A bush pilot’s Boxing Day

There have been some great ones. Wop May, Max Ward, Martin Hartwell to name but a few. Bush pilots, real characters all of them. Flying little planes the way that men used to sail makeshift boats of leather and wood. They flew through the foulest weather to bring supplies to tiny remote northern communities. Carrying the sick and the injured to medical attention hundreds of miles away, while most of us were still abed. A rare breed; especially these days. Flying planes older than they are with not much more than luck and a pair of vise-grips to keep them running. They are our lifeline. I have spent many hours in cramped cockpits, buffeted by wind and thermal columns over scattered lakes in summer. I have flown in planes as small as a two seater Cessna 152. I have flown in most of the real classics of the north; Norsemen, Otters (twin and single), Beavers and many others. On floats and skis and wheels. I have ridden with sled dogs at my side and a case of eggs in my lap. I have seen them carry everything from caskets to baby carriages. And I have met some of the most unforgettable men and women who flew them.
I remember a Christmas over two decades ago. I was living in the tiny Hamlet of Ft Liard in the southern NWT. Although it was then on a brand new road, the airport was still a hub of activity. Through a mutual friend I had fallen in with the local pilot and his wife; Grant and Elaine. They were wonderful outgoing people whose home; an old single wide trailer which had seen better days, was a drop in center for everyone. Mounties and Priests and trappers mixed and mingled. As someone would leave another person would arrive. The coffee pot and tea kettle were never dry. Ashtrays overflowed and so did the conversation. The bush radio crackled as trappers hundreds of miles away called in to book charters or give Grant a shopping list. The trailer stood at the end of the town’s small runway. Outside planes sat on the gravel waiting for the next trip. It was bitter cold so canvas shrouds covered the engine. When the time came Grant would fire up a diesel heater called a Herman Nelson and warm the engine up. But only the engine would be warm. In these small planes; in winter the compartment seldom got warm. You can always tell the bush pilot. He or she has a fur hat of some sort usually huge and snug looking. Wearing winter coveralls with several layers underneath; and boots, good boots.
I had fallen into a routine of stopping by after dinner with my golden retriever in tow. He would sit at my feet if the place was crowded, but would sit on the old couch if there was room. There would be a hot drink, tea for me and some kind of treats too. Cookies or some homemade cake, yum! Seiko my dog always scored a treat too. I would catch up on local gossip and take away the lists that had come in to be filled at the store, if I could read Grant’s scrawl which was worse than my own. An hour often turned to two and usually I was a lot later leaving than I had planned. Christmas was approaching and it was brutally cold. “You hanging around for the holidays?” I asked as I put on my coat. “Not us,” Grant said genially “Vancouver is calling me!” “I wonder how it ever got through; your line is always busy. I’ll see you when you get back.” I said as I opened the door and stepped out into the inky blackness of an arctic winter night. My boots squealed as my feet hit the snow at forty five below. Seiko was heading straight for home a sure sign it was cold.
I spent a wonderful Christmas day with other southerners stranded in the north by the need to work. Christmas was our busiest time of year. I awoke to the sound of the phone on Boxing Day. I patted Seiko’s head as I picked it up. I figured it was friends or family calling to wish me a Merry Christmas. It was; sort of. Grant’s booming voice filled the earphone. “Merry Christmas!” he said cheerily. “This sure is a good line!” I said “You sound like your right here!” “I am right here. There was a change in plans, Elaine’s Mom got sick she had to go east.” Grant had been here for Christmas. “Well why didn’t you say? We had turkey and everything!” I said feeling bad that my friend had been alone for the holiday. “I had two charters. It was late when I was done. Besides I missed the store, what are the chances of getting some coffee and some grub?” he asked. “About one hundred percent! How about I join you and help you eat some of that grub and we’ll call it a late Christmas dinner?” I replied. “Sure, Turkey TV dinners are my specialty! Meet you there in fifteen minutes?” I waited for him at the front door. The company truck came down the road the headlights stabbing through the ground fog that seemed to always hover at these frigid temperatures. “Change in plans, buddy.” Grant said as he slid from the cab, the engine still running, no one ever locked a vehicle or shut one off in winter if he didn’t need to, not in those days. There was always a change in plans when Grant was around.
“I got a charter to Nabu. Some folks are going back and I’m picking up a couple of Elders who want to shop. Can you help them out?” “Sure!” I replied. The store was closed on Boxing Day but who could refuse an elder, especially one from Nahanni Butte which was tinier than us and had only a small store. “You ever been to Nabu? Wanna come along?” Grants asked. “No and yes!” I replied enthusiastically. I was always up for an adventure. Grant picked up his shopping and we returned together to the tiny trailer that served as his home and office. We dragged out the Herman Nelson and fired it up. Working without gloves at those temperatures we had to keep blowing on our fingers to get the grommets done up on the hood. We put on coffee and waited for our fares. We didn’t have long to wait. Arms loaded with packages a young couple arrived by toboggan pulled by a small snowmobile. As the snowmobile pulled away we filed toward the small plane.
I took the co-pilot’s seat. “Don’t take off until I get back!” Grant said slapping my knee as he pulled the chalks and did his walk around. He got back in and we began our taxi for takeoff. Grant spoke into the mike as we headed down the runway. He read my look and said to me “I gotta give my call sign and direction in case there is other traffic.” The small terminal building was dark and still, there was no radio operator working today. I nodded. We were soon airborne and flying out over the Liard River, just a smooth white strip below us. The couple in the back were chattering away, still full of the Christmas spirit. They seemed excited and I was glad to be doing someone a kindness on this cold winters day.
We had not travelled very far when I noticed that the plane was visibly slowing. The single engine was snarling even louder than normal. I cast Grant a sharp look. He was busy fiddling with some knobs and seemed distracted but not worried. If he was calm the couple in the back was not. They had taken a death grip on the headrests of each of our seats and were holding on for dear life. The easy banter had stopped and they were shouting over the snarling engine “What’s wrong, what’s wrong?” over and over and over. It was a bit unnerving. Grant raised his head and turned to them “The prop pitch is frozen! It is too thin we will move very slowly but we are fine!” This shut the couple up but did not do much for their mood. They held each other’s hands tightly.
I took my cue from Grant. He seemed calm. After all last week he had set a plane down on the highway when a newly installed engine had torn out of the mounts that someone had installed improperly. If he could land a plane safely with the engine sticking out at a ninety degree angle this should be a cake walk. The flight should have been less than an hour but with the frozen prop took more than two. When we arrived the couple got off the plane, kissed the frozen ground and dashed away like scalded cats. Grant sought out a local teacher who owned his own plane to borrow a Herman Nelson. I got directions from some heavily bundled kids with sleds as to where the elders lived who were supposed to be going back with us. As I approached the home the young couple was just leaving. “This could be interesting.” I thought to myself as I knocked on the door. A little old lady answered. I told her the plane would be ready to go in half an hour. She was adamant. She was not going anywhere in that plane, her sister either. I wished them a Merry Christmas and headed back to the runway.
“Ah, you are alone!” Grant said his steaming breath almost hiding him in the still air. “Brilliant deduction, what was your first clue?” I said cockily. “Well you’re a big guy but not even you could hide both Sisters. No luck, eh?” “None, you would have a better chance of getting them to fly by flapping their arms.” I said with a smile. “Sorry, pal you just lost a fare.” I added. “Well then, it’s turkey time!” He said beaming. Soon we were in the air, the engine sounded fine. It was easier to talk as he gave me a headset. “Variable pitch prop froze, that’s all, it usually breaks loose.” He said into the mike. “It sure is a beautiful day!” I said as I glanced around. The river lay below us, snowmobile trails snaking off in every direction. Smoke curled from tin chimneys sticking out of the picture postcard log cabins below, their roofs pillowed in deep snow. The sun was starting to set on this, one of the shortest days of the year. The winter solstice had just passed. We landed at the airport right on time. Seiko was asleep on Grant’s couch where I had left him. I lit a fire in the old wood stove while Grant put the dinners in. He made a pot of hot water for coffee and tea. As we ate he looked at me sideways. “Were you scared?” he said curiously but not accusingly. “Nah! I took my cue from you. You were calm so I figured it was O.K.” He brightened “You have that much faith in me?” he asked. “I’d put my life in your hands.” I said and I meant it. After all I just had.

No magic words

To me words are everything. No writer no storyteller would tell you different. The right word, the right combination of words can mean everything. There are thousands of examples of this. Who cannot think of a great statesman and the quotes that are connected to him or her? Kennedy’s “Ask not what this country can do for you. As what you can do for your country” Churchill’s “I have nothing to offer but blood, toil, tears and sweat.” Regan’s “Mr. Gorbachev tear down this wall!” just words, right? Just words; in a way that Jesus, Moses and Mohammed were just ordinary guys. Words have a power to move us, to soothe us, to excite us, to change us forever. We may not be world leaders on the order of these but there are times when I wish I could have a speechwriter standing by to choose just the right words for me.
I have never really been scared to show my emotions. I am not a big believer in the old fashioned idea that a man should hide his emotions. Not that one should lose control in a crisis. I have been a store manager and I have been a firefighter and am now Fire Chief. I know better than to flinch when the going gets tough. That’s different. But there is a time to let people know how you feel. To let them know that you care and that they are not alone. Easier said than done sometimes, though.
I left home twenty five years ago and in that time I have never ended a conversation with my parents that I do not tell them that I love them. I never even gave it a second thought until one day a friend I will call Ryan who was in the room when I was talking on the phone to my Dad some years ago (sadly Dad has left us). “Good Bye Dad.”: I said cheerily “I love you, I’ll talk to you soon.” As I hung up Ryan looked at me “I have never told my Father that.” He said rather matter-of-factly. “What?” I replied “Good Bye?” “No fool, that I love him.” He replied wryly. I was floored. “Never?” I replied incredulously.“Ever?” “Nope, never ever!” he replied firmly. “What about your Mom?” “Not her neither.” He added. “But you do love them right?” “Well of course I do!” he added testily. “Then why not say it?” “Why, they know. They never said it either.” I was aghast.
Now my Mom is not the mushy type, not on the outside anyways, but she always tells me she loves me. I on the other hand am a big mush ball. My Dad was too. But none of us has had a problem with saying “I love you.” But the idea that Ryan had never told his folks he loved them gnawed at me. Some time ago I had sat down with my Father and told him I was proud of him. It is not something a son often does, I suppose. Especially at that time of their life. A time when the generation gap often distances men. There had never been a distance between us. We did lots of things together. “I wouldn’t know what to say.” Ryan told me when I again brought the subject up. “Just say I love you. What could be simpler?” I said. “I don’t know it just isn’t like us.” Was his reply.
Not long after this conversation occurred the small town we lived in suffered an unspeakable tragedy. In the entire long history of that community only five people had graduated high school and all of them had lived outside the community for many years prior to graduating. We were, in a few weeks time about to celebrate the graduation of a young woman who, although she was then attending school in a nearby town, still lived in our little town. We would have celebrated, but instead a mere two weeks before graduation got news of her tragic death in a car accident. Her father, a man only a few years older than I was, had the task of organizing and paying for a funeral when he should have been helping pick a prom dress. At the funeral, which was packed with townspeople and classmates, I wound up standing near the hearse when the body was brought out. The father turned to me and I extended my hand; our eyes locked and I fumbled for words but none came. A tear burned hot on my cheek and I felt that he was consoling me. Words had failed me and I felt awful. I had wanted to have the perfect words. Words that would sum up how I felt; how I shared his loss. How we all had lost a remarkable young lady with her life stretching out before her like the trans-Canada highway. I would later join the Community Education Council and would fight to bring grade twelve to our local community. Too late for her, though.
Wisdom comes with age, if you are lucky. If I have one pearl of wisdom to pass on to younger people; it is this’ life is short. Too short. Too short to carry anything as unbelievably heavy as a grudge. Tell those you love that you love them. Nobody, not even the children of the stars has ever written in their whiny autobiographies that their parents scarred them for life by telling them that they loved them. And hey, here’s an idea; when you are in the middle of an argument and I mean right; smack-dab in the middle. With someone who is close to you, and lets face it those are the people we really hold all that pent-up angst for. Let fly with it. Say it. Those three words that will drop like a bombshell. Say it plain and so matter-of-factly that they can’t think it is just a cheap way of winning an argument. “I love you.” I bet that argument will go by the wayside mighty quick. Sometimes in life it pays to call it a draw.
I lost my Dad a few years ago. It was a long way home, and the whole thing was a long sleepless blur. A blend of loss and grief and self pity. When the funeral was over, in the basement of the church where I had gone to Sunday school friends and neighbors poured out stories and love and grief and support. Not a writer or wordsmith among them. No statesmen, no speech writers. I never heard a word from any of them that did not make me feel better. No Hallmark sayings. Just good old fashioned words. Ordinary words from extraordinary friends. There would still be many dark days ahead. Grief is a process. But I was on my way. The blur was beginning to come into focus. I later heard a man being interviewed about a terrible plane crash where he lost his only brother. He spoke of how friends where scared to speak to him after his loss; scared they would not know what to say. The answer he said is simple; say something. “There are…” he said “no magic words…” Just words. Say what you feel. I am a firm believer that no one gets tired of hearing that you care.

Nostradamus should ‘a been a weatherman

A cloud of dust from Windy Island billlows along the Mackenzie river in front of Tulita





The wind whipped across windy Island pulling up a plume of dust that carried down the MacKenzie river for half a mile. It looked like the dusty wake of some speeding boat. ”Looks like a change in the weather.” I said to Lina as she folded towels. She joined me at the window and glanced out at the huge cloud of dust swirling down the valley. “Wow it sure is windy.” She said as she closed the kitchen windows. I had learned, when I had arrived in Tulita that the elders could tell what the weather would do by watching what the wind did on Windy Island. I respect this. These people have depended on their ability to judge the weather for ten thousand years. On a river as big as the MacKenzie your life depends on it. I respect this and take counsel from their advice. I remember I once had an elder remark to me “Those guys on the radio, they always tell us what weather is coming. But we always get what comes.” He was right, of course. The amazing thing about most native elders is not the wisdom that they pass on, it is the understated and offhanded way they do it.
Now I am sure that there is a lot of science that goes into weather watching and prognostication. Satelite imaging, Dopler Radar, anomometers, barometers, thermometers and lots of other meters too. Kilometres of meters. But I also suspect that there is an equal measure of artistry that goes into predicting the weather. What I am saying is that someone, some subjective, suggestible, fallible human has to look at all the data and tell us gullible human beings what it all means. This is where the voodoo or flim flammery comes into it. I am by nature a bit of a skeptic. I resist believing in anything until I have given it a good mental hashing out. I am not alone. I have a cousin that I used to work with on his father’s farm. Now farmers are somewhat more tied to the weather than most. They work in it all day. “Make hay while the sun shines” is a lot more than some useless aphorism. To the farmer, especially in 1973 it was the law! No plastic marshmallows full of Haylage ( a corruption of the words hay and silage). Where the hay is baled green in giant bags. No big round bales that could be left in the fields either. We baled good honest square bales. We cut the hay in the sun and we raked, tedded and baled it in the sun. If rain, or worse, yech, fog should occur when the hay was down it would be ruined. Either the hay would bleach and lose all its’ goodness or it would mildew and rot and brun your barn down. Serious stuff that gave more than one farmer grey hair. So this weather stuff was serious business.
Now a farmer’s life is one of routines. You rose before the sun, you put feed out for the cows. You brought in and milked said bovines. You cleaned your milkers and your barn and you turned bossie out into good pasture. In the summer days you made hay. Lots of hay. Then each night you did the routine all over again. Then you went to bed and prayed for sun. But before you tucked in you consulted the oracle. The sage. Like pilgrims at Delphi we surrounded the black and white console Zenith and watched the weather from Halifax. His name was Rube Hornstein. He was tall and thin with a good honest face. A useful trait in a weatherman. No day was complete until Rube had spoken. While his Father gave Rube a lot of weight, my cousin did not. “The only way to tell the weather by the TV is to put it outside. If it’s wet then it’s raining.” He was the ultimate skeptic.
Now poor Rube was telling weather before the greatest innovation in weather forecasting. What would that be you ask? Doppler? Satelite imaging? The blue screen? No way. The greatest revolution in all of forecasting was stolen from Astrology, Palmistry, Phrenology and Nostradamus his ownself. It is simple chicanery. The greatest invention in modern weather forecasting is the percentage chance of precipitation. Huh? No,seriously. Think about it. How do astrologers keep you coming back? They speak in such generalities that anything is possible. “You will meet someone interesting today.” Well when don’t you? “Be cautious with financial decisions.” Well when would that not be a good idea? The same was true of old Nostradamus. I once watched a TV show about Nostradamus and some guy in the garb of an Eastern Mystic was trying to spin one of old Nossie’s quatrains into the story of the rise of Adolf Hitler. He said that the rules of the quatrain allowed you to transpose every so many letters and to take the letter before or the letter after in the akphabet and make the word work. What a load of fertilizer! With rules like that I could be the greatest prognosticator in history. Nostradamus was a sham.
So too are these modern hocus-pocus purveyors of the “percentage pretense”. Allow me to explain. The forecast will say there is a 20% cahnce of rain right? So if it doesn’t rain they can say, “We told you so.” Because they said that there was an 80% chance it wouldn’t. If it does rain they can still say “I told you so.” Because they said there was a 20% chance that it might rain. See, they can’t be wrong. Flim-flammery of the highest order. “What’s that honey? Yeah I’ll bring in the clothes.” Well dear reader it is starting to rain so I must go. “Those guys on the radio, they always tell us what weather is coming. But we always get what comes.” Truer words…

Shave and a haircut

I love Barbershops, always have. I don’t know why. I never really gave it a lot of thought. But there must be a reason. I just seem to relax when I am in one. I walk through the door and I relax. If there is a line up, I relax even more. Where else on earth would you do that? Not at the bank, that’s for sure. Nor the post office or pharmacy either. In those places I just want to get out,as fast as I can. But at a barbershop I prefer a line. A line gives me leave to linger. To take a seat, to pick up a two year old Newsweek and to flip the pages and unwind. It’s a guy thing I think. I mean I never spent much time at the hairdressers to see if the women have the same kind of experience, maybe they do. I hope so. I love the barbershop.
The relationship that a man has with his barber is unlike his relationship with any other profession that we interact with. Take your Doctor for example. You never feel as relaxed with a Doctor as you do with your Barber. Doctors always seem to be judging you. Sizing you up. Have you put on weight? How’s your cholesterol? Have you been following your diet, taking your medication? Have you been sneaking a smoke? Judgmental, see? Like that. Same can be said for your mechanic. If something is wrong he looks at you like it was your fault. “If you wouldn’t ride the brakes the pads would last long!” Who needs it? Your tax guy is always going to point out something you could be doing to put more money away for a rainy day. Hell it’s pouring most of the time in my life.
But my Barber what is he going to do, get mad because my hair grew? No way. He is accepting. I wonder whether guys migrate to Barbering because they are of a certain, understanding disposition. Or is it the long hours on their feet with sharp objects poised above our throats that make them so. I have found most Barbers to be of such a temperament. Good listeners, good conversationalists. Perhaps the ones who are not just don’t survive. Maybe they fall by the wayside. Maybe the world of Barbering is a cut throat business. Uh, let me reword that. Perhaps the trade thins out the weak practitioners. In any case I have a lot of respect for Barbers. Good people.
Now this may date me or make me seem sexist but I must admit a preference toward a male member of the profession. I think it goes back to what I said about the whole thing being a guy thing. Typically, over the years I would arrive at the barber with a woman. When I was a kid it would be my Mom. Now it is with my wife. And when we would arrive and find a line up a smile involuntarily crosses my face. I proceed to a comfortable seat, close to the middle of the place, if possible. Close to the center of activity, the heart of the action, or inaction as the case may be. I wave of my female accompaniment “You go do your shopping check back in an hour.” I pick up a paper or an aging magazine. They are props. Merely there for looks. For once the women are gone, once the intrusion of our man cave is over the conversation resumes. Manly talk about manly things. Hockey, baseball, boxing, fishing, hunting anything manly really. We all revel in the time spent sharing guy stuff. It is a place we have to go to after all. If we go out to a bar or a buddy’s house we arouse suspicion and resentment the moment we walk through the door. We are on a timer and the women no matter how understanding are watching the clock the whole time. Be even five minutes later than the time that she expected you and you will never hear the end of it. Want to know what that time is? The arbitrary time that your significant other has determined and which she expects you to be exactly on time for? Well take the shortest amount of time you can imagine staying and divide that by a factor of four. That’s about it. But when you stroll into a Barbershop that is a beehive, on say a Saturday afternoon or a weekday evening and you can relish in a stolen hour. Stolen and totally guilt free. You have to be here, she doesn’t want you looking shabby does she?
There is a hedonistic aspect to it too. There are pleasant sights and smells in a Barbershop. There is the feeling of the chair. You sit in the barber’s chair and you recline. A fresh piece of tissue around your neck. The chair pumped up, you are elevated above the crowd of men waiting for the same pampering. You are special and you can show it, you are above all the other seated men in the room. Your Barber, your special servant is pampering you. He reclines the chair and runs a comb through your hair. No one else ever does this for you. Except when you were a kid and your mother would wet your fair before school. On Sundays she would put some of your father’s Brylcream in it, making you feel grown up. He asks you how you want it cut, but he already knows the answer. You have only to say about four words and the business part of this transaction is all but over. That is what makes this relationship so unique. When you see your Doctor you never know what He or She will say. What revelation they will make what horrible thing they will diagnose. With the aforementioned mechanic there is always the threat of a big expensive bill. But with you Barber, no surprises, you know where you stand and how much it will cost.
The whole process is tactile and satisfying. The pleasant buzz of the clippers, so more sedate than the whine of a dentist’s drill. The warm feel of the trimmer on your neck. The soothing balm of the hot lather and the tingling scrape of the straight razor. The pleasant smells of the tonics and the bright colors of the liquids in the various old fashioned bottles. The Barber’s world is one with much to stimulate all the sense. The conversation is good and is varied enough to allow most men something to say. Even if you are not a sports fan you have merely to listen to the sports the day before to have an opening gambit. “How about those Habs?” “When will So and So pack it in? He’s way past his prime.” In the Barbershop everyman is an expert and all have the right to an opinion. In many ways it is the most democratic institution ever.
I have been across this country from east to west and north to south. I have had haircuts in Yellowknife, Winnipeg, Vancouver, Edmonton Halifax and Whitehorse. In fancy boutiques and in Barber training schools. But there is one place to which I aways return. Always that is until Yesterday, Friday June 25th 2010, for that is when my favorite Barber and my friend George Wotten of Clarks Barbering and Hairstyling hung up the trimmer for good. George and I go way back. He has been cutting my hair since I was a kid. More than forty years. I must confess that it doesn’t take much time anymore; I don’t have a lot to cut anymore. In fact my friend Shane is always encouraging me to “Give it up!” and shave my head. The biggest reason I never did is that it is my only membership card into the joys of the haircut. The pleasures of the chair and the shop. A link to the bond George and I have shared these five decades. He has cut the hair of three generations of my family. Four generations of many other families. His little shop is a hole in the wall in a strip mall that has seen many changes over the years. Let’s start with the name. You may have remarked that George’s surname is Wotten while the shop he owns is called Clark’s. Forty four years ago George left his native P.E.I. and came to Dartmouth Nova Scotia, my home town, to work for his Uncle and learn the trade. The shop was on Portland Street in those days, closer to the downtown area. Times changed. Downtowns died and the suburbs prospered. George was young and forward looking. Malls were springing up and he saw the writing on the wall. He set up shop in the K-Mart mall in Westphal at precisely the time that my Barber was retiring. I say my barber but I was about seven so I had little say in the matter. George was close and he was good, enough said.
The shop changed little over the years, a neat row of seats. Three chairs at it’s’ height with a fourth in a room at the back where women could get a set. But mostly it was a guy place. Over the years the walls became adorned with photos of local sports stars whose hair George had deftly cut. Like I said it was a guys place. There was a glass case with some hair products for sale and some antique hair cutting tools. George went about his business quietly building a good clientele with a reputation for good haircuts at a fair price. He has a great smile and remembers almost everything. Even if I don’t need a haircut I would stop in. Outside the shop the world turned, and morphed and the big box stores came and went. The K-Mart became a Canadian Tire. Canadian Tire became Sobeys. In George’s little corner of the mall the fish got bigger, the Leafs still disappointed and shot that took the trophy buck got further and further. No matter where I roamed, no matter who cut my flair, whether it was a good, honest man cave or a barber shop or some frilly froo froo place that gave unisex designs, I still had a place to come home to. A sanctuary. In this changing world that is no small feat.
Well at about 7pm Atlantic Daylight Savings Time last night that all ended. I couldn’t resist calling George on the day. I couldn’t let it go by without a word to an old friend. I am not the only one. The local news “Live at Five” showed up for an interview and while there another old customer Premier Darrel Dexter showed up to pay his respects. How many mechanics of Doctors get that treatment when they retire? Not many I suspect. There truly is something special about the bond between a man and his Barber. I wished George the best. He really deserves a long, healthy and happy retirement. All those years of long days standing on his feet cutting hair are over. I must find another sanctuary, another man cave to crawl into. I must find someone else to pump up the chair and make me feel special. I will not need to feel guilty as I have low these many years whenever I slunk into another Barber’s shop. But I will always compare that individual to George; he will always be the benchmark, the non plus ultra. I should have asked him the sixty four thousand dollar question, nature or nurture. Are real Barbers born or do they become that way from years of hard work. I think I already know the answer I suspect it is a bit of both.

Forty two postcards

I am a sinner, no doubt about it. We all have our shortcomings, I guess. I admit it though and I think that is half the battle. The thing that will surprise my friends is what my sin is. I am one of the greediest people I know. See, I knew it; they are shaking their heads already. I don’t own a vehicle, not a car or truck. No quad or snowmobiles. I don’t own my own hou

se. I am wearing a pair of sneakers I paid $15 for. I seldom buy a shirt if it is more than $20. I don’t carry money, unless I am on holidays. My wallet will go six months without ever having twenty dollars in it. Greedy? My friends have stopped scratching their heads and are now holding their stomachs as their sides are starting to hurt from laughing. Yet there is something I covet more than anything else. It is something that goes back to an investment I made more than a decade ago.
It started the year I met my wife Lina. It was in the community of Ft. Resolution on the shores of Great Slave Lake. I was single, but not really looking. It was late spring. The weather gets pretty nice in Ft Res that time of year. The store I ran was in a pretty good spot. Located on a point of land that was bordered by a sandy beach on one side and a swampy area of rushes on the other side. In May the days are long with sunlight until nearly midnight. The lake sparkles and the children ride bikes along the beach and hunt frogs in the rushes. It was on a sleepy spring day; I was working in the office when my friend Dave McNabb breezed by, down the main aisle of the store fumbling with his post office keys. Beside him and before me passed a vision. It was like a blur. Like something half seen, out the corner of your eye. Where you are not quite sure what you have seen. It was a woman, to be sure but no one that I had ever seen before. She seemed short, with the most amazing hair. She was unzipping her jacket and was moving as fast as Dave. I stopped and stared. “How on earth did Dave snag a woman like that?” I thought to myself. A ringing phone snapped me back to reality and I was taken away. When I was free again she was gone. I wondered whether I had seen her at all.
Some time passed, before I saw her again. This reinforced the belief that I had seen a vision, or that she had merely been visiting. Fate, luck, kismet call it what you will but a wind was blowing through my life. I didn’t know it but I was about to feel its’ effects. All went on as normal; I had about forgotten the brief encounter when one day, one sunny beautiful day she walked through the door again. She was with a small girl carrying a beach towel. The sunlight poured through the open doorway surrounding her like an angel’s aura. I must have seemed dumb struck. She took a bottle of lemonade to the till. Our faithful cashier Christine was busy, bless her. I nipped to the till as quickly as a flash. “Can I help you?” I said. She was as I had pictured her, small and slight; beautiful with a crown of amazing hair. I dragged the transaction out as long as I could, chatting about the weather. I then felt Christine’s hand on my elbow. I looked down at her. She was smiling wickedly. I excused myself and slipped outside and stood on the steps. Shortly she passed from the store and we chatted again. I was on cloud nine when I returned to work. Christine met me at the door her arms folded and a huge grin on her face. “What” I said “are you smiling about?” She looked at me in her best motherly fashion and turned away. As she left she said, over her shoulder “Somebody’s smitten.” “What are you talking about?” I said to myself as she was already back to work.
A few days later, in the evening there was a knock at my door. There she was, with a mutual friend. They were just walking back from the beach. I invited them in for coffee. I finally learned her name; Lina. Lina with an “I” not an “E”. Too soon they were gone. Then I saw it, a small bottle of bug dope. I had seen it in our friend’s hand when they arrived. I slid the bottle in my pocket when I went to work the next day. All day I waited for her. When I saw her I followed her. She seemed to dart about like a minnow in the current. I thought she would slip away so when she went down one aisle I slipped down the next and we met suddenly and unexpectedly on my side of the aisle. I took the bottle from my pocket and gave it to her. “You left this behind.” I said hoping to sound convincing. “It’s my friend’s but thanks.” She said cheerily. She turned to go. “Would you like to come to dinner tomorrow might?” I said far too fast and a lot louder than I had intended. To my immense relief she smiled and said “Yes.” “Seven O.K.?” I asked. “I am going to barbeque.” “Sure. That sounds good!” she said and was gone. I felt light as a feather as I turned; whistling. Christine was standing in her usual spot arms folded. She was beaming. “What now?” I pleaded. She shook her head and turned away without unfolding her arms.
Late spring turned to a beautiful summer. On Canada Day I was cooking hot dogs for kids at the Fire Hall. “I’ll have one of those!” Lina said; she had snuck up on me from behind. “You bet!” I said picking out a good one. We had been seeing one another for a week or two. I had filled in some of the details. I knew who she was. She was Lina Sayine. I knew her brothers; Robert, James, and Charles. She had come to town to work for Dave, but things were slow in Dave’s auction business so she had taken a job at the community hall, making burgers, fries and BLTs. She was living with family members and they had different schedules it made it hard for her to sleep. After a time I asked her to move in with me and she accepted. I took to cooking meals at home and taking them to her while she was working. She didn’t care for the fried fare offered at the Hall. I tried out every dish in my bachelor’s repertoire; chili, home baked beans, Fish chowder, stew, barbeque and spaghetti. Lina would open the bag of steaming goodies and inhale “MMMMMMM! It smells so good!” she would say. The elders who migrated to the community hall each evening to play cards began to make comments. “Lina he never came to the hall until you started working here.” As well the ladies began to comment on the food I was bringing. Lina being a tiny thing did not eat the portions I was cooking so she began sharing the leftovers with the elders. Soon I would be hearing comments at the store “I loved the chowder.” “When are you making the beans again?”
A small town loves to have something to talk about, in fact in Ft Res there is a saying. “If you don’t hear a rumor by noon, start one.” Lina is originally from Ft Res but had not lived there since she was 17. The whole town was match making us. In fact it had started even before Lina and I had met. Lina’s niece Paula is married to my assistant manager and she had once tried to “fix me up” with her Auntie. I had visions of someone in a white sweater and skirt with a shawl. The elder women who haunted the hall were gossiping overtime. They love Lina; she is so vivacious and so loveable that everyone wanted her to come home to stay. They saw me as a means to that end.
Once Lina had moved in with me my routine became entrenched. Thus began one of the strangest courting rituals ever. I would go home at the end of the day. I would call Lina and see if she wanted anything special then cook supper. Then I would go down to the Hall and see her. I would help with any chores she was behind on; running garbage out to the bin, mopping spills, stacking chairs etc. Then I would play pool with my friends, wander from table to table watching card games and shooting the breeze with the male elders on the front verandah. Then I would go home and catch an hour’s sleep. I would return just before closing and help Lina clean the grill, sweep up or cut onions for the next day. We would cash out and head home. By then, with Lina’s topsy turvery schedule she would be hungry. Usually I would heat up a can of soup or stew or meatballs and gravy. We would eat it in bed watching our favorite late night shows. They were British sitcoms on PBS. First we would watch “Are you being served?” followed by ”Keeping up Appearances.” Patricia Routledge who plays the annoying and upwardly mobile Hyacinth Bucket (pronounced bouquet, but only by her) became known as “our lady”. That is how entrenched this routine was in our courtship.
Now I should mention that as delighted as I was when I found out that Lina was not my friend Dave’s girl; there was another fly in the ointment that kept me a bit ill at ease. It was the fact that Lina was in Ft Res only for the summer. She was attending college in Ft McMurray Alberta. Summer is as short as it is sweet in the Arctic. All too soon August was there. I was scheduled for four weeks vacation and at the end of my holidays I was to take a two week course in Winnipeg where our company has its’ headquarters. The deadline hung over us like a cloud. Neither of us wanting to bring the subject up. I was at once happier than I had ever been in my life; having met the woman who was my soul mate. Yet, on the other hand it was all temporary, all fleeting. Like the bliss of a summer breeze all too soon an icy winter blast was coming, remember I said a wind was blowing through my life. This wonderful woman might be swept from it like the leaves that were already turning yellow on the poplar tress on the point. One night we were on the sofa eating and watching TV. Lina, exhausted after standing on her feet all night had asked me to get her a few things, some salt a piece of bread, I forget what all. She looked into my eyes and asked “Am I being a bug?” It was my greatest pleasure to do these small things for her; I wanted to do so much more. I have a quick mind; it works in a flash and has sometimes gotten me in trouble more often something else happens. At this moment something simple yet magical happened. I replied, as quick as a heartbeat “Yes, you are a bug, a Ladybug.” Her eyes sparkled. “I like that, Ladybug!” In that instant I knew I had my affectionate name for Lina. Ladybug. It summed her up perfectly. Small; beautiful and loved by all. The Ladybug. Remember I said fate was at work here.
Unfortunately there was something else at work here. Time and tide seemed to be against me. So did past history. I have not had a great track record with the ladies; hence I was single at 38. I was luckless, always ending up alone. I felt a bit like my favorite Peanuts cartoon. It features an equally luckless Charlie Brown chatting with Linus while leaning against a brick wall. In panel one a smiling Charlie Brown says to Lines (paraphrasing) “For one brief moment today I thought I was winning in the game of life.” In panel two Charlie Brown, now frowning adds “But… there was a flag on the play.” As I packed to go I could clearly see the slow motion of the flag leaving the ref’s hand and arcing towards the ground, the referee raising the whistle to his lips.
“What is going to become of us?” I asked Lina through the egg sized lump in my throat as we parted at the airport. “I don’t know yet. Call me.” She returned to Ft Res. to stay with her niece while my house was occupied by my locum. Usually I was elated to visit my family. But now a cloud was over me. A decision had to be made a decision that would change both of our lives forever. The worst part was that, as usual it was not my decision to make. I resolved to call Lina every day. Yet somehow this did not seem enough. I needed to do something physical. I could only talk to her at night when I could call her at the hall. I needed to do something else, something tangible something that would push her towards staying, towards being my partner in life. I had half a lifetime of being single and I wanted this more than anything I had ever wanted. I may not have known I was looking, but sometimes you don’t know what you want until you find it.
I had to overnight in Edmonton. While waiting for the shuttle to the hotel I passed a newsstand. My eyes caught a revolving rack of postcards. Like I said my mind is quick, in a flash my mind seized on a plan. I always send a postcard from holidays to my staff, although I often get back before the card arrives. What if I sent Lina a postcard every day that I was gone? I knew that there would be a lag; that some time would pass before she got the first one. But after that I imagined the effect of a postcard arriving every day for six weeks. A postcard that would feature something about what I had done that day, from the place that I visited or was staying. It would give me a chance to summarize my thoughts and to have at least a one-sided conversation with her at a time of day that I otherwise would not have an opportunity to do so. I would write and mail the cards every morning. I bought a card and some stamps.
There is a Yiddish saying “Man plans God laughs”. I had envisioned the cards arriving one a day everyday, after the initial lag. I didn’t mention the cards to Lina I wanted to hear her reaction when the first one arrived. Time passed days turned into a week and then longer. Even the one I had mailed from Edmonton had not arrived. I had not calculated the fact that mail moves very slowly in the north and, of course Ft Res gets mail only three times a week. Then, one day Lina walked into the store and made her way to the Post Office at the back. One of my staff stopped her and said “Look at this; we got a postcard from Greg!” Lina meanwhile opened her mailbox. She removed the contents and flipped through them casually. “Oh did you get one too?” cooed my staff member. “No” Lina replied beaming; I got seven!” I had envisioned the effect of one card a day arriving. That was the plan. Like I said; fate. I had never considered the cumulative effect of seven cards arriving at once. When I called that evening Lina was ebullient; she described the encounter at the store and seemed to revel in the event. God was laughing, but I had a smile on my face too.
We were only a week or two from D-Day, decision day. I seized the moment and I asked her the question we both were dreading. “What about us? What about you? Are you going to stay?” I was fighting to keep my voice steady, not to pressure her, not to break down like a fool. A short pause occurred and when she answered her voice was as thick as mine. “Oh, my love, I thought you knew I can’t leave now. “ I was jumping up and down. Somewhere, wherever God acts these things out someone was waiving off the flag on the play. Another referee was holding two hands above his head palms facing each other. I had scored the winning touchdown.
Sometimes even Charlie Browns like me get the girl. Thus it was that 42 days after I left her at the airport I was squeezing her in my arms and spinning her in that same airport. She was staying and we were about to embark on the greatest adventure of our lives, together. The wind was blowing through my life but this time we were both being swept along and I was prepared to go along for the ride. In the same community hall where I had swept the floors for love, I got down on one knee and asked Lina to marry me. I did it on Valentines Day 1999. We were married one year later on May 20th 2000 this was the source of my greed. I have become "A squeezing, wrenching, grasping, scraping, clutching, covetous, old sinner” to borrow a line from Dickens. What I treasure, what I want to hoard, to keep just for me and no one else, what I covet is time. Most specifically is the time I spend with my wife, Lina. Not just special moments. Not just moments like standing atop Blarney castle waiting to kiss the Blarney stone. Not just moments like standing on the stage at the Grand Ole Opry, or sitting on Citadel Hill on a beautiful clear Halifax night singing along to “Give Peace a Chance” with Paul McCartney. Not just these. But the simple moments too. Like the day I came home for lunch and Lina said we are having “Grilled cheese sandwiches” except I didn’t hear her right. “What are grouchy sandwiches?” I asked. When she explained we both laughed so hard we hurt. I still call them grouchy sandwiches. It is these simple moments that I cherish, that I covet. Lina often asks why I love her. It is hard to say. There are a million reasons, almost literally. I love her for the way she talks with her hands. I love her for the way she dances about when there is no music. I love her for the way she always thinks of me first and I of her. I love her for all the silly things she does that make the elders laugh and the children giggle.
How do you guide someone to make a decision like this? What can you do that will move someone so much that they would change the course of their entire life? I took a gamble, made a gesture, made an investment. Forty Two postcards cost $61.42 postage with tax $22.02 total cost $83.44 a lifetime of love together…


Priceless.

Judge not that ye be not judged

In the army they say never volunteer for anything. There’s a lot of wisdom in that. Good advice. Too bad I never seem to take it. One of the things about living in the north and not being from there is that you will always be an outsider. It is the same with small towns all over, I suspect. “You’re not from here” that’s what people think. Well there are rules to living in a small northern town. Some are obvious, some are more subtle. Obvious or subtle you have to learn them all if you are to survive. It has always been so. Three hundred years ago my predecessors at work (I manage the local Northwest Co. trading post) would have learned to build a fire, or how to portage white water. Skills that meant life or death. Today maybe the risks are less. Maybe no one dies if they don’t learn these skills, still…
Let’s start with the mundane skills you need to survive, what shall I call them? How about life skills? The first rule of life is that you can live longer without food than you can without water. Now when you live in the city you turn a tap and water comes out. If you walk away while the tap is open and come back an hour later there will still be water coming out. You might have a flood but you will have water. Not so in the north. We have water delivered by truck. We have a tank of some sort in our house and; in theory; it gets filled on some sort of schedule. Like anything else in the north it is more a theory than anything. One thing I learned early on was that you never, never want to tick off the water guy. In my first posting in the north the water guy was Mark, a big affable fellow who was never without a ball cap, tilted rakishly over his left eye. My roommates and I had one water tank and we got water once a week. Three adult guys could go through a whole tank of water in just two days. Monday was water day. By Wednesday the sink would start to fill with dishes. By Friday we would be drinking coffee out of anything clean, saucers, ashtrays, you name it. Paper plates and foam cups filled our wastebasket to overflowing. Laundry piled up and the pile never went away. Even when we had water there was never enough to wash everything. I took to bathing up in the lake, but it was November and the cold water gave me a headache when I was washing my hair.
“Other people get water more than once a week.” I exclaimed one night to my roommates. “Why not ask Mark if we can get an extra load?” Darrel looked at me briefly pulling his attention from the hockey game. “I’ll do it tomorrow. Back me up O.K.?” he asked. “Sure!” I agreed enthusiastically. Darrel explained that Mark was not in favor of twice a week delivery, he wasn’t paid by the load, just by the day. The next morning we sought him out and found the truck in a neighbor’s yard. Darrel strode up confidently, he had a cocky side. “Hey Mark” he said loudly. “What do you think about bringing us water twice a week? There are three of us now.” Mark turned and cocked his head. He was looking at us suspiciously, like we were asking him to take a strange package through customs. “What are you doing with all that water? Playing in it?” he asked. “No!” Darrel replied “We take a bath once in a while you should try it!” We melted snow for water for a month.
Later on Darrel moved to a new house and my other roommate was transferred. I was alone and one tank of water was fine if I was careful. One day I was walking through the yard. I waved at Mark as he pulled in. He leaned out of the cab. “Hey you know a lot of people get water twice a week, would you like me to come back on Fridays?” I was stunned. “Sure!” I replied trying not to sound too enthusiastic. And so it was that I had more water than I needed. It was like heaven. The pile of dirty clothes went away.
Another skill that I have acquired; over the years, is the skill of not being in the wrong place at the wrong time. This is critical. Like I said we are not from here. You make the perfect candidate for a judge. A judge of anything. From science fairs and costume contests to talent shows. I have judged them all at one time or another. Diplomacy on the level of Henry Kissinger is required. Pick the wrong person and you will know it. When attending such functions arrive late. How late? Well take fashionably late and add a bit. Under no circumstances be early. Also know when such events are happening so you do not wander into the free fire zone by accident. I have spent five hours listening to off key music, forgotten lyrics and scratchy fiddles. The best advice that I can give is to stay clear. There is no worse feeling than the staring eyes and scornful gazes of the parents of some youth that was spurned in some local competition.
I am a bit pedantic (look it up, I did). I like to pass on my “wisdom” to greenhorns who find themselves in the north for the first time. I play the role of the veteran. It helps if you dress the part. Don’t overdress for cold weather. I laugh at these southerners who pile off the Twin Otter with their $700 parkas. They look like they are wearing a tent. I am standing there in a jack shirt with a hoodie under it. Unbuttoned. They are wearing boots that come so far up their legs you wonder how they can bend their knees. I am wearing sneakers. Start a conversation. Keep them outdoors a few minutes they will start to get uncomfortable quickly. This breaks down the barriers to learning that many people bring with them from the south. Call it smugness or what you will but it can be dangerous up here.
A number of years ago I got a new management trainee, or associate as we call them now. He arrived in town mid week and after a brief orientation and tour of the town I left him to unpack and settle in. The next morning he seemed subdued. I asked him if he had slept well. “It wasn’t the sleep, I think people hate me!’ he said dolefully. This was a revelation. “It usually takes weeks for the town to hate someone.” I informed him. “What happened?” It seems that he had finished unpacking and decided to take a walk. “I was walking past the arena when this lady asked me to call bingo.” He said. “Uh Oh!” I said a sinking feeling sweeping over me. “I told her I knew nothing about bingo but she seemed desperate.” He related a story of how he started calling the first game; the room was packed with more than fifty women. “It was called the letter X.’ he said in tones as if he were relating the details of the death of a close friend. “We had a winner. Someone called BINGO! So I did what I thought I was supposed to do…” his voice trailed off. “You dropped the balls back in, right?” I asked my voice showing my sympathy. “Yep!” In my mind I could picture the scene. An exultant winner standing in her seat holding up the winning card while my new clerk reached up for the handle that would dump the balls back into the hopper. Then as if in slow motion every woman in the room shooting to their feet the sound of their cries dragged out by the slow motion, “Noooooooooooooo!” The balls hanging in air briefly like Wile E Coyote hanging in air before he plunged into a canyon. Fifty women storming the stage where he was seated eyes red with bloodlust. “Let me guess, it was a Go-Go Bingo?” I asked. “Yeah and I had no idea what a Go-Go Bingo is.” He replied. I bet you know now; I thought. A Go-Go Bingo for the uninitiated keeps going after the initial winners until there is a blackout. You need the balls to keep track.”I was lucky to get out of there alive!” he said a look of lingering terror in his eyes.
Now I like to impart these skills to my new trainees. There just wasn’t time. I hadn’t anticipated a life threatening scenario like this happening on the first day. Most people don’t tread those waters for weeks after getting to the north. So I don’t feel totally responsible for what happened. He did survive and he did learn a valuable life lesson. That which does not kill you makes you stronger after all.
Like I said there are skills to staying alive in the north. Minus forty makes steel as fragile as glass. At minus fifty skin can freeze in thirty seconds. Bears can climb trees and can outrun you any day of the week. Always take extra clothes when driving on the winter road there may not be another vehicle for five days. Oh yeah, never rile a room full of Chipeweyan women when they are in full Bingo mode. I gotta get them to put that in the brochure.