Blog: Johanna Nutter and the Journey of My Pregnant Brother (Part VII)

Nine

“How goes darling?”

These three words posted on my Facebook page by my friend Lucinda Davis just made me burst into tears. And I can hear her now, asking; “But WHY?!!” Because the fact that someone would take time out of her busy schedule, make room in her on or off-line social life to inquire after my well-being touched me. There must be something seriously wrong with me if I cry when people are nice to me.

Blog: Johanna Nutter and the Journey of My Pregnant Brother (Part VI)

Eight

Trees. 

Trees have always been a very important part of my life. See, I was raised by the Lorax.

Blog: Johanna Nutter and the Journey of My Pregnant Brother (Part V)

Seven

“I’m on the edge of glory”.

Mum was singing this to herself while making coffee the morning after seeing my play. I asked her who sang the song, and she told me: Lady Gaga. She thinks it could be my theme song right now.

Surprised and delighted, once again. Actually, that about sums it up. Opening night was surprising, and delightful, and magical. It was also full of dragons, but magic tends to be that way. 

Blog: Johanna Nutter and the Journey of My Pregnant Brother (Part IV)

Six

I was hazed by a crow on the way to the theatre. All the way there, it kept diving at me; swooping within an inch of my head. I finally stopped and asked the bird; how did you know? Yeah: it’s opening night. I had to go to the theatre earlier because I had “somehow” forgotten to put aside two tickets for my mum and my brother. Who are both coming tonight.  Back in Montreal, Jeremy and I had a discussion about this, and we agreed that they could come on any night BUT opening. We figured I should crack the ice at the Cultch before I had to skate over such fragile territory. But once I got here, I just decided that they have both waited long enough. So… here we go.

Blog: Johanna Nutter and the Journey of My Pregnant Brother (Part III)

Five

Remember how I said my family was dependably unpredictable? If I had been asked to predict how things were going to go with my Mum, I probably would have described her as being slightly frazzled, certainly grumpy about the growing hordes of motorists on the Island, and, due to the new wrinkle of my writing about her, probably prickly and stand-offish. She was none of those things. In fact, the person who met me at the Long Harbour Ferry was a beaming little wood nymph.

We took the Salt Spring Island bus to her place. There was a time when I would come to Salt Spring, not knowing if she would meet me at the ferry, or even where she was: she’s been on the island for almost 25 years, but she didn’t always have a phone, or even a home. If she had a car, it was always a bit of a surprise if she could get it running. Hitch-hiking is de rigueur on the island, but I get nervous any time I feel I may be imposing on anyone in any way, and those rides were white-knuckled affairs for me. Now, there’s a bus. And Mum even brought the necessary toonie for my fare. There was a toddler in the front seat riding the bus for the first time, and clearly not enjoying it. Mum got all us passengers singing, “the wheels on the bus go round and round” and he settled right in.