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..."

The Mansion on the Hill...

As a writer and most especially a storyteller you must first and foremost be a good listener and a lover of the story. While all writers are in fact story tellers, there is a category of writers who are branded as story tellers. Often it has been regarded as a derogatory term. Implying that the story is in itself trivial and of little enduring value. I beg to differ. I have been called a story teller and I wear the mantle proudly. Many of our greatest writers have been story tellers. Writers like Leacock, Greg Clarck, Farley Mowat, and even Pierre Berton were story tellers. Great Canadians and great writers all. I do not purport to include myself in their company by way of the quality of my work. I merely accept the mantle of story teller and do so proudly as there is a role, even in this fast moving, technological world, for fireside sitters who spin tales and try to inspire in a younger generation a love of the story. A thirst for the legend, for the larger than life, even for the supernatural. For a story that transcends this world and opens the mind to the possibility of something other.

So take a seat beside me on a smooth log, not too close to the fire, although you may want to slide closer as the events I relate may chill you more than your skeptical soul would like to admit. I come by this story by way of osmosis. It seeped into my skin, rather the way that a summer tan does, quite unnoticed as I toiled in the good soil of Yarmouth County, in the Nova Scotia of my youth. It was perhaps an odd place to have so chilling a past. How often great beauty hides great scars. How a polished skin hides the apples rotten core. You can understand the reason that Nova Scotians have fostered so many tales of the macabre, so many stories of the unquiet dead. She is a peninsula, thrust into an angry North Atlantic so tied to that unforgiving mistress for it's loaves and fishes. So capricious is she of the frail humans who have plied her bountiful waters to seek their fortune. Few families have not suffered at her hands. You need only to have asked my Grandmother Lillian what it felt like to have her love, a massive man over six foot four, stolen from her at the age of 32. Her life changed forever when the man, so strong she could scarcely imagine it possible, slipped beneath the frigid March waters. Newfoundland's Ron Hynes answered his own question when he said in his song "Atlantic Blue" "What color is a heartache, from a love lost at sea? What shade of memory never fades, but lingers to eternity? How dark is the light of day, these sleepless eyes of mine survey? Is that you, Atlantic blue? My heart is as cold as you."

With a name like Darling Lake you can probably imagine what kind of town this is. Especially in the 1970's before the new highway, before the process of progress sucked the life out of the town. Where once it had three thriving gas stations now it has none. The town is still beautiful, the lake seems unchanged. It appears small from the old highway, the lake is larger than it seems. It is nestled in rolling farmland. In the 70's beef and dairy cattle dotted it's pastured shores, cattle used to cross a rock causeway to a small island in the center of the lake as faces the old highway. The meadow at the center of the island is long overgrown by trees. The lake is deep in parts, very shallow in others where farmers have deposited the field stone that they have taken from their fields for centuries. Clarence Rose who I used to work for claimed they were his biggest crop. Every time you broke ground they were there, rocks. We built stone walls, graded driveways, leveled roads and filled in the lake. We filled trailers with them until the tires bulged. It was my job to follow the plow and take the stones from the furrow and pile them in cairns. We would return days later, after the rain had washed them clean to collect them and disperse them elsewhere. Go there now and the fields around the lake are lined with rock walls. We built about anything possible out of stone.

As a boy I would tie a rope around my waist and tow a red plastic canoe around as I swam the lake. I knew every point and every rock I had swum and dived in every deep hole in the lake with fins and mask. I had fished it too, avoiding the lily pads that grew up in the height of summer. The lake brimmed with perch, silver and yellow. There were eels as big around as my arm and even longer. The lake would begrudgingly give up a few brook trout. Some of decent size. My cousin Jim had caught a two pounder. As night would fall on the lake the fishing would change, like someone had flipped a switch. The perch stopped biting and slipped into deeper water. The catfish, called Horned Pout by the locals moved in and sucked up your bait off bottom. They made strange noises when you brought them up out of deep water. They had spines, too. You had to grab them just so, in order not to puncture yourself. The rumor was that they were poisonous, those spines. I think this was due to the fact that they punctured deeply and they were covered in bottom slime that must have contained millions of bacteria. Still it was another thing of beauty that hid a nasty secret. Truth was I hated catching them although I am told they are delicious.

All the time, from almost any corner of the beautiful, pastoral lake, you could see it. The brooding, weathered clapboard mansion that dominated the terrain on the highest hill around the lake. Made even more imposing by its' fall from grace. In her day she must have been the belle of the ball. Clad in white, with lace curtained windows she is dressed for a Victorian ball.Built in 1890 by Aaron Flint Churchill a shipping magnate who had emigrated to the states from his native Yarmouth. He had it built as a summer home and had originally called it "The Anchorage" a fitting name for someone who was taking time off from a sea based life. Built in the late Victorian style the house is evocative of the era, stiff and formal, cold and austere It features a grand formal staircase and a most Maritime of features, a Widows Walk. What is a Widow's Walk you may ask (if you are from some inland location). A Widow's Walk is a place at the highest point of a house, usually the third story where a window or series of windows, or a fenced patio allows you, or more properly the wife of some sailor, to pace back and forth and scan the horizon for ships masts.Too many times they do not return, hence the name. Many stories exist in the Maritimes of a ghostly apparition waiting for the return of he who will not return, he who will never sleep as his body is never recovered. She who is left behind is doomed to pace this somber walkway forever.

When I knew her in the early 1970's she had faded from her past glory. Her dress was tattered and she had been too long at the ball. Her windows broken, her lace curtains tattered billowing in the breeze like a skirt, or petticoat. Her shutters sagged on a single hinge. Her lightening rods had braided copper wires snaking to the ground, tarnished with verdigris like varicose veins staining her faded white paint with their green blight. Her clapboard showed grey through the peeling paint, lichen crept up her stone based pillars as if the earth were slowly reclaiming her. She lay like the bones of a decaying body, waiting for the earth to swallow her. She dominated the local area, perched as she was on the hill, shrouded in trees. You could scarcely miss her. In a way that mimicked those portraits whose eyes seem to follow you around the room the house was always there.

I think that if the house wasn't haunted that ghosts would have found it . Like in the "Field of Dreams" build it and they will come. In this case it was more of neglect it and they will come. This house, once so treasured now so forlorn would have propagated tales of the supernatural. For where else would the unquiet dead want to live? One of the spookiest things about the place are the trees that surround it. Huge spruce and fir trees, over a hundred years old and forty feet high surround the property. The thing about these trees is the shape of them, they are grotesquely distorted, twisted and gnarled into unreal and other worldly shapes. They suit the old house especially as she stood in the 70's when she lay decrepit and dying. These were the features that were in my mind when I first came to know the house. The size and former splendor of the house that must have once dominated the local rural area. The dominance of the house physically as she was perched on the highest hill around. The eerie state of neglect of a house once so splendid. The spooky trees so bizarre and unexplained. This is what was in my mind when I first saw the house, close up. This and the rumors, the stories from other kids. The overheard snippets of adult conversation. Stories of a face seen in a window in a lightening flash. Stories of someone seen looking out the windows of the widow's walk when the house was supposed to be empty. There were rumors of a suicide in a barn on the property. My relative newness to the area spared me the more lurid stories. Which is probably best. Sometimes the best results come from a tiny seed. Too much information might have made me skeptical. As it was this prologue served to make me fertile ground for that seed. That and of course, what else, a stormy night!

My first real contact with the house came on such a night. The day had been dour, overcast a mackerel colored sky with clouds hugging the ground and the nearby shore, which would have been visible from the widow's walk shrouded in fog. Fog that crept and rolled across the fields closing in the house narrowing your view. Shrinking your world to just what you can see, the rest of the world obscured by a white curtain. Your world is reduced to only the things immediately before you. The rest of the world and any greater reality, my parents, other adults, logic and reason, all these things were abstract concepts as remote and distant as heaven or hell.

What took me out of the barn, where we had worked all day, out into the mists and wet of Yarmouth county, was the cattle we had down the road at a local field belonging to Clarence's friend and his Daughter-in-law's Father. We had worked all day indoors, cleaning the barn, sharpening tools, re stacking the hay mow. After supper chores were done and we were just getting ready to head in, for the night, to warm up and watch the news. A fire was on in the furnace which was odd for the time of year but the dampness needed to be burned off. The Roses' house was itself over one hundred years old and was a huge rambling farm house. The fire would take the edge off. The phone was ringing when we came through the door. It was cold and damp but not yet raining. Gertrude, Clarence's wife came toward us with a disappointed look.. "I'm sorry, honey." She said with a voice that mirrored her expression. "But the cattle at Bob Porter's have gotten out of the field, someone left a gate up or something." Clarence looked pained. He had a bad back and was always in pain, never more than at the end of a hard, damp day. This is what I was here for, this and the hope that a summer of work would make me a better son and give my beleaguered parents a break. "I'll go!" I said enthusiastically. Clarence looked at me his jaw clenched as he did when thinking. "Sure." he replied, "See what's happening, if a fence needs mending let us know." I hadn't taken my shoes off yet, so I stepped out into the night. There wasn't much for street lights in those days, a couple in front of Clarence's farm and his son Jim's next door. Beyond that there were our fields. I walked the edge of the road, along the rock walls. After the fields ended there were the trees that surrounded the Churchill estate. Here the road forked. The main highway went along the shore of the lake and the road that lead to the mansion, and to Bob Porter's field, went up the hill.

The rain that had held off all day began to fall, slowly but steadily. I was dressed, as usual, in jean jacket and jeans, my prized Caterpillar trucks hat on my head. Soon I was soaked. I could see little except the trees and the road. The outside world was only a concept. What was real was the crunch of gravel under my feet as i left the highway and stepped back into time. No street lights here to pierce the gloom. Only the crunch of the gravel and the beat of the rain on the leaves. I kept my gaze on the road at my feet. It was impossible, though not to glance at the mansion as I passed. The ghoulish form of the trees loomed out of the fog. Her lichen covered walls gave a further look of decay. Still I had a goal, to find the cattle and get them safely penned for the night.

I could hear the cattle before I could see them, happily munching the long grass along the road, very much in danger of getting hit by a car in the gloom and the fog. They were a collection of heifers (young females being raised to replace the existing milk hefrd) and some steers being raised for beef. There were seven of them and they were all in one group. I drove them in front of me, down the road toward the field. The gate post was broken off, I drove the cattle in and propped the post up with some heavy rocks. We would need to replace the post as it was rotten. I inspected my work and was pleased with it. I was now thoroughly soaked and quite cold.

As I started for home, I pulled my hat brim down and put the collar of my jean jacket up. The night seemed even colder when I saw it. Looming in the mist was the house. There were no other homes opposite it. she was alone in the night, in the rain, in the fog. It seemed to radiate cold. I shivered as I looked at it. The gnarled trees seemed to be reaching out for the house, reaching out for me. My world had closed in, the only landmarks were the trees, the road and the house. Whereas on the way in, my mind focused on the task at hand, there was only the sound of my footfalls on the gravel, and the rain on the leaves. They were like white noise. But now I could hear her, I mean it. The house. Though empty and forgotten she was not silent. The wind swung a shutter its' hinges moaning like a wounded soul. Her power lines whistled flatly in the easterly wind that blew from the sea. Somewhere in the night a door slammed intermittently, randomly punctuating the sounds of a dying home, a dying era. Her last founding member having just passed away. Aaron Churchill had built the place for himself and his wife Lois and his niece Lotta May (Lottie). Aaron and his wife died in the Twenties and ownership went to Lottie who died in 1971.

A flash of lightning lit the side of the house in blinding clarity. Like a flashbulb it temporarily blinded me, stopping my progress. The rumble of the thunder echoed off the not too distant lake. I crossed to the far side of the road, giving the old place as wide a berth as the narrow lane allowed. Water came in sheets off the old roof cascading to the stone patio below. The slamming door was not on this side of the house. I had always waned to look in the windows, but not tonight, not in this. I found myself walking backward staring back at it. I couldn't take my eyes off her. In the weird way that an accident scene attracts our attention, I was transfixed. For a few minutes I did nothing, just staring. Finally another blinding flash brought me back, back to reality, back to the rain, back to the cold. By now my shirt was soaked and I was getting more uncomfortable. I was drawn to the house, drawn to those windows. I wanted to look in to see if there was anything there. Who was the apparition that people had seen? Was it Aaron, was it Lottie? I could imagine a man like Aaron Flint Churchill staying on in this world after his time. I could imagine so forceful a man in life dominating the small town even in death. I could also imaging Lottie staying on in this place she loved so much. She had been raised by her Aunt and Uncle and they had thought so much of her that they had left her "The Anchorage" was she simply looking after it even in death?

The thunder was almost immediate, meaning the lightening was right on top of me. It was the thunder that started my feet moving again. But just before I turned my head one of the lace curtains billowed and moved behind a closed window. Was there a draft from an open window somewhere else? I wasn't waiting to find out. Somewhere in the night there was a house with lights, with family and with dry clothes and a warn fire. I wanted it more now than I could ever remember. My hands were wet and red. I had no dry pockets to put them in. my runners squished as I walked. I turned my back on the house. Turned my back on the trees, their outstretched limbs beckoning me, come take a look, satisfy your curiosity. It's a long walk home, just come under my eaves to get out of the rain. Take a lo0k in that window that fascinates you so much... I wheeled. tucking my cold hands under my arms I put my head down and stared a hole in the road. I didn't look back not even when the door slammed just as another flash of lightening lit the sky. The water was bouncing off the highway as I hit the fork in the road. Ahead was the street light, the house and warmth. I crossed the distance in near record time. Clarence was putting on his coat as I came in dripping, to the porch off the garage. "I was just coming to look for you." he said, obviously concerned. I glanced at the clock, I had been gone almost 45 minutes, much longer than I had thought. I told him about the rotten post and that the cattle were safe for the night. He put a hand on my shoulder and told me to change "There's hot chocolate and ginger snaps in the kitchen." I said nothing about the house, about the weird pull it had exerted on me. Soon I was enjoying the sweet cocoa and the dry clothes. I cradled the mug in my hands which were returning to their normal color. "You must be frozen!" Gert said as she watched me, I must have seemed unusually quiet. My mind was elsewhere. I was still wondering whether I should have gone, should have looked in that window. Was someone in there beckoning me?

I spent three summers on the farm. Three summers to watch the house decay. Three winters to wonder about that night. Some years later I spent a week in Darling Lake on my vacation. I drove past the old place. It was the early eighties. A gentleman by the name of Robert Bensonhad bought the place .He had restores the place to its' former glory. It no longer looked decaying. It had a new lease on life. It is now an Inn where guests can stay and also enjoy a meal. I think old "Rudder " Churchill would be pleased.I talked to Clarence about the place one time. He seemed to dismiss the stories, though he did admit some strange things were said about the place. "The trees?" He said when I asked about the strange shapes of these weird sentinels. "They used to be a hedge. In its' hey day they paid local people to keep the hedges trimmed. But when the place went downhill the trees grew up. They were deformed from years of being kept trimmed." That explains that, I guess. I have been back a number of times since. I have never looked in a window, though I would love to. I want to stay there sometime, to wander the fields of my youth. To wet a line in the lake. To answerthe call of whatever was beckonning that night...

ATLANTIC BLUE by Ron Hynes

What color is a heartache froma love losr at sea

What shade of memory never fades

But lingers to eternity

How dark is the light of day that sleepless eyes of mine surve

Is that you Atlantic Blue

My heart is as cold as you

How is one heart chosen to never lie at peace

How many moments remain is there not one of sweet release

And who's that stranger at my door to haunt my dreams forever more

Is that you Atlantic Blue

My heart is as cold as you

I lie awake in the morning

as the waves wash on the sand

I hold my hurt at bay I hold the lives of his children in my hands

And who's plea wil receive no answer

Who's cry is lost upon the wind

Who's the voice so familiar whispers my name as the night comes in

And who's wish never fails to find

My vacant heart at Valentines

Is that you Atlantic Blue

My heart is as cold

Mr heart is as cold

My heart is as cold as you

Withered Roots

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Critical Factor

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


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

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

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



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

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



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


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


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

Spring, sprang, sprung

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

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

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

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

The illusion you alluded to eluded me...

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

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


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


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


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



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

This throwback's a keeper

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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