The Pilgrims

It was sometime after the 6:30 a.m. bell that the chant started. The bells in the belfry rang every half hour at the top and bottom of the hour. Six bells had tolled and the 6:30 bell had rang. 

The tune was unfamiliar, basically a chant. The words were presumably Portuguese as that was the language spoken at Sao Pedro Catholic Church. The church itself was a white stuccoed cement building with dark brown trim, typical of all the churches on the island. The chant was followed by a few moments of silence, then words spoken aloud and further chants. Because of the cement structure, the rich sound carried to the neighbouring hotels and apartments.

A group of men ranging in age from about ten years old to upper sixties or early seventies years exited the building quietly without speaking before the bells rang 7:00 a.m. Each carried a tall wooden walking stick with a cross carved on top. They were dressed the same but at the same time, they were dressed differently. Each wore a hooded heavy cloak in dark colours, often plaid, and around each neck, a colourful scarf was tied. Some scarves were bright, some were floral, and some were dark with a bit of colour. Each wore rosary beads around their neck and each carried rosary beads in their hands. They moved as a group but with an organized formation which was directed by the mestre (leader).

Hours later, the sound of the chants carried across the city. The men were heard before they were seen. With narrow streets lined with row houses, cobblestone streets and sidewalks and without vegetation, the acoustics were what one would expect in a monestery....beautiful hollow and haunting music. 

What was witnessed, was a group of men from the same rancho (region) making their pilgrimage for Lent. By coincidence, the following day, our tour guide was a young romeiro (pilgrim) that had already completed his pilgrimage for Lent 2025. He kindly explained what the pilgrimage was about.

In 1522, the capital of Sao Miguel was Vila Franca do Campo. During the night of October 21st to October 22nd of 1522, a great earthquake struck at 2a.m. and buried a large part of the capital city. The earthquake destroyed houses, churches and the city in its entirety. At daylight, people from the mountains and farms gathered and started digging. Over 5000 lives were lost in the earthquake. Nine days later (October 29, 1522), the first procession or pilgrimage took place. Soon after, the capital of Sao Miguel was changed to Ponta Delgada.

The pilgrimages have continued for over five hundred years but the journey has changed to the season of Lent. Several ranchos or groups of romeiros train and prepare for the annual pilgrimage which always begins at Vila Franca do Campo and ends at Vila Franca do Campo. In total, each rancho walks 281 kilometres clockwise around the island in eight days with scheduled stops at one hundred and thirty one parishes. At each building, they stop and tap their walking stick on the top step before entering for a service of music and prayer.  They walk from dawn to dusk, rising at 3:00-3:30 a.m. to prepare for the day. At the end of the day at the pre-scheduled stop, they share a meal with a host family or community and find sleeping accommodations in church halls or homes. The pilgrimage is for men with deep religious convictions.

During our eight days on Sao Miguel, we witnessed three different ranchos travelling around the island on their pilgrimage. The trip to the Azores was to fast forward into spring (and by chance alone miss the ice storm) but the experience of the romeiros was a surprise that will remain in my memory for life.

Photos: Diniz Borges

 

Execution

April 3 2024

Prompts by: Izzibella’s Substack: Drabble Time

Prompt 1.) Build A Team - Don’t Tear It Down

Random Words are Set, Put, and Run

Onur Bahadır - Photography

“We have a set play. Run it. Put the ball on the floor, brush off the screen and dribble two steps to the basket. If someone gets in your way, fake pass, double clutch, switch hands and lay it over the rim. The only thing between us and success is execution.”

“With those words the coach set in motion more than just basketball success,” said Andrew.

“What do you mean Dad?” asked 60 year old Siobhan as her father lay in bed racked with pain. She knew the answers. She had been told this many times and she had relayed the same message to her kids. Her dad needed to talk.

“The key is,”The only thing between us and success is execution.” Jimmy went on to fly bombing runs in the war. Jerry formed a major company. Sid became a wheeler dealer in the fortune 500. Isaiah, with his perfect three pointers played at a major US university and completed his studies at a high ranking medical school before a taxi crushed him. There are others but all of our success came down to believing those simple words.”

“You made a small fortune with that simple phrase.”

Her dad smiled. “Sometimes in life we get lucky. Sometimes in life we work hard and success comes. Sometimes all it takes are simple words to improve us, send us one direction. Sometimes we only need to open our ears and believe.”

Andrew closed his eyes for another brief nap as the medication set in.

Siobhan reflected. “I have all that I have because a basketball coach imparted some words that meant so much to a group of boys 70 years ago. Simple things have such a long reaching effect.” She picked up her dad’s book and started to read it again, looking for another simple phrase that rang true in her ears.

The Hunted

 

The large black bear stirred, rose to his feet and wandered to the mouth of his den. Harry, for that was the bear’s name, leaned against the black rock and sniffed at the early morning air. There was something odd in it that he couldn’t define so he thought no more of it. It was time to forage but he wasn’t exactly hungry, having devoured the better part of a buck deer he had found dead in the forest and was still somewhat fresh.

Still, Harry was a creature of habit and if it was time to go down his trail to the lake, he would do just that, even if he didn’t eat anything along the way. And so, he set out, trundling slowly along, enjoying the spring sunshine on his back. He stopped to sniff at things along the way, turning over a clump of earth at one point and grabbing a large grub out and swallowing without even thinking about it. Which is probably the best way to eat a grub.

Eventually, he came to his favourite scratching tree, an old pine with a seriously spiny bark that Harry had worn down to a comfortable brush over the years. He raised himself up on his hind paws and spun around to put his back towards it and then pushed himself up and down and around, giving little grunts as particularly itchy parts of his hide found relief.

Having visited his spa, he returned to the trail and meandered along, listening to the woods around him. Again, that strange smell came to him, but only for a second as the wind shifted away from him. He found himself along another piece of broken bramble and nosed his way in. He knew of a bee-hive in a log inside this thick mass and decided to help himself to a bit of dessert before dinner. When he arrived at the log, he kicked it over and the bees swarmed out but didn’t bother Harry that much. He licked up a chunk of honeycomb and chewed thoughtfully as he backed out of the thicket and continued on his way. This was a particularly wonderful day, he thought. 

The Hunted, cont'd

 

BLAME IT ON THE CHICKENS

A partially true story based on genealogy research

The Rowell and Rimes families had lived in Stanground  for as long as any of them could remember. The church records could prove it, going back to the middle of the 17th century. There were other families too who were well established and there were families that came and went, but, these two families had put down roots early on and there was no moving them. Ellen Rimes married Joseph Rowell about 1860 and they raised a family of thirteen children. Joseph was a quiet man, well liked by all and happy to greet each day with a grateful heart.  Ellen was his complete opposite. 

Not for the first time she was standing before the magistrate of the Peterborough* Petty Sessions challenged to defend herself. On this occasion she was accused of assault by her neighbour, Mrs. Norcott. Mrs. Rowell pleaded not guilty and was confident she could prove her case. Mrs. Norcott was equally certain she would win. The judge called the complainant to state her case. 

Make no mistake, Mrs. Norcott could give as good as she got, but she knew, from previous experience, and on the advice of her attorney, Mr. Percival, that her best chance of winning required she keep her wits about her.
So she calmly shared her side of the story.

April (week 2)

 

SPRING

 

Part II

Although March was colder than usual, Gus and Gertie were relieved that they had come home before the first day of spring. They would have been horribly disappointed to find another couple squatting on their island. The two enjoyed these quiet days, knowing soon they would be consumed with a new family of goslings. 

The snow on the lawn in front of the blue house was disappearing. Gus and Gertie poked about the thawing earth nibbling on the short, dormant grass. The pond remained frozen in areas but the ice was gradually melting, allowing the pair to paddle about leisurely. Gus continued to ponder the mystery of what he now referred to as “the Wooden ducks”. He had poked his head below the surface of the water and discovered they had no feet. Was it any wonder they could go nowhere? 

Stairs to Nowhere

 Stairs to Nowhere

In the port of Ponta Delgada Azores, a stadium sits with bleachers at least three stories in height. Below the bleachers, a paved parking lot sits empty most of the time.

One would think perhaps it is a sports field or a concert venue. Sometimes a few young people sit in the mostly empty bleachers to smoke or vape. Some sit and take in the beauty and activity of the harbour.

As a port, cargo ships come and go round the clock delivering goods in containers and reloading ships for further destinations. Whale watching excursions leave from the port, tall ships come and go and it serves as a marina for sail boats. 

On days that cruise ships pull into the port, buses, vans, jeeps and small vehicles fill the stadium early in the morning. Excursions depart for highlights of Sao Miguel Island. Passengers from the ship are ushered through a glass enclosure to the east of the stadium.

Prior to the construction of the stairs, nobody thought to measure the height of cruise ships or understood where tourists unloaded from a cruise ship. The stairs were designed to unload from the upper levels of the cruise ships. 

Surprising enough, the stadium is "stairs to nowhere"...an engineering blunder that nobody discusses.

 

April (week 1)

SPRING

Part I

Gertie had that pensive look about her—the one she wore every year, just as winter was ending and they were about to head home.

“Do you ever wonder?” she asked Gus. “Do you ever wonder what it’s all about?” she added.
Gus gave his head a shake and reminded her that they had this conversation every year before returning to the island they called their summer home. 

Gertie was a thinker. A dreamer. She wondered why they did this—why, year after year, south in the fall, north in the spring—almost always following the same path. Though one year she suggested they go to Mexico and they enjoyed it tremendously Gus preferred tradition. He didn’t question their routine. For him it was comfortable.

Their life was dictated by the seasons. They would head south just after Canadian Thanksgiving and spend the American version of the holiday in the southern states. In South Carolina she knew the locals were annoyed by their arrival, complaining constantly that they contributed nothing to society. This year in particular she felt unwelcome. She had overheard a conversation in the park; a new president had been elected. He didn’t like foreigners and had plans to send them back where they came from. And, even worse, he wasn’t concerned about the climate, a cause near and dear to both Gertie and Gus.

“We don’t do anything down here,” complained Gertie. “Couldn’t we stay on the island next winter, just once, to see what it’s like,” she pleaded.
“Certainly,” responded Gus, confident he knew Gertie well enough that by thanksgiving she would be ready to head south again.
Gus enjoyed their time in the sun. Winter on the island would be unbearable. They would be house-bound and bored to tears. 

 

A Long Trip Home

Photo by:Pixabay

March 26 2025

 

“Emery Morris, I need to go to town,” stated his wife Gladys. “I need some supplies so I can prepare meals for the Victory celebration now that the  war has ended

“Gladys, today is a busy day on the farm. You will have to wait until tomorrow. I will not be so busy tomorrow.”

Gladys sighed a heavy sigh as Emery walked across the yard to the barn. She reached up onto the top shelf and took down the second flour tin. She lifted the lid. From inside the tin she removed an envelope and added the cash from today’s egg sales. She counted it carefully and added the totals. The amount in the envelope made her smile as she added it to the other envelopes in the tin. She put the lid back on and placed the tin on the shelf where it belonged. She would have closed the cupboard door but her cupboards had no doors. She checked the heat on her cooking stove and decided that she didn’t need to add another log to the fire just yet. It would need another before lunch. As she looked around she realized that today was oil lamp filling day so she gathered all the oil lamps together and completed that task. As she stepped outside to gather some supplies from her garden the wind filled her nostrils with a scent that needed to be tamped down so she headed over to the outhouse and spread some lime through the hole to cut down on the strong odours. She noted that the weather was changing. She thought that tomorrow's laundry, which she would be doing by hand, may need to be postponed for another day.

Gladys smiled as she thought about her trip into town tomorrow. Her anticipation ran strong. 

She called over the eldest of her 4 kids, ”Carlene, I need you to go next door to see Mrs.Toms. Please ask her if we could borrow a cup of sugar. We will replace it tomorrow after your father takes me into town.”

Gladys lived in wonder of the Tom's farm. They had all the electricity and all the other conveniences a modern 1940’s farm could have. She didn’t envy them. It would just make her family's life so much nicer.  Emery had electricity in the barn to make his work easier. There was no electricity in the house. 

The next morning Gladys had completed all of her chores before 9 am and was sitting at the kitchen table waiting patiently for Emery. She had packed her travelling bag with the eggs she had for the shopkeeper in town. 

When Emery returned to the house from completing his morning chores he washed up in the kitchen sink, drawing water through the pump attached to the cistern. He turned and spied Gladys sitting in the darker depths of the room. “What are you doing sitting with your bag at the table?" he asked. 

“You promised me we would be going to town today.”

“Does it have to be today? I am very busy. Perhaps we could go tomorrow.” 

Gladys looked at him. “Emery Morris, you say this every day. We are so low on supplies that you may not get meals before too long.”

“Alright, alright,” he relented. “I will go and get changed.”

“Carlene,” called Gladys. “Make sure everyone does their chores. You will need to prepare the bread for cooking like we always do. Make sure your brothers and sister are prepared for when we return.”

“Yes mama,” replied Carlene. 

Gladys carefully carried her travelling bag out to the truck and sat there waiting for Emery. He got in and started the truck up. As he pulled out of the driveway Gladys took a look at their house with their kids waving goodbye.

All the way to town not a word was said. Emery parked the truck in front of the store where Gladys was going to pick up her groceries. 

“I’m going to the hardware store to pick up a couple of things. If you finish before I do, put your groceries in the back. I will be back before too long.” Emery closed the door and walked off down the street. 

Gladys stood leaning against the truck fender as she watched Emery disappear down the street and enter the store. She quickly picked up the bag at her feet and walked in the other direction, around the corner until she spotted her destination. She paused looking at the building, wondering if what she had planned for so long would matter. In the end she walked up to the window and said, ”One ticket please.” She paid her money and walked over to the bus that was boarding. As it pulled away from the station and town, she never looked back.

Emery searched high and low for her before he realized that night was falling and he needed to get back home to perform the evening chores. After the chores he phoned all of the people he could think of asking if they had heard from Gladys. He reluctantly filed a missing persons report. When all was said and done he was perplexed. “Where could she be?” he wondered. 

Two years later Carlene, who had assumed all responsibility for the house, walked to the mailbox. Upon opening it she saw a letter that was addressed to her. She got excited when she recognized the handwriting and ripped open the envelope.

Dear Carlene,

I am well and fine and living in Peterborough. I have a job and an apartment. I am looking after myself.

I am sorry to have put you through this. I miss you and the other kids terribly but I cannot come home. Please dont tell your father where I am. I do not wish to see him. 

You may write me back at this address. I would love to hear from you.

Love,

Mama

Carlene smiled. She was still alive. She missed them. 

Carlene sent letters and received them back for months. Her father was not aware of her correspondence until one day she had set the letter on the counter to tend the fire. He came into the kitchen, saw the letter and recognized the handwriting. He picked up the letter and read it as Carlene froze near the stove.

“How long have you known?” he asked calmly.

“Six months,” was the nervous reply. “She asked me not to tell you.”

“I understand,” said Emery. “I need to read the other letters,” he said. “She is still alive. Why did she leave?” he wondered.

Carlene left the room and retrieved the many letters her mother had written. As she handed them over to her father she said, “You need to go see her and ask her to come home.”

Emery grunted as he eyed his daughter and took the letters from her. 

He read the letters carefully, many times, learning a little more about her life away from the farm. She seemed satisfied and thriving. “Would she want to come back?” he wondered. He had an address. Now he needed to go see her. She was needed here. Could he make it right for everyone? 

After a few days Emery gathered up his strength and drove his truck the one hour drive to where she was living. He parked and wondered if he knocked on the door would she answer. He wasn’t nervous. He wasn’t angry. Just determined to have his wife come home. She was his wife. She would come home. He walked to the door and knocked.

She opened the door in a dress he had never seen before. “She looks very good,” he thought.

“Emery Morris,” she said with a note of despondence.

He smiled. “Hello Gladys. Would this be a good time to talk to you?” he inquired. 

“As good as any since you drove all the way up here. Come in.” As he stepped through the door she noticed with some sadness that he had not lost his swagger.

“How have you been?”

“As you can see I am doing well. Carlene tells me that the kids are doing fine.”

“They miss you. Will you please come home?” He asked brusquely as was his way. 

“I do miss the kids. I may even miss you a little.”

“I have missed you too,” he quickly replied. “How can you afford all this?” he inquired as he looked at her modern furniture. 

“I got a job in a store.”

“A job?”

“Yes,” she replied. "I work in a store. They treat me well and value my work. On the farm I saved my egg money. I still have some left and use it when I need it.”

Emery grunted at this news. He wondered how much money Carlene had set aside as the egg money was now hers. It seems selling eggs made more money than he knew about.

Gladys eyed him suspiciously. She knew he missed her. That was a given. “Have you installed electricity into the house?” she asked.

“Well, no,” he replied as he looked away.

“Have you installed an indoor bathroom?”

“Well no,” he mumbled.

“I miss the kids and would love to see them and be with them but I am not coming home.”

“You’re not?” he responded with sadness bordering on anger. His plans were being thwarted.

“Emery Morris. You have turned down, deferred, or simply not done what I asked for the kids and my welfare. Yet you have spent money on farm improvements that brought a good deal of money into our home. I have spent many years living in substandard conditions. I could return home but I will not live there the way things are. You will have to change your ways and demonstrate more respect.”

Emery stood there dumbfounded. “I thought everything was good.”

“Emery Morris, then you weren’t paying attention,” she replied. 

He wasn’t sure how to respond to this so he didn’t. He stuck with what he knew. “In order for you to come home you need an indoor toilet and electricity installed in the house.”

“Those are two of my requirements.”

“Are there more?”

She paused for a second gathering up her strength. “You will take my thoughts and feelings more into consideration. You will begin proving that you are a loving husband rather than an army officer who demands things be done. I will need a fully remodeled kitchen with the latest appliances. I need a clothes washer that will ease some of my hours on that job and allow me to do more around the farm.”

“More around the farm?” He wondered what she would do.

“Yes. I am capable of doing many of the jobs that need to be done. You have seen that when you were too ill to get out of bed.” 

He grunted in acknowledgement. “So, electricity, an indoor toilet, a remodeled kitchen, a clothes washer and other modern conveniences like a refrigerator, as well as treating you with more respect.”

“And a stove,” she added.

“And a stove. If I promise to do these things will you come home?”

“Emery Morris, I am no fool and you straight out know it. If I come home you will go back to your old ways and nothing will get done. I will stay here until you have done everything that needs to be done. You will have to show me that you deserve me. If not, Carlene is capable of cooking and cleaning, as you know. Before too long she will want her own home.”

He opened his mouth to speak but knew straight up that she was one determined woman. She always had been. He closed his mouth and nodded.

“If you don’t agree to these things then I will stay here. Do you want me to stay here?” she asked with some trepidation.

“No,” he replied in his slow manner. “That wouldn’t be good for anyone.”

“Agreed,” she replied. “I want you to bring the kids here once a week. I need to see them and they need to see me.”

“I will get this done,” he said as he bade her goodbye.

“We shall see,” said Gladys. She was certain that after some careful considerations that he would comply with her wishes. How long that would take was anyone's guess. Emery tended not to hurry any more than he had to.

Gladys and the kids had a very fine time when they were together. Even Emery joined in. The feeling was different than on the farm. They felt a closeness the family had rarely felt. 

Emery, as always, did things in his own manner and in his own time. Gladys kept working. She knew his intentions regardless of how long it took. He would complete the task. It would weigh more heavily on him as time progressed. 

In the end it took Emery another 36 months to complete all the renovations. Both remained true to themselves. Emery progressed slowly but surely in his acknowledgement of her importance in his life and slowly oriented himself to meet her most basic needs. Gladys knew that what he offered was the best he was capable of achieving. She had learned long ago to accept him for who he was, even though now she demanded more. He rose to her basic level of acceptance. He could only be pushed so far. 

In time, Gladys moved back home. She stepped out of the truck to the hugs of her children.

She looked around the farm and thought “It’s good to be home.”

“Emery Morris,” she started, “after I get oriented and have things the way that I want them…”

Emery gave her a look somewhere between what was love for him and acceptance.

She continued, “I will be out in time to help with the threshing.”

Emery smiled, pulled on his pipe, and replied with a simple, “That will be fine,” as he walked towards the barn. 

A Human Construct

 

 

In 1996, I wrote a play titled "Tale of the Scorpion”, a one-act comedy that was performed initially at the Toronto Fringe Theatre Festival. To great acclaim, I might add, to toot my own horn. It received very nice reviews and was even voted “People’s Choice Award”. I would like to say that this was because of my fantastically funny writing and great sense of theatre, (and, in fact, that’s partially true, toot toot) but it was mostly because of the ridiculously talented, funny cast that I managed to acquire to perform it.

It was a play based on the pulp novels of the 30’s, mostly in America, and the writers who created them. Writers who worked for a penny a word, for hours each day, on several stories at once. Sometimes even on four or five typewriters, set up so that once one of the stories went ‘cold’ they could move onto another, where they would continue, their fingers blistered, and finger-nails bloodied, late into the night.

In my story, one of those writers, hard up against impossible deadlines and completely exhausted, begins to fantasize about his characters and, one by one, they begin to show up in his apartment, carrying on with his story-lines as if the writer himself was a character. The president of the US for instance. When they reach a high point in their story and are at a loss as to what comes next, they simply stop, unable to continue. The writer character shrugs his shoulders, frustrated, apologizes and everybody leaves. Then he moves to another typewriter and a fresh set of characters comes in.

Some of these characters had names like Captain Tomorrow, L-7 Master of Disguise, The Black Angel and, of course, The Scorpion. These characters were, in pulp fashion, very arch, even iconic, and had to be portrayed that way. Fortunately, through my work in the comedy community in Toronto, I had access to a remarkable talent pool of fellow comedic actors.  And much to my pleasant surprise, everybody that I envisioned in any of these parts eagerly agreed to do it.  So, its little wonder that I ended up with a verifiable hit on my hands. 

A Human Construct (Cont'd)