Your Guess Is As Good As Mine

I have already promised in a way that I will not blog about this period in my life, which is to say 1986-1999, or my Thirteen Year Nightmare.  But I think there are some interesting occurrences that are safe to disclose, mysterious, downright weird and could make for better reading than Stephen King. 

I am thinking of a time when I was thirty-two, or 1988.  At that time I was working in the Downtown-Eastside of Vancouver, also known as Canada's poorest postal code.  I was a home support worker for St. James Social Services Society, an Anglican church based organization dedicated to alleviating the misery and empowering the poor residents in the 'hood. I had just begun living in a rented farmhouse in Richmond, the municipality where I grew up.  It was a dilapidated cottage on an overgrown acre of land.  For months I worked on the place, tearing out detritus and within my limited carpentry skills renovating the house and making it livable.  I also did what I could to tame the wilderness of the long acre I was on, cutting back brush, branches and overgrowth and creating a lovely network of walking trails in the forest in the back.  The house was a needed refuge following two very difficult years living downtown.  I continued to commute every day to my work in the DTES.

At that time there was, I believe, still only one Starbucks in Vancouver, and I was a regular there.  It was a tiny nook in the Waterfront Station, the former train station, an elegant heritage building flooded with light.  I would often stop there for coffee on the way home from work and chat with the baristas when I wasn't writing in my journal or reading and people-watching.  One day, as I was leaving, a stranger stopped to talk with me.  He said his name was Jeremy, a rather unremarkable white guy age twenty-seven, preppy light brown hair, blue eyes, round pudgy face, pale yellow button down shirt and jeans.  I found him friendly, gentle and open.  He was very curious about me and I found myself telling him about my house in Richmond.  He asked if he could see it.  Without blinking I said yes and invited him to take the bus with me home.

I cannot remember that he stayed for dinner.  I think he declined citing that he had another commitment.  I showed him the rambling four bedroom house, then I gave him a tour of the property.  We ended at the cairn.  In those days I was in the habit of constructing small cairns of twelve stones in various locations that I wished to mark specially for purposes of prayer.  Jeremy had in one hand a stick he had earlier picked up and was carrying with him.  He produced a knife from his pocket and began to carve or whittle the stick over the cairn, letting the shavings fall on top of the cairn.

I asked him what he was doing and why.  He said nothing, dropped the stick and put the knife away, excused himself.  And left. 

I have many theories and much speculation about who this person might have been and why he wanted to meet me and see my home, and why he cut wood shavings over the cairn.  I will share none of these theories in this space, quite simply, your guess is as good as mine.