Sounds to Remernber Us Bv and Other Songs for Various Voices Bv
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Sounds To Remernber Us Bv and other songs for various voices bv Hu& Burkhart A Creative Writin~.Proiect subrnitted to the Facultv of Graduate Studies and Research throuszh Endish Lanouage, Literature and Creative Writin~ in Partial Fulfiliment of the Reauirements for the Demee of Master of Arts at the Universitv of Windsor Windsor- Ontario- Canada 2000 O 2000 Hu~hBurkhart National Library BibIiothèque nationale 1*1 of Canada du Canada Acquisitions and Acquisitions et Bibliographic Semices services bibliographiques 395 Wellington Street 395, rue Wellington Ottawa ON K1A ON4 Ottawa ON K1A ON4 Canada Canada The author has granted a non- L'auteur a accordé une licence non exclusive licence allowing the exclusive permettant à la National Library of Canada to Bibliothèque nationale du Canada de reproduce, loan, distribute or sell reproduire, prêter, distribuer ou copies of this thesis in microform, vendre des copies de cette thèse sous paper or electronic formats. la forme de microfiche/fiùn, de reproduction sur papier ou sur format électronique. The author retains ownership of the L'auteur conserve la propriété du copyright in this thesis. Neither the droit d'auteur qui protège cette thèse. thesis nor substantial extracts fiom it Ni la thèse ni des extraits substantiels may be printed or otherwise de celle-ci ne doivent être imprimés reproduced without the author's ou autrement reproduits sans son permission. autorisation. For my parents A sincere and hearty thanlcs to al1 my fnends and acquaintances fiom Maiden, who were my partners in crime, witnesses and accomplices to my shenanigans over the years. To you, and anyone else who crossed our paths and decided to waik with us for a while, 1 am forever gratefkl* TABLE OF CONTENTS DEDICATION ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS Prologue Heart of the County Sounds To Remember Us By Those Dog Days of Summer Small Comforts Caution Horses Epilogue VITA AUCTORIS To begin with ... In a town whose hooks and curves, deys, sideroads and cul-de-sacs, intersections and crescents and sidewalks and shortcuts, complicate and busy its Iittle space, there is a particular Street. Lt is isolated f?om the town's pocked and scratchy grid, more of a road and not much of one at that. Jutting out fiom the main artery into town like a hacked off lirnb, it is covered only in tar and stone chip. There is a dirt path for walking, and primitive, grated sewers that clog up with grave1 and leaves and flood at least twice a year . But silent backhoes, front-end loaders, dozers and dump trucks at the end of the road, resting in a field of tom grass and earth, attest to new developments. Expansion will open the road to a world beyond its boundaries. Construction will reach out to other Iodes past the horizon line. Today though, the machinesy arms, claws and buckets in fiozen poses, glazed eyes dull, can merely keep watch over three children at play. There is a hockey shoot-out in progress. ''Remember, no slap shots this time, Jason," says the little goalie, wrapped in makeshift, foam shin pads, a heavy parka and a black and yellow Skidoo toque. He shuffles awkwardly from side to side on tom runners. His brother, older, body thickening and broadening in early adolescence, approaches the net in a breakaway, weaving around imaginary defensemen. 'Watch the ball, Nick," calls the third boy fiom the side of the road. He lems against his battered fiberglass stick, eyeing the action intently. 1. 2. Jason closes in on the net, fakes a wrist shot before winding back and slapping at the tennis ball. Nick drops his stick and Mth his blocker and trapper Shields his face against the barrage of stones flying off the road. The ball strikes the net's crossbar and is deflected with a bouncy pop. 'Wo sIap shots, Jason!" Nick yells, banging the stick's splintered blade on the road. "'Yeah, Jason," the other boy speaks. He has the ball now and chops it back and forth with his stick. '?t7s not fsr. Your shot is too hard and the stones fly everywhere." "Fine. Give me the ball, Dougie." Doug tips the ball up to Jason's face. Jason catches and drops the bal1 to the ground. "Smart ass," he says. His voice has a rumble to it and he clenches and relaxes his jaw while he grins at Doug. Doug is small, ten years old, the sarne age as Nick but smdler. Jason fakes a slap shot and Doug flinches. "Come on, Jason," Nick yells. '"Just do a regular breakaway. Try to deke me out." Nick moves back and forth on his runners. 'Wick, buddy," Jason says. "You look like you should hit the bathroorn or the bushes." "One more. No slap shots." "Okay, 1'11 do it right this time." Jason makes as though to start at the net but stops abruptly, winding back and smacking the ball, harder this the. More stones are 3. sent into the air, spreading like buckshot. The shot is high and the bal1 whiues over Nick's head. He ducks anyway. 'Wo fuckin' fair." Nick is looking up again. He stomps a foot, then resumes shuffling back and forth, faster now. 'Tm not playing anymore." The ball has rolled down the road towards the town's main Street. "Tm just kidding around, Nick. Go get the ball and we'll start over." Toushould probably get the ball, Jason," Doug speaks up fiom the side of the road. "You shot it." "You should probably shut the fùck up? Doug. You're not even playing. Pussyass." 'bWe's rny fiïend," Nick is yelling louder now, pacing in front of the net. 'Wy don't you leave and let us play." 'Wicky, why don't you use the bathroom before you piss yourself, You know you can7t hold it ." We's just keeping waq" Doug says. Suddenly Nick rushes bis brother. He swings his stick wildly, a weapon. Jason ducks and dodges, laughing. "Jesus, Nick," Jason sputters. 'Don't take it so hard. It's only a game." Nick gives chase in vain. Wet now shows through the seat of his pants as he cries at his brother angrily. Doug looks on, considering. He takes off &er the ball. 4. A white sedan pulIs up on the road, squashing the tennis ball under its tire. The car rolls over it and the ball is released fiom under the tire's pressure with a pop. It bounces up in relief and appears to hover in the air a moment, a fleeting flash of time. Heart of the County 1 suppose I started running because it was the thing 1 did best. Sports wise, 1 mean. Like most lads in my hometown of Richmond, 1 was hustled ont0 the football field before 1 could lace up my own cleats. But while other young muckers my age grew into positions like tùllback, winger or goaltender, positions they would likely keep for the rest of their active lives, 1 seemed to get clumsier and more awkward. As boyhood football evo!ved, fiom a clustefick of children scrarnbhg in the direction of a wildly kicked ball, to a tough but orderly competition based on ski11 and agility, 1 found myself sidelined with kneesocks clean as the day 1 first slid them over my shinpads. It was nothing short of rniraculous that 1 was spared an adolescence marked by gym period taunts and ridicule. Cross-country running delivered me fiom a lack of football prowess which could have easily led to my undoing. As a point of ?act, 1 always Ioved the running aspect of football. Mum talked into late middle age about the joy she experienced watching me run up and down the length of the field keeping up tirelessly with the play. She'd clap and cheer me on, even as the Coach yelled, 'Carter, get back in position! Let the forwards take it up field!' So Murn despaired for a time when 1 took up running. 'You only get to see the start and finish of the race,' she'd cornplain. Which was fine by my Coach and temates. I actually won their admiration by bowing out of football gracefùily and excelling at another sport. 5. 6. Now to tell you tnithfully, the solitude of running was aiways rny favounte part. When 1 raced 1 always came out well ahead of the top of the pack (first place in al1 three of rny meets in England). And 1 preferred training alone. Solo runs remained a constant variable of my afternoons in Surrey. Always the same, the footpath along the Thames from Hampton Court to Kingston. By the tirne I was thirteen, a year into my ninning life, 1had it down to forty minutes both ways. I'd follow in rhythm with the scullers who glided along the narrow watenvay, stopping on the retum to wind my way through the royal hedge maze on the palace grounds. Sometimes I'd pretend I was a comrnoner peeking over the shrubs at the princess who was confined to her charnber for loving me. Ifonly 1 could prove to the King 1 was worthy of her love, 1 knew she would be mine. Alas, as so often happens with young love, Our courtship was cut short. Before 1 could win over the dream princess with my speed on the track, Dad took a job in Canada. Our family packed up and moved to a little hamlet called Maiden, near the town of Windsor, Ontario. With such regal titles, 1 was sure I'd soon find another place to woo the princess of my mind.