Pop 89: Curling alone
By Madonna Hamel
madonnahamel@hotmail.com
Looking at my calendar, I see my week covered in scribbles: Monday: take buddy to Pontiex clinic; Tuesday: bake muffins for B&B, feed cats, litter box (maybe), Wednesday: pick up treadmill, Thursday: Elevator Heritage AGM, prepare report, Friday: Send column, book reviews, radio pitch, talk to school about writing group for teens: canteen shift at rink 10-1 pm, Sunday: Wing Nite!! litter box ( maybe).
I romanticized coming to Val Marie with ideas of squirrelling myself away in my writer’s cave or artist’s garret, living the life of an ascetic aesthete, but, thankfully, that’s not how life in a village works. In order to keep a place this size alive, a spirit of volunteerism is required. Never mind the reasons you don’t want to: roll up your sleeves, and let’s get ‘er done. But I come from a background of writing, reading and journalism, and we like to discuss things first. What life in the country has taught me is: Shut up and close the gate! Get out of that critter’s way! Move that truck! Do it, and do it now or chances are you’ll be dead.
Not everything is an immediate do or die situation, but eventually, functions, events, gatherings and ultimately communities die when villagers don’t step up to the plate and do what needs doing. Robert Putnam, in his book “Bowling Alone” looks at the how, in America, “social capital” - helping each other out knowing the favour will be returned one day - has been replaced by a quest for plain old capital. We, too could be headed for a curling alone non-community, from what some of the older, tired villagers are telling me. Last Tuesday at the library, Judy managed, within the first minute of my arrival, to sign me up for the first shift at the canteen at the Women’s Bonspiel. (Yes, I know it’s called “Ladies Bonspiel,” but I’ve heard the stories from past bonspiels and “ladylike” was not one of the adjectives used.) Leaving the library, I plowed into a snowbank with Ervin Sr. and Betty watching from the window. It was humbling, as I’d just finished bragging about my excellent winter driving skills.
The next day I got a text from Caitlin that Jane was giving away her treadmill, and I could have it for free if I picked it up. I walked over to Senior’s where the men were playing bridge, and asked if I could borrow one of their “outfits.” No one was willing to lend a truck, but Maurice L. said he’d help me once he won this round. I got the impression from Maurice C., who lives to rib others, that word already got out about me getting stuck in a snowbank.
While Maurice L. and I were hauling exercise equipment, Maurice C. and Bill were dragging a dead deer into the back of Maurice C.’s truck. Having died in my backyard, Maurice C. took the opportunity to make a lame joke about me being responsible for the poor creatures demise. Shortly after he tossed his quip, he got himself stuck in the snowbank. I could barely believe my good fortune. Bill towed him out, and then all three men helped me move the treadmill through my front door.
Tomorrow is the Elevator AGM, and I will report on the success of Oldies on the Elevator - our version of a drive-in, projecting old black and white movies on the white clapboard side of the Val Marie heritage elevator. There is magic in hearing Humphrey Bogart’s words, “maybe not today and maybe not tomorrow but soon and for the rest of your life,” project out and over the hills and into coulees, hearing the coyotes yip and cry back at him, begging, along with Ingrid, to take them along. Some of the young folks, expecting to be bored, lit up with surprise when they heard the old chestnuts, such as: “Here’s looking at you, kid” or “This could be the beginning of a beautiful friendship.” I’d never seen a Gary Cooper movie until last year, and like the young’uns, I was delighted with him in High Noon. We need the young - their surprise, delight, muscle and energy to keep the Oldies alive, or else it’ll be “movies alone,” about as lonely as “bowling alone.”
Caitlin is coming over to look at my dress collection. No one has seen my dress collection - costumes, vintage cocktail dresses, gowns so dear, I have built entire performances around them. When not naked, covered in mud portraying Mother Earth in peril, or working backstage for other performers, winding cords, arranging lights, I was usually dressed in one of my stage frocks. But that was another life entirely. For the 1980’s themed bonspiel, I suggested Caitlin try on one of my favourites: a cross between a flamenco dress and something Joan Jett (yes, I had to explain who Joan Jett is) would wear. It’s a corset with a crinoline and layers of shiny, italic fabric attached. The last time I wore it, I was singing in a smokey bar-cabaret in Quebec City, where you could build a band just by stepping out on the street and pointing to the first man in a goatee. “Scuse-moi, do you play the saxophone?” He’d grin and say, “ben oui!
While Caitlin tries on the dress, I tell her my “Two Maurices” story. She laughs and reminds me that the first table I served when I started working at her restaurant was “Millie and Millie’s table.” “Yes,” I laughed, recalling my confusion when I asked: “Who is getting the steak? And you said: Millie. But I just served Millie, I said. And you said: They’re both Millie!”
The Two Millies were best friends. They always ate together. And, like the Two Maurice’s, they did what it took to keep their community alive. It’s a good reminder: Show up and suit up, or else we’ll end up curling alone.