A LONG WAY FROM MANY PLACES
Rambling One Province Over
Circumstances can conveniently converge and collude.
Ann and I had yet to change our backdrop this year. Summer air travel hadn’t appealed, fuel surcharges and labour disputes, the rigmarole of airports and delayed flights. Germs and other people. Other people’s germs. Years had passed since we’d simply tossed a couple of pieces of luggage and a cooler in the car and set off with no particular place to go, nowhere we were obligated to be.
A holiday roadtrip compass in Alberta usually points in just two directions. West to the mountains and maybe through them to British Columbia. The other is south, a dip below the forty-ninth parallel which demarcates a significant stretch of what was once the world’s longest undefended border. This Labour Day long weekend, we heard the siren song of the near east.
Lloydminster has always intrigued me. The city’s main street demarcates the boundary between Alberta and neighbouring Saskatchewan. Different time zones (Mountain and Central), different telephone exchanges and different consumption taxes. Schizoid. And praise the Lord, thank God Ann’s son Harry suggested we continue on to Saskatoon, “You’ll be halfway there.” I believe he ran a cross-country road race in the Paris of the Prairies whilst a university student. I’d never set foot in Saskatchewan except for an hour’s layover at Regina’s airport back when Canadian Airlines was still a viable carrier.
Ann and I set off. Beyond Edmonton’s corporate limits Ann said, “Is the Alberta roadmap in the glovebox?” “No.” “Do you know where it is?” “Yes.” “Where is it?” “On the stand in the front hall.” We listened to the radio for many kilometres.
There are two constants in small town Alberta. There is always a Chinese restaurant on the historic downtown main drag which will also serves “western” food in a pinch. And that town will have a whimsical municipal monument which speaks to its cliched character. Mundare’s pride and joy is a massive and massively unappetizing sausage link (the real sausage is delicious). St. Paul offers visiting space aliens a landing pad – provided their craft is no bigger than a station wagon (SUVs did not exist when the concrete was poured in 1967).
Vegreville is renowned for its colossal Easter egg which hovers over a well-maintained park. The patterns painted on it suggest Ukrainian folk art or perhaps the hope and faith of the Eastern Orthodox Church. There’s also an “ite” colony in the vicinity, one of those strict, traditional sects that adheres to the old ways – modern conveniences excepted; electricity isn’t inherently evil. I was charmed by the dun art deco Capitol Theatre on Fiftieth Street (the town had big plans upon incorporation in 1905). Its marquee promised tales of brave Ulysses and the amazing Spider-Man, and Elvis in concert before he descended into a pathetic hell – as Vegreville obviously had.
When you drive east on Highway 16 into Lloydminster it’s natural to expect something, anything, once you pass the malls, big box retailers and chain restaurants on the outskirts. Together the local tourist bureau and the Chamber of Commerce should offer, proffer something, anything other than the string of garish orange steel obelisks at the crossroad. Because of the insanely peculiar state of political affairs in Alberta and because I feel an affinity with dystopian fiction, I could imagine some sort of “Checkpoint Charlie” right there at the traffic light, mere goosesteps away from Lloydminster’s woefully nondescript city hall. Razor wire rented like building site temporary fencing.
Ann pulled into a parking lot so we could stretch our legs and have a cigarette. We were wanting our supper and a room for the night. I pointed to an Original Joe’s. I needed a beer and a toilet and the two of us needed to confer. I didn’t want to eat at OJ’s. An Edmonton location is a Tuesday Night Beer Club lynchpin. Stats Guy likes their food. My American refugee neighbour Ted likes the chicken wings. I appreciate their company and our conversations more than the food which ranges between indifferent and okay. The Lloyd OJ bartender suggested a place called The Proper just across the provincial line, the left-hand lane of Fiftieth Avenue (Albertans tend to drive on the right these days). Meanwhile, Ann scanned the traveller apps on her iPhone.
The highway Holiday Inn promised a decent room for $154. When we turned up at the desk the clerk informed us that same room was to be had for $159. I said, “But it’s advertised online for $154.” She said, “I can’t match that.” Five dollars. I said, “So if we were to step back from your desk, maybe two feet and book online right here in front of you in the lobby with our phone, you’d charge us $154?” Five dollars. “Yes. Feel free to go right ahead.” I said, “Do you understand the nature of irony?” She did. That phantom five dollars was refunded to us in the form of a seniors’ discount.
Edmonton is divided by the North Saskatchewan River. Saskatoon is split by the course of the South Saskatchewan River. Both river cities boast extensive and elegantly designed park systems lining their defining feature. Tragically, both cities have scarred their modest downtowns with midrise pre-fab Brutalism. Edmonton and Saskatoon are sisters.
Listen to the music of the traffic in the city/Linger on the sidewalks where the neon lights are pretty …
When I book urban hotels for Ann and me, my default is downtown. I’ve never been a quick study and so I’m still learning to sublimate my inner Petula Clark. My flaw is blind faith in the teeming vibrancy of a big night out on the big town anywhere we go. A bit flash, a bit swish. Poor boy. The reality is usually some after dark netherworld populated by the homeless and crazy or combinations thereof. I’d just like to stroll around without looking over my shoulder. I’d just like to smoke a cigarette outside my hotel without being accosted. Ann and I realized we should’ve opted for some sort of neighbourhood stay, but what did I know?
Should you ever find yourself in downtown Saskatoon, head for the Blackrose Whiskey Club. You can’t miss it because there’s no place else to go. Its proprietor, an imposing gentleman with green tattoos and unsurprisingly clad in black, was friendly and engaging. His menu boasted a ratio of fifteen whiskeys to one food item. Very tasty. If I’ve learned anything in life, it’s that what you want in the moment vis-a-vis what is a very bad idea frequently courts disaster, even marries it. I ordered a Kilkenny.
Like Jimmy Cliff and Willie Nelson, Ann and I crossed that river. We walked up and down Broadway Avenue on a fine, fine September’s day. I was reminded of Edmonton’s hip, south side Whyte Avenue except there weren’t as many FOR LEASE signs. I was reminded too of Magazine Street in New Orleans, a distinct and inviting strip of small businesses who welcome browsers and casual conversation. No pressure. We shopped and didn’t sweat the added expense of a provincial sales tax.
Heaven cost me $44 plus tax at Vinyl Diner: a quasi-legal, untitled clear vinyl British pressing of the Red Devils with Mick Jagger. Sharp Chicago blues recorded about twenty years before the Stones’ own Blue and Lonesome and mercifully short of excruciatingly extended audio examples of six-string virtuosity – a common crime in contemporary blues. “Checkin’ Up on My Baby” is the sole officially available track from their collaboration, something of an afterthought on The Very Best of Mick Jagger (not entirely oxymoronic although it's no Forty Licks).
Vinyl Diner tweaked a memory of Paradise Records in Charlottetown, Prince Edward Island. The shop is on a second storey (I always fret the weight of the inventory). You go up a narrow flight of stairs papered over with too many layers music posters. The colour of the paint on those walls is open to endless speculation. I lingered by the electronic cash for a chat. The owners, Darren and Darrin, had poked around all the record stores in Calgary and Edmonton I had and still do from time to time, time after time. Maybe they’re both introverts or maybe I sensed a sudden cursory, terse politeness in the face of a rambling annoyance. A housefly with a wallet.
Ann and I went back down to the river on our last night in Saskatoon. The Fireworks Festival was staged in Friendship Park and the seamlessly adjacent River Landing. Food trucks lined the river valley mixed use path and extended across the precise iron geometry of a repurposed Canadian National Railway bridge. The event was sponsored by Nutrien, a fertilizer company whose black, svelte yet curvy headquarters just might be the tallest building in Saskatoon. Our Delta Hotel by Marriot (Oh, please) was nineteen superstitious storeys. Our room was on the eighteenth and Ann and I were aware of the missing Janga tile between twelve and fourteen.
The prairie is never boring because how can anything in life be boring? Tiresome, for sure. Still, the two-dimensional aspect of the landscape, its immensity, can hypnotize you like an incessantly chanted mantra. Hard proof for Flat Earthers. But just as you’re about to lock in to a permanent Zen zombie state the land will suddenly rumple and wrinkle like a patchwork quilt on a hastily made bed whose stitches are railway tracks. And all along the steel are sidings of grain terminals and great vats of what Nutrien describes as “in-depth solutions” on its website. Green and gold Nutrien signage on the prairie is as prevalent as red Coca-Cola shields and “Golden Arches” in any city.
Food truck buffets are very hip urban happenings these days. They also tend to goose my inner daintiness, release the fussier traits of my flawed character. I dislike skimpy serviettes, plastic cutlery, dining al fresco and portable chemical toilets. The Fireworks Festival Sponsored by Nutrien boasted all of this and more: scores of other people and their spoiled dogs. Ann and I ate overpriced food that did not even rate with the Tuesday Night Beer Club’s Edmonton OJ’s. I was desperate to get back to the Delta to decontaminate long before the big saltpetre show. Just as well. The twilight twitched to black a titch too soon; Ann and I recognize thunderheads when we see them. Low billows of darkness dragging themselves over the horizon.
Fireworks have a fixed trajectory and ceiling. Lightning knows no boundaries. The fireworks display was syncopated to snippets of Canadian corporate radio staples from decades ago. The storm provided its own soundtrack. We opened the suicide-proofed windows of our hotel room to listen. Way below us Twentieth Street West doubled down, glistening with reflected headlights and brake lights. The fireworks’ explosions of primary colours faded against the electric cyan of the crackling big sky. Were this the climax of a film, definitely a thriller, I’d accuse the auteur of pathetic fallacy; I’d be incapable of suspending my sense of disbelief. A great night in.
Landis is where you end up if you miss the turnoff for a bigger place like Biggar. NEW YORK IS BIG, BUT … Landis is a village. According to the Statistics Canada 2021 census, Landis houses 133 souls who occupy 68 of its 78 private dwellings. How were Ann and I to know? The main street was a wide, oil and gravel road which terminated abruptly at perpendicular railroad tracks. We flexed our legs and spines on a small patch of lawn in the shadow of a grain terminal. We’d driven past a clapboard church and a squat brick post office. The Country Kitchen Bar & Grill was across the way, a CLOSED sign dangling in the window. No food and no toilets for us. Our roadmaps were spread out on a public picnic table. Our plan had been to take a more southern route back to Edmonton rather than retracing our steps through Lloydminster and Vegreville. Our plan seemed to be unfolding as a big mistake.
The plain, solid white door of the bar and grill opened. A woman about our age stepped out. “Are you lost?” she called. “Are you waiting for me? Can I help you?” I called back, “We’re sort of hoping for a sandwich, a cold drink and a toilet.” She said, “I don’t usually open until noon, but c’mon in.” Ann and I introduced ourselves to Karen. Karen said, “What can I get you?” Last night’s Toronto Blue Jays game was on the flat screen television. And the deep fryer had been fired up. Would a couple of BLTs on brown suit us? A sentence on the whiteboard menu read NO SOUP TILL AFTER HARVEST. I didn’t dare provoke Karen by requesting a bowl of something hearty from her stovetop.
Karen was a seamhead. The three of us compared notes on our respective, relatively recent trips to The Show in The Big Smoke. We chatted about the deplorable state of the American League once you get past the Rays and the Yankees. The Expos even came up. If sports talk doesn’t fly with a stranger, there is always the weather. After closing last night Karen had sat outside with her dogs to marvel at the same storm Ann and I watched in Saskatoon. Karen said her clientele was “antsy.” Despite what has been a remarkably abundant growing season, “You can’t harvest when it’s wet.” There are other concerns in Landis. Both the school and the grocery store have closed permanently. “The post office will be next.” Karen’s Country Kitchen Bar & Grill is the only game in the village.
There’s not much in the joint. Cafeteria furniture, a padlocked wrought iron cage for off-license hard liquor, a convenience store fridge stocked with soft drinks beside the bar which faces a wall of grey scale airbrushed portraits of The Highwaymen and Janis wearing those big, round Summer of Love sunglasses. For all that and our own antsiness to get back on the highway and maybe even gut out another four to five bladder bursting hours all the way to Edmonton, miles from nowhere, Ann and I were reluctant to leave. There we were, a really long way from many more famous places, but that incidental modicum of magic that turns up like an extra charge on a hotel bill when we connect with a stranger is the same everywhere.
Dispatches from the Crooked 9 is your most unreliable, unbalanced and inaccurate alternative source of everything meaningless. No AI and little intelligence of any sort since 2013! Visit my companion site www.megeoff.com to buy my last couple of books. You can also listen to songs I’ve co-written with The Muster Point Project before scooting over to its YouTube channel.
