to danceink.urjschool.ca/wp-content/uploads/2006/06/crow2006.pdf · the crow spring 2006 3...

06A MAGAZINE FOR SASKATCHEWAN AND BEYOND

U N I V E R S I T Y O F R E G I N A ■ S C H O O L O F J O U R N A L I S M ■ S P R I N G 2 0 0 6

To DanceWhat price beauty?

The WindowWhen psychiatry and art collide

Canadian, TiredLow-wage world of the megastore

Burnin’ Rink O’ FireA small town rebuilds

THE CROW ■ SPRING 20062 University of Regina School of Journalism ■ www.uregina.ca/journal ■ 306.585.4420

QUESTIONAUTHORITY

Study journalismat the University of Regina.

Our school is dedicated to teaching journalism as a critical practice

that enhances the power of public discourse.

PHOTO BY PAMELA CRADOCK

THE CROW ■ SPRING 2006 3

University of Regina, School of Journalism, Spring 2006

The Crow is a publication of the School ofJournalism, Faculty of Arts.

Editor: Prof. Patricia W. Elliott

Editorial board:Prof. Patricia BellTamara CherryJamie KormarnickiKatie MurphyChristopher Zwick

Photo editors:Lab Instructor Robin LawlessStephane BonnevilleJolie ToewsTrent Warner

Research:Jason AntonioBrad Brown

Design consultants:Ken GousseauDaniel JungwirthErin Morrison

Distribution:Kacie AndrewsDonna Rae Munroe

School of JournalismAdHum 105University of Regina3737 Wascana ParkwayRegina, Saskatchewan S4S 0A2

Phone: 306.585.4420Fax: 306.585.4867Web Page: www.uregina.ca/journal

Vol. 1 Issue 5

ISSN 1708-1629

Design & Layout: LM Publication Services Ltd.Printing: PrintWest, Regina

Cover Photo: Passers-by shimmer in the heat ofRegina’s Fire and Ice Carnival. Ryan Ellis

Contents4 Editorial

by Patricia W. Elliott, Editor

6 After the Gulagby Carle Steel

7 I breathe inby Nikhat Ahmed

8 Empire, Hotel of Friendlinessby Michael Bell

15 Valley of Tearsby Tamara Cherry

16 The Prospectorby Trent Warner

20 La differenceby Stephane Bonneville

22 Out from the Shadowsby Jolie Toews

25 To Danceby Erin Morrison

30 Burnin’ Rink o’ Fireby Brad Brown

31 Browsers and Huntersby Jamie Komarnicki

35 The Windowby Christopher Zwick

41 Without Himby Katie Murphy

44 Tanks for Playingby Jason Antonio

48 Dark Hair … Brown Eyesby Donna-Rae Munroe

52 When Good Fans Go Badby Daniel Jungwirth

58 Canadian, Tiredby Ken Gousseau

60 Seeking the Lightby Kacie Andrews

THE CROW ■ SPRING 20064

WELCOMEWelcome to The Crow/2006 Patricia W. Elliott, Editor

Facts are scattershot, truth is an arrowIn the 1950s, Sri Lankan journalist Tarzie Vittachi set

out to practice a kind of journalism that transcendedmere reportage. Before committing ink to paper, he firststepped back and considered his universe. His criticaleye took in the lingering influence of colonial vestiges, aswell as the foibles of his own compatriots.

When he finally hunched over his typewriter, hisreports unfurled as more than quotes and facts strungtogether to fill a specified number of column inches. Hewrote stories that sought the truth of things andcontributed to social change. He challenged and changedthe dominant view of the developing world and sagelyconcluded: “Information without transformation is justgossip.”

In today’s information and image-saturated world,these words remain a fine benchmark for emergingjournalists. We are surrounded by gossip, noise,sensation and data devoid of context. More than ever, weneed to explore the truth of things.

At the School of Journalism, we believe the journalist’smost essential tool is the long, thoughtful pause. We alsoencourage students to turn their gaze toward their imme-diate surroundings. Odds are the person standing rightnext to them has a story more than equal in relevance

and transformative power to anything occupying today’sfront pages. As Vittachi and so many other great journa-lists have discovered, the stories of greatest impact lieclose to hand.

If transformation is the benchmark, this year’s Crowline-up should serve you well. You’ll never admire aballerina’s grace with the same eyes. Nor will you lookat depression the same way, or art. A news report on amissing woman will take on new meaning. A rundownhotel will seem less threatening, a small town hockeyrink more vital to the grand scheme of life. The madnessof the crowd will gain context. Age and grief will becomemore familiar friends. Winning will lose importance,and store clerks will annoy you less. You will see land-scapes through the eyes of others, and appreciate thingsyou missed. And, trust me, you’ll never, ever say “justbrowsing” again, without pausing first to reflect on youraimless, thoughtless ways.

Sounds mysterious? It’s not, really. The storyteller’stask remains the same through the centuries: absorbhuman experience and give it voice. Crafting a story toreveal its higher meaning is the difference betweenscattershot and honed arrows, between gossip andjournalism. Read on, and prepare to be changed.


PHO

TO B

Y A

NG

ELA

HIL

L

Tattoo


GULAGW hen I worked there in the late Nineties,

Regina’s T.C. Douglas building housed anodd grouping of government and arts insti-

tutions, including the Department of Health, Commu-nicable Diseases, the MacKenzie Art Gallery, VitalStatistics and the Saskatchewan Arts Board. Except forthe bronze cows on the lawn, it looked like any othergovernment building, hidden from view by trees. Seenfrom the back, it sat like an abandoned spaceship in aclearing, partly because of its architecture, but alsobecause no one ever seemed to use the lawn.

Inside, though, the building teemed with life. Thelight from the plate glass roof encouraged the growth ofthe giant philodendrons, birds of paradise, calla lilliesand Norfolk Island pine trees below. Presumably forexercise, women who worked for the Department ofHealth, all decked out in business costumes and runningshoes, stomped in circles around the lobby, or in com-pulsive figure eights through the plants. Herds ofschool children were bused in to see the exhibits at theMacKenzie Art Gallery, or to trace with crayons thefossils embedded in the stone walls, or to play among theconcrete human statues in the lobby. Their keeperswould gather the children at the mouth of the building.When I went up to my office on the top floor, they wouldstand incredulous as I was whisked up to the ceiling inthe glass elevators, as if abducted by aliens.

To many of my friends, I had been. I worked at theSaskatchewan Arts Board. When I arrived there in 1998,the Arts Board was nearly fifty years old, and feeling itsage. All its parts seemed to be ailing. It was exhaustedand starving from years of underfunding by anunsupportive government, and suffered from internalblockages like union rules, a complex bureaucracy and ahalf-century of unpurged files. Staff members werebarely on speaking terms, and the arts community was ina constant, angry huff. Occasionally the Arts Boardcouldn’t resist snapping at the hand that fed it, whichmade everything even worse.

The space we worked in was beautiful though, withwindows on the northeast side of the building’s can-tilevered Tyndall stone façade, facing Albert Street andoverlooking the bronze cows. Its walls provided an

elegant backdrop to the Board’s display of works from itspermanent collection of Saskatchewan art. Though wehad just one plant (which died under my watch) andonly the occasional child visitor, the fauna in our part ofthe building was just as strange and irrepressible as theplants in the lobby. Each spring, hundreds of plumpblack flies would emerge from beneath the window ofthe Executive Director’s office and begin their long walkdown the hallway. No one knew where they came fromor why they couldn’t fly. Other than the giant moths Iused to capture and set free, the only creature I sawactually fly had beautiful striped wings. It perched for amoment on my desk like a fairy, looked at me, and flewaway. Sow bugs paced the hallways with their manylegs, seemingly unbothered by the brightness of ouroffice and its lack of water. The colour of the spiders wasa soft, filing-cabinet gray.

The basement too had its own life forms. Employeesin the building, mostly from the Department of Health,huddled in a corner of the parkade to smoke. Their areawas corralled off by discarded cubicle dividers, andfurnished with milk crates, broken government-issueexecutive chairs and tomato juice cans for ashtrays. Thebasement people would glance up when newcomersentered their nest, casually, like rats feeding, then turnback to their chit-chat and the hand to mouth business ofsmoking and drinking coffee.

I preferred to smoke outside.From the back of the TC Douglas building, the world

seemed empty, devoid of human habitation. I sat aloneon the steps, smoking, tracing my fingers around the pat-terns of the snails and algae and other strange creaturesfossilized in the Tyndall stone. I contemplated the ex-panse of lawn, the moonscape of winter.

During these brief escapes from the gulag of my job, Ithought about art and culture, about how if left on theirown, all human institutions — cities, universities, gov-ernments, even art forms and intellectual movements —evolve into organisms in their own right. They are likeanimals, with their predictable behaviours, their vulner-able bellies and complex internal structures, their mys-terious ways of propagating themselves. Cities bloom onthe edges of land, beautiful as coral as they trail along the

After the Gulag Carle Steel


ARTIS

LONG.

coastline, then invade the interior bywater, like zebra mussels or blue-green algea. As anyone who hasseen the infection of human habi-tation from an airplane can attest,however strange the world musthave been in prehistoric times, itdidn’t have a patch on the present.

Inevitably, I would begin toimagine the earth without us.

I fantasized about what thebuilding would look like after threehundred years of abandonment. Iimagined the plants overgrown,hitting the ceiling, bursting through the windows. In mymind’s eye, the whole structure became a shelter forcows, the descendants of those few who were smartenough to escape the feedlots when the meals stoppedcoming. In the spring, they bedded down in the offices ofVital Statistics, and had their own babies among therecords of our passing. The statues and plaques becamerubbing posts, something to lean on as they stoodruminating beneath the shelter of the remaining roof,contemplating the rain.

My smoking time became a kind of worship, a prayerfor the earth, for the end of human occupation of the land.

Looking back now on how I imagined things, it strikesme funny that I thought only of cows, not the rabbits andgophers and deer that I knew would thrive after we weregone. Perhaps the whole thing was born of ancestral guiltover the Indians and the buffalo. Or maybe, like anyother dissatisfied government worker, I simply couldn’tsee past my own office building.

Life is short, art is long.For me, art was getting very long. The quiet of the

office had been broken by new management. For me theonly thing the Arts Board had going for it at that pointwas the feeling that, if the ship were sinking, at least wewere all in it together. Even that was gone now. The ArtsBoard decided to move. I applied for a leave of absenceto write. Packing up my life there mirrored the packingup of the office, the detritus of failure. I knew I wasn’tcoming back, everyone did.

I didn’t write, of course, that wasjust a cover. I took my work in thearts home, where I worked indepen-dently towards the creation of a per-manent endowment for the arts, aproject abandoned by Arts Boardwhen the new director took over.

Home is another architecturaloddity, a modernist work of art bythe architect and innovator CliffordWiens, and another building thatwill continue to flourish when ourtime has passed. My home, too, ison Albert Street, set back from the

street and nearly unnoticeable. Made entirely of steel andconcrete, a spine of pipes suspends the rolled culvert ofthe roof. Forty years of city dust have provided nutrientsfor the thistles, foxtails and saplings that have taken rootin the upturned curve of its roof. I suppose if our endcame, the roof would last at least until the rust claimed it.In the meantime, it gives shelter to pigeons and othersmall creatures that nest among its pipes.

I don’t smoke anymore. I think less often about theend of the world — maybe it was just the governmentjob. Still, I am comforted by the thought that a new worldis just itching to take over from the one I know we’llsomeday leave behind.

Some days I stay in bed, staring at the round belly ofthe ceiling, listening to the sound of the tiny feet of theanimals fooling around on the roof, calling to each other,knocking debris off the pipes and down the building’sslopes. Their sounds are mysterious, playful, amplifiedby the metal of the roof. I can’t imagine what they are upto, and have resisted the urge to go up there and look.I am untroubled by my compulsion to ensure the futureof the arts, at the same time that I pray fervently for itsdemise: if humans didn’t have that weird capacity tobelieve two things at once, there wouldn’t be any art inthe first place. At night I sleep knowing that the alleybehind my building becomes magic with urban hares.Above me, the row of poplar trees on my roof hasreached ten feet tall.

LIFEIS

SHORT.

I breathe in this one momentThis very first moment of sweet serenityThere has never been a timesuch as thisI open my eyes to greet the beginning of

another dayAnd the endless sky above me becomes onewith the crashing tide.I bow before these watersLetting ashes of the past slip through my

fingers and sink down to an infinite voidMy soul engulfs this new stillnessand I kneeltearing the fears from my heartThe breeze is mercifulIts sympathy carries everything awayNow stripped of the worldHere I amWithout any hesitationAt the edge of my consciousnessIn this one timeThis very first moment

— Nikhat Ahmed


Empire, HotelYou’d think being

Regina’s oldest

continually

operating hotel

would garner

some respect.

Instead, the

Queen City treats

the Empire like

an embarrassing

family secret.

Michael Bell

takes a closer look.

surprises me, as I sit herein room 126, how quicklyI’m getting to know theEmpire Hotel. When

others found out about my interest inthe place, especially folks fromRegina, they cautioned me to becareful. That’s a good place to gethurt, they warned. Or beaten. Orshot. I took these cautions lightly,even arrogantly. I’d just come backfrom two years living in Colombia,and no wimpy hotel from Reginawas going to scare me. So on a coolSeptember evening I decided to walkdown to Saskatchewan Drive andMcIntyre Street, order a beer fromthe bar, and see if I’d meet anyonewith a story to tell.

The bar, it turns out, was closed,or so a man sitting on the Empire’ssteps informed me. I noticed he had

Itan open case of Pilsner beer besidehim, but wasn’t drinking any of it.When I sat down he offered me abottle, which I accepted and opened,and we started to chat. Beside theentrance, a woman sat shyly on abench. The two didn’t seem to knowone another.

In a few minutes, another manstumbled around the corner, walkedstraight up to me and said: “You’reflirting with my woman.” I smiledwarmly, surprised at his drunkenaccusation. I was just sitting, I said. Itwas true: I hadn’t even said hello toher. This seemed to satisfy him. So hetried to sell me some pirated com-pact discs. I looked them over, butnone of them interested me and Itold him so.

He then very abruptly put his footup on the step between my feet. I felt


of Friendliness

alarmed at this sudden invasion ofmy personal space. Slowly pullingup his pant leg, he told me I wasn’ttaking him very seriously, and if Iwanted, he would show me howserious this could get. His handreached toward his sock cuff.

My sense of survival took overand screamed what I needed to do:appease the Alpha Male!

“Whoa!” I said, putting my handsup and waving them submissively. Iwas indeed taking him very seriously,I was just sitting here drinking a beer,and that I wasn’t looking for anytrouble. The woman tried to shoutsome sense into him too. Case-of-Pilsner-Man just sat, looking on.

Suddenly, like a scene from a play,yet another man burst on to thealready crowded stage, shoutingobscenities.

“Get the fuck out of here, or I’llcall the cops on you fuckers!”

It was the night manager of theEmpire. Later I found out his namewas Ernie, and that he’d worked atthe Empire for the last nineteenyears. But tonight he was just anemployee chasing away the riff-raff.He stormed up the steps, cursing uswith practiced ease and disappearedinside, presumably to make goodon his threat. Alpha Male and “hiswoman” got on their bikes and rodeaway. Pilsner just sat there, smiling.

And that was it. I finished mybeer, thanked him and, tremblingslightly from the adrenaline high,walked home.

That’s why I’m surprised to findmyself, three months later, staying inroom 126 in the Empire Hotel.

About every seven years, some-thing happens in or near the Empire.It usually sounds bad and it usuallysounds like it’s the hotel’s fault.

In February 1990, Kenneth Piperwas working as a bouncer at theEmpire’s bar when a man pulleda loaded rifle out of his coat andbegan pointing it around the room.Piper tackled the gunman and noone got hurt. Piper was named ahero and awarded the SaskatchewanCertificate of Commendation. TheEmpire was named a villain and wasawarded a lot of bad press.

In February 1997, the followingheadline appeared: “Empire backsdown on stripper plan.” The ReginaLeader-Post reported the Empire’sowner, Larry Krulak, was consid-ering bringing strippers into thebar, after the province eased a law

PHO

TOS

BY

MIC

HA

EL B

ELL

He walked

straight up to me

and said:

“You’re flirting

with

my woman.”


banning liquor and exotic dancing inthe same room. Later Krulak had toback-pedal on the plan because thepossibility of violating a Regina citybylaw was still too high. Whether ornot other city bars considered bring-ing in strippers, it was the Empirethat wore the public shame.

In July 2004, Moses Alli, a promis-ing Saskatchewan boxer, was beatenin the parking lot of the Empire’soff-sale beer store. The Leader-Postreported his injuries ended hisboxing career. Then in 2005, Alli suedthe Empire, alleging that the ownerwas negligent and responsible for

the incident. Once again, the Empiresuffered a beating.

And that’s just the press from thelast fifteen years.

There’s a rumour: Jason Plumbused to live in the Empire Hotel.Plumb, now a solo musician, was thelead singer of the Regina-based bandThe Waltons. He wrote the songs onthe group’s 1998 album Empire Hotel.He tells me over the phone the story

is half true: in the winter of 1997-1998 he rented a room for a fewmonths and used it as a work space,a place to escape the daily distrac-tions of home life and focus on hissongwriting. Most times he’d gohome after a day’s writing, althoughhe admits there were a few nightsafter being in the bar that he stayedthe night in his room.

“I was drawn to the fact that itwas a central hotel, and that it wasold, (and) I could come and go andno one would give a shit.”

His friends and family questionedhis decision to work out of the

Empire. Plumb says they didn’tthink the idea of writing songs in ahotel room was strange, but theythought there were “better” places towork.

“But better in what way? I justneeded a room with a window tolook out of and an ashtray so I couldget my work done. That’s all I reallywanted. There is this preconceivednotion of what that place is all about.Yet I don’t know anybody who’s

ever gone in there … to hang out atthe Empire.”

According to Plumb, “It’s more ahotel of permanent residents, oldergentlemen mostly, who get up in themorning and go down and havetheir beer at noon, and that’s theirhome. It’s kind of an old-age homefor guys that don’t want to go to old-age homes. Guys without families,who have fallen hard on their times.”

As far as danger goes, he neverhad any trouble. In fact, Plumbthinks the Empire’s character is morelike “an old and weathered street-wise person that’s seen a lot.”

“If buildings could accumulate allof their experiences into knowledge,I think that that building has a realwealth of experience in there.” I canhear the respect in his voice as hesays this.

The Empire Hotel was con-structed in 1912. One might thinkthis alone would garner respect. Yetif official historical records are anymeasure, the Queen City has treatedthe Empire like a shamed relative oran embarrassing family secret. ARegina heritage book, Cornerstones,features beautifully rendered illus-trations of the Wascana, the Clayton,the Alexandra, King’s, Champ’s andof course the high and mighty HotelSaskatchewan. Yet the Empire doesnot appear, despite 1940s Empireletterhead that reveals a hotel ofequal relevance, beauty and design.It even had a distinctive cornerentrance that none of those otherhotels possessed. Also forgotten isthe hotel’s distinctive Forties slogan:“Empire: The Hotel of Friendliness.”

In the early Eighties, HeritageRegina produced walking tourpamphlets, with maps showingwhere to see historical buildings. TheEmpire does not appear on the bro-chure’s suggested downtown tour.

PHO

TO B

Y M

ICH

AEL

BEL

L

“I just needed a room with a windowto look out of and an ashtray.”


PHO

TO B

Y M

ICH

AEL

BEL

L

Only a 1995 heritage book austerelyreports: “This is the oldest contin-uously operating hotel in Regina. Itwas built in 1912 for proprietorsSamuel and Albert Cook, at an esti-mated cost of $20,000.”

In ninety-four years, the Empire’shad just four owners. Albert G. Cookwas the first owner until 1935, whenhe sold it to Stanley Kraft. Kraft soldit to Lloyd Minovitch in 1949. LarryKrulak bought it from Minovitch in1986.

“Well, if you’re thinking of print-ing up a bunch of dirt on us, thenyou can go find yourself anotherstory,” Krulak tells me over thephone.

Given the bad press the hotel hasreceived since Krulak took over, it’snot surprising he’s defensive. Iassure him I’m digging for history,not dirt, and he agrees to meet.

Krulak says that back in Mino-vitch’s time, the bar’s regulars weremainly blue collar workers from thepost office and Silverwood’s DairyCreamery across the street. Silver-wood’s closed in 1975 and, accordingto Krulak, the clientele of the barbegan to change for the worse. Bythe time he took over in ’86, the barhad been overrun by drug-dealersand criminals, and the reputation ofthe hotel was in bad shape.

Over the years, Krulak hascleaned the place up and tried to re-establish a regular group of patrons.But despite his efforts, every once ina while something will happen in theoff-sale parking lot that reinforcesthe negative view Regina residentshave of the Empire, even thoughmost people haven’t even been in-side or know anything about it. Theysee it as dirty and dangerous, yet hekeeps it clean and well ordered.

“My bar is dead. It’s been like thisfor six or seven years. It’s not thebad-ass place people think,” he says,

showing me the tavern on a Wednes-day night. I see about six patronsquietly chatting and sipping beer in avast tavern that could easily seattwenty times that. Soothing bluestunes fill the air.

“It’s always like this,” he sighs.

If Ernie remembers me from theSeptember night he chased me offthe Empire’s steps, he doesn’t let on.I pay twenty five-dollars; he givesme the key and says sternly: “Up thestairs, on the left. Bathrooms at theend of the hall. No parties, and thebar is already closed for the night.No visitors after nine. If you go out,you have to leave the key at thedesk.”

Room 126 is simple: one singlebed, a small chair, a radiator, a sink,a trash can, a dresser, a night stand,a coat rack, a tiny hotel soap bar,a drinking glass, two clean whitetowels and a window. I lie down on126’s aged brown carpet and withoutstretching I can touch one wall withmy feet and the other with my

hands. The window faces McIntyreStreet. I can see the railway tracksto the north and when a train creepsup the track, the floor rumblesslightly. Once in a while, I hear some-one shuffle down the hall, or hearthe murmur of a brief conversationthrough the walls.

Down the hall I find, literally, abathroom: a room with a big bathtuband a sink. The next two doors downare the men and women’s toilets.Everything is clean, just as Krulaksaid.

The hallway is totally quiet as Iwalk back to my room.

The Empire Hotel is to Reginawhat a convicted person is to a com-munity: suspicious, despite efforts atreform. Since few community mem-bers know the convicted person,most everyone believes the gossipabout them. And if something badhappens near the convicted person,they are guilty by proximity. TheEmpire has fallen: “The Hotel ofFriendliness” is today a pariah.

“It’s not the bad-ass place people think.”


PHO

TO B

Y L

IND

SAY

JEA

NPH

OTO

BY

JO

LIE

TOEW

S

Flying

Aftermath


PHO

TO B

Y R

YA

N E

LLIS

PHO

TO B

Y D

ON

NA

RA

E M

UN

RO

E

Recruit

Vacation, for some


PHO

TO B

Y E

RIN

BR

OW

N

PHO

TO B

Y L

IND

SAY

JEA

N

PHO

TO B

Y J

OLI

E TO

EWS

Emergency Drag King

Forgetting


TEARSValley of Tears Tamara Cherry

It’s rainy season in Israel. I find myself atop Mt. Bentalin the northern Golan Heights, four thousand feetabove sea level. My hood is up and I stand in front of

my sister’s camera, striking a world-is-my-oyster pose,fist tucked under chin, hand triumphantly on hip. Thecamera clicks as I gaze over the steep ridge.

From my perch in northeastern Israel, my eyes drinkin a panoramic view of Lebanon to the left and Syriastraight ahead. There are dozens of tourists around me,but the brisk air is calming. I want to sigh; instead, alump forms in my throat. I turn around and am re-minded of where I am.

I hop over a shallow dugout and find my grouplistening to our tour guide, twenty-six-year-old NogaHoening. One of Israel’s toughest wars was fought here,she says. I know she’s referring to the Yom Kippur War ofOctober 1973 — but could that peaceful-looking gap ofland between Syria and the Golan border, the view I’dnearly sighed over moments ago, really be the infamousValley of Tears?

The peace I felt earlier fades as I take another lookaround the historic hilltop, which I now recognize as anabandoned Israeli bunker. Layers of barbed wire lie onthe ground, as if carelessly tossed aside after the battle;teenage tourists laugh as they swivel around in a rustingblockhouse, peering through the gun turret; under-ground, right below my feet, wind a series of claustro-phobic concrete tunnels lined with sandbags.

Just thirty-three years ago, Syria and Egypt crossedthe borders in a surprise attack on Israel. It was Octo-ber 6, the holiest day in the Jewish calendar, the day ofYom Kippur, 1973. They brought with them three divi-sions of over eight hundred tanks with artillery support;on the Golan Heights, about 180 Israeli tanks faced anonslaught of 1,400 Syrian tanks. Israel put on an impres-sive defense in the Valley of Tears, home to one of thebloodiest battles of the eighteen-day war. By October 24,Israel had lost 2,500 lives, less than a quarter of thedeaths suffered by their enemies. Years later, this battlerests proud in the hearts of many Israelis. Yet the lump inmy throat only grows.

Noga’s words trail off. The past couple of days haveseemed so beautiful, so happy until this point.

In the past forty-eight hours …I rediscovered familiarity in my guesthouse by the Sea

of Galilee, watching Hebrew-subtitled Sex and the Citywith my two Ontario roommates.

I’ve taken pictures of children with curly sidelocksplaying atop their school in the mystical city of Tzfat,only to find out later that their seemingly light-hearted,friendly shouts to us were in fact cries of: “Don’t take mypicture, stupid!”

I’ve passed a road sign to Nazareth while drivingthrough a village where Israeli flags drape over balconieslike drying laundry, and I’ve hiked through the unbeliev-ably picturesque Golan Heights, where clear streams andwaterfalls made it easy to forget the gunshot holes wesaw in old Syrian forts at the beginning of the hike.

But as my imagination blankets the tranquil, greenland around me with bloody remains and twisted shrap-nel, the feeling of looking death in the face puts a twiston my trip to Israel. Can I call this place beautiful?Against a backdrop of barbed wire and a Valley of Tears,it seems like an oxymoron.

Noga finishes speaking and I walk over to the block-house with my sister, Sarah, and friend, Ethan. Wecrouch inside, shoulder to shoulder. From outside, ourfriend Eva can only see our faces through a small squarewindow. As she prepares to take our picture, we makeguns with our fingers in front of our faces and I amovercome with the feeling that I am doing somethingI shouldn’t — like a little kid laughing at a funeral. I feeluncomfortable, crawl out of the blockhouse and walkthrough the trenches with Ethan and Sarah.

As I think about the bloodshed, the passion and, inturn, the incessant fight-for-the-map that brought warto where I am standing, I am suddenly reminded of whata friend told me after visiting Auschwitz in Germany:they take you on a tour through the empty camp andit doesn’t seem like much. Then they lead you into aroom and show you a video of what actually happenedthere.

PHOTO BY TAMARA CHERRY


THE

ProspectorEach game still gets theadrenalin rushing, like lacingup skates for the first time.Pro hockey has sustainedLorne Davis for sixty years.How could the NHL’s oldestscout ever give it up?

Trent Warner

half hour before a juniorhockey battle between the

Moose Jaw Warriors andPrince Albert Raiders, cars alreadylitter the Moose Jaw Civic Centre’sparking lot.

Inside, rusty lights dangle lowover a freshly cleaned ice surface.Ushers hurry to gather the last bit oftrash from the aisles as the first fansfile in.

A fatherly, grey-haired figuremoves through the turnstile. Circlingthe arena, Lorne Davis says hello tohis friends — ushers, concessionworkers, arena staff — he knowsmost by name. They ask him howhe’s been and how long he’ll be intown.

Davis meanders to a room belowthe stands, where a dozen men inbusiness suits stand in odd contrastto the peeling paint and decrepitbenches of the old dressing room. Hesits down at a table and says hello tohis friend Peter. Most of the faces inthe room are old, the faces of grand-pas who swap stories of their fami-lies, of the travel they’ve done —nothing out of the ordinary. But theirhands reveal more: a bulbous flashof diamonds, the encircling word‘Champions’ etched in gold. Youwonder, with so many rings in theroom, if thoughts wander to dayson the ice, holding the Stanley Cupoverhead in front of thousands ofscreaming fans.

Not likely.Tonight is about business. For

every player who leaves the game,someone else must replace him. Likehorse race handicappers, each manclutches tonight’s lineup sheet. Play-ers are divided first by line combina-tion, then by birthday. Those born in1988 are given special attention.They’re the youngest eligible for thisyear ’s NHL entry draft. Each manhas his own system. Scratches aredealt with first. A slash goes over thename of Raider’s scoring leader KyleChipchura, out with a shoulderinjury. It’s a moot point for the menin the room. He’s a 1986 birthday —already been drafted. Some make afew notes on paper; others stab at

A


BlackBerry keys. A man on the endhighlights players by order of impor-tance; another circles his targets.

Suddenly, a siren sounds. Themen glance at their watches, gathertheir papers and head upstairs. It’stime to go to work. From a perch inthe corner of the stands, Davis leansforward, a big smile drawn acrosshis face — he’s home.

This life began after a juniorhockey game in Regina, when a

scout from New York shook the handof a wide-eyed Saskatchewan boy.It was 1946. Lorne Davis, minorhockey prodigy, signed a contract fora hundred dollars. It wasn’t a lot ofmoney at the time, but it symbolizedmore. The man from New York hadbought the young boy’s life. Sixtyyears later, Davis is still in the game,the oldest scout in the league. Atseventy-five, retirement looms, buttonight he peers over the boards

with the same boyish wonder as thefirst day he laced his skates.

Skating the frozen sloughs ofLumsden in the Qu’Appelle Valley,Davis spent long hours playing pick-up games with friends. Organizedhockey came soon after in nearbyRegina. The game was primitiveback then. Outdoor rinks were thenorm and players wore toques andmitts under their hockey equipmentas protection against the harshprairie winters. Davis didn’t care. Hejust loved to play, and seemed tohave a knack for the game from thevery beginning. At fourteen, theyoung Regina Pat was alreadyattracting the attention of profes-sional scouts. It was an exciting time,fueled by dreams of skating along-side Doug Harvey and MauriceRichard. Two years later he signedhis first professional contract withthe New York Rangers.

Over the next fifteen years, Daviswould play for fifteen differentteams across eight different leagues.His career was a series of transac-tions: traded, then traded again. Theonly certainty was that he was goingto be on one of the forward lines.An occasional taste of success wasenough to keep him on the ice: a 1953Stanley Cup with the NHL’s Cana-diens, a 1958 Calder Cup with theAmerican League’s Hershey Bears.

With each trade Davis wouldsimply pack his bags and move on. Itdidn’t matter where. He just wantedto play. There were times when hewas moving so often, he didn’t evenhave time to find a place to livebefore starting with his new team. Inthe back of his mind, hope alwayslingered that he would stick with oneof the NHL clubs he frequented. Butwith only six teams in the league,spaces were tight.

Davis in 1966, wearing the captain’s C.PHO

TO B

Y L

EIF

ENG

BER

G


By the late 1950s, Davis had a wifeand two school-aged children to carefor. He took a job in Regina as a con-tractor’s superintendent and tried tomake hockey just a hobby. But when-ever winter rolled around, there wasalways a team out there that neededan experienced player. Finally in1966, while playing overseas for theCanadian Olympic team, the agingpro was offered a deal that wouldchange his life. The NHL had justundergone a six-team expansion,including a new team in St. Louis.Blues general manager Lynn Patrickand head coach Scotty Bowmanapproached Davis.

“How would you like to coach?”Bowman asked.

Coach? After spending a yearas an International Hockey Leagueplayer-coach in Muskegon, Michi-gan, Davis knew he was not a coach.

“I don’t think so,” he answered.“Then how would you like to

scout for us?”This time there was no hesitation:

“Yeah, I’d like that”His playing career over, Davis had

finally “stuck” in the NHL.In the first season with St. Louis,

he covered Canada coast to coast,watching countless junior games.The month-long road trips made himwonder if he’d made the right deci-sion. By the end of each trip his mindwas numb with names and statistics.But it got easier.

Scouting is about careful obser-vation. Fans watch games, scoutswatch players.

After the game, if a friend askedDavis who’d won, sometimes hedidn’t know — he was too busydoing his job. He would often seeglimpses of himself in the players hewatched. The way they acted, theyouthful vitality, there was some-thing about them that reminded himof the limitless hope and possibilityhe once possessed. And like a hockeydad, he found himself resting hisown dreams in the players hewatched. He wanted them to suc-ceed.

Twice a year, all the Blues scoutsgathered to create a draft list. In thestifling confines of a hotel conferenceroom, eight men would spend hours

“How’dyou like to

scout for us?”Bowman

asked.

mulling over the task of rankinghundreds of draft-eligible players.

There were times when Davisbroke up fights. In retrospect, thearguments seemed petty. One scoutwould say a player was a greatskater and another would say hewasn’t. Sometimes that’s all it took.Still, there was solidarity among thegroup — there had to be. If a majorpick didn’t work out, the wholescouting staff shared blame.

The Blues’ entry into the NHLwas rocky. After a few losing sea-sons, a new owner took over theteam and cleaned house. Davis wasout of a job. But, like he had alwaysdone, he simply moved on, first toNew York and then, in 1980, toEdmonton.

Led by a prodigy named WayneGretzky, the Oilers were a youthfulteam new to the NHL. Expectationswere high. By now Davis had devel-oped a rhythm. He no longer tooknotes at games. Afterwards, sittingdown to write his reports, a player’severy move unfolded in his mind.

Davis and a young Wayne Gretzky:like any hockey dad,

he wanted the kids to succeed. PHO

TO C

OU

RTE

SY O

F LO

RN

E D

AV

IS


He tiresa littlefaster

than heremembers.

There was a certain formula to find-ing a pro hockey player and Davisknew it well. First and foremost, hemust be an excellent skater — bothside-to-side and north and south.Skating is often the difference be-tween average and great. You can tellin his hips what kind of strider he is— short and choppy or long andpowerful. A player needs a sense ofthe game, too: where to be to findthe puck, and where to go when hedoesn’t have it. Then there’s char-acter. You tell a lot about a player byhow hard he skates to and from thebench.

Over the next five years Daviswould be responsible for draftingkey players, including a trio whowould become Hall-of-Famers: rightwinger Glen Anderson, goaltenderGrant Fuhr and defenseman Paul

Coffey. By 1984 the Oilers were apowerhouse. Davis watched fromthe stands as Gretzky accepted theStanley Cup at centre ice. Four morechampionships would come in the1980s, as the Oilers etched their placeas one of the greatest pro sportsdynasties. But Davis’ work was farfrom done.

More than twenty years on, he’sstill hanging over the boards, keep-ing an eye on future prospects for theOilers. Tonight, there won’t be muchto report. It was a slow game devoidof draft-quality talent. The fansare happy, though, when the finalbuzzer pegs a 4-1 victory for MooseJaw.

In his car in the Civic Centreparking lot, Davis tunes in the postgame show on the radio and chatswith fellow scout and travel com-

panion, Bryan Raymond. Travelgives a man a lot of time to think andget to know his colleagues.

Turning onto the highway, theopen road awaits as always. Still,a new reality is setting in. Truth betold, he can’t walk quite as quickly ashe used to and he tires a little fasterthan he remembers. The travel, too,the travel can be a killer. And yetevery time he contemplates steppingaway from the game, he’s drawnback in like an addict. For as long ashe can remember he’s lived at therink. His home is in Regina, but nothis life. When he wants to see hisfriends, he goes to the arena. In hisdarkest times hockey has been there,even in 1992 when he lost his wife tocancer. Davis took several months offto care for her at home until shepassed away. Then, to deal with hisgrief, he did the only thing he knewwould make him feel better — hewent on a road trip.

All it takes is a single step throughthe turnstile to set it off: a rush ofadrenalin that starts at the fingertipsand shoots through his body. It neverfails; it’s what sustains him. Howcould he ever give that up?

Davis, second from left,scouted some solid backupfor the Oilers’ superstar.PH

OTO

CO

UR

TESY

OF

LOR

NE

DA

VIS


La differenceInstrument cases rattle against

each other in the back of a van asit cruises down a Saskatchewan

highway. Outside, the July air isthick and oppressive; the windswirls dust through tangled weedsand fence posts along the roadside.As the tires skip across the pothole-scarred road, axles creak and there isa persistent crackling sound of grass-hoppers bouncing off the van’sexterior. Inside the vehicle it feelssweaty and hot despite narrow blastsof cold air hissing from the air condi-tioner. A singer on the radiodrifts in and out of the static.One of the passengers fid-dles with the dial. “C’estpas mieux,” his com-panions say. “It’s notany better.”

Their Frenchcarries an accentpeculiar to les

StephaneBonneville

Fransaskois, francophones who havebeen settled in Saskatchewan forover a hundred years. The passen-gers are headed for a show at a smalltown community hall, a venue mostFransaskois musicians are familiarwith. The driving distance is longand the paycheque is likely to besmall, but no matter — they enjoy it.At a certain point, however, somemusicians find it becomes difficult tokeep turning off the Trans-CanadaHighway onto dusty roads leadingto distant towns. Some just decide to

keep going and end up inplaces like Winnipeg,

Vancouver, and Mon-treal. Saskatchewanis their home butthe big cities arewhere opportuni-ties for fame andwider recognition

await.

Given that reality, you mightwonder what keeps some of Can-ada’s best francophone musiciansin Saskatchewan — people likeRegina’s Annette Campagne. Hercareer as a singer-songwriter beganin her hometown of Willowbunch,a largely francophone town about150 kilometres southwest of Regina.Willowbunch sits alone amid hillsand fields that stretch as far as theeye can see, one of the small islandsof francophone culture in Saskatch-ewan’s anglophone sea. “French ismy first language, and English isjust something I learned to speakbecause everyone else did,” Cam-pagne recalls. “As an artist you haveto express who you are, and I amFransaskois.”

Campagne came from a musicalfamily. In the 1980s she and herbrothers and sisters formed the folkgroup Folle Avoine. It was a modestbeginning to her career. After a fewmembers left, the group re-emergedwith a more contemporary rocksound and a new name: Hart Rouge.

You might wonder what keeps some of Canada’s bestfrancophone musicians living and playing in Saskatchewan.

PHO

TO B

Y S

TEPH

AN

E B

ON

NEV

ILLE

Recording artistAnnette Campagne.


Although many anglophones mightnot recognize it, Hart Rouge soonbecame a household name for FrenchCanadians across the country.

But as Hart Rouge’s popularitygrew, the reality of being based inSaskatchewan set in. “We had doneabout as much as you can do in theFransaskois community — there’s alimit to how much you can do here,”Campagne says. She doesn’t meanthis in a demeaning way. Hart Rougesimply came up against the fact thatSaskatchewan isn’t an easy place formusicians to find commercial suc-cess. That is true for both Englishand Francophone musicians, butthose who sing only in French facedouble the difficulty.

The largest Fransaskois commu-nities in Saskatchewan are in Reginaand Saskatoon; the rest are scatteredacross the province’s rural southernand central regions. Driving to smalltowns on a regular basis is costly ona musician’s budget, when you haveto pay fifty or a hundred dollars forgas every time you play a show. And,as one might expect, there are noFrench record companies in Sas-katchewan, a province where onlyabout 1.5 per cent of the populationis bilingual.

Campagne says it was tough tomake it when she started, andis probably even tougher today.“(Record companies) see the marketas limited and they don’t quite knowhow to market French bands,” sheexplains. “I think record companiesin general only take chances onproven groups; it’s not like it usedto be.”

When Hart Rouge’s membersdecided to give up their day jobs andbecome full time professional musi-cians, they first relocated to Winni-peg. Meanwhile, their Quebec fanbase continued to grow. This led to adeal with a Quebec record label and

the opportunity to play severalshows in la belle province.

“The head of the record companysaid that if we really wanted to makea go of it, we should move overthere,” she says. The group jumpedat the opportunity, leaving the wind-swept prairie for the skyscrapers andboulevards of Montreal.

Hart Rouge was the first Fransas-kois band to truly ‘make it’ inQuebec, but things weren’t alwayseasy. Arriving in Montreal, Cam-pagne and her bandmates joined adifferent kind of minority: franco-phones from outside Quebec.Although Hart Rouge had the bene-fit of a pre-existing fanbase, theylearned it can be difficult for Fran-saskois to be accepted because ofdifferences in language and culture.

As well, their particular brand ofwestern folk-rock wasn’t a huge hitin Montreal, a somewhat ficklemusic scene tending to gravitatetoward glossier fare. But while HartRouge’s rural sensibilities may havehad a lukewarm reception in the bigcity, it helped win over fans insmaller towns. “We did very welloutside Montreal, maybe because wewere less cosmopolitan and ourmusic was more down to earth —so we did a lot of touring acrossQuebec,” Campagne says. Because ofHart Rouge’s three-part harmonies,their music became popular with theprovince’s choirs; they did one tourwhere the show was split betweenthemselves and a choir performingtheir songs.

Hart Rouge rode their success fora decade before disbanding in 1998.Campagne stayed in Quebec for awhile afterward, but things justweren’t the same. Her first solorecord wasn’t as successful as she’dhoped, and she felt the music scenein general had stagnated a little.She’d also grown to miss some

things about Saskatchewan. “Imissed the simplicity of life — thingsare less complicated and moreopen,” she says. “People are open,the land is open, and I missed theconnection I got with people. In thebig city no one looks you in the eyeor says ‘hi’.” While some of herformer bandmates chose to stay inQuebec, she ultimately decided toreturn to Saskatchewan. She saw it asa welcome change of pace ratherthan a defeat.

Back in Saskatchewan, Campagnehas released another solo album andperformed at a variety of places,including the 2005 Canada SummerGames opening ceremony in Regina.“Ironically, since I’ve come back hereI’ve had more work as an artist thanI ever could have in Montreal,” shesays. Campagne is also enjoying aposition as an artist in residence forthe Saskatchewan Arts Board. Shetravels around the province givingworkshops to young Fransaskoismusicians. The residency also allowsher time to write her own material.This work is important at a timewhen the community needs leadersin the arts to help Fransaskois cul-ture survive tough times. Many ofthe small towns where Francophonecommunities are based are in de-cline, as is the number of bilingualpeople in the province. The popula-tion whose mother tongue is Frenchhas fallen from 36,815 in 1951 to19,901 in 1996, and Saskatchewan’sfrancophone community has shrunkby more than 1,800 in the past fiveyears. But, however small, a vibrantculture remains. Campagne is help-ing ensure that, even in these hardtimes, there will be a new wave ofFransaskois musicians like her, readyto express themselves whether theystay in Saskatchewan or venturebeyond.


Perched likea bird at thekitchen window,I would spy onmy dad as heworked in his shop.I wondered if heever cried out there,all alone. He hadto cry sometime,didn’t he?Wouldn’t everybody,if they knew it wasonly a matter ofmonths beforethey died?

Jolie Toews

Sometimes I used to hallucinatewhen I had a high fever. Sometimesthe walls looked as if they werepulsating, and it was only a matter oftime before the room caved in on meas I lay in my parents’ bed. Andsometimes I used to think peoplewere walking too fast, which wouldreally irritate me.

Such was the case one Halloweennight.

Too ill to dress up, I spent thenight lying in bed while Mom tookmy brother and sisters trick-or-treating. My room was just off thebathroom, so I could see my dadpass by every time he went to visit it.I remember yelling at him to stopwalking so fast, but he insisted hewas walking as slow as he could.Many years would go by before Iunderstood how frustrating it wasdealing with someone who sawthings that weren’t there.

Pumped full of morphine, my daddrifted in and out of consciousnessin his hospital bed in the spring of1999, muttering about things hethought he saw. So I sat at his bed-side and held his hand while hedreamed through the night. If he hadbeen able to speak well enough, Iwould’ve asked him to tell me abouthis dreams, just like he used to ask

me whenever he found me crouchedat his bedside in the middle of thenight. He made me feel so safe. I suremiss that.

How much longer will it be?

Perched like a bird at the kitchenwindow, I would spy on my dad ashe worked in his shop. I was curiousabout what could possibly be goingthrough his mind at a time like this.And I wondered if he ever cried outthere, all alone. My dad wasn’t thetype to get all teary-eyed in front ofpeople. He had to cry sometime,didn’t he? Wouldn’t everybody, ifthey knew it was only a matter ofmonths before they died? I justwanted to know if he was hurting —any kind of sign that he needed us.But he just kept working away on hismachinery like any other day, show-ing no signs of pain. The four of uskids knew better than to bug him toomuch with such requests as, “Canwe go swimming in the dug-out?” or“Can we ride the four-wheeler?”When he was working, he didn’t liketo be bothered. “Buzz off. Can’t yousee I’m busy?” was his usual reply.

It’s funny, though, when I thinkback to those days. I never realized itat the time, but when he wasn’t busyin the fields or fixing machinery, he

Out from the


was usually making things for us —a merry-go-round, a swing set, go-carts, a floating dock with a divingboard. It was his way of showinglove.

Now, the nights seemed to stretchlonger than the days. It was only amatter of time before the cancerwould kill him. The hospital becamea second home to my family. Visitinghours didn’t apply to us. WheneverI was there, I couldn’t help but feellike a VIP guest. My dad had thenicest-looking room in the entireplace, furnished with a bed, night-stand, couch, a few chairs, a TV anda VCR. A big window overlooked agrassy area with a tree and a bird-house, which hung on a buddingbranch and swayed in the warmbreeze.

I’m thankful it was spring whenmy dad died, that winter had longpassed. But I’m not sure how muchhe was able to appreciate the view.After a while, his eyes glazed overand stared blankly at a spot on theceiling.

Can you still see me? Or has italready been the last time?

The odd occasion when I wasn’tin dad’s room, I was either playingcards with my cousins in the hallwayor sleeping on the couches in the

waiting area. There was a TV in thewaiting room. I remember watchingbits and pieces of the coverage of theColumbine High School shootings. Ididn’t pay a whole lot of attention tothe tragedy. I had other things on mymind.

As I stared down at my father, Icouldn’t believe this was the sameman I knew as a little girl. His ap-pearance had changed so much sincehe got sick. Unlike the rest of hisbody, the skin on his face and fore-arms used to be dark brown — whatsome people would call a farmer’s

tan. The name was appropriate, himbeing a farmer and all. But after allthose hours the sun had put in tochange his skin colour, now it waslike someone had come along with apin and poked a hole to drain it allout.

Working on broken-down farmmachinery so many summer dayshad turned his hands tough, makingthem feel like sandpaper. But it hadbeen a while since he had done anyrepair work, so they’d lost their tex-ture. His back was full of screws andpins, put in a few months earlier to

He used to keep that combwedged in the back pocket ofhis Levi jeans, always on hand

to tame stubborn flyaways.PH

OTO

BY

JO

LIE

TOEW

S


stabilize his fragile spine — the sameback I remember sitting on as weswam around the pool at the hotel inGrand Forks, North Dakota everyNovember.

His skinny arms fell limp to hissides. Many winters ago, those armsused to swing me around the townskating rink so fast it made mescream.

The skin sagged off the bones inhis legs. I remember those legs oncehad enough muscle to beat me, hisfastest kid, in a race.

No, he sure didn’t look the same.To keep him as comfortable as I

could, I wet his lips with a sponge tokeep them from drying out. A smallball of pink sponge was attached tothe end of a stick, making it look likea lollipop. I rolled it back and forthacross his thick lips. I kept his curlyblack hair slicked back with hisfavourite little black comb to keepthe sweat from dripping into hiseyes. He used to keep that combwedged in the back pocket of hisLevi jeans, always on hand to tamestubborn flyaways.

It became torturous listening tohim breath. Draped over the chairbeside his bed, I stared up at theceiling and listened to him barelylive. A slow breath in, then a pause… and finally a long exhale. And itwould start all over again. It got sobad that I had to plug my ears.

Just die already!Eventually, he started grabbing at

the oxygen mask to pull it off hisface. I took the elastic bands off hisears and held the mask over hismouth myself, in case it was makinghim feel trapped. One time, he eventried to get up from the bed. I wasstanding in the doorway talking withrelatives when I saw it happen. Hekept his eyes on me as he tried toreach for the metal triangle hangingabove his bed. I’ll never forget those

eyes. They almost looked possessed.It must have been the morphine. Butstill, it really frightened me. What athing it is, watching someone die.

Before, I’d always found my dadintimidating. His voice boomed, so itseemed like he was always yelling.Most of the time, he probably was.Despite his temper, he was usuallya funny guy. His sarcastic humourwas a nervous trait, my mom alwayssaid. Kids seemed to like him. Hecould be a real goofball.

never seen anyone just after they’ddied before. The sun was shiningbright that morning, April 25.

There are too many nights tocount I’ve bawled myself to sleep inthe years following his death. I wasable to do it in such a way that no-body would hear me. I didn’t wantthem to be scared of me because Iwas sad. I wanted to be the Jolie theyknew — always cracking jokes andhaving fun. So I cried in private,mostly because I felt sorry for mydad. I was so angry that the diseaseforced him to expose his realthoughts and emotions. The strongand stubborn man I had alwaysknown had turned into this weakand vulnerable person. When itbecame obvious death was near, hebegan to turn into someone I’d neverseen before. His voice grew softerand he no longer lost his temper.He even apologized for being abad father. When it was no longerpossible for him to show affectionthrough building us things, he start-ed to speak it. As hard as it musthave been, he told me he loved me.But I couldn’t say the same. Oh, Iwanted to. No one knows that morethan me. But I just couldn’t do it. Hehad raised me in his shadow — stub-born and guarded. How could heexpect anything else of me?

It’s not fair, Dad! That wasn’t you.It feels so nice falling asleep after

a good cry. It wipes me out so I don’thave to worry about getting scaredof lying there in the dark alone withmy thoughts. I just close my eyes anddrift off with ease. But it gets hardliving this way — pissed off at some-thing I can’t change and hiding mygrief. I’ve been thinking lately thatmaybe I’ve been feeling sorry formyself instead of dad. I mean, is itsuch a terrible thing that my dad hadto change? Would it be so terrible ifI did, too?

But all I ever saw was an oldgrouch who worried too much aboutmoney. “Everybody’s making it bigbut me,” I often heard him say. Ithink he felt sorry for himself butdidn’t want anyone else feeling sorryfor him.

Farming was a stressful job. Hewould work so hard putting in hiscrops, only to sit idly by and watchdays and days of rain almostcompletely wipe them out.

I never liked you on those days. Youcould be really mean, you know?

If he ever needed help with any-thing, he was often too proud to askfor it. Our neighbours and familycame over anyway to help him in thefields when he got too weak.

The sound was unlike anythingI’d heard before. It was a loud wail-ing noise coming from my mom. Iknew something had happened soI ran into dad’s room. His eyes didn’tblink and his mouth was gapingopen. He looked like a dead fish. Iwish I hadn’t seen that, because theimage still burns in my mind. I had

… unlike anythingI’d heard before.


We were so thin, so sick,

so screwed up.

But every fall, thousands

of little girls tiptoe

into dance studios

wanting to be

just like us.

Erin Morrison

ToDance

PHO

TO B

Y A

NG

ELA

HIL

L


tanding on the carpet in thegreen room, April Roy and I,dressed like twins, grasp the

back of an ornate green velourcouch in place of a barre. Our

competitors circle us, stretching onthe floor or marking their routines

with headphones on. We lock staresand she shows me her dazzling

toothy smile. She doesn’t blink. In the studio she’dwarmed up with her head down, but in the green room,pulling a pointed toe above her head, her jaw is defiant.This is the tiger cage, between the rehearsal hall and thestage, where we all try to stay warm and intimidate eachother. My eyes wander to the other duets, but April is allinside her head.

Don’t look. Don’t look at them. Oh my goodness, just focus.Just stay warm and focus.

On stage we stand back-to-back, our arms stretchedout and her palms on top of mine. Her long, thin alienfingers are frozen on mine under the hot lights, and I feelher take a deep breath. She’s thinking about the judges atthe back of the audience, she’s thinking about the choreo-graphers in the front row. Oh my goodness. She’s a whitestripe on the vast, hot, black stage. “We can do this,” shewhispers — to herself, not me.

Each of her vertebrae is pushing against her paper-thin skin, pushing into the grooves of my spine. Theheavy red velvet curtain separating us from the audienceis a threadbare security blanket. Waiting, she second-guesses the placement of her pointed toe, her fingers andher chin. She shifts and contracts her stomach muscles,conscious of how her gaunt profile will look in silhou-ette.

I can’t mess this up. Can’t mess this up. Can’t.If there’s a mistake, she won’t eat for days. She’ll cry

herself to sleep. She’ll be in the studio by seven tomor-row morning. She’ll stretch. She’ll lose more weight.

Eight years later, she’ll say she was in a weird frame ofmind back then. She’ll say she was screwed up, and shewas emotionally fragile. She’ll say she was sick. She andI were sick and we were so thin, and we had our prior-ities screwed up. She’ll say that she couldn’t do thosecompetitions and performances unless she was com-pletely empty. Eight years later she’ll say she couldn’tbelieve she ever thought like that.

If I mess this up, it’s all over.The hem of velvet heaves from the floor, and a spot-

light crawls up our legs and hits the sides of our faces.Then we hear the whisper of the five seconds of empty

If there’s a mistake,she won’t eat for days.

She’ll cry herself to sleep.She’ll lose more weight.

PHO

TO B

Y A

NG

ELA

HIL

L


tape before the music cuts in. I’m familiar with it, thisfive-second free fall, but the moment lasts years for April.She was raised as a rhythmic gymnast, where there areno lights, and no giant theatre house stretching into theblack. He sinewy muscles shudder against mine. Sheknows the audience can’t hear the brief blur of whitenoise, but she’s sure they see her cheeks turn red underthe heavy makeup and she still feels like it’ll break her —that when the music starts, she just might not move.

April took a bite of toast while her sisters scurriedaround her. One bite of toast, chewed deliberately. Shewas hungry but by the time she was eighteen she’dgrown accustomed to the comfort of an empty stomach.When she swallowed, it was thorns all the way down herraw throat. She faced a two-hour morning bus ride to theother side of town, but didn’t mind. At her old highschool she didn’t have any friends. The more her bodymelted away, the more she melted into the background,the more she avoided everyone. It was a relief to transferto Winnipeg’s Westwood Collegiate, a school with a per-forming arts diploma programme, a place where peopleunderstood her.

Every fall, little girls in their first pink ballet slipperstiptoe nervously into dance studios around the world,dreaming of being just like April. Most will take one ortwo classes a week, no more. But a few will be encour-aged to get serious about their careers and take theirexams, beginning at five years old.

The Imperial Society of Teachers of Dancing reports250,000 students are examined by judges each yearworldwide; the Royal Academy of Dance grades anothernearly 191,000 annually. Only the top fraction of gradu-ates will win jobs as professional ballerinas. Anythingshort of the highest grade is failure. For the first half ofthe dance season — before the horrific and elating rushof competing and performing, exams consume a dancer’smind.

At Westwood the morning was filled with regularclasses. During the lessons, April would float away,dreaming about the perfect performance, the perfectstretch, the perfect body. Afternoons were spent in theschool’s dance studio, staring at herself in the mirrors,trying to make herself look like the Dance Magazine cut-outs she had pasted all over her notebooks. By threeo’clock acid was gnawing at her stomach lining, but shecouldn’t eat. More classes awaited at the private dancestudio where I would see her every day. So after schoolshe dragged herself onto another bus, toes blistered,hamstring strained, a backpack full of tights and tattered

She feels like it’llbreak her — that whenthe music starts, she justmight not move.

PHO

TO B

Y A

NG

ELA

HIL

L


dance shoes slung over her shoulder.Slumping into a seat, her spine satawkwardly on top of her hips, andshe felt bolts of pain with each bumpin the road.

For kids like April and me, thepain made us feel better about our-selves.

Years later, Dr. Kim Dorsch, aUniversity of Regina kinesiologist,offered an explanation. “It’s thewhole notion that you’re tough ifyou play through the pain,” shetold me. Dancers, like athletes, areconstantly reevaluating how muchpain or injury is acceptable. Assuccess becomes more important, thelevel of pain they’re willing to acceptgrows.

Her words rang true. I thoughtback to how a bleeding toe or astabbing clamp of hunger made usproud. Eventually, the pain, thecontrol over food, and the drivefor perfection become an obsession.“Ultimately what happens witheating disorders is that it’s not aboutfood anymore, it’s about takingcontrol of one aspect of your life,”Dorsch said. “Can that border onpathological? Yes.”

A quick tug, like ripping off abandage, and a purple toenail peeledoff my littlest toe. I flicked at some ofthe caked blood with my fingernailand glanced at the five other girlshunched over their own feet, tapingover blisters and cramming lamb’swool from pastel pink boxes into thetoes of their pointe shoes.

We’d been given a brief break tochange shoes. Sinking to the studiofloor in deep exhaustion, you couldsee how pulled apart our muscleshad become. Like a rag doll, April’sknees fell open and hit the floor oneither side of her. Julie held one footup to her face to examine a raw toe. Itwisted from my waist until I heard a

loud gasp; a whooshing crack as airescaped from between two unnatur-ally rounded vertebrae. The frac-tured bones of my spine had becomeworn down and spaced out by then,so the pop, like cracking knuckles,had become uniquely pronounced.

Twisting the other way, I couldsee that outside the picture window,on benches in the gallery, an audi-ence had gathered. By now, we werethe instructors who taught theirdaughters. We were the rail-thinwomen their girls wanted to be.

I tugged at the shoulder straps onmy bodice, suddenly aware of myslumped posture. We were the prod-igies, and everyone wanted to seewhat The Big Girls were preparing— what sequined-and-tulled master-piece they would watch in one of thehuge theatres in Winnipeg, whileleaning over to whisper: I watchedthem rehearse this part. That one on theright teaches my daughter on Mondays.

I whipped back towards the mir-rored walls and refocused my atten-tion on peeling my sweat-soakedtights away from my toes. Beside me,I could see April reaching two hesi-tant fingers into the toe of a well-worn shoe to pull out what lookedlike melted cotton candy, crystallizedinto a sticky, sinewy clump. Lamb’swool, saturated with blood. Her toeswere totally fucked. The baby toecurled right underneath her foot.

I grabbed my white hockey tapeand began to rip off long strips withmy teeth. Wrapping a strip aroundmy big toe, I jerked from a bullet ofpain. Opaque white puss oozedthrough the tape, begging for theBaby Anbesol — normally used forteething babies but recommended byour choreographer to dull throbbingblisters and infected toes.

The hockey tape bound whateverwas broken, bloodied, raw or weak,so I could force the whole mess into

pale peach Bloch Serenade satinpointe shoes, size 4-E. The boxaround the toe was getting soft andbeginning to melt into the redwoodlayers that ran along the sole.

When exam day came, it was justApril and I standing before theexaminer they’d flown in fromEngland. We’d been paired forexams since grade three. Years later,April told me the 1998 exam was theworst. If she couldn’t score in thehighest category, she might just die.Marks were kept private, enveloped

“It’s the

whole notion

that you’re

tough if you

play through

the pain.

Can that border

on pathological?

Yes.”

away from our jealous best friends,our daily competitors. Somehow shesaw mine that year, and her ‘Com-mended’ was nothing compared tomy ‘Highly Commended’.

She locked herself in the bath-room and collapsed. Outside, shecould hear packs of young dancersshuffling off to class. She banged herhead against the floor. Hot painmelted into the tears pooling on herface. She needed that pain to over-power her thoughts. She crawledover to the sink and threw her skull


against it until the skin on her fore-head opened up.

Until then our parents had beenconcerned but still able to tell them-selves not to worry. Their girls shouldbe thin. Naturally you’d have nobreasts at eighteen, if you were slightof build and working out eight hoursa day. We weren’t home for meals, sonobody knew we didn’t eat, and weall had doctors who understooddancers, who would tell our parentswe were healthy enough, even asthey wrapped the same knee three

my body is all wrong and I completelyfell apart in front of everyone. If I go tothe festival and get anything less than agold honours I will seriously go insane.Either that or kill myself.

We hadn’t spoken in six yearswhen I tracked her down in Toronto.On the phone, she sounded better.Happier. She said she always knewher knees weren’t perfectly shapedenough to be an elite ballerina and,one day, she just accepted it. Shemoved to Texas to dance with a small

times in a month and pushedsyringes of anti-inflammatory corti-sone into ankle tendons to keep theswelling down. But the wound onApril’s head couldn’t be ignored.

She was sent for counseling. Hertherapist told her to keep a diary.Rather than helping, the notebookbecame a place for festering fear.

I want to die, she began her entryon April 21, 1998. I swear I don’t careanymore. All I cared about was dancingand it’s gone. I went through my solotoday. The costume makes me look fat,

company, then joined a show on acruise ship. Eventually she landed inToronto, where she stopped dancingfor a while. She gained weight.She lost weight. She got to know awoman who wasn’t just April theSkinny Dancer.

I thought about what kinesiologistDorsch had told me. Between theages of twelve and thirteen, aboutseventy per cent of young peopledrop out of any activity they takeseriously. Dancers who make it pastfourteen do so because they’ve made

a commitment not just to dance butto be a dancer. The Dancer becomestheir identity. Their bodies becomeequipment to help them succeed, nodifferent from a hockey stick or ahelmet. “There’s a disconnect. Eventhe fact that you’re not going to beable to walk when you’re forty isn’timportant,” Dorsch said.

Thinking back to the day Apriland I performed our duo in the dark-ened performance hall, I understoodthis even then. Seeing her face, yel-lowed and bleary, I knew every re-hearsal made her life two hours long,that every time her knees hit thebathroom floor it made her life twominutes long and that, when themusic finally began, her life was onlyas long as that one song.

Today April can’t rise up on theball of one foot. I limp from brokenmetatarsals in my feet that never setproperly. The acid from April’s ownstomach eroded her teeth. Mytwisted spine pinches the bloodvessel to my brain. But that’s nothing— we’d heard some professionalsneeded three hours of pain therapyjust to get through a single day.

We got away lucky. We can talkabout it now. After that first call,April and I sent emails back andforth and talked more on the phone.In one email, she transcribed someold diary entries and wrote: “Oh, mygoodness, Erin, wow, when I lookback, I see how far I have come.”

April says she still thinks abouteverything she eats but is more easy-going. She’s taking recreationaldance classes, like the girls who goonce a week, for fun. Once in a whileshe’ll pass a store that sells balletshoes, see a little girl inside holdingher mommy’s hand, and feel a pangof loss. But she reminds herself shedidn’t give up. She grew up. Thenshe walks on.

PHO

TO B

Y A

NG

ELA

HIL

L


BURNIN’The smell of smoke hadn’t yet traveled the two

blocks to my house when, just past five a.m., thephone rang, piercing my sleep with the news that

our tiny Saskatchewan town’s cornerstone — the ArcolaMemorial Arena — was burning. I quickly dressed andheaded out, following clouds of thick black smoke toMain Street. It was September 26, 2001, a warm fallmorning made warmer by the heat of the fire. When Iarrived, flames were already jumping off a rugged massof lumber that, like many smalltown arenas, looked more like abarn than a shrine for the great-est game on Earth.

A handful of the town’s fivehundred denizens had gath-ered across from the rink, withmore arriving by the minute. Ispied Gene Hollingshead, for-mer minor hockey coach andlong-serving announcer for oursenior team, the Arcola-KisbeyCombines. Beside him stoodBud Askin, who was on therink’s building crew. He helpedraise the rafters just after thewar, in 1947. The arena had a skating rink and curlingsheets, and it sparked Bud’s romance with Marj — oneday, after public skating hours ended, he walked herhome. They’ve been married sixty years.

No one spoke. There was no need. We were all think-ing the same thing: this couldn’t be for real. We watchedas the recently renovated curling rink collapsed and thefire spread to the trophy case, then the concession stand.It was like seeing a bad car accident in progress. As thecrowd swelled and more volunteers arrived to fight theblaze, it seemed the entire town was united in theridiculous hope that somehow, some way, some portionof the rink could be saved. But the heat only intensifiedas the fire leapt across the rink into the main lobby.

Darcy Singleton, one of the volunteer fire fighters, toldme later it was a losing battle from the start. “In that oldwooden building it just spread so fast,” he said. But we

onlookers couldn’t grasp the inevitable. The fire tauntedus, briefly receding inside the charred walls. This wouldtrigger a few gasps of hope — the blaze was finally undercontrol. Then the inferno would rise up again, higherthan before. Within two hours the flames were rushingtowards the bathrooms and skating surface.

Had it been a heap of broken pallets set alight for aparty in the valley, or a mound of cow chips burning in afield just off the highway, the fire might have been some-

thing to admire. It was almostbeautiful the way the red andyellow flames flickered againstthe still dark sky while blacksmoke poured from what usedto be the roof. But no one wassmiling or admiring as the firelurched forward, finally takingdown the dressing rooms andsouth wall.

When the wall went down,Singleton knew the place wasgone. “I just remember stand-ing there in awe, thinking:where do we go from here?That was the biggest thing,

wondering what the hell do we do now?”We did what every town does. We rebuilt. We had to.

“Who’s going to move to town if we don’t have a rink?You look at every town and village from here to Reginaand every little place has a rink,” Bud Askin argued inthe rebuild-or-not debate that followed the fire.

Four years later, while home for a Christmas visit, Itook a turn on the new ice. Maybe I’m rushing to judge-ment, but I felt let down. The old championship bannerswere gone, but even if they had survived, there were noold wooden rafters to hang them from. Despite nearlyfour seasons of hockey, the boards lacked puck marksand the floors were still unscuffed. In a way, it didn’teven look like an arena. It was more like a tin box withsome ice in the middle. It’s a problem only time can fix.But at least, as I discovered after my skate, the dressingrooms were starting to stink again.

Burnin’ Rink o’ FirePHOTO BY JOY BROWN

PHO

TO B

Y J

ULI

E FO

LK

Brad Brown


BROWSERSHUNTERS

AND

Sarcastic and bombastic,

a former football star lurks

among towering bookshelves,

ready to rile his customers

into reading.

Jamie Komarnicki

The bookstore’s door is old andweathered, and Wayne Shaw gives ita good push as he turns the key toopen shop for the day. It’s only teno’clock; he’d promised himself he’dtry waiting till eleven on Saturdaymornings. But he’d been up since six,read the paper and eaten breakfast.There was no point sitting at homedrumming his fingers.

Books are piled every which wayon his desk, on the floor, encased inbookshelves behind and beside himand blocking most of the sunlightstraining to filter through the store-front window. When he first openedthe place fifteen years ago, he had agoal to keep it neat and tidy but inthis business for every book sold, abox to sell comes in.PHOTO BY JAMIE KORMARNICKI


His glasses sit low on his nose ashe peers at the computer screen andpecks at the keyboard, scanning theInternet for books; at other times hesorts through the overflowing boxes,flips through the Books section of theGlobe and Mail, or reads, glancingup at the customers tramping pasthis swivel chair perch by the door.

All it takes is five seconds for himto find out if a customer is a fellowbooklover.

“Can I help you?” he asks, baringhis teeth in a grin, pushing hisglasses into his silver-grey hair sothat it sticks up in two little tufts likehorns. If the customer says “justbrowsing”, he scoffs. It would takethree days to browse the books. Ifpeople would just come up with asubject, he thinks, he’d be happy topoint them in the right direction.

He tries to say this out loud asfriendly as he can, but after saying ittwenty-nine times in a row it’s hard.If they can’t at least suggest a topic ofinterest, he can only conclude they’rebored and boring idiots.

And in his book, that’s the worstsin.

Life was simple back on the farmbetween Bladworth and Davidson inthe 1950s. Every meal, Shaw and hisfour brothers gathered round thetable as their father read jokes andinteresting tidbits from the Reader’sDigest. Shaw himself devoured ZaneGrey westerns; cowboy adventuresdidn’t seem so far removed from lifeon the farm. In Grade Twelve, Shawleft his country school for Saskatch-ewan’s Notre Dame College — andits football team. He was quicklyrecognized as a sturdy linebackerwho could take a hit as well as hegave one; he played strong and hardwith an eye for a spot on the Hill-tops, Saskatoon’s junior footballteam. The young athlete also rose

academically to the top of his classunder the guidance of Father AtholMurray.

The Catholic priest introduced theProtestant boy to Plato, Socrates,Aristotle, Aquinas. Shaw grew tolove the old books. There was alwayssomething new, exciting, thought-provoking, adventurous to belearned.

After high school, he wassnatched up by scouts, first with theHilltops, later with the Saskatch-ewan Roughriders. A chunky 1966Grey Cup ring glitters on the fourthfinger of his right hand, a token oftwelve years with the team. He neverforgot about reading, though. Beforeevery road trip he stashed a coupleof books in his suitcase. He didn’tmind the ribbing from his teammatesand spent as much spare time scour-ing the streets for bookstores as hedid in the bars.

Football was glamorous: partiesand new suits, flashy cars and bighouses. But after four Grey Cups, adozen years and countless concus-sions, life outside football beckoned.On the job hunt, he never reallyfound anything he liked. Working asales or business job was okay for thefirst year or two, until he got to knoweverything. Then it was boring.

After a failed car rental business(“interest rates went up”) and a failedmarriage (“a modern yuppie — shewas giving away my good old books— though I wasn’t a perfect guy”),he bought a half section of land northof Winnipeg in the early Eighties. Hewanted to be a hermit on a hobbyfarm with nothing but time to readthe thousands of books he’d col-lected over the years.

He found he missed people,though. Books were good com-panions to a point, but the realsatisfaction lay in talking to othersabout them. So he bought an old

house in downtown Winnipeg, hungout a bookseller’s shingle and overten years filled it with books fromthe basement to the third floor. Henever really made any money but hedidn’t care. Money never broughthim happiness. When he had money,he watched his friends get fat andstupid and die. Selling books, he wasdoing what he loved.

He moved to Saskatoon in 1991 tobe nearer his daughter and grand-sons. There he set up shop on MainStreet, taking in boxes of books, sell-ing a few, running the cash registerout of his wallet, and occasionallychasing away customers with hissweeping condemnation of reader-kind. He was never bored.

Even though I’d lived in Saska-toon eight months, I’d never beeninside the small bookstore. Shopping


in the city’s Broadway area, I was onmy way into an antique store when Inoticed the sign next door: A BookHunter. I hesitated — there wereonly a few minutes on my parkingmeter. Still, the store drew me in.

Except for a fleeting moment inGrade One when I was terrified of astory called The Satin Shoes (“SatanShoes!” I thought), I’d always lovedto read. As a child I spent late nightsunder covers with a flashlight, pour-ing over Nancy Drew, EncyclopediaBrown, The Prisoner of Zenda, TheScarlet Pimpernel. I’d worn out morethan one library card since, thoughlately with the juggle of university,work, family and friends, I’d found Iwas taking less time to pick up agood book.

It was dark inside, and stiflingwith the heavy air of a hundredthousand pages thumbed by count-

less readers. And books were every-where. Not in neat, ordered, care-fully arranged rows, either, but aterrifying clutter, crammed intobulging bookshelves, spilling out ofbrown cardboard boxes, rising fromthe floor in teetering stacks.

My hand trailed along the covers,fingering the bindings as my eyesdarted over the titles, looking for anElizabeth Peters to add to my collec-tion. No luck. With a glance at mywatch, I stole towards the doorempty-handed.

“What subject are you lookingfor?”

I gave the owner the brief sheep-ish smile of the customer who knowsshe’ll make no purchase. “Justbrowsing, thanks.” A bit of a fib, butI didn’t have time to excavate thatjumbled store for just one book and Ididn’t feel like launching into an

explanation with a stranger.That was my first experience with

Wayne Shaw’s verbal barrage.Ninety-five per cent of university

grads never open a book outsidetheir expertise, he bellowed; peoplejust don’t reeeeead. Or worse yet,they only want Stephen King novelsand Harlequin Romances. His eyesbulged, his face turned red, and histufted hair seemed to stand on end.Nineteen out of twenty people comein “just to browse” — heavy disdainin his voice — and if you don’t havea subject, well, you’re not going tofind a book.

Reading culture is in decay, hecontinued; the good stuff, the clas-sics, are forgotten. The moderngarbage passed off as good literaturethese days, well …

Flustered, I grabbed the nearestbook at hand — Madame Bovary —dug a few dollars from my pocketand left, closing the door on hisrighteous howls.

Months passed. I moved toRegina. But in the rare momentsI had time to read for pleasure,Shaw’s lecture still floated throughmy mind. Sure I’d grown up accord-ing to the gospel of Sweet Valley High,but I’d also put in my time withShakespeare, Steinbeck and theBronte sisters. If he really wantedpeople to read, why did he drivethem out of his store, I mused, myvanity slightly bruised.

So early one morning I foundmyself sucking back caffeine as Idrove Highway 11 to Saskatoonunder a pale winter sky.

He looked different than I’d pic-tured in my fuzzy memory, withhealthy red cheeks and a thin, neatlytrimmed mustache. He wore cordsand blue sneakers, a navy cardiganflecked with little pieces of paperand lint. My eyes caught on thesweater’s open button, second fromPH

OTO

BY

JA

MIE

KO

RM

AR

NIC

KI

Books were everywhere,

spilling from boxes,

rising from the floor

in teetering stacks.


the bottom and I briefly smiled asI pictured it popping open duringone of his vehement speeches.

When I identified myself as thestudent who’d called, he sprang upfrom his chair and wound his waytowards me around a sliding ava-lanche of books on the desk andfloor, a dizzying stream of conver-sation flowing from his mouth ashe opened the secretary desk andushered me towards a green chair,then pulled a string that turned ona bare light bulb, stepped on a stoolto pull on another light, and finallysettled back behind his desk.

Ah yes, you’re the student. Comein, you can sit down right over herebut watch the chair though, it’s kindof tippy … what was your name?Jamie, right. At my age I don’tremember everything …

Other than a few affirmative mur-murs, I hadn’t gotten beyond wordsof introduction. I took a seat. Yes, thechair was slightly wobbly.

Want some coffee?Please.I stood up and wandered down

the bookstore’s hallway. His voicedisappeared behind me.

The store’s façade was decep-tively small; inside it was like MaryPoppin’s bottomless bag, one smalldoorway leading one to another,rooms upon rooms of toweringshelves. It was … impossible, theidea of reading all these books,mind-boggling, overwhelming.

I sat down at the secretary desk,pushing Pepys, Sam Johnson, andCarlos Fuentes out of the way so Ihad room to write — and listen.

The mayor is illiterate, Chretienis illiterate, Don Cherry’s an idiot,the government is the new mafia, Ilearned. As for retirement, well, hesure as hell doesn’t want to go tocoffee shops and be bored by oldrich white guys. They’d be better off

reading to their grandkids andtalking to them. He’s disgusted withparents who want to ban Harry Pot-ter considering the fact that witchesand wizards teach children aboutgood and evil.

He never really finishes a thoughtbefore he’s hopped to the next. Toomuch information in his head, hesays.

“Can I help you?”“Just browsing. I need something

where I don’t have to use my brain.That’s what textbooks are for,” shesays with a quick smile before dis-appearing into the stores depths. Isneak a knowing glance at Shaw.

Browsers, bah.He knows some people think he’s

nothing more than a grouchy oldman. And why not? He’s sarcastic,he’s insulting, and he doesn’t thinkit’s his job to educate empty-headedidiots proud of their ignorance. Butthen again, he always asks them if hecan help, and when he can’t, heactually feels sorry for them, he says.What’s wrong with society, whenpeople can’t think of books they’dlike to read?

Every once in a while he thinks,ah, that’s it, time to quit.

But all it takes is a three-dayweekend. He sits at home, watchessome football or hockey and readsbooks, and by the time the week-end’s over, he’s happy to go back tohis store, even if to face the empty-minded shoppers winding in andout. He doesn’t feel comfortablesitting at home all day every day; it’salmost like he’s afraid he’ll becomeone of those white haired white guyshe feels sorry for.

And the thing is, he’s happy here.Everyone who walks into the

store has the chance to find the bookthey think they’re looking for; and ifthey don’t find it, Shaw says, hisvoice dropping to a conspiratorialwhisper, quite often they’ll discoversome other book, an unexpected findburied deep in the store.

It’s a battle, I think, an entertain-ing game riling up customers to seeif they truly are interested in books.Sometimes he wins, sometimes heloses.

And he’s never bored.

The day stretches on and Shawand I settle into a comfortable rou-tine. I ask him about some authors.Gertrude Stein? She comes, she goes.Jack Kerouac? They were crazy, thoseguys.

Shaw makes soup for lunch, pour-ing water from a grubby white kettleinto a powdered mix in a Styrofoamcup, which we sip companionably ashe tells me the story of how a littleold lady once got locked in, tuckedaway in a quiet nook. If it weren’t fora gut feeling that brought him backto check after closing, he’d havefound her bones the next morning,he says, hooting.

I explore the shop’s dark corners,consulting a book list I’d compiled inadvance. Scanning yellowed pages, Iwonder who last saw these words.What did this book mean to them?Why did they box it up and ship itoff to a second hand bookseller?There’s a story to the ripped pages,broken spines and dusty covers. Igather up an armful and make myway back to the front of the store.

A young girl in a bright pinkpeacoat steps inside, a universitystudent.

“Jack Kerouac?They were crazy,

those guys.”


Can the

science of

psychiatry

and the art

of poetry

ever find

common

ground?

Christopher Zwick

WINDOWTH

E

If a man comes to the door of poetry untouched by the madness ofmuses, believing that technique alone will make him a good poet,

he and his sane compositions never reach perfection.– Socrates, from Phaedrus

PHOTO BY CHRISTOPHER ZWICK


PHO

TO B

Y C

HR

ISTO

PHER

ZW

ICK

was the first Monday morning ofthe year and I woke up beside her,as I had many mornings in thepast. We had so many mornings,but not nearly enough. The sunwas shining for the first time infive days. She was going hometoday, and I probably wouldn’tsee her for a few weeks. That wasthe routine.

I felt her stir, and turned to her. “Good morning,beautiful,” I said as I did every morning I woke besideher. One cup of coffee, two cups of coffee later, she stoodup. “Oh my god, I’m going to break your heart.”

I have not seen her since.That was the trigger, the catalyst that started a chain of

events revealing a much larger problem. This story is notabout the woman I love, but it is about a broken heart,and why mine is the biggest broken heart ever. My situa-tion is not unique by any means. Clichéd hearts arebroken every day. But my situation is complicated by thefact I have a mood disorder: severe depression at best,bipolar disorder at worst. It is further complicated by thesuspicion I may be a poet.

Health Canada reports eight per cent of adults will beaffected by a mood disorder sometime during their lives,but only a percentage of them will be treated. Nobodyknows exactly where these disorders come from. Gene-tics are thought to play a large role along with social andpersonal circumstances. Sufferers are more likely tocommit suicide, and many suicides are related to somekind of untreated mood disorder.

Symptoms of depression include a growing stormmanifesting itself in your psyche, creeping and rumblingslowly up the back of your skull. It’s a storm that is per-sistent, always waiting to pour despair. You can feel theelectricity. It disturbs sleep. It disturbs life, all aspects oflife. It finds darkness in all things good. It is the burdenof Sisyphus, constantly rolling the boulder out of the pit,only to have it roll back down.

My mood had been in slow decline for months beforethat sunny Monday morning. I felt it as a mild numb-ness. But on that day, I collapsed, body, mind, and soul.This time I knew it was bad. I needed help. I couldn’t doit by myself. So I went to the emergency room.

It… your nebulous woman’s ways would make me so mad / i

would fill arms with wine bottles / retreat to tall pines / chooseone / imagine it to be you breaking / among sounds ofshattering glass & slavic gypsy curses … / godammit! / whycan’t we be more loving?

— Andrew Suknaski, from “Note 1”in Suicide Notes, Book One

It is difficult to articulate exactly how it feels. I havetried for many years to grasp what it is that distressesme. Crumpled stacks of horribly depressed poetry dateback to my adolescent years, and similar stacks seem toappear wherever I settle down. I often wonder if thewords are a product of the depression, or vice-versa.

That question has occupied great minds for manythousands of years, but it must be noted depression doesnot afflict all poets, and anyone can suffer from a mooddisorder. There are many wonderful poets who would be


quite offended by the insinuation they have a mentalillness. However, it speaks to the romantic ideal of whata poet is. It’s a special sensitivity, I think, more than amental illness, but sometimes it manifests itself throughthe illness. Others have described it differently, but thereis a general agreement about something indescribablethat compels the poet and all creative people. I asked oneRegina poet and journalist to define what a poet was.

“It’s funny,” he said.“No one would ever ask such a question about a

brick-layer, say, or a neurosurgeon or a journalist. Thoseare all people who work at a certain calling. People don’tspeak about someone having the soul of a brick-layer orthe smouldering eyes of a neurosurgeon.” It’s true, andno one talks about being drunk as a fireman on paydayeither. Some people are just not able to cope. Somepeople just feel too deeply, and that makes them sus-ceptible.

I think about the poets who appealed to me in highschool. Edgar Allan Poe was a drug-addicted manic-depressive who attempted suicide at least once. T.S. Eliotspent time in what was then called an “insane asylum,”and had a history of mental illness in his family. CharlesBukowski was a raging alcoholic. Jim Morrison wasanother drug addict and, yes, a poet, who had a longhistory of depression. Then I look at the poets I’ve dis-covered in recent years. Pablo Neruda was a textbookexample of bipolar disorder. He survived until he died ofcancer. John Berryman spent a relatively large part of hislife institutionalized. He was an alcoholic who attemptedsuicide several times before he jumped from a bridge inMinnesota. Vladimir Mayakovsky shot himself in thehead after putting on a clean shirt in accordance withRussian superstition. These are my influences, the peoplewho have spoken to me through their writing. Howcould I not be depressed?

Let us go then, you and I / When the evening is spread outagainst the sky / Like a patient etherized upon a table

— T.S. Eliot, from The Love Songof J. Alfred Prufrock

As I asked to see a psychiatrist that day, my stomachstarted to sweat, and then freeze. I could feel the iceforming. The room was empty but for three old ladies in

kerchiefs and wheelchairs. I watched muted emergencyroom television and read a women’s magazine before anurse baited me to follow her into the labyrinth. By thetime I was actually able to see a head-doctor I had beenlost in that maze for nearly four hours — a lot of time toregret going to the hospital.

He poked his half-bald head into the room, intro-duced himself and very quickly proceeded to tear awaythe layers. I thought I’d be able to outsmart him. Butnow, I knew I was fucked. Defeated. He said he wasgoing to certify me under the Mental Health Act, and leftto arrange for a bed in the Wing. I was grasping forcogent logic, for any vine that grew too close. I was out ofoptions.

I’m sure he wasn’t surprised when he came back andfound I wasn’t there. I was probably two blocks awayfrom the hospital by then. I was raving, percolating, butwas lucid. I was walking very fast. I knew they wouldcome after me. The hunt was on, but not for long. Afriendly policeman escorted me back to the maze fromwhich I had come.

Two security guards blocked the exits and eventuallyaccompanied me, one in the back and one in the front,through a long hallway that ended at a secured door. Ientered and became absolutely dependent on the statefor the first time ever.

After the necessary pleasantries that go along withhospital visits, a nurse led me to my room.

“The doctor has asked that you wear hospital attire:the robe, the slippers. So I’m going to have to take yourclothes,” she said, as she had a million times before.

I’d never had to stay in a hospital before. The smockconfused me. It was demeaning and disheartening.

“It’s backwards,” the nurse said. “Do you want somehelp?”

I was walking very fast.I knew they would

come after me.The hunt was on.


My first night in the Wing was very relaxing, verymedicated, lots of Ativan. That was the only night I actu-ally slept well.

My room was located nearest to the nurse’s night post.Doors must be open a crack at all times during the nightso they can shine their flashlights in your eyes. You canhear them cackle as they entertain each other during thelong night shift. The phone rings at all hours. Patients farworse off then myself wander the halls, sometimes withbackwards smocks, or no smocks at all. The Angry Guyscreams and unintentionally pleads to be restrained.When his voice fills the halls in the night, the securityguards are summoned with a button. Then they expectyou up for breakfast at eight o’clock.

By the second day, they gave me back my clothes, andthat made me hopeful to leave, but after speaking withanother psychiatrist, I was sentenced to a minimum ofseventy-two hours. They told me they could hold me foras long as three weeks, but I had an opportunity toappeal the decision. It had become a legal matter. I wasimprisoned. It’s not an ordinary prison though; smiles,nice paintings and soothing colours attempt to hide theunderlying principles of concealment and removal fromsociety. They take away your rights “for your own good.”

Everyone chats but anonymity is important, and mostpeople don’t know your name. As I start mingling,everyone gets christened: The Angry Guy, ForgetfulBlanche, Freemason Frank, the Schizophrenic Demon,Wilf the Wizard, Ill Billy, and Senile Betty. There are alsoany number of nameless manics, eccentrics and very oldpeople that someone forgot. When patients meet in thehalls, so to do their afflictions. Ill Billy meets FreemasonFrank, and they converse. Forgetful Blanche and SenileBetty pass and have the same conversation every day. It’sall poetry.

I met Forgetful Blanche in the smoking area. She wasan old native lady, who had been in and out of the Wingfor years. Her twenty-year-old wheel chair creaked everytime she grabbed at her pockets to find a lighter. Thenurses got angry with her whenever she brought heroxygen tank outside.

She said I had a nice aura, and that I reminded her ofroses. I asked if anyone had ever reminded her of rosesbefore. She said she didn’t think so. Then she said Ireminded her of Elvis, and having picked up a little Creein my travels, I sang a couple of lines of “All Shook Up”in Cree. She laughed so hard her oxygen tube flew out ofher nose. That made me happy.

Then I did it all again the next day, and that mademe sad.

I was released from the hospital after only seven days,which I have since learned is a rarity. I managed toweasel my way out by telling them what they wanted tohear. I don’t know what would have happened if I wasforced to stay for three weeks. It has to be the most de-pressing place on Earth. Everyone paces like lions inzoos. I wonder if they all know why they are there. Dothey question their nature like I do? How do they expressthemselves? Do they have stacks of bad poetry? Havethey ever created a masterpiece? Have they ever de-stroyed it?

Mood disorders can be hard to diagnose. Manicdepression, or bipolar disorder, is especially trickybecause a manic episode can be hard to recognize, and insome cases they don’t happen very often. At this point,the psychiatrist is reluctant to say I have bipolar disorder,because he has not seen a manic episode, and I guessthat’s a good thing, but anyone who has known me for asignificant period of time would say otherwise.

A manic episode makes you feel invincible; a spell ofenergy comes over you. An energy that provides clarityand sharpness to the world that wasn’t there before. It’slike waking up with the sun in your eyes, it’s refreshingbut irritating. Money is no object and no goal is unattain-able. Then, everything starts moving too fast, andthoughts start to blend together. Voices start speaking allat once, the agitation becomes unbearable. And theneverything goes awry.

Some people are resistant to medications, and are leftwith only one option: electro-convulsive therapy, or

ECT “is alwaysan option for people

who are resistantto medication.”


ECT. I was appalled to learn that ECT is actually quitecommon. It’s among the safest of anti-depressants, thepsychiatrist told me, but somehow I wasn’t comforted.

“It is always an option for people who are resistant tomedication. Up to this point in time, we don’t knowexactly how it works, but all the studies show it works. Itcorrects the imbalance.”

So, after the panoply of prescriptions, and the pos-sibility of future shock therapy, where does that leaveme? When my syrup and tonic are balanced and myneurotransmitters have been tweaked, am I going to bea different person? Will I still be able to feel? Will Istill be able to write? I sought the advice of doctors,priests, counselors, and friends. They had no satisfactoryanswers. So I spoke to the poets. There was one namethat kept coming up: “The Wood Mountain Poet,” “ageo-poet,” “a lone wolf,” “the real deal,” AndrewSuknaski.

The coyote surrounded / hounded / by too many civiliza-tions / hunted / haunted / snarls and gouges a lair / in thehardened land / none of us has yet to find

— Gary Hyland, from Coyotefor Suknaski

Suknaski was raised on a homestead near WoodMountain, a small prairie town dense with history on theedge of the Wood Mountain Hills in southern Saskatch-ewan. In the early Sixties, he left home to study art at theKootenay School of Art in Nelson, B.C. and then theMontreal Museum of Fine Arts’ School of Art andDesign. His visual creations have appeared in inter-national exhibitions. He worked as a night watchman, afarmhand, an editor, and a researcher for the NationalFilm Board of Canada. Earlier works, including The ZenPilgrimage, Yth Evolution in Ruenz, Octomi, Suicide NotesBook One, and Wood Mountain Poems, were all printed inlimited edition by small prairie presses in the 1970s.

Suknaski was writer-in-residence at the University ofManitoba when he won the Canadian Authors Associa-tion Poetry Award in 1979 for The Ghosts Call You Poor. Hetraveled the world but always maintained a connectionto his “spiritual home-base”, Wood Mountain. FromSaskatchewan’s second-highest hill, Suknaski was able tolook across the flatlands into the past and his own

present to capture the people, cultures and turmoil of lifeon the prairies. He lived the life of a poet, and he exper-ienced the storm.

I found Suknaski, now sixty-four, in a small one-bedroom apartment in Moose Jaw. It was neat and didn’tlook like it had been lived in for long. There was a couch,a table and two wooden chairs. The walls were bareexcept for two of his visual creations hung on opposingwalls. One of the chairs was being used as a coffee table;upon it was a tissue, some eyeglasses and an old his-torical novel, opened to save its place.

He wedged himself in between the table, the refrig-erator, and the wall, and sat with his hands on the table,waiting for my first question. I couldn’t tell if he wasnervous or irritated. I was nervous. I didn’t want to seempretentious, but I probably did. One of the first things Ilearned was that he no longer wrote, and rarely spoke ofwhy. He told me he hadn’t spoken to anyone about

PHO

TO B

Y C

HR

ISTO

PHER

ZW

ICK

The Wood Mountain poet, Andrew Suknaski, today.


writing or himself since he had gone to the psych ward inthe early Nineties.

I could feel him begin to withdraw. His voice becamebarely audible. He was obviously uncomfortable talkingabout the hospital, so I changed the subject. We talkedabout his interest in aboriginal cultures, his longing forhome, influences, journeys around the world and theprocess behind writing poetry.

“Where do the words come from?” I asked.“There has to be some kind of initiating experience,

something that motivates and moves you, spiritually, oremotionally, an energy, a female element, an angel ofdeath, something distinct, an image, or a happening ofsome kind,” he told me.

I knew exactly what he was talking about: the muse.The muse never wants to be caged, but Suknaski’s musehas been caged, and it’s very troubling to him. He is awriter who does not write.

I had heard that treatments for depression often leadto permanent writer’s block. I had always half-believed itwas a myth, but knowing how dependent on mood andtemperament my own writing is, I asked how he dealswith it.

“I wouldn’t worry about it until it happens. Keepwriting, keep writing, keep writing. But if it shouldhappen, it’s not the end of the world either, you’ll justhave to live an ordinary life.”

“But isn’t it nice to feel extraordinary?” I asked.“Yeah, it was nice to be extraordinary and to be a poet.

That used to be a feeling for me, but it’s no longer there,since I stopped writing.”

He was talking very slowly. I thought he was pon-dering his words before speaking, but it turned out hewas still thinking about his time in the hospital, and theloss of his muse.

“As far as the psych ward experience goes, electricityis what put my demons and angels to rest, put my craft

away … forever. That’s how I feel having had shocktreatments. It’s pretty medieval.”

There was a longer than comfortable pause. I didn’tknow how to respond. I felt bad having asked this sad,old man to talk about one of the most traumatic exper-iences of his life. I turned him into some sad-poet-guru asa way to start my own healing.

I only talked to Suknaski for a little more than half anhour, but the conversation had impact. He was sad, butwas healing or at least accepted that he needed to heal. Iconstructed this whole story quest as a way of healing, asa way of reaching out, as a way of accepting that I wassick, as a way to stop missing her. It’s part of the depres-sion, reaching out, but so is feeling misunderstood. Theseare two contradictory notions that can’t possibly coexist.It’s lonely.

I asked for help, but that was only the beginning.Ahead of me lies a highway of failed medications,relapses, and missed appointments, second opinions andlikely more time in the hospital. As I weigh the pros andcons, I wonder if it’s worth it to try. Some days I think itis, and I hope for sunshine. Other days I think I’m awalking cliché. It’s hard not to be with a broken heart thesize of mine.

Thinking back, I can’t remember if I was depressedthe first time I ever wrote a poem, and I can’t rememberif I started coping before I knew I was depressed. Duringmy formative years, I grew accustomed to the peaks andvalleys, and with a gross amount of self-medication I wasable to function quite normally. My youth was a littlebit of Poe and Bukowski mixed in with a whole lot ofMorrison. I was a rugged individual, the tortured poet,and that was just fine.

Now, in my mid-twenties, I’m still rugged and I’m stilltortured. Whether I’m a poet or not is debatable but I dohave a lot more in common with T.S. Eliot than everbefore.

“That used to be a feeling for me, but it’s no longer there,since I stopped writing.”


Without HimLosing a parent justas you yourself arebecoming an adultcan have seriousconsequences.

Katie Murphy

knew I was going to be mis-erable as soon as I steppedout of the air-conditionedcar. It was August on the

Alberta prairie and although onlymid-morning, the wind was hot andblowing my hair around, stickingstrands to my already sweaty face. Ishouldn’t have worn black, if I’dwanted to be comfortable. Fine duststirred from the bone-dry clay fieldsaround my little hometown, cakingeverything in sight and making mefeel not only hot but dirty.

I remember the walk up the stepsof the community hall. The green,wooden stoop was sagging anddecrepit, and I wished — not for thefirst time, nor the last — that anothersite had been chosen for the service.But it was either the broken-downhall or the hockey arena: more thanfive hundred people were expectedand no other place in town was largeenough to hold them all. I checkedmy supply of Kleenex (ample) andpushed open the aged, peeled-paintmetal door.

It occurred to me as I stood andsurveyed the large room that I’dnever been in the hall during day-light hours. On previous visits, dark-ness had softened everything, hidingthe drab walls and scarred woodendance floor, the worn carpet of thedining area and the stained, dustyceiling. The smell of coffee brewing,and the sharp aroma of egg saladsandwiches hit me, and I noticeda number of middle-aged womenbustling around the kitchen area.I remembered that in the flurry of

last-minute preparations we hadasked the North Berry Creek LadiesClub to provide refreshments for thereception that would immediatelyfollow the service. It was reassur-ing, somehow. The food would besimple, but good.

It was cooler in the hall, at least. Inoticed that the guest registry wasout already, although no one else hadarrived yet. Should I sign it? Was I aguest or an organizer?

That simple contemplation wasenough to break my control and Istarted to cry. Weep, actually.

I turned with tear-blurred eyesand walked the rows of empty chairsto inspect the flower arrangements.They no doubt smelled sweet, but Icouldn’t tell. My nose was plugged.Among the flowers was a photo ofmy father, smiling and relaxed infront of a cruise ship. The picturewas taken only nine weeks earlier,less than a week before we found outwe would lose him. The cruise wasto Alaska, to celebrate a quartercentury of marriage. There was nocasket. What remained of the man inthe picture was two hundred kilo-metres away, at the crematorium.

People started to arrive. I’m sure Igreeted many of them, but I don’tremember.

As the reverend — the same manwho’d married my parents twenty-five years ago — took his place at thefront of the room, I took my seat.I assume I was in the front row, butI don’t remember that, either.

I remember my mom, though,sitting beside me, tears flowing,

I

PHO

TO B

Y K

ATI

E M

UR

PHY


black mascara (I told her not to wearany) streaking her cheeks like runnypaint. I tried to stop my own tears,tried to listen to the reverend’swords, but couldn’t. As the crum-pled, wet ball of Kleenex in my lefthand grew, I stopped caring whosaw me, who heard me, crying. I wassupposed to be saying goodbye tomy father but it was like I wasn’teven there.

I was twenty-one and I felt noth-ing was going to be all right everagain.

I’ve always been very logical, soafter the funeral I set out to researchgrief. The problem was, everythingI read didn’t quite fit. For example,a lot of the information suggestedI should be getting closer to mymother and more dependent on her— but that didn’t apply to me. I’dalways been “daddy’s little girl”.

I see this as if I were watchingfrom across the room: a bullish manwith square thick hands holding apink and blue book about a badgertrying to get a good deal on a newtea set, a tiny girl nestled in his arms.I still have the book. My father livesin my memory like a loose collectionof snapshots, vivid yet disconnectedfrom any sense of the passage oftime. There was the bright red car-penter ’s toolbox he made for myfifth birthday, with my name sten-ciled on the side in lemon yellowpaint. The time we were visiting hisfriend Butch and I decided it wouldbe a good idea to “pet the piggie”;my toddler brain didn’t see a prob-lem with trespassing on a cranky oldsow that had about 1200 pounds onme. Dad hauled me out by my hairand yelled at me like the world wascoming to an end.

When I was nine years old, daddecided to quit his well paying job inthe computer industry and follow

his dream of being a broke farmer.He didn’t like the rat race because,he said, “Even if you win, you’re stilla rat”. I didn’t want to move awayfrom my friends, my school, my life— and I gather mom took some con-vincing as well. In the end, though,we moved to a cattle ranch. After Igot over pouting about being up-rooted, I spent most of my time withdad. We spent hours driving aroundthe ranch, looking for wildlife andchecking fences. I learned how to tellif a cow was close to giving birthand how to help her if she ran intotrouble. I learned how to grease up atractor and how to operate a drillpress. Mostly, I learned to love theland as much as he did.

When I became an obnoxiousteenager, Dad just said: “Don’t doanything stupid. And call if you needa ride home.” He gave me the spaceI needed. Mom, on the other hand,would fuss and fret and push all myteenage buttons. Even after fouryears away from home, to be honestmy relationship with mom was stillshaky. We just didn’t see eye to eye,and I wasn’t very comfortable talk-ing to her about personal things.That included talking about dad andhow much we both missed him.

My friends reacted with cleardiscomfort when I demonstrated any

grief or sadness, so I avoided talkingto them, too. But it didn’t matter — Ihadn’t time to dwell on the subject,anyway.

My father passed away in earlyAugust, and I took only five days offfrom my job at an Edmonton answer-ing service. I felt guilty even takingthat much time. Come September Iwas back at university with a heavyclass load (five classes, four labs) inaddition to working thirty-two hoursa week. There wasn’t room in myday for grief.

This isn’t unusual, says MarthaOttenbreit, a social worker in privatepractice in Regina. Ottenbreit isknown in the counseling communityfor her work with grieving patients. Irecently spoke with her, more thantwelve years after my father’s death,to gain some perspective on my ex-perience.

Ottenbreit believes our culturerarely allows people the time andspace they need to grieve naturally,which often forces people to deny —or at least delay — their feelings inorder to keep functioning in theirmany roles. “Especially in the work-place,” she said, “you are given onlythree days to grieve. One day totravel to the funeral, one day to havethe funeral, and one day after, that’sit. Which is absolutely ludicrous.

“You are given only three days to grieve.”

PHO

TO B

Y K

ATI

E M

UR

PHY


It’s really a denial of who we are ashuman beings. It’s a denial of ourhumanity.”

That certainly meshed with myexperience.

On the day I learned my fatherwas going to die, I was up to myelbows in lasagna, making dinner fortwenty. We were having a bunch ofneighbours over to help with thebranding as soon as my parents gotback from their anniversary cruise,and I had come home from Edmon-ton to get ready. It was the first timeI’d made lasagna, and I was carefullyfollowing Mom’s instructions, lay-ering cooked noodles, meat sauceand cheeses with a precision I rarelyapplied to any task.

I fancy I had a premonition ofdoom when the phone rang, but thatcould just be a construct of memory.I wiped my hands on a tea towel,and answered. It was my mom, andshe was crying. Could I come toCalgary right away?

I hung up the phone and turnedto start putting away the partiallyconstructed lasagnas. I made it allthe way to the sink before my legsgave out and I collapsed on the floor,weeping because I didn’t believemom when she said everything wasgoing to be okay. One year awayfrom graduating with a bachelor’sdegree in cell biology, I was toofamiliar with the ways of cancer forcomfort.

It was there, on the floor of ourranch house kitchen, that I started toreject my feelings. I had things to do,dogs and cats to feed, food to putaway, clothes to pack. I didn’t havetime to sob on the linoleum. I foundthat I could put my fear and griefaway, ignore it, and get on withdoing what needed to be done.Unfortunately, using denial as acoping strategy didn’t turn out to bea very good idea.

But I didn’t have much else to goon, then or later. My careful researchdug up little about losing a parent attwenty-one. Instead I found anabundance of literature about losinga parent in middle age, and themixture of guilt and relief that comeswith the death of someone who isvery elderly. My situation was sodifferent. I was just starting to relateto my parents as fellow adults for thefirst time. I felt cheated out of a newadult-to-adult connection. At thesame time, I desperately wanted toreturn home and have mom take care

torture myself about feeling thatway, she said.

I wish I’d understood all thisback then. Instead, I walked aroundlike a zombie, pushing down griefand guilt with every step. Every-thing was grey, grey, grey, andblurred together.

I’m not even sure how old I waswhen it all fell apart. I only remem-ber I was in graduate school, work-ing on my master’s degree. SuddenlyI was a mess. I couldn’t stop crying,couldn’t concentrate, and couldn’tsleep. I spent two weeks in bed, lyingawake and numb, getting up only tofeed my cats (and only when theygot loud about it). Thankfully I rec-ognized I wasn’t capable of copingwithout some help, and I went to adoctor. I ended up in therapy and onmedication, which saved my life.

Dad was a great giver of gifts,even in death. Today I’m a lot strong-er emotionally, more centered, andwiser than I would’ve been withoutthe experience of losing him, andeverything that led from that. Mymom and I struggled for a while butnow we’re very close; she’s one ofmy best friends. I feel fortunate tohave known such a remarkable man,even if he didn’t stick around longenough to suit me.

I still feel my dad’s absence everyday. I have a mental checklist ofthings he’s missed: three universityconvocations, five apartments, twocats, one major career change, twelveChristmases, one love of my life.Meanwhile, after three years ofindividual therapy and nine monthsof group therapy, I’ve managed toget a start on undoing the damage ofdenying my grief. It’s a task younever really finish; I’m still workingon it. I realize now it’s a task Ishouldn’t have put off.

“At that age,there’s adouble

separation.”

of me, despite the emotional distancebetween us. At a crucial turningpoint in my life everything froze inplace. I felt I could move neitherforward not backward.

Ottenbreit says that people atdifferent stages of life react to lossdifferently because each stage comeswith unique psychological tasks. Inthe case of someone just enteringadulthood, as I was, “you are tryingto establish some independence fromyour parents.”

“And you are separating,” shesaid. “So when a parent dies at thatage, there’s a double separation …and a person might be affected in theway they respond to that.”

When I told Ottenbreit I felt guiltyabout not supporting mom more, shewas unsurprised. Because my con-nection to Dad was so strong, it wasnormal for me to feel distant frommy mother, and equally normal to


TANKSfor

PLAYINGTheir long, black snouts shaking in anticipation, the

German tanks raced towards Moscow, gears clankingand grinding, tank treads clattering over the hard-packed earth, raising a cloud of brown dust that driftedtoward the defenseless city, as if intent on gobbling it up.Dust-covered infantry followed behind, cleaning up anyresistance. Soviet tanks burned on the battlefield, flameslicking up from the insides of the now dead behemoths.After many months of fighting, the impossible hadoccurred, the unthinkable was reality: Moscow wasunder the Nazi jackboot.

From somewhere in the distance, a jubilant cryrang out.

I raised my arms in victory and leaned back in myarmchair, my stiff back complaining in protest, andwatched as my friend removed his remaining figuresfrom the territory on the game board. It had taken me allnight to capture this key city. And the game wasn’t overyet. Lowering my arms, I looked around my friend’sbasement, at the mess we’d created. The area at our feetand on the coffee table looked as if we’d been there forseven and a half hours.

Probably because we had been.Empty Cokes were stacked two and three cans high.

Crumbs of trail mix littered the brown carpet, crunchingand crackling every time we moved our feet. Two emptyOld Dutch chip bags were stuffed under the coffee table,polished off when hunger pains set in two hours into thegame. Under the crumpled bags lay empty chip dip con-tainers, their insides scooped out. Led Zeppelin was

quietly coming from the speakers behind us, Communi-cation Breakdown ending and Stairway to Heaven slowlystarting up.

Stretching, I could feel my joints pop. I’d been sittingin the same position for the last few hours, intently peer-ing down at the board. In the cramped quarters of afifteen by twenty foot basement room, there wasn’t muchspace to move around. We’d set up two couches and achair to form a horseshoe around the coffee table, wherethe game board sat. The board was just a map of theworld, each country divided into smaller territories thathad to be captured if you wanted to amass money, buildtroops and win.

Removing my glasses, I rubbed the grit from my eyesand looked at my watch: 1:30 a.m. I groaned, feeling theonset of a headache, most likely from all the Coke. Thebright lights beating down from above didn’t help. Wasthis game ever going to end? Someone should have wonby now.

We were playing Axis & Allies, a strategy game. I’dgotten it for Christmas and, after gathering up a couplefriends, started playing. Our first game took eight hours,our second and third games, seven. This was our fourthgame and even though we were getting better at it, it wasstill taking a while. With five countries to get througheach round, and decisions to make on what to buy andwhere to attack, one person’s turn could potentially lastan hour. Once, one of my friends took twenty minutesjust to decide on moving one battleship and two sub-marines into the middle of the Pacific Ocean.

PHO

TO B

Y K

EITH

BO

RK

OW

SKY


Like, really, who has that much trouble making such asmall decision?

But if you want to win — and who doesn’t? — you dowhatever it takes to gain the advantage. If it meansstaring at a map of the world for an hour thinking hard,so be it.

I knew the first time I played I was hooked. This gamewas like a drug, addictive and desirable. When I went tobed, I thought about it. When I was in school, I thoughtabout it. Attempting to do homework, I was still thinkingabout it.

Yawning loudly, Jared stood up and grabbed hiswinter coat from the back of the couch. “I gotta go —work tomorrow.”

“Ah, come on. Stay just a little longer,” I whined,wondering if I had to work tomorrow as well.

My friend shook his head and climbed the stairs.“Thanks for the game, guys. See ya later.”

And then there were four of us. We were still able tofinish the game, but it wasn’t as much fun. There was oneless person to socialize with, one less strategy to banterover. That got me thinking, after the game had beenpacked up and I was in the car heading home. Not every-one likes to spend this much time playing a board game,or likes to play board games at all. Sure, some of myfriends are willing to give up a day to play, but not allwere. Maybe I would have to go out and find others tobring along the next time we played. But where would Ilook for players? The more I thought about it, the more Iwondered if such games were even popular anymore,

what with the Internet, X-Box and Playstation. Boardgames seemed kind of quaint in comparison.

A few days later, the bell chimed as I pushed open thedoor to Tramp’s Books, a downtown Regina geek’s para-dise of books, games and collectables. Climbing the stairsto the second floor, passing cardboard cutouts of HanSolo and Boba Fett, I wandered into the board-gamingsection and smiled. To explain here would take days: suf-fice to say almost every strategic board game ever madewas before me. Exploring the aisles, I realized I’d have towin the lottery before I could buy half the stuff I wanted.Satisfied that I’d come to the right place, I walked up tothe counter and waited in line behind a couple of wan-nabes dressed like Neo from The Matrix. When it was myturn, I introduced myself to Brad, the mustachioed manbehind the till. Could he tell me if anyone out there stillplays board games?

“There’s this one game called Settlers of Catan, whichhas had its popularity double in the past few years,”Brad said, running a hand through his shaggy brownhair. “There’s even a lot more interest in table-top games,role playing, that kind of thing.”

“What about Axis and Allies? There’s gotta be aninterest in that, what with four, five different versions outthere,” I asked expectantly.

Brad nodded. “Oh definitely, definitely. A&A hasincreased in popularity and playability, especially sincethe miniatures have been created. With the minis, youcan now outflank the other guy’s men and have actualtroop positions.”

Chaos and insanity rages

on in the Barents Sea.

Moscow is under the

Nazi jackboot. Strategy,

don’t fail us now!

Jason Antonio

PHO

TO B

Y K

EITH

BO

RK

OW

SKY


“But the board games themselves are still popular andplayed a lot, right?” I asked, attempting to get back ontopic. Miniatures sounded interesting, but I was still anoob to the strategy board game world. Minis couldwait. I was looking for people to play with.

“They most certainly are,” Brad replied. “A lot areplayed at the Strategy Saturdays we hold every month.People get together for a few hours, bring whatevergames they like, play against friends and strangers.Would you be interested in coming out?”

The church basement was spacious, with six eight-footdiameter tables placed throughout the room. Peoplewere starting to arrive for Strategy Saturday, some carry-ing game boxes.

I managed to pull in a couple of people to play A&A,including the event organizer, Michael. We decided whowould be what country and started the game. I was theUnited States, which meant I was last — a good thing forthe Allies but a bad thing for the Axis.

The Russian player rubbed his chin, then placed allthe units he’d bought on a couple of territories. I lookedat him in confusion. He hadn’t even made any combatmoves. Was he stupid or did he not know how to play?

“I couldn’t make any moves because I wasn’t in aposition to do so,” he explained. “I don’t have enoughunits.”

My jaw dropped. He wasn’t in a position to do so? Hedidn’t have enough units? He could have taken at least twoterritories away from Germany. I sighed in dismay. Well,we had three more hours to play — something inter-

esting might happen, although obviously this guy hadn’tplayed much.

Boy was I wrong. Two hours later, the game wasover and I was sunk. Dejectedly packing the game up, Ilooked around the room. One table caught my attention;I wandered over and pulled up a seat. Five universitystudents were rolling dice and trading cards. Taking adeep breath, I introduced myself and asked what gamethey were playing and how it was played. Handing acard to the person on his right, Paul Clark succinctlyexplained Settlers of Catan, before accepting anothercard from a player on the left. Peeking at the card, hepicked up a tiny house-shaped block and set it down onthe game board, enlarging a growing town.

Later, I asked him why he played. Strategy games“give you a rush,” he said. “They make you think. Thenthere’s the satisfaction in the end where you prove vic-torious.”

“So is life a game to you?”He nodded. “Yes, but you can’t play it like one unfor-

tunately. It’s kind of complicated, I guess.”“So, you’re saying you can’t employ strategies in

life?” I asked in confusion.“Well, yes, you can, but a game is experimenting and

doing things that would be more of a risk than in real lifebecause there’s not really a consequence to it. Games,generally, you can do things you normally wouldn’t do.In life, there’s always consequences, but in a game in theend, it’s not going to hurt you.”

“Okay, so what about winning? Does winning meananything to you?”

“Winning is just the end of the game, basically,or losing, which is kind of depressing.”


PHO

TO B

Y K

EITH

BO

RK

OW

SKY

“Not as much, really, no. No, not at all. I don’t knowwhy. I suppose it’s kind of cool if you do win, but it’smore about what you do during the game. The decisionsyou make, if your strategies work, how you’re going toprove it, that kind of thing. Winning is just the end of thegame, basically, or losing, which is kind of depressing.”

I raised an eyebrow. “The end is depressing?”“Yeah.”I tapped my chin, curious. “What makes a good

gamer? Their characteristics, I mean.” “As long as they can carry on a good conversation, an

intelligent conversation very quickly, that’s good. There’sno room for pauses. They have to be fast, fast, that’sessential,” he said, leaning forward, eyes glinting. “Theyhave to be fast in everything they do. Like, employingthe strategy, talking during the game, or coming to a con-clusion or reasoning. General logic. Speed is importantbecause if you don’t catch on, sooner or later you’ll bedestroyed. If you don’t catch on very quick you’re dead.”

“And if you’re slow, you’re going to be a pain in theass. We don’t want to read the rules to you or explain thisor that to you. If you don’t know what’s going on on theboard, you’re going to be a hindrance for somebody else.If you’re slow, don’t bother playing.”

It’s true: reading instructions and babying a green-horn along is no fun. But I was surprised to hear him saywinning didn’t mean much. Having grown up playingsports, winning was the end goal for every game. Hittingthe triple or home run was sweet, but victory was theultimate aim. To go into a game with the mind-set of notwanting to win but just employing different strategies

blew my mind. As for me, it was never easy to acceptdefeat — ever — especially after working my tail off andwracking my brain to shreds.

The deck shook beneath the sailors’ feet as the battle-ship’s 16-inch guns unleashed another salvo of shells atthe remaining Japanese battleship, almost 1,100 metresaway. Chaos and insanity raged on in the Barents Sea.Overhead, Japanese and American warplanes battled forthe skies. Cutting a steep angle, a green bi-plane dove toattack a yellow Japanese sub, unleashing a red torpedofrom its belly before pulling up and flying away.

“NO!” Shawn cried out in disbelief, removing his lastship from the board and tossing it into the box. “As if!How did that just happen?!”

Shrugging, I smiled sheepishly, almost arrogantly.My friend looked like he was going to cry.I chuckled. I had lost only one submarine and a plane.

In the process, I’d annihilated the entire Japanese fleet, alltwelve ships. Now nothing could stand in the way of myinvading Japan. Nothing.

I had something else to look forward to, beyondconquering Japan. In a couple of weeks there was goingto be a Strategy Saturday devoted just to Axis & Allies.That delighted me immensely. I would get to playagainst some of the city’s better players. Hopefully I’d beable to win while showing off my new strategies. On theother hand, it might turn out to be my chance to learnfirst hand that winning doesn’t matter. And when win-ning’s hardwired into your being, losing gracefully canbe a challenge on its own.


Dark hair…SixteenSaskatchewanaboriginal womenhave disappearedwithout a trace.Gwenda Yuzicappi’sdaughter Amberis one of them.

Donna-Rae Munroe

Her eyes look black in thephotograph. Her brownhair is hastily tied back

from her face; pieces are falling out.No makeup, slim in a t-shirt andjeans, she leans over the kitchentable, hands buried in a batch of ban-nock. There’s flour on her cheek andthe look on her face is strange. Star-ing straight ahead, Amber Redman isexpressionless, as if she knowsstrangers will be looking at this pho-tograph months after it was taken.

Gwenda Yuzicappi was surprisedto find this moment preserved on aroll of film, four months after the dayher nineteen-year-old daughter dis-appeared. She vanished July 15,2005. Today the picture is kept safe ina small pink album.

When Amber was a young girl,Gwenda wanted to see her dancepowwow. The day came, and Amber

overwhelmed her mother. In thetwisting and jumping young girl,Gwenda saw a special joy. Otherssaw it, too. Eight years ago, Amberwas named Junior Princess of Stand-ing Buffalo. When she was crowned,her family walked behind her inproud procession.

“She just looked so beautiful.They were singing her honour songand we were out there dancing. Itwas very happy.”

In Gwenda’s house on StandingBuffalo Indian Reserve there’s aphoto on the dining room wall of ayoung girl in a pageant banner. Witha toothy grin, she looks happy andbeautiful, dressed for powwow inbright yellow and red, braids in herhair.

Years later, in the school gymna-sium, Amber and her classmatesposed for photos in a swirl of dis-belief and excitement. Her hair hungloose and curled, and a powder bluegown floated around her ankles.When her grandmothers gatheredaround the young graduate, Gwendabrimmed with pride and love. Seeingthat photo now — Amber sur-rounded by three grandmothers —Gwenda can’t help but smile. It wassuch a happy day. Gwenda pointsout each person in the picture, con-necting four generations of Dakotawomen.

Flipping through the album at herkitchen table, she can still see Ambersitting in the dining room, sleepingin her mother’s bed and caring forher younger brother. She filled every

room in the house. Now, Amber ’sabsence fills every moment of everyday.

Even as Gwenda relaxes at home,she wears a t-shirt with Amber’s faceemblazoned on the front. Honouringher daughter has become a missionbut, as strong as she tries to be, shecan’t help wondering what hap-pened to her little girl. And thatmakes her cry.

“I miss her so much. The relation-ship between a mother and a daugh-ter is so special, the bond is so close,and when I know that she’s nothere, it worries me. Everything goesthrough my head. I think about ifshe’s being harmed, if she’s cold, ifshe’s being fed.”

She looks down at a second al-bum, thick and purple. In this albumGwenda has saved all the newspaperarticles published about her daugh-ter. They tell the story of a youngwoman who disappeared without atrace. She had long brown hair andbrown eyes and was dressed in bluejeans and a blue jean top on the nightshe went missing. Everyone wants toknow what happened to her.

Descending into the Qu’AppelleValley on Highway 10, just outsidethe historic town of Fort Qu’Appelle,the first building you see is theCountry Squire Inn with its attachedbar, Trapper ’s. Sitting next to thehighway and backed by a toweringhill, the lounge’s green neon lightsundulate in the darkness, floodingthe night. From the rear parking lot,


brown eyesthe entire barroom can be seenthrough wide windows: bar stools,pool tables, waitresses, everything.It’s quiet back there; the only move-ment is from the endless traffic inand out of the liquor off-sale and theoccasional patron stepping out for acigarette.

On July 15, 2005 Amber was there.She left her purse inside her cousin’scar and walked across the darkparking lot to the bar. Inside, a wait-ress served her just two beers, butthought she acted very drunk. Shefell down three times. She hit herhead. When the waitress told thisstory to Gwenda, the worried moth-

er was grateful for a tiny piece ofinformation, but frightened by whatit might mean. Gwenda wonders ifAmber could have been drugged,but doesn’t know because no one hasseen her daughter since.

Now the countryside aroundStanding Buffalo and Fort Qu’Appelle is covered in the footprintsof Amber’s family and friends andthe boot prints of RCMP. As thesearches scoured fields, highwaysand ditches, Gwenda remained athome, comforted by those close toher as she waited for news of herdaughter.

None came and police say they

can only wait for new information.Before her daughter went miss-

ing, Gwenda was unaware of thepain of other families in Canadawho’ve lost women. Now, tuckedinside her purple album is a heavyposter. Written white on glossy darkpaper are the names of five hundredwomen who have gone missing orbeen brutally murdered. What theyshare in common with Amber is theirrace. They are all aboriginal.

In the bush surrounding Clear-water Lake, Manitoba, Helen BettyOsborne’s body was found. She wasnaked, except for her boots, her face

PHO

TO B

Y C

HR

ISTO

PHER

ZW

ICK


viciously beaten. Her skull, cheek-bones and palate were broken. Overfifty stabbings damaged her lungs.One kidney was torn. Investigatorsbelieve her killer used a screwdriverand another blunt instrument tomutilate her. She was murdered onNovember 13, 1971.

Decades later, her name standsamong five hundred others compiledby the Native Women’s Associationof Canada, as part of the Sisters inSpirit campaign, a movement to stopviolence against aboriginal women.Her murder is also featured inAmnesty International’s 2004 reportStolen Sisters: A Human Rights Re-sponse to Discrimination and ViolenceAgainst Indigenous Women in Canada.The report contains not only Helen’sstory, but also the story of heryounger cousin, Felicia Solomon,also murdered; the murders ofRoxanna Thiara and AlishiaGermaine in Prince George, B.C.;the murder of Ramona Wilson inSmithers, B.C.; the missing andmurdered women of Vancouver ’sdowntown eastside; John MartinCrawford’s Saskatoon victims; andeighteen murdered women inEdmonton.

“Missing person cases are very,very challenging for police agenciesto work on and try to resolve.Throughout the whole thing, the factthat there are people patientlywaiting for answers is what helpsdrive the investigators,” saysCorporal Brian Jones, the RCMP’smedia officer in Saskatchewan.

Dark hair…But journalist and author Warren

Goulding is skeptical. Sitting at hisdesk in Victoria, B.C., he’s notimpressed with words, nor is hesurprised to hear about violenceagainst aboriginal women, especiallyin Saskatchewan.

Working as the crime and courtreporter for the Saskatoon StarPhoenix in the 1990s, Goulding wasassigned to cover the discovery ofthree bodies near the outskirts ofSaskatoon. When the bodies wereidentified as three aboriginalwomen, Goulding became moreinvolved in the case. Pen and paperin hand, he followed the story andwas dismayed by how little interestSaskatoon residents paid the deathsof three women from their commu-nity. He was shocked to discoverpolice were investigating JohnMartin Crawford, the man eventu-ally convicted of the killings, even asthey denied having a suspect.During the time the police werewatching him, Crawford reportedlyassaulted another Saskatoon woman,who escaped with her life.

Goulding was moved to write abook about the killings, Just AnotherIndian: A Serial Killer and Canada’sIndifference. The book candidly de-tails the murders committed byCrawford, the investigation, his trialand the mistakes made by the mediaand investigators.

When Goulding became involved,a list of five hundred missing ormurdered aboriginal women didn’texist; the scope of the problem was

buried from public view. Today,despite increased public awareness,he remains frustrated by policeforces’ inability to put an end to theattacks. And although he sits faraway in Victoria, the situation inSaskatchewan is on his mind.

He compares the case of allegedserial killer Robert Pickton, chargedwith the deaths of twenty-sevenwomen from Vancouver ’s down-town eastside. Meanwhile in Ed-monton, police have identified thepossibility of a serial killer followingthe discovery of thirteen female sextrade workers’ bodies since 1997,and up to five others dating back to1988.

“The Saskatchewan disappear-ances are really different, aren’t they?It’s not like these are girls that areworking the street or even living in ahigh risk area or anything,” he says.He wonders if this is part of a patternthe police won’t speak about.

Indeed, police are careful not todraw links. “We, the police agencies,haven’t identified a trend,” saysJones. “To me, a trend implies thatthere’s a connection between those(cases). There is a similarity in thatthey are aboriginal and that they arefemale.”

Yet it is undeniable. Something ishappening to aboriginal women thatdoesn’t affect non-aboriginals in thesame way. The numbers make itclear: although the province’s 66,895aboriginal women comprise onlyabout twelve per cent of Saskatch-ewan’s approximately 555,000

Melanie Dawn Geddes

Alishia Germaine

Daleen Muskego

Helen Betty Osborne


brown eyeswomen, the number of missing abor-iginal women stands at sixteen, fourmore than non-aboriginal missingwomen, who number twelve. Butrace, says Jones, doesn’t affect howthe RCMP or any police agency in-vestigates a missing persons report.

Amnesty International disagreesstrongly with this approach. In StolenSisters the group insists that to pre-vent racially motivated violence,police do need to recognize abori-ginal victims as being aboriginal.

As local newspapers reported onAmber’s disappearance and newsreached Gwenda of the missing anddead aboriginal women acrossCanada, she began to understand herdaughter’s disappearance in a newway, as part of a greater problemaffecting aboriginal women.

In the months following Amber’sdisappearance, she honoured herdaughter at a walk for missing abori-ginal women held in Regina. At aquiet Regina church service, shespoke to a United Church congrega-tion about the issue. She attended aretreat for family members of miss-ing women and held a ceremony tofeed Amber’s Indian name, Red StarWoman. She also reached out to twoother mothers with missing daugh-ters: Valorie Smokeyday and PaulineMuskego.

Smokeyday’s daughter, MelanieDawn Geddes — seen in her missingpersons posters as a pretty, vibrant-looking young woman — went miss-ing on April 13, 2005, less than a

month after Amber. She was gonefor five months before her remainswere found near the town ofSouthey, fifty-eight kilometres northof Regina, by a group of horsebackriders enjoying a bright and warmwinter day.

Smokeyday’s voice is quiet andshe speaks slowly, trying to fend offthe pain and emotion. She is firmlydedicated to finding her daughter’skiller but careful not to reveal toomuch, fearful of harming the policeinvestigation.

“I’m not giving up until we findout whatever happened to Melanie,or anybody, as a matter of fact,because it’s hard. Every day youwake up. Every day you go to bed.Every day that way. Even though weburied her, it’s still hard, not know-ing how she died and not knowingwho did it.”

Connecting with other mothers ofthe missing helps, but life is stillpainful. “I talk with them, but it’s notany easier. It’s not any easier whenyou bury your child, you know?Especially in this situation, the wayshe went.”

Muskego, who lives in OnionLake, fears something terrible hashappened to her daughter as well,but will continue to believe Daleen isalive until she learns otherwise. Sheinsists people speak in the presenttense when talking about herdaughter.

On May 18, 2004 Daleen, themother of a five-year-old daughter,left her Saskatoon home to meet

some friends and never returned.Police recovered her vehicle shortlyafter. Everything inside, the floormats, seat covers, steering wheelcover and contents of the glove boxand trunk were missing.

“Why does this happen? I don’tknow,” Muskego says in desper-ation.

In November, as the snow falls forthe first time since Amber disap-peared, Gwenda is depressed anddisheartened. Standing out on thehigh hill behind her house, she gazeson the bison in the valley below.Their brown heads stand out againstthe winter snow on the hillsidebehind. The sharp air fills their nos-trils and their black eyes glisten,wide and watery, from cold air undera fat sun. One puts a hoof forwardand then another, her weight leavingdeep prints in the hard snow. Shepresses her nose against its iciness,muzzling it until she finds a piece ofgrass, dry and crunchy in the chilland wanders farther forward, mark-ing her path in the snow.

Gwenda looks on, her lungs filledwith air from the valley, dark eyesglistening with tears. She steps for-ward in the snow and marks a paththat she did not want, but must makeanyway. Watching the buffalo makeits way through the world, sheknows she must put one foot in frontof the other until her daughter isfound.

Amber Redman

Felicia Solomon

Ramona Wilson

Roxanna Thiara


When Good FansGo Bad

For the young place-kicker from Daniel JungwirthVancouver, Regina seemed like agreat place to raise a family. Thenhe missed a crucial field goal.

November 14, 2004, was an ideal day forfootball. On the prairies, Regina reached a highof seven Celsius, unusually warm for lateautumn. But the air still carried a chill. It wasa game day — the Saskatchewan Rough-riders were about to face the B.C. Lionsin the Canadian Football Leaguewestern final. The winner would go onto battle for the Grey Cup, Canada’snational football prize. With the gameat Vancouver ’s B.C. Place stadium,Rider fans back home gathered in theirTV dens and local sports bars, eyesglued to the big screens. This wouldbe their year, they told themselves.Already they’d endured so much:missing the big show last season,losing the Grey Cup in ‘97, andliving through a long streak ofmissed playoff bids. Waitingfor the Cup had become thenorm — fourteen years of‘maybe next year.’

Patience, they said. Itwill come.

From the openingkick-off, people saton the edge of their

PHO

TO B

Y J

ERA

MI

PER

GEL


seats, clenching their beer glasses.Cheers and jeers fell upon the deafears of the television screen. Only aminute and a half into the game, B.C.scored. A collective groan rose acrossSaskatchewan. It would be the firstof a series of emotional crests andvalleys as the two teams matchedpoints.

By the time the seconds ticked offthe clock in the final quarter, though,quiet triumph glowed on the faces ofthe watching fans. Saskatchewanwas ahead 24-21. That is, until B.C.place-kicker Duncan O’Mahonybooted a 47-yard field goal throughthe uprights, sending the game intoovertime. The audience drained theirbeer glasses, victory forestalled.

On the TV screen, Saskatchewankicker Paul McCallum lined up the‘gimme’, a short can’t-miss kick justeighteen yards from the uprights toend the game in glory. The fanschanted religiously: ‘Go, Riders, Go.’Some closed their eyes. When theyopened them, McCallum was lyingdesolately on the green turf, handscovering his face.

The mild day turned utterly coldand bleak.

Another season gone. People leftbars in a defeated and huncheddeath march. Patience, most said.Next year. But others simmered,patience spent. Trouble brewed. Toomany hopes over too many yearshad ridden on this moment.

A Roughriders game is a carnivalof costumes, makeup and props, agreen and white masquerade un-masking the crowd’s creative genius.With capes made of Saskatchewanflags and slogans stenciled on barechests and beer bellies, people fallinto a fantasy world where men incoconut bras feel no shame in theanonymity of like-minded patriots.Every game is an adventure, an

unpredictable journey. Fans file intothe stands with religious fervour.Standing, sitting, call and response,the game is sacrosanct: good versusevil, them against us.

There is a feast of nachos andhamburgers, a heart attack awayfrom heaven. Mouths are whettedwith guzzled beer. Rider flags onhockey sticks are unfurled andwatermelon helmets — odd head-gear popularized by a marketingcampaign — are donned whilebugles blow. Fans slop their beer andbegin to stagger. By the time theplayers take the field, the inner beastis stirring. Foul mouths loosen.Chants and hexes spill into pro-fanities. Opposing fans, opposingplayers and even home team playersbecome targets.

And there’s safety in numbers.When you’re a Rider fan, anywherein the country, you’re never alone.One person starts something, every-one joins in. One minute mini-footballs and beach balls are flyinggaily through stands. The next min-ute, empty beer cups and snowballsare pelting the backs of the Edmon-ton Eskimos. It’s okay, though,because everyone is doing it. Peopleare having fun.

People like Doug Grimstad. Henever wore make-up or costumeswhen he went to a Rider game. Hejust had fun. In his late forties, heenjoyed the game with a few buddieswhile having a couple of beer. Hewas one of the guys. But on that fate-ful November evening, he was oneof the guys who took fandom too far,something he regrets to this day.

Grimstad says he had no desire towatch football before he moved toRegina. It wasn’t until 1995, when hebought his first season ticket, that hewas overcome with Rider pride.A province hyped on a team is in-fectious. A Rider fan, he says, is

someone who shows pride in thecommunity and history of the team.

Rider pride wasn’t always greenand white. The team colours werepurple and gold when the ReginaRugby Club was born at a meeting atcity hall on September 6, 1910. Thatyear, the team lost its first game toMoose Jaw, 16-6. It would lose thetwo subsequent rematches as well,leaving the club winless in its firstyear. Thus a tradition began.

Ninety-six years later, the Ridershave won only two Grey Cup cham-pionships despite spending manyseasons at the top of the league. Thefirst Cup was in 1966, the second notuntil 1989. That year, Dave Ridgwaywon the championship with TheKick, a legendary 35-yard field goalat the end of the game. The Riderswon 43-40.

It was a tough act to follow for ayoung Paul McCallum.

McCallum hadn’t even playedfootball until he was twenty. Grow-ing up in Vancouver, his first lovewas soccer. But, after returning froma soccer stint in Europe, he fell into anew career by chance. The SurreyRams football team was missing akicker, and McCallum had the foot tolead him to all-Canadian status in hisfirst year.

In 1994 McCallum moved toRegina and became a Rider, kickingbeside Ridgway, who would retire atthe end of the season. He found thecity’s people friendly and easy-going. He liked the lifestyle. Itseemed like a good place to raise afamily.

He and his family made Reginatheir home year round. From Mayuntil November, McCallum wasfully involved in football. In the off-season he worked at as a commu-nications manager at SaskEnergy.He became a prominent spokesper-son for KidSport, raising money so


disadvantaged children could playsports.

McCallum had found his place inthe community. Still, Regina couldsometimes feel like a fishbowl.

The five-foot-eleven McCallumhad a face easily recognizable in amodest metropolis of 180,000. Peopleoften approached him to talk footballand lend their opinions. “I’d bewalking with (my dad) when he’dcome and visit. People would say ‘HiPaul’ to me, first-name basis. Hesaid, ‘Do you know that guy?’ andI’d say, ‘Nope.’” Sometimes theattention grew tiring, but it was allpart of the job. Even after twelveyears, he didn’t mind.

On game day, McCallum wouldarrive at Taylor Field two and a halfhours before kickoff, already stockedup on pasta and chicken from hisfavourite local restaurant. There hewould stretch out, get a massageand, finally, dress. In the dressingroom, he’d ponder his three pairsof kicking shoes and make a selec-tion. He had a routine, but he wasn’tsuperstitious. He didn’t get allwound up with the rest of the team,either. “I should be more focusedand relaxed than getting excited andall hyped up and getting my bloodpressure going,” he said.

Standing on the field, he couldfeel the electricity of the homecrowd. Ninety percent of the gamewas mental. The fans expected awinning performance. “They’repaying their money to come see usput a good product on the field anddo our jobs properly. It’s a sport —sometimes the ball falls in yourfavour, sometimes it doesn’t.”

He knew there were people wholiked him and people who didn’t —it didn’t bother him. Yet.

McCallum’s address and phonenumber were unlisted — but Regina

was a small town and word gotaround. His wife Crescent was homewith their two daughters on thenight of the missed kick.

Crescent called the police aroundsix o’clock saying there was moretraffic than usual passing the north-west Regina residence. Momentslater, eggs began raining on the frontwindows.

Then Doug Grimstad — the manwho’d only been a fan since he’dpurchased a season ticket in 1995 —arrived with a truckload of manure.He and friend Kelly Garchinskimistakenly dumped it on the neigh-bour ’s driveway, but the note at-tached was for McCallum. Anothercar drove by. Crescent heard some-one yelling from the open window,threatening to burn down the house.Incredibly, it was their neighbour.The car pulled to a stop in front ofthe home of Mark Lehmond.

Crescent was mad, scared andshocked. But, wanting to see Leh-mond’s face, she marched up andconfronted him. According to Cres-cent’s victim impact statement,Lehmond repeatedly screamed histhreat, standing two feet from herface. In capital letters she wrote:

“DO YOU HAVE ANY IDEAWHAT IT FEELS LIKE TO HAVEA CRAZED GROWN 31 YEAR OLDMAN SCREAMING IN YOUR FACETHAT HE IS GOING TO BURNYOUR CHILDREN TO DEATH!”

Concerned for their safety, Cres-cent hustled her children to anotherneighbour’s house. Her quiet, friend-

ly neigbourhood had turned into a“bad dream”.

“I DON’T WANT AN APOLOGYFROM YOU. I JUST WANT YOUTO NEVER COME NEAR MYCHILDREN OR OUR FAMILY OROUR HOUSE EVER.”

Meanwhile, McCallum under-stood he was responsible for themissed field goal. After the game hewaited in the trainer’s room, unableto face his teammates. Later, at hisparents’ Vancouver home, he heardabout what had happened backhome. Until then, McCallum wascrushed, expecting to be run out ofRegina because of the botched kick.But the attacks on the McCallumhousehold turned the tide. Hewanted to get home right away. Hismom wanted to go with him.

“Be pissed at me. Go ahead. Callme a bum. Call me a loser. Call mewashed up. Do whatever you want.You’re entitled to your opinion.Come tell me. Come to the stadium.Do whatever you want. But don’t gonear my family,” McCallum saidlater in an interview with the ReginaLeader-Post.

Crescent didn’t go to work thenext day and McCallum’s daughtersdidn’t go to school. The incidentsmade headlines across Canada andthe United States, including USAToday, the Washington Post and theDetroit Free Press.

Shane Chapman is a Rider fanwho admits it was probably a goodthing he didn’t have a pick-up truckand manure after the game. “I thinkevery fan who is that diehard abouttheir team has a point where they’renot thinking rationally. It’s just thoseguys who decided to act on it.”

Dr. Ian MacAusland-Berg, a psy-chology professor at Regina’s LutherCollege, says such transgressionsbegin with an affiliation with the

“Don’t

go near

my family.”


team. But he doubts it’s the actualteam that stirs a fan’s emotions ofpride, loyalty and passion. MostRiders are African-Americans fromlarge southern U.S. cities, while theirfans are largely white and from ruralareas or small cities. What’s theirconnection?

Location.MacAusland-Berg explains sports

teams come to represent a popula-tion by geography, which translatespsychologically. “(The Roughriders)play here, they’re a professional foot-ball team, we associate with them interms of they represent us, representour hopes, our aspirations. Whenthey succeed, we succeed.” Peopledon’t necessarily see sport as enter-tainment, he says, but as an exten-sion of themselves and their nation-ality.

The attacks on the McCallumfamily took the affiliation too far,though. Without knowing thepeople, MacAusland-Berg speculatesthe offenders’ perceptions were dis-torted that night. “What I wouldguess is their affiliation with theteam is so strong that they exper-ienced the loss as crushing them-selves and took it out on McCallumbecause they saw McCallum as dis-appointing them directly.”

It wasn’t the first time. GlenSuitor, who played for the Roug-hriders for eleven seasons ending in1995, received death threats after hewas called for pass interference onSeptember 30, 1989, in another gameagainst the B.C. Lions. The Rough-riders went on to win the Grey Cupthat year, though.

In the wake of the McCallumincident, the mayor, the media andfellow football players all denouncedthe actions and conveyed their sym-pathy, and the McCallums receivedmany cards and a petition of signa-tures from supportive fans. Those

guys weren’t true Rider fans, peoplesaid.

The response doesn’t surpriseMacAusland-Berg. In a social group,there are expected rules of conductpoliced from within, he explains.People had to defend their affiliationby stating the small minority didn’trepresent them.

A year and a half later, Rough-rider spokesperson Ryan Whipplersays bad fan behaviour will not betolerated by the club. The club hasalready banned the three men fromattending any Roughrider games atTaylor Field, he points out. “If that’sgoing to be your behaviour, you canstay at home. We don’t want theirmoney, we don’t want anything todo with them.”

While Grimstad, Garchinski andLehmond sit at home, banned, everysummer thousands more Rider fansreturn to Taylor Field for anotherseason. Beer in hand, they chant andhex, a united, flag-waving horde.Going to games is tradition. It’s fun.

Mark Lehmond is no longerMcCallum’s neighbour. After theincident, he lost his job at QualityTire and moved. The police chargedhim with threatening to damageproperty. In a written statement tothe Leader-Post, he expressed deepregret: “What I did do was make astupid remark as I passed by theMcCallum house on my regular triphome and said something twice Iwish I could take back. If I’d knownat the time what the McCallumfamily was experiencing I would

never have uttered a word. Therewas never any harm intended.”On January 19, 2005 he received asuspended sentence with eighteenmonths probation for creating an“atmosphere of terror.” He was alsoordered to perform one hundredhours of community service.

Grimstad and Garchinski werecharged with mischief under $5,000for dumping the manure. Insteadof criminal records, though, thetwo men were referred to the ReginaAlternative Measures Program(RAMP) for mediation. When ap-proached for an interview, Grimstadprovided a few background com-ments but said on behalf of himselfand Garchinski they’d like to “leavea sleeping dog lie.”

McCallum wants to forget, too.“That’s the one thing about play-

ing here, is people keep talkingabout things that have happened inthe past,” says McCallum. “Just keepgoing — you’re not going to get anyfurther ahead if you’re looking back-wards.”

Although McCallum is a littlemore guarded these days, he’s put-ting the memory behind him. InJanuary 2005, he sold his shoes andhelmet from the game on eBay, alongwith an autographed photo of pastRider greats Roger Aldag and BobPoley. The sale raised $3,050 forKidSport and Asian tsunami relief.

In the end, it’s a team sport,McCallum says. You can’t dwell onyour own mistakes, or the aftermath.“If I was to sit there and worry aboutmissing a kick and somebody doingsomething, I wouldn’t be playing.”

So he will continue to play —ironically, for the B.C. Lions. Hesigned as free agent February 22,2006, after the Riders offered a thirtypercent pay cut.

Paul McCallum has left the fish-bowl.

“They

represent

our hopes.”


PHO

TO B

Y C

ASS

IE H

AW

RY

SH

Contemplation


PHO

TO B

Y J

ULI

E FO

LK

Celebration


TIREDCanadian, tired.

It doesn’t take long for the waxed, white tile floor ofCanadian Tire to become filthy. Wandering shopperstrack mud from an unseasonably warm Regina winter

through the retail giant’s five departments — Automo-tive, Hardware, Housewares, Sporting Goods andSeasonal — each section offering products designed toaddress the domestic woes of the average Canuck. On aSaturday afternoon, they arrive by the dozen, stuffingtheir loonies and their children into squeaky-wheeledcarts. Armed with a weekly store flyer, they are on amission. Objective: procure the cheap products thattickled their fancy as they browsed through theaforementioned leaflet over morning coffee.

Customers soon learn, however, that megastoreshopping is like an Easter egg hunt — the object of desireis seldom in sight.

Nevertheless, something stands out in the aisles.Young people, some only sixteen, wear bright red golfshirts, unlucky beacons for time-pressed shopaholicswith little patience for the naïve demeanor of pubescentstore-minders. Teenage apathy and middle-aged insis-tence can be a volatile mix.

A screaming customer is just one of many annoyingsounds at the Tire. There’s also the early-Ninetiescountry mix that has played on the P.A. system for atleast five years, interrupted only by booming messagesfor shoppers and employees. Mobile store phones carriedby employees ring incessently. Each cashier’s till makes aperky beeping noise whenever a product is scanned anda profit is made. The handles of gallon pails rattle in thepaint shaker at the hardware counter. A nearby machinesqueals as it cuts a fresh key. The store even has the nerveto play its grating TV commercials, right next to theproduct being shilled on-screen.

High above the sales floor is a black two-way mirror.It’s impossible to tell if the owner is ominously watchingthe employees as they work, hiding like the Wizard ofOz. The workers, who frequently chat amongst them-selves and sometimes engage in horseplay on the retailfloor, seem unaffected by the scrutiny of managerial eyes,whether it’s through the two-way mirror or a hiddensurveillance camera.

Rebels without a cause? Hardly. More likely, a sign ofinexperience — keeping training apace with staff turn-over is tough. Yet such organizational dilemmas are meresymptoms of a fundamental problem: the employees arebeing paid next to nothing for work that is spirituallynumbing.

I know because I’m one of them.After spending a few months in early 2004 working as

night watchman at a crop chemical plant, I decided toapply for a job at Canadian Tire. The store manager saidhe was impressed by my walking speed; he’d never seenanyone approach his office so quickly. Late nights spentbriskly patrolling the chemical plant in sub-zero temper-atures had perhaps paid off. It appeared being a Univer-sity of Regina student also carried weight in the retailindustry. I started my warehouse job at the ‘special wage’of seven dollars an hour, rather than the $6.65 minimumwage.

The work was simple, albeit backbreaking and banal.Stock arrived twice weekly on a semi-trailer unit. We un-loaded and sorted products in a monotonous assemblyline, then put them on dusty shelves in the vast ware-house of the store. Each item was shelved using a seven-digit product number, with the first two digits designat-ing a product class — for example, lawnmowers — andthe last four numbers designating the actual product.

Once I got to know the place, I realized I, too, was justanother number. All the employees were given productnumbers, just like the merchandise, through which theywere identified in store’s computer system. Thestoreowner only knew employees by name if they weretroublemakers, or in upper management.

A year later, I was offered a promotion (in position,not pay, of course) to the hardware department of theretail floor. I naively assumed I would be trained toanswer questions about the products I was selling.However, just as my name seemed of little importance tomy employer, so too, it seemed, was my actual expertise.Nearly anyone who shops regularly at the store will tellyou knowledgeable staffers are few and far between. Butwhy should a corporation care? No matter how much


Why do people with jobs livein poverty? Ken Gousseauplunges into the low wage

world of the megastore.

customers complain, they always come back. Thisexpertise deficit was of grave concern to me, though, as Iquickly grew tired of being yelled at.

The hardware department was where I met Luke. Hedidn’t look like he should be working at Canadian Tirefor a pittance. He spoke eloquently, wore thick-rimmedglasses and was majoring in political science. I wassurprised when he told me he’d been working at thestore for six years. He said he appreciated the flexiblehours, especially around exam time. However, theminiscule wage was another matter. “It’s tough to get upat eight in the morning when it’s forty below, and go towork for eight dollars an hour. It doesn’t seem worth itmost days,” he said. “If I bust my ass and we sell acouple hundred bucks more stuff, it doesn’t affect me atall. I don’t see any of that (profit). I’m still making adollar above minimum wage, so that’s not a lot of incen-tive.” Not surprisingly, Luke still lived with his parents;he’d had trouble paying off his student loans. He alsoowned a car and gas was expensive. “If I had to pay forrent and all the bills every month, I don’t think there’sany way my salary could support me,” he told me.

As months passed, my product knowledge increasedmuch faster than my pay, now a meager $7.50. I imag-ined the owner driving a brand new Yukon Denali toan opulent home where he dined on lobster and caviar.Meanwhile I could barely afford my rusted-out HondaCivic, or the tiny one-bedroom apartment where I feastedon Kraft Dinner.

Today as I labour through my six hundredth box ofgooey orange noodles in my closet-like abode I stop,mid-chew, and wonder.

Why am I living like this when I have a job?On a blustery February afternoon I approach the

downtown Knox-Metropolitan United Church and ringthe buzzer marked Regina Anti-Poverty Ministry. Inside,social activist Peter Gilmer tells me the majority ofminimum wage earners are “vulnerable workers” livingin poverty. He estimates there are roughly 18,000 low-income workers below the poverty line in Regina, in-cluding people working just above the minimum wage,

like Luke and I. The provincial government’s response —a minimum wage increase to $7.55 per hour on March 1,2006 — hasn’t gone far enough to address the problem,Gilmer says.

I leave with a better grasp of the situation in Reginabut I still don’t fully understand why I’m working fornothing. At the office of the Saskatchewan Federation ofLabour, president Larry Hubich says the minimum wageshould be at least eight or nine dollars an hour to boostme above the poverty line. But, in fairness to provinciallegislators, the government is facing mounting pressurefrom the business community to keep wages low, Hubichtells me. “All you need to do is pick up any newspaperwhen there’s even the slightest hint that the MinimumWage Board is going to examine whether or not theminimum wage should be raised, and the chorus of ‘boo’comes from all corners of the business crowd,” he says,adding it’s no secret Saskatchewan businesses spendmillions each year lobbying politicians at all levels tokeep wages down.

Still unsatisfied, I phone Canadian Tire’s head office inToronto. Lisa Gibson, media and public relations man-ager, says I have to talk to the management at my store,as they are the ones who set wage policy — not headoffice. At that moment I realize I’ll never know for certainwhy I make so little money for such hard work. I can’trisk asking my boss that question. I’ve come full circle.Now I know the meaning of “vulnerable worker”.

But not for long.Graduating with a journalism degree, I swear I’ll

never work for near-minimum wage again. I walk slowlynow as I navigate the aisles, the weight of this placehaving crushed my soul long ago, and with it the walk-ing speed that impressed my employer. Nevertheless, Ican’t help but smile when I look at the sun shimmeringoff the large glass exit doors. I have found a way out. Themoment of escape will undoubtedly be bittersweet,though, as I’ll be thinking of the thousands of low-income workers in Regina who aren’t so lucky.

PHOTO BY JERAMI PERGEL


After years of wandering,

Croatian-born photographer

and naturalist Branimir Gjetvaj

finally found roots in

Saskatchewan’s wide-open

spaces — only to learn

his adopted landscape is

under threat. Can a lone man

with a camera turn the tide?

Kacie Andrews

It was an hour after midnightbut the full moon lit the south-western Saskatchewan plains of

the Great Sand Hills, making it seemjust before dawn. Overhead, starsdisplayed elaborate constellations ina late summer sky. On the savannah-like prairie, elusive deer snortedfaintly, puzzled by a camera-totingstranger crossing their terrain longafter the sun had called it quits.Three hours past sunset, BranimirGjetvaj was still seeking the rightlight, driven by the knowledge thatthe landscape before him lay underthe threat of increased natural gasdevelopment. He needed to showpeople the area’s natural beauty andconvince them it was worth protect-ing. He’d taken dozens of picturesalready but still needed the perfectone that would say it all.

Gjetvaj (pronounced jet-vaa-y )developed his love for the outdoorswhile hiking and playing in theforests of his childhood. Born in1960, he grew up in Zagreb, capitalof Croatia. His backyard was a gate-way to the foothills of the nearbyMedvednica — or ‘Bear’ — Moun-tain. In forests where bears roamedcenturies earlier, Gjetvaj playedTarzan and caught frogs in thestreams. Photography hadn’t enteredhis mind yet. That would come later.Back then, the natural world was hissingular passion. There was no ques-tion what he would study when itcame time for university, despite hismother’s misgivings. “Mom tried toconvince me not to go into biology.She was afraid I wouldn’t be able tofind a job,” recalls Gjetvaj.

It turned out she had some fore-sight, but for now her worries didlittle to dissuade him. At the Univer-sity of Zagreb, southeastern Europe’slargest and oldest university, Gjetvajthrived in the hustle and bustle ofcampus life. He joined all the out-

Seekingthe Light

PHOTO BY STEPHANE BONNEVILLE


door nature groups on campus,going on countless fieldtrips to sur-vey plants, birds and other animals.Camping out in the wilderness, hewas in his element. He discovered heloved being around people, too,almost as much as he loved beingoutside.

One day, renowned Croatian na-ture photographer Vladimir Pfeifervisited campus. Gjetvaj went to hispresentation and admired howPfeifer wove the art of photographywith the wonders of nature to createbeautiful lasting images. It was like adoor opening: the young sciencestudent’s love affair with light andlandscapes was born. After the pre-sentation, Gjetvaj took picturesalmost every weekend. He broughthis camera along when trekkingthrough the mountains with thehiking club, and on nature excur-sions with his classmates.

Four years later Gjetvaj completedhis undergrad degree and enrolled inpost-graduate studies, but was soondisappointed: the Zagreb programwas small and the classes didn’tappeal to him. One day, a professortold him about Nova Scotia, Canada.The professor had finished hismasters at Dalhousie University inHalifax. “It’s a nice place, why don’tyou go?” he asked Gjetvaj. It wasexactly the push Gjetvaj needed. Hehad never been to Canada. It wouldbe someplace new and different.There was even a scholarship avail-able — all he had to do was apply.

“What the heck,” he said to him-self. “I’ll go!”

In April 1987 Gjetvaj got his firstglimpse of Canada. He left behind acountry that had been bursting withgreenery and life since the beginningof March. Stepping off the plane inHalifax, he was taken aback to find acity still in the depressingly coldclutches of a snowy Canadian

winter. A few days after he arrived,Halifax harbour had to be shut downbecause sea-ice had blown in fromthe frigid North Atlantic. For a per-son raised near the balmy AdriaticSea, it was shocking that the oceancould get cold enough to freeze.

Gjetvaj missed his family and feltdreadfully out of place. The winterseemed to go on forever. But he soondiscovered he wasn’t alone — Dal-housie had many international stu-dents in the same boat. It wasn’t longbefore he started meeting peopleand making new friends. After awhile, he found himself surroundedby people who shared his interests.When he wasn’t hard at work at uni-versity, he went on trips with his newtroupe, exploring Canada’s east coastand taking pictures of everything.

His original intent was to finishhis degree and return to Croatia, butthe more he saw of North America,the more he wanted to stay andexplore. He calculated he’d need tenmore years to see every place on hislist. Another reason to stay: it waseasier to get funding and researchgrants than back home. In 1990,aided by another scholarship, Gjetvajpacked his belongings, mostly cam-era gear, and moved west to Queen’sUniversity in Kingston, Ontario tobegin a PhD in genetics — and toexplore a new piece of Canada.

Once again, Gjetvaj was alone

in a new place. This time, though,making friends wasn’t so easy. Themajority of Queen’s students werelocals. Instead of exploring, theywent home for the weekends.Lonely, he turned to photography,signing up for courses in colour,black and white and portraiture.

Obtaining a PhD was a long andarduous process. Gjetvaj neededwork to pay the bills, but jobs werehard to come by. Short on money, hemoved back to Nova Scotia andfound employment as a lab techni-cian. It was then that he first startedthinking seriously of photography asa real job. Before it was just a hobby,a creative outlet to keep busy. NowGjetvaj pored through the booksat the local small business centre,teaching himself the business side ofphotography. He started sellingframed prints and magazine photos.At the same time he kept chippingaway at his PhD, finally finishing itin 1993.

It was time to move on, he real-ized. The sense of community andcompanionship at Dalhousie wasn’tthe same as before, when he was astudent. Tired of the isolation andpoor job prospects, Gjetvaj headed tothe United States. He started out as atechnician in West Virginia and fromthere traveled everywhere: Arizona,New Mexico, Texas, South Dakota.He found new places and kepttaking pictures — but he never re-discovered the kinship he’d enjoyedin those first years at Dalhousie. Hehad visions of ending up alone.“What if I end up like the photo-grapher in Croatia?” he thought tohimself. Vladimir Pfiefer, the manwho’d been his inspiration, hadnever married and now lived alonein a home filled with boxes of cameragear and camping supplies. Gjetvaj’sown living room was looking morelike that every day.

“What the heck.I’ll go!”

Gjetvaj said,when he heardabout Canada.


Gjetvaj drifted back to NovaScotia, where he worked odd jobs.Then a promising prospect openedup at the University of Saskatchewanin Saskatoon. It wasn’t just anotherlab tech position, but a researchopportunity with Agriculture andAgri-Food Canada, studying canola.When Gjetvaj got word at the end of1997 that the position was his if hewanted it, he packed his things againand headed west.

Gjetvaj had never been to theCanadian prairies before. He wasstruck by how different the land-scape was compared to all the otherplaces he’d been. There was nothinglike the flat open grasslands ofsouthern and central Saskatchewanback home in Croatia. But whatreally impressed him was the diver-sity of ecosystems. Gjetvaj dis-covered the hilly ridges of theQu’Appelle Valley, the northernboreal forest and lakes of PrinceAlbert National Park, the unspoiledprairie of Grasslands National Park,and even sand dunes in the GreatSand Hills in southwest Saskatch-

ewan. Everywhere he turned, therewas another gorgeous landscape tophotograph.

Not only did Gjetvaj fall in lovewith the province’s natural spaces,he found a community there, too.When he wasn’t working, Gjetvajwas out getting acquainted with thelocal environmentalist and naturegroups. The place brimmed withpeople who shared his ideals andpassion for nature. Enjoying a good,secure job and an active, invigour-ating environmental community,Gjetvaj found himself in his element,right in the thick of things, sur-rounded by people.

The more he learned about theland, the more he learned about thechanges affecting the people whohad lived on it for generations, likeincreased logging and diminishinghabitat. His photography becameprogressively more about ignitingpeople’s interest in conservation.Number one on his list was the pushby developers to increase oil andnatural gas exploration in some ofGreat Sand Hills’ most sensitive

areas. He needed a way to get theword out to the public and politi-cians.

A presentation at the World Wil-derness Congress in 2005 held theanswer Gjetvaj was looking for: con-servation photography. The exampleof Ansel Adams — whose workhelped American wilderness areasgain national park designation —demonstrated how photographicbooks could ultimately sway govern-ment opinion. Gjetvaj came homewith a new sense of purpose. He hadnever created a book before — itwould be a new challenge. He knewhe didn’t want it to be preachy;Gjetvaj was actually in favor of somedevelopment, as long as it was sus-tainable and left the most sensitiveareas untouched. The most impor-tant thing would be to show thateverything on the land’s surface wasjust as valuable, if not more so, thanthe fossil fuel underneath.

After years of drifting, he hadfound a home and a mission for hisphotography. Bent over his camerain the moonlit landscape of the GreatSand Hills, he hoped he’d have thebook finished before the major oildevelopment decisions were made.But even if governments listenedmore to business than to one loneman with a camera, it wouldn’t be invain. These pictures might be allsome people would ever get to see ofpristine prairie mixed with desert-like sand dunes. He trained his lenson an old cattle chute that created aninteresting shape against the faint-litrolling hills. The Big Dipper hung inthe upper corner of the frame. Not abad shot, considering it had onlytaken him three hours to find it. Itwas the image he needed; now hecould pack up for the night. Heneeded some rest, if he was goingto be up at dawn to shoot the sun-rise. PH

OTO

BY

STE

PHA

NE

BO

NN

EVIL

LE

He’d never seenanything like the prairies.


Mother and daughter

Friends

PHO

TO B

Y J

OLI

E TO

EWS

PHO

TO B

Y A

NG

ELA

HIL

L

University of Regina School of Journalism ■ www.uregina.ca/journal ■ 306.585.4420

PHO

TO B

Y T

REN

T W

AR

NER

PHO

TO B

Y P

AM

ELA

CR

AD

OC

K

PHO

TO B

Y S

TEPH

AN

E B

ON

NEV

ILLE

The city

to danceink.urjschool.ca/wp-content/uploads/2006/06/crow2006.pdf · the crow spring 2006 3...

Documents