Young or old, we love puzzles. Sharing them, coming back to those unfinished puzzles and finding new ways to stimulate our brains. In so doing, we reinforce our own connection to family, to heritage, and to community.
Wood Buffalo is like a puzzle. We are a tapestry of distinct pieces, discovering our interconnection and our value to one another. Puzzles are one way we reaffirm our humanity,
The pieces in this issue vary from the whimsical to the vulnerable, an array of philosophy, observations, celebration and mourning. I am elated local writers and visual artists submitted to this issue and gave us insight into some of the people in our region.
I feel fortunate to be a part of Wood Buffalo, to have read these pieces, and to get to know my neighbours a little better through their written word and visual art. Thank you.
Health, hope and happiness,
Dave Martin guest editor
, issue 21
community report
happy 10th birthday to us
We made it. What a milestone. Friends of NorthWord gathered at the Event Station Centre on April 26, 2019 to celebrate our 10-Year Anniversary. We launched our 20th issue, which was aptly themed Celebration. Edited by the Board: Dawn Booth, President, Kiran Malik-Khan, PR Director, Theresa Wells, Secretary, Jenny Berube, Treasurer and overseen by Managing Editor, Jane Jacques, the issue featured an exclusive cover by artist Sarah McKendry. Mayor Don Scott was our special guest, who brought greetings on behalf of Council.
“I am very proud of NorthWord magazine. This is a real opportunity for local writers and artists, especially our youth, many of whom have been published here for the first time. I want to thank the Board and volunteers. Great efforts like this don’t happen without great people. Congratulations,” Mayor Scott said.
Councillors Krista Balsom and Phil Meagher were also in attendance along with community leaders. The program saw the magazine’s donors, sponsors, volunteers, and supporters from the last 10 years honoured. Poetry readings, and an open mic rounded out the festivities.
“We were delighted to celebrate the tenth anniversary of NorthWord with many of our long-time volunteers and supporters, and we expressed our gratitude to
by kiran malik-khan Public Relations Director
them with certificates of appreciation at the launch. NorthWord has reached its ten-year milestone thanks to friends who have given generously over the years. To everyone who has shared in NorthWord’s journey, thank you,” noted Jane Jacques, Managing Editor.
“Writing poetry and stories allows us to individually express our emotions and because literary arts has a universal language it connects us with others. To see NorthWord hit this incredible milestone tells us that literary arts is not only alive in our community but it needs a platform. We truly appreciate everyone who has submitted and supported this publication throughout the years,” said Dawn Booth, President, NorthWord.
Our deepest gratitude indeed to everyone involved in making this beautiful magazine a reality. We couldn’t have done this without you. Here’s to the next 10 years.
NorthWord is available free of charge at MacDonald Island, Suncor Energy Centre for Performing Arts, Blue Mountain Bistro, Keyano College, Points North Gallery, and the Thickwood YMCA.
For real time updates, like us on Facebook: www. facebook.com/northword and follow us on Twitter: @NorthWordYMM. Visit our website: www.northwordmagazine.com.
The NorthWord covers from the last 10 years.
L-R: Dawn Booth, President, Jane Jacques, Managing Editor, Kiran Malik-Khan, PR Director, Theresa Wells, Secretary and Jenny Berube, Treasurer enjoying the event.
Volunteers, sponsors and donors were honoured at the event.
3 across
veronica wood
The clue was tricky, and my so far speedy process of filling the crossword was halted. My wife Marge brought out the coffees and sat beside me. They smelt of mornings, of days spent piecing together crosswords. Days spent with the woman next to me. I noticed she had the record player on.
“What’s playing honey?”
She looked surprised. “Derrick, you know this, it’s Todd Rundgren!”
I scratched my head. “Well, I think my memory is honestly starting to go a bit.” She turned her head to look out the window, and I started to scratch my pencil into the paper.
“Fragments of pictures.” I murmured. “Photo album… nope.” Way too long. “Puzzle!” Six letters for 3 across. Perfect. The second last letter, the ‘z’ was the third letter of 13 down, a five letter word meaning “the town square.” I grumbled. It started with a ‘P,’ which could only mean ‘plaza.’ So close.
I was still stumped on 3 across when Marge stood to turn the record over. She looked over my shoulder before crossing into the other room. She pulled her glasses out of her robe pocket and stared for a moment. “3 across is giving you problems today?” She asked. “Yes. This letter here is an ‘a’... fragments of pictures…”
“Try ‘jigsaw’.”
I wrote it in.
Perfect fit.
the highway
timothy macpherson
I’m driving down life’s winding highway
Waving to the world as I pass it by
Veering ‘round pot holes and blown-out tires
So many dreams stranded on the roadside
Not really sure where I’m heading to Perhaps I’ll just know when I get there
I’m going fast but not fast enough it seems
The guy behind keeps honking his horn at me
One-way signs wherever I go
No turning back even if I wanted to I know I’ll get lost if I’m not already
But got to drive this highway to wherever it goes
2:15 am
monday morning
veronica wood
This is really difficult.
I don’t want to do this, but something doesn’t fit.
I thought you would fill this hole in my heart, complete the puzzle that is my life, but you don’t connect with my other pieces. I can’t force a blue piece where an eye should be or a sandy beach…
Don’t be puzzled over why I didn’t do this in person, I couldn’t. Maybe we will talk later.
Goodbye.
conversational silence...
chris bowers
To whom it may concern:
One day, while I was attending a meeting at work, my boss looked at me and said, “You’re staying incredibly quiet about this. What do you think?”
This has often been a theme in my life; the perception that I am too quiet. This is also, perhaps, not necessarily untrue. Often times, I will be involved in a conversation and spend most of the time observing and listening to the people around me while saying very little. Sometimes I won’t say anything at all. Unfortunately, this has led people to the conclusion that I am disengaged, not interested, or bored. Sadly, there was a time I believed them.
I have long contemplated why I am the way I am. Is there something wrong with me? Am I shy? I don’t understand. Everybody around me seems to have no problem speaking up and out. Why am I so different? My own mind had become one giant puzzle for me to solve. Is there anything more frustrating than a logic brain trying to figure itself out?
It had never really dawned on me that there is nothing wrong with me at all.
I have had a considerable amount of time to think about who I am and how I work. The world we exist in is moving at a faster pace every day; social media and television, for example, have made it so that we get information almost instantly. There is a danger there, however, that we choose to ignore. Many of us seem so eager to be heard that we forget to take a moment to breathe.
Armed with the knowledge that everybody thinks and works differently, I have come to realize that my brain absorbs information and tries to figure things out by piecing things together. Most importantly, it takes time to process what it has heard, what it has learned and what it has experienced. And just so we’re clear, I’m not arguing against impassioned speeches or intelligent debate and I understand that there are times where snappy decisions are necessary. I’m just wondering if it would really kill us to pause for a moment and consider what we are about to say before we say it? For the sake of my sanity, would it do us any harm to think an action through before we commit to that course of action? If what I’m saying is making sense to you as you read this, then maybe you are like me. Take comfort in knowing that you are not alone and that you have an important role to play in this talkative world. I truly believe that the quiet ones change the world while the loud ones have a tendency to take the credit.
I maintain that I have nothing to add simply by talking and there are most likely enough voices around me that I don’t need to add to the noise. And let’s be honest with each other, a good portion of the chatter is simply that—noise. To this day, if I don’t believe I have anything important or intelligent to say, I may not say anything at all. The important part is that, now, I’m ok with that.
And so, to answer the original question asked by my boss, that is what I think.
Sincerely yours,
A quiet person who has something to say
puzzled
owen erskine
Starting Staring
Trying to piece it together
Grooves with grooves
Find the edges
DON'T SMASH IT
Breathe and try again
Put me back together again
Incomplete
Forgotten Dusty
Memories
Rebuild, Remember
the planet
veronica wood
This planet is a puzzling place, full of puzzling people. Strange things we puzzle over perhaps strange things puzzle over us.
Presumably, the most puzzling puzzle the people puzzle over pertains to the puzzling puzzler who was puzzled enough to puzzle such a puzzling puzzle
wind of your wings
riley woodford
Oh, such a trying year
Added ages to my soul
Need some time to clear my mind
Head out to my fishing hole
I seek the calm and quiet
I know that water brings
To sit upon the rocks alone
Clear my mind of sorrow’s sting
Cast the rod, hope for a bite
Pull fish to the beach
But there’re no signs today
Not so much as a breach
Is it just this spot I’m in
Can they see me through the water?
Maybe I should move down stream
Or should I even bother.
Feels like so much time has passed
Still sitting empty handed
Are all the fish trapped somewhere?
Under rocks or stranded
Might as well pack it in
No fish to be seen today
Still nice to be out here
To help push my grief away
Wait, what’s that I see?
From the corner of my eye
From the bush, growth, and trees
A beautiful butterfly.
Now there comes a sense of calm
Like something from above
Like someone has a hold of me
A too- familiar hug
I sit back down
And make ready my line
With the company
I’ll cast out one more time
But quickly it’s quite different
Like someone heard my wish
Just as soon as I tug the rod
I caught myself a fish
With this change of fortune
I’ve become a fishing master
Just as fast I cast the line
I pull them even faster
Big they are, what a size
Some as big as my leg
I don’t even need the bait
Just toss my hook and jig
I nod to my company
As it flaps its beautiful wings
The wind starts to move the trees
And I listen as the forest sings
It lifts its self and off it goes
Back now, through the trees
I know somewhere inside myself
She was here to talk to me
As I look up
A nod to the sky
With a tear sneaking
From my eye
Thank you for helping me
In life and with the fish
I did everything I could for you
Your pride, my only wish
We will meet again one day
Until then I will be strong
Please drop by and visit again
I miss and love you mom
poppa’s pastime
scott meller
In the corner of the living room sits an old card table.
Scattered on the surface (a piece of repurposed plywood from some backyard project) are the bits and pieces of a picture.
Perhaps they are the petals of a flower in a vase, perhaps a herd of horses running through the foothills against a mountain backdrop.
Perhaps they are the signs of a lifetime on the farm before television, before smartphones, before computers, and gaming consoles, and a million other distractions that take us out of our present moment and around the world.
Perhaps they are a glimpse of a faraway spring, or a place only read about when the book mobile could brave the snow and traverse the snow drifted roads to your father’s homestead.
When the image is particularly difficult, or particularly beautiful, or (sometimes) when you just need a reminder that spring is eventually going to come, the pieces get glued to the plywood and put into a makeshift frame of leftover baseboards, or maybe even just some quarter round, so that you can hang it on the wall and look at it and see hope.
This is no mindless pastime or unsophisticated effort to embrace art. This is a Puzzle, and it is a portal to your Zen. It is your active meditation, your prairie mandala, and it gives you something to look forward to when you’ve finished the list of tasks that make up your winter subsistence existence.
It is ever present still.
across desirée samuelson
One across, a question in time. Gives me three down, a four letter word for Love. Choose the level, beginner or hard. Stuck now, no words to spare. Close the book, come back later... Move onto another page.
Across the table I gaze upon you. Six down—a four letter word for support; remain. Stay.
singing
dorothy bentley
She once sang all the songs, all day long, over dishes and the wooden chopping board, her mind freer than a gypsy bird with no permanent address.
But she went to read the evidence, the record of origins, saw the bones scattered widely, gaping deficiencies of all the theories and theologies jumbled.
Now she sings the songs tentatively, puzzling, wanting so hard, like a shovel on dry hard ground, to believe like a child, but the ground won’t give up and let her shovel in, won’t make way for her innocent inquiry into the beguiling blueline narratives.
Listen now, be still woman let the voices bubble up like a diviner’s prize from a branch probe; long forgotten stories by wisdom’s mother.
An illiterate she-dove, a she-witch, a she-whore, they said because she didn’t believe their discordant discoloured discourse.
She sings now, not so tentatively not fully believing yet, but she sings like a prayer, each word a seed, a nut, an incantation, a siren call to the true story, calling it to rise and give life.
She once sang over the dishes and the wooden chopping board. Now, they sing over her.
we
used to go outside by Liana Wheeldon
daily dread
travis hoyles
On Monday I was five:
Toys parading around my feet, animated by imaginative innocence. Father was still alive then, handsome and strong. The only wrinkles upon me caused by too much laughter.
On Tuesday I was twenty:
Feeling invincible, unflinching. Girls that are not quite women come and go, still searching for my wife. Ten more years to go. Getting off work and driving miles. Unending hope. A flash of restlessness.
On Wednesday I was thirty:
Crafting my daughter's crib novicely. Two hours each day to remove the splinters. A brief flicker. The crib is abandoned and broken. Hysteria as I fail to recognize simple tools. I return.
On Thursday I was fifty:
In my truck, waiting for my daughter at college. Sometimes I look down and see gnarled hands, tree roots. I stare at the wheel. What is a circle? I see my daughter, only her face looks different. That isn't my daughter. She opens the door and a warm breeze dries my brow sweat. It is her after all.
On Friday I was seventy:
In a suit, my wife's funeral. Oddly, no tears. I look around to see faceless men and women. I walk towards the casket. My wife is faceless too. I close my eyes. One minute. They open and I see my pale wife. Tears now. From one eye joy, the other, sorrow.
On Saturday I was eighty:
A husk with legs. Wading out into the ocean, unassisted. A memory. Waves crash against the rocks and the tide pulls the memory with it. A strong hand grasps me. I sleep for two days and wake in a strange room. My mouth declines food. I am afraid.
On Sunday, I am gone
Total darkness. My bones refuse to work. I have no knowledge. Only my ears receive: a young woman, crying. For who?
What am I?
stoic & unspoken by Terese Diprose
marginalia
The Puzzle of Puzzles
A column by douglas abel
Puzzles puzzle me. By that I don’t simply mean that I am frequently “stumped” by them—although I frequently am. Give me a challenging “standard” crossword puzzle, where the solutions are based on knowledge and vocabulary, with a bit of “interpretation” and a couple of bad puns thrown in, and I can usually breeze through it—or at least get through it. Nor do I feel any shame in looking up (Googling) terms that are simply outside my knowledge—an exotic plant or animal, or the capital of some tiny South Pacific island country. But set even a moderate-level cryptic crossword in front of me, and I am grateful if, after an hour, I have managed to decipher two or three clues out of twenty or thirty.
No, it is not the fact that I am so often stumped by puzzles that puzzles me. It is the fact that so many of us find puzzles so compelling, in some cases even addictive. What is it about a Times cryptic, a Sudoku, or a mathematical brain-teaser that makes us eager to crack the code? What need in us do puzzles feed?
A simple answer might be “brain stimulation.” A good puzzle can exercise the grey matter just like a good session at the gym can exercise the muscles. Yet there are certainly more obviously “productive” or “useful” ways of giving the brain a workout. Learning a new language, or how to play a musical instrument, works the brain in similar ways to puzzles. But at the end of those stimulating activities there is also a “tangible” benefit: the opportunity to communicate and converse with new people in new ways; the ability to make beautiful sounds, alone or with others. What is the “useful” satisfaction of being able to say, “Take that, Times Crossword Master, your additive anagram didn’t stump me!”?
I am especially intrigued by the fascination with puzzles because they so often use language in ways that are counter-intuitive, even counter-productive, in terms of our everyday activities and desires. Usually we want words to have a meaning that we can figure out and act upon. We want communication to be relatively efficient, and generally effective. We want people to use words to say what they mean, and mean what they say. Most human interaction depends on some kind of verbal clarity. Context and connotative meaning, delivery and tone of voice can make matters complex, but we try to insist that denotative meanings, at least, be straightforward.
A couple of recent political controversies hinge, in part, on the need for “straightforward” language. A recent debate in the Senate over changes to the “no-fly list” turned on the definition of the word “reasonable.” If a new commissioner was mandated to make “reasonable decisions” as to who should and should not be on the list, there was concern as to when and how exactly a decision could be considered “reasonable.” (Globe and Mail,
May 7, 2019, p. A4.) An opinion piece on the SNC-Lavalin controversy addressed the question of when and how the Anti Bribery Convention of 1999 allows for remediation agreements. Michael Byers pointed out that, in international law, “a treaty’s terms are to be interpreted in accordance with their ordinary meaning, in their context, and in light of the treaty’s object and purpose. (Globe and Mail, April 27, 2019, p. 04.) Over the last decades, there has been a strong push for “plain language” in law, for the elimination of arcane terms and elaborate phrasings in favour of language that anyone subject to the law can understand. We want clarity: life is simpler that way.
So why are we fascinated with puzzles, where ambiguity seems to be both the name and the point of the game?
Take the case of cryptic crosswords. Over the last year I have taken two “courses” in solving them. There I learned that there are ten different types of clues—not to mention combinations of them—each with codes indicating what kind of clue it may be. So, before you can figure out what a clue “means,” you have to identify what kind of clue it is, and how it works specifically. And there is a whole language of clues for clues: the word “crazy” may point to an anagram; the word “sailor” may indicate the letters “AB.” Solving the puzzle involves solving the clues—before you use them to solve the puzzle! In the cryptic class our teacher stressed one essential fact: if you look at a clue in terms of its literal meaning—and it usually has one, some kind of “surface sense”—you will almost never solve it.
Perhaps THAT is precisely the point and the pull of the well-crafted puzzle. It teases us to go below, beyond or through the surface meaning of language, because language is an invented and limited construction, pointing to meaning but not containing it. Puzzles remind us that
the “common sense” in which literal meanings are rooted is a limited sense, because it is tied to our senses, which are themselves limited. We can see colours that dogs cannot, but we cannot hear sounds that bats or whales pick up with ease. Birds have built-in GPS systems that we cannot hope to emulate “naturally.” Both the world of the senses and the languages that try to describe it are rich and complex, but they are not all there is, or all that we can imagine. Perception is less than conception.
For the most part, our sensory world serves us well. We can move in it, act in it, interact in it, survive in it. The fact that we sense and perceive in only three dimensions, plus time (!), is more than adequate for what we need to do. We may “know,” for example, because physicists tell us, that a solid object is not just mostly empty space; in fact that concrete “object” is a rapidly changing set of shifting probabilities of mostly empty space—which may in fact be “filled” with “dark matter” that by definition can’t be detected. But it would not be useful to “see” the world that way. The morning after he proved the relative emptiness of the atom, Ernest Rutherford was terrified to get out of bed, lest he fall endlessly through the solid floor.
Yet we can conceive beyond what we can see, hear, smell, taste and touch, and “make sense” of the universe in ways that challenge the senses. We can use our minds to define different “sizes” of infinity; to construct mathematically a universe that is infinite but limited, and which does not fit our everyday three dimensions; to strive for a “theory of everything” that goes beyond almost everything our day-to-day experience tells us.
That simple little puzzle, that teases us with “Don’t stop there,” may be the key to unlocking the doors of conception. Not a bad way, then, to waste an hour or two. Or, in my case, at least three.
contributors
douglas abel is an actor, director, writer, and voice and speech teacher. He has just completed a World War 1 video documentary, Yours, Lovingly. He continues to puzzle.
Poetry is dorothy bentley’s favoured method for selfexpression and storytelling. She currently teaches English and Math, and she enjoys the abundant outdoor life Alberta offers. Read about her and her work at www. dorothybentley.net
chris bowers is a writer and actor who has lived in Fort McMurray for the last 8 years and is proud to call it home. You can read more of his work on his website cjbuzz.com. He is currently a Kennel Supervisor at the Wood Buffalo Humane Society and is passionate about helping rescues and finding them homes.
terese diprose was born in New York City in 1946, grew up in Detroit, moved to Ottawa in 1975 and Fort McMurray in 1981. Terese was an active member of the Arts and Crafts Guild until the Evacuation in May, 2016.
owen erskine writes, “A born and raised Northerner. Also a husband , father and entrepreneur. Looking to let out an inner voice ’cause being a famous rapper didn’t work out.”
travis hoyles writes, “Born and raised in Newfoundland, Canada. Currently residing and working in Fort McMurray, with my lovely fiancée Desirée. In my spare time, I enjoy writing prose and poetry, as well as reading as much as possible. A couple of my favorite authors are Haruki Murakami and David Foster Wallace.”
timothy macpherson works as a mechanical engineer at a major oilsands company. His favorite moments are those spent with his wife and two daughters. He enjoys learning other languages, going on long walks in nature, and classical music (both listening and playing). He has more books than shelves and more aspirations than books.
Originally from Drumheller, Alberta, scott meller has now called Fort McMurray home for more than 20 years.
A fixture at Campbell’s Music, Scott also supports all of the Arts with his colleagues at ACWB, and by working on a personal mission to positively impact the world through music. When not championing arts, Scott can be found spending time with his wife, Natasha, and daughters Emelia and Evelyn, exploring the world and pursuing happiness.
desirée samuelson is a 24-year-old born and raised in St. John’s, Newfoundland. She is currently living in Fort McMurray with her fiancé Travis and her wonderful family. Her passion for creativity extends into the world of poetry and in her free time, gardening.
liana wheeldon graduated from Emily Carr College of Art & Design with a focus on printmaking, but drawing, painting and mixed media work have consumed her since. Her work is influenced by popular culture and our relationship with the natural world. Since moving to Fort McMurray in 2009, Liana has been very active in the arts community as a volunteer and arts administrator.
carmen wells is a Metis artist who originally hails from Vernon BC, but has found a home in Fort McMurray. Carmen works full time as Regulatory Manager at McMurray Metis, and works on pieces in her home studio. She writes, “My process for my work is a form of meditation for me; it may vary from time to time, but I free my hands from my mind and let the work reveal itself. The piece will become a life all its own, and I am merely bringing it to light. A lot of my work is based on instinct and feeling, which started as an idea.”
Though veronica wood is attending Keyano College as a Bachelor of Education student, writing is the passion she struggles to fulfill. In a world of chaos she is held together by a good cup of coffee and God’s grace.
riley woodford writes, “Literary artist residing in Fort McMurray. Proud member of the community since 2012, and proud to have been picked for the Arts Council of Wood Buffalo’s artist spotlight for May 2019.”
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