Enter the Ghost Writer

I have asked someone to ghost write today's blog. Isn't there something so intriguing about a ghost writer? I picture a dark haired man hiding out in his wine cellar, somewhere close to Tuscany, writing novels under a romantic sounding pen-name.

So, here it is. She has no alias yet, but I like to call her "The Lady of the Lake".

For familytree Friday

Yesterday, as I was gliding downhill (in my car), I noted how long and how far I traveled before I, once again had to touch the gas pedal with the toes of my right foot. I wondered then (with the price of gas creeping up over $1.31 litre) how much gas I had saved in my little coasting experiment. And this got me thinking about “Uncle Arthur”. Now, Uncle Arthur was actually my Great Uncle. He was my maternal Grandfather’s brother.

Where is this leading, you may wonder…and what does it all have to do with the “price of tea in China ” ?..or the price of gas in Canada’s End?

Bear with me, as I explain the relationship and the basis of my memory. Uncle Arthur worked for the now-defunct Canadian department store; “Eaton’s” assembling and repairing bicycles. Can you imagine such an employment? But, bicycles were a major means of transport when he began doing his work. Yet, Uncle had a motorized vehicle, of which, try as I might, I just can’t recall its species. It was some kind of 50’s vintage “panel truck” I think. The precursor to a modern day van, I guess you could say. Did I tell you it was the 50’s ?; those lean, post-war years where not everyone had cars, SUVs, trucks and vans in multiples of more than one ! We, of course were the least fortunate and did not own a vehicle; so having a ride in a car was a rare “treat” and I looked forward to an odd Sunday, when Uncle would arrive to take us for an outing in his “lost-in-my-memory” car.

I think it was only when Uncle needed to have a home-cooked meal, would he make an appearance, since Mother would cook a Sunday roast of beef with Yorkshire pudding, or a pork roast, complete with “crackling” (this was before we had to recognize that fat was evil). I don’t know how she could stand his habit of standing by the table, simply picking at the meat and roasted potatoes. He’d eat right from the pan, as we all looked on, wondering why he would not accept the invitation to sit and eat like a normal person, with a plate and knife and fork !

So, after he mutilated our Sunday meal (and our appetites), he would suggest going for a little drive. We would pile in the car and trust in his skills behind the wheel, as we cruised with windows down in the backseat, warm winds blowing dust into our faces and lungs. But it was such a nice break in the mundane life we led.

I am nearing the point of explaining my introduction to this essay. Uncle Arthur, when coming to the top of any hill, would switch his engine off and tell us how he was saving gas by doing so! He would literally turn off the ignition, coast as far as possible, then “spark up” the motor once again. This went on, at the downside of every hill we met. I have always wondered if any petrol was truly saved, when, each time, he would have to rev up the engine once more. But, it was just one of his idiosyncrasies: picking our Sunday meal apart; and saving fuel on our Sunday drives.
One final habit, I must hereby inscribe; was his perverted habit of “boob-pinching” !

My cousin and I were pre-teen girls, in the very self-conscious state of developing breasts. Uncle had a nasty habit of squeezing our upper arms, all the while telling us what “nice girls” we were! But Uncle’s fingers had a slimy way of creeping sideways and sliding into our budding breasts. We wriggled away as quickly as we could and never once told our mothers how much we disliked his touch!

So, you see, Uncle Arthur, was a strange man, and has been deceased for many years. I don’t know what happened to his family. He had children, but they probably grew tired of his fuel-saving techniques and went off to live elsewhere.

Wouldn’t it be nice if we could repay the favours of people from our past; people whom we disliked for various reasons and, whom we would like to confront as adults championing our own cause?

I, for one, would like to present to Uncle Arthur, of “boob-pinching” fame my ample, mature, bosoms…and dare him to pinch…just once…with his bony fingers !

signed, the Lady of the Lake