Posted on December 5, 2019 under Thursday Tidbits with no comments yet

Welcome back, Kotter!

 

“Out of the mouths of babes.”

Matthew 21:16

I grew up in a small Catholic town. Antigonish is the seat of the Diocese of Antigonish which covers a sparsely populated but large geographical area. In its heyday back in the 50s and 60s, the diocese could boast a church in every village, town and city. Of course, this was the post war baby boom era. Churches were well attended for all masses and absolutely jammed to the rafters on special occasions like Christmas and Easter.

Large families literally had their own pews. We needed every square inch of ours when the ten of us showed up together. With the population explosion, there was always a newborn or two at mass and invariably, as if on cue, they would start crying when the priest was delivering his homily. Many adults felt like weeping too. Some of the older guard of priests simply couldn’t tolerate babies crying and would publically banish mother and child.

I attended the funeral of an Inuit elder last week. The small church couldn’t handle the expected crowd so it was moved into a community gymnasium. The ceremony was simple and dignified. The crowd grew and grew and by the time the funeral ended, I feel certain that nearly every one of the 900 residents had made an appearance. Included in these numbers were several very small children and a handful of infants. I was sitting beside a mother with a newborn. It couldn’t have been more than a few days old. Very near to me was another child who might have been three months old. It was only a few days later at supper that it hit me full force. I didn’t hear a single whimper from any of the babies.

What I remembered very clearly is that every single person, man, woman, boy, and girl in a thirty foot radius handled the young ones. They held them to their faces. They cooed, they kissed the babies, and they smiled. The love and affection was palpable and it seems the little ones felt it too. New life and death, the endless cycle were been played out right in front of me. At the end of the funeral service, all of these same people walked by the open coffin of the elder, once again sharing the timeless gift of love.

I have come to the conclusion that I don’t hate the cold. I hate being cold. Back home in Nova Scotia, I always feel cold in winter. My hands are perpetual iceboxes and I find the cold winter winds cut through me like a knife. Now I know why. I don’t think I was ever properly dressed for winter. Of course, when it’s raining one day and -20 the next, it’s hard to know what to wear on any given day. Up here in Northern Quebec it’s cold and it will get colder. For the first time ever, I have the right gear to keep me warm on the most frigid days. The Michelin Man would be proud of me. Two days ago it was -28 and I was playing volleyball with the children…outdoors. I’ll let you know what it feels like to serve a volleyball when it’s -57!

Some of you saw the picture on Facebook of my rack of seal ribs, the before and the after. I was given this meat by a local. It was frozen when I received it. I let it thaw for a few days in the fridge before making a stew. The instructions were straight forward enough. Throw the ribs in a pot of water, bring to a boil, simmer for a few hours and add vegetables. When I removed the ribs from the plastic bag, they were… very bloody. I manoeuvered them into the pot of water but no matter how I angled them, the whole rack wouldn’t fit. The pot was too small. No worries. I removed the ribs, pulled out a cutting board and tried to separate the ribs from the carcass.

The seal seemed to be insulted that I would so irreverently desecrate his body. Blood seemed to pour out of every fibre of his being. My hands were bloodied and my lower arms turned crimson. I was afraid if my roommate showed up that she might faint on the spot thinking that I had committed an atrocity. Well, in the eyes of the seal I certainly had. The dirty deed completed (literally and figuratively), I went to the couch for a much needed rest.

I must admit that the smell of seal cooking might not rank near the top of my list of great kitchen smells. By the time it was cooked, my appetite was compromised. I ate a few ribs. They received my seal of approval.

Have a great weekend.

P.S. In the “discretion is the better part of valour” category. Yesterday, I took a long walk to the wharf in the wee hours of the morning before school. I was carrying a bag of seal rib bones to give to the dog of one of the teachers. As I walked along the road by the bay, two VERY LARGE dogs approached me and they were snarling. At first, I thought it was me they were after but the main course for them (mercifully) was the bones. I hastily removed them from the plastic bag and dropped the contents on the ground. Friends for life. They accompanied me on the rest of the walk. My teaching colleague understood my predicament and I asked her to apologize to Kajuk!

Posted on November 28, 2019 under Thursday Tidbits with no comments yet

Keeping the runway clear

 

 

“I’ll be home for Christmas.” I think.

Christmas, with its crass commercialism leaves me feeling a bit like Scrooge by times but I enjoy the family traditions of the festive season. The annual Boxing Day street hockey game is always a highlight and caroling around town and in the seniors’ residences and nursing homes is a joyful experience.

The Christmas Day dinner at St. James United Church is truly wonderful bringing together people who might not have anyone with whom to share a turkey dinner or a university student whose home may too far away to get home for the holidays. It’s also for people like me who might not want to go to the trouble of preparing a big meal. People are asked to bring something to the dinner. I’m a mashed potato kind of guy and usually bring a healthy portion. The church is a two minute walk from my apartment so it’s really convenient.

So, why I am in doubt about making it home for Christmas?

As the real estate people say “Location is everything.”

I am now living in a remote, fly in town in Northern Quebec. The only way in and out is by plane unless you want to hitch a ride on a cargo ship but, with the bay freezing up rapidly, that option is out.

I love airports when I don’t hate them. I’ve done my fair share of traveling over the years and 90% of my trips have gone without a glitch. Bad weather is normally the culprit and occasionally mechanical problems can cause significant delays. Getting lost is also problematic. Trying to navigate Heathrow in London or Indira Gandhi International Airport in New Delhi often require a GPS.

The airport in Kangiqsujuraq is very small. The people who staff it are great. Some of you now know that I often wander up there on the weekend to shoot the breeze with people coming and going. I also go there through the week seeking my elusive luggage from home. I guess you could call me a “hanger-on”.

Last weekend I talked to two different people who travel frequently to our town on business. One of them told me that a few years back he got fogged in here for six straight days. With our proximity to open water that didn’t come as a huge surprise. I am supposed to leave here on December 19^th. If the fog shows up, I’ll be texting Santa on the 24^th to see if he can deliver me safely to Nova Scotia. Everyone knows that he starts his trip on the East coast of Canada!

Ron (not his real name) regaled me with a story that left me shaking my head. He and four fellow passengers managed to make it to the airport in the middle of a horrific snow storm. When they arrived, they discovered the terminal building open but no employees were to be found. The runway and docking area were invisible such was the severity of the storm. All appeared lost.

The passengers heard the plane before they saw it. Somehow, a talented pilot had managed to land his plane in next to impossible conditions. Even when he approached the docking area only a handful of metres from the terminal, it was still not visible. After shutting down the plane’s engines, he entered the terminal shaking off a layer of snow that he had accumulated from his walk from the plane. The passengers could scarcely believe what they were witnessing.

The pilot looked at the small group and said that he was going to continue his trip south. Needless to say, the passengers seemed a bit stunned by this declaration. “Anyone is welcome to come but it will be a rough ride.” That may have been an understatement. Anxious to get to their destination, all five agreed. Because there were no agents present, boarding passes were unavailable. None were required was the official word from the pilot. The passengers weighed their own bags so that the pilot could balance the load.

Once on board, the pilot stood in the aisle to give a few last minute words. “The first 15 minutes of the flight will be very turbulent but we will eventually break through the clouds and we will be greeted by sunny skies for the duration of the flight.” On hearing this, a resident of Kangiqsujuaq stood up and headed for the exit. The other passengers wondered to themselves if this person knew something that they didn’t.

The door was closed, the plane taxied down the runway, buffeted by strong winds. The pilot didn’t lie. It was a white knuckle affair. The four passengers had their heads down leading to speculation of prayer, fear, or motion sickness, possibly all three. The rest of the flight proceeded without incident.

If I am unlucky and am greeted by fog or a snowstorm, my first call will go to Santa. If he’s too busy “making a list and checking it twice,” I’ll track down that pilot and see if he wants to come to the Street Hockey Game on Boxing Day. He’ll need to deliver me there safely.

“Any storm in a port” is what I say!

Have a great weekend.

Posted on November 21, 2019 under Thursday Tidbits with no comments yet

The ever changing landscape

 

Ullakut. This is the word for good morning in Inuktitut.

Three years ago at this time, I was living in India in a city of ten million people. Today, I am in Kangiqsuguaq with a population of 800, excluding the sled dogs. The city of Hyderabad is a very busy place. The streets are jammed with traffic, including animals, and the air is filled with the sound of honking horns. It is warm in India at this time of the year and will get warmer.  The streets of Kangiqsujuaq are quiet except for the sound of four wheelers and the odd vehicle. With no commercial district, seeing crowds of people on foot is not common. While it hasn’t reached its peak, the temperature is dropping. It is cold at this time of the year and will get much colder.

You might say that these two experiences are polar opposites. Thanks to my dear friend, Carol from Ireland, who spent time in India in Kannyakumari and who delivered this pun in a recent post.

There is no typical water and sewer infrastructure to the homes in this northern community. Yes, there is a first rate water plant. How do I know this after only two weeks into my stay? I was at the airport for my morning walk the other day and was chatting with a chap who is a water treatment engineer. He visits 14 northern communities on a regular basis to help ensure that drinking water is clean and safe to drink. He told me that of all the communities he visits, the water plant in Kangiqsujuaq is the best managed despite having older infrastructure than many others. The reason is simple: the plant is managed by a grandmother.

Municipal trucks are the lifeblood of this community. With no water and sewer lines, trucks deliver water and pump out sewage at every home and business. They also pick up garbage and, of course, deliver precious oil to keep us warm. Besides the ubiquitous sound of four wheelers, the most common sound is the trucks.

Early in the morning, before the town comes alive, the silence is almost deafening. Besides the scrunch of my boots on the snow, the only other sound I hear is the howling of sled dogs. There a few packs of them situated at the base of the mountains. Their mournful wails are haunting and wonderful.

Speaking of the airport, it has become my favourite hangout. On non-school days, I wander up there prior to the morning Air Inuit plane departure. There is one departure and one arrival each day. The waiting room is usually chock full of people heading to other communities or “down south” to Montreal. I always end up talking to someone. Some of the passengers are from the local area while others have flown in here on business, like the water engineer.

On Tuesday of this week, there was a community wide planned power outage. I reckoned that the airport would have their own power supply and with no school, I meandered up to see what was going on. I had scarcely entered the small terminal building when this man said, “Hi, Len.” I sat down with J. who was on his way to Montreal for training. He will soon assume a senior management role in a local business. I guess when you’re the “new kid in town” (cue The Eagles), everybody knows who you are. His girlfriend is a friend of none other than Claire and Maggie MacDonnell. (“It’s a small world after all. It’s a small world after all…”) I haven’t met his girlfriend yet but have been in touch with her. Claire must have made quite an impression on these folks as they named their newborn daughter, Claire. It’s at moments like these that you’re proud of your hometown and good people like Maggie and Claire.

This leads me to a question I’ve been asked more than a few times. “Do you mind the isolation?” I guess I haven’t been here long enough to notice and I’m far too busy chasing my tail. Isolation is a curious thing. It’s both a state of mind and a state of body. Lots of people living in much larger towns and cities feel isolated sitting in their own homes. Maybe when the days get shorter with only four hours of daylight I’ll feel differently but I’ll cross that bridge when I get to it. And if I do feel a sense of isolation, I’ll just walk up to the airport and hang out.

I saved my favourite topic till the end: food. As reported earlier, I haven’t received my personal belongings from back home which include things like my slow cooker and recipe books, so I’ve kept things pretty basic. I’m still waiting for my first grocery order from down south. My order somehow got lost (computer glitch they tell me). Luckily, the Coop store which is a stone’s throw from my front door has everything one needs, albeit pricier in many cases than the food that is flown in.

The other day I saw a package of pork riblets on sale that looked quite tempting and the price was unbelievably low. I prepared some mashed potatoes, carrots and broccoli and fired the riblets into a pan, sprinkled them with Montreal steak spice and put them in the oven. Everything looked and smelled quite lovely. My roommate wasn’t home at the time so I dined alone. I cut into the riblets which resembled a rack of spare ribs – four ribs in total. I desperately looked for meat and none was forthcoming. I tore the rack apart with bare hands and attacked them like a caveman. There wasn’t enough meat to satisfy a small field mouse. This particular pig must have been on the Atkins Diet or was on a forty day fast ,such was the paucity of meat.

Ice is beginning to form on Wakem Bay.

I guess I’ll just have to go with the floe!

Have a great weekend.