Cecile Beaulieu's Blog, page 3

Brother BrokenAlf Reads about a night walk...By late Mar...

 

Brother Broken

Alf Reads about a night walk...

By late March 1990, the sun was rising earlier and bedding later, like a candle burning brighter at both ends. The boost of extra daylight was unmistakable, promising the return of warmer weather. Evenings still had a bite to them, though. Stargazing wasn’t tolerable for extended periods. It was best to stay inside, guarded against the cold, and safe, until winter’s sting lost its punch.

Uncle Emil wandered still. Nights were too quiet and too long to spend alone. Better to find a home where he was welcome to sit for a while. Uncle wasn’t a bother. He was a straight-up kind of guy who didn’t impose himself on others. He was happy to be in the midst of friends or family. A hot cup of coffee was all Emil asked of his host, but most were quick to offer him a slice of pie, a cookie, or even a meal. Emil was happy to accept.

One night, he opted to trek a little further up the highway. He ventured west about a quarter of a mile out of town to visit his sister at her home. It was on an acreage, surrounded by a small forest of tall evergreens.

There was always risk walking along highway in the dark, but if Emil kept to the shoulder, essentially in the ditch, he was safe enough. Headlights from oncoming vehicles blinded him momentarily, but traffic was rarely heavy. Most times, he could plug along, enjoying the view of the night sky by himself, unless a stray dog decided to keep him company.

It was an easy hike up the hill. The night air was crisp but pleasant. Emil slogged onward, hoofing it up the highway, turning onto the driveway and making his way to the door. There was no need to knock or wait to be invited in—it was normal for him to simply enter.

He sat and drank his coffee, watched TV along with the family, and simply observed as they went about their routine. A couple lazy hours passed, with scant words exchanged, and then it was time to go. He went through the rigmarole of putting all his winter garb back on, and out the door he went, into the night.

Emil didn’t make it back home that night. Morning came, and his bed hadn’t been slept in. It wasn’t like him to be away for so long. An eerie calm settled in the empty space at the table, where he should have been downing his first cup of morning coffee. His absence prompted a search around town. Calls on neighbours amounted to naught. Emil had left no clues to indicate his whereabouts. Concerns mounted. Uncle Dan called the Mounties, requesting assistance.

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Brother BrokenAlf Reads about playing pranks...about pla...

 

Brother Broken

Alf Reads about playing pranks...

about playing pranks . . .

For some of us, the telephone switchboard fed an impish itch for fun. I followed John’s lead as we indulged ourselves playing pranks on other kids. One of our strategies was to have a kid place the telephone plug in his mouth. He or she usually required some convincing to do it.

“Just put the plug on your tongue.”

We were gifted at crafting reasons why a plug to the tongue was a good thing.

“It’s fun,” we’d say.

Sometimes, we had to persuade by demonstration, so we’d show them by illustrating with a mouth full of plug.

“See? Wike yiss.”

It took some doing, but we eventually persuaded one wide-eyed patsy to try. He opened his mouth as though to receive a communion wafer, and we dropped in the plug. Timing was key, and before he got a chance to change his mind, one of us worked the hand crank.

The surge of electricity never caused his hair to frizz, but watching his eyeballs bulge was satisfactory. Our friends never fully appreciated the gags, nor did they fall for the same trick more than twice.
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Brother BrokenAlf Reads the story of the windshield:When...

 

Brother Broken

Alf Reads the story of the windshield:

When Mitch was six years old, he got us all into trouble with Dad. It happened at my grandparents’ farm. A few of us were sitting on the trunk of the car, waiting to leave for home. Mitch ran a toy tractor down the surface of the rear windshield.

One moment, the windshield was in perfect condition and the next, it had morphed into a mosaic pattern of splintered glass. I watched, dumbstruck, as a star burst emerged from the centre of the windshield outward. It looked like a spider had webbed a silica net. Dad was pissed, but the windshield held.

As we ventured home that day, all of us in the back seat exhibited forward-focused, model behaviour for a change. We sat quietly so as to not bring attention to ourselves. We tried communicating with hand signals, but the messages were too cryptic to decipher.

Dad drove the car down the six-mile stretch of road going home. We rode in silence except for the sound of the motor and the crunch of tire against gravel. Fields and ditches rushed past our view. The ride was relatively smooth, until we hit a bump.

A sound like a gunshot went off behind us. The windshield imploded. Projectiles struck the backs of our heads. Glass shards rained down on us, dropping like ice chips into our shirt collars and onto our laps. I let out a shriek because I didn’t know what was happening.

Dad stopped the car on the side of the road. It took a minute for me to realize we hadn’t hit the rhubarb. No one was hurt, but my nerves were frayed by the close call.

We climbed out of the car, shaking off bits of glass. It took a while to clean the debris out of the back seat, and our trip home resumed with the added feature of rear hatch ventilation.

We remained sheepish for a time, until the memory of the incident faded. Dad had a new windshield installed, and life went back to normal.

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Brother BrokenWelcome to the new series: Alf ReadsThe mo...

 

Brother Broken

Welcome to the new series: Alf Reads

The move to the city…

Saskatoon is known as the Paris of the Prairies, Stoon, and Bridge City. If the province could grow body parts, Saskatoon would be the heart. On a map, road lines radiate from the centre of a large dot resembling a starburst in the centre of Saskatchewan. They lead to and from the city in all directions like arteries—which explains how it got its other name, Hub City.

If there is a contest, Saskatoon wins the award for being the pretty city. It has class, with natural and historic features. It is a city of progressive thinkers who promote the arts and education.

Denis’s appreciation of academics fit it well, so he adopted Saskatoon as his new home. He settled into a respectable routine. He relaxed and felt more secure about his future. Every so often, he was shuffled between group homes, which meant more adjusting and adapting. He resolved to make the transitions, and for the most part, things worked out for him.

One of his new homes, however, was less than suitable. The group home was managed by some rather exuberant evangelical Christians. They provided all the necessities, but their focus extended beyond serving the basic needs of the unfortunate. Their mission was to win souls to the Lord.

Perhaps Denis proclaiming to be the Antichrist didn’t go over so well, or maybe his standard of reverence didn’t meet their satisfaction. Whatever the cause, one wintery day in November 1980, they abruptly evicted Denis, turning him out on the street.

He wasn’t alarmed he’d been kicked out. Denis took the abuse as if it were a regular occurrence. The street was no stranger to him, though he preferred not sleeping on park benches or taking up residence in cardboard condos. He used his cunning to work out a survival plan.

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Brother BrokenRodeo fun...Dad took us to the Hub Café fo...

 

Brother Broken

Rodeo fun...

Dad took us to the Hub Café for lunch. We ordered cheeseburgers and Vi-Co. We feasted. Our booth had a tabletop jukebox. None of us knew how to operate it other than to turn the knob to flip the playlist. So we ate without dinner music. Besides, we didn’t have supplementary cash to feed it.

“Dad? Can I have a nickel for the jukebox?”

“No.” He reached into his pocket and handed over some coins. “Go to Madill’s and buy smokes.”

Madill’s was a drugstore with a massive selection of goods to buy. It was a great place to get cigarettes while waiting in line to purchase cough medicine. At that time, you didn’t have to be of age to buy cigarettes, and no one ever questioned why an eight-year-old needed smokes.

After lunch, we went to the Stampede Grounds and watched the rodeo action. It was wild. I particularly liked the barrel racing, because the riders were girls, like me. But after a while, we became bored. Dad took us to the midway, bought some ride tickets, and put us on the Ferris wheel. John, Mitch and I shared a ride. It was the freakiest thing we had experienced up to that time.

Mr. T bought us cotton candy, and we scarfed it down. After a ride on the Tilt-a-Whirl, we packed into Mr. T’s car to go home. Between the Tilt-a-Whirl ride, the cotton candy, and riding in the back seat, I started to feel sick.

“I’m not feeling so good.”

I might have spoiled the perfect day when I upchucked cotton candy in Mr. T’s car. Good thing upchucking wasn’t a collective undertaking for John, Mitch, and me. I was alone on that one. Mr. T never offered to take us anywhere after that.

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Brother BrokenThe games we play...We waited for Denis at...

 

Brother Broken

The games we play...

We waited for Denis at the bus stop. Sometimes he brought a package along, and he carried it under one arm, protected. The package usually contained a board game.

He was tester for a company that marketed new products. He volunteered to test their goods, and they provided him board games to evaluate. He never arrived with games for little kids—only ones that were more complex. I don’t think the company paid him other than with free merchandise.

He’d barely have settled in at home before we’d be pestering him to set up the board. We were a good test market for the game. Denis gave us a spiel about the object of play, which we listened to with feigned attention. Some games didn’t yet have written instructions. We weren’t too concerned with that, because we preferred making up our own rules anyway.

It didn’t take much coaxing to bring out the challenger in us. Dad built things for us and taught us how to construct things for ourselves—things like slingshots. We engineered them from tree branches, and our designs kept improving. We put our finished handiwork to the test and spent hours target practising, knocking off numerous tin cans, vying to outdo one another.

The bigger the dare, the more determined we were to meet the challenge—with certain exceptions, one of which was hockey against bruiser chicks built like brick-houses—something I was not particularly into. But if the same bruiser chicks challenged my team to a game of softball—which meant they had to rely on skill and hard work instead of roughing me up—I was good with it.

Sports, board games, and card games were irresistible. We played them all with an intensity that rivalled Canada Cup hockey. The kitchen table became one of our playing fields. We were focused, and intent on applying bold strategy to the new game Denis had brought. Each player sought the upper hand, and adjusted his game plan accordingly. We tweaked rules for the sake of good competition.

“That doesn’t make sense. You should lose a turn when you get to that square—otherwise, what’s the point of it being there?”

“That’s for sure. And not only that—you should have to give up a card.”

Play stalled when opinions differed on how and when a rule should apply. We discussed each issue at length, and somehow the time spent playing always came up short of the time spent deciding on what was fair. We were OK with that, and Denis went back to North Battleford with plenty of feedback for the game planners.

On these rare occasions, Denis kicked his illness to the curb for a while and was finally able to join the party. The silliness and punchlines weren’t lost on him. He’d catch onto a joke and rock back in his chair, turning his face skyward like a wolf pup howling laughter at the moon. His thick, tangled mane added to the werewolf quality of his mirth. It felt good to exist with him. We could have stayed with Denis in this uncomplicated realm for as long as his illness allowed. But these periods of mental stability, we learned, were sporadic.

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Brother BrokenThe Duck Hunter...Autumn descends on Saska...

 

Brother Broken

The Duck Hunter...

Autumn descends on Saskatchewan with stealth and intent, encroaching on the prairie, leaving traces of colour. Beneath a cerulean dome, golden landscapes are dappled with orange and burgundy. A cool crispness emerges, like an itch that worsens with each passing day. Dropping temperatures quicken as time launches toward the season of frostbite, spurring a fundamental drive to prepare for winter.

Massive flocks of migratory birds obey an instinct to fly south. They converge on the skyline as the sun emanates the first and last rays of daylight. Feathered creatures descend in near silence. The faint whisper of wings fluttering announces the arrival. The birds navigate clumsy landings on a pond as their tail feathers skim across water, cutting a tiny wake.

In sharp contrast, their departure is a spectacular display. The push and rush of an aerial stampede becomes a moment worthy of the wait. Throngs of game complete the annual journey across the continent, and hunters lay low in the reeds to catch them in their gunsights.

Duck hunting was for John an escape to a quieter place, where things made more sense. He could contemplate life and find solace while lurking among the cattails and bulrushes, waiting for a cue from above. He fit in this space, inside a realm of contentment. Gone were the cravings for libations, even if only temporarily. At the end of a hunting session, he embarked on his own migration, back to the world of people.

John didn’t use specialized hunting gear. He pursued his craft with an old shotgun, shells, and grit, and he seldom arrived home skunked. My family anticipated the return of the duck hunter, his easy smile and stride announcing a good hunt. He carried home a string of dead birds tied together with rope. The birds dangled, slung from his shoulder, as he walked.

He dropped his kill to the ground and retrieved a razor-sharp hunting knife from its sheath. His skilled hands removed the choicest portions of the bird and presented them, ready for the roaster. Mom prepared a wild duck feast that satisfied cravings we didn’t even know we had.

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Brother BrokenAbout being a big sister...Mud was a good ...

 

Brother Broken

About being a big sister...

Mud was a good medium for me to practise my craft at being the older sibling. It was easy to find and free to use, so I lured my two-year-old brother to a proper mudhole. It was shallow, so as to not pose a drowning risk, yet wide enough to provide adequate working space. It was also located in a spot not obvious to snooping eyes.

I sank my hands deep into the muck. I didn’t need to prod Mitch to do the same. I told him, “We’re makin’ cakes.”

I pulled out a handful of gunk and mixed in some dry dirt. I showed Mitch how to mould a cake and smooth it round to make it look like the buns Mom formed from bread dough. I busied myself with crafting a row of them.

Mitch used his own technique. I grew frustrated, antsy at his attempts. He wouldn’t pay attention to my method. I couldn’t seem to explain to him how to get the consistency right. He squeezed the muck through his little fingers, having fun instead of working at it. His creations looked more like lumpy dog turds than cakes. At least he was old enough to know not to eat them.

It didn’t look as though Mitch planned to contribute to the stockpile, so I gave up the push. He tested the limit of my patience when he came after my stash, probably fixing to mash up the perfect sculptures I had formed.

We were too occupied with our task to notice Mom watching us. We had mud up to our armpits, and crud grimed into our clothes and hair. Mitch saw her first. He cracked a warm, toothy smile. She softened at his mirth. She motioned for him to come with her, so he scrambled to his feet and scudded after her like a fish caught on a hook. My words didn’t come out fast enough. I wanted to say, “What the hey? Where you going? We’re not done here! Come back!”

But it was too late to voice objections. He’d abandoned me. I’d lost him to her charm. Even so, I stood firm, refusing to be lured away from my task. It was bigger than the two of us. I was practising leadership. I did what any good leader would do—I resisted, and I expected him to follow my lead.

He didn’t.

I watched him wander off, trailing his backside after Mom.

The little traitor.

I knew one thing for sure, he wouldn’t be following in my footsteps. He marched to his own damn drumbeat, and it rarely kept tempo with mine. My days of perceived influence were over before they had even begun.

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Brother BrokenMeet Denis...Denis was three persons in on...

 

Brother Broken

Meet Denis...

Denis was three persons in one—a trinity. There was the Denis before the accident, the Denis after the accident, and the Denis after the onset of his illness. Each had his own distinct personality. About the only things the three had in common were his body, soul, and remarkable intelligence.

I don’t have an accurate recollection of Denis, or what he was like before the accident. He was almost seven years older, and I was four when the accident happened. He was a free spirit, full of confidence, and not afraid to try new things. I doubt he had much interest in spending time with his younger siblings.

He had expressive eyebrows, a sweet smile, and remarkable eyes, framed by long lashes. He had the look of a choirboy—innocent and angelic. My older siblings revealed he was more like a character from the old sitcom The Little Rascals. His fiery spunk likely contributed to the injury that knocked him down. He was wrestling with some boys in the backyard, fell, struck his head on a rock, and nothing was ever the same.

Normally a fall or a scrape from messing around would call for a cold cloth, a hard rub, or a swipe of Mercurochrome. My brothers and I were always tending minor wounds due to gutsy exploits. We got goose-egg lumps from rock fights; we punctured our feet on rusty nails from running barefoot through junkyards. I had a tooth knocked out playing road hockey. These bumps and cuts warranted basic attention, without cause for concern—unlike the injury Denis acquired.

Denis around 1961
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Brother BrokenHere's Johnny! ... this goes waayyyy back,...

 

Brother Broken

Here's Johnny! ... this goes waayyyy back, like 1963...

I wasn’t allowed to follow John the day he started school. I wanted to go with him, but Mom held me back. I had a difficult time being left behind. Going to school was hard for John, too.

The school was run by nuns, even though it was a public school. The nuns taught Grades 1 through 12, and attendance peaked at about 120 students. Most students were bussed in from the country, which meant John met new kids.

School administrators had an ass-backwards way of staffing teachers. Grade 1 students should have a kid-friendly teacher, but that was not the way schools operated in Northern Saskatchewan. Perhaps it was done on purpose, to have the strictest nun initiate the new students—a sure-fire way to pre-establish order in the school room.

John told me a bit about his first day of school. It sounded like he approached the classroom and lingered in the doorway. The teacher nun was waiting inside to greet all the new kids. She told John where to go sit, but he wasn’t ready to sit down. He wandered the classroom curious to investigate his new surroundings. The nun narrowed her eyes and spoke to him sternly: “Sit down.”

The teacher wore the nun’s official black habit, which gave her stunted frame the illusion of magnitude. Her skirts were starched stiff. They rustled and crinkled as she walked, betraying her sneaking-up game. A polished silver cross hung from a braided cord around her neck. The cross radiated where the sun’s rays caught the metal, and it looked like lasers were shooting out of her chest. The white hood of her veiled headpiece fit snug against her wrinkly little face, making it hard to determine if she had any hair. She used her put-down eyes to compel obedience from her students. Her manner was not tender, which bolstered her reputation as a hard-ass teacher.

On another day, John explained how he got into trouble without even trying.

“Monsieur Jean Luc,” she chided him, “do you have ants in your pants?”

A commotion outside the classroom had drawn John’s attention. He heard the sound of laughter and a ball bouncing down the hallway. Students were going outside to play soccer, and he fidgeted in his seat, resisting the urge to join them. The nun realized he was focused on the door instead of on the lesson. She said to him, “Maybe you would like to spend some of that energy cleaning chalkboards during recess.”

John said she had to have been in a good mood that day for her to be so lenient. When it came to discipline, cleaning chalkboards was the equivalent of scoring A on a spelling test. Unfortunately for John, the usual penance was a yardstick to the backside or a leather strap across the wrist.

John around 1988
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