Canada XIX - Brown Gravy

     We stopped for lunch at a cafe, The Northman or maybe it was The Disappointed Appetite, I forget which.  When we walked in the door, every head in the place snapped around to check out the strangers.  Gave us an up and down, a derisive snort and went back to eating.  The place wasn't big and wasn't all that pretty.  Had a used look to it.  But was clean and the tables didn't wobble much on the cracked linoleum.  Sun streamed through the window and lit up three of the five calendars on the walls.  All but one had an outdoors scene on it.  Big fish exploding out of a lake, Mounties on horseback and elk in snow-capped mountains. The other was an ad for a bail bondsman. The curtains on the windows were the white lace kind slowly bleeding tar and nicotine yellow.  We squeaked out our chairs and sat down.

     The twin waitresses bustling about looked like they'd been there since the construction crew had built the restaurant around them during the days leading up to World War I while the ladies, probably around forty at that time, stood waiting with pencil and pad in hand.  Menus were simple plastic binders with a couple of mimeographed pages between.  Breakfast and lunch only but you could get breakfast all day long.

     Our waitress didn't even ask.  Simply turned over Uncle Emil's cup and filled it with coffee followed by a "what'll you have boys?"  Emil went for the Trapper's Surprise breakfast in hopes there was something alongside his eggs over easy that'd once felt steel jaws or at least a bullet.  Me, I had the burger, fries and a coke.
     That settled she turned to me, "Did you want the gravy over it all or just a bowlful on the side?"
     Can't say I'd ever been asked that question before.  Or since.  My simple, "No gravy for me ma'am," set her penciled-in eyebrows all aquiver.
     "You sure?  You might want to think that over young man."
     I was petty sure I wanted no gravy.  What for?  But her raised eyebrow had me wondering if I was making a big mistake.
     "Yes ma'am.  I'm sure.  No gravy for me, thank you."
     Her pencil was returned to its proper place above her right ear and stuffed into her updo along with two pens and a yard stick.  She snapped around on the gray linoleum floor and shuffled off toward the stainless steel kitchen counter.
     "You've never eaten in small town Canada before have you Archie me lad?  Up here, gravy is not only a cultural necessity but also comes in handy for other reasons as you will soon discover."  With that Emil rose and began to work the tables.
     Once again I felt embarrassed for him, mostly for me actually, when he did things like that.  Going up to total strangers and asking them how the food was.  Then I saw what he was really up to.  A few sentences in, with a laugh or two along the way, the conversation always turned toward fishing, ice-out, weather and bugs.  Nearly all of the men up in Northwest Manitoba wet a line now and then.  Spend some time nearly every day in the local outdoors.  We hadn't.  Simple enough.  All he was doing was getting the lay of the land out on the water.  And the locals had no problem filling him in.
     Emil figured people were people wherever he went.  And few would withhold information from a fellow fisherman even if he wasn't a local boy.  By the time our meals arrived he'd learned all he felt was needed.
     Lunch was, hmmm, a little different than what I'd expected.  When I asked for ketchup our waitress gave me a look that said I'd done something disgusting.  Maybe even sinful.
     "Ketchup?  What for, eh?"
     "For my fries ma'am."
     "Ketchup on fries?  That's a new one on me.  That's what the vinegar on the table is for young man."
     And that was a new one on me.  Gave it a moment's thought and decided I'd eat 'em the way the good Lord intended, saturated in molten lard and fried to a snap.  Maybe the vinegar was intended to cut through the grease?  Kinda like drain-o for the digestive tract.
     The burger was more of the same.  Oak board patty, pickle, mustard and onions on a few days old, toasted bun.  To me a burger wasn't a burger unless it had something red on it.  Maybe the tomato hadn't made it this far north yet?  Snapped off my first bite with my molars.  Figured my front teeth weren't sturdy enough for the job and might give before the patty broke apart.
     "Archie me lad, you figured out what the gravy is for yet?"
     Uncle Emil paused while my head slowly rose from my task.  I nodded no.
     "Up here they usually put it on both the fries and patty for a couple of minutes before they set to chowing it down.  Softens the fibers so it's possible to eat the stuff.  Problem is it doesn't smell good to me as it passes my nose, smells worse come morning.  That's why I ordered breakfast."
     "It's kind of a chicken and egg thing.  Don't know which came first.  The gravy to soften up the food or frying the food to a crisp so the gravy didn't make it too mushy.  Oh well, your stomach is still young.  Could probably digest concrete.  Can't say for sure if it'll make a dent in a Canadian burger though."

Canada XVIII - A Matter of Life and Death

     Once in town we filled the Nomad's tank.  While we gassed the Nomad, Emil gassed with whoever was within earshot.  Sometimes I think he's crazy to corner total strangers and start up like they're long lost neighbors.  But that's just the way he is.  And doesn't seem to care what it is he says.  At least he's usually careful enough to not bring up religion or politics.  And when he does, my uncle has a way of feeling people out, much like wading into cold water and being careful when reaching the tender parts.  When he's got a feel for the situation he seems to always know how far he can go before his nose gets broken.
     I had to take a leak and left him out there at the pump talking with a guy from North Dakota.  About my trip inside to the men's room I won't say much more than whatever passes through Canadians smells about the same as if it came from us Americans.  Kind of odd isn't it?  We think of ourselves as Americans and our neighbors as Canadians even though we're bot Americans and live in North America.  Wonder if the Canadians know that?
     Back outside, Emil and the Dakota guy were talking about what it's like to be a Lutheran.  As far as I know Uncle Emil hasn't been inside a Lutheran church in years.  Actually, I don't think he's been in any kind of church for a long, long time.  Outside of weddings and funerals that is.  And of the two, funerals are what he likes best.
     He's told me, "the only downside to a funeral concerns the dead person.  Not so much that they're dead, although, given the choice they'd probably rather be alive.  More like they're missing out on a fine party.  And they're the guest of honor.  Someone should've told them about the good church basement meal they'd miss 'cause they went and died a couple of days early.  The way I see it we should all have our funerals while we're still topside and feeling good.  People you haven't seen for twenty years could come up, slap you on the back and tell you what a great guy you are, as opposed to were and are now over there laying in a box and filled with formaldehyde and wearin' a suit for the first time in fifteen years.  And you'd remember all the good times and stuff you used to go through.  Or maybe even tell you what an total jerk you were.  Now, in my book, that'd be a good time."

Canada XVII - The Pas

     The Pas wasn't what I expected.  Not one bit.  No tepees, no Mounties, not an outpost in any sense.  Looked pretty much like small town America except for the flags.  That and a lot of black haired people with good tans.  Uncle Emil said most of them were Cree Indians whose ancestors came over from Asia even before he was born.
     "They used to know this country like the back of their hands.  My guess is most of them out in the backwoods still live off the land, fishing, hunting, trapping and gathering plants.  But I've got a feeling it isn't like it used to be before the trading posts turned into towns.  And paddles turned into outboard motors."
     "The long and short of it is that they're people just like us.  They see or learn a more efficient way to do something and that's what they'll do.  Probably won't be too long and this whole area will turn into what northern Minnesota's turned into.  Of course there'll always be pockets of what passes for wilderness.  But money talks.  Where there's a Canadian buck to be made you can be sure there'll be a way to turn it."
     "But I don't quite see what's up here that'll be worth much.  At least to the money grubbers.  But so long as there's still fish in the water and trees on the shore, it'll be worth a lot to me.
     "As to making money there's the trees of course.  Clear cut 'em and make two by fours by the millions.  And maybe some minerals.  Flin Flon up the road has gold mines.  Take a look at what happened to California back in the gold rush.  On second thought, don't.  It's not worth your time.  Shoot, in a couple of years they'll have paved every square foot of the 'Golden' state.  Freeways twenty lanes wide so filled with cars not a one will move .  Those stalled cars will turn into the houses of the future.  The entire state will have to be re-plumbed.  New power lines built.  All the abandoned houses bulldozed into the sea to make room for new amusement parks.  All that ruckus will trigger the Big One that's been overdue since June 16, 1841.  The ground'll open up and swallow every one of them and all their little lap dogs too.  About the time the whole shebang grinds its way up to Alaska in about a hundred million years, the state will be discovered by some alien race from outer space and opened up as a tourist attraction kind've like the LaBrea Tar Pits.  Only the dinosaurs those Martians find will smell of thirty weight oil and have tail fins.  Tell you the truth, I'd pay admission to see that, particularly if I knew the cars had come all the way from California via some form of underground subcontinental railroad.  Makes me feel good just thinking about it."
     "Sorry.  Guess I got side tracked.  Anyhow, here we are in The Pas, or La Pas, if you'll pardon my French.  That's another joke.  Laugh if you feel the need."
     "We're here with four things in mind: full tank, full belly, empty bladder and maybe a little information.  So let's get to gettin'."

Canada XVI - Brule

     Uncle Emil didn't easily give up on his dreams for the future.  The way he put it, "So long as a body's got something to look forward to, life's worth living.  Don't give me credit for that idea.  I think I read it on the back of a box of Sugar Pops.  You know, life's a lot like a box of Sugar Pops…."
     "More likely I'd buy some acreage, hopefully forty or so, along the Brule River downstream from Northern Light Lake up the Gunflint Trail from Grand Marais.  Trout in the river and fine fishing in the lake.  Again it's way off the beaten path.  Far enough so I wouldn't have electricity.  I'd need a well and an outhouse.  Heat with wood."
     "Guess that's what I like about both places.  I'm not looking for neighbors at this point in my life.  And the ones I'd meet would have to be something like me.  Or totally whacked out instead of just half crazy.  So long as none of them got their kicks from hunting old geezers I'd be okay."
     "Don't exactly know why those kind of places appeal to me but they do.  And then there's the place I'd have to build.  Now that's something to get excited about."
     "I've run all kinds of cabins through my mind.  Picked up some ideas by simply driving around and boating the lakes.  Wouldn't be big.  Maybe just one room.  Seven, eight hundred square feet tops.  Easy to heat.  Lots of windows to catch the breezes when it's hot out.  Some sun during the winter months."
     "Or maybe only live there during the warmer months.  May through October.  Then go somewhere warm.  Maybe where the fish are as big as dogs.  I could even pick up a couple of acres down in New Mexico if I wanted trout.  Or Florida for the bass.  And never, ever pick up anything other than a fly rod again.  Please excuse me, I'm startin' to sound like Lenny wanting to live off the fat of the land in 'Of Mice and Men'."
     "On the flip side there's the bugs.  Skeeters, deer flies, black flies, horse flies, ticks.  They're out and about in May and June.  Oh well, there was even a snake in Eden.  Nothing's perfect.  Maybe a home on the big lake, Superior.  Cold breezes off the lake keep the bugs down.  Could be that's the solution, two homes.  Or maybe three."
     "Gotta tell you though, I go back and forth on the whole thing.  It's not easy striking out on a new life.  I'm no spring chicken anymore but that's not the issue.  Might even make it easier.  Except maybe the physical part.  Don't know if I can do all the work myself anymore.  But if that's the way she has to be…."
     Here Uncle Emil drifted off into silence again.  What was I supposed to say to all that?  But it sounded like a good time to me.  "I'd help you build a house Uncle Emil.  We could do it together during my summer vacation."
     Emil turned to me, took a drag off of his Lucky, then turned back to the two lanes of asphalt and a sign on the side that said The Pas.  What did I expect?  At least he didn't say no.

Canada XV - Dreams

     Fifteen minutes up the new road Emil began, "When I hit this stretch it always seems like The Pas should be no more than a couple of minutes away.  But it's not.  The world's a lot bigger up here.  Hours between towns.  Even on a main road like this one, it can be a long stretch between buildings.  Almost as far as between me and the truth.  Take a peek to the left, off in the woods a bit.  That steel track and the power line are about the only signs of civilization.  Unless you include the asphalt we're passing over.  And the car we're in.  And all the stuff inside."
     Emil paused, "I was going somewhere with that wilderness thought but I seem to have ambushed myself."
     "I've been thinking a lot since Lena passed.  Most of it has to do with where I'm going from now 'til I'm pushing up daisies.  One thing's for sure, I don't see me getting married again.  No sir.  Did that and did that well.  And I don't see Parkers Prairie in my future either.  Time to move on.  Someplace farther north.  Place with pine trees, rocks and water.  Kind of like what we're passing through but not so far from the civilized world."
     "There's a coupla three spots I've been thinking of.  One's along the Stump River up near the Canadian border.  Of course having the name Stump doesn't make a river sound like much more than a snake infested bayou that once had trees.  But it's not by a long shot.  Over the last few miles the Stump turns from slow and wide to a regular Rocky Mountain type stream.  The kind of rivers called freestone for a good reason.  Rapids, water falls, dead fall, the whole nine yards.  And it's way the heck off any kind of beaten path.  Off a side road, off another side road, off the Arrowhead Trail.  And the Trail isn't all that much to begin with.  Once back in there I'd still have to cut a driveway."
     "Most everything about it screams boonies.  Which it is.  Build a place there and I'd have access to the lakes of the roadless area all along the border.  But come snowfall and snowfall comes early and hard up in the deep Arrowhead, any idea of traveling by motor vehicle would be long gone.  Wintering up there would be a challenge.  Ten cords of firewood and quarter ton of food problem.  Screw up and the hospital down in Grand Marais might as well be on the other side of the planet."
    "The Stump's pretty much what I'm looking for in a stream.  There's trout in it as the river tumbles toward the border, brook trout.  You see, this old dog is thinking of learning a new trick.  Spent my life fishing pike and bass, walleye when they were friendly.  But now I figure it's time to learn trout.  Stream trout.  Fly rod some small floating flies and maybe fool a few brookies."
     "I've called myself a fly fisherman for a couple of decades but am I?  Don't know.  I can throw twenty yards of line.  Buggy whip it to fish that aren't all that hard to fool.  But trout?  That's a whole 'nuther ballgame.  Up in the Arrowhead most of the streams are forest and brush choked.  Not much call for a long cast.  Trout there need a delicate, accurate presentation.  Won't look twice at something called a cast.  Don't know if that's because they're so finicky about what they'll eat or they're just arrogant little boogers that'll make you jump through hoops and wear the right brand of hat just so Orvis can stay in business."
     "Guess it doesn't really matter.  If you wanna catch 'em, you've got to play their game.  Not so much different than the rest of life.  I suppose a man could say nearly anything is like life and not be far wrong.  Lookin' for four leaf clovers is a lot like life.  Mostly a waste of time and after a while my back hurts.  Like I said, nearly anything."

Canada XIV - Fessin' Up

     Uncle Emil asked me if I liked to read.  Well, I did and said so.
     "So, what exactly do you read?"
     That was a stumper.  Actually I tried to read a bunch of things but little held my interest for long.  There seemed to be a lot of stuff for little kids and for adults, not squat for us betweeners.
     I did read some science fiction though most of it was so badly written even a kid like me could see the lack of reality in it.  But I did like Robert Heinlien, Jules Verne and H. G. Wells.  Emil seemed to think they were okay.
     I went on, "Two years ago The Hardy Boys took our school by storm.  Everyone was reading the mysteries and passing them around.  I read one, then got halfway through another.  That was it.  They were so predictable Uncle Emil, by then I could have written them myself."
     Emil nodded, "Isn't that the truth about a lot of it.  Seems you're already onto the notion most of what's published is a waste of good trees.  As for me, it's a struggle finding the good reads.  I like Steinbeck.  Not all of it but there's usually enough meat in his good ones to get me thinking.  Hemingway, not so much.  Some of the Russians, long-winded but okay.  Someday if you get the notion, try another Hardy by the name of Thomas.  Had a thing for the German writer Thomas Mann for a while.  You're old enough, try Conrad.  Takes a few pages to get into the swing of his style but it's worth the effort.  And one of the new guys, James Jones or John Updike.  Reading something worthwhile takes effort.  Slow down, read  and understand all the words.  When you get the drift, let it take you to that other world inside the page."
     Now that was a side of Emil I never saw coming.  For sure he had his weird side and his jokes.  But, someone who took literature seriously?  Food for thought.
     I sat there watching the tree parade for a minute.  Then it dawned on me.  He was always saying something funny but Emil never told jokes like the ones older guys usually told.  Such as 'three guys walk into a bar...'.  Something would grab him, something that was said, a sign at the side of the road, most anything and that would get his mind going.  Off on a tangent.  A bee line directly into the gray areas of life where pain, tragedy and tear-streaming laughter meet.  His humor was always of the moment, made up on the spot.  Strangely enough, if you gave it some thought, there was usually a message hidden within or, at the least, a grain of truth.  Uncle Emil saw life as a straight line waiting for him to add a measure of spice.
   

Canada XIII - One Thing Leads to Another (It Always Does)

     The joy lasted but a minute or two before I returned to the land of the dead-headed.  Not that I wasn't enjoying where we were.  It was more like I was sung to sleep by the hum of tires on asphalt while being rocked in the arms of spruce and pine.  Time on the road drew me inward to wander around in another world.  Did then, does now.  Sometimes a future filled with hope, at others, the past with it's should have dones mixed with a helping of happy memories.
     Seemed the same thing was happening to Uncle Emil.  Only his thoughts were sneaking out of his mouth just loud enough for me to hear.  At least I think they were.  Might have been dreaming but I don't think so.
     "Don't think I'll ever pass though a day without Lena being in the seat next to me or across the table with a cup of coffee.  A man can't live and love someone that long without her becoming a part of him.  She was the only woman I ever really loved.  The only one I wanted to love."
     "We weren't always together.  No, the War and my pig-headedness saw to that.  Of course I could have avoided being a part of the Army had I wanted.  I was way too old for the draft.  Not many men my age, at least those who weren't career military, took part.  In fact, I was so darned old they wanted to make me an officer right off the bat.  Or maybe lock me up in the looney bin.  But that wasn't me.  Never minded working with people.  Didn't even mind taking charge of a group so long as it was a mutual decision.  But there was just something about having brass on my shoulders that wouldn't have set right."
     "I volunteered for the draft on New Year's Eve of '43.  Lena was okay with it even though she was none too happy.  I'd wanted to enlist in the infantry but she wasn't having any part of that.  Said I'd come home in a box with a flag on top.  By volunteering for the draft I let the Army make up my mind for me.  Joke was on us.  They made me a medic."
     Emil paused, stubbed his cigarette butt in the ash tray, "I suppose you're wondering how I passed the induction physical?"
     I wasn't.  Didn't even know what an induction physical was.  But I did know Emil had his glass eye back then and even the Army wouldn't be so hard up as to take a one-eyed man.  At least I didn't think they would.
     "It was warm body time in the middle of the war.  Down in the cities they were cramming future soldiers through as fast as they could get them to spread their cheeks.  Didn't know Sam from Jack.  About all they did was peer in every hole, whack a prime grade on your backside and send you on.  Had a buddy of mine take the physical for me.  Simple as pie."
     About then we came up on a tee in the road and hung a right.
     "Won't be long now and we'll catch us some lunch.  Hope you like brown gravy on your pickles."