I knocked on the door. A middle-aged woman in exercise wear answered. She told me she was the owner and when I mentioned that I had once lived in the house she invited me inside. Entering the front room I was surprised by a crowd of people: groups of old women sat at tables playing cards and laughing; an old man in baggy pants pushed a walker; more old people sat quietly on chairs.
The room was stuffy, overheated. But through the window at the far end of the room I could see the unchanged beach—the cool stretch of sandbar, the smooth summer sea.
The woman told me the house was a nursing home—that there were ten residents plus activity workers, caregivers and kitchen staff—and that this accounted for the crowding.
My father built this house, I told her.
A lot of people say that, she said, and smiled.
But he did! Look! Here by the front window is the place my mother sat with her knitting and spied on the oriental cleaning woman who lived across the street. She called her Hop Sing; she lived with an older man called Mr. X.; he was bald and drove an oil truck. And here is the place my father sat in his blue recliner before supper to watch the news when he was home, weary from his job on the ships. And that door over there led to my bedroom; it had a three-quarter bed and a dresser painted grey.
We went into this room. It was a kitchen. Two women in white aprons were dishing up the old people’s dinner—meat pie and mashed carrots—something I had often eaten as a child, with a glass of milk, my father glancing up from the supper table to the bright sea beyond the kitchen window and saying, I think I’ll cut the grass tonight, and my mother saying, it’s about time.
I think you’ll be happy here, the owner said.
AUTHOR INTERVIEW
1. Thank you.
2. Sure. Appears to be. But isn’t.
3. Five of us, actually. Though everyone’s left. Except us.
4. School. Work. One to a nursing home.
5. That’s right. Two of us in this big house.
6. Not bad. I write. He cycles. We visit the others.
7. Oh, every few weeks.
AFTERWORD
THE CELESTIAL SPHERE
My father says: I learned to do everything at sea; through the years I did it all. I knew knots and painted decks, and as an officer I handled men. But what I liked best was navigation. The instruments, the calculations. I liked the accuracy and being sure. Before radar we used the stars. I knew every important star in both hemispheres; my calculations were never wrong. I navigated ships under sail and ships using steam and fuel. Through all kinds of seas and on both sides of the equator. I knew the currents in all the oceans. My specialty was manoeuvring around the obstacles—the sudden storms, the change of currents, engine problems, the deadlines for delivering cargo. I could read the sky, the wind, knew rain, clouds, fog, air pressure. I could tell what weather was coming by smelling the air. Even the ocean swells. Standing on deck at night, just by the roll of the ship, I could tell you how high, how fast they were running. All these things went into my navigation. It was more than numbers. It was my life. But it wasn’t what I lived for.
From “Navigation,” Word of Mouth, 1996
Other Books by M.A.C. Farrant
published by Talonbooks
The Strange Truth About Us
The Breakdown So Far
Darwin Alone in the Universe
About Talonbooks
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Copyright © 2009 M.A.C. Farrant
Talonbooks
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Cover painting: Snow Owl Parking Meter by Gertrude Pacific.
Cover design by Adam Swica.
First Printing: 2009
The publisher gratefully acknowledges the financial support of the Canada Council for the Arts; the Government of Canada through the Book Publishing Industry Development Program; and the Province of British Columbia through the British Columbia Arts Council and the Book Publishing Tax Credit for our publishing activities.
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Cataloguing data available from Library and Archives Canada
ISBN 978-0-88922-804-7
Down the Road to Eternity Page 20