Member Bio: Jill McWhinnie
Jill McWhinnie is a resident of Stouffville, Ontario and is a member of both the Markham Village Writers and the Writer’s Circle of Durham Region. She is a regular freelance contributor to the Stouffville Free Press. Areas of writing interest include humour, environment, gardening, pets, and events of local history and interest.
Unknown Name
By Jill McWhinnie
Unknown Name called again last night. I wonder why he calls every night at supper hour? Maybe he’s lonely. Perhaps his wife left him, taking the children, and he misses their chubby little faces around the dinner table. Perhaps he’s a widower, sitting there in his wife’s kitchen, thinking of the wonderful pot roasts she used to make. I know he must have good reason for calling me at 6 PM every evening while I’m in the middle of cooking dinner, feeding the cat and listening to the evening news.
I think Unknown Name is shy. Sometimes he pretends that he doesn’t know it’s me and just asks to speak to “the person who buys the groceries in the household.” He once called, wanting to speak to the person who bought the meat. I didn’t know him very well then so I lied and told him I was a vegetarian, just to get rid of him. He said he was sorry to have bothered me and hung up. I know he didn’t believe me. I felt badly for deceiving him.
Unknown Name always offers to do things for me—he wants to move my furniture, clean my hot air ducts, spray the weeds in my lawn, replace my windows… He’s so handy. He also knows about the best interest rates on RRSPs and wants me to know how I can save money on long-distance calls and light bulbs. He makes me feel so cared for!
I think Unknown Name is very intelligent. Last week he asked me to participate in a survey on how I voted in the last election and how I intend to vote in this one. It was refreshing to talk to a man who was interested in my mind and political opinions.
Yesterday, a woman—probably his secretary—called and left a message that I had won a time-share opportunity at a fancy resort in the Muskokas. I don’t remember entering the draw, but Unknown Name often surprises me with unexpected gifts and special offers. I’m always too busy to take advantage of them, but it’s sweet of him to think of me.
Sometimes, I try to contact him—I scan my recent caller list and try numbers I don’t recognize, hoping one of them will be him. But the call never goes through. It’s as though he doesn’t exist. What is Unknown Name’s real identity? An undercover cop? A famous actor? A CIA operative? Is that why I can’t call him back?
Sometimes the phone rings and when I answer, there’s no one there. Then after a few moments, there will be a click and the dial tone. People I know say it’s just a dialer calling to see if I’ll answer so someone can make a telemarketing call to me later. But I don’t believe them. I know Unknown Name is at the other end of the line, too overcome by the sound of my voice to speak.
Sometimes, I imagine him sitting at a big rosewood desk in an office tower, working late into the night on his computer, tabulating the results of all those surveys he does and processing his duct cleaning orders.
That must be when he does fundraising calls for the university and public television and other worthy causes. He called last week at 9 PM, asking me to help send needy children to a circus. He likes children—isn’t that sweet? The next day, he called to ask if I had any old clothes to donate to charity. Imagine someone who has so many business interests taking time to collect clothes for the poor!
Sometimes I hear people at work talking about how Unknown Name calls them at inconvenient times. Some of them are very mean to him. When my co-worker received a call at 6 PM, he told Unknown Name to give him his number so he could call him back when he was at supper. Another pretended he couldn’t speak English. Another co-worker said, “I’m just the burglar. The Smiths aren’t home right now.”
Sometimes I try to imagine what Unknown Name looks like. He moves furniture and does yard work, so he must be very strong. He knows about banking and RRSPs, so he must be very smart and probably wears glasses. He must be quite young if he’s involved with college fundraising. Perhaps one day he’ll get a picture phone and transmit his image at the same time he calls. But I’m not sure I’d want that. It would take the unknown out of Unknown Name.
***
More Stars Than There Are in the Sky
By Jill McWhinnie
One thing my mother and I always agreed on was James Garner — the tall, dark, handsome star of the old western series, Maverick. As the wily, witty, gun-shy gambler, Bret Maverick, Garner was, in both our estimations, simply the most appealing character on TV in the 1950s and 60s.
My mother was something of an expert in these matters, having been a movie fan since her teenage years in the 1920s, when silent films cast their spell in small town theatres on Saturday afternoons, creating magical worlds full of handsome heroes and beautiful heroines.
My star struck mother would write fan letters to those paragons of the silent screen, and would receive large, brown envelopes containing autographed photos of the stars and gracious, personal notes thanking her for her interest in their films.
I still have the envelopes and the pictures. My mother’s been dead for 30 years but whenever I look at the old photographs, I can imagine her teenage excitement, coming home from school to find the envelopes from Hollywood waiting.
Long-forgotten names: Rod La Rocque, Richard Dix, Charles Farrell (my mother was president of his Canadian fan club), Mary Pickford, Vilma Banky, Louise Fazenda, smile out from black and white photos, 80 years old. The male stars often pose holding pipes, the women look strangely alike, with penciled brows, marcelled hair and tiny, cupid-bow lips.
Lois Wilson includes a note that The Great Gatsby is to be her first film with her “bobbed head appearance,” which she hopes her fans will like. She confides that she is not a bit sorry that she’s cut her hair. Vilma Banky writes that she has just completed The Night of Love with Mr. Ronald Colman, and she and Mr. Colman are now making The Magic Flame.
While The Night of Love and other classics of their day no doubt disintegrated in their canisters long ago, the magic they created for my mother led to her life-long fascination with Hollywood, “the movies” and “the stars,” which, in turn, she imparted to me.
Some of my earliest memories were of watching the films of Hollywood’s “Golden Era” — the 1930s and 40s — on black and white TV; no matter how many times we saw a movie, it was always worth watching again.
Then came the Golden Age of Television — the late 1950s and 60s — the westerns: Bonanza, Gunsmoke, Maverick; the British history adventure shows like Robin Hood and The Buccaneers; World War II action shows Combat and Rat Patrol; the suspenseful Twilight Zone; the scary Outer Limits; and the original “beam us up, Scotty,” Star Trek.
Over the years, I’d tried to recall details of the episodes and the characters, wishing I could see the old shows again. Enter DVD boxed sets that make an entire television series available on a few attractively packaged metal discs. Rat Patrol — the first and second season! I was in grade nine when it was first shown. Kung Fu — the complete series! It had been 30 years since I’d heard David Carradine called “Grasshopper.” Alias Smith and Jones — the delightful, Maverick-style western of the early 1970s — the charm and humour of the young stars, Pete Duel and Ben Murphy, was fresh as ever.
I began to wonder why it was so much fun rediscovering these old shows. Sure they were great entertainment, but was something else going on as well?
“It’s like visiting old friends when we watch classic movies and television,” says John Barthel, proprietor of Vintage Video on Markham Street in Toronto, which stocks classic, rare and hard-to-find movies from the 1930s to 1960s, as well as classic television shows and original movie memorabilia.
“Our clientele ranges in age from 30 to 80,” says John, who has operated the shop for 22 years. “Watching old movies and television shows makes people remember days gone by. In some sense, they can return to the past. Mature viewers are fed up with the garbage on TV now – reality shows, rudeness, the desensitizing violence of crime shows. Classic movies, especially musicals, return us to a gentler time of life. They make us feel good.”
I asked John about some of the shop’s best sellers. “Jimmy Stewart and Humphrey Bogart are always popular; High Noon is one of the best-selling westerns; The Three Stooges are still in demand in comedy. The Munsters is one of the most popular TV titles. Invasion of the Body Snatchers and the British Hammer Horror Collection are also big sellers.”
Hammer Horror Films were one thing that my mother and I did not agree on. Every Friday at 11:30, Channel 7 would show a Hammer film – Curse of Frankenstein, Brides of Dracula, Horror of Frankenstein, etcetera. I still recall being glued to the set as my mother walked through the darkened living room with her evening tea, casting a withering glance at the flickering images on the television, and saying “How can you watch this?”
I asked John what accounted for his 22-year fascination with the classic movie business. “I grew up watching movies. My fondest memories are of movies. There’s something so magical about watching movies!” On that point, John, my mother and I would both agree.
***
Why Not Hold A Noisefest?
By Jill McWhinnie
Communities throughout Ontario are always looking for new ways to attract tourists. They hold literary festivals, strawberry festivals, peach festivals, cornfests, ribfests, beerfests, jazzfests. …
So why not a Noisefest? Anyone can make noise. If you can play a musical instrument, drive a vehicle, operate machinery, bounce a ball, or create any other kind of disturbance, Noisefest would be for you.
Noisefest would be a weekend of noisy fun for all ages — a real blast! A highlight of the festival would be contests where noisemakers would compete in various categories for sound supremacy. There would be dozens of events in which to compete, including:
The Noisy Neighbour event, which would pit homeowner against homeowner in the Lawnmower vs Leafblower Challenge. Which tool is noisier? Which is more annoying? Which can deliver more teeth-gritting, stress-inducing, whining, buzzing, incessant NOISE? Noisefest would deliver those answers.
There would also be a competition for the loudest, most inefficient weed trimmer. The winning trimmer would log the highest decibel level and take the longest time to trim a 20-foot garden border. Both events would take place at six in the morning on the Sunday of the event weekend.
The Motor Assisted Noise (M.A.N.) event would be targeted to adolescent males of all ages with the challenge, “How does your muffler perform? Does your exhaust system give new meaning to the term Big Pipe? (And we’re not talking York Durham Sanitary Sewer). Does your shiny black pickup truck growl through residential streets, in conversation-stopping, ear covering, thunderous glory? Yes? Then watch for this exciting event and see, or rather, hear, how your vehicle measures up. And may the best M.A.N. win!”
The Sonic Boom event would be the ultimate db Derby for boom cars, and would hook their owners with “Does your sub-woofer wimp out at 125 decibels or is it an acoustical assault weapon, delivering an earsplitting, window-shaking, 175 decibels — louder than a jet engine on takeoff? If you think you’re driving the loudest, ground-poundingest, most obnoxious boom car in town, be warned — competition in this event will be fierce.” Registration would be limited to first 1,000 vehicles.
Tire Terrorists would be a fun event held from midnight till two in the morning on all three nights of the event weekend, and would appeal to beginners as well as expert tire squealers. It would be held at designated four-way stop streets throughout town. Points would be awarded for duration of squeal, amount of gravel disturbed and length of rubber burn. Bonus points would be awarded for Extreme Acceleration — the fastest time on take off from a dead stop.
Kidz Kakaphony would provide an opportunity for kids, ages five to sixteen, to display their noise-making skills using pocket bikes, motorized scooters, remote controlled toys, basketballs, amplified guitars and any other noise-making objects in their possession as they compete for the Noisemaker of Tomorrow award.
Decibel Dogs — No need to leave Spot and Rover at home. Noisefest would include all members of the family. Local canines would howl and growl their way to victory in a number of events, including most threatening barking at passersby, loudest barking and most persistent barking in the all-night Bark-a-Thon, set to begin at midnight in their owners’ backyards.
The Bulldozer Barrage event for construction noise would be open to all new subdivision development sites in and around town. Prizes would be awarded for loudest de-watering pump, most irritating metallic screech from earth movers, and most intense noise and vibration from earth compacting equipment. In the event of a tie, a backhoe race to determine the winner would be held at five in the morning on the Sunday of the event weekend, on one of the local construction sites.
Noisefest would conclude with a search for the Best New Noise of the Year. What as yet undiscovered acoustical assaults are possible? What new synergies of sound might be inflicted upon embattled residential ears? What din of decibels may yet emerge from the automobile aftermarket? The winner in this category would be chosen by an all-star panel of experts — a heavy metal musician, an airport noise analyst and an American expert in the field of acoustical weaponry.
No venue for Noisefest has yet been established but when it is, YOU’LL HEAR ABOUT IT.
***
The Shortcut
By Jill McWhinnie
It had been a heart attack but he’d been lucky, the doctor said. To prevent a more serous attack, he would need to watch his diet and follow a program of cardiac rehabilitation. The doctor had suggested an exercise bike. He purchased one on the way home from the hospital and set it up in his basement.
He stood beside the bike in his cardiac rehabilitation outfit: silver and blue running shoes and black bicycle shorts. An extra-large T-shirt concealed rolls of flab that hung over the waistband of the shorts.
He slid onto the saddle and grasped the long handlebars. It had been forty years since he’d ridden a bike. He set the dial to the lowest resistance and began to pedal. Within moments, he was short of breath and his thighs ached. But he pushed the pedals doggedly. He had to finish ten minutes—his first cardiac rehabilitation goal.
As he moved past the initial discomfort, the rhythm of pedaling seemed pleasant, almost nostalgic. He relaxed and dropped his arms to his sides. “Look Ma, no hands!” When was the last time he’d said that?
He remembered the two-wheeler his Dad had bought him from the Canadian Tire store for his eleventh birthday; the bright red paint, the sparkling wheels, the shiny bell on the handlebars and how the bike’s multi-coloured streamers fluttered in the wind as he rode.
He couldn’t wait to show the bike to his best friend Tommy. He pictured Tommy in his mind’s eyered hair, gold front tooth, the striped T-shirt he wore every day. He tried to imagine Tommy’s chubby, freckled face at fifty-one years old.
He looked at his watch. Almost ten minutes had gone by. He had ridden two miles and burned eighty calories. The ache in his legs had subsided. He felt tired but strangely content despite his fatigue.
He went upstairs and watched the late news. His wife had gone to bed but an apple and glass of skim milk had been left for him on the kitchen table.
The next evening, he changed into his cardiac rehab outfit, went downstairs, climbed onto the bike and set the tension to a higher level. As he pedaled, the welcome sense of the past returned. He remembered riding his bike to school that spring—proudly parking it for the first time in the bike stand, his schoolbooks and baseball glove in the wire basket carrier. The light in the basement seemed suddenly brighter and he felt a warm breeze as though a window had opened to a sunny day outside.
He looked down at the digital display on the handlebars to check his speed. But what he saw were the handlebars of his two-wheeler, and the bell near his left hand. He pulled the lever and heard a bell ring several times as though in the distance. Then he realized it was the telephone. His wife called downstairs to say one of his friends from work was on the line. The basement now seemed damp and cold. He shivered and went upstairs to answer the phone.
The next night, he went downstairs immediately after supper. He climbed onto the bike and set the tension at the highest level, impatient to progress with his cardiac rehab program. He felt the pull on his muscles as he worked against the resistance level he’d set. It was like riding uphill. He stood up and pumped the pedals just as he had at eleven years old when he had needed the extra push from standing on his strong young legs to propel the bike.
He looked up and saw leafy green branches overhead, dappled sunlight shining through them. He looked down and the rug beneath the bike was gone, replaced by a pitted dirt road. He rode faster, feeling his heart beating as the bike flew down the old road. He sensed someone riding behind him. It was Tommy.
“We have to get to the pool first!” Tommy called out. Tommy liked winning games and races and doing things on a dare. It was the last day of school and the kids were going to meet at the outdoor swimming pool to celebrate. Everybody wanted to be first to jump into the glassy water of the empty pool when the lifeguard blew the whistle to start swimming.
“Let’s take the shortcut!” said Tommy, pushing past on his bike. The shortcut was a stretch of highway that led more quickly to the pool, but was traveled by gravel trucks building the new subdivisions in the area.
“My Dad says I can’t take the shortcut,” he said, embarrassed before Tommy’s insistent bravado.
“Chick-en!” scorned Tommy, pedaling faster, heading for the shortcut.
As he watched Tommy go he imagined how smoothly his bike would ride on the new pavement of the highway. Maybe just this once it would be OK. It was only a short distance along the highway to the pool.
But now the pool seemed far away. He began to feel tightness in his chest, and a shortness of breath, like when he’d run around the soccer field too many times in PT.
“Come on!” urged Tommy, turning and looking backwards at him. “We’re almost there.”
He pedaled faster. He was sweating now—the afternoon sun was harsh and hot on the open highway. He felt lightheaded, almost dizzy, like the time when he tried to hold his breath too long under water, practising for his Junior swimming badge.
The pain intensified, moving up into his jaw and down his arms. He watched Tommy turn around to wave at him, and at the same time, begin to ride across the two lane highway into the entrance of the pool. A big gravel truck hurtled down the highway toward Tommy. He heard the squeal of tires and watched Tommy’s bike pitched like a toy into the ditch as the truck hit it. The big truck screeched to a stop. The driver opened the cab door and jumped down onto the shoulder of the road.
He pedaled faster, trying to reach Tommy, although he was beginning to feel queasy, like the time he had eaten too much cake and ice cream at his sister’s birthday party. He rode across the highway and stopped his bike. There were sirens in the distance. The truck driver was walking through the deep ditch, pushing aside tall grass and yellow wildflowers. Where was Tommy?
Then he saw him, bikeless, running down the maple-lined driveway to the swimming pool. He fought back the feeling that he was going to throw up, and rode after Tommy. He parked his bike on its kickstand in the gravel parking lot and walked over to the poolside to where Tommy waited. The pool was empty. There was no lifeguard on duty today. Tommy turned and smiled.
He tried to smile back although it felt like “Fatboy” Reynolds was sitting on his chest, like he had that day in wrestling. He felt “Fatboy” squashing his ribs just as he had that day until the teacher told him to stop.
“We won!” said Tommy triumphantly. “Let’s jump! When I say three! One—two—three!”
He didn’t feel like swimming. He wished his Dad would come in the car and take him home. He stood in the blasting heat of the afternoon sun, drenched with sweat. Maybe he’d feel better if he cooled off in the pool. Then he and Tommy would lie on the concrete deck around the pool and dry off in the sun.
When Tommy jumped, so did he. He felt the heat leave his body as he sank into the water. The water was cold, colder than it had ever been. He held his breath under water until he knew he couldn’t hold it any longer. He tried to come up into the air, but he couldn’t. Tommy was holding him under. He struggled, trying to get free. Why wouldn’t Tommy let go? His Dad had warned them both about horseplay in the pool.
Then he remembered what he’d learned in junior swimming class about drown-proofing. He stopped struggling and began to relax in the water, just as he’d been taught. He felt Tommy’s grip loosening, then releasing him. The sense of panic he’d felt the moment before left him. He felt buoyant and happy. He floated up to the surface, then stretched out, face down and motionless. He wanted to show Tommy how he could do the dead man’s float.
***
The doctor waited for the man’s wife to be seated and opened the slim file folder on the table… “He was doing so well,” said his wife. “What happened?”
“He tried to do too much too quickly,” said the doctor. ”Unfortunately, in cardiac rehabilitation there are no shortcuts.
***
The Devil’s Walking Stick
By Jill McWhinnie
“You’re NOT planting that!” said Gladys conclusively, watching as her husband George set a plant in a black plastic pot beside the hole he had just dug near the house’s foundation.
“It’s just a little shrub!” said George.
“It’ll grow!” countered Gladys.
George bent down and pulled the descriptor tag out of the foliage. “Only to twenty feet.”
Gladys’ eyes narrowed on the tag in George’s hand. She bent forward for a better look. “The Devil’s Walking Stick!” What kind of name is that for a plant?”
“That’s the common name,” said George dismissively. “The real name is Aralia Spinosa,” he said, as though introducing his wife to a new friend.
“Get it off the property!” ordered Gladys. “It’s evil!”
“Nonsense!” scoffed George.
“I said-get rid of it,” said Gladys, dropping her cigarette and grinding it into the grass beside the plant before walking angrily away.
Moments later, George heard the car start. It was Thursday-Gladys would be gone for the rest of the afternoon, playing bingo at the Seniors’ Centre.
“Don’t worry, Aralia,” said George soothingly. “I’ll plant you in the back garden.”
The back garden was the refuge for plants to which Gladys had given “thumbs down”-perennials in colours not pleasing to her, flowering shrubs with fragrances that triggered her allergies, potted mums the neighbours had given her after her pacemaker surgery.
George picked up the pot, but suddenly the back garden seemed too far away. He looked down at the hole he had just dug by the house. The little shrub would be hidden behind the prickly blue junipers of the foundation planting until it became established.
“She’ll never know you’re here,” he said conspiratorially.
He carefully removed the shrub from the pot and set it into the hole, spreading the roots over the soft earth, pushing the soil firmly into place over them, making sure the plant was straight. Then he turned on the garden hose ever so slightly and let a gentle stream of water trickle into the hole. He added more soil, then pressed the earth firmly around the roots, so that the plant was snug and secure in its new home.
Planting flowers and shrubs always seemed to George like tucking in children. He and Gladys had not had a family and the plants in George’s garden were like children to him. George gathered up his tools and bestowed a fond glance on the latest member of his garden family. As he walked away, the Aralia Spinosa’s leaves fluttered in the spring breeze.
At night, a few weeks later, Gladys was in bed reading the National Enquirer when she heard a faint scratching sound outside her window. She thought it might be the raccoons on the roof again-she couldn’t believe how much George had paid last year for the pest control people to board up the attic.
She stopped reading and strained to hear, listening in the direction of the window for several moments, but there was no further sound. She finished the article she was reading and turned off the light.
A few nights later, Gladys again heard the scratching sound, but this time it was stronger, closer and more like scraping. She found herself momentarily wishing that George still occupied the empty twin bed across the room rather than the spare bedroom downstairs.
Gladys put down the Enquirer and turned out the light. She walked over to the window, parted the curtains, and looked out into the yard. It was dark and still and silent, and yet she sensed that there was someone, or something out there. She shivered despite the warmth of the room, and went back to bed.
The following morning, Gladys went outside to look for the source of the noise. She checked the garbage cans, scanned the roof for loose shingles, and checked to see if George had pruned the tall tree at the side of the house that was filling up the eavestrough with leaves. It had been done.
As she walked around the south side of the house she stopped short. Directly under her window was a big shrub with strong, thorny branches and large leaves. The tag was visible on a lower branch. The Devil’s Walking Stick! Not only had George defied her by not getting rid of it-he had planted it right under her window!
She threw down her cigarette in front of the plant and walked quickly around the house to the back door. She would tell George to remove it immediately. But as she stepped into the kitchen, she had a better idea.
She opened the utensil drawer and took out a paring knife. She smiled as she thought of how depressed George got when any of his plants died, and how he would mix up blueish water in pails and pour it on struggling plants with their yellow leaves.
She went back to the place under her window, took out the paring knife, knelt beside the shrub and scraped away some of the outer bark, just above ground level. She stood up, satisfied with the damage and put the knife back into her apron. As she walked away, a gust of wind whipped around the side of the house, shaking the spiny, long-leafed branches of the assaulted shrub.
That night, as Gladys settled into bed, she again heard a noise outside her window. This time it was a tapping sound, like that of a blind man’s cane finding its way along the sidewalk. As she listened, the sound became stronger, closer. For a moment, there was a chilling silence. Then the sound began again, louder and louder… TAP TAP TAP TAP… It seemed to be right outside her window, then above the window, then on the roof, then everywhere.
Gladys felt her heart racing. She got up, inexplicably drawn toward the window. She put her hand on the curtain, terrified of the evil she knew waited on the other side. Then, as though controlled by an unseen force, her hand wrenched aside the curtain. Gladys staggered backward, clutching her chest. She tried to scream-her mouth opened, but her scream was wordless, soundless, as though in a dream.
The following morning, the young police officer closed his notebook and gestured toward the sheet-covered form that lay on the ground under Gladys’s window. “You folks were lucky. Man lying there escaped from penitentiary in Manitoba a few weeks ago. Broke into a home and murdered the entire family.” The officer gestured to Gladys’s window. “Looks like he was trying to get in through that window when he got tangled up in that shrub. Those thorns sure made a mess of him. Looks like it broke his neck too. What is this thing?” The officer gave the shrub a wary look as he turned over the name tag. “The Devil’s Walking Stick?”
“The real name is Aralia Spinosa,” said Gladys, casting a fond glance at the big shrub under her window.
Photography by Doug Wright.
April 15th, 2010 at 5:02 pm
Hi Jill, I’ve been trying to put faces to the names of all our members, as I read their submissions and I think I pinpointed yours easily. I love the brisk pace of your stories, and the imaginative way you have handled them. Characters are utterly believable. Write on girl!!!! Sincerely, Betty