NorthWord Literary Magazine - Volume 2, Issue 1

volume 12012 Summer 2012 volume 2 | issue 1 | summerr | FREE

northword: A Literary Journal Of Canada’s North

northern canada collective society for writers

statement of purpose: To publish and support the work of writers in northern Canada.

president Jennifer Hemstock treasurer Suzanne McGladdery secretary Linda Black media director Kiran Malik-Khan e-mail northword@hushmail.com This Issue: Volume 2, Number 1 Summer 2012 ISSN 1920-6313 cover & art Uzma Nadeem design & layout Rachel White editor Kiran Malik-Khan

contents 2

the gate

Veliyan Chileva

3

(dis) and harmony

Anonymous

4

my quotidian mornings

Russell Thomas

5

the legacy

Theresa Wells

6

two philosophical haikus

Patricia Budd

7

hooked on whales

Catherine Astolfo

10

in the absence of

Nicole Fitch

10

spring

Melanie Reddy

10

beans

Linda Black

11

the day

Dawn Booth

12

joey and the turtle

Alison E. Bruce

14

the toothpick bridge

Jayne Barnard

19

a cherished moment between mother and child

Amanda (Mandy)

a portrait of self-today but maybe not tomorrow

Amanda (Mandy)

20

and in the end

Kevin Thornton

22

marginalia: a column

Douglas Abel

24

contributors

managing editor Jane Jacques 20

Proudly published in Fort McMurray, Alberta, Canada 56°44’N | 111°07’W

call for submissions

Nielsen

Nielsen

NorthWord Volume 2, Issue 2 will be published in Fall 2012. deadline October 15, 2012 theme “Fire”

please submit to The Editors,

northword@hushmail.com

subscribing to northword To inquire about subscriptions,

contact northword@hushmail.com

Uzma Syed • nisacollection@live.ca • 780.880.8855

volume 1 Summer 2012

editorial i have always hated the word “tolerance” when used for people.

You don’t have to tolerate someone who looks different from you, or speaks a different language, or comes from a different part of the world. Negative

things are tolerated – the smell of rotting garbage, someone’s bad breath, a

relationship that has died clinically, but won’t go away. Don’t tolerate. Learn, respect, come together – with Harmony.

NorthWord’s issue seven embraces this beauty of multiculturalism – that is

Harmony for me, coming together with respect, each individual on its own, completing the Canadian mosaic. We are so blessed to live in Wood Buffalo

– a region that embraces diversity and thrives in Harmony. As a PakistaniCanadian, promoting multiculturalism has always been near and dear to my heart.

So let your journey begin – from the cover – that begins with a Pakistani – Uzma Nadeem’s – stunning piece inspired by the Harmony of seasons – to

Turkey, to Newfoundland, to Kenya – we take you on a memorable trip – with each word guiding you in Harmony.

Kiran Malik-Khan |

seventh issue editor

here’s a shout-out to two northword contributors who were shortlisted by The Crime Writers of Canada for the Arthur Ellis Awards for

Best Short Story! Catherine Astolfo received the nod for “What Kelly Did,” which appeared in NorthWord Issue 6 (Winter 2011). Her story “Hooked on

Whales” is in this issue. Melodie Campbell, who was published in NorthWord Issue 5 (Summer 2011), was also nominated. Congratulations to both!

This issue marks two milestones for NorthWord: it’s the start of free distribution for the magazine and the beginning of our sponsorship campaign. We’re

excited about both opportunities. Now we’ll be able to reach more readers, and you’ll be able to show your support for the arts in Canada’s North. Special thanks to Lucas Seaward, who designed the sponsorship package that appears at the back of this issue.

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northword: A Literary Journal Of Canada’s North

the gate

veliyan chileva

With special thanks to Boryana Darakchieva and Galina Marinova for their helpful comments and suggestions.

“Gelip kapina dayansam, elimde bir demet çiçek Ben özür dilerim, sen afedersin

Ben peris‚an gelirim, kabul edersin Sadece sarilip bir birimize, ag˘layip, ne dersin?” 1 it was a bulky gate, made of materials at hand. I don’t

know who exactly had made it. It must have been her younger

brother, Ismail. When he had a chance to come for a visit for two, three days, he would always do some work in the yard or inside

the house. He would either mow the tall grass, grown metres high, plough the garden, or hammer a nail or two wherever needed. The old sofra2 was also manufactured by him. We would all gather

together and sit around it at dinner. Almost all the brooms that we used to clean the house were produced by him, as well.

The gate itself was a large piece of wire-net in the shape of a square, stretched tightly and fastened at the four sides by pairs of thick laths-just like a binding done by means of a stapler. It rested

against two massive wooden pillars. Fatma used a metal chain to lock it, attaching a padlock with a little key that she got from the

local store. She changed the padlock just once through the years.

The second one was very small and looked so cute-like a little jewel

on the gate. The little padlock rusted and the key was no longer

usable. They were replaced by two pieces of plain wire. One of the pieces she would tie to a big thick nail hammered right in the

notes: 1 - a quote from a Turkish song “Adi yok”— ‘having no name’: If only I could come and lean at the front of your door, holding a bunch of flowers in my hand I would apologise, and you would forgive I would come miserable, and you would accept could we just hug each other, and cry; what would you say?

2 - low round dining table 3 - “Auntie Fatme!”

4 - a vocative for “Fatma” 5 - “Grandma Tosunka!”

6 - bulka-young woman 7 - “Grandma Tosunka, are you home?”

8 - “Oh, my Sevdish! My child is here!”

9 - Ederlez -St. George’s Day 10 - güllük- rose bush

middle of the main pillar, and the second one she would place a bit higher up, over the first one, to achieve “greater stability”.

The gate was locked only when going out, on the outer side. When Fatma was in, it was resting on the pillar frame, for no other reason but to stop the animals from entering her yard.

When opening, the gate made a specific noise, which could be

heard even at the neighbours’. The wire came loose and started hanging off the laths at the lower corner; each movement of the gate scraped the ground and thus produced this noise.

There was not a bell and when people opened the door, they

would shout as loud as they could: “Fatme ala!”3, “Fatmish!”4, or “Baba Tosunka!”5. I would also bawl and squall like that some-

times, when I came from far away. I wanted to surprise her. I would

alter my voice feigningly, trying to sound more like a bulka6 and

shout: “Baba Tosunka, evde mi sin?”7. And she would respond: “Ay,

Sevdis‚im! Us‚a¯m geldi!”8. She would recognise my voice precisely, even when I made attempts to imitate someone else. She would run up like a young girl to hug and welcome me on the threshold.

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volume 1 Summer 2012

Fatma always happened to be at the gate no matter if

When leaving, the güllük10 would pinch me sadly, giving

become a peculiar border area, a crossing point between

and Fatma would follow me like a little puppy. I could

she was there to meet me or send me off. The place had my joy and my pain.

There was a rose bush right next to the gate, in the yard itself. It served as the porter for the house. It lavishly

filled the breaths of the guests with its scent, and sent us

back with a gasp. It smelled sweet, but it was extremely thorny. It demanded respect. Each time I tried to pick a

flower, I pricked and scratched my hands badly so that blood came out. Even though roses showed densely off

their barbed twigs, spraying fragrance in exuberance, one would not be able to make a bouquet of them. For

Ederlez9, girls from the neighbourhood would come and

reach for the blossoms only, whispering their wishes

and prayers for true love. Each time I arrived, I opened the gate slightly to enter; I inhaled the aroma of the rosy

me a nostalgic scent. I would leave the gate wide open, hear her breath, as well as the wheeze of her weak lungs.

Her steps were not quick, but light. While her legs would

carry on, she would accompany me to the centre of the village, to the bus stop. Later on she would manage

to see me off only half-way, as she got tired and often needed to sit and take a rest. In her last years we would

part at the gate itself. Fatma would sit at the doorway, on the street side, and follow me with her eyes until I

disappeared from the horizon. I would not dare to turn.

I would just walk down the road and cry, all my being occupied with thoughts about my next visit. I was think-

ing, if I happened to come and stand at the door-sill and shout: “Baba Tosunka, evde mi sin?” would there be someone to open the gate for me?!

bush and rejoiced. I could breathe at ease.

(dis) and harmony anonymous

And there it is.

And there it is.

The discordant note

A beaming smile

The sharp retort

A loving look

The strident voice

The cutting glance.

A word of praise

A warm embrace.

Hurt

Lifted

Shamed and Shunned.

Spirits brightened.

Bewildered,

Lightened,

Teeth clench

Limbs soften

Cheeks flame

Eyes sparkle

Jaw locks

Stomach grips.

Face aglow

Tension stowed.

She’s Come Undone

She’s Come Unwound

She’s become no-one.

She’s become ONE

She’s Come Un-won

She’s Come Untied

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northword: A Literary Journal Of Canada’s North

my quotidian mornings russell thomas

i start waking up in the hour before i plan to squirm out from under the covers and on to the

cold floor, raising my head and glancing down at the clock radio every five or ten minutes. As my head returns

to the pillow I drift back into whatever dream I had left to do my time check.

The early morning hours are the most precious to me

as the rest of the family sleeps, the furnace hums and the radio plays, quietly keeping me company courtesy of one of those Bose Wave units that I picked up on

eBay. In recent days, I've described this time as "my personal practice" when I go through my social media

world followed by a comprehensive gleaning of the Fort McMurray Today, our local daily newspaper that I get digitally.

My younger son is a lot like me, as I hear him yawn in

taste better, but using this method limits me to two cups, which is just right.

Coffee in hand — two packets of Splenda (no sugar any-

more for this guy) with a splash of vanilla flavoured soy beverage — I settle back into my chair and begin.

The thoughts, ideas, words and phrases pour out effort-

lessly in the moments before the sun begins to stretch its arms up and over the horizon of the Clearwater River valley which I can partially see out the window and

between a couple of houses in our downtown neighborhood. This is my time, unencumbered, free-flowing.

Second cup of coffee — two packets of Splenda with a

splash of vanilla flavoured soy beverage — I settle in for the final leg of my early morning literary dash.

the background — his bedroom is directly adjacent to

I typically start at the beginning, with a title and an

to wrap his body in a blanket and come into my space

clusion lying murky in the fog. I've learned that the story

my walk-in closet/home office — starting to get ready for his morning hug. Soon, he'll be of a size and tem-

perament where these early morning connections will

become a thing of the past. With that in mind, and the warmth that he provides when he crawls up on my

knees and settles in, I look forward to this brief encounter and miss it desperately when it doesn't happen.

I usually don't make my coffee until after my first initial sweep through Twitter and Facebook, often waiting until I launch into writing a blog, an activity that requires

sustained attention. Coffee and attention go together in my quotidian life.

When I'm ready to dive into whatever creative pursuit

I've decided on for the morning, I silently meander to the kitchen to boil water, clean out the Bodum from the day

before, and add four tablespoons of whatever blend we have in the house. We moved away from the traditional coffee maker about a year ago and I can't thank my wife

4

enough for facilitating this leap. Not only does the brew

opening sentence, a vague sense of the arc and the con-

will write itself if I trust the process, the thread appearing out of nowhere to weave together the patches. And

like a thunderclap in a cloudless sky, an ending will reveal itself and I will make a rush to the finish.

A few more sips of coffee, a couple trips through the piece

to check for spelling, grammar and punctuation, and I

press publish, sending that day's writing into the world.

One final check of the finished product online, additional

improvements and corrections made, I press update, as Ben slides into the room, his tiny blond head popping up

over his soft green blanket wrapped tightly. I spin my chair as he hops aboard to warm me up and officially kick off the next phase of my day.

volume 1 Summer 2012

the legacy theresa wells

when my father died five years ago it was a difficult time. He had been sick for a couple of years so his death was expected, but it was still very

hard to accept. He went from being a very lively, talkative, healthy and opinionated man to a skeletal figure in a palliative care bed. Lung cancer does

that, dear friends — it robs you of your quality of life, and then it just ends it.

After my father died I knew I would inherit some things. I inherited one-fifth of the farm he and my mother owned. They had actually farmed this land

and lived there in the 1950s, with the four little girls who are my sisters. By the time I came along the farming days were behind them, but his attach-

ment to the farm was profound and thus instead of selling it he preferred to

will it to the five of us girls and let us do with it as we please. I am proud to

say that five years later we still own the farm, and we administer it together (with two sisters taking on the primary roles, but with each sister having

an equal voice in decisions). That is one inheritance of which I am especially proud as it is a continuance of a family legacy, and I know it would delight my father to know we have kept it.

The other thing I knew I would inherit is money. It seems so awful to come

into money in such a way, dear friends. When the inheritance cheque arrived

it took me a few days to cash it as even looking at it made me feel slightly

ill. It just seemed wrong that my father's death came with money attached

to it. Maybe there are those who look forward to such an inheritance, but I am not one of them. It almost hurt to deposit the cheque, but what made it slightly more palatable was knowing that some of the money was going to help continue another family legacy.

My father, along with being a farmer, a carpenter, an electrician, and many other things, was a musician. He had been playing instruments ever since

he was a very young man. He'd never had the benefit of lessons, as his youth had been a hard-scrabble one lived during the Depression years on the prai-

ries. He taught himself to play most of the instruments, and probably had other musicians teach him the rest. He could not read music, and played by ear, which is all the more astonishing to me. He could play the guitar and banjo, the organ and accordion, and, when I was a child, he taught himself to play the saxophone (I remember long hours of what appeared to be the

sound of screaming cats emanating from the basement). Eventually he mastered that instrument, too.

During his young adult years he even played in a polka band. His band was apparently in hot demand for weddings and the like, and I still have photos of him onstage. It's remarkable to see him so young and handsome. As he grew

older music continued to give him great pleasure, and he played often when his brothers and sisters and their families would come to visit us after we

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northword: A Literary Journal Of Canada’s North

moved into the "big city". I recall so many nights in the

but this past year I was saddened when it seemed her

the music, with them playing until they were utterly

so desired might be dying. I wanted this gift from her

family basement. The rye would flow and so too would

exhausted and unable to go on. Eventually they would tumble into bed only to pick up the instruments again

the next day and start all over again. When I was a teenager I used to think it was interminable and awful. Now how I wish I could be back there again, sitting down in

that basement and wondering if they would ever stop. I

wish it could have gone on forever, even if it meant listening to "You Are My Sunshine" another million times.

So, when the inheritance cheque arrived I knew one thing I wanted to do with it. I wanted to buy an instru-

ment. I wanted to buy a piano. This was not because I

can play the piano; I can't. In fact, I can't play a single instrument, I sing only when alone and then entirely off-

key, and I am quite profoundly tone-deaf. No, the piano was not for me. It was for my daughter.

We found a beautiful piano, a lovely upright grand of

interest was diminishing. I feared the legacy I had grandfather to her to be one she cherished, and I was heartbroken.

After some talking, though, I learned that what she

was objecting to were the recitals and the exams. She enjoyed learning music, and learning to play — but she

wanted to play simply for pleasure, not for grades or

accolades. I spoke to her piano teacher, and, as of next year, she will no longer do exams or even recitals. I never

wanted or expected her to be a concert pianist. I always simply wanted her to be able to walk into a room, spy

a piano, and sit down and play a favourite piece. The

funny thing is that this is exactly what she wants, too — and it is exactly what my father did. He would often play

when no one else was around to hear, not for applause but rather because he loved music. It seems that legacy

is not only alive and well but runs deeper than I thought.

the highest quality. We had it delivered to our home,

Last night my daughter was restless and unable to sleep.

she would enjoy it, but what I hadn't expected was that

late we sent her back to her room to try again. Before

and I found a piano teacher for my daughter. I hoped she would, in fact, be musical. Now, my husband is also

musically inclined, so I suppose I should have considered

the possibility, but when she showed an aptitude for reading music and playing I was amazed.

She took to the piano quickly. She went gradually over

the years from 1/2 hour lessons weekly to one hour long

lessons. She did recitals and Royal Conservatory exams,

She came into our room to chat a bit, and as it was quite

she went to her room, however, I heard the scrape of

the piano bench, and then she began to play one of her favourite pieces. My husband sighed a bit but I looked at

him and said "You know, even if she wanted to play at 2 a.m. it would be okay with me". And it would be, dear friends, because it is the legacy I desired and hoped for

coming to life. Her grandfather would be so very proud.

I know I am.

two philosophical haikus patricia budd humanity is

education needs

open your arms soul

and activate minds

one separated being

6

to open eyes, open hearts

volume 1 Summer 2012

hooked on whales catherine astolfo

the old man sits in his rocking chair, a quilt tucked over

above the beach and could look out from the other side of the

window, his paper hands flutter very slightly. A long black

whales, their backs glistening in the sun. The wind howled.

his legs. Eyes focused on a point somewhere beyond the car pulls up in front of the house. Three people alight, walk

in a straight line up the sidewalk to the entranceway, and

open the screen door confidently. The old man does not turn.

harbour. Suddenly he saw a puff of water and up came the

White waves crashed against the shore. He stood for a very

long time, just staring at the ocean, its fierce beauty laid out before him. He fell in love. He was hooked on whales.

They are familiar with the place. Busily they kiss cheeks,

The younger man gets up and straightens the cover lying

stiff visitors’ chairs. They say cheerful things as they sip tea.

man thinks. Son? Yes, perhaps. Yawning and stretching, the

shake hands. The younger man and his wife perch on the

Others in the room respond with the kind of polite chitchat that strangers often share. The old man does not take part

in the conversation. They do not expect anything from him, so the words flow around and past him. He notices that the boy does not participate either. Instead, the youngster sits and holds the old man’s trembling hand.

He thinks of the sea, the way it calls to him.

It's the most easterly point in North America, his Da told

over the rocking chair. This one is related by blood, the old son walks to the screen. The old man watches him through veiled eyes.

Something the woman says causes the man at the screen to laugh. The sound is cold and forced, unnatural. Not a gusty laugh like the old man remembers from his col-

leagues on the sea. This man is cultured beyond true joy.

Son? Did this son call him Da, the way he referred to his own father so long ago?

them — stand here with your back to the sea and the entire

The youngster begins to speak, still sitting there beside

wind whipped them with pleasant salty warmth. His Da

Although the old man does not catch the words, he feels the

population of the continent is west of you. At the shore, the

motioned for the children to open their presents now. The boys unfurled their lines. The kites bobbed in the wind, blue and red against the sun. For a long time the boy and his

brothers watched the breezes catch the little diamonds of cloth and whip them around next to the clouds.

The woman sits close to him, calls his name from time to time, speaks of the weather, of times past. He is aware that she is related to him, to the boy at his side, but she is not blood. Classic responses to her chatter fade on his lips.

The old man remembers what it was like to feel the water

below the boat, to have the wind lash his face with salt.

Instead of the screen surrounding the porch he sees the evergreens etching the sky, the stars falling to the sea. He feels an ache of remembrance.

Up and up he climbed the steps toward the lighthouse. Buttercups and purple irises lined the pathway. Now he was

the rocking chair, keeping the unruly hand from quivering. focus in the room shift to the boy. The Son and the related woman stiffen, faces taut with anger. There is ice in the

man’s voice as he tells the boy to mind his own business, reminds him that Granddad just might be able to hear him.

The old man turns his gaze to see the boy better. Long thin

hands are clasped in the young man’s lap. His eyes are bold.

There are more words, angry, defiant from the child, defensive and shocked from the Son.

The boy crouches in front of the rocking chair. His countenance is profound and strong. Grandson. Son of the Son, but so different. Watching carefully, the old man sees the words

on his grandson’s lips, feels the roughness in the boyish hands.

“I would take you out in the Maria, Granddad. We could stay on one of the islands until it was your time. Not in this

old home.” The way he says home resonates, drags the old man to the surface, then plunges him back to the past.

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northword: A Literary Journal Of Canada’s North

The rocky cliffs ringed the roads. The trees were an old green

His blue and white boat waited for them, sitting flat on the

and the wind refreshing, but as he headed out to sea, the

head. The inlet remained calm, barely rippling. Small lines of

fence, bent in the direction of the wind. The sun was warm waves were high. The Maria plowed up and then down again, a swing and a dip.

current drifted in now and then. All they heard was the hum of his boat and the call of the sea gulls.

Suddenly the whale was there, a huge male Humpback,

The sky was still a light grey, covered in mist, clouds touching

over and over, glinting white and silver, sometimes slipping

greens like a delicate mummer’s veil. The rocks added to the

friendly as all get-out, showing off. His tail lifted up and out, gracefully under the waves, sometimes slapping a loud tattoo.

Proud and joyful, the animal came right up to the ship. Tail up, down, sprays of white foam. Rolled over. Fins in the air, first one, then two, then one again. This time he slapped the surface with his fin and the sound reverberated throughout the

bay. He dove and came back up, puffing spray, right beside the Maria, so close they could’ve touched him.

Straightening, the boy follows the Son’s command that he leave. The screen door slams very loudly. Grandson.

The old man smiles. He remembers steering the boat in the rain, pushing her against the current and the waves, driv-

ing for the light on the shore. You had to have courage. You had to defy everything.

Incredulous, almost frightened, the woman’s voice sounds loud in his ear. “Arthur—your dad’s smiling!”

The man sits down again. “Dad. It’s Arthur, your son.”

Soft hands reach to stroke the old ones. Son. He thinks of

his own Da, the set of his shoulders, the sun creases over his face, the fat thick fingers. He remembers how rough

and blue his own hands would be after a day on the sea. So

strong he could crack a nut. Or hold the wheel of a ship in driving hail. This Son is weak, hesitant, simpering.

A flicker of regret washes over him. He remembers all at once that this Son was half an orphan. He, the Father, was

never home. Unlike his own Da, he never took the Son

out on the boat, never shared his love of the ocean. Never bought him a kite or took him to Cape Spear. Kept him from the joy and the addiction.

He feels the water smacking against the bottom of the boat, sees the warm glow of the fire on the shore. The damp. The salt. The search.

8

sea. Mist hovered halfway up the hillsides; birds circled over-

their heads and the mast of the ship. Fog sat across the ever-

impossible beauty because they were every different hue and

line. Slate smeared through a hill of granite. Purple-tinged, yellow, orange, white and black, the stones and rocks were, of

course, what gave Newfoundland its nickname: The Rock. As

soon as the mist cleared, they chugged out to the open sea.

The search had begun.

The silence in the room is uncomfortable. The woman begins her bright chatter again as someone comes to

replenish the tea-things, offers him a steaming cup. He

does not reply. He sees the Atlantic lapping at his ship, rocking her gently.

On the first leg of the journey, he spied some minke whales

cavorting in the bay. The tourists were a friendly, pleasant

bunch, excited and thrilled, despite the worsening weather.

When a slanting cold rain began pelting them, they simply pulled up the hoods of their suits. He didn’t often find a

group such as these: the ones who loved the land and the

sea almost as much as he. He took them into the bay, where the local fellas took their girlfriends and mothers to make

a good first impression. He pointed out the huge adult bald eagle, huddled against the rock, nearly invisible. Suddenly

the bird took wing, spreading his beautiful feathers into the rain cloud, flapping above their heads for a moment before he circled off into the distance. This is a sign to good luck, he told the group.

At first, the old man doesn’t respond to his son’s touch. Not

because he doesn’t want to, but because he cannot. The Son has no idea what this prison is like, he thinks. And that idiot

wife of his — well, she performs this once a week obligatory clinking of teacups, inane conversation. Does she think

he is of no use now? Is she politely waiting, waiting, for him to draw his last breath? He remembers the catch of sea salt in his throat when he breathed in the ocean air.

volume 1 Summer 2012

Just as the boat reached the mouth of the bay, there they

The Son looks happy, though. He clings to the dead leaf as

humpback, with lovely smooth black and white skin and a

once again squats in front of the chair. The old man keeps

were: two of them—fin whales. They were prettier than the thick, sturdy fin. He told the tourists that fin whales were “hard workers”, less showy than the humpback, but also a less

common sight. This was the luck our eagle drew us to, he said.

There were two of them, feeding on capelin along the shore.

though it is a gift. The woman fetches the young boy, who

the muscles taut, forcing the smile, until a grey haze begins to fill him up. There are tears in the eyes of both these

younger males. The old man briefly wonders why. Then he wonders who they are.

He steered the boat to follow them at a respectful distance as

Later, in the dusk of the waning day, he awakens. Some-

The whales chased the capelin into shore by flashing their

momentous. A good feeling, a kind of warmth, spreads

they dipped below, grazed, and came puffing to the surface. white bellies. The fish raced toward the shore, where they were suddenly swallowed up by a giant mouth. He loved the

look on the tourists’ faces when he informed them that fin

whales were so big they could swallow this zodiac in one gulp.

Second biggest animal in the world.

Once the fin whales were satiated, they dove beneath the sur-

face. The tourists were disappointed, though he could see a flat oval of water where the whales might still be.

Suddenly, there she was: about ten feet away, her enormous

body dwarfing his not-so-little boat. She surfaced and puffed, as though in greeting. He was silent in amazement and reverence for this gorgeous, gentle animal, just as the tourists

were struck dumb with awe. This whale could indeed swallow

where in the recess of his mind, he recalls something through his limbs and he thinks there has been a leap

forward. Perhaps the humpback has come back to play. Perhaps the fins have resurfaced. He decides to go for a walk.

Shawl over his shoulders, he begins to move up the deserted street. Already he can hear the roar of the surf against the shore.

When he is there, he stands for a long time in the wind, listening. It is grey, moody. It would take a strong man to

handle the sea today. Perhaps a man such as his grandson would some day grow into.

He thinks of the walls at the home, of the screen porch, of the rocking chair. Dreams that he is back there again.

them, but she came to play instead.

Shivering, he gets up and walks toward the water.

The Son is preparing to leave now, as he gently returns the

From the other side, they heard the sound of her mate, poof,

breath, squeezes his muscles with great effort. He feels as

tunate, he told the fin-whale tourists. I’ve never seen them

ancient hand to its lap. The old man takes a shuddering

though he is lifting an enormous weight, a dead useless

thing. But it is only his arm, with its trembling leafy hand, scarred and blue lined, calluses faint memories on white

skin. He places his hand on this Son’s soft one. An offering, an apology.

I was addicted, he wants to say, I am sorry I was no Da. I was

a powerful spurt of water signaling his arrival. You are so forcome this close. Say hello, they’ve come where you’re to. The

group stood in place, mouths open, a look of gratitude on their faces. A look he never got tired of seeing. He never took

the job for granted, considered it a gift instead. He was useful, a teacher. He was strong and brave and he was in love with the whales and the sea.

hooked on whales, not on life, not you, not your mother. I

The water reaches out to touch him. He sinks his feet in it,

with tourists and the Maria than I did with you. But he has

into the waves, feeling the ocean cold and clingy, yet wel-

found a job that fed my addiction. I spent far more time no words, no way to force these thoughts from his head to

his tongue. He smiles again, though he knows his mouth must look twisted and awkward.

then his hands, tastes the salt on his lips. Slowly he walks

coming. His eyes slide shut and he drifts, floating, peaceful.

He lets the sea take him.

The rocking chair is still.

9

northword: A Literary Journal Of Canada’s North

in the absence of nicole fitch

where is my harmony my peace

what has become of my mind it's twisted and turned upside down

missing thoughts skipping beats

my heart has given up

my soul is refusing to function time is of the essence

and I fear there's none left when will the chaos overturn

absolutely everything when will it all

just

stop

beans linda black Deep, dark

Sweet, intense

Percentages mean more

Grown in distant palm tree places Under the bluest skies

Roasted, stirred, smoothed then Shipped

To northern climes

Where I unwrap you

And delight in a stolen bite At my desk

Oh chocolate A whole cupboard Devoted to you

My morning debut Starting the day

With steam and milk

Dark roast only please

Starbucks, Kicking Horse And lately Peets

(Never Tim Horton’s) — Too pedestrian

spring

melanie reddy The rain outside my window falls Softly, in its misery.

Winter awaits not far behind.

Its chilling wind and biting breeze

Reminds us of its power and strength.

It kills the brittle leaves of fall

That dance about in the autumn wind.

Winter, the doom of every year Will meet its match In Spring.

10

I sip my milky brew and wonder how Is it possible that some people Don’t like you?

volume 1 Summer 2012

the day

dawn booth

I held you close to my heart

Even though I was unsure we would ever meet I kept dreaming

I knew there would be the day

When you came to me, when you would shelter me Making love, creating life

You brought me back to the person I always wanted to be Me

How I wish I could show you And you may never know

The family, us – we continue to grow

I was broken and you mended my heart You made me honest You made me care You gave it all

Forever grateful I will always be

Because the day we met You rescued me

15

northword: A Literary Journal Of Canada’s North

joey and the turtle alison e. bruce

the turtle told me my sister was dying.

Three years younger and at least two inches shorter than me, Joey was, nevertheless, my big sister. Some-

where between being the baby who ousted me from my place as centre of the universe to the adult that made it her mission to keep me employed, she outstripped me in political savvy, business acumen and general bossiness.

Of course, it didn’t help that I was the ‘space cadet’ of the

family. Plagued by chronic ear infections that culminated

to me, she had someone who could write whatever she

needed, whenever she needed it. It worked. I worked.

When I didn’t work as much as I needed to, she found me

contracts outside of BelleFare to keep the money flowing. Having a ‘big sister’ became advantageous — even

amusing, since we were getting to the age when looking older wasn’t as much fun anymore.

I remember the day things started to unravel.

in becoming half deaf at age nine, it was easier to slip into

It was a cold but sunny January afternoon. BelleFare was

nod than ask, for the umpteenth time, ‘What was that?’

and into its own office. Business was good enough for

a world of my own making; less frustrating to smile and I first noticed that I was losing the advantage of primo-

geniture in high school. In grade ten, Joanne joined the drama club and stage-managed every production from

then until she graduated. Everyone knew her. Most

doing well enough to have moved out of Joey’s home

me to be salaried. Our parents had recently moved to town, so Dad dropping by wasn’t uncommon. Usually

he brought coffee. That day he brought the news that Mum was waiting in the van and wanted to talk to us.

people knew me as Joanne’s sister — or so it seemed to

That’s the day we found out that Mum had inoperable,

touch of resentment at being the ‘second sister’. That’s

diagnosed with breast cancer and we found out that

me at the time. I loved her, admired her, but I admit to a

why I started calling her ‘Joey’ — to annoy her. Like the Brits calling the Americans Yanks, she adopted the nickname with pride, and I, a softie at heart, let her think that the name was a gift, not an epithet.

When Joey started her own business, I named that too.

I helped her create marketing materials. I stood in line with her at the registration office. Until she actually signed the forms, I had no idea whether or not I was going to be a partner.

Later, Joey told me that if I had asked …

I replied, if she had asked …

Neither of us said a word at the time so Joanne became

the sole owner of BelleFare Communication Services.

Not that it would have changed much. She still would have been the boss.

12 16

Thanks to Joey, I learned print layout and design. Thanks

aggressive lung cancer. Less than a month later, Joey was Dad had a tumour on one of his kidneys.

Spring 1999 was marked by surgeries and other medical procedures, capped by a family trip to Florida by way of the Georgia coast. Mum had a wig which came off in the

van to reveal a halo of transparent silver fuzz. Dad had a

functioning kidney again. Joey had the maps and a deter-

mination not to let her children know how scared she was.

September: another sunny day at the office. Joey had recently returned to work after recovering from a course of radiation therapy. Dad came in to tell us Mum was waiting in the van and wanted to talk to us.

That’s the day we found out that the chemotherapy wasn’t effective. Mum was dying. What I remember most was a mushroom pushing its way up through the

tarmac. We’d tried to get rid of it several times, but it kept cropping up. Like Mum’s cancer, it wouldn’t go away.

volume 1 Summer 2012

Life took on a surreal quality. Within the space of a few

days I was told my mother was dying and I discovered

I was pregnant. I was sad for my mother, happy to be having a second child, and worried about both impend-

ing events. I was angry at my mother, at the world in general and at my partner specifically for what I saw as

pump air into her, I felt the turtle and I knew she wasn’t going to die… not yet.

Joey and the turtle fought cancer for three more years.

There were some close calls in there, but there were also cease-fires.

a lack of support in my time of need. He might have been

After the first recovery, Dad, the kids and I moved closer to

ryone else I had to be strong.

with her. The path between our two townhouses was like

the only one who openly felt that anger, because for eveI especially had to be strong for Joey. She had recently

Joey and her girls so I could take care of her without living a corridor connecting two wings of the same house.

had her own mortality thrown up in her face. If that

We took a family trip to Florida by way of Tybee Island,

too much like an omen.

deck overlooking the beach, watching the sunrise as we

wasn’t bad enough, Mum died on Joey’s birthday. It was

Another thread unravelled shortly after my son was

born. Mere hours after the doctor took the staples out

from my c-section, my incision burst open. The same

night, a section of our apartment ceiling collapsed. The

next thing I knew, my common-law marriage fell apart and I was living with my sister. She took care of me for

two weeks. Then she arranged for me to move in with

Dad because she figured we needed each other. Besides, Joey and I tried living together in university — bad idea.

Bad or not, less than a year later, I was living with her

again so that she could leave continuing care and be at home with her children.

Georgia. One of my fondest memories is sitting on the

drank coffee. We had been there our last trip with Mum, and Joey, in particular, felt in touch with Mum there.

We went to Europe together. Me, Joey, three young kids and the old man.

At home, Joey and I took turns reading aloud and com-

pleted the Lord of the Rings and the first few Harry Potter books. We continued to work. I set up a movable work

station using a discarded microwave stand, so Joey’s com-

puter could move from bed to lift chair with her. From her bed in the living room, she designed conference and festival programs and a fire fighters pin-up calendar. We adjusted life around her illness, but life went on.

Joey’s cancer metastasized and started attacking her bones. After the first radia-

tion treatments, she almost died because the painkillers masked a rupture in her colon.

That’s when I met the turtle.

Part of my reputation as a space cadet rests on my interests in all things psy-

chic and paranormal. I embarked on a

Tarot self-study program when I was 16 and added astrology, comparative mythology and animal guides as I went

along. The turtle is a healer. I gave Joey a turtle figure as a talisman. When I sat

in ICU watching the bi-pap machine

maria fustic | Africa

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There were also long stretches of hospital stays, for

ence with asthma and fighting to take a breath made

infections. I became familiar with the route from Guelph

the other hand, if her heart stopped, I told them not to

radiation and chemotherapy, surgery and recovery from

to Hamilton where Joey’s oncologist and surgeon practised. I spent hours on the road, usually driving my sister’s

green Echo with the turtle talisman hanging from the mirror. I also got adept at text messaging. Text messages

were a lot cheaper than long distance calls. Joey would

send me reminders of what she wanted me to bring her.

Then I’d pull over and text back that I was already halfway there — but did she want me to pick her up a coffee.

There came a point when I couldn’t drive Joey to her

appointments any more. Her bones were too brittle. We rode down in an ambulance. For once I didn’t have to

resuscitate. It was my one concession.

Joey wasn’t the only one with a hospital bag. I spent so much time in waiting rooms, I had my own kit with a

book to read, a notebook to write in, and a sketchpad and crayons in case I had the children with me.

I took out the sketch pad while I sat with Joey.

I drew her a turtle and used a couple of pieces of medical tape to put it on the wall.

For awhile, I stood by her bed, holding her hand.

fight for the front seat, even though I wasn’t driving. It

“It’s up to you now,” I told her. “I’ll take care of you for-

was told that the treatments weren’t working.

if you’re tired and want to go, I’ll understand.”

was on one of those visits — the last one — that Joey

I refused to give up and Joey refused to give in. The fight

continued mostly for the sake of spending as much time as possible with her children. Then there came a point, once

the last bit of BelleFare work was delivered and the first edit of my novel was completed, when it got too tiring.

Joey had a silver ankh that she used to wear on a chain.

Medical procedures made wearing the chain imprac-

ever if you want. Your company is payment enough. But After a while I sat down and drew the turtle diving for a treasure chest.

“Whatever you most want is in the chest,” I told Joey, taping the second drawing up. “The turtle will get it for you.”

That’s when I knew. Since Joey was in a coma, the turtle told me.

tical, so she wore it pinned to her gown instead. One

A couple of hours later, I brought my nieces, Sophie and

eldest daughter, Sophie. Joey knew what I, for one, was

ing to her, but I can’t be sure. We were all in a fog at the

day she undid the safety pin and gave the ankh to her unable to accept.

Hours later Joey had an episode. We’d been there, done

that several times before so, after calling 9-1-1, I calmly gathered medications, reading material and the other

Claire, to visit their mother. I seem to remember us singtime. I remember noticing that Joey’s heart monitor was

fluctuating. Someone came in and turned off the alarm.

Soon after that we were asked to step out. Later we were allowed back for a final goodbye.

odds and ends that would make my sister comfortable

I must have gathered up the turtle pictures because I

into a coma, as the paramedics prepared her for trans-

car — and a collection of turtles given me by friends and

when she was settled in hospital. Even when she slipped

port, I didn’t give up. Joey had been to the brink before

and had come back to us. The thought that she wouldn’t make it hadn’t entered my head.

For the next 24 hours, I was told at regular intervals that I should prepare myself for my sister’s death. I wouldn’t

let them take her off assisted breathing. My own experi14 18

me horrified at the thought of Joey being without air. On

still have them. I still have the turtle talisman from the family since.

Being the space cadet I am, I imagine Joey is with the

turtle, on a beach with Mum and a fresh cup of coffee, watching the sun rise.

volume 1 Summer 2012

the toothpick bridge jayne barnard

the narrow footbridge swayed. The planks shivered beneath Brenda’s shoes. Hug-

ging the wire handrail to let a jogger pass, she looked back. She was almost at the

middle of the Elbow River. Beneath her feet rushed the murky water of the spring melt, coiling and twisting in unseen undercurrents that would scour the stones of the nor-

mally placid river. Overhead stretched the rusty cables that supported the footbridge, each end clawing for purchase on its shore. The water was too much like her home, where angry currents scoured her spirit with their relentless silent speed. The bridge

was like her position there, stretching out her arms painfully between Sam and his father, her fingernails clinging to the back of each shirt as they walked resolutely away

from each other. The single paper in her pocket crackled as she moved on across the bridge. How could a half-page of text weigh so heavily?

“Be honest,” she muttered as the solid earth of Lindsay Park met her feet. “It isn’t the whole e-mail, just those last three words.”

The note mostly concerned Sam’s adjustments to his summer job: continuous Frenchspeaking, washing his own socks, using euros instead of dollars, buying wine at the

grocery store. His new buddy, Jeremy, was also from Calgary. Jeremy actually wanted to be at Vimy. His family lived in the old Currie Barracks, where the streets were named

after Canadian battles. Their team leader, Marie-Claire from Chicoutimi, was on her second summer at the Canadian War Memorial. She had a little car, on loan from some

cousins in Paris, and would take them around a bit on her days off. It wasn’t as bad as

it could be. Dad could be told any of it…and then came the poisoned words that said Sam had not forgotten why he was in France, had not forgiven his father: if he asks.

The words weren’t even bolded, but their bite was deep. They carried six months’ burden of ferocious arguments and frigid silences, harsh words and bitter capitulation.

They weighed her down all through supper, dragging at her arm with every lift of the fork. Finally she said, “I got an e-mail from Sam today.”

Dan grunted. “I guess he’s alive then. Does he want money already?”

“He didn’t mention that.” Brenda waited. Dan pushed back his chair. “Don’t you want to know how he’s doing?” she asked.

“If he wanted me to know, he would have e-mailed us here, instead of you at work.”

Dan picked up his plate and reached for hers. “You finished?”

“Yeah, I guess I am.” Brenda didn’t bother to keep the bitterness from her voice. “Why’d I even start?” She grabbed her plate from under his hand and walked into the kitchen.

Dan followed. “It’s been so peaceful for the past week. Do we have to keep fighting over this?”

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“You forced him to go. You could at least pretend to care how he’s doing.”

“It’s not blackmail to expect my only son to serve his country for one summer out of his entire cushy life.” Dan

already, as deep and wide as the Atlantic Ocean that sep-

arated them. If they kept this up after Sam came home in August, it would destroy her.

slammed dishes. “My older kids all did something. Peace

May bloomed into June. Dan did not ask after Sam, and

think I sent Sam into combat, the way you both carry

the tourists and the history he had to learn. Jeremy was

Corps. Medicins sans frontieres. They gave back. You’d on. I sent him to work as a goddamned tourist guide at

Vimy Ridge memorial, and I don’t see what the hell is wrong with that.”

“You forced him to go,” Brenda repeated. “It’s no wonder he’s angry.”

“He had a choice. He could have paid his own tuition for next year. This way, he gets paid, his tuition gets

paid, and he gets out of my hair for three months.” Dan walked away, his lips set, and went out to work off his

anger with the hedge clippers, the way he always did.

Sam did not mention his father. He wrote instead about going to visit every war cemetery he could reach, and Sam would probably go along.

June wore away. Each afternoon, Brenda walked home from work through Lindsay Park, admiring the blos-

soms of early summer. And each afternoon, she crossed the little suspension bridge, envying its fortitude. The

waters were beginning to settle and clear here, but not at home. She did not mention Sam’s e-mails there, and

Dan did not ask. The price of peace was paid in aspirin for her aching shoulders.

With every ferocious snip, he would be thinking the

Midsummer’s Eve arrived, along with another e-mail

My father served in WWII. My grandfather died in the

woman in a long dress waved a wreath of flowers at

things he had so often said: I did my stint in the air force. trenches in WWI. My older kids all served in other fields.

Why doesn’t my only son have a service ethic? Where did I go wrong? Where did WE go wrong?

Now, in the second week of May, the MacAuley hedges

were looking seriously scalped. Dan had not asked, and

from Sam. In the park, a crowd danced on the grass. A

the business-casual passersby. “Celebrate renewal,” she

called. Brenda waved back. The flutes followed her over the swaying suspension bridge. She hummed their lilt-

ing tune as she entered the house and followed her nose to the backyard deck.

he had not been told, not about Jeremy or Marie-Claire

Dan looked up from his artistic braising of chicken

Brenda stayed in the kitchen, baking the way she always

“Lovely,” Brenda sighed, collapsing into a chair. Before

an older family, even a grandchild, but all she had were

been to Paris! Marie-Claire took them along when she

or the euros or the socks or the wine.

did, beating batter in time to whirling fears. Dan had Dan and Sam. What if they stayed mad forever? What if they never spoke again? A cookie went into her mouth for every unanswerable question. She had gained eleven pounds since March, despite her daily walks. She didn’t

mention Dad in her return e-mail, just talked about the linden and sand cherry blossoming in the yard.

Sam got the message. His next notes, increasingly cheer-

ful as the weeks passed, were similarly devoid of Dad.

Brenda’s heartstrings split further with every exchange.

16 20

The silence between her two men was unbearable

breasts on the grill. “Had a good day?” he grinned.

she could let herself think too much, she added, “Sam’s went to visit those French cousins of hers.”

“Paris, hmm?” Dan turned his back and brushed a

miniscule bare spot with sauce. Brenda held her breath, waiting, willing the Midsummer magic of renewal to touch him. “I always wanted to see Paris myself,” he continued. “Where all did they go?”

“The Louvre,” said Brenda, forcing herself to speak easily, as if talking about Sam to his father was an everyday

occurrence instead of the first crack in the dyke. “The

volume 1 Summer 2012

West Bank. Notre Dame. And they went to the very top

“You just want to play with your new camera,” Brenda

exactly like the one you helped him make from tooth-

was going to help with a project of Sam’s, just like before.

platform of the Eiffel Tower. Sam says it looks almost picks and mini-marshmallows. Remember that?”

“That was a long time ago,” said Dan, apparently

absorbed in his cookery. “He was in Grade Eight, I think.

We made bridges, too. It was easy once we figured out the trick.”

“How did it work, anyway?” Having lived through the

construction phase, Brenda could not possibly not know,

teased, as her heartstrings eased another notch. Dan

“Congratulations,” she said a week later. “Sam and Jeremy are using your information about Private Patti-

son for their tour groups. They can really identify with a Calgary man winning the Victoria Cross at the Battle of

Vimy Ridge, even if he was closer to your age than theirs.

They laminated your photo of the bridge and stuck it on the bulletin board. Alberta tourists are signing it.”

but she had to keep this precious conversation flowing.

Dan grinned. “Is he charging them for the privilege?”

Dan dabbled his brush in the sauce dish. “You have to

“Shall I ask?”

make them in little sections and let the marshmallows dry out a bit before you connect them together. Otherwise, the toothpicks slide through. So you build, and then

you wait. And then you build again, connect the sections

together. You can make quite sturdy structures with a lot of little sections. Our crowning achievement was a

bridge with a two-foot span strong enough to support a six-pack of coke.”

“I remember.” She went quickly back to the kitchen, before he could turn around and see the foolish tears in

her eyes. There was hope after all. Dan and Sam shared a good memory. They could say each other’s name without anger. The ends of her bridge had finally stopped pulling away from each other.

“Want to take a walk?” she asked, over supper a week later.

“Sure. Where to?”

“Lindsay Park. Sam wants to know if there’s a plaque on Pattison Bridge, by the Sports Centre. Jeremy showed

him some graves from the Alberta Regiment. One is for a Private Pattison from Calgary, and they wondered if it’s the same fellow. He was killed in June 1917.”

“I think there’s a sign or something. I’ll take some photos of that and the bridge,” Dan decided, “and send them to your work e-mail tomorrow.”

“Nah.” Dan twirled spaghetti on his fork. “You might ask him to look up a few MacAuley graves, though. My dad lost two brothers in WWII.” A long strand of pasta

sagged between his fork and his lips. Brenda was similarly relaxed, hanging between him and Sam, passing

polite requests and messages. She could live with that, after the long months of silence and anger. Dan sucked

in his spaghetti strand like a kid. “Hard to believe it’s Stampede Week already.”

Brenda passed on his request to Sam on Monday, before

the usual chaos of Stampede breakfasts, rodeos, drunks and fireworks swallowed her. Cheers from the chuck-

wagon races could be heard all through Elbow Park.

Nightly fireworks echoed off the glass towers of down-

town and rumbled along the river valley like distant artillery. The final night’s noise and glare surpassed all

that had gone before. Afterward, Calgary heaved a collective sigh of mingled relief and regret as it got back to business.

The dust had hardly settled when Brenda carried home

a response to Dan’s request. This time, no despairing

identification with the little suspension bridge marred

her crossing. She read the relevant paragraph aloud over supper. “We went up to Holland for two days. They sure loved us when they found out my great-uncles were

in WWII. I didn’t realize the Canadian Army Corps had

17 21

northword: A Literary Journal Of Canada’s North

almost single-handedly liberated Holland. One museum

resting place of Private Hugh P. MacAuley. Back at work,

for the canals, section by section like our toothpick

to his mother: two of Private MacAuley’s grave; a few of

had photos of the engineers building pontoon bridges bridges. Wasn’t Grandpa M. an engineer? To us, the war is a long time ago, but for the Dutch people it’s only yes-

terday. They have annual Liberation Day ceremonies, and every Christmas Eve they put little lights on all

the Canadian graves in Holten cemetery. Tell Dad I took photos of two graves that ought to be his uncles’. They’re

from Calgary, and my middle names are on the markers: Peter D. MacAuley from the Calgary Highlanders and

Hugh S. MacAuley from the 1st Canadian Tank Brigade, Calgary Regiment.”

“That’s them,” was all Dan said at the time but, some days later, Brenda realized he had a new habit. “Anything from Sam today?” he would ask, almost every evening

over dinner. When there was a message, it often con-

tained the words “Tell Dad,” followed by some gruesome

story like the one about the cows that died horribly, foaming green at the mouth, after licking trees that had

grown up over a WWI ammunition dump. Dan thought the tales were great. Brenda shrugged away the revolting images, glad he and Sam were no longer ignoring each other.

As the dust-laden heat of late July seeped into a hotter, drier, dustier August, Brenda paused in the middle of the rusty suspension bridge. Below, the Elbow River crawled

sluggishly past sun-baked stones, its waters too sleepy now to raise even the illusion of coolness. She fanned herself gently with a manila envelope, taking care not to

crease the brown paper. When Dan asked his usual ques-

tion tonight, there would be a whole sheaf of answers.

She would enjoy watching his face when he saw his son’s latest missive. What would he say?

But Dan didn’t say much at all. He simply ate and lis-

tened, in the cool shadows of the kitchen, while she explained how Sam had tracked down his great-grandfather’s grave. Sam and Jeremy had gone to Ypres, in

Belgium. In Sanctuary Wood, beside 145 of the many other Canadians who had fallen during the bloody Ypres

battles of June 1916, they had photographed the last 22

18

Sam had scanned and emailed a series of photographs the peaceful graveyard at Sanctuary Wood; one of the

blocky Menim Gate in Ypres, inscribed with the names of 55,000 Commonwealth soldiers who had no known

graves; a single of the Ypres Fire Department playing The Last Post, as they still did every evening at sunset, in

honour of the soldiers who would never go home. And there was a photo of Sam, in his Canada jacket, holding up a sign that read, “Happy Birthday, Dad.”

Dan spread the photos out on the table and looked at them for a long time. Brenda looked at him, waiting for some sign that he understood the real message in those

photos. Didn’t he see that Sam had finally figured out

what it meant to be a MacAuley man? Wasn’t that what

he had hoped for by sending the boy to Vimy? Could he possibly persist in this arms-length involvement with

his only son? The undercurrents roiled again around her.

She bit her tongue, willing Dan to get it, to be gracious in victory. He stood up, pushed his chair back. Was he going for the hedge-trimmers? Surely not?

But he only went slowly across the family room to his computer. He opened his e-mail program. Brenda una-

shamedly looked over his shoulder as he typed, “Dear

Sam: Thanks for the photos. I’ll get Mom to make copies

for Grandpa MacAuley. He was in Holland with the 9th Field Squadron, 2nd Canadian Army Corps… those guys putting sectional bridges across the canals. You

might even have seen him in one of those old photos.”

He turned his head. “What are you getting teary-eyed about?” he asked.

“Toothpicks,” Brenda said with a goofy grin, as she wiped her overflowing eyes. She wriggled her shoulders. The

last of the summer’s tension drained down her arms, the last undercurrent swirled out the patio door and dissolved. “Toothpicks and marshmallows and building bridges, one little section at a time.”

volume 1 Summer 2012

a cherished moment between mother and child

amanda (mandy) nielsen

my five month old daughter. How beautiful she is as she quietly sleeps. Her tiny little body surrounded by pillows on our queen sized bed, the comforter pulled up under her chin. Her head is to the side, resting on her left ear, the last

drip of milk slowly dribbling off her cheek and onto the sheet. She is lying on her

back, calm now, a stark contrast to what she had been like ten minutes earlier.

She had begun to fuss and push out of her grandfather’s arms, the

soother no longer a comfort. Knowing that she needed me and my milk, I gently took her and walked upstairs with her to my room. Lying down

on the bed, she had already begun to relax, knowing my milk and sleep

were near. I moved her to the middle of the bed and positioned her so that when I lay next to her our bodies would be perfectly parallel to one

another. She smells so sweet, nothing else can compare to her smell.

Moving quickly I placed myself next to her, pulled up the right side of

my shirt, unclasped my bra and lay on my right side. Pulling her close and moving her to her left side with my left hand and arm on her small

back and head, I gently placed my breast into her mouth. She became

frantic, searching for my nipple, hungry for milk and sleep. Furiously taking short sucks, she encouraged the milk to flow and my let-down

to engage. I stared down at her, amazed at how adept, how skilled she is,

how she knows exactly what to do and no one has ever had to teach her.

My let-down engaged, the tingling, tearing sensation, and her sucks became stronger, longer and deeper. Her long, satisfying gulps only briefly interrupted by a pause to catch her breath. It is so satisfying, so good, to be

able to do this for her. Her beautiful blue eyes tightly shut, the long thick lashes curling from her eyelids, her beautiful little nose, ears, and lips. Her beautiful fine hair white blonde at the roots, then auburn, then

dark brown at the tips; she is perfection.

Slowly the gulps became less frequent, the pressure from her mouth lessened, until finally she released her lips from my nipple, a drip of milk escaping from her

mouth. I quickly grabbed a cloth to wipe

it away. I gently pulled myself away. She is quiet, peaceful, and asleep. A gift a mother megan taylor | Grace

provides for her child; a cherished moment between mother and child.

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a portrait of self-today, but perhaps not tomorrow amanda (mandy) nielsen The self is hidden,

Yet plainly in view.

It is a contradiction and constructed.

Who can see it?

The part of me that is satisfied with today.

The part of me that yearns only for yesterday.

Would I really want that?

Does anyone really want to go through that again?

The process is pushing me forward, whether I want to or not.

In loving today am I losing myself?

In loving today am I risking tomorrow?

You tumble through life, unsure and yet, Sure. You know there is trust.

Understanding that you are here for Yourself. You are here for others.

Experience, time, self-assuredness.

Perhaps I feel this way today…

24

20

Perhaps again tomorrow.

and in the end kevin thornton

Why do we try so ardently

to live beyond our natural right.

To hide from death so fervently and fear for life’s uncertainty,

that death’s replaced by phrases trite, banal and tired. Euphemistically we pass, go over, carefully

avoid death’s name, so that we might consider it less morbidly.

Those who believe eternally

in God, Allah or Yahweh cite

that ancient texts, purportedly say death is almost certainly

a door to otherworld’s delight.

I hope they’re right. And carefully I live in happy daze, exultantly

in the now. Days go by, then night after night the same; perfectly

marking our passage. _Mortality_.

Go gentle into that good night.

A night of peace…..and harmony.

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northword: A Literary Journal Of Canada’s North

marginalia

A Harmonic Riff

A column by douglas abel

as the theme of this issue of northword is “harmony,” I spent some time

comparing the usual implications of the term with its specific meaning in

music. I discovered significant differences which might guide us, or caution us, as we seek the elusive quality of harmony in our lives, our society, and our world.

In the everyday sense, harmony suggests a conflict-free state of tranquility. Everyone is “playing nice” and getting along. Harmony can become a rather “feel

good,” saccharine concept, as in the lyrics made famous by Paul McCartney and Stevie Wonder:

Ebony and ivory

Live together in perfect harmony

Side by side on my piano keyboard— Oh Lord, why can’t we?

In the musical sense, however, harmony requires much more than simply playing together “nicely.”

Musical harmony is dynamic and progressive. A single musical chord may be

pleasant, but it is not, in itself, harmonic. True harmony occurs when other, different chords follow it and/or precede it. Harmony is not a state; it is a complex process, moving through time.

By definition, harmony requires multiple notes or voices; it needs two or

more sounds to occur together. A melody, however beautiful, is not strictly

harmonic. Unison—everybody singing, playing, saying, or doing the same thing—is neither harmonic nor harmonious. For harmony to occur, everyone may need to be “singing from the same songbook,” but they absolutely must

not be singing the same thing. Harmony involves complicated relationships

between different voices creating different notes. Harmony is not uniformity.

A musically harmonic moment is not necessarily pleasant or beautiful. It

is built on discord and dissonance as much as on concord and assonance.

Listen to the opening chord of the fourth movement of Beethoven’s Ninth

Symphony. This is not a “pleasant” sound; it is angry, jarring—and exciting.

Listen to much of modern jazz; cleverly complicated sequences of discords

seem to dominate the pieces. The greatest harmonic works do not reject discord; they create it, wrestle with it and, finally, resolve it. Harmony progresses

through the dispute of voices, and through the resolution of those disputes; that resolution can be conclusive or open-ended. Harmony without discord is sterile and boring.

If harmony must have multiple voices, it must also have an essential leading voice—a melody or theme. The notes the multiple voices will sing or play must

be chosen relative to the melody; this theme is what the other notes harmonize with, whether concordantly or discordantly. The melody need not always dominate. It can be reshaped or subdued as other voices play a leading part. We 22 26

volume 1 Summer 2012

may not always be as aware of the melodic voice as we are

human emotions and experience. Major or minor keys res-

sequence. But the theme must be there, to give the whole

with hope, fear, contentment, longing, rage, even despair.

of other voices at any particular moment in the harmonic process a focus and a direction—a purpose.

Harmony must have multiple voices, but it is not enough just for different notes to be sung or played. For the

most exciting and satisfying harmonic effects, the voices

themselves must be different in quality, resonance and

onate with our joy, or our grief. Harmonic music can fill us It can soothe us, or activate us. It can energize our steps

toward the altar, or toward the battlefield. Because harmony is a human process, it can generate or echo almost anything that humans can do, for good, or for ill. But great music always does “resonate” with human beings.

emotional impact. The sound of a deep bass voice is qual-

Finally, musical harmony has creative human elements

just because their musical ranges are far apart. Acousti-

composer both follows the “rules”—whatever they may

itatively different from that of a lyric soprano, and not

cally and emotionally, the bass sound and the lyric sound

are pleasingly distinct. The string section at any spe-

cific moment in a symphony cannot be replaced by the brass section. A jazz quartet does not sound like a string quartet, whatever is being played. Musical harmony is

dependent upon and enriched by the fundamental dif-

ferences among the voices or instruments doing the playing. The greater the diversity, the more powerful and enchanting the harmony.

Perhaps most important, harmonizing is a skill that is

learned, and that is developed through practice. Harmony

does not just happen if you let it; it is not “natural.”The com-

poser must understand and master the harmonic forms;

that cannot be contained by rules and formulas. A great

be at the time—and goes beyond them, by bending, breaking, or ignoring them. The real effect of a harmonic

masterpiece cannot be evaluated by any objective criteria. There is no standard musical bottom line that easily

separates the magnificent from the mediocre. Simple

pieces can move more than complex ones. One symphony

endures; another, by an equally “competent” composer, is forgotten. When we try to explain why, most of what

we can say seems irrelevant, while what we want to say

escapes words. Why is your favorite song your favorite?

No checklist can tell you. Harmony is a quintessentially

human activity, with all the undefinable mystery that is always associated with what humans do.

the players or singers must strive and study to master their

What can musical harmony tell us about social har-

ity to create it involves a lifelong quest for improvement by

tells us that social harmony is a construct, a process that

instruments. If harmony is a dynamic process, then the abilthose humans generating that process.

Disturbingly, however, the harmonic rules that composers and musicians must master are not universal. What

is considered harmonically correct and pleasant differs

widely from culture to culture and from era to era. Oriental pentatonic harmony does not play from the same songbook as Western classical harmony. Jazz does not

follow the rules of the Baroque era. Fans of Techno are not

likely to be fans of Scarlatti. In seeking harmony we may

dream of a universal “music of the spheres.” Again and

again, however, we come back to the question of whose heavenly orchestra is doing the sphere-ical playing.

Harmony is not a process restricted to the happy or posi-

tive realms of existence. It can encompass the full range of

mony—apart from, “Be careful what you wish for”? Music must be dynamic and progressive. It must embrace and employ multiple ideas from widely different voices. A

guiding theme or purpose must define the dynamic, but that purpose cannot overwhelm the actions of the humans guided by it. The process of harmonizing must

be adaptive to different cultures, and to norms that

change over time. Social harmony must use and resolve

clashes and conflicts, without thinking that final, definitive resolution is either achievable or desirable. It must

speak to the entire range of human experience and emo-

tion. It requires skill, knowledge, dedication and practice.

Success must be measured in fully human terms. Social harmony is a quest, not a condition.

A long way from black and white keys in a row, or playing nice in the sandbox.

23 27

northword: A Literary Journal Of Canada’s North

contributors douglas abel is an actor and director, as well as a writer attracted

maria fustic is a fourteen year old girl from Fort McMurray. She has

to discord and its resolution. He lives in the mythically soggy city

always loved art and has been involved in many different forms of art

of Vancouver.

media. Her drawing, "Africa" was made with excitement and antici-

catherine astolfo is the author of The Emily Taylor Mysteries, published by Imajin Books (www.imajinbooks.com). Her short story,

uzma nadeem earned a Masters in Fine Arts from the University of

"What Kelly Did,” published by NorthWord, was a finalist for an

Punjab, Lahore and moved to Canada in 2006. Through her art she

Arthur Ellis Award 2012. Catherine’s novels have been optioned for

wants people to have a moment of joy and at the same time an under-

film by Sisbro & Co. Inc. www.catherineastolfo.com.

standing about the various realities of life.The painting “Seasons” is

jayne barnard was born at Cold Lake and raised at Dew Line radar bases from Moosonee, Ontario to Cobourg on Vancouver Island. Canada's military heritage featrues in many of her short stories. linda black lives in Fort McMurray, Alberta where she enjoys both coffee and chocolate.

about appreciating the beauty and diversity of the different seasons.

There is an extensive use of Metallic and Interference Acrylic Paints which adds life and depth to the painting. The colours in each column represent a particular season and the Maple Leaf in the Banding comes from the Canadian inspired imagery. amanda (mandy) nielsen is the owner and lead instructor of The Yoga

Copywriter and editor since 1992, alison bruce has also been a comic

Shop Fort McMurray: Profound Yoga for Body, Mind and Spirit, the only

book store manager, small press publisher and web designer. She cur-

Hot Yoga Studio in Fort McMurray. She is the mother of two young

rently manages publications for Crime Writers Canada and is the

daughters, and her husband, Clayton, is a Kinesiology instructor at

author of Deadly Legacy and Under A Texas Star, both published by

Keyano College. She is currently working on her Master of Arts Degree

Imajin Books. Find out more at www.alisonbruce.ca.

with a focus on Cultural and Community Studies. Mandy enjoys writ-

With a background in print journalism, dawn booth has made it her lifestyle to be actively involved in the Wood Buffalo media community since she resided to Fort McMurray in 2007 from the Ottawa Valley in Ontario. Known for her past work as editor at the Fort McMurray Today and her current role as general manager of SNAP Wood Buffalo, Dawn loves calling Northern Alberta home and is happily raising a family of two baby boys with her husband, who's a life-long resident of Fort McMurray. patricia marie budd teaches high school in Fort McMurray, Alberta.

She has written and published two novels: A New Dawn Rising and Hell Hounds of High School. Patricia considers herself very fortunate to be able to pursue both her passions in life: writing and teaching. veliyana chileva was born in Bulgaria and now lives in Canada.

A graduate linguist and teacher of English language, she enjoys poetry and folklore.

ing, yoga and meditation in her spare time and embraced the theme of "Harmony" for this edition. melanie reddy is a long time resident of Fort McMurray and mom of 4. megan taylor writes, “I'm a graduating student from the Keyano Visual Art diploma program. In the two years I've been studying with Garry, Robin and Erin I've learned more about practicing art than most schools offer. I'd like to thank them for everything they've taught me.” russell thomas is a regional councillor and Director of Marketing & Communications at Keyano College. He is a prolific blogger with over 450 articles published at www.middleagebulge.blogspot.com in the last two years. Husband to Heather and Papa to Dylan and Ben, Russell loves to explore his creative side on stage, on canvas and online. kevin thornton writes execrable poems, debauched short stories, opinionated newspaper columns and uncirculated novels. A founding member of the Northern Canada Collective Society for Writers

nicole Fitch is a third year student enrolled in the Bachelor of Applied

and currently a Crime Writers of Canada Regional Vice President,

Communications Degree at Grant MacEwan University. She was born

he lives in Fort McMurray and is working on a non-fiction work of

in Lloydminster, Saskatchewan but has been calling Fort McMurray

novella length, the 'Pithy Thesaurus'.

home for over twenty years. She enjoys writing poetry and fiction and finds herself influenced most by the people and places she loves.

24 28

pation of her trip to Africa in the summer of 2011.

"In the Absence of" is her first publication credit as a poet.

theresa wells is a writer, blogger, wife, and mother. She is a passionate advocate for her community and a lover of great shoes, and finds herself often writing about both in her McMurray Musings online blog.

volume 1 Summer 2012

northword: A Literary Journal Of Canada’s North

For all your real estate needs contact Fatima Mian 780-880-9800 | www.fatimamian.com