Better Than a Poke in the Eye

Winnipeg served up a surfeit of serendipity. Steven and Elizabeth outdid themselves as hosts. Our first day featured grey gloom and a brief snow flurry. Thereafter nothing but relentless sunshine. On Saturday Birds Hill Park, though named for persons rather than winged creatures, furnished a fair riot of migrant sparrows and warblers including some –- palm, black-and-white, ovenbird –- that are only dreamed about back home on south Vancouver Island.

Winnipeg may have more war memorials than any city in Canada. A local radio personality spotted me taking pictures of the Bank of Montreal war memorial at Portage and Main and stopped to tell me all about it. The kids took us back to Valour Road which was Pine Street in 1914 but warranted a new name when three of its residents earned the Victoria Cross –- the sine qua non of gallantry awards -- during the War to End All Wars. A walkabout in Vimy Ridge Memorial Park enhanced my collection of Great War memorials by three. Elizabeth took Monday off to lead us on a downtown walkabout. Entirely by accident she led us to my principal grail quest: Luther Prokant’s big canvas of the 1920 Winnipeg Falcons, winners of Canada’s first Olympic hockey gold medal in 1920.

Nova Scotia provided a moveable feast. At Hermans Island Ron and Nora greeted us with a generous feed of ‘bugs’ -– the sort you might know as lobsters. Lunenburg, a UNESCO World Heritage site, wore its best face. Jan indulged my wish to study and photograph the town’s Great War memorial. Then we went off to see the progress of the Bluenose II restoration. ‘Restoration’ isn’t the adequate term to describe what

is going on: a complete rebuild of the old schooner from the keel up. In Halifax we visited Roberta and Steven. My cousin is 90 now, he a couple of years younger. Their marriage is less than two years on but the old kids are still giddy as teenagers. It is a joy to see.

With pals Stephen and Sheila we took in an opening at the maritime Museum: ‘Hello Sailor’ celebrates the gay culture that flourished aboard passenger ships in the post-WWII decades. We especially enjoyed the bookend acts: a bang-up song-and-dance lip synch of Abba’s SOS by a pair of cross-dressers; a flamboyant finale by a transgendered lady evoking Dolly Parton crossed with Lady Gaga. Truro restored a greater measure of sobriety and decorum. Now in her 88th year, my dear old Mum is another source of joy, reveling in her new digs at Edinburgh Hall and five-star friendship she says is the best of her life. At Black Rock Don and Nancy provided another feast of bugs before Nancy kicked our butts in a rousing game of Scotch Bridge.

On Saturday afternoon we returned to Big Bras d’Or, finding the old cabin just as we left it seven months ago. ‘Bigadore’ is forty years old now. We will make a point of marking the ruby anniversary in suitable style. The Darlings –- irresistibly charming Lynn & Louise -– helped with the opening while delivering an abundanza of Chinese food. Then they whacked us in a bananagram tournament. The final score –- if you must know –- was 16-9-2-1 (Lynn-Louise-YT-Jan). To beat Lynn at ‘Smoothies’ –- the addictive best bananagrams variant -- come prepared to lay down all 36 tiles in seventy seconds.

In Victoria we revel in our Sooke wilderness rambles with Mary & Mike. The twins fill an analogous role here. On Sunday we hiked Lewis Mountain to Mathesons Lake, soaked up the mayflower extravaganza, studied globular clusters of frogs eggs and

reacquainted ourselves with the lyricism of eastern warblers. The next day, Victoria Day, delivered sunshine and warmth. We scrambled 500 metres up Jerome Mountain, crossed paths with three moose, flushed a woodcock, got nose to nose with early wildflowers.

From our dining room table in Victoria we savour the backside view of the neighbouring three-storey walkup. Here we make do with Kelly’s Mountain and the oh-so-blue waters of the Great Bras d’Or. An eagle just flew past. Gannets dive for fish carelessly and fatally lolling near the surface. Hermit thrushes, ovenbirds and magnolia warblers offer their morning vespers. Things could be worse.

Trains, Cranes, Two Truths and a Lie

As usual Jan knew better. I was doubtful when she decided we wanted to commence our 2011 spring transcontinental in novel fashion: by train. My imagination ran to fits of claustrophobia and uncontrolled insomnia. But her balance of good ideas over bad is generally positive so I decided what the hell. We boarded Via Rail’s The Canadian on Tuesday evening and cast our fate to the guys in the lead locomotive.

Close quarters force train travelers to be friendly whether or not they’re normally inclined that way. Personal space is invaded in the corridors, observation car and dining room. We never had a dining car table to ourselves. We breakfasted with Diane of Calgary and 5-year-old grandson Isaac, both enjoying their first-ever train trip, lunched with Stan and Marlene, a husband-and-wife team from Sidney, both proudly descended from English convicts exiled to Australia more than two centuries ago. In strictly friendly terms we weighed whether it was the Aussies or Canadians who were the WWI pride of the British Army. Come suppertime we broke bread with another husband-and-wife team, Bob and George, of Philadelphia (George the wife half). Bob and I had lots to talk about, mostly books and baseball. They introduced us to a train parlour game: ’Two Truths and a Lie’. In my turn I tried this combo: 1] a naked young woman recently told me I am an attractive man with a good body; 2] I once turned down an offer of sex with Miss California; 3] I was a three-letter man at university. Which is the lie? Bob guessed right.

The train took us through no lifer territory. Travels in Leo and the Taj have led us through Vancouver-to-Winnipeg territory before. But I am normally at Leo’s wheel, duty-bound to pay attention to the road rather than what lies on either side of it. I discovered how congenial it is to find a comfortable seat and watch the world go by as someone else does the driving. There was much to see: the dry BC interior along the South Thompson River, Mount Robson and its sister peaks, still-iced alpine lakes. Unbidden, Gordon Lightfoot came to mind: There was a time in this fair land when the railroad did not run . . . John A. Macdonald too: I made a mental note to hunt down a well-worn copy of The National Dream and make time to read it this summer at Big Bras d’Or.

We detrained awhile at Jasper just as the skies cleared and the sun came out. We found the war memorial and learned that the community was tiny in 1914 and known by another name: Fitzhugh. The list of WWI fallen included just six names.

By sunup Thursday mountains were behind us, the train window featured long vistas under big prairie skies. I do not resonate with those who feel the grasslands are a bore. Every pothole flashing past the window featured waterbirds settled in for breeding season: ducks, coots, grebes. A pair of British birders claimed to see two whooping cranes. Yeah right.

CBC keeps us well advised of the troubles visited upon Saskatchewan and Manitoba communities by flooded rivers. Via Rail enabled us to see with our own eyes. At St. Lazare sandbag-ringed houses looked lonely and vulnerable amidst the Assiniboine floodwaters. A long delay ensued as Via Rail engineers weighed the safety of bridges. Due to the flood we arrived at our destination two hours late but welcomed nonetheless by Steve and Elizabeth. Five days in greater Winnipeg beckon.

Now viewed in the rear view mirror the train trip looks sufficiently swell that Jan might well talk me into another sometime soon. I shall invest some small effort in devising claims for the next round of Two-Truths-and-a-Lie.