The Long, Lonely Road -- Part II

Part II
I lost my mother's pearl ring at a Husky station outside of Dryden, Ontario. She didn't know I had it. I was hoping to return it before she noticed it was missing. It was too large for me and was continuously in danger of slipping off my finger.

My girlfriend and I were traveling back to Espanola, Ontario from Banff, Alberta. We had just finished grade eleven and the summer had barely started. We had left seven days earlier, in the middle of the night to hitchhike across the country. When we were scurrying through our homes quickly and quietly gathering our stuff for the road, I went into my mother's room. It was dark and I could hear the sounds of her breathing. I was filled with the scent of her. It was a desire to take a part of her with me and to have a reason to return that lead me to her jewelry box. I slipped the ring onto my finger and slipped out the door.

When I got to Banff I called home to say we'd reached our goal, getting to the mountains. Along the way, whenever someone stopped to pick us up, the first thing they asked us was, "What are you girls running away from?" Our answer was, "We're not running away, we're running towards. We want to see the mountains." I had never seen the Rockies and neither had Trudy. We had only heard about them and studied them in school. We wanted to witness their enormity and be humbled by their existence. On the call home I learned that my mother was sick, so sick in fact she had been sent to the hospital. I don't know what we were going to do after Banff. We had no plans. But now I knew what I had to do. I had to get home -- fast.

We left Banff the next morning. Outside of Calgary we had a lull. No one was stopping for a couple of rag-tag teenage girls with backpacks, wearing cast-off hockey jackets and beat-up sneakers. We intended to downplay our femininity but at times we went a little too far. We looked liked hoodlums. To pass the time I made signs in fancy calligraphy for places we'd need up ahead. We had a "Regina" sign, a "Winnipeg" sign and a "Thunder Bay" sign. I was working on the "Sault Ste. Marie" sign in India ink on a pad of watercolour paper. Proud of my work, when I finished I flashed it at the first passing vehicle. It was a transport truck with two rig sections riding piggyback. The driver looked over at our sign and us, blew his horn and came to an abrupt halt. Before we reached the truck he climbed out of the cab and yelled over to us, "What're you girls doing out here in the middle of nowhere?" And before we could answer, he growled, "Get in the cab, you're going home."

His name was Calvin, Cal for short. He had a deadline; Toronto in two and half days. He needed company. I still find it hard to imagine, but he was actually pleased to have us along. We were low on cash and glad ourselves to have a quick ride home. Any delays on the road and we were going to be in some trouble. That was the days before cash machines and debit cards, although neither would have helped because I had cleared my account before I left. Seventy dollars and thirty-five cents. That's what we left town with. We had about seven between us now. On the road he bought all our food and even got us our own hotel room that night when he wanted to catch some sleep, have a shower and get out of the truck.

The Long, Lonely Road -- Part I

One Saturday morning early this spring I was standing in my kitchen peeling potatoes listening to Stuart McLean do the preamble for his story on "The "Vinyl Cafe". I was only half-listening; catching the occasional phrase here and there, thinking about work, the soup I was making, the garden I was planning. Then the phrase "...it's a long, lonely road from Dryden to Thunder Bay..." pierced through the clutter. Ah, yes, I thought. I remember that road, that name, that time in my life.

How poetry can move you

Scar Stories

Scars are proof
we have lived,
my friend tells me
and smiles
when I challenge him
to a game of show-and-tell.
He points to a mark,
a tiny boomerang
on his chin.
At age seven,
he thought he could fly
from his chair
to his bed
and landed on the floor.
I ask him if that's all
he's got.
He takes off his shirt
and a long, jagged scar
flashes up his arm,
from his elbow
to wrist.
He says this story
could be called
what he did for love.
When his first girlfriend
broke up with him,
he punched a window.
Then he shows me his back.
The scars splattered
between his shoulders,
like stars in a constellation.
His father whipped him
every day for years.
He asks me about my scars.
I have only one
and I grew bangs to hide it.
My face feels hot.
Here's my story:
I was seventeen.
I had chickenpox.
I missed the prom.
That's all.
When I raise my hand
to show him the scar,
he stops me
and says,
That must have hurt.

By Annette Opalczynski