Tag: aurora-borealis

Fury of the Wind

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Excerpt

The Nimkus Fall Fair proved a huge success. Even some of the
town matrons relented at the last minute, or at least before it was
too late to enter their exhibits. Most of them grew flowers and vegetable
gardens, and they could not pass up the chance to compete
against the farm women.
But this year, not only the town matrons participated. Miss Carrington
entered her crocheted doilies and embroidered pillow case
as well as a couple of jars of Saskatoon preserves. She also agreed to
be a judge for some of the exhibits, a prestigious job that had always
been reserved for two or more of the business men’s wives, or town
women from Bradshaw.
Millie Osborne was not to be outdone, either. She had worked all
through the previous winter and most of the spring, knitting socks
and sweaters. Her grown sons had laughed at her, asking if she was
trying to get in with the high mucky-mucks around town. But Millie
would not be discouraged.
“After all,” she told her boys, “Mr. Carson says I have to support
the Association now that I’m an Ag member.”
“Aw, Maw,” they chided, “you can’t compete with the biddies who
live in this town. They’ve been doing this stuff for years.”
“You mind your own business, you louts,” Millie said. “My things
will look just as nice and tidy as any others on display.” And they
did, as her boys were forced to admit when they saw them next to
other exhibits on the day of the fair.
Pong, the laundryman, did not have anything to exhibit but
he worked tirelessly all day, as well as the evening before the fair,
helping to set up booths, carrying and fetching, happy just to be of
service to Will and Missy Ben.
Holding the clipboard that had once been Will’s responsibility,
Sarah looked around her at the people gathered on the fair grounds.
Many greeted her with a nod or a cheery, “Good day, Mrs. Fielding,”
or, from the less reserved ones, “Hi there, Sarah, how’s it going?”
Was it her imagination or were there actually more people than
there had been last year? She saw Mrs. Thompson leading little David
McNeill by the hand, and walked over to them.
“I see you have your hands full for the day,” Sarah said, bending
to give David a hug.

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Ken Kirkby: A Painter’s Quest for Canada

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Excerpt

There is no such thing as old hat when it comes to this. It’s like it all happens
for the first time each time. It grew more and more intense. We lay
there on the ground and I don’t know how long we lay there. The shafts of
light rippled up in an arc all around us, and they came to a centre point
directly above us and that point was a black hole. All the rest was light, and
the colours were showering down – purple, gold, green, blue, red. The words
don’t work. It was as if we were laying on the floor of a cathedral the size of
the universe. The earth was no longer an issue – we weren’t even part of the
planet. I can see how religions began. It was stuff like this – it undoes one.
All the rational explanations we have for this are nonsense. They just don’t
work. You have to find a bigger answer. This is too big, too beautiful, and too
mysterious.
Something holy descended on their souls. Ken felt as though they had
had a direct experience of God and the magic of that night clung to them
during those ten days in the Thelon.
The Thelon was like no other place on earth. When the glaciers had
retreated they had left behind a vast amount of chirt, a very dense stone
that had formed into eskers or low humpbacked hills from forty to a
hundred and fifty feet high. The stone was so dense the permafrost could
not penetrate it and as a result the vegetation that grew there, born from
seeds carried by migrating birds, was that of a more southern landscape.
But because of the severe winters and punishing winds, it was a landscape
in miniature. Trees that might grow to a hundred feet in the south grew to
only a couple of feet here, but they were flawlessly formed. At the base of
each esker was a perfectly round small lake, so thick with Arctic grayling
you could almost reach your hand into the water and pull one out.
When they got back Ken promised himself that this time he wouldn’t
leave on another trip until he had finished the painting. He locked himself
in his studio and from October 1990 to May 1991. He emerged only
long enough to eat and sleep.
The epic project neared completion. Elaine suggested a decorous and
dignified gathering to commemorate the event. Ken and the word “decorous”
were obviously never meant to meet. He insisted on a “last brushstroke”
party that would be more extravagant than his “first brushstroke”
event ten years earlier. Decorum in his studio? A studio that had a sign at
the entrance identifying it as “The Zoo?” Karen had even presented him
with a road sign he had admired in Yellowknife: Ragged Ass Road and
Lois Lane.
Ken had actually tried to steal the sign more than once, but each time
he had attempted it, someone had gotten to it before him and taken off
with it. He guessed that the City of Yellowknife works department likely
had a full time employee doing nothing but erecting a new road sign at…

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Wellspring of Love

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excerpt

She’s not a bad person. The kids from church call her fast, whatever
that means, but she’s not what they make it sound like.”
“If you say so. Anyway, you were at her graduation ceremony yesterday.
Isn’t that enough?”
“It’s not the same thing, Ronnie, and you know it. The party
tonight is at her place and it’s just for special friends.”
“Well, you’d just better forget it.” Ronnie picked up his mug and
got to his feet. “I’ve got to get to work. Morley’ll be ready to start the
cutting. And listen, Rachael, give your mom a break and don’t make
things harder for her. She has enough to worry about with Aunt
Millie being sick.”
Rachael’s look changed from one of self-pity to a worried frown.
She stood up. “Ronnie, do you think … that is … is Aunt Millie going
to make it?”
A cloud passed over his face. “I hope so, I really hope so. But only
God knows that, and all we can do is pray for her.” He put his mug in
the sink, retrieved his cap and went out.
Rachael stood for a minute longer staring at the closed door, then
she went to the phone to call Lyssa.
ͣMorley and Ronald were sitting at the kitchen table when Tyne walked
in a little before nine o’clock that evening. Both men turned quickly
to look at her. The aroma of coffee drew her eyes to the stove where a
pot hissed and bubbled an invitation. Responding to their greeting, she
bent to kiss Morley’s cheek. Sensing his intention as he started to rise,
she murmured, “Don’t get up, honey. I’ll help myself to the coffee.”
“But you look worn out, Sweetheart.”
“And you have been working all day in the fields.” She filled a mug
with coffee and sat down at the table.
Both men spoke at once. “How’s Aunt Millie?”

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Water in the Wilderness

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excerpt

Tyne held her breath, partly from anxiety, partly to avoid breathing in the stale, musty odour coupled with an even stronger smell of cigarette smoke than she had detected in the lobby.
“Here it is,” Arthur said suddenly with a slight tug on her arm, “room 312.” He rapped lightly on the door and waited. When there was no response, he raised his hand and rapped louder and longer.
They heard the creak of bed springs followed by a low groan. Arthur rapped again. A muffled voice from inside the room rasped, “Whatdaya want? Go away.”
“Corky Conrad,” Arthur boomed, “is that you?”
The answer was drowned out by several doors along the corridor opening simultaneously. Tyne swung around to see three grizzled heads peering out. A woman from the room across the hall pulled a threadbare dressing gown around her and whined, “Why don’t you shut up? It’s enough to wake the dead. Whatchadoin’ here, anyway? It’s the middle of the night, and you won’t get any response from old Corky for hours yet.”
Arthur ignored her and banged on the door again. “Come on, Corky, open up. There’s someone here to see you.”
From inside the room they heard a shuffling sound accompanied by angry muttering. “Can’t ya even wait till a man gets his pants on? All right, I’m comin’, I’m coming.”
Tyne felt weak in the knees. She longed to lean against the wall for support, but one glance at the greasy, peeling paint changed her mind. She wanted to yell at Corky to hurry up; she could stand the suspense no longer.
Finally, the door opened a crack, and Tyne saw an unshaven face with bloodshot eyes below rumpled graying hair. Corky Conrad had deteriorated even since she saw him in December. Holding tight to the door with one hand and the waist of his pants with the other, he glared at Arthur, then squinted hard at Tyne.
“Wha … Tyne? What’re ya doing here?”
Tyne started to answer but Arthur took her arm and propelled her through the door. “We’d like to come in if you don’t mind.”

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Fury of the Wind

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excerpt

…and Sarah did not complain. The old house had no insulation,
and the wind found its way in through walls that, in other seasons,
appeared sturdy enough. It was not unusual for them to awaken in
the morning with the flannelette sheet and blankets, where their
breath had dampened the material, frozen against their chins. Each
night Sarah moved the house plants – geraniums and begonias
that Ben said his mother had lovingly tended – to the centre of the
kitchen table where she covered them with a light cloth. She did the
same with the pitchers of milk and cream, carrying them from the
pantry to the kitchen where the cookstove would provide enough
warmth until the early morning hours to keep them from freezing.
The weeks passed slowly. No one came to the house, and Sarah
was unable to ride Flicka or drive the old pickup truck to the Mc-
Neill farm. She spent the days sewing new curtains and knitting
socks and mitts from the wool she had bought on her last trip to
Nimkus in late October. She wrote endless letters to Margaret and
Elizabeth in Ontario, and waited impatiently for the mail that Ben
brought home from his infrequent trips to town with the team and
sleigh.
For the most part they lived by their own resources on the provisions
they had in the house. But Sarah looked forward to the vegetable
garden she planned to plant in the spring. She had searched
out Mrs. Fielding’s canning jars so that she could preserve everything
she could get her hands on through the summer months.
These plans and activities helped to pass the long days and the
even longer evenings. But she missed the companionship of others,
especially Penny. What would she give to be able to sit down to a
cup of tea in Penny’s cheerful kitchen? And how she longed to see
little David who, when she had last seen him, was beginning to take
a few faltering steps around the furniture. By now he would be running
all over the house.
She thought of David when she read Margaret’s latest letter. It
was four pages of the delights of motherhood, along with every
detail of her new daughter’s first two months of life. As she read,
Sarah felt a familiar ache deep inside her where she had been sure
that, by now, new life would be growing. Why wasn’t it? Could there
be something wrong with her? Ben never spoke of a family and,
although she had once casually mentioned that he needed a son to…

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Ken Kirkby: A Painter’s Quest for Canada

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excerpt

Bruce Davidson assessed the spectacle and said, “You’re an agent’s
dream. Usually we have to concoct all this crap and get the artist to go
along with it. But here – man, it’s hard to keep up with you. It’s never going
to be boring.”
“No,” Ken said. “It’s never going to be boring.”
When the fuss died down he had the boulder removed and put the ten
thousand dollars back into his bank account. Summer turned to early fall
and Nick’s symphony for Isumataq neared completion. The rock CD had
been recorded. But they still had no site for the unveiling and the more
they discussed it the more they came back to the idea of Parliament as the
venue. But how do we get our foot in the door there? Bruce asked. Ken
scheduled a breakfast meeting with the Honourable John Fraser, Speaker
of the House and they met a few days later. Over bacon and eggs, Ken laid
out his ideas for the unveiling of Isumataq.
“I know it’s not done,” he said. “People don’t take over the Houses of
Parliament for exhibitions or art openings.”
“Well,” John said. “Let me think about it. I think it’s a wonderful idea.
We’ll have to get approval from all the parties, because you have to have
everyone on board when you do something like this. If you’re going to
do something that hasn’t been done before you don’t want to just shove
it down somebody’s throat. You want to get everybody on side, so the
story has to be told very well. I know your story and it’s wonderful. You’re
the one who should come and tell it, but then there are the logistics of
getting all those people together. And then, depending on the particular
day, they may be angry with each other – it gets so complicated. Let’s just
work away at it.”
The winter of 1990 settled in, and Ken received a call for help from
Keith. As president of the Arctic Tourist Association, he was scheduled to
make a presentation in a downtown Toronto convention centre to Tom
Hawking, the Federal Minister of Arctic Affairs. The snag was that as he
was driving his caterpillar over the ice to his island airstrip, the machine
had crashed through and he had to get it out before it leaked diesel fuel
into the river. Would Ken make the speech in his place, and would he
present the Minister with one of his paintings?
The comedian Dave Thomas emceed the event. Ken was the last to
speak and he talked about the importance of tourism to the Arctic and
how important it was to allow those who lived there to make the decisions
about the infrastructure – let them build it in their own way. Let
Nunavut be their land and a land of their ideas.
Hawking requested a private talk and they met for a drink the next
day. He asked to hear his story – the long version – all the details of his
travels through the Arctic and the road that had led to the creation of
Isumataq.

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Still Waters

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excerpt

…made and she could not take a chance on hurting them by refusing
their generous offer. It was kind of them to even think of an engagement
gift, but she wished they had decided on something less ostentatious.
Oh well, maybe if it was a small, inexpensive car she wouldn’t
feel so bad about accepting it.
She had not told her parents. She did not want them to feel they had
to give the newly engaged couple a gift. Such a thing had never entered
her mind, and she hoped Cam did not expect it either. And anyway,
her parents certainly could not afford anything as lavish as a car.
Maybe I’m out of my league, Tyne thought. We’re just simple
country people. I shouldn’t be marrying someone like Cam.
This new revelation made her uneasy, taking the edge off the excitement
she felt about returning to the city. She turned to look out
the window onto the bleak winter landscape, but a little girl in the
seat beside her suddenly caught her attention and offered a welcome
diversion for her thoughts. The blond-haired child held up a story
book and asked her a word.
“That says hospital,” Tyne replied, smiling into the innocent face.
Noting the pictures in the book, she asked, “Is your story about a nurse?”
The child beamed. “Yeth. When I grow up, I’m going to be a nurth.”
“Are you? That’s lovely. I’m a nurse, and I work in a hospital like
that one in your picture book.”
The little face turned up, the blue eyes wide and incredulous. “Oh
… oh, you’re a nurth … oh.”
Tyne laughed softly, and could not resist the urge to put her arm
around the little one and hug her. Looking up, she saw the warm
smile of a young woman sitting across from them.
“You’ve made her day, thank you,” the woman said, smiling.
“Are you her mother? Oh then, I’ll trade places with you so that
you can sit with her.”
“No, no,” the mother waved her hand. “She wouldn’t thank me for
that.”
Tyne laughed and turned back to the admiring child. Someday,
would she and Cam have a little girl like this dear one? A girl who
wanted, more than anything, to be a nurth?

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Prairie Roots

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excerpt

…farmer’s crops in preparation for a lean winter. We would spot
coyotes loping across fields or chasing down field mice. The magpies
became even noisier and the crows would start bunching as
they began their preparations for the long flight south.
But most impressive was the sight of waterfowl as they flew
overhead, the geese in their perfect formations, noisily announcing
their over-flights, and the ducks, less organized but in even
greater numbers than the geese. They came by the thousands, and
when low, we clearly heard the flutter of their wings.
School classes lasted forever and it was difficult to get serious
about homework when there was serious activity waiting for us
outdoors. We would hurry home to see if threshing had started
and to head out to the threshing site and watch the activity. After
the harvest, the days quickly shortened and the fall season intensified,
with the cold rains of mid-autumn inexorably turning into
the snows that would blanket the earth for the next six months.
The first morning after a major snowfall was an exciting time,
with new winter clothes donned and new pathways made to
school. We would be careful about these first paths, taking
shortcuts but also keeping to areas sheltered from cold north
winds. These paths were followed all winter and we would walk
single file, occasionally backwards if strong head winds were
blowing. The school was directly east of our home and we often
walked facing a rising sun which, pleasant as it was, had no
warmth radiating from it and frequently had a pair of sundogs,
the harbinger of even colder and stormier weather to come. We
noted all such phenomena and asked our parents about them after
school.
After major storms the winds cleared the softer snow away,
leaving the packed snow of the paths exposed and raised in the
open fields and pastures. Elsewhere, through woodlots, the new
snows covered the paths and we made new trails to follow. After
major storms the banks of hard packed snow at the edges of
woodlots, where the wind swirled and piled the snow, would
tempt us to climb and explore before moving on towards school.

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Wellspring of Love

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excerpt

Jeff straightened up and took a deep breath. “Maybe you’d better
go in now,” he said hoarsely. “She was asking for you earlier. She’s in
room one.”
Tyne patted his hand and got to her feet. “I’ll let you know what
Dr. Dunston says, Dad.”
A brief nod was the only sign that he heard her. She turned away
and headed for the corridor leading to the two private rooms in the
building. She was not surprised her aunt had been put into a private
ward; after all, no one deserved it more. Millie Harper had been a
tireless advocate and worker for the hospital since before it had been
on the drawing board. Tyne remembered her own brief stint on her
aunt’s committee during the building year. She had come home from
Calgary to nurse her dad back to health following his stroke, and
Millie had recruited her for the Building & Furnishing committee.
Since then Millie had been a fixture on the board of the Emblem
hospital, at times serving under Morley’s chairmanship.
Tyne stopped before the door which bore the room number and a
plaque with the name of the donor who had furnished it. She could
hear low voices which stopped when she tapped lightly. The door
opened to reveal her mother, an anxious look on her pale face.
“Oh, Tyne, come in. Dr. Dunston is here.” She stood aside to let
Tyne enter.
Grant Dunston raised his head. “Hello, Tyne.” Then he turned
his attention back to Millie Harper who lay quietly in the bed, her
eyes closed.
Tyne was conscious of two disturbing thoughts, the first that Dr.
Dunston had seldom greeted her in any other way than with his usual
cheery, “Hi, sis.” Her second thought was that the woman in the bed,
frail and ashen-faced, was hardly recognizable as her beloved aunt.
Her heart in her throat, Tyne made her way to the bedside and
gently took hold of the cool hand that lay motionless on top of the
covers. Millie opened her eyes and a flicker of a smile made her lips
twitch.

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Ken Kirkby, A Painter’s Quest for Canada

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excerpt

As they walked around the ramshackle town, whose only buildings of
note were the grand churches of competing denominations, he described
his first sight of the place and how he had come to buy food for the people
who were to become his family.
An Inuk man, named Amy Ahangona, asked them to have tea at his
home. As they walked toward his house, people smiled and nodded. Amy
explained that the people in the Arctic knew about Isumataq and about
the spotlight of attention Ken had been focussing on the story of the
Inuit. “What can we do to help?” he asked.
Ken made one request. Could Amy take them out on the Coppermine
River? They spent a day on Amy’s boat, motoring up the river to Copper
Mountain where the natives had mined the yellow mineral and beaten it
into knives, and had thus become known as the Yellow Knives. They went
to Bloody Falls where Ken stood on the same boulder he had straddled
when he first crossed from the western into the eastern Arctic. He saw
again the boulder where Samuel Hearne had carved his name in the sixteen
hundreds and felt the emotional rush of history overwhelm him.
From Coppermine, they flew to Rankin Inlet where they discovered
that Keith had asked Michael to spend the summer at his camp, working
as a guide. They flew across Hudson’s Bay, east to Iqaluit (Frobisher
Bay), another ramshackle settlement, except for the new high school in
the shape of a giant igloo.
They continued on to Pangirtung, an ancient settlement at the far end
of Cumberland Sound on Baffin Island, where the Inuit had made camps
for many centuries. But, it was also an old European whaling station and
remains of the industry and skeletons of giant blue whales were still scattered
on the shore.
They visited the local high school, where Ken gave a talk. When one
young student asked him what he would do with Isumataq when it was
finished, he said he wanted not one opening as was common with works
of art – he wanted many openings, all of them to take place across the
Arctic. Yes, the student persisted, but where would he show it first. “Well,
first I have to take it to Parliament,” he said.
Afterwards, Karen said. “I’ve never heard you say that before. What’s
this idea of going to Parliament?”
“It was just a joke,” he said. “It just came off the top of my head.”
“Some joke! It’s perfect.”
“Maybe.”
“Seriously – it’s perfect. That’s it!”
“First I want to bring it here.”
“Fine, but I tell you I love it – I love it a lot more than your crazy idea
of going to Rome and unveiling it in the Colosseum with a pair of lions.

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