A Blue River Odyssey

I

His truck broken down in Blue River, British Columbia, Charlie had decided to walk over to the Husky, a few minutes through the little town, to get himself a little supper on a Saturday night. Ron pulled into the parking lot and jumped out of his vehicle saying “Hey, Charlie, listen: Norma’s got some frozen hamburger patties in the freezer left over from her sixtieth birthday party a couple of weeks ago. We’re just going to cook ‘em up. You interested in joining us?”

“We-e-e-ell, what else have I got going?  Sure I’ll join you.”

Ron pulled out a propane tank to fill up but the folks at the Husky said “Sorry, the only fella that can fill up that tank isn’t here right now and we don’t know where he is so sorry we can’t fill your tank.”

Ron borrowed the station phone to call over to Norma asking if she had some propane.  She said she had a tank that’s probably about half full but it’s been about 8 to 10 years since she’s refilled it. Charlie and Ron thought “okay let’s give it a whirl.”

They went back to Norma’s place got her propane tank and brought it back to the tattoo parlour (“Hollywood and Main”) where Charlie had parked his holiday trailer.  They hooked the tank up to Ron’s barbecue and the old propane just couldn’t keep a flame going.  After a few tries, Charlie said “Hey, Ron: I’ve got a propane tank — a full tank in my trailer. Let me go and unhook it and I’ll bring it over here so we can get these burgers cooked.”  After they sparked it up it made a  great flame and they barbecued the burgers. A few beers later, at about eight or nine o’clock Barb, the waitress from the Husky came by and showed off a few of her tattoos and, as the summer light dimmed in the sky and the streetlights came on in the little town, Charlie sat back, his legs crossed beneath him, and told the story of how he came to be eating a burger in Blue River. . . .

II

“Are we stopping for gas?” Céline asked.

About a minute earlier I had noticed with worry a slight hesitation from our truck as we drove north on the Yellowhead Highway an hour or so out of Kamloops.  “The engine’s stopped working” and with it power steering and power brakes.  I armstrong steered our truck and trailer into the only apparent refuge, the Husky station half a mile ahead on the Highway next to Blue River,  population 260 – not one of those 260 a professional mechanic.

When the engine quit we were going about eighty km/h which gave the truck and the trailer enough momentum to pull slowly onto the service road and even more slowly up to the gas pumps.  Céline was still concerned, of course, and continued asking what was wrong.

“We’re having some truck problems and we’re going to have to deal with it,” I told her, although I didn’t quite know what we had to deal with or how.  I got out of the truck, popped the hood and looked into the engine compartment just like any guy would do, whether or not he knew what to look at.

I didn’t.

III

After a minute or two of watching this motionless lump of metal, I went into the service station side of the Husky and asked the attendant in her little booth beside the door whether there was a mechanic at the station.  She looked at me strangely and didn’t say a word.

“Uh oh”, I thought.

“Look, is there a mechanic in this town?”

She gave me the same look and shook her head from side to side.  “No.  We don’t have a mechanic in this town.  But there’s a fella with a tow truck.”

“Okay.  Can we call him?”

While she called the fella with the tow truck, I went back outside where Céline waited in our truck, the hood still up.  A trucker was looking over at our truck.  He called over “What seems to be the problem?”

“We stalled coming into town.  No lights came on on the dashboard.  It just seems like the engine’s getting no fuel.  It’s turning over but not catching.”

“Hey I’ve heard of that sort of thing happening,” the trucker said.  “Lots of times it’s the fuel pump.  These days they put the fuel pump inside the gas tank so if you just hit on your gas tank sometimes it’s enough to jar that fuel pump to get going again.”

So, feeling excited, we tried hitting the fuel tank a few times and it worked!  The truck started!

It ran for about ten seconds and then stalled again.  It would take a lot of banging on the gas tank to get home to Edmonton.

IV

Our family of five had spent a holiday in British Columbia, mostly on Saltspring Island (where some tremendous cheese is made).  Early on our way home to Edmonton we had stopped at the Abbotsford airport so my son Alain and his mother Nicole could catch a flight home.  Alain was due to go to Air Cadet camp so we had planned all along for the two of them to take the fast way home.  By the Thursday morning at the Abbotsford airport, my youngest daughter Dominique had been sick for a couple of days so we decided to send her home by air as well.  Céline and I were left to travel on our own back to Edmonton with our truck and trailer, expecting  to be home a day later than the rest of the family.  The two of us continued on eastward and made it nearly as far as Kamloops that Thursday night.  The trip thus far was a rather uneventful Coquihalla drive.  We set up our trailer for the night in a spot at Lac le Jeune Provincial Park campground just south of Kamloops. It was a nice, quiet spot much like it must have been fifty years ago when there was probably not much more than a fishing lodge.  Some good stories around that lake if the loons could talk.

On Friday morning we got up to a beautiful day if somewhat overcast.  We went into Kamloops, filled the gas tank and got a little bit of breakfast.  Then we continued north on the Yellowhead Highway along the North Branch of the Thompson River.  Earlier in the year we had gone to the Sunpeaks Ski Resort to do some skiing; we thought it would be nice to see it without snow, so we took a little side trip.  We took a few pictures despite being caught in the rain and then came back down to the highway to continue northward through Clearwater, population many thousands, maybe a whole lot of them professional mechanics.

V

The fella with the tow truck – Paul is his name, I think – showed up and I explained situation. Paul’s first suggestion was “hit that gas tank with something.” So he comes out of his truck with a rubber mallet and hits the fuel tank a couple of times.  Sure enough we got the truck going again.  A little bit.  Until it stalled after half a minute.

Paul looked at my truck and asked what size the engine was.  I told him and he said, looking a little hopeful “I just bought a fuel pump for my brother’s truck that’s got the same engine and looks like the same kinda gas tank and we ended up not using it because the problem with his truck was something else so I’ve got this brand new fuel pump still in a box – I think it might work in your truck.”

I thought (ignoring for a moment the facts that I was broken down in Blue River and rain had started falling)  “Wow, this looks like my lucky day!  What a stroke of luck that somebody in this little town of 150 people has a brand new fuel pump.”  He convinced me to bring the truck to his backyard workshop.  After a few attempts of starting the truck and stalling and starting it again we finally got I through town to his shop, which was next to the Hollywood and Main Tattoo Parlour.  He’d set up a little shop under a lean-to roof between two steel sea cans.   As well as driving the town’s only tow truck, Paul is a bit of a backyard mechanic, as is his friend and neighbour, Ron.  I was counting on these two fellas to get us back on the road again.

Around noon Céline and I unhooked the holiday trailer in Paul’s front yard and then we got the truck out of the rain underneath the lean-to.   Ron lamented the state of his equipment as we jacked up the truck: a bear had come through his shop the other night, scattering tools and making a mess.  In spite of the reorganized tool kit,  Ron and Paul worked on removing the fuel tank.  After about three hours the gas tank dropped out and they had a look at the faulty fuel pump.  At about four o’clock in the afternoon we knew we’d have to order a part: Paul’s spare wasn’t going to fit.

Paul got on the telephone and managed to find one parts store with one matching fuel pump in stock – in Kamloops, about two and a half hours away, where we’d had breakfast that morning.  “Great,” I thought, “let’s order that fuel pump!”

Unfortunately Paul did not have an account with the Kamloops parts shop, but he said he could put it onto the account of a friend of his in Clearwater.  The thing would arrive on a Greyhound bus as it’s doing its milk run from Kamloops to Edmonton.  The next Greyhound would be coming through Blue River at about two in the morning: when we got up next morning we would have our part.  “Okay,” we thought “fine. Let’s do that.”

They wouldn’t accept a credit card over the phone.

We had to get money to Kamloops somehow and this fuel pump up to Blue River.

Somehow.

By now it was about supper time on Friday afternoon. Céline has been very patient this whole time.  “Let’s just go eat at the restaurant at the Husky station.”  Over dinner we came to the realization that we were stuck in Blue River for the night.

The holiday trailer we were pulling is a hybrid type.  On the road it looks like a normal boxy holiday trailer, but in camp the ends open up like a tent railer making extra sleeping space.  Having heard there was at least one bear in the area, we decided to leave the ends closed and sleep a little more securely on the drop-down dining table.  So, Friday night was supper at the Husky and cards until nine or ten and then sleep.  The front lawn of Hollywood and Main Tattoo Parlour in Blue River is about a hundred yards from the Canadian National main line.  It seemed like every hour through that night a long freight would pass, blowing its whistle all the way.

VI

Saturday morning when we got up was still overcast so I thought I’d take a walk over to the Husky, which is about  ten minutes from where we were, to check on our package.   I got to the gas station and asked the attendant if the Greyhound had come through during the night and dropped off packages, she said “Yeah.”

I said “is there a package there for Paul?”

She kinda shook her head.

“How about Ron?”

She shook her head again and I looked at the packages that were there and there was nothing that would resemble our fuel pump.

I wandered back to our trailer and waited for the locals to get up.  About ten o’clock Ron came out of this old blue school bus that was parked out behind the shed.  I asked him if that was his office or his little shop and he said, no, he lived in that bus.  I let Ron know that our package had not arrived and he just sort of shrugged and said “Maybe it will be on the next Greyhound”  which would be coming through Blue River about three in the afternoon.  I asked whether we could call and make sure the package was going to be on the bus.  He didn’t really answer, just saying the package “would get here when it got here”.

VII

I was feeling a little frustrated.

I just walked back to the trailer and played cards with Céline for a while longer.  Then we decided to go for a little walk out to the tracks maybe to place a coin or two on the rail and wait for the next train to come along and flatten it as a little souvenir.  As we’re hanging around the dusty rail line I said to Céline “Hey, come take a look down the tracks over there,” and about two hundred yards away a big black bear was wandering around on the tracks.

While it was an exciting sight, Céline was a little concerned, saying “well, we can’t walk any closer to it!”

I said “Look we’re right in front of the old general store.  If the bear comes wandering or charging towards us we can just go inside the store.”  So we watched the bear for a while.  He was eating grain off the tracks from all the rail cars that spill some of their load. We watched the bear for about twenty minutes and he wasn’t really moving much – just nibbling on the grain, and he just lay there for a while so we decided to move on.

We walked north along the tracks, away from town.  The local baseball diamond was on our left, between us and the lake.  A ball and a couple of gloves would have been helpful for passing the time.  We turned away from the tracks and strolled along the east and north shores of the little lake, stopping to explore a little log cabin resort we found.  It was pretty much empty at this season.  As we walked back toward town on the west shore, I thought that if this package didn’t arrive on the 3 o’clock Greyhound we’d have to get Céline home somehow.  When we got back to the trailer, I asked her to pack a bag and explained to her that one way or another if we didn’t have our part “you’re going to be home Saturday night”. Either we have the part and we get the truck fixed and we’re driving home or she’s getting on that bus.

VIII

About two o’clock I offered to buy Ron a piece of pie and an ice cream at the Husky and we’d wait together for the Greyhound.  Céline had her bag packed and came with us.  Just like clockwork the bus showed up about three o’clock. The bus driver comes out of the bus into the gas station with a couple of packages — neither one for us.  We asked him if there were any more packages and he replied that no, “that’s it.”

Disappointed that our package hadn’t come in we went back into the Husky and I bought Céline a Greyhound bus ticket to Edmonton.  She was rather excited about this new adventure.  The bus would be leaving about three thirty and arriving in Edmonton roughly eight hours later.   Céline said she had all kinds of snacks and drinks in her bag and she wouldn’t really need anything more so I told her that the bus would likely make a few stops along the way and I explained to her very clearly: “Do Not Get Off the Bus at any of these stops.  Very important, don’t get off the bus.”  I expect she figured that by getting off the bus there was the chance that she might not get back onto it in time but I was more concerned that you just don’t know what sort of people are going to be at these stops along the way.  But I didn’t scare her with that.  Very apprehensively,  I put her on the bus and gave her a big hug and a kiss and said “I’ll see you soon, I’m not sure exactly when but it’ll be soon.  I’ll call mom and let her know you’re on the way.”

IX

There was no cell phone service in Blue River.  For about a hundred kilometres in each side of the town the North Thompson River Valley was a cell phone dead zone.  I had to be making collect phone calls from the little outdoor payphone in front of the general store and I had to time my calls to fit  between the trains.  Trying to talk on that phone while a freight was going by was impossible.

After having watched  Céline leave on the Greyhound, Ron and I went to Paul’s house.  We said to Paul, “Hey, listen our part didn’t come in.  Do you think we can make a phone call to find out where it is?”     Again he just nonchalantly shrugged his shoulders and said “Well you know the part might come in Monday or Tuesday now, you know, being that it’s Saturday afternoon.”   I tried to explain to him that nobody seemed to be feeling any sense of urgency about trying to find this part.  Here I was stuck in this little town with no idea how long I was going to be cooling my heels.  I had no way of getting around as my truck was out of commission.  I had no cell phone service.  I was totally dependent on these locals that I had met.

Paul’s wife Pam was busy preparing supper in their modest little house full of cats and dogs and stuff.  With no room to sit down, I just stood in the doorway watching all the activity.  In the middle of it all sat their friend Norma and she seemed to be to only one sensing my worry and urgency.  Norma pipe up and said “Listen, I’ll make a few calls.”  So, between her and Paul they found out that the fuel pump hadn’t left Kamloops and was still sitting in the parts store.  It was a bit of a relief to know where the part was, but we still had no idea how we were going to get it.

Norma came up with the idea of phoning a friend of hers in Kamloops.  By this time it’s about five o’clock Saturday afternoon. The parts store closes at six so even if we had left at that moment we could not have made it in time to pick up this part.  Norma got on the phone to her friend Dave in Kamloops but there was some sort of  problem with the line.  She said “lets just go to my place and use my phone, it works better.” Hey, I’m not going anywhere, so I got a ride with Norma to her place.  Norma apologized for the mess her house is in saying she’s doing renovations.  She took a chair and knocked off all the stuff that was on it, offering it to me.  I sat down and she called her friend in Kamloops.

X

“Dave listen can you do me a big favour here? We’re in a bit of a pickle here we need to get a part from this parts store in Kamloops and it’s $400 and I know it’s a lot of money but can you just go and buy it and we’ll be there later in the evening and we’ll pay you the $400 plus a little bit extra for your trouble and we really need this favour . . .”

Her friend Dave was very hesitant asking “well who is this guy we’re doing it for?  How do we know him? How can we trust him?”

And Norma’s looking at me and says “oh well he looks like a regular guy you know just a regular guy he looks okay you know he kinda looks like a lawyer.”

I tell Norma “Don’t tell your friend I look like a lawyer!”  This fella was quite hesitant about doing us a favour.  You can’t really blame him cause he didn’t know me and for that matter neither did Norma. And Dave mentioned that the parts store was open on Sundays which we hadn’t expected.

We thought “well that’s great!”  We hung up and called the parts place. Sure enough it was open on Sunday at nine o’clock.  We thought “okay there’s our plan. We’ll drive out there tomorrow, Sunday morning.”

At about 5:30 Saturday evening, after a few minutes of chatting and a beer in Paul’s driveway, everyone went off in their own directions.  I decided to walk over to the Husky for a little dinner, but as I arrived, Ron pulled into the parking lot, jumped out of his truck and said “Hey, Charlie, listen . . . Norma’s got some frozen hamburger patties in the freezer left over from her sixtieth birthday party a couple of weeks ago.  You want to join us for a barbecue?”

XI

“So that” Charlie concluded, sipping is Carlesburg, “Is how I came to be eating burgers and drinking beer in front of the Hollywood and Main tattoo parlour in Blue River, British Columbia.”

The conversation turned to tattoos and Barb got up to  proudly show off the tattoo Scotty, who ran the tattoo parlour, had done for her.  She just had to tug down on the waistband of her pants a bit and turned around to show it to everyone.  Charlie said “Oh.  Well, that’s – that’s interesting.” Then of course she had to show another one.  Barb pulled the shoulder down on her shirt and Charlie thought “Okay that’s enough for me. They’re nice tattoos.”

A few more beers and it was close to eleven o’clock.  Charlie announced “Okay guys, listen, it’s an hour later for me than it is for you guys so I’m going to get to bed and I’ll see you in the morning.” Norma had earlier offered to get up at seven or seven thirty to drive Charlie to Kamloops.  Charlie thought “well that’s a great offer but seeing how many beers Norma had she’s probably not going to be getting up at seven or seven thirty but I’m not going to complain she’s offering me a ride.  I’ll take it. It doesn’t matter what time.”

Charlie retired into his trailer for the evening.  He didn’t hear the bear snuffling right outside or Ron’s dogs barking at the bear or the sound of  pebbles bouncing off the bear’s head as Ron took aim with his slingshot outside his little blue school bus home.   The bear ambled off.  Ron and the dogs went back to the bus.  And Charlie slept on on the dining room table.

XII

I stand outside the gas station while dad buys the bus ticket.

I put my bags in the baggage compartment and say “bye” to dad.

Dad says “Do Not get off the bus!”

I get on a half empty bus and sit on the window seat on the left side of the bus.

We leave Blue River. I’m listening to my ipod

An hour later, I call my mom from Valemont.  Still on the bus with my cell phone.

After that I watch the kilometres go by.

In Jasper, the bus makes a stop.  An old lady comes to my seat and says “Hi.”

She said “Hi, how are you? Where are you from?”

I say “Edmonton.

She responds “Ohhhh, Edmonton.  That’s such a big place.  I don’t know how you can live in such a big place.”

I sort of laugh and end the conversation.

Before we leave Jasper, I switch seats.  I sit in the window seat on the right side of the bus.

Left Jasper.  Stopped in Hinton.  The old lady got off the bus there.

Left Hinton.  Stopped in Edson.

Starting to get dark.

Starting to feel sick.

It was pitch black outside and really feeling sick now.

Stopped in Spruce Grove.  A Crying Teenager came on the bus.  It’s about 11:00 pm.

Arrived in Edmonton City Centre Depot at 11:45 pm.  Got my bags, found my mom and left, in pain, right away.

Got home and went to bed late.

XIII

Charlie got up about seven o’clock on Sunday morning to blue sky and sunshine.

“It looks like a good day,” he thought.

He wandered over to the general store to make a call to Nicole, both to let her know what was going on and to find out that Céline had made it home safe and sound.  After having explained to Nicole that they were going to drive into Kamloops to go get the part, he walked back to the trailer and sat on the step watching Norma’s house.  And her car.  Small town. Shortly after seven-thirty he saw Norma coming out of her house, getting into her car and driving on over.

“Wow,” he thought, “this is great!  7:30!  This has turned out good, so far.”  Norma was perky, looked great and was ready to go.  They stopped at the Husky for coffee and as they headed into the building, Norma found a penny on the ground.

“Oh, lucky penny!” she said and she rubbed that penny and stuck it in her pocket.

They got their coffee and Charlie offered to buy some fuel for the car but Norma said “you know, let’s just buy it in the next town cause it’s cheaper.”

“Okay, she’s the boss, she’s driving,” thought Charlie.

Away they went, driving 140 kilometres an hour down highway 5 to the next town.  About ten minutes away from Clearwater Norma told Charlie, “Jeez, I don’t know if we’re gonna make it.  Gas is getting really low here in the tank.”  They just made it into town at about 8:30 on a Sunday morning in a very small town with only one gas station.

“I sure hope this place is open,” Charlie said as they pulled up to the pumps. They got lucky. Norma’s claimed it was her penny that helped them out this far and  she was rubbing that penny.  So they filled up, Charlie paid and away they went.

XIV

Heading on down towards Kamloops, nothing stopping them now!  They had a full tank of gas and were going anywhere between 120 and 125. As they were approaching Kamloops the road became two lanes in each direction and they were easily able to pass  people.  About ten miles north of Kamloops Norma passed one vehicle that was going a little bit slower and then there was another vehicle ahead of them in the left lane.  If they were to pass this fellow, it would be on the right.  As they approached this car Charlie noticed it was a Crown Victoria with tinted windows.   Charlie was watching this car as they approached him on the right side going about 125.   As they  pass he realized it was a police car with two Mounties inside.

“Hey Norma, you know what, you just blew right by a police car.”

“Really?!”

“Yeah, yeah.”

She looked in her mirrors and the flashing lights came on.  Norma slowed right down and as luck would have it the Mounties had the radar on but they were catching speeders going in the other direction.  The flashing lights pulled a u-turn and started chasing somebody northbound.  Norma pulled out that lucky penny again and she started rubbing it, just thrilled and impressed with herself and with this penny.

XV

Charlie was just happy to be in Kamloops.

They found the parts store with no problem.   At about ten o’clock Sunday morning they got to the counter and the fella said “Yeah we got this part here waiting for you.”   They opened up the box and compared the new pump to the one Charlie had brought with them from Blue River.  Convinced that it is the same part Charlie did a little happy dance as he went to the cashier to pay the $400.  He was half way to having a vehicle again.

But Norma had more plans for Kamloops. She wanted to go to a place called “Surplus Herbie’s”, a discount store that sells new and used items.  In this store Norma had seen some time earlier a natural gas stove that was for sale. It was quite the bargain: a $2200 stove that dropped in price every week or so by ten percent.   Now it was down to 600 and some odd dollars and Norma was quite happy no one had bought it yet.  She grabbed one of the sales clerks and said “Listen, I want to buy this stove!”   With the taxes and all it worked out to $777 and change.  Norma figured this was an omen. She said “Wow! Seven seven seven.  Those are great numbers!”  Out came that lucky penny!  She rubbed it a bit and then she pulled out her credit card.  “Oh my gosh! I sure hope I have room on the credit card!”

When the approval came through, Norma did her own happy dance.  The stove was far too big to fit into her little 1990 Chevy Celebrity station wagon but she said she would find a friend with a truck to pick it up later in the week. They got back into her car and were  heading north through Kamloops when Norma said that she was really hungry.  “I can’t make it back to Blue River without having something to eat!”

“Listen” said Charlie, “you pick a place and I’ll buy you lunch.”

XVI

On the north edge of Kamloops Norma pulled into a pub and said “Yeah, this is a great spot! We’ll have lunch here.”

“Who am I to complain?” thought Charlie.

Norma  ordered a soup and a sandwich and a pint of beer.  To make her feel good Charlie ordered an omelette and a glass of beer as well.  After about an hour they were done their lunch and some beer.  Charlie thought it good to be finished a nice lunch by high noon.

Outside the pub they were about to get into the car again but right next door is a little liquor store.  “What kinda beer  you like, Charlie? Carlsberg?”

“Well, you know Norma, I’m not gonna be drinking beer in the car”

So Norma walked into the liquor store and came out a minute later with a six pack of Pilsner.  She got into the car,  cracked a beer and put the car in drive and away they went.

XVII

Norma had the idea of driving on the west side of the Thompson river out of Kamloops, intending to take the ferry across about twenty miles north, and from there back to Highway 5.  Charlie saw no harm in this plan.  At about 12:30 they got to the ferry crossing were a sign told them to honk their horn if the ferryman was on the other side of the river.

So, they honked.  They could see the ferryman sitting on the ferry on the other side, but he was not moving.  So they honked the horn again.  Still no movement.   Back to the sign:  at the bottom it reads “hours of operation: 7am-noon and then 1pm till 7″.  12:30.  Charlie thinks: “alright we’re going to lose another half hour here.”

They waited with various degrees of patience – Norma cracked another beer – for the ferryman to finish his lunch break.   At one, like clockwork the fellow gets up, uncrosses his arms and lets the truck on the far side come onto his ferry.  He slowly comes across and a few minutes later it’s their turn.  Another ten minutes to get across and it’s almost 1:30, and finally back on the number 5 northbound.   Charlie is thinking “okay lets go!  We got another three hours before we get to Blue River.”

XVIII

As they approached Blackpool, a village just south of Clearwater,  traffic on the highway came to a dead stop at a big sign on the side of the road saying “accident scene ahead”.  The flag person at the front was speaking to everybody, one vehicle at a time, and most of the vehicles were pulling a u-turn or pulling into the truck stop but they were not continuing on.  Finally, when Norma and Charlie had made their way to the front of the line the flag person asked how far they were going. Norma pipes up “Oh, we’re only going as far as Clearwater!”

The flagperson says “The accident is on the north side of Clearwater so you guys should be okay.  You guys go ahead.”  So off they went not knowing what was involved in the accident. They thought that by the time they got to Clearwater an hour later the accident scene might be cleared up or their luck could hold and they might talk their way around another flagman.  Out came that lucky penny, Norma rubbing it as she drove.

XIX

Norma pulled into the grocery store in Clearwater,  explaining that they had to buy some one percent milk for Pam.  Rumour was there was no more one percent milk in Blue River so Charlie offered to buy two gallons of milk.  In the store they asked the manager what he knew about the accident on the north side of town.  “All I know is it was a pretty serious accident.  There was a tanker truck involved – flipped over – completely blocking the highway and whatever he’s got he’s got a toxic load on board and some of his load was leaking.”

They got back on the highway and the traffic was at a standstill again.  Norma says “Hey there’s this other road that kinda follows the river and it comes back out and maybe it’ll come back up to highway 5 past the accident scene.”

They went into the little town and worked their way around to come back up onto the highway.   The accident was still ahead of them.  Here there was another flagperson at another barricade and another explanation  that  nobody was getting through.  The highway was completely closed for anywhere between eight and twenty-four hours.  This final roadblock at Clearwater was the low point of Charlie’s discouragement.  They had no choice but to turn around.

XX

So, they turned around.

There was a fella in a half-ton truck right behind them and through their rolled down windows they heard the fella yell “Hey Norma!  You got lots of gas?”

Norma looked at her fuel gauge and called back “Yeah, about three quarters of a tank.”

The fella explained “Look, I know a way around this thing. It’s an old abandoned forestry trunk road but I know the road and we can get through on it but it’s going to take us about two and a half hours of driving on this road.”

With limited options, Charlie and Norma decided to follow the fella in the truck.

They drove off the paved highway onto a gravel road which was not too bad for the first mile or two but quickly deteriorated to nothing more than a goat trail.  The fella was right when he said it was an abandoned forestry trunk road: the trees had overgrown this thing; the branches were actually hitting both sides of the vehicles.  This fella in front of them had a brand new GMC pickup that was getting somewhat scratched up from all the branches.  And there were rocks on the road the size of basketballs. They bottomed out a few times and the road became nothing more than an overgrown trail.  Small trees had fallen across the way and they had to drive over them hoping they didn’t come across a big fallen tree or punch a hole in an oil pan.  Even turning around on the narrow trail would be nearly impossible.  Trying to get passed oncoming traffic was also a worry.

XXI

The road had some pretty steep grades.  About an hour into the ride they had to climb over a mountain to get into the Raft River valley, which was at least equally as hilly.  As they were climbing up the ridge, Charlie was saying to Norma “Man, I sure hope this guy knows where he’s going cause we’re so far off the main highway and we don’t have cell service and if something were to happen we’d be screwed.”   Just then,  the temperature light came on on Norma’s dashboard.  Charlie said “Hey,  Norma,  does that come on very often?”

Norma had a very worried look on her face. “No.  It’s never come on before.  This isn’t good, Charlie.’

They had to stop to let the engine cool.  The fella leading them saw they had stopped and stopped as well.  They chatted for about twenty minutes while the engine cooled off a bit and then made another go of it.  After five minutes the temperature light came on again.  Norma suddenly came up with a good – or at least, effective idea.   She turned on the car heater and fan full blast so it might take heat off the radiator and the engine.  The temperature light went out.  The engine was still warm but the light went out.  And it was hot enough inside the car to bake bread.  It felt like two hundred degrees inside the car and they we’re being  beaten by branches through the open windows. Charlie was reaching out the window regularly to remove broken branches from the windshield.

XXII

Three hours after they started on the detour,  they made it back to the main highway, six miles south of Blue River, refreshed after their bumpy sauna.  Soon the Mounties closed the forestry trunk road as other people were trying to use it. People could see the road on a GPS unit but the unit would not show what kind of road it really was.  Charlie and Norma and their guide were fortunate to get through before the Mounties clapped it closed at both ends.

Lucky penny.

Sunday evening about 5 o’clock they pulled into Paul’s driveway. Pam came running out and said “Oh my Gosh!  I didn’t expect to see you guys until tomorrow.   Did you know the highway’s closed?”

They said, “Yeah we kinda figured that,”  and briefly told her the story of their journey.

XXIII

Although it was dinner time on Sunday evening, Paul and Ron were kind enough to drop whatever they were doing and start working on installing the new fuel pump.  With everything back together again by about eight o’clock, Charlie put the key in the ignition, hoping and praying the engine would start.  The engine turned over but was not catching, not firing up,  not starting. Ron and Paul found a few choice words: “how come this f’n thing isn’t going and blah blah blah” The disappointment was crushing for Charlie.

He walked over to the old general store next to the railway tracks to make another collect call to Nicole, letting her know that he was not coming home tonight.  After his call he walked back toward the tattoo parlour and there was Norma,  driving her car toward him and calling out “Hey, listen!  Ron got your truck going, he took out that rubber mallet and just kinda beat on your fuel tank again and it was enough to jolt that fuel pump that new pump and it’s going it’s running.”

XXIV

Charlie took his truck out for a little test drive to make sure it wasn’t just a temporary fix.  It seemed to be working fine.  By now it was almost 10 o’clock on Sunday evening, the town was full of people because of the highway closure and every hotel room was booked up, the campground was full.  Charlie’s trailer was still parked in front of the tattoo parlour, so he could have stayed another night.  But he just wanted to get home.  After paying the good folks of Blue River for their labour and thanking them for their time and for their hospitality, Charlie hooked up the trailer and was heading north on Highway Five.

Passing through Jasper around 1:30 in the morning Charlie just could not keep his eyes open any longer.  He pulled over to the side of the highway, crawled into the trailer and slept until about six in the morning.  In dawn light, still in Jasper National Park, Charlie passed a great big moose and a little later he could see something on the road in the distance.  He slowed down to about twenty km per hour as he got closer and saw it was a wolf about twice the size of a German Shepherd, watching. Charlie looked at the wolf and the wolf looked at Charlie.  Charlie kept on going, stopping at Tim Hortons in Hinton for a donut and coffee.  He called Nicole about ten thirty saying that he was within an hour of being home.  Nicole  was relieved the moment she saw the call display on the phone showing Charlie’s cell phone number instead of the  Blue River payphone.

Charlie arrived home from a quite unexpected adventure in time for lunch on Monday, and then a nice afternoon nap.

Hesiod’s Theogony (and The Works and Days) Translated by C.S. Morrissey

Hesiod is a poet whom I have kept close by me from my undergraduate days thirty-some years ago.  I confess, my Greek is little better than Shakespeare’s as described by Jonson, but  my copy of Lattimore’s translation is filled with notes on scraps of paper and in the margins from university seminars and my own reading, and my dear Loeb volume 57 is in a similar state.  And, I can find my way around Liddell & Scott.

When I heard the news that there was a new translation of Hesiod — a Canadian translation, of all things — I was understandably excited.  C.S. Morrissey’s new translation of (part of) Hesiod’s Theogony and Works and (grudgingly) Days from Talon Books is a very pretty thing to look at.  The cover illustration by Daniel Mackie I found very fetching, in a sort of 1969 psychedelic science-fiction cover meets Diego Rivera way.  Perhaps I should have hesitated when I read in the About the Translator bit that Morrissey is a professor who specializes in philosophical theology at a Catholic college and that he has focused on the monotheistic speculations of Hesiod, et.al.  But, a professional cricket commentator is perfectly entitled to write a treatise on carpentry.  And Morrissey’s Translator’s Note is quite encouraging, almost pagan, in its apparent devotion to the Muses and to Hesiod.

As I read Morrissey’s Theogony, however, I began to have some misgivings.  The verse is fairly unobtrusive and fairly formless, perhaps a reflection of the Chaos out of which the Theogony grows, or, more likely, in keeping with modern poetic fashion.  Morrissey’s decision, however, to eschew footnotes or endnotes in favour of sticking parenthetical words or names into the middle (and beginning [and end]) of lines makes for a very distracting read, far more distracting than would footnotes have been.  I remain unsure whether one is meant to read the parenthetical bits as parenthetical bits or as a part of the verse itself. Metrics are, of course, of little help.

But Morrissey does a workmanlike job of rendering the Greek into coloquial English for the most part, which is a positive achievement.  There are some phrases that don’t work or fall flat –Miss Congenitalia didn’t work for me and Morrissey himself acknowledges the laxatives and toilet paper anachronism.  But on the whole Morrissey’s Theogony flows.  The consonance of “He was shepherding sheep on sacred Helicon” is very nice, in fact, as are the archaic repetitions Morrissey retains in the castration scene.

All well and good for a reader with no Greek, but, as I mentioned, I have a little, and that little has given me trouble with certain decisions Morrissey has made, decisions which I think, make this Morrissey’s , not Hesiod’s Theogony.  Perhaps the most obvious is Morrissey’s decision to translate Zeus’ formulaic epithet, which is literally “Father of gods and likewise of men” with the odd phrase “Zeusfather of gods and husbands”. Repeatedly. With slight variation.  Certainly, the Greek word could have the secondary meaning “husband” just as “man” in English can be used in the admonition “Stand by your man”, but why impose the secondary meaning on the reader when the word in English with the same primary meaning has the same secondary meaning?  Please, Mr. Morrissey, allow your readers the liberty to make their own choice.

Another detail which made me uncomfortable was Morrissey’s choice of chapter and section headings.  For example, he titles a description of Zeus and the Muses as “The Holy Family” which, even without knowing the translator’s affiliation, has connotations not wholly appropriate to the religious world of pre-classic Greece.  I couldn’t help but feel that Morrissey was somehow trying to force a link between Hesiod and Psalm 85 or even making the suggestion that the Muses were somehow equivalent to or embodiments of Christ.

But what was perhaps a most obscure but to me most disturbing detail of Morrissey’s translation, even more disturbing than his decision to leave out the last hundred plus lines of the poem without notice of any sort, is the translator’s treatment of Gaia, the divine Earth.  In two particular places Morrissey has treated Her very poorly.  The first is on p. 34 where Morrissey writes:

Previously, these weapons had been locked away
in the vast Earth, inside Tartarus.

These “weapons” are the thunderbolts, etc. which are to be the tools by which Zeus will rule over the other gods and over men.  But Morrissey has done something nasty to the Earth here.  As well as adding “Tartarus” which is not in the text, Morrissey changes the grammar of the passage.  Hesiod does not say that the weapons had been locked away in Gaia; Hesiod says “Gaia [herself] had hidden them”! By changing Gaia from the subject of the sentence to the object of a prepositional phrase, Morrissey has taken away Her agency!  Gaia has gone from being an active participant, in fact, an instigator of the action which gives Zeus his power, to being the passive “vast Earth”, into which Zeus’ weapons have been thrust for safe keeping.

Later on page 58,  Hesiod’s description of Gaia as suggesting, even urging that the gods take Zeus as king is reduced by Morrissey to a parenthetical “(even shrewd Earth agreed)”.  Again Morrissey has reduced the importance of this female character whom Hesiod has made fundamental.

On the same page, Morrissey pumps up Zeus by suggesting that his actions are merely “inspired” by Gaia and Ouranus while Hesiod writes that Gaia and Ouranus suggest or advise the actions.  Active agency is again removed from Gaia (and Ouranus).

What is Morrissey doing here?  Why this effort to inflate Zeus’ importance while trying hard to deflate Gaia?

Coincidentally, just as I was reading Morrissey’s Theogony, Dr. Henry Morgentaler died, and a little piece was published in the Globe and Mail under the byline “C.S. Morrissey”.  In that piece, Morrissey lays out his opinion of Dr. Morgentaler’s legacy and the effect of current (lack of) abortion laws on civil liberties in Canada.  Rather frighteningly, Morrissey gets through this entire piece about abortion and abortion rights without ever once using the word “woman”. Or “women”. Or “Mother.”

Somehow I smell an agenda.  The Theogony is all about the control of fertility. First Ouranos tries to control Gaia’s fertility and fails, and at the end that Morrissey imposes on the poem, Zeus tries to control Metis’ fertility (by swallowing her) and also fails.

Morrissey ends, as I said, by leaving out over a hundred lines of Hesiod’s verse, with no note to the reader that he has done so.  And he ends with the tastles, unHesiodic and sort of meaningless quip that Metis is “the ultimate insider”.

I’ve not yet finished Morrissey’s translation of  The Works (and Days) but I notice he starts right off with another “Zeusfather of gods and husbands”.  Furthermore, Morrissey inserts into the creation of Pandora story near the beginning of The Works and Days the doubly anachronistic phrase “chemical blueprint”.  I find this phrase suspiciously parallel to Morrissey’s use (in his abortion opinion piece) of Pope Francis’ statement that at conception, the zygote “has all the genetic code of a human being”. (So does a bone marrow stem cell or a hair follicle, for that matter, but I’m not here to argue the ethics of bone marrow transplants, eyebrow plucking or even abortion.) Into one piece Morrissey inserts “genetic code” at conception; into the other he inserts “chemical blueprint” at the creation of Pandora, molded of Earth.  Morrissey is trying to get a message across here, and that message is not in Hesiod’s Greek. Disappointing.

C.S. Morrissey’s translation of (part of) Hesiod’s Theogony and The Works and Days is published by Talon Books.

______________________

A quick update now that I’m well into the Pandora section of The Works and Days.  I’ve just read a gratuitously misogynistic fabricated expansion of Hesiod’s explanation of Pandora’s name.  For simplicity, I’ll quote Evelyn-White’s century old Loeb translation of the passage:

Also the Guide, the slayer of Argus, contrived within her lies and crafty words and a deceitful nature at the will of loud thundering Zeus, and the Herald of gods put speech in her.  And he called this woman Pandora, because all they who dwelt on Olympus gave each a gift, a plague to men who eat bread.

Okay, Hesiod was no feminist, but look what Morrissey does with  the passage:

But then Hermes, Zeus’ messenger and
the Slayer of Argus the monster, put into her breast
his  cunning character:
wily lies and winning words.
He did this according to the plan of deep-thundering Zeus.
This clever voice that he,
the clever herald of the gods, placed in her,
is the reason why he named this woman
Pandora – the “Gift” for Whom “Anything Goes.”
Also, in her “anything” a god living on Olympus has
was “gifted” by them to us: Pandora
- the “Gift” into Whom “Anything Goes.”
She is why husbands work for food: a pain.

Nice slut-shaming, Professor!

To be honest, I don’t know if I can stomach finishing this “translation”.

We live in the Science Fiction I read as a teen

It’s strange to have artistic time on my hands now that “My Village” is hanging on display and I’ve taken a few pieces to Harcourt House for the annual Members’ Show and Sale.  As I sat minding “My Village” yesterday, I started doodling illustrations for an idea I had a few days ago.  For the past few months I’ve been following the adventure of “Astronaut Abby“, Abigail Harrison, an audacious teenager from Minnesota who intends to be the first person to walk on Mars.  As part of her preparation, Abby has devoted herself to reaching out to other young people to inspire them to pursue studies and careers in Science, Technology, Engineering, and Mathematics (STEM).  The latest part of that outreach has been a partnership with ESA astronaut Luca Parmitano and a crowdfunded journey to Baikonur Cosmodrome to see Luca’s launch.  On her return, Abby intends to visit schools in person an virtually to give talks and workshops about her experiences and ambitions.  Throughout, this astronautic mission has been powered by social media in its finest manifestation.

I couldn’t help but think as I followed Abby’s exploits, and the exploits of Cmdr. Chris Hadfield, that Abby is, in fact, living in the science fiction I read as a teen. So, I decided to recreate a little piece of Abby’s Golden Age Science Adventure as a bit of doodling.  First I jotted down an opening for a story about a mid-west teen setting out on an adventure to Baikonur, the Space Station, and Mars, trying to catch a bit of the flavour of 1930′s juvenile pulp magazine science fiction.  Then, as I sat minding “My Village” I doodled in a sketchbook.  Here’s the final sketch I made:

sketch

Then I scanned the sketch and did a bit of computer work on it:

Abby second scanAbby third scanAnd finally I juggled the elements around a bit, added the text I’d written, printed the whole thing out on newsprint and scanned the whole thing again:

Abby's Soyuz Adventure

Then I chiriped the product off to Abby at the mighty spaceport of Baikonur Cosmodrome from my handheld teleputer just in time for Luca’s launch to the World’s Space Station.

Now I’m about to watch Abby’s mysterious Italian mentor arrive at his destination in his Soyuz space ship. On one of I don’t know how many computers I have in my house.

It’s science fiction, I tell you!

Update, June 2, 2013 – Astronaut Thomas H. Marshburn (@AstroMarshburn) tweeted at 9:23 PM on Sun, Jun 02, 2013 this bit of Science Fiction Poetry (it even rhymes):

“Perfect morning under gray skies with a light rain & warm wind on my face. I missed life under clouds while in space.”
(https://twitter.com/AstroMarshburn/status/341394697975128064) .

But it’s not Science Fiction! This is a real Spaceman celebrating his return to the Green Hills of Earth!

Tomorrow is here!

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On Violent Extremism

Last December I posted something I’d written On an Anniversary. Those who have read the piece or experienced the days following December 6, 1989 will recall that initially the response to the deaths in Montréal was to say that it was the act of a mad man. But shortly, as the fact that the victims had been singled out because they were women who were making a success of themselves in what has traditionally been a “man’s field” — as the fact that they had been singled out because the killer blamed women, particularly successful women, for all of the failures in his own pitiful little life — the conversation quickly shifted.  Certainly the killer was “a mad man”, but he developed his “madness” within the context of a society which still had gendered expectations, a society which still tolerated “jokes” which would be considered hate speech if cracked about an ethnic rather than a gendered segment of society.  In short, there was a realization in Canada that the fourteen women died for the unexamined sexist sins of society at large.  Sadly, I can’t help but think that now, almost a quarter century later, they seemed to have died in vain.  But that is beside the point of this post.

The killer on that December evening was a violent extremist.  Yes, he was a savage mad man. Yes, he was a barbarian.  But, his mad extremism was a mad extreme of “normal” accepted attitudes of large segments of Canadian society.  Many men (and women) then (and now) believed that a woman’s place was in the home, not working, and that women should be obedient to “their” men, that men should be the bread winners in a properly ordered society.  And so on.  And such ideas were (and are) publicly expressed at all levels of society, in print, on the radio, on television, around kitchen tables (and today on the Internet) without anyone questioning that such expression was acceptable and few finding anything disturbing about such ideas.

Montréal changed that.  Sure, the ideas are still expressed, perhaps expressed more widely and loudly today than twenty years ago.  But today, the idea that such ideas are morally wrong, detrimental to a well ordered society and simply impolite in any company, has become a strong bit of currency in public discourse in Canada.  Today, if a Member of Parliament were to utter the words “I don’t beat my wife, do you, George? Har Har” in the House of Commons, the Speaker would almost literally have that Member’s head.  When that exact disgusting moment played out in Ottawa in 1982, there was certainly shock and condemnation from around the country, but it was considered a bit of embarrassing Old Boyishness in most quarters. Since Montréal the discussion has changed and in most contexts, violence against women is not considered a joke (violence against sex workers and against indigenous women are shameful exceptions).

 

All of the above is preamble to my response to the murder of the British soldier in London a few days ago.  We are all rightly shocked and horrified.  And we all know that individuals are murdered every day in major metropolises around the world.  Sometimes they are murdered in public and in equally horrific ways.  Those murders might make international news or might not, depending on the news cycle at the moment.  But the murder of Royal Fusilier Drummer Lee Rigby was guaranteed it’s place on international newscasts because he was targeted because he was a British Soldier and was targeted because the killers considered themselves Muslim.  If two chavs had killed a schoolmate because he was a ginger, the conversation would be quite different — likely about bullying — and rightly so.

And it absolutely correct that British Muslim groups condemned the attacks with utmost dispatch.  And, I sympathize with those, Muslim or otherwise, who articulately state that “this is not Islam” . . .

 

But . . .

 

The killer in Montréal was Canadian. Certainly, he in no way represented what was good and noble about Canada (his victims did that), but he did stand for an aspect of Canadian society which I despise but which I can’t deny is part of Canada.  As long as there are sexist jokes, as long as there is sexual harassment and sexual discrimination and sexual assault and cases of missing and murdered aboriginal women that go uninvestigated, Canada has a sexism problem.  Indeed, until no one would remain silent in the face of sexism, Canada is at some level, a sexist society.

 

What does this have to do with Drummer Rigby’s murder?

 

Simply this, and I’m going to be as clear and succinct as possible:

 

 

As long as a single Muslim man, woman or child sits silent in a mosque, a marketplace, at a television or radio, at a kitchen table, in a nation’s parliament or a company’s boardroom — as long as any self-identifying Muslim sits quiet as a Muslim figure of authority utters a suggestion that violent jihad is in any way acceptable, Drummer Rigby’s murder and all other violent extremism is an aspect of Islam.

 

Please, my Muslim neighbours and friends, my brothers and sisters: do not ever again remain silent! Do not wait for the next Islamist murder to wring your hands and cry “This is not Islam!”  No. There is something you must do every day, every hour.  Do not ever again allow an imam to preach violent jihad without standing to oppose the very idea.  If you remain silent, you are in no way defending Drummer Rigby. You are turning a deaf ear to his calls for aid and accepting that his murder is Islam.

On the Occasion of Commander Hadfield’s Return to Earth

I have written elsewhere about my inspiration as a youngster watching Neil Armstrong stepping down onto the Moon, the same event that put another young Canadian boy on the road to command of the ISS.  I have written elsewhere about the writings of Carl Sagan leading me to the great Irish mystic poet Yeats.  I have written elsewhere about how obvious it seems to me that science and art are fundamentally the same thing, that both inspire and move us, the both change us and our world and, perhaps most importantly, both science and art, and all the wonder they stir in us, are accessible to all of us.  I have always known this to be true.  I have always seen supporting Science and supporting the Arts as obvious obligations of individuals and society. But I am very aware that many friends and acquaintances have never been able to see through those lenses.

Over the last five months I’ve often thought of Spider and Jeanne Robinson’s Stardance in which art comes to a space station as dance. And, of course, I’ve thought of the paintings of astronaut Alan Bean and of cosmonaut Alexey Leonov.  While Bean and Leonov’s art is exquisite and inspiring, they painted after they came home. And the Robinson’s so wonderfully imagine making art in space, but they never did it.  But, perhaps because they lacked the internet, these artists never caught the larger public’s attention.  They never joined, on a grand scale, science to ordinary people through art.

I realized tonight as Commander Hadfield’s new video of Space Oddity went viral, that this fairly  unassuming gentleman from Sarnia has done it.  He has shown ordinary people art and science meeting together  And the people get it!

Using social media and the biggest stage possible – the sky – Hadfield has had us watch him rapt for five months as he shape-shifted from rock star to zero-gravity chef to science teacher to science fiction character to military commander, and, finally, to a fifty something man with a crew-cut and moustache who actually pulls off a self-shot music video of his own acoustic cover of perhaps the most iconic Bowie song.  Whatever the flaws of adaptation or performance, Hadfield has capped his inspiring public Space Odyssey with a piece of art that captures the tension apparent in his earlier collaboration with Ed Robertson, the tension between the to most  unknowable joy of looking down on Earth from a home in the sky and the universal human joy of standing at home on the Green Hills of Earth.  No longer the story of an ominous malfunction of Major Tom’s capsule which leaves the astronaut stranded, Hadfield’s revised Space Oddity is a bitter-sweet lament for the end of his stay on the Space Station and his final return to earth. He is facing an inversion of Bowie’s original conceit of the Marooned Astronaut  –  Hadfield knows that it is to Space, not to Earth, that he will never return. With this recording Hadfield has turned a once inconceivable  Space Oddity – a Canadian kid from Sarnia becoming the tweeting rock star commander of the International Space Station opening hailing frequencies to Captain Kirk – into an Odyssey of Space very true to the spirit of the Greek epic poem.  Although at last he stands on the shores of Ithaca, he can’t help but look longingly back at the Cosmic Ocean he has sailed.

Hadfield has put himself up there and made a point of making art with us and for us from that tin can he’s sitting in.  He makes us all feel like we’re there with him, doing science, looking down on our blue home, feeling wonder at the speed and the vastness.

And we can’t help but sing along.

Thank you, Commander Hadfield.

We can hear you, Major Tom!

Safe landing!

I’ve Been Thinking About Genocide

I’ve been thinking about genocide quite a bit lately.  Most recently this thinking has been spurred by the remarks of Canada’s former Prime Minister, Paul Martin, before our Truth and Reconciliation Commission at a session in Quebec. I’m afraid my blood has gotten into a little bit of a simmer over the responses of “ordinary” Canadians in the “comments” sections of online news stories about Mr. Martin’s remarks.  I try to keep to a policy of not looking at those comments, but, even Homer nods.  Mr. Martin told the Commission that the Residential School program was, in fact, cultural genocide and that it was time that Canadians face the truth and that they needed to be educated. Online comments have certainly made Mr. Martin’s argument on the last point.  For anyone with even a passing, layperson’s acquaintance with the history of the Residential Schools and with legal matters, Mr. Martin’s comment is an unremarkable statement of the obvious.  The response his remarks have received suggests that a huge number of Canadians have vanishingly little knowledge of Residential School history and/or of legal matters.  It’s long past time for such education, although I have deep and sad doubts that the entrenched bigotry in many quarters of Canadian society against aboriginal people will be overcome easily or quickly.

Let’s look at legal matters.

On July 1, 2002, The Rome Statute came into force and the International Criminal Court was born.  Canada had signed on a number of years before the Statute came into effect.  The Court was formed to prosecute a number of heinous international crimes, one of which is Genocide. The Rome Statute defines (and States Party such as Canada also define) Genocide in Article 6 thusly:

For the purpose of this Statute, “genocide” means any of the following acts committed with intent to destroy, in whole or in part, a national, ethnical, racial or religious group, as such:

(a)     Killing members of the group;

(b)     Causing serious bodily or mental harm to members of the group;

(c)     Deliberately inflicting on the group conditions of life calculated to bring about its physical destruction in whole or in part;

(d)     Imposing measures intended to prevent births within the group;

(e)     Forcibly transferring children of the group to another group.

Oddly, when Canada’s Criminal Code was amended to “conform” to this international legal standard, clauses (b), (d) and (e) were quietly left out of section 318:

(2) In this section, “genocide” means any of the following acts committed with intent to destroy in whole or in part any identifiable group, namely,

(a) killing members of the group; or

(b) deliberately inflicting on the group conditions of life calculated to bring about its physical destruction.

It must give one pause to wonder why the bits about forcible transfer of children and physical or mental harm – obviously relevant to the Residential School situation – were left out.  And one shudders to consider what might be behind the expurgation of the clause concerning prevention of births.  Are there still darker secrets in Canada’s history?

Mr. Martin’s comments about “Cultural Genocide” are obviously unremarkable. The Indian Act and the Residential Schools were (and continue to be in the case of the Act) intended to destroy principally by forced assimilation, an ethnic group.  Children were (and still are) transferred from their native group (section e).  Physical and mental harm has definitely been inflicted (section b) and certainly there have been deaths (section a). I suggest an argument could be made that the reserve system under the Indian Act inflicts conditions of life calculated to bring about the destruction of the group through assimilation and attrition (section c).  As I mention above, I shudder to consider the possibility that section (d) has ever been contravened.

Mr. Martin’s description of the Residential Schools as “cultural genocide” is absolutely unremarkable except in the sense that most Canadians seem absolutely unaware of their own history and of the international legalities concerning the crime of genocide.  There can be no doubt that the Residential Schools were Canada’s Dirty War. If the program had been the legacy of a right wing dictatorship in Latin America, a racist government in Africa, or a Stalinist regime in the Balkans, right-thinking Canadians would be protesting outside embassies, demanding that those responsible for the atrocities be brought to justice before the ICC.  Canadians rightly admired South Africa’s Truth and Reconciliation Commission after the end of Apartheid. Those same Canadians are largely ignorant of our own TRC, and the Canadian Government has been doing everything it can to block the Commission’s work.

I’m thinking now of remarks Wab Kinew made some time ago about the Residential Schools experience and the “Get over it!” suggestion.  Kinew says he is over it, but he doesn’t forget it. The issue isn’t for aboriginal Canadians to “Get over it!”: non-aboriginal Canadians are the ones who need to learn, to remember and then we all can finally get over it.

Canadians must be educated about our country’s true history and the tragic, criminal legacy our history has burdened us with.  Often I’ve heard or read the horrifically vicious and insensitive comments “Get over it!” and “move on!”.  In fact, the point of the TRC and of Mr. Martin’s remarks, is precisely to help society reach the point from which we all may move forward: only by learning and acknowledging the truth can there be reconciliation. Only when Canadians – all Canadians – know the truth of their shared history – only then can we all get over it and move on.

Making connections through The Paston Letters

Last Wednesday I made time to partake of one of my favourite activities: I walked to my local second hand bookshop, The Bookseller, and spent an hour or so browsing unencumbered by companions or rush. As usual, the proprietor, Mr. Prins, had set aside a few hardcover Everyman’s Library Editions and an old blue hardcover Oxford World’s Classic for me to consider.  Unlike most visits, today I had time.  I left the four volumes on the counter, the seed of a number of large stacks I would build as I browsed.  Throughout my visit, Mr. Prins pottered about the store, flitting from the computer on his book-stacked desk, to the shelves and to “the back” where I imagine an infinity of yet-to-be- and never-to-be-catalogued books wait to be brought into the light.

The one volume I had come specifically seeking was H. G. Wells’ little war-time (WWII) anti-Catholic diatribe, Crux Ansata (“Why don’t we bomb Rome” it begins). I had been reading it online, but, as well as finding the digital a completely unsatisfying, indeed, unsettling manner of reading, I knew that I would someday require a real copy for the Wells collection I’ve been building since that day in about 1980 that I stumbled on a copy of Ann Veronica in that bookstore that used to be in Hub Mall on the University of Alberta Campus.  If I remember correctly, that bookstore, since shifted locations a number of times, is now The Edmonton Book Store on Whyte Avenue, in the location that one time was Bjarne’s Books, a shop and proprietor I sadly miss.  Edmonton’s loss — Victoria’s and Cyberspace’s gain.

I went straight to the Fiction section and was at first disappointed by the slimness of the Wells selection.  A few of the usual War of the Worldses and Time Machines. And, there in the middle, a slim little volume bound in dark leather. Crux Ansata! With a large smile on my face I strode back to the counter and plopped my find onto the Everyman Shelley and Langland and the little blue Paston Letters.  Now to some truly unencumbered browsing!

Oh, the treasures I found!

An early edition of the Tolkien/Gordon edition of Sir Gawain; Skeet’s two volume edition of Piers Plowman and Richard the Redeless (I already had one, but this was in better condition. The next day I traded the old one for a copy of  Bentham’s Fragment on Government); a lovely copy of the first edition of Benét’s Reader’s Encyclopedia (in four volumes); Brown’s English Lyrics of the XIIIth Century; a 1959 copy of Vinaver’s Malory; nice old hardcovers of Quirk & Wrenn’s Old English Grammar and Campbell’s venerable volume on the same subject; The Oxford Book of Medieval Verse; nice editions of Ancrene Wisse and The Parlement of Foules . . .

And a copy of Sisam’s edition of 14th Century Verse and Prose, a volume I find oddly common in Edmonton — I have three copies now myself. But this latest copy, unusual in that it still had a (rubbed) dust jacket, had a little surprise for me which made me take a second look at the other books in my stacks. There on the flyleaf was written in small letters in ball-point “Raymond J. S. Grant”.

During my days at the University of Alberta, Dr. Grant was the senior Anglo-Saxonist in the English Department, standing in a venerable line stretching back to R. K. Gordon, a professor at the University’s foundation and, by the way, translator of number 794, Anglo-Saxon Poetry, in Everyman’s Library.

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It was Dr. Grant who surprised me during an undergraduate directed reading of The Seafarer by saying “I think you might have a publication here.”  Because of Dr. Grant, I had my first scholarly publication accepted before I got my Bachelor’s degree.

I have gradually have fallen out of contact with the people of my University days. I regularly return to campus, but it’s a different world with different people now.  Not worse, not better, just different.  I had some sort of memory that Dr. Grant had retired and perhaps gone back to Scotland. As I gathered my thoughts for this piece I found on the University web page that Dr. Grant is, indeed, emeritus, as is my thesis supervisor, L. N. McKill, the man who first taught me Old English.  After I got home from the bookstore I discovered Dr. McKill’s name on the flyleaf of Brown’s English Lyrics of the XIIIth Century.  I held in my hands volumes that had educated my educators. These books had been around me in those offices three decades ago as I puzzled my way through great poetry sadly experienced by only a few.

What I find of extreme interest in second hand books is the little bits of paper one finds tucked into them.  Dr. Grant’s copy of Sisam’s Fourteenth Century Verse & Prose (1959) is undoubtedly a text from his student days.  Tucked into book at the first page of the Introduction are two slips of paper, one laying out the geography of dialects of Middle English with representative authors (information repeated in the facing map) and the other a cryptic, multicoloured graph of English sound changes.

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These are meticulous thoughts-on-paper of a student of a different time, brief glimpses of the learning process in an age of paper, conversation and information hard-won from beautiful, tactile, fragrant objects with their own individual histories — books in a library.

Mr. Prins filled a banker’s box with my selected volumes and agreed to hold the heavy collection for me to pick up later when I’d be out with a vehicle. When I returned two stacks of brick-red hardcovers were on the counter.  “I told you I thought I had a lot of Wells back there!” Mr. Prins announced with a grin.  Indeed, he had brought from “the back” a twelve volume matched set of Wells’ novels ranging from The Time Machine to The Undying Fire.  A fine day’s discovery!

Later Wednesday evening I looked more carefully at the World’s Classics copy of The Paston Letters.  There was no name on the fly leaf.  It seemed an anonymous book with no story to tell outside of its text.  But, tucked in the back was a small blue slip of paper which indicated that this, like some others of the volumes in the box, was a review copy sent out by the publisher in the hope that professors would say nice things about it. On the back of the slip was a hand written note:

Raymond:

pp. 41-72 seem to be missing from this book as also 73 to 104. I suppose that is a whole gathering! Give him hell next time — you might get a real find from them.

Joan

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Sure enough, a gathering is misplaced in the book.  But of far more interest to me is the note. Considering the number of Dr. Grant’s books that had recently come into the Bookseller, I have no doubt that “Raymond” addressed in the book is Dr. Grant. And I am equally certain that “Joan” who wrote the note is Dr. Joan Crowther, a Chaucerian I never met during our shared time at the University.  But I did meet and get to know Dr. Crowther in her retirement as each weekday morning I got her clubs out of storage for her round of golf.  I lost touch with Dr. Crowther after leaving the world of golf just a few years before she left this world.

As I stood looking at that little blue note on Wednesday night I recalled a brief exchange, one of many conversations we shared over clattering golf clubs.  These words came shortly after my reading crossed a very special threshhold:

“Dr. Crowther, do you find that the more you read the more everything seems to connect together?”

Dr. Crowther held her golf bag still and looked at me.

“Oh, yes, John!”