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Friday, October 28, 2011

Wringing the last drop out of a wrong number

I wonder if Alexander Graham Bell got wrong numbers. I hope so. I hate them. There is nothing as loud as the sound of a phone ringing in a sleeping house at two in the morning. Lina got to it first on about the third ring. “Hello?” She answered weakly and groggily. “Is Wuzzername there?” Said a thick; slurred voice on the other end of the line. “You have the wrong number!” Lina replied, sounding more awake and a lot angrier. We put the incident out of our minds and went back to sleep. This time; when the phone rand Lina picked it up on the second ring “What?!” She barked. “Is Wuzzername there?” It was the same drunken voice. “You have the wrong number!” Lina answered with as much venom as she could muster. She slammed the receiver down even though it was cordless and that’s not what hangs it up.
Now this was far from my first late night wrong number. I remember when I was living in northern Alberta in the 1980’s. Back in those days there were no cordless phones. There was only one phone jack and it was in the living room at the other end of my trailer. When the phone rang at three in the morning I staggered ha length of the trailer in inky blackness stubbing my toe on the kitchen table in the process. “Hello?” I said still half asleep. “This is Alberta Government Telephones; I have a collect call from Henry do you accept the charges?” The operator’s voice sounded young. It figured only someone new would get stuck working at this hour of the night. I could hear a plaintiff voice in the background. A drunken plaintiff voice “Accept the charges Dad it’s me Henry.” Now Henry was a neighbor of mine. He was a sweetheart when he was sober. As there was no place to drink or buy booze in our little town he was usually sober. But every time he went to the nearest larger town he got drunk. Three a.m. was when the bars closed. “You have the wrong number.” I said putting the receiver down. I tried to get back to bed without opening my eyes.
I have had sober people call me back after a wrong number and I had barely put the phone down. I swear they hit redial. That is stupidity. Drunkenness is a different kettle of worms. Drunks have randomness to their thought process which allows their poor victim time to fall back into that deepest stage of REM sleep. The stage where young men are dreaming of waving a fly rod on a clear day in their favorite strip of trout water. A day so still and so perfect that the only flies are in your vest pockets and the only ripples on the water are trout rising to your fly. When suddenly with a deafening clatter the phone bell rends the air like the atomic bomb! I shot to my feet like I had been ejected out of bed. Again I thought I could stay asleep with the lights off so again I navigated the shoals of furniture without the benefit of the lights. I ran aground on a kitchen chair and hopped the last six feet my wounded toe in one hand as I scooped the receiver up with the other. “Hello?” I squealed into the mouthpiece. The same young voice as before; the same professional spiel “This is Alberta Government Telephones; I have a collect call from Henry.” I was stunned. There must only be one operator on duty at that hour of the night in northern Alberta. “Oh for crying out loud! It’s the same number as before lady; it’s still the wrong number!” I could still hear Henry sniveling on the other end of the line. “Well I am just doing my job! I have to put these calls through what if it was an emergency?” She sounded hurt and I immediately regretted my tone. “I’m sorry operator. But this isn’t his Dad’s place I am just trying to fish. I mean sleep.” As I hung up I made a mental note to look up Henry’s Dad’s phone number the next day.
I think the randomness is as infuriating if not more infuriating than the thing itself. I had actually hooked the fish this time when the phone exploded into action. This time I made no pretense of trying to stay asleep and I turned on the hall light which seemed to be a million candle power. It blinded me so badly I walked straight into the end table the phone sat on. “Hello?” I said dumbly into the phone. “This is Alberta Government Telephones; I have a collect call from Henry.” She sounded apologetic almost pleading. “I’ll accept the charges.” I said forlornly. She seemed stunned. There was a long silence only partly filled with the sound of Henry on the other end begging his Dad to accept the charges. “It’s the same guy; the same wrong number.” She said finally. “I know; but it is the only way I am going to get to sleep. “ I said. “I owe you.” She said kindly. For the next half an hour I got Henry’s life story. Once he realized I wasn’t his Dad he asked who I was. In time he figured it out. In time to he passed out. I hung up and grabbed the skinny phone book and turned to the half page that held our town’s phone numbers. Sure enough Henry’ Dad’s number was the reverse of mine. So Henry was not just an alcoholic he was dyslexic oot.
A month or so passed in which I slept well. Then; one night at three a.m.; the phone rang. I had learned a lesson and with a flashlight by my bed I walked the distance from my bedroom to the living room without incident. I picked up the receiver “This is Alberta Government Telephones;” A now familiar voice said. “I have a collect call from Henry for Greg. Will you accept the charges?” I was stunned. “Yes operator I will.” Henry and I had what would become our typical conversation. He talked about how bad his life was and I listened. We didn’t become friends but we became friendly. As the calls were only once in a while; and as they were no longer wrong numbers I actually grew to enjoy them; sort of.
When I moved about a year later my replacement asked me if he could keep the same phone number. We had shared the small trailer for some weeks and his parents already had the number memorized. I gave it no thought and quickly agreed. Some weeks later and in a somewhat testy voice he asked me; over the phone, of course. “Who is Henry?” “Probably a wrong number.” I commiserated. “A pretty damned persistent wrong number!” said he.
Meanwhile back in the present tense the phone rang again. I beat Lina to it this time. “Is Wuzzername there?” The voice sounded a little angry. “You have the wrong bloody number!” I thundered. Lina put her hand on my arm to calm me. “Look this is my own number; I ought to know my own number!” Said the boozy one. You should I thought but obviously you don’t. Just then an idea hit me. “Wuzzername is passed out. After you left she invited us all over and we drank all your booze and broke a few things, sorry!” There was a pause. I could almost see the look on his face as he figured out what that meant. “I am coming right home and you had better all be gone when I get there!” This time he slammed down the receiver. Lina stared at me. “So now he’s coming here?” She asked incredulous. “What do you call that?” I beamed. “Payback!” I rubbed my hands. “He isn’t coming here. He has no idea where we are. He is going home where a very surprised Wuzzername is no doubt sleeping. I’d give ten bucks to see the look on both of their faces.” I wish I had Graham Bell’s number in heaven. I’d love to ring him up and ask him if he has Prince Albert in the can.

Wednesday, October 26, 2011

The lure and lore of the northern lights


Photo By Brodie Thomas



“When am I going to get to see the northern lights?” Sharon the newest member of our management team asked. Fresh from God’s country (Nova Scotia) she wanted to see the big show. I couldn’t blame her it is well worth the wait though. “Well you’ll have to wait until it gets dark at night which won’t be until late August. Some of the best lights are at the end of August and early September.” I was smiling as I said it her exuberance reminded me of my own when I first went north. I had seen it many times over the years everyone has a natural curiosity about the lights and they are magnificent; one of the great natural wonders of the world. I thought back twenty five years ago to when I first saw them on a bus headed into northern Alberta. I had asked the bus driver if the apostrophe shaped smudge on the northern horizon was the northern lights he said he wasn’t sure but if they were still there in an hour or two they must be. “Otherwise,” he informed me “it’s just smoke from the mill.” Big mill; I thought. As I got off the bus eight hours later they were still there. “Looks like they were the lights.” He said with a smile as I got. Off. They filled the horizon now. “You’re not in Kansas anymore.” I remember thinking.
“What are the lights?” Sharon asked. “That depends who you ask.” I replied. “The peoples of the polar world all have their own explanation. The Finns call it Fox Fire they say that a great fox painted the Arctic sky with snow on its’ tail. The Eskimo of Greenland say they are the spirits of babies who died in childbirth.” Sharon visibly shivered. “That’s so sad.”She replied. “The Sami of Scandinavia believe they are the souls of the dead. They have an icon for them and use it in the artwork and evoke their power in their magic. My people; the Scots, call them The Merry Dancers. Closer to home the Cree I have lived among called them The Spirit Dancers. They too believe they are the spirits of the dead.” “I never knew they had such power over people.” Sharon said in a hushed voice. “Wait until you see them. You’ll understand.” I said smiling at her naiveté. “Don’t whistle when you see them.” Said my wife quietly. My wife is Dene; Chipeweyan to be exact. “Why not?” Sharon asked. “They will attack you.” Lina said seriously. “Some native people believe that the lights will take you away if you whistle or call them down or trifle with them. I think it comes from the awe and reverence in which they are held. It’s like a mark of respect; to take these wonders seriously” Sharon seemed impressed. “They crackle too.” Added Lina. “Really?” Sharon sounded incredulous. “Yeah, to the Dene the lights are a multi media event. They believe that when the lights are low the crackle and they have a smell.” “A bad smell! Don’t breathe it or it will kill you!” Lina added. “There is a legend of five hunters near Hay River who were using the light of the Borealis to hunt. The sound of their dog sleigh bells brought the lights down on them and even though they lay in the snow they were killed by breathing in the vapor.” I added.
“I remember once I was hunting in the Peace country of Northern Alberta. I had just bedded down when my dog raised his head and started to growl. I looked up and the wall of my tent was lit up like daytime. “What on earth?” I thought as I scrambled out through the tent door; my dog beside me. When I got outside I realized that it was not a case of what on earth? But rather of what in Heaven? The sky was dancing with curtains of neon green waving as if in some great cosmic breeze. Then I heard what had made my dog growl. Wolves! Choruses of wolves over the distant hills were calling out to the distant lights. Answered by a lone wolf much nearer; no doubt a lone black male we had spotted earlier in the day. A shiver went up my spine. I petted my dog and stood in awe of the sight and sound. This was what I had come north for.”
“But what are they really?” Sharon’s boyfriend Bart asked; always the skeptic, always the realist. “Cosmic dust carried on the solar wind.” I replied as cryptically as I could manage. “No; seriously.” He added. “Yes, seriously. They are caused by energized ions of dust carried by the solar wind. They enter the upper atmosphere and react with the elements there. The color of the lights changes according to the elements that the charged particles react with. The upper atmosphere is mostly oxygen which makes them green. Other elements make them blue or rarely red. They are often visible further south but they appear lower on the horizon. The closer to the magnetic pole you are the more overhead they will appear. It is largely a magnetic phenomenon.” Like I said you have to see them. A month or so later I was on the phone to Bart and Sharon. “I saw them!” Sharon was saying. She was ecstatic. She was on facebook right away telling her friends. A month after that she was asking me if I had seen them the night before. I had. I never get tired of them.
“So tell me…” Said Bart; the skeptic. “Do you believe the legends of the lights?” I thought for a moment. “I believe there are legends about the lights.” I replied slyly. “That is not what I asked.” He replied. Another pause. It was a touchy subject. I have always believed that I am a guest here in someone else’s land; that I have been privileged to share in the culture of the people who do live here. This is their land and these are there beliefs. I do not take them lightly nor would I ever dream of mocking them. “I do not disbelieve them. I respect these beliefs and the rights of those who believe them. They are formed out of awe and respect for nature and the creator. I share that awe and I share that respect.” I said gravely. “Did you ever whistle at the northern lights?” He asked.

“Never!” I said and I meant it. “And I never will.”

Saturday, October 1, 2011

Lord of the Maggots

We grew up on the edge of the city. In what was then being called by a new term “Suburbia” ; a new term for a new age. Our parents had moved to the city from the surrounding countryside. Our fathers were back from the war. “Son; I see your back from the front!” ‘Oh my God!” he replies “It’s that army food! I must be skinnier than I thought!” Cities bulged. The babies were booming and those small; post war homes were popping up everywhere. Forests were cut down. A house or two would spring up and a neighborhood grew overnight. Small houses on big lots; big families in two or three bedrooms right on the edge of the city; up against the forest.
Kids were the order of the day. The depression was done; rationing was done; the war was done. The time for self sacrifice and grimness was over; it was a time to be fruitful and multiply. It was a time for laughter and the joy of youth. A youthful society set free from two decades of woe and care. A society that worshipped youth that wanted to hear the sounds of childhood. It was the sixties man! We were hip and cool and free! The world had probably never known a freer society. Set free by our parents who had tossed aside tyrants and opened the doors to prosperity. We roamed the neighborhood with impunity. We were legion. No play-dates for us just a game of baseball or road hockey at the drop of a ball. We rushed from the house with a ninety nine cent Superblade© on the end of an old broken hockey stick and made our own fun for hours at almost no cost and almost no fuss or arrangements. We were like our own subculture.
Like youth of all cultures we imitated our parents and our society and we formed our own societies with our own leaders and our own rules. Being that this was new ground we were like settlers or pioneers of sorts out here on the semi-civilized fringes of the city. We roamed around and explored the wilderness that surrounded our safe little suburban neighborhoods. There was adventure out there to be had; adventures that would; no doubt, have chilled our parent’s blood. We sailed the lake on an old raft powered by my swimming flippers. We climbed Miller’s Mountain and drank from a spring on its’ crest. We hunted suckers with spears in the swamp behind the school. We did boy things and had boy fun. We were like kids on a deserted island. Like “Lord of the flies” until we went home to our safe suburban one and a half story houses and were folded into our clean sheets.
One thing that boy society worships above all else is courage. There were many unwritten rules to this effect. Never let them see you cry would be number one. A tear or a crack in your voice could bring endless teasing; caustic rebukes and even the dreaded “Nyah nyah: nyah nyah nyah nyah!” the highest form of mockery! It was not uncommon to belong to different gangs of boys at the same time. You might be a junior member of an older boy’s gang or a senior member of a younger boys club at the same time. Important life lessons were learned while lighting firecrackers or climbing trees.
“What is it?” Jed asked as we approached the still form on the edge of the woods. Martin took a long stick and poked the animal gingerly; it didn’t move. “It’s a dead Bobcat!” Phil said with exuberance. ”Cool!” . Said many. We had come across the dead body of a Bobcat on the edge of the woods where it met the highway. We spent some time speculating on how it had gotten there. These woods were no longer connected to the greater forest where there were Bobcats. By consensus we determined that it had come from the nearby forest and been hit by a car and wandered here to die. It was a find of some importance. It was necessary to determine what to do with so sacred an object. There was only one recourse; we retired to the meeting rock. The meeting rock stood in a nearby clearing; it was enormous. In our primal world things of the natural world; things that stood out, were important. The rock; because it was huge had its’ own inherent power. It was a natural place to meet and to decide on things of importance.
We gathered in the lee of the rock safe from prying eyes and ears and sat in a circle in the clearing. “It’s splendiferous!” said one. “Its’ super cool!” said another. Choruses of “Cool!” resounded. It had been decided the Bobcat was officially “Cool!” There was some mumbling then a brief silence. Even brief silences among a group of boys are weighty things. There was some shuffling and then a cleared throat. “All right it’s cool; what do we do with it?” More shuffling; more silence. Then Phil opened his mouth “Why don’t we mount the skull on our clubhouse?” Pandemonium broke loose Shouts of “Skull!” and “Cool!” resounded in the little clearing in the woods. Phil lived on the other edge of the wood. His backyard held an old shed his Father had turned into a clubhouse for us boys. It was Phil’s home turf; of course so he was lord and master within it’s’ walls. A Bobcat skull would; it was decided look very cool over the door of the club house. We all saw it in our mind’s eyes; open jawed and yellowed with age (or maybe some varnish) emitting some silent roar that would instill fear into our enemies; foreign and domestic! It would be a symbol of our bravery and unquestioned badge of honor. Who could doubt the courage of boys who had bested such a creature? “It’s a little small; don’t you think?” said a voice from the back. Silence of a different sort fell over the assembled group. Not a silence of thought but a silence of disapproval and disdain. All heads turned in the direction of this lone voice of discord. It was Lorne one of the smallest of our crew but one who had won favor by being new to the neighborhood. No doubt it was this that saved him a pummeling. “It has been already decided that the skull is cool!” came the reply.
It was therefore decreed that the Bobcat would be placed in a garbage bag and be buried in a most memorable spot where it would later be dug up when nature had run its course and the bones had been picked clean. So we went about our normal summer routines; playing ball and road hockey and having adventures. The Bobcat was forgotten. Then one day, when the wind brought the first hint of fall one of the members remembered the Bobcat. A meeting was struck and the shovel was borrowed and with due pomp and circumstance we trooped down the path from the meeting rock along the trail already strewn with the first golden leaves of fall. Whether it was the leaves covering the ground or the passage of time; but the spot did not prove as memorable as we had first supposed it would be. Eventually the shovel stuck the shiny surface of the garbage bag and the bag was removed from the earth. It appeared unchanged. The bag was heavier than we thought it would be. We stood around it in a close circle as we awaited the first look. Like Carter opening Tut’s tomb or Geraldo opening Capone’s vault we waited with baited breath while the bag was torn open. What happened next was not spoken of in the club’s circle. I personally evoke images of the “Great Skedaddle”. The torn bag revealed a mass of maggots seething and writhing with no sight of the Bobcat whatsoever. Boys flew in every direction there was to flee. Bigger faster boys ran over smaller slower ones. The panic was universal. It spread like wild fire. Boys ran through the woods in all directions. As the mad dash subsided and cooler heads prevailed our societal rules returned and we all wandered back to the meeting rock. The crowd was hushed now and subdued. No one looked at each other. There was an uneasy silence. We were all waiting for someone to speak. No one wanted to bring up the subject of our behavior. This symbol was supposed to announce our bravery to the world. We stared at our feet and there was more shuffling. Then Lorne’s voice could be heard from the crowd. “It was kinda small.” He said meekly. “Yeah small!” repeated the crowd. “Kinda puny!” The poor Bobcat was reinterred and funnily enough the subject of the symbol of our great bravery was never brought up again.