There were four or five to a table and we were grouped by reading ability.  At my table, the enriched reading table, there were five of us.  Me, my best friend Melanie, my other best friend Heather, my other best friend Verna, and Tony … who was most definitely not my best friend.  I had a lot of best friends then … I still do, but none of them is Melanie, Heather or Verna.

I was stuck beside Tony.

Tony told me about his fish and fish books every day.

He had a lot of fish.

He also had a lot of fish books … or maybe he just had a lot of stories about that one fish book.

I wore skirts with prints of flowers and soft cotton t-shirts.  White cotton undies that rode up my butt, long blonde pig tails that tickled my back, and velcro sneakers.  My hard plastic lunchpail had a thermos inside that most days held sugary tang, but some days it had ravioli - and ravioli days were the good days.

I loved craft days and gym days and library days with read-aloud time.  Losing myself in a book or in my rendition of the voice of the character in a book was not losing myself at all - it was like finding a home where everything smelled of fresh-baked cookies and every surface was covered in cozy just like my blankie.  

I especially loved game days.  Game days were a lot of fun.  Seven-up was my absolute favourite.  I loved the anticipation - would somebody tap me, would I be able to guess who, would I get to do the tapping, would I steal a quick snooze or snatch a momentary daydream?  We’d sit there at our tables … our heads nuzzled into our elbows to block out the light.  Except for Melanie … she told me on the playground that she always let just enough light in to see the passing shadows.  She did not like to lose.  

Melanie sat on the other side of me at our enriched reading table.  “Do it”, I heard her whisper through the crack under her arm.  

Sure our heads were down on our desks poised and ready to be tapped, but there would be no seven-up that day.

“Say it was yours”, she coaxed, “and hurry up - I really have to pee”.

“GIRLS!” Ms. Appleby said harshly.  “There’s no need to be whispering.  Now class, we are going to sit here as long as it takes for whoever threw out this whole sandwich from their lunch to come forward.”

Melanie nudged.  I could see her eyebrows egging me on.  I felt my hand go up.  I didn’t want it to go up.  I didn’t want it to be my hand that went up.  It was not my sandwich.  But there I was, hand up.

My shoulders, my everything stiffened up in anticipation … in fear of what was to come next for me from Ms. Appleby.  The room buzzed with relief and whispers and energy.  

“Everybody but Norma Jean can head outside for recess.”

“QUICKLY!”

Thank-God she said quickly.  I know I had to pee.  I know I wanted it to be over with.  

She set the sandwich in my lunchbox next to my pink thermos.  She told me I would have to take it home - I was not to eat it, and I had better not throw it out again.  Her knowing disappointed look stayed with me throughout the day and during the long bus-ride home.

************

“What’s this sandwich?” my Dad yelled from the kitchen.  

I told him the whole story.  The heads on desks … Melanie … Ms. Appleby … the pee … the lie.  The lie, the lie, the LIE my best friend made me tell.  

“Uh-huh,” Dad would say periodically as I went through my long sordid tale.  I am sure I shed tears, because I always shed tears.  I still do, but not over sandwiches.

When I had finished, he leaned over and lifted me up and set me on the counter.  He got up really close and pressed his nose against mine, so close that our eyelashes kissed like butterfly wings.  Then he said,

“Looks tasty.  Want half?” 

**************

If you liked my story, return to http://www.thegirlwho.net and vote for me by typing “I vote for Norma” (or words to that effect) in the comment block of the post that contains the links to “The Great Experiment - Childhood Memory”.

It was a nearly perfect day.  Together time that felt really together, like the wide bow must feel all looped up and snug on a present just waiting to delight its recipient … that is, if a bow could feel.  The air, in tight partnership with the falling leaves, was there to remind us of the approaching end of winter’s rest.  For the price of a couple of steamy latte’s we raced the corn maze, rode with hay, and collected a bag of apples too big for Z to carry.  The last of the apples found their way into last night’s apple pie.  

Mmmm.  
Salty buttery crunchy pie hearts.
Cinnamon-y lemon apple goodness.
It was a very nearly perfect day.

The ladybugs kept her quite busy, and me … not so busy in the right places or doing the right things.
You can read about Toronto’s recent ladybug infestation in here. ]]>http://www.novemberjuliet.com/journal/rss-comments-entry-5613162.xmlNorma Jean BarrettMon, 19 Oct 2009 23:42:09 +0000http://www.novemberjuliet.com/journal/2009/10/19/reach.html43448:372455:5554759

When do strangers become more than mere acquaintances?
Is it when their eyes meet?
Is it when they sparkle in the reflection of another?
When a hand reaches out to greet and finds warmth and welcome.
Is it when hey you’s and hiya’s replace hello,
and cheers and take care’s become miss you and xo?

When do friends become more than well-acquainted strangers?
Is it when their hearts touch?
Is it when they feel joy and ache in the reflection of each other?
When they stop reaching for explanations of themselves instead choosing to just be.
When hiya’s and hey you’s turn to hon’s and sweets,
and goodbye hugs are followed by ‘til next we meet.

When do lovers become more than just friends?
Is it when their fingers braid?
Is it when they calmly rest despite the nervous flutter?
When reaching for words is abandoned for the comfort of shared silence.
When me too and I know turn to really? … there’s no way
and what’s happening? is replaced by we will be okay.

When do well-acquainted strangers become less than friends?
Is it when their hearts harden?
Is it when they feel solace and relief in the absence of each other?
When they reach for tissues and remotes and booze to numb the white noise.
When words volley on target, then into thin air
and pacified by apathy, they give up to I don’t care?

When do mere acquaintances estrange to strangers?
Is it when their eyes meet
blankly, no longer searching for sorrow in the reflection of the other?
When a hand reaches out and awkwardly retreats to the safety of alone.
When hello’s are followed by the shallow how’ve you been,
and memory’s distant pulse encourages you to reach again.
]]>http://www.novemberjuliet.com/journal/rss-comments-entry-5554759.xmlJellybeanstraffic courtNorma Jean BarrettSat, 17 Oct 2009 16:06:22 +0000http://www.novemberjuliet.com/journal/2009/10/17/traffic-court-draft-2.html43448:372455:5481944Hunched over like a row of upright candy canes in a box.  Thumbs wag.  Texting.  A common dress-code of denim, hoodies and button up shirts dressed down.  A baby cries loudly in the other room.  Check.  A baby screams loudly in the other room.   A siren sounding off - starvation for a meal of goldfish, cuddles, and a bit of “anywhere but here” it whines.  Despite the walls, I sense a mother’s desperation and wonder how long she’ll last.

Across the waiting room I have a clear view of the prosecutor’s small make-shift office.  A desk.  A computer.  Two chairs.  A spreadsheet.  What I assume is the docket.  A girl in a plummy lululemon wipes away tears.  She doesn’t dab, but smears the tissue across her eye.  The bags under my eyes sting empathetically.  I wonder how serious this is.

A scruffy man breaks the steady clips of texting.  He talks loudly to his girlfriend as he plays with his ticket, clutching his worn black leather wallet tightly.  He leans back, tilting the waiting room chair.  By all accounts they are comfortable - the chairs.  Fitting for the dullness of the bright shiny perfection of another government building.  Grey and stripe-y, like corduroy without the corduroy; matching the carpet and contrasting the walls.  Plummy Lulu wipes her nose and keeps her eyes low as she half-nods towards the prosecutor.  Scruff’s girlfriend gets up and paces.  Caramel skin, sharp features, despite the day old makeup, she is attractive in an edgy exotic way.  Channelling Kate Moss’ affinity for appearing unkept, her hair hangs in clumpy waves halfway down her back.  Her chunky open toe shoes choke her pudgy swollen feet.  I think of the pedicure my toes need.

The baby screams.

I smile thinking fondly of the late night conversation with my crush.  Sweet compliments.  Awkward jokes.  Charm and insecurity tightly intertwined. Forgiven only by the fog of first steps.  “Sounds like she’s having a rougher day than us” I say quietly to the air.  “Uh-huh” I hear the hammer say beside me as his well loved danners keep a steady pace in time with a fan running among the layers of white noise.

Mr. Perry Ellis doesn’t budge, the arm of his neat namesake glasses remains a perfect parallel to the floor.  Eyes straight ahead.  Hands cupped tightly on his lap.  Legs uncrossed and perfectly square, matching the shape of his navy knit sweater vest.  His hands loosen long enough for me to catch the glint of his flat gold ring as he scratches his nose.  He is as unrelaxed as a nun on Sunday, braced for anything but fun.  He’s not wearing socks, which I think is odd for the windy about-to-rain grey October day.  His leather deck shoes are tidy and well cared for, guarded by layers and layers of leather protective spray.  The leather laces are not tied in a bow, but are knotted and tasselled with a tightly wound nautical coil.  I wonder how they smell after a long sockless day.  

Hammer’s clipboard lists his many jobs for the day.  Call Rocheck.  Call – get lights.  Ticket.  Dr. Smith windows.  Pick up lumber.  Remember receipt.  The baby’s scream fades, I assume on account of her leaving.  The new quiet is broken by chimes of incoming text and email.  The candy canes thumb busily. 

“Mr. and Mrs. Bennett” the prosecutor calls.  

I lean my head back and rest it on the wall.  Taking pause, I reflect.  Every experience I have these days is super draining.  My mind a hive of bees in and out, bringing not honey, but details details details and more details.  “Show … don’t tell” my imagined professor reminds me.  There are details everywhere and in everything, and my alert mind can’t help but scan the world on constant intake.  Is that shirt blue?  How blue is it?  Is it navy, or just blue?  Is it the kind of blue that gives you that sense of delightful discovery within … like Ikea blue?  Or is it just blue?  What was the person thinking when they put it on that day?  Were they thinking?  Clearly Mr. Perry Ellis wasn’t?  Clearly his was the work of a loving wife?  “Here.  Put this on.  This is smart,” she might have said.  Or maybe he heard her spirit say that.  My imagination tells me there are many reasons.  Maybe it wasn’t a she.  Maybe it was just clean.  I wore what I wore because it was comfortable.  I wore what I wore because it’s me … clean and comfortable.  Worn in jeans, cashmere socks, royal blue cashmere hoodie, coach belt, born short leather boots, roots 3/4 length coat, and the expensive leather purse … a spontaneous therapeutic splurge during a previous life’s exceptionally rough work day.  Comfy.

Mr. and Mrs. Bennett walk out of the office and re-take their former seats in the waiting area with the rest of us.  Their olive skin, dark hair, and saucer brown eyes inform me that they are from the mediterranean.  I recall seeing versions of them while on a trip to Greece many years prior.  Three young girls, all professionals, we took a three day break from the main event in Kosovo for a little rest and recovery in Greece.  The white wash, the aqua blue, the calimari.  Ohhhh the calimari.  My eyes close and my mind returns to now.  Bennett tells me I am wrong about Greece.  Scottish-Greek, I compromise.

We are finally called into the courtroom where Mr. Justice waits for us, ready to affirm our guilt, collect our fines, and to send us on our way.

NO hats.  NO food or drink of any kind.  NO cellphones or electronics of any kind.  NO talking.  

We file into the pews.  I glance down to see if there’s the drop down bench for kneeling prayer, and smirk to myself that there isn’t one.  The Justice sits high above us.  Dark leathery skin with thin white tight curls.  I’m guessing Caribbean and wonder if we’ll reggae ourselves through this ditty.  One by one we’re called up.  Things remain serious and formal.  A steady chorus of yes my plea is voluntary.  Yes I understand the consequences of my plea.  Yes I would like more time to pay the fine.

Plummy Lulu must pay a generously reduced fine of $20 for failing to have a current sticker on her plates.  The charge for failing to have her driver’s license on her is waived.  “Yes” she says softly, leaning forward into the mic.  “Can I have an extra thirty days?” she responds to the Justice’s question of more time to settle the fine.  She gathers her things and quietly leaves the room, and presumably leaves the building.  I think of the novels worth of assumptions it would take to appreciate her life.  30 days for 20 dollars.  Perhaps it’s just because she can.  Perhaps not.

Hammer …  $35 for failing to signal.  

“The facts are accepted as entered,” drones the prosecutor.

Mr. Perry Ellis … 80 in a 60.

“The facts …”

Mrs. Bennett … invalid license.

“are accepted …”

One by one, they plead their guilt.  One by one they request extra time to settle their small fines.  

“as entered.”

I suddenly feel ashamed about my $15 cashmere socks.  We are in a different place now that the ordeal is almost done.  

Impish.  Scruffy.  Hippy.

“Oh gawhhhhhd …” I think to myself, lingering a bit long on the awhhhhh as my eyes roll up, willing my glare to take me out of my body and out of view of the haggard stranger at my door.

I abandon my kitchen cleanup.  A wide smile.  Teeth gritted.  No armageddon today please, I think as I walk assertively to the front door.

“Hell-OHh!” I hear myself say with more friendly jolliness than I planned for.

“Good-day” he says softly, with a hint of Irish.  “I bet you didn’t know that it’s a great arts [pronounced ayarts] tradition in Newfoundland to flog your books door to door.  So, um, that’s wha’ I’m a doin’” he sings along.  

I focus on the tri-fold laminated collection of articles he’s waving and wonder why Belleville, why today, why me, and why not all at the same time.  His voice fades while my eyes take in the flurry of gestures and general energetic movement.  His eyelids close as he speaks.  Each sentence punctuated by a short blink before the next wave of story telling.  

Six books.  

Twenty-five thousand copies.  

Paddling.  

Cycling.  

Door to door.  

Africa.  

CBC.  

Aired.  

Shelagh Rogers.  

Snippets.  Snippets.  Snippets.  He blinks and smiles with a mouth that’s narrow and round, gnome-like and warm.

“So this is the book you’re selling today?” I say as I reach through the doorway towards it.  White cover.  Orange-y red block lettering.  Modest.  Home-made looking.  It could easily be mistaken for the annual collection of recipes published by the church of common experience.  “The travelling man enterprise” I read, noting the extra ‘l’, “have you always self-published?” I probe, expecting a quick yes.

“Oh gawsh”, eyelids close, “no.  Only after my experience with my first book aboot twenty-years ago.  Well it’s for a few reasons really.  You see … in Newfoundland the artists don’t pay tax.”

“Well they do” he adds, “if they take a government grant.  But I’ve never taken a grant.  It washes out the work.  It’s like funding crap [crrrep].”

“Ahhh” I say inquisitively, hoping he’ll offer more.

“McClelland ‘n Stewart did publish me first book.  

I got dirt for it.

It was a book aboot cycl’eeng’.”  

He doesn’t offer the title, assuming … correctly … that I had never heard of it.

“Made me so mad.  Stole me manuscript.  ‘Twasn’t ‘t all worth it.  I just wanted me script back.”

“Ahhh” I prompt with a nod.

“Tis a funny thing.  A few years after it was published, I was at a friend’s house in Toronto.  University professor.  Real quack of a bird he was.  I got to talkin’ to Eddie Greenspan at this party.  Do you”

My eyes light up.  “The lawyer.  The lawyer.” I interject excitedly.

“That’s him.  I got to tellin’ him aboot me books.  He bought one he did.  And I told him aboot McClelland and what they’d dun.  I didn’t think anything of it at the time.  He was really interested in the story.  It lit him up.  You never know with these people.  He’s Jewish you see,” he says tuned into my nods of approval, “intense, they get right up close into your space.”

“A month later I got a package in the post.  Me script and a letter of apology from McClelland.  I’ve self-published ever since.  It completely blew me ‘way wha he did.  You just don’t know what to expect sometimes.”

“And how much are you selling your book for?” I ask remembering that I spent my last bit of cash on lego for Z the hour before.

Come come.  I gesture him into my long hall.  Baffled that I’d almost poo’ poo’d him away in an earlier incarnation of Madame Snobby Snobberton.  “Will you take a cheque?” I call back to him, hoping he will let me quiz him on how and why he’s found himself in Belleville.

Chats of weddings and friendships and wandering and writing ensues.   A mutual adoration of Africa.  A shared affinity for meeting people.  A quiet shyness constantly overtaken by its companion - the curious spirit.  I’m humbled by his delight in our common experiences and his intrigue at those uniquely mine.  “A lawyer!” he exclaims “now that’s a right and proper profession! Well done!”

No longer embarrassed by my initial judgement of the cover that is his rugged exterior.  

Twenty dollars poorer.  

One book richer.

And sparked by the presence a chance exchange brings. 

I don’t get the extension.  

Instead I get “put your big girl pants on and never let them see you sweat.” 

I did.

Proud and super-human that I’m at the gym at 5:30.  I am a machine.  I will have a great workout.  I will look amazing.

Look at me go.

The men will flock to me.  To my amazing body and my super-human qualities … my tender charming spirit.  A cute boy, a fellow super-human-early worker-outer checks me out.  I am good.  This is good … I think as I stroll into the ab conditioning room.  The tag’s sheen is a stark contrast to my black lycra figure promoting tights.  My super-human fitness outfit is completely inside out.  

Still, I make it back to the gym another day … right side in.

I do.

I strut a little, basking in the glow that two full years of professional high-end and high-octane experience gives me.  I own the room.  My successor waffles.  All eyes point to me and I deliver.  They think and feel my smartness.  

I think and feel my smartness.  

It is lunch.  We start across the busy street.  Yellow taxi’s.  Politicians to-ing and fro-ing around the Hill.  A bus stops.  I feel good great.  A perfect storm of rubber meets oil.  I’m on all fours.  Knee skinned and screaming for a Dora band-aid.  I hop up.  I’m okay.  I AM okay.  

I don’t miss a beat.

I don’t.

Embarrassing moments.

They are humbling …

I am vulnerable …

human …

and laughing.

Ahhhh, September … a great time for reflection.  The energy and bustle of the university campus evidence of the world’s constant churn, for as sure as the sun shines in September, a new crop of students arrives … wearing purple skin … some with mohawks … and some with purple mohawks.  Ever worried I might hit one as I crane to focus on a student carrying a mattress, lumber, a toilet plunger, and a flag, September always reminds me to pay attention as I drive through the busy streets of campus. 

The contrast between me … mid-life student … and note-from-Mom-mohawk-toilet-plunging-student is ever striking. 

“How on earth did I end up here?”  I think to myself as I navigate through the sea of comers and goers.  It does seem only a moment ago that I followed up my undergraduate degree with a life education in marriage, parenthood, and divorce.  Mere minutes since I heard him say “Law school?  You can’t go to law school?” as I surfed the web and my mind to find any semblance of confidence that I could and would actually get in and make it through.  So odd.  That person was wearing my skin, living my life, and was so not me.  “Thank God I ended up here” I say with eyes to the sky.

I will never forget the day that I received my LSAT score.  It was a beauty.  On the phone with a friend, she yet again playing the role of cheerleader, when the email alert popped into my box.  “Hang on Sheri”, I said.  “I think I need to check something.”  A pause and a gasp, followed by a gulp - “Oh my gaaaaawd” I say slowly, half-laughing, “I did it.  I really really did it.” 

The score. 

My score.

It was far more than the score I thought I needed as a mature student with a lifetime of unique experiences courtesy of my career in the Army.  It was that very moment that I realized that I could become a lawyer.  That I would become a lawyer.  And here I am.  Becoming a lawyer.

With one small distinction, this September is not that different from the other three that have preceded it.  This year, the pressures of a day job have subsided to the luxury of full-time government sponsored education.  What a gift to no longer balance full-time employment with the demands of school and single-motherhood.  “I will be able to be a better student this year,” I tell myself.  “Responsible with deadlines.” “Attentive.”  “Studious, even.” 

“With even more time to daydream.”

I recognize few familiar faces among the students at the school this year.  Among the unfamiliar, the first years are easy to spot.  They move in large groups, just as I did the first few days I spent at Queen’s Law in 2006.  I hear them bouncing words and ideas around.  Starbucks. Party. Westlaw. Deference.  September takes me back to my first foray into the use of legal jargon – analogous … “a-nal-juss” “a-nal-a-gus” … I just couldn’t get it out of my mouth and feel like myself all at the same time.

“Who are you to use a word like that?” my ‘out of body’ companion self-conscience remarked.  “On a balance of probabilities … circular argument … must be reconciled” I would hear myself say, scarcely understanding their proper use and meaning. 

“Preema fashey”.  “Prima face-ey”.  Oh bother.

“Fraud.” I would think to myself.  

How far I have come in this grand course on getting over myself.  September continues to serve me this platter.  A bit of where I have been.  A bit of where I am at.  A lot of daydreams of where I will go.

“Do you like law school?” she asked me as she fidgeted with the pile of white cardigans for the fiftieth time without even really looking at them.

“I do.” I said.  “I really do.”

“Is it hard?”

“No.”

“I mean not really.” I quickly follow up, instantly feeling the need to qualify what I meant for wont of seeming arrogant and over-confident.   “It’s a good fit for me.  I feel like it exploits the things that I’m good at and those that come easily to me.  Things like reading and writing and thinking.”  I feel pompous.  “Exploits” I think to myself … “seriously?” the internal voice scolds.

“Don’t get me wrong, it is a lot of work and stress, and the volume is quite something to juggle.  But yeah, I don’t find it overly hard.” I say to add a sense of realism to the romance of higher learning.

“You’re probably just really smart.” she adds.

“No, not really.” I quickly reply without thought or effort but suddenly aware of my issue with the label smart. 

“Huh.  I guess I am smart,” I say turning towards her.  “Isn’t it funny how we sometimes feel like we can’t say these things about ourselves.  It seems braggy or conceited.”

“Really?” she says more than asks.  “I don’t think I’ve ever had a problem with that,” she says.  “For one.  I am not smart.”

“Ha-ha”, I laugh, still mentally fixated on me and my sudden awareness of my issue with being smart … or called smart.  I try to shake it.

“My husband is telling me all the time I should be a lawyer,” she says.  I hear a tone of confession in her voice.  “I think he just gets sick of hearing me whine about cleaning other people’s houses.  AND he knows I love to argue,” she says smiling.  “I am always surfing the net for different courses and articles to read.  There’s just something about the idea of being a lawyer that I’m completely drawn to.  I don’t know though.  I wouldn’t really know where to start.”

In an attempt to get away from my own internal discourse so that I can focus on her, I scan her face and her eyes and her body language as I listen.  I want her to know that I’m taking her seriously, but I don’t have ready words to put her at ease, so I just keep listening.  I add the occasional nod as she continues to ramble on.  At 38, she’s about to become the youngest grandmother I know.  She has no undergraduate degree.  A flair for style and home decorating, I am worried she lives paycheck to paycheck.  On a balance of probabilities, law school is likely well beyond her reach.  

The silver spoon is solid and shiny in my mouth.  My entire education has been government funded on account of my acceptance to military college at 18.  I feel somewhat at a loss to tell a “regular” person how they should go about doing what I’m doing at mid-life, but also somewhat reluctant to convey one iota of discouragement.  It’s her choice to pursue or not, and far be it for me to tell someone that something is not possible.

“There’s lots of options for a career in the legal world,” I finally offer.  “Becoming a lawyer is a really long road, but there’s loads of pathways.” I add, feeling myself toss brightly coloured balls into her court.  “There’s paralegals, legal secretaries, court reporters.  You don’t need an undergrad degree to take up one of those.  The shorter paths are worth some thought.”

“Or you could start at the beginning.” I add to let her know that everything is possible.  “It’s a long road.  Costly in time, energy, effort, and even money, but it all just starts with a leap.”

“Yeahhhhhh,” she says rife with doubt.  “I’ll probably never do it.  Life just goes by so darned quick.” 

“I really admire you for following your dream.” she adds after a long sigh.  “I think I’m going to try this one on,” she says holding up a floral sweater fit for a grandmother 20 years our senior.  “I’ll be right back.”

I nod, contemplating her admiration.  It is something. 

How far I’ve come.