EDMONTON EXISTENTIAL

Before the Fall

The Rolling Stones have released something like 20 live albums since Ann last taught music in Edmonton’s public system (of course I bought them). “Back to school” for me was an annual advertising theme, tired, difficult to keep fresh. “Back to school” for Ann remains the start of a new year; old triggers still fire.

Ann’s orchestra is gearing up for what its members hope will be a proper season in the wake of two years of pandemic confusion. Stats Guy and I are musing about reviving the Tuesday Night Beer Club because who hasn’t longed for sub-pub, par-for-the-main-course-your-choice-of-two-sides grub, disgusting toilets and televised sports? Covid’s not going anywhere anytime soon.

September arrived hotter than July. I ceased my bread baking operations while reminding myself to have the furnace inspected; funny, some types of heat are better than others. The Crooked 9’s lawn was crispy underfoot, no point cutting short straws. My axiom of 12 mows between Victoria Day and Thanksgiving will prove false this year. Coincidentally, those holidays now bracket the extended wildfire season in western Canada. Distant fires change the colour and composition of the sky, sunbeams crashed on the ground register more orange than yellow or white, and orange should only be smelled as fresh fruit, fresh ink or fresh paint, not smoky like paprika.

Our weather has since settled into more seasonal norms. Mornings on the front porch with coffee, cigarettes and the newspaper now require an upper layer of flannel or fleece. The sun’s a little lower in the sky. Ann has begun cutting back some of the perennials in her garden. The arborist has visited to prune the birches, the crabs, the buckeye, the mountain ash and the giant lilac bush; the dead and distressed are best revealed through the camouflage of verdant foliage. Ann’s patio flowerpots and hanging baskets are still thriving albeit ripe for the taking by the first overnight frost.

I have started work on another novel. Its premise is universal boomer, an old folks’ home as high school or university dorm living. What could possibly go awry should a man like me with his addictions and Rolling Stones records move into a seniors’ residence? I won’t want to play canasta. I won’t want to watch The Sound of Music on movie night. Fuck chair zumba. My trouble with long form storytelling is that after writing the beginning, I find I require a middle and an end; winter’s promise is time to plot.

Bob Dylan once said, “Nostalgia is death.” On that note, Ann and I will spend a portion of the Thanksgiving long weekend in Montreal. We are hopeful the city’s maple leaves will have turned red by then; a vivid display of a season’s end just for us, summer gone. I wish to attend my 45th high school reunion. Time has recast hell in a better light, a rosier hue. Ann, wisely, will take a pass on spending time with the old boys; ironically, I’ve not kept in touch with the vast majority of my graduating cohort. But back in my old school I won’t have braces on my teeth anymore, my complexion will be sort of clear; my body remains fairly trim if a tad heavier, an additional inch around my waist. Most of my hair remains, each single strand thinner and greyer. I intend to say hello and trawl incidental material for my manuscript. And I do hope a fellow whom I’ve not seen since 1977 will turn up insisting that the Faces are still better than the Stones. Then again, maybe he’s all grown up now.        

meGeoff has been your most unreliable, unbalanced and inaccurate alternative source of casual bus stop weather conversation since 2013. The novella Of Course You Did is my latest book. Visit www.megeoff.com for links to purchase it in your preferred format.