For five years every September, our daughter Beth has led a Terry Fox Team, to date raising $45,775 for cancer research. In a small way, I’ve contributed to the cause from my book sales. So from my covic-reduced print run of The Devil’s Elbow, I’ve earmarked my profit of $700 for the September, 2021 run. The pic shows five team members including our children Eric, Beth and Tim, surrounded by Mum and Dad.
Lessons from the Seat of a Five Speed circa 1971
Dear Grand-kids:
When going on a bicycle trip from Saskatoon to the west coast, prepare and plan everything very, very thoroughly. That’s a very, very big lesson. Big lessons can be learned beforehand or afterward. Guess which one is better.
There are also important little lessons. For example, on my first day, I left Saskatoon (after sleeping too late) and discovered that the prairies can be a very hot place.
In 1971, I studied Climatology at University. Do you know about the Prevailing Westerlies? They are winds which always blow west to east. They ‘prevail.’ Do you know what direction Vancouver is from Saskatoon? Hint – it’s west. So, do you know what direction I had to peddle through the open prairie, where there are no trees or buildings to block the wind? In other words, do you know what my ‘prevailing’ direction was? Right, I was a ‘prevailing easterlie’ going head-long into the teeth of the prevailing westerlies. Let me tell you, wheat fields are no help. They just wave and mock you as you pass through. Little lesson two - pay attention in class.
What with the hot sun and howling winds, I struggled. But it wasn’t my fault. Until that day, I’d got all my exercise in a pool hall. Do you know what a pool shark is? Not me. I was the seal getting eaten by the shark. After a time, I moved on. In other words I met your grandmother. So kids, I ask you - was there a third little lesson here? Hint - it has to do with something called ‘getting fit before trying something crazy.’
Around two o’clock on day one, lesson four occurred to me. Pack sandwiches.
Despite hunger and hardship, I managed to ride fifty miles. (Kilometres hadn’t been invented yet.) But I hadn’t a clue where to sleep for the night. Lesson five - get a tourist map that shows where the campgrounds are kept.
What to do? One choice was to sleep in the ditch. A better idea was to stand on the side of the road and wait for a beautiful farmer’s daughter to drive by while smiling seductively (Ask Daddy or Mummy what that means).
Unluckily most of the beautiful farmer’s daughters were sitting in the front seat of the cab of their flatbed trucks, between their mother and father, who I found don’t respond to seductive smiles. The rest of the farmers’ daughters were at the big square-dance. (That was an educated guess.)
Luckily, there was a third choice because up ahead I thought, ‘Hey, up there, is that a roadside picnic area?’ Lesson six – the police don’t arrest knuckleheads who embark on a cross-country bicycle trip, without training, food or a change of socks, for the crime of sleeping where they’re not supposed to.
Taking advantage of my lucky break, I erected my tent and fell asleep, which brings me to lesson seven. Which was actually not a little one. It was a big lesson. How to put it… let’s just say, fences are useful things.
To understand my final lesson today I have to ask, do you know what it’s like to hear the cries and moans and snorts of a million beasts of unknown type, trampling about and sniffing at a little red tent pitched in the middle of a picnic area, which has no fence to keep them out?
If you don’t quite get the severity of the situation, here’s another question - have you ever been stepped on by an unknown beast? I’m not one to catastrophize, but the question crossed my mind as I pulled my sleeping bag over my head.
Next morning, I stepped on evidence which suggested a herd of elephants happened by. It was that or buffalo. (My bet - it was buffalo poop I stepped in because the buffalo’s home is the wide prairie which is where I was and which after all is ‘where they roam.’ I learned this from the song. Let’s sing it later. Here are the first words, ‘Home, home on the range’ Etc.) Regardless of beast genre, I managed to get a photo of one of them.
Love, Grandpa.
PS. Feel free to draw pictures that illustrate these lessons. You might tape them on your wall to guide you through life.
Unknown Beast.
This was one good read.
This Swanson guy spins a great yarn. Guarantee this mystery will surprise you. It’s going back to Exeter Branch Library as soon as Jane finishes it.
Twas the Night Before...
Do you have a favourite Christmas story?
I’m still a big fan of The Night Before Christmas because of the memory of our family of five (Jane, me, sons Eric and Tim, daughter Beth) taking turns to read the story, year after year on Christmas Eve.
Nice to Hear
In my mystery novels, I try to keep readers guessing about ‘who dunnit’ while tripping them up with red herrings and prompting laughs at Jack Beer, my PI’s, antics. Sometimes I wonder – am I succeeding?
Sue finished my latest, The Devil’s Elbow, in one day and she’s already asking ‘how long before book seven is ready?’
Jan of Windsor quoted a favourite passage from Things Left Behind: “ ‘In the near distance, a weak bulb atop a leaning telephone pole coated a century farmhouse in gloom. In the background, the night sky silhouetted a barn’s skeletal remains’” and said “I feel like I know these places.”
A Lucan reader ‘raved’ to Leigh, the town librarian, about my books. (Honest, she really did use the word ‘raved.’) Every time she thought she’d figured out ‘who dunnit’ she soon discovered otherwise. And she loved the dialogue, and my main characters, Jack for recognizing his own flaws and Sheila for giving as good as she got.
Thanks to such kind thoughts, I’ll keep going.
History Mystery
The cover of my latest Jack Beer mystery is of course, a ruse in its depiction of the Devil’s Elbow steel truss bridge (1909-81). Another confession – the Ailsa Craig area bridge I used for the cover is also not its twin in design. But it is darned near identical in the sharp turns required for entry and exit… which why I chose it for my book. Below is the Adare Road bridge in Middlesex County, which could have been the right match, design-wise. While unable to verify, I am willing to bet it and the Devil’s Elbow bridge were erected by the same contractors, Lawson and Hill. Any history buffs out there want to weigh in?
Photo by Tim Hundey
Chapter 5. Be Quiet. I’m Pretending I’m Asleep. (Scroll to Ch. 1 if you want to start at the beginning) )
Subtitle: ‘The Night of the Heavy Breathing.’
The Milky Way gave off the only light… other than our campfire. We watched the flames dance and we listened to the music of the forest. “Did you hear that?” I said. Grandma answered with a knowing smile. There was another ghostly wail. “How about that?”
“You mean the Eastern Screech Owl?”
“Yes,” I said, hiding my ignorance of wildlife sounds. “Does it have to screech like that? It’s rude.”
There were other sounds too. So, we retreated to our little orange and green tent. I drifted off and slept until… I felt the tapping on my forehead. It was Grandma. “Stop snoring.”
“I’ll do my best,” I said. And I went back to sleep.
More tapping. “Your snoring is making the tent vibrate.”
“I’ll do my best,” I said. And I went back to sleep. Except I was the one to wake up next. “Now you’re snoring,” I said to your Grandma.
“I don’t snore. I never snore,” she said. “Never.”
“I know that.” (Sometimes it’s not smart to disagree.) “And you don’t snort either.”
“Be quiet,” she whispered loudly. “Listen.”
“What are we listening for?” I whispered loudly back.
“That heavy breathing,” Grandma said. “And that’s not you?”
As a test, I held my breath. The heavy breathing got louder. “You sure it’s not you?” I said.
Grandma said, “Is the tent leaning?”
“Is it shaking?” I asked.
“What’s going on?” she said.
“Do you think it’s the screech owl?”
“Seriously?” she said. You’ll have to excuse Grandma’s sarcasm. She needs her sleep.
“It could be building a nest,” I suggested. The shaking got worse. “Yikes,” I said. “Could be a monster from the wild unknown. Let’s pretend we’re asleep.” Well, that didn’t work - whatever monster was breathing heavily and snorting like a pig at the trough and shaking our tent, well, he wasn’t falling for the ploy.
“Do we have any food in here?” Grandma asked. “We’re not supposed to have food in the tent.”
Before I could tell Grandma about the toothpaste, we heard these terrible words shouted… well screamed really, “Look at the size of that bear rubbing up against that little orange and green tent!” It was the young men who were camping in the only other tent at Rock Lake.
“Get out your Bowie knives.” I yelled. “Try stabbing him!” which is when the dogs took notice. Agitated dogs are louder than Howler monkeys. And these dogs were agitated. The monster, which of course we now knew was a bear acting like a monster, stopped snorting and wheezing. Instead, he made one long, loud huff. I mean, really, really loud. Because he spotted the dogs.
Our tent shifted and bulged inward. Was the bear planning to sit on my lap? But then when the tent straightened I said through the canvas, “Say bear… are you leaving?”
Before he could answer, I heard more shouting, “The dogs! They’re loose!” which words turned the whole world into a crashing, roaring, kabooming hullabaloo.
We didn’t peek outside… it was too dark to see anything anyway… but this is what we pictured: The bear, petrified of the dogs, went bananas. Not knowing left from right, up from down, doing hundred mile an hour circles, he flew off the edge of the cliff, somersaulting to the bottom… bringing rocks and branches and bushes and small rodents down with him. (You might have read about this in the Exeter Times-Advance… unless you weren’t born yet.)
A big thud marked the end to the awful episode. Or did it? No, the bear jumped up, the dogs hounding after him. There was much rustling and thrashing and crashing and howling until the racket faded into the wild unknown and we fell back to sleep, safe and sound thanks to two hounds and loose leashes.
Of course, this was not our last meeting with bears.
This is a picture of the monster/bear leaning on our orange and green tent.
Sweet dreams all. Love Grandpa.
Chapter 4
This is a Beautiful Spot! (Or Is it?)
Dear Grands, Campsite 13 was big. There was a picnic table and a fire pit straight ahead, to the right a steep cliff, at the bottom, a pretty little stream. To the left were other campsites, almost all having trailers, made to withstand disasters. Only one site, not counting ours, had a tent. Two young men sat on the hood of their car, whittling with Bowie knives, their hound dogs sprawled out nearby.
Beyond the fire pit, was a forest, a deep, dense forest. A narrow path led into the forest… into the unknown.
As Grandma cooked burgers she said, “This campsite is a mess.”
“Yes, people should be tidier,” I agreed, feet up after finally erecting our little orange and green tent. (It fell over and trapped me inside only two times. Okay… three.)
“Well,” Grandma said, putting a hundred syllables into the single syllable word. (Do you know what a clue is? You may have figured out that Grandma was giving me one. Good for you, it took me a while.) Anyhow, using a big garbage bag, I picked up all the debris that surrounded us… the plastic, the wrappers, the empty cartons that had been licked out. And the bones… chewed up rib bones, chicken bones torn apart, other animal bones (at least I was pretty sure they were animal bones).
I thought I was finished but Grandma asked ‘what about the rest of the garbage’ which lay along the path that led into the deep, dense forest… into the unknown… the wild unknown. I took that path, all by myself, picking up plastic and wrappers and bones… a million bones. Chewed up bones. Crushed bones. Annihilated bones. It was a yucky job. Soon, the path narrowed until I was so far into the deep, dark, wild unknown that when I turned around, I could no longer see our orange and green tent.
Somehow I made it out alive. I was never so happy to see Grandma. And she wasn’t even wearing her orange and green bikini.
“This is a beautiful spot,” she said.
“Let’s eat before it’s too late,” I said, though I should have said, “Let’s get out of here before it’s too late.”
We’ll talk again soon, Grandpa.
(Here’s a picture of me going into the unknown.)
It's a Long Story
Chapter 3. “I’ve got a bad Feeling”
Dear Grands, at Rock Lake Campground, we spoke with Ranger Granger (he wore a name tag) who told us, “It’s full except for Number 13. But… you see any bears on the way in?”
Which was when I began humming, ‘If you go to the woods today.’ Ranger Granger heard me and joined in, ‘You’re sure of a big surprise. If you go to the woods today, you better not go alone.’ I took the song back, ‘If you go to the woods today, it’d be better if you stayed home. Because, today’s the day that…’
“Be quiet!” Grandma yelled.
“Sure your husband’s off key but that’s not the point,” Ranger Granger said, “You see, people prefer not to use that campsite.”
“We’ll take it,” said Grandma, proving the ranger wrong about what people prefer.
“What kind of equipment do you have?”
‘That was rude,’ I thought but I didn’t tell Ranger Granger that. Instead, I said, “That was cryptic.”
While he reached for the dictionary, Grandma said, “A little orange and green tent.”
“Odd colour combination,” he said.
“It matches her bikini,” I explained.
“How big?” he asked.
“It’s a very small bikini,” I said, not that it was any of his business.
“I was asking about the tent,” he said.
“It’s tiny, too,” Grandma said, blushing… embarrassed about the size of our orange and green tent.
“Well, that could be a problem.”
Tired of the confusion, I said, “What’s wrong with campsite 13?”
“There could be danger,” said Ranger Granger. “And, you know - number 13… superstition.”
“Look, we already said, we’ll take it.” Out of the blue suddenly, I felt brave… despite the foreboding.
“Just don’t say I didn’t warn you,” Ranger Granger said, piling on the forebodingness.
Love Grandpa. (This photo shows a bear-way into the wild unknown)
Still Bear Story 4
Chapter 2. Preparations
Dear Grands: When we first married, Grandma took me shopping with her all the time. At least shopping for an orange and green tent was ‘bear-able’ (Get it?).
Side note - the tent had to be orange and green to match Grandma’s new orange and green bikini.
Another side note - I was always glad to help pick out running shoes for Grandma, hoping she would join me in jogging. But, Grandma always said she wasn’t a jogger unless she was ‘jogging my memory’ with remarks like, ‘the floors haven’t been vacuumed since your vacuuming injury – surely it’s healed by now,’ and ‘the dishes won’t put themselves away.’
Anyhow, with new tent stowed in our little brown Toyota, the next question was ‘where to pitch it?’ My thought was ‘the back of the closet behind all the other stuff we didn’t use,’ thinking of the dangers ahead. Sometimes, it’s better to keep your thoughts to yourself.
You’ve been to Algonquin Park right? Well, that’s where Grandma decided we should try out our little orange and green tent. (We still have that tent. You can borrow it. You might wonder ‘how did you fit in?’ But, it was fine for Grandma and me. We were the size of Munchkins at the time.)
Once at the park, we got a park map at the main gate. It was a good map but it neglected to show the location of ‘bear country.’ Turned out the map-makers decided not to mark out ‘bear country’ because those words would have to be plastered all over that darned map… which nobody bothers to tell you. Maybe they do now. But not in 1974. Here’s the thing - The map also did not identify the ‘bear convention centre.’ Turns out the human name for the centre was ‘Rock Lake Campground.’ Wouldn’t you know it - that’s where we were headed.
Writing this story, even after all these years, gives me the willies. I think I’ll take a break here to catch my breath.
Here’s a picture from bear country. You may think that’s a bear. Easy mistake. Same colour and all.
Love Grandpa.
Cape Breton Island.