dog was represented in that one litter. Surprisingly, we were able to place them all into loving homes. Dinah was spayed shortly after, as now every family in the hamlet had a dog.

Dinah had been part of our family from the time I was eight years old, when my family moved from the city to the hamlet. A dream to be self-employed resulted in my parents purchasing the general store. Soon after the move, my sister brought home a puppy. She was a beautiful, Springer Spaniel/Labrador Retriever cross. My sister named her Dinah. She had a fluffy black coat and a white chest. Her feet and the tip of her tail were also white. A diamond-shaped black spot adorned her crown where a white stripe began and then flowed down her face and over one eye. She was a gem and instantly became part of our family.

I felt safe with Dinah at my side. She once protected me from harm, although I had brought the situation on myself. It occurred in my twelfth year, the year I was fitted for glasses, which I only conceded to wear at school. So, I didn’t have my glasses on that day as I headed to the beach in my bathing suit with Dinah. I noticed a red truck travelling toward us. I couldn’t see who was behind the wheel but assumed it was Abe Small, a likeable man with a big heart and a tiny dog for a friend. The only other red truck in town was owned by the Jones brothers, who drank a lot, and were often seen weaving through the hamlet. The truck approaching us was travelling in a straight line, so it had to be Abe. I gave him a big wave. That’s when the truck slammed to a halt.

Hey baby, wanna ride? the brothers hollered.

Dinah tugged hard on her leash, quickly removing us from the situation. My imagination ran wild. If Dinah wasn’t with me, I may have been abducted and never seen again.

The river was our favourite place. I became a very strong swimmer as a result of Dinah’s attempts to use me as a floatation device. She was a remarkable dock jumper. It’s now a canine sport—the present world record for the longest jump is thirty-two feet. Although her jumps were never measured, I’m convinced she could have been a champion.

The dock jutted out into the river by the old iron bridge which connected an island to the mainland. On the island was a beach, some year-round homes, and a popular resort for American fishermen. Often a cottager would walk across the bridge and stop to watch, commenting on Dinah’s athleticism.

One hot July morning, when I was fourteen, I took Dinah to the dock to cool off. The air was still with not a ripple in the calm water. Dinah impatiently trotted up and down the dock, the fall of her paws on the planks echoing her anticipation. I searched the rocky shoreline for a stick.

Are you ready? Are you ready? I teased, holding a stick inches from her nose. She raced to the end of the dock and launched herself as I threw the prize. Splash.

Is that your dog? The voice came from the bridge. She’s amazing.

This wasn’t an ordinary voice. This was from someone … exotic.

Can I come down and see her?

Sure, I managed to say.

Trying my best not to stare, I stole glances at the gorgeous boy with the fascinating accent. Fortunately, he was talkative, as I was momentarily struck mute. He said his name was John and he lived in Ohio, but was staying with his uncle at the fishing lodge on the island for a few weeks. We chatted for a while and met up again the next evening at Dinah’s diving dock, taking turns throwing a stick and sharing stories. I invited him to join Dinah and me in our boat the following day.

The three of us travelled downstream to an island that had a huge tree leaning out over the water. A long rope hung down from a massive branch. We enjoyed the afternoon swinging and dropping into the river. Dinah jumped from the bank with each swing to meet us as we splashed into the river. She loved this new game.

Ohio John and I became