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Monday, December 15, 2008

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.

Saturday, December 13, 2008

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.

Sunday, December 7, 2008

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..."