I was getting ready to go to work on Monday morning when Bruce called me and said I should look in the back yard. I did. And I saw first one, and then two and then three raccoons, all young, all bumbling in my garden, all on their own. I turned the hose on them to not much effect (not enough water pressure) and then one of my neighbours came along with his little terrier. The dog encouraged them up the tree in the yard next door.
These young scallawags are the cause of all the damage in our yard. But here's the thing. They're too young to be out without adult supervision. They don't know what they can eat. They don't know how to stay out of trouble. Something must have happened to their mother.
On Tuesday, we saw that one of them had been hit by a car and killed on Gerrard Street.
Poor little guy.
Sparky's Funtime Summertime Murder Mystery
Chapter Eight
Sparky here. This is Chapter Eight of my story about how Gerry Ringbold met his untimely end. The story starts here.
Now that I've introduced you to Pea and Gerry, it’s time I told the tragic tale of how it came to be that I of all people landed this cushy summer job, getting paid $24 an hour to sit on my ass and watch people come in and out of the lady’s washroom at the Thompson Gardens.
Right up to the very moment when everything changed forever, I had a pretty normal life. I had two siblings. My brother was the eldest and my sister was the middle child. Mom and dad were both teachers. My childhood was an endless reel of fun family summers and trips for the Christmas holidays.
When I was sixteen years old, I roller skated my way to three broken ankle bones two days before we were scheduled to leave for what was going to be the best Christmas trip of our lives. It was 2004. We were going to Thailand.
The doctor said there was no way on earth I could travel. The pain I was in persuaded my parents that he was probably right. So, my folks arranged for me to stay with my mom’s sister, who lived in the east end of town. My aunt had always been a big part of my life, so, as disappointed as I was that I had to stay behind, it was OK to spend Christmas with her, my uncle and my cousins.
My mom had set up a Hotmail account. Just before she and the rest of my immediate family left for the airport, she promised me she would send a message from the hotel every day.
Her last e-mail came the day after Christmas. At 10:07 a.m. Thailand time, she wrote me and said everyone was going to take a quick dip in the pool and then head out on the water for some recreational boating.
The tsunami came a half hour later.
My family was staying at the Phi Phi Island Cabana resort. They were among the 96 people who died there that day. The wave cracked the pool in two.
Thailand’s almost half a day ahead. My aunt heard the news reports before I looked at my e-mail and for a few moments we both thought the e-mail meant my family was OK. Then we realized our mistake.
My aunt and uncle went into full crisis mode, phoning embassies and consulates, ministries and relief agencies. They wouldn’t let me watch the news. My cousins were not allowed to have friends over. We all shut down and waited.
Six days into the dark and terrible condition of not knowing anything, the phone rang. I heard my aunt’s voice, and then she came into the room I was sharing with my youngest cousin.
She didn’t have to tell me anything. And when she tried to speak she couldn’t. My uncle came in, saw us locked in our shared stunned silence and put his arms around us both. I remember the scratchy wool of his sweater sleeves and the softness of my aunt’s cheek against my forehead. We all cried. We were a three-part meat statue of misery.
I don’t remember the next six months well.
By the time I started being able to put memories together again sometime in mid 2005, I was officially orphaned, my aunt was my guardian, I had somehow managed to complete my school year and I was being put into a foster home. My aunt and uncle had given it their best try, but they didn’t have room in their house for a sixteen-year-old rage machine. Consultations with a child psychiatrist and ministrations from Children’s Aid led them to the conclusion that I was probably best off in a place where I wasn’t constantly reminded of my loss but supported so that I could take the shattered remnants of my life and start again.
My foster parents specialized in tough cases like me. They were members of an extended and devout religious community. These kind-hearted souls were going to get me back on my feet if it was the last thing they did. And, for the second half of 2005, I think I gave them every reason to believe that Hurricane Sparky would be their final project.
You can read Chapter Nine here.
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