Completion

As a teenager I worked at McDonald's, like thousands of other Canadians. It was truly a remarkable place to work. There were so many amazing and unique individuals working there. I do not know if something attracted such people, or if the stressful work conditions weeded out the weaker souls, but for some reason there seemed to be a cadre of intelligent and like able people the whole time I worked there. Conversation around the tiny staff room table was wont to be about any number of subjects. I remember one day listening to the car stereo my friend Roger had installed in the wall. Bruce Cockburn was blaring from the speakers.


Ken- (singing) "If I had a Rocket Lawn Chair..."


Me- What???


Ken-I'm singing along. "I'd blow them all away!"


Me-A Rocket What?


Ken- "Lawn Chair"


Me- It's Rocket Launcher! How can you blow something away with a Rocket Lawn Chair?


Ken- I thought he was trying to escape the cares of the world on his rocket propelled lawn chair.


Me- This is like last week when you thought Neil Diamond was singing about "Reverend Blue Jeans"


Dave- It's called completion.


Ken- The song?


Dave- No the psychological phenomenon you are talking about.


Me- Are we talking about psychology, I thought we were talking about Neil Diamond?


Ken- What's completion"


Dave- Completion is when the brain gets insufficient or conflicting information it fills in the bits it doesn't get. Like one, two, four, five...


Ken- I get it, Four!


Richard- Three!


Dave- You got it, Richard. Your mind fills in what is missing with something that makes sense.


Me- Rocket Lawn Chair doesn't make any sense.


Dave- Apparently it does to Ken!The human brain's a miraculous thing, nature abhors a vacuum.


Ken- National Whores Vacuum?


Richard- Ken, your brain is whacked!


Dave- No, it's just that he perceives it differently than you do Richard that's why his interpretation is different.


Richard- Different isn't the word for it.


Ken- Thanks, Dave, see Richard I'm not whacked, I just have a different imperfection than you do.


Richard- Interpretation! Though I'm not sure what language you are interpreting.


Me- That's what I like, I learn something new every day.




Dave- It happens with vision too, if you had, say, a blind spot and you looked at a pattern your mind would fill in the pattern. Say you had a migraine, sometimes they are accompanied by a temporary blind spot. If you looked at a brick wall your mind would fill in the missing bricks.



Me- That's cool, what if there were a picture hanging right in the middle of my blind spot?



Dave- You wouldn't even see it! You would just see bricks.

Me- You see I learned something new!

Ken- I just wanted to listen to some good tunes. Hey, Led Zeppelin! "I'll be flying British Airways at seven!"

Dave- I give up!

Like I said great conversation.

Cat Tales

We always had a cat when I was growing up. My first cat was named fluffy, why, God alone knows. There was nothing fluffy about him. He was an unneutered male, a wiry old tom with only half an ear and about as much fur as a Christmas candy dropped on a shag rug, kind of patchy orange clumps which more or less covered his skinny carcass. Skinny, because he spent most of his time on the prowl, no doubt sitting on some fence somewhere, with someone hurling an old shoe at him. He came home only rarely, covered in blood and starved to death. I would bundle him downstairs and clean his wounds, hug him, feed him, and he would repay me by slashing my face from ear to chin. I loved him so much. The day he left this earth I cried until I was out of tears. I was inconsolable. Mom went out and got a new cat. We called her boots. She deserved the name, she was grey with long silky fur, her four legs had matching symmetrical white stockings that did indeed look like boots. We had her fixed. She got fat, the vet said some female cats did when they were fixed. She was quite a change from Fluffy, she would rub up against you and occasionally she would jump up on you. Mostly on my Mom, when she would sit in her living room armchair.
She had a couple of unique behaviours that endeared her to us. She loved to sleep in the bathroom sink while it was still warm from someone washing their hands. She drank from the fish bowl and watched the fish as they darted around the bowl hiding behind the neon stalactites we had made with some god awful crystals we had added to the bowl. Boots also loved paper bags. Especially shopping bags. When Mom would get home from the grocery store she would empty the bags into the cupboards and freezer. Boots would find a bag laying open on its' side and walk straight into it whereupon it would stand upright. More than one person who was visiting would get the shock of their lives when they picked up what they thought was a bag of groceries only to have a cat explode from the bag like a brace of pheasants from cover of an autumn meadow.
Boots was the quintessential cat. When she wanted you she could be very affectionate. When she didn't want you she was as aloof as any of her species. She lorded over the house, the feline lord of all she surveyed. She had her favourite haunts; the arm of Mom's chair, the center of the patio door was also a favourite place, so much so that she changed the color of the linoleum from lying in the afternoon sun. But most of all her favourite place was to curl up around Mom's feet when she played cards on Saturday nights under the card table. She ruled the roost for several years until one day a usurper appeared.
He arrived in the night, as most usurpers do. He was cloaked in black, well black fur anyways. He was a stray male cat, lean and sleek. He was rather too thin actually, his meows tugged at my heartstrings. Mom was adamant, "Don't feed that cat; he'll just hang around. He must have a home if you don't feed him, he'll go home." I did my best; Mom was not a force to be trifled with. Days passed. I would come home from work at night and he would be there rubbing up against my legs. He plucked my heartstrings like a Dixie bluegrass quartet. I fought the urge to feed him as long as I could. I lasted an amazing twenty four hours before I broke down and stopped at the convenience store for some cat food. I rolled the window of my old beast down enough for him to jump in and sleep on the bank bench seat. I was careful not to let Mom see me. I would shoo him out in the daytime. Before she would see him, I hoped.
This went to for some weeks. Then one night I turned onto our street and caught Mom sneaking food to our poor starving usurper. Being a smart fellow and valuing my life I said nothing. I went straight to bed. I got up the next morning and made my way down to breakfast before heading off to school. I tried to look stern and implacable when Mom looked at me, studying my face it seemed. Looking for some trace of "I told you so." looking for the hint of a smug smile. It was hard not to but I gave my best poker face. I was probably as easy to read as Sergeant Shultz saying "I see NOTHINK!” As I got up to go she said. "We'll keep him, if you pay to get him fixed. Just that, no preamble, she knew the whole time just what I was thinking there was absolutely no way of fooling my Mom, the human lie detector. I was on the balls of my feet as I danced down the driveway. I bent low to scoop up the lithe usurper from the back seat of my car. His fur was warm from the fall sunshine and I revelled in the fact that he would not have to sleep outside anymore. There was however a small bell in the back of my head jingling. We had passed one hurdle and a big one at that, but there were still her nibs, the feline Pharaoh, Lord and Mistress of the house, Boots!
I took my new friend to the vet the next day. "How old is he?" they asked. I had no idea. "Does it matter?" I asked. "Yes, he has to be fully grown." I raised him up to the counter and told the receptionist "I am not sure, he is a stray, my Mom says I can keep him if I get him fixed." This seemed to please the lady and she petted his jet black fur, it gleamed. "He seems very healthy, he must be well fed." I thought of the two of us, Mom and Me both feeding him. He was probably the best fed cat on the block. She took him and told me to return late the next day. I did, and he seemed so pathetic. I put him in a box with an old army blanket it the bottom. The receptionist gave me the bill I signed it as she made the change. "Is something wrong?" she asked, reading the look on my face. "Ummm, er, it's just that this bill says castration." "Yes," She replied, I thought you wanted him fixed?" "I did, I mean I do... I just thought you gave them a vasectomy!" "No, that wouldn't do it." She replied and returned to her desk. "Sorry, buddy" I said as I carried him from the vet's. ""If I'd have known I would have released you in the wild."It took a day or so for him to recover but eventually he was like new again. I still had the feeling that he was looking at me sometimes with a look of betrayal on his face.
Of course there was an icy feeling in the air. Boots would hiss at the newcomer whenever he came into the room or when he approached the food bowl while she was there. In time they worked out a mod us Vivendi. Boots was O.K.as long as the usurper knew his place and kept his place. Her favourite haunts were sacrosanct. As long as he knew his place, as long as he obeyed the rules. She tolerated him. "He needs a name." My sister Meredith said. He was black from nose to tail except for a patch of white at the front of his neck where his Adams apple would be if he had one. "How about calling him Deacon or Pastor?" I offered. "That's lame." she said. "Keep it simple." So we called him Blackie. Not very imaginative but, like Boots, it fit.
He was a great cat, a man's man. He was fearless; he fought off the neighbourhood dogs. He brought me mice and moles which he proudly dropped at my feet. One day he brought me a live Blue Jay which he had bitten through the wing. I called the SPCA they sent a guy around who rehabilitated birds. Blackie was being dive bombed by hundreds of squawking Jays when I took the frightened bird form him. I reprimanded him, but he looked like he was beaming. He was a hunter, an alpha male. A panther of the yard; which he stalked: putting one silent paw in front of the other, creeping in the shadows, eyeing every opportunity to pounce on an unsuspecting grasshopper or toad. A carnivore: a force of nature. Until, that is he set foot in the house. Then the mighty hunter became a tame house cat. He knew his place and he kept it. In the yard he was supercat, inside he was Clark Cat mild manner feline. Things went along like this for some years. Things change and soon it came time for me to move out on my own.
I broached the subject of Blackie to my Mom. "How about I get settled in first then I'll send for him?" "Not a chance!" Mom retorted. "You aren't taking that cat anywhere." before I could catch myself I smiled. I glanced up quickly, scared to see what would be written on my Mom's face. She too was smiling, I sighed a sigh of relief.
I had been gone for a number of years when my Mom called one day. "We had to take Boots to the vet today." She said. ""Is she O.K.? I asked, but the tone in her voice told me that things were not O.K. Boots had made her final trip to the Vet. "It was for the best, she was suffering." Mom said to console me. There were tears in my eyes as I hung up. She had been 18 or 19 and had been a part of our lives for a long time. Pets don't take up much space in your house but they leave a huge hole in your life when they are gone.
The funny thing is what happened next. Blackie, who had always been content to sleep on Dad's chair, relegated there by his junior status in the household, began to sleep in all of Boots' favourite spots. He took over her well worn spot on the dining room floor, where the afternoon sun hit just right. He began to sleep on the hallway furnace vent where Boots had eyed him with a gaze that would freeze lava. But most of all he enjoyed curling up around Mom's feet, Saturday nights under the card table. All those years of waiting had paid off. The usurper now ruled the roost. Blackie no longer had to slink around, avoiding the glare of his former master. He had earned his time to rule the roost. He had gone from a stray, a pest, a trespasser to the lord and master of the manner. In time there was another call, another one way trip to the Vet. He too had been about 19 years old. At least he got to know what it was like to rule the roost. Who knows, maybe they are friends in heaven or maybe every cat has its' own favourite spots in heaven. I wonder if he has ever forgiven me.

It Came Upon a Midnight Clear

I am from the east coast, where, I am told families are closer than elsewhere in Canada. I buy that. You'll never take the maritimer out of me. Nothing strums the heart strings of a maritimer more than Christmas. My last Christmas at home was in 1984, being in the retail business I understand why I can't take time off during the holidays. The worst time was shortly after I left home. The ties were strongest, the wounds created by the newly severed apron strings were still fresh.


Those were different days in the north as well. The Internet had not appeared, there were no emails, you could not send pictures at the speed of light. There was no streaming video. There were phones, to be sure. A ten minute call cost $17.00 in off hours, more than $30.00 during day time hours. The problem was that there were only four outgoing lines in small northern towns, and that only got you as far as the next switchboard. A Christmas call home was a four or five hour commitment, no redial on phones up north then. As my family had so much to do it fell to me to place the call. I could hardly wait for those precious few minutes. There is so much you can tell by hearing a voice, so much more than can be put in even the most eloquent letter. Letters were the only other alternative. When my Father passed away I found many of my early letters in his papers. It almost seemed they were written by someone else. They were most often typed, as my handwriting is like drunken hen footprints. They weren't bad, though. and they were cheap. For about half a buck you could get stamp, paper and envelope. In those days I made only $10.000 a year. Out of that I had to pay $200 a month to repay my travel costs. My phone bill was about the same so I was left with only about $200.00 a month. Luckily My rent and food were paid for.


The one good thing about the north especially in those days was that there were plenty of other maritimers doing the same thing. Teachers, RCMP, and many other jobs were held by ex-maritimers.


I don't know why but I have always looked for a special moment at Christmas, a specil event that would give meaning or somehow encapsulate the season. In almost every year I have found it. Some times I think it will not happen and then boom, there it is. I do not know why I expect this, if it is from some story I had read or what. The events are often not spectacular, sometimes even simple. But they are always identifiable. Somehow I know them each year when they occur. They do not always occur but more often than not they do. One such event occurred my third Christmas away from home.


That winter was cold and crisp in the small native community of Fox Lake in northern Alberta. The community of 900 was on the banks of the Peace River, the mighty river was frozen, its' brawly waters softened beneath an even mantle of deep white powdery snow. The village itself, a dusty place in summer was likewise shrouded in white. Its' older log homes looked like Currier and Ives scenes as their lights, often coal oil, in those days, twinkled in the cold, clear nights. Newer houses shone as well, they could have been anywhere. But the elders then still lived very traditionally, their small log homes set back in the trees, often a tee pee stood in the yard and a stretching frame for moose hides. There were racks for drying fish, often for dog food, to feed the dog teams. There were several new yellow school buses, but most kids went to school in wagons pulled by a team of horses. The kids preferred the horse drawn wagons as they were heated by a small stove referred to as a "Cherry Cooker" as it inevitably glowed red. The wagons had blankets too, unlike the drafty school buses which would barely be getting warm when the kids arrived at school.


These were busy times in the north as well, although you have to consider the baseline. We started from a much slower pace. "You're on Indian time now." I had been told when I first went north, you just had to get used to it. I love watching rookie government officials waiting for some meeting to start, looking at their watches, fidgeting, pacing, fretting. You just have to Tell them, "this too shall pass, chill." I doubt there is even a Cree word for stress. People were busy getting their furs ready for sale, baking bannock and goodies for family who would soon return from the trapline. There was hunting to be done, a nice rack of Moose ribs or a tender Moose roast makes a nice Christmas dinner and Kokum and Mosom(Grandma and Grandpa) would need food too. Turkey was not a necessity on the tables of Fox lake on Christmas night. Bing Crosby could be heard on the omnipresent radios, but soon there would be live music, as most families had a fiddler, some one who played guitar and more than one person with a good voice. There was wood to be cut and presents to be wrapped. Many presents would be home made, exquisite moccasins and beaded gloves. Moosehide mukluks with warm duffel liners, perhaps a set of snow shoes with moose hide babiche lacing. There would be some made for sale too. The ones made for the Moniyaw would be fancier and less durable, but beautiful and they would have that wonderful smoke tanned smell of real, native tanned moose hide.


The store would be a beehive, people cashing cheques, selling furs, buying food and traps, picking up and dropping off mail. We would be open extra hours and we would be stressed enough for everybody. The store was as much a public meeting place as it was a place of commerce. There were only four public buildings in Fox lake in those days, the Nursing Station, the School and the Church were the other three. The store manager or Okimawiw, was a position of some importance in those days. People would bring in their taxes, their light bills, even letters from television evangelists for us to interpret. The elders spoke some English but were far more comfortable in their own language. I made an effort to learn some Cree and could do the office work in Cree which was popular with the elders, they met me more than half way, they delighted in my mispronunciations and I can only imagine what I was actually saying as sometimes they would howl with laughter at what was coming out of my mouth. But it was good natured as they were tickled that I would even try to speak Nehiyawewin.


We would order extra stuff for Christmas, which comes at a rather inconvenient time, being just before the winter road opened. Nonetheless we would stockpile goods like pop and candy, and we would have lots of beads, stroud, duffel and cloth. Playing cards by the gross as this was the preferred method of passing the long winter nights. There were bright kerchiefs for nookum, Copenhagen snuff for kokum. Rattles and toys for the babies. Of course the teenagers like teens anywhere wanted the latest things. Axes and skinning knives for Dad, maybe if he was lucky a new rifle. The mood was upbeat and the whole village would be at church on Christmas eve.


On Christmas eve, before mass and after the store had closed, which it did earlier than normal, I was making my way "downtown" which meant toward the school and nursing station. I had agreed to help a friend put together some toys he had bought for his daughters. The snow was squeaky as I walked the short distance, it would not be worth warming up my truck. It was snowing softly, the flakes falling straight down, as there was no wind to speak of. The night was dark as the moon had not risen or was behind a cloud. I revelled in the walk, watching people coming and going from houses, laden with parcels. Skidoos zipped by pulling laden toboggans their lone headlight stabbing at the darkness and catching the flakes in their golden cones of light. The driver would wave as would the rider at the back of the toboggans. Smoke curled from chimneys and I knew that the little airtight stove inside would be glowing . It was not home but it was not bad.


The kids were still awake when I arrived so we sat around and had a hot coffee. Short breads and fruitcake were on plates on the counter. The tree was in the corner of the living room, the floor beneath it still empty of the boxes and packages that would soon fill the space to overflowing. The kids were watching there final animated Christmas show before heading off to bed. I relished the thought of how excited they would be the next day when they had seen the things that we would be putting together. Before long they were hugging and kissing everyone and trundling off to bed. Then we sat cross legged on the floor and started opening boxes putting together a small doll house with working lights and a sink that really pumped water. There was a small bike with about a thousand parts. Soon we were laughing and joking as we struggled with the horrible instructions. The girls made only one attempt to get up but were headed off by their Mother before they could reach the living room.


Then we heard something, something so pure and so sweet I thought it must be coming from the television which was still on in the corner, though no one paid it much mind. We rose and went to the window. The curtains were pulled back and we stared for a long second in disbelief. The sound was sleigh bells. We opened the front door and stood on the front deck with our boots hastily pulled on. The moon was out in full now and the night seemed inky blue. The snow still fell, big downy flakes that fell straight down and melted on our eyelashes. In front of us was one of the school bus sleighs, with the cover removed. The horses were decked in red blankets I had never seen before which looked like they were reserved for just this occasion. They were also fitted with sleigh bells and as the sleigh coasted to a stop the horses flipped their heads and the bells sang out in the silent night. Their breath rose in steamy clouds in the still air, there being not a breath of wind. If it was cold I do not remember it we all wrapped only in shirtsleeves and awe. As the sleigh stopped they stood, our neighbors, locals and others who were spending Christmas here. They rose and began to sing, they stood there holding songbooks like something from a Christmas card. There voices sounded so sweet, so resonant in the night air. They sang two carols, one in English, one in Cree. Then the rider rose, the carolers sat and the horses shook their heads and with a sleigh bell encore they were gone, to the next house. We stood for a moment as they faded away from view swallowed up by a veil on snowflakes the bells softly fading. A small thing, a few short moments that defined that Christmas. An act of kindness by neighbors that bridged a gap that helped close a wound. That gave me a moment of sublime peace after those many weeks of pandemonium. It is the small things that really count. In the words of that song, that still resonate after twenty years "It came upon a midnight clear..."

A second Mom and Dad

We are a bit of everyone we meet, well everyone who touches us anyways. For ill or good we wax or wane as human beings by virtue of those we interact with. We are like sponges we absorb our environment and even when we wring ourselves out some of it remains. Like grape juice we try to squeeze out the last drops of some traumatic event yet we remain damp with the last few drops of impoverished childhood, or stained by thee time spent overseas during the war. Living changes us. We absorb life and life itself colors us.


Before you get too depressed, it colors us for good as well as ill. We absorb most readily the broth from those juicy people around us who live lives that radiate success. Not financial success, but life success. Those people who face life with a smile and who you just seem to gravitate towards. You know who they are, you always seek out their company in a crowd. You sit closer to them in a crowded room. You linger to hear a story you may have heard a hundred times before. One such man in my life was Clarence Rose. Clarence was married to Gertrude, my Mother's cousin. They owned a farm in Yarmouth county Nova Scotia. Rose's Lakeview farm a sign on the lawn extolled. Under the the name were the words "Overnight Guests" Bed and Breakfasts they call them nowadays. Never were two people better suited to take in strangers. They lived simple christian lives, were people of faith who walked the talk. They lead by example. As a teenager I was in need of such an example. I was a difficult child. I am sure I was ADD or ADHD, but they didn't have a name for it back then. I was bright and active, but hard to control and trying on the patience. My Mother and Gert had been raised together, both their Mothers had been widowed with children and in an age without any of the social services that exist today they had joined forces and each covered for the other so that they were able to hold down jobs and feed their kids. It wasn't easy but the kids grew into a family. Gert and my Mother put their heads together and it was decided that I would spend the summer on the farm. I would earn my keep as best as a kid with my shortcomings could. I was big for my age and that helped. I ended up spending three summers with the Roses and they treated me like one of the family. That was their way.

My birthday fell in the time that I was there and Gert would bake me a cake. Clarence would chide me about the pretty girl who kept house for his son whom I went to young people's club with one day. He caught me rubbing my bicep "Hugging arm sore?" he said with a twinkle in his eye. He had a quick wit and loved to laugh. He was never mean with his humor, not sarcastic just full of good spirited joy that bubbled over and you could not help but smile. Even if he was laughing too you knew he was laughing with you and not at you. I loved his wit and his impish sense of humor.
The Roses were people of faith, not that my family wasn't, we went to church and Sunday school each week, I was a Cub and Boy Scout. Before my Mother left me with the Roses she made it clear that they lived a more strict lifestyle and that I would live by their rules under their roof. Much of the difference in lifestyle revolved around the sabbath. On Sundays we would do chores and nothing more. You did not touch money on the sabbath except for the collection plate. Patrons of the B&B either paid on Saturday night or Monday morning. Same with the people who bought fresh eggs and milk from the farm, they were neighbors so they knew the rules. I knew them too, you made change for the collection plate on Saturday night. I made $20.00 a week. A princely sum for a young man in the early 1970s. One week I checked my wallet and I had several twenties, from previous weeks and I had a two dollar bill. My tithe, ten percent of my weeks salary, I was all set for Sunday morning.

Saturday night I scrubbed and cleaned, laid out my good clothes for the next day. My day didn't start as early as Clarence's and his son Billy. I got to sleep until nearly seven am. I went out to start cleaning the milkers and buckets, sweeping out and mucking out the barn while Clarence and Billy ate breakfast. Then I would change and wash up we would all pile into the family sedan and off to the little Bayview United Baptist Church in Port Maitland. The tiny Church was awash in summer sunlight and had the smell of old varnish. We entered the back door and made our way among friends and neighbors to a seat at the center back of the sloped theatre style floor. Talk revolved around the beautiful weather, the hay crops and family news dominated the conversation. Backs were slapped and hands were shook, the mood was upbeat and laughter the order of the day. Gradually conversation slowed, people settled into the high back pews. Heads were bowed in personal prayers. Others studied the Hymn list on the wall either side of the pulpit and marked the pages in their own personal hymnals. I sat to Clarence's right, Gertrude and the family to his left. The minister entered and we all rose. we sat down as he took the pulpit. I liked him, he was a good speaker and usually gave a good, upbeat sermon which was impossible to sleep through, he was a dynamic speaker and kept you rapt. There would be a special speaker this day, he said. A christian leader who lead a parish in the Eastern Arctic. He was a Inuit man who would speak of his own people. The sermon progressed and the audience was lively. The minister evoked laughter as well as "Amens". At the end of the ceremony the Inuit Pastor took the pulpit and spoke of the struggles of his people to live a Christian life in conditions that could only be described as "third world". Poverty and alcoholism did not stop his parishioners from spreading the message. I was genuinely touched. I wanted to help with all my heart. At the end of his sermon the Minister announced that there would be a special collection for the Inuit community of the visiting Pastor. I took my wallet from my pocket and opened it surreptitiously. I knew what I would see, only a couple of twenty dollar bills, my entire pay for the weeks of work. I had only had one two dollar bill in there this morning and there was no other denomination. The collection plate started at the front of the church and I struggled greatly with what to do. I was, after all only a boy, I could have quietly passed the plate, without putting anything in it. No one would likely give it a second thought. I would, though. I again opened my wallet, the one I had received from the Halifax newspaper I delivered papers for. There was still only the twenties. I gritted my teeth and slid one out and folded it in my palm so that no one could see it. The collection plate was approaching. I was still not sure what to do. Was this too much? If someone saw me would they feel bad if they had given less, twenty dollars was a lot of money in the 1970's. I decided I would slip it under the other donations and no one would be the wiser. I folded the bill four ways and when the tray approached I saw there were mostly singles and change. I palmed the bill and slipped it under the loose bills and handed the tray to Clarence. As I did I looked up for the first time since my epic struggle of conscience had begun. Our eyes locked and I knew instantly he had seen what I had done. His eyes were wide and he put his money on the tray. The plate went along the aisle. Instantly his gaze returned to me and I saw that he was smiling. He reached around my shoulders and squeezed me tightly there was a lump in my throat and I was shaking a bit, scared that I had been discovered. I feared what he would think, was he angry at me for making an ostentatious gift? Our eyes met again and saw nothing of this in his face. Instead he was beaming, he too seemed to have something in this throat as he cleared his throat but said nothing. He simply squeezed my shoulder and kept his arm there until we rose to leave. He then patted my back. He had said nothing but I had heard plenty. He was proud of me. We never spoke of that moment but in that second something between us changed. We never looked at each other the same way again. I knew that I had grown slightly in his eyes and he had cemented the bond between us that exists to this day, nearly a decade since that little church was packed for his funeral. Packed because he had touched a great many others too. Great people do. The Roses became my second Mom and Dad. They attended my college graduation. Their photo sits beside that of my own parents. They are both gone now, but scarcely a day goes by that I do not think of them, of the lessons I learned on their farm, in their home, as part of their family. I never gave the twenty dollars a second thought, but the look in Clarence's eyes has stayed with me over three decades. I hope that someday I can have a similar effect on someone else. That I could pass on the gifts that this wonderful couple gave me. I have been very lucky to have a second Mom and Dad.

Life is a Runway

There are many blessings of living in the relative isolation of Canada's north. The isolation generally brings peace, calm and a comfortable distance from the cares and woes of the rest of the world. Usually, but not always. Sometimes isolation is insulation, sometimes it is just distance and sometimes distance can kill. I have always been a relatively healthy person, I rarely get sick, so staying close to things like hospitals and medical care had never been a priority. In the fall of 2005 I got a rude awakening and it changed my life forever.
It began with a summer that I would rather forget. My assistant Manager left to go on his holidays. It was not a great summer for weather. Hot and wet. I ended up unloading eight containers of freight with a few local kids, day after day, in the heat and the rain. I would finish the day at ten pm, soaked and so dirty I was scared to shower as I thought my wife would choke me for dirtying the shower. My face and arms were black. There is a queer kind of dirt that forms on freight that has been on the highway for thousands of miles. It is a pastiche of road tar, burnt wheel rubber, diesel and dust. It forms a black layer across the plastic in which the pallets are wrapped. It permeates every crack and crevice of furniture, appliances, motor oil, vacuums, pop, ketchup and the thousands of other items inside the containers. Combined with the humidity it smears the skin mixes with your sweat and makes you look like a coal miner at the end of a fourteen hour day, of humping a few thousand pieces of freight. You clamber over stacks of pop twelve feet high and pack mattresses and box springs through a hole in the warehouse loft four feet by six feet. At the end of a day every joint in your arthritic body aches and you walk in a stoop like an eighty year old man. Only the whites of your eyes are clean and you hurt in places you never knew you had. Falling asleep before you even had time to eat becomes normal. Waking up at three am in an arm chair, you stagger to your feet and wolf down some cold macaroni and collapse into bed for a couple more hours of fitful sleep.
I was living for the day when my assistant manager came back from holidays. To add insult to injury he gave me his notice the day he got back. He also had recalculated the remaining time off he had coming and spent the next week packing while I finished off the final containers. Then he was gone. I had never felt so totally alone, adrift and overwhelmed. I clung to the two things that always have supported me; my work and my Wife. Lina was marvelous, working in lockstep with me, putting in incredible hours and still managing to put meals on the table and clean clothes on my aching back. Finally in September, just short of the second barge's arrival, the District Manager sprung a young man free from another store. He was a dynamo who wanted to tackle everything at once and I needed the help so I too, even as tired and injured as I was stepped it up a notch.
Then my body rebelled, in a way that it never had before. At first I had no idea what was happening. Then I knew, but was in denial. Then I knew but wanted to keep going for just a couple of days, so naive was I. It started in earnest on Saturday, Saturday September 10th 2005. I had just carried an unassembled wall unit upstairs. A box with a shipping weight of 166 lbs, not a feather but not something that usually would tire me. When I came down the three flights of stairs I looked at Randy, he immediately put down what he was carrying. "What's wrong?" he could read something in my eyes that I couldn't verbalize. Couldn't verbalize because I couldn't breathe. Air was going in and out of my lungs like usual, or rather more than usual as the seconds passed and I realized that I wasn't really catching my breath. My respirations increased as I began to realize that something serious was wrong. I sat down on a box and lowered my head. I felt terrible; cold and nauseous with sweat pouring down my face in sheets. When I could speak, I told him that I felt sick, I staggered to the doorway, collapsed to my knees and tried to vomit. I couldn't. Randy was now getting very nervous so I lied. I laughed and said that I must have the flu and he should keep going and I would catch up. I sat down and in time it passed. Soon I was joking, perhaps a bit too much, and back at it, working even harder to convince him that I was fine. Or was I trying to convince myself? Somewhere in the back of my brain a little bell was ringing. That night when the hectic stress of the day was over and the cobwebs started to clear I reviewed the events of the day. What the hell had happened? What was wrong with me? I had some of the symptoms of a heart attack, but just some and some of them did not ring true to me. As a Firefighter I have taken first aid and CPR courses and thought I knew a lot. I was about to get a reality check.
Sunday was warm for September, which at the 63rd parallel can be cold and even snowy. Instead it was bright and clear. Randy was at the door bright and early. We started doing a grocery pull, hauling groceries from the warehouse to the store to keep the shelves full. A grueling never ending job that took hours and many loads in the company truck, a three quarter ton Ford. We hauled sugar and flour, canned goods and pop, lots and lots of pop. It was after the fourth or fifth load that the symptoms returned, as before, only worse. We were at the back steps of the store, throwing one of hundreds of cases of pop onto carts to be loaded on the shelves. Suddenly I lost my breath, within seconds I was gasping for breath and doubled over. I tried repeatedly to vomit but couldn't. I knew now that this was my heart. "I will be right back" I gasped. I went home as fast as I could. I avoided Lina and went straight to the bathroom. I searched the shelf for aspirin. I quickly swallowed four, the maximum adult dose. By this time I was starting to recover. I rifled the cabinet for the small red bottle of nitro glycerin that a nurse in Old Crow Yukon had given me when she noted that I had a funny rhythm on my ECG. I took a couple of sprays under my tongue. Almost immediately I began to feel better.
My mind was racing. I needed a few moments to gather my thoughts so I locked the door and sat on the toilet. It was crystal clear to me now what was wrong. What wasn't at all clear to me was what I should do about it. I had so much to do before the second barge arrived. I knew if I went to the nursing station that I might not be allowed to go back to work. I couldn't dump all this on Lina and Randy. I had to make it through somehow. Get it done, I thought, get it all done and then you can be sick. I would carry the nitro, I would take extra doses of aspirin, and I would take it a bit easier. I was rationalizing and slowly convincing myself that I was alright and that this whole thing would go away. It didn't go away long.
Somehow I muddled through then next eight or ten hours and was able to get to bed at midnight, exhausted, stressed beyond belief and dreading what the dawn would bring. I barely slept. I awoke Monday and was right back into a stressful work week. There were staff missing, shelves to fill, paperwork to be done. Orders needed doing, the warehouses still weren't finished. But by lunch I was still on my feet. I thought I had it all in hand, just a few more days and I would tell Lina what was wrong, and believe me she knew something was wrong. We were on our way home for lunch when it happened again. On the way home for lunch for crying out loud! At least the last time I had just finished handling thousands of pounds, TONS, of freight! Now it was happening when I was on my way home for lunch. Before I had been able to lie to Lina about how severe it was. Now, she was inches away from my pasty grey face. She could hear me retching and see that I wasn't breathing. She sounded panicked, "What do I do?" she said, her voice breaking, her lip trembling. "Call the nurse." I said mustering as much calm as I could under the circumstances. I remembered that you should place heart attack victims in the recovery, or fetal position. I tried to lie down but couldn't. I couldn't breathe when I was down there. Lina was frantically trying to find the phone book. She looked at me with terror in her eyes, it even scared me. It must be bad, I thought. I couldn't drive so I said to Lina as calmly as I could "Let's just go to the nursing station". She nodded emphatically and helped me with my shoes. She supported me on the way to the nursing station. We must have been an odd looking sight, all six feet and two hundred sixty pounds of me supporting himself on 98 pound four foot eleven (four foot eleven and three quarters Lina liked to say. I like to tease her and tell her she's three foot twenty three and three quarters). It was only about a city block and a half and somehow she got me there. If I needed confirmation that I looked awful, I got it in spades. When we reached the Nursing station M.J. was at her usual spot in reception. She was on the phone. She looked up, saw my face and said "I have to go!" and slammed down the phone before she finished her statement. She ran to the nurse on duty and soon I was ushered into the trauma room, displacing a wonderful Elder lady to whom I apologized profusely, she took my hand and said it was alright. The nurses were soon both there removing my shirt and hooking up leads all over my chest and ribs. "Are you in pain?" one asked. I hadn't thought about pain, I had only thought about breathing. "Yes!" I replied. "On a scale of one to ten, ten being the worst?" she inquired, I thought about it, I have had a lot of pain, as a person living with RA (rheumatoid arthritis) I live with pain. "About and eight." I said. They gave me morphine. They gave me oxygen and it was a blessing. I never thought about the fact that your heart pumps blood to your lungs. Without the blood going to the lungs, you cannot breathe, you could literally suffocate. I had been suffocating. After twenty minutes the nurse asked if I had any pain, it had not changed. I had a searing pain on the right side of my chest. This is partly what threw me; I had always thought that I should have pain in the left side of my chest. This isn't true as I later discovered. The pain can even be in your back. It all depends on where on your heart the blockage is. The nurses sent my ECG off to Yellowknife; Doctors there decided that I should be med-evaced at the first opportunity. The first opportunity would be five hours away, the nurses informed me. Unfortunately I could not be shipped out until I was stable.
Lina had to leave to reopen the store. As surreal as it seemed, life goes on for those around you. She took my hand and kissed my cheek and then she was gone. She had to call my boss, and make arrangements.The nurses gave me a second shot of morphine, with absolutely no effect. Meanwhile they inserted tubes in my wrist and began an I.V. Time passed very slowly, nothing seemed to change, I always imagined that they could just inject something and it would be over. Nothing could be further from the truth. Finally they gave me another shot of morphine, slowly, very slowly the pain subsided, my heart rhythm stabilized and I could be sent out. The plane from Yellowknife would be there at 5:30 some four and a half hours after I had come in. Then the nurses would hand me over to the med-evac team. Lina flitted in and out, it was a check day so she was very busy at the store and she wanted to be anywhere else. People were even coming into the nursing station, right into my room asking if they could cash their check. I wasn't even dead yet, I thought and they wanted their checks cashed, this was too surreal!

Lina went home and packed me a bag; she brought my jacket, "Your cigarettes and lighter are in the pocket." she said "What do you want me to do with them?” "Throw them in the garbage!" I replied I haven't smoked since; she smiled a tear on her cheek at the same time. The med-evac nurse came into the room and put a second I.V. tube in my other wrist. "It's just a precaution, in case the first one works loose." she said. They replaced all the leads hooked to my chest with their own and hooked me up to a portable monitor. Things started moving faster, I had lain there for five hours now events seemed to be moving too fast. I was bundled into a sleeping bag for the trip on the plane. The nurses backed off and allowed Lina and I a moment alone. She took my hand and looked down into my eyes; I was beginning to feel very alone. "I'm sorry." I said "For putting you through all this." Tears were pouring down her face. "I love you so much!" she replied. "I'm scared." I said. It took a lot to admit this.
I have been scared before, fear is natural, like pain it is nature's way of protecting you. In the past I have been; buried alive, blown up and in many fires including one where I was burnt from finger tips to arm pits. I have survived three car accidents where the vehicle I was in was totaled. Though any of these things could have killed me they were relatively brief, exceptionally quick in the case of the explosion, I was thrown through the air by a cloud of exploding propane. It was over before I had time to be scared. This was different. I had time to lay there and think about what was happening. In fact, the whole time I was laying there I was thinking about the fact that I had received a summary of my RRSP and it still listed my Mother as my beneficiary. I was terrified of dying and leaving Lina without enough to live on. I figured they wouldn't let me change it now, not if I was dying.
Maybe something else was at work here. I had never had so much to lose. I had finally met my soul mate, the woman I had waited for all my life. We had a good life in spite of the hard work and long hours. We had a good thing happening and I wasn't ready to check out.
We had not faced anything like this before. It was tearing me apart to have to leave her, when I needed her more than ever before. I stammered out an apology for not having checked on the beneficiary line of my RRSP before, but that just made her cry more. It was the furthest thing from her mind. I told her to say good-bye now so that it would be a bit easier for both of us. The plane was warming up and I had to get going.

This is one thing about living in the north that kind of bites. The distance from help when you need it. The nursing stations are small and fairly well equipped and the nurses are marvelous, doing so much more than their counterparts in the south. But there is no substitute for a fully equipped trauma unit.

The nurses and some volunteers took me to the back of the nursing station van and took me to the airport where a specially equipped plane was waiting. A telescoping track was sticking out of the rear door and my stretcher was loaded on to it. The door was closed and I was hooked up to the plane's oxygen and telemetry for the two hour flight to Yellowknife. This was the riskiest part of the journey, there was so little that could be done in the confines of that small aircraft. As we took off I wondered if I would ever see my beloved Lina again.
The flight went well, and was even a few minutes early. The ambulance was waiting and two Yellowknife paramedics loaded me in the ambulance for the drive to the hospital. The drive was a little longer than usual due to some construction on the airport road. It was then that I felt my heart beating funny. The paramedic raised her voice and barked something to the driver and the other paramedic. She checked the printout and looked at my eyes. I was feeling suddenly weak and was perspiring, but already I could feel it passing. "What was that?" I asked. She smiled and said "its O.K. just some arrhythmia, it's actually a good thing it will help the cardiologist determine what kind of heart attack you had." They called ahead to the hospital to report the event. Minutes later the ambulance passed through an open garage door.
They closed the doors before taking the stretcher out of the ambulance. I was wheeled into emergency through the back doors past empty stretchers and rows of staff's jackets and boots. The hallways were narrow and I was wheeled into a small room just big enough for the stretcher to fit. I was transferred to a bed and again the leads of the ECG were disconnected and reconnected. A Doctor with a clipboard approached; on it was the printout from the ambulance. I had seen the Paramedic give it to the Nurse on duty when we came in. He introduced himself and said “How are you feeling Gregory?" "Just call me Greg." I replied, "I feel O.K. now." "You had a bit of arrhythmia in the ambulance. Are you over it now?" "Yes" "We are going to admit you shortly for observation and tests; we want to see what is happening." The Doctor made some notes on the chart and left the room. Nurses bustled about adjusting this and checking that. They took my blood pressure for the umpteenth time and asked me if I was cold. I was rather, so they brought me a thin blanket which was surprisingly warm. They raised the bed and made me comfortable. The Nurse from the desk outside came in and said "Your Wife is on the phone would you like to talk to her?" Would I!!!! She patched the call through to a phone on the wall in this little cubicle and passed me the handset which had an enormous cord. To say it was good to hear her voice would be like Neil Armstrong writing in his diary about his first steps on the moon, "Took a walk, went to a different place than usual." Her voice was edgy but less so than in the nursing station. “I called your Mom." she said. "Good." I replied. I had the feeling it would be some time before I could call her myself. It was good to hear her voice, it calmed me. Time was dragging on; nurses and Doctors were coming and going, taking blood, taking blood pressure checking the monitors. The Nurse again entered the room and said that my Mother was on the phone. Again she handed me the phone and I spoke to her. I tried to assuage her fears, I was in good hands and so far all was well. About ten pm a Nurse stuck her head in the room and asked me if I was hungry. It hadn't occurred to me, but I was, terribly hungry, in fact. I had not eaten all day. She said the kitchen help had gone home but she would try to rustle up some toast. She returned shortly with toast, and God bless her, peanut butter. I ate slowly savoring every bite. I was very tired, from the weeks of working without a day off and from the stress of the day’s events. "It won't be long." the Nurse assured me. "They are getting ready for you up in ICU." It hadn't occurred to me that I would be in intensive care. I had assumed I would be in a regular room. I just wanted to sleep. After 11 pm they came in and got me ready for the transfer.
Once again they disconnected my leads and transferred me to a gurney. After a trip through winding halls I was brought upstairs in an elevator. I was lead into ICU which had four other beds, patients splayed out in a star shaped pattern. Nurses circulated through the room checking the various patients. I could see no one else save the one person immediately beside me and a large man directly across from me. He seemed to be in intense pain and cried out frequently. Above my bed, behind me was a monitor, with my vitals. I was hooked up to a blood pressure cuff which automatically inflated every half an hour or so. The cries of the suffering man and the blood pressure machine, coupled with the constant drawing of blood and other tests precluded all but the briefest of cat naps.

About 3 am I felt another fluttering of my chest worse than the one in the ambulance, I awoke and looked toward my feet two Nurses were staring at my monitor. One looked at the other and said "Those are the ones that usually don't make it." She said it with such certainty that it sent chills down my spine.

"Wake up!" she said shaking my foot. She didn't know I was already awake. "Did you feel that?" she asked. "Yes" I replied. "The Doctor is on his way." she offered. He arrived within seconds and made some more notes on my chart, the Nurses put something in my I.V. "Try to rest." he added assumingly. Right!The rest of the night passed with only a few minutes of fitful sleep. Things started to stir about 5 am. Nurses were wrapping up the night shift doing their last checks and waking us up to do it. No problem I was awake anyways. I wanted so badly to call Lina but it seemed impossible. When was breakfast anyways? I was starving. There was no window no way of knowing what the weather was like, whether the sun was up or anything. My view was of a rolling curtain, light blue. Time seemed to crawl in here; the sense of timelessness was heightened by the lack of sensory input. I often wonder what it must be like to live a less hectic life. Some days while I thread my way through an eleven or twelve or fourteen hour day, I would look at those around me who have a less hectic lifestyle. I would see people in the store, pushing a shopping cart at three in the afternoon and envy there less harried gait. I would tousle my dog’s hair as I headed to the warehouse and envy the sight of him curled up so sedately. The line of the Frost poem stopping in the woods on a snowy evening

For I have promises to keep.
And miles to go before I sleep
And miles to go before I sleep.

Often runs through my head. I had thought of hospitals as restful places, I was soon learning that nothing could be further from the truth.

As I lay there I was thinking how unfortunate it was that no one I knew who lived in Yellowknife was actually there at that time. I didn't even know if you could visit someone in ICU. The shifts of nurses changed and the new Nurse went through the same battery of tests the outgoing shift had just done. I was groggy from lack of sleep, stress and general fatigue from months of seven day weeks.

I longed for sleep, but was scared to sleep, afraid that while I slept I might have another heart attack. The Nurses words last night kept running through my mind. I wanted to be at home, at work, at ease, with my wife.

At last a tray arrived with my breakfast. Hospital food is not the greatest at the best of times. Add to that a diabetic diet with no sodium and you can imagine what awaited me under the metal dome. Bland tasteless and lukewarm it still tasted good as I was very hungry. I was told the Doctor would see me that morning. The big guy in the bed opposite was screaming now, delirious with pain, begging for water that Nurses could not give him due to his condition. I wash awash in the surreal, floating on a sea of fatigue; half asleep, half awake. Time was crawling. Nurses coming and going, poking, prodding, and every half hour the cuff on my arm inflated, prohibiting any sleep.


Eventually the level of activity increased, the halls were busier, the phones were ringing, and I began to take cues from things other than windows and clocks. I didn't even have my watch, which had been removed for the IV tubes. Mid morning a Nurse asked me if there was anyone I wanted to call. "I can do that?" I asked. She brought me a phone and with the aid of a calling card I called Lina. She was already at work, though the store didn't open for two hours. She was so glad to hear my voice and I hers. I told her a much as I knew about what was happening but kept it all upbeat. I asked her to call Mom. She said that when she called my boss, and old friend, Scott he had said that he was cutting his trip short and was on his way back to Yellowknife and would come to see me as soon as he could. That was a relief. More than anything I needed to touch base with someone I knew.

The Doctor told me I did the right thing by taking aspirin and did the wrong thing by waiting to come in. He told me they would try to get me in to hospital in Edmonton for further tests. Soon he left. This was all I had to look forward to for the day so the rest of it was more of the same, more of the big guy screaming, more poking and prodding more inflating cuff and no more sleep.

Day drifted into evening, another tasteless, lukewarm delight for supper. I almost found myself dreading the night, the semi dark, the cries of that poor man, delirious with pain, bagging for water and relief that the Nurses cannot give him. Part of me wanted to do anything to ease his pain and part of me just wanted him to shut up! I ached for sleep with every fiber of my being. Night came anyways. The pace on the ward slowed, the lights were lowered and again the artificial world without sun or wind or cold closed in on me and I was alone with my thoughts, alone except for the screaming.
Eventually things began to stir, lights went on, and shifts changed, tests, more tests. Lukewarm gruel for breakfast. I am allowed to sit up for this, it is a blessing. A basin of water is brought for me to wash and clean shorts to change into. I feel better after a wash, but not for long, the fuzziness returns. I wait for the Nurse to have a free moment so I can get the use of the phone. Lina's voice is like music to my ears. She tells me that when she called my Boss, Scott he jumped on a plane back to Yellowknife, he is going to visit today, this morning, in fact. This is great news. The Nurses are too busy to do more than conduct a quick comment here or there. I long to talk to someone. I keep Lina on the line as long as I can; I hear the tension in her voice. She wants to be here as bad as I want her here. All too soon she had to go. Nothing bad had happened to me in the last night, I wanted so badly to be put in a regular room, and I wanted to sleep. The Doctor came and sat down, this time. He had a serious look on his face. "I hear you want out of here." He said patiently. "I'm not surprised, but I'm afraid you can't. As long as you stay in ICU you stay on the priority list. That means you go to the head of the line to have an Angiogram in Edmonton. It's the only way we will find out what's wrong with you and a chance to have it fixed." I could only agree. This was good and bad news, I know I need help, but I wasn't sure when I would be getting out of here. I waited for Scott's visit; he brought me some magazines which were welcomed. Not as much as I welcomed his company. I have known Scott for years and he is my friend as well as a damn good Boss. I told him what I knew which wasn't much but at least I wasn't having any more heart problems. "You look like hell." He said smiling. I smiled too, only a friend can say something like that at a time like this but it was funny and we both laughed nervously. We made small talk and he warned me that things would have to change when I got home. Home, it seemed a million miles away. He stayed a while, and then left to do some work. "I'll be back this afternoon, you want anything?" "Large pizza with the works and a double, double." I said laughing. "If I did that I would need a bed in here when Lina got a hold of me!" We both laughed and it felt good. When Scott left the Nurse approached, she began taking more tests, pulse BP etc. "You are lucky," she said. "How so?" I replied, puzzled. "You are going to the Royal Alex in Edmonton tomorrow. For an angiogram. They're the best they do a million of them there, they are the McDonald's of heart procedures." I was delighted. Getting out of here would be fantastic. I couldn't wait to tell Lina. "Can I use the phone?" I asked. "Sure" she said, smiling.

I thought Lina would be ecstatic, but there was a hesitation in her voice when she heard my news. "Edmonton..." she stammered.”But I'm going to Yellowknife on Friday!" "I don't know how long I'll be there, but come anyways, wait for me here. You need to get out of there." "Yes" she said, I am happy that things are finally moving. I'll call your Mom." "No, I’ll do it, the Nurse is busy." "She'll be glad to hear from you." I could hear the happiness in Lina's voice. Mom was happy too, I could hear it over the three thousand kilometers between us. Miraculous things telephones, thanks Mr. Bell. I told Mom about the news, I told her about the food. I didn't mention the later heart problems and I sure didn't mention what the Nurse had said the night I first got here. We have always sheltered each other from bad news. I was always finding out things had happened after the crisis was over, now I was doing it. Apples don't fall far from the tree. "That's good." she said enthusiastically when I told her the news. We said good-bye with a lot more optimism than the last time. The Nurse was waiting with a needle in her hand so I hung up. She drew blood and left, without speaking. She saw the smile on my face and she was smiling too, when she left.

Lunch was tasteless and scarce. I ate it quickly as the fellow was screaming again, begging for water. It was hard to enjoy the food as it was; it was even harder to eat when someone is in the next bed screaming for what you are eating with disdain. A new patient was in the ICU, she was an Inuit lady, and though I never saw her I heard her name and heard the Nurse say where she was from. She had fluid on her lung and was waiting for an operation. Her breathing was so labored I thought she would not make it through the day. Scott returned that afternoon, we talked about my news and he seemed happy. "Lina can wait for you here," he said "She needs a break." "From there or from me?" I asked sardonically. "Both." He laughed. It was good to laugh. No matter what happened it was good to laugh.
After Scott left the rest of the day dragged, but I had something to look forward to and it wasn't supper. The night was even worse. The big guy moaned, less strongly than before, he was more delirious. The new Lady was moaning as best she could with one lung. She was in agony. I could only imagine the pain she was in from the pressure on her chest. I had some idea of what it must be like. About 2:00 am she began to cough and convulse. I could see nothing but I heard the Nurse rush to her bedside. She sounded an alarm and soon she was joined by two more medical staff. "We have to get the fluid off her lung!" Someone said forcefully. Someone trundled a cart into the room and I heard a lot of movement and rustling. The woman moaned. The big guy roused and let out a scream. I heard someone say where to insert the tube, next there was a splash, and the Lady let out a huge gasp. She had caught a lung full of precious air. "Call housekeeping." said one of the nurses. The lady was breathing better now, deeply, hungrily. She thanked the Nurses. They seemed pleased. They pulled back and spoke in hushed voices. Apparently the liter and a half of fluid they had taken out of her chest was supposed to go into a container and not on the floor. It had been messy, but she was alive and so grateful for it.

The big guy was in full cry now, he was inconsolable. No amount of painkiller would help him. He moaned and screamed the whole night through.

Shortly before the shift change that marked morning he stopped. He was too spent to scream. I was glad he was quiet. The Nurse began to get ready for the arrival of the med -evac team. Once again the leads were changed over. No food today, not that I would miss it. Soon I was on a gurney for the trip to the airport, the reverse of what had happened Monday evening. The flight to Edmonton was only slightly longer than the flight to Yellowknife. I tried to sleep and did for just a few minutes. Mostly I reveled in the fresh air, the daylight as it broke over the airport. My bag of clothes was here too. I longed to get them back on, to feel human again, and to no longer be a patient. We arrived in Edmonton on time the ambulance was late, but on the way. Soon I was on the way to the Royal Alexandra Hospital. We arrived in only a few moments as the Med -evac arrives at what used to be known as the Muni, The Municipal Airport which is right downtown. Northerners know this place as most flights from the north used to land here. Soon I was being wheeled into a waiting area, once again I was reconnected a curtain was pulled and I was given one of those humiliating gowns with no back in them. It was hard to stand up; I hadn’t done this in four days. There would be a wait of about three hours before the operation. I wanted so bad to talk to Lina. I lay waiting in an area of about ten such cubicles and marveled at how fast the patients were wheeled out only to be replaced by someone new. I found out later that this was one of two such waiting rooms. I felt mildly nervous. The angiogram would determine what was wrong and therefore what needed to be done. Best case was that nothing at all was wrong, which we knew wasn't the case. Next case was that I needed a balloon angioplasty where they insert a catheter into your heart and inflate it expanding the clogged artery and opening it up. Worst case would be that the damage was so extensive that I would need open Heart surgery and a bypass. I dreaded this. Time passed, patients came and went I had been sent in early due to the risk that weather might delay my flight.

Eventually they came for me and I was wheeled into the operating room. There were a lot of people in there, technicians and Nurses, at least two Doctors, other staff bustled about. I was laid on a table and they introduced a sedative to the I.V. (sedative meet I.V. I.V. meet sedative.) they had put in earlier. I felt euphoric, my body which ached from laying down so much soon felt weightless and I was in a Zen-like state. This stuff was great; I could use some of this most weekdays about 3:00 pm. The Doctor inserted a catheter in my wrist which he would shake up the veins into my heart. He watched his progress on a monitor, which I too was able to see. Kind of freaky when you think about it. In the next room, on another monitor another more senior Doctor watches the whole process. Occasionally a speaker cuts in and he gives direction to the Doctor working on me. When they had discovered what they wanted they had a brief conference. I was on pins and needles. My greatest worry was that I would require a by-pass. The Doctor approached and asked "Is it O.K. if we perform the angioplasty now?" I vigorously agreed. "We are going to insert a stent." He said. I had been briefed that this was a possibility so I knew what he meant. I was greatly relieved. He reinserted the catheter and worked it into position; he inflated the balloon that would expand the vein. As he did I again felt my chest tighten, my breath left me. He had explained that the procedure would give me the symptoms of a heart attack as the catheter blocked the very vein it would open. This time they gave me nitro first so I didn't get the worst of the symptoms. Still it was an uncomfortable feeling having to go through what amounted to another heart attack. It is weird when you know what it is that is happening. Then they inserted a stent a wire tube that holds the vein open. The procedure went well and I was able to watch the whole thing on the video screen. They even gave me a before and after printout of the heart to show where the stent was. Soon they were disconnecting me and wheeling me up to recovery. Recovery sounded pretty good to me. I prayed it would be quieter than ICU, I so badly wanted to sleep. I also wanted to talk to Lina very badly.
They attached a device to my wrist that looked like a huge cable tie. It had a sort of key mechanism and they attached a tool and tightened it so that I would not bleed out of the wrist. It had to stay on for five hours they would relax it every hour or so. At first it was just tight but soon it was all that I could think of it hurt so badly. They took me upstairs to recovery where there was a window. I looked out on Edmonton; I had never seen anything so beautiful. It was a dour day, raining slightly but it was so nice to see something, anything out a window that I was ecstatic. I asked about using the phone and was told that I would be allowed to go for a walk in an hour so and there was a pay phone in the hall. I lay down and relaxed. The pain in my wrist was terrific and I longed for that first turn of the screw that would relax it. Shortly we had supper. Hospital food never tasted so good. After supper the nurse came and said "You have to get up and take a walk now." I was delighted. "Try to go at least 200 ft, the hallway is marked." "200 ft? I can do a lot better than that!" I exclaimed. "Don't be so sure." she said. "You've been in bed five days. Have you ever lain in bed five days before?" "Not as far as I know." I answered. "Take it easy, you'll be weak." I said that I would. She was right it was harder than I thought. My legs were atrophied from lack of use, lack of sleep and from all the stress. I made it 200 feet then made a beeline for the payphone. I called Lina. She was at work. "Guess who?' I said disguising my voice. "My love!" She said excitedly. There was no fooling her. "I leave for Yellowknife tomorrow. Meet me there." I told her the news. About what had happened, what the Doctor had said. I could hear she was busy. I wanted to talk but I knew it was Thursday night and she would be crazy busy. I hesitated. “I’m sorry.” I said. "Sorry?” "Sorry I put you through all this. I love you and I will call you later." I hung up and quickly called my Mom. I caught her up on all that had happened. Soon I was back in the recovery room. Sitting on the edge of the bed swinging my legs like a small child, bored in Church.
Again they came and took another notch of pressure off my wrist. The pain, when it returned was not as bad this time. The worst was over. Evening fell and street lights came on. I stared at the traffic as it slowed to a trickle. Somewhere people were eating supper, reading newspapers, watching TV. Somewhere the world was normal. Somewhere couples were together. I wanted Lina back so bad. I wanted to hold her and never let her go again. We were joined at the hip. Ever since she came to work with me. Against my advice I'll point out. She went over my head, to my boss. I had told her it was not a good idea for couples to work together. "We're bound to fight, if we spend too much time together." I had told her. Not the first time in my life I have been wrong and not the last either. My boss called me the next day and told me in no uncertain terms to hire her, "Are you crazy? Where are you going to find someone with her qualifications?" It had been decided for me. I haven't regretted it. Being together twenty four seven has made us closer than most couples, I think. I miss having her counsel on even the most mundane things. I also miss it when we do not have shared experiences. We go through everything together. When we are apart it is nearly unbearable, especially at a time like this.
I would be discharged tomorrow, but I wouldn't get to Yellowknife until Saturday. Still, I didn't care. I was getting out of hospital. Just before our nighttime snack they removed the strap from my wrist, it was bliss. I made one last call to Lina and went to bed. The pace of the room was somewhat calmer than ICU but I still did not sleep well. There were the usual checks of vitals, a crisis in an adjoining room that did not end well, and lots of interruptions, sirens wailed. It was a long night. I had slept less than six hours since admission, I was exhausted.
In the morning there was some confusion about my release, they did not want me to be released as I had no chaperone. Eventually the caseworker arrived and we worked out the details. I would be released after lunch. From there I would go the Larga House, a hostel for NWT residents. When my release time came I was excited and wanted to get out of the hospital as soon as possible, first I had to fill a prescription. From the lobby I called my old friend Mike Savage. It was pouring outside, a dull dreary day; the trees were weeping leaves to the ground. The city was gray, the buses flared plumes of spray as they motored down the streets. It was hard to hide the joy in my voice as I described the day, and how great it was to be alive! I was on a cloud. "I am in the lobby of the Royal Alex in Edmonton!” I said enthusiastically. "It is wet and dreary, cloudy and dull and it may be the most beautiful day I have ever seen!" "It's good to hear your voice!" He said, and I could tell he meant it. "I just needed to tell you that." I added. We spoke for nearly half an hour. I needed to tell someone how good it felt at that moment. I had never felt more alive in my life. It is something you need to share with someone you have known as long as you can remember.
I waited on the curb for the van from Larga House. Beside me was some poor soul in hospital gown, with a summer jacket over his shoulders, shivering and clutching an IV stand as he smoked a cigarette. For the first time since this whole thing happened I thought about smoking, the smell nauseated me. "Guess that I'll never do that again!" I thought to myself. Three years later and still smoke free. The van pulled up and the driver said "You must be Greg!" "You must be psychic," I replied. It's on your jacket he said, not many folks around here have a Tulita VFD jacket. “We both laughed. He stopped to pick up a couple more passengers and we headed back to Larga House. It was bigger than I thought with a nice cafeteria that offered wild meats on the menu most meals. The artwork and decor was northern, I felt a little closer to home.
Across the street was a mall. I checked in and walked slowly over to it. I still didn't have much energy. I wanted to get a haircut and some new clothes. I don't know why but the first time I saw Lina I wanted her to see me well. Not the pathetic dying man she had left at the nursing station. I got a haircut, bought a sport coat and pair khakis. I bought a new dress shirt and new socks and shorts as I was out of clean ones anyways. Then I headed for the Florists, I bought a big bunch of yellow roses, Lina's favorites. Passing jewelers I asked the clerk if they had any pearls. She showed me some single strands. Lina had once told me she wanted a pearl choker. I visited every shop in the mall and was about to give up when the clerk said "I do have one three strand set that was a special order. It never got picked up. As soon as I saw it I wanted it for her. "It's gorgeous!" I said. She returned it to the beautiful wooden case and I left the store beaming. As I strode down the mall two women approached. They looked at the flowers and the bag from the jewelry store. "You must have done something terrible!" they chided as we approached. I fought back a tear as I replied "I did. Monday I had a heart attack! I scared the hell out of the woman I love. Sometimes it takes a thing like that to show you what is really important!" They looked at each other, looked at the expression on my face and touched me gently on the arm as they passed. There was a lot said, in that moment of compassionate silence.
I went back to the hostel and ate moose meat for dinner, it was delicious. I saw a few friends I hadn't seen in years. We caught up on old times and I called my whole family from the lobby payphone. I called work and they told me where Lina was staying. I called our cell phone and she answered. She would meet me at the airport the next morning. I barely slept again, this time only from being nervous that I would oversleep as I had to be downstairs at 05:30.I was twenty minutes early. The van was full going to the airport. We drove through the nearly empty streets and I dozed in the van.
I had only one bag so it took no time at all to clear security. I went to gate 49 where most flights to Yellowknife board. The flight took about as long as the med-evac had taken it just seemed longer. Yellowknife’s barren rocky expanse with its' scrubby trees never looked so good. When I came through the arrivals door both Lina and my boss Scott were waiting for me. I hugged Lina lifting her off the floor and squeezing her like I was trying to make us one. She protested saying I should take it easy. I hugged Scott too. It was great to see him again. I had felt so alone going through this it felt great to be in from the cold. Scott dropped us at the hotel. Lina and I went out to lunch. We sat and talked it was so nice to be with her and to talk without having to get back to work or have a nurse hovering over you. I could see the fatigue in her face as I had heard it in her voice. In spite of this her eyes had their usual sparkle that endears her to everyone who meets her. We went back to the hotel and I slept a bit. We got up and had supper then we returned to the hotel where I slept for almost 12 hours. I never sleep well when I am apart from Lina. Laying there beside her, my whole world is complete. I can relax in a way I can never do without her. I thought of the evenings at home, I lived alone for most of my adult life; I was nearly forty when we married. When we are enjoying an evening together, especially those cold winter evenings, when nothing special is happening, the wind is howling, the snow drumming the windows. I like to relax and think how lucky I am to be safe and warm with my wife and my dog Buttons all snug under our roof, wherever it is, Ft resolution, Old Crow, here in Tulita wherever, it is home. Home! With all the comfort and peace that is entailed in that simple word. I only need this to be happy. A warmth envelopes me, a peace I have never known. I had always wondered what it meant to have someone love you unconditionally, it is heaven.
Tom Cochrane said in his song that "Life is a highway" sorry Tom, but I beg to disagree, a highway has no beginning, no end, it just runs on forever. For me life is a runway. It has a very definite beginning and also, as I now know; a very definite end. On a second level perhaps too a runway is life, as I owed my life to a runway and a med -evac team. So take a lesson from me and don't take life for granted, don't be depressed by the fact that life is a runway not a highway, just relax and enjoy the flight!

Never in the history of human consumption has so much been owed by so many to tofu...

All right, I get it. Some folks don't want to eat meat, you know, flesh. I can understand that. I can't imagine doing it., but I can understand it. I mean veggies are no doubt better for you. Broccoli, Cauliflower, lettuce, squash, cucumbers and tomatoes, yummy. No problem, I can understand the attraction of vegetables. I love them. Give me a nice side salad any day. Notice I said side salad. Slide that bowl of crisp romaine dripping with yummy Caesar dressing crunchy croutons, salty and zippy Parmesan (especially fresh grated), slide it right in beside a nice lean sirloin, fresh from the brazier with those beautiful char marks, heaven!



So I can understand the attraction of vegetables because I share it. As a friend of mine is fond of saying, "You are preaching to the choir." I am already a convert In fact I don't even have a problem with someone not wanting to eat meat. I understand that there are legitimate health reasons for not eating meat. Especially commercially produced meat from modern factory farms. High fat content, possible contamination with e.coli or salmonella, steroid used to increase profits, use of antibiotics in feed, mad cow disease, there are a lot of reasons not to eat meat. Still... crispy bacon, a juicy burger, golden roast turkey, ummmmmmm! Yes I can understand why someone might not want to eat meat.


What I have never figured out is why someone who has forsaken meat would want to eat a veggie burger or a veggie dog? Have you tried them? They are typically appalling. A true debacle of culinary proportions. I mean, if you are a vegetarian, or better yet, a vegan, why on earth would you want to eat pseudo flesh? If you have made the decision to forsake the eating of your fellow animals why make a fake animal patty and then consume it? Why not have a nice veggie stir fry? Perhaps a piping hot serving of broccoli? Some carrot sticks? What is the fascination of mimicking the thing that you have forsaken? Why consume some dry, tasteless mass that only loosely resembles a beef patty in the first place? I remember one comedian who joked "Should Lesbians be allowed to use dildos, I mean they made their choice!" Haven't vegetarians made their choice?
I walked into a fast food restaurant the other day which shall remain Harvey's )I mean nameless). I had placed my order and was waiting for it to arrive. A guy came up behind me and inquired about the Veggie Burger, "Do they cook them on the same grill as the beef burgers?" "NO." replied the cashier, "They are cooked separately." "Fine" he replied "I'll take one." "Would you like bacon on that?" came the reply.

Life is all about choices!

Why I Write

I love this Blog. Even if no one reads it, or perhaps because no one reads it. I write to get things out of my head and I write to remind myself of things so I can get them into my head. It is entirely therapeutic. It is similar to those aggression therapies where you shout out the things that frustrate you so you can get them out and deal with them. It is also a way that I can look at my thoughts as if I took my brain in my hands and moved things around a but like files on a laptop or Blackberry.
I had an English teacher tell me once that a book or story is like a room that you can close the door and no one will touch it. No one will move the furniture around. There is a good deal of truth in that. I suppose because we all use so much of our imagination in creating the world described in the writings. The detail cannot be so precise without boring us to tears so we fill in the blanks from our own experience. That is probably why when you see the movie of some novel you have read it is never the same as you imagined it. It is someone Else's interpretation of the blanks.
But the written word stays the same. It does not yellow and get dated and scratchy like film. It is not superseded by some new technological development in the media, it is virtually timeless.
And So I write. I write to get things off my chest and I write to firm things up in my memory, so that I will remember each beloved detail of some person or time that I loved and so I can remember each detail each smell, each color, each sensation, filtered and slanted by my own prejudice and past. As will the reader, if any, will filter it through their own rose colored glasses.
For sometimes I like to return to those rooms, so long gone on the physical sense. The furniture long since sold off or sent to the dump. Gone are the actors who strutted my life`s stage. No amount of my applause will bring them back for a curtain call, though I would so love it. Yet I can write them back to life, and in so doing I can distill what it was about then that made them so special to me. There is a sense that every time of my life, with a few notable exceptions is the best moment of my life. I do not necessarily want to live in the past. I love the present, I just want what none of us can have in any real sense, I want it all! I want the life I have now, with my wonderful Wife and my dog. I also want the others that I have lost, before I even met my Wife. I want my Grandfather`s smile. My Father`s laugh. Clarence and Gertrude`s love. My Aunt Violet`s warm kitchen. I want to have at least part of all of it. So I write...
I write to create a room, that does not exist without the writing. Longfellow or Shakespeare is not going to do it for me, they may have better skill with words, but they would lack the bigger picture, the fodder for the writing, only I with my poor skills of communication can write these things. The white page or the blank computer screen are my empty canvas, my `snowy linen land`yo quote Don Maclean. I must use my meager skills my wordy brushstrokes to paint the canvas and capture a moment in time. But writing is more than a paining, is it not More like a video than a still photo. Better yet because the photo or video is undeveloped, it is up ti the reader to develop it in the darkroom of his own imagination. What a place is the imagination! Perhaps the greatest nation of all, we should all have dual citizenship, in our own nation and in the imagination. I think we should all write, all keep rooms of what was best in our lives, that we can visit any time we want, where old Friends and loved ones never age, never fall sick, never die. We also need rooms that we can fill with the unwanted things in life, ill deeds, ill thoughts, the ill deeds of others, perpetrated upon us. These rooms, filled with the ugly furniture of life we mat lock, we may sweep thereto the dust of our existence before the company comes. These less attractive rooms have there place too. Perhaps in a diary that no one else needs see. For we are not the worst things that we have done, nor are we doomed to be forged in the fire of the worst things others have done to us. But to avoid being warped by these things we must look at them and where they lie in the house that is our lives. What goes in the basement and what goes in the attic
For a writer to let others read his writing is like taking his heart in his hands and saying here have a look. For any flaw in the telling, real or perceived will make the writer vulnerable. Like a heart without its ribcage. So when you read these things that I have written, remember that they are the writings of one such as you, a mere mortal, without the gifts of a Shakespeare or a Longfellow. Just a man with heart in hand, who wants it all, no matter how fleeting, who wants to ramble these old halls and occasionally open one of those old doors...

A Cup Of Joe

I am thoroughly convinced that there are principally two different kinds of Canadians, those who drink Tim Hortons and those who drink Starbucks. All right, before you get too excited, there are those weirdos in that third category, the teetotallers, tree huggers and hippies who are too sensitive to drink coffee. But for those real Canadians, real people, with real lives. We drink coffee, hot black, steaming nasty, smells good tastes horrible, coffee! Fix it how you will. Black, white, sugar, no sugar. Double double Double triple. Latte, Mocha chino whatever! COFFEE! We don't drink it because we want to we drink it because we have to. You know the first of the twelve steps is admitting we have a problem. My name is Greg T. and I am a Coffaholic! You really think you aren't hooked, especially to one or the other of the big chains? Try this spend some time in a foreign country.


I just got back from three weeks in the British Isles (I include Ireland in this so my sincerest apologies to the Irish as they are definitely not British). The first thing I noticed was the nasty black liquid that greeted me when the waitress finally arrived with two stainless steel decanters. I am sure she asked me if I wanted coffee. What was in my cup when she was finished pouring was a complete surprise to me. I picked up a small pitcher that contained a white fluid. I always pour a little cream into my coffee then wait. The dream slides down the side of my cup then swirls upwards magically turning the dark brown liquid a wonderful golden color. It changes the smell too, I think. It seems to soften to fill the nostrils with that cafe au lait smell that I love so much. However when the white liquid hit this stuff it was as if it had vanished. The volume in my cup increased but the color and odor did not change one iota. Milk, I reasoned. Then a second realisation hit me, Man this must be strong coffee the color is the same. I added more milk with no effect. I poured until my cup brimmed and I dared not stir as it would have sloshed. I ended up with a liquid the color of a Panther tank model I once painted. Flat battle grey I think the label on the paint bottle had read. As I was horribly jet-lagged and sleep deprived I raised the cup to my lips and took a strong pull at the now lukewarm mess. It was appalling. I have drunk some bad cups of coffee in my time, in college dorm rooms, cooked over an open fire, reheated day old Joe in a microwave at three in the morning, but this one beat all.

A couple at the next table to us were also on the same tour. He raised his mug in a morning salute and said cheerily, "Good stuff, just like Starbucks, eh?" He emphasized the "eh" as a reference to the fact that we were Canadian, they were from Oklahoma. I suppressed a grimace and waved, too appalled to speak. I am a Double Double man myself. A medium double double to be exact. You cannot be human nowadays without having a coffee Identity. I suppose to be honest I am now a double double sweetener as a concession to my diabetes. In actual fact, (no body's listening right? I mean, you can keep a secret?) I don't really like coffee. I drink a cup or so a day, more as required, but mostly for medicinal purposes. In other words I drink it to get awake or to stay awake. I add milk and sweetener so I can get the stuff down. To me it is the Buckley's Cough Syrup of the beverage world, It tastes awful but it works. That's why I like Tim Horton's, you can doctor it up and make it passable with caution. I believe that most Canadians, if the truth were told, love the smell of coffee but the taste is somewhat less appealing. Starbucks people are different. They love the taste so much they want you to slap them with it. No, harder, like you mean it! They are masochistic sorts. Tim's people like to be awoken with a gentle word or a nudge in a mug. Starbucks people want to be grabbed by the ankles and inverted, and shaken awake by a seven foot drill instructor of a coffee. No subtle nuances here, just pure, raw savage power. Well folks if this is you, you'll love England, Strong coffee without a trace of cream. No wonder the English drink so much tea. They do Tea very well, hot fresh and sweet. Sublime. By the end of our tour, when the waitress arrived with the two gleaming carafes, I said, "Tea, Please!" When in Rome... Hey, did you see that tree, let's see if I can get my arms around it...

That's Not The Way It Feels

This September 20th will mark the thirty fifth year since Pop Singer/Songwriter Jim Croce was killed in a plane crash. In the summer of 1973 I was fourteen years old and had just bought my first record album, ever. "Life and Times" By you guessed it Jim Croce. I sat in my old room in the second story of my parents house in Dartmouth, Nova Scotia and played that album until I wore it out (It wouldn't be my last copy, I have owned it in Vinyl, 8 Track, Cassette CD and MP3). Little did I know as I listened and sang along that his life would be brought to such a sudden and tragic end just a few months later.

Croce was born in the south side of Philadelphia, in a rough part of town. His love of music started early and he joined numerous musical groups. He attended Villanova University where he met his wife Ingrid at a Hootenanny. He was a member of the Villanova singers and formed a number of bands. Jim played in coffee houses and at neighboring Universities. After graduating in 1965 he and his wife toured and performed mostly folk music doing covers of Ian & Sylvia Tyson tunes, he also emulated Gordon Lightfoot and Woody Guthry. He would continue to do thoughtful covers and interpretations of the works of other artists such as Sam Cook when he made it big. It wasn't an easy life and after having moved to New York, and lost everything he owned except one guitar he left the business and went to work driving truck. He would later chalk this up to "Character Development" but it must have hurt, a lot. But like most things that do not kill us, it made him stronger.

While they were struggling he and Ingrid wrote many fine tunes, such as "Spin, Spin, Spin" and "Age". These folksy tunes stand up well and are worth a listen. While playing some very tough bars Jim developed a style of talking between songs that endeared him to his audience and doubtless saved him from a lot of abuse and perhaps a few stitches from flying beer bottles. His style was funny, if a bit bawdy, pithy and studded with the experiences of someone who had worked for a living,The kind of humor that he used so well in his "Character Songs" about people like Leroy Brown and a roller derby queen who "Was built like a fridgerator, with a head.".

Life is often a series of fortunate accidents and in 1970 Jim met Maury Muehleisen through a mutual friend. Maury was a classically trained guitarist and initially it was Jim who backed up Maury. It was a match made in heaven, they complimented each other beautifully. Eventually Jim would take the lead but always, Maury was there with his crystal clear tones and haunting chord structures. Jim's diamond would not have shone so bright, nor had so many facets without Maury, his brilliance and Jim's were symbiotic.

When fame came it was meteoric. Croce was your typical overnight success that was ten years in the making. In 1972 he released "You Don't Mess Around With Jim" and "Life & Times". "Bad, Bad Leroy Brown" went to #1 on the Charts in the summer of 1973. Jim was at the very zenith of his career. He was having success with "Operator that's not The way it Feels" and only one day before the release of his third album under the ABC label "I Got A Name"it literally all came crashing down, when the small plane he was riding crashed on takeoff, killing all aboard. Jim was just 30 years old. Like so many music stars he had been taken In the prime of life in a plane crash, the bitter news was heightened by the death of Maury Muelheisen who was only 24. In that summer of hope in 1973 when I was so young and the world seemed so endless and vast, I learned something of what it was to feel loss and sorrow. Jim will be forever young as he joins those whom time has frozen, like fruit picked at the peak of the harvest. To paraphrase what I once heard about Stan Rogers, what Jim did with the first thirty years of his life leaves you to wonder what he would have done with another thirty years.

I recently downloaded a video of Jim singing "Operator" with, of course, Maury at his side, not in the back but sitting side by side, playing so beautifully. The video was sublime. It also opened an old wound that I did not think would be so close to the surface some 35 years later. Jim has been gone longer than he was on this earth. His music holds up so well, though. Especially for me anyways, his ballads and love songs. Give them a listen and I know you will agree. After his death I was left with only his older music, and some very bad recordings of his coffee house and barroom days. The talent was still there, a diamond in the rough. As I listened to Operator" it occurred to me how appropriate were his own words to the reaction of his millions of fans on the September morn....

I've overcome the blow-
I've learned to take it well-
I only wish my words could just convince myself-
That it just wasn't real.... But that's not the way it feels...


No,NO,No,NO.... That's not the way it feels...

The Turnbulls in the British Isles

Day one; Lina and I worked up until time to go. I was greatly relieved that the weather held and we were able to board the single engine Caravan for the 18 minute flight to Norman Wells. We flew over the murky MacKenzie its waters the color of coffee whitened with skim milk, a sort of grey brown compared to the green blue waters of the Bear river as the two merge at the base of Bear Rock.
In Norman Wells we were met at the airport By Dee Opperman, Store Manager . She took us on a tour of The area around D.O.T.(Department of Transportation) lake where the float planes that take hunters into the wilderness fly from. We then had lunch at the hotel and killed a few rainy hours by visiting the staff of the Northern Store. We got on the much larger Canadian North jet and flew to Yellowknife. YK was not as rainy and within the hour we were enjoying the hospitality of the flight staff and enjoyed a hot meal, a rarity on a plane in Canada in 2008. Soon the fields of Northern Alberta stretched out below us as we approached Edmonton International. The patchwork fields were a quilt of yellow, greenand brown. The plane hit the ground hard and soon we were waiting for luggage and boarding the shuttle for the 45 minute drive to our hotel at the West Edmonton Mall. The room is huge and I marvel at the endless blanket of lights that stretch to the vast horizon. There are more people within

a few blocks of here than are in the NWT the Yukon and Nunavut, combined! We are exhausted after a long day and soon we will sleep. Tomorrow we have errands to do, so goodnight all...