Tag: travel

Ken Kirkby, A Painter’s Quest for Canada

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excerpt

…Michael, and John Harris, a journalist, travelled deeper into the tundra to
one of Keith’s remote summer camps. They took few supplies, expecting
to find food and warm bedding at their destination. When Ken assessed
the situation after the float plane dropped them off, he realized they were
ill-prepared for their stay, and the trek back to the lodge. The supplies
at the camp consisted of a boat, a tent with no tent poles, a large can of
dried mushroom soup, and a few bedrolls and fishing rods. To make matters
worse, the weather turned and the hot summer winds were replaced
with the chill of an early fall. The grays and greens of the tundra began
to turn scarlet and heavy rain fell, which then turned to sleet and later, to
wet snow.
Blindly, they putt-putted around the shore, searching for the river that
would lead them back to the lodge. When they found it, it was too shallow
to navigate because the waters had drained to their summer depth.
Resigned, Ken and John jumped into the water, one pushing and one
pulling the boat, while Michael walked along the shore searching for obstacles.
The cold, wet, backbreaking labour continued all day. In the evening,
they propped the tent up with paddles, lit two Coleman stoves inside
their shelter and fried the fish they had caught, augmenting the meal with
vile-tasting mushroom soup.
They pushed on for four days, the time collapsing into itself until all
they felt was cold, wet, and bone weary. When they finally made it to Ferguson
Lake they were as thrilled as though they had found the elusive pot
of gold. A helicopter circled overhead and a large boat motored toward
them. They were well overdue and Keith was relieved to find them alive
and uninjured.
When Ken got back to Toronto he had one priority. After showering at
the studio he called Karen, “How about supper tonight?”
In the week Karen had been back, she had filed for divorce. Ken told
Marsha the next day that it was over. When he told Diane about the situation
she quit her job.
Karen rented a house on Belsize Avenue off Yonge Street and gave Ken
a key. The chaos of broken relationships roared around him and he had
never been happier in his life. With Diane gone, Ken turned the entire
space into his studio and hired his lawyer’s sister-in-law, Elaine Ross, who
had a background in publicity. She skillfully kept contact with the media
who hovered constantly in the background like hungry jays.
Michael visited frequently and he and Karen became good friends.
Watching them together, Ken was often startled by the intensity of his
feelings. At times, he could hear the beating of his heart, pounding like a
steady and welcome ache in his chest.
Karen applied to write the bar exam for the Northwest Territories on…

https://draft2digital.com/book/3562830

https://www.amazon.com/dp/0981073573

Blood, Feathers and Holy Men

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excerpt

The brothers replied: “Ad deum qui laetificat juventutem meam.” To God, Who
giveth joy to my youth.
Brown Bear strolled alone to the bluff overlooking the bay. High above green
waters and the multicoloured maples and birch on the far islands, he saw the first
arrowheads of honking geese. Three generations of large white birds announced the
coming snow and stirred the arrowhead of pain in Brown Bear’s heart. “My little
Namid, do you fly with Grandmother Snow Goose to the land of warm breezes? Or
does your spirit dance among your sister stars? My beautiful daughter, your father’s
heart still boils with anger for those who took you from your home and snatched
away your mother’s joy. It’s time, I know, my little Star Dancer, to take your bundle
to the resting place of our ancestors. But we cannot take you there until your brother,
Running Deer, and I make peace in our hearts, or else our anger will be carried with
your bones. We will not be long, my little one. Fly safely on. We will not be long.”
Though Brown Bear, Corn Mother and Running Deer had supported one another
as a bereaved family, Brown Bear needed to renew his own energy and that of
his family, within a village healing circle. As Sachem, White Eagle would organize a
cleansing sweat lodge, erected new for the occasion. The sweat lodge would be built
close to the stream, dammed to create a cooling pool. This work and the organizing
of a healing feast would be done by the women of the tribe.
All those who wished to join the circle knew they must make their intentions
known to White Eagle well ahead of time and prepare for the ceremony with fasting
and sitting apart in the forest. Brown Bear invited his friend White Bear, and
Running Deer invited Mountain Thrush. Kiche, Sky Spirit, also was invited out of
respect for his position among the newcomers. But Father Finten declined the invitation
when he learned to his horror the ceremony would take place in pagan nudity.
He forbade Brother Rordan to attend, but Mountain Thrush chose not to obey his
priest’s command.
Although she never attended the prayers of her companion Brothers, Ula felt
drawn to the Native spirituality and asked if she could be included. She wanted to
be closer to Corn Mother who had been so good to her when she was ill. Ula asked
White Eagle’s permission to be part of the healing circle.
Bjorn and Rordan knew that they represented the evil men who had brought pain
to Brown Bear and his family and to Grey Wolf for the loss of his ear and the pride
of his first kill. Now they’d listen and share with respect and truth and love, and help
in the healing of their new brothers and sisters.
In the days leading up to the healing circle, Bjorn, Rordan and Ula spent full days
sitting beneath single trees in the forest until they each came to know the individual
characteristics of their tree and how it was different from every other one in the
forest. The day before the circle, White Bear, Mountain Thrush, and Una, were honoured
with an invitation to the sweat lodge.
Drums announced the sweat lodge healing ceremony. The circular lodge, big
enough for thirty or more people, was built low into the ground with a framework
of twelve sturdy saplings and covered with woven reed mats and fallen leaves. The
tiny door, also covered with a mat, faced east, the source of life, power and wisdom.

https://draft2digital.com/book/3562826

https://www.amazon.com/dp/1926763106

The Unquiet Land

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excerpt

“And it will come to two sides,” Dr Starkey agreed. “As I was saying, Lloyd George’s Liberals will pass a Bill for the Protestant North and another for the Catholic South. He doesn’t have much choice now.”
“De Valera’s Sinn Fein party in Dublin won’t accept it,” Joe Carney asserted. “They won the last election by a large majority.”
“But maybe they’ll settle for half a loaf rather than no bread,” said Sweeney.
“Never,” cried Flynn Casey. He was a broad-shouldered, muscular young man, with a tousle of uncombed, curly, red hair, and the tanned face and hands of one who worked out of doors. “We want the whole loaf. We’ll fight to the death to preserve Irish unity. We’re not going to let the North fall into the hands of a weedy little bastard like Edward Carson.”
“You don’t know what you’re talking about, Flynn Casey,” Jim Patterson challenged. He was a caustic young cynic who worked with his father as a barber in the village. Of medium height and build, with wispy, thinning dark hair, he was about the same age as Flynn Casey but as fanatically committed to Unionism as the other to Republicanism. “Edward Carson is no weedy little bastard. He’s a great leader. He has united everyone who’s opposed to Home Rule and Sinn Fein and he’s going to lead them to victory.”
“Victory over who?” Flynn Casey asked contemptuously.
“Victory over the Nationalists. Victory over all you romantic riders of the Celtic Twilight.”
“And victory over England?” Flynn glanced around to see how his parry had been appreciated. “For it seems to me,” he went on, observing that some of his audience was impressed, “that the great Sir Edward Carson is prepared to fight even the British for the worthless privilege of remaining British.”
“Should it come to civil disorder,” Dr Starkey began, “the British government will be powerless to cope with it. The officers in the British army have already made it clear that they would choose dismissal rather than obey an order to put down Protestant resistance in Ulster.”
“So we’ll win our fight for freedom from Irish Catholic domination by not having to fight it,” Jim Patterson said awkwardly. “England will back down. Dr Starkey is right. Separate treaties for the North and the South. England won’t throw us like scraps to the mangy dogs that slobber round the table legs of Dublin and Rome. We’re determined.”

https://draft2digital.com/book/3562888

https://www.amazon.com/dp/1926763203

Ken Kirkby, A Painter’s Quest for Canada

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excerpt

They were marvelling at the line of diminutive Inuksuit that curved along
the water’s edge toward a far-off boulder that seemed to reach almost fifty
feet into the sky. The Inuksuit told a story, Ken said, and after a lunch of
fresh fried fish he led them toward the boulder. As they walked the boulder
diminished in size until they stood beside it and found it was about
three feet tall, pink, perfectly smooth, and resting on top of an immense
gray rock that had been partially heaved out of the tundra.
“This is a fishing Inukshuk,” he told them. “It tells you that this is a
good place to go fishing. How does it say that? If the fishing is good, the
Inuit take a stone out of the water and put it on top of another stone
with little Inuksuit leading the way. A passerby who had never been in
this land would know immediately that he could catch fish here. Other
configurations of stone describe what kind of fish are here. Essentially,
this is a language.”
He explained that the permafrost lurks just under the surface of the
tundra, and below that lay thousands of feet of ice. The ground above the
permafrost where the ice melted consisted almost entirely of rich humus
built up over eons by the tiny plants that grew and died there. An eightinch
tree takes hundreds of years to grow to that height in the Arctic’s
short season. The fibres of the humus stretched out along the surface and
down to the permafrost, siphoning the water from the ice and sending it
into the atmosphere. As the wind travelled across the surface of the land
in buffeting gusts, it created rudimentary magnifying lenses of the millions
of tiny water bubbles streaming into the air. The farther away you
were from an object the more lenses you were looking through and the
larger the distant object appeared.
That night after supper he walked down to the dock with a fly-fishing
rod. Arctic grayling congregated in the shallows here and after a few causal
casts, he landed a fine three-pound fish. As he unhooked it and slipped
it back into the water he noticed Karen sitting on an overturned bucket
at the far end of the dock.
“I’d like to try that,” she said.
He handed her the rod and described the process but even after all
these years he still had no idea how to explain that it was a line with no
weight and it needed to fly guided by minimal strength and energy, and
perfect timing.
She cast a couple of times and smiled. “I like this,” she said and while
the fly lay on the water, a large grayling took the bait. Ken disengaged it,
gave the rod back to her and left her to sort out the tangles and continue
casting. He sat on the overturned bucket at the far end of the dock and
watched.

https://draft2digital.com/book/3562830

https://www.amazon.com/dp/0981073573

Prairie Roots

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excerpt

…after chores and supper, for a few hours of fun. When
the moon illuminated the snow on crisp, clear nights we would
run and play and wrestle on the snow banks, or in the straw piles
created by the threshing crew. After getting our fill of the night
air it would be time to thaw out with hot chocolate and finish the
evening off with a game of cards. And then the walk home to be
in by ten o’clock and to bed.
This too was an experience in the winter. After our second
house was built our bedroom was the attic itself, unheated except
for whatever warmth found its way up the narrow stairway. So
the first one in warmed up the bed and resisted sharing the heat
with whoever was to share that bed.We slept in pairs, compatibility
being established by various methods including by dictates
from the parents—when all else failed. And it failed often. Scraps
broke out on minimum provocation and disagreements could last
an hour, a day or weeks.
Piling into a cold bed with a brother who was after your hide was
risky business. You were as likely as not welcomed by a smelly fart
which stopped you from getting your face under the covers to take
advantage of body heat. Instead it was necessary to tuck the feather
tick tightly under the chin to prevent any vapours from escaping
upward, at the same time to gently lift the edge of the tick with a
foot to provide an outlet for the smell. And no touching or bedlam
would break loose and one or the other would be downstairs pleading
his case in long johns before the court of last resort, mother, to
be specific.Mother’s justice was gentle enough and, by comparison
with Pop’s justice, downright benevolent. Pop would resolve our
disagreements by following a policy of no-fault resolution or, to put
it more accurately, all fault resolution whereby we were all equally
guilty and therefore all received equal punishment. It worked. We
usually went to mother to be the mediator. At least with her we
were given a chance to develop our case.
There were many things one could not do in our attic bedroom.
One could not take a glass of water up to the bedside; it froze by
morning.One could not kick off the covers; one froze by morning.

https://draft2digital.com/book/3562900

https://www.amazon.com/dp/0980897920

Still Waters

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As they sauntered, and Morley talked, Tyne breathed in the pleasing
aroma of new lumber and tried to imagine walls, furniture, cheerful
draperies at windows, and white curtains surrounding and separating
beds. Morley walked her through what would be the maternity
wing, its rooms consisting of four-bed wards, one semi-private and
one private room. There was a labour room, and the delivery room
with a workroom across from it.
He pointed out the tiny laboratory and the x-ray with the dark
room for developing films. She wondered how he could remember
so precisely the location of every service. Apart from the large space
for the kitchen, it all looked much the same to her. They passed a
recessed area where he said the nurses’ station and chart room would
be, then led her down another wing which corresponded to the maternity
wing on the other end of the building. At a framed-in doorway,
he stopped and turned to her.
“Now this, Miss Milligan,” he said with formality, “is where your
interest will certainly lie. Allow me to show you around the surgical
suite.”
“Oh, my land,” Tyne said, amazed. “It’s … it’s so ….”
“Small,” Morley finished for her.
“Well … but it’s right for the size of the hospital, of course.”
A fairly large room with framed-in windows was, he said, the
main operating room. Across from it a much roomier space would
contain the workroom and clean-up area. A linen and supply cupboard,
a doctor’s change room and a small operating room, which
would double as an emergency and outpatient area, made up the
remainder of the space.
“But the windows in the operating room?” Tyne said, a question
in her voice, “I’m surprised at that. It doesn’t seem sanitary. Will they
be made to open?”
“Yes, apparently they will.” He grinned. “An air-conditioned operating
room, of course.”
Tyne grimaced and turned away. So be it. She didn’t know if she
would ever have to work in a small country hospital, but one thing
she was sure of – it would certainly take some getting used to.
They parted beside his pickup, standing on the frozen rough
ground that would one day be the ambulance entrance to a side…

https://www.amazon.com/dp/1926763068

Ken Kirkby, A Painter’s Quest for Canada

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excerpt

…where all the things that are common in your life don’t exist. Imagine a
place where the only things that do exist are things that are uncommon
to you. You will be in a state of sensory deprivation and sensory overload
at the same time. There are no trees. There are no cities. There is nothing
– but there are vast numbers of insects so pray that the wind blows. There
is almost no night. The size of the horizon is so immense that the prairies
by comparison are claustrophobic. It will just eat away at you and you’ll
have to go through the experience of feeling a bit wobbly and perhaps
teary and that’s fine. I would be worried if you didn’t have an emotional
moment or two. You would have to be completely insensitive.”
In the weeks leading to the departure day, dozens of incidents demanded
his attention. First on the list was the long-planned show at the
Ontario Legislature buildings, which was a great success. The Premier
steered Ken from group to group, demanding that Ken tell the stories that
explained the paintings – even relating some himself that he had heard so
often he had committed them to memory.
Then Ehor Boyanowsky, his voice almost incoherent with excitement,
called him. Ken must fly out to Vancouver right away for an emergency
meeting of the Steelhead Society. There were problems with the dam
project in Quebec.
He drove into town to deliver a painting to London Life on Avenue
Road, on the day of his flight. When he got back into his car, a large
cheque in hand, he heard Peter Gzowski, radio’s “Mister Canada”, interviewing
John Fraser, who was now Speaker of the House. The interview
had almost ended. “So, Mr. Speaker,” Gzowski said. “Your life seems to be
completely taken up by your office.”
“Well, it is,” Fraser, replied.
“I know you’re a fanatical fly-fisherman,” Gzowski said. “Do you ever
get to do that?”
“As a matter of fact, yes,” Fraser said. “This afternoon I’m getting on an
airplane to go to Vancouver and I’m going to meet my good friend Ken
Kirkby, the painter, and I am going to be honoured at the Steelhead Society
dinner. I couldn’t imagine being in finer company. I’m just delighted.
So yes, we are actually going to steal some time – but don’t tell anybody
– and we’re going to have a few meetings to talk about some problems,
which I’m sure we’ll resolve, and then we’re going to go fishing. And the
people putting this on have some surprises for us too.”
Ken chuckled. So, that was why Boyanowski had insisted he fly to Vancouver.
He knew that Ken would never have pulled himself away from
Isumataq for a mere fishing trip.
When Ehor greeted him in the baggage area, with an immense bear
hug, Ken told him that the jig was up. Ehor shrugged. “I wondered if you
might be listening to Gzowski’s program.

https://draft2digital.com/book/3562830

https://www.amazon.com/dp/0981073573

Jazz with Ella

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He looked at her fondly. For a moment, there might have been no airport runway, no guard, only that moment over the kitchen table in Leningrad. “I am a bad man for wanting to leave, but I am not so bad that I want you to suffer. If I run, then you must act like you don’t know me. Do you understand?”
“Yes, I understand,” she relented. Again the irony. In that moment that she was supposed to be denying his existence, she discovered that she knew him only too well, better than ever before. “I’m convinced they’re not looking for you,” she told him. “Stay in line. Don’t run. Please.”
The line had ground to a halt and she could see the twins and Ted sitting on their flight bags as if they were in for a long wait. “What’s happening, Ted?” she called out.
He joined them. “The guy in the uniform says that we might as well make ourselves comfortable. Our suitcases are not on this flight—they’re on another one that’s arriving soon—make that ‘soon’ in Soviet time, so who knows when? Then we’re supposed to grab our own bags and go through a security check.”
“What are they looking for?” David and Maria crowded around, encircling Volodya protectively. They want him to be safe, Jennifer thought. It’s touching. “Weren’t we just checked pretty well when we left Moscow?”
“Who knows what they’re looking for? I can tell you one thing, both Hank and Lona are pretty upset. It seems Hank is carrying some of Lona’s things in his luggage and he’s not too happy about them poking through his bags again.”
“Did the uniform tell you where we were?” She asked the question that she knew was on Volodya’s mind.
“He wouldn’t answer,” Ted replied. The last of the colour drained from Volodya’s face, and his eyes cast about wildly sizing up the airport fence and the chain link gate.
“But surely we’re in Sweden or Finland?” David went on, putting one hand on Volodya’s arm, sensing his fear. “They’re entirely too casual here for the Soviet Union. Look—no armed guards or slogans on the wall.”
“Hang in there, Vlad…uh, Paul.” Maria said.
“Yeah, I think you’re right,” Ted replied. “Probably because it’s a military airport, he’s not supposed to tell us much about it.”
“Hey, here comes a plane. Can you beat that? It arrived ‘soon’—just like they said.”

https://draft2digital.com/book/3562892

https://www.amazon.com/dp/1926763246

Ken Kirkby – Warrior Painter

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The Minister was a Maritimer and his open, neighbourly manner
delighted Ken. Their meeting resulted in the eminently successful 1975
exhibition of Ken’s Arctic work in Spain, and in the fashion of one domino
tipping the next, the first Canadian exhibition of the Arctic works was
triggered. Once the unusual, haunting images had been seen, and the origin
of the work was explained, all the right people wanted to own one of the
paintings, and gallery owners were clamouring to exhibit them. Best of
all, to Ken’s mind, it had been accomplished without cost to the Canadian
government beyond their public support and a few phone calls.
This was the beginning of the long road to the national introduction of
the Inuit, their stories and experiences, and the growing acceptance of the
symbol of the Inukshuk as a uniquely Canadian icon. It could be argued
this was the pivotal step that led to the Inukshuk becoming the distinctive
symbol of welcome for the 2010 Vancouver Olympics.
The Arctic paintings sold by the hundreds, nationally and internationally,
to the point where, a quarter of a century later, Canadian Art galleries were
objecting to anything other than ice, snow and Inuksuit displaying the
Kirkby name. It was ironic.
~~
Despite the history, the lack of outlets for Kirkby’s west coast images
promised a lean period ahead for the painter. He decided to force the issue
by withholding all of his art until the galleries accepted his new works. The
businessmen amongst the owners appreciated the fact that a painting with
the Kirkby signature translated into a certain sale, and Ken’s experience had
proven they’d come around when their stock was depleted.
He continued to work late, the bright light a beacon, spilling warmth
from the loft window. And then, one night he returned to the cottage to
find the message light blinking on the answering machine. That was the
start. While gallery managers still hopefully requested the Arctic series,
they agreed to hang work from his Vancouver Island series. Happily, new
customers liked it and previous Kirkby collectors were intrigued. Ten
years since that breakthrough, his work is more popular than ever and…

https://draft2digital.com/book/3562902

https://www.amazon.com/dp/B00CB8W4CG

Still Waters

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It snowed during the night, a good two inches which prompted
Cam to say when he came down to breakfast, “Is our skating party
off then? The lake will be covered with snow.”
“Heck, no.” Jeremy slapped butter onto his toast and glanced at
the clock on the kitchen wall. “Some of the guys’ll be out there already
clearing it off. We’d better hurry up and go help them.”
“Really?” Cam pulled a chair out from the table and sat down.
“What do you clear the ice with?”
“We put our skates on and push homemade snow ploughs along
the ice. Someone usually comes with a tractor and pushes the snow
to the side of the lake.” Jeremy helped himself to another dollop of
butter.
Tyne reached across the table and slapped her brother’s hand.
“Enough,” she scolded, thinking she sounded very much like their
dad. More gently she said, “You already have more butter than you
need on one slice of toast. Leave some for Cam.”
Cam grinned as he stirred his coffee. “Leave him alone, big sister.
He’s a growing boy.”
And one who’s used to having butter only when we have company,
Tyne thought. Usually, they had margarine which, until recently, had
been purchased in white unappetizing blocks that had to be mixed
with a capsule of orange colouring. Cam, she was sure, would have
no knowledge of such things. Nor would Morley, of course, since he
had always lived on the farm and had fresh cream and butter year
round.
Why does Morley always have to come to mind, even for the most
mundane things? I’m sure he never thinks about me.
They finished their breakfast and the young men went to their
rooms to change into their outdoor clothes. As Tyne began to clear
the table, her mother appeared at the pantry door, carrying a wicker
picnic basket.
“Leave the dishes, Tyne, and run along. I’ve packed you a little
lunch because I know you won’t think of coming home…

https://www.amazon.com/dp/1926763068