Boreal

FAREWELL POSTINGS

Regrets

Three Photographs

It was about the time that Lucette had finished her radiation treatment and been told that she could expect to live at least another five years (it turned out to be eight) that I was diagnosed with a neoplastic cyst on the pancreas, at the worst possible location. Rather than perform a biopsy that could cause cancer cells to escape into the bloodstream if it was cancerous, it was decided to take a wait and see attitude and schedule another MRI six months hence.

My pessimistic self immediately assumed the worst. I was a semi-regular listener to The John Tesh Radio Show. When all this was happening, he happened to have a discussion about the last person you will remember before you draw your last breath. He said it would be a girl you were with during your teenage years.

I was not a teenager when I met Lucette and neither was she. I kept a box that contained pictures of Margaret, Glenna and Joyce. Thinking that I was going die before her, and that the last thing she would hear from me would be one of their names, and later find the box and assume that I loved someone else more than her, I got rid of it. What an idiot! My last memory will be of her and no one else, of that I am sure.

Who is Joyce? I am grateful to Joyce for being the first when I thought it would never happen, and for when Lucette asked me if I knew how to ride a horse (she was an accomplished rider), the answer was yes.

JOYCE

(Abbreviated from Love, Sex & Islam, Boreal Books)

The first time I had sex was also my first time on a horse. It was Joyce’s idea. She was still infatuated with my brother and knew that he loved to go riding on the Tk'emlups Indian reserve across the river, less than a mile from downtown Kamloops, British Columbia.

Girls like Joyce were not usually attracted to guys like me. Like most attractive, outgoing young women, she preferred the strong, physical type with the pleasant personality who knew how to dance—that was not me.

My brother’s interest in Joyce had waned as his interest in another young lady blossomed, and he was looking for a way to let her down gently. He suggested to Joyce that she might want to date me. For Joyce, that was a no-brainer. If dating the brother meant being close to the man she was still in love with, that was a price she was willing to pay.

The riding instructor reminded me as we left the corral, that if I ever wanted to enjoy sitting again, I must ride with my legs, letting my bum go up and down in rhythm with the motion of my horse's back.

About a mile into our slow trot in the direction of Mount Peter and Paul, Joyce, an accomplished rider just like my Lucette, decided she had had enough of this slow, single file canter and peeled off at a gallop heading towards the river, waving at me to follow. Once I had my ride pointed in the right direction, it understood. All I could do was hang on.

I was gaining on Joyce as we approached a bend in the Thompson River when her charging horse stopped suddenly, and a pair of flying hooves narrowly missed knocking out my mount's front teeth. An attempted sucker punch if there ever was one! The now insulted and angry beast beneath me was not about to let it go. It, too, stopped, swivelled 180 degrees, and before we knew it, both horses were knocking hooves. Joyce quickly regained control of her mount and, to my surprise, I managed to do the same with my rambunctious stallion.

About a mile into our slow trot in the direction of Mount Peter and Paul, the aboriginal leader of our little posse had galloped back to talk to me. "What’s the problem?" he shouted.

"My horse won’t go where I want him to go," I shouted back.

He came close enough to grab the bridle, and twisted my horse's head until its nose almost touched the tip of one of my boots. "You have to show your horse where you want him to go," he explained. "You have to show him who is the boss," and he galloped back to the head of the line. That lesson was undoubtedly the reason I managed to regain control of my charger.

With our rides under control, we made our way back to the stables. Back in the car, Joyce was not ready to go home just yet. She suggested I drive to a secluded place on the reserve where we could talk and watch, unobserved, others riding by.

Maybe she was still under the influence of the adrenaline rush, or maybe it was my unexpected competence as a cowboy, but Joyce was in the mood...

My Datsun was not a sports car; it had a bench seat (one seat from door to door, not unlike the back seat of most vehicles). When we drove into the Tk'emlups Indian reserve, she was sitting by the door. When we drove out, she was sitting next to me. The Universe had shifted, and in a good way.