Of Soldiers and Buildermen

     

     Change is ever on the horizon and this time it sends a clear, audible message in its resounding refrain. The sound of hammers and mitre saws knotted together with the occasional profanity blows in from the garage on a wind of determination and virility. It's called the renovation and it upsets more households than I could shake a tape measure at.

     I check the kitchen clock. He's been at it for five hours. Any minute now he'll push through the back door with an accomplished whistle on his lips. Right on cue the entry door wheezes, releasing pent up pressure from the belly of the newly caulked and sealed garage. I rush to my position near the doorway, rag in one hand, banana bread in the other. He grins and slaps first his right hand then his left against the faded blue of his trousers. A thin nebulous fog of drywall dust escapes into the air drifting downward, settling on my freshly vacuumed floor. I throw him the rag.

     He accepts the baked snack too and moans with the first bite. He's earned it and intends to give his gut fair warning of the reward before it arrives. I watch him, pallid with sawdust and drywall smears. His hair, previously pulled back into a severe ponytail, is now framing his face in the manner of dandelion fluff about to take flight. He looks older in this light, the white dust filling the cracks of every laugh line and facial crease, pink lips like a Coka-Cola Santa Clause amidst a forest of white goatee. He licks the last absconding chocolate chip smudge from middle finger smacking as the accompanying dust turns to glue on his tongue. “Water,” he pleads, one eyebrow raised forming a question mark that ends at the rosebud dot on the tip of his nose.

     I move swiftly to the kitchen for a water bottle shaking the image of Old Man Winter in my back entry, the very man we're working to beat to the finish line, to banish to the Siberian prison outside our fortress of insulation and weatherstripping.

     “Why don't you call it a day?” I advise. The confession in my eyes eludes to a longing for peace and quiet.

     “I'm on my last sheet. It'll be a doozy with the cuts required. What time's supper?”

     Supper. I hadn't given it a thought. “Six.” My head races through a quick inventory of he-man-worthy cuisine in my Mother Hubbard pantry. Saturday grocery shopping, usually his domain, has fallen unwittingly into my lap since the renos began, along with an army list of household provisos.

     I glance at my watch. Four fifty-three. Still time to hit the deli at Bigway Foods and pull off the impression of doting wife. The fall chill takes a bite out of my cheeks and I ward off an attack of yellowed windswept leaves. I shrink to safety behind the wheel of my Buick and the radio voice of Shelagh Rogers. Resolute movement behind dirty glass windows, lined up like dominoes along the top of the garage door, reminds me that the tenacious never stop in the battle for dominance over a fierce Manitoba winter.

     “Onward ho!” I proclaim with renewed fortitude. The soldier is weary and the soldier must be fed.

Restless Summer: A Memoir

“When I have neither pleasure nor pain and have been breathing for a while the lukewarm insipid air of these so called good and tolerable days, I feel so bad in my childish soul that I smash my moldering lyre of thanksgiving in the face of the slumbering god of contentment and would rather feel the very devil burn in me than this warmth of a well-heated room. A wild longing for strong emotions and sensations seethes in me, a rage against this toneless, flat, normal and sterile life. I have a mad impulse to smash something, a warehouse, perhaps, or a cathedral, or myself, to commit outrages, to pull off the wigs of a few revered idols...” 
― Hermann Hesse


     We had about $21 between us. Enough for a two-four and a bottle of Black Tower.  It would get us to the Well. The tendrils of smoke curled and embraced us one by one, moved by an indecisive breeze. We were as familiar with this fire as we were with each other. The Well was a gathering place for pow wows, building love relationships and shooting the shit. As far as I knew, there was no actual well here anymore. It was still one of our favorite spots to gather away from the watchful eye of parents and police, tucked away in the woods on the bank of the Red River.
     It was a muggy summer evening in August 1977. An unbearable tedium had settled in and it was palpable through every movement and disenchanted response to an attempt at conversation. This once lively group had been reduced to lassitude. A dangerous junction for restless adolescence.
     "We should go canoeing. My brother's got a canoe." Lawrence flicked his cigarette into the dying embers, his gaze returning to the river.
     A few of us snickered.
     "Sure. You got a leaky canoe we can sink? We could leave the paddles behind for good measure." Jeff read our minds.
     Just weeks earlier, in another face-off with boredom, this impetuous band had located a rubber army raft, utilized the aid of several sluggish tire pumps, poured hours of perfectly employable sweat equity into filling it with air and headed into the muddy river.  Unfortunately we were too impatient to run the prerequisite sailing tests before we loaded the rubber water craft with the libations required for an afternoon of partying at "sea".  No more than 50 feet off shore our toes were getting wet, then our ankles and before we knew it we were a crazed group of lunatics bailing madly and jumping ship. The libations couldn't be saved, an offering to the underwater Molson Canadian gods.

     One week later all the plans were in place.  Our 3 canoes had been transported to the river bank in Aubigny where our 2 day journey of fools would begin, ending at the very place in St. Adolphe where a rubber army raft now clung deflated and dejected to a rock. The other couples, Jeff and Mona, Lawrence and Lori, managed to procure a couple of sleek fiberglass models. Ours was an aluminum barge with Sherman Tank qualities. It belonged to Al's boss and he was a hunter. This very canoe had likely transported a dead moose or two. My eyes scoured the bottom for seasoned blood.
     Paddles in hand we started out, our canoes weighed down with all of the provisions and incidentals for such a trek: canned beans and Klik, sleeping bags, lighter fluid, swiss army knives, cigarettes and a loaded 22 for rabbits and squirrel. Due to the sheer size of the Sherman, Al and I became keepers of the sacred - 6 cases of bottled hops and an opener.
     It was a beautiful Manitoba Saturday morning. The sun peeked softly from behind tufts of massive white clouds and the wind whispered over our shoulders as we found our rhythms along the river. Our canoe lagged behind, burdened by excessive weight which would lighten over the weekend. At this stage there was only about an inch of canoe edge bobbing above the water making movement of any kind precarious.
     "Mona, did you bring sunscreen?"
     "Nope."
     "Lori?"
     "Uh uh."
     I pushed a finger onto the skin of one shoulder and released, watching as the spot morphed from white to a deep shade of red. It's a good thing I'd worn a bikini. I'd have few tan lines when the weekend was over.
     By dusk we found ourselves at the halfway point. The others, having skimmed lightly over the river's grimy surface, arrived earlier and were already setting up camp. A small collection of kindling sat smoking on a cozy knoll surrounded by tall evergreen and poplar. The girls were squealing, checking each other for ticks.
     "It's about time. We're getting thirsty!"  Jeff, out for a swim, cut into the water with his hand showering us with a welcome jolt.
     "What's for supper?" I yelled to Lawrence, now hunched over the fire, a gangly branch bobbing with the weight of something unrecognizable from this distance.
     "Crayfish. Fresh."
     He held up his prize, blackened, its claws still gripping the stick end.
     By nightfall we were all languishing around the dying fire, cans and bottles strewn about. Dark clouds hovered somewhere in the North accompanied by the sound of distant thunder. We'd checked the forecast before leaving. Sunny and clear. Not to worry.
     We lay the sleeping bags out near the fire with full unobstructed view of the starry sky. Al, not trusting the clouds creeping ever closer, decided it wise to use the canoes to cover the supplies. It's hard to transport soggy beer boxes, he reasoned. Lawrence and Lori's double sleeping bag had been placed strategically near the water's edge. Lawrence wanted to hear the sound of water lapping while he dozed off into free-spirited slumber. An exchange of choice words brought them to an impasse. Lawrence won.
     We drifted off, one by one, the wind in the tree tops and isolated thunder humming a natural lullaby. I woke with a start somewhere during what should have been the crescent moon zenith but there was no moon and it had taken all the stars with it. The thick darkness heightened the sounds of the woods behind me and the wind above. Twigs snapped, underbrush rustled and the river lapped perversly close. I lay completely still pondering the wisdom of slipping quietly into my partners sleeping bag.
     I heard him then too, the nylon of his sleeping bag wheezing uncomfortably under his restless weight.
     "Al...can you hear that?"
     "Whu?"
     "Can you hear that? It sounds like a swarm of giant grasshoppers coming this way."
     "Oh shit! Get into your bag. Now."
     We simultaneously slunk deeper into our bags drawing the tops around our heads. The wall of water drummed ever louder, over the tree line and across our grassy knoll. It left as quickly as it came leaving us shrink-wrapped in our soggy nylon cocoons.
      "Lawrence. Lawrence! Get me out of here!"
      Slipping my head from the top of my bag I could just make out their silhouettes. By now Lori had wiggled her way from the bag and was hanging heroically to one corner, her naked heels digging deep into the muddy embankment. Still within the bags grip Lawrence bobbed awkwardly in the black river, arms flailing for anything stationary.
     "Guys, help!" Lori's cries for help did not go unheeded but we'd wait it out just a bit. Jeff and Mona watched too, from the confines of their sopping perch on the knoll. Times like these shouldn't be rushed. They serve as good story-telling fodder around the fire at The Well.

     Day 2 began like the first but with more indifference to the adventure. Sleeping bags wrung out and warmed by a smoky fire we ventured North up the channel that would lead us home.
     In an effort to lighten the melancholy Al dug his paddle into the river and hoisted a light wash of spray to the right of our canoe. It landed solidly on Mona forcing a defeated grimace from her face.
     "What the hell? I was almost dry, Al." She swiped an absconding mop of hair from her face.
     "Hey, bathing suits are intended to be wet."
     "Alright, if that's how we're gonna play this game."
     Mona dug hard into the depths bringing up her paddle with as much force as she could muster for a mercenary-style assault. Her canoe tipped wildly to one side sending the paddle and water canon into the air as the couple gripped the sides awaiting their fate. The canoe hung on its side for a solitary moment, lapping ripples into its hull, then dropped ungracefully back to upright.
     "There's a way to do it and that wasn't it." Jeff pulled the floating pieces of her broken paddle back to the safety of the canoe. He traded her, paddle for broken paddle and they limped along, Jeff bending deeper for every stroke. By that time Al & I  had steered clear avoiding the onslaught that would have followed.
     At mid-morning the sky was naked of the previous night's cloud cover. The sun exploded in a burst of heat that bounced playfully off the water in a blinding display. My back, shoulders and nose were absorbing the heat like a sponge. I dug into my small backpack for the bottle of baby oil and slathered the sun-soaked skin.
     A sudden crack split the air, and then another. Bored, Lawrence had exchanged paddle for rifle taking wild potshots at the shoreline.
     "Woo hoo! Did you see that? Almost got her."
     A string of shots followed the first, up an embankment. The little brown bunny stayed just ahead of the plumes of dust that tracked it, disappearing into a mass of brambles.
     "Rocks. One o'clock." Jeff called over his shoulder.
     Our eyes skimmed the river surface locating the boulders ahead.
     "I'll steer us around. You just paddle." Al, creating a rudder, managed the Sherman neatly between the obstructions and resumed rowing.
     We were falling behind again. In unison we kicked into high gear dipping and rising, creating a swath, streamlining, synchronizing our rhythms masterfully. We were cruising now, hitting peak momentum, cutting through the water like salmon in spawning season.
      Gliding effortlessly along the water's surface we heard a sharp, metallic scrape and came to a firm and fast halt. We teetered there, dipping our paddles in for the obstruction that caused the stalemate. Another rock just below the river's surface. Valiantly we worked the paddles, shifting our weight and rocking the boat. Nothing except the slow revolution of an aluminum blimp atop a rock fulcrum like the spinner on a board game. I was getting dizzy.
     The others had turned around, witnesses to our conundrum. We drew in our paddles and waited for rescue.
     "Any damage?" Jeff hitched his paddle to the edge of our canoe to pull in for a closer inspection and sent us spinning again in the other direction.
     "Nope. Doesn't appear to be. We're still dry." Al shifted his feet, checking for leaks.
     "How's the beer?" Lawrence was coming up the rear, his rifle propped on the bow and ready for another critter assault.
     For the next half hour we worked as a team, assessing, trying, failing and nearly toppling a canoe or two. The brains were in full gear, science lessons of our high school classes being employed to full capacity. Nothing was working.
     "We need to get you out of the canoe. Lighten the weight." Al tried to be kind.
     Case by case we transferred the full and empty boxes to another canoe, ours teetering precariously with every shift. Drawing within inches we secured Lawrence's canoe to our own and I stood slowly, cautiously, every step guided by the panicky instructions of the boys.
     "Whoa, stop."
     "Okay, right there. No, not there."
     "Take your time, yup, doing good. Wait! Can you swim?"
     I glared at Lawrence. "Not with a concussion." I peeped over the edge at the variety of rocks below us. The life jackets were still in the back of a half-ton in Aubigny. We didn't have the room.
     With 10 hands working the assist I crossed over only slightly bruised as I planted a knee solidly on a wooden crossbar. We prevailed upon the stubborn old Sherman again with paddles and tricks until she shifted inch by inch back to her bouyant state. 

     By late afternoon Jeff's hands were feeling the sting of the sharp edges of his broken paddle. Curses trailed his canoe hanging heavy in the humid air. Up ahead, like a mirage in the desert, came the answer. A lonely canoe sat tethered to an old homemade dock nearly hidden among 3 foot reeds. 

     "Guys, get a load of this." Jeff guided his canoe in the direction of the derelict boat pulling in alongside it. "Ha ha!" He retrieved a beautiful, varnished, glistening paddle from the bed of the other boat throwing the fractured pieces of his own into its place.  "Score!" He turned then to scold his partner behind him. "Don't try that stunt again. The chance of another paddle we can 'borrow' on route will be slim to none."

     Lawrence rode shotgun in his canoe nearby, one eye pinched shut and the other scoping the surrounding landscape for interference from a meddling canoe owner. For good measure he popped one into the dock as we pulled away. It ricocheted off a nearby rock resonating into a double gunshot and we paddled with greater fury laughing uncontrollably as we left.

     By early evening the sun was retreating having left a nefarious reminder of its presence on my scorched skin. 

     "We must be almost home." I pleaded, my arms heavy as I dug the paddle in time and again, my back rebelling against the abuse, my skin itchy where the bikini clung to my sweat-soaked skin. 

     Al scanned the landscape. The area we'd known all our lives was such a stranger from this vantage point. 

     "Yeah. I'd say another half hour or so."

     Around every bend I watched for signs of familiarity; signs that we had reached our goal. Every bend produced more of the same tedium. The others had fallen to silence, every one of us fatigued and sun-blistered.

     "Whose f...kin' wild idea was this, anyway?" Lawrence broke the silence, echoing our thoughts.

     "Yours!" We yelled in unison.

     While some of us resigned ourselves in silence to the gruelling final laps Lawrence and Lori gave themselves unabashedly to another exchange in disparagement. It was a verbal jousting match that would last through the weekend reaching a crescendo of put-downs unprecedented to this point. We were making taciturn bets on the longevity of their volatile relationship. This trip had not improved on their compatability quotient.  

     "Look!" Mona cut through the bickering.

     St. Adolphe belonged to her. It was her stomping ground and the steeple of the old Catholic church loomed above the tree tops like the Cathedral of Notre Dame; as beautiful a sight as I'd seen in an eternity. Jesus was calling us home. 

     With each following stroke the familiar view called to us until we pulled onto the muddy bank and dug the paddles in for the last time. The girls leapt simultaneously from our floating roosts splashing wildly, releasing days of crampy discomfort from our bones. We dropped into the grass, exhausted, watching as the boys hauled the sailing ships to shore and unloaded the travel weary provisions. 

     "That was fun." Lori exhaled deeply. 

     "That was a lot of fun." Mona and I agreed. "Where to next?"