My Past Reminisces Confirm My Present
– Nonfiction by Faith Forster –
When I feel my life is insignificant, I reconnect with past times and places by sifting through my extensive collection of business cards. Each card deserves consideration to determine why and how it represents a meaningful moment in my life’s experiences. I plan on whittling down the uncontrollable pack by purging one here and there.
Manolo Pittore Studio D’ Arte tucked at the bottom of a dusty hill in Via Grande Sicily was pointed out by the gregarious vintner
at the top of the hill. Manolo, a local artist greets me and walks me through his gallery stopping every few steps to explain his paintings of Sicilian sights; bright red and blue fishing boats resting on the shore, white washed walls plastered with purple bougainvillea, the dark and mysterious olive groves and a view of Porto Empedocle, birthplace of Camilleri, the author of detective Montalbano. Manolo points out a pastoral scene of an olive grove and I am drawn into the dark green depths of the fields
where olive trees cast black shadows over the bright green of sunlit grasses. I can frame it before I send it to you, he offers. This clinches the sale. During the long Canadian winter, I escape into the depth of the picture, follow the direct line through the olive grove and come out into the glorious fields bathed in the sunshine of Sicily. Manolo’s card is a keeper.
The Baguette Bistro card comes up and I wonder how it fared during the pandemic and whether the pandemic is really over for the restaurateurs. Bonsoir the proprietor calls out when I walk through the door. She creates an empty spot in a room where all the seating is taken. In my cramped seat, I wait for her juicy duck confit and her offer of a glass of Sauvignon Blanc. When I am finished, she leaves me some time before she serves a delectable Crème Brulé for dessert. The occasional jab in the ribs by fellow eaters is easily tolerated while immersed in the outstanding fare of this crowded eatery.
Kate Spade, New York printed in black on a bare pink surface is simple but eye catching. Why would such a talented designer
find it necessary to end it all in 2018. Her decision puzzles me and I try to place her in her studio as I touch the rich burgundy leather of her designer handbag and pink pocketbook. Kate is no friend of mine; I have never met her. But still there is something
about her death that make me fonder of this particular handbag. Perhaps it is because once the artist has left us, we covet the enduring art. I am not finished with her bare pink card yet.
Secure Yacht Services invokes memories of David, the skilled skipper of our small sailing vessel, Xanadu. At dusk, it’s impossible to tear our eyes away from the inferno of the bright red and orange sky over the Salish Sea, until David cautions us to watch for stray logs, other vessels and navigation aids. Our charming captain woos our single female friend who’s along for the adventure, cooks the best scrambled eggs as the boat jumps about in the chop of rough waters and returns us back home without a scratch. In the evening, he regales us with tales of gin palaces on the high seas full of ladies kipped up in the wrong sleeping quarters and bodies strewn through the galley. Skipper, yarn spinner, cook and charmer par excellence, David lands on the keep pile.
Casa de Principe, Lisbon Bed and Breakfast is featured in black and white on one side of a card and when I turn the card over there is a colourful picture of the people’s saint, King D. Pedro V. To enter the premises, we pass through a nondescript street door, ride up in a tiny elevator and arrive at an elegant décor of chandeliers, crown molding, and ceilings decorated in an intricate network of vines and leaves painted in the old -world greens, blues and yellows. Lovely arched windows give us a bird’s eye view of the street life of Praca do Principe. Each morning we perch on dainty golden chairs around a miniature dining table for a continental breakfast of crisp rolls with tomatoes smothered in bocconcini and basil and enjoy a steady stream of fresh coffee. I watch the Portuguese waiter slap from place to place in shoes twice the size needed to accommodate his feet. He graciously offers me more coffee and then shambles back to the kitchen. I will keep the card and return some day.
Graves is a perfect name of a barrister and solicitor who discusses the details of death and the preparation of a will. My friend remarks, “I get it, a grave must be dug before a will can be executed.”
“It is certainly not a subject to be joked about,” I say.
I toss Mr. Graves’s card into the bin and replace it with the card of Ms. Taylor, the new lawyer, who is an expensive but necessary
overseer of assets that remain after death.
Angelo, the Greek offers me a black card with details of his construction company printed in white. A stocky muscular young man with loads of woolly black hair and sensitive brown eyes set in the face of an angel he looks me in the eye and says, “I’m gonna make you the best stairs to last forever.”
For days he arrives early and works non stop in the heat of the baking sun. “You see I insert screws under the wood so they are invisible. So good for beautiful stairs. You’ll see.”
The job is not complete until Angelo’s father arrives to inspect his son’s handiwork. He yells loudly in Greek as I hover close
by trusting everything is as solid as it looks. Angelo mentions his father likes wine and since I have plenty of bottles of home
made in our garage begging for any sort of appreciation, I am generous with my offer. Years later when I was able to contact Angelo for some minor stair repairs, he swears his father loved the homemade. With a ready supply of several more bottles, I
take him at his word but leave a few choice vintages in reserve for future fixes.
Bruno printed next to the blue head of lion on a cream background, the calling card of my mechanic, is teetering on the verge of discard after a recent estimate of four thousand five hundred dollars for replacing my 2012 Tiquan turbocharger. What I know about any car less then a decade old could fill a thimble so just finding out that my car had a turbocharger was news. Further discussion with other car mechanics provides me with a more convincing estimate in the neighbourhood of three thousand five hundred. Bruno is stunned by such an audacious challenge to his quote but after his own sleuthing, he agrees with me. Not long ago, my car’s undercarriage was badly knocked about when I ran over some metal debris left on the road. Bruno was summoned to jack the car up on a hoist for a damage check. “All good underneath,” he said with a smile and a “no charge.” The Blue Lion stays put for now.
The Inka Treasure card, with the Chakana (Indigenous cross) emblazoned against a black background takes me to a dark and heavily decorated hotel bedroom in Cusco where I lie each night in the grip of fear. Cusco is three thousand and four hundred meters above sea level with a barometric pressure of four hundred and eighty millimeters of mercury compared to one thousand millimeters of mercury at sea level where I normally reside. A three- fold increase in my rate of breathing keeps me hypervigilant counting breaths and watching the clock until dawn. The Peruvians of Cusco offer coca leaves in baskets, “take for your health,” they say but no amount of these leaves gives me any relief from shortness of breath. The card reminds me of altitude sickness and I decide that is a useful thing.
The Sweetwater Bistro has bittersweet memories of great food, excellent wine and near-death experiences. The only way to get to the bistro is by sailing our thirty -foot Catalina approximately 15 nautical miles through channels and wild stretches of open ocean. This may not sound like a major feat to most but to me sailing is an experience of agony or ecstasy. Our collective fear slowly grows from the agony of hellish experiences. One time we were careening about loose in a channel with a gaping group of onlookers shouting out desperate commands to try and stop us from clipping the bow or stern of other docked ships.
“Everyone has such an experience,” those who rescue us confide as if this is consolation.
We pledge we will overcome our fears and once off the dock, we grit our teeth and carry on until we eventually arrive at our destination. Before leaving, we pray for no rogue waves, huge gusts of wind or stray rocks. On entering the marina, we solicit
the help of anyone who happens to look at us and through helpful advice, hands on lines and encouraging words, we secure
our craft firmly to the dock cleats. Once snug in the bistro, we order our congratulatory bottle of wine and while we wait for
some fine food, we engage in exaggerated talk of future sailing adventures.
The Hotel des Deux Clefs in the charming village of Turckhiem in the Alsace dates back to the Renaissance. Inside the hotel we
discover a maze of Medieval Bohemian rooms where guests play bridge during the afternoon and later in the evening they sit back
in soft overstuffed chairs and enjoy the soft soothing blue tones of Miles Davis.
Never enter the village boulangerie without singing out bonjour and once you secure a freshly baked baguette in a crisp paper
bag call out au revoir as you leave. These perfunctory greetings on arrival and departure are essential for reasonable service. At the hotel we break open a bottle of chilled Chablis, a totally excellent companion for the fresh crunchy baguette, which we load with the regional Munster cheese.
Back home I study the calling card for Hotel des Deux Clefs. Outside it is raining and overcast. I ask my partner, “Will we go
back to France?”
“Soon, real soon,” he replies with a nostalgic faraway look.
The Surf Motel built in 1963 in Victoria is a mid century modern curiosity. With zero curb appeal it is well situated on the
waterfront across from Ogden Point. Early in the morning I walk the breakwater in the fresh salty ocean air before I visit my dying
mother.
“Where are you staying?” she asks when she is aware of my presence.
“At the Surf,” I answer and she smiles as her mind floats back to her courtship with my father. Parked along the shore at Ogden
Point he asks her to marry him. I have her ashes scattered off the breakwater where close to her youth she can gently drift in and
out on the rippling waves.
The memory of my mother is intimately linked to the Surf. Some day soon, I will return to walk on the breakwater and seek spiritual union with mother.
When looking out at the Pacific breaking on the sands of the Long Beach Peninsula, Washington, I am mindful of an infinite
universe. No mountain, cliff, rock or any object marks the horizon and the expanse of the ocean is uninterrupted. Each year the cottage we rent is set farther and farther from the ocean as the sand dunes and accretions build up every winter and now nestled in the hollows of sand, we can no longer see the ocean from the deck.
We inquire, “where can you buy the best oysters this year or is it razor clam season?” The best oysters from Willapa Bay on the other side of the peninsula become tender juicy morsels when sauteed in butter for just the right amount of time.
A bike ride to the post office in nearby Nahcotta is entertaining as we tune in to the locals who meet and discuss the eco politics of
the region. “I hear they had to close down the old Ark oyster bed because of invasive grasses.”
“It’s the American beachgrass. Should be on the Atlantic, not here.”
The thunder buns with pecans and currants baked at the Post Office Bakery are impossible to resist. We pedal back to the ocean to savour our sweets and contemplate the zig zag path of sandpipers at the shore.
The Hotel Janitzio is close to Puerto Vallarta, Mexico but off the destination list of any respectable tourist. Enrique is crossed off
the calling card and Francisco, the recent replacement is written above in pen. He welcomes us with a finger to his lips, “uno momento.” Our room will be ready “pronto.” While we wait, he takes our passports for safekeeping in his suitcase which he zips,
locks and places far back under his bed out of harms way. He takes stock of a steady stream of male visitors who come and go to a waiting bus parked out on a dusty gravel patch beside the hotel.
While we wait, we sip cerveza and watch the frenetic movements of flies as they dart back and forth, our eyes moving in tandem with their flight path. A plump perspiring senora crosses our vision on her way out to the street. Our stupor is disrupted when Francisco victoriously announces, “room is listo!”
Everything has been hosed down but the steam from recent heavy action rises from the surface of the bed and shower. Diesel fumes warn of inhabitant cockroaches but we are young, travel weary and poor and with nowhere else to go we sleep soundly.
Nowadays with everything instant most people no longer keep calling cards. With text, Twitter and Instagram, they don’t understand the touch, design and memories of business cards. Many dismiss me as old fashioned but with only one card on the
discard pile, I have regained a measure of satisfaction with my life.
About the Author – Faith Forster
Faith Forster is a retired Nurse Practitioner living in West Vancouver, British Columbia. She enjoys travel, writing and nature. “Retirement gives me time to pursue my interests in both reading and writing.” Faith was published in professional journals and recently her creative fiction was published in Shorts Magazine.
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