By John RC Potter

          This is not as much about an old antique trunk as it is about my sister, Jo Ann, and perhaps more importantly, about her childhood sweetheart, Paul, whom she married at a very young age when they were still only teenagers. The metal and wooden trunk resided upstairs in the storeroom of my family’s farmhouse, located in the rolling landscape of southwestern Ontario, near Clinton. The old farmhouse is no longer: it was torn down after a fire over 40 years ago. At the time, I was living in the city of London, a few hours from my hometown. However, the trunk survived, albeit with smoke and water damage. I claimed it for mine because, after the fire, no one else in my family wanted it due to the smokey smell that emanated from it when the lid was opened. The last time I opened the trunk a few summers ago, the odor of smoke was still there: faint and as evocative as the memories it created in my mind.

            The trunk was in pride of place in the successive apartments and houses where I lived in London as a young adult. It sat in the background as my life evolved both personally and professionally: it bore witness to my relationships and changing roles and jobs (university student, retail salesperson, hotel desk clerk, and finally, teacher). When I opened the door of wherever I lived in the ‘80s and ‘90s, I could see the trunk; the symbol of my youth and the gatekeeper of my dreams. Why my youth and dreams? Because the trunk contained the manuscripts and pieces of creative writing that I had written from my early teenage years onward; at the time, all unpublished except for one humorous poem that had been published in a now long-defunct children’s magazine. The trunk was the repository of my imagination and creativity, representing the hope and optimism that is the hallmark of every aspiring author. It also contained family photos and artifacts of one’s past lives, such as the cut-glass bowl given to me by a dear family friend, which I will come back to later in this recollection.

            During the 1990s, my parents both passed away within a few years of each other; barely into their senior years. Also, after two gay relationships of passion, cohabitation, and duration, I quite suddenly decided to live and work abroad, which was viewed by my family and friends as either brave, bone-headed, or both. With only a few weeks to do so, I divested myself of most of my worldly possessions that represented my former life. However, one of the items that I would not part with was the old trunk. I moved it to my sister, Jo Ann’s home, who lived with her husband, Paul, in a charming, renovated stone schoolhouse, just down the road from what had once been the family farm.

At some point in its journey during my ownership of the old and slightly battered container, I started to refer to it as the ‘tickle trunk’. Canadians of a certain age will know that term from the weekday children’s series, Mr. Dressup, which ran from the late ’60s and into the ’90s. I was already in public school when it began, but my younger siblings loved the series and when playing hooky from school (something I did with much frequency over the years, due to boredom and for other reasons), I watched it with them. Although my reference to the old wooden and metal chest as the ‘tickle trunk’ was a humorous one, it was also a tribute to the classic Canadian children’s show.

From the late 90s until currently, I have lived abroad in several countries (Indonesia, UAE, Israel, and for the majority of the time, in Turkey). Whilst I was living and working abroad, my old trunk was back in Canada at my sister’s home, on Stone School Road, awaiting my return to the fold. When I returned for my annual summer trip back to Canada from overseas in 2019, I was unaware that a year later the pandemic would change the world forever. It would be four years before I returned to Canada again. That summer I found my old trunk had been given a makeover! Jo Ann’s husband, Paul, was pleased as punch to show me his handiwork. He had varnished the wood and painted black lacquer on the metal. My ‘tickle trunk’ literally shone in the sunshine streaming through the windows of the patio doors in their recreation room. It would have made Mr. Dressup (as well as his puppet buddies, Casey and Finnegan) proud!

I had spent many hours at Jo Ann and Paul’s charming country home over the years, on my annual summers back in Canada. From the late 1990s and for several years thereafter, my sister, her husband, and I would shoot pool and listen to R&B and dance music in their recreation room. Well, at least my sister and I danced; Paul usually just stood leaning on his pool cue, looking at us in an amused and amazed way. Jo Ann and I both loved the music of Motown and the black singers who came thereafter. She and I would dance around the rec room, a drink in one hand and a pool cue in the other. Just try doing that after a few too many cocktails! Then one summer on a visit when the three of us were at the pool table, it was apparent to me that Paul was not well. He was constantly clearing his throat or coughing or losing his voice all of a sudden. It was not long after I had returned to my life ‘on the other side of the pond’ when I received news that Paul was in critical care at the hospital, virtually unable to breathe. A lifelong and heavy smoker, Paul had emergency surgery to save his life: an operation was performed that removed his voice box.

This would be a life-changing experience for anyone, but particularly so for Paul because he loved to talk, and usually in a loud voice. At one time Jo Ann joked that nothing could shut Paul up, but then something devastating did. Never one to feel sorry for himself and once again demonstrating his survival instincts and love of life, in short order Paul’s post-surgery therapy was designated as a spectacular success. Paul became a role model for other people who, like him, had to undergo the same radical surgery. He gave them inspiring pep talks. Paul became adept at ‘talking’ without a voice box, which required almost orchestral arrangements of hands and voice, as well as breathing and swallowing. The act of eating involved planning and precision, done with great care, to ensure he would not suffocate or choke. It was not only a life-changing experience for Paul but also for Jo Ann. In the first days after Paul was released from the hospital, Jo Ann needed to assist him with the cleaning of his throat where the stoma (hole) was located. It rattled her to the soul, but she stepped up to the plate. In short order, Paul did not require any assistance and in typical fashion, he just got on with it to enjoy life as much as he could despite the devastating surgery.

The years and summers rolled on by, faster in retrospect than seemed the case when in the present. Thus it was that in the summer of 2019, Paul was as pleased as punch to show me how he had rejuvenated my old trunk with paint and varnish. I was particularly appreciative because it occurred to me that given his situation, Paul probably should not have been breathing in the noxious fumes. I also knew only too well, however, that Paul was and always had been a tough guy. As a teenager, Paul had been a rebel without a cause. He had been scrappy and would not back down from a fistfight (and started quite a few). That is probably what attracted Jo Ann to him before marriage, and no doubt may well have driven her to distraction on occasion after they were married!

In the early years of my sister and brother-in-law’s marriage, I was often at their house to visit and sometimes to babysit their young daughter, Angie. They were also a constant presence at my parent’s home because as young newlyweds they did not have the money to do anything that had a cost. For them, there was always food and drinks as well as people to visit with at our home, and other children with whom Angie could play. One cold winter’s February evening when Jo Ann, Paul, and Angie were visiting, it was decided it would be fun to play a board game that was at their home, but we did not have at ours. I was in my early teens at the time and perhaps had a bit of hero worship for Paul because he was so different from me. He was one tough cookie, and I was an introvert, a nerd who wore thick eyeglasses and had long hair. When Paul suggested that I come along with him in his car to go fetch the desired board game, I jumped at the chance.

Before we pulled out of the laneway, Paul put the roof down on his sporty convertible. Feck it was cold, but I did not say a thing. Paul had a ‘heavy foot’ when driving and had been drinking; he always drove fast. As he and I sped along in that icebox of a convertible – the heater at full blast – these images came to my mind: that my balls had shrunk up inside my scrotum as far as they could to keep warm; that my ‘shag’ hair cut was frozen flat in icy waves on my head; and that the snot running from my nostrils had become ice-sickles that could at any moment break off and shatter the lenses of my Coke-bottle-bottom eyeglasses. I could have killed Paul at that moment, but even more so a short time later, when we were stopped by a cop in a cruiser.

We saw the red cherry light flashing in circles behind us. For a moment, I thought Paul was going to try to outrun the cop car. I managed to find my voice, which was shrill and icy due to coming from inside a throat that was for the most part frozen by now. “You have to stop for the cop! Pull over, Paul!” In a flash, Paul took a deep drag on his cigarette, crammed his unopened beer cans under the seat, and somehow in one deep gulp drained his open beer can and threw it out of the car, the projectile soaring like a football in the air. Did the cop see it? I wondered as I began to imagine being hauled into the police station, frisked within an inch of my life, and possibly my nether regions probed for drugs or other contraband. I started to shiver with anticipation and look forward to what lay ahead due to this ignominious episode in my young, teenage life.

Paul maintained his cool. When the cop strolled up to the driver’s side of the car, Paul greeted him as warmly as if the man had arrived to give him a six-pack of Miller for the road. The smell of beer emanating from Paul met my nose. I was sure he would be arrested. But of course, he wasn’t. This is a man who had been stopped by the police in the past and would be again over the years in the future, and somehow he always managed to emerge unscathed. In the early 1970’s when this episode took place, drinking and driving in the countryside were common and often overlooked by the police, provided the driver appeared to be able to drive to a nearby home. Fortunately, that was the case for us. I expect the cop recognized Paul and knew that a ‘drinking and driving’ Paul was a habitual habit; and that he would be better off at our home, which was a few short minutes away by car.

A possible reason the cop let Paul and me go – and what made me rather livid – was the exchange between the two men. After determining where Paul was headed, the cop asked why on such a frigid winter’s evening, he had the convertible’s top down. Paul briefly looked over at me, pointed his thumb in my dismal direction, then turning back to the cop, stated, “My little brother-in-law wanted a ride in my convertible. He’s never been in one before!” The policeman was either so dumbfounded by the answer or so amused by the remark and my frozen appearance that he shook his head and smiled. After telling Paul to head home and that he would follow him there to ensure our safe arrival, we were on our way. Paul drove slowly and with the precision of a man who was as sober as a judge, but during that short journey home with the cop following us not far behind, Paul reached under the seat, popped open a beer, and drank as if he were already sitting at the kitchen table at our home. Talk about nerves of steel!

Paul would need those nerves of steel decades later to cope with the invasive surgery that would remove his voice box and the post-operation aftermath. He would also need it in the spring of 2021, amid the pandemic: Jo Ann went into the rec room to watch her favourite television shows, and a few hours later on her way to the kitchen she would have a sudden and fatal heart attack. She was only 65 years of age, far too young to depart Dodge. My dear sister’s exit was like a light bulb abruptly turned off, never to be turned on again. It was a difficult time for all of our family, particularly for Paul and his daughter, Angie. Paul was a rock as usual and remained strong for Angie’s sake. He continues to deal stoically with his health issues and the complications that can arise from it.

In 2023, I returned to Canada for my annual summer visit. Four years had gone by. I had purchased a duplex ten years before, a red brick dwelling built in the early ‘50s on one of the nicest streets in Clinton. One side of it had become vacant, so I decided the time had come for me to furnish it for myself. I would have a holiday home in Canada to return to when I travelled from Istanbul. I went to Paul’s home on Stone School Road to open up the trunk and take certain items out of it. I knew that a year later, I would be moving into the other side of the duplex, which had a more traditional layout that I preferred. I would move the trunk at that time, but wanted my old, well-thumbed manuscripts from my younger years. Earlier in this recollection, I referred to a “cut-glass bowl given by a dear family friend” when I was back in Canada on one of my summer visits. Mary was not only my mother’s best friend and neighbour across the road, her husband, Murray (usually called by his nickname, Butch) was my dad’s cousin. They were like brothers all their lives, living on neighbouring farms.

It was the summer of 2014, and a few months before I had moved to Israel to be the first director of an international school, north of Tel Aviv. The visionary founder of the school had created it to bring together Israeli Jews, Palestinian Arabs, and high school students from around the world to be educated in this inspirational institution. After working there for a few months, I came back to Canada for a visit. My oldest sister, Cheri, and I visited Mary and Butch every summer when I was back in Clinton. Cheri had always been close to Mary, particularly after Mom passed away. From childhood, I had thought the world of Mary. She was from the Maritimes – Cape Breton to be exact – and was always calm, reflective, interesting, and interested. Most of all, she loved to have fun and enjoy a good laugh. We were chatting in the sitting room at Mary’s home; she still called it the ‘new room’ even though the addition had been put on years earlier. Mary loved that room, and she loved to smoke. She and Cheri would often visit there, to smoke up a storm and have good old chinwags.

On that summer day in 2014, Mary leaned over to me and said in her customarily low voice, “I have a little something for you. I have been meaning to give it to you for a long time.” She went over to the closet and returned with an object in a bag. Mary explained that she had seen it in a store that sold used items and thought I would like it. It was a cut-glass bowl for fruit, but so attractive it could be used as a decoration piece. Mary and Cheri resumed their chatting and smoking, as I looked closely at the bowl. It had an intricate pattern cut into the glass and I realized suddenly that it was the Jewish Star of David. It took me by surprise. Had Mary purchased it on purpose due to my recent move to Israel? I asked Mary exactly when she had purchased the bowl, and she could not remember but it was at least a few years earlier. I stared in amazement at the bowl and said to Mary and Cheri that it was kismet; a sign, that the professional and personal journey that had taken me to Israel, was meant to be. It was in the cards.

It was only three years later that Mary passed away after a battle with cancer. Butch too succumbed to the deadly disease a few years after his wife. Two years after that my sister Jo Ann left us, and the following spring, Cheri followed her; they were together in another realm. I like to think that all four of them are still together; having fun, laughing, and reminiscing – no doubt blowing smoke rings through each other’s halos. During my most recent summer visit to Canada, I saw Paul and Angie again. As I was leaving, I said to Paul, “Make sure you are here next summer when I come back.” After a pause, I continued, “You have to be here because I am coming for my trunk, which you gave such a beautiful makeover.” I am already looking forward to next summer when I will move my ‘tickle trunk’ to the duplex. What treasures and memories will I find inside? What recollections will stir my imagination and become the fodder for more stories? Just lift the lid and find out…

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John RC Potter is an international educator from Canada who lives in Istanbul.  He has experienced a revolution (Indonesia), air strikes (Israel), earthquakes (Turkey), boredom (UAE), and blinding snow blizzards (Canada), the last being the subject of his story, “Snowbound in the House of God” (Memoirist). His poems, stories, essays, articles, and reviews have been published in various magazines and journals. Recent publications include: Prose – “A Garden In Winter” (Erato Magazine); Poetry – “No Religion In Heaven” (Poetry Catalog); Review – Tezer Özlü’s Cold Nights of Childhood (New English Review).  His story, “Ruth’s World” (Fiction on the Web) was nominated for the Pushcart Prize, and his poem, “Tomato Heart” (Disturb the Universe Magazine) was nominated for the Best of the Net Award. The author’s gay-themed children’s picture book, The First Adventures of Walli and Magoo, is scheduled for publication. He enjoys duties as Istanbul editor of Masticadores online magazine.