Old and a bit care worn was our apartment- such a huge change from the ranch house we called home for so long.  I weighed the positives over all we let go of for retirement, and Godfrey put my random bits of paper to poem and song.

No more nasty slivers from the rough pantry floor, no nettles or blackberry bushes growing round my back door, no plowing the long road to the highway in snow, no more mud season, no more worry over fire or tornado…slowly we adapted to life in the city, and the luggage shop we named for Godfrey.

Garnet had his stamps and his geography studies.  It was those years that I started quietly to write, we had view of a small park, and oft I watched the tugboats, and lights of the harbor from my window at night.

Across the small green space was a low, stone wall, remnant of ship’s dock, beyond the wall were city trees and two old disused canneries, derelict buildings of black brick and rock.  Godfrey, on a visit dragged my turquoise chair, over where the radiator clicked and sighed, contented he was to look out the window, as his knees kept warm and his socks dried.

A bit more rain was sweeping in, as is common for February, I was putting the scones in the oven, when Godfrey called out, “Worzel, oh come see”!!   He said, “look to the wall, wait for that chap with the brief-case to pass the tree, I did, watched and as the fellow walked,he disappeared into the stone wall completely.

“Now observe, noted Godfrey, the pair with their backs to us go through the wall, I suspect it is a lovely illusion , the way the wall and old stone buildings meet, the vagabond and I watched in awe, staring down at the wall of illusion as the drizzle turned to sleet.

We had tea and cinnamon scones, hot and buttered, when dark now and empty of people down on Wharf Street..He was no bludger, Godfrey always paid his way, discovered the mystery in the wall of illusion, long years ago now, it was St Valentine’s Day.

In summer time, foliage obscures the wall of illusion from my high window, and the tree I admired by our front door, Garnet after six years pointed out it was, “not one scraggly tree but four”.  “My turquoise chair still  squats, heavy and faded, waits for the story teller, socks hang to dry, scones still bake, hearts still go on, and oft I dream of his peaceful world, perhaps it is there, through the wall of illusion…



  1. The rhythm and rhyme are so compelling in this piece. You are a poet, Sheila. And I don’t know why, but the last few lines tugged at my heart, filled me with melancholy for a bit, made me miss my loved ones. Tis a gift you have.

  2. Thanks Janet- it twas a melancholy weekend….No one has ever asked the story of the Turquoise Chair, but feel I know you well enough to share, for 10 summers I worked for “Fat Jim”. Rude, but a nickname of the times, in his house he had the oft described chair, found fallen off a truck in rural Manitoba. Whenever I came home from a ramble, he had my job waiting, when thieves took every thing from his house all they left was the chair, when his wife left she took all but the chair, when he had to bawl me out for anything, I had to sit in the chair. When he passed suddenly at 41, no one knows what became of the chair, I write with hope the chair is still out there, giving joy, in the memory of a good chap lost too soon. Let us laugh for Fat Jim…And Thank You very much.

Leave a Reply - Thank You From Godfrey

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out /  Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )


Connecting to %s