The House & other Arctic musings

Requiem

On Monday we were no longer at the House. In truth, it was midnight Tuesday before we cleared the last of our stuff out and finished cleaning, the people following us giving us the time we needed. We actually started staying at the apartment Saturday night, and are adjusting to (much) smaller quarters.

Monday evening I found myself alone in the House, Leah and the others had gone down to her parents for her little sisters birthday celebration. I was taking a bit of a break, sitting in the darkened client's Dining Room, when I started looking around, admiring the details of the House's finish, and thinking about the good memories.

I got up, and wandered throughout the House, starting at the attic, touching walls, trim, window sills and what not. I was trying to soak up the essence of it all, the tactile memory of the place. I went to every room, every nook, of the near empty building. And it was good.

At the end of my tour I returned to the stairs and sat on them in the dark, remembering the times that I'd come back to the House after supper to find Gary sitting on the stairs, silently, in the dark House, watching the moon through the windows of the Great Room. I couldn't see the moon now, it was low on the southern horizon out of view from the East facing room. But I had already been outside admiring it, a thin crescent, orange in the sky just above the hills, and it was easy to sit back in the silence and contemplate all that happened there.

The loss of the House, emotionally, has been surprisingly easy for the most part. Probably that has much to do with how long the process has taken, how long this has hung over our head. Not that it has been without its stresses and dangers, there are many times they've bubbled to the surface of our family, our patience shorter and tempers quicker than they should be.

For me, the most emotional moment happened last week. Travis has taken to playing with our MacBook, having discovered the remote for it, listening to music mostly. I came in and laid down beside him as he was on our bed with the laptop. He had started a slide show from one of the photo folders, one of pictures taken during construction. As I sat there, watching the transformation from empty lot, to piling, to a floor and on and on, I cried, memories washing over me.

That done, I dried my eyes, hugged my son and went back to the boxes. There was still plenty of work to be done.

There still is.

House Construction med from Clare Kines on Vimeo.

Up Here again

Just in case you missed it the first time, one of my posts has been republished at Up Here magazine's blog.

My daughter's eyes.

Yesterday afternoon I took the kids to school. Usually, when we arrive I say the same thing I always do to Travis "Have fun, learn lots" and he bolts for his entrance. Hilary, because she is in pre-school only goes in the afternoon, and only every second day.

I carry Hilary to the closest entrance. Its not that she can't, or won't, walk on her own, its for a practical reason. I usually run late, and carrying her I can easily strip off her boots before setting her down. Its quicker and we get on our way more expediently.

But, I enjoy having her in my arms, I can't deny. Today as we arrived, Travis was already half way down the length of the school when I turned and look back, Hilary holding on tight. The entire horizon was tinged in pink, deepening to mauve and blue. "Look at the sky" I told her.

Hilary looked up and said "Oh, its pink" and then "There's purple!" "The colours change." She then turned back to me, looking into my eyes and exclaimed "Dad, we have the prettiest skies here."  I looked back at the southern horizon, ringed with this amazing gradient of light and colour, not missing the sun at all, and answered "We do indeed little girl, we do indeed."

As we turned and walked into the school I thought about my daughter's eyes, thankful that they see the world much the same way that I do. Grateful that I have two little naturalists, who marvel in our world, for children.

Avast Pirate

I like to think of myself as a creative person. I write reasonably well, and one day I hope to convince someone that a screenplay or three that I've written are worth paying for. Or perhaps one day I'll get a little more serious about writing some magazine articles that are percolating around my brain and convince someone to pay me for those. Who knows, perhaps my photography will progress to the point that someone will think it worth buying.

I'm a little funny in that I think that people should be compensated for their work, if its good enough, and if they offer it up for sale. A couple of comments of friends of mine lately have made me wonder if I'm the only one who thinks that. It seems that a good many people think that they should just be able to take someone's work, because, well because they can.

A week or so ago a friend and I were discussing movies, and they said they never buy, or rent movies. Never. They download what ever movie they want and watch it. When we continued on with the conversation, with me taking the tack that people should be paid for their work, they acknowledged that it was wrong... for others. People should pay, but the justification was that money was tight and they wouldn't be able to watch as many movies if they had to pay for them.  Logically I suppose that could apply to any product. Money is tight, I shouldn't have to pay for my internet connection, or the carrots I'm eating right now.

Today another friend made a comment on facebook (and I suspect that there might be a blog post outlining their position in the works) that they were going to download the new Paul McCartney Live Album without paying for it.

Now it was somewhat surprising because this friend is a creative person, and I suspect that the friend hopes to sell a novel someday. The friend is a talented writer and should profit from it. Sir Paul, is a talented musician, he should also profit from it.

Now my friend's justification for this is (as I understand it): A) Sir Paul is rich; B) he is an idiot (actual phrase was "wanker" but I'm going to assume that it was not intended to mean that Sir Paul is a masturbator - but I could be wrong); C) because of his stance on sealing he has caused untold hardship and grief to sealers; and D) despite all of this the friend enjoys Sir Paul's music.

I have to admit I struggle with these ideas. That it is okay to steal (and let's face it that is what taking something of value from someone who has offered it up for sale, for nothing) simply because they are successful, or because we don't like them. I can understand it a little more as a means of revenge, for punishing someone for another stand that they've taken. I understand, but I still don't think it's right. If you want to take that stand, then don't get the music at all. Don't get the music, that is the right way to take that stand.

It is what I would expect for my work, it is how I'll treat other's.

 

Colour

One of the great things about the start of the Dark Season is that we pretty much have continual sunrise/sets from the moment the sky lightens. In good conditions it is a constantly changing, all "day" light show.  Here is the start this morning, with a waning crescent moon thrown in for good measure.

In life, Service.

Often on a grave in France, there is an inscription. One of the principals of War Graves Commission was that all of the fallen would be treated equally. The headstones were simple and essentially the same, no bodies were allowed to be repatriated, rich or poor, officer or enlisted man they were all buried where they fell. One concession made was that families were allowed to have a small inscription put on their son's or husband's headstone.

Visiting my namesake's grave was a very powerful experience, on a trip filled with powerful experiences. I was struck by the inscription that Clare's parents, my Uncle and Aunt, put on his grave

In thought, Faith
In deed, Courage
In life, Service
In death, Victory

Service. It is really what is the essence of what of what we honour on Remembrance day, service and the sacrifice that accompanied it. Many, if not most, of the men who volunteered for the Great War, World War II, and the wars and peace keeping missions that followed, did so out of a desire to serve. To serve their country and the greater good. I assume that it continues today with the men and women in the Armed Forces.

Most would know that there was sacrifice involved. Theirs is a dangerous profession. And although we most often think of death when we think of that sacrifice, others were wounded (often horrifically), many bear psychological scars, and all put themselves in harms way while far away from family, friends, and the comfort of a familiar life.

At one point, when my father and I were being filmed reminiscing about Grandpa for a documentary (footage that never made the finished product), the subject of whether Grandpa's experience inspired me to join the RCMP came up. My answer then, as now, was that no it did not. I had more direct inspirations that lead me to the RCMP, Members who I wanted to emulate. But one of the many things I took from Grandpa (and my Dad) was that service, public service, is an important and noble calling.

My grandfather lived through a horrific war, a war that chewed up nine million soldier's lives, and scarred countless others. He knew that "War is hell, from the Devil's School" a terrible thing. He also knew that it was important to do the right thing, even if that was hard and involved sacrifice. As much as he knew that war was a terrible thing, that sometimes, as much as we wish it otherwise, it is a necessary thing. At the outbreak of the second World War, in his mid-forties, he again volunteered to fight, rejected due to a hernia. But the service remained, and he became a Captain in the Home Guard, and opened his house to any errant service man who needed a place to stay during those years.

Remembrance Day, to me, is by far the most important day of the year. For personal reasons it is a highly emotional, powerful day. The day where family passes through my thoughts more than any other day of the year. And through out it, I pause and give thanks to the service of Grandpa, and Clare, their friends, colleagues and comrades, and those who follow in their footsteps. In service.

A shot in the dark

The H1N1 immunization team came to town this weekend, for a mass immunization that is running for two days (yesterday and today). We were scheduled for our shots last night at 8:15pm.

I have to say that the procedure they had in place was a model of efficiency and kudos should be going out to Health and Social Services and the local Health Care team for doing such a great job. Now there were not that many people there when we showed up but it was apparently a lot busier earlier in the day. Well over 400 people had been immunized by the time we showed up (someone mentioned 125/day for one of these clinics is what is expected), more than half of Arctic Bay's population. There was still a couple of hours left for the thing to be operating, and one more day to finish the job. That seems pretty efficient to me.

The gym was set up on a flow through system, enter at one end, exit at the other. We were greeted, given the information on the innoculations (for both H1N1 and Seasonal Flu) and the consent forms at a station that could handle four people/families at a time. From there we went to a waiting area to fill out the forms, while the kids were given crayons to colour with. We were called for the shots almost immediately after we'd completed the forms.

Again there were at least four stations set up to stick people, each manned by a nurse and someone to help with any interpreting needed. The kids were first up and while Hilary was tearful, Travis took both shots stoically without even a flinch. Leah couldn't get the shot because of fish allergies of all things (apparently there is shark oil in the H1N1 vaccine, which explains my only side effect - a strong desire to take a bite out of a surf board).

I took a little heat from the nurse (and as an aside I love how she assumed I was a teacher) over not getting the Seasonal Flu shot, but I expect that. And listen, its not that I think there is something evil or sinister in immunizations, I just don't believe that they are efficacious (the Seasonal Flu shots) and I also don't believe in taking medicines/drugs/immunizations for no good reason. Seasonal Flu vaccine components are decided on months in advance based on a committee's idea on what 3 or 4 flu strains out of the hundreds out there will be most prevalent the coming season - No thanks. The H1N1 vaccine, on the other hand, targets a specific flu strain, poised to cause major problems. It has been shown to be efficacious against the strain.

After the shots we were on to the next station, greeted by a nurse with more information on the after effects and how to treat any symptoms. There was balloons for the kids and juice available as we waited the obligatory fifteen minutes to make sure no one would experience an allergic reaction. Through out the whole process there were Rangers and other volunteers to help make everything go smoothly. 

I didn't check on how long the entire process took, but I'd venture to say it was less than a half hour from the time we walked in the door, and half of that was taken up in a mandatory observation period.

So, again, well done everyone involved.

There's been no after effects, my arm is a little sore but really I wake up in more pain from my other arm just from old injuries and old age. The family didn't escape without problems though, a sister-in-law seems to have had a bad reaction and ended up at the nursing station for a couple of hours. She seems to be fine now, and was scheduled for another check up this morning.

Coffee?

I was quite excited with the news that WildBird on the Fly's First Friday contest was being revived. It combines two of my passions, birds and writing. More than that I find that trying to write a 500 word story, within the constraints of the contest, an excellent exercise for building my writing skills.

I've also been very lucky at the contest, having won twice before. And my luck continues to hold as for some reason they've thought my story good enough to win the revived contest. Kudos to Amy for bringing it back. I encourage anyone who writes to give it a try, the next deadline being December 3rd.

Here then is my winning story...

Coffee?

Tye pulled his jacket tighter around his neck. “Damn wind,” he said to no one in particular. He stomped his feet, willing circulation there, and wondered if he’d get any visitors today. They were a strange lot, the bird people, traveling all this way to see a gull. Of course, once he stopped to think about it, his was a strange job.

Tye was an egg guard, hired by the Feds -- not that he didn’t mind the work, but there couldn’t really be people that would come all this way to steal a bird’s egg. No matter how rare it was. At least he wouldn’t screw up this job.

He’d come up north to make his way in the world, his parents happy to see him out of the house. They’d still hoped he’d go on to University, but he could barely handle high school. They’d nagged at him constantly to get out of the basement, so he did. Took the Pinto they’d given him when he got his licence and pointed it to Thompson.

He found work right away, in the mine. Hated every minute of it. When the foreman caught him sleeping instead of knocking loose rock from the ceiling, he was fired. That night in the bar, he fell in with some tourists, and before he knew it, he was on the train. Brian, who worked for the port, let him crash on his couch and told him about the egg guard gig.

He shook his head again as he raised his binoculars, puzzled by the absurdity of it all. Still it was a beautiful gull, a Ross’s Gull. Until three weeks ago, they were all seagulls to him. This one was small, dainty almost, and he’d never had dreamed a gull could have a pink breast, but these ones did. He looked up when he caught sight of the dust.

The plume of dust told him someone was coming, and soon the taxi pulled up. He smiled when he saw the two Germans get out. They’d been coming every day for the last week to see the bird. Different than the others, they spent more time talking with him, and they always brought coffee. Today was their last day in Churchill. He was glad for the company of someone who preferred him to the bird.

Dieter poured him coffee, while Brigit nodded hello but stood on the opposite side of the road, already raising the binoculars she wore. Dieter looked off the other way, towards the coast, lines creasing his forehead. There was a bear close, Dieter told him, pointing to the coast, and they both scanned the horizon. It was early for bears, and after fifteen minutes, they still hadn’t seen anything. Soon Dieter was pouring him more coffee.

Brigit joined them, so he handed her their thermos. He had already turned back to the coast as she deftly took off the bottom of the jug and slid the dark speckled egg inside.

Bring on the Night

Today marks the start of the dark season in Arctic Bay, the Sun set for the last time until rises again on the sixth of February. In actual fact, for our latitude, the Sun will continue to rise for about a week, but because of the terrain here we will not see it again for the next three months.

People who have followed this blog for awhile will probably know that I don't mind the dark season. We're never truly dark here, there is always a varying amount of twilight and probably only a couple of days when you could see stars for 24 hours.

For me there is so much to do, and so much happening between now and the Winter Solstice, and coupled with how quickly the light returns that before I know it the sun has returned. It is also a time of incredible, but often subtle, beauty. Our sky from here on out has the most amazing range of colours, and the stars seem closer and brighter than anywhere else on earth.

So bring on the dark season. Before you know it it will be over and iceberg photos will take over the blog again. Besides, I've some writing I need to do while its cold out.

First Friday

Amy, over at WildBird On The Fly, has revived the bird related fiction contest, First Friday. It's a contest that I've enjoyed participating in the first time it was running, even winning a couple of times.  The rules are simple:

• Write a 500 word work of fiction
• It should include a setting, character(s), conflict and resolution
• It must deal with birds or birders/birding
• It must not anthropomorphize the birds in the story.

Entries must be received by 5PM PST on the first Thursday of the month for inclusion on that month's contest. Winners are announced the First Friday of the month.

You can send your entries to wildbird AT bowtieinc DOT com (you know what to do with the AT & DOT, and should include your mailing address as the winners will receive a newly published birding book.