TO TELL A STORY

 To Tell A Story?

George and I were talking while Me, seemingly uninterested, sat off in the corner listening. We were questioning our revealing to the world where we had been, and what we have become. George was arguing that our story was unimportant, a waste of time, as we were simply ordinary people having lived ordinary lives. I disagreed suggesting that our lives although seemingly unimportant were unique. We together with our parents and their parents, and their parents before them, had lived through a particularly difficult time in Canadian history. It was worth telling, at least that was my opinion. George was having a difficult time accepting my reasoning, and thought that our past should be left alone, untold, and that our time would be better spent enjoying what few sunrises and sunsets that we had left. I had to agree that our lives, and those of our parents were spent in circumstances similar to many of our class, but as their stories had been buried along with their Sunday best, then perhaps, just perhaps, we should carry on with telling our story. I think the clincher was when I pointed out that it didnʼt make any sense that the stories of those who enjoyed better lives should be labelled as important, when their importance was built on the backs of ordinary people like our parent, and like people like us.George agreed. Heʼd always railed at the suggestion that the lives of the merchant class, and their children, could be held in high esteem, whereas the ordinary people that helped to make them was ignored. Finally, George relented, and said that we should continue with our story even if it remained largely ignored. At the very least, he pointed out, the experience was cathartic, and helped to keep our minds active. At which point Me got up and started to write.....

In the event that you may not have caught on Me, George, and I, are simply my alter egos. George is imaginary, a character that I dredged up from my past. It was a name that my father would sometimes called me, better, I suppose than, "hey you".  Anyway, when I was young I spent a lot of time by myself, so it was convenient to imagine someone to talk with. I believe, wrongfully, or rightfully, that everyone spends time with their alter ego, something called your conscience. As one ages, outlives, survives longer than just about everything, and everyone that you knew, your alter ego(s) become quite important  in helping you to preserve your sanity, or perhaps some might say, in losing it. So, here I am writing about moments of thought that are continually bouncing back from the depths of my library of thoughts stored, many, a long time ago. Some thoughts come in the form of pictures, the tiny office at York Farms, a subsidiary of Canada Packers, both now gone, where I experienced the monotony of my first real job, that of a book keeper thinking to become an accountant. There were seven of us kept in a room above the factory charged with the duty of crunching numbers in order to keep track of production and sales. We began work at 8:00 am, and finished at 5:00 p, in between which we had a 45 minute lunch break, and were brought coffee twice a day. We also worked doing inventory once a month beginning at 5:00 pm and not finishing until everything balanced. For this I was paid, before taxes, $47.00/week. There were some pluses about the job, but there were also plenty of minuses. I tried, I really tried, but after a couple of years I left this job with some knowledge of accounting, and began another apprenticeship for the grand sum of $75.00/week. More money, but as it turned out more hours, and  quite a bit more stress. I worked at becoming, and being, an insurance adjuster for some 15 years, until realizing that technology would soon make the profession obsolete, I left this job and have spent the rest of my life working at becoming an artist. Much more stress. Forty years later, running out of time, I'm still working at becoming an artist. George has mentioned from time to time that I should retire having given it my best, but Me says onward, onward until the bitter end, which George believes may be soon in coming. I is in a bit of a quandary as to what to do, and so We
simply carries on....