Mrs. Small and The Treasures

Speaking of treasures, like horses. Good neighbours need treasured, too.

Mrs. Small & her husband lived a very quiet life, and enjoyed keeping to themselves and their small circle of friends. They were childless. They said very little to anybody, including each other. The Toronto newspaper, The Globe & Mail, however, heard a LOT from Mr. Small.

Mr. Small was a voracious reader and political/social critic. One of his regular aphorisms became the title of a book "Shocked and Appalled", a compilation of letters to the editor. Mr. Small wrote many letters to the Globe. I never really got to know him, Mom would only say he was very shy. He drank a bit. So did his wife. I remember him pushing their mower, through the summer, muttering and grumbling about who knows what. But the sound of that push-mower was lovely. Mr. Small grumbled very quietly, & it was soothing, in a way. Certainly nothing like the gas-powered carbon-guzzlers/decibel-ear-breakers of today.

After Mr. Small grew ill, Mom became closer to Mrs. Small, helping when she could. And of course, once Mr. Small passed, Mon Ami, tres jolie, was thrown into our lives. (Ami was how I became friends with Mrs. Small. A non-favourite relative "mailed" her a standard poodle puppy, after Mr. Small passed. Mrs. Small did NOT want that puppy. I helped her out, a lot. Made a life-long friend, and learned a lot about dogs.)

My first time inside Mrs. Small's house was liking walking into a dim, dark cave. The layers of tar/nicotine on the walls had reached truly epic proportions. Dingy, yes. And everywhere, I mean, EVERYwhere, was stuff. Paper stuff, elastic stuff, cloth stuff, bottles, yarn, TV guides, magazines, neat and tidy piles of mostly "why do you need that" stuff. Lists, neatly stacked. Layers of plastic bags, plastic anything, really. Hard to describe. Oh, but only in the kitchen and the TV room and the bedrooms and the bathrooms. Funny cartoons were taped/plastered to the walls of both bathrooms. Which were also brown. The smell was interesting. I think a new ecology could have been born in that house, a new micro-climate. It wasn't very bad, just sort of old & somewhat growing.

Hah, I remember, in my fudge brownie-addiction days, I borrowed a cup of flour. I brought it home, older sister was there visiting. The flour was moving. A lot. Yeah, off to the convenience store I went. Mrs. Small did not cook. She bought canned and frozen foods, and pre-made foods. Mom endeared herself to Mrs. Small with Mom's leftovers. And, let me tell ya, Mom's leftovers were culinary dreams to Mrs. Small. Mom couldn't cook, but she tried.

Mrs. Small was born in Montreal, and refused to speak a word of French, and had that upper-crust British accent. We're still guessing on how she managed to do that. Mrs. Small graduated McGill University in Arts, 1935. She was a Liet. in the WRENS during WW2. Mrs. Small volunteered with the Red Cross, and was President from 1968-1969. She also volunteered with the Humane Society, the Ballet Guild, and the Hospital Auxiliary. She was hilariously funny, and adored by her friends, all of whom we got to know quite well.

Mrs. Small would also give you her exact opinion of each of her friends, without any rancor, just plain speak truth. "Oh, Mrs. So-and-So, her husband is an IDIOT, and she's just a blah, blah, blah." I'd hate to think how she described me:)
No, kidding, there was no malice in Mrs. Small. Things were the way they were, period.

"It doesn't Matter, Barb!" she'd exclaim, as I tried to talk to her about my own problems with horses and people and shyness. Mrs. Small did not compute shyness. At Mrs. Small's "Life Celebration", in front of everyone, I earnestly, and red-facedly, said "Mrs. Small allowed me to realize, it's okay to be weird". Yeah, I blame Lorraine:)

Mrs. Small never spoke of her early years. She had no patience for whiners and complainers, like me. I was riding horses? What on Earth did I have to complain about then? Did I have a roof over my head, and meals? Then STFU, Barb. Mrs. Small was generally right, except when it came to her poodle Ami-dog and clipping. I was thrilled when she admitted her mistake. I think it was her only one, the whole time I knew her.

After most of her friend's husbands had passed, Mrs. Small volunteered to start coming to their socials dressed as a man. Well, of course, she did. Mrs. Small was outrageous, well before it was even recognized.

Her stuff hoarding was simply her way of being shocked and appalled that all of the piles of stuff she was making, were not recyclable. And were re-useable. Useful.
She wouldn't throw that stuff into the landfill! Shocking, the very idea.
Mrs. Small always gave gifts wrapped in magazines, or paper bags, or whatever. ALL Holiday Cards were recycled. And her gifts were also truly unique. I'll have to joggle my sisters memories of those gifts. My gawd, they were funny.
Oh, yes, here's one, tinned caviar. The layer of dust on it so thick, you could have used it as garnish. World's ugliest carvings, half-finished tea cosies. Mrs. Small re-gifted everything. She hated waste.

Mrs. Small had been a textile designer in Montreal. No-one can remember what Mr. Small did. Anyway, in her upstairs rooms, piles to the ceiling, full of stuff, with room for one to sleep, and that was it. Mrs. Small was handy with crafts, and every year gave us cat-nip mice for our cats. Really well made, too. She'd also donate the mice to the Humane Society. Mrs. Small was always making something, until the clock ticked 5:00pm. Then, it was time for Jamaican Dark Rum. Several rums, on certain occasions, like Sundays, or Tuesdays, or when I'd be late bringing her dog home from the barn.

Mrs. Small's living room was even darker, and rarely ever used. It was frozen at about 1970, or so, in decor. It was tidy, just, well, dark brown, mostly. My kind of colour. Shows no dirt.

Oh, I almost FORGOT!! When we first moved into the house, the hedge between our two houses was high, right? Mrs. Small was a grumbling gardener, as well. The plants were always arguing with her. I'm home one sunny afternoon, out reading in the back yard. I don't really know Mrs. Small yet, at all. I'm still an avid watcher of horror films. Just watched one the night before. I hear the strangest sounds, coming from next door. Low moanings, weird fartings, just kinda scary to my over-active imagination. I walk over to peek through the hedge, and see the most terrifying face, ghost white with open, gaping, screaming dead eyes, with both arms outstretched, as if reaching for me.

I squeak a little, and startle Mrs. Small, whose head then pops out of the weeds and vegetables. "Oh, my, you've met Ecce Homo, haven't you?"
Her scarecrow. Scared the CRAP out of me. That's him overseeing us interring Mrs. Small in her back-yard. Ashes to ashes, and all. We also burned her journals, much to my chagrin, but her niece, (a really nice, weird world-traveller, of course, on a boat), insisted. I've lost touch with Mrs. Small's niece, she was a HOOT. Sue Dreue, where are you? Floating around the world somewhere. Like Lorraine is still:)

Oh, aha, and you thought this post wouldn't mention horses?
I did buy a darned scanner. I am going to slowly re-post the worst of the grainy horse-pictures of pictures, so you can re-focus your poor eyes..
Who is first?
Oh, no, wait, first a picture of Butch being abused by my nephew, gosh, 20 years ago. Poor old Butch. See how he's being poked in the eye?? My nephew is about to yank his head up. Rolled and kurred, again, my Butch. I'm sorry.


Here's me and Musket, from First/Worst barn, at London Junior Show. My stirrups are still miles too long, and I'm still going to blow the last fence, in the last class. This picture is crumbling fast, so I thought I'd post it quick:0


To Good Neighbours, and kind, intelligent, grumpy, occasionally outrageous people.
To Horses, and to you.

linky thingy,JimmyWofford's brilliant treatise on too much collection is not necessarily a good thing,just in case you haven't read it. The guy's a genius.
Have a great week!