For some reason, I looked up and back towards my right. And there she was, Battleship Bonnie. Or Hurricane Bonnie to some.
She was looking right at me. “I know you,” she said, at a volume that startled a couple of others in the self-check out at No Frills.
The War Department that is my brain kicked into gear, sweeping the area for threats, making assessments, analyzing inputs, recommending possible vectors of response. All this buying a dozen eggs on a Friday.
“You’re the guy from the council meeting,” she said, which had people looking back over at me, possibly judging.
So much for my carefully laid strategy of blending in with the gallery furniture at Renfrew Town Council meetings. I was exposed, right there in the harsh light of day, as “the guy.”
Then I got the report from the War Room. It was her! The woman from the council meeting! I said as much.
And then for the next thirty minutes, we got to talking.
Bonnie Mask was in attendance in the gallery of the last Renfrew Town Council meeting. I took note of her when I first arrived, as I wasn’t expecting anyone else to be there, usually having the place to myself.
I sat down and arranged myself, checked my watch to look cool, maybe did a quick hair shake to max out the flow. Then settled in for what would be another arduous three hours, except that there was another citizen there to make a presentation that I was hoping would trip the sprinkler system. But nowhere on the radar was this senior citizen, sitting over there in the back row. Like was she some surprise guest of the Library Board or something? I went about my business of doing nothing while having people think I was deeply in thought.
The meeting began, and O Canada was sung, the way it always is, beneath everyone’s breath, and of course at break-neck tempo, seemingly the default speed for O Canada, needing to have the tune completed in under twelve seconds or who knows what?
And so, first up and unannounced by the agenda, was Bonnie Mask. She made her way to the presentation station directly in front of council, situated herself, laid out her notes in front of her. She appeared ready to go. In my mind I was wondering how much money the Renfrew Crochet Club was going to be asking council for this evening.
Then she opened up with her 16-inch guns.
If I had a coffee in hand at the time, I’m sure I would have been wearing it. Councillors jumped in their seats. Town administrators fumbled around for lenses that had popped out of their reading glasses. The tech guy thought the Youtube livestream was being bombarded with Russian electronic warfare interference.
It was a hell of an opening from the Crochet Club. The War Room accordingly advised: Don’t mess with the Crochet Club. And I agreed. I sat up straight, never mind the time, and who has hair? I wasn’t going to be caught slouching by this woman, who reminded me of Mrs. Tackney, that grade 4 grammar tyrant that scared the bejesus out of me in my formative years.
Sit up straight and listen! Grade 4 flashbacks played on the screen in my mind. The hand developed a slight tremble. My mouth went bone dry. My forehead hot to the touch.
Bonnie was there to talk about parking, which is one hell of a topic at Renfrew Council these days, with voluminous reports and much talk-time associated with it. Hell, during the meeting later, council agreed that there was a need to have a dedicated meeting solely for the topic of parking, complete with PowerPoints, graphics, laser pointers, and expert testimony, if any were to be found in our august community.
But for now, it was Bonnie Mask. Live and uncensored.
At first I didn’t know what her point was, and what she was all riled up about. Was it too much parking? Not enough parking? People parking the wrong way on the wrong side of the road? Impaired parking? I honestly had no clue, but then again, I was just sitting there thankful that I was now, by this time, behind her in the safety and anonymity of the gallery, if such a thing is possible in an audience of one.
She had brought photos with her. Lord, did she bring photos. Up she jumped from her chair to distribute these photos to council, including the mayor, who happens to be her neighbour, and probably somebody who peers out his curtains to ascertain if the coast is clear to take the garbage out to the curb safely. She entered the inner sanctum of council, that spot right in the heart of the chamber where no one dares tread. Decades ago, the Sergeant At Arms would have run her through with a sword, but on this night, I would have put my money on Bonnie.
I momentarily felt for the person that was scheduled to present to council, having to follow this. Making her own scheduled points while trauma counsellors attended to the casualties in the inner and outer rings.
I never got a peek at any of those photos, because, well, I never got a peek. So I had no visual cues to help me decipher Bonnie’s argument. I know she looked directly at the fire chief twice in her presentation — he’s in charge of parking no less — and momentarily felt for the man, but still thankful her attention was directed at a place other than me.
All this was made clear to me at No Frills, over by the shelves where they sell the chocolates, near the self-checkout.
Bonnie’s steamed about the tendency of her community to slap up NO PARKING signs hither and thither, and then make no seeming effort to enforce those signs when people transgress. She wonders what the point of that is, having a policy lacking in enforcement, resulting in people parking where they want, when they want, with impunity. She showed me the photos. Several were of signs blocked by trees and other foliage. I get where she’s coming from.
Renfrew is absolutely brutal at all of this. Parking, blind spots, places where collisions are just screaming to happen. It’s often caused me to wonder if the people doing the planning were drunk, or if not, maybe that they should drink more.
Honestly, how many of you have been motoring down Hall Street approaching Plaunt and had to come to a complete stop because of the inevitable vehicle parked in front of some hair joint on Hall? The one that makes it dangerous if there’s any on-coming traffic, which there always is, because it’s Hall and Plaunt, spitting distance from that Raglan Street/Veterans Memorial intersection. Go ahead and tell me you haven’t.
We could set up a by-law enforcement officer in a deer blind across the street and the guy could feed a family of four just by enforcing this one location. So why is there always a car there?
How many people have been cruising along a street at night to be suddenly confronted with an abandoned trailer just sitting there, awkward in angle, jutting out into the traffic lane, just waiting for a litigation lawyer to get that call. Just begging you to plow into it and introduce a bunch of roofing materials into the front seat of your life.
And nothing. No enforcement.
Yet the chalk marks abound in the Raglan Street core. It took me a while to figure out where all that chalk on my tires was coming from every time I went to Metro. Until I saw the enforcement person out enforcing, dressed in their paramilitary gear and utilizing their paramilitary chalk.
So I get Bonnie now. I feel I understand her arguments about parking. I also feel I understand much more about Bonnie generally speaking, because thirty minutes is a long time to be talking about parking only.
Further, I was apprised of the deer/reindeer she had on her front lawn for the Christmas season. I was cautioned to leave it alone, as if I looked like the sort that would stop my world to do Bonnie’s deer any harm. But nevertheless, I assured her that I would. Leave it alone.
We kind of shook on it, if her shaking her first at me is her way of shaking on it.
I wonder if she does any grocery shopping at Walmart?
NEWSMAGRENFREW 