Labor Day Pains

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

Happy New Year!

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

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

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


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


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


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



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

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

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





Workin' Joe

by Stan Rogers Fogarty's Cove Music



I used to love these lazy winter afternoons;.

Starting out too late giving up too soon;

Coming home to coffee and a trashy book;

Never paying any mind if things were never done on Time

was when a fella could just let time slip away;

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

And every night with single buddies boozing at the bar,

Living for the minute, taking every hour in it!

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

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

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

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

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



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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

A Perfect Memory? Forget About it!

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

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


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

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

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

Totally Awesome

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


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

AWESOME!

Puppy Love

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Buttons Beaulieu-Sayine-Turnbull

April 1999-August 9, 2009

Much Loved, Much missed

Citadel Hill on the Wings of a Beatle

"You can't be serious!" I said incredulously. "I can too, if I have to ." Replied my brother Larry. "And I am dead serious about this, there are still tickets." "Wow! Paul McCartney, hey honey they still have tickets to Paul McCartney wanna go?" "Sure!" My wife Lina replied. "When is it?" "Next Saturday, we gotta get tickets." "You didn't ask how much." My brother added. "All right, how much?" "One hundred twenty five plus tax" "I am still going!" I added. "Who is opening for him?" "Joel Plaskett'" "Whooo Hoooo! I'd pay $125 to see him! I love Joel Plaskett! I'm in" We headed to the local store to get tickets. "You'll get a patch of grass." My brother chided. "Then I'll need a chair!" I said enthusiastically. "Perfect! " I said pointing to a pile of chairs marked $8.99. I grabbed two as Lina put the tickets away.

I hadn't even known about the concert when we left the NWT. I had been so busy that we hadn't spent a lot of time on the net or watching TV. But this was too good to miss. As you can guess you don't get a lot of concerts in Tulita NT pop. 490, well 488 with us away. We left Tulita in a Cessna 172 a four seater known as the "Skyhawk" a sturdy little plane that does not live up to its' glorious name. It is more of a skysparrow as it bounces along on summer updraughts. It turns a fifteen minute flight to Norman Wells into a bumpy thirty minute ordeal. I dread showing up for a flight and finding an empty terminal as this invariably means a small plane. These little birds have been flitting about the skies since the mid fifties and many in current use date from the fifties or sixties, this is not unusual as the maintenance is very stringent. In the wells we get on a jet for the trip to Edmonton.

We spend eleven months in the isolation of the arctic, so there was no question that we were going to treat ourselves to McCartney tickets. I could still hardly believe it. Good thing we were off on an adventure to Annapolis Royal in the heart of Nova Scotia's lovely Annapolis Valley. We left on Wednesday Morning, the concert was Saturday night and we would be back just in the nick of time. The Annapolis trip was great we wandered the streets of historic Annapolis then went for a graveyard tour at 9:30 that night, which was amazing. The guy who conducted it was tenth generation Acadian and the pride in his amazing people dripped from his rich voice. He told the history of the local people from the Mi'kmaq to the Acadians to the African Canadians to the English settlers while strolling from stone to stone in the ancient graveyard. It had the oldest tombstones in Canada dating to 1710. It was a perfect evening, a little drizzly and a little foggy, just the perfect atmosphere for wandering a graveyard.. . The next day we went to Port Royal and saw one of the first European settlements in Canada. The weather was beautiful. We spent the day in Annapolis and went to Brier Island the next day to go whale watching. Brier Island has some of the best whale watching in Nova Scotia. But this year the whales were playing hard to get. The trips usually last three or four hours but this would be over seven hours. We went and Lina and i had one heck of a time. We got to see a Minke whale and three different Humpback whales. The humpbacks put on a hell of a show, frolicking in the water on their backs splashing the water with there huge flukes. I loved it. We spent the night at the lodge on Brier Island and attended the Fireman';s breakfast the next morning. I am a volunteer Firefighter too so I loved talking to the guys on the Brier Island Department seems we have many of the same problems.

The next day was concert day and it dawned bright and clear. We were already burnt from our seven plus hours on the water the day before, but we couldn't wait to reach the Hill. We hit Dartmouth in late afternoon and my brother dropped us off while he went to change vehicles and grab our chairs. We took the ferry across Halifax harbor, there were lots of people with lawn chairs just like us and a party atmosphere filled the warm afternoon air as we let the sun beat down on our faces from the top deck. We could see crowds filing up Citadel hill that dominates the landscape of Halifax's Northeast end. We climbed the hill with the lines of concert goers and stopped occasionally to catch our breath. "I'll follow you." A lady from out of town said "I have no idea where I am going." "Well, we'll get you there but I am not sure it will be the shortest route!" I replied. I looked around some time later but we had lost her. There were thousands of others so I am sure she made it. It was just after 5 pm. but already there were people staking claim to free seats on the back slopes of Citadel Hill. The Citadel, the stone fort that was the reason Halifax became the capitol, had never fired a shot in anger. She stands over the city now, providing a fitting backdrop to such spectacles.

The Halifax common is an area of park and sport fields left open in the heart of a modern city by an ancient custom. It belongs to the people of Halifax and they use it every day, to walk dogs, to play baseball, or just to lie on the grass and read or have a picnic. But tonight 52,000 paying customers and perhaps ten thousand more were going to enjoy the concert for free. I don't think even the event organizers would mind, they had made their money and the crowd was here for one reason only and that was to have a good time. We joined the throng that was filing through security, they searched our chairs and my back pack. I didn't even have a camera. I was here to experience the whole thing. We needed a bathroom and there were hundreds, no line up at all, the last time that would be true this night believe me!

Lina took the lead "Follow me, I am way better at getting to the front!" I had seen her in action too many times to argue with my diminutive firebrand. Soon we were sitting one row back from the rail that marked the front of our section. We parked our chairs and bought some fries and an ice cold beer. We were going to have a blast. The seats were not half bad, dead center if a ways back we would see everything. The crowd around us was a talkative bunch. "Hey where ya from buddy?" a guy in front of us asked. "Well we're from the NWT although I grew up here in Halifax." I replied. "NWT? Wow that Rocks! Hey everybody these guys came all the way from the NWT to see Sir Paul!" A big guy with four beer in a cardboard tray stepped froward to shake my hand. He was finishing the second of them. "Right on!" he exclaimed, where's your beer?" I hoisted it and we clinked cans. "Oh I hope he doesn't do one of those one hour sets and then take off." added the woman sitting next to him. "Me too!" added a guy behind me. "I didn't come here to see him put in half a performance. Some of the these superstars forget who made them what they are!" "I just want a good solid two hour show, with lots of feeling!" I added. "Amen!" came a chorus of voices.

We exchanged small talk with those around us. The guy next to me had gotten free tickets. His parents run a convenience store on the edge of the commons. Near the armoury. "My Dad gave me the tickets. The promoter set up this photo where the Mayor and the Premier and a couple of other Big Wigs walked across the road dressed like the Beatles on the Abbey Road cover. They inconvenienced my parents customers so they got free tickets and gave them to me!" "Nice!" I exclaimed enthusiastically. We began to bond, being fans united in a common cause. We exchanged directions to the Fry wagon, Beer tent and washrooms. We watched each others stuff while each coupler went about their business. Soon the first band Halifax's own Wintersleep was taking the stage. They were an up and coming band, being given the chance of a lifetime and they weren't wasting it. They put in a lively performance to an enthusiastic if restless crowd. The expensive seats (Which consisted of bleachers or standing room in front of the stage)was filling up slowly, apparently the rich folks weren't interested in the opening acts. There loss as the opening acts were pretty damn good. Us common rabble were having a good time

After Wintersleep was to come Joel Plaskett. I couldn't wait. The crowd on our side of the fence was picking up too. Chairs were being added to our end of the row and it was good too as there was a patch of dust that was constantly blowing around making life a bit miserable.

Before too long Joel took the stage, apparently there had been a power problem but soon he was wowing the local audience. Joel told of how he too had come across from Dartmouth on the Ferry. The audience was into Joel, and many people were in the same boat as me and would have paid money just to see Joel and his Band the Emergency. I thought the audience would go ballistic when Joel Sang "I Love This Town" a song he wrote about Halifax. "I saw your band In the early days... we all understand why you moved away... We'll hold a grudge anyways..." No we won't Joel, all is forgiven. You Rock!

A lull followed Joel Plaskett while the stage was prepared for Paul McCartney. During this pause a group of people in the rich folks section started to set up a tent, right smack dab in the middle of the view of the stage for all those of us in the general admission section. This was so not happening. We had bonded. We had learned each others names or mentally assigned each other a name. I was NWT guy there was four beer guy and lost Guy who kept asking if anyone had seen his friends whose lawn chairs were still there. We all let out a collective howl. More people appeared with aluminum poles and a huge awning. "No way!": someone yelled. We were all standing now, against the railing waving our hands and protesting. "We have been here for four hours, you can't put that up in front of us now!" I yelled. "You tell him NWT!" Whooped my friend on the free tickets. We presented a united front. We made it clear that no barricade would hold us back if they set up that monstrosity.We spoke for the legions of fans behind us who could not be heard and we were victorious. We high fived each other as the poles and awning were removed. We were buoyed and ebullient. We went about our tasks as the stage was prepared.

When we returned to our chairs we discovered a group of people from the standing area had infiltrated our area and were standing in front of us blocking our view. This was too much. We asked them politely to move to the left where people were already standing but they would not move. "We paid $140 to see this show and there is nothing in our tickets that say we can't stand here!" We pointed out that the four of them were blocking the view for thousands who had also paid $140 and had been there for four hours, but they were adamant. "Call the cops!" Jeered their vocal leader. I stood up and looked over my shoulder at that moment four security people were to my immediate rear. "Happy to oblige Ya!" I said and I motioned to the guards who looked glad to have something to do. The leader's bravado was less noticeable when he spoke to the security people but he was just as adamant. A cry went up from the crowd "We moved that tent do you think we will stand still for the four of you?" We all laughed. The arrival of a uniformed police officer ensured that cooler heads prevailed and they were quite contrite and apologetic as they beat a hasty retreat. Again we exchanged high fives and I think this crowd could have solved world poverty if we set our minds to it we were solid. "Nice going NWT!" yelled four beer. Again we clinked cans we were primed. And then as if on cue a roar rose from the crowd. It was a little after nine. McCartney was supposed to be on stage at nine thirty. Could this be it? Was he really here? I whipped out my binoculars and spotted him bounding on to the stage. We all roared and exchanges yet another high five.

McCartney made an appearance and shouted "Hello Halifax!" We roared back. The sun wasstarting to set and the air was electric. We were keen and there was the expectation that this was going to be a special night. "How many chances are we going to get to see a living Beatle?" someone had said earlier. They were right, John and George were gone leaving Paul and Ringo to carry the mantle, but Paul was here, now, LIVE and we were going to share this night, this glorious day, this air full of excitement. We were going to rock this hill and we were going to show Paul McCartney one amazing response. As the band began to play the crowd roared, pulsed with the beat and suddenly we all were standing, singing and dancing as we all gave ourselves a collective pinch to see if it was real. I looked into Lina's eyes and her excitement mirrored my own. We pumped our fists in the air and sang out loud.

With each new song a cheer went up, many people had their favorite song and each person was waiting for one or more specific songs. I too was waiting for a song, my favorite, Yesterday. Paul knocked off song after song, not just sung but sung with feeling and we gave back with just as much feeling singing along and vociferously answering any questions or challenges from Sir Paul. There was no doubt that this was a love in. We were here to share a special moment, a moment that all of us knew would never exist again. Therefore, instead of pining the passage of the moment we fully lived the moment, carpe diem, we seized that day and wrung every last minute out of it. There is something about listening to an artist when you know every chord, every word of every song. They have been the soundtrack of your life, no matter how old you are and there were people of all ages here. Considering the size of the crowd, the heat, the available alcohol, the whole group was remarkably well behaved. Even our would be usurpers had left with wishes for us to enjoy the concert. No doubt about that! Sir Paul had come to play! He was playing the best of more than forty years of hits, and he was playing them with heart. We in turn were opening up our hearts and letting him know just how much we really did appreciate it. The sun set, the screens were easier to see now and the audience, well, I don't want to say that we were worshipping McCartney, but we were In love. In love with the moment. In love with the music. The glorious, glorious music.

One concert goer held up a sign, it read; "Sign my arm and I'll have it tattooed!". "How can I concentrate on the lyrics with someone holding up a sign like that?" McCartney asked and we all laughed. He invited her up on stage and signed her arm. The audience went ballistic. So did she, she kissed everyone on stage except the drummer who was up on kind of pedestal. "Now you'll have to get it done" Said Sir Paul. We roared. I don't know how they did it but the next day the news carried the story of the girl. She was from California, of all places. She had flown to Halifax just to see McCartney. She had seen him many times. And she DID get the tattoo. But when she went to the tattoo parlor the guy refused to do the job until she went out and got some McCartney music to listen to. Too perfect!

He played a ton of songs, we sang along. He took out a Ukulele and told us how George Harrison had given it to him. He did a Harrison song " O My Lord" and we all got a lump in our throats. He also talked about John Lennon. He played "Give Peace a Chance" and the lump in the throat returned more than a few people shed tears. "I wish he could be here." McCartney said and I wanted to yell that he was there, in his music ans in his message. I felt again the shock and the pain of that day when I turned on the little black and white TV in my upstairs bedroom in the parents house and heard the news of his murder. Elton John had the right idea ion his tribute to John when he wrote "Funny how one insect can damage so much grain" he did not immortalize the poor, sick, wretch who had done this thing, this unspeakable thing. He left the credit where it was due. To an amazing man with an amazing talent and a gentle nature.

Then he sang "Blackbird" only a week earlier, to the day I had sat on my Aunt's sofa and listened to my cousin Tracy sing that very song, so beautifully I can't describe it. What a song and here now one week later I was listening to the man who wrote it. Again I looked at Lina and I did not have to speak. She put both her hands in mine and we locked eyes. No words passed between us but I knew that she too was loving every line and was thinking back to that moment and the sound to Tracy's voice and the strumming of a single acoustic guitar. Pure sweet and perfect, the way great music is supposed to be.

The biggest response came when the Nova Scotia tartan appeared on the big screens. I felt a wave of pride as a member of Halifax's own 78th Highland Regiment began to play the pipes. Now it may be my Scottish blood, or it may have been the time and the place but I too was yelling at the top of my lungs when McCartney began to sing "Mull Of Kintyre" the largest selling single he ever had with The Beatles or with Wings. Over two million copies sold. It was The UKs top selling single for seven years. This moment and perhaps the fireworks on the drum beat during "Live and Let Die" were two of the highlights of the entire concert.

The night was wonderful and when he said that he had to go, I was satisfied. He had done all I wanted and more. But the crowd did not want to let go. They chanted "Sir Paul, Sir Paul" and in a moment or two he reappeared, with guitar and played three more songs, including "Yesterday" in fact he played three sets of three songs in encore. The dessert to this musical feast. I could push back from the table now. Fully fed, to leave this hill, this common, this special place.

In any event of this size there are a thousand stories. The guy who worked at the hotel where McCartney stayed who went up and down in the elevator with him. The girl from California, the guy whose parents owned the convenience store. We all have a story. Including the story of one couple from he NWT who got to see one of the most famous human beings on earth. Who got to share a special moment under a summer sky, as it passed from day to night. We left as we had come, ants filing back down the hill, to our ferry boat across the harbor, to home , to bed to dream.

Silver Linings

When Lina and I decided to get married it had not immediately occurred to me that we would have to choose where we would get married. When we sat down to talk about it there seemed to be only one obvious choice. Lina and I had met in Fort Resolution, Deninu Kue (Moose Land) in her native Chipeweyan. We had taken our marriage counselling there. Her family was there. My family and friends were more scattered. My family was probably better able to travel if they wanted to come, although I thought that few of them would be able to travel to the remote NWT community. Still we were happy with the decision. As a matter of course I sent out invitations to my entire family, little supposing that many would be able to come. I was surprised when my Father's sister Katherine who we call Aunt Kay called my Mother immediately to tell her she was going and there was no doubt about it. Lina and I were delighted beyond words; especially me; because my Dad who was in a nursing home at the time and therefore would not be able to make it to the wedding. Aunt Kay would be my Dad's envoy.
We set about the happy task of planning the wedding. When I say we of course I mean Lina, more of the royal we. I was about as good at planning a wedding as I would be at planning a successful pajama party. I did the usual things that most soon to be husbands do. Lina would hold up a color swatch or a picture of two different wedding cakes and I would hold my chin and cock my head long enough for her to let me know how she felt and I would heartily agree with her. "Oh, yes dear! That looks great." I would say with vigour. We have a plaque for sale in our store that reads "The smartest thing a man ever said is "Yes Dear"". I am a firm believer that the words "Yes Dear" have saved more marriages than Viagra. And so it was that the bridesmaids dresses were chosen, the cake was designed, decorations were bought and food ordered; all of this with healthy doses of "That looks great dear!" from me. I was exhausted.
I must admit that I had a few preconceived ideas about our wedding. They were as follows; we are an older couple, we should have a simple wedding, let's spend the money on the honeymoon not on the wedding, and it's the marriage that counts not the day. Solid, stalwart principles that fell apart like a sandcastle in a tsunami. "This is my first and only wedding." Lina said. Not in loud or angry tones. But in that simple matter of fact tone that makes me melt like soft serve while you wait for your chili dog. "I noticed that there are seven diamonds either side of the main stone in my engagement ring. We met in July seventh month, you asked me to marry you after seven months. On February 14th. Fourteen divided by two is seven." I then made the mistake of saying "So?" "Well then I need seven bridesmaids and you should have seven groomsmen!" "Aw honey, I don't think I can get seven groomsmen." "Here's a list." I knew I was done. It would be a small wedding in the way that the British refer to the Atlantic Ocean as the pond. If the where of our wedding was ever in question; the when certainly was not. We had decided early on that the May long weekend of the year 2000 would be the magic day. This would allow time for friends from Edmonton to attend, as well as being good timing for the use of the church and community hall. May is also a magical time in the north. It is a time when the earth awakens. Ft Res, as it is known, is on the shores of Great Slave Lake. It is indeed a great lake, ninth largest in the world and the deepest in North America. It is not deep in the area around Ft Res however. It is shallow and dotted with islands; islands that play tricks on the eyes. If you look out at the lake over a period of time and in different light conditions you will see islands that you have never seen before. They seem to pop up out of the lake; mysterious and alluring. But in this time of year the lake was still shrouded in ice. The days are getting longer, we are north of 60. That is to say north of the 60th parallel that forms the southern border of the NWT and marks the beginning of the arctic. The days are long in late May, being light until nearly midnight. The date then was set. Big events in our lives are like black holes or water going down the drain. They exert a gravity a centrifugal force that inexorably draws you in toward the center. At first you are in the water in the sink and it can be quite pleasant. You bob around and get comfortable with the idea of the thing. And then, gradually you are drawn toward the center. Even when you first get there the spinning vortex seems slow, lazy even enjoyable, like a carousel. However as the event approaches the current increases the whirlpool tightens and things start spinning at break neck speed, the carousel becomes a tilt-a-whirl.
So it was that we entered the final weeks of preparation. This was the epicentre of the vortex; with events moving at blurring speed. Work, wedding, guests coming, honeymoon, pictures, cake, tuxes, dresses all these things whirled about me like items in a tornado, suddenly appearing out of the maelstrom; invading my sleep. I took solace, as I always do in a homemade philosophy. I have always held that what will happen, will happen. No matter what you do things have a way of working out. That is not to say however, that you should not try to be ready. Lina had a lot more invested in the seamless perfection of the day than I did. I wanted a perfect marriage not a perfect wedding. Lina had a lot emotionally invested in both. It's a girl thing. Problem for me is that I love her so much I wouldn't see her disappointed for the world. So into the whirlwind we went. When I moved up north I was new to living in an aboriginal community, especially a northern one. Things move here at a different pace and in a different way. But they do move. I was slowly coming to know and appreciate this. A wedding is a big event up here. Communities are small and tight. Everyone is related and if not to each other than to someone who is involved in a given event. Whenever something big happens, be it a death, a birth a wedding a graduation, everyone and I mean everyone pitches in. I come from the east coast and our culture is the same that way. People helping people. I think it stems from hard times and suffering, when you have known hard times you know what to do when disaster hits, like say a funeral. And just as importantly when you know hard times you know how important it is to make the most of the good times, like a birth or a wedding. It is the yin and yang of life. The Dene and Nova Scotians have had hard times in common. Lina's cousin Violet insisted on doing the food. That was all right with me as she is an awesome cook and if you've seen my picture I am a good judge of good food. Lina's brother Robert booked the hall, our mutual friend Dave was to be the emcee as he is a professional auctioneer he was an excellent choice. Tausia the community's recreation coordinator helped organize. Lina's sister-in-law drove us to Edmonton to pick up the dress and decorations. We hit the wedding stores, the dollar stores anywhere that sold decorations. We had approximately enough to decorate the dark side of the moon.
Oh yeah, the dress. Lina is tiny; minuscule really. We shop at opposite ends of the spectrum me at Mr Big and Tall (and I am only six foot). She shops at petite shops. A word about that; petite, to me it means small. If my high school French is correct. When we first met I went on my holidays without Lina (for the last time; thank God). She asked me a favour and how could I refuse. "Could you pick me up a suit?" I stared "Suit?" I said blankly. "Yeah, a jacket and skirt silly." "I guess." I said picturing myself in a ladies clothing store. "Yeah size zero." "SIZE ZERO?!!!" I said in disbelief. "You are pulling my leg right? I mean there is no size zero. How can you be a size zero, doesn't that mean that you don't exist?" "No" She said testily with her hands on her hips. "It means I am petite!" Silence isn't just golden, it is lifesaving sometimes. She may be small but she is a Chipeweyan woman and Chip women are feisty, the punch above their weight, literally. "O.K." I said as reassuringly as I could. It didn't go well. When I reached civilization I went into the mall. I walked into a ladies clothing store that had the word "Petite" in the name. I walked up to a clerk who was about my size and I asked her for some help. "I need a suit, skirt and jacket; size zero." She stared at me blankly. I panicked. I froze, my mind went to mush. "It's not for me!" I blurted. This must have been the most ludicrous statement in the history of mankind. "Good!" She re piled with a smile, we don't have anything in your color, you are an earth tone." She turned to a rack of jackets and flipped. "We don't have anything smaller than a four.". "Four?" I said lamely. She's petite." Well you can be a size 10 and be petite. But you knew that, of course." "Of course." I added with false assurance. "Thank you." I stammered and walked backwards from the store. I disappeared into the crowd as quickly as possible. I made my way to the next store that featured the word petite in the name. I squared my shoulders and walked in. Another woman of equal size to the first clerk approached me. Good God I thought are all the women who work in petite shops built like linebackers? "Can I help you?" She said politely but stiffly. It was like she thought I was looking for the washroom or wanted to know what time it was. "I need a suit." I blurted, too loud and far too fast. "Size zero." Blank stare. "It's not for me!" I said like a man who had just been caught picking up the murder weapon, saying to the police officer, "I didn't do it!". "Yes." She replied. You would need at least a size twelve." Ah, just about your shoe size then, I thought but held my tongue. She checked the racks but found only a size one, which I ended up buying, and later returning by mail. My first and last foray into the field of buying Lina clothes, gloves and socks are as close as I come these days.The lady who made Lina's dress was petite too. She had done the dresses for the Miss Canada pageant and was supposed to be very good. I of course was kept far away when Lina went for fittings. "A lot of fuss for a dress you are only going to wear once." I said cheerily one day. "I could arrange to wear it again with someone else!" Lina replied icily. Ouch! Another thing that people wanted to do was play music for us. The amount of talent in these small communities is amazing. "There are three bands who want to play for our wedding." Lina said one morning. "I don't think we can afford three bands, dear" I said a little hesitantly. "No silly, they WANT to play for us, it's there gift." I was still thinking like a southerner I guess. "Including Angus and the Native Cousins." "Really?!! " "Angus Beaulieu playing at our wedding, cool!" Angus was a local Metis fiddler and he is a legend in the north and rightly so. He is a national treasure and has preformed on capitol hill on Canada Day. He has more talent in his baby finger than most ten other fiddlers. "Yeah, there will be fiddle music, reels, jigs, country music and rock and roll from the young guys," . "That's awesome!" I said and I meant it with every fibre of my being. We had done all that could be done ahead of time. The coolers and freezers at work were full of food, roasts and hams, turkeys, potatoes, salad fixings. And that's not to mention the cake. Oh, the cake. I could write an entire story about that cake. I had a guy working for me in Ft Resolution who was a jack and master of all trades; especially where food is concerned. He insisted on taking on the cake. I wasn't going to argue. We bought the mixes and the decorations. This was no ordinary cake. It was four tiers high with a lighted fountain. It had seven satellite cakes that each had a plastic bridge going to them with a couple walking on each bridge. These represented the seven bridesmaids and groomsmen. Our representatives were on top the cake, of course. It was a massive undertaking. It took Barry days to make it. Every cake was iced and decorated with flowers. Several words compete for a descriptor of this masterpiece; spectacular, magnificent, amazing, awesome and breathtaking all come to mind. It was a work of art. This alone would set any wedding apart. The cake featured a ladybug too. My nickname for Lina is Ladybug. It all stemmed from an evening when we were lying on the sofa. She had been asking me some questions. I was answering while watching the TV. "Am I being a bug?" she asked. I looked into her eyes, so full of love at that moment that the question tickled me. "Yes. A Ladybug." I replied. "Ladybug, I like that!" She said in her little girl voice. And that was that, she was and is my little Ladybug. I found out later that Ladybugs are good luck. I could have guessed. The guests began to arrive too. My friends Pam and Roger and their kids were in from Edmonton. They were staying with Sister Joan, the lady who had conducted our marriage counselling. She was also the Nun who was going to marry us. When we had told her we were getting married she was delighted. "You'll have to take a course if you want to get married in church." She told us. "No problem. We would have to do the same if we got married in my church." I said. We were supposed to be taking the course with other couples but it ended up being just us and Sister. It went by too fast and we were sorry when it ended, we enjoyed our weekly meetings. At the end sister said. "I will have to see when Father is free to marry you." "But we thought you would do it, Sister?" We said. "Of course I can, I just thought..." "No way, we replied, we want you!" That was that. When Sister found out we had company coming she kindly offered her home. We still see Sister Joan and Sister Pauline. In the winter when the winter road opens they will drive through Tulita and sometimes stay with us. It is always a delight to see them again. My old friend Andrew who lives in nearby Hay River would be coming in on the day, with his wife Dixie. As well my Best man and oldest Friend Jed would be flying in from Edmonton. We have known each other as long as I can remember. We were born on the same day, so no problem remembering when his birthday is or how old he is. We even share a middle name. I was delighted when he accepted. My Mom and my Sister Janice and Aunt Kay were staying with us. They had flown to Peace River Ab. and driven in from there, a good 12 hour drive, so they were exhausted when they arrived. We were in the center of the whirlwind now, you're not in Kansas anymore Dorothy. The wedding was tomorrow. The hall had to be decorated. I am a volunteer Firefighter and a while back jokingly the Fire Chief had said to the Fire Marshal. "We should shine up the truck and use it in Greg's wedding." "Wouldn't be the first time. Why don't you, it's good for morale!" We looked at each other. "Why Not?" Artie said. Everyone called him Artie; everyone that is except Lina. She always calls him Arthur. "Even my Mom calls me Artie." he said. "Should I stop?" Lina asked. "No way!" Artie said enthusiastically. He is still Arthur to us. So I found myself the night before my wedding in the familiar confines of the Fire Hall, decorating the truck. I must confess that I was happy to be there. I love the smell of a Fire Hall; the smell of rubber and hoses, diesel and old smoke. I found it familiar, calming. The eye of the storm I guess. We were just finishing when my Mom and Sister and Aunt came in. "You better get over to the community hall things are a mess. Kids are breaking the balloons, nothing is getting done." Oh well so much for the calm in the storm, back to the whirlwind. Inside the log community hall, chaos reigned. Packs of kids chased each other in circles, stamping the balloons, breaking them as fast as others were blowing them up. Rene my poor beleaguered Grocery Manager had only been here a week and he was red in the face from blowing up balloons. The decorations were partly on the tables partly on the floors. My Mom had a panicked look in her eyes. I was too old a hand at this stuff to panic. You have to have a bit of faith. I stuck my fingers in my mouth and gave a sharp whistle. Kids screeched to a halt. Everyone looked up. Lina's cousin Martha stepped forward. "You kids get outta here!" She bellowed. "You there, you grab a ladder. You, hey, grab that broom." She, like Lina was vertically challenged, but like I said about Chip women, watch out. I glanced at Mom. It was nearly midnight. "You must be exhausted. Come home and go to bed." "It's just early." She replied. "Mom, it's nearly midnight!" "What? It's still broad daylight." "Welcome to the North!" I said. Mom had lived in Timmins during the war but this was her first time north of 60. We went home and left the chaos and filth of the dirty, cluttered Community hall. "It will be alright." I said reassuringly. "You'll see." I was slightly less sure than I sounded. Lina and I went about our preparations. She was sleeping at her brother's house tonight, some tradition I understand. "See you tomorrow Mrs Turnbull." "Mrs. Sayine-Turnbull." She replied. "Goodnight" I crawled into bed at about 4 am for a few hours of fitful sleep. Morning came early and way too quick. Andrew and Dixie arrived from Hay River. "Oh, you must be Greg's Sister." She said "And you must be Greg's Aunt Kay, I've heard so much about you." Only one problem, she had the two reversed. Aunt Kay and Janice corrected her. Dixie put her hand over her mouth and turned three shades of red. "I am so sorry." she said and fled. Later she said to me "Please apologize again to your sister for me. I am so mortified." "Well," I replied "look at it this way. There is a silver lining. My sister hates you, but my Aunt loves you!" Dixie blanched. "I am just kidding, I said, they are howling about it, you made there whole trip.! They'll be talking about that for years." And they have. There were more speed bumps, tuxes that didn't fit, groomsmen who were late, "where are my cufflinks" , "My shoes don't fit." But if my house was chaos Lina's brother's place was bedlam; Hair dresser, pinning this brushing that. Still when we were at the church fully fifteen minutes before the time I looked at Jed. "I did remember to tell you how much this means to me didn't I?" I said looking him square in the eye. "It's written all over your face." He said. "Damn, I knew it, I forgot to wash my face!" I said laughing. There was a commotion in the front of the church. I knew what that meant. Lina was here. There was a lot of oohing and ahhhing. I swallowed hard. It was now or never. Sister formed us into a line and my seven compatriots looked like a phalanx of Mafioso’s as they stood, stiffly. They all looked sharp. Lina's Nephew Davey looked nervous. "I've never had a suit on before, Uncle Greg." My heart swelled at being called Uncle Greg. I straightened his tie. "You look fantastic!" I said. And he did, they all did. Jed and I took our place. "Ready?" Jed said. I smiled. "As I'll ever be!" I said.


The music started; low and lilting, a beautiful piece, not the tradition brides march but a beautiful classical piece. Lina walked out of the church foyer backlit by the afternoon sun on her Brother Robert's arm. Robert was giving away the bride as Lina's Father is deceased. Both her parents are gone. She took my breath away. More ooohhhs and ahhhhs. She was radiant. No bride has ever looked better. The sun backlit her veil; making it look like she had a halo. I could tell she was nervous. What, like I wasn't. Tears ran down my cheeks. I have never seen anything more beautiful, before or since. Flashes blazed, people fought for position to see her. I heard someone say "She looks like a little Barbie doll!" "How precious!" someone else chimed in. Lina was really nervous now. The three flower girls were in the aisle ahead of her. They each had baskets of artificial rose petals to sprinkle on the red carpet of the beautiful old church. The Church was 75 years old. It was shaped like a crucifix and had three balconies. There was a painting made by a Catholic brother a century ago using natural paints made with berries and such, the colors are just as vivid today. The girls were supposed to scatter the leaves and Lina would walk a carpet of petals. Unfortunately when they had practiced this they did not have their white cotton gloves on. When they took the leaves in their gloved hands the leaves stuck to the gloves due to small pieces of wire in the leaves as reinforcement. They shook their hands and the leaves spun into the pews and delighted guests howled with laughter. The girls looked embarrassed but it could not have been more precious. Lina is shy by nature and she began to notice the attention. "What did you expect?" I asked afterwards. "This is your day!" "I know but I didn't expect all this!" She said. She picked up speed, catching Robert off guard. He too sped up, probably wondering what the rush was. I was transfixed. I hadn't even seen the gown before this let alone Lina in it. She was angelic. She normally is radiant. Everyone loves her. All the kids call her Auntie, whether or not they are related to her. Her real nephews and nieces jealously defend the right to call her that. "Hey she's not your Auntie!" they cry. Elders love her too she is always dancing about, cheering them up, making them smile. It's the main reason I love her. The main reason I was here. I wanted to make this union last. I wanted to do it right. I knew I was never going to find another like her. Everyone in the place was excited and the place was full. When she made it to the front I took her hand and our eyes met. I mouthed the words "I Love You." She returned the gesture. Her eyes were sparkling. I have never seen anyone more alive, more beautiful. We faced the altar and the wedding proceeded. Sister told the story of a married couple who had been married 75 years. Someone asked the wife "In all those years did you ever consider divorce?" "Never!" She replied. "Now murder, that's a different story." We all laughed. The moment was perfect, the day was perfect. The sun streamed in the windows of the old church. Lina was beautiful; I was happy, relieved and proud all at the same time. I was full of the moment. I knew one thing; it doesn't get any better than this. The rule was no confetti. But when we came down the steps with fourteen bridesmaids and groomsmen and two ring bearers and three flower girls the air was full of it; full of cheering people too. Everyone was happy. Everyone was hugging. The Fire Truck was there. Artie was videotaping and Roy was one of my groomsmen so I don't know who brought it. The entire wedding party climbed on. It is a Fort Res tradition to have a motorcade, even though it is only a hundred yards or so from the church to the community hall. The fire truck lead the way with the other cars falling in behind. As we proceeded kids on bikes fell in alongside the truck. I looked back and the cars were back as far as the eye could see. Normally only the few vehicles of the wedding party were in the motorcade. The other vehicles would wait at the intersections and honk. Not this day. They were all in tow, like they wanted to be part of this thing. All were honking and the siren was going. Oddly the streets were empty almost no one waved from yards or house windows as usual. "They're all behind us!" Lina yelled over the noise. We stood and waved to the procession which, because we had rounded the block was driving on the road opposite us. They went wild. Horns tooted arms waved wildly. I had never seen anything like it. Nor had others, people told me later they too had never seen anything like it and they had lived there all their lives.

We had to go back to the house before going to the hall. Everyone else went to the hall right away. My Mom was stunned. "That was really something." She said. "I'm calling Dad!" I said. The nurse went to get him and bring him to the phone. I could hardly get the words out I was so excited. "Guess what I did today?" I said. Dad had dementia, I was never sure he would remember. "You got married!" He said in his firm voice. "I am so proud!" He continued. "I wish you were here Dad!" "Me too. I love you guys." "See you soon Dad." Short and sweet but he had been part of the day. As part of the wedding we had perfromed a special presentation. I had given a rose to my Mom and My Aunt (My Father's sister) Lina had given a rose to each of two Aunts her Father's sister and her Mother's sister. Even though three of the four principles were not there they were not forgotten.
The time came for the wedding party to make the trip to the community hall. I hadn't been there since the night before; nor had my family. When we went through the door the place went wild. I was floored. The place was gorgeous. Everything was decorated. The pillars were wrapped in bunting and streamers in our wedding colors, blue, black and white. Balloons hung from the ceiling in huge bunches, the tables were lined up and full. Each place was set perfectly. Each setting had matching napkins and each table had a paper cloth with a skirt around it, all in the wedding colors. The cake sat in the corner, it was huge! The head table was amazing, on the wall behind was our names, doves cut out of paper decorated the walls, I had seen my Sister cutting these out in the wee hours of the morning. The town had outdone itself. Mom looked at me in wonder "I can't believe it's the same place!" "I told you things would work out, people have a way of pulling together up here."

The table with the food looked amazing too, it fairly groaned under the weight of turkey and ham, moose roast and caribou meat, buffalo ribs, goose soup and ducks. The community had come through with wild meat. Dave was emceeing and doing a great job. Barry was standing beside his cake beaming. People had worked right through the night. Velma and her daughter Alicea had been up all night putting up streamers. I was speechless.
We ate and toasted and kissed and toasted and kissed again. I made my speech, a thank you to all the people who had done all this. I felt so inadequate. How do you thank people for such super human effort? I only know one way and that is to enjoy it to the max. Involve them and let them have the best time ever. The bands played and we had our dance. My best man was everywhere, helping tend bar, helping do whatever; being quite literally the best man. We have been friends a long time but never more than at this moment. I stood to thank my Aunt for coming and my voice failed me when I mentioned that she was my Dad's sister. She has a special relationship with Dad as her Mother died when she was nine or ten and Dad took his youngest sister under his wing. I danced with elders and children. The bands played, as the night went on the musicians got younger and the crowd did too. My family begged off as they had an early start the next day. As people left they looked for souvenirs, the monogrammed napkins, matchbooks and place cards were snapped up. People were thanking us. "You must get married every year!" More than one person told us.
The party had been scheduled to end at two. The Band came to me and said "People still want to dance, can we still play?" "Play!" I said. "Let them enjoy it, they've earned it!" And so they did, until after four in the morning. At 4:30 Lina and I were sitting on chairs facing one another. The place was empty except Dave and Jed. Her dress was filthy from the mud outside and from having people stepping on her train all night, including me. I am a clumsy dancer. "My dress is filthy." She said. "It's O.K. you'll never wear it again remember?" "Remember what I said? I might wear it again!" I pretended to pout. "When we renew our vows!" She said and I squeezed her hands. "Let's go." I said. "It's late." I put one arm around Lina and one around Jed. We walked the short distance home. Janice, who was sleeping on the couch, awoke. They had to drive to Peace River at 6:00am. "Dixie invited us to breakfast in Hay River. She still feels guilty." "Oh well," I said. "Drive safely Auntie" "Watch it!" She replied with a laugh.
"Well, how was it?" I said to Lina. "Perfect!" She said. "It was perfect." "I wouldn't change anything." I replied. I don't know whether it was the fact that there hadn't been a wedding that year or whether it was because it was the new millennium. Maybe it was the fact that everyone loved Lina but our wedding seemed to be a high point for a lot of people not just us. Everyone seemed to excel, to out do themselves and in doing so they got caught up in the moment and enjoyed it even more. No one fought and there were no problems at all. Everyone wanted to remember the night. A few years later I was on a plane leaving Old Crow in the Yukon. My seatmate struck up a conversation. "Have you been in the north long? Where else have you lived?" "Well before I came here I lived in Ft Resolution." I said. "Oh I have been there." He said happy that we had something in common. "I went there in May of 2000. There was a wedding going on, I didn't even know the couple, but I went to the reception. What a feast. What a great time, we danced all night. It was fantastic. The best wedding I ever went to and I never even knew the couple." "That so?" I said. "Yes, were you there?" "Oh yes.” I replied. "I was there..."