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A lot going on

Lorna Blakeney
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A lot going on

Notes from a messy desk…

As a frequenter (is that a word?) of Prince Albert’s grocery stores, coffee shops, public library, and arts and recreation facilities, I’m often struck by the assortment of posters displayed on their walls: activities to try, events to attend, services to access, plus the odd lost pet.

The other day as I perused the community bulletin board at a local eatery, it was clear that things are happening around town. Having earlier enjoyed an episode of Corner Gas from my trusty DVD collection, a line from the sitcom’s theme song sprang to mind — “You think there’s not a lot goin’ on….” — and proceeded to get stuck in my brain.

Corner Gas. A show that can either tickle your Saskatchewanian funny bone or leave you feeling vaguely insulted. Maybe both.

After episode #1 aired, I phoned my mother up, knowing she enjoyed a good laugh. “You gotta see this Corner Gas thing!” I enthused. “It’s set in Saskatchewan and it’s hilarious!”

The following week, having watched the second episode, Mom called to report she must have watched the wrong show. She hadn’t.

“Really? That’s the one you like? It’s not even funny. There’s nothing to it.” Or words to that effect.

Despite the lacklustre response from certain maternal quarters, Brent Butt’s brainchild took off like a runaway dog on a 3-day sprint toward the prairie horizon. And this kid was hooked.

I got so into Corner Gas that my front licence plate, purchased appropriately from a small town gas station, read DOG RVR. However, it didn’t take long to find out that not every citizen of our fair province was a fan.

Some strangers in parking lots were downright rude about it. “Is that Dog River from Corner Gas? *$%& !” was one fellow’s reaction, punctuated by a grimace. On another occasion, it was “You from Dog River? Like on T.V.? I can’t stand Dog River!”

“Well, I’m not actually from there; it’s not a real place…” I explained lamely as the elderly man shuffled off toward an insurance office, possibly to renew his non DOG RVR plates.

Countering any negative comments, though, were the unexpected instant bonds formed with fellow aficionados. So this is what Trekkers and Star Wars fans feel like, I mused, wondering if a convention was planned. I never did hear.

Meanwhile, the merchandise happened. Have you ever been so enamoured of something that people started buying you presents on the theme? Maybe you collect all things elephant. Or owl. Could be angel artifacts, sunflower stuff, sports memorabilia, or items coloured purple.

“Yay!” respond relieved friends and relatives seeking gift ideas for the person who needs nothing. “Please accept this coffee mug for the ambidextrous (which you aren’t, but whatever), featuring the Corner Gas sign on one side and The Ruby on the other. Happy Birthday!”

And right now, Happy Spring! During this seasonal transition it might feel like we’re just biding time until we can shed our boots and mitts, and that meanwhile “there’s not a lot goin’ on”.

Well, “look closer baby, you’re so wrong.”

Here’s a sampling of April possibles in P.A.: comedy shows, musical performances, art displays, poetry readings, exercise classes, sporting events, guitar lessons, museum talks, drama groups, wellness workshops, and volunteer opportunities. And that’s just one bulletin board.

Some of the above cost money, others don’t. All involve connecting with community after a long winter, something it’s hard to put a price on.

“… and that’s why we can stay so long… where there’s not a lot goin’ o-o-o-n….”

Lorna Blakeney is an avid writer who enjoys photography, history, travel, and genealogy. She was born and raised in Prince Albert, earned a B.A. from the University of Saskatchewan, likes to walk, and loves coffee shops. Her column appears the first Friday of the month.

The best exercise

Lorna Blakeney
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The best exercise

Notes from a messy desk….

They say the best exercise is the one you’ll actually do. I have no idea who “they” are, but I agree. The one exercise I’ll usually do is take a good old fashioned walk. Prince Albert has this fantastic feature that circles the city, called the Rotary Trail; maybe you’re familiar with it. During winter, the trail gets plowed and sanded regularly. I recommend checking it out.

A simple walk can make a person more aware of nature’s gifts. Even in freezing temperatures it’s tempting to snap way too many photos of said gifts with your handy dandy smartphone. You’re marching along in your winter-tread clodhoppers when – Ooh! Those magical frosted branches! Click. Whoa, take in that sky – a living one it is! Clickety click click.

Back at home and scrolling through the pix, after deleting half a dozen fuzzy images of your thumb, you question how it’s possible to score 20 ho-hum pictures from such gorgeous scenery. Then, surprise – an image calls out “please print and frame me!” And that’s how some photos end up in the Winter Festival Art Show. (Which, as it happens, is currently on at the Mann Gallery by the bottom of the Diefenbaker bridge until March 21, with no admission fee, although donations are gratefully accepted. You’re welcome.)

Despite the benefits of walking outdoors, I confess to being a wimpy walker when surfaces are icy. And boy, have they been icy this year. The Alfred Jenkins Field House on the west hill offers deals to seniors who use the indoor track, and P.A.’s two shopping malls welcome indoor walkers as well. Also, many citizens own treadmills, which don’t require leaving home but do require discipline. Which I hear tell some people possess. Go treadmillers!

I admire those who ski, snowshoe, snowboard and skate. What a great way to enjoy a Canadian winter! Due to frailer bones, some of us more mature folks (see how nicely I put that?) are advised to avoid riskier activities. However, this doesn’t prevent one from exercising thoughts of yesteryear’s outdoor community rinks: gliding hand-in-mitt across the ice in a game of crack the whip, before sliding on your ski suit padded butt right into the boards. Good times! Other than the mishaps involving broken bones or concussions, of course.

There’s another exercise I’ll actually do this time of year. Snow shovelling. Our recent February snowfall event blessed us with 35 centimetres of the fluffy white stuff. Yay!! (said some kid under age 10).

I think our Team P.A. shovel handlers, snowblower wrestlers, and vehicle pusher-outers deserve medals for their Snow-lympic efforts. I’m particularly grateful to the two young ladies who pushed my car out of a nasty back lane rut. Snow angels do exist, and you can acknowledge them via the City of P.A. website to have their good works recognized.

I think our Team P.A. shovel handlers, snowblower wrestlers, and vehicle pusher-outers deserve medals for their Snow-lympic efforts. I’m particularly grateful to the two young ladies who pushed my car out of a nasty back lane rut. Snow angels do exist, and you can acknowledge them via the City of P.A. website to have their good works recognized.

Inspiring people abound. To those dedicated souls who stick to their fitness regimens on an ongoing basis, congratulations – way to go! I aspire to your level of success in utilizing this marvelous machine we call the human body.

For now, however, I’ll carry on with the best exercise I know of – the one I will actually do. My calendar says it’s March… so just give me a shovel and a bullet to bite on.

Lorna Blakeney is an avid writer who enjoys photography, history, travel, and genealogy. She was born and raised in Prince Albert, earned a B.A. from the University of Saskatchewan, likes to walk, and loves coffee shops.

Learning to listen

Lorna Blakeney
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Learning to listen

Notes from a messy desk….

“Listen, Linda!” If that phrase rings a bell, then you probably saw a video that made the rounds on social media a few years ago. It featured a small boy talking back to his mother, whose name was Linda. No matter what logic she used to convince him his behaviour had been unacceptable, he kept to the broken record – “Listen! Listen, Linda!”

Even as adults don’t we like our point of view to be heard? Recently, over coffee, tea, and cappa-frappa-latte-chinos at a local coffee shop, some of us got discussing the sorry state of world affairs. One lady remained silent. When asked “Do you find this boring?” she replied calmly, “No, I’m not bored. I’m just sitting here watching you guys get riled up.”

Having heard her comment, I couldn’t un-hear it. Unlike the stimulation of friendly debate, riled-upness feels kind of crummy. So I’ve been trying to pay attention, to listen more and babble less, in the hope of gaining more harmony in my section of the worldwide choir.

It’s the latest round in an ongoing quest to become a better listener, and brings to mind a trip to Winnipeg one year with an ex-boyfriend (because where else would you go for a Valentine’s break from Saskatchewan’s winter weather?)

While investigating a crafters’ market we discovered some magnets made from rocks. Each one featured a quote. I had trouble choosing, so the helpful male zeroed in on a dappled stone with pretty lettering — “This one! I’ll buy it for you!” — making me the proud owner of a tangible reminder that still adorns my fridge: It’s good to shut up sometimes… Marcel Marceau, famous French mime.

I like to think the boyfriend meant well. It’s a very cool rock, and as magnets go, powerful. I also think it’s good to have a sense of humour about ex-es.

Back to listening. I still catch myself yakking unnecessarily, but am at least figuring out which tactics do not improve listening skills. For example, replacing speech with food. It’s harder, not to mention impolite, to be talking with your mouth full, right? However, this remedy has side effects, like needing new jeans because the old ones got too tight. Scratch that plan.

Maybe smokers have the ticket. Surely you can’t chatter incessantly while juggling tobacco-sticks-on-fire? I wouldn’t seriously swap the talking habit for cigarettes, though. Too cold in the winter! I’ve seen those huddled workers enveloped in frosty clouds, exiled from their peers during coffee breaks. And astoundingly, still conversing. Trash that idea.

One friend suggested duct tape over my mouth, and I’m not sure she was kidding. We (okay, I) had been jabbering about unhelpful home remedies for cold sores, as in my neighbour’s son’s girlfriend’s sister swears by acidophilus pills, but they do zilch for me. Wait a sec… maybe my friend meant duct tape for the cold sores? Nooo…ouch! Sorry, digressing. Sticking to a topic can be hard.

Listening. Okay.

Why are habits so hard to change anyway? Well, umm, because they’re habits, I guess. It’s the nature of the beast. So when an encouraging individual told me “anything learned can be unlearned”, my ears perked up. Unfortunately, there was a catch. It seems practice and time are required. Dagnabbit.

Still, I’ll continue to try and “listen louder” next time. Because even if I’m 100 percent right, have piles of evidence, and just know others could benefit if they’d just co-operate, it’s good to shut up sometimes. But not quite as much as Marcel Marceau.

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Lorna Blakeney is an avid writer who enjoys photography, history, travel, and genealogy. She was born and raised in Prince Albert, earned a B.A. from the University of Saskatchewan, likes to walk, and loves coffee shops. Her column appears the first Friday of the month.

What’s that you say?

Lorna Blakeney
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What’s that you say?

Notes from a messy desk…

Life can be confusing sometimes, and so can language. Have you ever been caught off guard by an oddball or nonsensical saying while engaging in otherwise “normal” conversation?

My mother and various other relatives were masters at quirky comments when I was younger. Now I find myself quoting them to millennials and generation Z types, prompting puzzled looks. To the credit of those who originated such unusual turns of phrase, they do make you think. In the interest of keeping our language lively, please bear with me as I share a few gems.

One of the most nonsensical involves talk of “plenty”. Let’s say Mom cooked way too much spaghetti, enough for everyone to have second or even third helpings. She might remark “Plenty! Four and twenty. Go and bite the little boy next door.” What? That’s just ridiculous! Not to mention mean. Assuming a boy even lives next door. It makes no more sense now than it did then.

Only slightly less crazymaking was the method used to assess the chance of rain: gaze intently at the sky, and if you see “enough blue to make a shirt”, it won’t rain. Huh? A shirt for whom? How much blue does it take anyway? What a dumb saying! Or so I thought, until a poet friend heard it and incorporated it into her writing. So I’ve changed my thinking to “What a poetic expression!”

Some sayings I heard while growing up referred to unexpected visitors. I suspect they sprang from the work of pioneer women on isolated farms, and the excitement created when somebody came to call. If you dropped your dishrag, it meant company was coming. You didn’t know when, but it was good to be prepared. If you happened to glance at a clock reading 9:50, you got to crow “Ten to ten, visitors before eleven!” and provide something to look forward to. Or possibly be disappointed by.

When my young self felt bored and made the mistake of saying so, the standard solution was for Mom to find me some work. Should none be handy, she might instruct me to “sit on the floor and hang your feet down.” Thanks a heap, Mom!

If as a kid I was running around barefoot and whacked my toe on something, sympathy was lacking. Instead I’d hear “Stub your toe, meet your beau, kiss your thumb, he’s sure to come.” Again, not helpful. I mean, I’m in pain here! Plus, at that age who wanted a beau? Ick!

Some of the old expressions sort of made sense though. I knew my father was hungry when I’d hear him remark “My stomach thinks my throat’s cut.” And should I shut the television off, assuming Dad was asleep in his comfy chair with the sprung springs, he’d set me straight with “I’m just checking my eyelids for cracks.”

Certain sayings really nail it. To this day, after experiencing a particularly trying time, I find myself muttering “I feel like I’ve been dragged through a knothole backwards.” No other phrase describes that beaten down, tattered feeling in quite the same way.

But even after a backwards knothole episode, there is hope. By the seat of your pants, by the skin of your teeth, if you hold your mouth just right, the good Lord’s willin’ and the creek don’t rise, those clouds eventually part and show you just enough blue to make a shirt.

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Holiday Style

Lorna Blakeney
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Holiday Style

Notes from a messy desk…

Do you love a reason to get all dressed up? Then welcome to December, where opportunities to glamourize abound. Stores, restaurants, and businesses display their tinsel and trimmings, so why not you and me? Heck, we can spiff up just for a walk to the mailbox and blame it on the holiday season. Even the flyers awaiting our mittened hands are colourful and celebratory.

Fashionista friends tell me sequins and velour are big this year. Ooh, sparkly! Mmm, velvety! Visions of Christmas parties at the community hall and New Years Eve soirees in private homes are dancing through my head. For a minute or two, that is. Having done velour and sequins in a younger life, my excitement doesn’t last.

I cannot tell a lie; effortless elegance is not my default setting. Does the dress-up muscle weaken with time, I wonder? Begin to atrophy from lack of use? Some of us (okay, me) gravitate to our favourite jeans and sweaters because (a) they feel comfortable, (b) they’re still perfectly good, and (c) shopping stopped being fun around the time Sears closed its doors and Amazon began bulldozing the internet jungle.

Besides, the world seems to have grown increasingly casual when it comes to clothes. I blame stretchy fabrics. Pants and leggings are just too darned accommodating, whatever your shape, and machine knitted tops are attractively cheap to produce. Given casual Fridays, working from home, and video calls from the neck up, why bother with classy clothes? Does your computer or cellphone care how you look while shopping, banking, or paying bills online? Nope and nope.

At one time, dressing to do business was its own serious business. Blue jeans were seldom seen in Prince Albert’s banks and offices. Dresses meant synthetic hose with shoes year round, not bare feet and flip flops. In inclement weather, gentlemen wore toe rubbers to protect their polished leather footwear. Clothes maintenance took more work then, too. The ironing alone – yikes!

Memories of helping Mom remove frozen long johns and other assorted garments from the clothesline during winter have me feeling like quite the lazybones. I mean, how much effort would it take to spruce up a bit in honour of the season? No need to attempt 12 days of partridges and pear trees, or 5 golden rings, although one or two adorning ears or fingers might be nice.

My own dear mother rocked various vintage aprons at Christmas. My sister’s collection of holiday brooches is second to none. Dad, bless his heart, happily wore whatever shirts he was gifted – the better to christen with fireworks falling from roll-your-own cigarettes. But I digress.

A funny thing happens when you stand in front of a full length mirror wearing a jazzy blouse, fashionable pants, a bejewelled necklace and one or two – or possibly five – golden bangles jingle-jangling at your wrist. You start to feel sort of, well… festive. Like December is here.

What’s your holiday style? Elegant? Matchy-matchy? Plaid fabulous? Cowboy bling? Elf-is Presley necktie? (I just made that one up). Bring ‘em on! Go ahead, be that flowery flowy aunt, that uncle in fancy cowboy boots, the brother wearing a sweater so ugly it’s spectacular. Tis the season! Because if you can’t flaunt the fun and fancy in December, when can you?

Merry Clothes-mas!

Lorna Blakeney is an avid writer who enjoys photography, history, travel, and genealogy. She was born and raised in Prince Albert, earned a B.A. from the University of Saskatchewan, likes to walk, and loves coffee shops. Her column appears the first Friday of the month.

Brothers in arms

Lorna Blakeney
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Brothers in arms

Notes from a messy desk….

See this poppy pinned to my jacket? There was a time when I refused to wear one. “Why glorify war?” I asked. No fewer than 5 of my uncles were soldiers during World War One or Two, and I understood, somewhat, why they’d signed up to fight. But I never lived during those times, or felt a direct impact. Then I met Uncle Bob, my dad’s last surviving sibling.

He’d moved to the USA, and his presence in my young life was limited to long distance Christmas calls and infrequent handwritten letters. When I reached my twenties, we finally managed a few visits. Only briefly and rarely did he touch on the subject of war, but that was enough to make it seem, well… real.

As he described the miles of marching, the blistered feet, the violent loss of comrades in battle, I was struck by his lack of bitterness, anger or hatred. It was hard to imagine this soft spoken, gentle man who exhibited old fashioned manners and an easy sense of humour, suited up in uniform, army boots, helmet, rifle and ammunition. Still, the war machine ran on multitudes of human parts like him.

In 1917, with the First World War dragging on, Bob and his brother Bill joined other young men from the Prince Albert area in becoming part of the C.E.F., or Canadian Expeditionary Force. Bill’s attestation papers state his age as 19 years and 10 months. Bob’s show he was barely 18.

Uncle Bob himself explained to me what the records don’t. When asked his age at the recruiting office, he gave it truthfully as 16. The fellow behind the desk suggested Bob take a walk around the block and see if it aged him a couple of years. Bob took that walk, calculated a birth date that made him old enough, and was accepted.

Thus did a couple of Saskatchewan boys leave their parents, a sister, and my 11-year-old father to mind the family farm without them. By June, they were aboard the H.M.T. Olympic with a few thousand others, crossing the Atlantic.

War records show Bill being removed from active duty for a while, having been injured while jumping hurdles, and put doing manual labour. Bob literally marched around parts of France, suffered a shrapnel wound to his thigh, and after 3 weeks treatment was back in the field. He later received medical aid for blistered feet, a not uncommon occurrence in the trenches due to cold, wet, and unsanitary conditions.

Gassing was a popular weapon of war, and Bob later told family his lungs were affected for the rest of his life because of it, but the records show nothing. Checking further, I learned that although thousands of soldiers were gassed, it was often not reported. The temporary effects were bad, but usually subsided, and many years passed before long term damage became apparent. A lot of veterans were refused compensation because they lacked documentation of multiple “minor gassings”.

Unlike many soldiers, Bob and Bill made it back home, and took to building their lives. William Blakeney died of natural causes at age 52. In 1999, at 99 years old, his brother Robert had the insignia of the Legion of Honour pinned to his chest by a representative of the French government, to “pay homage to those veterans who, with their French counterparts, bore arms more than 80 years ago to safeguard their liberty and allow humanitarian values to triumph.” Lest we forget.

When it comes to soldiers like Bill and Bob, we have undeniable proof of what they endured during The Great War. I wonder though, what of their loved ones back home? Imagine the worry and sleepless nights of a parent whose precious child was being trained in warfare, then sent to a strange land to risk his life doing a man’s job, when he was not yet twenty.

But that was indeed the reality.

And today, I wear my poppy.

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Everyday Heroes

Lorna Blakeney
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Everyday Heroes

Notes from a messy desk…

Half the people in my world seem to be dealing with some sort of health issue or other stressful life scenario these days. The other half are helping them to get through it. Is it only the people I hang out with, or what? Is this the norm after “a certain age’? Can I put it down to “just a phase” or something? Crikey.

Health related stresses might include: injuries, surgeries, respiratory ailments, vision or hearing impairment, dementia, addiction, heart trouble, autoimmune disorders, mental illness, arthritis, cancer… the list goes on. And let’s not forget the caregivers, often family and friends thrown into the deep end with little knowledge or warning.

Other stresses can be tough too. Perhaps you’ve lost a loved one through death or separation, or found out your job is in jeopardy, or you have to move unexpectedly. Maybe an accident totalled your car, or the travel plans you were counting on have gone south and taken your sanity with them. I could go on, but enough is enough, right?

Life, as it turns out, can be freakin’ fragile. And we don’t always see things coming. Well, sometimes we sort of do, but would rather not stare too hard in that direction. Denial, as they say, is not a river in Egypt.

On the up side of things – and there is one – the resilience of the human spirit never ceases to amaze me. Nor, I might add, do the good surprises we don’t anticipate. Sometimes the smallest events are the most heartening.

Thanks to above average fall temperatures, the three potted plants I took a chance on this summer are still blooming their little hearts out. Go, geranium! Rock on, fuschia! Hooray, other plant I don’t know the name of with tiny yellow flowers! For as long as possible, I’ll keep hauling you inside upon warning of frost, in appreciation of your bright beauty. Your refusal to stop blooming just because it’s October reminds me of the unsung heroes around us every day.

Like the limping lady inching down the grocery aisle, leaning heavily on her cart; the young mother overrun by wailing offspring at the medical clinic; the man at the pharmacy picking up a prescription for his dad; those in hospitals and care homes, or sheltering at home under adverse conditions. These heroes put out a remarkable number of new buds. The landscape of my life has been peppered with many such two legged flowers, and I’m repeatedly inspired by them.

When my dad was very old and needed surgery, it took a lot out of him. Sitting beside his hospital bed, watching his chest rise and fall, I noticed his eyes open as he smiled slightly and uttered one quiet syllable – “Boo”. Oh Dad! What a wonderful gift that little blossom of a word was, not unlike the miniature flowers on my plant with no name.

Some everyday heroes are like geraniums, bursting with bunches of colour among the darker greenery. Wind and rain may leave them damaged, but the petals left holding on lose none of their brilliance.

The fuschia plant people have their own gentle strength. Pairing purple with pink shows a mind of your own to begin with. Delicate blossoms that should have blown away long ago dangle tenaciously from threads, not unlike circus trapeze artists. Surely they will fall now! But no, not yet – and I applaud heartily.

Over and over, nature’s resilience comes through somehow, giving us renewed hope. If a fragile flower can hang in there a little longer despite blustery weather, maybe we humans can too.

Hey teacher

Lorna Blakeney
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Hey teacher

Notes from a messy desk…

Walking with friends among the fall foliage of Kinsmen Park, I’m reminded that it’s September again. The air itself seems to carry a feel of new beginnings, mixed with reflections of autumns past. It’s time for drivers to slow to 30 km/hr in school zones, students and parents to stock up on supplies, and teachers to get back to the business of educating.

Teachers. If we’re lucky, along the journey from kindergarten to grade 12 and beyond, we encounter some who connect with us in ways that leave a positive, lasting impact. Do you recall a special teacher who “got” you; recognized a talent or ability otherwise overlooked; encouraged you? Or maybe just took the time to really listen to something you had to say?

Some comments or events, seemingly insignificant at the time, stay with us as much as major ones. I remember my grade 10 French teacher, not just for the language lessons, but for supplying his classroom with a powerful fan during a terrific heat wave. My brain slows to a crawl in hot weather, and he made it possible to make sense of French. Merci, monsieur.

I liked school, but when it came to teachers, felt fairly invisible. By behaving myself and following the rules, I mostly flew under the radar. Still, there were exceptions.

My grade 3 teacher saw something in me that prompted her to encourage my parents to allow me to move into grade 4. “Acceleration” it was called. I was informed of the move, not consulted. That’s the way it was. That teacher believed in my scholastic abilities, which helped me believe in them too.

In grade 5, a patient music teacher enabled this tone deaf pupil to attain dizzying heights, performing tunes on the recorder for captive family members – and sometimes pets – to this very day.

The high school teacher leading our drama club gave me a part in a stage play, from which I gained enough confidence to seek out the Prince Albert Community Players after graduation, racking up countless great experiences and memories with that group. And, on a “small world” note, I watched and learned from fellow Daily Herald columnist Ruth Griffiths, who was no slouch at acting or directing.

In eleventh grade social studies, our teacher brought a supply of blank bank deposit slips to class, passed them around, and gave a lesson on personal bank accounts. This made an impression on me. I opened my own little savings account, and socked away enough babysitting money to buy a spankin’ new purple 10-speed bike.

I suppose athletics deserve a mention here too. Thank you to every Phys.Ed. teacher I had, for recognizing my pitifulness at sports and not forcing me to train for the Olympics. All those laps around the track, fumbled fly balls, and floor hockey wounds from wooden sticks aka weapons were punishment enough.

One of the most amazing things about teachers is the way they surprise you long after you’ve grown up, by recognizing you at a store, business, or community event. This blows me away every time. It turns out we students weren’t just a sea of faces to them after all. So this month, maybe give a thought to those folks who taught us, and the educators dealing with today’s challenges in our schools.

Oh, and a reminder about school zones, and the fleet of yellow (orange? you decide) buses buzzing around our city. They carry precious cargo.

Lorna Blakeney is an avid writer who enjoys photography, history, travel, and genealogy. She was born and raised in Prince Albert, earned a B.A. from the University of Saskatchewan, likes to walk, and loves coffee shops. Her column appears the first Friday of every month.

At the Fair

Lorna Blakeney
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At the Fair

Notes from a messy desk…

Some people call it the fair, others the exhibition. Either way, it’s been part of summer in Prince Albert for over a century. The fun kicks off with the parade on the first day and finishes with fireworks on the last.

My first taste of the “P.A. Ex” came via my older sisters. They returned from the fair bearing gifts for my little sister and me, in the form of celluloid kewpie dolls suspended from shepherd’s hook bamboo canes, and blow-up plastic “babies” called hug-a-bugs, with arms and legs designed to curl around your own and stay there. And oh yes, candied apples – yum!

At some point we got old enough to accompany said sisters to the grounds. Way to widen our world! Those kiddie rides! Imagine captaining a little boat in 2 or 3 feet of water, complete with your own steering wheel (an ineffective one, but who cared?) Or riding a real live pony! The poor creatures obediently paced in a circle, bearing excited little cowpokes holding on with all their might to the saddle horns.

In time, we were allowed to attend the fair with a group of friends. Parental instructions were clear: stick together, hang on to your wallets, and go on the rides before eating, not after. Of course we all followed these rules religiously, so nobody lost any cash, wandered off, or threw up on a ride, right?

Every year the exhibition held new surprises. Like the thrill of actually winning a stuffed animal because it turned out you were a crack shot at water pistols. Or proving stronger than you looked when wielding an enormous hammer to slam a big button that rang a bell. Prize, please!

A less pleasant surprise was discovering which end of 3-kids-in-a-Scrambler-seat guaranteed you’d be squished with every round. Oof! And who knew your Tilt-a-Whirl cage spun faster than most because of that one friend pressing down on the metal bar that locked you in the seat? Gak. At least nobody had eaten yet.

Why did nobody warn you that the ferris wheel is wa-a-y higher than it looks? Or mention how, when you reach the top, some sadistic operator slams on the brake, causing you to swing unnervingly under the open sky like your father’s longjohns on the clothes line, for far too long an interval? The words “don’t look down” pop into your mind right after you’ve done exactly that. Gulp.

By the time you’ve perused the vendors in the Armoury, devoured a hot dog and corn-on-the-cob in that shelter with the sawdust floor, watched an apron clad lady spin pink cotton candy onto a cardboard cone, and indulged your spudnut loving friend with one last stop at the booth that sells them, you’re ready to be picked up at the appointed place by the appointed responsible adult; there being no such thing as a cellphone to summon one’s chauffeur.

Around your neck hangs a souvenir of a super day: one heart shaped aluminum pendant with your name engraved in scribbly cursive by an old guy with a beard and half-specs. And you remember that all of this is the reason you saved up your allowance and pop bottle money for the last 3 months. And will do the same again next year.

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Lorna Blakeney is an avid writer who enjoys photography, history, travel, and genealogy. She was born and raised in Prince Albert, earned a B.A. from the University of Saskatchewan, likes to walk, and loves coffee shops.

Her column appears the first Friday of the month.

Ferries and Berries

Lorna Blakeney
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Ferries and Berries

Notes from a messy desk….

When did you last take a Saskatchewan ferry ride? Or spend an afternoon picking berries among the pines and poplars? It’s been too many years for me. This might be the summer to replenish the soul with some nature time featuring ferries and berries.

Because Prince Albert is the gateway to multiple lakes and the activities they offer, it’s easy to overlook other types of summer excursions. I mention ferries because I love their long history, and the fact that they’re still around, a valued part of our provincial road system. My swimming skills peaked at the level of beginner, so I’m not wild about being in deep water, but enjoy bobbing or gliding on the waves, and a ferry ride is just the ticket — without having to buy a ticket. Unlike a highway drive, riding a ferry slows you down, inviting a breath of nature in. It gives you permission to relax, unwind, experience the river’s sights, sounds and smells; to forget any nagging have-to’s for a while.

The river hill descent when approaching the ferry dock provides an opportunity to admire the view, and at the same time pray that your brakes hold. Next, you get to sit back and wait, possibly in a line-up of other cars and trucks, taking in the rusting leaves, river’s banks and those living skies your licence plate talks about, until the ferry is ready to board. If it’s on the opposite shore, you can watch it cross the river, then observe as the vehicles are let off, one by one. Maybe I’m easily entertained (okay, no maybe about it), but I find the procedure interesting, and a relief for highway fatigued eyes.

Once your vehicle is on the craft, parked and shut off for the crossing’s duration, the ferry’s mechanical workings make their own kind of music. Without competition from the automobile engines we’re so accustomed to, your ears might pick up the call of birds above, or the lapping of waves below. You could opt to sit inside your car for the whole crossing, but why not step out and stretch, lean on the ferry’s railing, peer into the river’s surprising swiftness, and allow the ceaseless prairie breeze to crate a beautiful mess of your hair? Ahh.

If you play your cards right, ferry excursions can lead to good berry picking spots down gravelled country roads and forest trails of dirt or sand, with bonus sightings of birds and/or other wildlife. I hear tell that some people actually make pies and preserves with the fruits of their labour. You people rock! I inevitably come home from the berry patch with teeth stained reddish purple from eating the bounty raw. And, to my credit, a respectable amount of berries in a pail, to prove I did some productive “work”, not having spent the entire time snapping photos, wondering about the difference between toadstools and mushrooms, attempting to harvest and chew spruce gum (yuck!) and breaking new trails because the feel of walking on moss is neat-o man.

I try to “pick clean” like my elders taught me, so there aren’t too many leaves or creepy crawlies riding home in my pail. Once cleaned and washed, the berries make a great dessert, even if all that’s involved is sugar and/or cream to taste. Yum!

Or perhaps they’ll get turned into juice, or wait – how about wine – the better to toast summer with? Cheers to Saskatchewan ferries and berries!

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