Baby Angels (excerpt)

Sweetapple was Halifax's man of mystery. Not that anybody ever tried to solve that mystery. Most folks stayed clear of him, just because he looked different. Nothing new in that. I always figured he didn't care whether or not people liked him. Any man dressed like that had no interest in making friends. He was alone by choice.

As far as I could tell, his only social contact came from riding the Metro Transit system. Transfer slip by transfer slip, he eased from one route to the next, touring the city for the price of a large cup of coffee. The veteran drivers, used to his eccentricities, were the most accommodating. It was the newer ones gave him grief.

"This is an in-bound bus, sir. That's an out-bound transfer. You have to pay to go back."

Made no difference to Sweetapple. He was just as happy to walk. For an old guy, he was in pretty good shape--lots of lean muscles and just a bit of a potbelly. His only real problem was his right leg. All the pieces were there; they just didn't work properly. Somewhere along his way through life, he'd seen action. The kind that leaves permanent reminders. For Sweetapple, that meant using a cane for the rest of his life.

Seemed he couldn't afford a real cane, but he made do. That's the first thing anyone noticed about him, that golf club. A driver, or whatever it's called. The fatheaded one. Someone had drilled a hole through the club and into the shaft, then stuck in a blue-handled screwdriver. Made sense, really, as a way of keeping his hand from slipping. On my cynical days, I pictured him using the screwdriver to hunt cats in dark alleys.

I met Sweetapple during one of my outgoing, adventurous, can't-stop-me-now days. I'd followed him to the Public Gardens. This after watching him pass in and out of my peripheral vision for almost four months. It took me that long to work up the courage to talk to him. What was I worried about? Panhandling? Cooties? A blue-handled screwdriver?

He leaned on the rail of the pond, tossing breadcrumbs to the swans. With each motion of his arm, he glanced over his shoulder at me as I approached. I got the feeling that he was more scared of me than I was of him. Imagine. And me all of five foot three. Even at his age, he'd be more than my match.

"Excuse me," I whispered, then cleared my throat to try again. "Excuse me. Sir?"

He put his hands in his coat pockets and grumbled, "Ain't got no change. Go away."

Caught off guard, I could only stare: first at his scraggly beard, then down at my clothes. To be honest, I didn't look much better than he did. My shirt, though tucked in, was a couple sizes too big for me--a souvenir from my last boyfriend, Kenny, and the only part of him I kept. I could see my socks through the holes in my jeans. And my baseball cap was still backwards from when I'd stopped a few blocks back to shoot my next masterpiece.

The Nikon should have tipped him off that I wasn't just another street person. Of course, for all I knew, he probably thought the camera was stolen. Or maybe he was just plain crazy. Whichever. I flicked him a half-hearted goodbye and headed back to the main gate.

I hadn't gone more than three steps when something hit the back of my head. It didn't really hurt, but the shock was enough to make me curse. Crumbs. He hit me with a bag of breadcrumbs.

READ THE FULL STORY: Baby Angels

“Baby Angels” explores the unlikely relationship between Janet, a young photographer, and Sweetapple, an aging sculptor. The story takes place in Halifax, Nova Scotia, where I have lived since 1991. I wrote this piece to explore the human tendency towards preconceptions and show that few people are as they seem on the surface. The story is full of twists, most of which surprised even me during the writing process.

The August Gale (excerpt)

Jack O’Leary stood to the fore of his Da’s ketch, watching the shore as the boat drew closer. He saw the children on the beach, running back and forth. They looked like a bunch of scurrying crabs at this distance. A little closer and they regained their humanity. From time to time, one of them would stop and pick something up off the beach—probably a colorful stone or shell. If it was glass, he hoped the sea had long ago smoothed its sharp edges. Some of the children waved to the incoming boats, but none were distracted from their games for long.

“What’re ye at now, Jack?” Michael O’Leary stood back and smiled at his own wit. “Work’s not done till the last fish is unloaded.”

“I know that as well as any man,” Jack snarled, then added with a wink, “Save your phony brogue for the girls. They’re the only ones believe in it.”

“Ah, but the lilt ‘tis as pleasing to their hearts as ‘tis to their ears.”

“Toss them on the ocean for a few days, then see how their stomachs fare.”

“Enough out of both of you.” Da, looking more wind-burnt and stoop-shouldered than when they set out, hauled himself along the starboard rail. Jack and Michael cast sideways glances at each other and fought to suppress their smiles. “A sorry day indeed when I let you two hooligans on my boat. Get going now.” He stomped his foot. “Go on. Work. And don’t be stopping till an hour after I says quit.”

“Yes Da,” they said as one, ducking and running aft to avoid being clipped by their father’s heavy hands. Once out of his reach, and making sure his back was still turned, they both started to laugh.

“The old coot.”Jack snorted. “He gets more contrary each day.”

“Mind your tongue,” Michael said. “He’s still our Da. Don’t matter how crippled or DEAF he gets.” He’d fairly bellowed the word “deaf”, but their father didn’t flinch. This set them to laughing all the harder.

Jack stopped abruptly and, catching Michael’s eye, pointed aft. Their brother, Patrick, stood watching the receding horizon. If he heard them, he’d surely repeat every word to Ma, who’d then feel obliged to tell Da.

Michael puckered his lips and squinted. “Don’t be worrying about him. He can’t hear nothing over his daydreams.”

“Do you think that’s all it is? Sometimes I think he’s, you know, a little daft?”

“So he don’t talk to no one but Ma. Got plenty enough to say to her. Just don’t have no voice left for the rest of us. Hup! The old man’s turning.”

Jack scurried below decks, flashing Michael a wink and a smile. “Last one done drives the buggy tonight.”

“Best be telling Annie to wear her long red woollies, then.”


GET THE FULL STORY: The August Gale

“The August Gale” is historical fiction, loosely based on my Irish ancestors’ lives in rural Nova Scotia during the very real and very damaging storm that struck the region in August 1873. Genealogical research on my O’Leary ancestors led to a connection with the Great Gale of 1873. Connection led to fascination and ultimately to inspiration, teaching me, once and for all, that genealogy without history is little more than dry facts. Understanding the historical context of my ancestors’ lives helps me tap into the emotional context of their lives.