THE STEW Magazine 08-11 by The Stew Magazine

July 2011 | THE STEW Magazine | PAGE 1

ISSUE 2.8 | AUGUST 2011

the Literary issue

Inside: Winning Stories from CIRAC Pages 4-7 Fiction by Laura Kelsey Page 16-17 Michael Jones writes from his Seoul Page 23

PAGE 2 | THE STEW Magazine | July 2011

We believe that everyone has at least one book in them somewhere. Mind you, there’s no telling until it’s too late if it’s a good one or a terrible one.

You’ve written your novel; now what? BY ANN WALSH AUTHOR

On the Cover: Our cover picture, snapped by the talented Robyn Mumford of Robyn Louise Photography, features Candace Copley, a singer / songwriter from Lac la Hache who recently released an album, Before the Good, and Laura Kelsey, a singer / songwriter / writer from 100 Mile House. Ms. Kelsey is one of the feature writers in this, our ‘Literary Issue’, which also includes the winners of the Central Interior Regional Arts Council’s writing competition. Plus theres poetry, a look at a local, annual literary anthology, and all the regular features you’ve come to know and love from your friends at The Stew Magazine.

You’ve written your novel/ article/memoir/poetry, revised it, revised again, proofread and maybe hired a professional editor to make sure it’s as polished as it can be. It’s ready to be published, but now what do you do? The world of publishing is changing, which is both good and bad. E-books are proliferating, but copyright and fair payment for e-books have not been established by many publishers. However, if you publish your own e-book (there are many programs that will guide you through the process) all profits from the book sales go to you, not to a publisher. A traditional publisher pays a royalty of 8-10% of the list price of every book sold; less on e-books. The disadvantage of self publishing is that you have to do your own promotion, editing, layout and cover design. You have to arrange your own media interviews, take out ads so people know you have a book for sale, list with Amazon or another on-line sales site and persistently encourage friends, family and strangers on the bus to buy your book. You can also publish a hard copy of your book and tour bookstores, trying to persuade them to carry it. Chapters will sometimes stock self-published books, taking a 40-50% cut for themselves. There are also on-line magazines that publish everything from poetry to medical advice. Unfortunately, they don’t usually offer payment. Ask Mr. Google about these sites. He knows just

TRY,TRY AGAIN  There will be rejections. There might be many. Don’t let them get you down, and whatever you do, don’t give up.

about everything. If you decide to try the traditional (and probably soon to be archaic) method of getting your words into print, here are some suggestions. 1 Research, research, research. Which magazines publish short stories, poems (or whatever else you have written) and might be open to seeing a submission from you? No point in sending an article on butterflies to a car magazine. Research before submitting anything. 2. Most magazine and book publishers have webpages that

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offer ‘submissions guidelines.’ Take a look, find out if they want you to send a hard copy (never, never send your only copy and either tell the publisher to recycle if rejected or send a stamped, self addressed envelope (SASE) to cover the cost of the manuscript being returned to you.) More and more publishers are accepting e-mailed submissions, but check the format they want you to use, the word count, the headings, pagination, etc. 3. If a publisher’s guidelines say ‘no unsolicited submissions’ they mean it. They won’t look at

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a piece that comes unrepresented by an agent. (A word of warning, never hire an agent who wants money up front. Check the “Editors and Predators” site for more information on finding legitimate agents, editors and publishers). 4. Make sure your cover letter rocks. Keep it short (only one page) and to the point. “I raise chickens” won’t help you sell your spy novel. Proofread and double check that letter. One agent told me that a single spelling or grammar error in a covering letter meant he didn’t bother reading the manuscript. 5. Send only what is asked for. If the publisher wants to see the first three chapters, don’t send the first seven. They won’t be read; the whole submission might not be read. 6. If you have written a picture book, don’t send illustrations unless you are a professional artist with a great portfolio. 7. Don’t give up. Keep sending your words out, don’t burn your novel after that first rejection. Every professional writer has a story about a book that was rejected over and over then finally published. “Gone With The Wind” was rejected thirty eight times. There are books and on-line sites that can offer you more information about selling your words than this short article. Check them out. Congratulations to the winners of the CIRAC writing contest! You’re already published, thanks to The Stew. Visit Ann Walsh’s website for her book titles — http://annwalsh.ca

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July 2011 | THE STEW Magazine | PAGE 3

Nutrition Facts Serving Size: 24 pgs Servings Per Container 1 Amount Per Serving

Calories 0 % Daily Value* Noise Seriously, we actually used to think that if we put the baby in her own room we wouldn’t hear her screaming. Oh, how times change. Beer Gotta do something to get through all that noise Rain It’s summer, isn’t it? Apparently Mother Nature didn’t get the memo.

Winning stories from CIRAC Pages 4-7

Ingredients (or things that helped us get through the last month): Watching and listening as an eight to 12 week old baby begins to learn how to move in new ways and make completely new noises; wondering how much longer it’ll be before that same baby becomes entirely self-mobile; a growing mound of said baby’s accoutrement breeding all over the living room; cloth diapers; load ofter load of laundry for the cloth diapers; hitting up a couple of the BC festivals going on in July (with hopefully more to come in August); while camping at those same festivals, in the rain, learning that your almost brand new baby actually seems to sleep better out in the middle of nowhere; copious amounts of hot dogs, usually cold (camping in the rain, quick bites at festivals); discovering that the new press you’ve just switched to did an awesome job with your magazine; keeping the TV off more and more often because, come on, there’s nothing good on there anyway; getting tickets to see the combo of They Might Be Giants and Jonathon Coulton in Vancouver in November; fresh veggies from the Oliver Street Market; sanity breaks with Mary at Dandelion Living (oh yeah, that’s a plug); more cloth diapers; ‘home brewed’ orange wheat beer; more orange wheat beer; looking forward to the lime cerveza beer; planning a soon-to-be-announced event for September (which is going to be awesome!); loads of local music; realizing that we know so little about the BC indie music scene, and that we’re dying to plug into it better; reminders that life is precious and that we need to nurture our friendships and family; did we mention diapers?

Fiction by Laura Kelsey Pages 16-17

Michael Jones writes from his Seoul Page 23

PAGE 9  ‘Lived Experience’: A local, literary anthology PAGE 15  The Hug: Fiction by Torrey Owen PAGE 18  Close encounters of the vehicular kind

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PAGE 4 | THE STEW Magazine | July 2011

Congratulations to Delanie Neville for winning the Central Interior Regional Arts Council’s writing competition!

HAD THAT NOT WINNER OF THE CENTRAL INTERIOR REGIONAL ARTS COUNCIL WRITING COMPETITION BY DELANIE NEVILLE QUESNEL

I see her walking almost every day. By the frequency of my drive-bys, I can assume that these walks for her are daily. Her hair is long, almost all the way down her back. Slightly greying. The street clothes she wears are worn but well taken care of. She dons a ball cap, sun or rain. I can guess by her direction that she lives in the trailer park by the river. This I know by the times I see her heading in the opposite direction of her abode, empty handed but with a vigor in her step. When I see her sauntering back the other way, a Tim Horton’s coffee cup is almost always in her hand, obviously a destination break during her jaunts. I get all this from my driver’s seat vantage point. As I commute in to the bustle of town, I pass her by and her presence sharpens my awareness and reminds me for what and where I am heading at that moment. It is easy for me to forget at times. As I cross the bridge daily I have to physically shake myself aware and think “Where am I heading today? What did I come to town for?” The utter exhaustion of not having slept a full night since the kids have been born is obviously getting to me. At times I envy her regularity. Her ease of having the time to herself to walk as she wishes, venture out as she pleases. Wind in her hair, sun on her cheeks, snow on the tops of her boots - it does not matter to her, it does not break her gait. She is always alone. How I miss that. To do what I please. Walk where and when I want. I can hardly remember the time…

Delanie Neville is a local writer living in Quesnel, BC. Having been born and raised in Golden BC, her move to the Quesnel area has allowed her and her young family to explore and enjoy all the diversity and intrigue the Cariboo region has to offer, and now call it home. She currently is enveloped in the utter joy and unpredictability of raising her family, while being able to practice her writing craft and freelance some of her work. Her writing preferences include poetry & fiction, and she aspires to publish her work one day to share with others.

I turn on the radio. I love the drone of the CBC. The intellectual talk, the infectious sound of a new Canadian artist. It makes me feel somehow in the loop of it all. Gives my brain cells a jump start and some exercise to perform, like a sedentary muscle gone limp from lack of use that is able to once again get the adrenaline flowing within it. The kids scream at me from the back. Revolting against my taste of auditory freedom. “Put the music back on! Mickey Mouse CD! Something else!” I grimace, put on a smiley face in the rear view mirror and change the station as ordered. That is what I do now… I do as I am ordered. All for the toddlers…

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July 2011 | THE STEW Magazine | PAGE 5

‘Had That Not’ is a story that, very likely, many of us can relate to.

As the insane bubbly music infiltrates the cab of the vehicle, I recall again where I am driving to and what I am after. Food. We need food. So I head towards the nearest grocery store. The kids and I tumble out of our seats and make our way to the herded shopping carts. Arguments ensue over who gets to ride in the cart, who gets to insert the quarter in the cart, who gets to push the cart. The cart, the cart, the fucking cart! I suggest that maybe Mommy rides in the cart and they can push me around - ha! But my idea is just met with blank stares and a general look of misunderstanding. So onward with the trek we go. Wails from the kids are followed by nasty looks from the other consumers. “Really?” I think. “Have you not had small kids yourself and tried to take them to the store?” I do not believe that I am the first one in history to attempt this feat. We reach the coffee aisle. I load up on my green packaged drug of choice. Or should I say necessity… Then on to retrieve our usual staples - gold fish crackers, fruit snacks, juice boxes - the food of future champions. I fondly remember while pregnant with my first thinking that when the baby arrives, I will only feed it organic, home-prepared food. That no TV will be present in OUR daily lives. That I will raise a perfect, educated, behaved child the “right” way! *snort* Well I guess I can honestly say now that such an idea is out the window as fast as my eager plans to keep up with the recycling. We finish our escapade and head towards home. With annoying music bombinating throughout, grocery bags being crumpled beneath muddy feet hanging from the edges of the car seats in the back whilst I dream of caffeine by the gallons upon my return home. I pass the woman again, now walking back in the other direction. The timing of her daily walk today coincided perfectly with my trip to the

store to get supplies to feed my troops. I once again enter my daydream and memory seeking of the past. When I too was so free. My mind wanders to thoughts of “Had that not happened, then…?” I arrive home. I park. I look up towards the kitchen window. I see the marks all over the glass. I think “One more thing to clean up...“ The mess is from a robin that has been slamming it’s poor body into it’s reflection each and every morning for the past week. Making no alarming noise, just the tap and thump - thump of its red breasted body ricocheting off the window before it regains its composure to sit on the railing to eye itself up before trying again. What does this mean? Is it an animal spirit guide here to tell me something I am too inept to hear or just a fowl ritual that I am misinterpreting to be more than it actually is? Maybe what it is doing is not as feebleminded as I think? Maybe I am the dimwitted one? Again, I will blame these thoughts on lack of sleep. I turn the key off and rest my forehead against the steering wheel. My eyes close and the pleas from the kids being released from their back seat abode quickly fade from my ears. I silence it by ignoring it. Plain and simple. If just for a moment. Just to regain my composure and any sort of energy I can muster. To somehow be able to carry all I have up the stairs to the house where it will then have to be efficiently unloaded, put away while all the while multi tasking and feeding mouths. My next step in my never ending list of daily to-do’s. I open my eyes and look up. The SUV passes by. Again. Where is that woman going? Where does she go every day I wonder? Why should I care? Maybe I am just lonely, or bored, or both. It’s so hard to tell lately. I feel like I am in my own little world, taking my walks each day - doctor’s orders you know. I comply. I always

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comply. Ever since I was a child and my Aunt remarked how cordial I was, I have always been a sort of people pleaser, out to receive any praises I could find. I see a small outstretched hand reaching through one of the back windows that is open. Must be that of a toddler. Reaching out to catch the wind. A wee bit of play mixed with that wonderful touch of imagination that kids that age possess. That I used to possess. What happened to me? Why am I where I am? They upped my meds last week. The doctor said my anxiety and depression is reaching an all time high. I had heard but not responded, as I had sat in the office chair listening to his verdict upon reading through my file for all of two minutes before making his decision. If I had been in my ‘right’ mind at the moment I may have objected or given my opinion that maybe my mood lately was circumstantial or maybe even hormonal. But I did not. I took what he said, filed it in the increasingly depleting memory dominion of my mind and agreed by nodding my heavy head. When he leaned forward to pass me the new prescription, I obligingly met him half way and bended forward to receive it. Not saying a word. Just accepting. Now I am here, again following his orders by walking. Is it for the sunshine, or to get me out of my little blue double wide? Maybe both. Did he know I obsess worse being contained in there each and every day alone? I don’t remember telling him so, but then again, maybe I did? No matter, the fresh air feels good and it gives me something to do each day at the same time. Besides, then I get to see her. In the off chance that her timing matches mine and I get to catch a glimpse of those two delicious children riding along, their happiness reverberating through and out the vehicle’s containment and hitting me like a cool breeze as I saunter by along the sidewalk. My

pace matching with the rotation of her wheels. I so wish for the life of that woman driving by. The world at her hands, clasped on the steering wheel, and in the waving hands of those babies riding along with her. All she needs is right there. Love, laughter, and good times forever with each other. Not a care in the world. All the joy she needs is right there. I finish my coffee by the time I reach my trailer. Number 31 - that’s me! Just me. I notice how much greener my lawn is than my next door neighbour’s. I recognize the irony as a tear slips down my cheek. The ridiculousness of how the mixture of weed killer and fertilizer can cause such an uproar in the ambition of some is beyond me. I think next year I will kill it all and just put in astro turf. How’s that for a cliché Mr. Jones? The caffeine does not affect me. I crawl into my bed easily. Cover myself up with the worn comforter my Grandmother pieced together for me and gave me as a gift. A gift that was originally reserved for a wedding that never transpired or for the baby that never did arrive. Phantom promises. Wishes beguiled. I pull the squared textiles up. All the way up and over my head. My sweaty hair sticks to my cheeks and lays over my eye lashes. I blink and see the grey. It does not perturb me. I have taken to it and accepted it as part of my reckoning. The heavy weight of my balmy breath hits the blanket pressed so closely to my face and then retracts and returns. A mild suffocating warmth that feels oddly comforting. My exhalation giving me a sense of abandonment that feels freeing. My inhalation making my body feel less alone. If only for a moment. I close my eyes. I sleep. This story will appear in a future issue of Arts North, a journal of the arts produced by the Central Interior Regional Arts Council

PAGE 6 | THE STEW Magazine | July 2011

Congratulations to Rod Krimmer for his runner-up story in the Central Interior Regional Arts Council’s writing competition!

BATHTUB TRILOGY RUNNER-UP OF THE CENTRAL INTERIOR REGIONAL ARTS COUNCIL WRITING COMPETITION

Rod Krimmer spent his summers as a boy at his parents fishing camp in the mountains outside of Kelowna. This place figures strongly in his life and in this story. Later, he and his wife Barbara moved to the Cariboo to build a small farm and manage a woodlot. They are currently on a new adventure in the Bella Coola valley. “My writing is mostly intended to preserve the memory of important moments in my life and perhaps pass them down within the family as my mother and grandfather have. This story came to me shortly after the birth of my first grandchild as the story itself will explain. This experience was too closely linked with the other two to ignore. Bathtub Trilogy is the result.”

Let’s talk TURKEY.

BY ROD KRIMMER BIG LAKE

The old bushman’s eyes scanned the ceiling of his frozen cabin. Something seemed very wrong but he couldn’t quite place what it was. He turned his head slightly as his frosted breath crystallized on the edge of the sleeping bag. He must get up but he couldn’t make his body obey. “What the hell?” he cursed. “What happened to me?” As he lay helplessly on the cot he tried to piece it together but could only catch fragments of the past few days. He remembered trying to start the fire in the old wood cook stove but his hands wouldn’t work properly. This was one of six cabins he had built through the years to rent out to fishermen in the short summer season. It was the one he used in the late fall because it was easier to heat than the main lodge. He only needed it for the for the last weeks of hunting season after which he’d shut it down and move to the valley with his wife and family. It would be a long wait for the ice to clear again but spring would come and there was always work to be done. He remembered dragging his limp body to the shuttered lodge but the radio phone battery was dead and the short distance back to the cabin, through the snow, seemed to take him forever. Had he been drugged? Injured? Assaulted? He didn’t know. The cold, although not deep, was pervasive. He could not escape it, even as he huddled in his soiled bag unable to move or even feel his limbs. The two cowboys were in their battered pickup truck looking for strays that had not returned from the far reaches of the summer range. They pulled up to the cabin expecting a hot coffee and a quick visit with the old man, whom they knew to appear gruffer than he was. Maybe he’d seen the missing cows. A dog barked from inside but no smoke curled from the chimney. Strange. Opening the door they were alarmed by the box of spent matches they saw scattered on the floor by the stove. As their eyes adjusted to the dim light they rushed to the bed corner. An hour later, jammed in the seat between the the two cowboys, bumping down the steep mountain road, the old man could only whisper, “I tried to phone”. When he opened his eyes again the ceiling was pale green. There were curtains and instruments. Lights blinked and beeped as activity bustled around him. He could feel the warm water up around his neck, as nurses tried to raise his body temperature. He tried to take it all in, his blackened feet and hands, his wizened, frigid body lying in the warm tub, the frantic chatter of the nurses. He knew it was over. He would be poisoned by his own blood as it seeped back through deadened limbs and overwhelmed his weakened organs. Even as the lights flashed and the little blip turned to a steady tone, he slipped away.

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July 2011 | THE STEW Magazine | PAGE 7

There are many great stories — both literary and in film — that utilize the bathroom, so this story is in good company.

2 Thirty years later the old man’s widow was well into her nineties. She had managed alright after his death. Her son and daughter were doing fine on their own and lived nearby. Her three grandchildren, whom she seldom saw, were successful young adults. She had a small pension and an apartment in the same building as her daughter who checked in on her daily. In spite of all this she was tired of life, so very tired. It had ceased to have any meaning for her and one day she simply refused to get out of bed. Not that she couldn’t. She still used the bathroom but, at her age, why shouldn’t she do what she wanted? And she wanted to stay in bed. So arrangements were made, food was prepared and served. Specialists were consulted and reports were written. “Uncooperative” said some, “depressed” said others, “palliative” was the consensus. The hospice society was called in but she just told them what she thought they wanted to hear. She asked the doctor to put her out of her misery and he patiently explained why that was not possible. She asked her son to shoot her but they both

knew that was ridiculous. They even chuckled a little about the suggestion. “And what calibre would you prefer Mom?” She could always just stop eating but that never seemed to occur to her, as a tasty morsel still seemed to be a treat. One day the phone rang at her son’s home in the next town. “I’m so embarrassed,” she said. “I’m just an old fool. Please come and help clean up the mess before your sister sees what I’ve done.” He was dumbfounded. His mother had drawn a bath, nice and warm and comfortable. While it was running she had written a note in her slightly shaky, but still neat, schoolteachers hand and left it on the bed table. When the tub was full she got in and stretched out her thin old limbs, sliding down so, with her big toe, she could just reach the handle of the steam iron that she had plugged into an extension cord that ran down the hall. Now just tip it in and it will all be over in a flash of electrical current, coursing through her fragile frame. She clenched her fists on the metal hand rails, squeezed her eyes tightly shut, and made the move. As the water cooled around

her she began to wonder what to do next. “Goddamn appliances” she swore at the drowned iron. “Nothing works when you need it. I should have used a lamp like they did in the movies”. She struggled out of the tub and phoned her son. A course of antidepressants and some vitamin supplements helped her live another two years in relative comfort. The old woman had no fear of death. She always maintained, “Some day I just want to wake up dead” and one day, in her 94th year, she did. 3 Some years later the old woman’s granddaughter gave birth to a beautiful baby boy. The family was thrilled. She had worked so hard and everyone was exhausted from the excitement and lack of sleep. The baby was fine and all just needed to rest. Her father, the old woman’s son, drew himself a bath in the late afternoon after returning from the maternity ward. A warm bath was one of his favourite extravagances and the old iron claw-tub, with it’s long sloping back, was the perfect place to stretch out and relax. He

indulged in a little scented bubblebath, cranked up some music on the stereo and eased himself in. Thoughts of his father often came to him in the tub, dead of mysterious causes almost forty years ago. He thought of his mother and how vulnerable one seemed in the bath. How naked. He thought of his infant grandson, not yet a day old, recently emerged from his formative bath in the fluids of life. Slowly, sleep overtook him and he dreamed a gentle dream of deep surrender. Gradually his knees bent and he slipped lower in the tub, the water temperature imperceptible against his rough skin. He dreamt he was his father in that hospital tub, giving in to the inevitable, allowing himself to go, slide beneath the water, return to the womb. As his head disappeared beneath the silent surface he felt a deep sense of contentment, and rest. In the dream his rest seemed eternal but his body knew differently. “Air!” it screamed. Instinctively his knees straightened and he pushed violently against the front of the tub. His body shot up the slippery back slope and into the cool air. Music assaulted his ears and a thin

ray of afternoon sun pierced his eyes through the stained glass window. His first deep breath stung his lungs with flecks of soap. Involuntarily he cried out in the exhilaration of re-awakening. “You OK in there?” He shook his head, deeply awed by what he had just experienced. “Yeah, fine. I’ll be right out”. He felt as though he had just died as his father and been instantly reborn, four generations later, as his grandson. All this in one electrifying moment as the energy of the vision streamed through him. It took awhile for the adrenaline to subside in his veins. He had learned to cherish these glimpses of truth that were afforded him from time to time. They connected his life experience to others and to broader mysteries. They didn’t help make sense of it all. Quite the contrary, they deepened the mystery while making it all the more intriguing. This one he would write down. To remember. This story will appear in a future issue of Arts North, a journal of the arts produced by the Central Interior Regional Arts Council

Meet John and Jane. They’re a typical young Cariboo couple — working hard, taking care of the family and home. But everyone needs to relax a little and this family is no different. John loves camping, Jane loves the water, the kids would rather jump on their bikes and ride. Thankfully they only have to shop in one store to find all their different outdoor leisure needs. Canadian Tire: Camping equipment, canoes, kayaks, tents, sleeping bags, mountain bikes, and helmets...everything that John and Jane need.

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PAGE 8 | THE STEW Magazine | July 2011

We hope you enjoy this little experiment in content BY TODD SULLIVAN THE STEW MAGAZINE

It might seem difficult to believe, but this issue of The Stew is almost one year in the making. I don’t mean that I have spent a solid 365 days actively working to put this issue out. No, it hasn’t been anything like that. But right from the moment we first decided to take a chance on this magazine — almost literally from the first day — I knew I wanted this issue. We called it ‘The Fiction Issue’ when we were first brain storming the idea, and the plan, also right from the start, was to drop the issue into newsstands in Au-

gust. Why? Because we wanted to hit the streets alongside the ArtWalk here in Williams Lake. During the month in which ArtWalk celebrates visual art — painting photography, pen and ink, and more — we wanted to celebrate literary art, like poetry, fiction, and more. As soon as we started talking about the plan, people started showing an interest (including local writer Laura Kelsey, our guest editor from a few months back, who has short fiction on page 16 and a poem on page 19). Things got even better when the Central Interior Region Arts Council announced

their writing contest and agreed to let us publish the winners. So here we are, almost a year later, and ‘The Literary Issue’ is done. And I couldn’t be more proud of it. The two winning CIRAC stories are brilliant, we’ve got some great poetry and fiction, and Sage Birchwater has given us a piece on an annual literary anthology that’s definitely worth checking out. And of course, on top of that all, there’s a little bit of what you’ve come to expect and appreciate from us here at The Stew Magazine, including the debut of a fantastic new columnist on page 23. I had some short fic-

tion to include here as well, but it was a little on the controversial side, as well as being a little over-long — apparently I can get a little wordy when I try — so I think we’re going to save that one for the web site. I’ll be the first to admit that ‘The Literary Issue’ is a bit of an experiment for us, but that’s also one of the reasons I’m so proud of it. That we’re still willing to try new things in the interest of putting together something interesting, something thoughtprovoking, something fun. Hopefully it was a successful experiment. But we won’t know for sure until we hear from you, the readers.

What did you think of ‘The Literary Issue’? Was it a success? Did you enjoy it? Would you like to see us continue to experiment with our format, with our content, with how we define our magazine? Or would you rather we stuck with what we know best and stop messing around with a good thing? Shoot a message at letters@thestew.ca letting us know your thoughts. Tell us you liked it. Tell us you hated it. Tell us your ideas for further future experiments. If we get some good ideas, we might not have to wait almost a year for the next one. todd@thestew.ca

SPEAK

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How it all came together on the page BY JULI HARLAND THE STEW MAGAZINE

All at once everything, all the turmoil that rattled in my young, angst-fuelled mind, began to make sense. As pen touched the paper, my chicken scratches on a full-scap yellow pad, jumbled thoughts trickled like zen meditation fountains, falling in eloquent prose before me to ease my troubled mind. Though my own dysfunction surrounded my every waking moment, I had found my home.

I devoured the written word. From the rich, decadent deserts of Anais Nin, long lunches with Colleen McCullough, dark dinners of Steven King and Henry Miller, straight down to the flavoured popcorn that was your run-of-the-mill Harlequin romance fantasy. I inhaled them. But it wasn’t until I took the pen into my own hand that I really understood not only the words of others, but myself. I dug into my psyche and spewed

poems, short stories and journals of my own. For many years I discovered who I was through my own words. My story was laid out before me to weed through, spend time in, unfold and disassemble. It was my own rebirth, my self-exploration. My life-line. My stew of thought, hurt, love, passion and ego has all boiled down to the person that I finally became, the one who offers this morsel to you, this piece of my own truth, to do with as you please. Though my

words may no longer come from that dark soil of youth, they germinated from that seed. At times, even now, it is still the gentle calming breeze of writing with pen and paper that whispers gentle words to me through the racing thoughts of adult life, much as the same simple act calmed the angst of my youth. I encourage you to try your own hand at it. There is nothing like the cold feel of a ball point pen on a simple piece of lined paper to ease your

troubled mind. It is this act that we celebrate this month. The art of writing. From the closet poet to the multi-published author to the modern blogging teen. Devour your words. Search for meaning in others. Read. Listen. And above all share. With us, if you like. But share. Writing may ease the troubled mind, but sharing of yourself allows the seeds to grow. To spread. To give permission to others to do the same. juli@thestew.ca

July 2011 | THE STEW Magazine | PAGE 9

Question of the Month

Exploring the beauty of Experience BY SAGE BIRCHWATER About a week before Christmas 2010, Van Andruss from Yalakom Valley near Lillooet, released Volume Ten of his annual literary journal, Lived Experience. He initiated this series of writings from authors, poets and essayists “from the mountains of British Columbia” in 2001, and hasn’t missed a year since. If you are into the Christmas marketing hype like most sellers of books and vendors great and small hoping to cash in on Western Society’s momentous gift-buying frenzy, you would shake your head and offer Van your sympathies. But Van shugs. He doesn’t do Christmas anyway. Not that he’s above positioning himself in the glut with folks looking for that ‘special something’ for ‘someone special’. It’s just that it didn’t work out that way, what with computer glitches and waiting, waiting, for copy from his stable of contributors. But it happened eventually in its own time. Volume Ten emerged, blue and beautiful, graced by another stunning cover illustration by Luther Brigman, and landed on bookshelves from Lillooet to Williams Lake, from Wells / Barkerville to Likely. Van Andruss has a whole team of individuals helping him prepare his annual literary offering, which provides a unique voice for those of us who feel we have something to say. Van’s life-partner Eleanor Wright serves as editor and ever patient helpmate; Gillian Smith is the sharp-eyed proof reader; and Kerry Coast did the computer layout. Then there are the twenty-two writers in Volume Ten, including three local scribes: Cariboo poet Lorne Dufour, historic writer Gloria Atamanenko from 150 Mile House, and yours truly, Sage Birchwater from Williams Lake. John Schreiber from Victoria, is almost local. He writes about his experiences in the Chilcotin, and in Volume Ten tells his story Larry Emile’s Drum. I had the privilege of witnessing the beginnings of John Schreiber’s story before he had the chance to pen it. Three years ago John published his first collection of anecdotes of the Chilcotin in his book Stranger Wycott’s Place (New Star Books 2008). Stranger Wycott was the first post master from Dog Creek, and built a homestead up behind Gang Ranch. John has long been attracted to that far-off-thebeaten-track corner of the Cariboo

Chilcotin inhabited by First Nations people, cowboys and outback residents like Chilco Choat. Last year John was out there again, snooping around Churn Creek as he likes to say, checking out Stanger Wycott’s turf, and uncovering the magic of the place as he likes to do, when he ran into a family of First Nations people from Canoe Creek. A day earlier John’s friend, Don Logan from Clinton, had given him a special, limited edition book he had just published about the families of the Clinton, Dog Creek, Gang Ranch country. Don only produced three or four copies of the book, and dedicated one especially for John. For whatever reason, John felt compelled to give his treasured gift to these virtual strangers he just met in the wilderness because it contained many photographs and stories about their family. John is like that. Then before they parted ways, one of the men in the party, Larry Emile, bequeathed a hand drum to John he was working on, then a woman in the group gave him a container of frozen fish. Later that day John showed up at my place in Williams Lake and told me the story. After showing me his drum and leaving the fish with me, I encouraged him to write that story. John was pondering what to send Van for the Volume Ten edition of Lived Experience, and telling about Larry Emile’s Drum seemed like the perfect fit. A month or so later I thawed out the container of frozen fish John had received from his friends in the backcountry, and they were indeed delicious – sweet and delectable as any bounty from this land I have tasted. Many of you know Lorne Dufour. His friends call him Lornie and he is a fine poet from these parts. He describes poetry as prose without clothes, though Lornie does both very well. In LE10, as we affectionately abbreviate our publication name, Lornie writes a delightful prose piece of when he worked as a teamster with the Caravan Stage Company that toured all over British Columbia during that magic time in the early 1970s, putting on theatrical performances in such out-of-the-way places as Williams Lake, 100 Mile House and Quesnel. For some reason time moved more slowly then, and Lornie learned his love of big horses then. It’s a habit he hasn’t given up yet either. At 70 years old he still logs with behemoth Clydesdales at McLeese Lake.

Of course a submission by Lornie wouldn’t be complete without a couple of poems. One titled Embarking is a tribute to his beloved work horses, and the other, Jacob’s Funeral, speaks of his friend Jacob Roper, who once saved Lornie’s life and who inspired his acclaimed book, Jacob’s Prayer, nominated for a BC Book Prize in 2010. You won’t find a more caring individual in this world than Gloria Atamanenko. Her essay, Breaking with Convention in the New World, speaks of the time in Gloria’s youth, growing up in an immigrant settlement in Northern Alberta during the 1930s and 40s. She offers insightful sketches of personalities struggling to find their place. She herself emerged, borne up by the wings of her Ukrainian parents’ hopes and dreams, unfettered by old conventions that might have hamstrung her. My own offering, Trapline, is a continuation of other autobiographical sketches contained in other volumes of Lived Experience, depicting my journey from quaint Victoria, British Columbia in 1971, to the Cariboo Chilcotin in 1973. In 1975 I bought a trapline in the Chilcotin and built a homestead there with my partner Yarrow, a.k.a. Christine Peters. This is a story Van Andruss kept insisting that I tell, and to keep gentle Van from hounding me to death, it appears as part one in LE10. The gods willing, the rest of the Trapline story will appear in LE11, on the horizon to be produced later this year, probably sometime just before Christmas. So if you have any last minute shopping to do, keep this in mind... Van Andruss describes himself as an “elder hippy”. He became a grandfather for the first time in 2010, and this has ushered in a whole new dimension to his and Eleanor’s life that is quite breathtaking. He writes and encourages others to write about those amazing days of the 1960s, 70s and 80s, and beyond that too, of the inspiration of our alternative generation. Through Lived Experience he gives us a venue for our voices to be heard. So thank you Van. In Williams Lake you can find copies of Lived Experience at the Station House Gallery or at the Open Book. It can also be found in the Likely Museum, or at Island Mountain Arts and Joan Beck’s Studio in Wells. If you feel inspired or have some writing to share, contact Van Andruss at van@yalakom.com.

AZIN G A M

What is your favourite work of literature? Send your answers to letters@thestew.ca

Todd Sullivan todd@thestew.ca publisher / editor-in-chief “This probably changes regularly depending on the day, but today let’s go with Catcher in the Rye. I think Salinger did a great job not only capturing the directionless frustration that comes with adolescence, but also the ultimate futility of it.”

Juli Harland juli@thestew.ca sales manager / executive editor “My favourite piece of literature changes with where I am at in life. In my youth I must have read and re-read The Thorn Birds at least four times. And it’s a long book. Currently I am in love with this Sullivan guy’s writing, now to get him published...”

Angela Shephard angela@thestew.ca fine frugality (crafters beat)

Jamie Horsely tonesoup@thestew.ca tone soup (music beat) “The Alice books, Alice In Wonderland and Through The Looking Glass and What Alice Found There by Lewis Carroll. And no, not because of that stupid movie. That movie was absolute shite.”

Carol Davidson stir@thestew.ca stir (health beat) “Recently I read "The Book of Negroes" by Lawrence Hill. It tells of one woman's experience as a slave stolen from Africa, and how she eventually earned her freedom. It is an important part of Canadian history that I'd never heard about. A very worthwhile read.”

Torrey Owen torrey@thestew.ca vancouver seen (city beat)

Natasha Stukl hairdooz@telus.net beautydooz (health & beauty beat) “I love The Diary of Anne Frank, I've read it a couple times. Right now I'm really into anything by Deepak Chopra — he's amazing!

Michelle Daymond candoitconsulting150@gmail.com Eating Local (food beat) “Terri writes a weekly newsletter for their CSA customers. My favourite piece of literature is not the published newsletters, but instead the as yet unpublished 'not-a-newsletter' collection!"

Additional Contributors: Laura Kelsey, Sage Birchwater THE STEW Magazine is an independently owned and operated monthly arts and lifestyle magazine published in the Cariboo Chilcotin. All information contained in this magazine is correct, to our best knowledge, as of press time. Opinions expressed by correspondents and contributors are not necessarily those of THE STEW or its employees. We reserve the right to edit letters to the editor for grammar, punctuation, content, or length. All letters must be signed by the author. THE STEW Magazine accepts no responsibility for correctness beyond the amount paid for that portion of advertising space occupied by the incorrect item. We reserve the right to refuse any advertising or editorials submission which we believe to be inconsistent with the philosophy of this publication. The contents of this publication are copyright The Stew Magazine 2011.

PAGE 10 | THE STEW Magazine | July 2011

If anyone wanted to make some The Stew branded clothing, we would absolutely showcase the hell out of it, both in print and on our website. Any takers?

Get crafty with new books from the CRD Library Tired of the rain? Sit inside and learn how to make something new. We’ve got all kinds of craft books, for the most advanced to those just beginning. Basic Basket Making: All the Skills and Tools You Need to Get Started. Franz,

Linda. 2008. Call number: 746.412 BAS This spiral bound book incorporates step-by-step instructions complete with detailed color photographs, as well as a chapter on dyeing reed at home. Complete instructions for making a Flared Bun Basket, Small Market

Basket, Napkin Basket, and Easter Basket teach necessary skills. If you’re interested in basic weaving and don’t have a teacher nearby, this is the book for you. Design-It-Yourself Clothes: Patternmaking Simplified. Patch, Cal. 2009.

We’ve Moved! Check out our new, larger location at 240 Oliver Street, across from The Open Book.

More space, more treasures to find! • Antiques • Collectables • Heirloom • Previously Loved • Native Artwork & Silver Jewellery • Local Art • Much more!

We also pay cash for your valued items. Come talk to us to find out more!

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Call number: 646.4072 PAT The book seasoned sewers have been waiting for. If you want to wear something you can’t find on the store racks and make clothes that express your individual style, or if you’ve reached a sewing plateau and want to add pattern drafting to your repertoire, be sure to check out Design-ItYourself Clothes. Great Book of Wooden Toys: More Than 50 EasyTo-Build Projects. Marshall, Norm. 2009. Call number: 745.592 Here’s a book of woodworking plans that’s bound to provide hours and hours of pleasure to woodworkers and children. Detailed and copiously illustrated, this in-depth handbook offers instruction for constructing more than 50 wooden toys designed to appeal to a child’s sense of imagination and

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Kathryn Stern Kris Andrews Laureen Carruthers Leah Selk Lee Sollinger LeslEY Lloyd Leslie Rowse Liliana Dragowska Lindsey Martens Liz Twan Lynda Sawyer Sharon Norberg (Williamson) Sharon Snipes Sonia Cornwall COMMON THREADS Tahirth Goffic Tegan Mailhot Wayne Higgins

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playfulness. Designs include stylized versions of a Model T car, a crane, and the Spirit of St. Louis airplane, as well as projects specifically for beginning woodworkers, such as pull-along trains and circus animals. Knitted Wild Animals: 15 Adorable, Easy-To-Knit Toys. Keen, Sarah. 2009 Call number: 746.432041 KEE Stuffed toys are great projects for beginners, but when you’ve grown bored with dolls and bears what do you knit next? How about a tiger, a warthog, or a moose? Knitted Wild Animals has a menagerie of soft, squeezable wild animal designs to inspire your knitting wild side. With a primer on knitting basics to chapters on embroidering and stuffing your super cute safari softie, even a beginner can knit these cushy, cuddly creatures!

The Printmaking Bible: The Complete Guide to Materials and Techniques. Hughes, Ann D’Arcy. 2008. Call number: 760.28 DAR Perennially popular, printmaking is enjoying a contemporary resurgence but no comprehensive up-to-date manual on the subject exists. At over 400 pages and packed with 1,000 full-color photos and illustrations, The Printmaking Bible is the definitive resource to the ins-and-outs of every variety of serious printmaking technique practiced today. In-depth instructions are accompanied by profiles that show how working artists create their prints. Historical information, troubleshooting tips, and an extensive resource section provide more invaluable tools. Perfect for students, artists, print aficionados, and collectors, this is truly the ultimate volume for anyone involved in this creative and influential art form.

TAKE A WALK THIS MONTH WITH

2011

Artwalk

AUGUST 5 to SEPT 9 IN WILLIAMS LAKE Celebrating DOWNTOWN BUSINESS AND ARTS IN THE CARIBOO. Station House Gallery Ron Ridley Rentals Ltd. Lake City Autocare

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downtown at the corner of 3rd Ave and Oliver at 327 Oliver Street or call 250-398-5717

July 2011 | THE STEW Magazine | PAGE 11

Play Your guide to where to go and what to do for the month of August TODD SULLIVAN PHOTO

SMILES IN THE RAIN  Though it was unusually wet during this year’s ArtsWells Festival, that didn’t seem to dampen any spirits. The event, held during the BC Day long weekend, was filled with performances, music, food, and, of course, clowns.

PAGE 12 | THE STEW Magazine | July 2011

Though not part of the ArtWalk this year, Tood has been testing his painting wings at home. We think he’s getting pretty good.

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August 1 - 27, Williams Lake: Station House Gallery presents “Common Threads” by the Maiwa Foundation. Come see the show celebrating the artistry of Middle Eastern women and their textiles.

Summer Reading Program Wednesday to Saturday each week. The program is for ages 3-12. Register any time by calling the library and choosing the day(s) of the week you’d like your child(ren) to attend.

August 1 - 31, 100 Mile House: The Parkside Art Gallery and the Cariboo Artist’s Guild present: “The Future” Fine Art Show and Sale at the Parkside Art Gallery.Admission by donation.

August 4 The City of Williams Lake presents Concrete Fitness Performances in the Park at Gwen Ringwood Theatre Boitanio Park starting at 6:30pm - Janet Bates Band and Allen & Alexander performing.

August 3, 10, 17, 24, and 31, 108 Mile: Heritage Market at the 108 Heritage site. For more information contact Ingrid Meyer at 250-791-5663. August 3 - 6, 10 - 13, and 17 - 20, Williams Lake: The Cariboo Regional District Library hosts their

August 5, 12, 19 and 26, Williams Lake: Boitanio Park Farmer’s Market. Great local foods and vendors. Lunch available. August 5 and 6 at 8:00pm, Wells: The Cromoli Brothers come to

the Sunset Theatre! A Post Modern Vaudeville duo (or “pomovauduo” as the kids are calling it). They perform short vignettes using puppets. Ukulele’s. Sometimes Mexican wrestling masks. They also sing songs that provide a haunting soundtrack to our current human condition. And are Funny! WARNING: NUDE SOCK PUPPETS, METASINCERITY, JESUS. Tickets are $12 or $10 for seniors, children & students. August 5 - September 9, Williams Lake: The BIA and Station House Gallery are hosting the annual ArtWalk and Sale - ArtWalk maps will be distributed across the Cariboo during this week and also Mary Forbes of Dandelion Living will be hosting ArtWalk guided tours.

Williams Lake’s Wellness Centre Unique Things for Unique Souls

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August 6, 13, 20 and 27, Quesnel: Farmer’s Market at Helen Dixon Center grounds. For the finest in fresh, locally grown produce and locally made artisan creations, the Quesnel Farmers’ Market is the place to be.

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August 6, 13, 20 and 27,Williams Lake: Oliver Street Market at Herb Gardener Park. Local farm-fresh foods, music and entertainment as well as local arts and crafts! Come for the freshness, stay for the fun.

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HOUSE

For the hands-on approach, come and visit both old and new practitioners in the areas of Reiki, Reflexology, Astrology, Healing Touch, All Types of Massage, and More.

August 6, Barkerville: 8th Annual Goldfield Bakery Pie Eating Contest. Come and show your skills in this familyfriendly event. For more information check out www.barkerville.ca

For more information visit annwalsh.ca

Pick up a copy at your local bookstores or in beautiful, historic Barkerville!

July 2011 | THE STEW Magazine | PAGE 13

While in Wells we briefly dreamed about selling everything and moving out there. We’re not going to, of course, but a steady flow of theatre and artists is pretty appealing.

August 8 at 8:00pm, Wells: Dynamic Cabaret Chanteuse Onalea Gilbertson and Pianist / Writer David Rhymer team up to perform a gallery of songs from his 30 years of theatrical composition at the Sunset Theatre. Tickets are $12 or $10 for seniors, children & students. August 10 at 5:30pm, Williams Lake: The Cariboo Memorial Recreation Complex is hosting a Gold Rush Williams Lake Walk - for more information please call CMRC 250398-7665 August 11 The City of Williams Lake presents Concrete Fitness Performances in the Park at the Gwen Ringwood Theatre, Boitanio Park starting at 6:30pm - with Jason & Pharis Romero and Drum & Bell Tower performing. Tonight’s sponsor is Welcome to Williams Lake. August 11 and 12 at 8:00pm, Wells: Kaliban at the Sunset Theatre. This cerebral exploration of the decidedly unpoetic poetic creation of Shakespeare is sure to engage and enthral. Andrew Hamilton energetically explores the mythic man-beast in all his power and selfconsuming glory in this powerful original one act play that will have you looking at Shakespeare in a whole new, humanizing light. Tickets are $12 or $10 for seniors, children & students. August 12 at 11:00am, Williams Lake: Potato House Social. Come by and see the progress being made at this historical landmark-come-community hub of all things sustainable. Come with your questions, bring something to share in the potluck, or just drop by and learn why the Potato House represents the future of our community. August 13 at 10:00am - 10:00pm Watch Lake/ Green Lake Gymkhana. Gates open at 10:00 - start time Noon. Events include Pole Bending, Stake Race,

Barrel Race, Keyhole Race. Concession & Beer Garden on site. August 13 at 10:00am - 5:00pm, Bowron Lake: Bowron Lake 50 Year Celebration! Come out and enjoy a day with many activities such as a scavenger hunt, canoe races, as well as a 1860s singing quartet! Bowron Lake Park was originally protected as a Game reserve in 1925. In 1961, it was established as a Class A park. It was named for John Bowron, the first Gold Commissioner of nearby Barkerville. There are several trappers’ cabins along the circut, dating from 1920s. Although no intense gold mining occurred in what is now Bowron Lake Park, the surrounding area has rich history from the Cariboo Gold Rush of the 1800s. August 13, Quesnel Lake: 8th Annual Hawaiian Luau - Elysia Resort. Menu includes roast suckling pig on a spit Hawaiian music & limbo contest. Dinner only $49/pp dinner & 2 night weekend $229/ pp dinner & 1 night $129/ pp. August 18 The City of Williams Lake presents Concrete Fitness Performances in the Park at Gwen Ringwood Theatre Boitanio Park starting at 6:30pm. Robyn Ferguson & Sam Tudor, Oren Barter and Paul Filek performing. Tonight’s sponsor is The Stew Magazine! Come

join us! August 18 and 19 at 8:00pm, Wells: CockTales with Astronauts at the Sunset Theatre. Start with a shot of physical comedy, add a dash of storytelling and mix in some bawdy humour. Finish with a musical about an astronaut who drives 900 miles in a diaper to mace her love rival in the face with pepper spray… Sip slowly and enjoy! WARNING: THIS PRESENTATION IS FOR ADULT AUDIENCES ONLY! Tickets are $12 or $10 for seniors. August 19 - 21, Canim Lake: Canim Lake Pow Wow at the Canim Lake Arbour. Everyone is welcome to come out and enjoy a weekend of singing, drumming and dancing. Camping and Billeting will be available. Please note Pow Wow Committee is not responsible for stolen or lost items, short funded travelers, break ups or Divorces..No Alcohol or Drugs allowed! August 19 - 24, Williams Lake: 4H Show & Sale at the Williams Lake Stockyards. For more information please contact Ross Stafford 250-3052263. August 20, Barkerville: It’s the Mid-Autumn Festival. A traditional Chinese celebration honouring Barkerville’s Chinese heritage. Activities all day with lantern parade through Barkerville

Formerly at the Husky, now located on McKinnon Road beside Handi Mart in the old Gateway Video store, in Williams Lake Peaches, Cherries, Apricots, Raspberries, Blueberries, Blackberries, and more! BC Grown In Season! Case Lots Available!

at dusk. Bring your own lantern or make one at our lantern-making workshop. August 21, starting at 11:00am, Cottonwood House: It’s Family Day! Enjoy a day of family oriented activities ranging from a petting zoo, Farmer’s Market, Arts and crafts, heritage games, pipe band, and Highland dancers. The Barbeque will include hamburgers or hotdogs served with salads, ice cream cone and beverage. Admission to site will be half price ($4.50) for families.

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August 22 and 23 at 8:00pm, Wells: Red. Violence... suspense... muffins! A classic retelling of Little Red Riding Hood... or is it? Hear both sides of the tale; from Red, or the Wolf, or both at once - you decide! A solo experiment in schizophrenic theatre... with projections! Tickets are $12 or $10 for seniors, children & students.

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August 23 at 6:00pm, Williams Lake: Scout Island is hosting paddle on the lake in a giant Voyageur canoe. Afterwards, join us to listen to Anna Roberts share her fascination with bats! August 25 The City of Williams Lake presents Concrete Fitness Performances in the Park at the Gwen Ringwood Theatre, Boitanio Park starting at 6:30pm. Rossetta & Friends and Cariboo Gold Dance Band performing.

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Oliver Street Market Saturday, 9am to 2pm Herb Gardner Park, WL

Cariboo Growers Co-op Tuesday, 11am - 6 pm Friday, 11am – 6 pm Saturday, 10 am - 3 pm 3rd and Oliver, WL

PAGE 14 | THE STEW Magazine | July 2011 IF YOU CAN READ THIS YOU ARE TOO CLOSE.

Another big event happening in August is Todd’s birthday. He won’t admit how old he is, but we’re pretty sure he’s getting up there. Birthday greetings should be sent to todd@thestew.ca

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August 25, 26, 27 at 8:00pm, Wells: Jake’s Gift; a powerful and surprisingly funny drama about a Canadian World War II veteran who reluctantly returns to Normandy, France, for the 60th Anniversary of the D-Day invasion. While revisiting the beach he landed on sixty years earlier, Jake encounters Isabelle, a precocious 10-year-old from the local village whose inquisitive nature and charm challenge the old soldier to confront some long-ignored ghosts – most notably the war-time death of his eldest brother, Chester, a once promising young musician. Tickets are $12 or $10 for seniors, children & students. August 27 and 28, Lac La Hache: 12th Annual Garlic Festival at the Festival Grounds north of Lac La Hache. Gates open at 9:00am. Lots of Garlic treats, with original artworks, hand-crafted gifts & accessories. Fresh garlic for sale, garlic peeling and eating contests, together with lots more fun! Free day parking. Weekend admission is Adults $5.00 children 12 and under Free. August 30 at 9:00am - 4:00pm, Williams Lake: RawLove Summer Food Course with DeboRAW Tobin. Includes Booklet of recipes and nutritional facts/Nut Mylk Bag and a new way of preparing good healthy food for body/mind/soul. You will be hands on and eating food as we prepare so bring your appetite. We shall all sit and eat our prepared meal in the afternoon.....with goodie bags to share at home.For more information call Deb at 250-8987741.

July 2011 | THE STEW Magazine | PAGE 15

Hugs are incredibly affordable and almost always appreciated. If you canâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t afford to bring anything else, bring a hug.

StewSpots Looking to get your copy on the latest edition of THE STEW Magazine? Weâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;re available for pickup in a variety of places around the Cariboo Chilcotin. Please remember that this list is always evolving, and weâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;re always looking for new places that our magazine can call home, so if you know of someplace that you think should be a drop-off point for THE STEW, or if you own a business and youâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;d like to have a few copies of our magazine on your shelves, plus let us know.You can reach us by email at either todd@thestew. ca or juli@thestew.ca. Locations listed in alphabetical order 100 MILE HOUSE 99 Mile Supermarket A&W Chartreuse Moose Chevron Dairy Queen Donex Higher Ground Natural Foods KFC Lone Butte General Store Marcelâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s Boulevard Cafe Nuthatch Book Store Parkside Art Gallery Pharmasave Safeway Save-On Foods Subway Tim Hortons Visitor Centre IN LAC LA HACHE Fast Trac Gas and Convenience Store IN WILLIAMS LAKE 7-Eleven A&W Alley Katz Bean Counter Canwest Propane Cariboo Spring CRD Library (Magazine & News Section) Dairy Queen Dandelion Living Dennyâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s Restaurant Dollar Dollar Elaineâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s Natural Foods The Gecko Tree Halls Organics Hobbit House LDâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s Cafe McDonaldâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s Mohawk Movies on the Go New World Cafe The Open Book The Overlander Hotel Quiznos Red Shredâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s Safeway Sandman Inn Save On Foods Shell Shopperâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s Drug Mart Starbucks Station House Gallery Subway (Downtown) Subway (on the Highway) Tim Hortonâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s (on the Highway) Tourism Info Centre WLCBIA Zellers Restaurant IN HORSEFLY Clarkeâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s General Store Cornerhouse Cafe The Post Office RaceTrac Gas IN MCLEESE LAKE Cariboo Wood Shop McLeese Lake General Store IN QUESNEL 7-Eleven (on the Highway) 7-Eleven (in West Quesnel) A&W Aroma Foods Billy Barker Hotel & Casino Booster Juice Burger Palace Carry All Books Granvilleâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s Coffee Green Tree Health & Wellness Karinâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s Deli Museum & Tourist Centre Quiznos Riverside Bistro (West Park Mall) Safeway Save On Foods Shopperâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s Drug Mart Steeped Subway Tim Hortonâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s (on the Highway) Tim Hortonâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s (Downtown) IN HANCEVILLE Leeâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s Corner IN TATLA LAKE Grahamâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s Inn IN BELLA COOLA Valley Inn Coast Mountain Lodge Valley Restaurant Eagle Lodge

The Hug: A short story The party was going great. People ranged in age from children to seniors. It was a gathering of truly wonderful and caring people. I felt lucky to have been invited. All night Iâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;d been dancing and meeting amazing new friends. Selena approached me with a smile on her face and a tall man walking directly behind her. â&#x20AC;&#x153;Spencer,â&#x20AC;? she said to me â&#x20AC;&#x153;Iâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;d like you to meet Peter.â&#x20AC;? He extended his hand with a smile and I opened my arms for a hug. His smile grew, forgoing the handshake, instead embracing chest to chest into a full man hug. Iâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;ve been fortunate enough to have a great many hugs in my life, but I hadnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t anticipated the hug Iâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;d just begun. Typically a hug holds for just a fleeting moment before one of the huggers begins back patting and both parties disengage. I quickly realized this was not the way Peter hugged. His arms wrapped around me, and I him. We held each other with equal strength, neither trying to crush the other, neither trying to escape. Creating balance we stood embraced, mutually supporting each others weight. I could tell he was in no hurry to let go, and neither was I. When you find someone you enjoy holding, you donâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t want to release prematurely, and being held by Peter felt

assuring, comforting, and safe. My eyes shut, and my heart widened. I fully gave myself over to the beginning of what would be the longest deepest hug Iâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;d ever shared with someone Iâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;d just met. I felt my head begin to slant downward soon resting upon Peters shoulder. I felt his head resting on mine. The music was still playing and I could feel the party and dancing happening all around. The hug invoked a great calming sensation within me, a sense of peace took hold and I noticed my breathing change. We held each other silently, coauthoring inner harmony. It was as if warmth and serenity had been draped over me. I relished the bliss, noticing our bodies swaying ever so gently together. Who was this gentle man Iâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;d just met? Where did he come from? Selena had just introduced us, so obviously he was someone special. It seemed to me Selena made it her personal mission to find and ferret out all the most wonderful people the world had to offer and bring them together. I was beginning to realize she was powerful, but even more so, I was beginning to realize how fortunate I was she had introduced me to her friends and invited me to the party. There are times in a manâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s life when he fully realizes he is truly amongst

Embrace your inner youth.

the lucky ones. At some point deep into the hug the laughter began. Iâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;m not sure if Peter or myself started it, but it was infectious and mutual. The laughter was cleansing and we squeezed tighter, as if reassuring each other that all was well and that love and goodness reigned supreme in the world. As our laughing faded Peterâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s voice began. â&#x20AC;&#x153;Oh wow, this hug has taken on a life of itâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s own. Itâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s become a CBC short story even. I feel like Iâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;m gonna turn on the radio in the morning to hear a first-person account of this hug beginning to end.â&#x20AC;? â&#x20AC;&#x153;Well itâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s not quite over yet,â&#x20AC;? I said eyes still closed, reciprocally pulling each other closer. We kept holding on, I felt a low growl of contentment not unlike purring forming in my throat. Peter echoed the same sound. It was like floating in a warm ocean of gratitude. I was

In My Shoes By Torrey Owen thankful for holding a man who could sensualize with another man, embracing the experience instead of pushing away. Look long enough and that which you seek will find you, or so I once read. It felt like other people at the party were watching the hug and smiling, sharing in the soothing energies. My eyes were of course closed, and I have no way of knowing this for certain. But this was a very special gathering of people. The kind of people who would pause what they were doing to enjoy watching their friends hug. I was, in that moment, exactly where I most wanted to be.

As the imminent moment of release drew near we both inhaled deeply. Our chests inflated with oxygen rich air, pressing strongly together. Exhaling like a monk releasing the last breath before stepping out of deep meditation we began to unclasp slowly. Our bodies parted, our eyes met, and our hands traced the lengths of each others arms until our fingers wove together, our hands squeezing the last drops of essence from the fleeting hug. Looking into Peterâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s honest and gentle face all I could think to say was, â&#x20AC;&#x153;We have to do that again sometime.â&#x20AC;? torrey@thestew.ca

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PAGE 16 | THE STEW Magazine | July 2011

Before the snow came: A short story BY LAURA KELSEY They just stopped. A straight line from the gravel road into the woods, made of hooves and paws that I had followed to the tree. The snow had fallen softly last night, in fluffy chunks that I had noticed out the window when I got up to pee. They had looked like down dropped from swans as they drifted in and out of the porch’s light. The prints were fresh it was the first snow of the season. In the blue glow of the winter morning, the blood looked darker than it should have. The snow had come suddenly; and, with it, brought dry air and a bloody nose. I threw the tissue in the toilet and looked outside. White. White was all there was. And, now, it wouldn’t stop for six months.

The first fall was always beautiful; dark, colourless stumps jutted out from the sea of smooth snow. I was stepping away when the corner of my eye caught movement, ever so slightly. I turned to face the glass again. There was no mistake – a wolf; she was watching me, sitting stoic like a dog in a pedigree show, with only her eyes betraying her from her surroundings. I could see her gold eyes were intensely locked on me through the single-pane cabin window. I wiped my nose. New blood. Could she sense it? I wondered if she was there every morning, her black shaggy coat stiff with ice and unmoving in the wind. Decorate the cabin. That was the plan. I would ask around for antlers people might want to be rid of and place them decoratively on my bare, fake-

wood panel walls. A friend called the idea the “morbid hick” look. I even put an $11 ad in the local paper: WANTED Your old dusty antlers. Call the post office and leave a message for Alex. Leaving messages was Jackie the postmistress’s idea, thinking it better than broadcasting my home number; she even said she’d bring in a mountain goat horn for my collection. “I wouldn’t call it a collection,” I responded. “Well, that’s what it sounds like.” Jackie laughed. “Does it seem weird to you? I thought people did it all the time.” “It’s not every day that a city slicker vegetarian puts a call out for trophies.” “That’s not totally how I see it, though...” I didn’t bother explaining. Jackie passed me the messages over the counter and I thanked her. I got three responses, all

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from seniors, two men and one widow. Both of the men were out Green Lake way, and when I dropped by they warmly loaded the bucks’ crowns into the back seat of my sedan. One of the men, a veteran, even invited me in for coffee. I declined. “House cleanin’,” he said. “Gotta get rid of the old to make way for the new. Mostly the wife’s idea, really.” The widow - whose husband, Jackie said, had died in the spring - said she would be dropping by at some point with her contribution. Her visit came without warning; she was in my driveway the evening before the snow came. I greeted her as the country men had greeted me, genuine and warm. She pulled on bright yellow work gloves after she climbed from her truck, just nodding and saying nothing. She motioned toward the open bed of the vehicle. “We didn’t kill it.” “Oh?” It took me a moment to realize what she was talking about. “We found it. Well, my husband did.” She opened the tailgate on the dark blue Chevy and pointed at the single antler laying on its side. “A deformer, they call it. Usually happens from a bad feed over winter.” I reached my fingers around the thick antler, carefully avoiding sharp spines protruding from its base. “Must have been really old or something, right? I mean, it’s huge but so unusual.” “Yup, happens when they’re old. Their teeth wear down, they can’t eat. Like I said, bad feed over winter.” I turned to the woman, both hands supporting the antler. “It’s heavy.” She slammed the tailgate shut. “Yup. Well, have a good day then.” I nodded, still thanking her as she climbed into the cab without turning. She was gone before I was back to the cabin. Opening the front and only door, I was met with the strong, sour smell of rotting eggs. I looked around, almost

LAURA KELSEY PHOTO

in slow motion, eyes trailing across three sets of antlers I’d already mounted on the crumbling walls. “Buckley?” I called my dog. She slunk out of the bedroom. There was a dark lump behind her in the dim lamp light. I gripped the large, spiked antler tighter in my hands and raised it behind my left shoulder. “Fuck,” I uttered to the stinking air – my dog had dug a hole in the wall, severing the cabin’s ancient gas line. I spun around, one hand grabbing Buckley’s scruff and the other feeling my coat pocket for my cell phone. The antler clunked to the floor. Leaving the cabin, I dialed as I ran the 30 feet down the driveway to the gravel road where there was cell service. I had since let go of Buckley, who didn’t have either collar or leash and thought our jog was a squirrel hunt. I called two people before I reached someone. “Don’t start your car,” said my friend when I explained the gas leak. “Why?” “The ignition,” he said. “It’ll start a fire. Or an explosion.” “What do I do then?” “You’ll have to stay there until you get the gas company over.” I looked up at the pink clouds forming over the western hills.

“But it’s getting dark.” “Don’t start your car, Alex. One sec, I’ll Google the number for the gas company. Are you warm enough? Will you be OK?” “Well, I have Buckley with me... Somewhere.” I looked around, zipping up my sweater. The dog was gone. “How close is the nearest neighbour?” “About a ten minute’s walk. I’ve never seen them, though. Their house is hidden and I don’t know how long their driveway is.” “Jeez. You really are up in the boonies.” He found the number, which I saved into my phone. Assuring that I’d call him back if I needed to, I hung up and called the gas line. Buckley appeared behind me as I gave them my address; and, then, I closed the flip-phone wondering what I’d do for the next 40 minutes. The dog had dropped a stick at my sneakers, which I felt like hitting her with more than throwing for her. “Buckley, sit.” The dog yawned instead. “Sit,” I repeated. I stared into her brown eyes, trying to remember the commands her $78.50, five-week-long dog training course taught us. I yawned. She sat. We waited. Not even 15 minutes had passed when Buckley’s ears startlingly perked and she stood. I looked in the direction of her interest and

July 2011 | THE STEW Magazine | PAGE 17

Laura Kelsey, our wise and benevolent Guest Editor from a few months back, was one of the first folks excited to hear about our ‘Literary Issue’. We’re proud to be including her fiction and poetry.

saw definite movement in the leafy underbrush. “Buckley,” I said too loudly while grabbing for her fluffy scruff. She strained against my grip as a doe stepped from behind a tree, a darkening silhouette in the purple dusk. Another doe followed. The deer were still and so was I, but I knew a barrage of barks were silently welling inside my dog. I slowly wrapped an arm around Buckley’s slobbery neck while still clutching her with my right hand. With no acknowledgment to us, the pair of deer lowered their necks and grazed on the yellowing grass at the side of the road, nibbling at the occasional discarded leaf. Half the sky was still clear and the moon helped illuminate the scene as I sat on the road, now hugging the bored dog for extra warmth. The deer stayed until they were startled by the service van heading toward us. I kept hold of the dog lest she chase them into the bushy abyss. The van stopped and I explained the situation to the driver; he told me to wait as he inspected the cabin. Buckley lurched to follow the van and she tore from my hands, down the driveway. “Buckley!” I pursed my lips to whistle but didn’t bother; I could see the dog in the headlights of the parked van, already jumping up on the gas guy. “Sorry!” I called. I think the man waved. Then he disappeared behind the cabin with Buckley by his side. I stood and scanned the stars, which were being overtaken by clouds. They were so bright, so intensely scattered throughout the black soup above me. I had never really seen stars before I had moved from the city and came here. “Snow tomorrow.” I jumped. “Oh, sorry about that. But those clouds, bet they’ll be snow.” “Ya.” “I’ve turned off the gas and I can repair the line. Glad this happened during work hours, eh?” I didn’t want to think about it. “So, if you like, you can sit in the van while I fix this.

And the invoice will appear with your next gas bill.” “Thank you,” was all I said, suddenly very tired. We looked down at my dog, who was, as always, wagging her tail so fast I wondered how her butt could be so fat. “I’ll be done in about 40 minutes.” Buckley still snored on her round, plush bed next to mine, the wall crudely patched above her chubby back. My sleep had been patchy and I also wanted to curl back into bed. I guess the excitement of the previous evening had worn us both out. The wolf was long gone by the time the sun came over the ridge behind the cabin. I didn’t see her leave. I looked out the window, she was there; I looked again, gone. Buckley finally stirred around 8:30 a.m. and whined at the door to be let out. My hands were busy enjoying the warmth of the dishwater as I scrubbed a pot. The widow’s antler still sat on the wrinkly carpet below the others on the wall. The dog whined again. Rolling my eyes at her, I wiped my hands on a rag and walked to the door. Buckley jumped on me as my hand touched the door knob. I pulled the door open but the dog didn’t move. All the white snow was red on my doorstep. Blood. And pieces. From what, I couldn’t tell. But there seemed to be a lot. Buckley and I stood in the door, frozen, as -23 C air came rushing into the house. Bits of white fur came in with it. Amidst the mess of fur and flesh, I recognized an ear. “It’s a rabbit,” I said to the dog. She moved to stick her head outside and sniff the remains but I nudged her with my leg. “Leave it.” Something had killed and devoured a rabbit on my doorstep and left me with the leftovers. I closed the door. Maybe the snow would start falling again and cover it. It was finally March, finally a hope that winter would just die already and make way for spring. I was walking Buckley along the gravel road, taking

advantage of cell phone reception. “So, you coming down for the summer or what?” asked the friend on the phone. “You know? I think I’ve had enough of this town, this cabin, this whole place. You might see me sooner than you think.” “Hah. I’ve been expecting that. So, what about all your antlers?” “I’m not sure. I was thinking of offering them back to their original owners or bringing them to the thrift shop. You know, I never found any of my own on our forest walks.” “Own...?” “Antlers.” “Right. Maybe it wasn’t the right time of year.” “Maybe. Actually, we didn’t see much of any animals this winter. Not since the rabbit...” “So are you moving back down here or what?” We made plans to meet back home in two weeks and I put away the phone to enjoy the silence while I could, before I was back in the thick of traffic and construction down south. Buckley was in the bushes again, looking for grouse I assumed. The snow was melting and, as it did, piles of smooth sticks were revealed. Dried, the sticks looked like driftwood-textured antlers. I bent down and scooped up an arm-length stick; it was bleach-white and branched out at the top like a four-point antler. It was an antler. I looked around. All the piles were antlers. Bones. Parts. “Buckley? Buckley?” I could hear the dog panting. “Here, girl!” She barked from somewhere to the left of the trail. I picked up a long, heavy leg bone and headed into the woods. I looked up the tree, its split branches reaching to the heavens. So many broken branches along the bottom, I thought. They looked like spines, making the tree look gnarly and old. I stepped toward it without noticing its roots snaking in and out of the ground; I tripped and landed against

the tree, hard. My eyes clenched shut and wouldn’t open. Winded, I sunk against the tree’s trunk, cheek to bark. And I heard something. Buckley barked from further in the forest. But this was something else, something inside the tree. And it was getting louder. I could hear hooves pounding against the hard bark from within, bark that felt like bone. Scurrying feet and heartbeats with the quick pulse of rodents tapped along the trunk like woodpeckers. Then came the wolves, the mournful wail of the wolves. A chorus of them howled, causing the thick roots to vibrate under my feet. I couldn’t catch my breath enough to move, stuck with an ear to the tree like the roots below had entangled my shoe laces. I wanted to yell, to demand to be let go. But I couldn’t. I couldn’t do anything but listen. Then there was a voice, so deep and rich it shook the ground.

“Thank you. We thank you.” “For what?” I whispered. It was all I could do, my face still pressed to the tree. “Your sacrifice.” The hooves were still pounding but they were outside the tree now, the winter-quieted forest teeming with life. The sounds were overwhelming as I clung to the massive trunk. “Why?” was all I could croak out amidst the cacophony of creatures. “It happens every year.” The voice grew deafening. “It has to happen.” “Why?!” “Spring!” At that I pulled myself

away from the tree, peeling my face off its bark. The pain was immediate and intense. Until now I hadn’t felt it. I had fallen on one of the tree’s spiny branches, impaling myself through the stomach. The snow around me sparkled like a liquid ruby, the trunk of the tree the same. Holding the hole in my gut, I fell to my knees and gazed up at the tree. The voice boomed one last time: “You are the harbinger of spring this year. Your sacrifice has made it possible.” The woods went quiet and dark. Somewhere, Buckley barked. I slept for a long time.

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PAGE 18 | THE STEW Magazine | July 2011

There are very few things that can’t be improved with a little bit of garlic.

Garlic season has arrived in the Cariboo Eating Local ‘Tis finally the season of bountiful fresh, local produce! Although it’s been a slow start to the growing season due to all the rain and cool temperatures, we are now being rewarded for our patience. Available at local farmer’s markets: carrots, potatoes, tomatoes, apples, zucchini and other summer squashes, broccoli, cucumbers, beans, peas, lettuce, cabbage, onions, beets, turnips, cauliflower, kohlrabi, herbs, berries and more…and last, but definitely not least, GARLIC. I am very excited to be given the opportunity to write about the powerful vegetable garlic. My Grandpa Daymond was an incredible gardener on Vancouver Island, and I remember vividly his fixation with garlic. He always grew way more than he needed, many different varieties,

and loved to eat his garlic raw or pickled. Unfortunately he is no longer here, and I missed out on the chance for him to share his wisdom with me. With the month of August now here, garlic season is upon us. I have been lucky to spend time walking the gardens of garlic near Horsefly with Jake and his family to start my learning now. I met Jake and Chanti, Soul Food Gardens, while I was selling veggies with Chris and Terri, Road’s End Vegetable Company, at the Williams Lake Farmer’s Market last year. Near the end of July, the smell of fresh garlic from Jake’s table would signify the onset of nature’s summer abundance. Jake has been growing garlic for over 12 years, and now has gardens with over 20,000 bulbs planted! I

By Michelle Daymond could not believe my ears or eyes — 20,000 bulbs of garlic is quite a lot, and yet, it is still not enough to satisfy our community’s need to have garlic year-round. I drove up to Jake and Chanti’s peaceful home around 10 a.m., and was greeted with sincere hugs from all family members; there is an instant feeling of welcome and tranquility when you visit. I’m invited in for coffee, where conversation turns quickly to garlic; it’s time to check and

see if there will be some ready for Saturday’s Oliver Street Market. Jake and I load up with buckets and a small shovel and head off in the drizzle. It’s an enchanting walk down winding pathways, around trees and various fruit bushes. We turn a corner and suddenly there is one of the many gardens of garlic; thousands of plants, standing proudly in their rows. Jake walks along, digging up the bulbs that seem ready; we continue along the pathways, visiting the different varieties of garlic, collecting

samples from all. When our buckets are full, it’s time to harvest rhubarb and potatoes so Chanti can work her magic in the kitchen for supper! (If you get a chance, ask Chanti for the recipe for her rhubarb cake — rhubarb has never tasted so good!) Okay, back to garlic… Jake and I move to inside the workshop, out of the rain, and begin to prepare the garlic for sale. Each bulb of garlic, in fact each clove of garlic, is handled with love and care; Jake gently peels the skin back and trims the stalks until the magic of each bulb shines through; some show a vibrant purple, some a brilliant white. While working, it’s hard to resist the urge to sample some raw garlic! (and I don’t resist, in fact I enjoy the mild flavours of some and the strong bite of others) Earliest records place garlic as having been

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grown since 3200 BC — that means this plant has been cultivated for over 5000 years! There are inscriptions depicting garlic on the pyramids of ancient Egypt; the Greeks and Romans believed this veggie to have magical properties. After spending time learning from Jake, from eating Soul Food Gardens’ garlic raw, I see why this now common, everyday vegetable was mystical and alluring to many for thousands of years; I see why my Grandpa and Jake became fascinated with it. You can find Jake and Chanti, Soul Food Gardens, and their garlic at the Oliver Street Market on Saturdays, Herb Gardner Park, from 9 a.m. to 2 p.m. They sell garlic both to eat and for seed. As well, “For a Stinkin’ Good Time,” visit the South Cariboo Garlic Festival in Lac La Hache, August 27 and 28 (www.garlicfestival. ca). And during the month, be sure to show your support for your local farmers! Cariboo Growers operating year-round at Third and Oliver and the Williams Lake Farmer’s Market Fridays in Boitanio Park and Oliver Street Market on Saturdays until the end of the harvest season. Unbelievably Garlicky Sauce 1/3 to 1/2 cup peeled fresh garlic 2 tbsp butter, coconut oil or olive oil 1/3 cup oil 1/3 cup+ sour cream, yogurt or cream Pinch salt to taste Splash lemon juice Peel garlic and roast in a pan with the butter / oil for 20+ minutes. Puree in a blender / processor, slowly drizzle in 1/3 cup oil. Once thick add the final ingredients. Adjust to taste. Warm in saucepan if desired. Serve over noodles, rice or meat. candoitconsulting150@ gmail.com

July 2011 | THE STEW Magazine | PAGE 19

tweet the

movies

We watched some movies and this is what we thought of them, in 140 characters or less

Sucker Punch: It is a tale, told by an idiot, full of sound and fury, signifying nothing.

Drive Angry: Nick Cage escapes from Hell to save his grandbaby from the clutches of an evil cult leader. Strangely, most of the driving is pretty mellow. Got something you think we should TwitteReview? Send your requests to letters@thestew.ca. Remember, we’ll watch almost anything!

Lichen grows at a rate of about 1 mm to 1 cm per year. That is pretty slow.

TUNDRA BY LAURA KELSEY I’ve been alone a long time. I’ve sat at my window and watched the brush on the tundra grow oh so slow. Sometimes, perhaps just to remember there is other life besides mine, I place smooth stones outside, leaving them for months on my doorstep, just so they grow a smattering of lichen. And then I tell it my troubles; no wonder it dies so quickly. Clear skies only greet me at night when it is too dark to see the sun. I tie knot after knot of yarn, one for every star I see to keep me from sleeping, because dreams are as desolate as my days. They are always the same: I am walking across the expanse, toward the mountains in the distance —the mountains with their bright blue lakes and trees that are tall and stand straight, not like gnarled tundra-trees. But I am not fast enough. The mountains run away, they shrivel and die in the distance like the lichen on my stones.

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PAGE 20 | THE STEW Magazine | July 2011

If you are driving in a car or truck or anything else that’s really big and heavy, please be extra cautious around cyclists. Seriously, guys, it isn’t rocket science.

Close encounters of the vehicular kind Due to my ever-increasing training schedule I’m spending a lot more time out on the road, either running or biking, and so the odds are that I’m going to encounter some folks who don’t have as high an awareness of how to share the road as they should have. I recently had three encounters of the vehicular kind that I would not ever like to repeat. No one got hurt, but that is more due to blind luck than skill. I have taken my own lesson away from these close calls, and I can only hope the other drivers have something to think about too, and will change their behaviour accordingly. The first driver was coming out of a driveway, making a right turn. He was dutifully checking for traffic coming from his left, and for some reason didn’t see any point in respecting the stop sign that was there. I, at the same time, was out for my run and was approaching on his right. We

both made a mistake in judgment at that moment. He assumed that no one was going to be in his way on his right, and I assumed he was going to stop and check for traffic coming from both directions. Just as I cleared his bumper on the driver’s side he hit the gas. Six inches more and I’d have had a broken leg for sure. It was only at that moment that he saw me and gave a loud shout of surprise. I’m certain that he will be more cautious when exiting his driveway from now on, and I will never assume that drivers will respect a stop sign. I only bought my road bike a year ago and I still consider myself a newbie rider, and so I don’t have a lot of experience riding in traffic in town or riding safely on the shoulder of the highways. I always travel in the same direction as the traffic flow, and I am very careful to give cars a wide berth when I can.

On one workout I mistakenly took a secondary road that had a rough surface and had no paved shoulder, so there was not a lot of room for anyone to share the road with anyone else. In my town there seems to be a pitched battle between some drivers and cyclists over who has more right to be on the road at any given time. The city has built some new bike lanes, a great move for cyclists, but which has enraged some drivers for reasons I can’t understand. Isn’t having more room in which to manoeuvre a good thing for everyone concerned? At any rate, I was on a no-shoulder road and doing my very best to stay as far to the right as possible. On the most dodgy part of the road, on a curve near the crest of a little hill, a truck pulling a fifthwheel trailer squeezed himself between tiny little me and an oncoming car. The truck part wasn’t a

Performances in the Park 2011 Concrete Fitness Performances in the Park 2011 is a community-based nonprofit program which focuses on showcasing local artists and musicians, in addition to hosting entertainers from around the province. Over the past 6 years, Concrete Fitness Performances in the Park 2011 has been successfully drawing crowds from Williams Lake and area, providing an opportunity for residents to enjoy free local entertainment throughout the summer. JULY 7 Skid Marks and One Foot Under Media sponsor: Cariboo Advisor JULY 14 Dana-Marie Battagalia and Sound Refuge JULY 21 Opening: Jesaja Class - Magical Entertainment Artist Tanis Family and Soupbone Blues Band Media sponsor: The Rush/The Wolf Radio JULY 28 Amber Bowen, Jessie Rajala Chapin & Colin Easthope AUGUST 4 Janet Bates Band and Allen & Alexander AUGUST 11 Jason & Pharis Romero and Drum & Bell Tower Media sponsor: Welcome To Williams Lake AUGUST 18 Opening: Robyn Ferguson & Sam Tudor Oren Barter and Paul Filek Media sponsor: The Stew Magazine AUGUST 25 Rossetta & Friends and Cariboo Gold Dance Band All performances are on Thursdays at 6:30 pm and are held in the Gwen Ringwood Theatre in Boitanio Park. For more information visit www.activewilliamslake.com

problem, but I was frighteningly close to being wiped off the road by that wide fifthwheel trailer — if he’d hit me he wouldn’t even have felt it. As it was, I could only watch him cruise down the road, wondering if he had any idea of how close our lives came to changing 10 seconds before. I now know better than to ever travel down that narrow road ever again. The last encounter was just a few days later, when I was clearly signaling a left turn on my bike (by being in the centre of the lane with my left arm sticking out to indicate my intention). The only thing that stopped me from making my turn quickly was a couple of oncoming cars, so I slowly coasted along to let them pass. I didn’t hear the impatient little car that came up behind me. For some moronic reason he thought it was a smart idea to pull out to the left and pass me at the exact moment I was about to turn left. If I’d have

Stir By Carol Davidson been in a real hurry there is no doubt that I would have been on his hood. I may not have been badly hurt but the thought of him smashing my bike only because he was an impatient twit was something that kept me awake that night. I wish that vehicle drivers would be more courteous and careful around pedestrians and cyclists, but human nature being what it is, some people will always consider anything that travels slower than them to be a pain in the butt, and to be eliminated if possible. I would like nothing more than to have had an opportunity to speak to the three

drivers who nearly ended my Ironman dream and explain to them that their impatience or poor driving habits won’t just potentially change my life, but theirs as well. Nothing is worse than knowing you have hit another person with your vehicle. Please, when you see a cyclist, pedestrian, or other slow-moving vehicle, give them some room and know that by perhaps yielding the road to the slower traffic, you are doing your part to ensure we all get home in one piece. Believe me, I for one will be thankful for your courtesy. stir@thestew.ca

July 2011 | THE STEW Magazine | PAGE 21

We here at The Stew are hoping to be able to hit up a few more festivals before autumn arrives and we all have to hide out indoors again.

Festival season means few releases July has been pretty slow for music releases and August doesn’t look like it’s going to be much better. Why? Because it’s summer and that means festivals and touring like crazy. Besides, it’s better to wait and release stuff in the fall and bank on all the holiday spending. Festivals, festivals, festivals! Festivals here. Festivals there. Festivals everywhere! A festival for every genre and even a festival for all the genres. In BC alone I can think of about a dozen major festivals that happen through July and August (most being in July) and that’s not to mention the small events that go on here and there or the absolutely massive festivals that happen in other places around the globe. There’s something for everybody and you don’t even have to go far. Country music fans can get their fill at Merritt Mountain Music Festival and at Big Valley Jamboree in Camrose, Alberta. The raver kids can get spaced out and dance the days away at Entheos near Boston Bar, Shambhala near Salmo, and Bass Coast out by Squamish. Squamish Music Festival is host to some major mainstream names of a variety of genres. Vancouver and Victoria both have Jazz festivals. Even the tiny town of Nakusp has a pretty kickass rock festival that has always got classic rock names that shock me that they’re even still around. And out by Vernon there’s an awesome little festival called Komasket that

Tone Soup By Jamie Horsley has a great family vibe similar to Salmon Arm’s Roots and Blues festival. Music festivals really are the best way to get your concert fill. For most festivals the ticket price is about the cost of seeing two or three arena shows but instead of two hours of music in an evening there’s usually at least three different stages simultaneously playing music for three straight days. Big festival goers might scoff at the small, three-stage festival after being to some of the larger ones that can have five or even seven stages with acts running all day. All the live music you care to listen to plus everyone’s favourite summer activity: camping! Some smaller festivals include a tent spot in the ticket price, some make you pay for onsite camping. A carload of friends, a couple tents and some recreational intoxicants and three or four days of rockin’ out to some awesome live music; that’s the recipe for a weekend to remember. And to think it’s possible to do that every weekend in the summer! Wow. Unfortunately, I didn’t

get out to any festivals this summer. It just wasn’t in the cards this year. But next year, ooohhh next year. Wanna know the secret to building yourself a summer full of festivals? Volunteering. Every festival out there requires large crews of volunteers to function. For most festivals the requirements are two eight-hour shifts (or equivalent). For your time spent working, you get your weekend pass. Sure, you probably wont see the shows during your shift, but that all depends on where you get stationed. What sort of volunteer positions are there? Pretty much anything and everything. Set up and / or cleanup crews are the best to get on. Come a few days early or stay a few late and then you’re not working during the shows. But as well, they need parking lot attendants, ticket checkers, first aid attendants, beer gardens people, garbage people, merchandise people, you name it, there’s probably a way to volunteer for it. But if you want to get on a volunteer list you need to get on it early. Most of this years volunteers will keep their

names on the list and just come back and fill the same position. Decide what festivals you want to see and do your research. Have a good look at their website. Most festival websites will have a volunteer form on them or at least an email address to which you can express your interest. But enough of my rambling. In actual, interesting music news there’s not much but there are a few great singles that just hit the net. First up is Anthrax. With the return of vocalist Joey Belladonna to Anthrax last year, the new album, Worship Music, is on its way. Fight ‘Em ‘Til You Can’t is the first song available for your listening pleasure, and what a pleasure it is! You can stream the song online and, as I understand it, there hasn’t been a bad word spoken about it yet, and I won’t be the first. Listen to it. Then go buy Worship Music when it hits shelves on September 13. The Red Hot Chili Peppers have also been back together since last year and their first new track was made available last month. The Adventures of Rain Dance Maggie is the first single from the forthcoming album I’m With You, which will be available August 29. This taste of the Peppers is hot, hot, hot! Though, I hear they have promoted their guitar technician, Josh Klinghoffer to the position of guitarist since the departure of John Frusciante. Gallagher...wait, what? Poor? Not likely. After the great collapse of Oasis and

THE STEW MAGAZINE’S

Monthly

MIX

These are the songs that rocked our world in July

Todd Sullivan: ‘Moths’ - Drum & Bell Tower ‘Stay True’ - Thursday ‘Like a Virgin’ - Bubba Tres Juli Harland: ‘In Spite of Ourselves’ - Seth and Shara ‘Kalimba-Malimba’ - Bulat Gafrov ‘Thriller’ - Seth and Shara Jamie Horsely: ‘Harvey Wallbanger’ - Less Than Jake ‘Super Rad!’ - The Aquabats ‘Wild World’ - Me First and The Gimme Gimmes Carol Davidson: ‘Dreamweaver’ - Gary Wright ‘Dude Looks Like a Lady’ - Aerosmith ‘Another One Bites the Dust’ - Queen Natasha Stukl: ‘A Bunch of Girls’ - Frankie Ballard ‘Take a Back Road’ - Rodney Atkins ‘Rehab’ - Amy Winehouse Michelle Daymond: ‘Very Star’ - Drum and Bell Tower ‘Lamps by Day’ - Drum & Bell Tower ‘Ever Light’ - Drum & Bell Tower Liam running off with the rest of the band to recreate Oasis under the new name Beady Eye, Noel has gone off to do his own solo thing. Noel’s new song, The Death of You and Me, is refreshingly not so Oasisish. It’s got a sweet, catchy little tune contrasted with melancholy lyrics. His album High Flying

Birds will be available October 17. So as you can see, all the good stuff starts heading our way at the end of August. With all the summer distractions out there, I think I can wait. This fall promises to be loaded with awesome new releases. tonesoup@thestew.ca

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PAGE 22 | THE STEW Magazine | July 2011

Going about sans-panties can be an effective way to attract the attention of the opposite sex, but unfortunately it’s not a great way to weed out the good ones from the sleaze-bags.

Seducing your dream man is not as hard as it seems About eleven years ago I bought the book How to Seduce your Dream Man: 100 Strategies to Bring Mr. Right to Heel by Anna Maxted. The back cover read “Remember — you are some lucky guy’s dream woman!” I was instantly sucked in! My mission had begun. I was going to turn myself into a sweet, sexified seductress!

Back then, I was always asking myself, what do men want? Are men really from mars? What are all these men really thinking? I really thought I needed to be jawdroppingly sexy (without seeming too over-the-top). I needed to train myself to have “excellent eye contact via my flirtatiously fluttering eyelids!” This book seemed to be the answer to all of

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my prayers. From a selfproclaimed ‘Cosmo-girl’, this book was my bible! I knew entering into the world of ‘pre-man prep’ was going to be difficult. Of course I thought I already knew some of the basics, like making him think I was a natural beauty, believing I was IT, and trying to appear like I was a spontaneous sack of sexy seduction. Ha-ha — I bet you haven’t heard that before! My life prior to this, I had always been ‘The Shy Girl’, so I was really going to have to learn to get rid of my pre-date panic disorder and try to mix and mingle like a pro. Now this book claims to teach you all of these great tactics, like how to be a seductress, get flexible (not meaning your schedule), and go sans-panties. No, I didn’t listen to all these rules. When I entered the world of dating, I found that

Big Brothers & Big Sisters

Beautydooz By Natasha Stukl men were either at one end of the spectrum or the other; fabulous (even if just for a little while), or god-awful (and wouldn’t get the hint). Now, I was always an independent and modern woman, and with common courtesy — I would reach for my purse when the bill arrived — but when a man doesn’t pay for the first date…come-on! I knew from my handydandy little Dream Man Handbook that if he doesn’t insist, you’re looking at a cheapskate. I learned that if a man lets you pay, he’s either

really, really broke or is just not into you. So I listened to my book, and wrote that guy off. I know pretty much every person out there has had a first date experience from hell, but it can and does get better (usually with someone else). After various times making it through the first and second date, along with all of the dreaded questions — What is the best time to call him? How available should I make myself? How hard is Hard-to-Get? — I still ended

up single through the majority of those years, even after referring time after time to my trusted book. What was I doing wrong? Why wasn’t the book working? Fast forward seven years. I ditched the book. Maybe this book has helped many women learn how to amp up their sexappeal and catch a great guy, and maybe it has taught them how to look ravishing after a long night of drinking, dancing and other scandalous activities. But seducing my ‘Dream Man’ came when I stopped trying to seduce. I started to be myself, letting go of all of these so-called relationship rules. I have found my ‘Dream Man’ and married him. Although there is one very important thing I have learned from this book — “Don’t Ever Criticize his Mother”, page 214. Happy Dating! hairdooz@telus.net

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July 2011 | THE STEW Magazine | PAGE 23

The Stew is proud to welcome Michael Jones to our wonderful list of contributors. Make sure to send him an email to say, “Hello!” We wouldn’t want him to think our readers are rude.

I row, I row, it’s off to work I go Seoul, Korea is sinking, and I don’t want to swim. But, thanks to 15 inches of rain in 17 hours, it looks like I might need to. I’m living in a water park. Just down the street from my home there’s a lake where a street once was. Despite the rain and wind, buses and cars wade grill deep through water toward their destination. The subways near my house are closed. Apparently there’s a river raging along the subway track. The question I keep asking myself is, how the heck am I going to get to work? My vacation is over, and I have to make money. No money, no haircut. No haircut, tragedy. Yesterday, people were abandoning their cars in the middle of the street where I work. I have an inflatable dingy, perhaps I should blow it up, carry it with me, and when I get to one of Seoul’s “new” rivers, I can plop it in, and float my way to where I’m going. Actually, I heard some guy took his boogie board, and went zooming along a quick moving mud river in the southern part of Seoul. The water is shower-warm, so I can imagine doing it. It might be fun. Mud washes off easily, so why not. Today’s certainly not as bad as yesterday. The

One Seoul Searching By Michael Jones rain still starts and stops in mad spurts. There are still rivers for streets, but it’s getting better. At least that’s what I’m telling myself. I board a bus after nearly losing my flipflops. The water at the bus stop is only ankle deep, so it’s not too bad. Still, the current is actually pretty strong. Luckily, I’ve got strong toes and can keep my flipflops clinging to my feet. You may be asking yourself why I wouldn’t just stay home. Well, in Korea, work continues no matter what. The notion of staying home is usually not an option. At first I thought the trend was ridiculous. Now I’m of the mind that it makes good sense. When tragedy strikes, it seems best to keep busy doing something. For many, sitting at home worrying about stuff helps almost nothing whatsoever. Getting to work, or working itself, is at least doing something constructive. It’s controlling what you can, and letting

go of what you cannot. I guess that’s what I’m doing as I make my way to the office. The bus trudges along. Cars move very slowly. During parts of the journey, the water is really quite deep. In other parts, the road is as if nothing has happened at all. Mud cakes the windows of some of the sidewalk shops. A few trees have been torn over. Life, however, continues. Girls still walk down the street under their umbrellas, wearing miniskirts and high heels. Monsoon rain is certainly no deterrent to the urge for fashion, though my legs are crusty brown. When I get to work, only about a third of the people are there. My boss is, of course. He smiles and tells me of his journey yesterday. It took him four hours to get home. It normally takes him 40 minutes. Today, however, he boasts. He says he arrived just shortly

Next Month: The Education Issue September means it’s back-to-school time, but what does eduction look like here in the 21st century?

under an hour and a half. Things are improving, he says. I grin. So far the day has passed like any other. Every few minutes, one or two more people arrive. They all make the same sort of comment about the weather. My boss retells his drama to each new arrival. I smile and thank my lucky stars, because while the latest batch of delayed workers walk through the door, I read on Facebook of a friend who last night awoke to the sound of tearing paper. Just as she looked up, the roof gave way and down fell three litres of water splashing against the floor and over her bed. Her word to describe the event made me smile even more. “Intolerable”, she writes. Intolerable? That’s all she could say? If it had been me, I’m quite certain I’d have said something a little more illicit. But it’s not me, and I’m thankful for that. Instead, I’m relatively warm, dry, and safe at work—despite my mud crusted feet, flip-flops, and ankles. So, what’s the point of my telling you all this? I guess it’s simple: I’m from Williams Lake, I live Seoul Korea, I just experienced my first flood and lived to tell about it. I wanted you to share in it too. jjonesmii@yahoo.com

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PAGE 24 | THE STEW Magazine | July 2011

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