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Tuesday, December 1, 2009

Someday we’ll look back on this and laugh

The wind swept in off Great Slave Lake. It came up the beach across the open space between my house and the lake, including the parking lot of the store. The store I run. It whipped snow against the sun porch windows in a hissing sort of sound. Still it was a sort of pleasant sound. When you have no place to go, no place else to be, the sound of inclement weather can have a soothing effect. Soothing is what I needed. It had been a long haul. A long six week build up to this. Christmas eve. I stood in the sun porch looking at the waves of white snow, slashing at the front of the house. Lina came and stood beside me. She was puzzled; I suspect at what I was looking at. It was not actually snowing. It snows a lot in November in Fort Resolution, lake effect snow they call it, people in Ontario would know what I mean. The snow that was blowing around now was the loose layer of snow that skirls constantly in winter in the subarctic. It is hard and granular like cornmeal. It circulates like water, flowing with the wind like some restless river of white. When you are walking into the wind it lashes your face and bows your head. Sometimes it is easier to walk backwards. But tonight, this blessed night. I had nowhere to go and nowhere else to be. I looked down into my beloved Lina’s eyes. The lights on the tree made her eyes sparkle even more than usual.
“A penny for your thoughts?” She said breaking the soothing sound of Mother Nature. “I am the happiest man on earth!” I said putting my arm around her. “Listen to that out there. There is no place I would rather be in all the world this night than here with you.” I said, and I meant it. She smiled. I looked around the room. It was full of Christmas, strings hung in the doorways with Christmas cards draped over them. A beautiful real tree stood fragrantly in the corner, festooned with lights and all the meager ornaments that I owned. There was a bowl of mandarin oranges on the coffee table and a plate of chocolates too, in case company came by. My house had never looked so good at Christmas. This was our first Christmas together. I had never made a big fuss over the holidays before. After all I was single. I usually got invited out for dinner. A year earlier my friends Andrew and Dixie had driven three hours out of there way to pick we up and take me to spend the holiday with them in Hay River. With home cooking and a glass of homemade wine and a wood fire it was swell. People always take care of single men on Christmas. They know there is nothing mote helpless than a single man. For without them my yuletide feast would have been a turkey TV dinner. The single man’s Christmas in a box.
This year would be different, yet not dissimilar from earlier ones as Lina and I were invited out for the holiday feast. “How perfect!” I said when Lina told me of the invitation.” No big meal to prepare. We just show up, eat, and leave.” I was beaming. Lina seemed less smug. “I doubt it will be that easy, everyone wants us to be there it will be difficult too get away.” I was unconvinced. I had visions of an early evening a comfy sofa, a holiday movie on the TV a glass of eggnog and my beautiful companion. How perfect could you get?
In the meantime there was midnight mass. We bundled up and headed out into the night. Lina was in her handmade pink parka with her white “bug” mitts. I call Lina Ladybug. She had a pair of white puffy mitts that made her hands look cartoon-like. Like the paws of some cartoon bug. I called them her bug mitts. She wore her mukluks and with her long hair flowing over the pink parka she looked angelic. I wore my muskrat hat and an old army surplus parka that Lina hated. We walked the short distance to the wonderful old Church. As we stepped outside the bell began to ring, the sound bright and crisp in the frosty air. We could see the front door of the church opening and closing as the crowd filed in. The place would be packed. The windows spilled light out onto the snow the stained glass making beautiful patterns. The smell of wood smoke hung in the air; it was one of those northern nights where the smoke only goes up so far then hangs like a shroud over the town. The power lines were cloaked in frost, looking like white ribbons strung gaily between the poles. The parking lot of the church was full of trucks and snowmobiles. Friends and neighbors were crowded on the steps waiting for the rest of their party to arrive. Everyone was ebullient and handshakes were the order of the day. We found a pew in the back and took off our Jackets. A stiff draft went right up our back every time the door opened and that was often. The service was wonderful, partly in Chipeweyan, partly in English. We sang many of the old carols. Of course at midnight we all exchanged handshakes, hugs and kisses. Then we all filed out into the black arctic night.
We were frozen when we got home. The wind was in our faces and the thin Sunday clothes we had on under our parkas weren’t up to the job. We were soon in our “comfies” as we call them T-shirts and pajamas bottoms. We still has some wrapping to do so we turned the TV to the seasonal music channel and wrapped gifts. We finished about three a.m. and headed to bed, beat, tired like we had never been, yet very happy that tomorrow meant no work, no ringing phones or trucks to unload. I was delighted too that there would be no dinner to prepare. We slept like logs. In the morning Lina woke me when she stirred. She is a tiny little thing and I am a big man she only woke me when she wanted me to wake. . We prepared a special brunch of eggs, hash browns bacon and toast. Then we opened our gifts. We made phone calls after the gifts were opened to wish distant family a Merry Christmas and to thank people for the gifts. My Mom had sent Lina a stocking full of gifts just as she had always done for me. It was Mom’s way of saying “Welcome to the family.” This touched us both very much. Soon, of course we would be getting each other stockings. This would be my Mom’s last hurrah. She was good at it. Always picking such an eclectic mix of the functional and mundane, and the impractical and luxurious. There might be a toothbrush and a deck of cards. A miniature box of fine chocolates. Always there was a toy, a car or a top, or a kaleidoscope. These last items would bring a smile and would often be the thing that brought the most joy on Christmas morning. It was Mom hanging onto a bygone time and for us it was pure nostalgia and joy. For a brief moment I was back in my parent’s living room opening my stocking while waiting for my Dad to wake up and shave.
After we had finished our phone calls we sat on the couch and had coffee. It was mid afternoon and we awaited the phone call that had been promised for the signal of when to go for dinner. Lina laid beside me her head on my shoulder her hair smelling wonderful. “I could lay here forever.” I thought to myself I almost wished the phone would never ring. And it never did. We drowsed and napped. Time went by. The short arctic day had long since passed. Lina got up and stretched. She glanced at the clock on the wall as she turned on the lamp. “They should have called by now. I wonder if something is wrong.” She took the phone and dialed the number. “No answer.” She said with a puzzled tone. “I’ll call next door.” She dialed that number too and a brief conversation ensued. Lina looked at me her face looked pained. “What’s wrong?” I asked standing. “Well nothing serious, but dinner is off, what will we do?” She looked so scared and so sad. She looked as though Christmas had just slipped away. I on the other hand was in a space of such great joy that only a natural disaster would shift me out of it.” I wanted our first Christmas to be perfect.” I put a finger to her lips to quiet her. “I will be right back.” I said and I put on my coat and went to the store, sometimes it is nice to be the Manager. I returned in a moment with my purchase. Lina met me in the kitchen. With a flourish I withdrew two long flat boxes and fanned them like a hand of playing cards. “Christmas in a box!” I said waving two turkey TV dinners in the air. “You learn a few tricks as a bachelor.” I said smugly. “But I wanted our first Christmas dinner together to be special.” Lina said still sounding a little down. “Someday we will look back on this and laugh.” I said taking her in my arms and rocking her back and forth. And so we sat in our beautiful living room, had a glass of wine and enjoyed a dinner of turkey, gravy with mashed potatoes, stuffing and cranberry sauce. I looked at Lina with a funny look on my face. She smiled and we both laughed. In the decade that has passed since we have had some wonderful Christmas dinners. But Lina got her wish and my prediction has come true, it was a special dinner. If we had gone out to dinner it would have been great but I would not remember what we ate. I will never forget that TV dinner. My prediction that we would look back on it and laugh has come true with every passing season, at some point when we are alone, particularly if the snow is lashing the windows the subject of that dinner will come up and inevitably we will both end up laughing just as we did that blessed, memorable, holy night.

Life's little rewards

Andy was standing at the store bulletin board. He was flattening a bulletin against the cork board, as I had breezed through the door the icy wind that followed me had lifted the bottom edge of the piece of paper Andy had been tacking up. “Bit cold for a yard sale!” I said sorting through the mail I just picked up at the post office. Now Andy is a teacher at the school. Andy is a first year teacher at the school. They are a breed apart, these new teachers. They come to tiny northern towns like ours from universities across this great land with new sheepskin diplomas and shiny faces with ruddy cheeks. They show up every fall, full of enthusiasm and brimming with idealism. They are set to change the world. They can’t wait until the first day of school. They are young and hip and expect that the kids have just been waiting for someone like them. Someone who listened to their music who understood the way they spoke. Someone cool. They were full of the brave foolishness of the young. They are bullet proof.
I admire them, I do. I admire their enthusiasm, their bravado. I admire them and I pity them. I have seen them come, a week earlier than the older teachers. So keen and so full of energy. And I have seen them on the last day of school, standing on the apron of the runway, less than five minutes after their last class. The school door still swinging behind them. They had been packed for a week as they stood there waiting, straining to hear the sound of the single engine charter that was supposed to be waiting for them. Oddly enough a few come back. Most don’t.
Andy turned and looked at me forlornly. “I am trying to find Hagar.” His voice was reedy and tired. Now Hagar is a dog. Well sort of. Hagar is a stray that wandered into the school one afternoon. Andy took pity on this odd creature. Hagar was a dog of indeterminate breed. Usually people will pin it down to two breeds, you know like, it’s a shepherd, husky cross. Or maybe a terrier, spaniel mix. Hagar could never be summed up in two breeds. He had the head of a St Bernard, the body of a sheltie. He had a tail like a Golden Retriever but short legs like a Dachshund. He had a coat of many colors to match. I gave up trying to categorize him. If I had to choose two words I would call him an ugly, mutant cross. Not that I am a snob. Most of my dogs have been mixed breed and none the worse for that. But poor Hagar was another kettle of fish altogether. Andy was an English teacher. A literature major who had named the dog after Hagar Shipley from Margaret Lawrence’s A Stone Angel. The kids thought it was named after the Viking character from the cartoon of that name. So Hagar was missing.
I was a bit surprised that the dog was missing, it followed Andy everywhere. I liked Hagar. As ugly as he was he had a way about him. His body moved in a queer corkscrew motion, his tail was outsized for his tiny abdomen and it spun his body like some kind of gyroscope. Andy put in the last thumb tack and turned his face to me. His eyes were swollen and he had obviously been crying. I had been about to make a snide remark about Hagar seeing his own reflection and taking to the hills. Instead I put my arm over Andy’s shoulder. I glanced at the bulletin. It was a reward poster. It offered a $100 reward for the safe return of Hagar. There was a photocopied picture of the beast himself. The grainy black and white photocopy was no improvement on the original.
“Feel like having a coffee and telling me all about it?” I asked opening the inner doors to the store I manage. “Sure, I guess.” said Andy sullenly. He looked like he didn’t have a friend in the world. He was a quiet sort so it was almost a literal truth. The older teachers had been together for a while and the local guys his age were too busy to seek out the company of the young, bookish white guy. Andy would show up at my door on Saturday nights he would have the latest thing he had read under his arm and Hagar would be trailing behind. I would make a pot of coffee and we would discuss history or literature or politics or philosophy. I think he liked the fact that I had taken many of the same courses in college. When he left hours later Hagar would rise from my deck, shake off the snow or damp and follow behind him with that queer corkscrew gait.
“He was just gone when I got home last night!” Andy was practically wailing. “Gone?” I commiserated. “Was he chained up when you left?” I inquired. “Of course!” he said with disbelief. “You think I would let him ruin loose?” “I guess not. I am sure he will come back. I’ll help you look for him after work.” I said reassuringly. “I looked all night. He isn’t anywhere.” Well that explains the dark circles I thought to myself. I left Andy at the door after our coffee and went back to my work. We walked the streets for hours that night. There was no sign of Hagar. Andy was disconsolate. “Maybe he’ll be back in the morning.” I said as we said good night.
At lunch the next day Andy was back at the store. His eyes were clear; his cheeks were ruddy once more. He was bouncing as he walked. “I got Hagar back!” he shouted. He almost looked like Hagar; he seemed to be developing a corkscrew motion of his own. “Well I’m glad!” I said. “Did he show up at your door?” “NO!” Andy said pointing to a young man with an armload of junk food making his way to the checkout. “He found Hagar he just returned him.” The kid seemed to be as pleased as Andy he was struggling under the weight of pop and chips and gummy bears. He had a few chums tailing behind. I rubbed my chin and then shook my head. I was having suspicions. I thought it was my paranoia. I’ve been up north too long, I thought. I wanted to share Andy’s moment of joy. All was well for a week or so. Then in one of those déjà vu moments I came through the porch doors of the store to find Andy putting up another bulletin. I recognized the slope of his shoulders and the pallid cheeks and sunken eyes. He didn’t have to say a thing. “Hagar again?” I said. Andy nodded his downcast head. “Coffee’s on.” I said. “Tell me about it.” The story was the same. Andy had come home the night before to find Hagar’s chain outstretched the empty snap laying in the snow. He had once again spent the whole night walking. “Same reward?” I asked. Andy nodded again. “I have a feeling you will see him by lunch tomorrow.” I said my suspicion hackles standing on end. “You will help me look tonight?” I looked at Andy. They say that we start to look like our spouses after years together. Andy looked every bit as pathetic as his pooch. How could I say no?
That night was windy and cold. Snow lashed our faces as we walked every road and goat path in that tiny town, not twice, but three times. Nothing. I said goodnight and went home. Sure enough the next noon Andy was back in the store looking like He’d just had a baby. I congratulated him. A few minutes later a young guy came to the cash register with a pile of munchies. I took the till myself this time. I rang up the items and sure enough the young guy pulled out five crisp twenties when it came time to pay. It was a different boy, but the first lad was in line behind him, not buying anything, but they were definitely together. I stared hard at the youth and he began to shift his weight from foot to foot. “Let’s get outta here.” He said to his friend and they left post haste.
A routine developed. Every few weeks Andy would come home to an empty yard. A reward would be offered and the dog would magically appear. A boy would come into the store with five new twenties. Finally I had to do something. “Andy…” I said one Saturday as I poured coffee. “Do you trust me?” “Of course I do!” he replied emphatically. “Why?” “The next time Hagar disappears, and believe me there will be a next time, let me handle it.” Andy got pale. “How do you mean handle it?” he asked. “Just trust me I said. Andy got quiet for a second. He sipped his coffee before saying, hesitantly “O.K., I guess.” I nodded. “Good. The next time will be the last time.” He eyed me very strangely. He downed his coffee and took his coat. Hagar was already on his feet when Andy opened the door. He never even said good night. I watched the pair as they walked into the snowy blackness as they passed the last streetlight.
I didn’t have long to wait. Tuesday morning Andy dashed through the front door that familiar look on his features. “He’s gone!” he wailed. I sprang into action. I pulled a bulletin out from under my desk blotter. I had taken Andy’s last one and cut the bottom two inches off it. I photocopied it with my one and only change. Andy followed me to the bulletin board, perplexed. He stared at the poster. “You can’t be serious?!” he asked sounding a bit angry. “Oh yes, very serious.” I said turning on my heel and walking back into the store. Andy was hot on my heels. “You can’t do it!” He demanded. “You said you would trust me. So trust me.” I said firmly. Andy stopped, he looked at the ground. “At least help me look tonight.” He pleaded. “Uh-uh we have a deal. You are going to trust me and I am not going to waste another evening walking the streets.” I left him so suddenly he knew the conversation was over.
Andy didn’t come to the store the next day, so I went to his trailer that night. Hagar was on his chain in the yard. He jumped on me as I approached and I rubbed his big head. I slipped him a soup bone I had been saving for him. Andy met me at the door. “Well, how did it go?” I asked. “He was in the yard when I got home, on his chain no less.” He was a little down for a man who just got his best friend back. He had the look of a child chastised. “I think your problems are over now.” I said. I hadn’t taken off my boots or coat. It was obvious he didn’t want me to stay. I was turning my toque in my hand as I spoke. “I told you to trust me. I hate to say I told you so.” I said. “Well it sure doesn’t sound like you hate it. How did you know it would work?” he said tentatively. “Economics!” I said boldly. “Economics?” Andy snorted. “Yeah, economics. For a hundred bucks I’d kidnap your dog myself. For the ten bucks I offered no one in their right mind would kidnap that creature.” I let myself out. Hagar followed me the length of his chain. I stopped. He put his short legs on my tummy and I leaned forward so he could lick my face. I ruffled his fur. “Well boy, you may not be a purebred but you are the most expensive dog in town.” His tail was wagging a mile a minute as I walked under the streetlight and disappeared into the snowy dark.

Tuesday, November 10, 2009

Civil War to Civil Rights, nothing much civil about it.

I was juggling my coffee cup from hand to hand trying not to burn myself. The paper walls of the cup were too thin and the coffee was too hot. Still; as we were in the shade and it was just nine o’clock the warmth felt good as Lina and I walked across the parking lot of a Jonesboro Arkansas McDonald’s. The tour bus doors were still closed, meaning the driver hadn’t gotten there yet. It was still fifteen minutes before our morning coffee break was over anyways. A small knot of men, mostly retired prairie farmers stood in a semi circle around a white shield shaped plaque. It stood on a strip of grass that ran to a few trees under which were clustered three or four white tombstones. They were slightly tilted their inscriptions faded with age.
"Was that the Civil War?" asked one of the men. I glanced at the plaque. "Soldiers of the War for Southern Independence" it read. I stopped and glanced at the headstones again. I took a pull on the coffee cup. "Yep." I said putting on my historian hat. "But don’t use the C word too loudly." "Aw c’mon. They are still worried about that after all these years?" Said one of the men. "Then why is that grass cut and this plaque still has the look of fresh paint? Don’t look too forgotten to me." "I was hoping to see a Civil War battlefield." Said another guy. "Look around." I said taking yet another sip of coffee and making a sweeping motion with my arm. "Here? In a fast food parking lot?" "Yes, here in Jonesboro Arkansas. You think they carried those boys here to bury them?" I deliberately dragged the sound of the word bury out. Burry like the word hurry. Like they might say it here. "They may as well have forgotten them. They died for nothing." Said an older man on the edge of the group. He kicked at the leaves lying on the pavement as he said it. "They were fighting for slavery." I walked a ways closer to the graves. I studied the names on the stones. After a few seconds I turned and walked back toward the group. "I guarantee you one thing," I said breaking the silence. "None of those boys owned any slaves. They were privates 18 to 20 years old. I’d be very surprised if any of them ever got farther from home than the county seat, before the war anyways. I guess you could argue they died for nothing. But, I think what they fought for was to preserve what they knew. Isn’t that what most men fight for?" "You said this was a battlefield?" said the guy who’d brought the subject up earlier. "Uh huh, battle of Jonesboro. Late in the war I think. Around the time Sherman burned Atlanta. The date on the stone says August 31 1864, I guess that was it. I really don’t remember the exact date. I know the Union won." My four years of history in University and a lifelong fascination with the Civil War were paying off. Well sort of, no one was actually paying me. "Then they really died for nothing, the war was virtually over." It was the older guy again. He half turned towards me his hands in his pockets his jacket open. "Well I guess you could say that about everyone who died in the whole war. It has, after all been called The Lost Cause." My head swiveled as another voice asked "Why was it called that?" "I guess you have to consider the odds. When the war started the north had more than twenty million people, the confederacy less than 9 million and four million of those were slaves and there was no way Jeff Davis was going to arm them. As well the entire Confederacy produced only one quarter of the manufactured goods that was produced in New York State alone." "Whoa, then why do it? Why go to war." Said another guy. "Well these are proud people. Just look around you. You see nearly as many stars and bars as stars and stripes. Check out the flags of Tennessee and Arkansas. They look familiar. They look like the confederate flag. Before the war began a guy by the name of John Brown took over the town of Harper’s Ferry he was going to free the slaves and start a war to end slavery. It the end he wound up being hung for treason. He didn’t say a thing from the gallows but he left a note that said something like this (paraphrasing) The sins of this guilty nation will never be cleansed but with blood. I think he knew then that the only way to make so great a change was to inflict this big a defeat."
"You think the South still hasn’t forgiven the North for Sherman’s drive to the sea?" "Forgiven, yes. Forgotten no. On the fiftieth anniversary of the Battle of Gettysburg the survivors of both sides met on the battlefield. They camped there several days renewing old acquaintances and visiting fallen comrades. The veterans were old men. The fallen were forever frozen in time. The last day the veterans of both sides reenacted Pickett’s charge where thousands of young Confederates lost their lives. On that day fifty years earlier the Southern troops let out a moan as the Union boys opened up on them. A half century later the Union veterans let out a moan as their aging foes crested the hill. The Union men broke their line that day and rushed their one time enemies. When the two sides met it was not blood that flowed but tears as the two sides embraced. These men knew just what the other side had endured, the disease that killed more men than shot. The starvation and loneliness. The silent tombstones that had once been friends and brothers. They say there are no atheists in foxholes, I suspect there are damned few politicians too. I suspect that the survivors buried their ideology with their fallen comrades."
"What do you think these rebel boys would have thought of a Black President?" asked one of the farmers. Farmers are a philosophical bunch, I guess it comes from many long hours hunched over the wheel of a tractor with nothing to do but think. I like that about farmers I enjoy their company. "I suspect that the Union boys wouldn’t have differed much in that regard. An African American historian said once that the only thing the Slaves won was freedom. They had nothing and couldn’t even vote. They traded a Civil War for a much slower fight for Civil rights and there wasn’t much civility in either." "Huh." Said the older gentleman. "I guess we did see a battlefield. Do you think the war’s really over?" The driver had returned and opened the door of the bus we began to file aboard. I took another drink of coffee. As we passed the crooked fading stones I touched my hat brim. There really was a long ways left to go. "Only for them." I said softly. "Only for them."

Sunday, October 18, 2009

Graceland part 3




Day three and a chilly one in Winterpeg. We head south, to the U.S. border and to NASHVILLE! We headed south past many fields full of Canada geese doing the same thing. The sky was full of them in places. In other places the fields were covered in Geese like some living down comforter. Fields of corm were still standing tall, the stalks drying in the fall wind. The skies were a mackerel grey and the wind had the taste of winter to it. We didn’t seem to be getting any warmer as we traveled south. But my God, what beautiful country. Huge farms, the size of ten farms in my native Nova Scotia Stretched away in both directions from the highway. Some gad farm buildings in the distance, while others were so big I could see no buildings whatsoever. We passed distributors for farm equipment, with combines lined up in huge rows. Tractors, trailers and balers were also in profusion. As we approached the border at Emerson North Dakota the talk in the coach increased as people fretted over how tough the border crossing would be. People exchanged nervous jokes about secret terrors they have had about customs agents. Others told tales of difficult crossings. People joked about making ridiculous statements. The tour director made sure we all knew that border agents do not have a sense of humour. It is true even though the crossing was routine and even easy. The agents made no eye contact and would not return the driver’s cheery wave. But in a few minutes we were in the U.S.A. land of the free, home of economic collapse. The terrain again didn’t know there was a border for it didn’t change.
We didn’t stay in N.D. too long we slid across the top corner of it then headed into Minnesota. Again the farmland looked the same. Apparently Minnesota is a native word meaning “funny talking white people”. We stayed at Prior Lake at a casino so big that in order to reach the restaurant you need to pack a lunch. Every Casino wants you to get a Players Card. They always ask for photo ID apparently they are checking to see if you always looked this stupid. They still smoke in hotels and casinos down here which came as quite a shock especially to the people who were on fire. The portions are huge down here. I don’t know why all Americans don’t weigh four hundred pounds. I couldn’t finish any meal so that says something. We will see Chicago tomorrow I can’t wait. Well it’s another early start so TTFN.

Greg

Thursday, October 15, 2009

Going to Gracekand part 2




After spending the night in Swift Current we headed east to Manitoba. The prairies are in the grips of a fall freeze. The mercury was 14 degrees cooler than normal, which is a coincidence because so was the temperature. The fields were cloaked in a skiff of snow. Bales of hay lay in the fields covered in snow like giant Frosted Mini Wheats. We crossed the border into Manitoba. The landscape doesn’t know that there is a border so, not surprisingly it changed little. I think that the thing that grabs me most about the prairies, even after all these years, are the skies. Big sky country they call it, with good reason. The skies are enormous. Fluffy cotton ball clouds hang over the stubbled fields. Trucks pass us on the highways taking the crops to market. Trucks line up at local grain elevators waiting to be weighed and drop their cargos. Farmers are waiting to get paid. At a sugar plant huge piles of sugar beets lay on the ground in huge heaps. Trucks with trailers behind pulling literally tons of softball to football size sugar beets pass us. Full ones going our way empty ones coming towards us. It is thanksgiving and it seems there is a lot to be thankful for.
Being on a tour bus with a dozen farmers you can just sit back and listen to the running commentary. “Boy those fields are sure dry, just look at the dust that combine is kicking up.” “Boy the sure seed every acre with corn around here.” “That must be fodder corm; it sure is late to be harvesting corn” “That sure is a nice crop of flax!” I have a special affection for farmers, having worked on a farm as a boy. They have certain honesty and a philosophical bent that comes from spending a lot of time hunched over a tractor wheel. We pass through Brandon on the way to Winnipeg. I wish I had been here years ago; I had an Uncle here once. As we get closer to Winnipeg the scenery starts to get familiar. I have been to Winnipeg many times as our company has its’ headquarters here in fact I have stayed at this hotel before when it was the International Hotel. Oh well, it is an early start tomorrow. So I must get to bed. Tomorrow the U.S.A.!

Greg

Tuesday, October 13, 2009

Going to Graceland part 1







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Lina and I are embarked on a 16 day pilgrimage to the holy land. The holy land of music, anyways. We both love country music and rock n roll has some of it’s’ roots are in Memphis. We are looking forward to seeing the Grand ‘Ol Opry (the old and the new) and Graceland too. Branson Missouri is home to a lot of hot acts and we are looking forward to seeing some great shows.
Day one takes us from Edmonton Ab. To Swift Current Sk. Bright and early this morning, 5 am, that is, we crawled out of bed. Now I usually only see one 5 o’clock a day and that aint it. In the freezing cold (it was minus 6 and snowing) we made our way south (thank God). To Red Deer and Calgary, picking up more tour members as we went. We are the only people from the Nt on the tour. I love driving through Alberta. Especially southern Alberta, it is the first time I have been there in over twenty years. I have never been to Lethbridge or Swift Current. Let me say this, Wow! Coulee country rocks! The foothills are awesome. The prairie landscape carved into rolling hills, the native grasses drifting with snow leaving lines like the brain is some gigantic sheet of wood. And what would the prairie landscape be without those icons of life in southern Alberta and Saskatchewan; the iron horse and the grain elevator? I love grain elevators especially the old wooden ones. The newer metal ones have no soul, but what is more iconic than those peeling, painted behemoths that dominated the landscape for a century and marked the presence of the next town. Oh, about those towns. I love them. You cruise the bald prairie passing individual farms, often miles apart. The buildings clustered together. Huddled like huskies sleeping in the snow, relying on each other for warmth in the constant winter wind. A row of trees usually marks the edges of the property, planted to shelter the constant shifting snow. In the predawn they sit, lights burning in the semi dark. A dairy farm appears out of the gray black dawn. The barns are already lit and a farmer ducks his head in the wind as he walks briskly from building to building, his hands dug deep into jacket pockets, the brim of his ball cap white with snow. The out of the undulating golden fields of chaff left by the combines a town appears. First a gas station, empty and silent at this hour. Then a few older homes empty and abandoned their paint peeling, the driveway empty. Then a cluster of newer homes. An old railway station, renovated now into some other use tells of the importance of the ribbon of steel that follows the highway. An old wooden grain elevator proudly marks that this is, or at least was, a place of importance, of commerce. A newer steel elevator rises alongside the tracks too. It has usurped the role of the old wooden structure but these new ones don’t cut it with me. I hope they keep the old ones standing. Main street features old brick stores, built in the thirties with the western style false fronts designed to make them more impressive and certainly creating a purely prairie ambiance.
A word about the prairies, many people describe the prairies as flat and boring. This does a great injustice to this area. There are many words to describe the prairies, an entire prairie vocabulary. Words like; level, smooth, plane, horizontal and even leap to mind. And boring? Come on! What about; unexciting, dull, monotonous, dreary and tedious. That’s better, give the prairies their due! Seriously though, you would have to see this splendour every day for years to find it dull. I am from the east coast so maybe it is all new to me but I love it! It makes me want to re-read “Who has seen the wind” W.O. Mitchell’s classic piece of prairie prose. So far the Canadian part of our trip has been fun. Tomorrow we hit Manitoba, we’ll see if my love affair with the prairies continues. TTFN

Greg

Saturday, October 10, 2009

I don't need your rocking chair, but I'll take the sofa and love seat

It was Christmas Eve and my Wife and I were entertaining the staff of the department store which we run. My wife Lina had just come back from seeing George Jones in concert in Yellowknife. While there a friend took a photo to George and had him autograph it to us. It sits proudly on our wall unit. It is signed on the back so it is not immediately obvious to someone who doesn’t know country music who he is. One of our younger staff and not a country music fan picked up the photo. “Is this your Dad?’ She asked innocently. Her boyfriend Nick, who knew who was in the photo snorted with laughter. I suppressed a smile and explained who George Jones was. I flipped the photo over and showed her the autograph. She had heard of Jones but did not know what he looked like. I let the matter rest but I have a strange sense of humour so no one is ever really safe. The next day, Christmas day the staff joined us again for dinner. Lina was busy in the kitchen. “Boy was my Dad mad at me.” I said to Anna as she entered the room with a cup of egg nog. “Really, on Christmas?” “Well that’s the whole thing. He hated the Christmas present I got him.” “You’re kidding!” She exploded “He got mad over a Christmas present?” “Yeah.” I replied “He said I don’t need your rocking chair!” signing. Nick spit his egg nog back into his glass he was laughing so hard. I was howling. Anna chided me saying “You’re terrible!” So after that I always referred to the photo as “Dad”.
Well I thought I would never get to see the man in person. He had said that the tour where he signed the photo would be his last. But this year he came back to Canada. Not back to Yellowknife but to Edmonton among other stops. Lina and I had three weeks of holidays coming so we booked tickets months ago. Even though we booked well ahead we didn’t get the best tickets in the house but we did get to see it all. Now some might say that “The Possum” is past his prime. You might say that his voice is cracked and he can’t keep up with the faster paced songs. Truth is George probably wouldn’t argue with you. He jokes about slowing the faster songs down into waltzes and he apologizes that his voice is hoarse. But he needn’t do either. The fans aren’t here to hear some pimple faced kid singing in perfect tones they are here to see the man, the legend. You see there are many people out there who have perfect voices and I wouldn’t walk across the street to hear them. There are others like George Jones or Neil Young or even Johnny Cash at the end of his career whose voices were not the best but who know how to sing. Knowing how to sing and having a great voice are two different things.
What George Jones has, in spades, is authenticity. George has lived the life that he sings about. His fans know that. That is what they come for. The jubilee was packed tonight with country music fans from all over Alberta. “You think we’ll see anybody we know?” My wife had asked on the way to the theatre. “Are you kidding? I bet we’ll see a dozen people we know. “ Northerners love George. They grew up on him. Every trappers cabin had a radio in the old days, it was the only thing they often had connecting them to the outside world. Country music was a natural fit and George sang songs about the types of lives that people lived. George lived that kind of life too. You could read it in the words of his songs and in the sound of his voice. That is what his fans relate to. They know George is the real deal. What you see and hear is what you get. George also never let fame go to his head. He remembers where he came from and knows what his audience wants. He doesn’t take a lot of time preaching, he gives them all the oldies, all the tear jerkers and honky tonk songs. That is what they came for.
There are signed CDs in the lobby and George laughingly points out “I don’t need the money. But my creditors doo!” the audience roars. During the concert someone throws a note on the stage. One of “The Jones Boys” reads it. “It says get out of town by noon!” he quips, then hands the note to George. What it really says is that it is the birthday of two ladies in the audience and George sings an a cappella version of Happy Birthday to You. That is the way he is. That is what country music is all about really, isn’t it? Singing about what everyday people are all about. Make fun of it all you want. Like the old joke about the country and western song played backwards where the guy gets back his girl his truck and his dog, Country songs are about life and George, for better or worse, has lived life. Lived it to the fullest, hard drinking, hard driving, hard living. He is a survivor and so are most of the people here. No Dad you don’t need my rocking chair. But feel free to come back anytime and pull up a piece of stage we’d love to spend another evening listening to you sing your life. alf the north will be there.´In a way I wish I could have seen George in Yellowknife like Lina did because I know the response, though smaller in number would be twice as boisterous and heartfelt. Not that the audience here was not appreciative. But there is a special bond in the north, where people grew up listening to George Jones. Even young people idolize him and it is hard to argue with them. I too grew up with country music. My Dad loved all the early country music. People like George, Hank Snow, Hank Williams, Ferlin Husky and so on. Sure there was a lot of grey hair at the co

Friday, October 9, 2009

Labor Day Pains

To me he is the king of the animal kingdom. Without equal or better, he reigns supreme. The most sought after of all game animals. More pursued than the overrated Lion or the vaunted Grizzly Bear. Who is he you ask? Where are my manners? Reader meet Salvelinus fontenalis, Salvelinus fontenalis meet the reader. Now old Sal here is a shifty sort. Well, perhaps I am being a bit uncharitable. Let’s call him elusive. Words can be so pejorative can’t they? He has a number of aliases. He is alternately known as; Old square tail, coaster, speckled trout, brook trout and eastern brook trout. Very slippery fellow this. In fact he is not a trout at all. He is actually a member of the Char family most closely related to the arctic char. Now were he easy to peg, easy to catch, slow of mind or slow of body he would not have a following. He would not have reached royal status. The grouse has his followers, those who crave his flesh enough to brave the bracing breezes of autumn to pursue him. But I don’t expect to see a lot of ink spilt about the pursuit of the “fool hen” as my father called the grouse. Even the much touted Salmo Salar or Atlantic salmon must be fished for only with flies, because he would be so easily taken on a metal lure that fishing him wouldn’t even be sporting. But the Brook trout, he is so elusive, so hard to fool you can fish for him with just about everything short of dynamite. But he is not just hard to get on the end of your line. He is hard to keep there. Once he has taken the lure, after no doubt hours of effort, he rails against it. He lunges obliquely, diving, thrashing, he rushes to create slack so he can spit the hook. He jumps thrashing the water with his square tail in a mad attempt to throw the hook. You know his bite it surges down the line like an electric shock. There was no mistaking it. There is nothing else like it in the sporting world. Ounce for ounce and pound for pound there is no creature like him. He is the King of freshwater sport fish.
The pursuit of the brook trout is not an activity for the timid. I emphasize the word pursuit. For there are no guarantees in the fishing world and we as do it are a superstitious sort prone to avoid tempting the fates. We would never be so presumptuous as to start a fishing trip by planning what to do with our catch. So valiant and noble is our opponent that we would never assume, never insult him by presuming that we would be successful. The pursuit is the thing. It is the chase that brings us. Us, the initiated. Us who have bonded, been united by tempting the fates by pursuing the Brook Trout. Like friendships forged in any great trial; war, fire fighting or some enormous physical effort, these make for the deepest ties. Friendships that have formed and thrived under these trials run the deepest. My Dad fished with the same guy for more than fifty years. They were so close they barely spoke. There existed between them a Zen like state which was wholly beyond such feeble things as words. I would watch them with awe. I knew they enjoyed each other but they usually fished in silence.
My greatest fishing friend is John. Fitting really, it was my Father’s name and his best friend’s too. John and I have fished together since we were in our teens. John is from Ontario, but his Father was born in Malta. He never really fished with his Dad. He and I started fishing together and I showed him some of the things my Dad showed me. We talk more than Dad and his friend John did. But we haven’t been fishing for fifty years, not yet. We have had many adventures, though. We have sweated and froze. We caught beauties and we have been skunked. We have, as Winnie the Pooh would say, “Done nothing together, for there is nothing better than doing nothing together.”
Now old Sal being a cousin of the Arctic Char is rather wont to take a hiatus in the summer. Like s snowbird in reverse he heads for deeper, colder climes when the dog days of summer are around. So too do his pursuers take a hiatus, from fishing brook trout anyways. We may pursue other species, like smallmouth bass or rainbow trout, which have no arctic blood in their veins. But old Sal is never far from our thoughts. Our fingers itch to play with a fly line. We false cast in our heads, picturing a swirling stretch of water on our favorite stream. Or we dream of the slurp of oars the rhythmic chunk of oars in locks. The lines trailing behind the boat as we rowed a favorite lake shrouded in mist with the promise of a sun written in a yellow spot in the haze. We dreamt of cooler days ahead.
“What about the labor day weekend?” I asked one evening in the staff room when John and I were working night shift. “Sure!” Said John, my boss. “It should be cooler by then. Where should we go?” There was no need to question what I meant. Fishing. Pure and simple. Fishing for brook trout. “Granite Lake. I’ll get permission to use the boat.” Dad and Johnny had a ten foot rowboat on a lake that was as close to heaven as there is on this earth. “Great, we’ll leave right after work Friday and spend the whole long weekend “Now next to fishing there is the planning of the trip. It is as good as or even better than the fishing itself. There would be a trip to the store for grub. A trip down the shore for bait. A trip to the NSLC (Nova Scotia Liquor Commission) for some beer. We packed our gear and put it in the car. We worked like dogs all day and changed into our bush clothes for the drive.
Unfortunately things were already not going as planned. “It’s a bit warm.” John said in an uncertain tone. “Warm? It’s hotter than the surface of the sun!” I said wiping my brow. “It’s over 100!” John said rolling down the window of my 1978 Honda civic, which had no air conditioning. He stuck his head out the window as I drove, like some sort of pathetic Airedale. Even in the approaching dusk it was sticky, sweaty, and hot. We reached Mount Uniacke and I went to Johnny’s house and he handed me the keys to the boat and camp. “It’s too hot boys.” He said as he passed me the key ring, “I know, but we’ve been planning for two months.” “Your Dad and I always went back on the long weekend, but it was never this hot.” I thanked Johnny and he wished us luck.
We drove to the spot on the highway where we would leave the car. We piled the gear on the side of the highway. “There sure is a lot of it.” John said morosely. “Yeah, a lot.” I echoed bleakly, wiping my brow. There was the tent, sleeping bags, pots and pans. Food, beer boots, and of course rods reels and tackle. We loaded up for the more than two mile hike to the lake and the boat. We struggled into our packs and handed one another the gear we were carrying in our hands. We started up the hill that leads to the cut line where the power grid ran. I had climbed his hill a hundred times but it had never noticed just how high and long it was. We were both bathed in sweat by the time we started down the other side. Now the break stops on this hike were well defined. Defined by Dad and Johnny and the literally thousands of trips back to the lake. I knew the rest break spot, with its cool shade and sweet, fresh spring water was still a half mile away and I groaned under my breath. I stumbled on, my feet barely coming unstuck from the ground, they seemed so heavy. Each lump of stone seemed like a stair on an endless staircase. Each step forward seemed like a step up. I knew too well that the trail was a connected series of hills of which this was only the first. I plodded on. Eventually we did reach the rest stop. Fully ten minutes later than normal. This could not be. This trail was like a tram line. Not only were the stops fixed, so was the length of time to reach them. You could set your watch by them. Man it was hot.
We flopped to the mossy ground. The shade was a blessed relief. Normally I don’t take my pack off. There was nothing normal about this trip. I slid the heavy pack from my back which was drenched. John had already done the same. Normally we stayed there only long enough for a quick drink of water and for my Dad to have a smoke. We slid to the ground and slurped heavily the cool clear water. Thank God for the water, it was as cold and clear as ever. Pure and perfect. I took off my bandana that I wore around my neck to keep the bugs off. I dunked it in the stream and tied it around my neck the cool thing was like a breath of fresh air. We donned the packs and started off again. There was only one more stopping pointy and it was a dry one. When we reached it we were nearly done. “The only good thing is that the rest of the trail is down hill.” I said sardonically. John already knew he had been here many times. He said nothing. He was fanning himself with his hat. The sun had nearly set.
We soldiered on. We reached the shore of the lake, I took the oars from there usual spot and headed for the huge maple tree where the boat was chained up. There was the tree alright, but where was the boat? I picked up the rusty old chain and stared at the broken lock. It was gone, stolen. “Great!” I said “Now what?” John said looking over my shoulder. I sat on a stump, too tired to take off my heavy pack. I looked John straight in the eyes. “Now we have to make a decision and make it quick. It’ll be pitch black in twenty minutes. We can leave now and be safely on the wide part of the trail or we can camp right here and spend the night.” “In a swamp?” John said incredulously. “I know, I know. But this lake is hell to fish from shore and we’ll never make dry ground by dark. “Well what else then?” John asked. “Well, we head back to Mount Uniacke and stay at my Aunts place and find another place to fish.” John stared at the broken lock. He felt the trip was slipping away. The beautiful trip we had waited for all summer. All through the long hot summer we had waited and dreamed, now, it seemed the dream was slipping away. He turned and started up the hill. I threw the lock as far as I could and put the oars back where I got them. It was well past dark when we reached the car.
I returned to Johnny’s place. He wasn’t surprised when I told him the bad news. It wasn’t the first time someone had stolen the boat. But it was the last. This time it never showed up. Whoever stole it probably sunk it. It wouldn’t have been worth dragging it out. Dad and Johnny had drug it back in the winter like a big toboggan. For them it was an ending of sorts. They had fished the lake for over forty years. In the old days it was a seven mile hike, involving two boats. They had built two cabins over the years but lately, since the new highway had gone through people had been coming back to the lake. Unsavory people, who stole boats, burnt the firewood and didn’t replace it from the piles outside. Eventually someone took the prop that held the roof up against the winter snow load. The cabin collapsed. Johnny and Dad only made day trips after that, they were too old to sleep in a tent. An era was gone.
“In the old days people had respect!” Dad said later when he heard of the theft. “I remember a time in the fifties when a rabbit hunter came across the camp when he was lost in a blizzard. He ate some food and used some fire wood. He left a twenty dollar billon the table under a rock.” I guess he was right. These were different times.
I headed to my Aunts house; she was delighted and surprised to see us. “Sure, come on in,” She said. “No, Aunt Violet, we’ll just camp out in the yard.” “You have to be kidding” she said. My Aunt Violet was as nice a human being as ever walked the earth. We insisted so she relented and told us to join her for breakfast. We spent a fitful night sleeping on the ground, in the heat. By morning we were sweaty, tired, unshaven and unkempt. We cleaned up before a delicious breakfast. Aunt Violets jam and a fresh cup of tea did wonders for our mood. The day had dawned bright and it was already getting hot. “Well,” said John after breakfast. “Where to?” “You’ve never been back to the mines right?” “Mines, what mines?” John said puzzled. “Gold mines!” I said. “They mined gold in Mt. Uniacke for nearly one hundred years. Just a couple of miles in that direction." I pointed. “Any fish?” he asked. “Well there are a couple small lakes. Must be fish.” I said ever the optimist.
“At least we can drive.” I said enthusiastically. It was already climbing to one hundred degrees. John was doing his impression of an Airedale again. The road to the mines was old and unmaintained. There was a ridge or crown to the center of the road. A crown of solid granite. I tried to straddle it as best as my little Honda could. We drove along then there was a crunch. “I didn’t like the sound of that.” John said. We slid under the car. The corner of my gas tank had a fresh scrape and a dent. A steady drip, drip, drip of gas was coming out. We exchanged glances. John was chewing gum. He took the wad from his mouth and stuffed it in the dent. He pressed it flat and the leak stopped. I looked at him and shrugged. We got back in the car. We made it to the first lake with no further problems. The patch was holding. I took the meat from the car and placed it in a cool stream. We pitched the tent in a small clearing at the lake shore. “This used to be a saloon right here in the old days. My Dad told me.” I said handing John a cool beer. “Cheers!” he said clinking my bottle. We sat down and cast our lines into the idyllic little lake. It was hot but we had no place to go right now so we had a good afternoon. No fish, not even a bight but a good afternoon. I told John some of the history of the mines. How there were two saloons, churches, a school and a telegraph office. Stages came in from the Mount twice a day, carrying passengers and mail.
Toward night fall we built a fire, not that we needed it for heat. We turned in early and spent a quiet if hot night. I awoke early and unzipped the tent. I stuck my head out the door and found myself staring directly into the eyes of what is possibly the biggest raccoon I have ever seen. He was twirling his whiskers in his hands, or paws. He cocked his head and looked at me like I was crazy. He ambled off and I stood up and took a step. “Whooooooooo!” I shouted as I slipped and fell and rolled down a small hill. John stepped out of the tent. “Crap!” I yelled. “You hurt?” he said hearing my cry. Then he too slid in exactly the same spot and fell and rolled down the hill. “No.” I replied. “I meant I stepped in crap! Raccoon pooh! Big bugger too!” “Well thanks for the warning!” John said standing up and hopping to the waters edge to join me washing the raccoon pooh from his foot. “Hey. I tried.” John was looking at me and laughing. It was contagious. IO started laughing too. The cool water felt good and I dried my feet and went to the stream to get our bacon for breakfast. “Crap!” I said when I saw the bacon. “What now?” John said. “You didn’t step in something else did you?” “No, but we aren’t having bacon for breakfast. I guess that raccoon beat us to it.” The bacon had been opened and what was left of it was writhing with leeches. “Yum!” said John as I held up the bacon. He started to laugh again and I did too. I sat down my side were still sore from the last laugh. We ended up slicing up wieners and frying them crisp and they weren’t half bad. The eggs were good and the toast made over an open fire was great especially with some of Aunt Violet’s jam.
After breakfast I turned to John. “Wanna explore?” I said. “Yeah, I think we fished this place out. I looked at the car and then at the road. “Maybe on foot, eh?” John laughed, “O.K., O.K.” he said as we started down the narrow road. Alders had filled in the edges of the clearings that once held houses and fields. Amid the alders and wild flowers Lilacs and Roses bloomed. Not wild roses but actual rose bushes. Apple trees were in fruit. Old basements and foundations showed where people had once lived, loved and toiled. Ghost town is a good name for them. It feels as if there are eyes following you everywhere. Grouse and deer graze among the apple trees, though there were none this day. “Kinda spooky.” John said, breaking the deafening silence. “Yeah. “ I said turning over a bit of broken porcelain with my foot. Across the road stood one of only a few houses still standing in the mines. Tattered white curtains fluttered in the broken window. There was a well in the front yard, a bucket still sitting beside it. “When did they quit mining here?” John asked. “In the early war years, but it took some time for the last families to leave. My Aunt Violet was among the last to leave. Her house once stood over there.” I pointed to a small hill on the opposite side of the road. Lilac bushes still grew in the yard. The lilacs in my Mothers yard were cut from them. Well cut from ones in Violet’s yard which were cut from them. Generations, I thought. Generations of lilacs like generations of people still connected genetically to this place. This place that I am connected to, too. Just as surely as these lilacs, like them my roots were in a different soil but my genes were here too. “Come with me.” I said “I’ll show you something.” We walked the road to a place where it forked and curved. When we walked around the curve there was a faint trail leading to the left up a small hill. There in the ground was a suitcase sized hole. It was full of water. “That” I said “Is want is left of the Hogan mine where my Father worked as a boy. In this blacksmith shop.” I said stepping into a square of stones on the ground. “You have to use your imagination.” I said. John smiled. “It has seen better days.” He said “Once a week they sent the gold to town.”
We sat down and took it all in. Right here I thought. Right here my Dad, a little younger tan I am now worked for his Dad and dreamed as did my Granddad about the seam “Of quartzite in a serpentine vein that marks the greatest yield.” As Stan Rogers had said in his song “The Rawdon hills once were touched by gold”. It was like I could still here the ring of the hammers and the sound of the steam whistle that marked time in the mines. Now the wind was silent save the hum of bees and the smell of lilacs. The alders were slowly eating the fields and clearings. The scars of man’s folly, the shafts and pits were still there and you had to be careful, for they were partly hidden.
Far from hidden was the open pit. It was full of water to within twenty feet of the top. It was almost half the size of a football field we walked to the edge and started in. A fish jumped. I looked at John and he looked at me. Then it jumped again, with a splash. We hadn’t brought the rods. We were half way back to camp so we dashed off and grabbed the rods and gear. We baited up and tossed bobbers in to the pit. “How are we going to land them?” I asked. John Shrugged. “Look we haven’t caught a thing yet so we’ll burn the bridge when we get to it!” He was right. But soon he had a fish one. John is a good fisherman. That is to say he is lucky. He reeled in a small silver fish with a lateral line down its’ side. It weighed less than half a pound. “What is it?” he asked. I stared at him blankly. “I don’t know. Maybe its’ just a big shiner, you know, a big minnow?” I said. “How’d it get here?” he asked. Good question, I thought. I had read about herons and shore birds carrying fish eggs from pond to pond on the mud on their legs. Or maybe somebody let them go. We discussed it over lunch, the rest of the wieners.
We caught a few more but let them all go. They were too small. At one point a fish took John’s bobber under for a good thirty seconds but when he got to it the fish had spit the hook. “That was no little one!” John said his voice shaking. I heartily agreed. I still wonder about that fish. We stayed for a few hours then headed back to camp. “I hereby declare the saloon open!” John said handing me a cool beer from the stream. It was still a scorcher. I slid to the ground and took off my heavy hiking boots and put on my camp shoes. I felt like I was floating on air. That’s why I carry them. John looked at the dried Raccoon pooh and started to laugh. We were both in hysterics. “What’s for supper?” John asked. Supper had been two New York strip loins that were now in the raccoon’s belly. I dug in my pack. I took out a can of corned beef. “I’ll cut it into steaks!” I said with gusto. John howled even louder. Just feed it to me without reading the label and I’ll pretend.” He said. It went into the pan and it tasted surprisingly good. We did dishes and watched the sun set over the lake. “Tomorrow’s Monday want to fish the lakes around the Mount?” I asked from under my hat, tilted low across my eyes to keep out the setting sun. “Sure.” Said John “How about a real meal at that little take out?” “What do you mean real meal?” I said feigning offense. But John was already asleep.
We awoke early and skipped breakfast. We packed the car and carefully threaded our way out the mines road. Aunt Violet was hanging clothes. We told her of our adventures and that we were sorry there was no fresh fish. “It’s too hot.” She said. We stopped at the gas station and replaced the gum with some body putty the guy had. We grabbed some snacks and headed for the railway tracks. The old D.A.R. (Dominion Atlantic Railway) had once been the lifeline of the community. The station had still been there when I was a kid but it was gone now. I parked not far from where it had stood and we walked the tracks. We walked the tracks towards the Uniacke estate. Built in 1813 by Richard Uniacke as a summer home, the estate sprawls on the dappled shores of Martha Lake. It is as beautiful as any English country estate. The estate fronts onto Martha Lake. Named after Richard John Uniacke’s beloved wife. When you are rich you can do that, name a lake after your wife. Well I guess you don’t have to be rich to do it, I mean I could name a lake after my wife but nobody would pay any attention, though she deserves it. We stopped on the shore opposite the estate and fished in the beautiful lake. In spite of the view the fishing sucked. The sun beat down like a blacksmith’s hammer. When Richard Uniacke was Attorney General he could jump on a train in Halifax and get off right where we parked the car. Servants would be there with a carriage to pick him up. Him and no doubt a pantry full of fresh foods from the city, those that didn’t come from the local farms. The Attorney General could take high tea on the veranda under the portico while looking out over the perfect lake. “I bet it teamed with trout back then.” I said wistfully. “I’d have servants swimming the lake herding the trout into my end!” said John with a smile. “Let’s move.” I said and we picked up our gear. We took a break for lunch and I had fried clams and chips at the little take-out on the old highway. They were delicious. John had fish and chips. “I am eating fish this weekend if it kills me.”
After lunch we made our way back down the tracks. Further down this time and the opposite side of the tracks. We found a small lake whose bottom was strewn with sunken logs. A beaver’s paradise. I baited up and cast. John put on a float and reached back to start his forward cast. There was a click of plastic on plastic then John started the forward cast it was smooth as usual and just as sudden. But there was a weird sound like an open window in a car at highway speed. And by my head, in my peripheral vision flew the dull orange plastic tackle box that John was using. It sailed high into the air and halfway across the small lake. In an arc not unlike a rainbow went the contents. Lures, flies, hooks, floats, spools of line, leaders, spinners and all the paraphernalia that fishermen collect and covet and garner over years of cruising tackle shops and department stores. In an instant years of cruising discount bins. Numerous yard sales and flea markets dozens of lucky finds along the banks of lakes and streams. All this came to an end as every single piece of tackle that John owned headed for the convoluted bottom of a lake strewn with logs. No hope of even pursuing it. The tackle box hit the water upside down. As the trays filled with water it righted itself briefly and like a submerging submarine it headed for the bottom. Its brown plastic handle the last thing visible as it sank like some sad conning tower. John looked at me with eyes wide and wild. “Wait!" I shouted and pointed. A flat package was drifting to earth. The only piece of tackle except the hook on the end of his line that John now owned. It landed on the gravel at the side of the railway tracks. John picked it up and turned over. It was a package of snelled hooks with a yellow clearance sticker on it marked 25 cents. “Great! Of all the things to be saved it would have to be the cheapest thing in the box.” His eyes were looking at the ground. I half expected him to be crying when he raised his head. Instead he wore a smile; from ear to ear he had the look of a man too stunned to cry. We both started to laugh. We laughed and laughed. We continued to fish, John using my tackle when he wanted to try something else. At dusk we headed back to the tracks. We put the gear in the Honda’s tiny trunk. I closed it firmly there was a crunch. I quickly reopened the trunk and took out my two piece fly rod. “I guess it’s a three piece fly rod now!” I said holding the wreckage up for John to see. He was in the passenger seat. We laughed all the way home. “That was the most disastrous trip ever. I punctured my tank.” “A raccoon ate our food.” John added. “We both slipped in that same raccoons pooh.” “I lost all my tackle.” “I broke my rod!” “Where do you want to go next weekend?” John asked. “I hope it cools off before the season ends!” I added.
Now here is proof that the Speckled Trout is the king of fish. We never once in that weekend disaster considered turning tail and going home. Nor did we stop fishing. Through it all we kept casting, kept hoping.

Tuesday, September 8, 2009

Happy New Year!

September is a special time. For us, in the far north it marks the change of seasons. It is already well and truly fall up here. The trees have been golden for two weeks now. One night we were just out for a walk and there it was, a single tree, a small poplar, alone amongst the spruce and Tamaracks. A golden signpost to let us know that the change was coming. It was a beautiful day, hot really. The road was dusty and the sand flies were fierce. Suddenly there it was all alone and looking odd, its' limbless trunk adorned in yellow leaves looking odd amidst the dark green of the the spruce. Lone beacon. The days that came brought more yellow to his neighbors even the Tamarack which is alone among conifers in shedding it's needles each fall in the boreal forest. The days are getting short err and night is returning to the arctic. The summer long day is almost over. The mornings are crisp the days are warm and splendid, except for the Sand flies.

Years ago September was special too. All summer long we marched to the tune of a different drummer. We still had a routine, to be sure. I mean I still had my paper route, six days a week. But there was swimming afterwards/ Baseball in the mornings and evenings. The days were long and carefree. July was heaven, fall with its' tighter schedules and increased responsibilities was a long way off. When you are twelve a month is a very long time. Your life could still be measured in months. Just a gross of months. A month might as well be a year. Today a month might as well be a minute. Months slip by so fast that you can scarce remember them. Remember the month that lead to Christmas when you were twelve? It seemed like a long endless tract less expanse. The way the prairies must have seemed to Thompson or the arctic to Franklin. A thing so vast that time stood still. But eventually it did pass. Leading inexorably, to August. August was good, but not quite as good as July. Like a car that has lost that new car smell. By August there was a dent in the door of summer and the sidewalls were rubbed by the curb of care. You lost your pride of ownership of summer by August. In August summer was a tarnished thing. No longer new. Frayed, faded somehow less precious. You stopped thinking in terms of months. Summer had now shrunk to weeks. And a week is something a twelve year old can relate to. I love summer. I always have. In fact I measure my life by them. Another summer marks the passing of another year.

That brings me to the point of this essay, if that is what this rambling string of sentences is. Maybe a rant is a better description.When I saw that little tree, that tiny yellow harbinger of fall, it was like the passing of another year. Another summer had come and gone. I have always wondered at the arbitrary nature of January first. Why on earth is January first new years? What is different about January first , Different I mean from December 31st? Nothing I think. It is still winter. The winter's solstice is marked by the celebration of Christmas. I can see this being a start of a new year, as it marks the point where the days will again start to get longer. But why the first of January there is something artificial about it. Why not make the first day of spring the first day of the year? For most people the spring is the beginning. When life begins anew. Or why not the first day of summer? The change of a season. The beginning of what is for most people the most popular season of the year.


Or, if I might be permitted, why not the first day of September? Bear with me a few moments and I will try to explain. I will try to sell you on thing strange idea, that is not so strange as it might seem. What is different about January first, I asked? After the holiday we go back to work and school as usual. The winter day will still be short and dark. In fact it will be the start of the longest, bleakest part of the winter. The longest wait until the next holiday. Especially here in the NWT where we don't get another holiday until Easter, whenever that will be, its' date being so arbitrary and fickle. No January first marks no real event for me, except that it is my Wife's birthday. If you'd consulted me, and I know full well that you didn't. But if you had taken leave of your senses and consulted me I would have chosen September first.


The first of September because it is the first of the month. But September because it is the perfect time for a new year. For a new year is at once a joyous time, a new beginning, a clean slate, and fresh page, a blank canvas, choose your metaphor. But it is also a time of reflection and, I think, a little sadness. It is after all the end of an old year. A passing of time. An ending of sorts. September is just such a time. It is the ending of summer The morphing of summer into fall. Of carefree life into the structure of fall. It is the end of another summer. A time of some sadness. For we all love summer. It is a time when vacations are done. For students and parents alike. And for others too. For most of us, parent, student or not have structured our holidays during the less cluttered days of summer. Si there is closure in September. There is an ending of sorts. But there is a beginning too.


Perhaps it is most clearly felt by children and those who have a second chance at childhood, parents. For parents experience childhood again, vicariously, through their children. Through there eyes they will see the world anew. We think of children as being unable to focus. To do what we take for granted. We ignore all things around us. All distractions and we focus on a single thing, a single task. And we, in so doing, feel superior like we are better than children because we can focus, we can ignore. For children are like strangers in a a strange land. They look at the world with eyes wide open, eyes of wonder. Eyes that are seeing things for the first time. Do you remember the last time you were in a foreign country? I bet you could write a five page letter about the first time you walked down the street. About how the mail boxes were a different color. How the parking meters were solar powered. Try to do the same thing about the last time you walked into your place of work. Not so easy is it. Kids aren't distracted. They are seeing everything, they are focusing on everything the way you would if you were seeing it all anew. Parents get a special gift. They get to see the world fresh, through the eyes of their children. Through eyes that have not lost the wonder of the everyday.



Children are usually of two minds about September, the way that you always are about a new year. Summer is over, but fall has a promise too. A new year a new school year. Last years friends, who live too far to play with in summer. Those who took the bus, or a different bus, anyways. They would be waiting for them. There would be new kids too. Maybe a whole new school for kids going to middle school from grade school. New kids who had moved into the area. New teachers for most, with all the threat and promise that this entails. New clothes. For me a new pair of Dash sneakers, those black canvas topped ones with the rubber caps on the ankle bone. New scribblers and new campfire notebooks, with the two guys sitting outside their tent in front of the two tome campfire, blue and red ink. New erasers, the pink ones, unsmudged by the graphite of mistakes. There would be new textbooks, a new plaid zippered bag full of new pencils, not even sharpened yet. Their was in the newness the potential of perfection. For a fleeting moment you could imagine a year when you never used the pink eraser. Never left the curled shards of rubber, never smelled the burnt rubber smell of failure. Never left the mark of error on the page of life. New, like a new year.

September also marks the new TV season. After the reruns of summer a new season begins. No such thing in January. What fool picked January for new years? Move labor day to January. Who cares when you celebrate labor day? Actually when better to celebrate labor than in the dark days of winter? When you go to work in the dark and come home in the dark like some pit pony that never sees the light of day! When better to take a day's labor off to see the brief minutes of daylight. When better to take a lazy day? To linger over a second cup of coffee. To put up your feet and trade the morning paper for a trashy book, like the guy in Stan Roger's song "Workin' Joe"

So join me in this campaign. This sacred crusade. Write you M.P., your MLA, your town councillor. Add your voice to what will soon be a chorus. A chorus of right minded Canadians. Who know a new year when they see it. And who know when we really need a day off! Maybe someday we can straighten out this world.





Workin' Joe

by Stan Rogers Fogarty's Cove Music



I used to love these lazy winter afternoons;.

Starting out too late giving up too soon;

Coming home to coffee and a trashy book;

Never paying any mind if things were never done on Time

was when a fella could just let time slip away;

No worries car or telephone just rent and food to pay;

And every night with single buddies boozing at the bar,

Living for the minute, taking every hour in it!

But now there's just too much to do in any given day;

The car phone the kiddies shoes too many bills to pay;

Running from the crack of dawn 'til Knowlton reads the news,

And falling into bed too wiped to even kiss the wife good night.

Oh, oh, oh...just another working Joe.



The baby's in the Swingomatic, singing Rock and Roll;

My Sweetie's in the kitchen, whipping up my favourite casserole.

I knocked off work at ten o'clock, the kids are still at school.

The coffee pot is perking...to hell with bloody working.

Oh, it sure is sweet to sit at home and let time slip away,

Through tomorrow I'll be scratching through another working day;

But when I start to come apart from all the things to do,

I know that I'll be taking soon another lazy winter afternoon.

Oh, oh, oh...just another working Joe!

Tuesday, August 25, 2009

A Perfect Memory? Forget About it!

"Hey Honey, you seen my keys?" "They 're on the counter, hey what time did we say we would be there?" Ahhh memory. What a funny thing it is. I will be the first to admit that I don't have the greatest memory. Just like the joke, my memory is good but it's short. My wife has a saying "I have a photographic memory, but I am out of film." Funny stuff. I hear a lot of great jokes, I just can never remember them. What's with that. I sure wish I could have a perfect memory. I could remember where my keys were, where I left my wallet. I could remember my password to my old email account. Hey, what was the name of that guy, you know the one on that show? Oh come on, you know, the show. The one that what's her name used to be on before she went to that new show. For Pete's sake, she married that guy, you know the one from that place? Maybe a perfect memory would simplify life. Then again maybe not.

Be careful what you wish for, just ask Jill Price the 43 year old California woman can't forget. Literally. She has perfect recall. In an interview with ABC TVs Diane Sawyer she said "I always explain it to people like I'm walking around with a video camera on my shoulder. I walk around with my life right next to me." Great right. Like your life is on tape and you just have to rewind and there you are. Good if you need to find your keys, but what if you are trying to find; say, happiness. No, think about it. You couldn't remember anything without remembering everything! Everything. Every last thing. When we think back about; say, Uncle Bob. We remember the good things and forget the other stuff. Jill can't do that. When she remembers she remembers warts and all. They say that hindsight is 20/20. Yeah right. When we look back we are as blind as a bat. We remember exactly what we want to remember, nothing more. Our rose colored glasses are like coke bottles and bifocals to boot. Poor Jill is watching reruns of her life while we wax nostalgic, she remembers the pain and the sorrow, as well as the good things.


Let's face it if we could not wipe the chalkboard of our memory we would have trouble doing anything. Imagine never being able to delete anything from your computer. It would become so cluttered that it would be useless. There was a case of a man in the Soviet Union during the sixties who was an assistant to a medium level bureaucrat he too had perfect recall. They did intensive testing and were very disappointed to find out that he was of only average intelligence. It had been supposed that he would be highly intelligent as he could remember so much. Intelligence, it seems is more than just recall. It seems that most of us forget what we need to forget. We think our mind is like some great filing cabinet. It is not necessarily what is stored there that matters it is how fast you can access it and knowing what to access that builds intelligence. Whew thank god, otherwise I would be a idiot. My mind is a sieve. I forget people's names all the time. I would never make a very good politician.

So what we might suppose would be a key to untold happiness is; it seems, a burden not a benefit. Jill Price cannot reminisce. She is unable to appreciate nostalgia. Imagine that! Wow, where would I be? I mean I have been told that is what I do best. Think about it. When we reminisce we forget about the bad parts of the old days. We put on our rose colored bifocals and we filter out all the bad stuff.

It is funny too, what triggers an attack of nostalgia. Usually it is a smell. A whiff of woodsmoke may trigger a memory of Grandma's wood stove and the wonderful cooking she brought out of her oven. Meanwhile, forgotten is all the back breaking work of feeding the shiny stove with wood. The cutting and splitting and hauling. We forget how overjoyed she was when she got her first electric range. How she had heat at the flick of a switch. How the kitchen stayed cool in summer, while she baked a pie. Jill could tell you this, she can't forget anything. She is burdened by it. Don't get me wrong I would never want to join her. I love to reminisce. I mean really, just read my stuff. So what if I misplace my keys, or miss the odd appointment? If your birthday card is late, well sorry, my bad. I remember the really important things. Well most of them anyways. Maybe it's age related. I mean there is more to remember when you get older. These young people nowadays, what do they have to reminisce about anyways, now when we were young we had some good things to reminisce about. Nostalgia, it just aint what it used to be...

Thursday, August 20, 2009

Totally Awesome


Remember the eighties? They were awesome! Or maybe we just thought they were awesome, I mean we used that word a lot back then, totally, gag me. But when was the last time you stood in awe of something? I mean seriously? My online dictionary defines awe as 1)-an overwhelming feeling of wonder or admiration 2)- a feeling of fear and reverence, a feeling of amazement. Wow, one word two incredible definitions both of which apply at once. I love the English language! It rocks! I was awestruck recently and it grounded me. It was cathartic, almost an epiphany. It doesn't happen to us jaded modern humans often, but maybe it should.

I can remember a couple of the last times I was stricken with awe. The first was Wednesday May 13th at 5:30 pm. Precise enough for ya? The source of this phenomenon was the annual break up of the MacKenzie river or Deh Cho (Big River) in the local Slavey language. When you live beside a great force of nature like the MacKenzie you do so with some trepidation. You must always be cognisant of her. She has taken many lives over the years and only infrequently does she give back the dead. The body of a man from Ft Liard washed up in Tulita this spring. He died last year and over 530km away as the crow (or raven) flies! She is a huge living thing, like some great snake she wends her way from Great Slave lake to the Arctic ocean over a 1,000 miles away. Still all winter she sleeps lying under her white winter mantle her waters, her power, hidden from view. Out of sight but not really out of mind. Not in the mind of those who have seen what she can do anyways. Maybe I am too old a dog, maybe I have seen too much, lived so much, survived so much that I cannot sleep as soundly as I did in the ignorance of my youth. I have seen and survive; earthquake, flood, fire, explosions, and a hurricane. I have seen nature in full cry. We lull ourselves into a false sense of security, into an illusion of control.

For how can you control such a force of nature? How can you tame the wind? Or the sea? But unless you stand there and watch nature doing its' thing how are you to know? Well last May the 13th I did just that. I watched the Deh Cho shake off her winter mantle and surge headlong into spring. A week or so earlier my Assistant Cesar had asked "When will the river break? I can't wait to see it. Someone said it could go today. It sure is warm." "Well I doubt it will go today." I proffered. "The river has to rise first. It is the water that comes down the river that will make it break, not the sun or the rain falling on it. Not here anyways," "Really?" He protested. "It's been very warm." "It will need to be warm upstream in order for the river to break. The small streams melt the big brooks melt, the small rivers melt and all that water flows into the mother of all rivers." I said pointing at the river laying there white amid the long thawed banks of mud. "When she's ready she will rise and let you know. People upstream will be squawking hours if not days before it breaks." And so it came to pass that the river broke at twelve mile (Which is, oddly enough twelve miles upstream) and this brought us to the banks of the MacKenzie at 5:30 that Wednesday. The river creaked and cracked and moved. In great sheets the ice came our way. Sheets as long as a football field moving along at a few knots. Now, this is a sheet of ice that is six to eight feet thick. So there is considerable weight involved. Logs the size of telephone poles were crushed into splinters when the sheets of ice plowed into the shore. Awesome... Watching this spectacle humbles you. We watched as the winter road (or Ice Road as they say on TV) broke into pieces and went by, you could still see the tire marks made a few weeks ago. The water rose and flooded the yard of my friend Walter, a local elder. It flooded the yard of another elder on the other side of the road. It did considerable damage, but I have seen much worse. The rest of us breathed a sigh of relief.We had dodged a bullet, been spared the wrath of the river. We stood, chastened, humbled and put in our place.

Rivers can do that. This summer I went to visit my Aunt Katherine in St Catherine's which is appropriate because she is a saint! While we were there my cousin Lori asked if we would like to see Niagara Falls. Neither I nor my wife Lina had ever been there before so we said yes. It had rained all weekend but the forecast showed a brief spell of sun for about three hours. We took advantage of every minute of it. We took a drive through Niagara on the Lake and approached the falls. We parked and Lina and I took a walk. It was awesome! There's that word again. The sheer power of it. The thunder at the horseshoe falls was amazing. They were selling ponchos in the gift shops, but I told Lina "Uh uh, I want to get wet! I want to feel the falls on my face." We did too. We were soon soaked. The mist rolled off the falls and fell on the road behind us. I can only imagine what Father Louis Henepin must have felt when in 1677 he became (arguably) the first European to see the falls. He used words like surprizing (his spelling) and unparalleled but not awesome, too bad. No wonder he used such superlatives at its' height more than 6,000,000 cubic feet of water pass over the falls every minute. Now that is awesome! I have been to Virginia Falls in the Yukon. It was amazing, it plunges over twice the height of Niagara but at a much lower volume. Still impressive. Especially when we went to fly out. My friend Shane, the pilot said "You want a great picture of the falls?" We replied eagerly that we did. He turned the float plane toward the falls and took off in the direction of the falls. We left the surface of the water just shortly before the crest. "It saves fuel!" He added, "The speed of the river is added to the speed of the plane." He explained. We got a spectacular view as we soared over the cascading water. Then we dropped down into the valley below and yes we got some great shots.

Continuing on our holidays we went to Nova Scotia. I had long wanted to go to Brier Island, out Digby neck on Nova Scotia's Fundy coast. It reputedly has some of the best whale watching anywhere in eastern Canada. The weather for our trip was sunny and beautiful. This is where my Celtic blood shows through and I turn a tartanny red. If getting there is half the fun then we were in for a thrill of gargantuan proportions. Apparently the whales were being elusive this year. They were being unpredictable like, well, wild animals. Damn this nature! Why can't it be natural in a moire controlled way? Maybe an invisible glass wall to hold these creatures like some giant fishbowl. My brother Larry, the computer programmer seemed to favor this solution. I shrugged. What the heck? Maybe getting there is half the fun. We motored three hours out into the mighty Bay of Fundy, home of the worlds highest tides. The sun blazed. My skin glowed like an oven element. But then there were whales. At first we saw a Minke. Now the Minke is one of the most commonly seen whales, because it is curious and approaches boats. I had seen them before on other whale watching trips (this was my fourth) The Minke measure up to 35 feet(10.7m) and weighs 20,000 lbs (9200kg). Let me repeat that 20,000 lbs! This is a big critter. The fact that it is curious says volumes about this animals intelligence. They say curiosity killed the cat, but I'm still waiting for the autopsy results. We watched the Minke surface and blow for a while, but then the young lady narrating the tour announced that Humpback whales had been spotted a few minutes sailing away. We cheered it was these brawny buggers we had come to see. at 57 ft (17m) and 90,000 lbs (40,000 kg) these whales are twice the size of the Minke. I had never seen a Humpback before and I had always wanted to. I had been fascinated by these huge mammals since I first saw a dead whale beached at Crystal Crescent beach as a child. Our neighbors had driven us there to see this behemoth. Majestic even in death. I stared enthralled. I love the sight of these leviathans, of course I would rather see one alive any day.

The book "Whale Watching on Canada's East Coast" describes the Humpback as curious as well. I would go one further. The Minke is curious and approachable. The Humpback is a shameless exhibitionist. They love to put on a show. The lady doing the commentary felt it necessary to explain some of the whales behaviour. "They often splash their flukes in the water, we are not sure why they do this. Some people speculate that it is done to dislodge sea lice." We humans need to explain everything. We need to see animal behaviour as all being entirely logical and as mirroring human behaviour. There is a big fancy word for this it is anthropomorphism. There I get to use that degree again, whew it only cost about ten grand, that was worth at least seventy five cents. If i keep this up I'll get my money's worth. Anthropomorphism. There used it again. Ch-Ching! Why can't animals do things for no reason. We do. We snap our fingers, whistle, sing, make fart noises with our arm pits. Someone tell me what practical purpose these serve? I mean unless you are one of a limited few who can earn a living making fart noises with your armpit. Why can't a Humpback thrash the water with its' flippers just because it wants to?

Because that is exactly what Quixote did. Oh yeah, they name the whales. Cool, eh? Each whale has an identifiable tail and they all have names. In fact the boat keeps a binder with photos of each whale and they photograph each encounter and keep track of it. They can even tell you how old some whales are and if not they can tell you when the whale first appeared and when it was last spotted. Very cool. Right, a word about those flippers or flukes as they are called. They are 5 metres or 17 feet long. They are the longest limbs of any animal on earth. Imagine having 17 foot arms. Wow! More than five times longer than your arms. You would never have to get up to get a beer, uh, I mean pop. Only problem is that closets would have to be three stories high or your sleeves would get dirty. But just imagine, you could scratch anywhere! Enough silliness. We watched Quixote and his partner frolic in the bay. They surfaced and dived and lay on their backs thrashing the water while we watched. Stunned! Amazed! And , Yes Awestruck! Once the whale dived near the boat and sprayed us. You could smell their fishy breath. Whale breath. A whale breathed on me. You don't soon forget that. Partly because it smelled a bit like the sewer truck. But also because you don't get that every day. Unless you've gotten really rich making fart noises and you can afford to go whale watching every day, but apart from those lucky few the rest of us mere mortals don't get to do this. Awesome. No, really awesome. Not in the gnarly eighties way, but in the Merriam Webster Collegiate sense of the word awesome! Fear, amazement, reverence. That kind of awesome.


Most of the time I enjoy the view from the top of the food chain. I think most humans do. We roll along in the club car of the ecological gravy train, seldom thinking about the rest of existence. Every once in a while we need to be knocked down a peg. We need to be shaken out of our secure little world into the world of reality. We need to know that we are but a small cog in a very big wheel. It is a vast universe and we are but cosmic dust. We need to lose the smugness to get humble, to be belittled. We are not the masters of the universe. We are no less than the trees and the stars, but no more than them either. Being humbled, being belittled by nature means knowing your place. It does not mean that we do not have a place. Seeing things like the raw power of lightening or a forest fire calms me. It lets me know that I am a part of nature, that I am of this world and not just in it. This world that is ours for just this moment of time, this world is not inherited from our parents it is borrowed from our children. We are not masters of it but guardians of it. Awe, it is a very cool thing like a natural reset switch. It restores the defaults, blows away the inflation of our collective egos that we have gained at the expense of a million other species. Species with as much right to live and thrive as us. We search the stars for a sign of life, while we destroy the miracle of life right here. Species we don't know or understand disappear every day. I would love to think of a boy, generations from now, standing on the banks of the MacKenzie or Niagara and being awed by the sheer power of nature. To feel the blow of a whale and smell the breath of so great a being. You know what that would be, well it would be....



AWESOME!

Monday, August 10, 2009

Puppy Love





It's a funny old thing life, you never know what simple decision is going to change your life drastically. Some seemingly simple thing you did without thinking that moves your life in a direction you couldn't foresee. It was one of these fleeting decisions that led to a furry fellow joining our life's journey.


When I had grown up in Nova Scotia we never owned a dog. We lived in the city and there simply wasn't the room. I cannot even say that I had always wanted a dog. We had dogs when I lived on the farm in the summers and I enjoyed their company but it was not a pressing thing. When I joined the HBC my boss owned a golden retriever and he was a marvelous dog. He and I went everywhere together, hunting, fishing anything. When I moved away I never gave owning a dog a second thought. Then one day my phone rang. It was Nigel, my former boss. He wanted to know if I would take Seiko. He was moving to the city (my former hometown) and was getting an apartment so he couldn't take the dog. I hadn't thought about it but found myself saying yes and staring at the phone afterwards wondering what I had gotten myself into.


Eight years later there was no question of what I had gotten myself into. A deep enduring bond of friendship and love. There is something about coming home at night to an animal who is always glad to see you and who returns every bit of affection without question. We were inseparable and when he died at age 11 of natural causes I was devastated. I thought I was putting up a good front, fooling everyone. I thought I was good, you know, I was on my way home a week after Seiko (Yeah, Seiko he was a watch dog, get it? More people would have if Nigel had called him Timex) died. When I ran into a friend of mine who also owned a dog. We sometimes walked our dogs together. She asked me where Seiko was. I looked at her and my eyes welled and I tried to speak but no words came out. I blubbered like a total idiot. She knew instantly, as an owner of an older dog it was something we both lived in fear of. She said "Oh I am so sorry!" and she put her arms around me. I was ashamed that I was so emotional over an animal. Why? Our children , our parents our siblings are all animals. Why be ashamed of loving an animal, nearly as much as we love our own kind. If not why have them? Why else have such strong bonds developed over the years between animals and humans.


After losing Seiko I planned to get another dog. Planned to do it but never did. I was scared. Scared of the commitment, scared of putting my heart on the line again. Then one cold day the fall following the loss of Seiko I heard a scratching noise at my door. I looked out the peephole and saw a medium sized dog that I recognized sitting there. She was frozen into a lump, someone had thrown a bucket of water on her. It was well below minus thirty and the water had frozen solid. I threw open the door and brought the poor shivering animal in to curl up by the fire. "Just don't feed it." I reasoned. "Just don't feed it and she will not stick around. I let her out in the morning and walked the kilometer or so to work. When I got out twelve hours later there she was curled up outside the store door. She followed me home and curled up outside my door. I kept checking the peephole and she was still there. I left her outside and didn't feed her.


The next morning she followed me to work again and home at night. I am a softee so it was tearing me apart mot to feed her. "Alright, she not eating a thing. "I thought. "I have to feed her!" I did. That Saturday I tracked down the guy I thought owned the dog at the gas station where he worked. "Is this your dog?" I asked. "Well, the kids don't want her anymore, so it looks like she is yours now." My reaction surprised even me. "Right! That's it then." I said and went to the store to get a collar and some food. She was a wonderful dog. A weird mix of husky and German Sheppard. She had one blue eye and one brown eye. Her fur on her head was soft and silky. Her hair on her back was course and wiry. She had this way of putting her paw in your hand when she wanted attention, she would look at you with her ears back and would vocalize. Not a bark but a weird little low yowl that was almost like words. I always wondered what she was saying, but she never failed to melt my heart. The problem was that her neck was big and her head was small and she could slip out of her collar and go running.


One day I was doing jury duty and she slipped out of my latest invention. I had taken two collars and put the shackle through both. This made the two bind up and kept the collar in place, usually. This time it didn't. I came home to find two empty collars at the end or her chain. I searched the streets calling her. "Brandy, Brandy!" a neighbor saw me and put on his coat and followed me. I saw him and stopped he caught up and looked at the ground. "The dog catcher shot your dog." He said. I was stunned. No warning, no second chance, just gone. I went home and cried. I vowed not to get another dog, not to care again. That summer I met Lina and fell in love By that fall we were living together. By the next spring I had fallen into a comfortable routine. I had been accepted by her extended family and was about to meet a newcomer to our little family.


It all started with a simple question. Lina's cousin Raymond, nicknamed "Skinny Man" called to ask if we could take care of Lina's nephew Craig's new puppy. The puppy was from a litter of a dog owned by Lina's Aunt Mary Jane. Mary Jane was the matriarch of her family and was a much loved part of our family. She had wanted to get the puppies away from their mom, Brownie. How could I refuse? It was a favor for both Lina's Auntie and her Nephew. After all it was only a week or maybe two. Skinny brought over the puppy. A tiny blond terrier cross that fit in my huge hand from wrist to finger tip. Simple enough, right? No strings. Just a brief baby sitting job.


A week went by then two. No sign of Lina's sister coming to pick up the puppy. Soon a month had come and gone. "Lina," I said "You had better call PouPonne and ask when they are picking up this dog." PouPonne was a family nick name for Lina's sister Margaret, I think it means a baby chick. I had a reason for forcing the issue. I knew I was growing attached to this little fellow and Ii didn't want my heart broken again. She made the call. When she came into the living room she gave me that look, a look I already knew well. The first time she had given me that look she had asked me "What is your favorite T-Shirt?" That's an odd question, I thought. "I suppose the one I got in the Dr Jim Smith Golf Tournament." I replied. It was a white T-Shirt with Alexander Keith's India Pale Ale logo on it. "I was afraid so..." She said holding the T-Shirt aloft, she had been hiding it behind her back. It was now a shade of pink. She looked scared and embarrassed at the same time. I dropped to the sofa and began to howl with laughter. Soon I was on the floor my sides aching. "I thought you would be mad?" She said. "How can I be mad?" I asked. "this is hilarious. I'll still wear it! I'm not that insecure in my sexuality!" In time the shirt faded back to nearly white.


I saw the same look on her face when she returned. "So?" I asked. "What's up with the dog?" Lina screwed up her pretty face and said "I don't think that they want it anymore, the boy's Dad got them a purebred Scottie." She looked like she was about to cry. I jumped into the air. She flinched and stepped back. "WHOOOOO HOOOO!" I exclaimed. The dog scampered around the corner, excited by the noise. I scooped him up and looked into his little brown eyes. "You need a name little man. I think I'll call you Bear!" Lina was smiling now. "You're not mad?" "Of course not. I couldn't give him up now. I just needed to know." "You can keep him, but you can't call him Bear he's not going to look like a Bear when he grows up." "What then?" I asked. "I don't know but I will tell you when I do." I got down on all fours and began to play a game with the dog that we would play many times over the years. I rolled him on his back and pinned him to the floor and ruffled his belly. He nipped playfully at my fingers. I quickly took to spoiling him rotten. I bought him a Stuffed ladybug. Which he promptly emptied of all its' stuffing. I had to pick it up from all over our yard. He carried the empty carcass everywhere. Prancing proudly along like he had slain a lion.


"Buttons!" Lina said one day. "What's that?" I asked. "Buttons, that's what we'll call him. He is cute as a Button!" And he was. "Yes. It suits him." "Better than Bear!" She said mockingly. "Yes, better than Bear.Right Buttons?" He jumped and barked his approval. He was part of the family. Around two years after we had met and a year after getting Buttons we got married. We became a family, Mom and Dad and Buttons. The happiest moments of my entire life were the simple moments. Lying there watching TV on a cold winter night. The wind howling outside. The three of us together in our warm living room. Safe under a sturdy roof. Just the three of us. Lina 's head on my shoulder my hand dangling over the side of the sofa ruffling Button's soft fur. I had never known such total bliss. You can have fancy cars, foreign beaches, and mansions. I was never happier than on a winter's night snug in our humble little abode with the ones I love most.


The years passed. We moved to the Yukon and Buttons, Lina and I walked the banks of the Porcupine River. Buttons loved to plunge into the water, no matter how cold it was. Even when the ice had just broken he would plunge in among the ice and stand their with his little pink tongue hanging out. We moved to Tulita in the NWT on the MacKenzie river and he did the same thing there, wading in the icy water and loving every minute of it. He turned ten this April, just as I turned 50 today. He was showing his age a bit but still had a lot of life left. Small dogs, especially hybrids live longer. How much longer he would have lived we will never know. His little life was cut short this Sunday when two loose dogs came into our yard and attacked him. They were much bigger dogs, more than twice Buttons size. I was asleep when I heard Lina's terrified voice. She was telling me that he had been mauled. I couldn't believe it. I ran into the yard to find his motionless body on his back, his feet in the air. With the help of my Assistant and neighbor Cesar I carried him into the house. I nursed him as best I could but as game as he was he didn't make it. He lasted about five hours. I was on the phone with the nurse when he took his last breath. There was never any chance really, but I felt guilty. That I had failed him somehow.


The next day one of the dogs was caught and destroyed. My friend Paul the Bylaw officer told me the news. I took no comfort from the news. I had no desire for revenge, only a huge hollow spot. Now two dogs were dead. Then today my friend Urban the Fire Chief told me that the second dog had been destroyed after it had threatened to attack some kids. "It was foaming at the mouth." He said "Rabies I think." "Good thing you got it then." I said solemnly. I was relieved that the public was safe but it changed nothing for me. I couldn't turn time back and get my little buddy back. Cesar and I buried him on Blueberry hill beside the old HBC store which now serves as a warehouse. It overlooks the MacKenzie where he loved to swim and whee he had been swimming the night before he died. It is a nice spot. Some small comfort. I felt very empty as I lay in bed last night. I held Lina to me. "Our family has shrunk." I said sadly, a huge lump in my throat. "I miss him too." She said. "We'll get another." I said matter of factly. Another dog, not another Buttons. There was only one of him. A lovable little rascal who snuck into my life by the merest of chances. Circumstance. Fate. Kismet. Call it what you will. But for ten years he enriched our lives and blessed us every day with his presence. I pray that it was mutual, I never doubted it when he licked my face and used his little nose to lift my hand and get me to pat him. I read somewhere that a pet takes up so little space in your home when they're alive and leaves so big a hole in your life when they're gone . Truer words were never spoken. He was tiny but he left me so empty. Empty now, but someday I will be able to remember the way he lived, not the way he died. Someday...

Buttons Beaulieu-Sayine-Turnbull

April 1999-August 9, 2009

Much Loved, Much missed