About Sasketchewan
Alex_Coe
Posts: 762
This is the beginning of a story about a kid from Canada. This sets up some important things in later chapters. Tell me what you think.
Some days are so dark, muddy, and pitiful that I can't help but feel worn by the weather. The worst of them are merciless and cold without a care at all for your feelings. The wind will chill your fingers and cheeks and chap them horribly. On those days it is too dark to face a temperamental mother nature, and I am very lucky if the TV works. I looked out my kitchen window and saw that today was one of those pitiful days.
These days are common in Brandon, Saskatchewan. In January, the days get colder, and grayer, and darker, and the sun refuses to come out except briefly at noon. This will continue for two months until the middle of March. Every day from January first to March fifteenth or so, I take a look outside and note that it is just as depressing and homogenous as the day before. I almost want to cry when the winter drags on and on, and the countryside has been dead for two months straight.
These old, gray, self-pitying days like today are no fun for a kid. Today for the thirtieth day in a row I wish I were older. Then I could drive dad's car to a restaurant or a bowling alley nearby in Dunham. There are no restaurants in Brandon.
As I looked out the window, I could see most of the town: twenty houses on four streets, and the Our Lady of Peace Evangelical church at the center of town. There was just out of view a gas station and a general store at the western edge of town. The nearest Burger King was six miles away. Too far to walk, or to ride a bike even in the summer. Our Renault Benson had trouble starting at this temperature, so it was rare that my parents would warm it up unless they were headed for work.
The fantasy was all moot anyway, as my mom and dad had indeed taken the car to work in Dunham. I had the house to myself as usual during the winter school break. As I looked out the window at the sheet of gray rock stretching across the Canadian shield, I thought about lighting a fire just to see some color. I was just beginning to develop my idea when somebody knocked at the door.
I jumped. I hadn't heard anybody approaching the house. I looked at the door and the person beyond waiting for me. It occurred to me that if nobody had driven to our house on the hill, then they must have walked. A friend was at the door. Only four people in Brandon, Montreal walk: Me, Jim Washington, and Kelly and Vicky Norton. I scrambled to the door, in my pajama's but still eager to meet my guest.
I opened the door and Jim Washington came inside my house like a warm wind. He jumped forward, slammed the door behind him, and kicked his shoes off before I had anything to say to him. He shook his head, cold but cheerful.
Jim had a long mess of black hair, very greasy and playful. His face I recognized better than my own: it was very narrow with a little knobby nose and a protruding upper lip that curled over his lower row of teeth. Jimmy had dark brown eyes that always twinkled and he constantly exaggerated every expression to disprove- or perhaps suggest- that he was a simpleton. Jim's curled lip rose at me, and he smiled in his exaggerated way.
Jim Washington shoved me, and with my mood improved significantly I shoved him back.
Jim barked, "Ay dummy, how come you left me at the door so long? It's not polite to keep your friends waiting in the cold! In January!"
"I didn't invite you, dammit." I didn't intend the remark to repel him, but it came out quite meaner than I intended.
Jim ignored my rebuke. "Though you're glad I'm here!"
I shoved Jim again as he was taking off his gloves. While his feet stood in place, Jim leaned back until he was propped against the wall like a folding chair set up in the closet. He didn't mind one bit to lean like this, and he threw his gloves into a plastic bin we kept by the door. He snatched off his hat, and spun it like a Frisbee into the box.
Slim Jim Washington looked expectantly at me, still propped against the wall. "What's in the works for today, Governor Marshall?"
I stalled, not willing to admit that I had nothing to do. Jim pulled his lip way up to his nose, and breathed through his mouth.
"Ha! As I expected, you have left it up to me to make some fun!" Jim leaned down to take his gloves and hat back out of the plastic box.
"What are you talking about?" I said quickly.
Jim quickly rearmed himself and charged out the door. In my pajamas I followed him, and I stopped at the doorway. I latched my hands onto the trim and leaned as far out the door as I could without bringing my bare feet onto the sidewalk.
"Where are you going?"
Jim expelled a cloud of cold air, and he jumped off the sidewalk onto the gravel road.
"I found a beaver dam on the river just outside of town, I can't believe I've never seen it before."
I leaned further out the door as Jim ran down the road and he partially disappeared over the hill. As he ventured over the far side of the hill I barked: "Then wait! I'm coming too!"
I scrambled to catch up with Jim in my winter shell. The wind bit my face as I ran, but I continued anyway, because I didn't want to miss Jim's discovery. I didn't see what was so exciting about a beaver dam, but I optimistically followed him regardless. Jim could make fun out of anything, and I was quite eager to take part in his scheme.
We walked-- that is, I walked and Jim jogged circles around me-- for twenty minutes past the road outside Brandon. We reached the woods right off the road. The woods outside Brandon are blue-needled and coniferous, and the trees hold an amazing amount of snow. At the bottom of each limb there was an icicle, and the ground was covered in a rimy glaze. Jim charged through the snow like a soldier scouting the next bend.
We walked through the woods for another ten minutes, through a path so new that I was sure Jim himself created it this morning. Jim broke into a sprint when we got to the river. I recognized this river easily- The Saddle.
The Saddle River was a long, snaking trail that ran for twenty miles from the mountains, and past Brandon. Saddle River was thirty feet wide, and no more than two feet deep in the middle. We neared the river and Jim led me around a j-shaped bend in the path.
The dam itself was twice as big as I imagined it. It was at least five feet from fore to aft, and a few inches above the top of the ice. When I saw the huge structure I briefly wondered how Jim found it a half a mile from the road. I quickly forgot this curiosity when Jim dashed onto the dam and crossed the river. The wooden path- sticks, logs, and mud- held up fine under his weight, and I followed him across.
We played at the saddle river for several hours, before the sun started to set. It must be only three o' clock, but the temperature dropped, and our cheeks and hands started to freeze up. My fingers grew stiff and pink. Jim laughed to numb the pain in his fingers, but eventually we were too cold and too stiff to keep going. We headed home.
Some days are so dark, muddy, and pitiful that I can't help but feel worn by the weather. The worst of them are merciless and cold without a care at all for your feelings. The wind will chill your fingers and cheeks and chap them horribly. On those days it is too dark to face a temperamental mother nature, and I am very lucky if the TV works. I looked out my kitchen window and saw that today was one of those pitiful days.
These days are common in Brandon, Saskatchewan. In January, the days get colder, and grayer, and darker, and the sun refuses to come out except briefly at noon. This will continue for two months until the middle of March. Every day from January first to March fifteenth or so, I take a look outside and note that it is just as depressing and homogenous as the day before. I almost want to cry when the winter drags on and on, and the countryside has been dead for two months straight.
These old, gray, self-pitying days like today are no fun for a kid. Today for the thirtieth day in a row I wish I were older. Then I could drive dad's car to a restaurant or a bowling alley nearby in Dunham. There are no restaurants in Brandon.
As I looked out the window, I could see most of the town: twenty houses on four streets, and the Our Lady of Peace Evangelical church at the center of town. There was just out of view a gas station and a general store at the western edge of town. The nearest Burger King was six miles away. Too far to walk, or to ride a bike even in the summer. Our Renault Benson had trouble starting at this temperature, so it was rare that my parents would warm it up unless they were headed for work.
The fantasy was all moot anyway, as my mom and dad had indeed taken the car to work in Dunham. I had the house to myself as usual during the winter school break. As I looked out the window at the sheet of gray rock stretching across the Canadian shield, I thought about lighting a fire just to see some color. I was just beginning to develop my idea when somebody knocked at the door.
I jumped. I hadn't heard anybody approaching the house. I looked at the door and the person beyond waiting for me. It occurred to me that if nobody had driven to our house on the hill, then they must have walked. A friend was at the door. Only four people in Brandon, Montreal walk: Me, Jim Washington, and Kelly and Vicky Norton. I scrambled to the door, in my pajama's but still eager to meet my guest.
I opened the door and Jim Washington came inside my house like a warm wind. He jumped forward, slammed the door behind him, and kicked his shoes off before I had anything to say to him. He shook his head, cold but cheerful.
Jim had a long mess of black hair, very greasy and playful. His face I recognized better than my own: it was very narrow with a little knobby nose and a protruding upper lip that curled over his lower row of teeth. Jimmy had dark brown eyes that always twinkled and he constantly exaggerated every expression to disprove- or perhaps suggest- that he was a simpleton. Jim's curled lip rose at me, and he smiled in his exaggerated way.
Jim Washington shoved me, and with my mood improved significantly I shoved him back.
Jim barked, "Ay dummy, how come you left me at the door so long? It's not polite to keep your friends waiting in the cold! In January!"
"I didn't invite you, dammit." I didn't intend the remark to repel him, but it came out quite meaner than I intended.
Jim ignored my rebuke. "Though you're glad I'm here!"
I shoved Jim again as he was taking off his gloves. While his feet stood in place, Jim leaned back until he was propped against the wall like a folding chair set up in the closet. He didn't mind one bit to lean like this, and he threw his gloves into a plastic bin we kept by the door. He snatched off his hat, and spun it like a Frisbee into the box.
Slim Jim Washington looked expectantly at me, still propped against the wall. "What's in the works for today, Governor Marshall?"
I stalled, not willing to admit that I had nothing to do. Jim pulled his lip way up to his nose, and breathed through his mouth.
"Ha! As I expected, you have left it up to me to make some fun!" Jim leaned down to take his gloves and hat back out of the plastic box.
"What are you talking about?" I said quickly.
Jim quickly rearmed himself and charged out the door. In my pajamas I followed him, and I stopped at the doorway. I latched my hands onto the trim and leaned as far out the door as I could without bringing my bare feet onto the sidewalk.
"Where are you going?"
Jim expelled a cloud of cold air, and he jumped off the sidewalk onto the gravel road.
"I found a beaver dam on the river just outside of town, I can't believe I've never seen it before."
I leaned further out the door as Jim ran down the road and he partially disappeared over the hill. As he ventured over the far side of the hill I barked: "Then wait! I'm coming too!"
I scrambled to catch up with Jim in my winter shell. The wind bit my face as I ran, but I continued anyway, because I didn't want to miss Jim's discovery. I didn't see what was so exciting about a beaver dam, but I optimistically followed him regardless. Jim could make fun out of anything, and I was quite eager to take part in his scheme.
We walked-- that is, I walked and Jim jogged circles around me-- for twenty minutes past the road outside Brandon. We reached the woods right off the road. The woods outside Brandon are blue-needled and coniferous, and the trees hold an amazing amount of snow. At the bottom of each limb there was an icicle, and the ground was covered in a rimy glaze. Jim charged through the snow like a soldier scouting the next bend.
We walked through the woods for another ten minutes, through a path so new that I was sure Jim himself created it this morning. Jim broke into a sprint when we got to the river. I recognized this river easily- The Saddle.
The Saddle River was a long, snaking trail that ran for twenty miles from the mountains, and past Brandon. Saddle River was thirty feet wide, and no more than two feet deep in the middle. We neared the river and Jim led me around a j-shaped bend in the path.
The dam itself was twice as big as I imagined it. It was at least five feet from fore to aft, and a few inches above the top of the ice. When I saw the huge structure I briefly wondered how Jim found it a half a mile from the road. I quickly forgot this curiosity when Jim dashed onto the dam and crossed the river. The wooden path- sticks, logs, and mud- held up fine under his weight, and I followed him across.
We played at the saddle river for several hours, before the sun started to set. It must be only three o' clock, but the temperature dropped, and our cheeks and hands started to freeze up. My fingers grew stiff and pink. Jim laughed to numb the pain in his fingers, but eventually we were too cold and too stiff to keep going. We headed home.
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take a good look
this could be the day
hold my hand
lie beside me
i just need to say
Because of this, we developed a very insular lifestyle. The twenty houses were completely cut off from culture. All of the major scandals of the 80's were distant and unimportant to us. The Iran Hostage Crisis, The Berlin Wall, Apartheid, and the Montreal school shooting was all secondary news to us. It was probably because of this insulated lifestyle that we were all the more shocked when a stranger came to Brandon.
It was in February that the stranger came to Brandon. It was a Sunday, and the town was finished with church for the day- all that was left to do today was enjoy the peace.
When we returned home, my dad quickly changed into his day clothes and headed to Dunham. 'To get a drink,' he said.
My mom handed him his hat and let him go on his way. She changed coats and left for church.
"I'm off to missionary society, so you be good," she warned. I nodded.
Now I sat at home trying to tune the radio with mixed success. Jim came to the door. He and I headed down the hill towards the general store. The general store was significant to us in that at least three people would be talking inside the store, and we liked to bother them. If nobody was inside the stroe we would play wallball on the concrete parking lot.
The general store itself was not much more than a 10 by 20 square with an icy slick roof and a bunch of empty barrels in the back. Jim slipped inside the store and I followed him.
The clerk, Mr. Amient, saw Jim and eyed him cautiously, but he left us alone as we roamed through his aisles. Jim wandered through the aisles occasionally picking up items, then he would put them back again. He picked up a can of Mountain Dew and then he turned around. He then put his drink back in a different cooler as if he had no intention of buying it in the first place. He turned around and walked back to the counter. I followed him.
As Jim and I headed towards the counter, we saw a man standing in the doorway. This man was very tall and stick thin. He had a long trenchcoat with a beaver hat. He stood stiffly in the doorway looking at us, then at Mr Amient. He had short, stubby black hair and a face I didn't recognize. He had sharp severe cheekbones and a cleft chin, like a Frenchman.
He nodded at Mr. Amient and walked past us. Jim pressed himself against the wall so he wouldn't touch the man. The man walked past me and his hand brushed against mine. He was very cold.
I pulled my hand away and looked at this stranger. He was tall, a lot taller than anyone I knew. He took long, shaky steps and stopped at the refrigerator. He pulled out a bottle of cough syrup and turned around. He paid for the bottle and left. He stepped out the door, and looked to the left and the right. He turned left and walked away.
Jim stopped at the counter next to Mr. Amient.
"Who was that guy?" Jim asked.
"I don't know. I've never seen him before," Mr. Amient said flatly. He stepped to the far right side of the counter, and looked out the window at the stranger. "It looks like he's lost."
Jim stepped outside the doorway and remarked, "Well if he's lost then he has a long way to walk, cause he doesn't have a car."
Mr. Amient looked at Jim, then at the stranger. I looked out the door. The man was walking away from the store, down the road away from Brandon. There was no car.
Mr. Amient put his hands on the counter: "Just leave him alone." Mr. Amient watched us look curiously at the man. He shook his head in dissaproval.
"Jim, Marshall, you boys go home. Leave him alone."
I said, "Okay, Mr. Amient, we will."
We left the store and closed the door as we left. Jim and I started up the hill toward my house, when we looked again at the man. He was just down the hill from us. I saw his cold face and hands and I wondered how he could walk to Dunham with just a trenchcoat on.
"Hey," Jim said. I realised he was talking to the stranger. But the man didn't respond.
"Hello!" Jim said again, and the man looked at us. Jim looked at the man curiously, and he stared coldly back.
"Yes?" He said finally.
"Who are you?" Jim asked.
"I'm just getting a bottle of cough syrup," he said and held up his bottle of Tylenol. "There's no cough syrup in Dunham."
"And you walked all that way to get it?"
The man nodded negatively, "Nuh-uh, my friend is waiting for me right around the bend."
"Oh," Jim said flatly. The man turned away from us and kept walking. He looked tired as he walked, but he kept going.
"What's your name?" Jim asked.
The man looked at Jim, quite annoyed. I looked at Jim, but he didn't look jarred. Jim just looked at the man in his goofy, oblivious way. Maybe Jim couldn't tell he was being annoying.
"I'm Charley Lanegan." The man turned around and kept going. Jim looked at the man, and his eyes darted back and forth between Charley and the long gravel road ahead. Jim curled his upper lip over his bottom, and with that he was satisfied.
Jim turned around and we headed back to the house. I followed him for a moment, but then curiosity got the better of me. I looked down the long hill towards the man. He was facing directly away from me, and I could see the long distance between here and Dunham. There was at least a mile of open space ahead of him. I peered out at the open distance. In this clear day I could see everything on the road. There was no car in sight.
Jim and I walked to the top of the hill and up to the porch of my house. I looked down at Charley Lanegan, and he looked up the hill towards Brandon. I couldn't tell if he could see me. I waved at him, though he didn't respond. Charley turned around, and kept walking the long stetch of gravel road.
I wondered now what did Charley Lanegan want in an outpost like Brandon, Sasketchewan. I wondered why he had no winter clothes in February. I wondered why did he have no car. I wondered why did he walk six miles to Brandon, only to walk six miles back. And now I realized that Charley Lanegan was not from Brandon, he was not from Dunham, and he certainly wasn't welcome wherever he came from.
And I won't make the same mistakes
(Because I know)
Because I know how much time that wastes
(And function)
Function is the key
if concerned about details it should be noted that Brandon is in Manitoba not in Saskatchewan
angels share laughter
*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~
not is there a dunham or coopersville in the province to my knowledge.
There's... actually a town named Brandon? I, uh, intended the name to be fictional.