I started to tell him the saddest thing in my life was the bundle of worthless secrets I carry around in my head, but then I smiled back at him and said that I loved my secrets, that I would be lost without them, that they were the only things in the world I could call my own.

Fuel for the Fire

Fuel for the Fire

When you think about holidays like Thanksgiving and Christmas and Easter, and those huge traditional dinners with roast meat and bowls of mashed potatoes and fruit pies laid out, you tend to imagine city families wrapping up in their warm coats and climbing into cars and driving out to the family farm. That’s the way it was with us, but no longer. Now, since Mom died three years ago, my dad comes into Winnipeg for those special days. He drives the pick-up, not the Pontiac. He’s used to it, he says. It hugs the road better, and it seems there’s always something or other he needs to haul. As a matter of fact, he’s here most Sundays too. It’s only forty-five miles, and he’s careful to pick a time when the highway’s relatively quiet.

He’s never been the world’s best driver. Not that he’s ever had a real accident, but traffic makes him nervous. He gets heart palpitations, so he says. He’s okay on secondary roads, and around McLeod, but not in the city. When Mom was still in good health he always tried to wheedle her into taking the wheel when they went to Portage to shop. We used to kill ourselves laughing about that, the traffic in Portage la Prairie. But now he sails into Winnipeg almost every week. He comes in on the Number 1 Highway, takes a left at Silversides Boulevard, another left at Union, and then a sharp right into our driveway.

I always give him a cup of coffee the minute he gets here. Or, if it’s lunch time, a bowl of soup. He can sink down a pan of soup just like that, cream of chicken or asparagus, if I’ve got it on hand. Camp-bell’s asparagus, that’s his idea of real gourmet. He doesn’t mind trying new things, even lasagna or beef curry. I read an article not long ago about how old people’s taste buds shrivel up with age so that they actually need more spice in their food, not less. When I told him we were having goose for New Year’s Day dinner, he looked really interested. He’s never had goose before. Neither have I for that matter. Neither has Dennis.