The Company

by Lianne Koren (Canada)

Making a local connection USA

If Grandma picked Stowe to prove a point, then no one was around to hear her stomp on her new property full of determined aggression. When the “No Jews Allowed” sign was finally ripped off storefronts and hotels, Grandma packed a suitcase and made damn sure you knew she wasn’t afraid of a hating legacy. But no one heard her protest except the crushed grass under her feet. I bet the grass didn’t even mind the company. The whole area stretching for miles had never been inhabited except for by deer, turkeys, moose and bears. And then, Grandma and Grandpa. Without a neighbour in sight, the back porch begs you to stand on the edge and scream hoping an echo might return the favour. Only rather than scream, you just sleep when the wind rustles through the leaves and lulls you. In the meantime –while Grandma kindled acceptance in the hearts of the townspeople—Grandpa planted a garden. And then another one. And then another one. Until it became a morning competition between you and the birds over who could get the ripest blueberry. As the summer went on, the rivalry intensified. Without freshly picked raspberries, there would be no jam. Without blackberries right off the vine, there would be nothing to put on the pancakes. But one second you’re rescuing frogs from the pool and hiding from mosquitoes underwater, and the next you’re zipping up fleeces, strapping up boots and taking a drive to the top of the highest mountain. You need to make sure the leaves don’t fall before you get to see the green forest turn aflame. Everyone always goes on about sunshine and blue skies, but have you ever seen a sky so white you could draw on it? When white skies drop white dust on white ground, the whole world is bleached and clean. You remember seeing colour through the window, but you just can’t be sure. The icicles hanging off the roof are as big as you but when you get too close, Grandma’s warning reminds you they are sharp and dangerous and somebody died from touching one once. Nobody dies around here. Except the dogs. When you wander through the meadows—through the uncut flowers and the dandelions or through the crunchy ice and the dilapidated snowmen—and the wind blows in just the right direction, you can hear them barking, it’s true. Your dog will bark back too. But nobody minds these things when they’re down in the meadows. When the sky turns black and cold and crystal clear, there’s nothing much to think about except how long it would take you to connect the dots in the stars. Someone will always point somewhere inconsequential and insist it is Orion’s Belt or the Little Mermaid. You will swallow the dubious information like a spoonful of sugar because nobody minds these things when they’re down in the meadows. Your hands start to thaw from the roaring fire and outside gets a little warmer too. The mud finally makes its way through the ice and you start apologizing to your car for getting stuck (again). Another phone call, another Ford pick-up truck, another pair of Levi’s blue jeans and another chain to hoister the lost city girl out of the mess of her own making. But while you’re sitting in the driver’s seat—hands glued to the steering wheel and the gear in neutral—and you feel the jerk of being rescued, you notice a single bloom on a tree. The pond is defrosting and it’s only a few more weeks before shorts and skipping rocks. Then the birds and the blueberries. Then the red trees. Then the icicles. Then back in the mud. Time is different here. One time, I spent the entire morning swimming in the pool, the afternoon sweeping fallen leaves and the evening tobogganing in freshly powdered snow, but when I came in for dinner, it was only breakfast. By the time I finished picking the spearmint for the morning’s first cup of tea, ten years had passed. The flowers in the garden don’t seem to fret when the sun goes backwards in the sky. Maybe they don’t mind because they like the company.