Chez Nous … (another short story )

‘Rainbow’ supplied by CanadadaPHOTOGRAPHY.blogspot.com

Philip Pianovic, the famous retired poet of Warsaw, ran a hippie-style bed & breakfast outside the village of Grimsby in the southern province of Ontario in the country of Canada. From the middle of May to the middle of November he ran the B&B catering to the tourists of the increasingly fashionable Niagara wine district. He’d been doing it now for over 20 years since he had first immigrated in the late 70’s. He had lost two good wives over it, both hardworking pleasantly plump women, and had, in turn, gained four pleasantly plump precocious children. His four boys lived with him on the large maple-shadowed property with a riveting horizon view over Lake Ontario. During the season, Philip lived in the rambling central clapboard farmhouse while the children lived in three separate little cottages that he had built for them scattered about the place. The B&B arrangement was set up in such a way that they rented out the cottages on the weekends, mostly to American road trippers and to sightseers from Toronto. Philip’s children would happily move back into the farmhouse for the two or three nights always carefully preparing the cottages for the in-coming visitors before they moved over. No detail was too small. It was a game now as much as a way of life for them all. Who could create the most interesting cottage? How many photographs would the visitors take? To date, Gilly was winning hands down. Everyone photographed his little cottage at the back of the property down the cedar hedge laneway.

The entire place had the air of the poetic about it. Everyone said so.

Everyday at dawn Philip would let out the large lumbering Newfoundlander, Puzzler, and go around to the little houses to wake up his four boys. By the time they got over to the main house at seven, their breakfast would be hot on the table. Philip always cooked up a big hearty morning meal for his brood and any visiting guests.

There had been quite an influx of European visitors recently since the explosive debut of the Niagara Ice Wine Festival several years ago. Philip discovered that these tourists generally preferred to stay in the more traditional Victorian B&B’s run by the ex-pats up the North Shore Service road towards Niagara-on-the-Lake. Philip actually understood their ‘we-want-colonial-grandeur’ preference, and just continued on catering to the less demanding egalitarian simple-minded nature-loving touring North Americans.

Anders, his eldest son, now 19, lived beside the outdoor trampoline in the largest and most expensive of the little cottages called ‘Sunny One’. He was an enthusiastic sports nut and his cottage reflected his diverse water-sport interests. Surf boards and sailboats were jammed under the house frame. Paddles were criss-crossed beside the front door. ‘Sunny One’ was painted a vivid lemon yellow with ebony-black louvered shutters. A concrete leaf walkway that Anders had made out of a sunflower pod meandered from the cottage to the lake. It also had the best view. Anders had created a lot of additional features that made visitors want to return to it again and again. He’d built a queen-size box spring out of discarded barn-board in the attic for the waterbed. Created a mini spiral stairwell without an exterior handrail. Mirrored the little livingroom with tinted glass to add depth, and he’d even attached dried grapevines aroundthe bay window interwoven with jack o’lanterns to add festive atmosphere. The best feature however was the two-headed outdoor shower that he had hooked up behind the barn-board screen under the large maple tree near the trampoline. Many bums had faced out over the Lake through the years. The shower had steamy hot water flowing from its direct spray nozzles as well as a mosaic sunflower floor splash. He’d hung prisms in the branches for glamour. The shower was actually a favourite spot with all the guests within the B&B compound, not to mention a continual source of interest to the slow-poke beachcombers. Philip could rent out the whole ‘Sunflower’ package to an American couple for $250 U.S. per weekend. Easy. Needless to say, Anders took a great deal of pride in his little house. Even his assorted shiny hockey trophies mounted on the center beam added a novel touch to the eclectic interior décor. The whole spot had a marvelous madcap well-kept fun-feel about it.

Gilly, at 17, lived in the ramshackled cedar shake cottage down the cedar hedge laneway. ‘Peach Pod’, situated at the back of the property stood near the now empty peach sorting shed. Gilly was by all accounts a very gifted young artist. ‘Peach Pod’ had no view of the lake, but rather, had its windows facing out over the vast cultivated peach tree nursery that extended far up to the lip of the escarpment. It was the most desired cabin during June when the wafting floral scent of the orchard was at its most poignant and the soft ivory blooms were brain-embossing vibrant. Bees could be a problem though, especially later in the season, and Gilly had unfortunately developed an allergic reaction to their bites. He never complained, just popped another antihistamine, and told someone to listen to his speech for 30 minutes. If he started to slur, it was time to rush him up to the little medical clinic down the road in Grimsby. They only had to do that twice in all the years. ‘Peach Pod’ also had the best open-grate wood stove surrounded by bulging bookcases. Gilly kept the stove well maintained and primed at all times. It was the central topic of most of his conversations. He hated the cold with a passion and always kept the cabin warm and cozy. It was not uncommon to smell wifts of wood smoke late at night in the middle of August. His fingers had to be warm enough to draw his fanciful pre-raphealite portraits of the passing parade of guests that he would haphazardly tack up onto his cabin walls. There were sketches, folios and paintings everywhere. Gilly would cut down all his own firewood from the prunings and dead wood dragged in from the orchard. He was meticulous about this backbreaking job: the logs were never cut greater than 5″ in width, and were never longer than a foot in length. He would stack the wood creatively on the southeast side of the cottage so it would properly air dry over the season. His geometric woodpile was a sculptural thing of beauty. The guests always said so, and usually took several photographs from several different angles. Even the discarded trimmings were artfully arranged in a quixotic eye-catching teepee. Gilly was winning the competition by far again this year. Everyone said he was going to be famous, just like his father.

Michael, now 12, and Tom, at 9, lived in the smallest three-room red vinyl cottage, ‘Apple Shack’, beside the central farmhouse. Philip could keep an easy eye on them, and could shout out the window whenever their music or rough housing got too loud during the week. Naturally inquisitive explorers, these two healthy boys were always finding new treasures to add to their owner-proud front garden plot. Last week Michael had brought in a big hunk of trilobite rock that he had broken off from the limestone shale at Shandler’s Point. He had made a port-a-harness for Puzzler. The Newfoundlander was temporarily transformed into a turn-of-the-century workhorse as Michael marched alongside triumphant with his latest treasure. Tom, not to be outdone, had a fine collection of sword sticks and spoke shaved lances. After Michael had planted the stone, Tom had artfully latticed the exterior of thefront windows withsome of his finest sword creations even using a step ladder to get up there when no-one was looking. They were gaining in the competition this year, but weren’t quite ready yet. They wanted to win. They had even started wearing costumes in the hope that visitors would take more pictures. Tom had a grand billowing cape made from a discarded boat sail, and Michael had made a helmet with large holes for his eyes and nose from a discarded leaking sap tapping bucket. A pink toilet bowl cleaner jammed into the top added a certain regal flourish. Memorable lawn ornaments, the boys would freeze-frame when the clouds parted. Cameras were clicking.

All in all the Pianovics were a content and happy bunch.

Meals were an informal affair. Philip always had enough food in the two refrigerators in the house, and the rule was that they could eat whatever and whenever they liked, but the last eater always had to leave enough for the next food marauder. No one was to ever go short. It was all understood. They had to replace the milk pouch in the canister with the next and clip open the top, close the lids properly on the hamburger or hotdog toppings, unwrap the butter and wipe up any spills anywhere. Do their own dishes. Always leave the fresh poppy seed buns for the weekend breakfasts, and share any extras. It worked out well enough. Puzzler was, tangentially, a very happy dog.

Philip continued to write his poetry on the weekends when the central farmhouse was filled with his boys and the cottages were filled with eager guests. He would sit pensively on the screened-in verandah tying words together, twirling tongue teasers within his second language, while his boys ransacked the house and his guests settled in for their short stay. There would be many interruptions: keys, cars, directions, instructions, directives, counseling and even comforting. Philip found that these interruptions actually enhanced his poetry-making experience. He enjoyed these intrusive non-sequitors coming in from all quarters. When whatever issue or problem had been satisfactorily sorted, he would return refreshed to his poet mode and nook, and continue tinkering away creatively at new sounds linked to new symbols. He kept a scratch pad and pen handy on the verandah swing and just kept adding on bits when the spirit moved him. He had nearly 70 pages scribbled down at the moment, and the season was still young. It was only mid June.

The telephone rang. Anders took the call in the kitchen. It was another reservation for the up-coming weekend from a Miss Lucille Towe. She was a newcomer from Kingston, had never been to the region before, but had received a recommendation to stay there from Alec Demur, the poet from Vancouver nick-named ‘The Rowdy Acquiescent One’ aka T.R.A.O (spoken as Trao), who had visited two summers ago. He had suggested she try for the ‘Peach Pod’ cottage. “Unfortunately,” Anders explained, “‘Peach Pod’ is reserved for the weekend. All that was available was shared accommodation in the ‘Apple Shack’ with another single female tourist, Susie LeFleur from Montreal.” He added that there was quite a substantial savings in the rates if they shared. Almost half. Only $75 CDN each per night. There was a long silence from Lucille. Philip could hear Anders starting to oversell. He reached over and picked up the phone extension in the verandah. “Hello?” he charmed with his thickest baritone accent. “Can I help you?” Anders interjected, “That’s my father. He runs the place. You can talk to him. Dad, Trao recommended us to her.” He hung up and finished preparing his turbo submarine sandwich of ham, turkey and beef. He gave a quarter of it to Tom who was hovering nearby. Lucille asked, “I’m sorry but have you got anything cheaper? I’ll only be staying two nights, Friday and Saturday. I’m attending an Ice Wine conference in Grimsby on Saturday. It’s really a business trip, not pleasure, as much as I am interested in the area.” Philip considered the voice. “Well, we really don’thave that much available here, we can only sleep six comfortably in beds, but I might be able to squeeze you in at $30 a night on a cot somewhere if you are prepared to wing it a bit.” Lucille liked the sound of his voice too. “That sounds fine. I’ll fit in wherever. I just need a pillow for the night.” Philip replied, “No problem. We’ll find a spot for you.”

During the week everything went along as normal. The boys kept pretty much to themselves and their respective projects. Philip worked away on his poetry in the farmhouse. Thursday came and went, and Friday arrived bright and crisp. Philip awoke at dawn wondering where he was going to put Miss Lucille Towe. There had been no cancellations from any of the other reserved guests: all were coming. There really was no spare room. It was going to be another full house for the weekend. He drifted for a moment thinking how he might even plan a little extra entertainment for the group with perhaps a bonfire on the beach or a picnic at the back end of the orchard on Sunday. Then he returned to, where would he put her?At breakfast with the boys he raised the issue. They had to find room for Miss Lucille Towe. It was concluded that they would make up the empty peach sorting shed with a cot and comforter. Everyone would contribute three items from their cottage to make her feel at home. They could convert one of the sorting stalls into a make-shift 10×12 room. There was even a small window there that faced east towards the village of Grimsby; she would be able to see a tip of the lake. There was electricity. Gil had a spare lampshade. They could hook up the hose to give her a washbasin in one of the sap tapping buckets. Since Gilly’s cabin was rented to a repeat couple from Sedona, Arizona, she would need to come up to the farmhouse to share the john with the rest of the family. Michael was given the job to have that cleaned up. The pair from Arizona were a quiet artsy elderly couple and could keep an easy eye on Miss Lucille, they were friendly enough. So, it was all decided.

The boys put their assorted creative objects in the shed before heading off late again to school. Anders took over his biggest trophy, his kayak paddle and a more-or-less finished twisted-vine mirror frame. Gilly tacked up his striking portrait of Alec Demur aka Trao beside the window and left a spare drawing pad with a 3B pencil and pencil sharpener. Michael took over his well-thumbed copy of ‘A Natural History of Lake Ontario’ and put two of his favourite treasures on the window ledge: a flint chipped arrowhead and a found driftwood coconut shell. Tom took over a cluster of his bulrush wands dipped in yellow house paint and made a dramatic bouquet outside the front of the stall. Philip later added the finishing touches. He rolled open the small camp cot opposite the window so she could lie in bed and see out. He turned the mattress and made up the bed with fresh flannel sheets. He hung a hummingbird feeder off the maple justoutside the window. He put the lampshade over the bare bulb hanging in the middle of the room, painted the naked metal switch engine red, and put out three large clean lime green bath towels with a new bar of hand-made organic mint soap beside the bucket and the hose. He plugged in the tiny but efficient space heater, checking to make sure it was turned off. Then he rushed into the village to get more bacon for the weekend and a new batch of freshly baked poppy seed buns from the bakery.

By 6 o’clock ‘Chez Nous’ was full, except Miss Lucille had just called up saying that she was lost, she was up on the hills past the vineyards somewhere, phoning from the Esso station beside Carol’s Diner. Philip gave her simple turnaround directions and continued sitting on in the verandah, musing. Michael was tormenting Puzzler with a new harnessing contraption that threatened to involve his tail. Tom was cutting out banana blobs of felt to add onto his cape. Anders was adjusting the brace for his new slalom ski, tilting back and forth in the foot-hold, swaying left and right on the front lawn. He kept changing his forward front foot. He just couldn’t decide which was his stronger leg. Gilly was carefully sharpening his colouring pencils with an ancient Swiss army knife making a delicate perfect mound of swirling wood shavings on the center of the second tier of the front step.

The motorcycle was very loud as it rumbled up the loose gravel driveway towards the front of the farmhouse. A pleasantly plump woman in black leather turned off the engine and dismounted heavily. She lifted off her helmet putting it over the left handlebar. A cascade of ruby red hair fell voluptuously to her waist and she began slowly striding up to the house. The leather squeaked a bit between her legs. All had stopped what they were doing to watch this arrival. Philip put down his poetry scribbler and stood up in the verandah to watch her pass Anders who gave her a great big smile. As she neared the steps she said to Gilly, “I might upset your little pile there.” Gilly grinned and said it was all right. The steps sagged ominously under her heavy foot. The pile remained intact.

Philip opened the screen door as wide as he could. As she entered she said, “Hello. I’m Miss Lucille Towe.” He responded with a friendly chuckle, “Welcome to ‘Chez Nous’ Miss Lucille Towe. Or, should I say – Mistletoe?”

She giggled and nodded, her red hair swishing.The weekend had begun.