The Other Press

December 9th 1981 to 1982

 

 

 

 

 

~ Pushing a cart
In the shopping mall

it spied

Two Beautiful
Little Girls

Twins, I thought
Maybe four
Or perhaps five
Years old
They were so pretty
Dressed alike

I could not resist
saying Hello.

‘*Good morning, Girls
How are you today?”’

. “He’s not a girl
He’s my brother|’’

h:?*

I had to get
further in the mire.

“Aw, goon
Do you think
I don’t know girls
When I see them?”’

“‘He’s not a girl

‘He’s a boy

He’s my brother
You want me to prove it, Huh?’’

Lots of women
standing by. Laughing

Me and my big
mouth.

Flustered
I almost-ran
in search of
the pickle Dept.

Heck, we don’t
eat pickles

What did I come
in for, anyway?
I couldn't
remember

I went out
empty handed

Except for the memory
of the two beautiful children
(one was a boy)

 

We were having
‘so much fun

McNabs Island, the favorite

 

 

 

=

In 1901, we lived ina small town in popeheun
Ontario. People living in the town had no

church. My mother was a good church woman;

- she was from Cambridge, England. she would

say, ‘‘We wish we had, but we’ve never been
able to get anybody to take it up,’’ and so on.

So he got my mother to be chairwoman. We
began making money by having concerts. I
was at a concert once when I had an earache,

and I was howling and howling. The fellow
beside me was having his girlfriend do a
recital, and he had to hear her. Her recital was

a fight between the moon and the wind. The
wind was going, ‘‘Whoo, whoo, who, I’ll blow
you out.’’ Because her voice was so light, I
started to scream. Her boyfriend pressed a
dime in my hand and said, ‘‘Try to be quiet,

that’s my girl up there.’’ Iwas about to go. to

the store and buy al those good things you
could buy then for a dime, candy, licorice, but
my mother said, ‘‘Wouldn’t you like to donate
it to the church?’’ That was the most money

Poems by Robert Story

 

I'd ever had in my life. It went to the church. J

 

Spot, for all such seats

Events.

Families enjoying the

Children waiting their turn

on the swing

Scenic Boar Ride

Down the Harbour
Past St. George’s Isle
on to the dock site
of McNabs

Children rushing ahead

anyway.

of parents carrying baskets -

Up the winding path

To the huge picnic grounds
The row of booths with

Flaps propped up

displaying dispensers of

Iced Lemonade, Orangeade,

First, the men
then the boys,

Everyone was having
so much fun.

Milk,Ice Cream Cones .

The kitchen where women were

The afternoon wore on
getting near the time

preparing Hot Tea, Chocolate, Coffee For the Boat ride
Home baked cookies and

Goodies

the vast sports field
where contestants were
preparing for their events

-Back up the Harbor
I stopped to watch
at the swing

had waited hours for
her turn.

A row of Swings with

Huge timber beams

Her Daddy was pulling

Dug into the ground the rope.

And heavy cross beams
Eyelets bolted through
To support the sturdy rope
strung through the wooden

I was Twelve, and competed
in some of the sports. No luck,
I was never good at sports

Watching the Tug-of War. |

then the men ond their
wives or sweethearts

A little girl about my age

‘“Hang on Wendy. Here we go
up, up, up.”’

‘“‘Higher Daddy, Higher, Gee
I’m having fun.’’ »

I was about to turn
To walk down to the boat
Landing
When there was the pistol
Sharp snap of Crashing
' Timber.
Horrified, I saw the
Two uprights had snapped
_ simultaneously.

re Wendy was on the up-swing.

As she hit the ground

The heavy cross bar

Smashed into the side
Of her head.

One eye lay on her cheek
With Blood and Brain
Seeping through
The empty socket.

Her Daddy had her in

his arms.
“Wendy Darling, speak to me
Wendy.’’ He was sobbing
“‘Oh Wendy Dear Speak

to Daddy.

We were having so
Much fun, Wendy
Wendy?

 

 

Ty

 

se.

Quick! Can you guess how old Robert Storey
was when he wrote this poem? I couldn’t when
Ifirst read it. I still can’t quite believe that the
answer is 86,id that’s even after interviewing
him in his home in Maple Ridge. What’s more,
he’s a student, like you and I, at Douglas

College. He’s also the oldest student at the
college. Impeccably dressed and courteous, all
that betrays his age is a toussled shock of
white hair and a cane upon which he leans as
he walks..

Before enrolling at the college siz years ago,
Storey had been 65 years away from teachers
and classroom. During that time, he’d taken
part in the two great wars, especially the
second (‘‘A few got hurt in that chill dispute’’),

and had spent two-and-a-half years as a
prisoner-of-war. Add to this a miscellany of |.
other experiences (‘‘Some worth reading
about’’) and an active, intelligent mind, and
you have thedesire to write a book recording
the experience (‘‘If I die they will be gone’’).

The impulse to write a book led Storey,
originally, to the doors of the college, for, like
many of us, he didn’t know how to write well.
He started by taking a creative writing class, -
because it was then the only writing class
offered at Maple Ridge. He really got into
poetry (‘‘Peotry is something of an artist’s
work: it is inspirational’’) and enjoys it. His
enjoyment, however, stops short of the poems
in the texts he’s had to buy (‘‘Garbage,”’ is his-
judgement of Milton). “g