Oh! Canada?

Not sure what is going on. Not in the world at large, but rather the sudden huge uptick in page views out of Canada in the last month. Huge to me, at least. Certainly not due in my mind to any specific post yapping about anything regarding our neighbor to the north.

Maybe a former student living up that way decided to read more than half my posts one night--how unlikely. Especially if she decided to do the same a few weeks later. Again, even more unlikely as to be unfathomable. 

Might be two students there now that I think of it.  Still....

Autobiographically speaking, I do have a few bits of a history with Canada. 

When my family moved in 1964 from Sarasota, as in Florida, to Duluth, as in Minnesota, we did make a day trip northward to cross the Pigeon River into, yes, a foreign country. Obviously not all that exotic an adventure, but for kid who spent the previous decade-plus in Florida, well an international boundary is an international boundary is an international boundary. 

Pretty sure we visited at some point Fort William and Port Arthur, very sure I skied up that way in the early 70s after the entities combined into Thunder Bay, Ontario.  

The other crossing point was International Falls--the weather folks' go-to for bitterly cold readings in the Lower 48. Across the Rainy River bridge was Fort Frances, Ontario. I vaguely remember the falls. Vaguely.

As for more enticing visits, Winnipeg, Manitoba and Vancouver, British Columbia were the real deal. 

Winnipeg--during a mid-60s summer visit--was electric. The zoo, the rodeo, the outdoor music venues, the parks, all great. The easy guess is with the kind of winter that comes that way, they really need to suck the marrow out of those long days. 

The visit to Vancouver in my late 40s came about as part of a trip to Seattle--an obvious leg to head north. I'm not about being a travel guide, but suffice to say I found Vancouver to be my favorite North American city hands down. 

It's a vibe thing--and the geography and the culture and the history. I actually looked into the real estate market and the Canadian requirements for a teaching license. 

Looked into....

And a particular fishing trip. About an hour and a half across the border from International Falls, Kakagi (Crow) Lake squats, a glacial lake averaging 68' deep--I had to look that up--and covering about 42 square miles. Looked that up, too. 

My father's business partner owned a cabin on the lake reachable only by boat, with an outhouse and manual pump to draw water. Think northern forest and exposed rock and cold water and endless sky. 

On one visit our party spent an early gray afternoon trolling for lake trout with no luck. The autumn sky darkened with light flurries, the wind chilled, and so we turned back. The others reeled in their lures, but I kept mine out as we motored between a small island and the main shoreline. 

The strike was not so much a hit as an embrace that tugged hard on my rod. I set the hook and reeled--dragged--against what ever it was at the end of the line. 

It was not a fight to the end, it was a capitulation. A slow surrendering to the steady grind of my reel. An unrelenting heaviness, as if a season-ending collapse. 

So, my most significant Canadian memory: Not Winnipeg, not Vancouver. Nope, that 23-pound lake trout. The heaviest fish I ever boated. 

Oh, Canada.

The Grave (F)

I went back to my home village for the first time since the war began. I say home because it was my place of birth and of my parents, of my grandparents and their parents.

Now the village was mostly rubble.

I left my village when I was 18 after securing a university scholarship. The day I left my mother wept and my father took me by the shoulders and offered a few words. “Be something.” He shook me gently. “Be something.” My grandfather beamed proudly. My grandmother shook her head and spat. “This is no good. It is a fool’s errand.”

My family’s home burned to the ground in the attack. I would be sleeping in one of many volunteer tents. I would shower at the hospital and I would eat in the mess tent.

On the little stand next to my cot I set my mug and a dog-eared copy of The Gulag Archipelago. Two of my tent mates took no notice, but the third eyed it with contempt.

“You should not have such a thing as that. It is an affront to the dead.”

“You misunderstand—appreciate the irony.”

“It should be burned.”

The first morning, after a breakfast of boiled eggs and bread and coffee, we mustered in two lines about ten yards from the gravesite. We were handed a trowel, a short folding shovel—like one would take camping in the mountains to dig a latrine, a small sieve, and something like a small serving spoon.

We were stationed every three feet around the perimeter of the freshly turned earth. An army corporal marked our place with orange spray paint. Then a man with a bullhorn introduced himself as the UN liaison.

“Start with your shovel, dig slowly until you meet any kind of resistance. Place the dirt in the sieve and shake it through. You are looking for jewelry, keys, coins, paper money, small bones, and the like.”

Several of the men—two of the youngest in particular—shifted back and forth, staring at the ground, muttering to themselves.

“Use the pointed end of the trowel to probe around larger objects, slowly, slowly, finding the edges. Perhaps an arm or leg, maybe the torso, maybe the head, perhaps a foot. Use the spoon to scoop away smaller amounts. Photographers will be moving around you to document the scene.”

The man to my left began to drop to his knees.

“Wait! One last word. I am sorry if this happens, but some of you may uncover someone you know. Signal me and we will move you to another section if you wish. Any questions?”

We knelt down.

I decided to start on the left side of my small parcel. A shallow angle and the dirt gave way easily. I turned and dropped the load through the sieve. Nothing.

I aimed to the right a bit. Again, a scoop of dirt. Nothing.

Once more. Something this time. I took my trowel and gently pushed forward. A smallish stone dislodged. I flipped it over my shoulder.

I glanced at some of the other men. No one seemed to have reached a body yet.

With my shovel I worked back and forth, moving the dirt, striking a few stones, a coin, a bit of broken glass. I inched forward on my knees. My shovel easily penetrated the dirt.

Sometimes I would stand and stretch my legs and back. Others would do the same. Clearly we were getting closer to the mound itself.

“One here!” We all stopped and stared. The UN supervisor jogged over to the spot. He stooped and immediately signaled for a photographer to come over.

I returned to the task. The shovel cut easily down half a foot or so. Nothing. Another deeper cut. Nothing.

I pulled off my sweatshirt and tossed it back behind me.

Again, a deep gash. Resistance. I pushed again. Something. I picked up the trowel and scraped at the object.

Slowly I moved away the dirt. An outline emerged. A small shoe. I worked around the toe and along the top. Some white laces.

“One here.”

A photographer close by came over and stood behind me. My companions on either side stopped and leaned in my direction.

I took the spoon and removed a bit of dirt. A tennis shoe. Pink. Gently I worked around the shoe. And then a bare ankle. What I already knew was now clear. A child.

The photographer tapped me on the shoulder and had me step back. He took several shots and then kneeled and took several more.

My fellow diggers averted their eyes and returned to the task at hand.

I took a deep breath and kneeled.

Greenville 2022

 

 

 

 

An Index (15)

State, Suicide rate per 100,000 (2020)

Wyoming, 30.5

Alaska, 27.5

Montana, 26.1

New Mexico, 24.2

Idaho, 23.2

Oklahoma, 21.9

Colorado, 21.5

South Dakota, 21

Utah, 20.8

West Virginia, 19.4

Pennsylvania, 12.6

Delaware, 12.3

Illinois, 10.5

California, 10

Connecticut, 9.3

Maryland, 9.2

Rhode Island, 8.5

Massachusetts, 8.4

New York, 8

New Jersey, 7.1

Beneath the Moon's Full Light

The dogwoods fully flowered as if snow-covered

while we walk the block back and forth

where Soo-an lives.

We shuffle together side by side

in and out of the shadows of the trees

lining the street.

“Soo-an!” Mr. Hanson’s voice calls, loud enough to be heard,

voiced to be obeyed.

I drop her hand. Soo-an giggles.

“My father will not kill you.”

“No, but he might mess me up a bit.” A rueful laugh.

I kiss her softly on the mouth.

An owl sounds in the cold air.

We pick up our pace so we are at the foot

of the drive quickly.

We press our hands together. Soo-an rises

up on her toes and kisses my lips.

“Good night.”

“Good night, Soo-an.”

I watch her walking to her front door.

The porch light out, I turn for home.

Hands in my coat pockets.

A cold walk, the two miles. 

Lyman 2022

An Index (14)

(Circumstances may have changed.)

$805,000 2/2 2005 Mitzi Lane, Sanibel, FL:  52 days on market

$849,000 3/2 1747 Serenity Lane: 32 days

$899,000 3/2 1835 Farm Trail: 120 days

$899,000 3/2 6065 Dinkins Lake Road: 22 days

$925,000 2/2 1046 Sand Castle Road: 109 days

$925,000 3/2 1031 Bird Watch Way: 115 days

$975,000 3/2 1986 Wild Lime Drive: 22 days

$995,000 3/2 1382 Tahiti Drive: 166 days

$999,000 3/2.5 921 Strangler Fig Lane: 39 days

$1,049,000 2/2 683 Emeril Court: 51 days

$849,000 3/3 12030 Bohman Lane, Pine Island, FL: 37 days

$800,000 3/2 12370 Eagles Nest Drive: 30 days

$725,000 4/3 11831 Tawas Court: 120 days

$649,999 3/2 5389 Serenity Cove: 136 days

$599,000 2/2 5440 Pine Creek Lane North: 165 days

$129,000 2/1 316 Bellair Road, Ft. Myers, FL: 144 days

$142,999 2/1 4847 Nottingham Drive: 53 days

$149,900 2/1 1103 Luray Avenue: 59 days

$149,999 3/1 3056 2nd Street: 52 days

$150,000 1/1 2426 Stella Street: 11 days