As Hallowe'en approaches, I enjoy reading something festively macabre. This year I've been reading H.P. Lovecraft's novella "The Shadow over Innsmouth." And I've been enjoying it immensely. One thing that strikes me about H.P.L.: yes, he over-writes, but he knows how to over-write, which is a real skill, a real talent.
To read the long story, please see:
http://www.hplovecraft.com/writings/texts/fiction/soi.aspx
Thursday, 30 October 2014
Friday, 24 October 2014
The view from here
After the events of this past week - the shooting on Parliament Hill being large in my mind - plus international events - the spread of the Ebola virus also being large in mind - I can't help but feel particularly lucky to be where I am.
Today in Norway House it is grey and misty. The snow that I wrote about earlier this month has melted away and the temperature is relatively mild. The trees and shrubs, now bare, clustered leaflessly together, look like woven baskets. As I walked back and forth from the college where I teach, only a few ravens were out and about, lazily coasting over the treetops.
It is, in a word, peaceful. And that's nothing to take lightly.
Today in Norway House it is grey and misty. The snow that I wrote about earlier this month has melted away and the temperature is relatively mild. The trees and shrubs, now bare, clustered leaflessly together, look like woven baskets. As I walked back and forth from the college where I teach, only a few ravens were out and about, lazily coasting over the treetops.
It is, in a word, peaceful. And that's nothing to take lightly.
Tuesday, 7 October 2014
How it begins
It takes more than one swallow to make a summer, the saying goes. And it takes more than one snowfall to make a winter. On Sunday, I was willing to say that it was just one of those early snowfalls that one gets in northern Manitoba in October. A snowfall that would come and would go, sloppily melting away as the temperature crept back up over zero. But now I'm not so sure: it's snowed off and on throughout Monday and today it's still snowing. Is this it? Is this winter? Not all the leaves have fallen yet.
*
A few words from Patrick Lane, from his poem "Winter 1," a peaceful moment taken from his short, fierce book simply titled Winter:
The generosity of snow, the way it forgives
transgression, filling in the many betrayals
and leaving the world
exactly as it was.
Tuesday, 16 September 2014
Franklin discovery
Last week's big Franklin announcement - the finding of a significant shipwreck from Sir John Franklin's fated 1845-46 expedition in Canada's Arctic waters - left me rather cold (pun intended). As a student of Canada's north, I suppose I should have been excited, but I must admit that I wasn't.
The story of the Franklin expedition is one that Canada loves to tell (hence Prime Minister Harper was on hand to help make the announcement). It seems to say something about us. A kind of national narrative. Of course, if it says something about Canada, its message is rather oblique: after all, Franklin's expedition was British, not Canadian. And as it was a mission to find the Northwest Passage, it's worth keeping in mind that the whole purpose of the journey was to avoid Canada.
But, that aside, it offers some suggestion about Canada that we seem to enjoy. Perhaps because the Franklin expedition provides a message about the harshness of our country, about our northlands, about how we must observe humility in the face of this harsh northern region--because all hubris will be crushed. But what if it's the wrong story to tell? What if it's too much of a cliche to still be telling that story in 21st century?
One thing that I like about the news re. the Franklin discovery: it proved that the Inuit had it right all along. They knew where one of the ships could be found. And maybe that should be the story: the story that we need to know and reflect on.
*
In the Opinion/Commentary section of The Toronto Star, Kathleen Winter had this to say: "How long do we refrain from challenging a national government that uses sad, outworn tales of lost Franklin ships like a magic lantern, superimposing a narrative of patriotic swagger over the real north — a land whose elements, people and animals are trying to tell us something about what it might really mean to be Canadian in this melting global world."
For Winter's full piece:
http://www.thestar.com/opinion/commentary/2014/09/15/the_true_legacy_of_the_franklin_expedition.html
The story of the Franklin expedition is one that Canada loves to tell (hence Prime Minister Harper was on hand to help make the announcement). It seems to say something about us. A kind of national narrative. Of course, if it says something about Canada, its message is rather oblique: after all, Franklin's expedition was British, not Canadian. And as it was a mission to find the Northwest Passage, it's worth keeping in mind that the whole purpose of the journey was to avoid Canada.
But, that aside, it offers some suggestion about Canada that we seem to enjoy. Perhaps because the Franklin expedition provides a message about the harshness of our country, about our northlands, about how we must observe humility in the face of this harsh northern region--because all hubris will be crushed. But what if it's the wrong story to tell? What if it's too much of a cliche to still be telling that story in 21st century?
One thing that I like about the news re. the Franklin discovery: it proved that the Inuit had it right all along. They knew where one of the ships could be found. And maybe that should be the story: the story that we need to know and reflect on.
*
In the Opinion/Commentary section of The Toronto Star, Kathleen Winter had this to say: "How long do we refrain from challenging a national government that uses sad, outworn tales of lost Franklin ships like a magic lantern, superimposing a narrative of patriotic swagger over the real north — a land whose elements, people and animals are trying to tell us something about what it might really mean to be Canadian in this melting global world."
For Winter's full piece:
http://www.thestar.com/opinion/commentary/2014/09/15/the_true_legacy_of_the_franklin_expedition.html
Thursday, 11 September 2014
Bears
In Norway House, as summer winds down and autumn takes hold, both teachers and black bears can be found returning to the community and roaming around at large. Presumably the teachers are largely well-behaved--but the bears are a another matter. They're usually shy and easily scared off, but the potential for danger is there.
After a couple of encounters with a scrawny-looking yearling bear that was hanging around our property, I phoned the Conservation Officers to let them know. After I made the phone call, a bear trap - which is a wide culvert pipe with a metal grill at one end and a trap door at the other - was placed along our laneway. But the bear never took the bait and after a day or two the trap was placed at a different location.
One of the Conservation Officers told me that there are about 15 bears prowling around the community, all hoping to fatten up for the winter. The COs try to trap and relocate them, but the bears have got wise this year and are largely avoiding the traps. (I heard today that they had to start baiting the traps with fruit instead of meat because they were mainly trapping stray dogs.)
In a few more weeks, of course, these bear sightings will grow less and less frequent. And then eventually the bears go into hibernation. It's just part of the cycle of the year here.
*
The bear photo (above) was taken by my wife as we were on Highway 373 (a.k.a., the Norway House Road). It was just hanging out by the side of the road, no doubt hoping for handouts from passing cars. As we slowed down to have a better look at it, the bear came out to greet us. Needless to say, we didn't give it anything to eat. About 500 metres up the road we came to a construction zone and we told one of the workers about the bear nearby. "We know him allright," the guy with the Slow-Stop sign said. "He's the friendly one."
After a couple of encounters with a scrawny-looking yearling bear that was hanging around our property, I phoned the Conservation Officers to let them know. After I made the phone call, a bear trap - which is a wide culvert pipe with a metal grill at one end and a trap door at the other - was placed along our laneway. But the bear never took the bait and after a day or two the trap was placed at a different location.
One of the Conservation Officers told me that there are about 15 bears prowling around the community, all hoping to fatten up for the winter. The COs try to trap and relocate them, but the bears have got wise this year and are largely avoiding the traps. (I heard today that they had to start baiting the traps with fruit instead of meat because they were mainly trapping stray dogs.)
In a few more weeks, of course, these bear sightings will grow less and less frequent. And then eventually the bears go into hibernation. It's just part of the cycle of the year here.
*
The bear photo (above) was taken by my wife as we were on Highway 373 (a.k.a., the Norway House Road). It was just hanging out by the side of the road, no doubt hoping for handouts from passing cars. As we slowed down to have a better look at it, the bear came out to greet us. Needless to say, we didn't give it anything to eat. About 500 metres up the road we came to a construction zone and we told one of the workers about the bear nearby. "We know him allright," the guy with the Slow-Stop sign said. "He's the friendly one."
Thursday, 4 September 2014
Backyard revisited
I should qualify my remarks re. the sacredness of the backyard. I don't think that if we only loved our yards and gardens more we would then become more ecologically minded. Instead we might just want to spray it all down with weedkiller--all in the name of love, of course.
However if we loved our yards and gardens the right way, then we might become more environmentally aware and sensitive. My thinking on this is informed by William Cronon's well-known essay "The Trouble with Wilderness," in which Cronon argues that one of the problems that wilderness poses is that we tend to denigrate the nature around us (like, say, weeds growing in a vacant lot) in favour of what we perceive to be pristine, unspoiled and largely untouched distant wilderness regions. Cronon points out that we often do terrible environmental damage close to home simply because we don't value the nature close to home--nature that might also be called wild. After all, are sparrows or dandelions any less wild than grizzly bears or sequoias?
It seems to me that an appreciation for those weeds, for the scrubby greenery blooming in that so-called vacant lot - or for the birchtree in the yard or for the moss growing along the fence - might just give us a greater appreciation for the sometimes subtle but always powerful workings of nature.
*
For more on this: here's a link to my poem "Slow Life."
http://www.tcr.gov.nl.ca/tcr/artsculture/artsandletters/2010/Slow_Life.pdf
However if we loved our yards and gardens the right way, then we might become more environmentally aware and sensitive. My thinking on this is informed by William Cronon's well-known essay "The Trouble with Wilderness," in which Cronon argues that one of the problems that wilderness poses is that we tend to denigrate the nature around us (like, say, weeds growing in a vacant lot) in favour of what we perceive to be pristine, unspoiled and largely untouched distant wilderness regions. Cronon points out that we often do terrible environmental damage close to home simply because we don't value the nature close to home--nature that might also be called wild. After all, are sparrows or dandelions any less wild than grizzly bears or sequoias?
It seems to me that an appreciation for those weeds, for the scrubby greenery blooming in that so-called vacant lot - or for the birchtree in the yard or for the moss growing along the fence - might just give us a greater appreciation for the sometimes subtle but always powerful workings of nature.
*
For more on this: here's a link to my poem "Slow Life."
http://www.tcr.gov.nl.ca/tcr/artsculture/artsandletters/2010/Slow_Life.pdf
Tuesday, 19 August 2014
Sacred space: the backyard in summer
On Sunday evening a friend invited my family and I over to his place for a barbecue. His place, like ours and like so many others here in Norway House (which is about 8-10 hours north of Winnipeg), is located on the riverside. As we sat on the back porch, the burgers sizzled on the grill and the brown river waters flowed past. At one point an eagle rose in the air above us, flapping languidly overhead. And with a cooling breeze keeping the mosquitoes at bay, all was well with the world as the sun went down.
Admittedly the backyard vantage point for many of us here in Norway House is better than what many others have in this world of ours: you don't get views like this in Toronto, that's for sure. But still, the backyard in summer - no matter where you are, deep in the heart of suburbia or somewhere on the outer edges of an expansive wilderness - is a sacred space. It's time away from the rest of the world: with beer and wine near at hand and meat cooking in the open air, there's something gently festive about such moments.
Afterwards, it made me wonder about our relationship with land, with nature. It made me wonder if our connection with the earth - with the soil, the water, the trees, those elemental things - could begin right there in the backyard. One can, from the vantage of a backporch or a kitchen window, look upon the same tree, day in, day out, in spring, summer, autumn and winter, and get to know that tree closely: the shape of its branches become etched in the mind, become something so familiar it become a kind of face, like the face of a loved one. Known, familiar, pleasing. As a result, we come to feel connected to the tree and therefore responsible for it. And perhaps through it we are connected to a wider world.
I do recognize certain incongruities here. The beef burgers that were being BBQ'd aren't a sustainable source of protein and the Australian wine that we were drinking doesn't exactly fall within range of the 100-mile diet, so thinking of this Sunday evening scene as an example of environmental bliss, of a "deep connection" with the earth, is simply erroneous and maybe even ridiculous. But a few guilty pleasures are allowed, are they not? And that earthy connection has to begin somewhere, so why not with the humble view of the typical backyard birch tree?
Admittedly the backyard vantage point for many of us here in Norway House is better than what many others have in this world of ours: you don't get views like this in Toronto, that's for sure. But still, the backyard in summer - no matter where you are, deep in the heart of suburbia or somewhere on the outer edges of an expansive wilderness - is a sacred space. It's time away from the rest of the world: with beer and wine near at hand and meat cooking in the open air, there's something gently festive about such moments.
Afterwards, it made me wonder about our relationship with land, with nature. It made me wonder if our connection with the earth - with the soil, the water, the trees, those elemental things - could begin right there in the backyard. One can, from the vantage of a backporch or a kitchen window, look upon the same tree, day in, day out, in spring, summer, autumn and winter, and get to know that tree closely: the shape of its branches become etched in the mind, become something so familiar it become a kind of face, like the face of a loved one. Known, familiar, pleasing. As a result, we come to feel connected to the tree and therefore responsible for it. And perhaps through it we are connected to a wider world.
I do recognize certain incongruities here. The beef burgers that were being BBQ'd aren't a sustainable source of protein and the Australian wine that we were drinking doesn't exactly fall within range of the 100-mile diet, so thinking of this Sunday evening scene as an example of environmental bliss, of a "deep connection" with the earth, is simply erroneous and maybe even ridiculous. But a few guilty pleasures are allowed, are they not? And that earthy connection has to begin somewhere, so why not with the humble view of the typical backyard birch tree?
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