I remember making my own flip books....

My mother just got back from a vacation, and she gave my daughter a really cool flip book that uses actual photographs of sea lions, so when you flip the pages, it's like you are watching a wee movie. The book is awesome, and it sparked a memory for me.

I was bored in many classes in junior high and high school. I would take my pencil, start on the first page of whatever textbook I was using for the class I was in, and I would draw a stick man. On the second page, the stick man would be moved very slightly, the third page a little more...you know how flip book animation works, right? I never knew what would happen to the little man until I drew it. Sometimes his head would pop off and he'd have to chase it, sometimes he'd fall off the bottom of the page and have to climb back up, sometimes he'd meet a stick woman...every text book was a different story.

It was perfect. I could still listen to the teacher, and as far as they could tell, I was absorbed in making notes or something. Once the drawings were all laboriously completed, I'd sit back in my seat and flip through the pages of my text and feel very pleased with myself as the little man would come to life. I don't think I showed these animations to anyone else. I had learned early on in junior high that any creative impulse must be hidden or you would be tortured for it. The little men were my little secret.

I remember a friend with amnesia....

Anyone who has lived through secondary education knows what a pressure cooker school can be. Every professor thinks their class is the only one, and there are papers and exams and assignments until you sometimes can't remember if you are coming or going. If you are a music student, you also have hours of practice on your instruments of choice as well.

My friend, Rob, was a music major. He was so talented musically, had a disarming and charming sense of humor, and somehow managed to be completely suave and totally geeky both at the same time. One night he was giving an informal concert in the student lounge. He pulled a stool up on the stage and asked for a volunteer, then walked straight up to me and dragged me up there. He sang "Ain't Misbehavin'" to me, making me blush twelve shades of red when he'd look into my eyes and sing "I'm savin' my love for you!". It was a fun evening.

Not very long after that, Rob collapsed in his room, unable to breathe, a complete breakdown. He was rushed to Emergency, and we were all very concerned. Word came back to the school over the next few days that Rob had lost his memory, and once he was up to it, would probably benefit from visits from some of his friends.

A small group of us traveled to the hospital as soon as we were allowed. Rob was sitting up in his hospital bed. He looked at us all quizzically, and we introduced ourselves. He was still completely himself, charming and geeky, but he did not know who we were, he did not know his own name, he did not remember how to read...he couldn't remember ANYTHING! It was the oddest thing.

His roommate stuck in a cassette tape of some Beethoven symphony. Rob perked up. "What is that?"

"That's Beethoven. That's music."

"I like it! I like music!"

I felt like crying.

"Do you hear that da-da-da thing with the interesting tone? What is that?"

"That's the trumpet, Rob. You play the trumpet."

"I do?"

"Yes, you do."

"Well, listen to it. Can you hear it? There are four of them playing different tones...it's pretty. I like it."

Even though he didn't know what he was listening to, he was listening to it better than any of us could. His talent, his humour, the things that made him Rob were all still there. He just couldn't remember anything.

Over the next few weeks he began to regain his memory, bit by bit. The prognosis: stress. The treatment: take it slow. He didn't finish the school year, though he did come to visit a few times. It made me sad to see him, he seemed so tired and fragile. I found myself wondering how close to the line I was, how close to a breakdown, and what parts of me would be left if I got total amnesia.

I remember the longest line of cocaine I ever saw....

I was living with Theresa. People would ask me, when they'd found out I'd moved in with her, how I could stand living with her...she was always talking fifty miles over the speed limit, she was intense and loud, her hands were always moving and fidgeting and pulling on her long red hair....and I'd reply that I didn't need a TV, I could just sit back and watch T. I got a kick out of her and her vibrating energy.

One day her old boyfriend, Seppo, got back from a fishing trip. This translates to "loaded with money and needs to burn it". He came over with Kelly, a quirky young punk-rocker we all knew, and a big bag of cocaine. We closed the curtains, put on Led Zeppelin II, cracked some beer and began to party, just the four of us.

The party itself is rather unmemorable; we didn't terrorize the neighbours, we didn't bust a hole in the wall. We just hung out listening to loud music. The reason I tell this story is because of this one image in my mind. Seppo, T. and I are all sitting on her bed, looking at records and liner notes in the dusty dimness. We look up, and Kelly is quietly sitting on the floor. He has taken the full length mirror off our wall, and has proceeded to cut the longest line of cocaine I have ever seen, snaking from one end of the mirror to the other and back again three times. We have no idea how long this has taken him. I can see him quietly bending over the mirror making little tiny chops...he looks up as he realizes we are watching him, and kind of giggles. "I just wanted to do one more line."

The line must have been 15 feet long! Silly boy.

I thought to myself at that moment..."This should be a scene in a movie. My life is like a movie."

I remember being given a free burrito...

My best friends lived in Seattle, and it was one of those wonderful weekends when I was down visiting Sheri and the gang. Ed worked with stained glass, Sheri made beautiful collages, Nathan was sure he used to be a scribe in Ancient Egypt...something crazy and creative was always happening when we'd all get together. We'd smoke pot, drink Celestial Seasonings tea, and think of artistic things to do.

We were making our regular trip to Pike's Place Market (had to go to Tenzing Momo for fresh incense and stuff!). I was low on cash, but in high spirits. We were strolling along the street across from the market...well, they were strolling, I was skipping....and I was happily proclaiming to Sheri that I was hungry and I didn't care, when the young man behind the counter of a burrito stand called me over.

"Hey, come here!"

"Me?"

"Yeah. Here. I made one too many and I can't sell it. You can have it." He shyly handed me a huge burrito.

"Uh...thanks!!" I gave him a big smile and skipped off to join Sheri and the others. "Look what this guy just gave me..."

My friends shook their heads. Presents from heaven for Paula again. Now that I think about it, I may have been wearing my orange paisley shirt.

I remember my father's hands...

They were huge.

I can picture my hand going up to hold his as we are walking when I am very young, and all I grab onto is his little finger, and it fills my fist. I feel very safe.

Or as an older child, sitting at the kitchen table eating grapefruit. Mom has cut the sections, and we have eaten all we can scoop out with our spoons, and then we try to squeeze the rest of the juice out into our bowl. We pick up the empty grapefruit shell and squish it with two hands, using all our might, our elbows and shoulders trembling from the effort. Then when we are done, our energy spent, we pass the shell to Dad and with one hand he squeezes out more juice than we could with two. It is our favourite breakfast game.

Or when we eat soup. The crackers are on the table, and we are allowed to put as many crackers in our soup as we want. I take a stack of four crackers and hand them to Dad. He puts the crackers in the palm of one hand, puts the other hand on top and, presto, with one little squeeze, the crackers have been pulverized into perfect cracker powder which he lets fall into my bowl. I try with one cracker, but am left with unsatisfying, irregular chunks. We laugh.

Strong, safe hands.

I remember being given a free shirt....

It was a sunny summer day in Vancouver, BC. There was a big all-day concert at Stanley Park, they called it a "Be-In", I guess trying to re-create the glory days of the hippy movement in the late '60's. There was a whole line-up of local bands, and my friends and I were excited to go.

By the time we got there, more than half of the outdoor space was already filled with blankets and music lovers. It was too nice out to care about being close to the stage, so we happily set up our blanket slightly to the left, two-thirds of the way back. The breeze from the ocean was a bit cool, so I left my long-fringed buckskin jacket on over my tank top.

I was in heaven. I love live music, and I love being with friends, and I love being outdoors...so there wasn't much ruining my day. I felt like dancing, so up I stood, dancing like Stevie Nicks, fringes a-flying in the sunshine. It didn't matter to me one bit that I was the only person in a crowd over one thousand people that was dancing. I danced for the rest of the band's set, totally happy, totally alone.

I noticed up near the front of the stage one particular group of people. Most of them were engrossed in the music, but one man was staring at me the whole time I was dancing. He had on the most remarkable shirt. He was too far away for me to tell how old he was or even what his features were, but his shirt was impossible to ignore...bright day-glo orange, with some pattern that I couldn't make out. I determined to go talk to him once the band was done, and I headed towards him as soon as the music stopped.

"Hey, enjoying the music?"

"Oh, yeah, sister. I was totally grooving on your fringes while you were dancing."

The man had short, curly dark hair and looked to be in his forties. He also looked to be completely under the influence of LSD...I took him for an old hippy who was trying to relive his glory days some twenty years ago.

"Oh, cool. I wondered why you kept staring. Hey, man, that is one crazy shirt!"

Up close it was even better than I had imagined. It was day-glo orange paisley, with bits of day-glo lime, yellow, green...all on a black swirly background. It looked like some crazy black-light poster!

"You like it? Here, you can have it."

He began undoing the buttons.

"What? No, man, I was just admiring it, you keep it!!"

"It's OK, sister, I've got another shirt..."

He handed me the technicolor shirt and reached into his duffle bag for a plain white t-shirt, smiling like a lazy Bhudda the whole while. I thanked him and headed back to my friends and our blanket. They couldn't believe how cool the shirt was, and just shook their heads. Magical stuff like that was always happening to me.

This is a scan of the shirt. It doesn't do it justice. The orange is so bright that it almost hurts your eyes to look at it! But I thought I should include the scan for posterity's sake.

I remember hanging out with the Beatnigs....

For years I had a radio show at CiTR, a university radio station. One of my favorite perks of working there was interviewing bands that would come to town. I'd set them up in their booth with mikes and headphones, then head back to my booth, wave through the window, and off we'd go. I often didn't know more than ten minutes ahead of time if a band would be coming, so there were no rehearsed questions. We'd just start talking about music and see what happened.

I was expecting the Beatnigs to come, but I didn't know when they'd be arriving. I had been playing quite a heavy set, some Throbbing Gristle, some Coil, some Test Department, and it was time for a station break. I opened the mike and began talking, when all of a sudden I began receiving a back massage. "Ladies and Gentlemen of Vancouver, you may not believe me, but I am at this moment receiving a very impressive back rub from a tall, black man that I have never met before. No, don't stop, sir, we're on the air!" Good radio fun, I loved random radio! The Beatnigs had arrived, and Michael Franti was giving me a back rub.

I started the next song, some Einstürzende Neubauten, which really impressed Michael and Rono. I knew they liked industrial music, that's why I was playing it, duh! I ran a good show, I wasn't some dumb air-head playing pop tunes!! I'd done my research...after all, I'd known they were coming for at least an hour.

The interview went very well. Michael is a very intelligent man, and has opinions on just about everything, so I hardly had to say anything. In fact, for the rest of my shift, I didn't really have to do anything at all. I let loose Michael and Rono on the turntables and they mixed music for over half an hour while I stood there and soaked it up. That's good random radio!

Michael Franti is the driving force behind "Michael Franti & Spearhead". You should check them out. Michael is not only a great musician with a lively social conscience, he gives a great back-rub.

I remember finding stuff in my locker....

One of the perks of Junior High at our school was getting a locker in the hallway instead of just stashing your stuff in your desk like in the kiddie grades. I liked having a locker. It was my little space.

I opened the door of my locker one day and found that all my stuff...my books, my jacket, everything...was covered in cigarette butts and ashes. Someone had taken the time to cram the entire contents of their ashtray through the little air holes at the top of my locker. I sighed and began picking the dirt and soot out of all my belongings. I could hear other kids laughing as they walked by.

Apparently I was not allowed to have even the tiniest of spaces to myself.

I remember trying on clothes from the missionary box...

As the pastor's family, it was our privilege to have first dibs on the clothes that were donated for the missionaries. I never knew what missionaries these clothes were designated for, I don't know if anyone did. I just knew that if Mom came home with a big cardboard box, we were going to have to spend about an hour trying on clothes.

This was always fun at first. I'd pick out the old lady dress and put it on, then mince around the room like Carol Burnett as the old lady. If there was a hat, I'd put it on and pretend to be French. Mom would laugh hysterically, but soon she settled down to business. She wanted us to try on anything that looked like it might fit. Anything. Everything. Even the ugly things. And there were lots of ugly things!

Mom would spend a lot of time trying to convince us how great an outfit looked if she liked it. I distinctly remember the sinking feeling of futile stubbornness in my gut that arose as she oohed and ahed over a seer-sucker pantsuit. It was so out of fashion that I had never even HEARD of seer-sucker, but Mom was determined that it looked fabulous on me, and so it went into my closet.

I tried not to wear it, but one day there were no clean clothes and the bus was coming, so on it went. All day long at school, people laughed at me. I tried to defend myself, explaining that it was seer-sucker, but that term is nothing but cannon fodder to cruel junior high students. It was a long day, and I never wore the outfit to school again.

I remember an adventure at the bus stop....

It was a sparkling day in Vancouver, the kind of day where you can't imagine being anywhere else but in the middle of the city, right where you are. I was riding the bus home from somewhere, and I felt like breaking up my usual routine--the people filling the sidewalks all looked so beautiful and interesting! I got off at Granville and Broadway. There was a little cigarette shop there, and I wanted to see if they carried any unusual cigarettes. They did, and I bought some.

I headed out of the shop and sat on the bench at the bus stop, waiting for the next bus. I opened the pack of French smokes and lit up. A bus pulled up, but I didn't want to get on it yet, so I just stayed seated. The door opened. I was about to wave the driver on, when two of my friends got off the bus, Scooter and Olly!! (I'm not making up these names. Isn't that great?) They jumped over to the bench and squished me in a sandwich.

"Paula!! You're beautiful!! What are you doing here? Wanna come with us to an art opening?"

Yippee!! I knew this was a sparkling day! Scooter's dad was a fairly successful artist, and was having an opening at an exclusive little gallery right across the street! Of course I wanted to go! We hooked our arms together and sashayed across the street, sweeping into the gallery like three goofy rejects from "The Wild One". Scooter introduced me to his father, who was very busy schmoozing with the people in suits who had lots of money. We spent some time looking at the paintings, but mostly we hung out at the free bar.

Scooter dragged another older gentleman over..."Paula, I'd like you to meet one of my art instructors." The old fella seemed bored with the proceedings and was happy to hang with us three young ones. In fact, stealing the bottles of scotch and red wine from the bar and heading to my place was his idea!! Ha!! We each discreetly snatched a bottle of booze, hid it in our respective leather jackets, then headed back to the bus stop.

Scooter's art teacher was hilarious, with an opinion and a joke about everything. Scooter sat there watching him, a crinkly grin on his face, obviously deeply respecting the man. We sat in my living room listening to music and finishing those bottles, putting a lovely bow on the sparkling day.