Magical Cat: Essays

 

Tablo reader up chevron

Introduction

As long as I've been writing, there's three forms that I did long before I tried novels.  One is poetry, another short stories but writing a journal was also something that I did regularly.  I wondered what would I do when I wanted to share a personal story?  How did I get people to believe that no matter how real some of my short stories seemed, they're aren't - in fact I'm really careful not to put real people in my fiction.  One way to do that is to write little personal essays.

For a while when I was in my twenties I published a few of these in a tiny Ottawa, Canada newsletter called Talk of The Town.  I discovered by sitting at the stools in a local watering hole/restaurant/laundromat and hearing peoples' comments that some people liked my little pieces.  One day a person was saying to the bar tender how much he liked the articles by C. Harris.  Then the bartender said, "Well she's right over there, why don't you tell her?"  

He looked at me then came over to shake my hand.  He was genuinely happy to meet me, and said, "C. Harris!  I thought you were a man!"  I laughed.  He stumbled an apology and I told him, no, I take that as a compliment.  I will never be the gushy lovelorn romance writer and if I write in way that makes people think I'm a man, yay me!  It was also probably my first  and probably only ever fan type situation.  I did sign a book I wrote once at a friend's request; it wasn't the same though, I gave it to them.  

I write a lot of stuff like this.  I do them as Cathi's Comments on a website and a blog I own.  Occassionally I'll submit them to contests like the CBC Creative Non-Fiction (no, haven't won yet).  One of these appeared as a editorial comment in the Ottawa Citizen many years ago.  Mainly though, they just hang out on one of my sites. People either read them or they don't, and once in a while I get some really good comments.

The piece I wrote that has had the most comments by far is Our Wedding and Other Miracles.  Written in 1988 it is a humorous piece about the wedding that came as a huge surprize not only to our families but even more so to us.  That it didn't last, well, there's two children and a few more essays that came from the experience.  Like my mom said:  even if the marriage don't work out, it's an experience everyone should have!  It's okay, I can write like this because we're still good friends and I am now happily living with a  spouse in a common law relationship that has lasted longer than when I was married.  

I love writing these essays or creative non-fiction pieces.  I do.  I get to share little parts of my world.  Sometimes I rejoice, sometimes it's through tears, others just me learning.  If I never write an autobiography - which, let's face it unless I get more famous than the wonderous 5 or so people who have bought my books it would be a bit of an egotistical indulgence - well, put all these pieces together and you've kind of got one.

I've promised to put them all together for ages so here they are.  I give thanks to all the characters who unlike my fiction are very real and grace the pages that follow this introduction.  You know who you are, even if a lot of times you aren't named.  

This is also for all of you close to me both here and in the ether.  Thank you, it's our experiences together that have made my life the wonder that it is.

2016 Catherine M. Harris

Comment Log in or Join Tablo to comment on this chapter...

Our Wedding and Other Miracles

The matron-of-honour was keening rapturous wails while clutching my shoulder for balance. The Groom was quivering gently beside me that fine snowy day in mid-April. The Minister stood bedecked in his finery intoning those last fatal words:

Those Whom God Hath
Put Asunder
Let No Man
Join Together...

Wisely I heeded sundry prophets of doom and married a little later than average. That I am now married at all is still a bit of a surprise to me; however, I did live to call myself a Missus. So, at the expense of persuading a few singles to forgo their own nuptials, I tell you my tale.

It started so innocently with my boyfriend of five years pronouncing that he was being transferred to Mississauga in a little under six weeks. During a fit of nostalgia at our favourite tavern, perhaps egged on by the mention that my mother had several prospective husbands lined up, with a delicately trembling hand, he took mine in his and gasped, "Wanna get married?"
With tomblike gravity, my response was a quick and decisive utter silence. "Take your time." he told me, so I did.

After half an hour of maniacal giggling and catatonic wall-staring, my dearly beloved announced, "I have to go to the can." 

Five minutes later, I brushed off the cobwebs, sipped some tepid wine and followed him to the bowels of the restaurant. As I descended, there in the shadows at the foot of the stairs emerged my intended. 

In a wave of impetuous affirmation, I fell into his arms and whispered a firm, "Uh huhn."

I'd like to say that at this treasured moment a choir of angels sang and flowers rained down from above. But the angels were singing for some other lovers and all that rained down on our blissful kissing was projectile vomit that flew past our heads from a woman who lurched down the stairs.

Now lesser souls might have taken that as an omen of what was to come, but not us. Instead we began our plan of attack.
First there was the sticky problem of telling everyone that no, we are not crazy, and yes, we really intend to do this. My father was of some concern to me since he held the firm belief that if I really wanted to I should have children but, "for God's sake don't get married!" As for the others there was the inevitable "you pregnant?" which we expected after the length of time we adamantly refused to get married or even live together.

There was also two apartments, two cats, a piano I'd had mouldering in storage for four years and of course, the delightful chore of telling my wholly disliked employers that they could stick it. Also there was the matter of finding an apartment in an area where only dead relatives and lottery winnings will ensure you a place to live. And last but not least was the question of where and by whom we'd get married.

Telling people was the easiest part. Everybody loves to see others get themselves into the same mess they've been in and so they were delighted. Friends and relatives from near and far were happy to come to the wedding to see this for themselves. A Minister was found in the form of my brother-in-law's brother and the church where I had once sung in the choir provided the place.
Now came the dirty work. While my fiance was apartment-hunting I had one week to pack up five year's accumulated detritus from my apartment. We decided that it would be better for me to move to his place before the wedding which left me cheerfully attending to a myriad of details, lunches and meetings at work, things to buy and movers to coordinate.

Our local charity organization would pick up the furniture, and yes, it was all in good condition, sort of. They came the day before the movers and after an opera of expletives about the front stairway, they decided there was no room for the couch. Instead, one particularly avaricious helper was entranced by a waterbed I was planning to throw out. Sure he could take it; of course it was in mint condition. Except for the two supports I forgot to tell him didn't exist any more. Just slipped my *%&! mind. Honest.

The boxes came forty-eight hours before the move, and at midnight the day after, I ran out. In desperation I crammed all my left-overs into garbage bags; with a livingroom that resembled your basic town dump, I finished my packing at dawn.
My movers were friendly, efficient and late; they worked wonders but not miracles. They didn't have room for the couch. Mario, if you read this, sorry about the poor lonely behemoth I left in your livingroom...

Suffice to say that the apartment-hunting trip is a story in 
itself, best left for my husband to tell. After one false start and two and a half month's rent deposit, we weren't going to have to live in the parking lot of Pearson International after all. Mildly exasperated, he returned home triumphant only to find that the woman he left just barely resembled the simpering wraith that awaited him. You see there was a wee problem with the church... 
I will confess here and now that neither my intended nor I were avid church-goers in the past; in fact, I never quite got around to getting confirmed. My taller half had never been baptised and was raised in a different church. No matter, we were both Christians. We just didn't have thirty days to post the banns. Barring a marriage in the middle of Bank Street by a justice of the peace, we decided to go for a dispensation from the Bishop. 

As Norman Mailer could tell you, waiting for a dispensation from the Bishop is much akin to waiting for the Governor's word on the eve of the dawn of your execution. With promises of hurried marriage preparation meetings, post-marriage courses and assurances 
there was absolutely no way we would get married two weeks after we moved (what? you want us to live in sin for a month? Shame on you!) we were finally, two weeks before D-Day, given dispensation. 

Our meetings with the Minister were delightful except that I would burst into laughter every time the word troth was uttered. You see, my first reaction to hearing "I give you my troth" was where can I get one? With visions of little hairy fang toothed troths dancing in my head, any mention of a troth was enough to get the giggles started. 

Complimentary banns were read the Sunday before the wedding at the request of my mother. Naturally we attended one of these services.
After vowing - and yes, believing - that any offspring to this union should partake in religious training, this was a good refresher course in church activities for both of us, and a source of considerable admiration by all. And the bets were heating up nicely on whether I'd break out laughing at "I give you my troth" during the service.

The week before was a joy of coordination. The Matron-of-Honour, living in Philadelphia, came to Ottawa the day after being a Matron-of-Honour at another wedding. Now this was also the city where she had lived with her late husband shortly before he died;
she hadn't been back since, but for the delight of seeing us married (and as for the wager on that, Russell, wherever you are, you won) twenty-two teams of wild horses would not have stopped her coming. Those same horses would not have stopped my fiance's mother and grandmother either; they had long since given up on his ever getting married. But I digress.

The cats were getting along fine, all and sundry were in various stages of ecstasy, the gynaecologist had his grope and our Matron-of-Honour was stepping off the plane. The wedding rings were bought, thankfully, by a generous donation from my aunt.
Four days before the wedding, my dress (yes, the real thing) was bought on sale in one hour. The next day was shopping with my Matron for everything else and getting into arguments with salesclerks and waiters. My intended meanwhile was arranging for a loan with the bank to help pay for the move. Despondent, he returned with the verdict that without collateral no one can get a loan and without a loan no one can get collateral. The employee counsellor at his work put it most wisely; moving and changing jobs is right up there with getting married in terms of stress. His face said it all when my working half told him he was also getting married. He knew whereof he spoke. Wait, it gets better.

In our last week of frantic activity, grandmother, mother, aunts, uncles, sister and brother-in-law complete with nephews began arriving. Ma Bell is still enjoying this and I'm sure Blue Line Taxi is still thanking its blessings. You see, our not having a car meant that it was also necessary to arrange our transportation to and from the church, something that occurred to us the day before the wedding.

The last two days were the greeting of relations, the packing of bags, the long nights of heartfelt discussion with anyone but my almost-husband. I had not gotten to the stage where I was wondering "who is this person?", but getting awfully close to "what the hell am I doing?" Everyone involved naturally had their own ideas of what should be done and everyone contradicted the other. Small things like what brand of champagne to buy suddenly became issues of monumental proportions; for example the realization that one magnum of champagne couldn't possibly serve 32 people for a toast, which occurred to us the night before. This critical situation was nicely solved by the intervention of our "missing link."

The whole procedure being such a hurried affair, it came right down to the wire when we realized we still had NO BEST MAN. Attempts had been made, sure, but travelling persons and unanswered phone messages do not a best man create. Finally, two days before Ground Zero he was found in the personage of a long time good friend. In the amount of time given, we can only say that he did his job admirably. This man deserves an award.

Day One was a delight and everyone was up for it. The phone was surgically removed from my ear in time for the rehearsal and all parties concerned were at the church before it was unlocked. The torrential downpour was really refreshing.

Once inside the church, all of us giddy from too little time and not enough sleep, the jokes came fast and furious. The Minister, meanwhile, tried desperately to keep things in some semblance of propriety. The Matron-of-Honour remarked that the Mets were playing the next day, so we concurred that the wedding should be postponed on account of the Mets. By this time our Minister could only shake his head and regard us with baleful eyes. At the trading of the troths the proceedings ground to a halt with everyone, including our poor beleaguered pastor, laughing so hard we were crying.
Wine on top of the lack of sleep and high emotions made for a very interesting post-rehearsal dinner-and-meeting-of-the-grandmother. We tried, really tried, to behave ourselves but things did get a little out of hand. One such moment begs to be repeated: the tradition of not seeing the bride before the wedding flew out the window with our sanity. When grandmother remarked that we shouldn't see each other, our Matron quipped, "Why not? They've been sleeping together for the last two weeks." Needless to say, Grandma nearly fell off her chair with that one. Our idiocy was reaching gargantuan proportions.

Dinner over, the rehearsal group retired to our apartment for toasts to tomorrow. Of course it was tomorrow by the time the toasts were finished. Living on adrenaline and hysteria we went to bed just in time to get up.

The alarm clock rang with the subtlety of an air raid siren. Time for Armageddon. After five cups of coffee and countless cigarettes, I went to get my hair done. Apres french braids, the flowers arrived and then came the dressing. Our Matron was quietly lurking around taking X-rated pictures to kill time. We weren't nervous at all, just shell-shocked.
At last the cars arrived and amid a slight blizzard we were off to the church. The groom was ushered there by a psychiatrist; meanwhile Matron and father were plotting possible escape routes and getting pretty emotional, complete with lectures on sex from the bride.

At the church our psychiatrist (every wedding should have one - I highly recommend it) quietly passed around prescriptions of Doctor's Own - little sample bottles of Cutty Sark. Pockets bulging, we retreated to the church library to await the arrival of the groom to the altar.

One o'clock came. No sign of the groom at the altar. One ten arrived. Groom, but no bride. One fifteen: bride, father and Matron-of-Honour are running down the aisle with the song "Can you hear that funky dixie land? Pretty Mamma's gonna take you by the hand. By the hand! Hand! Take you by the hand!" playing in our heads.

The service began beautifully and everything was going as planned. Soon I could hear heaving sobs to the left of me. A hand began massaging my left shoulder. Looking over, my Matron was standing in a torrent of tears. The groom glanced over, smiled, and we waited for the troths. No laughter here. Fine.
The licences were signed, the end was nigh. A sombre Minister intoned, "Those whom God hath put asunder, let no man join together." This is a moment of comic relief truly meant to be savoured.

The service over, we forgot to kiss, raced down the aisle, down the stairs that eventually led up to the church annex where the reception was being held. From the depths of the church came a thundering "YEE HAH!!!" compliments of our Matron-of-Honour. The celebrations began.

Our reception was short and sweet, much enjoyed by all. We hitched a ride to the train station in a taxi and soon were off to four days of feverent honeymooning.

Now most people would think that our honeymoon went well, replete with joy every living moment. Well, it certainly was memorable. Stay tuned for the sequel, "Robert Bourassa, the night the lights went out in Montreal and the Honeymooner's Guide to Pharmacopoeia in Quebec."

Names of the living have been omitted to protect the guilty. Any resemblance to actual events is purely intentional...


© 1988, Catherine M. Harris Davies

 

Comment Log in or Join Tablo to comment on this chapter...

The Night The Lights Went Out in Montreal (or, The Honeymooner's Guide to Pharmacopia in Quebec)

"You gotta be kidding!" boomed an American voice, echoing from the apex of this dreaded staircase. Gasping, wheezing, we clawed our way up, leaden feet clanking on metal stairs. Elegantly lighted by a dazzling array of emergency lights, the hotel stairwell was serenely bathed in gentle urine coloured glow, the delightful industrial bile green tinted paint cast a charming seasick haze over our rapidly purpling faces.

We paused at floor eleven to catch our breath. Heavy footsteps stomped their way down, punctuated by cheerful cursing. Weary, we pressed onward until finally, at long last, THE THIRTEENTH FLOOR!

Five-twenty, April 16th, in a flurry of confetti we boarded our coach for forty-eight hours of devil-may-care honeymooning. We slunk into our seats; man and wife, exhausted and stunned, the train lurched away from the station. We were off on our new life. 

My dearly beloved brushed off the confetti fallout, and with a reassuring squeeze of my hand, promptly fell asleep. The place seemed quite quiet to me; looking around I realized we had the car to ourselves. With visions of lurid necking sessions exploding in my brain, I watched my male happily snoring. So this is marriage, thought I.

With two hours to kill, I decided it was high time to write in my diary. With a fresh page in a new book, bought especially for my present condition, I wrote what is probably one of the most important passages in history and bound to go down in infamy: I'm on the train to Montreal and I'm married. It was something. Cathi.

My thundering epic concluding an astounding two minutes later, I put away my diary to contemplate my situation. Here we were, early evening, exactly six weeks after we had boldly gone where neither of us had gone before; we were now married, by God, alive and well and travelling into the Twilight Zone.

I wish there were a way I could explain the feeling I had that evening on our own personal railway car. As I picked little tiny bits of circular paper from my ears, hair, purse and boobs, I glanced over at the comatose form of my freshly-minted husband. Except for the gleaming gold band on his left hand and the fact that he was wearing a tie, I'd've never noticed any difference. 

I thought about myself; my hair looked nice for once, I was wearing a dress with real stockings for a change, and heaven help me, I had real live makeup on. But I didn't really look different, only respectable.

How did I feel? Weird. Just plain weird. My left hand felt like someone tied an anvil on my finger; somehow I had thought that there would be this really amazing change that came about suddenly when the Minister begged my husband to take me; yet here I was, just me with a name I wouldn't respond to for weeks and this big mineral glob on my hand that would forever say to all sleezeballs and slimebuckets that this here broad was owned, you know?

It was slowly beginning to sink in that I no longer owned my name, my future, my body, my cat or my furniture. You get married, you become public property and that's all there is to it. Not wanting to contemplate this phenomenon any longer, I contemplated the inside of my eyelids. Soon the train clacked into the station and we were there.

Since we were moving to Mississauga and quick escapes to Montreal from Ottawa would no longer be possible, we booked ourselves in the classiest place we could afford; the Queen Elizabeth Hotel. In order to accommodate my credit card, booked it in my name; my maiden name. As Mr. and Mrs. Maiden Name, our first Mr. and Mrs. of our lives would forever be assigned to my long-lost self. I loved it.

We were ushered to our delightful room, which came complete with bed (1), drink machine (broken), towels (one set) and television (geriatric). No matter, to us it was the Taj Mahal, oh we of dancing hormones. Having napped we were gleefully rested and raring to go so we decided dinner would be the best thing to do. We weren't going to have just a meal, certainly not; this was the first day of the rest of our married lives and so we would go to the most exclusive and aptly named restaurant in the area. We went to the Beaver Club, downstairs in the hotel and the icon of the monied folks of Montreal.

We were not disappointed. Skinned animal carcasses begraced the elegant walls, the mood was hushed, the service impeccable, the guests even more so, and the cutlery worth more than my life insurance policy.

Walking in there, dressed in my finery, I felt like the town bum. I had no fur coat to speak of, no twelve carat diamonds weighing me down. I was sinfully ordinary. But, with the bloom of a newlywed, we had no need for such frivolities. We were delicately escorted to our table by a distinguished older gentleman who was also our waiter. Would we like an aperitif? Thank you sir. At first sight of a cigarette he was there, materializing from nowhere to light it. Thank you sir.

Thank you. We ordered our meal in a leisurely fashion; after all, there would be no more wedding nights for us. After every appearance, this dear man would thank us profusely; after two hours of this I swore that if I heard thank you one more time I would politely ram the candlestick down his throat. But of course, it was all in good fun and the waiter didn't mind a bit (just kidding, the candlestick was far too heavy to lift - they do that on purpose, you know.)

The wine was fantastic, so much so we later bought a bottle of the same to keep for our first wedding anniversary, and we closed down the restaurant, not wanting to leave the rarefied air. Ah well, our eyelids were drooping and other things weren't. It was time to go upstairs.

Deciding to take it easy the next day, we had lunch at Ben's, went shopping, watched a movie and went to a lovely restaurant for dinner. The next morning was more of the same. That afternoon there were wonderful movies on pay t.v. so we stayed in and watched them. We had yet another great dinner, and then we went to see Beetlejuice, a movie I was desperate to see.

Such bliss; the movie was coming along just fine, down to the really good part. And... and - the screen went blank. Entombed we sat waiting for the lights to come on. Nothing. An emergency generator kicked in, the flood lights flooded, and we joined the rest of the theatre patrons in the building at the snack counter. We waited. 

At first it appeared the power was only off downtown. Then, forty minutes later, with heavy heart, the manager informed all and sundry that the lights were out all over Montreal. Raincheck voucher in hand, we joined the howling patrons of Bright Lights Big City and crept out onto the sidewalk. All I can say about the seven minute walk back to the hotel is simply Montreal without lights is very much like Montreal with lights, only you can't see it. It was dark. Very, very dark. So dark I hoped that the hand I was crushing was my husband's. At least I think it was. 

Suddenly there loomed before us, like a lighthouse in the swell of a storm, glinting like a jewel in the night, our dear old Queen E. Bless their hearts, they have an emergency generator. We walked in, fully expecting to at least be able to sip a wee dram of wine and leisurely make our way back to our room.

Upon entering the hotel, we were greeted with the sight of hundreds of people (well, it looked like hundreds) milling around aimlessly, some lucky souls with glow-sticks in their hands. We were not so lucky. The only glow on us that night was in our hearts. Thinking we might as well join the gang in the bar and partake of whatever there was, we were finally able to get a seat and then we waited. And waited. And waited some more. Around us waiters were whizzing with trays loaded with food and drink who never once looked our way. No one except VIA Rail employees were served that evening. And God only knew where all that food was going to.

After an hour of frustration, we decided we'd be better off in our room. Of course the elevators weren't working, so we were faced with the daunting prospect of thirteen long flights of stairs. Since anything was better than the boredom downstairs, we screwed up our courage and went for it.

It was a long haul, definitely not meant for their illustrious guests, but rather, for the help. There being no help forthcoming, we had no choice but to take it one step at a time. We were not alone however; there were others coming down in search of any life, and way, way up others breathing heavily. Being our honeymoon, we had no objection to heavy breathing, it was just that this was not the type of heavy breathing we were thinking of, and certainly not meant to be shared. Oh well. We made it in one piece.

Now we had the joy of trying to figure out what to do. It was still early, we were having a great time staring out the window at the cars and people wandering around, but there had to be something better than this. The television was out, ditto the cooler, so there wasn't even a soft drink to be had. Then the mister remembered our psychiatrist's parting prescription. We still had all those little bottles of Cutty Sark. We'd have one of those. All we needed was some ice. So, adventurous man that he is, he snuck out to the nice dark hallway in search of an ice machine.

He came back not five minutes later, laughing about a couple of businessmen who were staring woefully at the elevators.

These same men were in concert with a few others who were desperately trying to break open the drink machine. In a wave of generosity, we decided that a couple of prescriptions would do them nicely, and when these gifts were presented we had their undying devotion.

Now all this was fine and dandy for the boys on the thirteenth floor, but frankly, I hate Scotch and would rather drink fermented goose droppings than partake of it. No problem, stated my husband, there's always the wine we bought. We'll buy another bottle tomorrow. How does that sound?

Sounded fine to me; unfortunately, our tastes were better educated than we are and we realized that this was a wine with a cork and no opener. We'll ask the folks down the hall. No problem. No corkscrew. Only a penknife that didn't even dent the cork. So there we had it. Our chance for illicit wine and candlelight, and no way to break open the bottle. That was when my eye chanced upon those skinny white pens the Queen Elizabeth provides. With the help of our Gideon's, the pen pushed the cork nicely into the bottle. We removed the pen innards and there we had it! One opened bottle with a pour spout to boot.

We had a truly wonderful time listening to the radio, perched on the air conditioning watching the world go by. From the radio we discovered that our ignorant waiters were studiously ignoring us because they had a mission to fulfil. Premier Robert Bourassa and et al were presently stranded downstairs. We were in fine company. We were also in the dark with all of Quebec, parts of New Brunswick and New England.

We watched the lights come back on, slowly, early in the morning; the mountain started first with little glints and they inched their way down. Then a block would light up, and another, and finally, ours. A cheer rose up from the street, and all was well again in Montreal.

The next morning, all was not well. He sneezed. In the afternoon he coughed. In the evening I ate from a room service tray, my husband bundled and shivering in bed. And so it was; the last night of our honeymoon, we spent quietly, me with a book, and him with his dreams and a cold.

Sadly we dragged ourselves onto the train, tired and sick, with two duelling cats and an apartment to move to Toronto ahead of us, wondering whether we'd be back here again some year in the future.

On the ride home we slept. When we returned, it was raining. Our last week in Ottawa, our first as a couple. For better or worse, we were now in the Twilight Zone....

And for those who should require, in the course of their visit to the Queen E. a pharmacy, there's a useful little place beneath the hotel. We served it well...Your honeymooner's guide to pharmacopoeia in Quebec.

©1990, C.M. Harris Davies

Comment Log in or Join Tablo to comment on this chapter...

Dear George

Comment Log in or Join Tablo to comment on this chapter...

Magical Cat

Comment Log in or Join Tablo to comment on this chapter...

The Story of Us

Comment Log in or Join Tablo to comment on this chapter...

Intolerably Tolerant

Comment Log in or Join Tablo to comment on this chapter...

Happy Father's Day (Fifteen Years After)

Comment Log in or Join Tablo to comment on this chapter...

Death By A Thousand Cuts

Comment Log in or Join Tablo to comment on this chapter...

Laundromat Girl

Comment Log in or Join Tablo to comment on this chapter...

The Mystery Of Heart

Comment Log in or Join Tablo to comment on this chapter...

Twenty Years

Comment Log in or Join Tablo to comment on this chapter...

Babies From The 30s: Saying Goodbye

Comment Log in or Join Tablo to comment on this chapter...

Resolutions

Comment Log in or Join Tablo to comment on this chapter...

Grandpeople

Comment Log in or Join Tablo to comment on this chapter...

The Golems Of My Soul

Comment Log in or Join Tablo to comment on this chapter...

Some Days I Wish Heaven Weren't So Crowded

Comment Log in or Join Tablo to comment on this chapter...
~

You might like Catherine M. Harris's other books...