As a species, we’ve become obsessed with The End.

It’s not that we want fire and brimstone catastrophes, ravenous zombies, or locusts that shoot raging plagues of pestilence from their mouths (OK, maybe some people do); it’s that we’ve reached this point where we desperately need an ending. We need a collective ending so we can get on a with a new collective beginning.

Life goes on, even after a story stops and the curtain falls.

I present The Chicken Lady. That’s what my Gramma called her and that’s what I call her. The Chicken Lady.

This post is about my experiences with friends and family who are lost or dead as the result of drug addiction. I won’t share them all, but I’ll share a few.

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Joe was two years clean when he started smoking crack again. So many nights his girlfriend and I tried to help him. He’d disappear and she’d call me for help. We’d drive around looking for him for days.

It would start when he’d come to her house, kicking down the door looking for money for crack. Afterwards he’d beg for forgiveness and make promises he’d later break. As a friend to both of them, it was torment. I felt powerless to help, unless it was to help pick up the pieces in the aftermath. It was a kick in the gut when we’d find him; seeing the evidence of three to four-day crack binges all over his body.

There was no consolation with Joe. He’d beat himself up in the few days he was sober. We’d tread lightly during that time. And then his pain would grow too great and he’d steal what he could and he’d be out the door again; lost to the streets on another binge.

I asked him one night, “Why crack?” He looked at me and sighed wistfully. “The moment I smoked my first rock, I knew it was what I’d been waiting for my whole life. I’ve spent the rest of my highs chasing that memory.”

Tangled. That’s the word that came into my mind, the day I walked away. I don’t know where Joe is today.

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Peggy was a sweet soul. I miss her more than I can express. Her laugh and her smile would light up a room. Sometimes I think I see her in a crowd of people. I know it’s my mind playing tricks on me. Peggy is dead. She died of an overdose.

Peggy struggled with addiction through her teens and into her 20′s when she finally went clean. Her past was filled with physical and sexual abuse and she turned to heroin to make the pain go away.

Peggy started using heroin again after being clean for so long. She thought she’d be fine with a drink every now and then. Six months later she was, once again, living and breathing a full fledged heroin habit.

She pulled away from her friends. Out of shame? To protect us? To protect herself from our judgments? I’ll never know.

A few years later, I saw her at a café on Main Street. She looked rough. I almost didn’t recognize her. She saw me see her. She closed her eyes and I could tell she didn’t want me to come over. Her pain was clear and so was my heartache.

A year later a mutual friend received news that Peggy had died of an overdose the year prior. It turns out I saw her a few days before she died. It still breaks my heart thinking about that. I wish I’d kicked down the wall between us that day and rushed over to hug her. Whether she lived or not, she would have known I still loved her.

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Uncle Bob was addicted to cocaine for many years. He was ostracized by family members as a result of his addiction. Most of them didn’t want to have anything to do with him. The thing that always pissed me off the most was that none of them tried to help him. None of them tried to support him. They just wrote him off.

Only my immediate family stuck by him and helped him through some of the most challenging years of his life. He quit using cocaine and regained his health, but spent the rest of his life trying to mend the interpersonal damages his addiction caused. His siblings wouldn’t accept him, despite being clean. To them, he was already dead.

He moved away and we’d only see him a few times a year. We spoke often on the phone, but he felt his life was better lived as a recluse.

He died alone in his trailer. His body undiscovered for six days.

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To those still alive, I love you.

Here’s a handful of handsome mystery men; their stories unknown.

I bet he was a smooth talker with smooth cigarettes. What a gent.

A day in the country made easy by those swoon worthy long lashes.

Cigarettes and impeccably coiffed hair. I'm sensing a theme here.

Retro hotties lounging like cats in the sun.

This is Ben. Or so says the writing on the back of the photograph. He's probably the strong, silent type.

These boys are trouble.

With blood too thick to flow, the dormant heart feigned a single beat before its eternal, frosted sleep.

There were a few other people in the Gastown graffiti alley with me and eventually they all congregated around me, curious about what I was doing.

“You’re ruining perfectly good photos!” one guy exclaimed. I explained I was experimenting with movement. I showed him some of the results and he shook his head in dismay. “They’re all blurry. That’s the junk I delete.”

In no mood to explain myself further, I politely ignored him (can one politely ignore another person?), and I continued onward with my “step-step-click-step-step” alley dance.

"Jaws" by Cheryl Cheeks © 2012, Charcoal with Mixed Media

This is Jaws. He’s a goldfish. I couldn’t find a photo of him in any of the old family photo albums, so I did a charcoal drawing and plopped him in a fish bowl and then snapped a photograph, complete with charcoal pebbles at the bottom of the bowl.

I never realized how odd my family is until I shared the story of Jaws, my Gramma’s goldfish, with some friends of mine.

You see, Jaws always accompanied us on family summer vacations back in the 80′s. Every summer, we’d pack up the camping gear and trek off to Tofino and Ucluelet on Vancouver Island for a few weeks.

Gramma would stick Jaws in a mason jar full of water, screw on the lid and off we’d go; my sister and I taking turns holding Jaws in his travel jar. Yes, there was a mason jar specifically for Jaws. She’d take it down off the shelf, wipe off the dust, and Jaws would start swimming circles in his bowl, doing little leaps out of the water. I swear that goldfish got more excited about family vacations than we did.

My sister and I would hold Jaws’ travel jar up to the window so he’d have a nice view of the drive. Upon our arrival, we’d put him in his fish bowl and set it down in view of the Pacific Ocean. Nothing but rolling green and blue waves as far as he could see.

I suppose that makes us strange, my family and I, but Jaws lived for the better part of eleven years.

Do you have any quirky family stories others might consider strange? If so, what are they?

My mother has MS and my father has cancer. I think about all the times people have judged them or pushed past them without ever giving thought to the fact they may be quietly suffering from an illness.

Twenty years of cancer treatments have left my dad with Chemo Brain. For the most part he’s okay, but now and then he has moments where he doesn’t make any sense. Sometimes the way he arrives at point B from point A can be confusing. I’ve seen it happen, where people have judged him for that, and walked away saying he’s stupid. He’s not. Not by a long shot.

My mom’s MS progresses every year. Her mobility is hampered, so you would think her illness is less invisible. But that doesn’t stop people from pushing past her in stores and on sidewalks. Some people even make rude remarks about the fact that she doesn’t walk with ease. This makes me so very angry. She has limited mobility and her balance is compromised as a result. All it takes is a rough shove from a careless stranger on the sidewalk and my mom’s going to fall. It doesn’t seem to matter that she walks with a visible limp. I don’t know whether it’s that people are so wrapped up in their own worlds they don’t “see” her limp or they don’t give a flying fuck about it.

When a person looks fine on the outside, but is struggling daily with pain and illness, it’s hard to explain that to someone. When you can’t see the illness, it’s hard for others to understand.

MS, cancer, Depression, Arthritis, Anxiety, LUPUS. The list goes on. There are countless people suffering from countless invisible illnesses and we do each other a disservice when we don’t stop to consider there’s more to people than we can see.

Stop. Think.

There’s most likely a reason you can’t see for the way a person is acting or moving. This extends beyond invisible illness to all the events that take place in our lives. That woman on the bus who looks miserable and you’re judging her because of the furrow in her brow? Maybe her husband died. Maybe she lost her job. Maybe she was just diagnosed with cancer.

"The Winter Banana Tree" by Cheryl Cheeks © 2012, Charcoal on Paper

Back in 1916 my great-grandfather William planted a Winter Banana apple tree in the backyard of the family homestead. Over the next 69 years the tree provided for four generations of my family.

Season after season the heirloom tree blossomed Winter Bananas; even after Hurricane Freda ravaged its branches in 1962. I remember the sadness in my Gramma’s voice when she’d talk about Hurricane Freda and how the winds ripped branches from the Winter Banana tree. Her voice would crack with despair as she relived those moments every time she told the story. “We almost lost a family member that day,” she’d say, as we sat at the kitchen table gazing out the window at the tree in the backyard.

The year the Winter Banana tree died came as a shock, despite the fact we all secretly knew it was coming. I suppose it was this way because the tree was a monumental fixture in all of our lives. Almost 70 years of life spent sharing its bounty, its shade, and the birds it attracted left an immortal mark in the minds of four generations of family.

In 1985, the Winter Banana blossomed one apple. Gramma spoke in hushed tones about what this meant for the beloved tree. No twigs. No leaves. Just one apple.

It was a sight to behold, that lone apple dangling from the darkened limb of the aged tree. The tree poured every ounce of its dwindling vitality into that one apple. Every cell drained to provide; not a single breath wasted on producing leaves.

The waxy yellow apple with its faint red blush hung there like the physical embodiment of a low, resounding clarion call marking the end of an era. The apple hung in our minds like a question mark.

When?

It was early November and I was sitting with my Gramma at the kitchen table when a loud crack drew our attention outside. There, on the frosted lawn underneath the tree, lay the branch from which the lone apple had hung.

The weight of life in the apple must have been too much for the dying tree. The branch cracked and fell, sending the apple rolling into the middle of the yard. Where the branch was once connected, was a gaping hole in the side of the tree.

The Winter Banana tree was dead; hollowed and rotten on the inside.

It’s the only time I’d ever see my Gramma cry. With tears running down her cheeks, she went outside to collect the apple from the yard below. She brought the apple inside and without saying a word, she sliced it in two and offered me half.

We sat there in the kitchen, softly savouring the sweet meat in silence. At seven years old, I felt like a cannibal; eating the flesh of a fallen family member. Flesh given to us from the Winter Banana’s dying breath. I’ve never tasted meat so sweet and succulent since.

I’ve started 2012 feeling rather creatively blocked. It’s not that I’ve run out of ideas and inspiration—my brain is swimming with ideas—it’s that for some strange reason, as soon as I start on a project, my mind goes blank. “Crickets chirping” blank. “Little birds fluttering up and away into the sky above” blank. Oh, oh, oh, where did that idea go? Uhh….

Even my motivation for picking up my camera is wavering. Not only is my brain blocked, but I’m suffering from a mild case of Isuckitis. It’s frustrating.

My sister gave me a worthwhile piece of advice years ago. Change mediums for a while.

The creative outlets to choose from are endless. Whatever the creative vehicle may be, the importance is place on trying something different to get the juices flowing again. I liken it to the advice health care professionals give us about resting our eyes after staring at a computer screen for too long. It’s important to look away and focus our eyes on something different. When we return to looking at the screen, our eyes are refreshed. The creative brain works similarly.

So in an effort to change mediums and give my creative mind an infusion of fresh energy I bought an easel set off of Craigslist for $15. I spent the majority of my youth (until I was 25) drawing up a storm. Classes at Arts Umbrella. Packing every spare block I had with art and pottery classes in high school. Stacks upon stacks of filled to the brim sketch books line a shelf in my solarium.

A lot of the art from my youth hangs in the living rooms of old friends and family members. Something I forgot about, until a close friend reminded me of a drawing I gave her that hangs prominently on a wall in her home.

All reminders that at one point in my life I knew how to draw.

So as I sit and stare at the blank face of the pristine white paper staring back at me, my hope is my fingers get itchy enough for the stain of the charcoal I keep catching whiffs of, sitting on my table.

I’ll give you a minute to go look at the photo.

Dear readers, I’m a lewd girl. I’ve tried to keep that to a minimum here on my blog because there’s more to life than just filth. From time to time, however, my lewdness permeates into the innocent things I say. It’s the way it goes with a diseased mind like mine.

Our conversation ended with me challenging Cory to write a poem about licking the tops of lighthouses. There would be bonus points for eloquent euphemisms.

I had faith Cory would deliver something beautiful. He’s a talented poet and writer, as well as a photographer with an exceptional eye.

And he did deliver.

Cory captured carnal beauty inside seemingly innocent words and I love it. I hope all of you enjoy Cory’s poem as much as I do.

April

All deltas are restless
Tonight. Along the desolate
Coast of his body standing
Proud, a lighthouse pale
Like white sand in
Moonlight. Starting down
That mesmerizing shore, she
Straddles the mouth of
A stream, coaxing words
Softly purling about
Her knees. Further up
The contours her hands find
Where beach and building,
Wishing and frenzy meet,
The moment surmounted.
She kisses the top
Of the lighthouse.
All deltas are restless tonight.

This poem © Cory Q. Published January 6, 2012.

When my Grampa died just before Christmas 31 years ago, my Gramma boxed up the booze and stuck it in the basement. She just wasn’t into booze. Grampa was the only one who enjoyed a good cocktail or a tumbler of navy rum after a long day working as a longshoreman.

After my Gramma died, my sister and I came across the box of booze in the basement. A thick layer of dust encrusted the top of the box and when we opened it, mostly unopened bottles from the ’60s and ’70s once again saw the light of day.

I’d say I snagged the best of the bunch when I grabbed the bottle of Seagram’s V.O. Canadian Whisky (unopened) from 1969. Along with the bottle of whisky, I took a half-full bottle of Potter’s Apricot Liqueur. I did so mostly because I enjoyed the retro design of the label.

For five years the bottle of Potter’s Apricot Liqueur has sat in my liquor cabinet. One might begin to think this poor bottle was destined to collect dust; forgotten and unloved by the lips of man and woman alike. Nary a drop has touched my lips, that’s for sure.

Apparently, my Grampa enjoyed this liqueur on Christmas day; pouring himself a snifter of the stuff to sip the evening away. I guess it’s high-time I did something with this booze, eh?

What type of cocktail do you think I should make?

Merry Christmas!

We should cherish the beauty of our seasons as we know them now and from days gone by. What’s ahead is going to challenge us in ways we haven’t imagined yet.

I hope you enjoy some of my memories from Winters past. Happy Winter Solstice!

Frost in the early morning in a garden on the Sunshine Coast. (The little kid inside of me wants to give the top of that lighthouse a good lick.) It was damn cold that morning. The kind of cold that calls for brisk walks and rosey cheeks.

The sun hung low in the sky, casting Winter's pale light on these succulents. Braving the brittle cold on my knees, I knelt close.

The Winter sun slips beyond the treeline in Niton Junction, AB. This was the first winter I ever experienced temperatures below -10C. I remember freaking out when I thought there was something wrong with my face (much to the amusement of my prairie friends). "Your nose hairs are freezing, sweets. It's ok."

The back forty that felt like it rolled on and on forever. I stood there and listened to the sounds of the snow—soft and plump with the occassional distant crack—broken only by the call of a lone wolf off inside the treeline.

The deck of a very snowy ferry as it cut across the Salish Sea. There's a part of me that hopes we get one week full of snow this winter, as I've got a hankering to build THE BEST SNOW FORT EVER.

Shortly after this photo was taken, my friends and I built a giant snowman in the field across from the community centre. Bailey's and hot chocolate sustained us, as we gave in to our inner children and had a ball in the snow.

All of these photos were taken with a mix of Nikon and Olympus point and shoots, back before I had my DSLR.

The light was fading fast when I found this installation hiding in an alley near the cop shop. I had to touch the grass because it looked real to me in the dwindling light.

I suppose that’s part of the purpose of this art installation. As I ran my fingers through the paper stems, I thought about how much I liked the artists sense of humour.

Picture it: A young man leans against the weathered door frame, smoking a cigarette as his friend snaps a shot before their girlfriends arrive. Or a plotted photograph of a young girl’s grandmother gazing out the window at the pigeons eating the seed she left for them. All my imaginings inevitably make me turn around to peer intently at a view that may no longer exist the way it once was.

A lot of the old doors and windows that really catch my fancy are smaller than your average modern-day portals, and often slightly askew. Everything seems to get bigger as the years pass. Take a look at the size of closets from the 1930′s  (compared to today), and you’ll know what I’m talking about.

I know I’m not alone and that makes me happy. Out there, somewhere, there are others who get a kick out of photographing the portals we use daily.

To view my full photo set of windows and doors on Flickr, click here.

“I’m sketching my boot and smoking crystal meth,” he responded.

“Oh.”

I’ve seen the faces of dead friends and family juxtaposed on the faces of the living, these past few weeks. Yet every time I do a double-take, the face of a stranger stares back at me.

Mother did nothing to comfort Enid’s aching heart, saying that some lessons are best learned alone. “One day you’ll see how love fades away slowly, the way time shows his face upon old photographs.”

(Only Alice can tell you how she wound up in the window of the glove factory.)

26 April, 1920

Dear Lily,

Iris and I arrived safely, but no one came to meet us and there was only a box car for a station. While we were walking around the platform, the coyotes started howling and Iris said, “Oh, listen to the gophers barking.” We often have a good laugh about that.

Snow came in October and the local men say it will most likely stay wet until May. There’s talk of taking a team and wagon out to a lake Jude keeps talking about. We’ll go for a swim and a picnic once the weather is nicer in June or July. Dad says we’ll have to be back in time for milking.

The cold nights are the hardest. It’s so desolate out here. The only peeps seem to come from the animals as winter slowly melts into spring.

Dad shot five ducks with one shot on a rotting stook yesterday. He came home with an air of triumph, proudly hoisting the ducks for all to see. Mother’s been quite fretful lately, worrying that we’ll all succumb to the flu, as it seems to be at its worst now. So far we’ve come through untouched.

Mail moves slowly here; brought in and out by Albert and his team of mules. He seems a good fellow, albeit rather ripe when he comes in off the road with the mules. I always make a point of being pleasant with him as it seems a lonely job. Though I often don’t know which eye to look at, due to his one wandering eye.

Iris says the bustle of the city suits you. I do hope so.

Love,
Rose

Besides living in my mind, the game lives in the underground parkade where the garbage room is located. A locked door stands between me and the zombies that lurk in the vast expanse of garage I have to walk through to take out the trash. The price I pay when I let my situational awareness fall by the wayside? Death.

As soon as I pass through the locked door, a series of rapid fire questions is activated in my brain.

1. What kind of footwear am I wearing? If the answer is flip-flops, I’m screwed. Ever try to run—effectively—wearing flip-flops? I’ve never mastered the art. Inevitably, I always accidentally kick off a flip-flop in the process. I wonder though, could a flip-flop whizzing along at high-speed immobilize a zombie? Yeah. Nevermind. So, I have to be ready to kick them off, if required. (Keep in mind that I don’t literally ditch the flip flops and start running. If I did, I’m sure there would have been a few letters to strata by now about some weird girl throwing shoes in the parkade.)
2. Is the bag heavy enough to use as a momentary distraction? Could I wing it with enough force at a zombie’s head to gain a few extra seconds to high-tail it away?
3. Where are my keys? Seriously. Where the fuck are my keys?
4. Am I maintaining tactical formation? This is important. Cut the pie, people. Cut the pie!
   
5. And finally, how close am I to my storage locker and all the axes I have stored in there? Can I make it? OK, seriously. Where the fuck are my keys?