The Mint Coloured House

St John smells like boiled eggs. Mom said it’s the pulp and paper factories. Grey smokestacks burp clouds of brownish white smoke out the top, their trails dwindling off like a forgotten thought. Everything here is brown, grey, or a blackish-green, almost like a needle popped the sun, and its colours drained into the earth below. I trace my finger through the fog on my window and wonder how much longer. I wave my naked Barbie at a truck driver. “Toot toot!” he gives a little tap on his horn. I pop a chip into my mouth and look down at the St. John River. “Can you swim in there?” I point my greasy finger out the window. “If you want to swim with 10-foot eels, I guess,” my brother says without looking up from his book. Ryan’s 13 years old, 3 years older than me. He knows everything. He once told me that every day 100 billion tons of water smashes into the St John river at high tide, making it flow backwards. I bet he made that up. 

 “Lorneville!” I yell excitedly, pointing at the highway sign as it whizzes by. Lorneville has about 800 people living in it. I remember mom taking me to the graveyard here one time. I was fascinated with the decay of it all. Rusty wrought iron gates creaking, tombstones jutting up like crooked teeth and bumpy patches in the grass, leading my childhood brain to imagine zombie bodies lurching from the earth at night, (during a rainstorm, of course). I counted six different last names in the entire cemetery which means 133.333 people share a last name in this town! My papa was a fisherman, and so were most of the people BACK THEN. We wind through country roads lined with dense forest on one side, ocean on the other. Quaint homes in every shade of pastel, glitter with Christmas lights.  

After what feels like forever, we turn into a long snow-covered drive. Peeking through the pines, I see the mint-coloured house with lace curtains in every window. My home for the next week. I jump out of the car and race up the gravel driveway. My aunt stands on the porch, arms outstretched, her ruddy face beaming. “Patsy!” I bury my face in her wool cardigan. It smells pleasantly of cigarettes and cooking. “Emmy Lou who! You’re so big!” Pat always says that. It makes me feel like a giant. I duck inside and kick off my boots. The kitchen is warm and smells of chowder and potatoes. There is a box of wine on the counter, the spigot perched dutifully over the edge. I spy warm dinner rolls in a basket and snatch one up. In a few hours the table will be packed with my relatives, laughing, and reaching over one another for second helpings, their faces shiny from wine. I once asked my mom how people knew when to drop by. She said “They don’t. They see Pat’s car in the driveway.” That amazed me. A car in the driveway meant you could…just walk in.   

While everyone’s unpacking, I head to the living room. I squint at old family photos on the wall: My older cousins in their nursing attire, wearing shy smiles and too much blush. Other cousins wear tartan skirts, looking like highland dancing warriors. Their tight buns and pointed toes are a little dorky, I think. The next photo I see is of Uncle Larry holding a bagpipe over his shoulder, with a little pipe in his mouth. I wonder what the deal is with his skirt and funny little hat. I don't like it. I don't like bagpipes either. They sneak up on you like a five alarm fire. At one moment you’re sitting calmly in a church pew waiting for your pretty cousin to walk down the aisle in her bridal gown, and the next you’re jamming your fingers into your ears, bolting out the door, making all the grownups whisper and point. Then your parents freak when they find you MINDING YOUR BUSINESS in a field nearby blowing dandelion fluff into the open sky. Anyway, Larry is very into bagpipes.

I exhale a bored sigh.

My eyes drift to the very 1980's angel lit up over the piano. The piano! I plop down on the bench and flip through my familiar Christmas songbook until I find my favourite: “It Came Upon a Midnight Clear.” I concentrate hard as I spread my chubby hands out to reach the first chords. It comes out slow and choppy, some notes wrong. 

 “Oh Boy” a deep voice growls behind me. I gasp and spin around on the bench. 

Uncle Larry is standing there, one eyebrow arched and an unlit cigarette dangling from his lip. 

A scar runs from his forehead diagonally across his face and ends on his cheek. Mom says he was run over by a truck when he was three and they had to do surgery. “Hi”, I manage finally. “Go on, play” he says nodding towards the piano. So, I turn around and begin again but I’m nervous and playing too fast. God, why won’t he leave?! Finally, he mutters “Slow down and get it right, Em. Practice.” The cigarette bobs up and down on his lip. I don’t really know if I should hide from him or hug him. He scratches his head with his cap and walks away. I follow. 

We sit down across from each other in the kitchen. It’s like a stand-off in an old western movie. Someone must shoot first. He throws a bag of yellow-brown leaves at me and says, “Roll these.” I nod “yessir.” Larry rests his feet on a chair and studies me over his glasses. Instructions fly out of his mouth like a military officer: Scoop, pat, pull down the lever and pop! Out comes a cigarette. My fingertips are yellow and stink, but I couldn’t be happier. I work with gusto while Larry launches into a random story about a mountain lion. After a few minutes, he notices the perfect pile of cigarettes I’ve rolled. He picks one up and examines it closely. I hold my breath. Finally, he says “See? Practice makes perfect.”