Withered Roots

The thing about this job is that you can't really throw down roots. Every Five years or so you move, more often at first. I have lived in at least seven different communities in 24 years, in Alberta, the Yukon and the NWT. Sometimes it was time for a move but it is always hard leaving. The worst part is leaving the Elders and the children. They always make the deepest impression on you. You can only look forward to the new community, a new set of Elders a new flock of children. There were a few moments that stand out over the years, a few nuggets in the gravel road of working life.

I remember when I first joined the company. My first posting was in Wabasca, a Cree community in north central Alberta. It was my first time living in another culture, the first time I experienced life as a minority. I was nervous at first, but I found the Cree to be very understanding and very accepting of the mistahi moniyaw, or "Big white man" as they called me. Things were different in those days, we didn't have a computer in the building. Everything we did was done by hand. The customer accounts were on paper and were stored in a special cabinet called a "Sort-O-Graph" you looked up the account and made up a paper slip which the customer would give to the cashier to allow them to charge on their MCA (Monthly Charge Account). Some of the Elders, those who lived close, would come shopping two or three times a day, you soon learned their names as you manually looked up their accounts each time. "Bear with me." I would plead, "I have a thousand new names to learn, you only have to learn one!" I needn't have bothered they loved the extra attention my naivete brought and they teased me and we both would laugh. The Elders dressed very traditionally, then. The ladies in kerchiefs and home made dresses. Often brightly colored. I would show them bolts of cloth and they explained to me that it was better to make a small cut and rip the cloth as it tore straighter than you could ever cut it. They were training me as they must have done to dozens of other "Bay Clerks" before me. They were patient and their quick laughter always made it easier. I struggled to communicate in my pidgin Cree often their English was not that good. Often they would bring along a Grandchild to translate for Mosom and Kokom (Grandma & Grandpa) the problem was that the Grandchildren often spoke less Cree than I did.

I remember one time when I was working the office and an elderly couple approached and wanted to cash their Old Age Pension checks. I called to Alex who worked for us as I knew these were his Grandparents. "Ask them how much they want to pay on their account." I instructed Alex. He turned to them and bellowed "GRANDMA HOW MUCH DO YOU WANT TO PUT ON YOUR BILL?". I shooed him away as Mosom and Kokom slapped their knees and howled with laughter. I determined to at least learn enough Cree to run the office. I struggled, I made a fool of myself. I mispronounced words and I did a lot of blushing. But through it all there was a sense that I had broken down a wall. I was trying and that was worth something even if I did once ask an eighty year old man if he wanted to pay for his red dress. He was probably telling that story for years. He laughed long and hard but he paid his bill and he thanked me, when it was done, I did understand that much. I think it is about respect and they knew even if I did it badly that I did it for them.

I had some favorites of course. One was an elderly couple both of whom suffered from osteoporosis then known commonly as dowager's stoop. They were both bent like question marks. They each walked with two willow root canes. I loved to watch them when they shopped on pension day. They proceeded through the store like a gaggle of geese the old couple in the lead with a flock of three or four, what I suspect were Great-Grandchildren. They had the same problem as most elders, with the children speaking mostly English. It didn't slow these two down, though. They merely walked the aisles and raised their canes and tapped the shelf in front of the items they wanted. One tap for each can of beans or pound of butter. It worked well and the children were well rewarded with chocolate or a Popsicle after the shopping was done. Hugs and kisses too. The old man winked at me as I packed his bags to his son's truck.

After my annual holidays I noticed he was alone on pension day. I went over to ask him what was wrong. He turned, looking smaller, older and more fragile tan I had ever seen him. The sparkle was gone from his eyes as our eyes met. I stopped in mid stride. I didn't need to ask. I got a huge lump in my throat and turned away. He had some children with him but they too were subdued. I looked at my boss and he said "She passed away while you were gone, it was peaceful." Not for him I'll bet. He looked like an empty vessel. I was not surprised when he joined her shortly after.

Another couple that touched me were well into their nineties. He was a raconteur and loved to tell stories. I was cashing his Old Age Pension check one day when he tugged my sleeve. "I get the single rate you know!" I looked at the cheque. As most of you would know you get more money if you are single than you do if you are married. "Me and her we never married!" He said with unbridled glee. "We moved in together ten years ago. We're living in sin!" He was doing a jig and laughing uncontrollably. She waved her hand and walked away. I couldn't help but laugh.When they had left I turned to Nigel, my boss and said, "They're both in the their nineties, I can only imagine how much sin is going on!"

I came home one day in my first autumn with the company to find an elderly gentleman sitting at the kitchen table drinking coffee and eating a cookie. He was alone, my roommates were nowhere to be seen. He seemed completely at home. I sat down across from him and introduced myself. He was tall and thin, so thin his clothes hung from him. He was dressed simply, he wore wool work pants and a check work shirt both of which were several sizes too large. He wore heavy shoes ties up with string. He was, he informed me a pensioner. I knew that this meant a company pensioner not an old age pensioner. I asked if he had been a store manager. He laughed. "No, I was an outside man." He said it matter-of-factly like I should know what that was. I didn't. My Dad told me once "You don't have to apologize for being ignorant, only apologize if you are stupid." So I asked him "What is an outside man?" He smiled. Partly, I suspect at my ignorance and partly at the opportunity to tell his story. What a story it was. He had hopped a west bound freight train during the depression and made his way to the prairies. He found work with the HBC cutting firewood, cutting ice for the ice cellars, hauling drinking water, feeding horses, laying in feed and many other jobs. It was full time work. Then the horses were replaced. The stoves were replaced by furnaces and he found himself "pensioned off". He was retired but he still mowed the lawns and shoveled snow for extra cash. He smoked rollies, his fingers were orange from the nicotine. Sometime during that winter he caught his last train, I missed him walking in to our house whenever he was ready to mow or shovel. He would always start with a pot of coffee, we never locked the house in those days. I missed the stories more. He knew virtually all the company big wigs when they were "Snot nosed trainees" which I was then.

One of the perks of being the grocery manager is that you get to order things that you like. I pride myself in ordering new things, exotic things and trying to offer a wide variety of good foods. I enjoy parsnips. Having spent several summers on a farm I came to love them. I guess no other grocery managers before me had ordered them in that town. One day a sweet little old lady approached me with a package of parsnips in her hand. I thought she was going to thank me for ordering them. Instead she held it out with some disdain. I took the package from her. She leaned in close so as to be heard without being overheard. She said ever so kindly "Your carrots have withered dear, they have turned white!" Withered roots, just like me. I have changed communities many times. I have learned something everywhere I went. It is tough when I meet my peers who are still working where I have been, inevitably they have tales of some favorite elder who has left us. On the other hand I occasionally run into some young adult, like the six foot two firefighter who was at a course I attended recently. When I saw his last he was eight and was sitting on my knee when I played Santa. Roots are good but they may be overrated.

The Critical Factor

In the fall of 1985 I joined the Governor and Company of Adventurers of England Trading Into Hudson's Bay. AKA the Hudson's Bay Co. I knew some of its' history, some of the role that it had played in building this great and wonderful country. MacKenzie King once said that the problem with Canada was that it had "Too much geography and too little history." At least I think he said it, he could have been channelling his dead dog or something. He was a bit weird, but he did not hold a monopoly on that as Prime Ministers go. I guess you could forgive him, that was a long time ago and a lot of water has passed under the bridge. I chided one of my nieces for doing poorly in history once. "I always did well in history." I informed her. "Yeah, well there was a lot less of it back then!" came the reply. Nowadays we would say, don't go there!


But in 1985 I was green as grass and anxious to learn about the traditions and history of the HBC. Before I had left Nova Scotia, I stopped and talked to our neighbor, Mr. Calvin Ruck. He was a social worker and had gone back to school as an adult to get his degree. He was going to Dalhousie University the same time as his son. We would see him in the halls and he would hail us. I think his son was embarrassed but he needn't have been Calvin was an amazing man and had a thirst for knowledge. He won the Order of Canada and was appointed to the Senate. "So you're joining the HBC?" he said enthusiastically when I told him the news. "You are going to be a Factor." "Excuse me?" I said with ignorance plastered all over my face. "A factor! A fur buyer!" he said with a smile. "Oh, I guess so, you think they still do that?" I asked. "I think so, you'll have to tell me about it!"

I arrived in Winnipeg and was given the cooks tour of Gibraltar House, the company's headquarters still located at the confluence of the Red and the Assinaboine. I was then whisked away to get a plane to Edmonton and then an eight hour bus ride to the town of Lesser Slave Lake. My boss picked me up there and took me to Wabasca, my first posting. My boss was From England and had come to Canada to run another small store then had been recruited by the HBC. He was born to work with numbers and was an excellent accountant. He wasn't interested in buying fur a whole lot, so he asked if I wanted to learn how. "The head fur buyer from Edmonton is coming." He informed me. "You can learn a lot from him, he's the best." Duly impressed, I returned to the house I shared with two other "Trainees" as we were known in Company parlance. "I am going to learn Fur buying!" I announced proudly. Darren, who was sitting across from me and patting his belly after dinner, was not impressed. "Yeah, I got roped into that too." he said unenthusiastically. "Look when this guy shakes your hand he'll crush it so be ready." "Big guy, eh?" I answered. "Yeah and he's a tough old Alberta redneck so be careful." This coming from a farm boy from south of Calgary. I was impressed I wanted to meet this legendary man.

He arrived by car, or rather boat as it was one of those late seventies monsters. He was tall and lean and definitely a tough guy. Square jawed and steely of gaze. I was ready when he shook my hand. I have big mitts and our eyes met as he gripped my hand with incredible force. He seemed to smile at my return grip. Darren who had warned me about Joe's prodigious grip was totally unprepared for the handshake and turned away waving his wounded hand in the air. I shook my head. Joe wasted little time and got to work, spreading a makeshift table in the back of the store with a hockey bag full of skins. He tossed a pelt in front of Darren. It was about three feet long and was shaped like an ironing board, long and tapered. "Isn't that the biggest mink you ever seen?" He asked. Darren was in awe. He had already been buying fur for some time. "Wow, that must be a MacKenzie river mink I hear they grow them big up there!" Joe smiled and tossed the pelt to me. I picked it up the leather side was facing out. I flipped it and ran my thumb over the fur. I am a fly tyer and had used many different kinds of fur. While I had never seen one in its' complete form before I knew what otter felt like. "What do you think?" growled Joe. "I think it's a medium sized otter." I said tossing it back. Joe pointed at my chest. "That's right! Not bad for a green horn!"



I felt a little more comfortable. Darren was shifting his weight from foot to foot which he did when nervous. Joe proceeded to go through other species, Lynx, fox , coyote, wolf. We learned how to grade and size the species. We learned of the life cycle of the animals and what made the fur better or worse. " People used to think it was the cold that made the fur good. They used to raise ranch mink in freezers but to no avail, the fur was worse. Then they realized that it was the hours of daylight that determines the quality of the fur. They adjusted the lighting and bingo, the fur was prime." Prime, that was what the fur business was all about. Pelts trapped when they were at their best. Best color, best quality, no damages. There was a market for the less than perfect pelts too, but at much lower prices. The poor quality pelts would become patching material, and fly tying material among other things. Then Joe turned his attention to the animal that built this company and this country. This little rascal isn't on the nickel for nothing. The Beaver. Castor Canadensis The lowly beaver, a member of the rodent family. Trapped almost to extinction. These hearty little guys do one thing well, and that is breed. Soon they were everywhere. Joe spread several beaver pelts on the sheet of plywood that served as our table. He explained how to measure them and how to grade them. "This is important!" He said testily as he noticed Darren nodding off. "I've seen guys lose so much money the blew their brains out!" He had my attention.

Next Joe took another Beaver out of his bag. It was big one. A blanket beaver we call them, an XXL. The fur side looked good. Joe threw it onto the plywood. "Grade it!" He said looking at me sternly. I took the tape measure from him and measured the pelt. "Sizing, Sizing, Sizing!" Joe had said when he had showed us how to grade each species. I measured it. I ran my fingers through the fur as he had showed me. Nice depth of underfur. Good coloring, a prime pelt, I expected to see the same story written in the leather when I turned it over. "You can tell more from the leather than the fur!" Joe had told us. As I saw the leather I winced. I looked at Darren, he had his hand over his face. There were two snaking scars across the center of the pelt or the "Square" as Joe had called it. I looked up an XXL beaver in the tariff, the price book put out by the company. I followed the row across where it said bad damage "N/V" "No Value!" I said as I handed in my tape. "Good call!" Joe said emphatically. "What do you think?" Joe was looking at Darren. Looking in an odd accusatory way. Darren lowered the hand from his face. "I would still give him something for it." He said meekly. "What?!!!" Joe thundered. This seemed to hurt Darren worse than the handshake. "I still think he deserves at least twenty bucks." Darren said, barely audible and very unsure of himself. "You know hat happened don't you?" Darren clearly did not, and neither did I. "He snared him! He set the snares badly and this poor beaver thrashed around till he drowned, slowly, cruelly! We don't encourage poor trapping with money. We encourage humane trapping. I tell you what! If this guy brought a bucket of Spit in here would you give him twenty dollars for it?!!" (he didn't actually use the word spit) Darren meekly replied "No." Staring holes in the floor. "Good!" replied Joe. "Next time he brings a beaver like this in give him twenty of your dollars, not twenty of mine!" There was more going on here than met the eye.



We went on with the lesson and the mood lightened. I learned tons. I grew with confidence as the lesson went on. I thought I was ready to buy fur. When all was over Joe packed up his "Travelling Road Show" as he called it and packed it in the huge trunk of his car. Darren stood kicking gravel in the driveway. Joe gave him a punch in the shoulder and said "Tight Lines! and straight shooting!" Darren faded away. I hing back. "Long drive?" I asked. "Nah, only six or seven hours!" I stuck out my hand and again I met his gaze as he wrung it good. I held my own. "You I like!" he said as he got in the car. I knew he meant it.


I walked into the house. Darren was in his usual chair, the TV wasn't even on. "What's the deal on that beaver?" I asked. "It looked like you'd seen a ghost when he pulled it out." "Aw, I shipped it to him in a parcel last week. He knew I'd bought It and I think he knew how much I paid for it." Ahhhh... things were starting to make sense. " I don't think he likes me." Darren said morosely. "Naw!" I replied. " I don't agree with that." "Really?" Darren replied hopefully. "Did he say something to you?" "Yeah, he said he hates you!" I said laughing. Darren too realized I was making it up and he laughed too. He rubbed his shoulder. "Quite a guy though, eh?" "Yes!" I replied," quite a guy!"


I bought a lot of fur over the years and I made Joe happy with the way I did it. He would call me and ask me what the fur was like before I shipped it. I became a good factor and the next time I talked to Mr. Ruck I could proudly say "Yes we still buy fur and yes, I am a factor!"

Spring, sprang, sprung

Spring arrived today, late as usual. I knew I should have clicked on express shipment, to heck with the extra $14.95 charge. The snow vanished and was replaced with a layer of water. I finally found my lawn, just where I left it last fall, it's always the last place you look! I also found a layer of doggie do that makes me wonder if the little guy is part pachyderm, not part terrier. The snow is gone, except on the river which is still frozen. There are huge pools of water on the river. Passing geese take a breather on these puddles, filling the air with their honking. A gaggle of 15 geese flew overhead, I watched them with my goggles, I giggled. They were flying in formation, but rather a half formation not a V but more of a backslash. I am sure that some Dot Com will figure a way to get them to spell out their web address. In any case they were welcome. I was barbecuing at the time. You might take this as a sign of spring but I barbecue all winter long. The only difference is that sane people next door can be seen barbecuing in the spring.

Flocks of snowbuntings have been appearing and already their feathers are mottled as they change from their winter white back into their dowdy summer brown. Too bad, they are so pretty and so invisible in the snow. Now they will be invisible in the mud. Still I guess that is better than being invisible in some predator's belly were the color change reversed. They filled the power lines beside my house bringing to mind the lyric "Like a bird on a wire." by Leonard Cohen. I could hear his fog horn voice in my head.

Spring comes suddenly in the north. Explosively really. Winter is so long here that you think it is never going to end. Then one day, as you stand in a window looking out over the snowy winter world, you feel it. It dawns on you subtlety, "what is that sensation?" you ask yourself. All winter long the sun has only appeared briefly, tentatively, like a younger brother sneaking down to get a snack from the kitchen hours after being sent to bed. It serves merely to draw attention to the snow and the cold. But now it is having an effect on you, your skin feels funny, tingly, warm, WARM, WARM, WARM! It hits you slowly but surely, THE SUN IS WARM! Spring is here your brain says to your body. It lowers its' defenses and prepares to drink in the phenomenon. You step out on your deck, in slippers and PJs. Prepared to be enveloped in a blanket of warmth from that distant yellow orb which had until today been so lazy, so asleep on the job. As soon as your bare, slippered foot, hits the deck with its generous topping of frozen snow, you realize that you have made a horrible mistake. The icy wind hits you like a corn dog in a blast freezer. You feel like you have been dipped in liquid nitrogen and you fear that your fingers will break off when you grab the door handle like the banana your chemistry teacher shattered in high school. You turn sharply, resolutely and walk back into the house, embarrassed that you have been fooled. Like a kid ordering the x-ray glasses from the back of a Beetle Bailey comic. I stand in my living room shaking. My wife walks in, she looks at me and says, in her matter of fact, sensible voice "What are you doing going out in your pajamas when it is twenty below?" I try to offer a defense. I try to voice my rapture in the first heat of the spring Sun. I try to explain the primal effect of the warm sun on the hippocampus, how it triggers some innate urges that are lost in the mists of evolution. Instead my thoughts are lost in a chattering of teeth and a staccato babble of unintelligible syllables that escapes my mouth. She leaves the room, further convinced, as if she needed it, that I am mental. I feel like a hippo on campus.

Anyways, that was then this is now. The sun is shining and the nasty old winter has gone away, retreated to its' snowy lair not to return for weeks. Believe it or not I have lived a year where it snowed every month of the year. Even in JULY! It was while I lived in Old Crow north of the arctic circle. But today such things are banished from my mind, today I am enjoying, nay, savoring the spring. Like a gourmand at an all you van eat buffet, I am loading my plate. I am stacking scoops of sunshine on a lettuce bed of the smell of thawing earth and dust, yes even dust smells good to me today. Today I will walk the banks of the MacKenzie, I will gaze at the distant mountains their heads still capped by toques of snow and I shall enjoy the fleeting feel spring, all too brief here in the land of the soon to be twenty four hour day. Where summer will bloom in but a couple of weeks and where too, sadly, autumn will fall like the final curtain in the not too distant September morn. Now I hear the dulcet tones of Neil Diamond singing "September Morn". I shake my head, I want to be like the Buddhists and stay in the moment. I love spring, spreading out before me like an empty page, an unwritten story of summer. I want to linger over every line and pay no heed to its' ending, not now when spring is still a promise that lies unbroken...

The illusion you alluded to eluded me...

A friend of mine who is a journalist recently returned to Southern Canada after working in the North. He sent me an email a week after starting his new job. Here is a short quote from his email. "I just finished my first full week and I'm loving it so far. It's a very different style of reporting... It's more... what's the word I"m looking for... accurate." How true that is. I love living in the North, things are so different up here. One of the things that is very different is the media. There can be little doubt that it has it's own inimitable style. I guess it is hard to write hard edged, incisive, investigative journalism when you have to go on living in that town with that same group of only a few hundred people. Recently a local paper had the following news bite, "An NWT man appeared in and NWT court charged with the sexual assault of a woman whose name is being withheld." Wow, talk about information overload.

Last spring a story appeared in a northern paper about the gas station at the Northern store being closed for repairs and that the Coop was being praised because it had not raised its' prices for gas. Great piece only problem is that the Northern store had never had a gas station before. It was not closed it had never been opened.It was just being built. If it had been opened and had temporarily closed it would have been illegal for the Coop to raise its' prices. Mere details. It made a good story, if you weren't so trivial as to be hassled by things like truth.


I remember listening to the radio news a few years ago. A group pf sailors had been rescued after their ship had sunk. According to the newscaster they had been picked up by a passing trailer. Trailer? I had visions of some short sleeved Bermuda shorted senior behind the wheel of an RV pulling over and helping the swabbies aboard. Unfortunately the truth is that it was probably a trawler, although there was no correction, not even on the next news.


On another occasion the news reader informed us that PLO extremists were holding hostages demanding the release of TOURISTS who were imprisoned in Germany. Wow remind me not to vacation there. I think perhaps the word she was looking for was TERRORISTS. Germany is more likely to arrest those people. It is funny how just a few letters can change the meaning of a sentence so drastically. It is so critical that society trains and employs people who specialize in words and communication, we call them, er, uh, journalists.


The front page of our newspaper is far more likely to have a photo of two boys holding up a huge trout than of some plane crash, or exploding bomb. Perhaps it is our relative isolation from such events that fill the front pages of the world's great papers. Or perhaps we are a breed apart, men and women of good will who want nothing but good news. Perhaps we care nothing of accuracy, perhaps we are apathetic. More likely we are tolerant.As long as you are sincere and you are trying, Northerners are willing to overlook some flaws. Living in a climate that is so unforgiving perhaps we are more generous of the flaws of our fellow humans. Maybe when you get home after a long days work in minus fifty weather you want to curl up with an article about a Ft Resolution store keeper or some kids in Tulita snaring rabbits.



Oh well, I don't expect the state of journalism in the North to change anytime soon. Oh, by the way, to my buddy who recently moved south; I saw a picture of the writer who replaced you. In the text of his first article was a photo of him. Underneath the photo in block letters, underlined, it read " Insert Name Here ".

This throwback's a keeper

Some places are evocative of a city or a time. Try to imagine Quebec City without the citadel, Ottawa without Capitol hill. Some places capture what it is to be in a given city, they encapsulate the very ethos of the place. They are the kind of places that you want to tell tourists not to miss. The experience would just not be complete without a visit. These places breathe life into the history, culture, or people of a given area. They also have to be different. No cookie cutter chain franchises allowed. These places have to have character, they have to make up their own rules, they are by their nature not necessarily for everybody. Those weak kneed tourists who complain how different everything is here need not apply. Hey buddy, want some place where the food and the service is just like home, I got one for ya! It' called home, STAY THERE!

Now Yellowknife is a unique place. A frontier town, born on the Canadian shield, a rolling carpet of bedrock scoured by glaciers and pock marked with small lakes. Tiny trees cling to the cracks in the rocks a true testament to the tenacity of life in the north. It is located on Great Slave Lake, the ninth largest lake in the world and the deepest lake in North America at more than 2,000 feet! Yellowknife takes its' name from the Yellowknives Dene who take their name from the tools they made of copper ore. The Dogrib name for the town is Somba K'e which means money town. It is a literal translation. Much money has changed hands in this town. Starting in the early days of Yellowknife, in the 1930s she is a young town with very old roots. She started as a gold mining town, with gold being discovered right under the town. It was said that Yellowknife was the place where the gold was paved with streets. Today not even one of the many gold mines is still operating. In the late nineties a new mineral rush started. Diamonds! A word to conjure with. The current economic problems have slowed the diamond rush, but they are still there and one day the world will want them again. Nothing new to Yellowknife she has known more booms and busts than a bass drummer in a Hooters.Yellowknife is a town more than a city. At only 20,000 people it is small. It also tends to be fairly high turnover. It has the reputation of a place that people hate to live but love the money that they can make there. It is expensive by southern standards. Yellowknife is a city in work clothes. Business suits are the exception. The preferred dress clothes usually have strips of reflective material on them and room for long johns under them. Fur hats and jack shirts are common. More people smoke than don't. People are different up here, they color outside the lines. Rugged individualists mostly. Ir is the only way to survive the long winter months. We like to say that we have ten months of winter and two months of poor skidooing.

If you want to come north and not look like a southerner you have to learn to talk like a northerner First of all they are ski doos. No matter who makes them, Arctic Cat, Kawasaki, whatever. It's like kleenex no matter who makes them they are all kleenex. A cat doesn't have fur it has tracks and a blade. A kicker is an outboard motor. A mickey is a pint bottle of booze going bootleg price is $50. Brew or home brew is a type of home made hootch usually made with raisins yeast and sugar. A gallon of it goes for the same as a mickey bottle and will get you about as drunk and gives you a funky smell. It takes 24-48 hours to ferment, although it will continue to ferment in your belly. Often making you foam at the mouth. . A musher is a dog sledder. An Otter or a Beaver could be a fur bearing critter or a plane. A honey bucket is a commode, and is more likely to contain pooh than to attract Pooh.

I have a love hate relationship with Yellowknife. I respect her but I really don't spend a lot of time there. When I am there there is one place I love to go. Yellowknife is famous for a couple of places, the Gold Range Bar and the Wildcat restaurant. Both have their charms. The range rocks on a Saturday night and is as raucous as any Bar in Canada. The Wildcat has charm, but it is only open in the summer. When i come to Yellowknife I head to Bullock's Bistro.

Located in Old Town, an area of town located on Back Bay. The Bistro isn't much to look at. An elongated log cabin it rightfully blends in to the landscape. It is a heritage building dating to the very founding of Yellowknife. There aint much in YK that's older. Not much that is non-aboriginal anyhow. Our hegemony seems like a blink of an eye compared to the time that aboriginal people have lived here. Aboriginal people being so much more environmentally friendly, do not leave big footprints. They can occupy an area for millenia and leave no more behind than some stones stacked on each other. They walk in moose hide moccasins and leave little in the way of relics. Relic is a good description of this place. Time has melted it into the muskeg. The permafrost has molded the floors and skewed the straight lines that the logs once formed. Like a well worn glove, it fits this place. There are two doors. Both open. One leads you into a part of the kitchen. That's O.K. there are few rules here, just come on in. Eclectic, I would call what meets the eye. Yeah, eclectic, only on steroids. My online dictionary denies eclectic as: composed of elements drawn from various sources, Heterogeneous. Thank God! I have always been kind of homogeneousophobic. The decor is a melange of postcards, business cards, foreign money, newspaper articles. The walls and tables and, well, every flat surface is covered in signatures. Plastic snowflakes hang from the ceiling. A sign says NO Clothing Permitted beyond This Point. A Caribou head serves as a coat rack. The caribou wears a toque and a ladies bra garnishes the antlers. Bumper stickers and fridge magnets plaster the hood over the grill. A large plastic Salmon hangs from the wall. Fitting. It is after all mainly a fish restaurant.

I arrived about 7:00 pm the place was just short of packed. Even in March in Yellowknife a good restaurant is busy. There are about 7 or eight tables, one large one and a half dozen stools at the bar. Being alone I sidled up to the bar and took an empty stool next to this guy with an obvious Aussie accent, he was sitting, not coincidentally I suspect, under an Australian flag that was stuck into the ceiling. There was a giggling group of Japanese tourists in the corner wearing the parkas that the hotel provides for them. You see them on racks in the foyer, under the jackets are rows of sturdy boots to complete the look. Thus armored against what must be a full frontal assault by the arctic climate they waddle about taking pictures of the Polar Bear at the airport and the Inukshuk outside the hotel. The same way I stood next to a Buzzbied British soldier in Red Serge at Windsor castle. Two people are speaking french at the first table. A guy in a big white cowboy hat sits in the front window. Quite the cosmopolitan crowd.

I hate eating alone. But seeing as I am alone, I settle down with a good book at await the server who is busy juggling plates at the table of joyful Japanese. How happy they look as they jump the language barrier and happily juggle the dishes back and forth to get the right meal in front of the right customer. Their laughter is infectious. I wish I spoke Japanese so I could figure out what was so funny. I think they are enjoying the very funny, funky nature of this place. It is different than the sterile, franchise, muzak atmosphere of most restaurants, in most cities. I settle into my stool and my book, almost oblivious, until a plate containing a huge, triangular bun, its' top dusted with flour. It was fresh baked and smelled delicious. My server was wearing an apron and a red check hunters hat. "I saw you here, I've just been busy! Want a menu?" She proffered a laminated single piece of white paper that serves as a menu. A word about that. This place is principally a fish restaurant. They do carry meat, some caribou, some Bison too, I think. But I am a maritime boy. I was here for the fish. When you do something and do it well, do that thing. Don't try to be everything to everybody. Nobody understands this better than the bistro. The menu is not exactly carved in store. What they got is what got caught. Catch of the day, literally. Don't get hung up on the menu and remember to ask before you get your heart set on something. "Nah," I answered. "What's the fish today?" I've been here before I just told her. "You're in luck today, I got Pickerel, Char and Trout." My mouth was watering. "I'll have the pickerel, pan fried!" I practically had to dab my mouth. "Feta or Herb dressing?" "Oh Feta, Please!" I dragged out the please. She smiled and pointed to a gray plastic container "The cutlery is there." I tore the bun in half smeared some of the butter on it and devoured it. I was famished. I fought off the urge to eat the second piece. I have something in mind for that. I picked up my book and started to read. Occasionally I would take in the scene around me. I watched as the lady cooking plated the salads. She heaped the dressing on top and the feta smelled wonderful. There was a lot of it too. She finished a couple of dinners for the french speaking couple at the first table. Turning to the Australian guy she handed him the plates and said "You mind handing these to that table?" He was laughing as he turned. "I'll be your waiter this evening!" He said cheerily as he set the plates down in front of the french couple who were laughing heartily. The Japanese table found this hilarious and a wave of laughter crashed over their table. The atmosphere of this place is so casual and so

The cook walked to the grill and turned a fish in a pan. The sound it made as the fresh fish hit the hot pan was magic. The smell is indescribable. I would love to know what is in the sauce that they apply to there fish. It is as addictive as crack cocaine. The spicing is perfect. By the time my fish arrived I was famished. took a fork full of fish and raised it, first to mu nose for a brief moment to savor the smell and then to my mouth where the senses go wild. First there is the warmth of the flesh which releases the flavor and the scent of the spices. Then there is the mouth feel of the seared surface of the fish which, upon meeting the teeth and the jaws responds with the feel of perfectly cooked fish, the caramelized surface created by the hot pan and the tender center, nut overcooked one bit. The flavor released is pure heaven. I enjoy every chew. I then raise my glass and with ice cold Alexander Keith's India Pale Ale, the pride of my native Nova Scotia, and washed it down with that cold clean taste. I am an unabashed homer. I follow that with a fork full of crisp greens, lathered in feta cheese, ambrosia. The fries, which had never seen the inside of a blast freezer, had only minutes before been potatoes. Potatoes! I had watched while the cook had inserted the potatoes in the chopper that had spat out the fries seconds before they had been put in the fryer. This is how french fries were meant to be made. There is no freezer in the equation. The fries too are perfect. the quintessence of their kind. Crisp, perfectly salted, Devinne. If I were on death row this would be my last supper, but thank the good Lord I am not so I can come back and have this same meal many more times.
By now some of the people are getting up to leave, there is conversation, among tables not just at tables. Fitting. For in the North, a place f immense size and tiny population, restaurants are meeting places as much as eating places. In years gone by people could go weeks or even months without even seeing or talking to another soul. So many restaurants suppress joy and conversation, to maintain a cold and controlled environment. Not here. This place is a throwback to another time when people treasured the company of strangers. The old saying "Strangers are just friends you haven't met." really suits this place.
Soon I too am finished and get up to wait for my cab. The sun is just setting in the spring sky. Back Bay is back lit by the amber rays. The Japanese are making there way to a waiting van. They are laughing and carrying on. My breath hangs in the air like smoke. My tummy is full and I have a glow from the experience that rivals the sunset. I am truly grateful that there are still places like this one. Places that defy the sterile uniformity of modern eating holes. Character, this place has it in spades. Yeah, this throwback's definitely a keeper.

Pracitically every joke is practical

"While you're in town we should get together!" My friend John said with his usual ebullience. You get these invites but usually they never happen. "I'll call Mark , Scott and Peter. How about calling Richard and Ken?" "Sure !" I said. "What about my wife?" "Bring her along, we'll meet at my bar and I'll put on some snacks." It sounded great. I would love to see that old gang, or most of them anyways. Time and the tides of life had cast us adrift over a very large coastline. We had washed up on disparate shores from Toronto and B.C. to Newfoundland and the NWT. Still here we were a band of brothers brought together by virtue of having worked at the same McDonald's on Main St. in Dartmouth N.S. in the late seventies and early eighties.

It truly was a remarkable place. Perhaps a remarkable time, but we formed a bond that has stayed with many of us. I think it was the environment. The pressure of working in that high speed world. It was also that fact that our restaurant was special. We received a Triple A rating from the franchise that few restaurants could match. The building itself was old, being the first one built by the chain east of Montreal. The floors were sloped and the building was falling apart. But we kept it clean and we painted everything every year. The service was fast and we took pride in what we did. If you did something to let the side down you heard it from your coworkers before you heard it from the boss. Before you decide that I am still working for the Golden Arches, I credit the people for the success of the restaurant. They were a phenomenal bunch.

The shifts were long, the wages low, the pressure intense. You could go one of two ways. First you could let the pressure get you and quit in a huff. Or you could let off steam and have a laugh and carry on. We did carry on and we had some great times.

On the appointed night we met at the small bar that my friend John ran. It was a cheery place the walls festooned with Polaroids of patrons, a smile on every face. John was born to do this, run a bar and restaurant, he made you smile with his exuberance. We congregated at the corner table. As each arrived there were heartfelt handshakes and high fives. John jumped up and talked to customers, flitting back and forth with trays of hot wings and garlic fingers, all delicious. We had a great time and the years melted away. Once more we were back in time, sharing the moments that had forged these bonds. Once again peeling back the layers of separation, underneath the laminated layers of care and the reinforcement of laughter that had built the fiberglass of friendship so much stronger than steel. "Remember the time you made the Lard Sundae?" Richard said, more of a statement than a question. I smacked my forehead with my open palm. I had forgotten. Like so many other details, I had forgotten the minutia and remembered only the whole happy ethos of those times and that place. "Tell Lina!" Scott chimed in. "Tell us all, I would love to hear it!"

The sundae story was one of a thousand such tales I could tell. It was a relief valve. A safety feature of life in that pressure cooker. I was older than most of this group. Not much older but a year or two is a lot when you are twenty. I was the boss, or the assistant manager of their shift. I set the tone. It is not in my nature to be a tyrant. I want to keep up the standards by making those around me want it too. Keep it light, keep it positive. You get more flies with honey than vinegar. Except I didn't collect flies, I collected remarkable young people like these who did so much and did it well and did it with a smile on their face. We had fun.

I have always had a bizarre sense of humour. If we started telling stories we might never leave this place. Some jokes were one of's. Mostly there was a theme. I remember when we were all on breakfast shift. We started at 5:30 am. Breakfast set-up it was called. My friend Steve did it, he would arrive two hours after I started. I therefore had two hours to set the most diabolical traps you have ever seen. They started simple and got more complex as time passed. Once I took a pickle can. This was the size of a 2lb coffee can. I tied a string around the bottom of the can. I tied another around the top of the can. I tied the bottom to the shelf above the maintenance room door The top string I tied to the top of the door. I filled the can with ice and waited. Two hours later the ice had melted, mostly. Steve had to open the door to get his tools. When he did the string on the top and bottom of the can came taught suspending the can in mid air above Steve's head. Sending a cascade of water as cold as the glaciers down his back. At 5:30 this was a rude shock indeed. I had been doing my job when I heard "TURNBULL!" A cry I would hear many times over the years. Steve flew around the corner still dripping wet and threw a bucket of water over me. I laughed as we stood their each in our own respective puddle.

You can't leave it at that. So the following week I removed everything from the two huge cupboards over the back room sinks. I hid them in boxes in the stockroom. I filled the cupboards with water balloons made from the balloons for children's birthday parties. There were well over a hundred of them. I had to come in an hour early, but it was worth it. Steve arrived a little groggy from the party he had attended the night before. He opened the door and was positively bombarded with balloons full of cold water. "TURNBULL!" He bellowed, rounding the corner lobbing two huge balloons that had somehow survived the fall. I was soaked and laughing, so was he.

On the night shift there was a guy named Robert who drove a motorbike. He always wore leathers and looked the part, but he drove a smallish bike I think it was a 150cc. That poor bike became the bane of his existence. One night we rolled his bike into the lobby while he was on his break. I hung a handwritten sign on it that read "Buy a Big Mac get a free motorbike" when he rounded the corner from the break room he flew over the counter "Hey, that's my bike!" "Yeah and so far no takers!" I quipped. Another time we wrestled the bike into the men's bathroom and put the rear tire in the toilet of the single stall, knowing that he would have to use the washroom, before returning to his shift. "TURNBULL!" Is all I heard when he passed through the door. The piece de resistance, though was the night that I enlisted two other friends or maybe fiends to drag the bike up on the roof. We tied it to the sign on the front of the restaurant. It sat there for hours, drawing quite the crowd. Finally Rob had to do a lot pick up. He dashed back in the restaurant "Get that thing down right now!" He said. He tried to look mad but he was smiling, ear to ear.

There were thousands of other incidents too many to remember or to relate. Water balloons full of big mac sauce down jacket sleeves that had been tied off first. Shoes full of ketchup packets. Lockers rigged to propel bowls of mustard. Lots of laughs, lots of reprisals. Even our host had been a victim. He used to drive an old rust bucket. You could not unlock the doors with the key so John never locked the beast. One night we crept to where he parked his car in front of his parents place. We knew he was on the early shift The next day the boss thought we were psychic. "That'll be John." we predicted when the phone rang a few minutes before his appointed hour."Locked out of his car, eh?" "I didn't say that!" said the boss. "hey, what goes on here?" he didn't have so good a sense of humor so we didn't elaborate. on chuckling when he got to work.I would have loved to have heard his cry of "TURNBULL" We had left the window down a millimeter or two. Lots of fun. We built the bonds that still endure.

"Tell her!" Scott repeated. "I love it when you tell it!" So I told Lina and all present, most of whom had been present that night. Although I had been told that the story had become a legend and that if everyone who claimed to be there had been there there would have been standing room only. We worked with a guy I will call Stan. Stan was a nice enough guy but he had a few annoying habits. One habit was to come into the break room, grab your cigarette and "suck it out" meaning to draw so hard on it that it took all the good out of the cigarette. The other habit was to come into the break room while you were eating and "ask" if he could have some fries, a bite of your burger or a spoon full of your dessert. He always "asked" as he was scarfing down a wad of fries that would choke a hippo. Or scooping all the topping and nuts off your precious sundae. I was determined to put him in his place, once and for all. All great works of art take time. To become a legend you have to pay your dues. I started before my shift, long before Stan even got to work. I took shortening, as pure and white as driven snow. I filled a sundae cup. I took a butter knife and sculpted the perfect curl, just like the swirling crest that the soft serve ice cream machine created. "What on earth are you dong?" Ken asked his voice tinged with incredulity. "You will see, my friend, you are in the presence of the master!" I said in my best radio emcee voice. As I sculpted a small crowd formed. I heard the word shortening so I swore them all to secrecy and let them in on the purpose of my labor. Nearly all had been victims of Stan's larceny and all were rapt with glee at my scheme. I took my creation to the sundae station and added caramel sauce and peanuts. I then snapped on a lid and put it in the freezer. It was so good I had to hide it so no one save my intended victim fell into my trap. As the evening progressed I was worried that someone would spill the beans. But not a soul did. In time I went for my break. I had arranged for Stan to be asked to do a lot pick up, thus sending him past the staff room. Timing is everything. It had to be after I had eaten my burger and fries. It was text book. He dashed into the room with his usual zeal. He saw the sundae looking so inviting its' creamy head poking out through the caramel robe that covered her beautiful shoulders. She sported peanuts like diamonds. This sundae could have graced on of the posters in the lobby. Stan grabbed the sundae, as usual he would ask permission as the first mouthful descended his greedy throat. It seemed as if he slipped into slow motion. I can still see the gleeful look on his face as he scooped the entire quantity of caramel and nuts and a good healthy scoop of lard cream into his mouth. He set the cup down and half turned to leave the room. He never made it. The next thing I knew Stan was on his knees spitting cold lard into the garbage can. The entire restaurant was in pandemonium. Everyone filed past for a look. It had been so simple yet so perfect. It had relied only on one thing, human nature. Everyone around the table was laughing, including my wife who was hearing the story for the first time. We spent a wonderful evening, which, all too soon was at an end.

As had happened years before we had to go our separate ways.The old restaurant is gone, they built a new one on the site. In September of 2005 John and I both suffered heart attacks. I made it, John did not. It makes that night even more special. We all miss him. I miss his smile. I know he knew who locked his doors. He got the joke. He got that it was done because we loved him. I know too that he is up in heaven right now and he is probably planing something big. If I am lucky enough to make it there I will be watching what I eat!

The Break In...

You really shouldn't listen in on the conversations of others. That's a given. I wasn't raised to do it. But like all the great rules that keep the planets aligned in our universe there are exceptions . Shane and I have been friends for years. Each year our company has a conference, In the interest of economy we are asked to double up. The first year we roomed together Shane's wife warned me about his snoring. It is legendary. Like in a Flintstone's cartoon the drawers in the room go in and out and the curtains move. No, seriously! Well I am known to saw some wood at night myself so no harm done. Shane also has the remarkable ability to fall asleep the nano second that his head hits the pillow. This precludes the idea of getting to sleep before him. I swear that there is an electrical contact on his ear lobe and the second it makes contact with the pillow the pressure completes a circuit and BLAM! He is unconscious, AND snoring. It truly is one of the wonders of the modern world.

So it was that last week we wound up together in the windy city (Winnipeg, Brrrr!). Now Winnipeg prides itself on being the geographical center, not only of Canada but of North America as well. While in location it may be in the middle in terms of climate it lives on both extremes. It can be hot and muggy in summer and brutally cold in winter. "It's a dry cold Winnipergers (Winnipegonians?) will tell you. You should slap these people. They are the same crowd who, in the summer, say "It's not the heat it's the humidity!" Actually it is neither the heat nor the humidity it is foolish government laws that prevent normal human beings like me and you from shooting inane motor mouths who peddle such dribble.

In any case, I digress. Back to the call, back to the overheard news that froze my blood worse than the twelve thousand kilometer per hour wind in fair Winterpeg that gave us a a windchill factor of forty degrees below absolute zero kelvin. Shane's phone was on the bed. I heard it whir and buzz as he had it set not to ring so as not to wake anyone during the endless hours of meetings we must endure every year as our penance for getting a free trip to sunny Winnipeg in March.

I think that Wireton Willy not only saw his shadow he met his maker. I am sure that someone killed the poor little bugger and buried his fuzzy little carcass good and deep. Spring might not come for six months, let alone six weeks.

Shane and I are old veterans of these meetings. We have developed a patented method of dealing with the afternoon nod offs that inevitably come from the sadistically early 6:30 starts. When I say 6:30 that means you must be there at 6:30 with a roommate you must be up and in the shower by 5:30. If you are to have a hope of getting an elevator. Not too bad if you are only a floor or two above the lobby. But the eighth floor is actually 10 floors up due to the upper lobby and mezzanine. Each floor has three flights of marble stairs as slippery as an eel`s keester. What do we do to counter the mid afternoon nods. It is called the snort and snap. The moment your snoozing chin hits your chest you let out a micro snore which wakes you from your reverie and your head snaps up with alarming speed. If you wear reading glasses, as I do you must be care full that you do not propel them through the air as this is a dead give away to ever vigilant Vice Presidents who may be watching.

One thing that helps is that Shane rents a car and we drive ourselves to the venues. Along the way, of course we have a few extra minutes as we are not lined up with the plebes on the buses provided by the company. They are herded in like cattle, we crank the stereo and head for the Timmy`s drive through. We show up a few minutes after the buses arrive, imparting just the right amount of tension into our boss. We pat his back and congratulate him on his skill at kitten herding. We in his district are a willful lot of old sinners and young mavericks and are about as easy to round up and a bucket of quicksilver on a gravel hill. We sport our steaming cups of Tim`s finest and make a slow deliberate motion as we suck back the lovely nectar. "What's that?" one of the new guys asked as we both emitted deep mocking sighs. "That my young friend is the rarest of creatures at the Wintering Partners conference. That is a large double double!" He stepped back "You buggers! How did you get that?" "That is one of the advantages of being a vet. Do I have any Maple dip on my face?" I asked sounding like that cat that ate the canary. "I takes mine black, if you should happen to slip out at lunch!" my boss added cheerily.

At lunch we of course slipped out and availed ourselves of the local fare. On the way back we stopped and filled our bosses order for a large black coffee. This time when the rookie manager eyed us enviously I quipped. "Do I have anything on my nose? Anything brown?" Again he shook his head and walked away, while Shane and I laughed. "It;s all about the comfort!" Shane postulated, loud enough for all to hear. Our compatriots are used to our shenanigans. Shane and I color outside the lines. We have what they call character. My wife would say that we are a couple of cards and that we should be dealt with.

Anyways none of this is getting us any closer to the overheard conversation. Shane scanned the room once it occurred to us what the noise was. Our room could not be described as a mess, but we must have been a bane to the cleaning staff. Shane seldom travels light. He brings robe and slippers. His own coffee mug, pillows from home and quite often his own travel coffee maker as this hotel is too posh to provide one in the room. Finally he decided that he had left the phone in his pants pocket. Retrieving it he said hello. We have an understanding.if the call is private we retreat to the bathroom and close the door. We seldom do this. Usually the calls are of a mundane nature and we simply have the entire conversation with comments being chimed in by the party not on the phone. "Tell Lina to go home, the store is closed!" Shane will pipe when Lina complains about working late. "Shane the peelers are here, get off the phone with your girlfriend or I will tell your wife!" He is on the phone with his wife, of course, the whole thing is done for her benefit. Listening in is simply practical, it saves us repeating the entire conversation after we hang up. Five thirty comes early you know!

Shanes wife likes to talk about the time that Shane and I were driving around in Edmonton. She called and since Shane was driving I answered. She gave me a brief message to pass on, I then hung up. Or at least that's what I thought I did. I have a flip style cell phone. You just close it and that's it. On Shane's cell phone you have to press a button to hang up and in my ignorance I pressed the wrong button. For the next two hours we drove around Edmonton with an open phone line. Apparently she tried yelling but we were so busy yakking that we did not hear her. "Any worries I had about you fooling around on me were completely assuaged." She told us later. "You guys are the two most boring guys in history." As we had discussed such racy subjects as concentrated detergent and the latest Phil Collins compilation. "You guys could put Evel Kneivel to sleep!" she added.

Anyways, where was I, oh yeah the cal ll... "What's wrong honey?" Shane said his voice raised out of it's normal laid back tone. "Two of them?" he said. My ears perked up. "Right in the porch?!!!" He sounded serious now. "It's O.K. dear calm down!" He was doing his best to sound calming. I swung my legs over the side of the bed and sat up. "Don't worry I'm sure they won't be back tonight." I was transfixed. "Right in the porch?!! Bold as brass, eh?!!" My mind raced. What should we do. Had she called the police? Was she alone? Had they left or were they still in the house? Were they armed? A thousand things went through my mind. "You do know how to bar the porch door right?" Oh my GOD! Bar the door? I looked around for my cell phone, in case Shane wanted to stay on the line while I called the R.C.M.P. I motion towards the phone and made the numbers 911 in the air with my finger. Shane waved his palm at me, to tell me to wait. I stood poised. My senses tingling. "What are you going to do? Are you going to sleep there tonight?" Oh man, it must be serious, she's thinking of moving out! "Staring right at you, eh? Poor baby!" Shane consoled. Man, eye to eye, I thought. How frightening. No wonder the poor girl was upset. Still Shane seemed to be calming and now he was in full consolation mode. "You poor thing. Just go to bed and call me first thing in the morning. Good night dear!"

Shane put the phone back in his pants pocket and tossed the pants on the back of a chair. "Poor girl, she came home and they were right there in the porch, big as life. Not the least bit scared! Just staring at her with those beady eyes.They didn't even run until she stamped her feet!" "No kidding!" I added trying to sound supportive. "Yeah, she really hates mice and they were fat ones!"

"Mice?!!!!: I replied. "Yeah, she's terrified of them." Maybe there shouldn't be exceptions to those rules after all. Maybe we should just mind our own business.