Hello everyone, everywhere,

It’s been quite a week for November. I mean, it’s been really nice weather-wise. But it’s funny–it seems like everyone is coughing and blowing their noses. I’m doing the best I can to duck and swerve my way out of it. It hasn’t worked so I will probably have my usual cold from November until May when it just goes away.

Rehearsals have been going great with the band. We have some shows coming up, and I’m looking forward to them. We have a new bass player and that has brought back the bottom end that we’ve missed since Terrence left. (Fred plays a good bass but I haven’t seen him in a Stetson yet).

Michelle has been busy with her PelikanBox this week, and Dean…well, Dean’s been sick. But he’s on the mend and he’ll be back home in Edmonton on Wednesday, so good on Dean.

I’m going to return to swimming in a couple of days so I’ve been lying on the carpet practising my favourite move, the breast stroke. I think I’m ready to get back in the water. (Rug burn’s a bitch).

And now it’s time to close our eyes and our thoughts, if only for a moment…and rest. Tonight’s tale is about…well, find out for yourself.



Her name is Myrna Baine. She lives with two cats and an aging mother in Lindy Lake.  Myrna works at Camfiddle Department Store where she’s been employed since she was seventeen;  she’s fifty-three now.

When Myrna looks in the mirror, the image hurts; no makeup, hair always in a tight bun. She holds the sink with both hands and wonders where she went. Her thoughts always take her back to her man. Yes, always Karl. Memories of a wise-cracking smart ass. He had a motorcycle, and…she was a lady. No more of that.

Myrna’s life changed the day Karl was sentenced to twenty years. The reason doesn’t matter. He was gone and that was all there was to it. The day he left he called to her, “Myrna, will you wait for me?”

Myrna called back, “Yes, Karl darling. I will wait for you.” And wait she did.

After serving eighteen years, Karl had a stroke and died in prison. Myrna had waited every day of those eighteen years. No matter. She sat in her chair, closed her eyes, and thought, “Yes, in some sense I might be alone. But then maybe our letters remind me, I never was. I’m fine with that.”

Somebody had to care. I mean, you can just turn away or not. That’s what she said at his funeral. There was no one else there.

That’s all.


By jamesghutcheson

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