Driving Minnie's Piano by Lesley Choyce Read Free Book Online Page A

sound of geese
upwind in the open frigid waters where the inlet ice gives way to
the channel of the salt sea. An honest winter day of skid ice in
the driveway, heavy frost patterning the windows and three kinds of
snow. And wind.
    This room is cold, by choice,
at night and it makes you hurry into old clothes and a fast run to
the blossom of heat near the cookstove in the kitchen. The
cookstove singing the only song it knows, a happy companion in this
two-hundred-year-old kitchen where the dog, Jody, scratches against
the door, eager to go outside.
    As I look out onto that colder
world, snow sifts in like company waiting at the door. Then a sharp
punch of cold to the lungs, as I watch the dog dive towards the
swirling snow, whipping about in the wind. The hill out back with
its cranberries frozen red and ripe into the depth of winter is
covered over now with blankets of the cold souvenir of the
season.
    Jody barks at everything,
anything - an exercise of opinion and sound, a soundtrack for the
snow with the wind collaborating. The sky, a scud of grey-white
clouds and the wind from the north, of course. A touch of east
maybe, taking the dryness from the snow and giving it a subtle
touch of weight and character.
    The uninvited snow is cold
against my bare ankles, then back inside to plug in a kettle and
wait for the kids to find daylight, and slip groggy-eyed into the
kitchen.
    In front of the house, on the
long frozen slab of lake, the snow does not settle but finds the
slick flat pane of surface and races off south to clutch at the
bushes in the marsh, to fashion white dunes to mimic the ones on
the nearby beach.
    The day will go slate-grey,
dark like a bruise, or settle into something vivid if the blue
behind the shroud above has the courage to save us. I pour the tea
and settle into a near silent meal as I long for something from the
past, some nameless thing that probably never was but it is there
nonetheless. It mostly concerns time. The passage of time, the
infinite loss of things slipping through my fingers this morning
over a bowl of cornflakes, a mug of dark tea. Nothing, not a thing
wrong here, just the fact that I can't hold onto any of it. Each
day is flying away as this one will. I want to say this out loud
but I remain silent, sipping at the steam above the cup like it is
a vapour of hope.
    And so the
day begins. Winter in Nova Scotia. Two days before Christmas and I,
for one, am glad this is not the holiday for I do not trust holidays. I trust the average day, the every day. The
day like this with the dog barking now to come in and be fed. I
test the cold again as I open the door, sense it is not as hostile
as it first seemed. More snow pours in, the dog in tow, shaking
herself from white back to black. Never have I seen a dog breathe
with such enthusiasm. And we are back by the cookstove again. I
almost touch the surface with my hands. Snow from petting the dog
melts instantly, slips in drops to the flat black plates and hisses
like a wild animal.
    If I could
only articulate the thing in the back of my throat. The necessity
of stopping the flow of time. Of my plan to arrest the rapid
succession of day after day. My plan is to lecture my two
daughters: I'm sorry, but your
mother and I have decided you are not allowed to grow up. You must
stay like this for the rest of your lives. We are all going to stay
just like this forever.

    Outdoors, the pheasants arrive
by the side of the old pigeon pen where our two pet pigeons huddled
through the dark cold night: Rosa and Chez, waiting for me to bring
cracked corn and fresh water. The male pheasant is scratching about
in the snow, looking for the corn that is not there yet, the
humbler female prancing about. Their feet leave beautiful delicate
etchings in the snow and then the wind erases them, but the
pheasants will come back to do it again.
    And I am satisfied again that
we are a long, long way from the shopping malls. I bundle up in my
worst but warmest coat and pull