New Orleans

I’d wondered for some time what I wanted to do for my next holiday. Bev and I had just gone to the East Coast twice, first to Nova Scotia (Halifax, specifically) and Quebec City, then to Nova Scotia and PEI. We could go to Newfoundland, I supposed, or we could begin looking into the West Coast.

But I recalled looking out of JFK’s windows once and thinking as I surveyed New York’s fabled skyline that I would go there someday. I also thought about New Orleans and Mardi Gras. Mardi Gras was not essential; from what I’d heard, every night was Mardi Gras in New Orleans sans the parade. I looked into both and asked Bev if she was interested.

She was not. She’d gone on this Woman’s Wellness retreat at Cedar Meadows Resort and one of the girls had suggested that they all go to Vegas. Apparently, there was some enthusiasm about it and Bev began to think that she’d like to go. Her friend Lynn had been there and when Lynn thought that she might attend, Bev really began to think about it.

“Who’s planning this trip? I asked.

“I think Angel is,” Bev said.

“You should find out if she is, then, and if the girls are really on board.”

Bev informed me that Angel informed her that it was a go and that the girls were all in. I asked one of the girls who worked at my office who’d been there and she said, “I don’t have any money for that. Or the time. I got two kids.”

I asked Bev again, “Is this a sure thing?” Apparently, it was.

I suggested that it wasn’t and that she should come to New Orleans and New York with me.

She wanted to go to Vegas.

“You’ve no issue with me going to New Orleans and New York?” She didn’t. “Alone?” No. “Without you?” No.

Bev would have gone, but her mother’s passing had put her in a funk that she couldn't get out of; but being a private person, she wouldn’t speak about it either, keeping it to herself, working it out in her own time.

The date for me to book was fast approaching. I asked Bev if she’d heard anything about the Vegas trip.

 She hadn’t.

“Then you’re not going,” I said.

Bev said something about my not telling whether she could go or not.

I didn’t say that, I said. I explained. It wasn’t that I forbid her from going, far from it; I said that if no one had gotten back to her about it, then no one was planning it, and if no one was planning it, it was not going to happen. Group trips take planning. Everybody has to know the dates. Everyone has to book time off and that takes coordination. Everybody either has to book individually and get them linked, or someone has to book it all and everybody has to pay their share. None of this was happening.

“Come with me to New York,” I said.

“I’m going to Vegas with the girls.”

I booked my trip. I found a package deal that probably turned out to be more expensive than had I gone through a travel agent. It might have been a better deal had I stuck to one destination but I wanted to do both. I was calling it my Big vacation, what with my going to the Big Easy and the Big Apple. I booked a hotel room at the Wyndham La Belle Maison, just outside the French Quarter on Gravier St, right across Canal Street, and at the Doubletree, in New York’s Times Square, right at 7th and 47th Streets.
Bev’s trip fell through. One by one the girls backed out at the last minute, including the one who put the idea into everyone else’s imagination.

I bought travel guides (I always buy travel guides), I bought a ticket for a Broadway show. I scanned Google Maps and tried to consider what there was to do, not wanting to waste time in a bar. Fat chance of that in New Orleans. You can’t go to the Big Easy without spending a little time on Bourbon Street. Some may never leave it, but I wanted this trip to be more than just a hangover. I also didn’t want to get mugged either; and in my mind, a staggering tourist all by his self might make an easy target.

I told Bev that it might not be too late to add her to my trip; it was just flights, after all. Hotel Rooms didn’t care how many people occupied them and I had King size beds in both.

She thanked me but said that some of the girls had decided on a more modest vacation again. They were all going to get together at Angel’s cottage just outside Cochrane. I can’t say I wasn’t a little annoyed with angel, as it was her who’d instigated this fiasco in the first place.

I shrugged. “Okay,” I said, “suit yourself.”

I wasn’t being snarky. I wanted her to come with me. I’d asked her enough times. And I had my doubts that the cottage trip would come off either, considering the track record of the planner, thus far. Aside from that, where would you rather go if you thought on it, New Orleans and New York or Cochrane?
Okay, I thought, you’re going it alone this time. I hadn’t done that in years. But it wasn’t like I wasn’t capable. And it wasn’t like I wasn’t the driver of all our vacations.

I packed. Mainly clothes for hot weather. Shorts, t-shirts, light weight button-downs. A suit, a few dress shirts, a few ties, dress shoes and sandals. I even packed my clarinet. New Orleans seemed just the spot to bring a clarinet, even if I couldn’t play it yet, even though I’d yet to begin the lessons I’d signed up for. But I’d been mucking about with it and the instructional books I’d picked up, and I was keen to learn as much as I could before taking that first lesson. It all but filled my carry-on, but I didn’t think twice about it. I did get some curious looks from airport security personnel as I passed through metal detectors.

“It’s a clarinet,” I said when I saw eyebrows bend and heads tilt upon sighting the odd shaped image on their screen. Couldn’t they see that? One did, saying, “I know,” through a tight smile.

The day came. Bev brought me to the airport and I got on the plane.

I was flying solo. First time in about eight years.

I was on my way to New Orleans.

The Big Easy.

Crawfish, Oysters, po’boys, Bourbon Street and jazz.

I was excited.

The Musician

I’d picked at playing music a few times over the course of my life. I suppose if I had an extraordinary talent at it, it would have stuck. But, if anything, I am persistent. And I’d always wanted to play music, even if I’d never had the “opportunity.” I’d only had a couple weeks of Recorder while in Junior High and a couple weeks of choir, nothing else. I’d taken some extracurricular classes, but age and focus and bullying caused me to set it aside, then I got busy with college, then work, then laziness, I suppose. Time passed. A lot of time passed. I appreciated music, but I never pursued it.

Then the time came that I decided I was going to learn to play an instrument, come hell or high water, but which one? I’d always liked guitar. I’d picked it up off and on over the years. But I discovered that teaching oneself to read music while learning to play was a daunting task, at best. So, lessons. But where would I take lessons? I saw an advertisement on Facebook about the Timmins Symphony’s music school. Music is good for the mind and the memory, it said. My memory was troublesome at times, now. I’d always found myself in a room wondering why I was there, but more recently, I found myself groping for words, forgetting names of celebrities and musicians and bands with regularity. It was troublesome. It was troubling. I put one and two together and decided that maybe learning to play music was at least part of a solution.

But the Symphony Music School did not teach guitar. So, I had to choose one of the instruments that they did teach. French horn? Tuba? No interest. I’d never been much of a classic music fan, so those options available to me were a little foreign to me. Violin? Not me. I began to read about classical instruments and listen to sound bites of what they sounded like, just to see if anything stirred my soul. Some fell flat, some looked heavy, unwieldy, uncomfortable. My sister had taken piano lessons, but piano was frightening, what with each hand doing independent things, the eyes having to follow two staffs of notes, each wildly different from the other. I may not have been a classical music aficionado, but I did like jazz. Surprised? Don’t be. I’d been watching classic B&W movies all my life and jazz abounded within, especially in movie soundtracks and musicals of the period. I was well versed with Crosby, Sinatra, Dino, Ella Fitzgerald and Rosemary Clooney, and the like. And I’d watched countless episodes of Lawrence Welk on Sundays. Don’t judge; we only had two channels and we watched what my parents wanted to watch. So, I knew what Big Band and jazz sounded like. I liked Louis Armstrong and he played trumpet. I liked Arty Shaw and Benny Goodman and Pete Fountain and the opening sequence of “Rhapsody in Blue” never failed to thrill me. And my sister had taken clarinet while in Junior High. I couldn’t choose, so I bought a student model of each along with very basic self-instruction books and set about teaching myself what I could in preparation of the beginning of the music school year.

Making a proper and appealing sound with the clarinet was difficult. It squeaked. It squawked. It sometimes made no sound at all, my breath stopped cold and backed up and almost blowing the top of my head off. The trumpet was even harder. The best I could produce was a warble, as far from what I thought a trumpet should sound like as can be. Then again, I was trying to be relatively quiet, too; no need to annoy the entire neighbourhood. I developed an even greater respect for Louis Armstrong than I had before. Indeed, all musicians.

Humans are like water. They find the easiest path. I was no different. I focused on clarinet. I began to develop a little finger memory. My tone improved a little, too. I suppose I still sounded like shit and probably no better than a toddler taking his first lessons, but I gave myself license to suck for a while. That may sound obvious, but that doesn’t come naturally to me; I demand perfection from myself, regardless how impossible that may be until perfection is a target that’s actually attainable, and am always impatient and frustrated when said perfection doesn’t surface quickly.

Registration day arrived. I drove up to the old Hollinger administration building where the TSO was renting rooms, climbed the flight of stairs to the entrance and followed the signs indicating where registration was being held.

There was no one my age there, not counting the TSO volunteers manning the tables, taking names. Even the parents were younger. There were quite a few children, and everyone seemed to know one another, as though they’d been returning there for years. I felt awkward. Did middle-age people take lessons? They must; why else would the TSO advertise in the Press and online, targeting middle- and older-aged people? Or was I the first?

I approached a table. Waited my turn. That seemed to take forever as TSO members and the parents chatted and laughed and didn’t seem in any hurry to complete their business and be on their way.
“Excuse me?” I said, pressing into the table.

“Yes? Would you like to register your child for lessons?” the woman asked.
“No,” I said, “I’d like to enroll. Me. Myself. Can I do that?”
Her composure seemed to shift. She perked up. “Of course, you can,” she said. “What would you like to learn?”
“Clarinet.”

“Oh, that’s lovely,” she said, as though not many people chose clarinet as their weapon of choice. I discovered in time that woodwinds and brass had always been in high demand at the Symphony and that my choice raised their expectation that I might fill one of those not particularly sought-after slots.
She handed me a registration form and a sheet of rules I would be agreeing to. I signed on the dotted line and wrote a check for the first ten lessons. I’d be billed later for the second semester, they said. Dates were not mentioned.

“When do lessons begin?” I asked.
First week of September, she said.

“I can’t do the first two weeks of September”, I said, “I’m on vacation. Can I get a deferment, or make up the lessons?” I asked. I didn’t think they would. The agreement I’d just signed clearly noted that absentee lessons would not be made up.

“Sure,” she said.

They may have been desperate indeed to get new clarinet players to ignore their own rules even as I signed on the dotted line.

Indeed, no sooner had I begun my lessons did the Concert Master ask me, “Clarinet?” when she heard what I was studying. “Do you want a job?” Everyone assumes that someone in their forties must have been engaged in whatever they were doing for years, decades in fact.

I’d only had a couple formal lessons by then, so I said, “I think that may be premature.”

New Brunswick, Part 2

We’d gone South. We’d gone East. We headed North to Shediac and Bouctouche next, a much smaller focus than the prior days.

We took pictures of each other climbing Shediac’s giant lobster, walked around the wharf and then headed North along Kent County into Bouctouche, where we took a long stroll down the boardwalk and beach of the Irving Ecological Conservation Site. We did not walk its full length. The dunes are 12 km long, the boardwalk itself 2 km. And it was hot. There were no clouds. Bev walked about a quarter of the way while I ventured out further, probably about half way before turning around, returning to the more modest salt marsh. The beach along the boardwalk was deep and easily accessed by periodic steps leading down to it from the boardwalk. There were bathers and swimmers at each of these, the sand thick and clean, both warm and cool when digging one’s toes within. The surf rolled in again and again. Not crashing. Not high, certainly not suitable to surf, and not with any great strength, either, what with the parents and toddlers braving its breakings up to their ankles along the dune’s shore. We sat awhile, basking in the sun and finding the sand too hot for too lengthy a stay.

We weren’t thinking; we ought to have brought bathing suits and beach towels and spent the day there instead of returning to Moncton to shop a while. We shop too much on holiday. It eats up time and we buy stuff we could probably have picked up in Sudbury or Toronto without having to cart it back home in a suitcase.

We ought to have stayed. There’s enough to do there to occupy a day, judging by the number of people there when we arrived. There was a great deal of camp sites for those spending a more sensible stay. For those just popping in and out, like we were, there was ample parking at the Eco-Centre, or not enough, depending on your perspective; there was room when we arrived, far less when we left, but people were coming and going all the time.

The next day we headed South. We drove to Fredericton and had lunch in a coffeehouse, browsed some shops downtown, and checked out a craft show in the park. We did not venture further than the historic district around City Hall and what remained of the old fort. Neither of us bought anything. The stores were frightfully expensive, the men’s shops specializing in Hugo Boss and the like. We really didn’t do much in Fredericton but enjoyed seeing it. It’s a neat, well-kept grid, nestled in a bend of the Fredericton River, slightly lower to the ground than Charlottetown was. We ought to have toured the fort. We ought to have found out more about what the area had to offer, but we had it in mind to see much of New Brunswick’s south shore, so time was short, the drive long, and that did not make for much time anywhere. A pity. It cheats a vacation, driving too much, shopping too long, rushing from place to place and not actually experiencing any of them fully.

We jumped back in the car and followed the scenic highway form the Capital to St. John, following the St. John River through rolling hills, the road cut from the side of one. Radio was spotty, the satellite reception cutting out often. Much like most roads we toured, tall, treed cliffs rose to one side of us, deep steep cliffs plunged down to the river to the other side, both sides littered with homes and cottages and a few farms where space and grade allowed. From what we could see, the far bank was much the same as the one we followed.

St. John was taller than Fredericton, stories taller, far larger too from the look of it, and probably larger still once before, judging by the abundance of empty buildings and lack of upkeep we saw on the windows of the upper floors. A port, it looked like it might have had shipyards, once. It’s steep too, much like Halifax and San Francisco, its streets cut tiers on what looked an impossibly steep rise for buildings. I expected the buildings to begin to slide, crashing into one another on their race down into the Bay of Fundy. Aside from that, it reminded me of North Bay. Something like a shad fly had risen up from the waters to flit about and cover just about everything. The air was filled with them, if not thick with them. But we weren’t there at night, either.

We parked up the hill alongside King’s Park, walked down to the pier, then back up where we ate seafood and pasta at Billy’s Seafood Market, next to the park. I was thrilled to see a framed signed caricature on the wall by Ernie Coombes, Mr. Dress-up.

Leaving St. John was stressful. The day had grown short, the sun was sinking low to the horizon, the light a lustrous gold. The byways were a tangle of confusion to the uninitiated, twisting about like in Ottawa and Toronto. Should you miss your exit, it might take some navigating to find your way back the way you came or to the next outlet. We did not navigate well. It took some false starts before we stumbled on the right path and began our lengthy drive back to Moncton, most of it in the dark.
St. John appeared poor once we left the central hub. The buildings were in general disrepair and looked altogether slum-like. And the sun was failing. I had no wish to be lost in it when I could not see where I was going, the roads a confusion of streetlights and hard to read signs.

I exhaled a long sigh of relief when I found myself on a straight byway, multiple lanes guiding traffic north of the city. I was happier still when I saw my first sign informing me the distance to Moncton.
We had a flight the next day, and I was worried that we’d be driving round and round St. John for the better part on an hour before finding our way out.

It felt that way, but it couldn’t have been more than 15 or 20 minutes.

We arrived. We repacked. We finished what little alcohol we had left and went to bed, anticipating home.

P.E.I.

We crossed the 7 km span of Confederation Bridge in the morning. There was little to see when we were on it. The sides rose above our view, making the whole passage about as interesting as passing through a tunnel. It’s free to cross into Prince Edward Island. It’s a trap! It costs $42.50 to leave. I imagine the price has grown to $50 since then.

Just inside the Island, where the Confederation Bridge makes landfall, is Port Borden (what I called “Gate Village” until I knew better), a postage stamp of a town. There’s not much there on that tiny jut of land, just a tourists’ visitor centre and a sculpture depicting how the bridge was constructed. Maybe it’s not a sculpture, maybe it’s a three-dimensional engineering schematic, showing how the foundations were constructed. Either way, it’s was quite an engineering feat.

The village is a tourist trap dream, with all the souvenirs one could hope for all in one place. Oddly, there’s a lot about pirates there. I have no idea if pirates ever stepped foot on P.E.I.; they probably didn’t, but you never know. But there’s enough pirate stuff there to hint as it. And if that sort of thing sells, you know the shelves will be jammed full of it. And it must have flown off the shelves, because wherever I looked, I saw tri-corner hats, stuffed parrots and eye patches. There may have been one or two flouncy sleeved pirate shirts and a cutlass here and there. I loved the meme I saw everywhere: “The Beatings Will Continue Until Moral Improves.” But I didn’t buy any of it.

There’s lobster and burgers and ice cream at the visitors’ center. Liquor and Subway and an Information Centre. Like I said, everything a tourist could ask for. Just don’t linger there. That’s not P.E.I. That’s just a trap to divest you of your money. We stopped just long enough to browse the pirate wear, pick up some pamphlets and maps and get some ready cash from the ATM and we were back on the road.

We stopped in Charlottetown soon after. It’s a beautiful city, easily the equal of Halifax in every way, so it was too bad we didn’t have long to linger. One of the first things we noticed was how red the soil is. How shockingly red, like rusty blood. Even in the city. We saw the foundation of a building being dug out and the soil was as blood red as anywhere else. Above that were bricked buildings as red as the soil they rose out of, as though the bricks themselves were moulded from that very same soil. We visited Province House, the site of the Charlottetown Conference, weaving here and there to stand atop each of the provincial marks set into the lawn. Others had the same idea as we did. We actually stole the idea from them.

We ate fish and chips at Brits on Great George. Sadly, not on their street terrace; every table was full, so we ate inside, where the ambiance was utilitarian. Not great, comfortable; yet as noisy as you’d expect any working-class eatery to be. And it was. But what was I expecting from a Brits, anyway? It’s a chain, after all.

We spent far too much time in Northern Watters Knitwear. It cost us a small fortune. But every penny spent was worth it. Hand loomed, hand knit together, each article as thick and warm as any you can buy, the type of wool that can last you a lifetime if you take care of it.

But time was short and we wanted to something of the Island. We had to be on our way. We were off to Cavendish, home of potatoes and Anne of Green Gables and the Green Gables Golf Course. Parks Canada actually created a National Heritage Site to the fictional character within a National Park and then allowed a golf course to be set up in it. Go figure. You can walk down from the Historic Site, green gables and all, down the path that sparked Maud’s imagination and evoked the Haunted Woods, Lovers’ Lane, and Balsam Hollow and catch a glimpse through what thin woods remain to see the greens of the grounds of the course inches away.

We did not give P.E.I. its due. All we saw was Port Bordon, Charlottetown and Cavendish, or Green Gables more specifically, while there. The rest of the time was spent driving, first to the Island, then straight across the Island, and then around the western side to Summersville as the sun lost its edge and the clouds rolled in, then back to Port Borden where we paid for our passage back to New Brunswick.
We were too quick rounding P.E.I. There was more to see and we saw none of it. Then again, we never thought we’d set foot on the Island, either, until I asked Bev if she’d like to go. It was just an impulse, and not a bad one at that.

It was getting on in hour, so we stopped in Sackville for supper before driving back to Moncton, arriving after dark.

Looking back, that last stretch was a race to return, because we had more spokes to traverse as we wheeled about New Brunswick, one compass direction at a time.

New Brunswick

We’d only scratched the surface of the Maritimes, so we decided to go back. But just like the year before, a hurricane was skirting the Eastern Seaboard as we were preparing to go. Luckily, Danny had passed before we arrived. Barely. We had surprisingly smooth flights to Montreal and Moncton, considering our proximity to a hurricane.

We arrived, picked up our rental car at the airport and checked into the B&B. It was a cozy place, a 2^nd floor apartment with a kitchenette and private bath; cream, robin’s egg and tile, respectively. We even had full cable.

How was the hurricane? we asked. There was heavy rain the night before, the landlord said; the proof of it in the humidity and the puddles gathered in every hollow. But the forecast for the next week was good, he said.

We took his word for it and decided to walk downtown after a day crammed into airplane seating. It was a fair hike, easily twice the distance it was from the Citadel to the downtown core in Halifax, but it was beautiful too. We passed a gorgeous treed park crisscrossed with garden paths and a cenotaph a short distance from our rooms.

There wasn’t much to do. It was Sunday and most of the stores were closed, but the restaurants were still open. We settled in for steak sandwiches and Pumphouse raspberry wheat beers.

We had a late supper at the Old Triangle. We had no idea it was a chain when we ate there in Halifax. Same decor, same menu. Steak and kidney pie for me and liver and onions for Bev.

The next morning we ate at Jean’s Restaurant for the first time, a mom and pop diner a few blocks from the B&B. It’s a classic diner, Formica and chrome and the expected fare. That said, seafood was on the menu. It’s an east coast diner, after all. It would become a staple for us before we hit the road each day. It served large portions for a good price, maybe too large. We were rarely hungry for lunch after eating there. But what drew us there day after day was the staff. Quick, friendly, talkative, and they never failed to recognize us, striking up increasingly lengthy conversations with us when we arrived. Why wouldn’t we come back day after day?

We spent our first day at and around Magnetic Hill. We did the tourist thing first, car in neutral, the car inexplicably rolling back uphill. It’s an optical illusion, of course, but it was fun. I felt oddly queasy while on it, as though my mind and body couldn’t quite reconcile why everything I perceived felt wrong. When I looked to the rear of the car through the open window, the illusion was obvious, but not so when staring out the front window. One shouldn’t analyse things too closely; it kills the magic of the moment. That said, I did roll “up” that hill three times. Like I said, it was fun.

The district capitalized on the tourist attraction, drawing in the tourist dollars. There was a covered bridge there, painted red, somewhat spongy as we drove over it, its interior woody and close. Beyond the bridge was family fun: a narrow-gauge train for the kids, a fun park and a zoo. And restaurants; burger barbeques and a cafeteria.

It wasn’t all for kids. We saw a sign declaring where the Magnetic Hill Winery was. We had to go; of course, we did. There were scatterings of such here and there, but they weren’t wineries, per say; no grapes, the Maritimes doesn’t have the climate or the soil for it. That’s not entirely true; Nova Scotia has a bustling wine business, but New Brunswick only seems to sell berry and rhubarb wines. We pulled off the highway and climbed the hill, following the signs, where we met three carloads of tourists as curious as we were. They had taken a bit of a tour and were just finishing it up with the obligatory tastings. We didn’t care about the tour. We’d been on a few in Niagara and expected theirs to be much the same. But we did join them for the tastings. We sampled, we bought a case or assorted types and had it shipped home. Bev had to drive after that.

Magnetic Hill took longer than we imagined it would. We returned to Moncton to plan our next day, deciding on a Mexican Restaurant for supper for something different.

What we decided before leaving was to head out in a different direction each day, using Moncton and our B&B as our base of operations. But which way to go first?

The next day we were on our way south to Hopewell rocks and then to Alma, a small fishing village on the edge of Fundy National Park. If you time it right you can arrive when the tide is in and later when the tide is out. If you time it better you can be there to kayak the Bay. We could have timed it better. We did not kayak the Rocks. We did walk down the switchback path to the observation area before climbing back out and driving to Alma, where we treated ourselves to a relatively dirt cheap lobster lunch. The sign said restaurant; the interior did not. There were no tables to be had, only lobsters and fish to be bought, so in my mind that made it a fish market. We ate there, outside at a picnic table, with an incredible view of the bay, walked the rocky shore, enjoying the moment.

Then we were off to Enrage Point, its lighthouse and its view. The wind had picked up and had been picking up all day, probably the tail end of the hurricane sweeping past the shoals, gathering strength as it did.

We returned to Hopewell, timing our arrival to be there for low tide, so we could walk the shore under the precariously perched undercut rocks. One of the rocks had eroded into what looked a skull. I imagined pirates carving away at the rock, a marker for future reference to remind themselves that the treasure was buried here. Right here. Tiny crabs scuttled here and there, unearthing what they might find, evading our clumsy footfalls. I brushed my hand over the rocks and found them to be little more than a loose conglomerate, easily crumbled. I wondered how the rocks had remained standing as long as they had. It’s unreal how high the tide rises. Apparently, enough water rushes into Fundy to submerge the entire State of New York under 30 cm of water.

The drive back to Moncton was as pleasant as any I’ve driven, along the coast and following riverbanks, the road little more than a narrow shelf, high rocks to one side sprouting a thick mass of trees and tangled shrub, a steep drop to the wide river on the other, the waters in full sun and we in a twilit shadow.

We indulged ourselves when we returned, having found a house filled with Christmas ornaments and decorations of all sorts imaginable, each room coloured in theme.

We didn’t stay out too late. We planned to drive to P.E.I. the next day and we had no idea how long we might have there once we got there. It looks small on the map. We doubted that it would seem so small when we got there.

 

Ground Control, a Beginning

After eighteen years underground, I’d finally made it to the engineering office. I took a substantial cut in pay to do so, what with my no longer getting shift premiums or underground bonus. But I was Steady Days! No more weekends, no more night shifts. What did I bring to the position? Years of underground experience, an instinct developed over the years, and a long-established acquaintance with workers and supervision in operations.

What did I lack? Computer skills (video games are no substitute for AutoCAD and Excel). I also lacked political tact, something entirely unnecessary in the pragmatic world of field work.

My probationary period began. I shadowed the Ground Control EIT (engineer in training), Ray Stratton, for a while until I received my Toyota license. This was a good thing; it gave me a little time to absorb new skills. Ray had a passion for mining, but less knowledge and experience than he believed he had at the time. I’m not saying he didn’t know what he was talking about; he did, after a fashion; but he approached Ground Control with certain presupposed opinions, not all of which I shared. I learned a lot from Ray before he moved on, just not as much as he might think I did. I did have a few years under my belt, after all. And there was a Standards document to absorb, one written by my boss. Go to the source, as they say. I also paid close attention to what was written on Rehab Prints and Driving Layouts. And what was actually done in the field.

I learned more from Mine Captains than you might imagine. Did you gasp? Some of you might have, but Mine Captains know more than they let on. They were drift miners and drillers once. They were Shift Bosses once, too. They know their own procedures, backwards and forwards, even if they don’t always follow them to the letter. And they know how to get the job done. They also express their opinions on what they think they’re looking at. After a day of travelling around with one, I’d compare what they said to what my boss, Dave Counter, said after browsing through the pictures I took. After a while, I could tell which were more diligent and which were talking though their asses.

And in time, I began to learn a little about AutoCAD. Heather Bartlett taught me a little during her short tenure, my partner nothing at all (everything he said was fraught with mistakes and inaccuracies, if not outright bullshit). When I asked him for help, he said, “I got no time for this shit.” Yes, he was a great help.

Because of that, I began sourcing out short tutorials from the designers, asking each in turn, “How do I do this? How do I do that?” Their answers were sometimes helpful, sometimes too rushed or just performed by them, too quickly for me to absorb. Then one day I asked Kathleen, a Dutch EIT, a question about how to do something.

“Oh my god,” she said, “hasn’t anyone taught you how to work on AutoCAD?”

I shrugged. She suggested we repair to my work station where she could teach me the basics and over the next two hours taught me more than anyone else ever had. She was a good teacher. And she was patient. I’d have floundered for months longer than I had were it not for her having sat with me. I owe my foundation to her more than anyone else.

But what no one could teach me was politics. Ground Control is not just about support and fill; it’s far more than rock type and structure and faults. It’s all those things and more. It has far more to do with people and negotiation and compromise than you can imagine. And it has a great deal to do with cost management and exposure time.

Tact takes more time.

I had no clue how I could be blamed for my boss’s decisions, but I’d realize in time that I’d have to stand toe to toe with Superintendents and weather their wrath whether however the source. I was the face they saw in the field. And I was not on equal footing with them. They couldn’t spit and fume at the head of ground Control, could they? He could talk circles around them and he had the law on his side.
Let me elucidate. Part of my job was to inspect worksites, development headings and such. When I did, I had to audit them and sent the score card by email to a list of people my boss had created. It’s a legal thing; you know, the right to know. I thought the list rather extensive, myself, probably far too extensive, but who was I to argue with my boss about his department and how to run it. Personally, I’d have created a far more exclusive one, just the specifically interested parties, but it wasn’t up to me; it was up to him and if he thought anyone who might have need to visit those areas had a right to know the state of those headings, it was his say so. So, every Tom, Dick and Harry was on that list: engineering personnel, mechanic bosses, electrical bosses, whomever, not just the operations management and development crews. Most of the recipients probably deleted the email without much thought, never having read them. I wouldn’t blame them if they did; most people get more emails than they want or need, with little time to read them.

So, it came as no surprise that the Superintendent of Development was furious with me when I gave a particular development heading a particularly scathing, failing grade. In my mind, and my boss’, it deserved it. In the Superintendent’s mind, it did not, and everyone had read it, even though they probably hadn’t. He vented his anger on me the next time I was face to face with him.

Sadly, I was introducing a ground support representative from another company to him at the time, one who was in town to test a new sort of seismic support. The time and place of that test had been negotiated well in advance and this was that day. The rep was left with his offered hand hanging out in empty space.

“That test,” the Superintendent said, “it’s not going to happen today.” His arms were crossed. He hadn’t even looked at the rep. I could tell he was angry and that anger was directed at me. Any fool could.
“Have you spoken to Dave?” I asked.

“No,” he said, “but that test isn’t going to happen. Not today.”
“Did we get the date wrong?” I asked.
“No,” he said. It was rather obvious that he was pissed and looking for a fight. I had no intention at the time of giving him one.
“I think you need to call Dave and have this discussion with him.” That seemed the best solution in my view; after all, I didn’t have a vested interest in whether the test went off or not. Let Dave deal with it.
“Why did you send that email?” the Superintendent asked, somewhat out of the blue.
“What email?” I was pretty sure I knew which email.
“The audit email.”
“Because I always send out audit reports when they’re completed,” I said. That sounded diplomatic, if a little snarky. He knew why I sent it, of course, so I didn’t understand why he was so livid about that particular one. I’d given less than favourable scores to headings before, after all.
“Why didn’t you come see me, beforehand?” he asked.
“Why would I?” I asked. I never had before and was not obligated to do so. And what would he have done? Asked me not to send it? Order me not to send it? That wasn’t his call.
“I could have explained.”
“Explained what? We both know it fell apart because of structure and stress. I said so in the report.”
His face was getting red. He was in my face. His voice was rising, honing to an edge.
“Then why did you give it a One?” (Audits were rated on a scale of one to five.)
This is where my lack of tact kicked into overdrive. In case you weren’t paying attention, I was angry now too. And I was never in the habit of taking shit from anyone who wasn’t my boss.
“Because I couldn’t give it a zero.”
“You shouldn’t have sent that to the entire Mine,” he said, his voice rising.
“First off,” I said, “You’re not my boss. Dave Counter is and he made up that distribution list. If you have issue with it, you need to have this discussion with him.”
I left just then. There was no point sticking around. Besides, this was not a conversation to have in front of an outsider.
Actually, it wasn’t a conversation I should be having at all.
It was Dave’s. And I wasn’t going to fight his battles for him.
I was learning.

Alma

Not being a Schumacher boy, I never met Alma until I met Bev. Alma was Bev’s mother, to the uninitiated.

Alma was one of those women who dedicated her life to her family. Her children, her husband, her sister, her grandchildren. I recall how fully she glowed when she held them for the first time. She was filled with a lot of love, that woman.

She was always cooking, always puttering, always doing something. Her hands were never still, even when at rest, when she’d be puzzling out a crossword. Whereas I would race through one in half the time, sometimes layering letters one on top of the other when I’d forge too far ahead without considering those words crossing the ones I’d just laid down, Alma’s were always immaculate, her script careful and literate, without error.

Alma was kind, Alma was proud. Alma liked things just so. If there were things to do, she’d be up in a short, fussing, straightening, eager to fetch and carry, always scolding me should I get up to help.

“Go sit down” she’d say.

“Relax,” we say, “sit down and visit,” we’d say. Or maybe it was just me saying such things, Bev knowing better. But Alma could not rest. There were things to do, don’t you know.

She’d slave in the kitchen, prepping and cleaning up and fetching whatever condiments whomever wanted, jumping up with a stern, “Sit,” she’d say, up and to the fridge before your bum could lift from your seat. She rarely began to eat before everyone was a third of the way through their meals.

So, she rushed through her own meals, inhaling portions that need be taken in smaller chunks. But she had to be done eating before everyone else so as to clear the table, don’t you know.

She took to coughing one meal and excused herself without a word, lest she bother anyone. She was like that. She was a proud and private woman.
She was also choking.
When her coughing grew deeper and more desperate, Bev was up like a shot, chasing after her.
“Are you okay,” she asked her mother. Her mother wavered her off. But her mother could not hide the fact that she was gasping for air and not getting any, that she was turning blue.

And Bev would not be waved off. Bev thumped her on her back. When that didn’t ease her mother’s plight, Bev got behind her and thrust her fists and thumbs up under her mother’s rib cage. Once, twice, thrice. A chunk of half-chewed meat flew from Alma’s throat, across the room.

Alma inhaled more deeply than he ever had before, likely blurry eyed and faint, having narrowly escaped death.

Note to self: never leave the room if you’re choking

Then some time later, Alma got sick. It seemed a cold. But she couldn’t shake it.

We took Charlie, their poodle, in so that she could rest some and not have to get up in the middle of the night to put him out, as he was want to do on occasion. Charlie was thrilled. Ours was a more active household. We went for longer walks.

Before long, Alma got sicker. She went to the hospital. She was admitted, where she remained for a week.

Then they released her. They ought not to have. She was not well. She was tired. She was exhausted. But she would not rest upon arriving home. There were things to do, you know, Albert to care for, what with Albert not being as ambulatory as he could be. Bad knees and all that.

“I’m so tired,” she said to her sister, right before worsening.

Within the week, she was readmitted.

She seemed weaker than ever when we visited. Bev was fraught with worry.

“You need to rest,” she said

But Alma was resting. But not getting any better.

Her medications were in flux. They’d put her on one medication to fight the pneumonia, but then her heart began to fail, so they’d take her off that to treat her heart and the pneumonia would get worse.
Within the week, she became unresponsive. Then she slipped into a coma.

It was sad seeing her in such a state. She lay still, a state I’d never seen her in. Her hands still, too.
We worried. Bev far more so than I, but I can be rather dense at times, convincing myself that everything’s going to be alright. My mother tried to prepare me.

“Prepare yourself,” she said, seeing what I refused to see. My mother had seen such things before and knew a thing or two about what was coming to fruition. She gently guided my expectation without actually coming out and saying that Alma was failing and that I needed to prepare fore the inevitable and not pull the wool over my eyes.

Greg got a phone call from the nurse. “Your mother isn’t doing well,” she said. She hadn’t been doing well for some time, slowly slipping away as the week progressed. Greg gathered up Albert and went to the hospitable, calling Bev to tell her that he’d call her when he had more information.

We braced ourselves. Was it time? Would it come quickly? Or would she remain in her coma for weeks? We just didn’t know.

Greg called Bev shortly after arriving. It didn’t look good. She didn’t need to rush to hospital; she was already there doing the annual inventory count. She excused herself, joining Greg and Albert, both of whom had already by Alma’s side.

Then Bev called me. All she said was, “She may not last the night.”

I responded like the idiot I can be: “Do you want me to come up?”

I came to my senses in the same breath, saying, “What am I saying? I’m on my way.” I went to the hospital right away.

The vigil began. Visiting hours ceased to apply to us.

The room was deathly quiet. Bev calm and not calm, obviously fraught with resignation and despair. Bev’s cousin Darryl arrived to sit vigil with us. Father Pat was summoned to perform Last Rites.

Greg left for home after a time, taking Albert with him, realizing that he’d have to take up the watch in the morning, realizing that the wait may be short, but also realizing that we might be in for a long haul. He had to prepare his kids, too. What to say? They were so young, still. And Albert needed his rest, or what rest he could get, considering.

The nurses brought in extra chairs and we each took a turn curled up in two of them, set facing each other, a cruel way to try to sleep. I understand they have better chairs now, almost day beds that recline like first class seats. I nodded some, Bev not at all.

We left once Greg returned to sit vigil by himself, Laurie remaining home with the kids. We slept some, took care of the dogs and were back up at the hospital before too long.

Phone calls had to be made, the family alerted. It didn’t look good, Bev and Greg said to each in turn.
It didn’t. It looked worse by the hour. The family began to drift in, the circle surrounding the bed growing larger, deeper, what conversation there was, muted and somber, whispers.

I left to get some water. I needed to get some air and gather myself. Laurie followed me, talking gently. I wasn’t there more than a few minutes when Bev’s cousin, Theresa, rushed in and said, “It’s happening.”

I was up and back in the room within seconds, already too late. Alma had passed.

I brushed passed those between me and Bev, until I stood behind her. She was holding her mother’s hand, her shoulder’s tense, her breathing almost as still as Alma’s.

Nothing could be as still as Alma though. Bev later told me that her mother had taken one last long ragged breath that slowly released and no more.

“That’s it,” Bev said, her voice trembling slightly.

Albert seemed confused. He could not process that his wife had passed. It sent him into shock. He couldn’t cry.

“Is she gone,” he asked Bev, his voice laboured and cracking. Tears rose up from him and he wiped his face with a handkerchief with measured regularity. But he would not cry. His upbringing would not allow it.

The nurse was called. Alma’s pulse was taken, the doctor called to declare time of death.

Bev was silent, her sobs almost subvocal. There was a great deal of sniffles and weeping throughout the room.

The doctor checked her pulse again, listened for breath and heart sounds.

The sheet covering Alma was fussed and smoothed, befitting her dignity.

She was always a proud woman.

She liked things just so.

Quebec City, Part 2

Bev slept in and I didn’t want to sit around watching her sleep, so I showered and dressed and followed a walking tour laid out in my Ulysses travel guide. The city was still asleep, for the most part. The morning was grey, with hardly a soul to be seen. Still cool, the mornings were the time to walk, now that we’d left the precipitation behind and the sun had come out in earnest.

Once Bev was up and mobile, we headed to the Citadel to watch the changing of the guard, the last public performance of 2008. Batisse, the mascot goat, 10th of his line, was in attendance, gleaming white, blanketed in blue. He played his part well, like he’d done this hundreds of times.

The Citadel is still an active military base, home of the Van Doos, the Royal 22^nd Regiment. Built later (1820s) than the Citadel in Halifax (1749), it is much larger, its purpose to defeat an American invasion, one that never came.

I was distracted. There were other soldiers about, watching the show, much as we were, but they were in fatigues and not dress like those soldiers performing the ritual. I was reminded that they’d just returned from Afghanistan. I had to swallow a lump that rose to my throat, thinking what horrors they must have seen there, knowing that they’d soon be going back again.

We left Old Quebec to lunch at St. Hubert. It’s fast food, not much better than Swiss Chalet, but it’s a Quebec staple and it had to be done.

We walked the Plains of Abraham, afterwards. There were displays everywhere, it being the 400th, regiments of Red Coats and Blue Coats about, lecturing on this and that, one saying that Montcalm was the worst general in the history of France, what with his leaving the Citadel to face the British, when he could have weathered the siege instead; and that, children, is why we Quebecoise live under the rule of the hated Anglaise. So sayeth the separatist.

We walked further to Rue du Cartier for what the guidebook said is a European style shopping experience, but most shops were closed. Our walk back to Vieux Quebec was baked under an ardent sun and Bev retreated to the room for rest and air-conditioning. I did not. I headed to D’Orsey Pub and a cold beer, relishing their own eponymous brew.

Dinner at the Café du Paris. I had lapin for supper, my first time ever. More walking afterwards, the late evening stroll devoid of other walkers. We capped the day off at D’Orsey’s before calling it a night.
I continued my walking tours the next morning before having lemon crepes at the Creperie, a little breakfast nook attached to the exterior wall of the Frontenac.

We toured the Chateau St. Louis excavations at the foot of the Frontenac.

We had our best lunch ever. It was cheap too. We bought sandwiches and carbonated drinks at an Épicerie a couple blocks from our hotel and found a bench in the Parc des Gouverneurs across from our hotel. We weren’t the only ones, either. A few couples, a young family or two. All relaxing, dappled by the canopy, light breeze.

We engaged in some souvenir shopping, then ice cream on the Terrace Dufferin, then lazing on a bench in the park with a book. It had grown hot, too hot to linger in the sun. Minutes under it sapped our strength. Later on, we took in some festivities at the St. Louis Gate, retreating before too long. What crowds there were close and clammy, and to be honest, we just weren’t that interested. There were buskers galore and we could have our fill of buskers in the Place d’ Armes, which we had; they were all very impressive, all very talented, some comic, some acrobatic. Had the sun been not so intense, I’d have loved to remain at the Gate, what with the stage and the sound system being stitched together. But we waited beyond what Bev’s patience allowed, what with the heat and the sun and the crowds.
Supper at Café du Paix, drinks at Le Feu Sacre, bed at Bellevue.

I followed another walking tour in Lower Quebec, where Champlain founded his colony. It was the most densely populated place in North America for some time, so said the guide. I can understand why, it being nestled between the cliff and the St. Lawrence. I suspect no one wanted to lug supplies up that cliff, leaving that special task to the army and their lofty view of the land and sea. Fisherman and merchants are too pragmatic for such things; best to be down by the water, close to the piers and the sea where all the action is.

Crepes again at the Creperie, this time with Bev. You gotta try this place, I said, noting that this was her last chance, considering we were leaving the next day.

Lunch at St. Patricks Pub, escaping the heat and humidity, then hanging out in the park again for a time. I know, that sounds boring, but there comes a time on each and every vacation where one grows tired of lines and walking and spending money.

We had supper where we first dined, at the Auberge du Tresor.

I indulged myself the final morning. I breakfasted at the Frontenac. It was expectedly posh and pricey, but there was an enormous variety of perfectly cooked and expertly presented food, far more choice than anyone could sample in one or even a week of seatings. No smock was blemished. No table remained un-bussed for long. The linen was crisp and clean, the silverware gleamed. No china without emblem. No yolk out of place. I wondered how much food was put to waste to maintain that picture-perfect perfection.

But what’s a dinner without a show? As I approached the Chateau, I saw an older woman collapse outside the restaurant. She’d grown dizzy while eating and voiced the need for air. But no sooner had she stepped outside did she grow weaker still. She stumbled and fell, slowly, her hand reaching out to catch her fall. I began to bolt forward but she was set upon by a cluster of Good Samaritans, Aussies all, they having stepped out for a smoke and only feet from her when she reeled and fell. They too were brushed aside by a flock of waiters and an officious maître-d’, he taking charge as he was want to do, ordering his charges for this and that, they used to his commands and jumping to do his bidding.

Moment’s later, she was seated, cushioned and cold compressed, the house doctor resolving from within.

She was coming around, so I took my leave to partake of my thirty-dollar eggs.

I should have gone back to the Creperie.

I could have eggs anytime.

Quebec City

We departed Halifax under an expected overcast sky, with high hopes that the weather inland in Quebec City would be better. It was. It was sunny and hot, 30 degrees.

Quebec City was stunning, Old Quebec as beautiful a city as I’ve seen. Peaked roofs sprouting an abundance of chimneys, bay windows and colourful shutters, planters hung from sills. Gabbles galore, most buildings a slate grey or some hue of brick. The ages layered, but held at bay, but embraced, the modern hidden within. Gone were gas sputtering sconces, replaced with the even glow of electricity. Regardless what changes there were, there was a hint of old Europe around every corner, and one could easily forget one was in the New World when the echo of horse hoof met one’s ears. Like I said, it was beautiful, if you’re into such things and not a total neophile.

It was also full of people. The last weekend of the summer, labour day weekend, the streets were so full of Quebecois tourists that our cab had slowed to a crawl, no, a snail’s pace, as we thread our way through the narrow streets to our hotel on Rue du la Porte. Despite the tourists, Samuel du Champlain’s town still evoked images of wide hats, short pants and stockings and buckled shoes walking its cobbled streets. Most of the cobbles are gone now, replaced with the smoother ride of asphalt, but enough of them remained to remind one of its four hundred years of history.

We checked into the Chateau Belleview mid-afternoon, clouds forming overhead. Shit, I thought, it found us. And it did.

Shortly after checking in, we watched from our corner windows as buckets of rain pour down on those outside. They scampered and ran, finding refuge where they might, under arch, eave and limb. It abated after a short time, just long enough for us to believe that it was an isolated incident. It was not. We left the dry refuge of our quaint and comfortable room and ventured out to get a glimpse of the oldest city in Canada, only to be set upon by the rain gods shortly after passing under the stately elms of the Parc des Gouverneurs and rounding the Frontenac and taking in the hazy view from La Terrasse Dufferin. Clouds boiled overhead, the light dimming rapidly and we began to wonder about the wisdom of our having left the hotel. But we were on holiday, dammit, and there was no way we were going to spend it hiding in our room or drinking wine in the front lobby of our hotel, regardless of how cool it was that there was a dispensary machine there where we could buy it by the glass, the half litre, or the bottle. We ventured out, brave souls that we were, and hid under the awning of the Auberge du Tresor, drinking wine, watching those other few brave souls rush here and there across the Place d’Armes on their last day of holiday before returning to work, to school, to home. More buckets, more thunder and lightning, the awning filled to bursting, the waiters pushing the pools up and out onto the street and the gutters where they belonged. Wine, good food, coffee and dessert and it was sunny again, the humidity growing oppressive.

Le Baiser de l'Hotel de Ville Paris, by Robert Doisneau

A word about the Auberge du Tresor: across the Place d-Armes from the Frontenac, it was built in 1697 and is said to be the scene of the first French Kiss on this continent. Reason enough to duck in for a coffee and a kiss. I’m sure they won’t mind.

We shopped as the sunlight failed, then later followed the crowds down to the river to watch the Mill lightshow, an artistic theatre production projected onto the exterior of a collection of four wide and tall buildings across the St. Lawrence, depicting the four hundred years of Quebec’s history, much like those I’d seen before, on Ottawa’s Parliament Centre Block, on the Pyramids. Impressive, informative, cheap; free, in fact. We were caught in the rain as we scaled the hill back to the hotel, so we waited it out under the Frontenac’s arched entry, beginning to wonder if we’d every be free of it this trip.

We woke to a seemingly empty city the next morning. The crowds had left, departing for home, leaving only we few tourists. We few…there were crowds still, packed restaurants, amassed gatherings before buskers and artists and in the shops, but nothing like when we’d arrived. We were thankful of that.
An espresso and croissant on the Rue St. Jean before descending onto the Petite Champlain to stroll and shop the oldest streets in North America, lunch at Bistro Sous la Forte, before parting ways to explore, each on our own.

I discovered that climbing out of Lower Town takes some stamina, especially if climbing the stairs at the Post Office. I could have taken the gondola lift, true, but one must experience all things if one can. I did not climb those stairs again, by the way.

I bought my first hats at BiBi & Cie., Chapelier, 42 Rue Garneau, just up and around the corner from Cote de la Fabrique. Yeah, an impulse buy. But that’s where it all started, in case you were wondering. A pork pie, a stingy brim fedora and a crushable Christie.

We watched more street performers in late afternoon, ate at Le Retro, checked out the displayed art set all in a row and closed the day by horse-drawn carriage. We hired one of many at Place d’Armes, turned west at the Post Office and passed through the arch of the St. Louis Gate, returning on the Rue du St. Louis and ending when we began, eighty dollars for forty minutes. The sun had set, the city bathed in its light; it smelled of horse, obviously, the traffic a distant drone under the clip and clop of hooves as we rounded Old Town, exiting it, passing Parliament and the Battlefields of the Plains of Abraham. I loved the Gate, its high arch, the battlements and its copper roofed towers. It seemed out of place, and not, old, bur scrubbed clean and lit with arc lights, its upper flanks carpeted with sod.

Not a bad start.

And yes, the weather did improve.